…at two now and the queen and six cancel each other out, but the pair of tens that idiot split take it to zero…

 

It was a slow night and the count sucked.  Carlos had already dropped two hundred bucks playing five-dollar minimum blackjack.  It had taken three hours and the count had never gone double-digit positive.  He was done; he got up off the stool and left the table.

 

The buff sexual killer had taken up card counting in his spare time and had actually developed a talent for it.  The casinos frowned on it, but it wasn’t illegal, and Carlos wasn’t making large bets—it was just a pastime.

 

It had come in handy at the moment; Nick was out in LA, evaluating video editing software at a convention.   Carlos, left to his own devices, was bored and horny, which was a very dangerous combination for some unfortunate boy.  But he didn’t want to mess up the condo; Nick had plans for a shoot there once he got back and would be especially eager to get it rolling if he found a good editor in California.  So Carlos had gone to a casino instead.

 

It was a local casino—still a large complex with a big hotel attached, but located well north of downtown and not a common destination for tourists.  The inside of the casino, though, was the typical cacophony of music, electronic sounds and voice clips.  A kaleidoscope of flashing lights and video screens viewed through a smoky haze, there is something unique about a casino; it even has a distinctive smell.  By now, Carlos was familiar with it all.

 

But he was done here tonight.  He’d been sucking back free beers that the cocktails waitresses brought round, but he was by no means drunk.  He did, however, need to piss, so he headed for the men’s room.

 

The closest one was still a good hundred yards away as the crow flies, but crows didn’t have to navigate around clusters of elderly Chinese women clutching slot machines like they were life support.  It took Carlos a while to make some headway—and that gave him the chance to realize that he was being followed.  The kid wasn’t very good at it, but that might not have been his fault; the winding path the sadistic alpha was forced to take made it kinda obvious.

 

Carlos didn’t get a detailed impression at the boy; he wasn’t going to be so blunt as to turn around and look behind himself.  But his massive cock began to shift and stiffen; in his tight jeans, it was very visible that the long tube of flesh running down his left thigh was stirring to attention.

 

The boy entered the restroom twenty seconds after he did.  There was an older man standing at the far urinal; he flushed and zipped up as Carlos went to one of the urinals in the middle.  This place still had ashtrays attached to the urinals; the old dude had parked his butt there.  He left without washing his hands, the acrid scent of his cheap smoke lingering afterwards in the silent room.  They were alone.

 

Getting a good look at the kid’s face, Carlos felt a flicker of recognition. He’d seen the boy recently; he just couldn’t quite place the face.

 

He knew where he wanted to place it, though—under the heel of his boot.

 

“H-hey,” the boy faltered nervously, “Name’s Cody.  I, uh—well, I been watchin’ ya for a bit…”

 

That was where Carlos had seen him; the little fuck had been slinking around in the background, among the small crowd that occasionally gathers to watch the play at a blackjack table.  He’d peered over Carlos’s shoulder several times.

 

Cody looked young.  His fashionably disheveled hair was swept in dirty blond bangs low across his forehead, partially obscuring his huge brown eyes.  The kid’s cheeks were smooth and rounded, but there was a faint brown fuzz on his upper lip.  The boy had to be over twenty-one to be in the casino, but he looked like he was barely out of puberty.

 

Cody’s skinny jeans outlined his lean, youth body extremely well.  They had a low-rise waistband, and the tight t-shirt wrapped around his torso didn’t come all the way down, leaving the skin at the base of the spine exposed, along with the punk’s tramp stamp.  The t-shirt was thin cotton in bright yellow; it left nothing of Cody’s flat belly or slender but firm chest to the imagination.  Carlos noticed a tattoo on the inside of the kid’s wrist; it looked like a spider.

 

The youth sported a pair of Supra Skytop 2 hightops in black leather; they added little to his height.  Carlos was almost six and a half feet tall, but Cody was no taller than five foot nine. The boy might not be actively trolling for sex, but he was dressed to show off his lean young body.  His tight clothing displayed more than that, though—the long bulge running down the kid’s thigh swelled noticeably as his eyes ran lasciviously over the hardbodied alpha’s muscled form.

 

“Yeah?” Carlos questioned nonchalantly.

 

“Well, I—uh, I saw the way you were movin’ your bets, and, uh…”

 

“Yeah?  So I was movin’ my bets.  So what?”

 

The kid gulped and blushed.  “You, um—yer countin’, aintcha?” he asked quickly, getting the question out before embarrassment overcame him.

