Tag: hairy

Leather Dave and the Biker Bitch

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex SnuffLeave a comment

BikeFest 2020 was on and to Cody, that meant one thing: getting banged by dudes in leather with thick hogs between their legs.  Hell, he’d already gotten laid last night—not a roughly as he liked it, but it was a start.

 

Cody had been worried about the turnout, but the crown had only been down a little Friday night, the first day of the rally.  Rancho Vista’s BikeFest was nowhere near as large as the huge rallies in Sturgis, but the crowd was just as rowdy—and clearly didn’t give a shit about social distancing.

 

It was past eleven when Cody got to the Fire Lizard, the largest of the four biker bars in town.  Even though it was Saturday, he’d had to work late; they were short-handed at the meat packing plant, and overtime was mandatory.  Then he’d had to go home, shower, and change into something appropriate for the bar.

 

Cody had just turned eighteen three months earlier.  He’d dropped out of school a couple of years earlier after an incident at an earlier rally—he’d been gang-raped by a group of bikers.

 

He’d loved it.  He wanted it to happen again, he wanted to be one of them.  He left school and went to work, trying to save up for a Harley.  The meat packing plant, of course, was the only employment possible without a high school diploma; it took in a lot of the dregs of the town.

 

And somehow, Cody never managed to get his hog.  Booze and food and weed and the rent on his dilapidated single-wide and the tote-the-note payments on his twelve-year-old Toyota pickup seemed to take everything from him.

 

Everything but his love of dick up his ass.  He could still troll the rally, looking for a stud to fuck him like a dog.  He hurried home after his shift, his thick boycock already throbbing with excitement at the thought of so many hot leather-clad dudes in town.

 

He tried to dress the part.  He couldn’t afford real biker leathers, of course; his thin aviator jacket wasn’t even real leather.  His boots were black leather, but they were ropers.  But the black jacket and boots, worn with a basic white cotton t-shirt and a pair of distressed, slightly torn jeans, passed for authentic in the crush at the bars, as long as one didn’t look too closely.  He pulled the boots on quickly; the jeans caught on them and were hiked up but not tucked in, so the legs bunched up at the top of the boots and partly spilled over.

 

Cody already knew where he was heading.  He’d gone to the Third Wheel bar last night, so tonight would be the Fire Lizard.  Hopefully, it’d work out better than last night; the dude had been hot, but he’d been a pussy.  Way too nice to treat Cody like the faggot he was; the teen slut hadn’t been impressed.

 

The muscled youth threw eagerly threw himself into his battered truck and started it with some difficulty.  He was so excited heading into town that it just barely registered that he was almost out of gas.  It didn’t really cross his mind until he hit town—and the traffic

 

Needless to say, the main drag was a madhouse.  Rancho Vista had a population of less than six thousand most of the time, but tonight that number was increased by nearly fifty percent.  Every bar, diner, and fast food franchise in town was packed past capacity.  Hogs of every shape, size, and customization rumbled up and down the street and bikers of both sexes stumbled drunkenly along the sidewalks, laughing, fighting, and catcalling.

 

It was a scene of unbridled revelry, anonymous sexual encounters and rampant drug use and Cody threw himself into it with gleefully reckless abandon.  He was looking for a hot man in leather to fuck him violently and was about to succeed beyond his wildest dreams.

 

The Third Wheel was out near the edge of town—not that Rancho Vista’s edges were that far out—next to an abandoned restaurant.  Cody found himself parking at the restaurant; the bar’s parking lot was too full of motorcycles for him to find a space.  He wasn’t alone; more than two dozen cars, trucks, and bikes were using the overflow lot.

 

The bar was just as packed as its parking lot, of course.  From the moment Cody was in the door, he was in leather pig heaven.  The Third Wheel wasn’t a gay bar—no such thing in town—but given that more than three-quarters of the crowd were male, Cody knew he wouldn’t have any problem finding someone to fuck him.

 

He began squeezing his way through the crown, trying his best not to moan with pleasure like a slut every time he pressed himself up against a leather-clad biker’s hard furry body in the crush.  His dick was a swollen, pulsating ridge of denim in his groin; he did what he could to press it against every dude he could, hoping for a reaction.  He got a couple—but not from anyone who looked like they could give him what he needed.

 

He didn’t see Dave at first.  He felt something, though, something that felt like holes being bored into the nape of his neck.  He turned and scanned the crowd behind him—and that was when he saw the seductive, glittering emerald eyes staring straight at him.

 

The dude was in his early thirties, tall, with wavy jet-black hair, a matching goatee, and a faint haze of dark scruff on his cheeks.  He was dressed as the real deal in a genuine leather biker jacket—worn over his bare, hairy chest and belted at the waist, Cody noted with lust—and tight jeans tucked into a pair of sixteen-inch Wesco Boss engineer boots.

 

At least two other guys were trying to get the man’s attention, but he kept his riveting gaze focused directly on Cody.  The teen staggered towards him as if in a trance.  He was drawn to the stud like a bird to a snake—with the exception that it was purely voluntary.

 

 

For Dave, the rally had been somewhat disappointing.  He’d had a Harley for years—faggot bitchboys loved a man with some serious horsepower between his legs—but he preferred cruising the leather conventions to find horny little sluts that wouldn’t be missed, at least no until he was long gone.

 

But most of the leather cons were being canceled this year.  So Dave decided to break out his bike and head to the rally in Rancho Vista.  He knew the biker crowd didn’t give a shit about the virus or much else.  And there were always a few fags hanging around, hoping to get lucky.  They needed Dave there to show them that their lack of concern for the virus was well justified.  It was nothing. What he had in mind for them was much, much worse.

 

There was no way he’d find a motel room; the place would be packed.  His plan was to spend the night with whatever meat he’d taken home—if the corpse got too stiff in the bed, he could always kick it to the floor.  Just in case, though, he brought a sleeping bag and some camping gear.

 

And it turned out to be a good thing.  He struck out Friday night and left the back feeling angry and thwarted.  It wasn’t that he hadn’t had his pick of the fuckmeat; it was that none of the fuckmeat was worth picking.

 

Well, tonight needed to have a better outcome.  He wasn’t gonna sleep on the ground again’ if nothing worthwhile showed up, he’d just saddle up and head back to—

 

—and that was when Cody walked into his view.  A single glance at the biker wannabe and Dave could see the teen’s desperate aching lust, the kind of lust that can only be assuaged by death.

 

From that moment on, it was settled.  Even before Cody had set eyes on Dave, the muscled sadist had marked the boy for a kill.

 

Even the crowd seemed to abet the meeting, parting easily so that Cody could make his way towards the hardbodied stud.  Within seconds, he was by Dave’s side, looking the leather-clad alpha in the eye.  They didn’t bother to introduce themselves; names weren’t necessary.  Nor was much else; it was obvious what each wanted—up to a point.

 

“Wanna come back to my place for a beer?” Cody asked.

 

Dave looked at him levelly for a moment, sizing the meat up, then spoke.  “Yeah, you’ll do.  But I ain’t leavin’ my bike here.”

 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll leave my truck here,” Cody said, nearly stuttering in horny eagerness, “I’ll ride with you.”

 

Dave saw the way the bulge in the boy’s groin throbbed as he mentioned riding pillion on the motorcycle.  The fagkiller smirked; the little biker groupie was perfect fuckmeat.  Yeah, he’d take the kid back to whatever shithole he lived in and put him out of his misery…

 

“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head towards the rear door, “I’m parked out back.”

 

Cody wasn’t sure how the dude managed to pick his own out of the hundreds of other black bikes in the lot, but he led them straight to a Harley Fat Boy and straddled it, slipping a jet-black helmet on.  With a hard cock and wide, happy grin, Cody climbed on behind him, wrapping his arms around the stud’s leather-jacketed waist.

 

“Left out of the lot, then left at the last light in town.  It’ll be a couple miles out—first right past the dump.”

 

The Harley roared into life, the powerful engine throbbing between their thighs.  Cody had to hold on tight as they accelerated out of the parking lot; Dave saw no need to provide the meat with any kind of head protection.

 

One way or another, it would be beyond the need for protection of any kind within an hour, at the latest.

 

As the wind whistled around his head, Cody buried his face in Dave’s back, inhaling the musky aroma of the leather and feeling its smooth gloss against his skin.  His boycock throbbed achingly; Dave could feel it pulsing against his ass and grinned, knowing this one was hooked good.  He swung off the main road and headed out of town.

 

Making the turn past the dump, Dave found himself navigating the cracks and potholes on a poorly-paved road.  After heading north for about a mile, he pulled up where it dead-ended in front of the burned-out ruin of what had once been a large ranch house.

 

“Keep going,” Cody said, “There, where the gravel track goes over the hill.”

 

Dave eased his way over the hill and stopped at an old single-wide trailer.  It was dilapidated but at least it was inhabitable.

 

Cody slipped off the bike, his legs trembling so hard from the ride he could barely stand.  Dave swung his leg over the hog and stood smirking at the tumbledown mobile home.  Cody caught the look and flushed.

 

“Yeah, I know, but it only costs me three hundred a month.  This useta be a big ranch, but the family lost all their money.  Tyrin’ to sell the place now, but the land ain’t worth much.  House mighta been worth somethin’, but it’s gone.  This trailer useta be the foreman’s place.”

 

Dave grunted his disinterest.  Taking the hint, Cody bounded up the rickety wooden stairs and unlocked the door.  Dave followed, feeling the thin slats of the steps sag under his boots.

 

Everything inside was brown, from the peeling pine veneer on the walls to the dirty acrylic carpeting on the floor.  There was a distinctive sharp hint of formaldehyde oozing from the plywood walls; it was only partially overlaid by the heavier scents of weed and mansex.

 

“You, uh, you c’n help yerself to a beer; they’re in the fridge,” Cody said, almost shyly.  “I wanna go, um—well, I need to make the bed—”

 

“Don’t bother,” Dave said sharply, “Just strip the sheets off.  You too, boy.  Strip!”

 

When Cody flushed this time, it wasn’t with embarrassment, it was with pleasure.  He was sure he’d found his alpha.

 

Dave strolled into the small kitchen, pulled a can of beer from the fridge, and headed back into the living room.  What little counter space the kitchen offered was covered in filthy, unwashed dishes.  It was easier to set his beer down in the living room while he slipped out of his jacket, leaving it carefully folded on the back of the dilapidated sofa.

 

Cody came back in, grinning, his thick boycock already stiffening; he had just entered the room with Dave unzipped his fly and began to haul out his huge member.  It popped out, thick, erect, and glistening, wreathed with veins and with a huge scrotum dangling underneath.  The grin was instantly wiped off Cody’s face—he wasn’t able to smile with his mouth agape in awe.

 

Dave noticed, and sneered.  “Ya want my cock, faggot?  You ain’t good enough to make me cum, bitch.”

 

Cody was as erect as a steel beam.  “Yeah I am,” he gasped breathily, “But it’s gotta be rough.”

 

Dave’s grin grew shark-like.  “Rough is the only way I fuck worthless pansies like you.  Get down on yer knees, fucker.  Now!”

 

The teen punk dropped as commanded.

 

“Crawl over here, cunt; I wanna fuck yer skull.”

 

Cody shuffled his way forward, on his knees, until he was close enough for Dave to reach out and grab his head, clutching it with relentless, inexorable strength as his forced his massive shaft down the kid’s throat.

 

The first hint to Cody’s hormone-dimmed mind that this wasn’t going to be his dream fuck was his inability to breathe.  He was a serious cockpig and had gagged on dick often enough before.  He loved being forced to choke on an alpha’s tool—up to a point.

 

But this was going on too long, and Cody was starting to suffer.  This wasn’t what he wanted, but he couldn’t escape.  The dude was just too strong, rendering the kid’s head utterly immobile while he left his thick rod of manmeat buried deep in the fag’s throat, his heavy balls resting against its chin.

 

The teen beat his hands against Dave’s denim-wrapped, muscular thighs; it had as much effect as if he were beating a tree trunk.  He tried desperately to jerk his head away as his pulse began to pound in his head.  He gagged, forcing thick streams of drool out past Dave’s enormous cock and down his chin.

 

His only reward was a malignant chuckle from above, followed by a deep thrust of dick into his throat.  His struggles became more intense as his chest started to burn.  Frantically digging into the cheap carpeting, Cody yanked himself backwards as forcefully as he could—and suddenly found himself free.

 

Dave, feeling the boy pulling, let go of his head and Cody was flung back across the room under his own power.  As the fag slut lay huddled and coughing on the floor, the hot muscled stud stalked towards him, a wide, sneering grin on his face.  Once within range, he kicked the boy—not hard enough to do any real damage, but his leather Wesco boot had enough force to make the punk grunt.

 

“Hope yer a better assfuck than ya are a throatfuck, you worthless faggot,” he snarled, “But I gotta way of makin’ sure you are anyway.  Ya liked gettin’ choked, dintja?  Yer little homo cock got all hard as ya gagged on my dick, so yer gonna fuckin’ shoot gobs a’ cum when ya get choked to death ridin’ my shaft, motherfucker!”

 

Cody’s face had faded from its earlier livid color; when he heard Dave’s words, he paled even more.  He peered up from the floor at the hulking hardbodied biker looming over him.  The tall leather boots and the thick, muscled thighs supported the rod and tackle of a stallion; above, the waist expanded up a heavily-muscled torso, the ripped abs and huge hubcaps pecs were covered with dark wiry fur, from the latter of which thick nipples jutted like hills above a forest. And that face—

 

—but Cody wouldn’t look Dave in the face; he could see death there.

 

“No…” he whispered faintly, his mind already reeling with desperate plans for escape, “No, don’t…”

 

He sounded abject with fear, but Dave was an experience fagkiller.  He knew what was coming by the way the fucker’s eyes were darting about, like a trapped wild animal.

 

Which, Dave, thought, was exactly what he was.  A trapped animal, soon to be made into a piece of meat.

 

The boy popped up like a jack-in-the-box, his almost magical change from horizontal to vertical inspired by panic. He turned towards the front door and started to bolt, but he got no farther than the length of his own body; Dave stuck out one booted foot and tripped the slut.

 

This time Dave was on him before Cody could rise again, stomping the tread of his Wesco boot into the smooth tender flesh of the boy’s back and kicking him in the flanks until he was wallowing on the floor in pain.

 

“Ya like it rough, faggot?  That rough enough for ya?  Fuck, boy, that’s just foreplay.  I’m gonna make you suffer when I fuck ya to death.  Yer gonna be in more pain that you can possibly imagine, you stupid little fuck—not that yer gonna hafta imagine it.”

 

He bent down, grabbed a hank of the sobbing kid’s tousled hair, and began dragging him towards the bedroom.  Cody scrambled to his feet and lurched along behind his attacker, bent double to avoid having a chunk of his scalp ripped off.  Dave led the wailing homo relentlessly to the stripped-down bed, then let go.

 

Cody stood upright, his boyish face smeared with tears and snot as he whimpered, trying to avoid Dave’s eyes, already aware of the piercing hate and lust that glinted in them like burning ice.  His attention was distracted by a flash on the left and then something happened—intense pain, a powerful impact—

 

—he hadn’t seen the sucker punch Dave had thrown at him, but he damn sure felt it.  Groaning, he opened his eyes—well, the right one, anyway; the left one was already swelling badly—and peered up at the handsome grinning sadist looming over him.  Immediately, he rolled over onto his stomach and tried to scramble off the bed; deep inside, he knew he didn’t have a chance at escape, and he was right.

 

Dave grabbed Cody by the right arm and dragged him off the bed, letting him fall face-down on the floor with a heavy thud.  Before he could recover, the muscle-bound killer had his arm again, planting his black leather boot just above Cody’s elbow.

 

Dave snatched Cody’s wrist and began pulling up while pressing down with his boot. The moaning slut felt his arm being bent backwards to the full extent of his elbow.  Then, with a grunt, Dave gave a vicious jerk.  Cody shrieked like a factory siren as his elbow bent ninety degrees in the wrong direction with a wet gristly cracking sound.

 

The pain was like nothing Cody had experienced in his short, useless life.  His imagination hadn’t comprehended that this kind of pain existed.  He rolled to his side, his eyes bulging (even the blackened one) with pain and horror as he stared at his mangled arm.  Dave let him scream for a minute or two, then approached him.

 

Cody looked up and saw the thick clear beads of precum oozing from the huge purple head of the biker’s massive dick, and he understood that this wasn’t the end of his life, it was the start of an eternity in hell.  This sick motherfucker he’d brought home was getting off on hurting him and maiming him.

 

Cody screamed again.  “Shaddap,” Dave snapped and kicked the boy in the face, fracturing his jaw.

 

The teen faggot lay on the floor in a semi-conscious state, his lithe young body sweating and shuddering in agony.  Part of him just wanted to surrender, to let the hardbodied psycho do whatever he wanted, if that meant it would be over faster.  But he knew that he couldn’t control his automatic urge to fight off the source of pain.

 

And somewhere deep in the pit of his brain, he refused to acknowledge the fact that even surrender wouldn’t end it any faster; the dude was turned on by his suffering.

 

Dave didn’t give a shit what was running in the meat’s mind; whatever was going on in there would be shut down soon enough.  He was busy surveying his prey, trying to determine where to attack next.

 

“Lessee,” he chuckled malignly, “Wanna keep it even, yeah?  Left arm, so now right leg.  C’mere, bitch, this one’s gonna hurt so bad you’ll cum.”

 

He grabbed Cody’s right wrist and dragged him about a foot—just enough to turn him onto his back.  Then he stepped down and planted his boot on the punk’s thigh, just above the knee.  Recognizing what was about to happen, the homo wailed at the top of his lungs, despite the pain the movement caused his damaged jaw.  It did no good anyway, once Dave bent down, grabbed his ankle, and began pulling upwards.

 

This time was different.  Cody’s elbow had snapped like a turkey’s wishbone; his knee was a little sturdier.  Unfortunately for the teen cunt, this meant that Dave didn’t do it all in one swift, clean jerk.  It took a little time—time enough for Cody to feel and hear the ligaments and tendons tearing and snapping, time for him to see his patella bulge and finally shear to the outside as his leg was bent back at a right angle with a loud squelching sound.

 

Cody had been right that he wouldn’t be able to control his reactions once the pain hit; he just didn’t know that he’d be utterly helpless when it did.  With one arm and one leg useless, all he could do was writhe on the floor and squeal in such agony that his voice cracked and all that came out was a gargling hiss.

 

And yet through the glassy haze of suffering, he could still hear the contempt in Dave’s voice.

 

“Time to saddle up, motherfucker, yer prime fuckmeat now.  I’m ready to dump my load and hit the road.  Got shit to do asswipe, so it’s time to die on my dick.”

 

Cruelly dragging the thrashing youth upright by his useless left arm, Dave held Cody to him for a brief moment, feeling the eighteen-year-old boy’s smooth skin sliding against his own as the cunt flailed in nightmarish pain.  He threw the kid onto the bed, then followed, his huge cock visibly pulsing as he neared the quivering pile of boyflesh.

 

Again, Cody forced his eyes open to see Dave towering over him.  This time, though, the older man had unbuckled his belt and was slowly sliding it from around his waist.  It was an inch-wide leather strap, glossy black on the outside but raw on the inside.  The muscled stud wrapped the end without the buckle around his hand as he climbed onto the bed and pried the kid’s legs apart.

 

The teen homo knew what was coming.  Forty-five minutes ago, he’d been excited to nearly the point of orgasm at the thought of getting fucked by the hulking hardbodied biker.

 

Now, he knew it meant pain and death.

 

So did Dave, and he drove the point home as he pressed the enormous, precum-smeared head of his cock against the boy’s tender quivering fuckhole.  “Now yer gonna know what it feels like to have a real man inside you, faggot.  And it’s gonna hurt.  It’s gonna hurt so fucking bad.”

 

And it did.

 

Dave shoved.  There was a brief resistance, then Cody’s sphincter tore like a wet paper towel and the killer’s monster cock plowed its way remorselessly through the teen’s colon and lodged itself in his guts, mercilessly grinding the boy’s prostate as it did.

 

Despite the physical trauma he’d already endured, this new pain sent Cody’s brain into vapor lock.  It was too much for him to process; not just the searing agony of his mangled asshole, but the amazingly excruciating fullness, the sensation of having an object jammed up his ass that was far larger than the space into which it’d been forced.

 

That was when Dave began beating him with the belt.

 

The first stinging lash of the leather strap broke Cody out of his stupor; the mark left by the buckle was so deep it had cut the skin.  As the sadistic fagkiller raised the belt again, the boy held out his good right arm in an instinctive attempt to ward off the blow—another of Cody’s bad decisions.

 

Dave brought the belt down with a powerful whip-like movement and Cody’s right hand took the full force of the buckle, snapping all but his thumb and pinkie finger.  With a shriek, the punk drew back his crushed hand as Dave roared in rage.  “Goddam dumbass motherfucker!”

 

He began to rain blows on the helpless teen homo, feeling the boy’s ass muscles clench his swollen cock in agony each time the belt landed on the kid’s chest or belly.  As Cody’s silky, smooth flesh was beaten to a mass of bleeding purple welts, his torturer grunted with pleasure.

 

But the law of diminishing returns soon asserted itself; the young pansy was simply too exhausted to react.  The pain had become so overwhelming that the pile of bleeding, shuddering meat that had once been a meatpacker named Cody had just stopped responding.

 

“Goddamit, you really are worthless, even for a fuckin’ faggot,” Dave growled.  “Can’t even work a load outta my cock, even with all the help I been givin’ ya.  I’m ready to pump and dump, and I ain’t got the time to beat ya till ya get it right.  Yer done, bitch.”

 

He spit in Cody’s face, punched him twice, hard, then wrapped the belt around his neck and, looping it back through the buckle, made a simple noose that he quickly tightened.

 

The teenaged homo truly was little more than meat at the moment; he had been tortured and terrorized so badly by this point that his psyche had shattered.  But he was still very much alive and able to feel—and suffer.  His reaction to having his air supply shut off might have been reflexive, but it wasn’t any less desperate or violent for that.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, that’s it,” the vicious killer grunted as the desperate teen bucked and jerked, “Now yer bein’ a good little faggot, aintcha?  This is what it takes to earn my load, cocksucker; ya gotta die for it.  Now yer gettin’ it, boy.  Kick and choke and die, motherfucker!”

 

Cody was no longer the handsome boy he’d been less than an hour ago in the bar, but now he was becoming unrecognizable.  His already swollen and bruised face was turning black, his bulging eyes giving him a frantic expression that was completely appropriate; he felt like his head was going to explode.  All the other pain had receded behind this, the mortal agony of slow, painful asphyxiation.  His useless right hand beat against Dave’s broad, muscular chest, the limp fingers dragging helplessly in the wiry black body fur.

 

But there was another pain, too; one that had grown so gradually that it only began to make its presence known as Cody’s brain began to die.  It was an ache, like a throbbing tooth, that quickly built in intensity until it matched the pounding agony inside his skull.  It was his cock.

 

It was so rigid, so painfully erect that the repeated friction of being pressed between Dave’s furry ripped abs and Cody’s welt-covered belly swiftly became an excruciating, fiery ache.  Dave noticed it too.

 

“Now yer gettin’ it, ya piece a’ homo shit,” he grunted, thrusting his massive shaft vigorously into the dying boy’s ass.  “Fuckin’ faggots need to be put down like dogs.  The more it hurts as ya die, the more ya cum.  I’m doin’ yer worthless ass a favor, puttin’ ya outta yer perverted misery, and ya love it so much ya blow a load.  Every goddam time.  All you fuckin’ sick-ass queers need to die.”

 

Some part of Cody’s personality might have heard Dave’s jeering words as it flickered and faded in a dark corner of his mind, but the damage to the teen’s brain had passed the point of no return.  As thick streamers of drool bubbled past Cody’s protruding tongue and ran down his smooth cheeks, his lithe, sweat-slick body began to jerk and convulse.

 

Dave grinned and held on tight; this was it, this was the whole point.  This was why the faggot had to die—so its death throes could jerk the psychotic stud off.

 

As the meat thrashed under him, Dave could feel his scrotum tingling; soon electric shocks were playing at the base of his cock.  Pulling tightly on the belt with one hand, he placed his other hand palm down over the cunt’s black, swollen face and pulled.  With a thick wet crunch, the teen’s trachea collapsed into a mass of bloody, mangled cartilage, sealing his throat forever.

 

That sound, that sensation, was the trigger.  The meat was capable of two last sensations—a searing blast of heat inside it and a burning agony in the genitals.

 

It ended the way Cody had hoped it would the moment he met Dave: Cody shot his wad as Dave unloaded inside him.  The only difference was that Cody wasn’t alive to enjoy the solid jet of sperm he spewed all over Dave’s hard, hairy belly and his own flat, battered chest.  And Dave was cursing him and beating his face in as he spunked uncontrollably.

 

The body kept thrashing for a while, though; Dave had considered snapping its neck, but the meat just kept milking him and milking him until he thought his balls would collapse.   After a while, it settled into a steady, gentle quivering and the sick killer finally, reluctantly, withdrew his rod form the corpse.  Rising to his knees, he peered down at his victim—the perfect image of an alpha male, sweaty and cum-covered after marking his prey.

 

Somewhat unsteadily, he staggered out of the room to locate the bathroom.  He was happy; any fuck good enough to leave him weak in the knees was with the effort.

 

Finding the cleanest towel he could, Dave wiped himself down, sponging the dead boy’s cum off his torso and cleaning his dick before stuffing it back inside his jeans.  Tossing the towel into the toilet, he headed into the living room and put his jacket back on before returning to the bedroom to retrieve his belt.  He’d thought about leaving it behind, but it was a good belt and that worthless homo fuck didn’t deserve to keep it.

 

The meat was still twitching.  Its arms and legs were splayed at odd angles—especially the broken ones—and the toes on the left foot had locked into a tight curl at the moment of death.  The thick boycock was starting to shrivel, beads of cum forced from its head as it shrank.

