Tag: hairy

Trucker 10–Trucker v Birthday Boi

On By m3mayhemIn The Trucker2 Comments

It was a Friday night, so of course the bar was full.  Dylan was thrilled—he knew, naturally, that it wasn’t all for him, but it still made him feel good.  The crowded bar wasn’t the only thing that was making him feel good; he’d already slammed three beers and smoked a joint before he’d left the house.  He was primed for a party.

 

Specifically, his eighteenth birthday party.

 

Legally, he never should have been let in the door, but he’d been selling weed inside the bar for over a year by a simple expedient—going to into the back with Don, the owner, and letting the older man bend him over his desk and fuck his ass.  He’d had a free pass ever since, even being allowed to buy alcohol, as long as Don got to plow his hole on occasion.

 

Tonight, Don was out.  That was fine with Dylan.  Even though he was attracted to older men, Don was a duty fuck.  Tonight, the boy wanted fun.  He wanted a real man.

 

Dylan had plenty of cash—he was also the main (but not the only) pot dealer for the county high school.  And looking around, he could see some of his classmates at the bar and another one on the dance floor.  He knew them; they’d gotten in with fake IDs.  Unless they wanted to buy some smoke, they left him alone and vice versa—they all already knew he wasn’t into twinks, despite being such a beautiful one himself.

 

Dylan was well-built and almost exactly six feet tall.  He had dark brown hair of moderate length.  It was styled in silky waves over his forehead, almost obscuring the long lashes surrounding his large dark brown eyes.

 

Since he wanted to be the center of attention on his birthday, he sported a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, white, with the famous logo across the chest.  It was thin, worn cotton, two sizes too small—it fitted his torso like a second skin, making obvious the twink’s large pecs, flat belly and hard, erect nipples.

 

Under the t-shirt, his legs were displayed in a pair of basic Adidas basketball shorts, black with red strips.  Long, slightly furred calves descended into a pair of ped socks, almost invisible deep inside his red Nike Jordan Horizon hightops.

 

Dylan had always looked younger than his age; even now, based on his appearance, most people thought he was no older than sixteen.  The Asian ideograms tattooed down the inside of his lower left arm (he had no idea what they meant, if anything; he just thought they were cool) and the small solid gold hoops in his pierced ears only added to the confusion regarding his age.

 

He didn’t complain, though—he could get laid anytime he wanted, by any guy he wanted; his model-like looks guaranteed his ability to pick and choose.  Shame he had no better place to bestow his charms than this dive; the highway nearby had a truck stop which lured in a few eligible prospects, but otherwise Dylan knew all the regulars—and wanted nothing to do with them.  He already knew he was too good for them.  But it was a Friday night and the pickings could be good.  He’d just have to see what showed up.

 

He didn’t have to wait long.  He’d already downed three rum and cokes at the bar before crossing back to the dance floor when he noticed the stud who’d just walked in the door—and froze.  It only took a single glance for the teen fag to realize that this dude would be the perfect birthday gift to himself.

 

As tall and well-built as Dylan was, this hot motherfucker was even taller and more buff.  Obviously a dominant alpha, the stud strolled in with a wide-legged stance that bespoke a massive set of tackle between his legs.

 

The older man wore a dark blue sleeveless t-shirt that emphasized not only his incredibly-sculpted chest but also his thick, bulging biceps.  His tight, faded jeans were worn so thin that the head of his huge cock was clearly outlined in his crotch.

 

The jeans were tucked inside a pair of dust-yellow construction boots.  Left laced but untied, the uppers, with a black leather band around the cuff, came halfway up the calves of the undeniably arousing stranger.

 

The stranger’s face seemed to be covered with a dark, wiry scruff, but it was hard to make out under his cap—a black trucker’s cap, mesh in the back with a solid fabric front and the word “Rogue” embroidered on it.

 

He already knew—this was it.  Dylan had decided that he was gonna have this hot fucking alpha inside him before the night was out.  Wasting no time, he struck out across the dance floor, anxious to hit the stud up before anyone else could.

 

For his part, the Trucker had already taken notice of the hot young slut.  Most of the dudes in the bar were in jeans and t-shirts or short sleeve button downs; there were a lot of caps and boots.  A few twinks writhed and undulated on the dance floor in skinny jeans and expensive kicks—but none of them stood out like the teen punk heading towards him.

 

And that was good.  It’d been a couple of weeks since he’d last had the chance to vent his sexual anger; even now, the thought of how the last meat had twitched and quivered as its life was choked out with a wallet chain made him horny.

 

The alpha killer was primed and ready to blow; all he needed was suitable prey—and that difficulty seemed to be surmounted already.  He stared down at the boy as the latter strutted towards him; the kid clearly thought he was hot shit.

 

“Hey, man,” the cocky teen drawled, posing with one hip jutted forward.  “It’s my birthday—I turn eighteen at midnight—and I deserve somethin’ special.  Whaddaya say—I’ll get us a room at that place down the street and you can plow my ass.  Think you can do that?”

 

The Trucker glared down at the arrogant little fucker, a slight smirk on his face—which actually took some control.  Jesus, this stupid twink bitch needed to be put down hard; just the thought of teaching the teenaged faggot his proper place made the cruel stud’s dick pulse and throb.

 

And his jeans were so tight, it was obvious.

 

Dylan saw it and blinked.  Fuck, the dude must be almost literally hung like a horse, the way his trouser snake—trouser python—wriggled in his crotch and down his leg.  And his own cock responded in kind, visibly tenting the groin of his black athletic shorts.  The boy’s lust was obvious, painting a bright gleam in his dark, nearly liquid eyes.

 

“I can do that, bitch,” the Trucker said in a low, cold monotone.

 

Suddenly cowed, Dylan found that he couldn’t look the stud in the face.  His eyes were naturally drawn to glinting reflections on the older man’s massive chest.  Keeping his gaze on them—they appeared to be dog tags—he stuttered, “O-ok, ma-man, let’s g-go.  I’ll, uh, I’ll get us room at the Shamrock Inn next door.”  Gulping deeply, he glanced up at the towering stud’s face, as if seeking approval.

 

The Trucker remained still, not moving a muscle.

 

“Ya-ya w-wanna go?” the punk quavered.

 

The alpha chuckled deeply, a bass note that vibrated along the root of Dylan’s dick.  “Ok, boy, I’ll bang yer boycunt if that’s what ya need.  Go get the room, faggot; I’m gonna grab a brew.”  And with that, the Trucker strode across the dance floor towards the bar, his hulking, powerful form parting the twinks like a bull moving through tall grass.

 

Staring after him, Dylan’s breath hitched with erotic anticipation.  His dick was pulsing in his shorts; he could already feel the precum oozing from the tip.  He headed out of the bar and crossed the gritty acre of asphalt that served both the bar and the motel as a parking lot.

 

Despite his drunkenness, the handsome young slut managed to successfully navigate the litter-strewn expanse.  He entered the dingy office and greeted the wizened old Indian clerk like an old acquaintance, as indeed he was.  “You again?” the old man asked in a clipped British accent.

 

“Hey, Anjit,” Dylan replied, “That one on the end open?  In the back—you know, 130?”

 

“No,” the clerk replied, “But the front wing is completely empty.”

 

“Gimme one in the middle,” the kid said, taking a moment to brush an errant lock of silky hair up out of his eyes.  “I got a live one tonight; want some privacy.”

 

The elderly Indian slid the key across the counter with an air of resigned dignity; he clearly didn’t care what Dylan had planned.

 

The teen turned to leave, but paused once he reached the door.  “Oh—and, Anjit?” he said, turning back, “I’ll probably wanna sleep in after this one.  If the lock works as bad as the one on 130, tell that stupid spic bitch that picks up the used rubbers to leave me alone, huh?  She can clean up once I check out.”

 

The clerk nodded and picked up a pen and pad of paper to note the request.  Once Dylan was out the door; Anjit put the blank, unused pad down and headed back into the rear office, already putting the transaction out of his mind.

 

After all, he’d be doing this for at least a dozen faggots on a Friday night.  He couldn’t keep track of them all and had no intention of trying.

 

The night was unusually warm for the time of year; it was very obvious to Dylan after the overly-chilled motel office.  The room was a couple of doors down on his left; as he waited, unsure of whether he should go to look for his birthday stud (and with a sudden pang of concern that perhaps he’d been dumped—not likely given his looks, he knew, but still…) when suddenly he heard the heavy measured tread of a muscular man in boots.

 

Glancing in the direction of the footsteps, he saw the hunk approaching and felt a thrill run through his groin.  Inadvertently, the Trucker had positioned himself between Dylan and the security lights of a used-car lot across the street; as a result, the hulking alpha’s phenomenal body was illuminated in silhouette, highlighting his powerful and perfectly-developed physique.

 

The well-built teen’s natural adolescent horniness had been enhanced by his chemically-altered mental state; between the bud and the booze, the punk was so ready to get laid that he could barely contain his excitement.  He gulped, then called out.  “Over here—number 103.”

 

 

Hearing the kid’s voice, the Trucker glanced up and ambled in his direction.  The room was in the front of the building, but the entire wing seemed to be virtually empty.  The vicious psycho smirked—it would do.

 

An adequate pit for slaughtering the little homo pig.

 

Dylan had already reached the room and opened the door.  Reaching in, he flicked on the light to reveal a dark and dingy room.  The towering alpha followed the twink in, shooting the deadbolt and setting the chain as the kid moved forward to turn on the bedside lamp.  More light revealed cheap worn furniture.  Cheap-ass particle board with peeling brass accents and papered veneer pocked with cigarette burns.  At least it was a matching set, the Trucker thought, and about thirty years old.

 

In his eagerness, Dylan was already turning down the thin scratchy polyester to reveal the old yellowed sheets underneath, reeking with an industrial bleach smell.  The cunt’s presumption amused the Trucker; hauling out his pack of Marlboros, he lit a smoke and wandered in to check out the bathroom.

 

His boots thumped loudly on the tile floor.  The bathroom was decrepit, with loose shower tiles and dripping taps, but it seemed to be reasonably clean.  Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink, the Trucker lowered the bill of his cap some—just enough to obscure his face, leaving only his strong, stubble-covered chin visible.

 

Walking back into the room, he saw that the bitch had stripped the bed—only the pillows and the fitted sheet remained.  The teen punk stood at the foot of bed, facing the bathroom door, massaging the extremely obvious bulge in his crotch.  The Trucker leaned in the doorway, this time with the deliberate knowledge of the impact his silhouette was having.

 

The muscled stud curled his lip.  “Strip, cunt,” he sneered, taking a drag of his cigarette, “Let’s see if yer faggot ass is worth my dick.”

 

Dylan moaned softly as peeled his Rolling Stones t-shirt off his smooth, strong torso.  His body wasn’t quite beefy enough to qualify for the football team, but it was close.  Not that Dylan was interested in football.  Football players, on the other hand…

 

“Did I stutter, bitch?” the Trucker snapped.  “I said strip.  That mean yer shorts too, boy.”  He grinned, feeling his own thick meat swelling and pulsing.  This kid liked to be dominated—that was good.  The Trucker had no problem with the thought of dominating him; his boiling rage was gonna dominate the little fucker to death.

 

Dylan dropped his shorts, freeing his thick tool to bob about and splatter precum everywhere.  Among other places, transparent drops of hot pre-ejaculate darkened the honeycomb pattern on his red Nike Jordans, all that he was left wearing.  Nude but for his footgear, the teen slut was ready and anxious to get fucked.

 

The meat’s eagerness and anticipation was obvious; the Trucker had no intention of satisfying it quickly.  The twink needed to suffer in all things, including its expectations.

 

As the kid stood trembling in front of him, the Trucker parked his smoldering butt in an ashtray on the dresser and pulled his own sleeveless T off over his head, maneuvering carefully so that his trucker cap remained placed exactly where he wanted it.  Stepping forward, he loomed over the teen by at least a good half-foot.

 

“You want my dick, faggot?” he demanded.

 

Dylan gulped, unable to catch his breath.  The Trucker’s face twisted in anger.

 

“I asked you a question, you stupid motherfucker,” he snapped and backhanded Dylan across the face, smacking the kid’s head sideways.  The young pansy gasped and moaned loudly; at the same time, his huge semi-soft cock got hard, spurting out more precum across the room before sinking back to drizzle the clear fluid on his expensive kicks.

 

The Trucker noticed—and barked out raucous laughter.  “Ya like that, do ya, faggot?  Ya like a good beatdown, you worthless cocksuckin’ fairy?  Fuck yeah, yer just the bitch I been lookin’ fer, fag—you like it rough, yeah?  Huh?  Answer me, ya queer-ass cunt!  Ya want me to ream ya like the whore ya are, right?”

 

“Yes—” Dylan had time to gasp before the Trucker unzipped his fly.  It took a bit for hulking top to excavate the entire length of his enormous, pulsating manmeat, but the teen homo’s attention was focused entirely on the spectacle unfolding in front of him.

 

The Trucker loomed before him, his massive chest darkened with wiry manfur except where the dogtags gleamed between the two huge hubcap pecs.  Below, his almost-frightening horse dick jutted proudly from the groin of the faded jeans that still clung tightly to his strong legs, bulging with muscles.  His open workboots, reaching to mid-calf, were planted wide apart in a domineering, open-legged stance.

 

“Ya want this cock, boy?  Ya think ya deserve it?” he jeered.

 

Dylan nodded blankly; he absently wiped his lips with the back of his hand—an instinctive reaction since he was utterly unaware that he’d been drooling.  His cocky young arrogance reasserted itself.  “Yeah, man, I deserve it.  Toldja it’s my birthday, didn’t I?” he slurred in drunken lust, “I deserve some nice dick on my eighteenth birthday, dude—and after all I paid for the room, yeah?”

 

The Trucker paused for tension-filled moment, picked up his smoke and found it nearly all burned to ash.  Taking a final drag, he ground it out and stepped forward.  The shadow cast by the brim of his cap cast hid the expression in his eyes, but the grim twist to his lips and the firm set of his chiseled jaw clearly showed the contempt he felt—not that Dylan was sober enough to recognize it.

 

“So ya paid for the room,” the Trucker said evenly, “So what?  Ya think ya bought me, boy, huh?  That what ya think, huh?”

 

The booze was flowing full strength through the teen’s bloodstream by this point; the beers he’d drunk before hitting the bar had been superseded by the four rum-and-cokes wannabe admirers had bought him at the bar.  Dylan had been both drinking and smoking pot for more than five years, but he was more tanked tonight than he’d been in a long time.

 

In other words, he felt both invincible and entitled.  And he was too fucked up to realize how dangerous that attitude was in his current situation.

 

“Yeah, dude, that’s what I think,” the handsome teenaged slut replied in a sarcastic tone.  “So c’mon and stick it in me, fucker.  Whaddaya waitin’ for; ya wanna give me my birthday spankings?”

 

And at that moment the Trucker straightened up, his cock suddenly starting to pulse.  Transparent beads of pre-ejaculate started to drip from the thick, mushroom-shaped head.  The cold, cruel mouth visible under the shadow on the alpha’s face curled into a malevolent grin.

 

“Yeah, cunt, that’s what ya want?  I can do that too…”

 

And with that, the Trucker stepped forward again, even closer to Dylan.  The young gay slut inhaled abruptly as the muscular alpha was suddenly within arms’ reach, an intimidating and threatening presence.  As his nostrils filled with the scent of pheromones and mansweat, laced with nicotine, the kid turned his dark eyes, the whites stained with red, up to the older hunk’s inscrutable face.

 

And that was when the Trucker’s powerful arm lashed out, diving his fist into the youth’s face and snapping his left cheekbone.

 

Dylan fell back directly onto the bed in shock.  He knew he’d been hurt badly.  Clutching the side of his face, he gaped at his attacker.  “Wh-wha—” he stuttered, the sharp pain in his cheek making it difficult to form the words.

 

“That was one,” the towering alpha sneered down at the boy cowering on the bed.  “How old didja say ya were gonna be—eighteen?  And look, it’s past midnight.  So ya got seventeen more coming, ya little sack a’ shit.  And unless you want the next one to break yer nose, ya better start gulping down my cock.  Now, faggot!”

 

Reaching out with his large, paw-like hand, the Trucker grabbed a hank of Dylan’s silky brown hair and jerk his head forward viciously.  The teen opened his mouth to cry out in pain only to find it plugged with a thick wad of throbbing flesh, oozing a stream of thick, salty fluid.  Before he knew what was happening, the monstrous tube of manmeat had been shoved past his tonsils and down his esophagus.

 

The pain in Dylan’s cheek became a piercing agony as his face was stretched out of shape; combined with the sudden cessation of oxygen as his air was cut off, the young slut was stunned both literally and metaphorically.  His birthday present was going horribly wrong and he didn’t know why or how—it made no sense, it couldn’t really be happening…

 

The Trucker knew the thoughts racing through the cunt’s sad excuse for a mind.  All these young cockpigs were the same; no concept of their own mortality until it was staring them in the face.  He chuckled deeply as he forced his enormous shaft down the punk’s throat; this evening was turning out better than it had started.

 

He’d left his rig at a truck stop on the other side of the interstate, then walked to the bar on the offhand chance of finding a decent fag on which he could work out his anger issue.  He’d actually been accosted by a hustler in the darkness of the highway underpass, a scrawny, cadaverous addict with missing teeth and a rancid odor.  He aroused nothing but disgust from the Trucker and putting the fucker’s lights out with a blow to the head didn’t provide him the vent he needed; it just served the purpose of shutting the skank up.

 

Now, though, he had this entitled, cocky-ass little fuck in his control.  Several long days in the driver’s seat had left him with a violent need to drain the built-up manseed in his balls.

 

Birthday boi was gonna suffer—bad.

 

And the worthless little fuck seemed to want to suffer.  It might simply have been a twitch in the muscles from having his jaw pried open so wide, but suddenly the Trucker could feel teeth.  And that was bad—for Dylan.

 

Using his handful of hair as a handle, he jerked the kid’s head back off his dick.  The moment his airway was clear, Dylan began gagging and coughing up his drool on the Trucker’s thick tool.    “Big mistake, you stupid motherfucker,” the muscular alpha hissed, “I guess that means you ain’t no good at givin’ head.  That means I gotta buttfuck ya to get off, cunt, huh?  Stand up.  Now, you goddam faggot!”

 

Stunned and shuddering the well-built teen climbed shakily to his feet, standing trembling at the foot of the bed.  His face was still beautiful but with his left cheek swollen and bruised, a little less perfect.  Tears leaked from his eyes and snot from his nose as he glanced up at older top.

 

Fear prevented Dylan from making eye contact with the Trucker; the cowed youth turned his gaze from the massive hog bobbing in the air in front of him, glistening with his own spit, up along the fur-covered ripples of the alpha’s buff abs.  Above that, the body hair widened out into a dark, wiry forest spread across the top’s broad chest.  In the declivity between the hubcap pecs a pair of dogtags caught both the light and Dylan’s eyes.

 

“Think yer due for another birthday bash, faggot?” the Trucker jeered.  “Need a little tenderizin’?”

 

Stunned and shocked, the twink’s attention was focused on the shiny objects; he could hear the words but the ominous meaning failed to penetrate his drug- and fear-clouded mind.  The killer noticed—unfortunately for Dylan, since it aroused his sadistic brutality.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ cunt,” he barked in rage, “Guess this’ll get yer attention!”

 

And with that, he slammed his fist into Dylan’s jaw with all the force of a train wreck, snapping it into three pieces.  The teen slut made an odd sound, a kind of gurgling shriek, and dropped like a sack of potatoes.  With a lightning-swift reflex, the Trucker reached out and snatched at the now-tousled brown hair again.  Grabbing a fistful, he pivoted and tossed the boy across the room.

 

He didn’t toss the slut at random, though. In front of the yellowed drapes covering the window was a round table flanked by armchairs; Dylan smashed into it just at waist level.  His torso smacked down onto the table, which tipped back, struck the AC unit under the window, and bounce back upright.

 

As the Trucker approached, the teenaged homo was bent over the table, chest down, quivering and helpless in agony, his legs hanging down with his red Jordan kicks just barely touching the floor.  His pink, pulsating fuckhole was clearly visible; the cruel alpha smirked as he aimed his huge dripping hog at the puckered hole in the twink’s bubble butt.

 

In a nightmarish haze of excruciating pain, Dylan clutched the edge of the table tightly, blubbering as blood trickled down his ruined chin.  Although he’d miraculously escaped losing a tooth, the slightest movement of his mouth slammed waves of agony into his head. He struggled just to maintain consciousness, barely noticing the sudden pressure on sphincter.

 

Then it wasn’t pressure anymore; it was an engorged, vein-wrapped tube of hard pulsing manflesh—and it was in him.  All the way.

 

The Trucker had thrust his cock deep into the kid’s ass, his thick precum the only lube.  The swollen purple head hadn’t hesitated at the resistance of the youth’s ass muscle; worn out with regular buttsex as it was, it still couldn’t accommodate the muscled alpha’s powerful tool.  With a faint grunt, the brutal rapist rammed his shaft home, tearing Dylan’s sphincter in two places.

 

The tsunami of sharp, glassy pain that tore through the teen’s ravaged fuckhole was too much; he passed out on the Trucker’s dick.  The sweating, heaving top spent the next few minutes pumping his shaft doggy-style into the unconscious punk’s torn and bleeding ass.

 

The hard-bodied boy awakened into the same universe of suffering that he’d left; his first sensation in the darkness of semi-consciousness was the searing pain in his torn colon and he instinctively started crying.  That triggered the second sensation—the agony of broken bone ends grinding together in his jaw.  He was forced to taper off to a faint, high-pitched keening noise.

 

Unluckily for him, the sound annoyed the Trucker.

 

“What the fuck is that, cunt?  Ya must be likin’ it, huh, faggot—yer squealin’ like a goddam pig!  If yer into that, you sick fuck, then yer gonna love this shit—check it, dude, I’m gonna make yer next birthday taps donkey punches, huh?  Bet ya know what that is; yer a stupid piece a’ shit, but yer a fucking sick-ass pansy slut too, right, boy?  You know all the disgusting homo perversions, dontcha?  Then ya know ya better buckle the fuck up, bitch, cause here it comes!”

 

Grabbing a hank of Dylan’s long (and now badly tousled) brown hair—reaching up to snatch a fistful near the forehead in front—he yanked the kid’s head back.  With no warning, he slammed his other fist like a piston into the back of the teen’s skull.

 

The idea behind a donkey punch is that the blow to the head makes the sphincter tighten.  The Trucker hadn’t actually tried it before; much to his surprise, it actually worked.  Ripped and bleeding, Dylan’s ass muscle still managed to cinch around the hairy base of the sadist’s shaft like a cock ring.

 

The stunned teen moaned as his body responded to the punch by clenching up; even his toes curled as his red Nike hightops kicked and scraped at the carpet.  Gripping the table tightly, he tried desperately to pull his head away but the alpha’s grip on his scalp was too firm; despite the horrific agony involved in moving his mouth, he began to sob and beg inarticulately, knowing that he was unable to escape the vicious assault.

 

And he was right.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, that really got yer sick homo ass off, dinnit?” the Trucker laughed cruelly, “Here—have another, birthday boi!”

 

With that, he popped the little shit in the back of head again, this time a little harder so the he was rewarded with even more tightening.  The young fag’s rectum gripped his huge vein-wrapped cock like a velvet glove, squeezing it and caressing it.  Not one to miss an opportunity, the Trucker shifted his muscular, denim-sheathed legs, planting his workboots further apart for better traction, and doubled the speed of his hard, driving buttfuck.

 

By now, Dylan was clinging to the table with his head pulled up, curled painfully backwards.  His pain-wracked face streaked with tears, his head was being violently shaken to the same tempo as his brutal assrape.  His attempts to beg had become random syllables of pain force from his mangled mouth along with a thin stream of drool, pink with blood.

 

“Shit, motherfucker, I’m gonna like puttin’ you down; I can control yer meat real good.  I don’t even need you to be alive for you jack me off, ya worthless faggot, ya hear me?”

 

Dylan heard words but no meaning; things were starting to go grey at the edges and there was a loud buzzing in his head; he welcomed the fuzziness, since it might make the pain go away…

 

The powerful, well-skilled sadist sensed he was losing his audience.  He wasn’t done with this one yet, not by a long shot.  The cruel serial killer still had a lot of rage to vent—and a lot of cum.

 

He pounded one more roundhouse into the fucker’s cranium.  The youth’s reaction was swift; he thrashed out with both arms and legs as he lost consciousness again.  The Trucker pumped the suddenly re-tightened fuckhole furiously, leaning forward, lowering his weight onto his victim’s limp form—

 

—and that was when the table gave way.  Tipping forward, it impacted the AC unit under the window hard enough to bend the metal vents out of shape; with a loud splintering sound, the circular top tore free from the metal base column.  Everything collapsed to the floor with a loud crash—top, base, the chairs on each side, and, of course, Dylan.

 

He went to the ground still impaled on the Trucker’s dick.  The experienced top had understood what was happening.  Even though it was too late to prevent it, he’d managed to turn and extend his arm, catching himself easily and breaking his fall; with his other hand, he’d caught at the boy, pivoted, and slammed him to the ground.

 

Reluctantly, though, the alpha knew he had to pull out; he needed to make a quick security check.  He’d just made a lot more noise than he liked in a public motel.  Withdrawing his long, pulsing shaft, he left Dylan slowly shuddering his way back to tortured awareness and glanced out the window from a chink in the drapes.  Nothing moved in the darkness beyond, but he still wanted to give it a minute, just to make sure everything had settled down.

 

Digging his smokes out of his pocket, he lit one and sat on the foot of the bed.  As he smoked, reassuring himself all was quiet, he could watch the meat slowly regain consciousness.  The cunt trembled and gasped before rolling over so the he now faced the bed, hid eyelids fluttering open to reveal his rolled-back eyes, white streaked with red.

 

As the kid painfully came to, the gray dimness of his vision was first pierced by a pair of bright glints of light; as he became more able to focus, he could see the dogtags buried the muscular stud’s chest fur.  Looking up, the coldly handsome face was still partially shaded by the trucker’s cap.  When he got out of the, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to ID a photo of his rapist.

 

Because he was gonna get out of this, Dylan knew; he was hurt but he wasn’t dead.  His birthday had turned into an unimaginable horror story—some deep pig part of him still wanted this violent, erotic dominant top—but the thought that he wasn’t going to survive this ordeal never seriously crossed his mind.

 

Then the Trucker spoke.

 

“That’s five, boy,” he drawled gleefully.  “It twenty past midnight, so yer, what—eighteen?  Only got thirteen more birthday beatings to go, bitch.”

 

The Trucker hit his cigarette again, exhaling in the kid’s direction as he waited for the words to sink in.  It took a bit for the youth to realize that this powerful psycho was gonna do a lot more of what he’d already done.