 

“Yeah,” Carlos replied.  “So what’s it to ya?  Ain’t illegal.”

 

“No, no, I know,” Cody said hastily, “It ain’t that—I wanna learn.  Can you teach me?”

 

A large grin of sharklike proportions covered Carlos’s face.  “Sure, boy,” he chuckled, “I can teach ya a lot.”

 

Carlos wasn’t dressed provocatively, at least for him.  He was in his typical gear, tight black jeans and a tank top with a low scooped neck that gripped his torso and displayed his tattoos and hard, hairy chest to perfection; the thick links of the gold chain around his neck sparkled under the bathroom’s fluorescents.  A black do-rag on his shaved head and a pair of slightly worn black harness boots on his feet completed the casual look.

 

Again, for him, nothing special.  To Cody, though, he appeared as a physical avatar of masculinity, a rough trade badass who could teach him how to successfully count cards.  The kid’s youthful face broke into a broad smile.

 

“Excellent, dude!  Aw, man, I been lookin’ to learn for a long time.  Plenty of ways to get lessons in Vegas, but I ain’t got no money for anythin’ real, y’know what I’m sayin’?  Lotsa grifters out there, but you, you look…”

 

A faint gleam of lust lit deep within the boy’s large brown eyes as his voice trailed off in distraction.

 

“Ok,” Carlos rumbled, “Your place in—lessee, what time is it?  Almost eleven?  Ok, your place in about an hour.”

 

Again Cody blushed with embarrassment.  “My place? Ok, well, um…”

 

“What’s wrong?” Carlos sneered.  “Don’t got yer own place?”

 

“Yeah, I do,” Cody said slowly, “But it’s kinda a mess.  See, I’m a handyman for the complex I live in.  I get the apartment rent-free, but I take my work home with me sometimes.  There’s a lot of machine parts and tools scattered about.  It ain’t very clean, either…”

 

“Fuck, bro, I ain’t comin’ by to grade yer fuckin’ housekeeping.  You wanna learn to count or not?”

 

“Ok, man,” Cody responded quickly.  “It’s 1224 Miranda Street, unit one forty-three in the back.  Mira Vista Apartments.  You’ll be there, right?  In an hour?  You’re not gonna stand me up?”

 

Carlos gave the kid a thin-lipped smile.  “Trust me,” he said quietly, “I’ll be there.”

 

---

 

An hour later, exactly on schedule, Carlos eased the red Benz convertible into a narrow parking space at the back end of the lot in the apartment complex.  He strolled casually across the asphalt, his boots thumping loudly, his wide-legged stance caused by the thick tube of manmeat dangling between his thighs.

 

The apartment was in the far rear corner; a tiny patio opened directly out onto a dumpster.  Its location clearly made it one of the least desirable units in the complex, hence it was a perfect place to lodge the handyman rent-free.  The light near the door was out—little fucker wasn’t a very good caretaker—so Carlos knocked at the door in darkness.  A slit of light appeared and widened, then filled with Cody’s eager face.

 

“You came!” he exclaimed, “Cool!”  He stepped aside and opened the door, letting Carlos in.  “Sorry about the heat, dude, the AC’s on the fritz and I ain’t got around to fixin’ it yet.”

 

Well, that certainly explained the funk inside the apartment; the lack of ventilation enhanced the background scent of marijuana and boysweat.  The unit was small and dingy, most of the interior light coming from a large flat-screen TV; a paused video game was on the screen.  A faint glow in the left rear corner indicated the kitchen; it was the light in the vent hood over the stove.

 

The heat also explained Cody’s outfit, or utter lack of one.  His lean form stood before Carlos clad in nothing but a pair of white cotton briefs, his smooth, clear skin glistening with sweat.  The tighty whities did nothing to hide the kid’s thick, half-erect shaft.  The coiled tube of flesh stirred as the boy looked at Carlos.

 

“C’mon man, in here,” Cody chirped, heading towards a larger rectangle of light on the right side; it emerged from the open bedroom door.  “”Like I said, place is a mess.  Bed is the only clear space ya can spread out the cards.”

 

A quick glimpse around confirmed the truth of this statement.  There was a tiny dinette set near the kitchen, the table piled high with machine parts.  More were scattered about randomly on the floor.

 

The chaos was even more intense in the bedroom.  Piles of dirty clothes, mostly jeans and soiled t-shirts were spread across the floor.  At least two pairs of well-worn work boots were scattered around the room.  On the dresser next to the bed was a well-stocked tool belt—and two decks of cards.