 

Approaching the head of the bed, Dave grabbed the corpse by the hair and began to work the belt free.  Spittle had dried to a crust on the face in the same way that the tick pools of semen on the chest were congealing into a glaze.  The belt was deeply embedded; the hardbodied killer was forced to manhandle the dead boy to get it loose, finally prying it from around the throat and dumping the body on the floor as he looped it back around his waist.  The extra bit of effort had caused his temper to flare again.

 

“Stupid piece of shit,” he snarled, lashing out with his Wesco boot.  If Cody had been alive, the blow might have been fatal; it cracked his skull.  As it was, all that happened was that the corpse flopped over, its ravaged asshole pointing skyward.

 

Dave paused in the doorway, looking back at the dead teen fag lying on the floor like a wadded-up cumrag, and smirked.  Fucker had got what he deserved.  Wheeling about contemptuously, he mounted his bike and headed out; by dawn he was two counties away, the throbbing hog between his legs vibrating the last few drops of sperm left in his deflated scrote.

 

 

Ames wasn’t happy when the welfare check call came across; clean-up after BikeFest was always monumental.  One rape, three attempted rapes, three attempted murders and more alcohol and drug violations than he could count; it was always the same.  And now a welfare check.

 

He was even less happy when he heard the details.

 

“Come again, dispatch?  You want me to go all the way over to the Wakefield Ranch to check on some eighteen-year-old who didn’t show up for work at the plant?  After last weekend, I’m surprised any of them did show up…”

 

But the response that the kid in question hadn’t been seen since Friday—it was now Tuesday morning—and that he was know to keep bad company (“he’s one a’ them homasexshools”) shut the deputy up and he proceeded as directed.

 

The moment he pulled up to the trailer, his heart sank.  A warm front was moving through, and it was a gusty day.  The front door of the trailer was wide open and banging in the wind.

 

Ames exited his car carefully, unsnapping his holder and withdrawing his gun.  There was no other vehicle visible.

 

“Hello?  Cahill County Sheriff’s Department—anyone there?”

 

His call was answer by nothing more than the arrhythmic banging of the door.

 

The deputy cautiously climbed the front steps and entered the trailer, doing a quick sweep of the living area and kitchen.  Nothing seemed to be disturbed—or, rather, the place was too much a mess to tell if anything had been disturbed.  Ames headed for the bedroom.

 

Thirty seconds later, he was back at his car.

 

“Yeah, dispatch, ya better send the whole works.  Looks like the fag got buttfucked to death.  Someone who really hates homos, too, by the looks of it.  I ain’t never seen a body beat up so bad that hadn’t been run over by a truck.  Been dead for several days.  Better let the sheriff know, too; find out what he wants to do.”

 

As he waited for a response, Ames crossed back to the trailer and closed the front door; the relentless banging was getting on his nerves.  He wasn’t worried about preserving fingerprints; he knew it wouldn’t matter.

 

He didn’t know how quickly he’d be proven right; the sheriff’s response was to secure the scene for the meat wagon and head back to the hospital.  The rape victim had said she could give a description of her attacker; the department had bigger things to worry about than some dead faggot.

 

Ames got back in the car and peeled out.  Behind him, Cody’s battered corpse, cold and lonely, remained lying on the bedroom floor for another three hours before the coroner’s van arrived.

 

 

The Trucker 19–Trucker vs Plague Rat

On By m3mayhemIn The Trucker5 Comments

The Trucker had a need for prey.  He usually took his time and enjoyed the hunt, but tonight was different.

 

The last few weeks had been insane, and it didn’t look like things were getting better anytime soon.  Constantly on the move and always in demand, his job qualified as an essential service.

 

Tonight, he needed some essential servicing himself.  He’d dropped a trailer full of supplies at the distribution warehouse for a small chain of grocery stores in central Texas this morning, then headed north and east in his unburdened cab.  Wanting to avoid the larger cities, he pulled over about forty miles south of Dallas in a small town well off the interstate.

 

He’d headed here specifically, based on an app he’d downloaded.  Just outside of town was a small roadside motel, and on the other side of the state highway, sitting in about two acres of crumbling asphalt, was a huge metal building housing a nightclub.  According to the app, the place wasn’t a gay bar, but it was known for the likelihood of faggots propositioning men from the bar in the parking lot.

 

The Trucker had also heard about the place from some of his fellow drivers.  Seems the fags got taken up on their offers enough for the place to develop a reputation.  Of course, it had another reputation—sometimes the homos hit on the wrong dude, and bad things happened.  Very bad things.

 

Tonight, the Trucker was full of built-up testosterone and rage.  He needed to do some very bad things.

 

He pulled into the motel parking lot and headed for the office.  His sleeper cab was his home, and he didn’t want to mess it up.  He needed a temporary killing pit.

 

There was a small Hispanic woman behind the counter with a bandanna over her face.  No shelter-in-place order had been given locally, so everything was still open, but she clearly wanted to avoid the Trucker.  She handled his cash gingerly and shoved the key across the counter at him as if he was visibly radiating plague germs.

 

Clearly no one at the honky-tonk was worried about physical contact; as his thick, heavy Timberland Pro Logger boots thudded on the cracked cement pavement, he could see the full parking lot across the street and hear the loud, raucous music.  He was in number fifteen, the next-to last on the right end of the ground floor.

 

The moment he opened the door, the overpowering reek of bleach hit his nose; the cleaning staff weren’t taking any chances.  The buff hardman quickly strode to the window and opened it; the atmosphere was damn near toxic.  As he waited for the eye-watering fumes to clear, he glanced around and took in his accommodations.

 

A queen-sized bed with a thin mattress, thin, flat pillows and a thin and scratchy comforter of quilted polyester.  A dresser/desk unit that had no legs; it was evidently bolted directly to the wall.  There was a small and battered chair for the desk and, on the other side of the room, a mismatched armchair that didn’t look sturdy enough to support his weight next to a small round table.

 

The bathroom, to one side, was small and white-tiled.  Very, very white.  Housekeeping had gone through a full gallon of bleach in here, at least; almost too much to be accounted for by the virus.  The Trucker wondered idly if the place had been used as a killing pit before.

 

Well if it hadn’t, it was about to be broken in.  He’d seen what he needed to—it’d suffice.

 

He flicked off the lights and headed out, a muscular man in a leather jacket and tight jeans tucked into laced but untied logger boots striding purposefully towards the bar.  Anyone seeing him would know that he was a man with a mission, but few would be able to guess at a distance what a violent and murderous mission it was.

 

There was movement in the club parking lot; he could sense the surreptitious mansex occurring all around him and grinned viciously.  If the stupid fags couldn’t stay in quarantine, what else could they expect but death?

 

He was about two thirds of the way to the main entrance when words caught his ear; he suddenly found himself listening to a couple of homos having an argument two rows over.

 

“—couldn’t even stay in Dallas, couldja?  Lemme guess—with everything shut down, you couldn’t find any cock to suck but mine, and that ain’t good enough, is it?”

 

“Aw, chill out, man; I’m just havin’ a little fun—ain’t no big deal.”

 

“No big deal?  Fuck you, Jay.  I’m done.  You’re a whore and you’re gonna get me sick, one way or another.  I’m leaving.”

 

“What?  C’mon, Chris, you ain’t going—”

 

“The hell I ain’t.  Go on and have your fun, Jay.  I won’t be there when you get back—if you get back.”

 

They parted, one climbing into a mid-size SUV and pulling out.  The remaining one headed towards the club entrance—directly towards the Trucker.

 

The moment they were able to get a clear view of each other, something filled the air between them like powerfully charged ions; thunder and lightning smoldered in their eyes.

 

The Trucker, with his jeans, jacket, and boots, was enough to entrance any twink cocksucker; his skintight white cotton t-shirt clung to the vast rise of his huge pecs and the rippled surface of his muscled abs.  His long dark hair showed under the black trucker cap he sported and the three-days’ growth of scruff on his face emphasized its somehow dangerous masculinity.

 

The kid also wore a leather jacket and a tight white cotton t-shirt, but that was where the resemblance ended.  His t-shirt bore an Adidas logo and below he had on a pair of skinny track pants in shiny black polyester.  For some reason, he’d pulled sport socks up over the hem of the trackies, perhaps to better display his white Adidas All Star hightops, which he wore with the ankle straps hanging loose.

 

His face was young—the Trucker doubted the kid would’ve been let into the club without a fake ID, but maybe they were less strict out here.  Little fuck sure didn’t look country, though; with his carefully-arranged hair with the faggy upsweep in the front, it was obvious he wasn’t from around here…

 

The fag was horny and alone.  It was perfect.  The Trucker had homed in on his prey; now he needed to get it back to the room.  That, it turned out, was relatively easy.

 

Jay’s eyed had locked in on the Trucker’s bulging crotch the moment he got close enough to see it.  Between the teen’s salacious grin—he was still three months shy of his twentieth birthday—and the Trucker’s evil leer, they didn’t need to bandy words coyly about intent.  Each one wanted to use the other for sex, and each one knew it.

 

“It’s dark enough over there in the corner, if ya wanna whip it out,” Jay began, jerking his head to indicate the back of the parking lot.

 

“Naw, not in public,” the Trucker drawled laconically, “Like to take my time.  Gotta room in the motel over there.  C’mon.”

 

Jay’s skinny trackies were tight enough for his long boycock to tent as it sprang to attention.  “Fuck yeah, bro, right behind ya.”

 

As they headed across the street, the Trucker’s boots again thudded heavily on the road surface.  Jay’s kicks, in contrast, made no sound at all, as if the young fag was already a ghost.  As he approached the motel and followed the Trucker across the threshold, he had no idea that he would never re-cross it alive.

 

He was about to find out, though.

 

Nothing was said as they entered the room; nothing needed to be said.  As the Trucker drew the curtains over the window and locked the door, Jay slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing it on the armchair, and peeled out of his t-shirt.  His smooth bare chest revealed, he turned and expectantly waited for the Trucker to respond.

 

The older man locked eyes with the kid, grinned, and turned back to slide the chain lock on the door.  He took off his cap and tossed it onto the table, then pulled off his jacket and threw it on top of the kid’s.  With a single, smooth motion, he grasped the hem of his own t-shirt and jerked it up and over his head, shaking out his long dark hair as he did so.

 

Jay stared, jaw sagging, at the stud’s muscled, furry torso. The metallic glinting of dogtags drew the slut’s eyes to the muscled stud’s chest.  The huge nipples, thick and erect, rose up over the forest of fur that covered the valley between the pectorals and ran down his hard washboard abs to disappear beneath the waist of his jeans.  Seeing the fagboy gaping in lust, the Trucker smirked and unzipped his fly.  As Jay’s eyes strayed down towards his crotch, the hardman slowly pulled his enormous tool free from its confinement, letting it spring forward, jutting and throbbing in the open air.

 

With his mouth still hanging open, Jay fell to his knees.

 

“Get over here and suck it, cunt.  Don’t get up, you stupid faggot.  On your knees, boy, crawl for it.”

 

Jay obeyed, creeping forward until he was in reach of the massive, pulsating shaft.  He leaned in and gingerly put his lips on the thick, spongy head.  Instantly, the Trucker’s hands clamped onto the back of his head.  Before Jay had the chance to react, his esophagus was full of oozing mancock.

 

“I said suck it, ya useless homo, not lick it!  Fuck, cantcha give decent head, dumbass?”

Jay had no issues with a little rough talk but between the verbal abuse and the forced throatfuck, his bottom pig nature was already finding the encounter to be humiliating, uncomfortable, and a little scary.  He’d have said as much, only he was gagging and grimacing, tears leaking from his eyes as his face became red.

 

He beat his hands on the Trucker’s legs; the fagkiller’s thighs were thick and hard, like denim-covered marble.  The kid moved his arms up, his fingers clawing the dark wiry fur on the alpha’s muscled gut.  The Trucker responded by shoving the kid so that he fell back, still on his knees, throwing his left arm down and behind to support himself while gasping and coughing, wiping spittle from his lips with his right hand.  Blinking the tears from his eyes, he glared up at the Trucker.

 

“Dude, what the fuck—” WHAM!

 

The Trucker stopped the cunt’s squawking by popping it in the face.

 

Jay huddled on the floor, clutching his bruised cheek.  This time, he slowly and carefully raised his eyes.  He could see the hulking stud’s logger boots, the smooth black leather rising to nearly mid-calf before the denim took over.  Just above, the gigantic dick, dripping precum and boyspit—Jay had felt the way every vein wrapped around it had pulsed in excitement as he gagged on it.  And then that belly and those huge pecs with the dogtags jingling cheerfully between them.  And above that…

 

Above that, a leering, masculine stud and something else, something moving, a blur—

 

The second blow caught Jay in the mouth.  There was sharp pain and the coppery taste of blood and then everything went nice and peaceful and dark and he didn’t have to worry about what the fuck was happening—for a bit.

 

 

When he awoke, his cranium ringing like a cathedral bell, the boyslut thought he was nude.  He was in pain and his mind was vague—he remembered an assault but not much else—but he had no clothes on.  It was only when he flexed his toes that he realized he was still wearing his socks and shoes.

 

His trackies had zippers running up a few inches from the ankles so that he could have slipped them off over his kicks if he’d wanted, but he couldn’t remember wanting to.  And why that fuck did his face hurt so goddam bad?

 

“You finally back, fuckwad?  Whadda fuckin’ pansy.  Can’t even handle a little foreplay—just wait till I start actually fuckin’ ya, faggot.”

 

The deep masculine voice brought it all back.  Jay forced his eyes open and sat up, slowly and groggily on the bed. The Trucker was leaning casually against the table, smoking a Marlboro and eyeing the boy with lustful contempt.  In a corner by the door was a wadded pile of shiny polyester—what was left of Jay’s track pants.

 

And as the Trucker flicked his smoke at an ashtray on the table, the cunt’s eyes followed the motion and saw his wallet on the table.  It was open and had obviously been rifled through.

 

No matter how much or little money Jay had, he was greedily possessive of it; the thought that someone else had their hands on his cash made him forget the fact that he was locked in a room with a powerful stranger who’d already punched him twice in the face.  The moment he noticed the wallet, he popped off the bed like he’d been launched, his long, thick boycock swaying between his smooth thighs as he lurched unsteadily across the room.

 

“My fuckin’ wallet!  Where’s my cash, you asshole?  I’m gonna—”

 

His ranting came to an instant halt the moment he stepped within arm’s reach of the Trucker.  The powerful hardman shot out his right arm, grabbed Jay by the neck—his hand nearly large enough to encircle the fag’s throat—and hoisted him straight up in the air.  As the teen gagged and kicked, his flailing Adidas sneakers swinging four inches about the thin carpet, the muscled killer turned and slammed him into the door.

 

Still holding the meat aloft, the Trucker closed in, face to face, his cold blue eyes staring mesmerizingly into those of his prey, like a snake’s.

 

“You ain’t gonna need money by the time I’m done with you, queerboy.  I brought you in here to waste yer worthless ass.  Yer gonna die on my dick, ya piece a’ shit; I’m gonna use yer dyin’ convulsions to jack off.  Ain’t no one gonna miss a cumguzzlin’ fag like you, cunt, so shaddup and take what you fuckin’ deserve!”

 

With that, the Trucker gutpunched the whore, making Jay gag and thrash, his heels drumming against the door.  The hypermasculine fagkiller chuckled, his enormous cock throbbing as he watched the punk suffer for a moment, then dropped him.

 

Jay sank to his knees, both hands clutching his now-open throat as he choked and coughed between racking sobs.  Now that he could breathe again, he was aware of how the reek of bleach had become overpowered by a mixture of cigarette smoke, mansweat, and a musky smell that he couldn’t identify but that his cock recognized as testosterone and responded in kind.  This…this wasn’t happening.  He had to get out of here.  Maybe Chris hadn’t left yet, maybe he could find him in the parking lot or at least someone, anyone to help him—

 

In blind panic, the teen slut turned and scrabbled at the door, clutching desperately at the knob, fingers fumbling at the lock.  Behind him, the Trucker looked on in scorn, smirking at the meat’s noticeable relief when it managed to get the knob unlocked and open the door—only to find it had forgotten the chain.  He stepped forward, slammed the door, and grabbed the cunt by the faggy hairdo, dragging it back into the room.  As it moaned and bleated in terror, he bent down to its crotch and reaching one hand under its taint to its taut adolescent asscheeks, picked the homo up bodily and flung it across the room.

 

The kid slammed into the desk/dresser unit, rolling up on top and smacking into the wall behind hard enough to shatter the mirror and dent the drywall.  The unit had been poorly installed and had never been intended to hold much weight to begin with.  With a loud ripping sound, the entire unit tore free of the wall and fell forward onto the floor, projecting Jay halfway back across the room in the process.

 

When it was done, the sheetrock had been torn from half of the far wall.  The dresser/desk lay facedown on the floor and half the room was littered with dust, pieces of drywall and shards of glass.  In the middle was the huddled nude teen whore.

 

The Trucker walked casually over to him.  Lying on his face and groaning in pain, the youth reached out his left hand pathetically, as if pleading for help.

 

Bringing his big black boot down on the homo’s hand, the Trucker ground it into the floor, grinning with pleasure as he heard and felt the boy’s bones snapping and crunching under his heel.  The kid’s squeals of agony make his cock drip.

 

He was a long way from being done.  The fag needed to suffer more—a lot more—before the muscled killer planned on ending its useless life.

 

“Does it hurt, asswipe?” he muttered so softly that the agonized teen could barely hear him, “Not enough, it doesn’t.  Not yet.”

 

He knelt beside the boy.  For a brief moment, there was something in the way the older man was beside him, something about the Trucker’s movement and position the stirred some childhood memory inside Jay and made him think of a time when someone—his grandpa, maybe, had gotten down on his knees to help him.

 

But as the Trucker placed his knee on Jay’s left arm, just below the elbow, and grabbed his hand, pulling it up and back, the boywhore realized that the muscled stud wasn’t trying to express tenderness—he was breaking Jay’s arm.

 

The realization hit the cunt’s mind just as his arm bent upright at a ninety-degree angle, halfway between the wrist and the elbow.  The loud, wet snapping of the radius and ulna was almost, but not quite simultaneous—Jay heard as well as felt the Trucker break both bones with the ease of cracking a wishbone.

 

He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.  He lay on the floor, nude but for his kicks, staring at his mangled left arm and gasping loudly.  As the Trucker stepped back for a moment, the strong, smooth youth began to rise to his feet.  It was a painful and laborious process, since he only had one arm to brace himself with.  He used it to grab at the table, painfully clinging to the furniture as he pulled himself upright.

 

As he stood, swaying, his hair dark with the sweat that trickled down his lean body, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized at the last second that the process of getting up had been so intense, he’d lost sight of the Trucker.

 

The Trucker hadn’t lost sight of him.  Just as Jay turned his head in his direction, the Trucker swung the upright wooden desk chair he’d picked up.  The slut didn’t have time to duck; the chair struck him with such violent force that it shattered to kindling.  The impact knocked the young onto and over the table; since he was still tightly clutching the edge, he managed to pull it with him, flipping it over on top of himself as he fell on the far side.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad, and Jay was scared to the point of panic, but his young, strong body served him cruelly, refusing to let him lose consciousness.  He was forced to endure, to feel everything happening to him.  And through it all, he was constantly aware of the Trucker’s hulking, intimidating presence.  Like now, when the older man suddenly jerked the table off him, sending it skittering halfway across the room as easily as if it had been made of balsa wood.

 

The Trucker bent down and lifted the meat by the throat again; he liked this hold–this way, he knew he had the fag’s attention when he spoke to it.  Jay gagged and kicked, but not as violently as he had the first time.  He’d been pretty well tenderized; his right arm was clawing at the Trucker’s grip on his neck, but the left dangled and twitched uselessly.

 

And yet, beneath all that, the Trucker saw the teen’s thick boydick swell and stiffen.  Even as he choked, tears of pain and terror running down his face, he was getting hard.

 

He knew.  He expected it.  Fuckin’ homos screamed and cried and fought, but they all died with hard cocks, shooting their final load in gratitude as he fulfilled their destiny and gave them their final purpose on this planet—to be used as a cumdump and tossed aside like the garbage they were.

 

Deep down, they all knew they wanted it.  Ya just had to beat some sense into ‘em sometimes.

 

“Ready, motherfucker?” he hissed, grinning with malevolent glee at battered punk slowly choking in his hand, “Foreplay is over.  I’m ready to cum.  Wanna know how I’m gonna get off?  I’m gonna stick my cock balls-deep in yer ass and strangle you so yer convulsions jack me off.  Yer gonna die just so I can have a fucktoy.  And ya better work my hog good, fuckmeat—I can make this as long and as painful as I hafta.”

 

As he spoke, he crossed the room accompanied by loud crunching and cracking sounds as debris was crushed under the thick soles of his logging boots.  Jay was kicking with a bit more spirit now; the Trucker hadn’t held him this long before, and he was seriously starting to choke.  As they approached the bed, a certain reality set in; stupid as Jay was, he realized that what he was experiencing now was what he’d be feeling as he died.  True panic set in; he began thrashing like a fish on a line.

 

The Trucker, for once caught somewhat by surprise by a meat’s struggling, grunted and braced himself to keep his hold on the cunt.  It flailed about vigorously, its hand beating fruitlessly at the older man’s broad chest, legs kicking so violently that one caught the bedside lamp, shattering it and sending the pieces flying into the wall.  With another grunt, the Trucker tossed the kid faceup onto the bed; before Jay could rise, the fagkiller was there beside him.

 

He didn’t have a chance, not that he could truly believe that yet.  Even as he peered up at the hardbodied, hairy-chested stud towering over him, eyes glaring, nipples jutting and cock oozing, he still could not accept that he wouldn’t survive the night.

 

The Trucker knew it, too.  These teen homos were all the same; unless they were hardcore whores or users, the young ones hadn’t seen enough of life to understand how brutal it really can be.  And those who had seen it thought they were smart enough to avoid the worst—until they crossed paths with the Trucker.

 

Now it was time for this cunt to learn.  The alpha stud’s cock was beginning to ache; it needed release.  He climbed onto the bed, feeling the thin scratchy comforter under his knees as he pried open the punk’s legs and brandished his massive erect member like a spear, aiming it directly at the kid’s fuckhole.

 

Jay saw it coming and braced himself, but it didn’t help.  He’d been taking it up the ass for four years but had never experienced anything this bad.

 

It didn’t just hurt, he was being damaged.  From the moment the enormous head of the Trucker’s cock ripped his sphincter open so wide that flesh and muscles were torn, Jay realized that things were being done to him that would require massive medical intervention to fix, if it could be fixed at all.  The horrible sensation of a huge alien impalement continued as the older man’s rod probed deep in the boy’s guts, ripping at the tender lining of his colon and grinding relentlessly over his prostate.

 

Jay screamed and kicked, thrashing as violently as he had when he was getting choked.  This wasn’t the panic caused by asphyxiation, though; the fucker was wailing in sheer agony, trying desperately to get off the huge shaft that was tearing him open on the inside.  His right arm beat again at the Trucker’s chest, his fist thudding dully against the wiry, sweat-matted fur and making the dogtags jump.  His legs flailed, his feet dragging and kicking to the point that the sneaker on his left foot was pulled off; it fell unnoticed to the floor with a faint thump.

 

It was the noise the Trucker fund most annoying; the meat was squealing like a stuck pig.  “Aw, shaddup, motherfucker,” he snarled and punch the boy twice in the face.

 

With his left eye blackened and his lips split, Jay lowered his cries to a faint mewling that still abraded the sadist’s nerves.  “Goddamit, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, I said shut the fuck up!!”

 

Three blows strait into the fag’s belly, punctuated by the teen’s grunts as air was forced from his lungs by the impact: WHAM!  “Grk!” WHAM! “Hagk!” WHAM! “Guh!”

 

The Trucker went for the adolescent’s face again, before he could inhale, putting an end to the boy’s loud cries by dislocating, then breaking his jaw.  The entire time he was beating the cunt, his dick was still balls-deep inside it.  The killer could feel the fuckmeat take the brunt of every blow as it twitched and jerked on his cock.

 

And through it all, the faggot was hard too.  Jay had sunk into a near-trance state as an instinctive defense against the brutal mental and physical trauma he was suffering.  The pain alone was almost too much to endure in a conscious state.  He didn’t know the Trucker had beat him hard enough to tear his diaphragm and break his jaw; he only knew that he was in horrific agony—but despite all the other sensations overwhelming his brain, he was still aware of his own erection as it was compressed between his smooth flat belly and the Trucker’s muscled, furry abs.

 

Above him and inside him, the hardbodied fagkiller grunted and pumped, but he was getting diminishing returns.  The meat was tenderized enough.  Time to finish it off.

 

He leaned forward so that his huge muscled pecs rested on the punk’s chest.  His dogtags jingled as they struck the boy’s chest, then slid up and off to one side, by his left shoulder.  Wrapping his huge hand around the cunt’s neck, he started squeezing.

 

Jay opened his eyes—as much as he could open them—and his look of utter terror was what the Trucker had been waiting for.

 

“This is it, motherfucker.  This is why you were put on this earth, cunt—to milk my load out as you ride my cock while I choke ya to death.  Ready to justify yer faggot existence?  C’mon, bitch, fight it.  Struggle, asswipe, I wanna feel ya die.  Make yer mama proud, homo; she went through labor to give me a fag corpse for a personal cumdump.  Now fuckin’ die, meat!”

 

He tightened his hands; they clutched Jay’s throat with the cruel intensity of a steel trap, remorselessly constricting the boy’s windpipe.  The teen slut was panicking again; his air hadn’t yet been cut off as long as it had before—but the simple fact that he couldn’t breathe had pulled him out of his trance state.

 

He’d heard every word the Trucker had said.  This was it.  He was gonna die.  He’d end up beaten, raped, and strangled to death like a street hustler.  He was gonna fuckin’ die.

 

No he wasn’t.

 

In a Hollywood movie, his newfound courage and the way it rallied his strength to fight back against his cruel fate would have had a happy ending.  In reality, all it did was piss the Trucker off and cause Jay new trauma and horrible suffering before he died like a bitch.