 

When he did realize it, the Trucker spoke again.  “Tell ya what, faggot, I’ll give ya a fair chance—you make it through yer birthday taps and I’ll let ya go.  Gotta tell ya, though, yer gonna hafta fight to survive, cause I’m gonna work ya over good—you faggot pigs feel so good when ya squeal and die on my dick.  But, hey, if ya live, ya live, and I don’t ever go back on my word.  Whaddaya say—sound like a deal?”  He ended the question with a deep, throaty chuckle.

 

The teenager’s eyes, already circled with gray rings of shock, widened in horror.  This hot, intensely masculine stud that he’d wanted so bad—the dude was gonna kill him.  He was gonna beat him and kill him.

 

Dylan panicked. Flailing wildly, he shrugged off the waves of pain from his broken jaw and began scrambling across the thin, dirty carpet towards the door on his hand and knees.  He didn’t go more than two feet before the Trucker swung out his foot.  The alpha’s powerful leg kicked forward, slamming the steel-toed workboot into the punk’s flank.

 

The kick was violent enough to flip Dylan into the air.  Smashing into the broken table, he slid to the floor, moaning in agony as the jagged ends of three broken ribs dig into his internal organs, one scraping against—but not puncturing—his lung.

 

Taking another drag from his Marlboro, the depraved killer stood up and walked toward where Dylan lay helpless and mewling on the floor.  As the high, loosely-laced boots filled his ground-level view, the teen winced at a brief singe on his cheek where the alpha had knocked off an ash.

 

“That was six, asswipe.  Wanna go for seven?”

 

The brutalized teen shuddered and wheezed; every breath cause a terrifying stabbing pain in his side.  Blinking blearily up at the grinning alpha towering over him, Dylan’s misshapen jaw moved feebly as he tried to beg for release from the torment.  Nothing comprehensible emerged from his mouth—and it wouldn’t have mattered it anything had.

 

The Trucker stooped and wrapped his large strong hands around the youth’s throat.  With a deep grunt, he heaved the struggling punk into the air with a single swift motion.  Dazed as he was, the injured slut began to flail frantically the moment his air was cut off, his red Nikes kicking vainly for traction a good six inches off the ground.

 

Holding the boy’s darkening face inches from his own, the Trucker sneered and spat.  As his phlegm trickled down to mingle with the cunt’s tears, he chuckled.  “Tell ya what, bitch, I won’t hit ya for number seven, huh?  I won’t even kick ya—how’s that sound?”

 

Deep in the shadows under the brim of his trucker’s cap, a bright glint of malicious glee illuminated his eyes.  “All I’ll do for seven it—this!”

 

He whirled and flung the well-built teen through the air with the ease of a stuffed toy.  Dylan flew across the room, smashing into the desk-dresser combo with his back.  The flimsy unit rocked back against the wall, breaking off the mirror.  As the hard-bodied homo fell face-down on the floor, the mirror crashed down over him, peppering his smooth skin with shards of glass.  Numerous small nicks and slashes were inflicted on his sweat-streaked flesh, but nothing even remotely fatal.

 

Dylan wasn’t getting out that easy.

 

The Trucker strode over and kicked the twisted wooden frame of the mirror aside.  “Tell ya what, ya pansy-ass piece a’ shit, I’ll be gentle with ya—seein’ as how it’s yer birthday an’ all—and I’ll count the mirror as eight.”

 

With a cold, braying laugh, he bent down and snatched bleeding, gasping teen fag—one hand grasping the right ankle and the other a sweaty mass of long brown hair.  From this position, the powerful alpha rose and spun, flinging the well-built meat into the wall above the bed’s headboard.

 

Dylan hit the wall and exhaled a loud, helpless bleat as he caved in the drywall and fell back onto the bed, bouncing onto his back with his legs spread.

 

The Trucker approached the bed slowly, the lower half of his face the only part visible in the dim light.  Above his strong, stubble-darkened jaw, a wicked grin had crossed his face.  “Of course,” he smirked, “Everything after eight’s gotta count for more, ya understand?  I mean, fair’s fair, yeah?”

 

And with that, the hulking alpha climbed onto the bed and grabbed Dylan’s legs by the ankles.  Spreading them back and apart he lowered his hairy, muscled form between them before repositioning the terrified teen’s red kicks up onto his own shoulders.  Then, in a single simultaneous movement, he buried his cock so deep into the slut’s ass that his pubes scraped the boy’s smooth asscheeks—and rammed his fist into the boy’s face with an unexpected violence, breaking the meat’s nose with a thick wet crunching sound.

 

“Nine, cunt,” the powerful sadist chuckled, spitting into the boy’s swelling face as he ran a hand down the punk’s smooth, muscled chest, slick with panicked sweat.  “Fuckin’-A, you really are a nasty pain pig, aintcha, faggot?  Yer dick is hard and drippin’, motherfucker, I can feel it slappin’ against, you sick perv—goddam, this shit is really gettin’ yer rocks off, huh?”

 

Moaning loudly, Dylan started to flail violently.  It was too much; the pain was too much.  His ass was split wide open, his guts were impaled with huge throbbing manmeat, broken ribs ground in his torso with each agonizing breath—and his face, oh fuck, his face hurt so goddam bad, he had to get out, he had to get away—

 

Less a thinking human than a desperate, trapped animal, the well-built teen let his desperation run wild, clawing viciously at his assailant.  His hooked fingers scrabbled at the Trucker’s face, but the skilled killer knew what to expect and was able to avoid the homo’s frantic, questing hands.  After scraping at the alpha’s chin a couple of times, Dylan suddenly threw one arm up and caught the brim of the trucker cap, knocking it off.

 

The Trucker’s reaction was immediate.  He wasn’t havin’ no fag meat fuck with his lid; with terrifying brutality, he slammed his balled-up fist into the boy’s face four times in a row, with the speed of a jackhammer.  Each blow landed with a loud, wet smacking sound—and each one made the little shit’s body jump and jerk like an electrical shock.

 

The Trucker’s grin widened; each powerhouse punch had resonated through the fag’s body and tightened his ass.  Each one had squeezed the sick top’s swollen shaft, massaging the dominant psycho’s pulsating hog.

 

Lowering his head, he hissed at the semi-conscious youth.  “Think yer gonna make it, bitch?  Can ya hold out?  Fight it, cunt, fight for yer worthless life.  Like I said, faggot, if ya survive the beatin’, I’ll let ya live—but I don’t think it’s gonna happen, you weak gay-ass cocksucker.  Yer gonna die here and now on my cock, aintcha?”

 

His face beaten to hamburger, Dylan could only gurgle his protest, his desire to live.  Even in the rising red tide of agony that had become his entire universe, he was still aware of his own straining, oozing dick, inexplicably erect despite the ongoing trauma.  But he was young and he was strong—he had every intention of surviving this horrific nightmare.

 

“Up to thirteen now, boy,” the Trucker grinned as he relentlessly shagged the punk’s bruised and bleeding fuckhole.  “Ya still with me, homo?  Ain’t been fucked to death yet?  Hang on, meat, we ain’t done yet!”  As the hypersexual alpha pumped and grunted, sweat oozed form his broad heaving back, filling the room with pheromones and manscent.

 

Dylan might have actually enjoyed it had his shattered nose not filled his sinuses with blood.

 

The teen’s slick body bent back in distress, his arms now flailing at the thin fitted sheet as he arched his back in agony.  Scrambling blindly, he managed to knock the pillows off the bed; the right one skittered across the night stand and took the clock and phone to the floor with it, accompanied by a loud crash.  The lamp was hit too, but didn’t fall to the ground—instead, it fell on its side, crushing the shade.

 

The top of the bulb threw an unaccustomed glare across the bed, casting lurid shadows of violent mansex onto the far wall.  The image was so crisp that the Trucker’s dogtags were clearly silhouetted as they dangled between the killer and his victim.

 

Deep within the recesses of his traumatized mind, Dylan felt a sense of betrayal at the way his body was responding to the vicious rape and beating; each pounding he took seemed to force more hot precum from his throbbing shaft.  Even now, as the older man lay on him, thrusting and penetrating him for his own pleasure, the teen could feel his thick rod poking into the fur on the alpha’s firm, flat abs, sliding around on a slimy film of sweat and pre-ejaculate.

 

“Shit, ya stupid fuck, yer goin’ loose on me again,” the Trucker snarled.  “Gotta tighten yer worn-out fuckhole, faggot—ya know what that means, dontcha?”

 

Rising up on his knees, the muscle-bound stud drew back his arm, tensed his thick, bulging bicep and drove his fist into Dylan’s smooth flat belly like a piston.

 

“HOOOG!!!” the fucked-up youth cried, expelling all the air in his lungs in one mighty yelp of pain.  He jerked up violently, trying to double over in pain, but the moment his torso rose off the bed the Trucker hit him again, this blow impacting the boy’s broad left pec, immediately knocking him back down onto the mattress.

 

Gasping and struggling, Dylan popped up again—a reflexive reaction caused by the agony that the punch had caused to his snapped ribs—only to be met with another belt in the chest.  Shuddering and whimpering, the brutalized teen fell back.  His face, twisted and covered with tears and snot, darkened as he fought to regain his breath.

 

The Trucker grinned; the last three hits had done as good a job as genuine donkey punches would have in terms of tightening the meat’s anus.  Grunting deeply, he hunched over the suffering teenager and rammed his enormous rod furiously into the boy’s torn and mangled colon.  “Where are we now, cunt?” he hissed at the stunned and traumatized adolescent, “Sixteen?  Gettin’ close, whore, gettin’ fuckin’ close.  It’s time to separate the men from the boymeat, and I’m willin’ to betcha can’t take it all the way, ya cumsuckin’ fag!”

 

As a thin trickle of air managed to painfully work its way back down Dylan’s esophagus, he heard and comprehended—and hoped.  The mauled youngster knew he was badly injured, but not fatally; if he could just get out of this room alive, he’d make it.  He’d survive.

 

But oh fuck, those last two blows…

 

The Trucker could tell what was running through the little cockpig’s head.  Even though his once-gorgeous face had been pummeled into hamburger, it was still easy to see the light of hope gleaming in the kid’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes.  Worthless little sacks of shit, they were all the same—it was so easy to manipulate them; the stupid fucks always walked right into the trap.

 

The sick sadist could also see the fear.  This meat knew it still had some suffering to endure.  As he pumped the oozing, engorged head of his cock deep into the homo’s guts, the Trucker smirked—asswipe had no clue how much suffering was on the way.

 

Maybe it was time to let him know.

 

“Ya like gettin’ hit, dontcha, ya disgusting painpig?” the alpha stud whispered, lowering his face so close to his victim’s that his dogtags rested on the kid’s heaving chest, “Ya sure seem to like my hairy balls slappin’ at yer gay-ass fuckhole, huh?  Well if ya like that, fuckmeat, yer gonna spunk with joy with this one—take it, bitch!”

 

This was a roundhouse punch that circled wide from the shoulder and smashed into Dylan’s face like a bomb blast, snapping facial bones and shattering the already-broken jaw.  The boy went rigid with shock.  “Fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  Goddam, cunt, that got yer meat good and tight—let’s do that again!”

 

The next blow came from the other side; the experienced killer was ambidextrous.  Even had the battered teen been in a positon to expect anything, he couldn’t have foreseen the fist rocketing towards him from the off side.  And after the impact, he didn’t see anything at all; a mountain of glassy pain fell on him, crushing his consciousness out.

 

Pain.  His first and most basic sensation as he came to was pain, overwhelming and all-encompassing.  Every part of his body, even his somehow still-erect cock and straining cock, was flooded with agony.  The second sensation was motion; combined with the searing, slashing pain in his rectum, he knew the hulking alpha was still raping him.

 

Opening his eyes, Dylan could see the Trucker sneering down at him.  One thought kept ringing in his mind: he was alive.  He’d made it through all eighteen.  He was gonna be ok.

 

The Trucker’s dick began to pulse even faster at the sight of hope pooling in those eyes, dark puddles in a ruined face.  This was his favorite part.

 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled malignly, “I forgot one—what is it they call it?  One to grow on?”

 

This blow was a rabbit-punch—swift, brutal, and intensely powerful.  In the blink of an eye, the experienced killer had slammed his knuckles directly into Dylan’s larynx, instantly smashing it back into the esophagus and crushing both with a horrifyingly loud crunching sound.

 

“We’ll call that one to die on,” the well-built psycho whispered with malicious glee, without missing a single thrust of his cock.

 

Dylan’s eyes widened in terror.  Throwing his arms out, he clutched at the bed first, arching his back violently upwards as he tried desperately to breathe.  It was useless.  His trachea had been compressed into a solid mangled mass of splintered cartilage.  There was nothing he could do; his airway was completely crushed.

 

He was suffocating.  He was gonna die.

 

No, that couldn’t be right.  He’d promised; the dude had promised him and he’d fought, oh fuck, he’d fought so hard to live—and his birthday wasn’t supposed to turn out like this; he was supposed to be having fun and getting laid—

 

As blind terror set in, the realization that he actually was getting laid never crossed Dylan’s panicked mind.

 

Again, the well-built, writhing teen pawed at the Trucker’s face, fingers clawing with no specific object in mind, motivated by mindless anguish.  The brutal top held the kid down, riding his ass as he died, feeling the boy’s smooth slick body flail underneath him.

 

Dylan’s flow of oxygen had already been seriously obstructed by earlier sinus damage.  He didn’t have any reserves left in his lung—the onset of brain death didn’t take long.

 

As darkness closed in on the teen faggot, his frantic scrambling became slower and calmer; soon, his hand settled on the Trucker’s shoulders, gripping them tightly just past where his own red Nike kicks rested.  At the same time, the youth’s strong, muscled body began undulating, a kind of rhythmic flow that the well-versed sadist knew to be a precursor to violent convulsions.

 

Now he just needed to hold on and ride the birthday boi into his grave.

 

As he expected, the kid began to shudder and twitch, jerking his head swiftly from side to side as bloody froth erupted from his lopsided, ruined mouth.  Although it was difficult to see at first, under the swollen, bruised flesh, the punk’s face soon darkened to a noticeable point, growing ever more purple as his tongue began to protrude.

 

Holding his killer tightly by the shoulders, his sneakers touching his hands, Dylan convulsively pulled the alpha to him as his hips began to buck uncontrollably.  Over the Trucker’s shoulders, the punk’s Jordan Horizons thrashed helplessly in the air; the left one, which had slowly come untied, suddenly flew off the boy’s foot, spinning into the far corner of the room with a clatter.  The punk’s foot was left to flex, curling his toes in the white ped sock.

 

Knowing what was coming, the hard-bodied stud repositioned his legs, planting his unlaced workboots wide apart for better traction on the slick sheet. Grinning, he felt the little fucker’s ass start to grip his shaft as it slid over the vein-wrapped tube of manmeat with increasing speed.

 

“That’s it, faggot,” the testosterone-laden muscled killer muttered, “Milk my load out as you get offed.  Yeah, die, motherfucker, die so I can blow my wad.  Fuckin’ work the cum outta my cock with yer convulsions, ya homo asswipe.  One less worthless fag in the world after tonight, but at least I get to use yer death to drain the spunk outta my hog, yeah?  Fair trade, huh?  Now die like the perverted subhuman cumpig you are, you fairy cunt!”

 

By the time he finished speaking, there wasn’t enough of Dylan left to hear him.  The gay teenager who had left the bar forty-five minutes ago looking for a good time on his birthday had slid screaming in terror and agony down a dark hole that led straight to death.  Technically his heart was still beating—a wildly irregular pulse—but the human spark had seeped out of the physical tissue.

 

The Trucker was left with a shuddering piece of meat that clutched amazingly at his swollen cock.  With an inarticulate cry, the powerful alpha jerked and sent a solid spray of semen deep into the boy’s guts, hosing down his prostate and flooding his intestines.

 

Whether or not Dylan’s brain was too dead for him to know what had happened, his dick responded as if he did.  He pressed his belly up to the Trucker’s; the latter could feel the kid’s cock suddenly swell and writhe like a garden hose on full flow.  Huge wads of thick oversexed boyseed spewed from Dylan’s pulsing rod, matting the older stud’s chest hair and coating the kid’s already slick, broad chest with another layer of fluid.

 

The Trucker and the teen continued to hold each other tightly, locked in an erotically fatal embrace, as each kept cumming, the Trucker using the kid’s death throes to jack off—the adolescent’s dying corpse made a phenomenal sex toy.  Dylan himself was unloading reflexively, an instinctive reaction to death by suffocation.

 

After what seemed like half an hour—but was likely no more than a tenth of that time—the Trucker pulled himself together, then pulled himself out of the dead, shuddering meat.  Getting back off the bed, he let the meat’s legs flop back off his shoulders, leave the dead fag splayed out on his back, arms and legs spread.

 

Turning away, the alpha fished out another Marlboro, lit it, and grinding shards of glass from the broken mirror into the carpet with the thick soles of his boots, crossed into the bathroom.  He needed to clean up; little homo cocksucker sure had been fulla spunk…

 

After wiping down with a wet towel—which his left under running water in the sink—the cruel stud leaned in the bathroom doorway and, taking another drag of his half-done smoke, surveyed his work.

 

The room was demolished.  There was a small cheap flat-screen TV on a flimsy stand on the far side of the room; it was the only thing not damaged during the rape and murder.  The AC under the window was making an odd noise; from this angle, the Trucker could see that the collapsed table had put a large dent in the front of the unit as well; likely it was impacting the fan blade.

 

The dead fag was the centerpiece, though, without a doubt.  Dramatically highlighted by the overturned lamp, the birthday boi—who could have had a modeling career if he hadn’t been a cumsucking druggie in a small town—was now nothing but a shuddering mass of meat, his once-stunning face reduced to bleeding pulp.

 

The Trucker approached the corpse, still jerking and kicking in the long-drawn-out death throes associated with asphyxiation, and tossed his smoldering cigarette butt at it; the glowing ember sizzled out in the congealing puddle of semen in the center of the meat’s chest.

 

The slut’s right foot, still laced into its Nike hightop, kicked and jerked on the dislodged and twisted fitted sheet.  The meat’s left foot had been kicking and scuffling too; in fact, it had worked the sock off, revealing the teen’s bare toes curling reflexively in death.

 

The condition of both the body and the room made the nightmarish violence of Dylan’s death obvious.  The Trucker felt purged and relaxed.  He slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on, then located his cap, halfway under the bed.  Taking one last glance backwards at the teenaged homo’s still-quivering corpse, spread out and lit like a selection of prime meat on a butcher’s slab, the cruel alpha felt a sense of pride in his work.

 

As he headed back towards his rig, he began to whistle.  Quietly, of course, so as not to attract too much attention—in fact, the thumping of his thick boot soles on the pavement nearly drowned it out—but the note of satisfaction was obvious to anyone who could hear it.

 

Carlos Solo: A Little Time to Kill

On By m3mayhemIn Movies with Carlos and Nick3 Comments

When the light changed, Carlos eased off the brake and turned left off the Strip, heading east on Flamingo.  Even though it was past one in the morning, the crowds on Las Vegas Boulevard had diminished only slightly; it took several minutes to complete the turn while he waited for the idiots who’d decided to cross against the signal.

 

Finally the way was clear; Carlos gunned the Benz.  He’d gotten angry at the delay.  Given that he was already bored and horny, it was a lethal combination.

 

Someone was gonna die tonight.  Somewhere out there was a fag who was gonna soak up Carlos’s cum and die on his dick.

 

Nick was out of town.  He’d had a sudden offer to film a straight snuff flick in Tahoe; he’d packed his equipment in his truck and driven up yesterday.  Prior to that, though, they’d planned to go hunting this weekend.  With Nick gone, Carlos had decided not to alter his plans.

 

So here he was, heading east on Flamingo.  It was a pleasant night with the temperature in the mid-seventies, so the top was down on the bright red luxury car.  Inside, the hard-bodied convict displayed his broad, sculpted chest and flat ripped abs in a leather vest with no shirt underneath; a thick gold chain sparkled alluringly around his muscular throat.  His skin-tight black leather jeans were tucked into a pair of engineer boots.

 

And he’d found something while idly poking around the condo last night—likely left over from one of Nick’s earlier flicks.  A pair of thin leather gloves that fit Carlos’s powerful hands like a black second skin.  He was wearing them now, as his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

 

He turned right off Flamingo into what had been a decent middle-class neighborhood.  Now it was little more than a cluster of run-down cinderblock homes with dirt yards and questionable tenants.  There was still some activity on the street, most of it furtive and probably criminal, but Carlos couldn’t spot anything worth fucking.

 

Heading further south before turning east again, the leather-clad predator found the streets less well-lit—and less-populated.  After a couple of blocks, he no longer saw anyone at all, so he turned back towards Flamingo, fuming in frustration

 

That was when he saw the boy.

 

He had come to a stop at a stop sign.  The kid was on the sidewalk, leaning against the sign itself.  Late teens or early twenties—at the latest—the punk had a mane of sandy blond hair that came nearly to his shoulders.  Completely bare-chested, the youth wore a pair of denim shorts that stopped just above the knee.  On the feet were a shiny pair of black Adidas Originals X hightops.  Otherwise, the boy’s smooth, muscular body was as visible as meat on a butcher’s counter.

 

It seemed an odd place to find a trick, but the moment the convertible Benz came to a halt, the punk stepped off the curb and approaching the car, reached in.  “You can put it in my mouth for twenty or my ass for fifty,” he said, grabbing the enormous bulge in the crotch of Carlos’s leather jeans.

 

For a moment, the brutal sadist was actually surprised.  Prey was hunted; it didn’t just wander into the killing pit on its own—but this one had.

 

“How much for the rest of the evening?” Carlos asked, knowing that the amount the boywhore named wouldn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be in a condition to collect it anyway.

 

The rentboy’s eyes opened wide with surprised greed; he clearly hadn’t expected an offer of this magnitude.  The eyes in question were dark, dark brown, almost black, and the white were stained red as a result of drugs and/or alcohol.  “Two-fifty and you can do what ya want till morning,” the slut responded, its breath confirming the at least the alcohol part of Carlos’s estimation.  The killer chuckled inwardly—this was Vegas, for fuck’s sake; kid with a body like that coulda asked for at least double that.

 

Good.  Ain’t no one was gonna miss a cheap fucking fag whore.

 

“Get in,” Carlos said gruffly.  “I ain’t fuckin’ ya in public, cunt, I got class.  My place is a coupla miles north.”  Class had nothing to do with it; he was gonna destroy this cheap-ass hustler, and he didn’t want an audience while he worked the bitch over.

 

The rentboy obeyed, jumping into the passenger seat and buckling himself in.  As Carlos stepped on the gas, he noticed the kid sizing him up with sidelong glances.  He also noticed—he couldn’t help it, it was too obvious—that a tentpole was stretching the denim in faggot’s groin.  Little cocksucker was horny himself. Carlos headed out.

 

They were inside the condo in less than twenty minutes.  “Damn,” the meat said, looking around in awe, “This is some nice crib ya got, dawg.  Name’s Kris, by the way—Kris with a K.”

 

Carlos ignored the cunt and headed to the bedroom in silence.  He didn’t turn on the bedside lamp; instead, he opened the curtain on the picture window, allowing the bright neon of the Strip to reflect gaudily off the gold satin bedspread.

 

Kris staggered in, his booze- and meth-addled head reeling in the kaleidoscopic effect the spectacular view provided.  “Goddam,” he muttered.  His bleary eyes lit up; Carlos could almost see dollar signs in them like a cartoon character’s.  The muscle-bound sadist chuckled.  Wheeling around the kid, he locked the bedroom door behind him.  Kris was still too stunned by his surroundings to notice.

 

The boywhore was attuned enough to hear the stealthy sound of a zipper, though.  He turned and directed his entire attention on Carlos’s crotch as the tattooed stud extracted the full length of his horse-like dick from the confines of his tight leather jeans.  The glistening tube of meat fell out and slapped against the alpha’s thigh, throbbing and swelling as it bobbed in the air.

 

Kris gasped.  The whore had seen lots of cocks, but had never come across one quite this large.  Even as he watched beads of precum well up on the pulsing purple tip, he could feel his own boyjuice start to trickle from his straining, aching shaft.  Instinctively, he reached down and grabbed the bulge in his groin.  He gave his tight waist a quick jerk and his denim shorts slid to the floor.  Stepping out of them, Kris grabbed his cock and stood fondling it in nothing but his shiny black Adidas hightops.

 

“Get yer hands off yer dick, faggot!” Carlos barked.  “I bought you for the night, cunt, remember?  You’re here to serve me, got it, ya fuckin’ whore?  Now get over here; I wanna skullfuck ya!”

 

Kris staggered across the room towards Carlos.  He liked being used, and he was high enough to let anyone use him, but the combination of lust for this dominant hunk and chemical confusion led him to ignore any red flags—like the tattoos.  Despite his age—he was a couple of months shy of his twenty-first birthday, not even old enough yet to buy beer legally—he was no stranger to crime or convicts.  He knew the meaning of some of Carlos’s inks—and recognized the amateurish nature of others that indicated a prison origin.

 

It didn’t matter.  The dude had the body of a god.  And he was gonna pay him enough to stay high for three days straight, maybe more.  Maybe, if he played his cards right, this guy could become a regular customer—fuck, lookit this place, he must be fuckin’ loaded…

 

“Suck my cock, faggot!” Carlos snapped, cutting through Kris’s reverie.  Before he could respond appropriately, Kris found that he couldn’t respond at all—Carlos had literally taken matters into his own hands by grabbing thick fistfuls of Kris’s hair and jerking the rentboy’s head forward until it was forced down onto the ex-con’s dick.

 

The well-used whore found his eyes watering as the massive flesh tube was thrust inexorably past his tonsils, the thick mushroom tip slipping into his esophagus on a lube of spit and precum.  The young homo was an experienced cocksucker; he knew how to control his breathing while sucking a pulsing, vein-wrapped hog down his throat—but this was manmeat of a different magnitude.

 

And Kris realized it once Carlos’s tool slid over his epiglottis and sealed of his airway.  Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all.

 

“Fuck, dude, is that all of me you can take?” Carlos sneered, “Whadda lousy cocksucker!  Shit, whore, ya gotta do a lot better than that if ya wanna get paid—now swallow my fuckin’ dick, you worthless homo slut!”

 

Kris’s hand’s reached out in from of him, looking for support, something to brace himself, as Carlos’s grip intensified and he plunged his iron-hard shaft further down the boy’s throat.  The hard-bodied alpha began to throatfuck the punk, but never drew his shaft out far enough for Kris to take a breath.

 

The helpless rentboy was too drunk and too high to fully understand what was happening; he just knew he couldn’t breathe.  His hands had finally made contact with the smooth, pumping firmness of Carlos’s leather-clad thighs, but no matter how hard he pushed back, all he seemed likely to do was tear open his scalp where the vicious sociopath still held a tight grip.

 

As the young faggot whore jerked and writhed under him, Carlos closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure.  “Choke on it, cocksucker, choke on my cock, you worthless motherfucker! That’s it, work my load out, bitch—take this one and if yer lucky, I’ll give ya another!”

 

Kris heard him.  His response was divided; his logical mind ignored the words and kept beating against those strong, thrusting thighs, wrapped in black leather, while his unconscious absorbed the full meaning, causing the slim but well-built young pansy’s own cock to swell painfully.