 

“Over here, bro,” Cody said, swiping the tangled bedding—limited as it was—to the floor, leaving the stained mattress free of encumbrance.  Blinking his long-lashed eyes, he managed to catch a hint of disgust in the hardman’s face.  “Yeah, I know, but I can’t afford any better.  Yet.  But now that I’m learnin’ to count, I’ll be makin’ some easy money, right, bro?”  He flashed a broad happy grin at Carlos.

 

The alpha grunted and picked up the decks of cards.  Quickly removing them from the boxes and discarding the unneeded cards, he expertly shuffled the cards in midair between his large, strong hands.

 

“I’m gonna deal seven hands and the dealer,” the older man said evenly.  “This is simple.  Tens through aces are counted minus one and deuce through six are counted plus one.  Got it?”

 

“Yeah,” Cody replied thoughtfully.  “What about seven through nine?”

 

“They’re zero.  Don’t count ‘em.  Anyway, here we go.  I’ll play out the whole table but leave the cards out till the end of the hand.  In real life, yer gonna need to be fast enough to do this before the dealer clears the table.”

 

The two of them played out all hands—four busted, two wins and a push on dealer eighteen.  When it was done, Carlos, still standing, asked, “Ok, boy.  What’s the count?”

 

Cody blinked rapidly.  “Uh—I got four…” he said hesitantly.

 

Carlos grinned.  “Good!  That’s right, four.  That’s the raw count.  To get the true count, you gotta divide by the number of decks remaining in the shoe.  Since we just started with two decks, the true count is closer to two.”

 

“Um, ok,” Cody said doubtfully, “But most casinos use a six-deck shoe…”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos grinned, “So you gotta be good with yer math.  And fast.  Learn to pair up combinations.  You see a ten and a six come out, they automatically cancel each other out, so you can dismiss ‘em, see?”

 

“Yeah, I-I guess…”

 

“Ok, we’ll go again.”

 

Carlos dealt another complete table and played it out, this time at a faster pace.  Cody managed to keep up, correctly calculating that the count had gone negative.  After a third time at an even greater speed, the kid still kept pace.

 

By this time, the heat coming off two virile male bodies in the small unventilated room was making Carlos sweat.  His tank top was sticking unpleasantly to his back; unthinkingly, as he finished up the fourth round, he reached down and swept it off over his shoulder in a single smooth motion, tossing into a corner where it ended up draped over one of the kid’s well-worn workboots—

—and Cody immediately lost the count.

 

“So what is it, boy?” the alpha asked as he stood over Cody, the latter still seated on the bare mattress.  “What’re we up to now?  What’s the count?”

 

“I—uh, I…” Cody licked his lips and trailed off, his eyes fastened on Carlos’s broad, muscled chest and wiry, sweat-matted body fur.  “I don’t…um, I—”

 

Carlos froze, his eyes narrowing on the half-naked punk.  “What?”

 

“Geez, dude, you got a hot bod…” Cody muttered, standing up.  The muscled killer could see that the youth’s hormones were working overtime; his dick was fully erect, not only tenting the cotton briefs, but staining the crotch with a dark, widening circle of precum.

 

“What’s that?” Carlos snarled icily.  “You some kinda faggot?”

 

Cody, lost in lust, never heard the danger signal, the cold erotic hate in the buff top’s rumbling voice.  His eyes fixated on the glimmering loop of metal links nestled in Carlos’s chest hair.  “Lemme see yer dick,” the slim youth panted, “Pull it out and put it in me, bro…”

 

“You want my cock?” Carlos growled, his hands curling into tight fists as he took a step closer to where the nearly-nude punk was sitting on the mattress, “What make you think a cum-suckin’ fairy like you deserves a real man’s tool?”

 

As the muscled alpha closed in on the boy, the thick bulge in the tight denim of his crotch was visibly pulsating.  Cody focused on it, unaware of the imminent menace looming over him—until Carlos grabbed his neck in a crushing iron grip.  Looking up, he saw the boiling rage in the older man’s eyes…

 

…and had a sudden sense of the overwhelming power and strength of the stranger he’d invited into his apartment.  His eyes widened as he felt an intense stab of fear.  “Wha-what’s wrong, dude?” he gasped, his voice croaking.

 

“Worthless fuckin’ homo,” Carlos spat out and jerked him off the bed, dangling him in midair.  “I’m gonna teach ya what a sack a’ shit like you deserves.  Ready to learn, cunt?  It’s gonna hurt like fuck!”