 

Putting his one good hand to use, the gagging homo clawed desperately at his rapist’s face, his fingers seeking a grip on the older man’s unshaven cheeks and chin.  The Trucker angrily jerked his head away; feeling his target slip from his grasp, the dying teen transferred his attention elsewhere, beating and pawing at the Trucker’s massive, rock-hard chest.

 

The fur here was longer and wirier; Jay was able to hook his fingers in and jerk.  The hardbodied killer grunted in irked discomfort as the punk pulled some of the hair out, but it was the kid’s next handful that set the stud off—the kid managed to snag his dogtags.  That was unacceptable.

 

The Trucker wrapped his thickly-muscled left arm around the meat’s good right arm and began pulling and twisting.  The action began putting stress on the joints at the shoulder and the elbow; the harder the Trucker pulled, the greater the stress became.

 

Jay was worse off than he’d been before; the Trucker was easily strong enough to choke him out one-handed while ripping his arm out of it socket, and that’s exactly what he was doing. As his reamed-out, bleeding colon continued to suffer brutal punishment from the older man’s huge cock, he could feel the sinews and tendons in his shoulder and his elbow being stretched past the point of endurance.

 

“You stupid cunt,” the Trucker remarked calmly, “Hope this hurts like fuck.  You deserve it, bitch.”  Twisting his face into a snarl, he gave a might jerk.  With a sickening gristly crunch, Jay felt his muscles tear open and his ligaments snap like overstretched rubber bands.  The arm rolled sickeningly out at the shoulder and bent backwards at the elbow.

 

He would’ve screamed if he could have.  Some small part of him that had walled itself off from the agony felt a dull surprise that he could even feel the pain after already enduring so much—but he damn sure could feel it.

 

Able to return his right hand to the fucker’s throat, the Trucker applied more pressure. Letting go with one hand hadn’t allowed the meat to get any air; its swollen face was black and congested, physical proof of the sheer physical agony of strangulation.  The half-lidded, bloodshot eyes were starting to bulge, an expression of abject horror glinting deep with them.

 

Jay’s legs were kicking and flailing; by now, it was utterly involuntary.  His arms lay useless and twitching, twisted into odd shapes at his sides, but his thrashing legs showed the youth’s frenetic fight to hang onto his swiftly-fading life.  His boyfeet flexed in his death agonies; as he drummed his heels helplessly against the mattress, the sock on his shoeless foot was pulled off, leaving his toes curling in the open air.

 

The Trucker could feel the boymeat heaving under him, lubed by the cold deathsweat forced from its body in the last few moments of its life.  But Jay was experiencing a whole new level of tactile sensations.  As his brain began to die off, his nervous system kicked into overdrive, developing a hypersensitivity which amped up his susceptibility to physical sensation.

 

He could feel the polyester threads of the comforter, cold and wet with his sweat, as they scratched at his back.  He could feel the Trucker’s chest hair, also matted with sweat, as it scraped and ground like sandpaper against his smooth, slick flesh.  The weight of the stronger, more powerful man was unendurable as it pressed him into the cheap, nasty motel bed…

 

But these were side notes, flickering at the edge of his awareness.  What he felt most was the enormous, bludgeon-like cock that some seemed to be larger that his asshole, so that his lower intestines clung to its veined cylindrical length like a condom.  What he felt most was the slow, inexorable crushing of his windpipe, as the cartilage was distorted past the point of its ability to recover.

 

What he felt was the pain and the pounding, the confusion and the terror of being raped and choked to death by a powerful serial killer—that, and the way his own cock was responding, pulsing and aching excruciatingly, in a way he’d never experienced before.

 

Jay had no way of knowing that deep in his teenaged balls, his deathload was brewing—that final, ecstatic, agonizing burst as his spasming body desperately tried to save some of its DNA before it died.

 

Spunk was building in the Trucker’s huge, hairy scrote as well.  The meat was obviously near death; a thick white foam oozed out of its mouth past the swollen purple tongue and ran down its darkened cheek.  The eyes had rolled back into the head so that only the whites showed, blood vessels bursting like fireworks deep within them.  The real clue, though, was the easing of resistance.

 

Since the alpha had snapped both the teen homo’s arms, judging the intensity of its struggles required the in-depth knowledge of an experienced fagkiller.  The meat was nearly ripe for seeding; its brain was dying.

 

The firm, smooth adolescent body began to move rhythmically.  The convulsions were slow and gentle at first, but the Trucker knew enough to hang on.  This was the whole point of tonight’s wild ride; this was the destination, the payoff.  There was no sensation the Trucker wanted more, nothing else that felt so incredible, as young fag boymeat convulsing on his cock as it died, and he wanted to savor it.

 

As the cunt’s brain shut down, it began sending faulty signals through the nervous system.  As a result, its rectum began to clench and spasm, massaging the Trucker’s massive swollen member.  Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward.  Spitting in the punk’s black and congested face, he started plowing its ass mercilessly as he relentlessly increased the pressure on its esophagus.

 

His cock was so huge, and Jay’s fuckhole so collapsed around it, that the muscled sadist’s brutal thrusting literally shredded the unfortunate boy’s rectal lining.  The teenaged slut may have been in an irretrievable state of brain death at this point, but it could still feel.

 

All it could feel was agony as its asshole was torn apart.

 

As the aching pressure in his balls grew, the Trucker growled, a deep, guttural sound, and dug his thumbs into the dying faggot’s larynx.  There was a distinctly satisfying crunch as the delicate structure was pulped to a wad of bloody gristle under the inexorable pressure, sealing the bitch’s throat off for good.

 

The collapse of his trachea was the physiological trigger for Jay’s deathload, as if on some deep, instinctual level, the teen’s body knew it was lost and tried to expel its DNA.  The firm young body, warm and slick with sweat, arced up in a final, bone-wracking convulsion.

 

The meat couldn’t clutch at the Trucker, the way other meat had in the past; its arms were twitching violently and fruitlessly on the bed, but its legs wrapped tightly around the older man’s waist, the firm thighs squeezing him in death agony.

 

“Fuuuuck…” the hardbodied psycho moaned as the boy’s guts clutched and jerked at his engorged, oozing rod.  This was it, he couldn’t hold it back any longer—

 

—and that was he and the meat shot their loads together, the alpha crying incoherently, completely unaware that he’d started beating the punk’s face in as he hosed its guts with his hot potent mansperm.

 

The meat spewed thick gobs of boycum all over the Trucker’s ripped abs and broad, muscled chest, spattering it into the dark wiry fur.  The last sensations Jay experienced as he unceremoniously exited his short, wasted life were the Trucker’s seething load filling him like molten lead and his own spunk jetting from his body with a mortal pain, as if taking the last remaining shreds of his life with it.

 

And it did.  Jay was dead before he stopped cumming, his black, grotesquely-swollen head lolling on top of his compressed neck.

 

By the time the Trucker stopped shooting, he was a heaving, sweaty, spunk-covered mass of muscles, gasping for air after the intensity of rough sex.  It took him a moment to recover—and another moment to extract his massive tool from the corpse’s collapsed rectum.  A flow of blood-stained cum leaked from the dead boy’s ravaged asshole after the Trucker’s hog was out.

 

The fagkiller crossed to the bathroom, debris again snapping and crunching under his logger boots.  Once there, he took a few moments to tidy up, wiping off his still-oozing shaft and tucking it back inside his jeans before turning his attention to the larger task of cleaning the meat’s deathwad off his chest.  After cleaning himself, the buff serial killer returned to bedroom to retrieve his clothes and admire his work.

 

What was left of the adolescent homo wasn’t easy to identify.  The face was beaten to hamburger; the smooth flesh of the chest and belly was black with bruises and the arms were just—wrong.  They were twisted and bent in ways that hurt to look at.

 

The legs were spread, the one Adidas hightop the meat had retained still twitching as the corpse cooled.  Between the smooth boyish buttcheeks, blood and sperm continued to ooze from its well-reamed ass.

 

The room itself was devastated; the bed and the armchair the only pieces of furniture that survived the vicious assault intact.  There was easily several thousand dollars worth of damage

 

The Trucker slipped his leather jacket on over his bare chest, wadding up his t-shirt and shoving it his pocket.  Putting on his cap, he unlocked the door.  After taking one last satisfied look back, he opened it.

 

He was immediately greeted with the sound of sirens.

 

For a split second, he hesitated on the threshold.  But he realized they weren’t heading for the hotel; they were heading for the honky-tonk on the other side of the road.  There were two local cruisers in the lot already; as he watched, another pair of cars—these belonging to the state troopers—pulled in, sirens blaring.  There seemed to be a large crowd gathered in the parking lot, and from what the Trucker could tell, some sort of fight had broken out.

 

It was a perfect distraction.  He headed for his cab.  Climbing in and starting it up, he began to pull out of the parking lot when he noticed the desk clerk coming out of the office.  But she didn’t notice him at all; her attention was focused on the commotion across the street.

 

He chuckled and headed into the dark night, his thick cock still warm and happy with a job well done.

 

 

 

Pendleton had been on the force for six years.  He’d seen some shit in that time; shit that would’ve scarred a lesser man.  Appalling cases of domestic abuse, drug- and booze-induced fights, horrifying car accidents—but this was on a whole new level.

 

He waited outside the room for the ME to show up.

 

“Hey, Pendleton; who’s the lead on the case?”

 

“Hey, doc.  Ain’t one.  I’m the only one here.”

 

The ME, a wizened, gray-haired man in his fifties, frowned in concern.  “Whaddaya mean, you’re the only one?  I can’t wait around all day for a detective to show up; I need to get the body out of here!”

 

“They’re all workin’ on that fight from last night…”

 

“Oh yeah, across the street—what was the count?  Three stabbed and four shot?  I understand the chief wants see about getting some kind of lockdown order enforced…but anyway, I still don’t have time to wait.”

 

“Don’t think you’ll need to.  Take a look inside.  Pretty fuckin’ clear what happened.”

 

When the ME came back out of the room, his face was a gray as his hair.  “Jesus wept.  Kid was fucking beat to a pulp.  Looks like a goddam bomb exploded in there.”

 

“Didja see that shit leakin’ outta his ass?” the patrolman asked morosely, “Boy was raped.  Raped bad.”

 

“Yeah, raped and strangled.  No detective work needed there, I admit, but won’t the chief want to have the scene processed?”

 

“You kiddin’?  You know the chief.  Some out-of-town faggot gets offed, he won’t wanna arrest the dude; he’ll wanna shake his hand.  Hell, the chief would lift a lockdown order for him—after all, by keepin’ the down the fag population, he performin’ an essential service.”

 

The ME sighed.  “I suppose so.  Things have changed since my day, when homosexuals knew their place.  Still, I don’t think it’s fair that my office has to clean up this mess.”  Grumbling under his voice, the disgruntled medical examiner pulled out his phone, calling for transport as he walked to his car.

 

Pendleton smirked.  “Whaddaya bitchin’ about, old man?” he muttered too quietly for the ME to hear, “I feel sorry for the maid.  Not only did she find the faggot this mornin’, she’s gonna hafta clean the room, too.”

 

Shaking his head, he scuffed the sole of his boot on the parking lot surface and idly considered his options for lunch as he watched the ME pulled a folded body bag from his trunk.

Meat Chronicles 21—Homo for the Holidays

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles1 Comment

Goddamn, it’s hard to maintain control sometimes.  There’s a pile of teenage fuckmeat lying on the floor in front of the passenger seat of my van and I wanna drain my distended, over-pressurized balls into it right away.  Can’t let myself go yet, though—I need to tenderize the fucker first; it’s a tough piece of meat.

 

I’d marked this one for prey some time ago, but he’s eluded me each time, mostly by proximity.  I first saw him about five weeks back, outside the liquor store.  Too young to buy his own booze, he was lurking in the parking lot and pouncing on anyone who seemed likely to make purchases for him.  I ignored him—for one thing, I’m known there, and for another, every square inch of the place, inside and out, is recorded on video.  You don’t shit where you eat.

 

I’d seen him there on a number of later occasions, but nowhere else.  As long as he stayed there, he was safe from me.

 

Today, I happened to spot him on the side of the road, three blocks from the liquor store.   Luring him in was so goddam easy; stupid fuckin’ cunt was looking to get fucked up.  I’d offered to give him a lift to the store, knowing he’d ask me to get him something, but he kept going on about wanting anything—from weed to meth to coke.

 

He said he was twenty, but he was barely eighteen, if that; his skin was too clear and his teeth were too intact for him to have experienced such heavy drug use for too long.  He had dark wavy hair and dark eyes, the wide oval lids ringed with long lashes.  He wore a black t-shirt with a Wu-Tang Clan logo in gold; the sleeves were ripped off showing his muscled arms.  The punk wasn’t badly built—nowhere near as powerful as I am of course; the little fucks I waste can never hope to compete—and the shirt was stretched tightly across his chest, highlighting his pecs.

 

His skin-tight brown jeans were very old and worn; they were tucked into a pair of brown leather harness boots that came almost halfway up the cunt’s calf.  It was the same outfit I’d seen him in each time.

 

He hopped in my van the moment I offered him a lift.  When talking about what he was looking for, he put his hand on my thigh; I could feel the warmth of his skin through the tight denim.  “You hook me up, bro,” he said, grinning lecherously at me, “And I promise you a good time.”

 

I grinned right back.  “Aw, dude, I’ll getcha so fucked up you won’t know what hit ya.”  I always try to keep my word.

 

As usual, the meat started babbling; it always does.  It can be about different things—its boring past, its dumbass desires or worthless ambitions—but as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t help picking up a thing or two.  He called himself Mikey, like I cared, and said he’d left home at the age of fifteen and had been on the streets ever since (I knew he was younger than twenty).

 

I drove past the liquor store and pulled into the parking lot of a half-empty strip mall.  “Whatcha got for me?” the cunt asked.

 

“A sucker punch,” I replied, driving my right fist straight out into his jaw with the speed and power of a pneumatic piston.  His head hit the window so hard I thought the glass had cracked.  It hadn’t, but the meat had.  It slumped forward, sliding limply off its seat, still and unconscious on the floorboards.  Stupid bitch had a glass jaw.

 

And now I get to make it die on my dick.  I just need to find the right spot to snuff out its worthless life.  Shouldn’t be too hard.

 

It takes me longer than I expected to find the right place, but I do find it.  Elmhurst Avenue, south of downtown—an old neighborhood, the side streets are lined with sixty-year-old apartment buildings and ninety-year-old houses cut up into apartments.  The avenue itself is lined with low brick buildings and empty lots; perhaps one out of every five buildings shows some hint of occupation.  It’s a place where the rents are cheap and yet still overpriced, a neighborhood reeking of failure and despair.

 

I find what I’m looking for at a corner formed by one of the side streets.  It looks like its most recent used had been as a car lot; the whole corner was paved flat.  In the middle of the lot is a cinderblock building with a canopy that may or may not have been a gas station in a past incarnation; at any rate, it had been gutted by fire at some point—above the gaping black holes of the windows and door, black cones of soot mar the peeling white paint.

 

The entire lot is surrounded by a high chain link fence topped with barbed wire; the fence is rusted and bent but it still stands.  The gate, which rolls parallel to the street on a track, had been forced and is still ajar.  I can’t see any other vehicle on the crumbling concrete pavement, so I cautiously pull in and head for the structure that first caught my eye—the sheet-metal garage in the back corner.  It’s got two overhead doors on the left and some sort of reception/office area on the right with a door and windows.  Well, doorways and window openings; the only thing intact is the overhead door on the extreme left.  The rest of the building has been gutted—not by fire this time, but by vandalism.

 

I slowly back my van in, making sure no one’s around to notice.  Luckily the building next door, a furniture clearance warehouse, had expanded at the back; the garage was up against two blank brick walls.  Shifting into park, I roll down the window and cut the engine, listening carefully.  A car goes by on the Avenue.  There’s a rustling in the corner that’s likely a rat.  Otherwise, there’s nothing.

 

It’s a perfect place to snuff the fag.

 

I get out, letting my combat boots hit the oil-stained cement with a thud, and casually stroll around to the passenger door.   Opening it, I bend down and grab the meat’s boots and pull them off his feet.

 

They might fit me.  I’m keeping them.

 

I open the back the van and dump the meat on the floor; he’s easier to strip that way.  I sit him up and pull off his shirt, tossing it over my shoulder to land on the filthy floor.  The kid has a great torso, with hard smooth pecs displaying large and jutting nipples.  I take a moment to squeeze and twist the firm mounds of flesh, pinching and pulling at them.

 

The cunt must like it.  He starts moaning and the long soft lashes ringing his large eyes begin to flutter.  He blinks blearily a few times, trying to focus—and then he comes to, all at once.  It’s easy to recognize.  He has the hard edge of a street slut faggot, but he’s still too young and naïve to be able to cover his fear.  And he is afraid.

 

Just not enough.

 

“Wha—?” he started, but I don’t want him awake yet.  It’d ruin the surprise.  A little love tap does it; I don’t clock him hard, just enough to split his full red lips and make them bleed a little.  But his lights go out and I’m able to peel his tight jeans off without further interruption.

 

He’s freeballin’ underneath, six and a half inches of uncut boycock lolling along his smooth thigh.  Underneath it, he’s endowed with a decent sack, covered with a forest of dark curly pubes.

 

Good enough for me.  I’ve been wearing a button-down flannel shirt, left open; I slip out of it and sling it over the back of the driver’s seat.  After unzipping my fly, it takes a minute to haul my tackle up out of my crotch, but it’s rigid and rarin’ to go them moment it hits the open air.

 

And so am I.  A quick glance around to confirm that no one was gonna spoil my playtime, and I hop in the van and close the door.  Next time I open it, this stupid little motherfucker ain’t just gonna be dead, he’s gonna be glad he’s dead.

 

It’s dim in the back of the van, but not too dark.  I can see the whoreboy; he’s starting to stir again.  That’s good—I want him awake for this.  I wanna see the pain and fear in his face.

 

Speaking of pain, it’s time I inflicted some on him.  I’ve got a number of random items in my kill van—things I’ve picked up from time to time that might come in handy.  Let’s see; what will fuck this cunt up…ah, that’ll work.

 

It’s a length of sixteen-gauge jack chain, about three and a half feet.  I kneel over him, slowly winding it around my fist.  The teen slut blinks and gazes up at me; I can see the glint of lust in his big faggot eyes was they scan my body, from my erect, jutting shaft along my ripped abs to my broad, furry chest.  They never make it to my face, thought; they stop dead at the chain around my hand.

 

Already scared and confused, the runaway punk turns gray.  “Wha—what’s goin’ on?”

 

Dumbass piece of shit can’t figure it out; in fact, he doesn’t even seem to realize he’d been stripped nude yet.  But I don’t suffer fools gladly; I gladly make fools suffer.

 

“Remember when I toldja I was gonna get ya so fucked up you wouldn’t know what hit ya?” I leer down at him.

 

“Uh-huh,” he nods, his face drawn with trepidation.

 

“Well, I lied.  Yer gonna know,” I say and hold up my chain-wrapped fist.  “It’s this.  This is what’s gonna hit ya.”

 

I slam it into his face as hard as I can, feeling his left cheekbone snapping under the impact.  The chain digs deep, tearing into his skin.

 

The cunt squeals and cries out, clutching his face.  I shift downward and land two rapid-fire blows in the center of his smooth, vulnerable belly.  They strike with the heavy slapping sound of flesh on flesh, the chain giving an added impetus to the force.

 

The kid rises up with an anguished expression, his face taut as the gutpunches violently expel the air from his lungs.  His cheek is already black and swollen, but he seems to have forgotten about that little bit of foreplay in his sudden inability to breathe.  Gasping futilely, he rolls onto his side in a fetal position.

 

The cunt doesn’t get to long to comfort himself.  I dive between his legs, forcing them apart as I roll him onto his back.  He squirms away, kicking his legs blindly.

 

“Don’t fight me, faggot,” I snarl.  As he twists to the side again, I pound on him again, this time nailing his kidney.  He instantly flops onto his back, gasping, and I can part his writhing teen legs with ease.  “You know ya want this dick, so shaddup and take it, cunt!”

 

I rub the thick oozing head of my dick over his ass, leaving a trail of precum through the soft down covering those firm rounded cheeks.  He’s still struggling, but not so much that I can’t easily overpower him.

 

He’ll fight later, when the panic sets in.  I can tell; he’s the type.  At some point I’m gonna hafta ride him hard and rough.  For right now, though, the only thing he’s afraid of is getting raped.  He has no clue how much worse it’s gonna get.  He gets a hint, though, when I suddenly plunge in balls-deep, with no warning and my precum the only lube.

 

I dunno if he’s a virgin, but I can tell instantly that anyone who’s been up his hole before me wasn’t anywhere near as hung as I am.  My massive erect tool punches through his asshole like an awl; I can feel it when his strained sphincter give way and tears open under my relentless cock.

 

His eyes grow huge and his face is a mask of pain and shock as my shaft plunges deep inside him.  He’s gripping my arms, each of his hands tightly clutching my powerful biceps while his guts are relentlessly pounded by my dick.

 

Well, the cunt damn sure ain’t a virgin now.

 

He’s finally getting enough air back into his lungs to speak.  “St-stop…no, fuck no, stop!”

 

I punch him again, this time landing one on his broad smooth chest, hitting the left pec with a satisfying thud.  Again, just a love tap—didn’t even break the skin with the chain.  “Shaddup, bitch, and take my cock.”

 

Dumbass motherfucker doesn’t shut up.  Goddam, I’m really doin’ a service to the planet by riddin’ it of stupid pieces of faggot fuckmeat.  Even worse, this one’s startin’ to struggle.

 

“Wh-wh-what? What?  Help! HELP!!!  HEL—”

 

Ok, so I make it shut up.  One hand on its throat, my chained fist emphasizin’ my point to the cunt.  Makin’ sure I drive it into its head, so to speak, though I’m specifically aiming for its face.

 

“I toldja [WHAM] to shut [WHAM] yer fuckin’ [WHAM] face!! [WHAM]”

 

Oh fuck, I can feel every individual impact reverberate through his firm adolescent body, his pain communicated directly to my dick, his traumatized colon milking and massaging it with every agonized muscle contraction.  It feels so good, I wanna keep goin’…but I can’t.  It’ll kill the meat, and I ain’t done with it yet.

 

And even now, I’ve reduced the left side of its face to hamburger.  The eye is swollen shut, the cheek is flayed, the lips swollen and bleeding, and the nose is listing badly to starboard.  It occurs to me that offin’ the homo will be a mercy killing—sparing it from a lot of painful reconstructive surgery.

 

Of course, by the time I’m done with it, it’ll be a mercy killin’ anyway, ha!

 

At the moment it’s still conscious; it turns its head and coughs up a gout of blood and a couple of teeth.  It’s lying back, gasping, with its mouth open and eyes—well, eye—closed.

 

And during the entire beating I never once even slow the tempo of the assrape.  Man, it felt so fuckin’ good, pounding the teen’s ass and face at the same time. The boy’s a natural painpig; the way his fuckhole worked my rod it all the proof I need.

 

The fact that he got hard as I whaled on his face just adds to the evidence.

 

“You fuckin’ pervert faggot,” I snarl, “Lookit this shit.  Goddam, I was right again.  All you little boyfags are lookin’ for is a real man to come along and make ya suffer like you deserve.  Tell ya what, motherfucker, if this kinda foreplay gets yer little homo dick hard, yer gonna blow yer pansy wad at what’s comin’ next!”

 

He looks at me, opening both eyes so wide that even the left one opens up a narrow slit—but since it’s leaking tears, I doubt it’s helping him.  He’s trying to speak, but the left side of his jaw is swollen and misshapen.  Wonder if I broke it—damn, I hate to have missed that.

 

Oh well. I can make up for it before I’m done with the kid.

 

He gurgles and bleats; it’s not incomprehensible—I just don’t care enough to try to figure out what he’s sayin’.  As long as his ass keeps grippin’ my hog, he can start singin’ the national anthem, for as much as I give a shit…

 

…except he ain’t grippin’ quite as tight as he was.

 

Well, goddamn.  Guess I gotta tighten the meat up again.  I start unwinding the chain from my fist.  I think I’m gonna start a rebellion here, and I need a little somthin’ to help me put it down.

 

“You know where this is headin’, dontcha, cunt?” I say, smiling down at him.  His fear is palpable, almost tactile.  Just a tiny spark to set it off.  “This kinda shit happens all the time.  Dumbass faggot picks up the wrong dude, ends up a pile of well-used homo meat.  Guess what, motherfucker—I’m that wrong dude.”

 

I was right.  He has the wiry athleticism of youth, keyed up to extremes by panic.  There’s no way he’s gonna be able to overpower me; as hard as he thrashes and beats his balled fists against my fur-insulated chest, he ain’t doin’ me any damage.

 

Still don’t mean I gotta put up with this shit, though.  Rising up on my knees without pulling my rod out of his ass, I start lashing him brutally with the chain.

 

The pansy screeches like a pig gettin’ its throat slit; I’m leaving welts in the shape of chain links on his smooth, tender boyflesh.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I jeer at him, spitting in his twisted, agonized face, “You just fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha?  Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  Hell yeah, bitch, keep screamin’—the more it hurts, the more ya work my dick.”

 

He squeals and throws up his arms to block the blows.  Big mistake.  Ever seen what a well-swung chain’ll do to human fingers?  His snap like toothpicks.

 

For a moment, he shuts up.  The only noise in the van is the slapping sound of a brutal assfuck.  The adolescent fagwhore stares, silent and agape, at the mangled remains of his right hand, splayed out like a crushed starfish.  I slash again with the chain, catching him across the left forearm with enough force to wrap the chain completely around it.  I grab his left hand with my free hand and stare him dead in the face.

 

“You deserve this, you motherfucking piece of faggot shit,” I sneer and jerk the chain, breaking both of the bones and ripping off a strip of flesh that completely encircles his arm.  He sputters and drools as his arm folds over, but I’m just about done with him.