 

The kneeling slut could hear his pulse pounding in his head; the rapid, frenetic tempo seemed to match the speed at which the cruel, leering top was facefucking him.  His chest seemed to balloon up, swelling in agony as froth spilled from both nostrils.  Kris could feel his eyes bulge; his sight went dim and his panicked struggles slowed and became more rhythmic.

 

Just as Kris’s consciousness started to fade, the powerful convict, still holding him in an inescapable grip, began to shudder and grunt uncontrollably.  Even on the verge of asphyxia, the experience cumsucker knew an incipient orgasm; if he could only hold on a little longer…there!

 

The young faggot felt the thick, wide base of the alpha’s cock pulse as it pumped a solid stream of cum down his throat.  Kris had no choice but to swallow; he was literally just trying to stay conscious as the muscled stud unloaded a massive amount of spunk, jets of hot creamy sperm shooting into his belly as the huge shaft of manmeat continued to throb and pump.

 

Kris felt like he was drowning in cum.  His burning, heaving lungs seemed to be filling up with manseed as the brutally aggressive top emptied his massive, puckered balls.  Suddenly, the hot dude let go and Kris fell back into a huddled heap on the floor.  He gasped, choked, and coughed up an enormous wad of cum.  It dribbled down his chin as he panted and drooled, trying to regain his breath.

 

Finally, the shaken and cowed boywhore turned his paradoxically innocent face up to that of his assailant, his dark eyes wide with shock.  The well-endowed ex-con towered over him, his monstrous cock jutting out from the black leather darkness of his crotch.  Above, even in the semi-darkness, Kris could trace the amateur tattoos inked on the killer’s rippled abs and broad, sculpted chest, even under the latter’s body fur and leather vest.

 

The faint glitter of the gold chain was visible around the thick, bull-like neck.  And above that, the handsome, chiseled face—despite the trauma he’d just endured, Kris could feel his own shaft stiffen as he gazed on the john’s wiry black goatee and stared into those blue eyes, flinty with a cold rage.  The incredible stud wore a do-rag on his head; it seems to be shiny black satin.  In the back of his head, Kris wondered if this hot, scary-ass fucker was shaved like a skinhead…

 

Then the hard, cruel face broke into an open sneer.  “Don’t get comfortable, faggot,” Carlos snarled, “There’s a fuck of a lot more where that came from.  I got another load already churnin’ in my scrote, bitch.”

 

The words snapped the slut out of his reverie.  The meth he’d smoked and the Colt 45’s he’d drunk had dimmed his sense of danger, but not his sense of business.  Sadly for him, it led him to miscalculate and make a bad business decision.  He decided that there was enough demand to inflate his price.

 

“D-dude,” he coughed, still choking on Carlos’s spunk, “If yer gonna do that kinda shit—get all rough and shit—you gotta pay more.  At least four or five big ones, man.”

 

“You worthless piece of shit,” Carlos returned in an even, toneless voice.  “We had an agreement.”

 

“Yeah, and now I’m uppin’ the price, man.  I can take gettin’ used, dawg, but you gotta pay extra for that freaky chokin’ shit, see?”

 

Even in his drugged state, Kris could feel the tension in the room thicken like glue.  He half-expected the stud to explode in rage; he was somewhat disconcerted when the guy gave him a cold, shark-like grin instead.  “Sure,” the alpha replied, “I’ll go to five if ya want.”

 

There was something about his malicious chuckle that raised Kris’s hackles.  He suspected he was gonna get ripped off.  “Show me,” he said suspiciously, still sitting on the floor with his firm, buff legs curled under him.  “I wanna see yer cash, dude.  Course, if ya ain’t got it, I’ll take meth, or coke.  I mean look at this set-up—ya gotta have one of the three around here.”

 

The boywhore knew the value of his body and was trying to use it to get what he wanted.  What he got was something he feared—something he’d heard about often enough, since it was an occupational hazard.  He just never thought it’d happen to him.

 

His first clue was the flash in the older stud’s eyes; it was literally as if a light had shone momentarily.  Unfortunately for Kris, he didn’t see the glare of rage for what it was.  “So what’s it gonna be, dawg?  Cash or dope, dude, ya gotta pay up—”

 

And that was when Carlos said, again in his calm, toneless voice, “Naw, ya faggot cunt, yer the one who’s gotta pay.”  The second he finished speaking, he drove his foot forward, sinking the steel toe of his leather engineer boot deeply into the yielding, unprepared flesh of Kris’s belly.

 

“HOOOGH!!!” the boycunt cried as the swift, vicious kick forced all the air from his lungs; grabbing his midsection, the youth doubled over in agony, his sweet, innocent face twisted in pain.

 

“Fuck yeah, now yer talkin’” Carlos crowed as he stood over the shuddering, gasping youth.  “Ya like that, ya faggot cunt?  Huh?  That feel good, cocksucker?  Cause just like my load, there’s plenty more where that come from!”

 

Fighting against the physical trauma, Kris managed to inhale deeply enough to regain control of himself.  He knew now, beyond any drugged doubt, that he’d picked up a bad john.  He knew he’d let his defenses down and that his survival depended on his getting away from this psycho motherfucker as soon as possible.

 

So he bolted for the door.

 

He was already low to the ground so he lunged forward, below the grasp of the killer alpha—he hoped.  Scooting past Carlos, he grabbed the doorknobs for the double bedroom doors. He didn’t stop to notice that the hulking stud wasn’t coming after him.

 

He did notice that he couldn’t open the doors.

 

Kris jerked frantically on the doorknobs as he became aware that Carlos had finally turned and was moving towards him.  Whimpering in horror, the blond whore stopped trying to open the doors and beat on them mindlessly as death approached slowly and deliberately.

 

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and despite his hard dick, Kris was vaguely aware that he was pissing himself in terror.  The yellow fluid spurted from his erect shaft again when he felt the grip on his other shoulder.  When Carlos whispered, “Big mistake, asswipe,” a flood of urine splashed from Kris’s cock, splattering his black hightops, but before he knew what he was doing, he was flipped in the air up over Carlos’s shoulder and slammed back down flat on the floor face-down with rib-shattering violence.

 

Kris’s breath was driven from his muscled frame with a loud, agonized grunt.  As he moaned and writhed on the floor, the killer’s big black boots stepped into view.  Suddenly, Carlos squatted down.  Grabbing a fistful of long blond hair, he pulled the kid’s head back, twisting it to the side so he could look into the slut’s pale, terrified face.

 

“You wanna see how yer gonna get paid, you sack of shit?” the powerful convict hissed, his eyes narrowed into rage-filled slits.  “This is how—pain.  Yer getting paid in pain, bitch, and ya just asked for double, right?  Yeah?   Don’t worry, ya stupid homo fuck, yer gonna get paid real good.  It’s yer lucky night, cunt; I’m feelin’ generous!”

 

Carlos let go of Kris’s hair and stood back up, then, with a swift kick, slammed his boot into the weeping punk’s face and snapped a cheekbone.  The handsome blond whore squealed, grabbing at his injured face and groveling on the floor.  “Shaddup, ya worthless cockpig,” the hypersexual alpha snarled, his thick tool still erect and dripping as he bent down and jerked Kris by the hair yet again.

 

This time, he forced the trembling youth upright and up against the wall in the corner of the bedroom.  Finding himself trapped with the well-built powerful body of the vicious killer in front of him, Kris began babbling.  Tears streaked down his bruised, swelling face as he begged for his life.

 

“P-please, man, d-d-don’t do th-this,” the young, drugged whore pleaded, “Don-don’t hurt me, d-dude, oh please, oh fuck, don’t kill me I’ll do any—URK!”

 

His shrill pleas were suddenly cut off when a hand encased in a tight black leather glove closed around his throat.  Kris opened his eyes wide, just in time to see the other gloved hand, balled into a fist, drawn back then rocketing towards him with blinding speed.

 

The blow landed on Kris’s nose, smashing it with a wet, squelching sound.  The hot young slut jerked, his howl of pain managing to escape Carlos’s grip on his neck.  The vicious stud cut the cry off with another swift punch; this one caught the bitch on his jaw, snapping his mouth shut so fast and so hard that the boy bit through his bottom lip.  After that, the succession of belts and bashes to the face were brutally regular.

 

Kris was stunned, his head rocking back under the hail of blows that were slamming against it.  As blood flowed from his split lip and bruises bloomed on his young, smooth face, the whimpering cunt could just barely make out the words his assailant was hissing with malevolent glee.

 

“Enjoyin’ the pain, motherfucker?  Ya must be, ya worthless pig bottom bitch, lookit the way yer dick’s throbbin’ an’ oozin’ every time I pop ya one!  Fucking sick-ass pansy piece a’ shit, yer just lovin’ this, aintcha?  Yeah?  Ya like gettin’ put in yer place, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ shown what a useless cocksuckin’ pervert like you deserves, huh?”

 

Carlos paused, his large, muscled body heaving and slick with sweat.  Kris focused his blackened, swollen eyes on the powerfully-built alpha.  It was drawn first to the thick gold chain around the convict’s neck, glinting and highlighting the buff killer’s neck tats.  But then he shifted to Carlos’s balled fist, drawn back to shoulder level and waiting, ready to spring into action in the blink of an eye, inflicting even more agony and more damage.

 

During the tension-laden pause in the violence, Kris had time to notice that the skin-tight glove looked wet.  His already drugged and now brutalized brain didn’t have time to realize that his own blood was too dark to show on the black leather.  Then his attention was drawn back to the cold, hard masculine countenance of his killer.

 

“You wanted money,” Carlos whispered, his eyes narrowing with a piercing, ice-cold rage.  The expression would have made Kris piss himself again if anything had been left in his flaccid bladder.  “How much was it, cunt?  How much didja want me to pay?”

 

Kris blinked dazedly and moaned.  With unbelievable speed, the sadistic alpha drove his bulging, inked arm into the rentboy’s face with the force of a jackhammer; after an intense, bright-red explosion of agony, the hard-bodied young whore shuddered and coughed up a bicuspid.

 

“Answer me, you cumsucking cunt, or I’m gonna knock out yer teeth one by one, ya hear?  How much?  How much didja want, faggot?”

 

“T-t-two h-hundr-dr-dred…” Kris muttered, barely afloat in a sea of pain.  There was a slight whistling sound caused by the gap in his teeth.

 

Carlos’s face twisted in anger.  “Lyin’ homo bitch!” he snarled, slamming another right hook into the youth’s jaw.  “It was two-fifty, yeah?  That’s what ya think yer worth, you piece of shit?  You stupid cumsuckin’ motherfucker, didja really think I was so desperate to fuck your worn-out asshole that I’d spend that much for ya?”

 

He punctuated his contempt with another blow.  Kris could sense this one coming and tried to turn away but the hand of the buff sadist was gripping his neck too tightly for him to move.

 

Not that it mattered.  Carlos went low this time, delivering a devastating and excruciating gutpunch.  His gloved fist smacked into Kris smooth, flat belly; despite the kid’s firm abs, the jab sank in deeply.  The whore’s throat wasn’t closed off and the gutbash drove the air out of him in a loud, deep grunt.

 

“And now you want more, you fucking pervert?  Ya want more money cause you ain’t enough of a faggot to take my cock?  Fuck, bitch, if I’m gonna pay that much, I wanna free trial.  Ha!  Yeah, cunt, I think I’m gonna try before I buy—you gonna guarantee my satisfaction, huh?  Fuck no you ain’t, you reamed-out pansy-ass whore; ain’t no way a little queer pain pig like you gonna satisfy a real man!”

 

The well-built ex-con let go of the young rentboy’s neck; reaching up, he grabbed the punk’s mouth, the tight leather glove sealing off Kris’s mouth as Carlos’s hand clenched his jaw painfully.  “You do know what happens, dontcha, fuckwad?  You know how this is gonna end.  I’m gonna fuck ya now, and I’m gonna make it hurt—ya like that, huh, dontcha?  Fuck yeah, yer cock is all hard an’ drippin’—ha!  Holy shit—you really want this, huh?  You wanna go all the way?  Saddle up, cumslut, I’m about to make your deepest painpig desires come true!”

 

What happened next happened so quickly that Kris wasn’t even aware that it happened at all.  With one hand around Kris’s jaw, Carlos bent down and, reaching under the whoreboy’s oozing cock, grabbed his ass.  Standing back up, the muscled convict pivoted and tossed the youth onto the bed.  He was standing near the foot of the bed so that Kris landed on his left side, head toward the headboard.

 

Rolling onto his back, Kris gurgled and gasped, still trying to recover his breath.  His bruised and swollen eyes were difficult to open but when they did, he had a blurred view of the hulking form of Carlos towering over him at the foot of the bed, his amazingly sculpted torso glistening with sweat in the reflected light that also glittered on the gold chain at his throat.

 

With exaggerated slowness, the aggressive sadist slipped off his leather vest.  His massive cock dangled over Kris’s fit and nubile body, hot precum dripping onto the kid’s flesh and burning it like melted wax.  The panicked whore tried to beg, to plead for forgiveness or mercy or something—it didn’t matter—but was so terrified that nothing emerged from his trembling lips beyond a shuddering moan.

 

Stooping down, Carlos grabbed Kris’s legs and pulled them up as he climbed onto the bed so that the boy’s shiny Adidas kicks were resting on his shoulders.  Bending the rentboy double, he slapped the swollen purple head of his cock against the slut’s puckered fuckhole.

 

Then all the pain Kris had experienced faded to the intensity of love taps compared to what he had to endure—it was as if someone had suddenly and unexpectedly shoved a baseball bat up his ass without warning and without lube.  If the hot young boywhore had been able to breathe, he might have screamed; as it was, all he could do was flap his jaw and gasp like a dying fish.

 

The pain was so mind-shattering that Carlos had pumped his enormous shaft up Kris’s ass half a dozen times before the latter realized he was getting buttfucked.  While his rectum was being brutally shredded, the well-built rentboy writhed on the smooth satin bedspread and tried desperately to inhale.  He succeeded—but not for long.

 

His mistake was screaming.  Deep in his pig soul, Kris knew that it was a mistake, but he was in too much agony to control himself, and he was too terrified to try.  The whore was well aware that he was trapped, pinned helplessly under his muscle-bound rapist.

 

He was also aware of the stories that circulated among the hustler crowd—horror stories of boys who’d gone off with the wrong trick, only to be found tortured, raped and murdered when they were found at all.  He’d always listened to the tales with a sort of amused contempt, not fully believing them, and certain that he was far too smart to be caught in such a situation should it occur.

 

But tonight he’d been drunk and high and horny.  He’d mixed business and pleasure and had been too fucked up to recognize any red flags.  It was his own fault but if he could just survive this night—

 

—and then the panic bubbled over and the welling scream finally burst from Kris’s swollen, bleeding lips.

 

“Goddam, ya stupid sack a’ shit, shut the fuck up!” Carlos bark, his face twisted in rage.  He rested more of his heavy, buff body on the flailing punk, pinning the cunt to the bed with his cock.  Kris’s own swollen, throbbing cock was pressed between their two flat, firm bellies; his hightops jerked and kicked on his rapist’s shoulders  As Carlos leaned in, his hard, handsome, cruel face filling Kris’s field of vision, the boy inhaled the deep masculine scents of pheromones and mansweat.

 

“I’m sick of yer squealin’, pig,” Carlos hissed, “And it’s time for you to die anyway.  Beatin’ the fuck outta yer fag ass got me all kinda hard, bitch, huh?  Yeah, ya like that idea?  Ya like gettin’ worked over by a real man, faggot?  Fuckin-A, I think I’m blow a load here soon—ya know what that means, dontcha, ya homo cumdump?  It means I’m gonna put ya down like a fuckin’ dog—fuck, I hope this hurts.  I hope ya die in horrible fuckin’ agony, dude—it’s so goddam hot!”

 

With a quick shift of his arms, Carlos wrapped one leather-gloved hand around Kris’s neck and clamped the other over the whore’s face, sealing off his mouth and nose.  Just before his air was cut off, Kris got whiff of musky leather scent from the black glove.

 

Then he realized he was suffocating.

 

Carlos hunched down over the helpless youth, their torsos pressed together in hot sweaty mansex, fur scraping over skin on a lube of testosterone-spiked perspiration.  Kris’s battered, blackened eyes bulged in terror as the convict sneered and spit in his face.  The whore closed his eyes but couldn’t turn his head—Carlos was putting a lot of his weight on his arms; his hand was literally crushing the cunt’s nose and lips.

 

Some part of his mind, walled off from the agony of the brutal assrape, was able to discern a faint jingling sound amid the grunting of the rutting top and the noise of violent sex.  Feeling the killer’s spittle slide down his cheek, Kris opened his eyes again, catching sight of Carlos’s gold chain.  The boy knew what the jingling sound had been.  The thick chain seem to be dancing in the air with malicious glee, coming to life with each of its owner’s deep, repeated thrusts.

 

Each penetrating plunge of his killer’s cock brought searing agony to Kris’s rectum, but every part of his body was flooded with pain.  Beyond the shiny dark do-rag covering Carlos’s head, Kris could see his own hightops kicking feebly in the air; he had no idea that the slashing pain across his midsection was from being doubled-over.  Carlos’s ferocious gutpunch had torn the slut’s liver; this position was tearing it even more.  Left untreated, the injury was large enough to cause Kris to bleed to death internally with about forty-five minutes…

 

But there was other pain.  His once-adorable face had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp out of which his large brown eyes now protruded grotesquely, tiny hemorrhages popping up in the whites.  His long blond hair, dark and matted with sweat, was spread in tangles across the gold satin comforter.  And the excruciating pressure that the muscled and tattooed convict was now exerting on his already-broken nose and torn lips made him claw frantically at the killer’s hands—only to find the leather gloves so smooth and tight he was unable to catch a grip.

 

And then the pain got really bad.  It got bad because Kris had been without oxygen for almost a minute; reflexively, his body fought for survival by dumping a shitload of adrenaline into the dying rentboy’s bloodstream.  When it hit his brain, it triggered a tsunami of panic.

 

Kris was suddenly very, very aware that he was dying.

 

He jerked and kicked desperately, his hands flailing against Carlos’s rock-hard body.  One hand reached up to the sadist’s grinning face, scraping at the rough stubble on his face; the other hand, grabbing at Carlos’s chest, managed to snatch the gold chain and yank it, but the thick metal links didn’t give way.  The kid let go, reaching around to beat fruitlessly against the stud’s steel-like bicep.

 

Carlos stopped thrusting, giving his powerful thighs a break.  He didn’t need to pump any more anyway; the meat was doing the work for him now.  It was something he’d learned from Nick—at a certain point, the fuckmeat loses its shit and starts bucking like a bronco.

 

“All ya gotta do then,” Nick had said, “Is pretend like yer breakin’ a horse, ya know?  Ya gotta stay in the saddle and ride it till it tires out.  If ya work it right, you can hold the fag in that position and make it milk your cock until it’s down for good and you can let those fuckin’ hot-ass anal convulsions jack ya off…”

 

That was exactly what Carlos was doing now.  His huge, powerful arms were clamped onto Kris’s face and neck and locked like iron bars.  His monstrously engorged shaft was buried deep in the youth’s guts.  His leather-clad legs were spread wide, his engineer boots secure on the floor, giving his hunched-over posture the stability to keep the struggling rentboy pinned into place.

 

“That’s it,” he murmured quietly, barely above a whisper, “That’s it, bitch, fight it.  Keep fightin’ you useless faggot whore, keep fightin’ for yer worthless life—it ain’t gonna do you no good, but it’s doin’ me plenty good right now, cunt!  Fuck yeah, keep it up, motherfucker, yer working my tool so fuckin’ good right now—aw, fuck, dude, is that yer tongue?  I can feel it through the glove, cocksucker, yer tongue is stickin’ out!  Ya know what that means?  It means yer dyin’, asswipe, yer gonna die here and now with my hog up yer guts—ain’t that so fuckin’ hot, ya cumsuckin’ fag?”

 

Trembling on the verge of brain death, Kris heard the words and understood them but wasn’t able to process them fully through the roaring, pulsing silence that was darkening his pain-wracked existence.  Pressure was building in too many places—his head, his ass, his chest, his scrotum—that he couldn’t focus on anything.

 

His frenetic clawing had stopped; his hands were now gripping Carlos’s upper arms tightly in what could have been mistaken for the acquiescent clutch of an eager, willing bottom.  His wild thrashing slowed to a more rhythmic movement.  As silent explosions burst in his head and dimmed his vision, Kris was still aware of his painfully-erect dick.  It had been—and still was being—massaged between his flat, smooth, sweat-slick belly and Carlos’s hard, ripped, furry abs and had not stopped throbbing and oozing throughout Kris’s ordeal.

 

Carlos had noticed it too.  “You fuckin’ disgustin’ faggot pig,” he sneered, hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it into the whore’s tear-streaked face.  “You deserve this, you piece of queer shit, dontcha?  Ya know it, too, cocksucker—that’s why yer dick is hard, innit?  Fuckin’ homosexual scumbag pervert, ya know ya need to get put down like a cock-worshippin’ pig!  This is what ya needed, huh—a real man to take ya out?  You were just waiting for the right dude to come along, weren’t ya—someone man enough to treat ya like the worthless piece of garbage ya are?”

 

The sadistic killer’s cruel words faded to a ringing echo in Kris’s mind as more and more of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation.  His hands slid up Carlos’s arms and over his shoulders, past his own sporadically quivering black Adidas hightops.   As death approached swiftly, Kris’s hands clutched Carlos’s muscular back.  Jerking his arms involuntarily in his final few moments, the young boywhore held his murderer in an embrace tighter than any lover’s.

 

As a result, their faces were close together at the end.  Kris was being crushed in the grip of an icy, all-consuming darkness, but he could still feel parts of his body—and he could hear.

 

“Ok, faggot, I’m gettin’ bored with yer ass—you done worn out yer welcome, bitch.  I got shit to do; I ain’t got all night waitin’ for you to get me off.  I’m a busy man, dude, time for me to drain my load and move on.  Yer a suck-ass whore, by the way—hope ya got cash in yer wallet, cunt; you owe me for the time I’m takin’ to waste yer useless ass.  So ya ready to get this done?  I sure the fuck am, scumbag.  Die, you worthless motherfucker!”

 

It was a single swift movement that was utterly spontaneous; in the blink of an eye, Carlos had let go of Kris’s mouth, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of as much of the kid’s hair as he could.  Wrapping it around his right hand, he yanked that arm back with a might jerk that made his inked bicep bulge even more; at the same time, he threw himself down with all his weight on his left arm.

 

Kris’s head snapped forward and, with the splintering sound of shattering vertebrae, popped off the top of his spinal column.

 

The whore’s last experience in his pathetic, wasted existence, was an electrical shock that ran through his entire body, holding him momentarily in an agonized paralysis as his balls exploded and released a raging flood of semen through his rigid shaft.  His boiling deathload spewed in a solid stream of cum that lasted for a good fifteen seconds, hosing the dead slut’s belly and splattering up along Carlos’s chest.

 

Instinctively, Carlos bent his head back as a final wad shot between them, splashing against the picture window and smearing the view.  Carlos’s reaction was instinctive because he was cumming so hard himself that his eyes rolled back in his head.  His massive, well-built body bent back, rigid with extreme stress as the hulking alpha injected the dying boycunt with his load, pumping what felt like a dull quart of manseed into the dead kid’s convulsing fuckhole.

 

Carlos’s huge puckered scrote wasn’t empty, though—bending forward to send his second jet of spunk into the youth’s guts, the sadist was so lost in his bloodlust that he leaned too far forward over his victim.  His boots had good deep tread, but they could only go so far.

 

Carlos fell forward, full-length on his victim’s trembling corpse.  He ended up spewing his final wad into the dead boy with his face in the mattress, cheek-to-cheek with that of the corpse, now doubled over into a position that would be impossible for a living person.

 

And there they stayed for at least three minutes while Carlos regained control of himself.  Heaving and panting, he finally straightened up, withdrawing his still-throbbing purple cock from his victim’s ruined anus. Heading for the bathroom, he kept one hand wrapped around the head of his shaft to avoid having any cum drip onto the carpet.

 

After all, he already had enough of a problem figuring out how to clean the bedspread and take out the garbage before Nick got back; he wasn’t afraid of Nick, but he wasn’t sure how the dude who paid the bills would react to something like this, so he wanted to keep it on the DL…

 

 

Carlos didn’t watch the videos Nick made of him; his interest was in the doing, not the viewing, for which Nick was grateful.  The experienced snuff producer had known that the cameras he’d hidden in the condo—more than twenty in the bedroom itself—would come in handy with Carlos around.

 

He’d seen the video within an hour of returning from Tahoe; it was edited and posted online at a very high premium by that evening; it had returned a record profit by morning.

 

No, Nick was not angry about Carlos’s solo adventure.  Not at all.

M4M4yung

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories, The Trucker3 Comments

It was the username that caught Joe’s eye—“yungboi4daddytop.”

 

That was all it took for him to pause.  He’d been scrolling through the users on a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior victims.  He’d just gotten done with an assignment that had kept him working for eight days straight, and now he wanted to enjoy himself.

 

Lounging in an easy chair, the muscular stud could feel his cock swelling in the crotch of the faded jeans wrapped around his thick, powerful legs.  It was late—about eleven-thirty in the evening.  He’d eaten and showered after he’d gotten home, now he was relaxing, half-dressed and horny, looking for prey.  Glancing back down at the phone, Joe read the posting.

 

”Btm boi looking for rough Daddytop.  I’ve been bad.  Punish me.  18, slim, smooth, look younger. Prefer muscular, hairy, over 30.”

 

The post was accompanied by a photo; a torso-only shot.  The kid had the slim, lean body of a young teen, with fair skin and large nipples on his smooth chest.  Joe threw his head back and laughed aloud.  He could snap this one like twig, and this kid was making it so easy…

 

Joe sent a response and included a shot of his own hairy, ripped abs.  He didn’t have long to wait for a reply.  “Hey dude ur hot wanna fuck?  I got a place.”

 

“ok when and where” Joe returned.

 

“Now.  U know diamond court motel?  On old smithfield hiway past the trailer park?”

 

“Yeah”

 

“Room 21.  Left side when u pull in ill be there in 15 mins”

 

“k.  omw”

 

Joe knew the place; at least, he’d passed it on occasion.  Another motel that had stopped being a viable concern decades ago when the bypass was built and was now only hanging on because there was zero demand for the property and the taxes were rock-bottom.  It was the kinda place that was known for drugs and prostitution—and occasional police raids—and Joe wondered how this skinny white twink was familiar with it.

 

Well, he’d soon find out.  He walked back to the bedroom and slipped on a black short-sleeve compression t-shirt that emphasized his broad, muscled chest.  Sitting on the bed, he next pulled on a pair of brown lace-up work boots that came halfway up his calves.  Standing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grunted in satisfaction at the image of hard, dangerous masculinity that he saw.