 

And with that, he bunched his thick, bulging bicep and slammed a line-drive blow straight from his shoulder into Cody’s mouth, splitting the kid’s lips and knocking out his left canine tooth.

 

The stunned youth kicked and jerked helplessly in midair, squealing in pain as blood trickled down his chin.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Carlos crowed.  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ bout!”  Cody heard the words, but before he could react, there was another bright red burst of terrible pain.  The helpless, bewildered kid not only felt his nose break as the alpha’s fist smashed it, he could hear the loud cracking sound it made as it was crushed.  He squealed again, louder and more shrilly.

 

“Goddam, that’s hot,” Carlos said.  “Squeal like a pig, faggot, squeal like the useless piece of fuckmeat ya are.  Ya wanna earn my dick?  Ya gotta take more than that, boy—you gotta take a whole lot fuckin’ more!”

 

Gagging and flailing, his bare feet kicking helplessly a good foot of the ground, Cody clawed at the unbelievably strong hand that was clutching his throat like a steel clamp.  He didn’t hear the powerful sadist’s words; he was choking, his pulse pounding deafeningly in his ears as the edges of the world began to grow gray.

 

He could still see enough, though, to see the dude’s other hand swinging towards him again.  It would have been hard for him to miss—the massive, balled-up fist was headed directly towards his eye.  The blow rocked his head back, the impact hard enough to stun him into a state of semi-consciousness.  In the loud angry darkness that consumed him, his only awareness that Carlos had flung him back down onto the bed was a sense of violent motion and the realization that he could breathe again.

 

Then his blurred vision began to clear, and he looked up.  Towering over him, Carlos stood like a muscled god, the older man’s face harsh expression somehow emphasized by the black do-rag on his head and the dark stubble on his face.  The tattoos on his hairy chest and down his bulging deltoids and triceps were illuminated by the sheen of sweat on the alpha’s skin.  The young punk, as always attracted to bright, shiny objects, found his attention drawn back to the glittering gold chain lying on the top’s heaving chest—until a motion below the waist caught his notice.

 

Carlos had unbuttoned his fly and was slowly extracting the tremendous length of his cock from his jeans.  Battered and in pain, Cody still found himself unable to look away as inch after inch of throbbing manflesh emerged from the tight denim confines.  His mind, still reeling in shock, remembered that he’d wanted to have that huge horsedick inside him; there was no way he could take that thing, it’d split him wide open—

 

—and hidden in a corner of his faggot brain’s pleasure center, tucked deep within his midbrain, the power bottom pain pig facet of his personality responded.  Cody didn’t know it yet, but his own dick was getting stiffer by the second.

 

“Stupid little cunt,” Carlos growled menacingly, “Ya thought you deserved this hog?  Ya think a queer-ass bitch like you should get my cock?  Only one way for you to earn my cum, scumbag—and you ain’t gonna like it.”

 

Carlos paused for a second, then laughed, deeply, erotically, ominously.  “You ain’t gonna like it, cocksucker, but I sure the fuck am.”   Holding his thick, vein-wrapped shaft in one hand, he slapped it repeatedly in the palm of the other hand, splattering precum over the shuddering youth on the bed.

 

Cody moaned as the hot transparent drops rained on his lithe body.  The throbbing pain in his face faded into the background once he realized the sadistic alpha was reaching out for him again.  The pain receded before the icy hand of fear that clutched at his heart.

 

“Wha—no!” he bleated, cowering vainly on the bed.  His arms came up to block Carlos’s hand, but he wasn’t fast enough.  “Dude, no, plea—urk!!”

 

His protest was cut off abruptly, along with his air.  Beating ineffectually at the buff top’s incredibly powerful arm, he felt himself jerked up off the bare mattress and helplessly dangled, his bare boyfeet kicking uselessly in midair.

 

Despite his swollen, blackened eye, Cody could see the psychotic light of rage in the older man’s cold eyes.  Gagging and flailing as he choked, he dug his fingernails into Carlos’s wrist—he did it in spite of himself, with a vague awareness that resistance would only make things worse.

 

He was right.

 

“Big mistake, cunt,” Carlos snarled as Cody, in his panic, drew blood.  “Big fuckin’ mistake.”  Drawing his fist back, he rammed it forward with the force of a piledriver, sinking it deep into the kid’s smooth, firm belly.  Cody’s eyes widened as the intense blast of pain hit; it hurt so bad, he’d have puked if his throat hadn’t been clamped shut.

 

Carlos wasn’t done yet.