 

“Yer a boring fuck, bitch, and I got shit to do today.  ‘Bout time to waste yer fag ass.  Hope ya kick a lot as ya die, motherfucker; it really helps get me off.”

 

Raising my hand in front of his bruised, terror-filled face, I let him watch me partially unwind the chain from my hand until I have a good two feet stretched in front of him.  “Ready to die, cocksucker?  Ready to choke to death so you can be my personal cumdump?  Not like you got any other reason for bein’ on this planet, ya useless cumguzzler; might as well work my shaft as ya get what’s comin’ to ya.”

 

He moans and shakes his head wildly as I lean forward and wrap the chain around his throat.  “Shh, shh,” I whisper, “Don’t worry—I promise, it’s gonna hurt. I promise.”

 

I yank the metal chain tight, so tight I can see his flesh welling up in the open spaces in the links.

 

The lithe teen body goes rigid with agony beneath me.  It feels so fuckin’ good, the smooth, soft flesh, taut with nightmarish suffering, pressed firmly against my hairy, muscular body.  The cunt doesn’t know how lucky he is; so many of his faggot buddies crave and yearn for the ultimate fuck.  Just like this stupid fucker, they deny it and fight it to the end, but I can see the gratitude in their eyes as they start to glaze over.  They stare into eternity with the knowledge that they’ve taken my load and thus achieved their greatest and highest use.

 

And they invariably blow a thick deathwad.

 

“That’s it, asswipe,” I grunt as I whale on his ass, “Fuckin’ die on my cock.  Ride my shaft right into yer grave, homo.  Ya know ya want this; that’s why yer teen dick is hard, right?  Fuck yeah, even a dumbass like you knows baby fags need to be put down by a real man.”

 

The meat’s eyes open wide—even the swollen one manages, a little—and it give me a look that tells me I need to hang on tight.   The boycunt is starting to panic; it’s not yet in a mindless frenzy of fear, but it’s coming soon.

 

And holy fuck does it feel good when the meat flails in mind-searing terror, its rectum sucking on my tool as if that’s what it was designed for.  On with the mindfuck.

 

“Yer gonna cum when ya die,” I casually remark to the meat, “Won’t be able to help it.  Shit, you shoulda seen the last teen cunt I offed; fucker musta shot damn near a quart of spooge.  Couse, he held out for a while.  Took him a long, long time to die…”

 

The meat’s close; there’s a developing glint in its one good eye reminiscent of insanity.

 

“You ain’t as good as he was, though,” I go on, “In fact, you’re a boring fuck.  Yer even useless as a faggot.  Hurry up an’ die, motherfucker, so I can toss yer worthless cumdump corpse out there in the filth and get outta here.  I’m a busy man, asshole—”

 

That did it.  The meat thrashes violently, as if its being electrocuted.  It can’t kick me, since I’m already between its legs, but they flail in the air behind me, feet and toes curling in agony in midair.  The cunt beats at my face with its right hand, slapping me since in can’t form its shattered fingers into a fist.  Its left arm flops and jerks uselessly at its side, the broken forearm limp and helpless.

 

And the entire time I hold the boyfag close to me, letting its ass milk my throbbing, oozing rod as I incrementally tighten the chain around its throat.

 

It’s obviously dying at this point.  Its face is congested and black, so distorted as to be almost unrecognizable.  Drool has bubbled out beside the engorged, protruding tongue and flows down both cheeks in white, foamy streams.  The slut is slick with sweat; the beads standing out on its forehead trickling painfully into its bulging eyes, now too swollen for mere bruised eyelids to hold them in.

 

“Now yer learnin’ yer place, cocksucker,” I tell the grunting, shuddering bitchboy, “You been needin’ this for a long time.  Die, fuckwad, choke and kick and die in agony!”

 

The cunt is arching its back, pressing its firm, flat belly against my furry ripped abs.  I can feel its hard thick boycock pressed firmly against me; the perverted little shit is so aroused by asphyxiation that its oozing precum as it dies.  Fuck, ain’t nobody gonna miss this disgustin’ babyfag.

 

Catch ‘em and take ‘em out while they’re still young so they do as little damage to society as possible.  And deep inside, the fuckers want it anyway.  They know gettin’ put down by a real man is the best thing that can happen to a fuckin’ useless pussyboy.

 

This one’s on its way out.  Its flailings are getting weaker and more uncoordinated; I brace myself and tighten the chain with as much force as I can.

 

The loud crunch of the teen’s larynx echoes in the confines of my van.  There’s a brief lull—the kid is shuddering beneath me, its blackened and drool-soaked cheeks distending with some final vain effort at exclamation, but no air is getting past the mangled wad of cartilage blocking its windpipe.  I can see one last gleam of consciousness left in its good eye, and in it I can recognize the true horror of a stupid faggot finally experiencing the brutal death it deserves.

 

And then the convulsions begin.

 

Once the convulsions start, the meat has reached a tipping point.  Too much brain damage has set in; whatever miserable excuse for a human once animated the body is gone and isn’t coming back.  But adolescent boys have a lot of stamina.  As the meat rhythmically writhes and kicks under my muscled weight, I realize it may be possible that there may still be some deep inner spark of personality still lit.

 

I let go of the chain and punch the thrashing cunt in the face.  Still pounding its ass, I lay at full length, my powerful form restraining its thrashing, and grab its head with both hands, forcing it back and to the side.

 

One hand is gripped around the jaw and the other around the back of the skull.  Slowly and inexorably, I force the fuckmeat’s head past its normal point of rotation.  I can feel “twangings”—the only way I can describe it—as the cervical tendons and sinews begin to snap. Suddenly, bone meets bone and I reach a hard stop.

 

The faggot is still convulsing beneath me.  It feels good, but my cock needs more.  And I know how to get it.

 

My biceps bulging with the effort, I twist the homo’s head with a might jerk and am instantly rewarded with the crunchy, popcorn-like noise of shattering vertebrae.

 

As bone shards tear through its spinal cord, the meat finally responds properly, its colon clutching tightly to my engorged shaft, milking the swollen, throbbing member desperately.  Fuck yeah, that’s it—don’t back off now…

 

With a primal grunt, I force the fucker’s head further.  More popcorn, the ass gets tighter—

 

Fuck fuck fuck I’m cumming take it you sack a’ shit, take my load ya worthless faggot scum, feel my hot manseed scald yer guts as you slide into cold death, motherfucker—

 

In the back of my mind I register the hot gooey splash of the teen’s thick and seemingly endless deathload.  The slut has stopped thrashing and is rigid from sudden massive nervous system trauma.  I’m locked into the corpse, almost helpless myself as I pump wad after wad of manspunk into the quivering cumdump.

 

After a moment, I realize I’ve finally emptied my huge aching sack.  The dead whoreboy has stopped unloading, too, only a slight pearlescent trickle oozing from the semi-soft dick.  Pulling my shaft out of the trembling corpse, I remain on my knees as I use the bitch’s t-shirt to sponge its death wad out of my chest fur.  After I wipe my tackle off, too, I stuff it back into my jeans, then open the van door.

 

I climb out and toss the cum-soaked t-shirt onto the floor.  Walking warily to the open doorway, I peer out and make sure the coast is still clear.  As I expected, no one is out in the middle of a muggy gray weekday, and close as it is to the holidays, this neighborhood damn sure isn’t considered a shopping area for anything but drugs and sex.

 

In other words, no one’s around, and if they were, they wouldn’t care.

 

I drag the dead punk’s body to the edge of the van and unceremoniously dump it out onto the filthy, oil-stained concrete floor, not bothering to remove the chain from around the throat of the the badly beaten corpse.  Some homeless bum or cheap whore looking for a quick pump-n-dump will find it sooner or later, but I don’t give a shit.  I toss its jeans out, too, after rifling the pocket and taking the wallet.  It’s got a driver’s license in it, but again, I don’t care.  I’ll take the three bucks in cash though; every little bit helps.

 

Easing the van out of the garage, I’m still carefully scanning to make sure no one’s noticing me.  I turn left onto Elmhurst and realize how good my timing is; half a block down is a city street crew attaching some forlorn-looking holiday decorations to alternate light poles.  Given the surroundings, the cheap and tattered tinsel isn’t so much a mockery as a final touch of sordidness.

 

Well, no one can say I didn’t do my part.  I left them a nice dead faggot with a creamy cum-filled center.  And my gift?  This nice pair of brown leather harness boots.  Think I wear ‘em on my next kill.

M4M4Whoreboy

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories2 Comments

It had been a rough week at work.

 

Joe felt tense and restless.  He usually enjoyed his work—a lot—but sometimes, some people made it unpleasant, especially when they fought—well, it didn’t matter.  It was over.  But Joe couldn’t relax.

 

He turned to his usual resource in times like these—the hookup app on the various phones he’d collected.  He no longer remembered who they’d belonged to; occasionally, he’d dump one to make sure activity couldn’t be traced back to him—but he’d pick up a new one as well, now and then.  It all balanced out.

 

The one he picked up at random was a white iPhone 6.  It had several apps uploaded; Joe chose one, again at random.  Then he leaned back on the sofa and casually scanned through the posts.  The first two pages were a mix of scrawny, effeminate twinks, bald pudgy trolls and obvious fakes using airbrushed models’ photos as profile avatars.  It wasn’t till he hit the third page that something caught Joe’s eye.

 

The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, and his profile said twenty-three.  His chestnut-colored hair was soft and wavy with long bangs, but there was a certain cast to his face betrayed a lack of youthful innocence behind the young face.  The boy’s hazel eyes, wide and long-lashed were slightly sunken and underneath, the flesh was just starting to sag and become lined.

 

The kid was a whore, and probably a junkie.

 

That he was a whore was certain; it was part of his profile:

 

“—Clint, 23, 4.8 miles

Looking for:  generous daddy

Preferred position:  all up in me

Favorite activity:  you pay you pick I do it all”

 

There were a couple more photos, showing Clint in nothing but bikini shorts.  He had a swimmer’s build, slim with taut wiry muscle.  A light coat of dark brown hair furred his belly, condensing into a dark line that ran down to his groin, vanishing beneath the waistband of the shorts.

 

The part about being a junkie was just something that Joe felt; there was nothing to prove, or even specifically indicate it.  But the dark circles under the whore’s eyes, the vague hint of pallor on the boy’s skin—Joe had seen that before.

 

Yeah, this one could get used.  No one would miss it; no one could care.  He could have some fun with the faggot and then—well, not put it out of its misery, no.

 

It was gonna endure a fuck of a lot more misery before he was done with it.

 

The first thing Joe had done when he’d gotten home was take a shower; he still wasn’t dressed.  He took a quick selfie torso shot, nothing above the shoulders or below the waist.  He replied to the post with the image, then strolled casually to the dresser to put some clothes on.  He already knew it wouldn’t be a matter of if the whore would respond back, but when.  And he suspected that it’d be sooner than later.

 

The stupid cunts always responded back.

 

The buff hardman pulled on a pair of jeans, so tight that damn near every vein on his huge cock was visible, and so worn they felt like suede, cinching it to his narrow waist with an inch-wide black leather belt.  Over this went a plain white t-shirt, clean but just as tight as the jeans.  He slipped on a pair of Chippewa eight-inch steel-toed boots, leaving them loosely laced and untied.

 

It was then that the phone buzzed.  Joe had been right; the little whore had responded.

 

“Fuk yeah daddy 100 and u can do what u want make me ur bitch rm 118”

 

Accompanying the notification was a location tag.  Joe didn’t know the Tavern Inn, but he was familiar enough with the part of town it was in to have a pretty good idea of what the place would be like.

 

Yeah, he could have some fun with this one, and no one would complain.  Whores of every gender were found dead in that neighborhood on a monthly, if not weekly, basis.

 

Grinning, the muscled killer paused in front of the mirror.  The jeans tucked onto the boots, the t-shirt so tight his large nipples tented the thin cotton stretched across his broad pecs…yeah, there was no way any fag whore was gonna be able to resist.  But still, it was a chilly evening…

 

When he stepped back in front of the mirror, he’d donned a black leather aviator jacket, zipping it up only a couple of inches from the waist.  It completed the outfit and Joe, satisfied, headed out.

 

Three highway exits and four stoplights later, the homicidal stud pulled his Camaro into the parking lot of the motel.  It was a one-story L-shaped building running back from the street, with the office a separate cinderblock structure across from the end of the hotel building.  No street number was visible, but the backlit sign stretched across the façade of the office read “Tavern Inn”.  Under that was a poster that read “Newly renovated—rooms by the week or month available!”

 

Turning in, Joe drove past the office and back into the motel lot.  Room 118 turned out to be in the far corner, near the end of the building.

 

Avoiding the potholes in the in the poorly-maintained parking lot, Joe parked at the far side, up against a vine-engulfed chain link fence that separated the motel property from the auto body lot next door.  He wasn’t too close to room 118 but he could cross the lot straight from his car without having to pass in front of any other rooms.

 

It got better; a glance back at the office showed a car pulling in and stopping at the entrance.  Anyone on duty was about to be needed at the front desk.  He was out of the car and striding across the lot in a heartbeat, the thick treaded soles of his boots making faint grinding sounds on the loose surface of the deteriorated asphalt.

 

The door in front of him was a faded turquoise.  He gave three sharp taps, it popped open and he stepped in unseen.

 

It was perfect; the fuckmeat had invited him in of its own free will.

 

Inside, the room was dim, but Joe had no problem focusing on Clint.  The well-used young rentboy was wearing nothing but red gym shorts and a pair of red and black Adidas Pro Model kicks.  He stood near the center of the room, his lean, firm body silhouetted by the bedside lamp directly behind him.

 

The sheets on the queen-sized bed were tangled into a mass off to one side; they looked cheap and thin, but they at least appeared clean.  True to the sign out front, the room did seem to have been remodeled, judging by the hastily-installed paneling and the slapdash paint job.  Some of the furniture looked as if it had been expensive at one point, but it was mismatched, marred, and at least a decade out of fashion—possibly leftovers from a hotel liquidation broker.  The heavy musk of mansex and various kinds of smoke was undercut by the sharper tang of paint and toxic chemicals from the cheap paneling.

 

Clint noticed Joe looking around.  “It’s cheap,” he said without any tinge of embarrassment.  “I usually Uber to a trick’s place but I went on a rock binge this afternoon.  Dude offered me some and after I left him, I blew all my cash on more.  Damn—crack’s great, but the down sucks after.  Anyways, now you’re here.  You got the cash?”

 

Joe smiled.  He did have it, and he pulled out his wallet to prove it, opening it up and letting the slut see the Franklin nestled inside.  The moment Clint reached for it, though, he closed it back up and slid it back into his pocket.

 

“Uh-uh,” he said brusquely, “Afterwards.  Let’s see if ya deserve it all first.”

 

There was a brief flash of fire in Clint’s eyes, a last flicker of a human soul that resented the dishonor of the insult.  Then it was gone, as the whore won out.  The punk smiled.  “Time yer done with me, daddy, you’ll wanna take care of me for the rest of my life.”

 

It was Joe’s turn to grin.  “If yer that good, boy, I may do just that.  Now get outta them shorts and let’s see what I’m payin’ for.”

 

Clint grinned and began shucking off his shorts.  While he did so, Joe slipped out of his leather jacket, laying it carefully on the back of an upright chair, then peeled off his shirt as well.  His last action before turning back to face the whoreboy was to unzip his fly and extract his freakishly large cock.

 

The look on Clint’s face when he saw Joe’s monster hog was pure awe.  The kid wasn’t badly hung himself, with nearly eight inches of thick stiff boymeat, but it looked like an overcooked frankfurter compared to the buff fagkiller’s tackle.  Joe noticed Clint’s intimidation and grinned maliciously.

 

“Ya ready to service my dick, boy?  Ready to give it what it deserves?” he jeered as the hot young punk approached slowly, mouth agape and hand reaching out to take Joe’s huge manhood.  There was something in the older man’s tone of voice, though, that made Clint pause—not a red flag, just a hint of something half-acknowledged.  The rentboy hesitated, giving Joe a good once-over.

 

The dude was certainly his type; older, erotically masculine, incredibly well-built.  From his boots and thickly-muscled legs wrapped in denim, up past his gigantic jutting cock, to the coarse, wiry fur spread heavily across his ripped abs and the broad mound of his pecs, the stranger had everything Clint wanted in a man.   And there was something more, something unseen, just below the surface—a hard, cold edge that the slut to which the slut somehow found himself attracted…

 

“Yeah,” he said breathily, “I’m ready to service it, bro.  Whaddaya want me to do?”

 

“Aw, that’s easy,” Joe grinned, “I want you to suffer.”  Clint was only briefly aware of movement on his left side before Joe’s fist slammed into his jaw like a runaway train, stunning the whoreboy and knocking him to the floor.

 

Dazed and groaning, Clint rubbed his aching face, feeling his split lips and swelling skin.  Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, he looked up just in time to see Joe lock the room door and slip the chain on.  As the buff sadist turned and headed back towards him, Clint swiveled into a half-sitting position and spoke up, his voice weak and shaky.

 

“Wh-what th’ fuck, dude?” he whined, “What’s that for?”  He had to crane his neck as Joe loomed over him, cock dangling just above his head.

 

Joe answered in action, not words.  He kicked Clint in the belly, the rigid steel toe of his Chippewa boot sinking deeply into the punk’s firm, flat belly.

 

“HOOG!!” the whore spat out as his breath was violently expelled.  Clutching his injured gut, the kid fell over and writhed on the floor.

 

“Stupid piece a’ shit,” Joe drawled casually, “I toldja I wanted you to suffer.  I wanna see you hurt.  The more pain yer in, the more I get off.  Ya feel me, bitch?  Not yet?  Don’t worry, you will.  You gotta work for my load, cunt, and these little love taps don’t even count as foreplay.”

 

As Clint huddled and sobbed on the floor, Joe raised his leg and stomped on the kid, driving the tread of his boot deep into the soft, smooth flesh on the boy’s back and leaving a detailed black bruise.  It was too much for the young rentboy; he rolled to the side and scrambled on the floor, gasping and desperate to escape.  Clawing at the foot of the bed, he managed to get enough leverage to raise himself upright.

 

But there was nowhere for him to go.  And Joe was right there.

 

“Hey, motherfucker, where ya goin’?” the older man said, and Clint turned to look at him.  The kid’s hazel eyes were huge with fear and bewilderment, but there was something else, too—a wounded look, as if the punk had no right to expect such treatment.

 

Joe’s sense of homicidal contempt shifted into high gear.  The boy was a faggot whore.  If he didn’t already know that this was exactly what he deserved, Joe was gonna go to great lengths to ensure that he learned it thoroughly.

 

Clint open his mouth to speak but he never got a chance.  Joe clocked him in the side of the head, a stunning blow that sent the rentboy staggering across the room into the dresser.  The nude whore clutched at the furniture to keep from falling.

 

When he looked up, Joe was coming at him, fists—and dick—upraised.

 

“NO!” Clint screamed, now truly scared, “Stop!  I didn’t do nothin’—”

 

Whatever the slut thought he could do to avoid the inevitable was useless.  The thickly-muscled hardman descended upon him like the wrath of God, fists raining down blows of unbelievable force.  As the young whore got the living fuck beat out of him, he sank to the floor, arms raised above his head to ward off the hammer-like impacts.

 

That pissed Joe off.

 

“Quit fightin’ me, faggot, and take yer fukkin’ beating.  The more you resist, the more I gotta hurt ya.”  Here Joe bent down, thrusting his hard, grinning, masculine face into the kid’s weeping countenance, “And believe me, motherfucker, I wanna hurt you.”

 

He kicked out hard, swiftly, twice, and was rewarded each time with the crunch of bone as his boot made contact with Clint’s ribs.  The fuckmeat squealed, a bleating, despairing cry of helpless pain.  Joe’s engorged cock throbbed with pleasure at the sound.

 

“Yer mine, asswipe,” he told the terrified rentboy, “Mine to use how I want.  Mine to beat to hamburger and fuck raw.  Mine to use and leave behind like cum-soaked toilet paper.  Hear me, motherfucker?  I wanna cum and I’m gonna use you to do it.”

 

Under other circumstances, the diatribe he’d just heard might have made Clint horny, but the beating he’d suffered drove all thoughts of sex out of his mind.  He’d gotten hold of a crazy john.  He’d heard stories of dangerous tricks who did…things…to the dudes they’d hired, but Clint was too smart for that shit.

 

This wasn’t happening to him.  It couldn’t.  He was too smart…

 

…but if he was so smart, why did he hurt so bad?

 

Then Joe clenched a hank of his thick brown hair and hoisted him aloft.  The pain was excruciating; Clint thought that his scalp was being torn off, but it only lasted until Joe had got him up off the floor.  Then the hardbodied killer grabbed the kid by the throat, releasing his hair and holding him straight out.  Joe’s right bicep bulged with power needed to keep the whoreboy’s Adidas Pros dangling inches above the carpet; as Clint watched wide-eyed in choking horror, a vein in the buff sadist’s arm began to throb.

 

Clint kicked wildly.  Staring the gagging slut in the face and sneering with contempt, Joe calmly and carefully turned and walked to the small round table in the corner of the room.  Unmatched to anything else in the room, it was small and incredibly flimsy, with a particleboard surface inadequately covered by a paper-thin veneer.  Together with an aluminum-framed chair, it served as a desk, but it didn’t allow much room for work given that it also supported a thirty-two-inch no-name flat screen TV.

 

It allowed even less room to work once Joe rammed Clint’s head right through it.

 

It didn’t take much effort to punch the cunt’s skull through the thin particleboard, but the force broke Clint’s nose and lacerated his cheek.  As he hit the floor, the rentboy had the brief, lucid thought that he’d be off his game until his face healed.  Then the pain hit.

 

“Owwww…” he moaned, “Dude…don’t do this… give ya anything ya want…”

 

“Yeah,” Joe said evenly, “Ya sure will.”

 

He bent down and grabbed Clint’s ankles, slowly dragging him out form under the table.  The kid was half-stunned still, but he could feel the motion and fear rose within him, a bitter taste like bile in the back of his throat as his taut young body throbbed in pain.

 

He couldn’t get out of this himself.  He needed help, and he needed it now.

 

“HELP!!” he shrieked, turning his face towards the door, “IN HERE!!  FUCKING HELP OH GOD OH SHIT—GAAGHGHK!!!”

 

Again, Joe responded with the icy precision of a professional killer.  He dropped Clint’s legs, stepped up to the boy’s head and raising his leg, stomped the whore’s face, swiftly, powerfully, brutally.

 

He ground the heel of his Chippewa boot into the faggot’s mouth, his dick pulsating each time he heard the crack of Clint’s jaw snapping.  The cunt gurgled and coughed, hacking up half a dozen of its teeth as the twisted hardman crouched over it and spit in its face.

 

“That’ll keep ya quiet, fuckmeat.  Now shut up and get ready for my dick.”

 

He snagged the rentboy by the throat again; lost in a vast space of fiery agony, Clint felt a faint weightlessness as he was tossed onto the bed on his back.  The impact wasn’t as severe as others he’d already endured, but anything that caused the jagged edges of broken bones to grind together deep inside him caused inexpressible suffering.

 

Joe knew that and planned to take advantage of it.  Of course, he needed to be in the right place to do so.

 

As Clint writhed and moaned in horrible pain, Joe climbed up on the bed, hoisted Clint’s red kicks up to his shoulders, bending the agonized punk in half, and started probing the slut’s anus with the cue-ball-sized head of his dick.  The boy could feel the pressure and he knew what was coming next.  He didn’t want it.

 

His head and face were afire with horrific pain—to the point that his prior injuries weren’t even distant memories—and every attempt to vocalize was cut short by instant agony.  His hands were still free, though, and the moment Joe started to force his member into Clint, the cunt responded with a frenetic, clawing frenzy.

 

The boy’s hands rose up like embattled birds of prey, talons gaping wide, searching for any weak spot.  The impetus given them by Clint’s sheer panic gave them a force the used-up whoreboy could never have attained in the usual course of his wasted life.  His fingers raked Joe’s face, nails digging into the dark, wiry scruff covering the killer’s jaw—not quite enough to draw blood, but much more than enough to piss Joe off.

 

It was a simple disarming move, so to speak; one Joe had often used on the job.  Batting Clint’s left arm away, he wrapped his right arm around it and twisted, forcing the sweaty, gasping youth to strain as hard as he could to stop his arm from being bent backwards at the elbow.

 

Clint failed, of course.  He knew he was gonna fail, and so did Joe—which was why the sick killer felt such an erotic rush as he gazed into the terrified whore’s huge dark eyes just before he ripped the kid’s elbow socket apart like it was a chicken carcass.  There was a gristly cracking sound and the rentboy howled in inarticulate agony, his slim firm body rigid and trembling as it tried to process the trauma.

 

He was still howling when Joe plowed his massive cock up the kid’s ass in a single powerful thrust.  Clint’s screams suddenly spiraled up past an audible pitch.  The sound he was emitting was more like a ragged wheeze than a cry of pain—not that he wasn’t in pain.

 

Clint’s physical suffering was so intense it was nearly hallucinatory; he had a sense that none of this was happening—that he was already dead and was being tormented for his sins.  He’d asked this muscle-bound stud over to give him a nice hard fuck—and at a discount; he’d been horny—and the sudden explosion of violence and pain, with no warning at all, had traumatized his psyche as much as the beatdown had damaged his body.

 

He was getting fucked now, but this wasn’t what he wanted.  Even the fuck itself, as Joe’s enormous unlubed member tore open his unprepared sphincter and ground roughly over his prostate, caused him unspeakable agony.  And his arm…oh fuck, his arm—

 

“Yeah, fucker, yer just what I was lookin’ for tonight,” Joe commented with a wicked grin as his well-developed torso, gleaming with a slight film of perspiration under the dim light, pumped rhythmically between Clint’s smooth thighs.  “I needed a piece of meat to work my frustrations out on.  I can jack yer worthless ass up as much as I want, and ain’t no one gonna care what happens to cheap fag whore, amiright?”