 

The motel was about twenty minutes away.  When he got there, Joe parked his vintage Camaro out of sight behind the building.  The thick soles of his boots thumped loudly on the pavement as he rounded the corner of the building and knocked briefly at the door of room 21.

 

 

The door opened and Joe found himself staring down into the face of a teenager.  The kid had short straw-blond hair and a pug nose.  His almond-shaped eyes were jade green and almost feline.  The boy broke into a broad grin as his eyes roamed over Joe’s well-built physique, and Joe decided the kid had the most punchable mug he’d ever seen, and he had restrain the urge to follow through on it.

 

“Damn, motherfucker, you the dude from the app?” the kid asked, his face twisted into a leer.

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied tersely.

 

“Fuck, you’re hot,” the boy gasped, “c’mon in, man.  Name’s Jon—no ‘h’—by the way.”

 

Joe walked into the room.  It had been remodeled sometime in the sixties and the furnishings would have been considered cool in a retro sense, if they had been in better shape.  As it was, the boxy blonde-wood dresser and nightstands were scarred and pocked with burns; on the other side of the door was a small round table of more recent date, but just as badly worn.  This was set with two armchairs with dark vinyl covering the padding; the vinyl had multiple tears covered with tape that didn’t quite match the shade.

 

In short, it was a cheap shithole.  Joe closed the door behind him, slipping the chain on and turning the lock in the center of the knob when Jon turned to the side and switched on the AC unit built into the wall under the window.  It came on with a grinding thrum that began to move the warm, fetid air.  Glancing up at Joe’s face, Jon seemed to notice the scorn there.

 

“Yeah, it’s nasty, but they don’t ask no questions when I rent a room here.  Other places think I’m too young, but they don’t care here.”

 

It wasn’t illegal to rent a room to an eighteen-year-old, but the kid did indeed look younger.  Of course he could show his ID and get a room anywhere with no problem—but Joe could imagine situations where he wouldn’t want to show an ID.  Like this one.

 

Jon provided more.  “You wouldn’t believe the dudes I met here.  I did a three-way with my swim coach and the assistant principal of my high school here in this room four months ago.”  His smooth, faintly freckled face blushed red.  Joe had finished reconnoitering the room, noting the queen bed opposite the door and the slightly ajar bathroom door on the far left wall.

 

Looking back now at the kid, he noticed that Jon was already completely nude, aside from a thin black strand of rawhide around his throat from which dangled a pentagram in beaten silver.  The boy wasn’t scrawny, but Joe’s thigh was almost as thick as Jon’s waist.  A fine gold peach fuzz covered the boy’s flat belly, thickening as it descended to a mass of golden curly pubes from which projected Jon’s enormous cock.

 

It was, in fact, somewhat smaller than Joe’s shaft, but in proportion to his slender form, Jon looked like he had a horse dick.  And it was already swelling and stiffening as the teen faggot slut reminisced about his adventures.  Shame that Mr. Adams, the assistant principal, had got caught banging that boy on the swim team and killed himself; he’d been an amazing fuck…

 

Joe smiled with cold contempt and began to peel off his shirt.  Tossing it on the floor, he noticed that he’d gotten the punk’s attention.  The kid was staring at Joe’s massive pectorals, his large dark nipples jutting above the dark, wiry fur that clustered tightly over the alpha’s chest and swept down his washboard abs.

 

Jon gave a faint moan as memories of past conquests were wiped from his shallow, lust-centered mind.  This dude was the shit.  He had to have him; he had to have him inside him…

 

“Fuck me,” he gasped, almost inaudibly, his eyes wide, “Fuck, dude, fuck me…”

 

Joe grinned evilly.  It was too easy.  The stupid little faggots always made it too easy.

 

And for that alone, if nothing else, they needed to suffer.

 

“Not yet, boy,” he sneered at the groveling teen homo, “Ya gotta earn this dick.  Get over here and work my nips, bitch.  Now!”

 

Jon stepped up placing his hands on the older man’s rock-hard pecs and running his fingers through the stud’s chest fur—so wiry, it felt like steel wool.  The twink put his mouth on Joe’s right nipple, licking the firm mound of flesh.  At the same time, his hand came up carefully gripped the other nipple between the thumb and forefinger, pinching it and twirling it.

 

As Jon worked Joe’s nips, the alpha stud could feel the kid’s long dick, bobbing about so that the oozing head occasionally slapped his inner thighs.  “Switch sides, cunt,” he snapped, and Jon obeyed, moving over and gently taking the stud’s left nipple between his teeth.

 

As he did so, Joe reached down and unzipped his fly.  He had to flex his knees and shift a bit to get the full, throbbing length of his huge manmeat out its tight denim confinement, but Jon followed him like a good pig, never letting the hard, erect nipple leave his mouth.

 

Jon felt Joe’s massive hog flop out and stood back.  Looking down, he was stunned to silence; fully limp, the dude was more than six inches long.  As he watched in horrified fascination, the enormous shaft began to pulse and swing as it started to get hard.  He could already tell, this was much larger than any cock he’d taken in the past.

 

This was gonna fuckin’ hurt.

 

And he wanted it so fuckin’ bad.

 

Joe could see it all, the way lust glazed the boy’s eyes as the kid stared at his dick, the way he panted excitedly.  He’d hooked his prey.  Whether he reeled it in gently or violently didn’t matter; it was hooked, and it wasn’t getting away.

 

“Suck it,” he commanded.  “Suck my fuckin’ dick, bitch.”

 

Jon hesitated.  “I—you’ll choke me, dude…”

 

Joe’s grin became more shark-like.  “Yeah.  Now get on it, faggot.”

 

Opening his mouth, Jon leaned forward tentatively, but the sadistic alpha wasn’t putting up with it.  The slim blond twink suddenly found his head, clamped in a vise-like grip, jerked roughly forward.  His open mouth was immediately plugged with thick, throbbing cockmeat as the older stud’s mushroom head forced its way into his esophagus.

 

“Swallow it, cunt, take my dick all the way down,” Joe grunted as he applied pressure to the back of the teen’s head.  Jon started to struggle as his air was cut off.  He beat uselessly on Joe’s muscles thighs, still tightly constrained in his faded jeans.  The youth’s eyes started to water as the massive vein-wrapped tube of flesh continued to sink further into his throat.

 

Even in his frantic airlessness, Jon couldn’t help the fuckpig thoughts from bubbling up: my god he’s so deep he’s gonna shoot a load straight into my stomach that’s so goddam hot…

 

But of course, after a while, the physical intervenes.  Jon had been breathing through his nose for as long as he could, but when Joe’s shaft slid over his epiglottis and sealed off his lungs, he literally started to suffocate.

 

“Worthless faggot twink, can’t even take a real man,” Joe sneered as he partially withdrew his rod—just enough to let Jon gasp for air.  Once.  After a deep inhale, the kneeling teen felt his head being forced inexorably back down onto the older dude’s dick.  He wasn’t ready; he hadn’t recovered enough.  “HORK!” he gagged as jets of foamy drool burst out around Joe’s cock and dangled off Jon’s chin in long streams; more foam shot from the boy’s nose and dribbled down his face.

 

“Choke on my hog, you stupid bitch,” Joe snarled, his handsome face twisted in contempt.  “You ain’t shit as a cocksucker, ya know that, cunt?  What kinda pansy twink are that ya can’t even suck a dick right, huh?”

 

Jon was flailing frantically, his mind awash in fear.  He liked a dominant older top, a daddy who would hold him down and fuck him as “punishment,” but this combination of hate-filled abuse and physical ruthlessness was unlike anything he’d ever experienced or anticipated–or hoped for…

 

The kid’s hands, clawing their way down Joe’s legs, hooked into the alpha’s nearly knee-high workboots, snagging on the laces.  The sadist jerked his right leg back and swiftly kicked Jon, the steel toe of the boot driving directly into the teen’s flat belly.  At the same time, he let go of the kid’s head.

 

Jon flung himself backwards with almost explosive force, ending up crouched on the floor at the foot of the bed.  His slim, nubile body was heaving and glistening with sweat as he coughed and gagged, one hand around his throat while he braced himself against the bed with other.

 

“D-dude,” he gasped, then coughed up more foam.  “I-I can’t. No-no m-more, man, y-you’re hot, but—”

 

“But what, ya fucking homo cunt?” Joe barked.  “Ya gonna back out now, bitch?  You stupid sack of shit, it’s way too late for that.  You wanted daddy to punish ya, boy, huh?  Yer gonna get punished, all right.  Yer gonna get exactly what queer-ass cumsucking punk kids like you deserve!”

 

Jon’s eyes rolled wildly, like those of a panicked horse; with a sudden effort, they focused on the door beyond his assailant.  His reaction was reflexive; almost mindless—he bolted.

 

His lithe body, with its lean swimmer’s build, was quick, but Joe—despite being well-built—was not so muscle-bound that he couldn’t reach out and snatch the teen as he sprang forward.  Clamping his hands around the boy’s upper arms, he jerked the slender twink up and held him, literally kicking in mid-air.

 

A familiar feeling of pleasure and power swept of Joe.  The kid was slender but not skinny; there were muscles attached to his slim frame.  His smooth skin stretched tautly over his pecs and delts, his biceps and thighs—and Joe could break him any time he wanted.

 

He was gonna enjoy this.

 

At some point, he realized Jon was begging.  “…please, man, don’t hurt me no more, oh fuck, lemme go, please, please…”

 

“Shut up!” Joe barked and spit in the kid’s face.  Jon gasped in shock; he’d never been treated with such utter contempt.  He’d met so many guys here—classmates, some of his friends’ dads, the Baptist youth pastor—and they had all worshipped his slim teen body.  They’d fucked him, but—but this relentless coldness, this complete disregard of him as a person—this degradation to a sex object—

 

Jon was a shallow hormone-driven faggot slut, but he wasn’t an idiot.  He didn’t know exactly what was about to happen, but he had no doubt it would be bad.

 

Joe was still holding the twink in the air by crushing his arms against his sides; the longer he was held there, the more Jon suffered.  The powerful sadist grinned and drew his prey in closer, peering into Jon’s face.  “You sure you’re eighteen?  Yer ad was right, ya do look younger.”

 

Jon had spent several minutes suspended by his arms; he was forced to lift his entire body weight with each breath.  He could only stare frantically into the icily handsome face of his attacker and gasp like a landed fish.

 

“Well, yer ad said ya were and that’s good enough.  After all, if yer old enough to die for the government, yer old enough to die soaking up my cum.  Ready, boy?”

 

Jon kicked out in blind terror, his bare foot making contact with Joe’s denim-wrapped inner thigh.  It wasn’t as bad as if he’d racked Joe, but it was still a mistake.  Joe was enraged.  He raised the boy up, then slammed him straight back down onto the floor.

 

The cheap, thin carpet provided little padding against the concrete slab underneath.  Jon hit the floor with enough force to stun him and drive the breath from his body.  His lithe, slim form writhed on the scratchy synthetic carpet as he tried instinctively to breathe.  Semi-conscious, his eyes rolled back as he jerked and flopped on the ground.

 

The quivering, moaning punk felt rather than heard the thump of Joe’s big boots on the floor; prying open one eye, he had the impression of the vicious stud standing over him, although all he could see was a ladder of bootlaces up the alpha’s leg.  Then he noticed that one foot was drawing back—

 

The teen faggot didn’t even have time to cower before Joe kicked him brutally in the chest, the steel toe of the work boot impacting Jon’s sweaty, heaving flank and neatly snapping two ribs.  The hulking sadist grinned as the boy squealed.

 

“There ya go, cunt, how’s that?” he sneered malignly.  “Ya like that, ya stupid piece of shit?  No?  Tough shit, ya worthless queer-ass bitch—you gotta learn what happens to whoremeat that tries to back outta the deal.  There’s a penalty, son, and you gotta pay it.”

 

Then he paused and let out a grim chuckle.  “And I don’t think you can pay, boy.  I think yer gonna run short.  And that means I’m gonna hafta take it outta yer hide.”

 

Jon stared up at his assailant.  Joe wasn’t a bodybuilder, but his recent workouts had enlarged his muscles and gave him a powerful, masculine presence that stirred the young slut’s balls despite the pain and overwhelming fear.  The twink shuddered in agony, but could still feel his cock throb treacherously, responding to the undeniable eroticism of the sculpted stud who was inflicting such shattering pain on him…

 

“Ha!” Joe cawed harshly.  “I can see yer fuckin’ cock, homo—goddam, fag, yer already oozin’.”  He bent over, leering into the teen’s pain-twisted face, knowing the kid’s dick was involuntarily erect.  Happened every time.  Little fucks always seemed to be surprised when he put them down; they all wanted it—they just didn’t know it until it actually happened.

 

“No—no…” Jon gasped weakly.  He writhed feebly on the floor as the cheap, thin carpet dug into his back and the silver pentagram danced on his firm chest.   His lithe, smooth body slick was with sweat.    His face, pale with agony, was wide-eyed in bewildered shock; it was obvious that the assault had taken the hot teen slut completely by surprise.

 

He flinched, instinctively and vainly, when Joe reached for him again.  The powerful alpha stooped, one-handedly grabbing the youth by his right arm and jerking him into the air.

 

The kid screamed as his right shoulder was twisted violently out of place, tearing tendons and ligaments.  “Quiet, cunt!” Joe barked, drawing back his free arm and driving a roundhouse punch straight into Jon’s jaw.  The slender blond fag grunted as his head popped back.  His teeth snapped closed violently, biting through his tongue; blood trickled from his swollen, split lips.

 

The sadistic top caught his slightly warped reflection in the mirror above the dresser; the glass was cheap but huge, visible from most of the room—including the bed.  He smirked at the image of his broad, hard body holding the twitching boymeat aloft.  His legs were spread wide, the tight denim jeans highlighting his muscular thighs and his strong calves making his tall laced workboots bulge.

 

Standing straight out from his crotch, his enormous tool was thick and dark.  It throbbed visible in time with his rapid heartbeat; each pulse forced viscous, translucent beads of precum to stand out on the hulking killer’s mushroom tip.  His left bicep was swollen with the strain of holding the kid up, but there was no strain in his hard, darkly-scruffy face.  In fact, the only sign of effort was the faint sheen of sweat on his broad, furry chest.

 

In his grasp, the smooth young boy dangled, his arm visibly twisted out of joint.  The semi-conscious teen was moaning, his eyes rolled back in his head and a thin trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

 

And even with all that, Joe noted with cold amusement, the little homo cunt’s cock was still hard.

 

Jon groaned loudly.  Joe smiled.  “You back, boy?” he whispered.  “You coming back?”

 

The teen moaned, responding to the gentle intonation.  “Good,” the alpha said, his voice suddenly hard and cold.  “Then you’ll feel this.”

 

Jon was flying through the air before he was aware of anything more than a sudden increase in the searing pain in his shoulder.  He realized that his buff, powerful attacker had hurled him at the bed; it flashed through his mind in the split second before he smashed into the headboard and vanished into a loud, painful darkness…

 

Joe looked down contemptuously at the blond youth’s unconscious body, face-down and twitching limply on the rumpled comforter.  the kid had landed on his right arm, managing to pop it back into its socket–the torn ligaments and stretched muscles severely limiting motion.

 

Joe paced around the bed, admiring the teen’s smooth form; the thought of plunging his huge stiff rod into the helpless boy’s fuckhole made his piss slit dilate to allow an almost steady flow of precum to seep out.

 

As he moved around the bed, Joe grabbed his thick, throbbing dickmeat and slapped against his palm, sprinkling his hot manjuice over the mewling cunt’s body.  Jon was slowly clawing his way back to consciousness.  Once he was sure his prey was awake enough to comprehend, the cruel alpha spoke.

 

“Hey, faggot—back just in time to get this party started!”  The cold lustful glee in his voice stung Jon’s confused, pain-wracked mind like a whip; the punk panicked, wallowing helplessly on the bed.  His right arm  was practically useless, nearly as bad as broken.

 

The terrified teen wasn’t able to actually gain any traction.  His bare feet slipped on the slick polyester comforter while his left arm grabbed at the sheets, yanking them into disarray.  He kicked and flailed uselessly, the icy fear that chilled his heart growing as the brutal sadist neared, slowly and deliberately.

 

Jon sobbed in terror, trying to understand what was happening.  The thin sheets scratched at his face; the feeling was familiar.  A single lucid inappropriate thought slashed through the emotional and physical shock in the teen’s mind—he’d been here, last Saturday.  Here, in this room, on this bed.

 

He’d buried his face deep in the mattress to muffle his own moans as Danny Helms fucked him.  Danny was the star of the high school wrestling team and had been since his freshman year.   He was incredibly butch and usually juggled several girls at once.  He also managed to come across as a serious douchebag as he publicly critiqued the skills of his various bitches.

 

No one knew that handling the writhing, sweaty, struggling bodies of other young men got Danny hard.  He’d been fucking Jon on the DL for a couple of years.  And last Saturday had been most recent—here.  Right here.

 

Somehow, the memory of that incredible fuck with a buff FWB added to the teen fag’s confused disorientation. Whatever was happening, it had to be a dream.  This couldn’t be real, not here, not for him.  If he fought hard enough, he might be able to wake himself out of this nightmare—

 

—then a hand clamped down on his shoulder, a large hand, hard as iron, and he knew he was awake.  Despite his inexplicable and downright painful erection, Jon still found himself pissing in terror.  He gulped and started hyperventilating, unable to speak or cry out as he was jerked roughly down the bed.

 

“C’mon, bitch,” the hard-bodied sadist growled as he manhandled the slim, smooth twink into position, “Time to take my shaft.  You know you want it, cocksucker, so quit actin’ like ya don’t.  You stupid cock pigs always squeal when ya get the dick, but deep in your worthless faggot soul, ya love it, dontcha, boy?  Yeah?  Ya want a real man to show ya exactly how worthless a faggot ya really are?  Fuck, asswipe, it’s yer lucky night, cause that’s what yer gonna get!”

 

Suddenly, before Jon realized what had happened, he found that he been maneuvered so that he was on his knees on the bed, his face down on the sheets and his ass in the air, vulnerable and exposed.

 

And then it wasn’t exposed any more.  At first, Jon had a hallucinatory flash, an image of a billiard ball being shoved up his ass.  But the alpha’s sharp hiss in his ear dispelled that notion.  “Does it hurt, homo?  It shouldn’t, you fucking whore—how many dudes you taken, cunt?  Huh?  How many?  I bet you been gettin’ fucked by all kinda horny teen fucks at school, yeah? How many, faggot?”

 

Joe’s thighs bulged briefly as he flexed his powerful legs and drove his engorged rod all the way in, burying himself balls-deep in the teenager’s torn, penetrated fuckhole.  As his wiry pubic hair abraded Jon’s smooth asscheeks like steel wool, his swollen, purple head probed deep into the kid’s intestines.

 

Jon screamed.  He’d been fucked rough before, but he’d never endured anything like this; no one else had been anywhere this huge—and no one had been this brutal.  They’d eased their way in, tenderly and lovingly; even Danny, while dominating him and pinning him to the bed, had gone in gently.

 

There was nothing tender or gentle about this and there sure as fuck wasn’t any love.  By the same token, the room was almost foggy with male pheromones given off by their slick, sweaty bodies…

 

And the searing pain continued.  He tried to escape; he really did.  His slim but muscled legs kicked back, entangling themselves helplessly in the sheets.  His left arm reached up, clawing at the headboard, but all he managed to do was dislodge the fitted sheet, revealing the stained mattress underneath.

 

Joe pulled out, leaving just the bulbous head of his cock still in the kid’s ass, allowing Jon’s shriek to taper off before he slammed it in again in a single brutal thrust.  The writhing teen punk screeched as the massive shaft tore back up through his colon.

 

“Shut up, cunt!” Joe barked but Jon wasn’t able to comply; the pain was too much.  Joe decided to make him obey.  He grabbed a fistful of the teen’s blonde hair, and using it like a handle, forced the weeping youth’s face down into the mattress, muffling the sounds of the sobs.

 

In addition to the horrible agony of getting his guts reamed out by this psycho alpha’s horsedick, Jon suddenly found himself being suffocated.  Even though the stud was only holding him down by gripping his hair, the dude was so strong, he was able to straight-arm the young fag’s head deep into the rough, lumpy mattress.  He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t turn his head, even slightly, to either side.

 

Joe knew exactly what he was doing.  He savored the way panic made the boy’s stretched-out sphincter retighten around the base of his dick.  It kept its grip as he pumped his swollen tool into the struggling faggot’s asshole.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” the muscled top grunted.  With one hand still forcing the teen’s face into the bedding, he ran his other hand over Jon’s trembling back, sliding smoothly along the film of sweat wrung excruciatingly from the kid’s body.  “Yeah, that’s what it takes, huh?  That what ya need, ya homo bitch?  Ya like it when ya can’t breathe?”

 

Over the panicked pounding of his pulse, Jon could hear his assailant’s taunts—but he didn’t understand them.  There was so much pain in his violated rectum that he was aware only of what was happening with his sphincter; the words made no sense.  But the lack of logic only made the aggressive rapist’s words even more terrifying.

 

And even though was happened next was even worse, it took Jon a moment to realize it.

 

At first, his only sensation was that of relief—the hulking stud let go of his head, allowing him to raise up and gasp deeply, coughing and groaning.  Simultaneously, the dude pulled out, leaving the teen homo quivering on the bed, feeling like he’d been raped with a baseball bat.   Jon’s abused body went limp like a doll with its stuffing torn out—which was more or less what Jon felt like.

 

Then grip closed on his shoulder again.  This time he was flipped, the brutal alpha spinning his body as easily as if it was a toy.  The teen found his self on his back, dizzy from the violent motion.  He was almost spread-eagled with his right leg sliding off the bed, the sheets still lightly wound about his right foot.

 

Glancing down between his parted legs, the terrified youth found his attention focused on two things.

 

The first was the towering form of the well-built top standing at the foot of the bed.  Jon’s attention would have been dragged to Joe in any case, the latter’s hairy, sculpted torso drawing the young fag’s gaze with a gravitational attraction.  The toned stud’s broad chest was heaving with exertion and slick with sweat; beads of perspiration glittered in his wiry fur.

 

But more than that—the dude’s cock, jutting out in front of him from the open fly of his jeans, seemed to be even larger that Jon remembered—although that could have been the pain talking; the helpless teen was still shuddering in agony from the vicious assrape.  But the threat implicit in that swollen, throbbing shaft, oozing a swiftly-dripping stream of precum, had a hypnotic effect on the slender young homo.

 

Joe’s handsome, chiseled face was lit with lust and cruel glee as he looked at Jon’s crotch.

 

And that was the second thing Jon noticed—his own thick shaft, glistening and slick.  It was softening but was still at least six inches above his flat, smooth belly.  He vaguely wondered why he’d been hard…

 

Jon was right, Joe was looking at his cock.  He knew the answer to Jon’s question—and he knew that Jon would be asking it.

 

“See, ya stupid motherfucker?” he chuckled grimly, “I toldja ya liked gettin’ choked, yeah?  Right?  Fuckin-A, dude, I knew you were a worthless little pansy pig the moment I set eye on your twink ass, bitch.  Can’t even keep it up unless I squeeze ya some, huh?  Yeah?  Ya like that, cunt—my cock up yer ass while I wrap my hands around yer throat and slowly squeeze the life outta ya?  Well goddam, boy, it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night!”

 

Again, Joe grabbed his massive tool and slapped it into his other hand, splattering the fuckmeat’s firm, smooth thighs with a sprinkle of glazed manjuice.  As the kid whimpered, the cruel alpha smirked and glanced at his face.

 

The boy’s green eyes were wide and desperate; his blond hair was matted and several shades darker with sweat.  Each panicked gasp the punk took was labored; his two broken ribs had not punctured a lung but his lean swimmer’s abdomen still shuddered with pain every time his chest moved.

 

And then the alpha was over him.  Not in him, not yet, but on the bed over him.  Jon opened his eyes and saw the huge muscled form poised above him.  The sudden realization of his utter helplessness washed over the teen like an ice-cold tide.  No one would miss him for several hours yet; even then, no one knew where he was.

 

That was plenty of time for this dude to hurt him bad.  And he didn’t know anything about the guy except that he was hot as fuck—and he got off on hurting Jon bad.

 

The blond youth stared up into his tormentor’s face, his green eyes rimmed with tears and wide with desperate appeal.  “P-please, no…” he whispered in horror as Joe’s cold, hypnotic gaze held his focus.  “D-d-don-don’t hurt-hurt me, m-man, please, n-no, fu-fuck no, p-please…”

 

“Yeah,” Joe whispered back, “Beg, you fucking fag.  Beg for your worthless pig life.”  Sneering, he cleared his throat and spat on Jon’s face.  The boy obeyed; he instinctively knew that it was useless to resist.

 

“Please, sir,” Jon gasped, his voice quavering, “don’t hurt me, sir, I-I’ll do whatever you want, dude—anything.  I won’t tell nobody, I been fucked by older dudes before, sir, lots of ‘em—”

 

“Oh holy shit,” Joe grunted impatiently.  He flashed a quick rabbit-punch straight from his shoulder to Jon’s jaw, knocking out the kid’s left canine.  “Shut the fuck up, cunt, I’d rather hear ya scream.”

 

He got what he wanted right away.  As the slender homo twink shuddered in pain and coughed up his tooth, Joe grabbed his legs and pushed them back, all the way over until Jon’s knees were nearly touching his ears.  Lean and limber as he was, Jon cried out as his body was bent double—but it was nothing to the shriek of agony the kid emitted as the alpha plunged his swollen, throbbing tool in full-length.

 

There was no warning.  There was no preparation.  Jon had been too dazed by the blow to his face to realize what having his fuckhole so exposed meant—until it was plugged, stretched beyond capacity by an enormous, pulsating tube of manmeat.

 

Joe grunted and planted his tightly-laced workboots far apart on the bare mattress, making sure he had enough traction for his bulging thighs to support him while he powerfucked the faggot cunt.  The fuckmeat coughed and gagged as its chest was compressed into an unnatural position, but the violent ass-pounding soon forced another loud screech from it.

 

“Shaddup, ya sack a’ shit,” Joe snarled viciously.  “Yer gettin’ too loose to fuck, faggot—and if ya ain’t good fer fuckin’, you ain’t good fer nuthin’, huh, cunt?”

 

He spit into the teen’s swollen face; Jon felt the hot spittle slide down his bruised, aching cheek.  He opened his mouth to scream again; it was reflexive, tied to the pain.  What rational mind the tortured blond youth had left realized that more sound would bring more pain, but could do nothing to intervene.

 

Something did intervene, though.  Suddenly, large, strong hands wrapped around Jon’s neck and tightened relentlessly.  Jon’s large green eyes, already wide with fear, opened to an extent that was almost comical.

 

At least, the smirking sneer on the sadistic alpha’s face indicated he found something amusing in the situation as he slowly crushed the boy’s throat.

 

Jon didn’t—wouldn’t—recognize the glitter in the buff stud’s eye as the gleam of homicidal lust.  He clawed at the vise-like grip at his throat as his firm, smooth body jerked and flailed beneath the muscled mass of Joe’s furry torso.  His bare feet kicked the air over Joe’s shoulders as his air was cut off.