 

“Ya cumsuckin’ [WHAM] disgustin’ [WHAM] sack of faggot shit [WHAM], didja think ya were gonna get loose [WHAM]?  Didja think a worthless little pansy like you [WHAM] could actually hurt me [WHAM]?  Fuckin’ [WHAM] homo [WHAM] asswipe [WHAM], ya better enjoy these gutpunches [WHAM], cause these are gonna feel like fuckin’ love taps [WHAM] compared to what I got planned for ya, cunt [WHAM]!”

 

By the time he was done, Cody could no longer hear his words.  He had passed out from pain and lack of oxygen.  Limply tossed back onto the bed, he was in no position to know that the alpha had lifted him higher and jerked his briefs off first, or to notice Carlos admiring his tool belt—

 

—or that the buff sexual sadist had extracted a huge, flat-bladed screwdriver with a twelve-inch shank of solid steel.

 

Slowly regaining consciousness, Cody found himself curled in a fetal position, instinctively trying to protect his badly beaten and bruised abdomen.  Surfacing in a rough sea of suffering, the battered youth could remain lucid only in flashes.  He remembered meeting an incredibly hot stud; he remembered the stud showing up at his apartment…and now there was nothing but terrible agony…he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened or why…

 

And then sudden motion made him realize that Carlos had climbed onto the bed with him, and he remembered.

 

Cody knew something really bad was about to happen.  The agony of his badly-pummeled abdomen kept him from crying out; all he could do was shrink back on the bed, whimpering as tears streaked down his swollen face.  He shook his head wildly side to side when Carlos grabbed his ankles and forced his legs wide apart, but he head to look up involuntarily when he felt pressure against his clenched sphincter.

 

The older man was up on his knees, between Cody’s spread legs, leering down at the prostate youth.  And between them, Cody could see his own dick standing straight up and oozing from the tip.  The powerful alpha, emitting menace and testosterone from every pore, spat on the writhing kid.

 

“Even after I beat the fuck outta ya, you still want the D,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, “Goddam faggot, you wanna get fucked even if it kills ya, huh?  Guess what, you worthless asswipe—looks like you’re gonna get what ya want.  It is gonna kill ya!”

 

Leaning forward, Carlos thrust with his hips.  There was a brief resistance, a sudden ripping sensation, and then his freakishly huge shaft was buried in Cody’s guts.  A second sense of resistance, brushed aside during the plunge, indicated the point at which the alpha’s massive purple tip had impacted Cody’s prostate.

 

It wasn’t the only thing.  Even as Cody shrieked in nightmarish agony as his sphincter was torn apart, his cock pulsed visibly and drooled out a steady stream of precum.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Carlos muttered with an arrogant grin as he ground his rough, wiry pubes against Cody’s smooth, tender asscheeks, “Fuckin’ pansy power bottom homo.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Cody screamed again, his voice cracking shrilly.  All the pain of his vicious beating had faded to a background hum compared to the searing torture in his rectum.  He’d taken dick up his ass before, plenty of times—but this was like getting raped by a horse—

 

And then, even though Cody didn’t think it possible, it got even worse.

 

“Ya wanna scream?” Carlos hissed, “I’ll give yer punk ass somthin’ to scream about, bitch.  Ya like my long hard hot tool rammed in ya, huh?  Wait’ll ya get this long hard cold tool stuck into yer guts, too!”

 

The sadistic killer held the screwdriver directly in front of Cody’s bloodshot, tear-filled eyes so the boy could contemplate all the ways in which it could be used to inflict pain—not that he was allowed long to contemplate.  Carlos, living up to his muscular, inked, rough trade look, reversed the tip of the screwdriver and slammed it down.  The large flat blade pierced Cody’s smooth flat belly like a hot knife through butter, the thick steel shaft sinking nearly to the hilt.

 

Cody’s eyes grew huge, dark circles of shock ringing them and making them look even larger.  His hands reached up and clawed at Carlos’s chest fur as his breath was expelled in a loud, agonized grunt.  As a tidal wave of anguish swept over him, he could see the gleam of sexual insanity in the powerful top’s eyes.

 

“Hell yeah, fuckmeat,” the brutal sadist chuckled, “Loved that, didn’t ya, ya fucking homo pervert, huh?  Yer ass grabbed my cock nice and hard when I stabbed ya, you disgusting pain pig—good, but not good enough.  Guess I gotta stick it in ya a lot more if I wanna cum, huh?  Yeah?  That what ya want, faggot?  Cause it’s what yer gonna get!”