 

Clint wasn’t looking and he was trying not to listen.  In fact, he’d come pretty damn close to putting himself into a trance state—not because he was adept in meditation, but as an instinctive reaction to protect what was left of his fracturing mind from this excruciating nightmare.  He had gone utterly limp, and since every movement brought forth new waves of nauseating pain, he let his tight young body flow with Joe’s thrusts, matching the sadistic top’s vigorous pumping.  It somehow seemed to make everything hurt less.

 

“Uh-uh, cunt.  Yer goin’ slack on my hog, meat.  Ya got all nice and tight when you were sufferin’ an’ now yer actin’ like a cocktease.  That pisses me off, motherfucker.  I showed ya my money, yeah?  And you said whatever I wanted…”

 

Joe’s voice trailed off as he reached down to his crotch with both hands.  The kid hadn’t been able to shut out his assailant’s cruel taunts, but he was gonna keep pairing his motion with that of Joe’s as long as he could.  It was only a sound—a familiar metal clank—that brought him back into hellish reality.

 

The sound was a belt being unbuckled.  Clint couldn’t lift his head much, but he could see Joe on his knees, Clint’s own legs wrapped around his waist.  His sculpted, hirsute torso flexed with each powerful thrust of the hips.  And without missing a beat, the handsome killer was slowly pulling his belt from around his tight waist, winding the long black leather strap around his hand.  Once it was completely off, he unwound it and passed the tip back through the buckle, making a simple but effective garrote.

 

Grinning, he kept eye contact with Clint the entire time.

 

He finally dangled it out over the boywhore’s heaving chest.

 

“You know what this is for, dontcha?”  It was more a statement than a question.  “You know how this is gonna end.  It’s happened to plenty of yer fag whore buddies, yeah?  Now it’s your turn, bitch.

 

Clint’s hazel eyes were huge with panic.  Despite the horrific agony of his mangled mouth, he tried to plead for his life.  He’d heard the stories…and there was his old fuckbuddy Rick, they never caught the guy who did that…

 

This involuntary defense mechanism—drifting off into inconsequentia—was abruptly terminated as Joe slipped the leather noose over Clint’s head and tightened it.  From that moment on, Clint was in the here and now, fighting for every last second of his useless life.

 

This was the point Joe was hard for—the way the cunts always thrashed and jerked when he began throttling their life out.  The most reamed-out whorefucks invariably locked their assholes around his shaft as death set in and they panicked, and this one was no different.

 

Clint’s left arm was useless, but his right worked fine; as his battered and bruised face began to swell and darken even further, he clawed frenetically at the thick leather strap encircling his throat.  It was already sunken so deep that he couldn’t get his fingers under it—all he did was tear at his own flesh until he drew blood.

 

The rentboy’s lithe young body was awash in physical misery; the symptoms of asphyxia that began to occur only added to his suffering.  The tight, fiery ache in his chest, the overwhelming pounding in his head, the excruciating pressure on his throat—and through it all, he was fully aware of the killer’s huge hog plowing his guts.  And his own erection.

 

The dude was snuffing him and fucking him like a rutting boar—and he was so fuckin’ hard it hurt.

 

Somehow that scared him most of all.  It set off a blind panic that transferred the meat’s attention from the belt around its throat to the stud holding the belt; in a flash, the whore’s hand came up, scrambling and digging at Joe’s face.  Even an experienced killer can be caught off guard, and this was one of those occasions; Joe jerked his head back and arced back to keep his face out of the flailing kid’s reach.  Instead, the desperate hand first beat on the buff killer’s broad, muscled chest, then snatched a thick fistful of the older man’s chest hair.  When it jerked back, it didn’t manage to pull out any of the sadist’s fur—but it did manage to piss him off.

 

“Goddam motherfucker,” he growled, grabbing the punk’s wrist with his free hand while keeping the belt tight around its neck with the other.  Slamming the slut’s arm down on its chest, he grabbed its index finger and bent it backwards.

 

“Just don’t get it, ya dumbass fuck?” Joe snarled, “You only exist to make me cum when you die [CRACK].”  The unfortunate whore wasn’t able to scream as its finger was broken, but with his dick, Joe could feel the way the pain registered in its ass.  He grinned with pleasure and moved on to the next finger.

 

“You need to stop fightin’ me, faggot, and die like the fuckin’ slutpig you are [CRACK].”  Again, the meat clenched its sphincter in agony.  Joe held the belt around its throat steady, neither increasing nor decreasing the pressure.  The bitch’s air was sealed off—but it was still reversible, and the whore knew it.  It didn’t matter what Joe said, it had to believe it could survive.

 

Good.  The more it suffered, the more it milked Joe’s cock.  He moved on to the third finger.

 

“You know it yerself, asswipe; you know this is why you were put on this planet.  That’s why yer pathetic fag dick is hard [CRACK].”  Blackened and twisted in nightmarish pain, the punk’s once-handsome face had become a grotesque mask of agony.  Its wavy hair was dark and matted with sweat, the hazel eyes were red with hemorrhages and bulging frantically from their sockets.  A swollen purple tongue protruded from the loose, mangled mouth as foamy drool oozed down its chin.

 

And even so, there was still some Clint left inside to hear Joe’s words, and as his brain progressively died of oxygen deprivation, the sadistic sex killer’s perverted logic made sense to the young rentboy.  And when the next blast of pain came, some sick part of him was eager for it.  When Joe bent the pinky finger not backward but outward, off the side of the hand, Clint had become an almost mindless being, living solely for the sake of the next intense stimulus—looking for one intense enough for…but the lucid thought was interrupted.

 

Joe was close; he could feel his hot potent seed churning in his huge, hairy sack, but he still had some last rage to vent, and he did it by using the whore’s face as a punching bag, pounding the fucker with both left and right jabs, transferring the belt from one hand to the other.  With each blow, the cunt’s firm smooth body jerked violently; the legs curled and kicked.

 

If the whore hadn’t already suffered irreversible brain damage, Joe’s beating would have had the same effect.  As it was, the punk flailed violently enough to kick off the Adidas Pro on its left foot; the sneaker tumbled to the floor as the toes curled in death agony inside the white ped sock.

 

And still some part of Clint held on.  Something more, yes, it needed something more.

 

Joe could feel his dick begin to tingle and swell.  He could also feel the rentboy’s hot rigid shaft pressed against his own furry ripped abs; the fuck was still hard even after he’d pulped its face.  It wasn’t dead yet.  He could still see the huge puppy-dog eyes, now red and staring.  He was about to blow, and the fag didn’t deserve to see it.

 

He splayed out his huge strong hand and pressed it onto the slut’s ruined face.  At the same time, he dug his Chippewa boots into the bed, wrapped the end of the belt a couple of time around his other hand, and gave it a brutally powerful jerk.

 

In a fraction of a second, the whoreboy’s esophagus collapsed just above the larynx, the cartilage crushed into a wad of gristle.  At the same time, three cervical vertebrae—C2, 3 and 4—were dislocated, mangling the spinal cord.

 

The tiny spark of painpig soul left in the cheap whore finally found justification for its ultimate orgasm in death.  As the massive trauma to its central nervous system sent the cunt’s slim but strong body into violent convulsions, it began to spew semen from its hard thick rod like an oil well striking a gusher.

 

Joe felt the hot spray of boycum on his thickly-furred belly at the same time he felt the punk’s rectum grip his pulsing tool and milk his load out as if there was a conscious effort to make him shoot.

 

“Fuckin’ die, ya worthless faggot!” Joe roared, and as he hosed the meat’s intestines with his seething manload, he jerked the belt again, ripping the bitchboy’s spinal cord out of its skull.  The meat responded with one last violent jerk, the limbs drawing in and wrapping around Joe as if giving its killer one last embrace.

 

Then the whore flopped back, quivering and trembling, utterly owned and used.

 

Joe collapsed on top of it, heaving and spent, the weight of his furry muscled body pressing the shuddering corpse into the mattress.  After a few minutes, he’d caught his breath and began the slow process of peeling his cum-matted chest off the corpse’s torso while simultaneously extracting his still-oozing hog from its ass.

 

Climbing off the bed, he headed for the bathroom, his boots echoing loudly off its tiled surfaces.

 

The smell of new grout was overwhelming; even the thin, rough towels were new.  Joe found their sandpaper-like texture perfect for scrubbing congealed slutcum out of his wiry chest fur and off his massive schlong.  Tossing the towel into the toilet—which reeked of bleach—he tucked his enormous manhood back into his jeans and returned to the bedroom.

 

The room was mess, but the splayed corpse of the horribly beaten rentboy took center stage.  Spread-eagled on its back, with its parted legs and cum-dripping ass pointed directly towards the door, Joe decided it couldn’t be better posed if he’d done it deliberately.  He decided to leave his belt where it was; it was so buried in the dead whore’s throat, it’d be difficult to remove in any case.

 

Striding to the chair where he’d left his clothing, Joe picked up the t-shirt and balled it up.  He was still warm from his well-deserved and very satisfying workout; He slipped on the leather jacket and stuffed the t-shirt into its pocket.  He headed out the door without a backwards glance at the boy whose life he’d just so viciously and cold-bloodedly ended.

 

He took the T-tops off his Camaro for the drive home, basking in the crisp cool air with deep sense of well-being.

 

 

 

 

“Hey Danilo, whatcha got?”

 

The beat cop paused in the open doorway of the motel room, leaning against the jamb and glancing up at the detective, his face weary and his expression jaded.

 

“It’s a bad one.  Fag whore was offed.  Cocksucker died hard.”

 

“Bad trick?”

 

“Probably.  Manager says he’d been here about a month.  No regular hours.  Had guys in and out all the time.”

 

“ME seen him yet?”

 

“No, they’re on the way.”

 

The detective stepped into the room and took a good long look.  He returned to the beat cop.

 

“Musta been pretty goddam violent, and doesn’t look like it happened too long ago—you ask if anyone heard anything?”

 

The cop grimaced.  “C’mon, man, you know this place as well as I do.  Remember that chick that they hauled outta here last month?  The one that was gonna testify against that biker gang?  They held her down and injected her with battery acid and didn’t no one here hear or see a goddam thing.  You think anyone’s gonna care a pansy whore gets offed?”

 

The detective sighed.  “Yeah, I know, but its my job to ask.  Yer right, though, might was well sign off on this one and shove it to the back of the caseload pile.  Ain’t no one cares about these wastes of human flesh.  Tell the guys from the ME’s office to send me their report; I got crimes against real human beings to solve.”

 

The beat cop watched the detective walk off with contempt.  Figured he’d be the one left here with the stiff corpse of a worthless homo slut, waitin’ for the meat wagon to show up.  Like anyone would give a shit if he tossed it in the dumpster and went and had a beer.  If those ME dudes didn’t show up soon, that’s exactly what he’d do…

Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 1

On By m3mayhemIn Rigler County Snuff Squad3 Comments

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What is it?” Dan asked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Pete whistled, his eyes wide.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“No problem, Captain—glad to help!”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And some of those plans were…extreme.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

Problem was, Tony met someone even stronger.

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

He had to get out of here.  Now.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then it was all he knew.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

The Return of Leather Dave

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex Snuff3 Comments

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“I wanna fuck you,” Dave said bluntly.

 

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

 

“We gonna be alone?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Trucker 18–Trucker vs Teen Fuckmeat

On By m3mayhemIn The Trucker12 Comments

It was when he got off the interstate in Holbrook that the Trucker first began to notice how the wind was picking up.  While it was true that winter driving in the Arizona desert didn’t have the same dangers as, say, the Midwest, it was still cold—and now the wind was building.

 

An even colder front was moving in, and the straight-line winds were expected to be intense for the next twelve hours.  He was headed for a little place in the national forest south of Zeniff—a small consignment load—but he didn’t need to be there till tomorrow evening.  Might be a good idea to pull over and let the front pass through.

 

And anyway, he was overdue for a kill.

 

The urge had been building in him again; he was almost surprised how quickly it’d come back.  But the need to beat a faggot to a pulp and drain his balls into its quivering meat was almost overwhelming.  Maybe he’d find a playtoy at the next stop.

 

If there was a next stop.  The empty desert receded into the darkness on all sides surrounding the Trucker’s rig; as the wind increased, though visibility decreased as dust began to billow across the two-lane state highway.  Suddenly, the Trucker noticed a hazy glow in the distance.

 

It turned out to be an intersection in what was literally a one-traffic-light town.  A county road crossed the highway; to the south was a small cluster of ramshackle frame houses.  To the north, nothing was visible in the immediate area.  All four corners of the intersection were occupied.

 

To the Trucker’s immediate left was a truck stop—a small one, not part of a chain.  It’d give him a place to park, but it didn’t appear to have many amenities.  Two trucks were already in the lot, one hauling a Walmart trailer, the other a refrigerated unit.  On the other side of the county road was an ancient motor court motel, complete with neon sign.  Most of the neon was out, but enough remained for the Trucker to make out the name “Ranch Hand’s Rest”.

 

Continuing counter-clockwise, across the highway a dollar store, now closed for the night but with its parking lot still brightly lit.  The remaining corner was occupied by a fast-food joint, also closed for the evening.

 

The Trucker eased his rig into the lot and circled in the back, pulling around so that it was facing back out.  No sense in wasting valuable time later on trying to turn the thing around.  Once he was satisfied with his parking job, he killed the engine and climbed out.

 

He paused for a moment to zip his black leather aviator jacket up against the cold wind; underneath, he was wearing nothing but a thin cotton t-shirt.  His muscled legs, wrapped in tight, faded jeans, powered him swiftly across the parking lot towards the truck stop.  The heavy tread of his black Chippewa logger boots was almost muffled by the ragged gusts of icy air.

 

The air inside the truck stop wasn’t icy, but it was far less pleasant, heavily laden as it was with grease and the scorched scent of food that had been sitting under a heat lamp for too long.  The cashier, it appeared, also had to maintain a small “deli” with offerings of hard, dry chicken tenders, rubbery breakfast tacos and pizzas pooled with red grease.  There were a couple of booths between the counter and the racks of merchandise, but the entire place seemed empty.

 

“Men’s room?” the Trucker barked at the half-asleep cashier.

 

“In the back on the left,” she said with a jerk of her head to indicate the direction, then became instantly engrossed in her phone again.

 

The doorway to the rear hall was between two wall coolers.  The hallway was short, starkly lit, paved with tile, had two doors for two restrooms—and a boy.

 

He was leaning against the far wall, near the door to the men’s room, and he was eyeing the Trucker pretty openly.  He looked young—late teens at most, way too young to be whoring himself out.  And he was dressed like a typical teenager in a white fleece hoodie, skin-tight skinny jeans and white canvas Vann SK8-HIs.

 

But the way he leaned against the wall, one leg thrust out and bent back at the knee so the sole of his sneaker was on the wall—and the deep glittering light of lust in his large brown eyes…

 

The Trucker headed into the men’s room.  No sense rushing anything.  He’d let the kid make the first move; if the little fuck was looking for some dick, well, the Trucker would be happy to oblige.  He had plenty of dick to offer, and a lot more to go with it.

 

He was still standing at the urinal, grinning and pounding out piss, when he heard the door open behind him.  He didn’t even need to look to know it was the boy.

 

“How much to suck my cock, boy?” he asked evenly.

 

There was a faint gulp behind him, then the kid’s voice stammered forth, “Tw-twenty bucks.  Up-up front.”

 

“Not in here.  You got a place?”

 

“Uh, yeah—over in the motel.”

 

Without responding, the Trucker shook off his massive hog, shoved it back into his jeans, and stepped to the sink to wash his hands.  In the mirror, he could see the boy waiting anxiously behind him.  Even in the reflection, the thick bulge in the kid’s crotch was visible, and the way the boy kept rubbing his hand over it didn’t make it any less obvious.

 

The hulking sadist saw his own smile grow more pointed.  The little faggot wanted it bad.  And bad was exactly what he was gonna get.

 

“Okay,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, “Get out.  Wait for me outside.”

 

The kid blinked and paused for a moment.  “Uh—okay.  I’ll be out on the curb.  Name’s, uh, name’s Quinn…”

 

The Trucker ignored him.  There was another pause, then the kid left.

 

After washing up, the Trucker casually strolled back into the store and bought a cup of black coffee.  Figuring enough time had gone by to disassociate him from the boy, he headed back outside, sipping at his cup.

 

The coffee tasted like diesel fuel, but the fuckmeat was exactly where he was supposed to be.  The kid seemed eager, almost bouncing on the toes of his hightops.  “C’mon, this way,” he called out as the Trucker approached him.  The boy began to cross the street.  “I’ve got the one on the end, right here.  See?  Real close.  Got an arrangement with the manager; I get the same one every weekend.  Not like there’s enough business to hafta worry about it bein’ booked…”

 

The Trucker let the punk babble away, focusing his attention on the way the kid’s tight jeans cradled the firm mounds of his asscheeks and anticipating what it’d feel like to force the swollen purple head of his cock between them.

 

“…and man, if my folks found out what I was doin’, I’d be in such deep shit.  I mean, fuck, dude, I got my big bro’s car while he’s off at school—he’d beat the shit outta me if he knew.  And my dad…”

 

The boy kept on, the silent footfalls of his Vanns drowned out by the heavy tread of the Trucker’s Chippewas, as he led the way back to his room—and to his doom.

 

As he’d said, it was the room on the end, marked with a small plastic plaque inscribed “17”.  Directly in front of the door sat a black 2010 Mustang convertible—the car the little fuck wasn’t supposed to be driving.  It was one of three cars in the lot—and one of those, parked way over by the office, was evidently the night clerk’s.

 

Inside, the quality of the motel matched its occupancy rate.  As the Trucker leaned back against the door on surreptitiously engaged both the deadbolt and the chain lock, he glanced around to take a quick survey of the room.

 

The room was unpleasantly dim, with cheap worn carpeting in a shade of dark green not popular since the seventies—from which decade the dark, splintery plywood paneling seemed to come as well.  There was a bed, covered by a scratchy polyester comforter with a gaudy floral pattern, with a nightstand that held a phone, a digital alarm clock and metal lamp with a dented shade.

 

There was a desk/dresser combo unit, cigarette burns scattered over its surface like chicken pox.  The mirror over the desk section was intact but badly warped; just looking at the skewed reflection made the Trucker dizzy.  A small flat screen TV stood on the dresser, pointed at the bed, next to it was a cable box.

 

Just past the dresser was the opening into the restroom.  Even from the entrance, the Trucker could see the cracks in the grout between the ancient white tiles.  And it didn’t take a drug-sniffing dog to determine the bathroom was the source of the overpowering scent of cheap antiseptic that almost—but not quite—drowned out the reek of stale cigarette smoke.  Not that the AC unit was helping the air quality.  Located under the front window, it rattled and clanked like a rollercoaster as it exuded fetid puffs of dry, scorching air into the already-overheated room.

 

While the Trucker scoped out the room, Quinn pulled off his hoodie, showing that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.  The skin on his slim, boyish torso was firm and clear.  There was a faint down of hair on his flat belly, but otherwise his chest was smooth but for his large pink nipples.

 

“I get paid first, dude.  Sorry, but it’s a house rule.  Gotta have the cash up front,” he said casually as he sat on the bed and kicked off his sneakers—they were loosely laced and left untied for easy on/off action, it seemed.

 

The Trucker, in the middle of sliding off his leather jacket, grinned.  “Sure,” he said nonchalantly as he folded the jacket over the back of the chair by the desk.  He dug into his back pocket and fished out his wallet, taking a twenty out and replacing the wallet.  The kid wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy trying to peel his skin-tight jeans off.  The Trucker palmed the bill and pulled his own t-shirt off, laying it over his jacket.

 

Finally out of his clothes—he’d been freeballing under the jeans—Quinn slipped his kicks back on and stood up.  “Hey, I gotta hit the restroom real quick; you wanna—”

 

He broke off at his first glimpse of the Trucker half-dressed, wearing only his jeans and laced workboots.  The twink’s greedy little eyes went straight to the glittering point of light in the middle of the hunk’s muscular, fur-covered chest—the Trucker’s dogtags, nestled in the dark mass of wiry fur between the huge mounds of his pecs.

 

Quinn’s dick, already hard, began to visibly pulsate.  Smirking, the Trucker held out the twenty.  The boy gulped and reached out for it unsteadily, still focused on the stud’s amazing physique.  “I, uh…thanks…” he mumbled, turning and laying on the nightstand.  As he turned, he heard the unmistakable sound of the Trucker unzipping his fly.

 

He was right.  When he turned back around, the hardbodied killer had managed to extract the full length of his enormous, vein-wrapped horsedick.

 

Despite Quinn’s obvious desire to get to the bathroom, the Trucker’s cock hypnotized him like a snake hypnotizing its prey.  And though Quinn had no way of knowing it yet, its venom was just as deadly.

 

The slow, steady of movement of the Trucker removing his belt broke the trance.  The clank of the large brushed-silver buckle and the stealthy sound of the inch-and-a-half wide strap of black leather sliding among the denim loops stirred something in Quinn.

 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back…” he said hesitantly, then darted into the bathroom and locked the door.  Behind him, the Trucker laid the belt over his shirt and jacket.  He could afford to be patient.

 

Quinn wasn’t as quiet in the bathroom as he thought he was; even through the closed door, the Trucker could hear the click of a lighter and the hissing, bubbling sound of the kid inhaling some kind of drug.  In a small town like this, that probably meant meth.

 

Well, that was fine.  Little fuck should be off his guard when he came out.

 

The Trucker was right.  Thirty seconds later and high as fuck, Quinn stepped out of the bathroom with a big grin on his face and a big erection between his legs.  “Hey, man, yer gonna hafta take it easy with that big dick you—”

 

The Trucker sucker-punched the teen in the jaw.  Stunned, Quinn slammed back into the bathroom door, then slumped to the floor—not unconscious, but too dazed to be functional.  He was aware that the buff older man had hit him, and had then moved away.

 

“Wh-wh-wh…” he tried to start, but speaking hurt.  A lot.

 

Then he heard a harsh slapping sound—a single slap, actually, repeated slowly and menacingly.  Painfully turning his head, Quinn tried to see what was happening.

 

He was at ground level, looking across.  The first thing he could see were the untied laces of the Trucker’s dirty, well-worn Chippewas.  Raising his eyes up the thick, denim-clad legs, he was again confronted by the sadist’s frighteningly huge cock.  But the source of the sound was above that.  Quinn looked up to see the cruel serial killer standing over him with the doubled-over belt in one hand, ginning and slapping the palm of his other hand with it.

 

“Wh-whath’fuck?” the young faggot managed to mutter.

 

“Just gonna have a little fun, dude,” the Trucker chuckled, his deep bass voice vibrating the root of Quinn’s cock, still somehow semi-hard even after the assault.  “Just gonna beat the fuck outta ya, rape yer worthless homo ass, and snuff ya—don’t that sound like fun?”

 

Quin glanced up in disbelief just in time to see the Trucker’s powerful arm snap downward.  Cringing, the lean teenager threw his left arm up to block the blow.  It turned out to be an excruciating maneuver.  Even doubled over, the thick leather strap hit the boy’s arm with such force, it wrapped itself around it momentarily.  With sadistically perfect timing, the Trucker viciously jerked the belt back towards himself.

 

The snapping of the bones in Quinn’s forearm breaking was less noticeable than the shearing sound as an inch-and-a-half wide strip of the outer layer of skin completely circling his arm was flayed off.

 

For a moment, the amateur boywhore sat wide-eyed, staring in horror at his raw, dangling forearm—then the pain hit and he screamed.  Briefly.

 

“Shaddap,” the Trucker snarled and lashed him across the face.

 

That got a quick, loud shriek, then the boy collapsed to the floor.  The Trucker stood over him for a moment, looking down, gloating, and fondling his stiff manhood.  Then he dug into the pockets of his folded jacket, pulled out his pack of Marlboros and leaned back to burn one as the punk queerboy sobbed sloppily on the floor.

 

“You lucky-ass motherfucker,” he jeered, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the already stale air of the motel room, “You get to take my load.  I was lookin’ for some hot boymeat for a beatdown and a good pump an’ dump—an’ there you were.  Course, a dumbass teen fag like you takes a lotta beatin’ ‘fore its ready for my dick.”  He paused for effect, taking another drag.  The fuckmeat was still sniveling, but it was listening.

 

Good.  It needed to know what to expect.  It needed to be prepared to receive his shaft, and that meant a good manual tenderizing.

 

He stubbed out his smoke.  “Ready, motherfucker?  I’m gonna beat ya like a bitch, just cause it gets my dick hard to hurt teenaged faggots before I dick ‘em down.  Got it?  Then let’s get started.”  Standing over the prone youth, he brandished the belt again, wielding it like a whip and brought it down on smooth, silky flesh of Quinn’s back with a sound like a pistol shot.

 

This time Quinn didn’t squeal or shriek; he flat-out screamed.  The intense, slashing pain across his tender adolescent flesh was too much to endure.  He scrabbled wildly on the floor on all fours like an animal, then, regaining his feet as if by magic, bolted right past the Trucker, heading for the door.

 

The Trucker lunged after him, more out of rage that the faggot was trying to avoid what was coming to it than out of any concern it would get free.  His experience with snuffing homos in motel rooms served him well; Quinn managed to get the deadbolt unlocked with the hand on his working arm, but maddened by pain and terror, fumbled uselessly with the chain.  The twink slut’s escape attempt was as useless as everything else in his wasted life.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then was whirled around and pinned up against the door, slamming it shut again.  Then, before the young cunt could say anything, plead for its life, anything—the Trucker’s right hand shot out and clamped around its throat like a vise.  Quinn gagged involuntarily, his eye wide as his air was cut off and he was literally deadlifted straight off the floor.

 

As his hightops drummed against the door, Quinn could see the massive bicep of the Trucker’s arm bulging with seemingly effortless power while holding him off the ground.  The buff older man tossed the belt over his shoulder, then reached out with his left hand, over Quinn’s shoulder—and re-locked the deadbolt.