 

He still refused to believe he was dying.  He hurt so bad—oh fuck he hurt so bad, he was being fucking impaled holy Christ it hurt so much—but his craven pig soul still clung to its youthful sense of immortality.  Jon was simple incapable of conceiving of his own death.

 

And Joe knew it.  He grinned in erotic anticipation, and knowing that seeing is believing, gave a sidelong glance at the large mirror.

 

He was gonna be able to show the teenage fuckmeat its own snuff.

 

He clenched his hands, feeling the punk’s esophagus give under the pressure.  The boy grimaced and thrashed, his ruined ass sliding along Joe’s huge, vein-wrapped shaft.  The buff killer didn’t even have to pump…

 

“That’s it, cunt.  Work my dick like a good fag.  An’ all it took to turn ya into a cockpig was gettin’ choked a little, huh?  Guess what, ya worthless piece of homo shit, I’m just gettin’ started.  I’m gonna use you like a cumrag and leave yer corpse like the garbage it is.  Ya like that, boy?  That get ya off?  I guess it does, you sick motherfucker, yer dick is hard as a rock.  Fuck, I’m gonna do the world a favor, puttin’ a pervert like you down—ain’t that right, fuckwad?”

 

Again, Jon heard the words but there was a disconnect from reality.  His guts were being reamed out by a huge throbbing mantool; his colon was being wrecked beyond repair, but it was the grinding, squeezing pressure that circled his throat like an iron band of ever-diminishing diameter that claimed his attention.

 

The teen slut was slender but strong; he kicked and jerked violently in his frantic attempt to break free.  He stopped trying to pry Joe’s hands from around his neck and moved higher, feeling the powerful sadist’s knotted biceps bulge as he literally wrung the kid’s neck.  Jon was nowhere near strong enough to knock Joe’s arms aside; his questing hands scrabbled even further along the stud’s arm.

 

Joe was pumping his rod into the meat’s fuckhole swiftly, grunting with each thrust as he grinned down into the kid’s twisted, agonized face.  “See, I toldja—”  He was abruptly interrupted by the cunt’s fingers, clawing in his face, scratching at the bristles of dark scruff that covered Joe’s cheeks.  Sheer terror had overridden pain enough for Jon to force his maimed right arm up as well, but the searing agony as torn tendons finally split and separated was nightmarish.

 

The dominant alpha grunted; it’d been a while since any fuckmeat had caught him off-guard.  His grip loosened for a moment as the kid’s hands slipped down his hard, sweaty body and grasped at his broad torso, tearing out several strands of wiry chest hair.

 

Jon wasn’t really aware of what he’d done; despite the pain, his clawing had been panicked and unconscious.  He was aware of the results, though—the iron band relaxed; he could breathe.  Exhaling the foul air in his lungs, he inhaled deeply, sucking in lots of fresh oxygen—

 

—then his air was cut off again—swiftly, brutally, painfully.

 

Joe had withdrawn one hand, but had thrown himself forward, straight-arming his other hand directly into the punk’s larynx.  He gripped the fucker’s windpipe and squeezed while resting his entire body weight on that hand.

 

The other hand, clenched into a fist, was pummeling the meat’s face.  Joe provided commentary, accompanied by the smacking sound of flesh on flesh.

 

“You stupid fuck, (SMACK) you must really wanna get hurt, huh (SMACK)?  Gettin’ choked (SMACK) ain’t enough for ya (SMACK), ya worthless cocksuckin’ queerboy (SMACK)?  Ok, you disgusting (SMACK) cum-drinkin’ (SMACK) pansy (SMACK), take what ya got comin’ (SMACK)!”

 

Each blow landed with the force of an industrial piledriver; Jon’s head rocked back onto the mattress, his entire body flinching as his face was beaten mercilessly and his jaw and cheekbones broken.  And at no time did Joe’s pulsing shaft ever ease off Jon’s traumatized asshole; in fact, the meat reacted to each individual blow as if he’d been donkey-punched, his stretched-out sphincter contracting involuntarily—and excruciatingly.

 

When Joe had finally worked off his excess rage, he clamped both hands back around the meat’s neck.  This time, instead of leaning over his prey, he rose up on his knees, still gripping the teen up tightly by the throat.  The light was better like this; Joe could see the thin strand of black rawhide snaking out under his hand and the silver pentagram bouncing on the boy’s sweat-slick chest.

 

More importantly, he could see both of them in the mirror.  As he kept his young victim impaled on his enormous dick, he forced the slut’s head to the side, slowly and inexorably, until the fucker could see his own reflection.

 

And Jon had to.  Even though the lids were bruised and swollen, his eyes were still bulging too much for them to close.  He literally couldn’t close his eyes.

 

The lean, smooth teen was forced to watch himself get raped and strangled.

 

Joe was hunched over the slim, lithe form; Jon’s legs were still wrapped around Joe’s neck and held by his arms.  Pinned on his back by Joe’s muscular weight—and a gigantic shaft of manmeat sunk into his intestines—the young fag was helpless.  Dominated and controlled, he had no choice.  He had to look in the mirror.

 

At first, he didn’t recognize himself; that grotesque, distorted mask couldn’t be him.  But as the pressure built in his chest and the painful buzzing intensified in his dying brain, he could see his eyes swelling, the green irises barely visible as hemorrhages bloomed like red poppies in the whites of his eyes.

 

It wasn’t true; it wasn’t happening.  If he didn’t believe it, it wasn’t happening.  He could fight it off.  He flailed hysterically, his strong smooth arms beating at Joe’s flanks and chest as vainly as if they had been beating marble–at least one was; the other was weakly jerking and twitching in a pathetically futile attempt at self-defense.   And anyway, the alpha stud’s muscled abs were impervious to what feeble force the dying teen could generate.

 

The kid tried to scream; all he succeeded in doing was forcing his bulging, purple tongue further out between his split and bloody lips, accompanied by a thick gagging sound.  But Joe knew the words echoing in the deafening chaos of the youth’s oxygen-deprived brain.

 

“Scream, faggot,” he whispered—not to the struggling pansy choking in his hands, but to the mirror, using the mirror to look Jon in the eyes.  “Pray to yer god, beg for yer mommy—ain’t nothin’ gonna save yer stretched-out fag ass, cunt.  Yer gonna die with my cock buried in yer fuckhole, boy, and you like that, dontcha?  Lookit yer dick, motherfucker, yer homo shaft is hard as steel—ha!” he laughed triumphantly.  “Goddam choke pig, you fuckin’ love this shit!  The harder I squeeze yer neck, the harder yer ass squeezes my hog—fuck, dude, you’re really gettin’ off on dyin’, aintcha?”

 

He turned back to Jon and spit in his face.  The shuddering teen couldn’t feel it, but his fading vision managed to capture the glitter of the saliva as it trickled down his blackening face and mingled with the thick white foam oozing from around his dark protruding tongue.  Even in his final moments of life, his shallow mind was still attracted to bright, shiny things.

 

Joe could tell the kid was almost gone.  The boy’s arms no longer thrashed wildly against him; now, the lean youth was caressing him, the movement of his limbs, even the damaged arm, became more rhythmic as the slut’s brain died.  There was no sense in making the meat watch anymore; it was likely blind by now anyway.  But its sphincter was still responding, and that was the important thing.

 

Joe was close.  He could feel the semen building in his balls; he was gonna blow soon.  The speed of his thrusts increased unconsciously; he could feel the young cunt’s cock slapping moistly against his furry, ripped abs, splattering them with a continuous rain of precum.  The meat was so fucking close itself…

 

Jon was past conscious thought; his body only responding to the random nerve stimuli caused by progressive brain death.  In a final instinctive fight for life, the convulsing youth clawed at his throat again.  This time, his left hand clutched at his silver pentagram unawares, jerking and snapping it free.  A connected chain of electrochemical energy fired in the teenmeat’s failing grey matter; a last flash of Jon’s personality that was somehow aware of pain—crushing pain in the throat, burning pain in the chest, searing pain in the ass—and a straining, frustrating pain in the cock…

 

And then there was a loud crunch that ended everything.  All the teen’s hopes and fears, all his suffering and pleasure, vanished in a moment as his esophagus was crushed in Joe’s powerful hands, his hyoid bone shattering in his throat as his neck collapsed in the sadistic killer’s vise-like grip.

 

Rutting and grunting like a bull in heat, Joe felt the teenaged faggot’s moment of death as the homo kid’s fuckhole tightened frantically at the final moment of brain death, forcing a violent spasm from the dominating alpha.  The sweaty, muscular stud’s skin pumped out pheromones as his thick, pulsating rod pumped out a solid stream of cum with such force it flooded the fairy slutboy’s guts…

 

And Jon’s cock was still erect and throbbing, full of his deathload even after death.  The end had come upon him too quickly for him to enjoy his final orgasm, but the meat still needed release.  Joe obliged.

 

Tightening his grip even more, Joe dug his thumbs into the base of Jon’s jaws and applied pressure.  His biceps swelled and his deltoids bulged as he squeezed and popped Jon’s head off the top of his spine, shattering the young faggot’s neck.

 

There was another loud crunching sound, different in timbre.  It was the shattering of the meat’s topmost vertebra;  as bone shards sliced into the the teen’s spinal column,  there was another clenching of the meat’s ass—and as Joe spewed another hot load of manspunk into the homo punk’s ass, the boy’s dick finally gave way to the convulsions that wracked his entire smooth slender body.  As it bucked like a bronco, the purple, pulsating shaft began to unload long ropy strands of cum that splattered onto Joe’s broad, well-defined chest and matting his fur.  The meat was already dead, long past being able to enjoy his deathload, but the convulsions in his rectum milked several more hot wads out of Joe’s engorged tool…

 

After a while, Joe slowed to a stop and looked over into the mirror.  He saw two bodies, still intertwined—his own, sweating and heaving in exertion, but slowly coming under control, and the meat’s, still impaled on his cock, quivering and trembling spasmodically.  The boymeat’s death throes were slowing almost imperceptibly as Joe withdrew his cum-slathered rod from the homo’s ravaged asshole.

 

The kid ended up flat on his back, spread-eagled, with cum and blood leaking out his ass and a sprinkling of his own cum backsplashed across his smooth chest and flat belly.  His arms were lying slightly out from his sides and his hands were balled into fists; blood leaked from the left on where cadaveric spasm had made him clutch his pentagram pendant so tightly he’d cut his skin.  The cold dead hand still tightly grasped the useless decoration.

 

Standing over the trembling corpse, Joe sneered contemptuously down at the boymeat.  Stupid little sack of shit had gotten what it deserved.  He glanced around for something he could use to wipe off his dripping cock and spied a sky-blue bikini thong lying on the floor next to the bed.

 

What a fucking whore, he thought as he stooped to snatch it up and use it to wipe the oozing cum off his shaft.  Tucking his thick tool back into his jeans, he zipped his fly and collected the compression t-shirt he’d worn on the way in.  The alpha killer could feel the boycum drying to a sticky glaze in his own chest fur.

 

Slipping the shirt on, he took one last backward glance at the still-convulsing corpse, covered in glazed manjuice.    He knew this one was young; he hoped he wouldn’t have too much trouble with it.  When he left, it was nearly a quarter past one in the morning; he made sure he locked the door behind him.

 

The next day, though Joe was cursing himself and deciding to lay low for a bit.  He needed to vet his prey better.  The news was full of the disappearance of the seventeen-year-old son of a Republican state senator…

Interlude: Adam 1

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories7 Comments

Adam had long been in the habit of stalking the muscular young men to whom he was attracted.  He would light on one particular boy and follow him relentlessly, especially if he worked out.  If he got the chance, he would swipe some article of clothing; he had a number of jockstraps, briefs, and sock, but his prizes were the shoes.

 

Adam was a Creeper—psychologically incapable of a physical (or emotional, for that matter) relationship with another male, particularly those to whom he was attracted, he instead tracked them down and infiltrated their lives without them ever becoming aware of his presence in their homes.  Sometimes, he even got in while they were sleeping.  Sometimes, he stared down at their unconscious forms and beat off, spraying long ropy strands of cum across the bed or the floor…

 

The focus of his attention was always a twink of a certain type but, within that type, was usually chosen at random; in this case, Adam had had been on his way to troll a nearby gym that always had a hot clientele.  On this occasion, though, the disturbed youth didn’t even have to go inside the building—something caught his attention in the parking lot.  Something that gave him a new focus.

 

The kid was exactly Adam’s type—young, firm, and built but not jacked.  The boy had dark hair and under a blue jacket be sported a gray t-shirt and black shorts.  He was standing several rows away, so Adam didn’t have a clear view, but the kid had an almost Asian look.  Even at this distance, though, Adam could see the boy, while strong and muscled, was neither as tall nor as developed as he was.

 

That was what Adam liked—someone slightly younger, slightly smaller.  He’d track the kid, maybe steal his kicks and get off on imaging the boy wearing while he—

 

Adam wasn’t quite ready to finish the sentence, even in his own mind.

 

At that moment, another dude appeared.  He was older and incredibly buff; in fact, his hulking form was even more developed compared to Adam’s than Adam’s was to the kid in the blue jacket.  The two distant figures huddled together for a while before separating, something in the body language indicating the older man was dominant.  If the hot twink had had a tail, he would have wagged it as he climbed into a red pickup, and Adam realized that a hookup was about to happen.  He scrambled back to his car.

 

Backing out of his space, he caught a glimpse of his face in the rear-view mirror.  It was an unusually open and innocent face—Adam was only twenty-three—with bright hazel eyes ringed with long lashes.  Tilting the mirror, he checked his gleaming red-gold hair; cut relatively short in what was nearly a flattop, it was the same color as the short stubble covering his cheeks.

 

He’d dressed for the gym himself, his hard, bulging biceps well-displayed in a navy-blue tank top stretched across his broad, buff chest.  Under that, his huge thighs were covered by a pair of Nike Phenom shorts, gray with a black liner visible underneath.  On his feet were a tightly laced pair of Puma Cell running kicks, white with black stripes.

 

The red Ford truck caught his eye; it was almost out of the lot.  He accelerated to catch up but a light-colored car was in front of him.  As it pulled out of the lot and turned in the same direction the truck had, Adam realized that he was following the older dude, who was himself following the kid.  He also realized he recognized the car; it was usually parked a couple of blocks over from where he lived.  It wasn’t a huge neighborhood; there couldn’t be that many champagne-colored 1978 Camaros—and assuredly no others in such mint condition, right down to the tinted t-tops.

 

It didn’t take too long for the convoy to reach its destination, a condo complex with which Adam was unfamiliar.  Noting the spaces into which the two other vehicles pulled, he parked on the other side of the lot.  He waited to get out of his car until he saw the two male figures, both strong and well-built–but one much more so than the other–vanish down the sidewalk into the complex.  Adam made it to the corner just in time to see them enter the last unit on the left.

 

Then he turned around and walked away.

 

After approaching the Camaro and noting the plate number, Adam returned to his car and waited.  He wanted to see what would happen with the lean, muscular Asian youth he’d spotted; maybe he could even sneak in after and collect some trophies—those Nike Fingertrap Max kicks the boy were looked good.  Adam could imagine himself jacking off and blowing a load while wearing them.  There was something about this kid that interested the buff but perverted collector.  He was prepared to wait for quite a while.

 

As it turned out, he waited about an hour before he became distracted.  Adam had kept a sharp eye out; there wasn’t much foot traffic.  At one point early on, a harried-looking woman with an armful of groceries had bustled quickly down the walk.  She was soon followed by a youth who suddenly diverted his interest; the boy had coppery blond hair just barely visible under a dark hoodie jacket with the sleeves jammed up past his elbows.  Beneath that, gray shorts flashed in the dim glow of the security lights; there must have been a metallic shading to them.

 

Losing his focus, Adam got out of his car.  It was a bad idea, he knew, but this one was too hot not to track.  Maybe he’d sneak into this dude’s place too, jack off over his sleeping form like he’d done that one time…

 

Wrenching his mind back to the task at hand and ignoring his throbbing erection as best he could, Adam crept back around the corner to the walkway to see which unit this stud would enter.  He was utterly nonplussed when the hard, lean young stud entered the last unit on the left—the one the other two had gone into.

 

Returning back to his car, a dozen possible scenarios played out in Adam’s sick mind, each one more perverse and erotic in his mind.  Were these dudes partners?  Was a fuckin’ orgy goin’ on in there?

 

He leaned back, resting his head against the car window.  Closing his eyes, the hard-bodied introvert wondered what the older dude was doing with the boys.  Maybe he was doing something to them.  With a smile on his handsome face, Adam began to imagine what he’d do to them if he had them, helpless, yielding, unable to resist…

 

When he woke up, nearly an hour and a half had passed.  He hadn’t planned on falling asleep but he’d been up late the night before snatching that one kid’s undies.  He’d stood in the boy’s room with his cock out, pulling back the blanket—

 

And then the kid started to wake up.  He’d fled, but he’d collected his prize.

 

Well, it had cost him now.  He had no idea what was going on at this point; getting back out of his car, he rubbed his eyes and stretched his strong but stiff muscles.  Looking around the lot, he noticed that the classic Camaro was gone.

 

So the big stud had left.  Adam’s curiosity was aroused as to what he’d left in his wake. The older dude had been larger and better built than Adam himself; the hot young twinks must be worn the fuck out, so to speak—and that meant they’d sound asleep.

 

He headed quickly towards the darkened unit, his Pumas padding quietly down the walk.  The thought of spraying his load across their hot, insensate forms had already gotten his dick hard.

 

As he approached, Adam was disconcerted to see that lights were still on in the unit.  He was even more startled to see that the front door was slightly ajar.  For a moment, a long moment, he paused; he had an undefinable feeling…

 

Then he crossed the threshold and changed his life forever.

 

The unit was small, but nice.  A living room to the right, an open space on the left with a desk and a small table—and dead ahead, a short hallway with a pair of doorways at the end; a faint glow of light came from the one on the right.  No one was visible and the condo was eerily silent.

 

Creeping forward down the hall Adam soon reached the lit doorway. He peered around the corner—and his whole world was rocked.  He could only gaze, stunned and slack-jawed, at the scene in front of him.

 

At first, the buff young pervert thought he’d walked in on the two twinks having sex; they were on the floor, nude.  The blonde kid was on top, his mouth open and full of thick cock.  From his position, Adam couldn’t see the face of the kid on the bottom but the single Nike Fingertrap shoe on his right foot identified him as the Asian boy.

 

It took Adam a good ten seconds to realize that there was something wrong with the erotic tableau.  It was silent and motionless—and there was something wrong with the blond’s eyes; they were rolled back, glazed, staring sightlessly towards the ceiling…

 

The realization that they were dead flashed through Adam’s body like an electrical bolt; almost literally a sensation of shock…that was not unpleasant.

 

Nor was the throbbing of his hard shaft.

 

Suddenly, one of the bodies moved.  Adam jerked, visibly startled, but a closer looked showed him that the boys were so freshly dead that the corpses were still kicking.  And that was when full understanding washed over his hard, muscled form.

 

He had exactly what he’d always wanted, a hot young twink helpless before him—two, actually—unable to resist his sick, twisted desires…

 

Reaching into his Nike shorts, Adam grasped his thick, pulsing dick and pulled it out, brandishing it like a weapon as he approached the quivering pile of meat.  No more jacking off.  He’d never had sex with a man before.  It was time.  Finally, it was time.

 

He pulled the blond kid’s head up off the somehow still-hard cock on which it was stuck and shoved his body off of the Asian kid; the blond was hot but it was the latter he was really after. As the dead twink rolled off onto the floor, Adam could see the boy’s face, swollen and fading from purple to cyan, covered with a white crust of semen.

 

Revealed under him, the slim but muscled Asian youth had also been obviously strangled to death.  What appeared to be a thin leather band was cinched tightly around the kid’s throat, but it was sunk in too deeply for Adam—who hadn’t seen the boy closely enough earlier to notice his choker—to figure out what it was.  At the moment, it didn’t matter anyway.  What matter was that Adam now had the little punk’s hot, hard body all his own, to use as he wished…

 

First, he wanted to add to his collection, though.  The dark-haired corpse still sported one Nike Fingertrap; after a glance around the room, Adam spotted the other, nearly hidden in the tangled bedclothes.

 

It took no more than a minute to slip out of his own Pumas and into the Nikes.  Then he returned to the body, ready to fuck the corpse while wearing the dead kid’s own kicks.

 

He bent down and lifted the youth; the kid was well-built and it took more effort than Adam anticipated to raise him up to the bed.  As the body slumped forward, the head lolled forward limply onto the chest, showing how the kid’s neck had been snapped.  Adam didn’t care; his dick swelled and throbbed as he held the fit, sinewy, cooling corpse tightly in his arms before tossing it halfway onto the bed, facedown, with the smooth bubble butt at the edge and the legs dangling to the floor.

 

Holding his dark, pulsing shaft in one hand, he slapped it into his open palm, stiffening it further as he moved in.  The boy’s ass was covered with a fine dark haze of almost invisible fuzz; the firm cheeks lightly smeared with a mix of cum and blood.  It was clear his hole had been recently brutalized, but the thought of sloppy seconds didn’t put Adam off.

 

There was almost no resistance as he mounted and penetrated the corpse.  He was well hung himself, more than six inches of throbbing manmeat, but the boy had already been thoroughly reamed out.  It still didn’t matter.  Digging the dead kid’s own Nikes into the carpet, he shoved his rod up the punk’s colon; he could feel occasional twitches as the still-quivering corpse passed through the final few minutes of its death throes.

 

Hunched over the athletic teen’s body, Adam’s muscular form heaved and bucked as he impaled the boymeat.  The only sounds to break the deathly silence of the condo were Adam’s visceral grunts and the rutting, smacking sound of flesh slapping together.  The buff young pervert was still clothed, his gray shorts around his ankles and sweat darkening his already-dark tank top.  His coppery gold hair glinted in the light as he rode the helpless, inert form of the dead twink to orgasm.

 

Adam cried out inarticulately as his hot, spurting jizz injected a last moment of warm life into buff Asian boy’s ass.  Panting and shuddering, he found himself pounding the boy’s back, involuntarily driving his fist into the cooling slab of flesh pinned under him.

 

After a bit, he was back in control.  He pulled out of the corpse, the spade-shaped head of his still-swollen cock accompanied by an oozing wad of spunk.  Standing up, he took a step and was staggered by a wave of vertigo so intense, he had to reach out and steady himself against the wall.

 

The sensations that accompanied his first physical sexual encounter with another person were overwhelming.  He found himself dazed and trembling, awash in an erotic warmth that kept pearls of cum dripping from his curving, semi-soft rod.

 

Almost instinctively, Adam knelt and picked up a small gym bag that was on the floor, partially hidden under the other kid’s body.  The collecting desire was still in force; pivoting, he grabbed the blonde’s thick, furry calves and manhandled his legs, now cold and still, into a more convenient position.  Unlacing the Nike Flight Falcon kicks, he slipped the gray and white hightops into the bag.

 

This time, when he stood up, he wasn’t dizzy.  Tossing the bag onto the bed, he stepped out of his short and crossed the room, his shadow elongated to the side from the single lamp.  Crossing the hall into the bathroom he found the dim light just sufficient for him to wash off his dick.

 

Back in the bedroom, he retrieved the bag from the bed and added his own Pumas to it.  He thought briefly about adding the socks as well but, while the blond twink had his pair, the Asian hunk was missing one of his—and it didn’t seem to be anywhere around.  Since he was planning on wearing the latter’s kicks home anyway, he zipped the bag up and headed to the door.

 

In the doorway, he turned and took a look back.  The blond was on the floor, his arms by his sides, his legs slightly bent.  The young, fit, Asian stud was still lying face-down on the bed, his legs hanging off the bed with the feet curled so that the soles were visible—well, one; the other still had a ped sock.  A fresh layer of spunk glistened on the pale globes of the corpse’s asscheeks.

 

Sighing deeply with pleasure, Adam left the bedroom and then the condo itself.  He’d been so fixated on fucking the Asian that he’d almost forgotten about the blond boy.  And that was a shame.

 

The blond was straight.  And he’d been skullfucked, not assfucked.  Adam had missed a virgin fuckhole, and he never knew it.

 

On the other hand, he did know a killer.

 

He confirmed it the next day.  He thought he’d seen the Camaro parked a few blocks from his apartment; the plate number proved him right.

 

From then on, it was easy to stalk the deadly stud once Adam knew what he was looking for; both the killer’s car and his well-built physique stood out.  It was easy to follow him in a crowd; it was easy enough to follow him to the park.

 

Adam took notice of the kid he was meeting—dark-haired, with a slim swimmer’s build, the kid wore gray shorts and a pair of Nikes, blue and fluorescent yellow, but nothing else.  His broad, smooth chest glistened with sweat in the strong sunlight, highlighting the star tattoo on his left pectoral muscle.

 

Adam himself had slipped his own Pumas back on; in black jersey shorts and a simple white cotton t-shirt, he was able to keep the two dudes in sight ahead of them on the jogging path.  Putting his creeping skills to good use by making sure he was well back in the shadows, he was able to see them head for the park restroom.

 

He knew.  All he had to do was wait, and he knew the slim, fit young boy would be his…yielding, helpless, all his…

 

His knowledge and confidence were shaken when an older man, strolling along the path with his wife, turned aside and went into the bathroom.  Rigid with anticipation, Adam counted out several tense minutes until the man emerged.  His expression was neutral, his reactions normal—nothing to indicate he’d walked in on a hot rape and snuff.

 

The second dude to go in, a long, lank solitary jogger, also came out unperturbed.  Adam’s confusion increased.  He couldn’t see the actual door to the men’s room from his position; had they really entered it or were they off fucking in the woods somewhere?

 

The well-built young pervert tried to keep a lid on his rising anxiety levels.  What if he’d been wrong this time?  He’d been crouching in the underbrush long enough for his powerful legs to grow stiff; if he’d been wasting his time…

 

Wait.  There he was—the muscular older stud.  He had just walked into view around the corner of the building; after glancing around surreptitiously, he set off jogging back down the path.  Adam watched the well-built man as the latter headed to the park; his eyes taking in the sculpted torso, glistening with sweat and the thick, firm legs pounding his orange Nikes onto the pavement.

 

Adam rose and stretched, glancing around himself prior to heading towards the bathroom building.  One last backwards look at the corner confirmed that the coast was clear, then he ducked inside the dark, dank building.

 

Inside, Adam paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom.  Ahead and to the left, he could see a pair of legs sticking out of the far toilet stall; the body was obviously face down, the blue and green kicks spread far apart on the bare concrete floor.

 

The hard-bodied pervert stood over the corpse and fondled the huge bulge in his shorts.  He stepped back for a moment and slipped his shirt—and his Pumas—off before kneeling down and prying the Nikes off the body.  Still on his knees, he put the Nikes on himself.

 

He didn’t know why it was so hot to fuck the dead kid in his own kicks, but it was.  And with that thought, the demented stud reached into his shorts and pulled out his thick, throbbing shaft.