 

Jerking the tool back up out of Cody’s gut, the psycho alpha held it up and admired the long, blood-streaked shank as the lean, lithe youth writhed and mewled in nightmarish pain beneath him.  A slow, cunning smile crept over Carlos’s face, and he whipped his hand out to the side and rammed the screwdriver into the helpless kid’s flank, puncturing the smooth, soft flesh just under the rib cage and punching the cold steel shaft through Cody’s kidney and up into his spleen.

 

The sudden intense agony of organ trauma crushed Cody in a fiery grip.  His hands clutched at Carlos’s upper arms, his fingers so tight on the hardbodied top’s biceps that his fingertips were turning white with pressure.  The kid’s eyes, wide with physical shock, stared unseeingly into Carlos’s.  As badly as he was suffering, the lean punk could feel every vein-wrapped inch of thick manmeat rammed up his ass; even his cock ached unbearably as the older man’s shaft pressed against his prostate and preventing his own erection form going limp.

 

Cody could hear the older man whispering, but could barely follow the words.  Seeing this, Carlos decided to emphasize his words.

 

Lowering himself down until his heavy, muscled body was on top of the faggot’s, Carlos let his weight press the kid into the mattress.  Bending his head forward to that the unshaven scruff on his face scraped Cody’s cheek, he muttered softly in the boy’s ear.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me bro, yeah?  Must feel sexy as fuck, bitch, the way your dick is throbbin’ and spewin’ precum, motherfucker.  Here ya go, cocksucker, enjoy it some more!”

 

With that, he twisted the screwdriver in the wound, then viciously reamed the handle in a wide circle, churning the strong steel shank through the young cunt’s tender innards.   The icy slashing pain deep inside him made Cody clutch his assailant even harder, pulling him close in an involuntary embrace of nightmarish pain.

 

It also made Cody realize that he was gonna die.  He was getting assfucked and he wasn’t gonna survive it.  He didn’t know why—it made no sense, he needed answers…

 

“Wh-why…” he moaned faintly.  Carlos’s head was still against his; he could feel himself trapped under the weight of the powerful stud on top of him, sliding across his smooth, slick flesh on a film of mansweat.  His lips were against the alpha’s ear; he didn’t need to speak loudly.  “Ju-ju-just wanted t’ g-get fuck-fucked, man, why k-kill me…”

 

Carlos pulled back just a bit and sneered down at Cody.  The kid’s face was taut with pain, his long sandy blond bangs plastered to his forehead by sweat.  The kid’s agony was so fuckin’ hot.  Carlos spat in Cody’s face, the phlegm trickling down his cheek along with his tears.

 

“I’m gonna kill ya because it’s what makes me cum,” Carlos said evenly.  “Get it?  Yer just fuckmeat to me; hurtin’ ya and wastin’ ya is what gets me off.  And I’m really horny tonight, faggot.  Think ya hurt now?  Buckle up, fuckwad; I’m just gettin’ started.  I’m gonna end your useless, wasted life in a blast of agony so hard, you’ll cum till yer balls are deflated.  You gotta lot to look forward to tonight, boy!”

 

Cody bleated incoherently in terror.  His desperate struggles to free him merely aroused his rapist, who shuddered with pleasure as the smooth, slick boyflesh slid against him while the sick sadist lay full-length on top of his victim.  “Yeah, bitch, ya like that, huh?  That thought get ya all horny?  Like ridin’ two hard shafts at once, yeah?  Here, try this, cunt, lessee if it’ll make yer dick even harder!”

 

Jerking the tool back out of the meat’s side, Carlos rose up on his knees.  Beneath him, Cody shuddered in pain, his breath coming in short, agonized gasps.  His handsome, youthful face was almost unrecognizable, twisted and gray with unimaginable torment and serious organ damage.  Blood trickled from the hole punched in his flat, smooth belly, but not much; most of the bleeding was internal. Somewhat more was leaking from the wound in his side; much more damage had been done there.

 

Just what Carlos wanted—tortured fuckmeat, splayed out helplessly beneath him.  “Yer ass works my cock real good when ya suffer, faggot.  Fuckin’-A, yer a natural-born pain pig—saddle up, motherfucker, yer gonna love this shit!”

 

Holding the screwdriver in front of him, tip down, the buff, muscular alpha drove his arm downwards with the force of a piston.   Aimed at Cody’s chest on the left side, below the heart, the rather blunt tip punched through the youth’s torso between the ribs and impaled the left lung before striking a rib in the back from the inside.  The impact was hard enough to break the rib, but it took the momentum out of the blow and the screwdriver stopped with its tip lodged deeply in Cody’s rhomboid muscle.