 

“Where ya think yer goin’ motherfucker?” the Trucker asked Quinn with a cold, hard grin on his hyper-masculine face, “This party ain’t even got started yet, you cunt.  I gotta work off a little stress before I can settle down and choke yer faggot life out with my dick up yer ass.  I toldja that already, but you small-town homos gotta have everything beaten into ya, right, dumbass?”

 

Quinn, his face purple and swelling, was in no position to answer back.  His legs and his good arm scrambled frantically as he dangled and choked in the sadistic serial killer’s powerful grip.  He pawed frenetically at the Trucker’s broad chest.  The stud’s pecs, hard as marble, suffered no visible damage from the twink’s one-handed onslaught, but once Quinn curled his fingers in the older man’s wiry chest hair and began pulling, the dying punk became a nuisance.  And when he caught the Trucker’s dogtags inadvertently and nearly yanked them off, the buff psycho had had enough.  He spun around and flung Quinn through the air with the ease of a rag doll.

 

Violent motion, an even more violent impact, then a hazy darkness filled with pain were what Quinn experienced next.  He didn’t know he’d been thrown into the dresser and that his smooth young teen body had broken the mirror and smashed the television before it fell back limp to the floor.  What he did know, when he became aware of his surroundings, was that he was in agony—and he could hear that slapping sound again.

 

The guy was coming back.  The hot, sexy guy, the one he’d wanted so bad…the one who was hurting him so bad…

 

Quinn forced his eyes open.  Again, he was at ground level.  Again, those dirty Chippewa boots were approaching…but this time, he knew what it meant.  But he’d let his mind wander.  He was only vaguely aware of the sudden movement of his assailant, and didn’t even have time to flinch as the Trucker swung the belt at him again.

 

Except this time, it wasn’t a single swing.

 

As Quinn cowered and squealed like a pig under the repeated lashes of the heavy belt, the muscle-bound sadist felt his huge, stallion-like shaft begin to pulse and ooze with bloodlust.  Every loud slap of leather on skin, every bleat of agony from the crouching, helpless teen slut, propelled another drop of hot precum out of the thick purple head of his dick.

 

Then, for a moment, it stopped.  The Trucker stepped away, fired up another smoke, and observed his prey for a moment.

 

The youth’s back was no longer the smooth expanse of pale silky skin it had been before.  The Trucker’s foreplay had left the slut covered in red, angry welts.  On at least two occasions, the violent lashing had broken the boy’s skin, and a thin trickle of blood was creeping down the whimpering kid’s flank.

 

The Trucker took another drag, walked back to the prone, shuddering punk and knelt down by his head.  He exhaled the smoke into the cunt’s face.  “Ya ready, motherfucker?” the buff killer asked jovially.  “Ready to die on my cock like a worthless fag?”

 

Quinn was swimming in a sea of pain, but he was aware enough to understand what was being said to him.

 

“N-no…” he gasped, turning his huge, tear-filled eyes up to his tormentor in desperation, “Pl-please…no-no…”

 

“You ain’t ready?” the Trucker taunted in mock surprise, “Ok, I guess I need to kick some sense into ya, huh?”

 

And without another work, he drew back his foot and kicked Quinn in the side with his steel-toed work boot, hard enough to break two of the little fuck’s ribs in several places.  The writhing cunt’s shrieks of pain began to annoy the brutal sadist; his next kick was directly to Quinn’s face, silencing the faggot by breaking his jaw.  The boy continued to sob and moan as the Trucker kicked him twice more in the flank, breaking more ribs and further shattering the ones he’d already broken.

 

By the time the Trucker stopped kicking Quinn and, shoving the toe of a boot under him, flipped him over onto his back, the teen homo was bleeding internally from half a dozen wounds to his guts caused by bone shards.  As he lay on his back, gasping, his sweet young face a bloody wreck, the Trucker leaned over him, spit in his face, then stomped him twice, leaving the imprint of the deep tread of his boots imprinted on the boy’s flat belly.  Then he bent down and ground out the glowing butt of his smoke on the whore’s smooth, tender flesh.  It sizzled for a moment before the sadistic alpha reached out for the boymeat again.

 

Quinn’s entire universe had shrunk to a tiny bubble of agony; trapped inside it, the kid wasn’t able to realize that the hardbodied psycho had picked him up by the throat again—the young cunt couldn’t breathe anyway.  And he was barely able to register the sense of flight as he was flung like garbage across the room again.

 

He damn sure felt it when he hit the wall and crushed a hole in the drywall, though.  He felt it even more when he fell back and smashed the nightstand, sending everything on it crashing to the floor.  And even as he bounced back, to lay stretched and trembling across the bed, he could hear a jangling noise that made him look up.

 

The Trucker had looped the belt around his own neck at some point—the noise was the silver buckle striking the dogtags as the powerful sadist closed in.  As Quinn watched, the older man slowly drew the belt from his neck.  Grinning with evil lust, he held the looped leather strap out as he approached the trapped, defenseless teenager.

 

And Quinn realized that the moment that strap got around his neck, he was dead.  Even if he hadn’t been injured, he was in no way strong enough to fend off the hairy, muscled serial killer he’d willingly invited in.

 

The Trucker tossed the belt down onto the bed next to Quinn’s head; the boy would have grabbed for it but for his broken arm—and the fact that he was paralyzed by terror.  The sinewy, hulking killer loomed over him, grinning with obviously sadistic intent, the slowly turned and paced to the end of the bed, letting Quinn get a look at the way his lat muscles tensed and flowed and the tight bunching of his glutes as he walked.  The man literally exuded power in his pheromones and his physique managed to inspire Quinn with both lust and despair—the latter because the more he saw of the Trucker, the more futile he felt any escape attempt to be.

 

The hardbodied stud stopped at the foot of the bed, grabbed the teen’s legs, and parted them effortlessly, despite Quinn’s best attempts to keep them closed.  It didn’t matter.  Nothing he did mattered.  And then there was a sudden pressure against his sphincter—

 

“Keep fightin’ it, faggot, I love when th’ meat squirms on my thick fuckin’ manshaft,” the Trucker sneered, and shoved.

 

Quinn screamed.  Loud and shrill, it was torn from the depths of his slim teenaged body as the older man’s huge cock plowed through his rectum like a runaway train, ripping his asshole mercilessly as it pounded his prostate and plunged into his intestines.  In the nightmarish waves of searing pain that pummeled his lithe, smooth form with each brutal thrust of the Trucker’s hips, the young homo wasn’t aware that his own tube of boymeat was stiffly slapping his rapist’s ripped abs—and was already smearing the Trucker’s belly fur with teen precum.  He just kept screaming.

 

Not for long, though.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ bitch,” the Trucker grunted and punched Quinn in the face, rocking his head back.  The kid moaned and peered blearily up at his assailant through his right eye—the left one was already swelling and turning black.

 

“Fuck yeah, ya dumbass cunt,” the sick stud growled as he placed the punk’s legs on his shoulders and dug his work boots into the sheets for better traction, “Now yer feelin’ me, yeah?  Huh?  Lemme know if you can feel this!”  He began to ride the teenaged slut like a bronco, pounding his shaft so hard and so fast into Quinn’s colon that his huge scrote slapped the boy’s hormone-filled balls like billiards, striking with such force that it damn near bruised the kid’s sack.

 

Instinctively, Quinn closed his eyes and tried to struggle, but the heavy mass of the muscled stud pinned him down prostrate on the bed.  He could hear a jingling somewhere but didn’t connect it to the Trucker’s dogtags until he felt the cold metal on his chest.  He opened his eyes—to the extent he could open the left—and found the older man’s hard, unshaven face next to his.

 

“It’s been fun, fuckmeat, but I gotta get some rest.  Time to blow a load and go catch some Z’s.  Time to die.”

 

He held up the belt, giving the terrified cocksucker a gentle smile that he couldn’t hold.  It broadened into a shark-like grin almost immediately.

 

“Ready to get yer pitiful life choked out, faggot?”

 

The lithe young teen was in more pain and more fear than he could have believed possible, but the thought of being released from his torment into the dark freedom of death filled him with cold terror.  “No, please,” he whimpered, “Please, don’t—”

 

The Trucker looped the belt back through its buckle, making a simple noose.  Quinn kept babbling.

 

“Oh fuck no, please, please, oh god, please, for fuck’s sake don’t do this—”

 

The Trucker grinned again.  With his enormous rod still planted firmly in the boy’s ass, he slowly lowered the leather noose over the kid’s head.

 

“Oh god no please no fuck oh shit oh fuck don’t nonoNONO—GACK!!”

 

His pleas were choked off as the Trucker jerked the thick strap tight, sealing off Quinn’s windpipe and silencing the faggot forever.

 

The young homo fought with the strength left in him; consciously, he knew it was hopeless, but the animal midbrain in his adolescent mind continued to try to claw its way to air.  Sadly for the teen slut, the fact that he was flailing both arms in panic didn’t prevent him from feeling every last agonizing grind of bone on bone as his broken arm thrashed impotently.

 

His right arm and hand worked perfectly well, though.  The Trucker watched the cunt dig vainly at the leather belt sunk deep into its throat flesh.  As the lean teen body shuddered beneath him, his wiry body hair scraped the smooth young flesh.

 

Suddenly, Quinn changed his focus.  His hand came up, fingers hooked into talons, and he began to gouge at the older man’s face. The Trucker was still pumping steadily, feeling the sperm start to seethe in his overloaded, aching balls—he had no intention of taking any shit from a goddam sack of fuckmeat that was only still alive because he hadn’t cum yet.

 

He plowed his fist into its face three times in a row; fast, jackhammer blows that squashed the bitch’s nose like a rotten tomato, with a nice satisfying squelching sound, blackened its other eye and knocked out three teeth.

 

The last impact, the one that knocked out the teeth, was to the lower jaw.  But the dying meat had been without air long enough for its tongue to start swelling, protruding from between the blue lips with a gush of foamy drool.  The hardbodied stud’s sucker-punch snapped the jaw closed; the cunt bit through its tongue, damn near severing the tip.

 

“Fuckin’ take it,” the rutting alpha snarled, spitting in the fuckmeat’s face, his spittle flowing into the pink foam trickling down the punk’s face, “Take my fuckin’ dick and die, ya piece a’ shit!”

 

As their bellies slapped together in the throes of violently forced mansex, the Trucker could feel the teen’s hard, oozing cock being pressed against his furry ripped abs.  The little fuck was nearly brain-dead, but asphyxia and the vigorous prostate massage provided by brutal assrape kept its tool stiff and leaking.

 

The Trucker was almost there.  He could feel his seed starting to boil over, the electric tingling deep at the root of his gigantic rod that let him know he was about to spew his thick potent alpha load.  The meat needed to die.  Now.

 

It was almost there anyway.  Quinn was gone; all that was left was a convulsing sack of teen boymeat.  The swollen face, bruised and black, was unrecognizable.  The entire thrashing body was covered in cold death sweat, literally squeezed out of it along with its worthless life.  The cunt’s left arm was convulsing just as powerfully as the right, the broken limb flopping grotesquely about.

 

And still the boymeat drooled and gurgled.  The Trucker had to feel it die, had to feel that final clenching of its colon as it suffered its final agony.  It was easy enough to do.

 

He jerked the belt forward, roughly, swiftly, with one hand while swinging with the other fist, deep, piston-like punches that drove the fag’s skull savagely backwards.  As the thick strap around the spine went in one direction and the cranium on top of it went another, there was a loud crackling noise—the erotic sound of the teen fuckmeat’s top two cervical vertebrae shattering and slashing through its spinal column.

 

That was what the Trucker had been waiting for—that final intense overload of the central nervous system.  Oh fuck, the way the boycunt’s rectum seemed to collapse on his tool, almost sucking his scalding semen out—

 

“Fuck!” he cried out, “Fuck! Fuck! OH FUCK!!!”

 

He hunched over, his massive, muscle-bound body shuddering and convulsing itself as he pressed the still-thrashing corpse of the teenager beneath him, cursing and beating its face in.  Despite the intensity of his release, the alpha was dimly aware of a splash of warmth against his abs and up into his thick chest fur as the meat unloaded involuntarily during its death throes.  It didn’t matter.

 

The Trucker had so much cum to drain out of his balls he spent the next five minutes hosing the dead slut’s innards with his hot manseed.  After his scrote emptied, he spent another couple of minutes relaxing and catching his breath with his cock still jammed up the dead kid’s ass.  Finally, reluctantly, he took a deep breath, pulled his hog out of the corpse, and headed to the bathroom to wash up.

 

He wasn’t in any hurry.  He wasn’t in a position to know that the boycunt had spent the entire weekend whoring itself out, but he’d figured out enough to know that the little fuck was getting banged here on a regular basis.  And he’d made damn sure no one had seen them together, or had seen him enter this room.  Or even approach the motel, for that matter.

 

It took a few minutes to scrub the thick ropy strands of boyspunk out of his chest and belly fur, but he had enough experience to know that teen boys are cum bombs, full of semen, waiting to go off at any moment.  He was an expert at setting them off, and didn’t mind cleaning up some of the mess afterwards.

 

Only some of it, though.  As he re-entered the bedroom and slipped his shirt back on, he lit up a traditional after-sex cigarette and leaned back against the door, proudly surveying his handiwork.

 

The body was sprawled face-up on the bed, legs and arms both spread wide, with the left arm bent at an unnatural angle.  He’d left the belt where it was; it was sunk so deeply into the fucker’s neck, it’d probably have to be cut off.

 

Above the collapsed section of the esophagus, there was little recognizable of the boywhore once known as Quinn.  Even the hair was matted and dark with sweat.  The face was a grotesque swollen purple mask.  The body, aside from the left arm and some heavy bruising on the torso, was relatively unmarked, but the torso was completely smeared with cum.

 

The corpse’s feet still shuddered and kicked as random signals shot down its ruined nervous system.  One of the cunt’s Vann hightops had come off and was on the floor beside the bed; the Trucker could see the toes curling in death agony inside the ankle-high ped sock.  The other hightop sneaker scraped and jerked randomly over the cheap thin sheet.

 

The room itself was mute testimony to the violence of the Trucker’s need to cum.  The TV and mirror were in pieces on the floor, the wall over the head of the bed was damaged and the nightstand and its contents destroyed.

 

The hardbodied alpha grinned and finished his smoke.  Just looking at the scene made his cock throb again, but he needed sleep.  He slipped on his leather jacket and quickly left the room, setting the lock in the doorknob to engage as he left.  Whoever entered the room next would need a key.

 

It was past two in the morning as his Chippewa boots echoed on the pavement as he crossed back to his cab.  No one was out to see him.  He gave the truck stop itself a wide berth to avoid being spotted by anyone at the counter and made it back to his rig unobserved.  He slept for five hours and was back on the road again by half-past seven.  There was no sign of any disturbance as he left; the motel across the street, at that time of the morning, was dead as a doornail and silent as a tomb.

 

 

The call had come in at ten in the morning, and it damn sure wasn’t how the sheriff wanted to start his week.  A fuckin’ murder.  He hadn’t had to deal with a homicide in this place…ever.

 

And then that scene.  His deputy had come outta the room puking, and the sheriff couldn’t blame him.  That teenaged boy with his legs spread and a thick flow of dried glazed cum that had leaked from his asshole, the sheer cruelty and viciousness of the attack…

 

And the parents.  He’d traced them through the car.  They didn’t know he’d taken it.  And when they found out what had happened to their eighteen-year-old son, what he’d spent the past year doing in that little motel…

 

And the gossip.  He’d stomped on the local paper—there was only one little weekly—and made sure that the story didn’t get spread.  But everyone knew.  A fag murder, right in their town.  Even the homo’s parent suffered.  The car was towed to be processed for evidence; when they came to town from Zeniff to pick it up, three days later, their house was vandalized.

 

Goddam faggots, the sheriff mused.  Should all be killed.  Nothin’ but trouble.

 

 

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

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles2 Comments

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

 

Fuckin’ cameras ruin a good hunt.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Whatcha need, bro?” he asks cautiously.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Hey, uh—” I call out to gingerfuck.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

News item, dated next day:

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

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

Carlos and Nick 6–No Thanks for the Memory

On By m3mayhemIn Carlos the Convict1 Comment

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

That did it.  Carlos would never forget those eyes.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “Do that.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The obnoxious punk shrugged off his jacket as he passed through the bedroom doorway.  Tossing it onto the floor, he paused and noticed the view from the huge window.  “Damn, dude—nice!” he said, “Must be some good money in filmin’ dudes fuckin’.  You gotta let me in on some a’ that!”

 

Bryan looked over and saw that Carlos was out of his jacket as well, his elaborate tattoos visible on his broad furry chest.  Grinning, he pulled his t-shirt up over his head and dropped it on top of his jacket, showing off his own ink.  The Iron Cross on his left pec was detailed, but the Confederate flag with the motto “Die, Motherfucker, Die” on his right bicep was clearly an amateur job.

 

The punk was muscular—not in Carlos’s class, but well-built.  He wasn’t as hairy as the Latino skinhead; a single line of fur ran down the center of his chest and his flat, firm belly to vanish below the waistband of his camo cargo pants.  He sat on the bed and began loosening the few laces of his Vasque Arrowhead boots.

 

Neither he nor Carlos knew that Nick had already started recording.

 

“Always wanted video of me fuckin’ a dude—the bitches love that shit,” Bryan boasted as he kicked his left boot off, “Gets ‘em all horny when they see I’m such a stud I c’n dick down both chicks and guys.  ‘Course, Carlos here knows all about that, dontcha, dude?”

 

Carlos stiffened.  No matter what it took, there was no way he was gonna let Nick know what Bryan had done to him in prison.  He could barely admit it to himself—the thought that some other male had cum inside him…

 

“See, yer, uh, friend here and I were prison buds,” Bryan said, smirking at Nick as he slid the other boot off and unbuttoned the waistband of his cargo pants.  “An’ there was this one time me an’ these other dudes got holda him an’—GACK!!”

 

Later, Nick had to replay the video in slow motion to see exactly how smoothly Carlos had squatted, retrieved the Bowie knife from his boot sheath, then whirled and sprung forward, thrusting the tip of the blade into Bryan’s throat.  The razor-sharp steel, held vertically, pierced the unlucky punk’s larynx straight through from front to back, the cartilage that formed his vocal process parting like butter under a hot knife.  The tip of the blade lodged in one of Bryan’s cervical vertebrae for a moment, then Carlos jerked the knife back out.

 

He’d managed to avoid all the major blood vessels and most of the major nerves.  The wound wasn’t fatal, but it was excruciating, horrifyingly traumatic—and left the victim permanently unable to speak.

 

“Goddam, man, what the fuck?” Nick asked, shocked, as Bryan, his eyes huge, clutched at his throat and sank back down onto the bed, making thick, desperate gagging sounds.

 

“Aw, his voice was gettin’ on my nerves,” Carlos said, his expression visibly more cheerful than it had been since he’d gotten home.  “Don’t worry,” he continued, making certain that Bryan could hear his words, “He’ll still put on a good show when I fuck ‘im and finally snuff ‘im.  Gonna take my time with this one.  Hear that, ya sick faggot?  You’re gonna die slow, with my cock up yer ass.”

 

By now, Carlos was standing beside the bed, towering over Bryan as the latter pulled his hands from his neck and stared in horror at the blood on them.  Without warning, the muscular Latino backhanded the youth.  “You thought you were gonna fuck me?!?  Naw, motherfucker, I’m gonna fuck you.”

 

Bryan turned his dazed, uncomprehending eyes up to meet Carlos’s icy gaze.  Their beautiful emerald green, ringed by long and lush eyelashes, set something off in the skinhead’s warped psyche.

 

“No one fucks me!  Ever!!”  He punched Bryan three times in the face, repeated jackhammer blows that Nick caught on camera—not the impacts, but the flexing of Carlos’s thick, powerful deltoid and dorsal muscles and the bulging of his trapezius.  He was still clutching the long Bowie knife in his hand as he pounded the punk’s face.

 

Finally, breathing heavily, he stepped back, leaving the bruised fuckmeat sprawled unconscious on the bed, still in its socks and camo pants, its face swelling and air gurgling in its open trachea.  Nick adjusted the camera, re-centering the field of view on the wounded and trembling ex-con.  He loved it; this was hot as fuck.  It’d bring a nice inflow of cash if Carlos continued to abuse the unlucky motherfucker as brutally as he’d started.  “Damn, dude,” he said appreciatively, “What’d he do to you?”

 

“Nothin’,” Carlos said sullenly, “He din’t do nothin’.  Fuckin’ faggot just thought he was gonna be smart, is all.  But this asswipe needs my dick bad.  An’ he needs it to hurt.  Go get yer handheld, cause when this fuck wakes up, he’s gonna know what it feels like to have a real man inside ‘im.  Get a close-up of his face as he cries like a fuckin’ pussy, huh?  Yeah?”

 

Nick’s huge shaft was already tenting his jogger pants; noticing it, Carlos grinned, then bent forward and began cutting Bryan’s pants off with his knife.  The horny little fuckmeat was commando, of course; Carlos was already expecting it.  Piece a’ shit was ready to stick his cock into anything that came along—it was time to see how well he performed on the receiving end of the proposition.

 

And if he needed a little prodding to perform well—the nine inches of razor-sharp steel that jutted from the hilt grasped tightly in Carlos’s hand would ensure he got the point.

 

By the time Nick got back with the hand-held, Bryan’s camo pants lay on the floor, a pile of shredded fabric.  The Latino skinhead already had his massive dick out, its thick, vein-wrapped girth already pulsing and dripping.

 

“Aw hell yeah, man, time to rock ‘n roll,” Nick chuckled enthusiastically.  “This is gonna be a serious money-maker, right here.  C’mon, dude, lemme see ya make this piece of fagmeat scream.”

 

Carlos didn’t need any encouragement.  As Bryan began to moan and squirm, faint trickles of blood still leaking from the hole in his throat, the buff ex-con serial killer climbed up onto the bed.  Planting his thick-soled jump boots to get the best traction, he grinned maliciously and started to force the engorged purple head of his cock into Bryan’s asshole.

 

Bryan liked to fuck other dudes as a show of dominance; much like Carlos, he in no way thought of himself as gay.  Unlike Carlos, though, he’d never been fucked in the ass.  His fuckhole was tight; despite the slick coating of precum acting as lube for the Hispanic stud’s shaft, it was still a struggle for Carlos to mount and fully penetrate his semi-conscious victim.  He had to force it, brutally, and the horrific, searing pain of his sphincter being torn forced Bryan back to full awareness.

 

He screamed.  It was nightmarish; he was being forced down by this muscular dude and couldn’t escape the agonizing sense of being impaled, so he screamed and screamed—but no screams came out.  All Bryan was able to do was croak and gasp as his severed vocal cords fluttered uselessly in his punctured larynx.  A fine mist of blood was aspirated from the wound with each attempt; Carlos noted it with pleasure.

 

“Hey, Nick!  Dude, you gettin’ his neck?  See that?” he asked, then spoke to Bryan directly.  “Hey, ol’ friend, ol’ buddy, you tastin’ yer own blood yet?  Huh?  How’s that taste?”  He thrust his hugely swollen member deep inside the prison rapist’s guts, grinning maniacally as Bryan’s face twisted with excruciating pain.

 

“Hurts, don’t it?” he whispered—not so quietly that Nick couldn’t hear him— “Hurts when you don’t want a fuckin’ dick up yer ass, yeah?  Guess what, bitch, it’s about to hurt a lot fuckin’ more.  You’re gonna die ridin’ my cock, an’ I’m gonna make goddam sure you die hard—and slow.  Yer gonna be praying I cum in yer guts, motherfucker, cause snuffing yer worthless faggot ass is what’s gonna make me blow my load—and death is the only thing that’s gonna end yer sufferin’.  Get it now?  Ready to get fucked to death?”

 

The question was rhetorical; even if Bryan had been physically capable of speaking, his beautiful eyes, wide with blank fear and ringed with gray, showed his state of insensibility.  As Nick zoomed in on the young punk’s face, it was clear that the kid was going into shock.  His struggles slowed; his perfect bubble butt ceased to flex erotically on Carlos’s rod.

 

“No ya don’t,” Carlos snarled, “Stay awake, motherfucker!”

 

Raising his knife up, he drove it straight down like a pile driver, plunging all nine inches of sharpened steel into Bryan’s hard, flat, fuzz-covered belly.  Carlos forced it in up to the hilt, powering through the faint resistance of the punk’s rubbery intestines.  The blade sliced between the floating ribs in the back and completely penetrated the pain-wracked youth, its tip embedded in the mattress beneath him.

 

As Bryan kicked and writhed in agony, Carlos grunted with sexual pleasure.  “Fuck yeah, that’s it—clench that ass and work my fuckin’ dick!”

 

The ex-con hipster screamed silently, his muscled body suddenly going stiff with excruciating pain as the powerful Latino began to withdraw both his knife and his cock.  Tears trickled from Bryan’s eyes as he felt the hot hard dick and the cold hard blade being extracted from inside his body—slowly…oh, so slowly…

 

Carlos waited into just the tip of each remained inside the quivering punk.  “Watch ‘im,” he told Nick, his face lit with sadistic glee, “Get a shot of the fucker’s face here, when I give it to ‘im good.”

 

Bryan heard him speak, but was suffering too badly to understand what they meant.  Some part of his mind was lost in bewilderment, trying to understand how what should have been an easy fuck had turned into this searing nightmare.  He was totally unprepared when Carlos slammed his huge swollen shaft home, burying it balls-deep inside his former rapist.  Simultaneously, he powered the Bowie knife back in, twisting it in the wound, slashing at Bryan’s soft, tender guts.

 

The boy clutched at Carlos, his fingers gripping the Hispanic skinhead’s broad shoulders as his strong, thick legs, already involuntarily wrapped around Carlos’s waist, tightened like a wrestling move—but it was all done unconsciously, in reaction to the phenomenal torture he was enduring.

 

Bryan screamed and screamed, the wheezing, gurgling sound coming from the gash in his throat making a mockery of his efforts.  Nick had positioned himself to the side of the bed and had zoomed in on the dying convict’s face over Carlos’s shoulder while the latter tormented his prey.  “Lookit that—I think he wants t’ stop!  That right, ya little bitch?  Ya don’t wanna get fucked?  All ya gotta do is say no!”