 

Sighing with deep pleasure, he thrust his dick between the corpse’s still-quivering asscheeks.  As he penetrated the reamed-out fuckhole his hands slid up the boy’s lithe, smooth back, still slick with deathsweat.  The kid’s head was turned to the side—Adam could just make out the swollen, congested face.  It looked nothing like the hot young punk who’d entered the building, and the muscled pervert found that even more enticing.

 

As he pumped and grunted, Adam reveled in his possession of the hot young twink.  This was how he liked his boys—yielding, helpless, under his complete control.  His muscled legs slapped against the dead boy’s firm but motionless thighs.

 

This one seemed to take a little longer, though.  The kid was hot—but loose.  Adam was still gripped in the erotic lust of having the youth exactly the way he wanted him, so after a while he found himself gasping and moaning loudly as his hard shaft pumped cum into the corpse’s already-violated fuckhole.

 

Pulling his dripping shaft out of the cold meat, Adam stood up and went to the sink.  He could see his own hard, muscled chest, sweaty and heaving as he got his breath back, his coppery hair now dark and matted.  Outside, there a noise—a child yelling at another—that suddenly reminded him that he was in public.  Half nude, cock out and dripping and a fucked-out corpse lying in the toilet stall behind him—he needed to go.  Now.

 

Quickly wiping his dick down with some wet paper towels, he grabbed his Pumas and rolled them up in his t-shirt.   He went out the door without a backwards glance, but he did stop to reconnoiter the scene and make sure it was clear.  One he was sure, he tucked the rolled shirt under his arm and jogged leisurely off in the direction of his car.  He looked like any other muscular young man getting a run in on a warm afternoon; in fact, the only bit of color about him to attract any attention were the blue-and-fluorescent-green Nikes on his feet.

 

The third time, Adam watched the snuff happen.  He hadn’t planned on it, but he’d had to follow the killer.  He’d tracked the older man back to the park—the rec center at the other end of the park, specifically.

 

The rec center was a large building.  Adam realized that there’d be no way to track the stud once he vanished inside; he would have to dog his footsteps and see where he went.  And that was how he ended up in the pool area, peering around the corner into the locker room, a raging erection tenting his knee-length jogging shorts.

 

He saw it all—the rough facefuck at the start was hot, but he wasn’t quite as interested in the massage or the way the lean, fit blond was running his tongue over the alpha hunk’s body.

 

After all, Adam still preferred his meat motionless and helpless.   He watched the renewed skullfuck with a kind of erotic impatience; he wanted it to be over.  But when the process of actually making the meat motionless started, he perked up.  In fact, he was fascinated.

 

Adam heard the older man dominating and humiliating the young faggot and felt his shaft pulse, but it began throbbing rhythmically not long after the beating started.

 

The vicious killer was swinging a sock into which he’d dumped a large padlock.  Each blow, each scream, each gruesome snap of shattered bone, got Adam harder and harder.  It had been a revelation to him that he got off on fucking corpses; it was an even greater one that he was enjoying the sight of the hot punk becoming a corpse.

 

He flushed and panted as the killer dragged the broken, ruined twink across the floor by a cord around his neck, but when he jammed his massive tool up the kid’s ass and started strangling him, Adam could only watch, agape and on his knees in stunned awe.

 

It went on too long and was over too soon.  The horrific struggles of the dying youth were the stuff of nightmares; Adam was almost overwhelmed watching a life being taken right in front of him.  But, yet…there was something—well, something sexual about it.  He didn’t understand it, but it drew him.  He’d never wanted to know this part; he just liked the boys quiet and still, unable to resist him.

 

Now that he was seeing it, though, he was drawn to it almost hypnotically.  He couldn’t look away.

 

And throughout the entire thing, he could feel what seemed to be electric shocks running the length of his rigid hog.

 

At the end, he was entranced by the boy’s blackened, desperate face and his incredibly sensual convulsions.  As the little slut died, he seemed to caress his killer, slowly and gently, the way Adam had always wanted to be caressed.

 

Despite his well-built physique and handsome scruffy face, Adam was too damaged to engage in a normal gay relationship.  It wasn’t due to any repressed sexuality; it more some sort of bizarre idiopathic inferiority complex.  For whatever reason, he’d always felt so certain he’d be rejected by the hot young twinks he wanted so badly that he’d never actually attempted to initiate anything with one.

 

Hence his desire to possess one who could never reject him, one with—or, rather, to—whom he could do what he wanted.

 

Now, he was learning something else.  Now, as he watched the sadistic older alpha heave and grunt like a rutting stag as the blond kid died in agony, Adam found that he was learning how to deal with that implied rejection.

 

He needed to make the little faggot cunts pay.  He knew he was bigger and stronger than most of the boys he’d fixated on.  He could do this to them.  He could show them what he thought of them first, before fucking their dead, helpless assholes.  He could even remember how to get back into their apartments; at least, some of them.

 

The hairy older stud was finally done cumming—he’d shot his load for several minutes, or so it seemed—and regained his feet, gasping for air as his sweaty muscular flanks heaved.  After taking a moment to recover from his explosive orgasm, the alpha killer padded off to the shower, leaving the dead boy sprawled face-up on the bench on which he’d been raped and murdered.

 

The body was still kicking; it was all Adam could do to not run over and start fucking it immediately.

 

But the shower had shut off; the killer would be on his way out.  The budding young psycho looked around for shelter, and saw the diving platform fifteen feet away, past the locker room door.  The older stud wouldn’t pass it on his way out; it was perfect.  He quickly crossed the open space (a swift glance through the locker room entrance showed the killer toweling off his buff body, facing away) and hid in the shadows of the platform.

 

In the few moments he had to wait, he slipped the Pumas off his feet.  The killer left, his footsteps silent in his own pair of Pumas—they were black Tazons, Adam noticed; he’d almost gotten a pair himself.

 

It didn’t take long to pull the dead kid’s white Nike Free RNs off and stick his own feet in them; he’d always been able to handle a size or two larger or smaller, but these happened to be a perfect fit.  It took somewhat longer to roll the body over, but once he did, Adam could clearly see the damage done to the homo’s ravaged fuckhole.  The boy had been torn.

 

In fact, he was so torn, he was loose.  Adam slipped his purple, engorged rod into the corpse’s ass, sighing as he penetrated the cooling, twitching rectum.  Placing his hands high up on the boy’s broad back to support himself he leaned forward and fucked the dead body, his hips thrusting forcefully against the shuddering boymeat.

 

The kid’s ruined, blackened face smacked against the wooden bench as Adam banged his corpse.  He flopped limply, helpless and unaware of the further indignity to which his already-violated body was being subjected.

 

Adam felt himself building to orgasm, but most of his stimulation was mental.  He was replaying the snuff in his mind, watching the hot twink being dominated, raped and strangled.  The boy’s colon was too reamed out by the older man’s enormous dick to give Adam much pleasure itself.

 

As he stiffened and grunted, his hot steady spurt of cum mingling with that of the sadistic alpha killer, Adam knew what he needed to do.

 

First, he hauled the corpse out of the locker room.  Peering out the door to make sure the coast was clear, the handsome, well-built necro pervert dragged the abused, semen-filled fag to the pool and rolled it over the edge into the deep end.  He wasn’t entirely certain why, but it seemed appropriate.

 

Then he returned to the locker room.

 

The dead kid’s locker was still open.  Nimbly avoiding the pools of coagulating blood, Adam pulled a towel out of it which he used to wrap up his shoes.  Carrying the innocuous bundle, he left the scene of the brutal crime without looking back.  The pool area was dark, with scurrying glints of reflected light.  The dark, huddled shape under twelve feet of water was barely visible at the far end.

 

With a smirk, Adam turned away.  He wasn’t quite the same sick creeper he’d been when he first started tracking the alpha killer stud.  He still wanted his fuckmeat dead—but now, he wanted to be the one to make it dead first.

 

Grinning broadly, Adam left the rec center.  Wearing a dead kid’s shoes and sporting a huge—and very obvious—erection, he was already planning his first kill…

Trucker 9–Trucker vs Trucker

On By m3mayhemIn The Trucker1 Comment

The Trucker knew he was being followed.  Not literally, of course, no one knew exactly where (or who) he was—but the cops were damn sure gonna be searching.  That meant he needed to take some steps to make sure the trail went cold.

 

That meant getting several states away.  It took self-control to go that length of time without wasting a bitch, but the Trucker had the discipline that comes with experience.  He’d held off, feeling rage and sperm building inside him, but keeping a lid on the simmering angry lust was taking an effort.

 

Now he was crossing northern Oklahoma.  It was late and he was heading east; darkness had closed in some time ago.  As he began to look for a truck stop, a thought occurred to him—there was a boy out there in the night, somewhere not too far away, happy and carefree and probably horny, who had no idea he wasn’t going to live to see dawn.

 

There, ahead in the distance, the colorful sign advertising a major stop shone out brightly from the top of a hundred-foot pylon.  Full bathrooms with showers, all facilities including a truck wash.  Likely busy, but such places had huge lots and most dudes parked as close to the facilities as possibly; the far edges would be less crowded.

 

A cold grin crossed the Trucker’s face.  It was time.  It was finally time.  As he approached the exit he wanted, he downshifted, slowing the rig.  Then he took a moment to shift another shaft—the huge, throbbing shaft in his crotch.

 

As the truck rumbled off the highway onto the frontage road, the Trucker bore to the right into the truck stop, passing the diesel pumps to head towards the back of the huge paved lot.  He didn’t need gas; his tanks were more than half full.

 

What he needed, he decided, was privacy.

 

At the back end of the lot he finally pulled to a halt, up against a chain-link fence that separated the commercial property from what was evidently an empty field.  He was on a state highway, somewhere west of Vinita—but at fifteen miles to the west, it was the closest town.  The truck stop was an island of glowing, buzzing light in a sea of darkness.

 

But it was busy.  The Trucker knew he’d have no problem finding prey; there were always whoreboys at truck stops.  Shutting off his rig’s engine, he opened the door and jumped out of the cab, the thick soles of his work boots thumping loudly on the cracked concrete pavement.

 

It was warm and humid.  The Trucker’s gray sleeveless t-shirt, already stretched tightly across his massive, muscled chest, was starting to become slightly transparent as sweat seeped through.  The black jeans that wrapped around his firm thighs and strong calves were cinched off at the waist by a wide leather belt the same shade of brown as his boots.  His coal-black hair was mostly hidden by the cadet cap he wore, jet black with the brim slightly cured at the ends.

 

Walking quickly across the tarmac, the buff alpha with the jet-black hair and goatee dug into the rear pocket of his jeans.  The denim cradling his taut, firm ass showed the outline of a crumpled box; retrieving it, the Trucker fished out the last his last remaining cigarette.  Tossing the empty pack to the ground, he lit the smoke.

 

The flash of his lighter was followed by a faint flicker of light to the northwest.  Peering into the darkness, the Trucker was unable to make out anything; he kept moving.  He was only about two-thirds done with his cigarette when he reached the main entrance to the truck stop; pausing outside to finish it, he caught another flicker out of the corner of his eye.  Stepping around the side of the building in an attempt to keep as much light out of his eyes as possible, he gazed intently to the northwest and was soon rewarded with another flash.

 

No doubt about it.  Bad weather moving in.  Grinding the glowing butt under the heel of his work boot, the Trucker turned his back on the storm and went inside.

 

The glass doors led into the convenience store.  Restrooms and showers were to the left, a lounge and game room were to the right.  In the back was an all-night diner.  The Trucker headed towards the latter; it’d been hours since he’d last eaten.

 

The diner wasn’t small, but its narrow layout gave it a somewhat cramped appearance even though it was it was only about a quarter full; the muscular alpha caught a glance or two from the men nearby, but it was impossible to see any of the men in the back of the place.  But they would be men.  The only woman in the place seemed to be the middle-aged platinum blond who was writing down orders with a bored expression.  She glanced up as the Trucker made his way down the narrow aisle between the tables.  “Sit anywhere ya like, hon,” she said in a desultory tone, “I’ll be by to getcha in a sec.”

 

There were only a couple of other tables occupied in the rear half of the diner as he settled himself at a small two-top.  About eight feet away, a man sat at a similar table, facing him. He had an open menu up in front of him and the Trucker couldn’t make out too many details.  Impossibly wedged into a booth in the far corner, two older, obese men in caps and coveralls were demolishing a platter filled with ham and eggs.

 

The Trucker picked up a menu himself and opened it.  It was simple grill fare—a limited breakfast menu, some hot and cold sandwiches and burgers, cheap nachos with industrial-grade cheese and, topping out the menu at ten bucks, a “strip steak” that was undoubtedly tougher than the Trucker’s boot leather.  He was still looking at the sandwich selection when the waitress approached.

 

“Ya ready?” she asked. As she leaned over the table, the Trucker saw her plastic name tag; the label marked “Darlene” was already starting to lift up and peel off.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, “Lemme get a ham and swiss on rye.  Lettuce and mustard only.”

 

“And ta drink?” she drawled.

 

The Trucker glanced over the menu. “You got beer?”

 

“Naw, we don’t serve it in here,” the waitress said wearily; it wasn’t the first time she’d been asked.  “Ya can buy it out in the store till two—lessee, it’s only twenty past one now; you got plenty of time after ya eat to get some.”

 

The Trucker pondered for a moment.  “Ok, that works.  Just get me a cup of coffee.  Black.”

 

“Sure thing, hon,” she said lethargically as she shuffled off.  The Trucker replaced the menu in the rack on the table.  He needed to get beer, and another carton of Marlboros, and maybe—would this place carry zip ties?  Some truck stops did and this one was certainly full-service, it was likely…

 

“So that’s a cheeseburger fully loaded, fries and a Coke, right?”  Darlene’s voice broke in on the Trucker’s thoughts.  “Yeah, that’s it,” came the reply in a gruff but youthful male tenor.  The waitress was standing between them, but as she left to turn in the orders, the handsome alpha finally got a glimpse of the dude at the other table.

 

He was young, but there was something hard in his expression; maybe it was his eyes—they looked mean.  His face was smooth except for a fine line of dark scruff that ran along his jawline, carefully trimmed to a razor-sharp edge.  His clothing was well-worn, from his frayed light-blue baseball cap with its brim curled from repeated washings to the short-sleeve button-down shirt in faded plaid, half-open to display his smooth chest.

 

Under the table, the Trucker could see a pair of torn and frayed jeans clinging to the kid’s slender legs.  Under that, he’d jammed on a pair of work boots in such a hurry that the cuffs of jeans had gotten stuffed inside them.  Like the Trucker, his boots were also brown leather, but they were so old that the heels were half-worn and the shafts were soft and slouched to near the ankles, with the jeans bunched just above.

 

The boy glanced up—and froze, his large brown eyes looking directly in the older man’s ice-blue ones.  The youth’s jaw fell open; he appeared to be stunned.  Breaking eye contact, the kid let his gaze roam over the Trucker’s hard, well-displayed form.  He’d twisted his slack-jawed gape into a leer and was about to lick his lips when Darlene, appearing out of nowhere, plunked  a plate with a burger and fries in front of him.

 

“Here ya go, hon,” she said in a tired voice, “Watch the plate, it’s hot.”  And old pro, she handed him his glass of soda from a heavily-laden tray she held in one hand.  Passing straight from him, she approached the Trucker’s table and dropped off his sandwich and coffee.  “Lemme know if ya need a refill,” she muttered before changing course and dropping off the check for the men in corner.

 

The boy had picked up his burger; he wolfed it down greedily but kept his eyes on the Trucker the entire time.  The experienced alpha took his time over his ham on rye, occasionally throwing a side glance and faint smile at the kid.  He knew he’d hooked his fish, but he didn’t want to be seen on camera reeling it in; he needed to play with the line for a while.  In the end, it was a near tie; the kid had eaten more quickly, but he’d had more food too.   But there was just enough of an overlap—when the boy stood up and began walking out, the Trucker had half a cup of coffee left and bill for $5.95.

 

The young man paused at the Trucker’s table, just as the latter expected.  Staring directly into the older man’s face, he rubbed the very visible tentpole in his soft, frayed jeans.  Looking up momentarily into the kid’s eager eyes, the alpha gave an almost imperceptible nod.  Beaming happily, the boy exited the diner.

 

Leisurely finishing his coffee—the slut would wait—the Trucker left eight bucks on the table before edging his large, muscled body down the narrow space between tables.

 

The younger man had been milling around out in the convenience store—it was huge, with all kinda of items, anywhere from CB radios and GPS devices to winter coveralls.  He popped up the moment the Trucker came out.  “Hey, man,” he said in his rough tenor, “Ya got a smoke?”

 

“Naw, man,” the Trucker drawled, “Was gonna get a carton after I ate.  Ya wanna bum one?  Go out to the smoking area, the one around the side to the left.  I’ll be out.”

 

It worked like a charm; the little fucker hightailed it.  As he turned, a swinging glitter of light caught his eye; the boy’s wallet (clearly outlined in his tight jeans) was secured to a belt loop by a surprisingly strong-looking chain.  The buff sadist pondered for a moment, chuckling, before heading to the cashier.

 

The moment he stepped out the door, he became aware that the storm he’d seen in the distance had closed in very quickly.  The faint flickers now took on the aspect of floodlights repeatedly blinking on and off.  Low background rumbles of thunder were more felt than heard, and once he got around the corner, the rising outflow breeze was more heard than felt.  It whistled at the corner but in the shelter of the building, he was able to get a strong enough flame to light up smokes for both of them.

 

The kid took a deep drag.  “Thanks, man.  Name’s Dave.”

 

“No problem,” the Tucker replied.  “So, what’s going on, Dave?”

 

“Aw, y’know, nuthin’—well, that is, y’know how it is when ya been out on the road awhile by yerself, y’know, ya just kinda wanna find someone to hang with…” Dave muttered, an embarrassed grin on his face.  It was clear what he wanted, but he had no idea how to broach the subject.

 

The Trucker removed the stumbling block—not in the name of mercy, but in the name of efficiency.  “Ya wanna come hang out in my cab?  I can go get a six-pack of beer; was gonna get one anyway.”

 

The slim young trucker perked up, grinning ear-to-ear.  “Sure, man, sure.  I—uh, well…” he faltered, then rallied.  “Got-got any poppers?” he asked timidly.

 

The powerful older stud chuckled indulgently.  “Naw, dude, don’t use ‘em myself—but if you wanna, go for it.”

 

Even happier now, Dave replied, “I got some back in my cab.  You got a sleeper?  Lucky fucker, can’t afford one myself.  Where ya parked?”

 

“I’m out at the far end by the fence,” the Trucker said, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder, “That way.”

 

“Fuck, I’m on the other side.  Lemme run while you get the beer.  What’s yer rig like? “

 

“Can’t miss it; it’ll be the big blue sleeper up against the fence—” the buff alpha was interrupted by an especially intense flash of light.  “What the—” Dave cried before the rest of his exclamation was drowned out by a reverberating peal of thunder.

 

“Better run, boy,” the Trucker laughed, “Don’t wanna get wet—yet.  See ya back at my place…”  As Dave took off running in the night, the hollow thudding of his boot heels fading into the distance, the alpha turned back into the store, his recently-purchased carton of Marlboro Reds tucked under his arm.  One entire wall was covered in beer coolers; the selection was truly impressive.

 

Glancing at the clock over the door, the Trucker noticed it was ten to two.  He had to be quick, but not rushed.  Looking over the display, he was pleased to notice a brand of bock lager made in Texas he was familiar with.  He grabbed a six-pack and made it back to the cashier just in time.

 

It never occurred to him to ask Dave what kind of beer he wanted.  It didn’t matter.

 

As he strode quickly back across the concrete parking lot, weaving his way among the various rigs parked in orderly lines, he felt the occasional random splash of a large raindrop on his head, shoulders or arms.  The flickering of the lightning had increased in frequency, as had the volume of the thunder; it was nearly percussive now.

 

Reaching his cab, the Trucker hoped the little faggot made it back before the storm broke—he didn’t want wet meat in his cab.  Not that he’d turn it down, of course, but still, it would piss him off.

 

He shoved the beer in the mini-fridge in the sleeper compartment and, tossing his cap aside and peeling off his t-shirt, settled into the passenger seat to await his fucktoy.  A sudden violent blast of wind rocked the cab and the Trucker began to worry that this one might get away—when the boyish face with the hyper-trimmed beard popped up in the driver’s door window.  The Trucker motioned that it was unlocked; in an instant, Dave was inside.

 

And not a moment too soon; at that moment, the skies broke open and a torrential downpour began to hammer relentlessly on the roof of the cab; the visibility beyond the windshield suddenly something like six inches.

 

“Damn, man, just in time,” the Trucker drawled, “C’mon into the back, if ya want, the fridge with the beer is back there.  We can sit on the bunk; it’s an extra-wide.”

 

In a haze of lust, Dave followed the towering, hardbodied stud into the sleeper area.  “Fuck, dude,” he said, his voice dripping with envy, “This rig is the bomb!  I ain’t even gotta sleeper bunk, man, I can’t afford it…”  His impression of the back of the cab was somewhat fragmentized, though; the Trucker left the light dimmed to a bare minimum.  The primary illumination was the flashing of lightning.

 

The Trucker squatted to get the beers out of the fridge, deliberately giving Dave a good look at his ass, tightly wrapped in black denim.  Taking his cue from the tone of the punk’s voice, he decided to try a little sympathy.

 

Sitting on one side of the bunk, the muscular sadist patted the foam mattress next to him.  “C’mon and have a brew, dude, and tell me about it—young hot boy like you should be makin’ lotsa dough.”

 

The blush on Dave’s face made it clear he’d caught the gay compliment.  He spoke hesitatingly, stumbling over his words. “I-I…well, fact is, I-I got a wife…”  He trailed off, gulped, and then it all came out in a rush.  “Five years ago.  Prom night.  I got drunk as fuck and my buds and me went out with these skanks and, well, anyway, I don’t remember a damn thing but she got knocked up and we had to get married.  Her folks and mine.”

 

In a single swig, he threw back half the bottle of beer before resuming his story.  “Couldn’t say no, y’know?  And then she wouldn’t stop partying and lost the kid.  So now I gotta keep supportin’ the bitch.  And ya wonder why I spend all my time away from home, out on the road lookin’ for dick…”

 

Actually, the Trucker hadn’t wondered at all and was bored with the faggot recital of woes, but as the punk finished the rest of the bottle with another deep gulp, he popped the lid off another cold one and handed it to Dave.  As fast as the cunt was pounding them down, he was gonna be pretty hammered real soon.

 

“So yer lookin’ for some cock,” the Trucker mused, one hand fondling the elongated bulge in his groin.  “Lessee what ya got, first.”

 

The younger trucker grinned and popped up off the bunk.  Taking off his cap, he revealed a head as closely-shaven as his face, only the slightest trace of dark hair kept him from being a complete skinhead.

 

“Can I bum another smoke?” he asked.  The alpha tossed him one, along with the lighter.  Just before lighting, the kid reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of dark brown glass.  Unscrewing the lid, the punk held the bottle to his nose, inhaling the fumes deeply before reclosing it and lighting his smoke.  Once it was lit, Dave left the cigarette dangling in one corner of his mouth, tossing the lighter back before slowly unbuttoning his short-sleeve shirt.  Slipping it off, he revealed his smooth, muscled chest.  The youth was too buff to be described as having a swimmer’s build, but he wasn’t built.  Slender and wiry, but strong with well-defined pecs and biceps.  A flicker of lightning illuminated his right arm; below the shoulder an amateurish tattoo of an eagle with spread wings stood out against the kid’s smooth skin.

 

The Trucker had placed an ashtray between them on the bunk; sitting back down, Dave placed his bottle of poppers next to it and his smoldering cig in it as he bent down and pulled off his soft, well-worn work boots.  He retrieved his glowing butt and, taking one last drag before grinding it out, exhaled a cloud of smoke as he wriggled out of his torn and faded jeans.

 

He stood in front of the Trucker, his firm young body dramatically backlight by bright bursts of lightning.  His long hog jutted eagerly from a tangle of dark brown pubes.  His smooth skin was still slick with rain and sweat; it glistened on his chest, in the dip between his broad pecs, in the strobe-like flashes from outside the cab.

 

Standing up, the Trucker revealed a matching gleam on his own chest and for the first time, Dave noticed the dog tags hanging from the older man’s neck.  Glancing closer, the kid couldn’t quite make out the name, but he could read ‘USMC’ faintly during a particularly bright flash of lightning.

 

“Dude, were you in in the Marines?” he asked loudly, to make himself heard over the seismic blast of thunder.

 

“Naw, man,” the Trucker chuckled as the thunder trailed off, “But I was in a Marine once…”

 

“Musta been a damn good fuck for him to give ya those,” the punk said, panting faintly with excitement.

 

“Damn straight,” the heavily-muscled alpha growled.  “Best the little fucker had in his life.”

 

Dave was completely oblivious to the older man’s use of the past tense.  He was focused on the stud’s huge, furry chest, his deep, gravelly voice, the massive, throbbing bulge in his crotch…

 

That was the point at which the Trucker reached down and unzipped his jeans.  Still buttoned and belted at the waist, he had to reach in and manually pull his enormous cock up out of the jeans like he was hauling in an anchor chain.  The kid’s eyes widened in lust and awe at the sight of the massive tubesteak, only semi-hard but pulsing and swelling visibly.

 

As the wind howled and buffeted the cab with sheets of rain, the scruffy young trucker was felt the energy of the storm; the scent of burned ozone permeated the air, increasing with the quickening intensity of the lightning.  His own swollen shaft was so hard it hurt, but the image of the muscled older man towering over him, lit by the strobe-like flickering, made him start to drip in a steady stream.

 

Dave panted, lust interfering with his breathing.  Snatching up the poppers, he took another hit of chemical vapor; he lay back for a moment, letting the rush flow over his taut, smooth body.  “Damn, dude,” he gasped breathlessly, “I want you in me.”

 

There was a lull in the lightning; in the darkness, the Trucker’s smirk could be heard in his voice more easily than it could be seen.  “Yeah?” he sneered, “Think ya can take me, bitch?  Think you can handle my cock in yer guts, huh?  Yeah?  Then get on the bunk, you faggot, and get yer heels in the air; I’m gonna go balls-deep into yer fuckhole.”

 

For a moment, the iron grip of lust had Dave in such a tight grasp, he was unable to breathe at all.  Not that that stopped him from obeying; a single quick motion, and he’d scooped his jeans off the floor.  Wadding them up, he scrambled eagerly onto the bunk and, lying at an angle so that his ass could be more easily accessed, he shoved the denim bundle under his head as a pillow to support his neck.  Dave’s random placement left a length of the wallet chain running across the back of his head; he reached back, almost unconsciously, and swatted it aside, where it fell back onto the bare foam mattress.

 

Reclining back, the scruffy youth tucked one hand back behind his head.  Grasping his throbbing shaft with the other, he gazed up at the incredibly well-defined torso of the alpha looming imposingly over him.  Despite the crashing thunder and rising wind, there was another pause in the lightning; the Trucker was silhouetted by the faint amber glow of the dimmed interior light.