 

As Cody’s young, tender body plumbed new depths of hell, the defenseless young homo could only look up at the testosterone-oozing stud looming over him.  Even in his agony, Cody knew that his cock was pulsing and slapping against the top’s furry belly with each brutal thrust of the older man’s hips.  It was too much for his shattered mind to take; the shallow cunt retreated to his love of shiny things and fixated on the thick links of Carlos’s gold chain, subconsciously trying to hypnotize himself out of his waking nightmare and failing spectacularly.

 

Carlos could feel the manseed start to bubble over in his balls as the slender youth shuddered and trembled beneath him.  The kid was clearly in respiratory distress; his punctured lung was collapsing and the fucker was gurgling and gasping for air, a faint blue tinge forming on his swollen, split lips.

 

Cody’s consciousness was starting to fade; the fit but lean young fuckmeat had endured too much trauma.  Things were going gray and numb around the edges.  He could still feel the half-inch-thick shank of stainless steel embedded in his chest, just below his heart, and he could still feel the two-inch thick shaft of solid pulsing manflesh stuffed in his guts—but the icy darkness promised that soon he’d feel nothing, and he was grateful.

 

He made the mistake of letting it show on his face.

 

Carlos was an experienced killer.  He knew the meat was trying to relax into unconsciousness; an attempt to escape the excruciating pain and ease into death.  He wasn’t having that.

 

“No you don’t, ya stupid faggot,” he snarled, pumping his engorged rod viciously into the kid’s ravaged asshole, “You ain’t gonna take a dirt nap yet—you ain’t worked the spunk outta my cock yet, meatsack.  I’m close, motherfucker, I’m real close, but you ain’t doin’ it for me—am I borin’ ya, asswipe? Guess I gotta amp it up, yeah?  Gotta make ya pay attention.”

 

Leaning forward, the cruel alpha yanked the screwdriver out of Cody’s heaving chest, holding the gore-streaked shaft in front of the boy’s taut, pale face.  “Know what I’m gonna do?  I’m gonna shove this into yer head.  I’m gonna fuck yer brain to hamburger with it.  You’re gonna kick and convulse as ya die and yer fuckhole is gonna work my dick so good.  And if I shank the right part of yer worthless homo brain, ya might even cum yourself, ya fuckin’ pervert.”

 

Reaching up to grab a hank of the kid’s sweat-soaked blond hair to hold his thrashing head in place, Carlos brought the screwdriver up and—so that the meat would know what was coming—slowly and gently inserted the large blunt tip of the steel tool into the punk’s left ear.

 

Cody gazed up, completely and utterly helpless, his eyes wide with horror as the realization of what was about to happen to him sank in.  As the ruthless, brutally handsome alpha loomed over him, he tried again to focus on the gold links, on anything to take his mind off that pressure in his ear—

 

—then Carlos wrapped his large, strong hand around Cody’s jaw, crushing in in a vise-like grip and began to shove on the screwdriver.

 

Then next two minutes were both the worst and the last of Cody’s life.

 

Even with his jaw clamped shut by Carlos’s iron grasp, the volume of the shrill shrieks the trapped boymeat emitted were a good indication of the mind-bending agony he was enduring as the half-inch-wide metal tip tore through his eardrum and ground its way through his middle ear.

 

As promised, the excruciating pain made the slim youth flail and shudder, his hands slapping vainly against Carlos’s hairy chest.  His legs, spread wide apart with the alpha’s muscle-bound form between them, could only kick at the air, his bare toes curling each time Carlos went balls-deep in his ass.   Then the blade of the screwdriver punched through to the inner ear and slashed through the cochlea and the semi-circular canals, destroying the unfortunate fag’s balance mechanism.

 

Instantly, Cody’s screaming nightmare of suffering was intensified by a sickening, unbearable vertigo.  Instinctively, he clutched at the only solid, stable thing in his shrunken universe—his killer.  His hands reached up and clutched the stud’s sweating, bulging biceps; his legs wrapped around the alpha’s heaving, thrusting waist.  Then the screwdriver penetrated past the ear structure with a loud, sickening crunching sound and dug its way into the soft gray matter filling the punk’s skull.  “Fucking piece a’ meat, die on my fuckin’ cock!” Carlos barked and reamed the steel shank into the dying boy’s cranium.