 

Knocking Bryan’s arms away from his shoulders contemptuously, Carlos rose up on his knees so Nick could get a better view.  He left the knife embedded in the kid’s belly, blood leaking from the wound and the hilt bobbing in the air as Bryan’s sweat-slick abdomen heaved in agony.

 

“Well?  I ain’t hearin’ ya say no—guess that means yer enjoyin’ my dick, huh?  Yeah?  Fuckin’ knew it, ya worthless faggot cockwhore!”  The buff, domineering psycho spat in the suffering youth’s face, then punched him again, splitting his lips.

 

“Damn, dude, yer really gettin’ medieval on his ass,” Nick chuckled; he’d seen Carlos lose it with the meat before, but never right away like this.

 

“Wanna see him suffer,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, his inked skin glistening with sweat as he rhythmically pumped the tortured youth’s ass, “Wanna make goddam sure the faggot knows what it feels like when a real man gets hold of his worthless meat.”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, rubbing the dark moist spot at the top of the huge bulge in his pants, “Dudes are gonna be lovin’ this shit, man—fuck ‘im up man; tear that cunt up!”

 

It was obvious that Bryan, wallowing in terrified agony, was till able to understand Nick’s words.  Seeing the fresh wave of horror sweep over the punk’s bleeding, swelling face, the buff cameraman grinned and winked maliciously at him, then leaned in over Carlos’s shoulder for a close-up.

 

“Naw, man, c’mon round the side and show ‘em how much the fuckin’ sicko’s gettin’ off,” Carlos jeered, “Bitch likes it rough—hah!”

 

Circling around, Nick saw that Carlos was right.  The muscular Latino was up on his knees with the fuckmeat’s thick, firm legs wrapped around his tight waist, steadily pumping his huge tool into the kid’s traumatized asshole.  The hilt of his knife still protruded from Bryan’s taut, flat belly.  In between Carlos and the knife, Bryan was sporting an erection—an impressive one, given his obvious agony and terror.

 

“Watch this shit,” Carlos smirked.  As Nick zoomed in, the hairy, tatted ex-con grasped the hilt and yanked it out of Bryan’s guts.  As he did, he twisted it slightly so that the viciously sharp serrations carved new channels in the suffering punk’s flesh.

 

Bryan stiffened in horrible torment his face contorted with agony, pink foam bubbling from the wound in his throat as he shrieked, inaudibly and futilely—but at the same time, his hard half-foot of vein-wreathed cockmeat pulsed visibly.  Nick made damn sure his viewers missed no detail as the tortured youth’s erect, throbbing penis started oozing precum voluntarily.

 

“Toldja the fucker was a goddam faggot,” Carlos said, looking Bryan straight in the eyes.  “Aintcha, ya piece a’ motherfuckin’ shit?  Ya want this, dontcha?  Fuckin’ love finally havin’ a real man fillin’ yer guts with all kinda long hard shafts, yeah, you sick fuck?”

 

The nightmarish pain in his guts and his ass had pushed Bryan over the edge; even as his former victim pumped his colon full of cock, the strong young punk was beating on Carlos’s chest, his fists uselessly pummeling the Latino’s broad hairy chest.  He was only barely aware that his own dick was hard, hard and bobbing stiffly with every powerful thrust of Carlos’s hips.

 

“Goddam,” Nick moaned, steadying his camera in one hand as he unzipped his fly with the other, “Fuckin’ meat sure looks like it’s workin’ yer tool good.”

 

“Naw it ain’t,” Carlos sneered.  “Worthless cunt can’t even stroke my dick right.  Think it’s time to tighten up its fuckhole the hard way.  Hear that, bitch?  Know what that means?”  Grinning evilly, the buff, inked ex-con brandished the blade to the panicked, pain-crazed youth flailing desperately beneath him.  “Means it’s time to die, fucker.”

 

Suddenly the muscle-bound serial killer threw himself down, the wiry fur on his hard chest scraping Bryan’s smooth skin like steel wool.  The youth felt the weight of the larger man compress his straining cock between their flat, sweat-slick bellies as his legs, still wrapped around Carlos’s waist, squeezed together involuntarily.

 

Carlos grabbed a hank of Bryan’s long, dyed section of hair, holding the boy’s trembling head still.  He bent down so close that his scruffy facial growth scraped Bryan’s smooth, silky cheek—so close that neither Nick nor his camera could pick up the words the skinhead muttered into his prison rapist’s ear.

 

“You fucked up so bad, dude, so fuckin’ bad,” he whispered, managing to fill his low voice with venom, “Think you hurt now?  Yer gonna die in so much pain, fuckwad.  Get ready, cunt, clench up on my thick hog an’ fuckin’ suffer!”  Then he rose up to give Nick view.

 

The cameraman stroked his own cock as he closed in on the tip of Carlos’s knife, now placed under Bryan’s jaw, then opened the camera’s view back out to get the tatted Hispanic’s cocky, malicious grin.  “Watch this shit, dude,” Carlos said, ostensibly to Nick, but looking directly at the camera, “This is what a real man does to a fuckin’ prison faggot.”

 

With that, he began to slowly, incrementally, shove all nine inches of the blade up into Bryan’s head through the underside of his jaw.

 

What Bryan had endured before was nothing compared to this new agony.  His punctured larynx, his stabbed gut and impaled ass were all but forgotten as sharpened steel slid up through his jaw, parting the tissue like butter until it hit the underside of his tongue.  That was muscle; Carlos had to apply a little extra pressure to pierce it.

 

The hardbodied cameraman was as affected by the near-visible haze of sweat and pheromones as the two males locked together in fatal intercourse on the bed.  Nick’s long, pulsing shaft began to ooze as he captured a visual of Carlos’s right bicep bulging as he powered his knife through Bryan’s tongue, inflicting horrific pain on the writhing punk.

 

Bryan went utterly rigid with agony, his hands helplessly clutching Carlos’s broad shoulders and his tight, firm thighs scissoring the ruthless Latino’s waist.  Carlos shifted his powerful body forward, digging his shiny jump boots into the bed for better leverage as he continued to force his knife into Bryan’s skull.

 

All the unfortunate youth could do was hold on and suffer.  His own strong young body was no match for that of the sadistic skinhead; he’d only been able to rape Carlos as part of a group.  In his single-minded lust, he’d put himself at the mercy of his one-time victim solo.

 

Problem was, there was no mercy, only unimaginable pain.

 

It seemed to take forever.  The knife inched its way up through the roof of Bryan’s mouth, spearing the soft palate.  Carlos had to press hard to force the tip of the knife through the palatine bone; with a satisfied grunt of effort, he cradled Bryan’s head in his free arm and shoved.  He was rewarded with a loud crunching sound as the carbon-steel blade penetrated the agonized punk’s cranium and sliced up through his sinuses.

 

Bryan was conscious throughout the whole process.  There was little space for lucid thought within the echoing confines of his mind; there was nothing left but screaming and soul-searing physical suffering.  And during it all, he held his killer tight, pressing his firm, smooth, shuddering body against Carlos’s, the toes on his sock-covered feet curling in the air.

 

“Oh fuck yeah, that’s it,” Carlos moaned, his hard handsome face taut and sweaty with physical pleasure, “that’s how ya make fuckmeat tighten up—milk my fuckin’ cock, faggot.  Die, so I can fill yer worthless corpse with cum!”

 

The frame of Nick’s camera was filled for a moment with Bryan’s face, filled with anguish and smeared with tears, snot, and blood—the latter trickling from his nose and his split lips.  As the pointed tip of Carlos’s knife speared its way up through his skull, it sliced through the boy’s optic nerves; his bulging, bloodshot emerald eyes suddenly rolled back in his head as permanent darkness swept over him.

 

His ears still worked, though.

 

“Hey, Bry,” Carlos whispered huskily, “I’m ‘bout to fuck yer brain with my blade.  Just a little “fuck you” from our days inside.”

 

With a snarl on his face, the muscle-bound skinhead drove his knife up into Bryan’s head until the tip ground into the inside of cranium.  In a split second, the punk’s frontal lobe had been impaled by a thick steel shank.

 

And in that second, Bryan became meat.  Shuddering, sweating, clenching meat that spent its last few living moments on earth using its colon to stroke Carlos’s long, fat dick to orgasm.

 

“Aw, yeah!” the hairy, inked ex-con yelled, “Fuck! Goddam, gonna blow—FUCK!!”  His powerful, glistening body went rigid as hot manseed boiled over in his balls and was pumped in huge spurts deep into the dying meat’s ass.  The image recorded on Nick’s camera turned out pretty well after a little stabilization editing; the buff, leering cameraman shuddered a little as he spewed thick creamy jets of semen directly into Bryan’s slack, gaping face.

 

Between the entwined males, the quivering boymeat began to spunk uncontrollably.  Despite being in the depths of ejaculation, Carlos felt his one-time rapist’s cum splattering into his belly fur—and the memory of the last time he’d felt Bryan’s jizz, it was inside him.

 

It was too much.  Even as he unloaded in his victim’s helpless corpse, it was still too much.

 

Carlos pulled his dick out of the fuckmeat.  Still shooting, he yanked his knife out of Bryan’s head in a single brutal jerk.  Grabbing the dead boy’s package—still spunking as well, an automatic physiological response to the massive brain trauma—the enraged Latino sliced it all off.

 

Even as he held Bryan’s severed dick and balls aloft, the convulsing organ continued to shoot semen.  “Holy fuck!” Nick cried, sending a solid stream of jizz into the air like geyser.  Incredulously, he recorded Carlos jamming Bryan’s still-leaking dick into the kid’s own mouth, balls-first, so that the livid head protruded from his parted lips, letting the spunk still oozing out trickle down the dead punk’s chin.

 

Carlos shot two more jets of thick, ropy manseed over the mutilated remains of his prey, his chest heaving, the gold chain around his neck glinting in the light as he steadied himself over the kicking corpse.  Breathing heavily, Nick allowed the hardbodied ex-con to slide off the bed; recovering his breath, he lowered the camera for a moment.  For a moment, he centered it involuntarily on the cum-spattered tops of his Nike Air Force 1s, then raised it again, letting it linger over Bryan’s smooth, muscular corpse, trembling in its death throes, blood leaking from the gaping wound between the legs.

 

“And…scene!”  Nick cried enthusiastically, shutting the camera off.  “Jesus, dude, that was fuckin’ intense!  What, did he piss you off?  Bad cellie?”

 

Carlos had managed to catch his breath.  Standing at the foot of the bed, he gazed contemptuously down at the mangled, abused body.  “I didn’t bunk with the asswipe,” he said quietly, his rage momentarily dispersed via orgasm.  “Fucker wouldn’ta lived this long if I had.”

 

He turned and headed towards the bathroom, leaving Nick to plan the clean-up.

 

 

The lugubrious grin on Nuñez’s face let Schweitz know this was gonna be a good one—as in, this was gonna be really bad.  He wasn’t disappointed.

 

“It’s another faggot—” Nuñez started.

 

“Aw, jeez, whyd’ja hafta call me out here on this one?  You know we ain’t got time for this bullshit!”

 

“Thought you’d like this one,” Nuñez grinned.  “As a connoisseur, so to speak.”

 

Schweitz rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress an amused smirk.  “Ok, show me whatcha got.”

 

“This way,” the slim Hispanic cop said, leading his sweating, obese partner to a dumpster at the end of the alley; it belonged to a small-time local casino, whose staff had reported the find.  The body had already been removed from the garbage and was on a gurney, bagged, by the time Schweitz got there.

 

“Open it,” Nuñez said.  The tech obeyed, letting Schweitz get a good view of Bryan’s bulging mouthful.

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the heavy-set cop muttered.

 

“Ex-con,” Nuñez said, “Hasn’t been in town long.  We found his parole officer’s card in his wallet; he ID’d ‘im from the tattoos.”

 

“Ok,” Schweitz sighed, “That puts you ahead.  I admit it, that one’s fucked up.  But I still think I can find one even worse before the end of the year.  The faggots do some seriously sick shit to each other.  Now sign off on that worthless cocksucker—haw! —and let’s go grab some lunch.  There’s a new Chinese buffet over on Charleston I wanna try.”

 

“Always thinkin’ of yer gut, aintcha?” Nuñez jeered coarsely.  “Naw, I don’t need no ident number for that motherfucker”—this was to the coroner’s tech, referring to the corpse— “Ain’t like anyone give a shit about some faggot jailbird.”

 

As the cops headed back up the alley, the tech re-sealed Bryan’s stiffening corpse.  He banged it around a bit as he got it back to the van, but, after all, he wasn’t paid to care about some faggot’s abused body, either.

Stepfather Knows Best

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex Snuff2 Comments

It was past midnight and Tony was pissed.  That fuckin’ punk had a curfew, and he damn well knew it; Tony had made sure of that.  So where was the little asswipe?

 

There had never been any love lost between Tony and his stepson.  Of course, he’d only been Billy’s stepfather for a year and they’d never been on good terms.  It was obvious that Tony hadn’t loved Billy’s mother, which hadn’t endeared him to the teen, but things had gotten much worse in the seven months since she’d died.

 

As Tony ground his teeth and waited for Billy, he wondered, with a bitter grin, how the kid would react if he knew that Tony had murdered her.

 

Stupid bitch had wanted his body so bad.  Tony was thirty-two, six feet tall and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of pure muscle that he exercised daily working in the freight yard of a lumber company.  He was Hispanic—Tony was short for Antonio—with fairly long blue-black hair, dark liquid eyes and black wiry fur covering his sculpted form.

 

He was also uneducated, sullen, violent-tempered—and gay.  It irked him, and he’d kill to protect his macho image, but he accepted it physically.  He’d married Billy’s mom for two reasons, one of which was the she simply wouldn’t leave him alone.  She’d met him at one of the neighborhood supermarkets and instantly fallen for his dark Latin looks and his phenomenal physique.

 

But the main reason was that she’d agreed to insure her life for a two million dollars with him—him alone, and not the kid—as beneficiary.  “Don’t worry, querida, I’ll take care of William,” he’d told her.  But Guillermo had been his father’s name; the obnoxious sixteen-year-old didn’t deserve to be called by the same name as that noble man.  He still intended to keep his word, though.

 

He’d take care of Billy.

 

Her death had been easy to arrange.  Tony wasn’t smart but he had the cunning and instincts of a predatory animal.  He’d made it simple.  The day after the kid’s seventeenth birthday—she’d wanted to have a party but of course the little fuck spent the night out getting high and banging some cheap high school slut—he’d simply pushed her down the stairs, then called 911.  When he got down and found out she was still alive, he broke her neck.

 

The autopsy concluded death by misadventure.  It was officially an accident.

 

It was taking a while to wind things up, though.  He was waiting for the final legal matters of his wife’s estate—such as it was—to finish up before taking the money and blowing town, leaving Billy behind.  Tony had already gotten the money, all two million of it, and stashed it in an account under a false identity he’d created, having set up a residence under that name in a small town on the other side of the state.  All that was left was the deed of the house.  It wasn’t worth much—but Tony was greedy.

 

He was also intolerant of his spoiled punk of a stepson.

 

But ever since his mother’s death, the teen fuckwad had become more and more insolent, sneering at Tony, daring him to try to punish him.  “You ain’t my dad!” he yelled so often that the words rang continuously in Tony’s ears, “The moment I’m eighteen, I’m outta here!”

 

That one made Tony smile.  He planned to be outta here himself long before then.

 

But lately, Billy had gotten worse.  He’d come home at two in the morning, bleary, red-eyed, obviously drunk and/or high every time, usually boasting about whatever freshman chick had been unlucky enough to get her cherry popped by him.  Tony really didn’t give a shit what the boy did, but he was drawing attention to the household.  Already the older man had been visited twice by the cops and three times by the truant officer.

 

The last thing Tony wanted before he cut and run was to be noticed by the cops.  The problem needed to end—now.  He’d told Billy two days ago that he needed to be in by midnight, or else.  He didn’t finish the sentence, but his manner and gestures made his meaning clear. Billy sneered but didn’t argue.

 

He’d gotten home on time last night, but there was something in his actions and his unpleasant expression that made Tony suspect his plans hadn’t worked out.  There’d ended up being no temptation to break curfew.

 

Tonight, however…

 

It was nearly two in the morning before Tony heard the front door open.  Billy stumbled in, drunk, his pale blue eyes bloodshot.  The teen punk flipped on the hall light just as Tony stepped out of the tiny living room.

 

“You hadda curfew, boy,” Tony growled.

 

“Huh?  Whozzat?” Billy slurred, rubbing his bleary eyes as he struggled to remain upright.  His red-gold hair gleamed under the overhead bulb the kid swayed.

 

Billy was almost as tall as Tony, about five feet ten, but much slenderer.  He wasn’t scrawny, but his lean adolescent body wasn’t remotely in the same class as his stepfather’s muscle-bound form.  The alcoholic flush in his youthful face emphasized the band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his nose and his long lashes gave his pot-reddened eyes an almost feminine appearance.

 

Billy was wearing a skin-tight pair of low-rise skinny jeans that just barely covered his ass.  His feet were tightly laced into a pair of DC Court Graffiks.  The kicks were pale gray that stood out under the jet-black jeans.  The boy’s lean, smooth chest was wrapped in an untucked thin cotton t-shirt, bright yellow—it was a Pikachu shirt.

 

Tony, standing shirtless with his arms crossed over his furry bulging chest, wore nothing but a pair of old worn work jeans tucked into his eight-inch black leather Timberland boots.  He’d just started tucking his jean cuffs into the laced boots three weeks ago after disturbing a rattler under a pile of seasoned timber.

 

“I said,” Tony snarled, a dangerous tone in his voice, “You hadda curfew.  Where ya been, you little shit?”

 

“I been out,” the teen snapped, “An’ it ain’t yer buzz—busy—business where.”

 

Tony clenched his fist so tightly that the knuckles cracked audibly.  “As long as yer livin’ in my house, you spoiled brat—”

 

“It ain’t your house!!” Billy yelled.  “It’s my mom’s!  And you ain’t my dad, so quit tellin’ me what to fuckin’ do!”

 

“As long as you’re living in my house,” Tony began again, very slowly and deliberately, “You’re gonna do what I say.  Period.  You ain’t eighteen yet, boy.”

 

“Or what?” the drunken punk sneered, “Whaddaya gonna do? Tell ya what, ya greasy spic, I’m gettin’ out tomorrow.  Already told my friends about it.  Once I find me a place an’ get settled in, I’m havin’ a big-ass party and gettin’ as fucked-up as I want…”

 

He paused and giggled for a moment as Tony glowered at him.  “Oh yeah, gonna have a big ol’ party…gonna have all my friends over, all the ones you hate…gonna tell ‘em about how I came in one day an’ saw you jackin’ off to a vid of two dudes fuckin’—didn’t know that, didja?  Well now everyone’s gonna know…”

 

Again, he giggled—for the last time in his life.

 

If he’d been less stoned, less drunk, he might have noticed the way Tony’s face contorted with rage, the way the powerful older man’s eyes glittered and his thick muscles tensed.  But Billy wasn’t looking; he was too busy pawing at his phone, trying (and failing) to type an incoherent text to the girl he’d fucked earlier that evening.

 

He barely noticed the thud of Tony’s boots, but the jingling sound struck him, and he turned.  Tony wore a gold chain and medallion—the only things of any real value he owned; they’d been a wedding gift from Billy’s mother.  The chain wasn’t heavy—she couldn’t afford the big thick links he’d wanted—but the medallion was a thing of wonder; she’d spent a large part of Billy’s college savings on having it custom-made to Tony’s design.  After all, she was marrying someone with a stable job who’d surely help her son when the time came.

 

Tony loved the medallion.  From a disk two and a half inches in diameter rose a lion’s face, all of it in solid gold—the blue-collar stud, born in early August, was a Leo.  The eyes and the fangs of the beast were platinum and gave it a ferocious look.

 

The whole thing usually rested snugly on Tony’s chest, nestled in his thick fur, but when he moved suddenly or violently, it bounced around, the heavy medallion making a jingling sound as it rattled along its chain.  It was this that drew Billy’s attention—but not quite fast enough.  All the adolescent punk saw was a blur; his eyes never had the chance to resolve it into Tony’s fist, rocketing straight for his face.

 

There just the blast of pain on his jaw and Tony’s fury-filled voice, “You piece a’ fuckin’ shit!”

 

The sucker-punch to his jaw knocked Billy across the entryway; he staggered into the wall, stumbling with such force that his shoulder dislodged a chunk of plaster.  Stunned, the teen fell to his knees.  He braced himself against the wall as Tony loomed over him.

 

“You goddam faggot,” Billy muttered, rubbing his split lower lip, “Gonna call 911 on yer ass…”  He reached out for his phone, lying on the floor a few feet away.

 

“Naw you ain’t,” Tony jeered.  Before Billy could grasp the phone, Tony casually put his boot down on it.  He grinned at Billy, then ground the thick treaded heel onto the phone, obviously relishing the cracking sound as he crushed the screen.

 

“Goddam it!” Billy squawked, “Do you know what that cost?”  He seemed to be angrier about the damage to his phone than the damage to his face.

 

Billy’s hair wasn’t overly long, but it was long enough for Tony to bend down and grab a hank of it.  “Better’n you, ya whinin’ little leech; you ain’t earned a dollar in yer useless life.  Now get the fuck up!”  He jerked Billy’s hair upwards, forcing the adolescent punk up off his knees to avoid injuring his scalp.

 

Billy’s hands instantly went up to Tony’s fingers, trying to pry them out of his hair.  “Lemme go!” he demanded petulantly.

 

“Shaddap,” Tony snarled and gutpunched the teen, his piston-like fist sinking deep into to the kid’s flat, smooth belly.  “HOOG!” Billy cried, doubling over; he would have fallen to his knees again had Tony not been holding him up by the hair.

 

The hardbodied older man, sweating slightly from his exertions, towered over the moaning smart-ass punk.  “Boy, yer ma never taught ya no discipline.  I’m gonna teach ya respect the hard way—an’ I guaran-fuckin’-tee you ain’t gonna forget.”

 

Whatever Billy may have thought of this proposition went unexpressed; the youth was jerking and gasping ineffectually, still trying to get his breath back.  He couldn’t ignore the painfully forceful yanking on his scalp, though, as Tony dragged him relentlessly toward the stairs.

 

The house was old—almost a century—and had been built in what was originally a working-class neighborhood that had never risen in value.  It wasn’t just run-down; it some areas it was almost ineptly small.  The staircase was steep and narrow, the wood risers creaking and splintered.

 

Billy found that being dragged upstairs practically on his hands and knees was a painful experience.  He had no idea that in just a few minutes he’d be in such agony that this discomfort would seem like a mother’s caress.

 

“Let…let…lemme go!” he gasped out just as they reached the top landing.  Directly across from it the door to the master bedroom stood open.  Tony jerked Billy around in front of him, towards the gaping rectangle of darkness.

 

“Shut the fuck up, asswipe,” he snarled.  Planting his big black boot against the boy’s ass, he shoved hard, sending Billy flying blindly into the darkened bedroom.  The teen clipped the corner of the dresser with his hip.  His cry of pain was cut short by a loud crash as he slammed into the closet door and slumped, dazed, to the floor.

 

He could barely comprehend what was happening, but he knew that his stepfather had assaulted him.  Despite the intense physical pain and the sudden fright of the unexpected attack, there was a hard kernel of joy in Billy’s shallow, arrogant mind: he had the fucker right where he wanted him.  He was gonna get the fag put away for a long, long time.

 

The idea that he might not survive to do so hadn’t occurred to him yet, but it was about to.

 

It was to dark to see more than a hulking. moving silhouette outlined in the doorway, but Billy knew Tony was coming for him.  The rank odor of mansweat, cologne and adrenaline increased, Tony’s sheer proximity taking Billy by surprise.  Before his startled cry could escape his windpipe, though, his air was completely cut off.  Tony’s hand had clamped down on his throat like a vice and now the muscled Latino was dead-lifting the kid off the ground.

 

Billy suddenly found himself dangling in midair, the toes of his DCs jerking helplessly inches off the floor.  This was a new kind of pain; his entire body weight was hanging off his neck and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t inhale.

 

The ginger punk began to panic, clawing at Tony’s hands as his legs kicked violently.  He still couldn’t see much in the darkness, but there was a flash of light that danced and glittered at his eye level.  His pulse pounding deafeningly in his ears, Billy instinctively reach for the light.  His fingers, bent into rigid hooks, soon snagged it—it was Tony’s medallion.

 

In his frantic thrashing, Billy ripped it—and a few curly chest hairs—away from Tony’s chest.

 

“MOTHERFUCKER!!” Tony roared.  Tensing his powerful arm like a slingshot, he hurled Billy across the room at random.

 

The kid hit the partially-open bedroom door, slamming it shut hard enough to jam it into its frame.  When he fell to the floor this time, he didn’t rise—he was out cold.

 

Tony, in the meantime, had crossed the room and flipped the light switch.  A bedside lamp and a floor lamp in the opposite corner came on simultaneously.  Cursing, Tony scouted the floor for a few moments before giving a grunt of satisfaction as he noticed the medallion halfway under the dresser.  He picked it up and pocketed it.

 

Now that the important matter had been dealt with, he turned his attention back to his stepson.  Tony was violent and ignorant, but he wasn’t stupid; he knew as well as Billy did what would happen if he let the little shit out of this room alive.

 

And since that was the case, and he’d always wanted to ram his huge shaft up the swaggering teen’s tight asshole, why not have a little fun?  Especially since he could show the fuckwad exactly what he’d always thought of him.

 

Now that all bets were off, he could show the little sack of shit just how badly he wanted to fuck him—and fuck him up.  He strolled casually to the bed and began to strip the covering off.