 

The darkness added an erotic touch of danger to an atmosphere already heavily laden with testosterone and mansweat.  Dave shuddered with ecstasy.  “Fuck, man,” he moaned, “I want ya in me, dude, I want your fuckin’ manmeat up inside me…”

 

In the shadows, the sadistic killer grinned with an icy, malevolent glee.  This was just too fuckin’ perfect.  He moved in.

 

He stood at the edge of the bunk, legs spread, workboots planted widely apart to anchor him—he was gonna need traction; he was goin’ deep.  This little cumsucker was hot and ready.  The Trucker doubted the punk was ready for everything he was gonna get—but, fuck, that was half the fun.

 

Taking another deep hit from the poppers, Dave gasped and gave another moan, this one breathy and intense, as the hulking alpha grabbed the slut’s ankles and propped his feet on his shoulders.  The stud’s hard, handsome face, darkened by his black goatee, hung in the air just inches from his face as the younger trucker felt pressure against his sphincter.  For a moment, Dave wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling; for a moment, it almost seemed as if someone was trying to shove a doorknob into his ass.

 

Then the Trucker grunted, “Fuck yeah!” and, gripping Dave’s thighs in an iron grip, thrust forward, ramming the full length of his swollen hog into the cunt’s fuckhole.  The doorknob that Dave had imagined became an excruciating reality.

 

There was a blinding flash of lightning; at the same time, the lithe, younger trucker gasped again.  This one was totally different than his earlier, erotic gasps; this was a deep, shocked inhalation that fueled the agonized scream that tore from his struggling body but was utterly drowned out by the seismic crash of thunder.

 

“Does it hurt, faggot?” the rutting alpha chuckled, shoving his engorged tool even further into the boy’s resisting colon.  “Quit squealin’ ya cocksuckin’ pansy, I ain’t even all the way in—what kinda homo are ya, huh, if ya can’t take my cock?”

 

Dave tried to repress his cries, subsiding to a high-pitched whimper.  The strong young punk had grasped the top’s bulging, muscular arms to brace himself; with each inch of cock shoved into his ass, his grip intensified until his fingers were digging into the alpha’s hard, unyielding biceps.

 

The rest of the plunge came without warning; the Trucker lunged forward, bucking his hips abruptly and shoving his gigantic rod all the way in.  There was a brief resistance before he felt his engorged, oozing head slam past Dave’s pulsing prostate and sink deep into the boy’s guts.  “Oh fuck yeah, cunt, that feels so fuckin’ good…” the vicious sadist snarled

 

Thrashing on the bunk, Dave’s experience was considerably less pleasant.  With the help of the poppers, he’d managed to grit his teeth and accept the slow penetration of the Trucker’s inhumanly-proportioned hog, but the sudden thrust had ripped a deafening shriek from the agonized youth as his sphincter was instantly stretched beyond the breaking point and tore open in a blast of excruciating pain.

 

“Oh fuck!” the writhing hard-bodied young trucker screamed, “Oh my fucking god, stop!  Please, oh shit, oh fuck, get it outta me, it hurts too much, get it OUTTA ME!!!”

 

The Trucker bent forward, his frighteningly cold and hard face inches from Dave’s.  “Yer makin’ too much noise, faggot.  Shut the fuck up or I’ll pop ya one.”

 

But Dave was in too much pain to listen.  He screamed uncontrollably, his tear-stained face twisted in unimaginable agony.  “Goddammit, ya stupid cocksuckin’ sack a’ shit,” the brutal alpha grunted as he drew back his powerful right arm and balled up his fist.  Ramming his arm forward with the violent strength of a pile driver, he sucker-punched Dave directly in the face, slamming the fucker’s jaw closed with such abrupt force the fag bit through his own tongue.

 

The Trucker spit in Dave’s stunned, bleeding face.  “Toldja to shut the fuck up, fuckmeat,” he hissed maliciously.  “If ya get loud again, I’ll shut ya up for good, you worthless queer-ass motherfucker.”

 

Dave heard the words, vaguely, but they had no meaning for him; they had no bearing on the nightmarish pain sweeping his body.  And even if he had been capable of understanding them, the physical became imperative.

 

He couldn’t stop screaming.  It just hurt too fucking much. For a moment, the howling wind drowned out the flailing slut’s shrieks, but after blasting another curtain of rain over the darkened rig, it faded down and the youth’s wails became distinct again.

 

For a moment, the storm’s lightshow intensified.  The struggling fag was illuminated brilliantly; his smooth skin glistening in the white, strobe-like flashes, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.  His pleading, tear-stained eyes turned up to his assailant.

 

From Dave’s point of view, the Trucker was silhouetted by the lightning; it was almost impossible to make out any specific features on the hulking mass of male muscle that was holding him down and impaling his young ass brutally. Even though his nose was half-clogged from his sobbing, the closeted homo could still smell the primal scent of mansex as their straining bodies pumped out pheromones—an acrid tang of sweat, testosterone and adrenalin.

 

The near-continuous play of light slowed; it had only lasted a few seconds.  During that time, the Trucker never missed a beat in his deep, powerful thrusts—and each time he planted his swollen head deep inside Dave’s guts, the shuddering cocksucker screamed loudly.  Little fucker was almost hoarse—not that it was gonna be any help to him.

 

“You really are a stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” he snarled as he bent down over the young trucker punk, “I toldja I’d shut yer whinin’ bitch-ass up but ya just can’t keep yer mouth shut, huh?  Goddam, faggot, I wish I had another dick to jam down yer throat—guess I gotta find somethin’ else, huh?  Lessee here, I wonder—”

 

An intensely bright white flash was followed, within a couple of seconds, by a clap of thunder so violent that it shook the cab.  The glare had caused a momentary reflection that caught the Tucker’s eye; peering closer, he saw a loop of the boy’s wallet chain that snaked out of the wad of denim tucked under his head.  Grinning, the sadistic killer grabbed at it; since Dave had no idea what was going on, he didn’t move his head and there was some resistance.

 

The whimpering youth heard fabric tear as the jeans were jerked out from under him.  His tear-blurred eyes had a hard time seeing what the aggressive stud was holding up until an inevitable blast of the storm illuminated the scene in extensive, if brief, detail; the flash burned the image in to Dave’s mind.  The Tucker towered over him, powerful muscles heaving and gleaming with sweat, his handsome but hard face grinning at the wallet chain in one hand.  The stunned bottom bitch could see that the wallet was still attached on one end; on the other was a thin strip of pale blue denim—the belt loop that had been torn off his jeans.

 

The Trucker was kneeling on the bunk at this point with his cock plugging the homo’s fuckhole.  He flexed his powerful thigh muscles and slowly pulled his shaft out, the thick ridge around his huge mushroom tip scraping the inside of Dave’s colon.  He lowered himself down onto the youth, leaving the head of his dick just inside the cunt’s quivering sphincter.  Dangling the wallet in the younger trucker’s face, he opened it and began rifling through the billfold.

 

“Wha-what a-a-are ya d-doin?” Dave quavered in a voice that trembled with fear.

 

“Shaddup, fuckmeat,” the Trucker sneered as he dug the cash out of the wallet.  “Ain’t like yer gonna need this anymore—only forty bucks, you cheap-ass cocksucker?”  Spitting contemptuously on his prey, the alpha jammed the bills into the rear pocket of the tight black jeans he still wore.   “Fuck, I’ll be doin’ you a favor when I waste yer broke ass, huh?”

 

A wave of icy terror broke over the already-frightened youth.  He not only understood what he’d been told, he also realized that he was pinned to the bunk under the heavy mass of the cruel alpha’s body.  “W-ait, man, n-no, p-p-please, no,” he gasped, his eyes bulging in horror, “G-god, no, please don’t, man, please don’t kill me…”

 

“C’mon, boy, that’s it,” the Trucker chuckled as the slut’s torn ass muscle tightened around his pulsing tip like a cockring, “Beg for yer worthless life, yeah, cocksucker, that’s it—beg, ya stupid faggot…”

 

Now panic set in.  “No!” Dave yelped as he thrashed his arms, reaching for something.  “I’ll do anything, dude, oh fuck, don’t kill me—”  His frantic hands came up; in one was the bottle of poppers.  “I’ll make myself take it, I’ll take your dick, sir, please, don’t—I’ll prove it, here, sir, oh shit please—”

 

Dave inhaled deeply, moving the bottle quickly from one nostril to the other.

 

“Too late,” the Trucker grunted.  Before the buff young trucker had a chance to exhale, the brutal alpha had the chain wrapped tightly around his neck.

 

Dave never got the chance to exhale.

 

The move had been swift and brutal; the buff older stud had whipped the chain up under his victim’s head before he’d crossed it in front and bore down, cinching off the windpipe.  The closeted homo found the cold, hard metal links embedded all the way around his taut throat before he’d realized what was happening.    The Trucker lay on top of the choking faggot, his hard, furry chest sliding on a film of sweat over Dave’s writhing torso, wiry chest hair scratching the boy’s firm, silky skin.

 

The hard-bodied young slut was riding high on the rush; the fumes ramped up the tempo of his heart and now panic increased it more.  As the chain dug painfully into the tender flesh of his throat, he thrashed and flailed like a feral cat in a trap.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah, faggot,” the Trucker grunted as the well-muscled punk struggled under him, “Fight it, ya worthless cunt, lemme feel that stretched-out fuckhole work my dick as ya die!”

 

Deep in his pounding chemical high, Dave heard the words.  Combined with the swelling pressure of asphyxiation in his chest and the intense pain of metal links tearing at his throat, they drove home the fact of imminent death in a way that the searing torment of the violent assrape hadn’t.  After all, he’d endured a rough buttfuck or two from strangers he’d picked up on the road—but his only concern on those occasions had been holding on and taking the D; he’d never been in fear of his life.

 

Of course, none of the others had actually strangled him—

 

And his mind dissolved again into a white-hot flame of tortuous agony and blind panic.  His bare heels drummed mindlessly against the Trucker’s firm, pumping ass, but they left few marks under the black denim.  One hand clawed and scraped at the powerful sadist’s rock-hard jaw while the other beat fruitlessly at his killer’s broad, bulging pecs.

 

“Goddamit, you cumsuckin’ motherfucker,” the Trucker snarled, anger streaking coldly through his voice, “Keep yer faggot hands offa me, ya queer-ass piece a’ shit!  Just fuckin’ lay there and take my dick gratefully like the worthless homo garbage ya are or I’ll fuck ya up, hear me, boy?  Ya hear me, fag?”

 

He yanked the chain viciously as he spoke, tightening it so deeply it sank into its blood-oozing groove in Dave’s neck, squeezing a thick, choking gurgle out of the dying boy’s throat.  That wasn’t all he squeezed out; the muscled punk was sliding beneath him on a film of mansweat.  Some of it was his; some of it was deathsweat forced from the kid’s pores as his body went into metabolic shutdown.

 

The younger trucker’s face swelled and blackened; his assailant had also managed to squeeze out the little fucker’s tongue.  Thick, glistening, swollen, purple, it slowly began to force its way up past Dave’s bright blue lips, slipping out on a froth of foamy drool.

 

At the same time, the dying youth’s cock was responding identically; the thick shaft, not quite as long as the Trucker’s, began to swell and darken until it resembled an eggplant, glistening with involuntary precum at the tip.

 

Dave could feel that too, as he died.  And worst of all was the painful reality that the hot, sharp throb of agony in his confusingly erect dick was timed to each thrust of his murder’s relentless powerfuck.

 

As dark explosions began to blot out his vision, the youth felt a faint despair at the loss of his wasted life.  Some tiny corner of his fading mind thought of how he was dying, how his body would be found, what his wife and family and friends would say.

 

That part soon died, screaming in shame and terror.  What was left was open to physical sensation.  The involuntary nervous system was still functioning.

 

As the sweating, hulking alpha pounded his shaft into the kid, he could feel the meat begin its death throes.  It started with the reflexive clamping of the sphincter around the base of the Trucker’s gigantic shaft, tightening again like a cockring.  Even though the muscle had been torn when the top first penetrated his victim, the spasm was so intense that it clenched closed with excruciating force, continuing to tear itself open in the process.

 

Dave felt it all as a blast of pain that hit simultaneously with a blast of lightning. His bulging eyes, red with exploded blood vessels, caught a bright white nightmare illumination of his killer rising up over him, face twisted with inexorable hate, sculpted torso highlighted by the flash reflecting off the dangling dogtags.  Then the Trucker hunched down over his helpless prey again, riding the punk fucker into his grave like he was breaking a wild horse.

 

He’d only wanted a quick fuck from a hot stud.  It wasn’t really a conscious thought; Dave was past thinking rationally, but amid his pain was a confusion of how he’d gotten to this point.  He couldn’t be dying here in this stranger’s cab; this couldn’t possibly be happening.  Someone would help him somehow.  He beat frantically on the sides of the cab; outside, maybe, someone would hear—but the constant shuddering crash of thunder muted his frantic attempts to summon help.

 

As the fit young punk slowly died, his strong body suffered convulsions of increasing violence.  His sturdy frame was wracked with severe spasms, each one causing his colon to collapse around his killer’s hog, clinging to the thick, throbbing, vein-wrapped shaft like soft and velvety vacuum wrap.  “Yeah, shit yeah,” the rutting stud sneered down at his victim.  “Still there, aintcha, ya pansy fucker?  Fuck yeah, bitch, you ain’t dead yet—lookit yer cock, scumbag, yer hard as shit even though I’m wastin’ yer punk ass!  Lovin’ this, aintcha, ya worthless faggot?  Even though I’m snuffin’ ya, my cock up yer ass is still enough to make ya blow yer wad, ya goddam homo sack a’ shit!”

 

The last effects of the poppers still circulated in the electrochemical stew into which Dave’s psyche was dissolving.  The words meant nothing to a personality already dead, but the repeated prostate massage that the Trucker’s tool gave on its way into his guts had set off one last sensation of pain in a penis so erect that it literally hurt.

 

The younger man’s hands stopped beating at the Trucker; they stroked his chest and arms with the fluttering caresses of dying birds.  His legs, on the other hand, seemed to grow rigid; the thrusting alpha could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the cunt’s inner thighs pressing against his heaving flanks, gliding on a lube of dying boysweat.

 

The convulsions the hardbodied young trucker suffered became longer and more drawn-out.  With each passing moment, the buff older stud tightened the chain around the boy’s throat.  He could feel his seed bubbling over in his huge, puckered scrote as it slapped against the useless homo’s taint; he knew he was gonna unload soon—and violently…

 

It all kinda happened at once.  With a deep, vital, irrepressible grunt, the powerful, dominant top felt his massive biceps bulge almost involuntarily.  The chain disappeared into Dave’s neck as a cracking sound permeated the sleeper cab, loud enough to be heard over the drumming sheets of rain.  The cunt’s black face, smeared with foam that caught in the razor-thin edge of facial hair, was totally unrecognizable as the either the hard young trucker from the diner or the eager skinhead faggot from half an hour ago.

 

 

The bolt of agony that accompanied the complete and utterly crushing destruction of his windpipe as the final trigger that Dave’s straining, firm young body needed.    He convulsed in one final spasm of incredible magnitude; his arms and legs both contracting violently, he clasped his killer in an embrace as strong as an iron cage as he died.  At the same time, his rectum milked the Trucker’s huge, pulsating tool as if it was deliberately trying to make the sadist shoot—and if so, it succeeded.

 

The Trucker’s potent, muscle-bound form jerked and bucked involuntarily in orgasm, injecting a steady stream of manseed deep into Dave’s guts; as the boiling spunk splashed over the kid’s prostate, the searing hot pain set off a kindred response in the nearly-dead meat.  The younger trucker, clutching the older in a hard deathgrip, blew his wad.  The Trucker felt the first warm splash over his ripped abs; the second was much longer, spewing sperm up into his chest fur and higher, until the corpse splattered cum across the underside of the cruel killer’s chin.

 

Somewhere between the injection of boiling jizz up his ass and the expulsion of the same from his swollen dick, Dave died as the storm reached a nightmarish crescendo outside, rocking the cab like a ship at sea while deafening rain pounded on the metal roof.  He sank into a cold screaming blackness of pain and fear, experiencing his deathload only as excruciating agony.  The Trucker, on the other hand, grunted deeply and contentedly as he emptied his testicles into the dead boy.

 

Holding on until he knew his balls were drained, the powerful serial killer slowly withdrew his still-pulsing rod from the corpse; the head popped out of the dead kid’s mangled ass in a huge wad of pink, blood-stained spunk.  “Yeah, bitch,” he whispered to the still-twitching corpse, “That’s how I handle faggot cumdumps…”

 

The Trucker stood up, shakily, and lit a cigarette.  Calmer after a couple of drags, he stepped forward and picking up the dead punk’s soft, worn jeans, used them to thoroughly wipe down his cum-dripping dick.  Stepping to the front of the cab, he settled into the driver’s seat and finished his smoke, watching the storm pass.  Looked like the worst was over…

 

 

By half-past two in the morning, the Trucker was on the road again.  Avoiding the interstate in Vinita, he headed north on state highways to Welch, then east towards Miami, looking for a place to dump the body; in doing so, he managed to outrun the storm.  It caused him a few intense moments, keeping the rig under control in high winds, but control was his specialty.

 

After carefully guiding and controlling countless fags to orgasmic death, the storm didn’t scare him.

 

Just west of Miami, the Trucker pulled to the side on a bridge spanning a dry gulch.  The wind was out of the west, the flashes of lightning light the rain-drenched rig as thunder growled ominously.  The storm was strengthening; it might spawn tornadoes and was approaching swiftly.  But the buff killer wasn’t planning on being here when it hit.

 

There was no other traffic out here at this hour.  Still shirtless, the Trucker stepped to the back of the cab and grabbed Dave’s body.  The dead trucker still had his own wallet chain, wallet still attached, wrapped around his throat; it was embedded so deeply, the Trucker has no interest in trying to extract it.  The kill was so fresh, the alpha could feel the corpse still quivering in his arms as he dragged the mindless boymeat out of the rig and over to the rail.  With one last deep grunt, the muscled alpha tossed the fag cumdump over the edge into the darkness.

 

Rain was starting to spatter down as he returned to the cab and gathered the rest of the fucker’s belongings.  He dashed back out and tossed the clothing and boots over the edge of the viaduct before diving back into his truck.  The rain intensified as he got into gear and sped up; by the time he got to the interstate, he’d driven out of the rain.  And by the time he got to the state line, the storm was a memory in his rear-view mirror.

 

As he headed east, the cold, experienced killer cast a though back to the shuddering manmeat he’d thrown into a ditch; part of him wondered if it would be found once the storm passed through.

 

 

As it so happened, it was Dave’s rig that attracted notice first.  Truck stop employees noticed that it hadn’t moved in two days and called the police.  That was how Mark had found out about it.

 

Increasingly frustrated after finding out, too late, that his killer had gone back and offed the only eyewitness available, Mark had requested information on all police reports that involved semi trucks, truckers, and truck stops.  He’d picked up quickly on the abandoned rig in OK, but had no idea if it had any significance in his hunt for a serial killer.  Luckily, he’d been heading that way himself.

 

He reached the area a day after the original call; heading straight to the county sheriff, he presented his ID and requested information on the investigation.  With a smirk, the sheriff handed him off to a deputy who led him to the evidence room.  “Had to force the lock on the cab,” the young cop drawled as he opened the door, “And this is what we found.  Seems yer guy was a gen-u-wine practicin’ homo-sexual.  Lookit all this faggot shit we found in his rig.”

 

The collection of porn, popper bottles and assorted drugs wasn’t as interesting as the huge black dildo.  Mark could feel his own shaft stiffen as he looked over the missing trucker’s trove.  Completing his erotic interest, the deputy casually mentioned, “This ain’t nothin’, man, you should see all the digustin’ homo crap on the laptop—it’s over there.”

 

“I may need to examine that,” Mark said, a slight hitch in his voice.

 

He was still examining it two days later in a motel room in Vinita when word reached him that a body had been found in a dry gulch, right where it emptied into the Neosho River.  A couple of fishermen, noticing a pale flash among the rocks, had discovered the battered and bruised corpse of a young man, among the rocks.  Near the body, a plaid button-down short-sleeved shirt was caught on the branch of a downed tree; in the cleft of the rock which had caught the boy’s body was a single, well-worn work boot.  Otherwise the corpse was nude.

 

Identification, however, was easy.  The victim had been strangled with a wallet chain; the wallet, with a commercial driver’s license still inside, was attached.

 

Mark knew he was getting close.  He got back on the road, heading east, still tracking his quarry.  He was halfway across Missouri when he got the autopsy results.  The victim had been raped and strangled—he was on the right track.  Identity was confirmed; the victim had a tattoo that helped, as did dental records.

 

He wanted this guy.  He wanted him so bad, his dick was hard.

Carlos and Nick 2: Lawyering Up

On By m3mayhemIn Movies with Carlos and Nick4 Comments

The broad expanse of the Strip, baking under an unrelenting sun, was crowded despite the heat.  Carlos had been in Vegas long enough by now not to be surprised; the Strip was always crammed full of people, day or night.  He’d asked Nick if he’d ever seen it empty; the massive stud thought for a moment.  “Once,” he’d replied.  “It was four-thirty on a Wednesday morning in February.”

 

Well, Carlos was out on it now, making his way through the masses of humanity.  He was dressed for attention, as usual—this time, in the interests of drumming up business.  He wore a tight white wifebeater that left little of his hard, inked body to the imagination.  And even that little was decreasing as sweat oiled Carlos’s sculpted torso, rendering the thin white cotton nearly transparent.

 

Below, a pair of cargo shorts covered with a camo pattern reached to just above his knees.  His calves, thick with muscles, descended into a pair of yellow workboots with thick soles and black leather at the ankles; they were loosely laced and untied.  The entire outfit displayed his overwhelmingly well-developed form to perfection and he got lots of admiring glances among the throngs of people—from both sexes.

 

Carlos had just turned the corner off Desert Inn Road, walking south.  He was on the east side of the strip, so he passed the Encore tower of the Wynn casino before he reached the main tower.  He was well aware of the sidelong glances his hard, glistening body drew.  Good—if he could lure a target, he might be able to get Nick to do another film.

 

He was living well in the condo Nick had lent him—it was a little ways back, on Paradise, with the master bedroom facing southwest towards the Strip, illuminated by the bright lights and neon that blazed all night long.  But he still needed money—the drain on his cash reserve had slowed, but it was still there—so he was out here in the heat.

 

Hunting for a fag to fuck and snuff.  Surely among all these half-dressed, perspiring males, there was someone—

 

That was when Carlos, lost in thought, bounced off someone walking the other way.

 

He paused, looking at the other dude, who was apologizing sheepishly.  The guy was no older than twenty-five, fit but not buff.  He had moderately long blond hair, a large Roman nose and deep brown eyes.  He was dressed in business casual in a long-sleeve button-down shirt with thin vertical stripes of white and blue.  The dude also wore a pair of beige slacks that weren’t extremely tight but still managed to emphasize his bubble butt.  Brown leather loafers completed the look.

 

“Sorry, man,” he was saying, a distinctive Texas drawl in his voice, “I didn’t see ya there.  No offense.  Was kinda focused on finding some fun; guess I got a little distracted.”

 

Drawing himself up to show off his ripped body, Carlos grinned sociably.  “Not a problem,” he drawled, “What kinda fun ya lookin’ for?”

 

The blond dude paused and gulped nervously.  “Well—“ he started, then paused, embarrassed.  “Well, actually, I’m lookin’ for a stud like you.”

 

Carlos’s smile broadened brilliantly.  “Yeah?  For what?”  As he spoke, he fondled the bulge growing impressively in his groin.

 

The other guy noticed.  The sight seemed to relieve him and excite him simultaneously.  “For that,” he grinned, nodding towards Carlos’s crotch.

 

Carlos’s smile deepened as his hand worked his groin, pressing down the fabric and revealing the full extent of his massive dong.  “I gotta place around the corner if you’re interested…”

 

The blond’s boyish face reddened in embarrassment.  “I-I can’t right now.  I’m here for a convention and I gotta go to a couple of seminars this afternoon.”

 

“What about later?”

 

The kid thought for a moment.  “Well, I got dinner at Gordon Ramsay over in Paris at seven with Les—he’s one of the partners and I can’t ditch on that.  But I should be done by ten.”

 

“Partners?” Carlos asked, “What do you do?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” the kid replied, as if he’d just remembered something.  “Name’s Luke—I’m an attorney.  The Civil Law Association has the Convention Center for the whole week, so the firm is payin’ for the trip.  The partners are all at the Bellagio, but us associates are all at Bally’s.”

 

“You’re a lawyer?” Carlos asked incredulously; the punk standing in front of him had a certain professional bearing, to be sure, but he looked like he was sixteen.  Even though Carlos knew he was older, he still couldn’t imagine this boy standing up in front of a judge.

 

“Yeah,” Luke responded shyly.  “Well, like I said, just an associate.  But hey, one day I could make partner.”

 

Carlos pondered for a moment—actually, a very swift moment; Luke never noticed the pause.  “You’ll be free after ten?” he asked.

 

“Yeah—well, yeah, I guess Les can blather on for a while.  Say eleven at the latest.”

 

“I can work with that,” Carlos said slowly.  “I know—I’ll come pick you up.  Outside the main entrance to Bally’s at, oh, eleven-fifteen or –twenty?”

 

Luke’s, broad, naïve face lit up with pleasure.  “Sure, dude, sure!  That works great!  Er—if you’re gonna pick me up, what car should I be looking for?”

 

The light of lust in the blond homo lawyer’s eyes brightened like a star going nova at the mention of a red Mercedes convertible.  Seeing it had a couple of different effects on Carlos.  First, he knew that he’d picked the right fairy to take the brunt of his terrible rage.  And secondly, he knew—knew for a certainty—that Nick would want to film this.

 

Only thing wrong with the setup was that he wasn’t able go full meat-grinder mode on the faggot lawyer leech right away…

 

The hate-filled ex-con took a deep breath.  Self-control, he reminded himself.  He could still have his fun, but if he did it on camera, he got paid.  A lot.  He’d learned a lot about discipline lately; he’d learned that channeling his boiling rage into icy-sharp cruelty was much more satisfying.

 

But this all passed in a fraction of a second.

 

“So how does that sound?” he asked Luke.  “Eleven-fifteen to eleven-thirty outside the main entrance?”

 

“Fuckin’-A, stud,” Luke panted, nearly drooling with lust. Carlos noticed a respectable tent pole in the punk’s khakis; little cumsucker had an impressive set of tackle himself. “But don’t park under the portico; it’s always full of cabs.  Pull over out front on Flamingo; if you got a convertible Benz with the top down, I can find you.”

 

They sized each other up for a long, long moment before parting ways.  Luke was drinking in the full splendor of dominant masculinity he’d engaged for the evening.  Carlos was appraising fresh meat.

 

Then they headed in different directions, Luke towards his seminar and Carlos to make a phone call.