 

Cody stiffened with the onset of massive brain damage, his lithe, lean, sweat-slicked body going rigid as his eyes rolled back in his head, nothing but blood-streaked white showing beneath fluttering lids ringed with long dark lashes.  Carlos ground the screwdriver around in large circles, carving out large trails of carnage in the kid’s cerebellum—then one swipe of the steel tip slashed through the pleasure center of the young fag’s brain.

 

In some deep dark corner, the last spark of Cody’s personality screamed in orgasmic agony as his firm slender form convulsed violently.   Carlos held on, grunting in intense pleasure as the meat’s rectum gripped his swollen cock and massaged it in rhythmic spasms.  Simultaneously, the cunt’s rod, pressed against Carlos’s furry ripped abs, pulsed and squirmed.

 

“FUCK!” Carlos screamed, injecting a jet of boiling manseed deep into the meat, “FUCK!  GODDAM!  FUCK!”

 

There wasn’t enough left of Cody to hear his killer or feel the load pumped into him; the last sensation the nearly-dead homo was able to feel was his own geyser of spunk.  It arose in an agonizing stream, splashing all over Carlos in a continuous flow, unnaturally drawn out due to brain trauma.  The last thing Cody felt was an almost electric pain in his engorged cock as his life drained out of it, all over the hard body of his killer.

 

As a last act of contempt towards the fagmeat, Carlos slammed the screwdriver into the corpse’s head as hard as he could and left it with the tip embedded in the cranium on the inside.  Gasping for air, his muscled chest heaving and matted with sweat and cum, Carlos pulled his still-dripping cock out of the dead meat and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at the mess he’d left.

 

Cody lay sprawled out on his back on the bare mattress, his abused and violated young body still quivering in its death throes.  There was a small pool of blood at the flank and another at the side of the head, under the ear from which the handle of the screwdriver still protruded.  Even in death, his bare toes were curling and relaxing convulsively.

 

Carlos sneered.  “Dead piece of faggot shit,” he muttered as pearly drops of cum continued to ooze from his own mushroom tip.  Impulsively, he bent down, grabbed Cody’s arm, and dragged the corpse off the bed, through the apartment and out onto the patio, leaving a trail blood streaked behind him.

 

Once on the patio, he lifted the body over the railing and tossed it into the half-full dumpster, where it landed with a loud thump.  It was still visible when Carlos glanced in; it had landed face-down.  With a vague interest, the killer noticed a white spot on the small of the kid’s back, just above the tramp stamp—a playing card had been plastered there by sweat.  It was the ace of spades.

 

Turning back to the apartment, Carlos stepped into the bathroom to clean up.  It was small and filthy, but he was able to soak a towel with warm water at the sink.  He wiped the sweat and cum off his chest; then, glancing closely in the mirror, noticed that the little fucker had managed to shoot jizz onto his gold chain.  Smirking with pleasure at the memory, he cleaned the chain off as well.  He didn’t notice the playing card that had been stuck to his own body till it fell off and fluttered to the floor, landing face-up—his was the king of clubs.

 

Tucking his enormous dick back into his jeans, Carlos swiftly left the apartment.  He left behind his shirt, draped over a pair of Cody’s workboots.  He didn’t want it anymore—and anyway, his body fur was still wet.  He planned to air dry it by leaving the top down on the way home.

 

---

 

“Hey, Schweitz, what’s the story on that 187 ya had this morning?”

 

“That homicide out in Paradise, by the airport?  That ain’t mine, that’s Nuñez’s.”

 

“Yeah, fine, but Nuñez is out and I ain’t got a report on it yet.  Just gimme the basics.”

 

“Sure, Captain, but there ain’t nothin’ to it.  Patrol car got called in after a neighbor found the body in a dumpster.  Responding officers saw the blood trail on the patio next to the dumpster and called us in before they forced entry to the unit.  There was blood on the bed and someone had cleaned up in the bathroom, but we didn’t find any other physical evidence.”

 

“Did ya call the crime scene techs out?”

 

“Naw.  Why bother?  M.E. was there—said the vic had been raped before he was stabbed to death.  We asked the neighbor; turns out it was just another faggot who took the wrong trick home.  Neighbor said there’s pansies in and outta that place all the time.  He did remember a Mercedes convertible parked near the unit last night, though—want me to tell Nuñez to follow up on that?”

 

“No—like ya said, don’t bother.  Waste of resources.  We had two tourists robbed and shot on Tropicana two hours ago—check it out and take Nuñez with you.”

 

“And the fag?”

 

“Forget it.  Don’t worry about filing a report—not like a real human being was involved, anyway.  Go find out if those tourists are out of surgery yet—I will want a report on that one.”