 

Billy moaned and stirred, coming slowly and painfully back to consciousness.  He was lying in a heap on the floor; when he first opened his eyes, they were at floor level.  All he could see of Tony was the older man’s boots as he walked around the bed.  The teen’s lithe body was claiming his attention, though; even though nothing was broken, he was hurting badly.  His smooth, silky skin had sprouted ugly purple bruises and his back and sides ached horribly where he’d impacted the doors.

 

Suddenly, Billy blinked.  He’d been so focused on his own physical discomfort, he’d stopped paying attention to Tony—he never noticed his stepfather approaching him.  But now his field of vision was completely filled with the muscle-bound Latino’s boots.  The thick treaded soles, still stained with dried mud, the black leather tightly cinched to the blue-collar stud’s powerful legs by the heavy-duty tan nylon laces…

 

Billy rolled onto his back and looked up at Tony towering over him.  For the first time, the arrogant teenager felt a sense of fear.  Above the boots, Tony’s tight jeans only emphasized the power of his bulging legs.  And above his waist, circled by a black utility belt of webbed nylon the older man’s ripped abs and massive, fur-covered pecs amply demonstrated what the tight jeans only hinted at—Tony’s phenomenal physical strength.  If Tony really wanted to fuck him up, Billy realized, there was little he could do about it.

 

And at that moment their eyes met and Tony gave his helpless stepson a grin so full of malicious intent that Billy’s blood ran cold.

 

“I’m gonna hafta teach ya respect, boy.  Yer gonna learn to respect me, hear?” the powerfully-built man chuckled, “Dumb-ass motherfucker, I gotta break ya like an animal to make ya learn.  Best way to do that is pain.”

 

Before Billy could react, Tony lifted his leg and stomped on the boy’s abdomen, his huge Timberland boot grinding its treaded sole deep into Billy’s soft flat belly, driving his stomach up into his diaphragm.  The boy cried out, an inarticulate wail of pain as the air was brutally forced from his lungs; instinctively, he reached out and grabbed Tony’s relentless boots.  His hands clenched the smooth black leather tightly as he tried to shift the crushing footgear.

 

“Get yer fuckin’ hands off my boot, goddam it!” Tony barked out.  Quickly, he jerked his foot back, then gave Billy a swift, vicious kick.  The sadistically angry older man grinned with pleasure at the faint cracking sound caused by the impact of his steel toe with the teen’s flank.

 

Billy was still trying to inhale; he wasn’t able to scream as both floating ribs on his right side—and the first false rib above them—snapped cleanly in two.  The pain was horrible, but aside from minor tissue damage as the jagged broken ends of the bones dug into his tissues, the young punk hadn’t suffered any serious damage.

 

Yet.

 

Tony was surprised at how erotic the sound of breaking bones was.  It was almost good as the visual of the cocky adolescent suffering.  His dick pressed against his tight jeans, resentful that it couldn’t expand to its full glory—not a situation Tony would endure long.  He unzipped his fly and let his enormous tube of manmeat flop out.  It was already dripping.

 

And a single bead of transparent precum dripped on Billy’s smooth chest.  The writhing teen delinquent hadn’t seen what was going on—his face was contorted into an agonized grimace, his eye tightly closed—but despite the trauma of three broken ribs, he still was able to feel the hot splash of manjuice on his tender skin and opened his eyes.

 

He opened his eyes even wider when he saw Tony’s erect, oozing cock.

 

Billy wasn’t gay.  The thought of two men having sex sickened him.  On the rare occasions he’d been in school, he was notorious on the campus for bullying (and sometimes downright assaulting) any other dude he even thought was homosexual.  His discovery of Tony’s secret had been the final tipping point for his decision to leave home.

 

But now here he was, battered and at a severe disadvantage—he refused to recognize himself as helpless—and trapped in a room with a faggot.

 

A powerful faggot.  One who had the physical strength to make the obnoxious teen his bitch.

 

Looking down at his victim, Tony saw fear in Billy’s face for the first time, and that sealed the deal.  That was what he needed—to dominate the little shit, to put the fear of Tony into him.

 

And to fuck the shit outta him while doing it.  He grabbed his massive rod, brandishing it like a club.

 

“Guess where this is goin’, asswipe,” he chuckled, grinning malevolently, “An’ there ain’t a damn thing yer gonna be able to do about it.”

 

He kicked Billy again, quick, sharp, short; a vicious impact on the kid’s hip that split the skin.  “AAH!!” the punk yelled.  He wasn’t able to yell again; raising his boot high so that Billy could admire it for the brief moment it was held over him, Tony stomped him again.  This time he went for the sternum, slamming his heel into Bill’s solar plexus.

 

The kid was totally unaware of anything that happened in the next two and a half minutes; he was too busy trying to breathe—and not doing it well.  By the time he was in enough control of his nervous system to inhale with some semblance of regularity, Tony was leaning against the dresser, smoking a cigarette and stroking his thick, swollen member.

 

The older man leered at the gasping, traumatized youth.  “Get up, asswipe,” he commanded.

 

“F-fuck you,” Billy spat out.  Tony darted across the room and before Billy even realized what was happening, the muscle-bound stud kicked his stepson in the face.  His steel-toed boot hit Billy’s face like a speeding truck, cracking the jawbone and knocking out three teeth.

 

The teen’s agonized howl reverberated down Tony’s dick; this was his first real chance to explore his attraction to sadism—and it felt hot as fuck.

 

“Keep talkin’ back, fucker,” the hulking Latino moaned, his sexual arousal clearly audible in his voice.  “Gimme a reason to hurt you, cunt…”

 

Even though his slim teen body was wracked with pain, Billy heard—and, on some instinctive level beneath conscious thought, understood—Tony’s husky, erotic tone.  He knew what he had to do.

 

In spite of the pain, he had to obey.  Because if he didn’t, things would get much, much worse.

 

Slowly, stiffly, the kid rolled over and began the harrowing process of bracing himself on the wall and rising first to his knees, then, finally, to his feet.

 

“Strip,” Tony said, staring coldly into the boy’s tear- and blood-streaked face.  Billy damn sure didn’t want to strip, but he couldn’t say anything about it even if he dared; it simply hurt too much to open his mouth.  He pulled off his Pokémon shirt, his tight, smooth chest shuddering with suppressed sobs.  His belt, which had been hidden under the shirt, glittered in the light.  It was something he’d picked up in a retro store, advertised as “genuine 80’s punk rock”—lengths of ten-millimeter marine chain in a bundle, bound together with thick leather thongs at regular intervals along its length.

 

Fuckin’ jackass thought he was a trend-setter.  Tony smirked contemptuously.  “Yeah, motherfucker, that’s it,” he chuckled as he fondled his manmeat and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into Billy’s face.  “Show daddy what ya got.  Get them jeans off; I wanna see ye sweet ass.”

 

Billy hesitated.  He couldn’t do this.  It didn’t matter how bad he got beat—he wasn’t gonna take a dick up his ass, especially not this motherfucker’s.

 

“Do it, you sack a’ shit, or I’ll make ya do it.  Fuckin’ strip, I said.  Now.”  Tony wasn’t smiling any more, and the gleam of merriment in his eyes was somehow more terrifying—because less sane—than the openly mocking humor in his earlier manner.

 

The teen was shuddering in pain and fear; his hands trembled so badly he could barely undo his belt even though it was merely looped into a loose granny knot.  His smooth skin was slick with cold, nervous sweat.  His adolescent adrenal system had so overloaded his body with hormones that they oozed out of his pores; the atmosphere was heady with his youthful pheromones as his shaking fingers managed to unfasten the belt.  As he unbuttoned the waistband and started lowering the zipper, Billy was brought up short by Tony.

 

“Hold up, bitch.  Yer belt—I want it.  Toss it to me.”

 

Billy obeyed, submitting to his stepfather’s commands in a dazed manner.  Tony caught the belt, then tossed it onto the stripped-down bed.  “Ok, bitch, keep strippin’.  C’mon, cunt, strip an’ I’m gonna make ya daddy’s bitch.”

 

Quivering in revulsion and horror, the humbled youth paused to kick off his Court Graffiks, leaving his black no-show ped socks covering his feet as tears coursed down his cheek.  His jeans dropped to the floor, showing that the little punk was commando.  His uncut teen cock was impressively long and thick for being completely soft.

 

 

Billy’s chest and his hip ached badly and the swollen throbbing of his mouth and jaw were almost unbearable, but they paled in comparison to what he expected was going to happen next.    He had no idea how bad it was going to get, though—but Tony did.

 

“Get on the bed, boy.”

 

Those five words struck a chill in Billy’s heart.  To the oversexed adolescent, they were more terrifying than threats of beating—even in his stunned and dazed state, he knew what it meant.

 

He was gonna get ass-raped.  The leering grin on Tony’s swarthy, masculine face confirmed it.  The teen’s naturally rebellious nature, confronted with this horrifying prospect, rose up on its hind legs.

 

“Fuck you, ya faggot!” he screamed, his fear overpowering the searing sensation of opening his mouth.

 

The grin vanished from the muscle-bound Latino’s face; if Tony’ command had chilled Billy’s blood, the expression on the blue-collar stud’s face froze it solid.  Not solid enough, though, to prevent the kid’s sudden dash for the door.

 

The boy was good.  He’d never gone out for sports, but his slim firm body was strong with the power of youth—and of fear.  Before Tony had realized what was happening, Billy had managed not only to reach the bedroom door, but to get it open.

 

Billy’s heart lurched in terror as he heard the loud thump of Tony’s boots hitting the floor behind him.  He realized that his only chance was to make it out of the house; unless he jumped through a window, his only way to do that was to get downstairs.  He bolted for the landing.

 

He almost made it.  He’d actually reached the top step when Tony tackled him full-body, slamming him into the wall hard enough to punch through the plaster and break the lathes behind…

 

…and the next thing Billy was aware of was that he was stretched out on the bed.   He didn’t remember how he got there, but he remembered everything else, and he knew what it meant.

 

He’d lost.  It took all his willpower to open his eyes; he already knew Tony would be standing there next to him.  He didn’t want to look at his brutal stepfather’s face—and as it happened, he didn’t have to.

 

As his lids fluttered open, the first thing he saw was Tony’s massive cock, hanging lividly directly over his face.  It was so close he could see every pulsing vein wrapped around the engorged shaft of manmeat.

 

“Hey there, fuckmeat,” Tony chortled, “Ya like it, dontcha?  Take a good long look, ya little shit, before I stick it up yer ass.”

 

The enormous shaft was so close, Billy didn’t have the option not to look.  As he watched, the huge, intimidating shaft of rigid manmeat began to ooze.  As a sexually active adolescent, the punk knew exactly what precum was—and what caused it.

 

It disgusted and nauseated him, but there was nothing he could do.  The kid had simply too badly beaten, was in too much pain to fight anymore.  “Just fuckin’ do it, man…” he whispered, his fractured jaw making every word agony, “Just…please…don’t hurt me no more…”

 

Tony’s loud, cruel guffaw echoed off the walls.  “Don’t hurt you?” he jeered incredulously.  “It’s hurtin’ you that gets me off, ya dumbass motherfucker!”  He mounted the bed and forcefully pried Billy’s smooth, firm legs apart, manhandling them up to his shoulders.  Reaching down and grabbing his cock like some huge caveman’s club, the older man fondled Billy’s ass with his free hand.

 

He bent over the prone, helpless teen and whispered, “An’ if you ain’t had no dick up there, boy, this is gonna hurt worse than you can imagine.”

 

This close, Billy had more than a closeup of Tony’s hard, masculine face—he could smell the muscle-bound sicko, a musky mix of sweat, testosterone, and cheap cologne that gave the blue-collar stud his own unique manscent.  Billy had smelled it often before—albeit without its current heavy load of pheromones—and had always been somehow revolted by it.  Now, though, it was taking on new associations.  For the rest of his life, that particular scent would inspire terror.

 

It was a good news/bad news scenario for the once-cocky teen punk: the bad news was that he’d be forced to endure that odor for the rest of his life—but the good news was that he’d only be forced to endure it for about another half-hour or so.

 

And he’d have other things to complain about long before the end of that period of time.

 

Like assrape.  Tony wasted no time; Billy felt an increasing on his fuckhole—then Tony shoved, hard and long and Billy screamed, hard and long.

 

He wasn’t being raped; he was being stabbed.  The pain was so excruciating that Billy couldn’t believe it was being inflicted by something as blunt as a penis—he had no doubt that Tony had rammed a butcher’s knife into his ass.

 

For Tony, the feeling was bliss.  He’d wanted to dominate this obnoxious teenaged piece of shit ever since he met him, and now that he had his dick sunk balls-deep into the punk’s guts, he was gonna torture the kid until he unloaded inside him.

 

But these houses were cheaply built and close together; Billy was making far too much noise.  “Shaddap and take it, motherfucker,” he barked and popped the boy on the jaw again.  The fracture gave way and Billy was suddenly pulled between two poles of suffering—the horrific sensation of tearing tissue as his ass was impaled and the slicing torment of the broken ends of bones grinding together in his jaw.

 

The teen had the wiry strength of youth, but the physical and mental trauma was starting to overload him.  He was cold, very cold, and things were going gray.  There was a loud buzzing in his ears; he reached out, instinctively, for some kind of support as he desperately tried to maintain consciousness.

 

And that was how Billy ended up tightly clutching Tony’s hairy, muscular arms as his stepfather brutally fucked him.  What little strength the suffering youth had left was put into keeping awake by keeping hold of Tony; Billy somehow had a subconscious awareness that if he went out now, he’d never wake up.

 

It was a bad choice; it turned out that staying awake was much, much worse.

 

“Goddam, yer gettin’ loose,” his furry, sweat-slick stepfather grunted, pumping his long manmeat up the kid’s ass rhythmically, “Thought you were a virgin—you been gettin’ banged by the whole fuckin’ football team?  Haw!”

 

Billy’s face, contorted with agony and wet with tears, was still responsive to other feelings; even as he suffered, the hint of being gay stoked enough of a spark of anger to make him flush.  It was what Tony did next that made the boy go pale.

 

“I know how ta make ya get all nice an’ tight,” Tony said with an evil smirk, and brandished Billy’s chain belt.  The teen lay still, staring at it blankly; with everything he’d undergone, he’d forgotten about it.  “Saw this online one time,” Tony went on, “An’ I always wanted to try it.  On you, motherfucker.”

 

For a brief moment, an image was seared into Billy’s terrified mind—his hairy, muscular looming over him; that broad, fur-covered chest, the huge dark nipples hard and jutting with Tony’s sadistic excitement, his swarthy face glowing with contemptuous lust, his dark eyes flashing, and his arm—oh, his thick, powerful arm raised and ready to strike—

 

It moved so fast that Billy didn’t even see it; in fact, his first sensation after the impact was hearing it.  The slap of metal on flesh was louder than his stepfather’s ragged guttural breathing.

 

The older man had doubled the belt over, then swung it downwards; it had struck Billy’s chest diagonally from upper left to lower right.  Each individual link of the multiple chains hit the punk’s smooth, tender skin at high velocity.  The immediate reaction was akin to shock but when the pain did register, even a broken jaw couldn’t keep Billy from screaming.

 

“Aw fuck yeah!” Tony yelled, “Fuckin’-A, that’s it!  Felt that one all up an’ down my dick, motherfucker!”  He raised his arm again, his back lit image again striking terror into the helpless, tortured adolescent.  “C’mon, ya smartass piece a’ shit, let’s hear ya mouth off now!”

 

This time Billy raised his right arm to ward off the blow.  Again, it was a very bad idea—but the teenaged delinquent, who rarely had good ideas at his best—was suffering the impediment of broken bones and an enormous cock up his ass.  Even as he swung his mighty arm down, Tony had seen the kid’s defensive move and knew what would happen—the belt looped around Billy’s arm, centripetal force accelerating it as it tore into his flesh.  Before it could unwind itself, the sick sadist jerked the belt back.

 

Two distinctively separate sounds reverberated off the walls like gunshots.  The first was the sharp cracking noise of Billy’s right forearm bones snapping simultaneously.  The second was more of a moist crackling pop as his shoulder dislocated.

 

It was too much; it was overload—and it got worse.  As Billy hoarsely screamed himself into a white haze of agony, Tony aimed another blow at the boy’s heaving flank, oily with sweat.  The chain belt hit the point where Billy’s ribs had been broken, and the teen surrendered to the pain; almost gratefully fleeing consciousness despite his fear of never coming to again.

 

He needn’t have worried.  Tony was enraged that he’d lost his prey, but not enough to snuff it while it was out.  The little asshole hadn’t suffered anywhere near enough yet.  The buff older man simply wrapped the belt around the limp teen’s neck and continued to rape the kid’s ass.  He was bound to wake up sooner or later.

 

It took the fucker a few minutes crawl his way back to excruciating consciousness.  The moment he saw the punk’s long dark eyelashes begin to flutter, Tony pulled the belt tight.  Not enough to cut off Billy’s air; just enough to let the asswipe know that the fun wasn’t over yet.

 

Billy, utterly engulfed in agony, had stopped trying to fight back.  The horrific pain of being kicked, beaten, and chain-whipped had broken his spirit, just as Tony had intended.  The nightmarish torture of assrape and multiple broken bones had left the teen, if not in shock, then very close to it.  The ginger punk’s eyes were open, but nothing was registering.  His perspiration-soaked skin was gray and clammy and his pulse was becoming slow and faint.

 

Problem was, his fuckhole was becoming slack—but that was why Tony had put the belt around the kid’s neck.  One sharp tug could help fix all that.

 

Tony did more than tug it.

 

Billy’s eyes opened wide as the chain links burrowed into his flesh; the pressure was forcing skin out within the spaces, deeply embedding the pattern of the links into his neck.  Keeping his swollen shaft buried in the teen’s rectum, Tony pulled slowly on the ends of the belt, incrementally tightening it around Billy’s throat.  A look of panic was stamped on the boy’s face as he gave a loud wheeze and felt his windpipe cinch shut.

 

Tony smiled down at Billy.  “Yer gonna die harder than yer mom did when I offed her.  Course, I just wasted her for the money—stupid cunt was dumb enough to put on the life insurance.  You, now—this is different.  I wanna see you suffer, asshole.  I wanna watch you choke to death with my cock up yer ass,–ya feel me, motherfucker?  Naw?  How ‘bout this?”

 

With that, the muscle-bound Latino jerked the belt, hard.  His biceps bulged from the effort, dark veins rising to the surface as Tony exerted his strength to inflict the torture he knew the obnoxious, cocky teenager so badly deserved.

 

Billy’s face wasn’t pale any longer; it was dusky blue and darkening quickly.  His livid eyes already seemed to bulge from his face.  The youth squirmed frantically, his smooth, lithe body writhing on a film of sweat beneath the powerful weight of his stepfather.  His firm thighs clenched against the older man’s legs, his feet kicking and his toes curling in his black socks.

 

“Whaddaya think, fuckwad?  Gonna wipe out yer whole goddam family.  Ain’t none of ya worth shit.  Hell, I gotta snuff yer worthless ass just to get ya to milk a load outta my dick.  But hey, fucker, yer gettin’ hard too—prob’ly gonna spunk yerself, boy, so don’t say I never gave ya nothin’!  Haw!”

 

Billy knew he had an erection; he could feel it—he could feel everything.  His collapsing esophagus, his violated and abused colon, the glassy pain of jagged bone ends grinding together, yes oh holy fuck even as his lungs burned and his racing heartbeat echoed in his skull he could still feel all of it and somehow the worst was the fiery pain of his unnaturally swollen and throbbing cock and his seething balls.

 

The teen’s face was black and taut, distorting his appearance; even his red-gold hair was dark with cold deathsweat that was being squeezed out of his slim youthful body.  As the pressure in his head increased, blood vessels began to burst in Billy’s eyes, leaving large black voids in his field of vision, like negative explosions.  He could vaguely feel that something was wrong with his mouth but he had no way of knowing how his broken jaw had given way to his relentlessly swelling tongue.  It protruded grotesquely, while his cheeks were smeared with foamy drool that ran from his mouth.

 

In his last moments, Billy reached out to his stepfather.  His right arm was too damaged to move, but he raised his left, and placed it on Tony’s chest.  For a moment, the boy’s hand remained flat, nestled in the stud’s wiry fur—then suddenly, it curled and jerked sideways.

 

Tony hadn’t been expecting it.  Maybe Billy hadn’t either; he was so close to the line between life and brain death that deliberate movement was—unlikely.  One way or another, the dying teen punk had clenched his hand and clawed not only at Tony’s chest hair, but at his nipple.

 

The swarthy blue-collar alpha roared in anger.  His movement was swift and sure; it looked like a practiced kill strike even though Tony had never done this before.

 

Passing both ends of the belt to his left hand and jerking up with it, the powerful sadist balled his right hand into a fist and plowed it into Billy’s face as hard as he could.  The boy’s head snapped back as his neck was jerked forward; there was a loud gristly wrenching sound as his cranium was violently separated from his spine.

 

Teenaged boymeat, full of hormones and already forcibly erect from asphyxia and intense prostate massage, suddenly experienced a profound shock to the central nervous system—the result was only natural.  Billy’s firm, lean body went rigid, his legs wrapped tightly around Tony’s waist and the shredded remains of his sphincter tightening around the base of his stepfather’s cock.  Suddenly, he exploded into a single violent spasm, his engorged tool spewing a solid stream of boycum all over his own and Tony’s chest.

 

At the same time, the strong muscles of his rectum, flowing rhythmically in the teen’s death throes, massaged the full length of Tony’s huge rod.  With a loud grunt, the older man unloaded in the kid’s ass, hosing out his guts with manseed.  For several minutes, they clung together, bodies entwined and shuddering in orgasm and death.

 

 

 

 

Tony had time; it wasn’t like anyone was looking for the little piece a’ shit.  Once he pulled out of the still-quivering boymeat, he strolled out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom, taking some time to leisurely clean his cum-smeared dick and stuff it back into his jeans.  Then he went back into the bedroom and pulled a plain white cotton t-shirt out of the dresser and slipped it on.

 

He glanced around the room for a moment.  Nothing here he really needed.  He’d hoped to make some extra money from selling the house, but fuck it, now.  The two mil was good enough.  He could buy anything he needed, and there damn sure wasn’t anything sentimental about this place.  He’d just burn it the fuck down.

 

But first he turned back to Billy.  The seventeen-year-old’s corpse was on its back, legs and left arm splayed.  The right arm was lying twisted at an unnatural angle.  The punk’s smooth, firm chest and flat belly were covered with a thick glaze of the kid’s own semen; it had even splashed into his contorted, damaged face which had faded from black to cyanic blue.

 

Tony approached the bed, noting how the corpse’s feet kept twitching in their black ped socks.  He reached up and grabbed the belt, sunk horrifyingly deep into the boy’s throat; using it as a handle, he dragged Billy’s body off the bed.  It hit the floor with a loud, boneless thump, not that Tony noticed, or would have cared.

 

He cared even less about what he was doing to the corpse as he dragged it downstairs and out to the bed of his pickup.  He bent down and picked it up, cradling the dead teen in his arms in what could have been mistaken for a tender moment—then tossed Billy’s carcass into the back of the truck like a side of beef.

 

Tony walked back into the house, the thudding of his heavy Timberland boots echoing in the empty house, checking to make sure he’d left nothing of any value behind—not that there was any need to worry; everything worth anything had already been sold, hocked, or traded for quick surreptitious sex.

 

House wasn’t worth much anyway, he knew, it was run down and needed serious repairs, so losing it wasn’t much of a financial loss in any case.  Tony had already located four bottles of lighter fluid in a cabinet over the fridge—the broad had smoked like a coal furnace and Billy liked to pretend he was a man by smoking Swisher Sweets—and it took him no more than twenty minutes to saturate what he considered to be the most flammable parts of the house with the fluid.  He made sure to open the windows partially to allow for oxygen, but to close the curtains and blinds.  It was four in the morning by this time, and it was unlikely that any of the neighbors would be up, but Tony was feeling vindictive and wanted to make sure that the place was beyond saving before anyone noticed.

 

He lit the flame in the back hallway on the ground floor before heading out.  He locked the front door behind him.

 

Easing his truck quietly out onto the street, he waited until he turned onto the next block before switching his headlights on.  Once he did, he headed straight for the high school, driving carefully, and under the speed limit.  He had no intention of getting pulled over now.

 

The high school had security cameras; Tony already knew about them because Billy had been caught vandalizing the place.  The stupid shit had practically circled the school; as Tony saw when the principal had shown him the video—and as a result, he knew where they didn’t cover—like the sign out front.

 

Tony didn’t pull into the parking lot; it abounded in cameras.  He just pulled over to the side of the road right by the sign—a simple double-sided backlit marquee with the legend “San Clemente Senior High Cougars” at the top and letters posted on the marquee spelling out a message that the following Friday was an in-service day.

 

It was all very ordinary, and it made Tony sick.  He didn’t know why, but the thought of making a public display seemed to get him buzzed.  He got out of the truck and, going to the rear, opened the bed and dragged Billy’s corpse out.  He let it hit the ground with his usual disdain, smirking as it crunched lifelessly into the gravel; as it did, Tony noticed it had lost its left sock somewhere along the line.

 

“Truant officer’s been askin’ ‘bout ya lately, boy,” he whispered, a sick, psychotic gleam in his dark eyes, “Wants to know where ya been, whatcha been doin’.   So I thinks, why not show him what ya been up to, fucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  C’mon, boy, it’s time you got back to school.”

 

Tony hoisted Billy up over his shoulder and carried him up the slope from the road.  The corpse was stopped quivering by now and was starting to cool, but was still limp and malleable.  Tony had no problems draping it over the sign in such a position that Billy’s gaping asshole, still leaking cum, was visible from the drive to the main entrance.

 

“There ya go,” he said, his voice velvety with satisfaction, “Now everyone can see ya finally got what was cummin’ to ya.”

 

He strolled back down the hill to his truck, then kept going out of town in the same direction he was already facing.  He wanted to reach his new address before noon.  He hadn’t spent much time there, so he didn’t know the town well, but Corrington didn’t seem like it’d take long to learn.  In fact, Tony doubted that Rigler County had much to offer in the way of entertainment.  He’d have to see what he could stir up…