 

 

 

 

At exactly a quarter past eleven, Carlos parked on Flamingo Road.  He’d driven past the portico, as requested, and managed to find a space at the curb halfway down the block.  Above him towered the bulk of the original 26-story tower, now striped horizontally in white and blue.  The building was idiosyncratic enough in that it didn’t directly face the Strip.  Considered monstrously huge when it opened in 1973, it was now dwarfed by the massive resorts surrounding it.

 

It was also famous as the site of one of the deadliest high-rise fires in history.  Of course, it wasn’t Bally’s back in late November, 1980; it was still the MGM Grand at the time.  There were still ghost stories circulating about the eighty-five people who died, but Carlos wasn’t superstitious.

 

After all, he wasted enough fags to know no one came back after they were made into meat.

 

He waited with the top down, the heat of the day still radiating from the concrete valley of Flamingo Road.  He’d showered and changed; the idea that he was getting ready for a gay date was anathema to his virulently homophobic mind—but that’s exactly what he’d done.  Going with the typical sex addict colors of black and white, he’d exchanged the sweat-soaked wifebeater for a new one.

 

He’d jammed his thickly-muscled legs into a pair of skin-tight black jeans, which were tucked into pair of heavy, thick-soled black engineer boots.  Frankly, it was a little warm for the gear—but Nick had insisted.  He’d even specified the belt, thick black leather with a row of paired grommets, designed to accept the double posts of the buckle.  Since the paired holes ran the length of the leather strap, the belt could theoretically be bucked with a circumference of about two inches.

 

Nick had been excited as fuck at the suggestion, but he had something else going on and couldn’t be at the condo until midnight at the earliest.  He’d told Carlos exactly what to wear, and given him advice on keeping the action consensual until he showed up.

 

Then, they could have some fun.

 

According to the dash clock, it was more than half-past eleven when he heard the steady tread of a pair of boots pounding on the pavement to the rear, coming closer.

 

When Luke came into view, the Texan in him came out more than just in his voice.  His figure was somewhat vague until he stepped into the bright circle of illumination cast by a street light.

 

The lean, lithe young professional had gone full cowboy; from the straw hat with the curled brim to the polished gray roper boots on his feet, he’d shown his country soul.  He sported a short-sleeve shirt in Western plaid, blue and white (oddly like the death-laden tower looming above him), with pearl-covered snaps running down the front and fastening both breast pockets.

 

He’d been meeting with a partner; he was late—the obvious explanation was that he’d changed.  However much he felt comfortable in the presence of his employer, Carlos couldn’t imagine that Luke had shown up to dinner in that pair of thin, skin-tight black leather jeans.  They screamed “faggot slut” louder than an air horn.

 

Seeing him, Carlos laughed aloud.  Oh fuck, wasting this cocksucker on video was gonna be so worth it…

 

Luke wasn’t stupid—he did have a legal degree, after all—but he was young and naïve.  Worse, he was young, naïve and horny, a state which tended to impair critical judgement in males.  His lean, lithe body pulsed with hormones that revved him to extreme physical arousal that needed immediate gratification.

 

If he’d been a little more aware of his surroundings, he’d have heard the harsh ring in Carlos’s laugh.  It held a simmering, barely-suppressed rage that found vent in a kind of ferocious glee.

 

All this was lost on the randy youth.  He could only see the sculpted, rock-hard body of the stud in the open convertible Benz.  Without any hesitation, he hopped into the passenger seat next to Carlos, making the worst—if not quite yet the last—mistake of his short life.

 

“Where we headin’?” Luke drawled.  This close, Carlos realized this kid had had a drink or two.  He wasn’t plastered, but his Texas twang was starting to get out from under him.

 

“My place,” Carlos replied, his cold grin glittering like steel.  All Luke could see was the glittering of a gold chain, the thick, heavy links in looped twice around the buff dude’s neck.

 

“Where’s that?” he asked.

 

“We’ll be there in five minutes,” Carlos responded tersely as he sped away from the curb, heading west.  When he turned left at the light, the wind whipped the straw cowboy hat right off Luke’s head; the kid’s only response was to laugh giddily.

 

Owing to a slight delay at the elevator in the condo parking garage, it took closer to seven minutes to get back.  Luke didn’t care; awash in erotic anticipation, he didn’t notice much beyond Carlos’s hard, sculpted body until they were actually inside the unit.    The living room was nice and seemed to be professionally decorated; the window faced southeast down Paradise.  There seemed to be a bedroom on the east side but the master was in the southwest corner.

 

It was the master bedroom that made Luke inquire about Carlos’s occupation; the large window opened onto the full neon panorama of the Las Vegas Strip.  “Dude,” he muttered in awe, “This view musta cost a fortune…”

 

In fact, the view had lowered the selling price; most people wanted to see the Strip from their living room and preferred to do without the garish lighting flooding the bedroom while they slept.  But Nick hadn’t been “most people”—and neither was Carlos.

 

Carlos silenced the slim blond’s questions by peeling his wifebeater off, the motion accompanied by faint jingling as the doubled gold chain was momentarily caught in the thin fabric.  Luke was transfixed, staring gape-jawed at the older man’s furred hubcap pecs.  The alpha noticed with faintly amused contempt that the youth’s tight leather jeans revealed his straining cock in more detail than the slut had likely anticipated.  Carlos could see every vein wreathing the disgusting faggot’s seven-inch shaft.

 

“C’mon, boy,” the hulking tattooed-covered hardman chuckled genially, “Lessee what ya got to work with.”

 

Luke’s hands fumbled at the snaps of his shirt; he was so excited he had to pause and take a deep breath before he could regain his coordination.  Once he did, though, a single vigorous jerk separated all the snaps at once with a ripping sound.  Luke shrugged the plaid shirt off, revealing his firm, smooth chest.

 

Nowhere near as well-developed as Carlos, Luke had the slim, boyish body of a swimmer—not thin or scrawny, but not bulging with muscles.  His torso looked smooth and silky but across his flat belly appeared a faint golden haze that darkened as it descended beneath the waist of his leather jeans.

 

For a brief moment, they stood facing each other, several feet apart; two bare-chested men in jeans and boots, one slightly older and obviously much stronger than the other.  It was the latter who broke the silence.  “Aw, c’mon, son,” Carlos drawled with a cocky grin, “Ya gotta do better than that.  Get it all off.”

 

Luke flushed with excitement, his pale skin turning red.  Sitting on the bed, he crossed his legs and slipped the gray ropers off, one after the other.  He unbuttoned his jeans—the leather clung to him so tightly he hadn’t needed a belt—and slowly slid the zipper down.  He kept his eyes on Carlos the entire time, though, as if afraid the buff stud would vanish if he looked away.

 

Luke was no virgin; his cute little bubble butt had been plowed before, but he’d stayed within his own race and body type, playing around with other twinks.  He’d always wanted to get used by a real man, though—and this tan, tatted, rough-trade alpha was nothing if not a real man.

 

Standing back up, he sinuously peeled his lower half out of the skin-tight black leather, slowly uncovering his firm smooth thighs and his long dick.  He wasn’t hung quite as well as Carlos, but seven inches was disproportionately large on his strong but lean frame.  The boy looked like he was hung like a horse.

 

And he was hard; the moment it was freed from its leather confinement, the shaft popped up erect, flinging a faint liquid spray.

 

Carlos smirked.  Little homo was oozing already.

 

As Luke sat back down on the bed to finish pulling off the leather jeans, Carlos lost some of his complacency.  He was gonna have to string this worthless sack of shit on for at least another fifteen minutes before Nick showed up.  He hoped he’d have the self-restraint not to beat the pansy cocksucker into submission before then.  There was something about the lithe blond youth with his large dark eyes and easy grin that made Carlos want to hurt him badly.

 

Well, he was gonna do that, one way or the other—but he wanted to do it now.

 

Gritting his teeth and swallowing his rage for the moment, despite its bitter taste, he undid the double-post buckle of his belt and, sliding it out of its loops, tossed it onto the dresser.  Leaving the waistband of his black jeans buttoned, he unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, it took both hands to extract his enormous tackle, still semi-soft and pliable.

 

Luke had finished undressing.  Completely nude, he stood before Carlos, once again agape in awe at the stud’s formidable physique.  Even though it wasn’t completely hard, the hulking ex-con’s cock was still larger than the blond twink’s.  That was something he hadn’t dealt with before; Luke had always been hung better than any of his little playmates.

 

The thought the he’d entered into a bout well beyond his weight class was just starting to sink in for the horny young lawyer.  But all that meant so far was erotic excitement—Luke figured he’d finally found the dude who could fuck him like he needed to be fucked and the thought had him blind with lust.

 

How completely and utterly correct he was would be driven painfully home in a very short period of time—but Carlos’s eagerness to start the driving made it seem like forever to the killer alpha.

 

“Get over here, boy,” he said evenly, “C’mere and work my nips.”

 

Luke hastened to obey.

 

Nuzzling his broad, innocent face into Carlos’s scratchy, curly chest hair, Luke found himself tracing his tongue along the lines of one of the hardman’s tattoos until it got near the right nipple, at which point he transferred his attention to the large knot of flesh, already hard.

 

As he slurped, nearly gnawing on the alpha’s hard chest, Luke’s hands reached downwards, groping blindly until they encountered Carlos’s slowly stiffening shaft.  Grasping the monstrous tube of manmeat, the eager twink began to milk it, slowly and lovingly.

 

The homophobic muscle stud grunted unconsciously in pleasure.  His mind was seething with rage against the faggot who was worshipping his body so assiduously, but his body itself was responding inevitably to the physical manipulation.  He looked at the clock on the nightstand.  Eleven fifty-three.  Goddam, Nick better get here soon…

 

Carlos balled his hands into fists, so focused on maintaining his control that he didn’t realize that the slut wasn’t getting down on his nipple anymore.  Luke was working his way down Carlos’s broad, rock-hard chest, dragging his face through the top’s rough, wiry body fur.

 

The alpha lost patience.  Luke suddenly found his head in a vise-like grip as Carlos forced the punk down on his rigid shaft, fully erect by now.  The golden-haired youth, his gullet completely plugged with cock, gagged and choked; the powerful ex-con could feel the kid’s tongue struggling along the underside of his swollen tool.

 

He wanted to hold the little shit there till he choked to death on cock.  He glanced at the clock; it was less than five minutes to midnight.  Where the fuck was Nick?

 

Again he found the strength to master his rage and, unconsciously, the lust that drove it.  It wasn’t just that he wanted to get paid—he damn sure wanted to paid—but he also liked the idea of snuffing faggots on camera.  He liked the feeling.

 

As a result of his association with Nick, the murderous muscle stud was learning self-control and discipline.  He was honing his skills as a predator, slowly but steadily becoming ever more dangerous.

 

He let go of Luke’s head.  The slim young lawyer fell back, coughing and drooling, as Carlos sat on the bed.  The alpha gave the cocksucker a count of five to recover, then spoke.

 

“Get over here, boy, and pull my boots off.”

 

Luke wiped the spittle off his chin with the back of his hand, then advanced eagerly on his hands and knees to Carlos’s feet.  The sculpted stud extended his leg, watching coldly as the lean, boyish lawyer crawled up and began caressing his harness boots.

 

Sliding his hands up the glossy black leather, Luke pulled the cuffs of Carlos’s jeans up.  Gripping each boot with one hand on the heel and one hand on the shaft (breathlessly savoring the memory of that other shaft in his mouth), the kneeling blond punk removed them, one at a time.  Setting them, almost reverently, off to one side, Luke turned back and pulled off the alpha’s calf-high white tube socks.

 

Pushing the boy back roughly, Carlos stood up.  Reaching down to his waist, just above his jutting dick, he undid the button in the jeans waistband.  “Up here, boy,” he barked, “my jeans—strip ‘em off me.”

 

Luke stood up, his long thin dong swaying and dripping.  The youth’s large brown eyes, glittering with lust, looked up into those of the buff, toned ex-con.  Misreading the cold light reflected from the killer’s icy blue eyes, he placed his hands first on Carlos’s hard washboard abs, fondling the rippled muscles, before finally grapping the jeans at the waist.

 

Sinking slowly to his knees, Luke peeled the skin-tight denim from the hulking stud, revealing a pair of thick, sinewy thighs and powerful calves.  As the jeans dropped below his knees, Carlos sat on the bed once again, moving his bare feet forward so the thick wad of blue denim could be completely removed.

 

Standing up yet again, Carlos towered over Luke.  The young attorney, who less than an hour earlier had been dining with a multimillionaire partner in his law firm, was on his knees at the feet of a nude, heavily-muscled dude who’d been convicted of killing a man.  As Luke stared yearningly at the enormous throbbing hog dangling over him, oozing precum, some part of him wondered what his co-workers and employers would think if they could see him now.  Good thing they would never know about this, he thought.

 

Suddenly, there was a rapping sound.  Luke was so sunk in his sexual reverie that Carlos had already turned and was on his way out of the room before the young blond realized what he was hearing.

 

Someone was knocking at the condo’s front door.

 

That was bad.  What was worse was that the alpha stud seemed to actually be opening it.  What the fuck was going on?

 

There was a brief murmur of voices beyond the bedroom, then the buff inked dude reappeared—and he was not alone.

 

For a moment, Luke’s heart froze—not in fear, but in desire.  The rough trade alpha was strong and sculpted, but the dude who followed him in was even larger and even more well-built.

 

He had long black hair, almost shoulder-length, with a broad, handsome face and a strong jaw; much like Carlos, the lower half of his face was covered with short dark scruffy fur.  His massive pectoral muscles, broader than hubcaps and each crowned with a nipple like tire valve, were displayed to perfection by the vest he wore; distressed patches of black leather, stitched together.  It clung tightly to his back but fell open in front, revealing his cut, toned torso.

 

Under that, the hot stranger wore jeans—not black, like Carlos’s had been, but blue; a very worn and faded blue, they had softened and worn to such a point of soft fragility that it seemed impossible that they could still cling so tightly to the stud’s strong, piston-like legs.  Under them, he sported a pair of black harness boots, the three leather straps connected by a steel ring.  He seemed to be the oldest of all three of them, but no older than in his very early thirties.

 

“Hey, man,” the tatted alpha said cheerily, “wassyername, Luke?  Luke, this is my bud Nick.  Yer gonna like Nick.”

 

Luke couldn’t help but notice the video camera in Nick’s hand.  He was horny as fuck, but he had a career to think of; he damn sure wasn’t doing anything on video.

 

“H-hey,” the blond youth stammered, “Nicetameetcha, but the camera’s gotta go—I-I can’t, man, I just can’t.”

 

Nick responded with a blinding grin as he entered the bedroom, “No problem, dude, I’ll set it down over here.”  And with that, he placed it on the dresser.

 

Luke never noticed that it was placed with the lens towards the bed.  Or that the “record” light was still on.

 

“I told my bud Nick here that I’d met a dude who wanted a real man,” Carlos drawled.  “He said he might stop by—now ya got two real men.  Think you can handle it, boy?”

 

Luke had never risen; still on the floor on his knees, he licked his lips, his eyes darting nervously between the two men.  Deep inside, he had a sense of something not being right—but then he glanced up at Nick, rubbing his hand over the huge bulge in his crotch that seemed to go halfway down his thigh, and at Carlos, sneering down at him as his engorged cock leaked precum.  He shoved the nagging suspicion away and stood up, his strong but lean body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

 

“Yeah, man,” the young blond lawyer said cockily, “I can take whatever y’all can give.  Come at me, bro!”

 

Nick’s grin widened to shark-like proportions; he slipped out of his leather vest, letting it drop to the floor as Carlos, glowering with lustful fury, approached the punk.  His swollen shaft, already an angry shade of red, seemed to darken as his rage deepened.  He reached out and grabbed Luke by the chin and then straight-armed him back into the wall.

 

But the ex-con was using the restraint he’d learned; he was gonna trust Nick to see that he’d get the chance to show the little faggot exactly what he thought of him.  Luke hit the wall kinda hard, but nowhere near as hard as Carlos was tempted.

 

Luke’s breath was knocked out of him; the muscled stud forced his head roughly to the side so that his left cheek was pressed against the wall.  When Carlos asked Nick where he wanted to start with the bitch, the first response was from Luke; a long, shuddering moan of pleasure.

 

On the few occasions he’d actually appeared in court, Luke had come across as relatively calm and confident; few people who’d seen him in that environment would recognize the cum-hungry fuckpig locked in the powerful arms of an ex-con and greedy for more.

 

“Does he suck dick good?” Nick asked.

 

“Naw,” Carlos smirked, “Little homo could barely take my meat.”

 

“Toss him up here on the bed,” Nick replied, “I’ll ream out his windpipe.  Go ahead and plug his boycunt, see how loose the whore is.”

 

Another red flag for Luke; part of him wanted to protest, to deny he was a whore—he really wasn’t—but the warning was submerged in lust when Carlos whispered into his ear.  “Ya hear that, boy?  Ya ready to get stuffed fulla manmeat?  You better be, faggot, yer about to get more dick than even a worthless homo like you can handle!”

 

And that should have been a third signal that things weren’t right, but Luke was too sunk in an erotic haze as Carlos manhandled him onto the queen-sized bed to take notice.  He liked aggressive tops, but the homophobic verbal abuse was new and uncomfortable to him.

 

But he never had time to process the thought; suddenly, he was tossed onto the bed, landing on his hands and knees.  Before he had the chance to orient himself, he felt Carlos’s large, strong hands grab at his hips, pull him to one side—

 

—And then his ass was full of cock, more cock than he’d ever had before, more cock that he’d ever thought possible—

 

—And opening his mouth to scream in startled, searing pain, he felt his head jerked to one side by another hand, this one tightly clutching a hank of his long blond hair, and his shriek was muffled by the enormous, throbbing shaft that plugged his throat completely.

 

For the first time, Luke felt true fear.  He hurt, he hurt like fuck, and not only did these dudes not care—he had no way out.  Not that that didn’t stop him from trying.

 

He had no idea it was all being recorded.

 

The frame wasn’t quite centered on the action; the three intertwined male bodies were slightly to the right of the screen.  A pair of muscled hardmen were sexually assaulting a slim blond youth.  One of the buff studs, the one with long black hair, still sported his jeans; he was gripping the kid’s hair and skullfucking him.  The head of the other was so close-shaven he looked like a skinhead; he was balls-deep in the blond’s ass.

 

“Hey, Carlos,” the alpha in jeans said, “Where’d ya find this cocksucker?”

 

“Right out on the Strip, man,” Carlos grinned back.  “Sez his name is Luke and he’s a lawyer-ha!  Gotta hand it to ya, Nick, you were right—it’s a great place to troll for fags.  Looks like we got a hot one—hey, stop fightin’ my dick, you stupid cunt!”

 

This last was directed at the unfortunate Luke who seemed to be doing his best to resist.  He wasn’t quite on his hands and knees; Carlos’s tight grip on his hips held him in place, but his spread legs, Carlos planted between them, were kicking out behind him at random.  As the well-built ex-con plowed his fuckhole, the punk’s feet were the closest thing to the camera.  It managed to capture the way the blond boy’s toes curled with each deep thrust of the top’s massive shaft.

 

At the other end, it was clear that the one called Nick was inflicting even more trauma; while probably less physically painful than the brutal assrape he was enduring, it was clear that Luke’s more immediate concern was the hulking alpha’s gigantic cock in his mouth.  It was also clear by the blond’s darkening face that he was literally choking on it.

 

He was fighting it, though.  Luke’s slim but tightly-muscled arms flailed, his hands slapping against Nick’s rock-hard abs and thighs with all the futility of beating on marble.  The fear in his frantic, bulging eyes, streaming with tears, was obvious even at this distance from the camera.

 

Nick laughed aloud, a harsh, raucous sound.  “Fuck, Carlos, I thought ya’d found a good cocksucker.  This piece a’ shit can barely take my hog.  Whaddaya think—let him breathe or keep chokin’ the bitch?”

 

“Let him breathe, man,” Carlos said in a cold tone.  “I ain’t done with the fucker yet.”

 

And with that, Nick released his handful of long blond hair pulled his huge dick up out of Luke’s esophagus.  The firm, slender fuckboy collapsed, kinda, his ass still held in the air by Carlos’s brute force—and still getting penetrated by the buff ex-con.  Mewling in pain, he coughed and gagged, heaving up wads of foamy spittle before he managed to recover himself.

 

When he did recover, he made a move that surprised his rapists and ensured that the evening would end badly for him.  Well, it would have anyway—but he managed to make it worse.

 

Grabbing double fistfuls of the blankets and sheets at the foot of the bed, Luke jerked mightily—perhaps with more force than he’d ever used in his short life—and shot forward, pulling himself  straight off Carlos’s cock.

 

Luke propelled himself out of the left side of the camera frame, towards the bedroom door. Instantly, both Carlos and Nick lunged after their escaping prey.

 

Luke didn’t stand a chance; he never even made it to the door.

 

It didn’t happen on camera; the audience never saw Nick reach out and snag Luke by the hair again, swinging him around and hurling him directly at Carlos.  The blond punk smacked into the muscled ex-con with the force of running into a brick wall, his face smashing into the alpha’s hard pecs and stunning him.  The only effect on Carlos was to jingle his gold chain slightly.

 

The effect on Luke’s smooth nude body was obvious—and unexpected; despite his fear and confusion, his cock was erect.  It slapped against the angry top’s sculpted thigh, splattering it with inexplicable precum of which the young fucktoy was utterly unaware.

 

The ricochet bounced the dazed young attorney back into Nick; again his face impacted the firm, furry, unyielding chest of his assailant with more force than was obvious.  The fact that he was in the grip of two powerful and sadistic alpha was driven home in a rather literal manner but before he could take stock of the realization, he felt Nick’s large strong hands wrap around his upper arms…and then he was flying through the air.

 

This time, the camera captured most of the action.  Luke flashed across the frame like lightning; the impact with the headboard couldn’t be seen but it could sure be heard—a loud bang, the high, breathless squeal that comes from sudden chest compression, and then Luke flopped back into the frame.  He landed on the bed flat on his back, smooth firm legs spread wide, gasping for air—and his rod still erect and throbbing; he was dimly aware that he’d somehow seemed to lose control of it…

 

“No,” he begged weakly, “I-I can’t…don’t, please…don’t do this…”

 

“What, you led us on?” Carlos sneered.   “Yer a faggot cocktease, huh?  Get scared and run when ya see a real man?  Too fuckin’ bad, cunt, you ain’t gettin’ outta here till we’re done with ya.”

 

Luke was dazed with the surreal turn his reality had taken.  He’d just wanted a quick hard fuck with this hot alpha stud—no more than an hour of fun.  Unable to accept what was happening, he not only heard Carlos’s words but watched Nick stride to the dresser and get the camera before approaching the bed, all with a sense of disorientation.

 

Closing it all out, he focused on the first solid fact that entered his fear-locked mind—he had a symposium on contract law at half-past eight the next morning.  Summoning his best courtroom manner, he tried to become assertive.

 

Opening his clenched eyes, he spoke.  “Look, fellas, you’re both sexy as hell but I gotta—“

 

And he froze.  Both men were looming over him.  Two heavily-muscled dudes, their furry chests trickling with sweat, their physiques deepening Luke’s sense of danger; two swollen, vein-entwined dicks, oozing hot transparent precum, dripped onto his flat belly as they towered over him.  And one thing he hadn’t noticed earlier—Nick hadn’t just retrieved the camera; he’d also picked up the thick leather belt.

 

As the slim blond twink watched wide-eyed, Nick handed the belt to Carlos while he focused the camera.  “Here,” he said, the cold glee in his voice slashing through the warm air, “Do what ya do, Carlos.  Show ‘im what happens to stupid fags who try to run.”

 

Luke looked up into Carlos’s chiseled face, cheeks dark with scruff and moaned in terror; he registered a moist sensation in his crotch but didn’t realized that he’d managed to piss himself despite his hard, throbbing shaft.

 

When the buff, tatted ex-con spoke, his tone was low and erotic, almost breathless with anticipation.  “How bad can I fuck him up?” he asked.  “How much can I hurt him?”

 

Nick chuckled richly.  “Dude, ya gotta leave something to fuck.  This is just…making the homo cunt learn its place, yeah?  But I think this one’s really, really stupid—it’s gonna take a lot to teach it.  Go for it, man, fuckin-A!”

 

And with that, Carlos doubled the belt, gripping the buckle and the tip together in his right hand.  Raising his arm high, he looked down on Luke, cowering on the bed.  “Y’know, man,” he said to Nick (while staring Luke straight in the eyes), “I think yer right.  This fag’s a lawyer; it’s gonna take a lot of beatin’ to make it learn how worthless it is.”

 

The camera centered on the youth’s face.  His nearly shoulder-length blond hair was fanned out behind his head on the blanket; his face was wan and gray with shock as he stared up at the hulking alpha dangling the wide, grommeted belt over him.  Then the cruel stud leered and lunged.

 

Carlos’s rage broke like a storm.  His blow was as swift and severe as a blast of lightning; the sound echoed like a deafening clap up thunder.  Luke’s shriek of pain rose above it all.  The camera closed in on the red welt, darkening by the second that rose on the boy’s smooth pale flesh.

 

The grommet-ringed holes had done their damage; blisters were rising in neat, orderly pairs across the wailing punk’s writhing belly.

 

“What ya think of that, fag?” Nick sneered.  “Ya wanted a real man to treat ya like a slut, yeah? Then ya must be lovin’ this, you cocksucker, cause that’s exactly what yer fuckin’ gettin’!”

 

Another blow, another squeal of agony, another angry red stripe darkening the squirming youth’s skin—this one across his heaving chest.  His eyes, wide with frantic despair, flashed a signal the experienced killers could easily read.

 

Little fuck was gonna try to bolt again.  They glanced at each other, and grinned.  Piece of shit wasn’t even gonna make it off the bed this time.

 

Of course, they were right.  In the blink of an eye, the cowering, sobbing homo became a whirling mass of panic and flailing limbs; pushed to the edge of reason by the brutal whipping, he clawed at the blanket.  Managing to make it to his knees, Luke had a brief moment of hope.

 

But he was facing away from Carlos.  His hope vanished instantly in a shriek of agony when the muscular alpha slashed the thick leather strap across his smooth, vulnerable back.  At the same time, Nick’s massive paw reached out and grabbed a fistful of Luke’s long golden hair, using it as a handle to force the boy’s head back down to the bed, face down.

 

Nick leaned forward, half-kneeling on the bed.  Well, on the head.  One strong, sinewy leg, still wrapped in skin-tight denim, was planted firmly on the floor, the black engineer boot digging into the carpet.  The other was bent, the knee on Luke’s head, pinning it firmly to the mattress.

 

“Goddam,” the massive stud jeered, “You really are a stupid sack of shit, aintcha?”  He paused to frame his shot again.  He pointed the camera straight down at the shuddering youth, making sure to capture his own thick, throbbing cock.  “Think ya can get outta here without learnin’ yer lesson?”

 

Luke response was muffled in the sheet, but it was shrill and vigorous.  It became more so as Carlos resumed the beating.

 

With each blow of the belt, Luke’s tender flesh was battered and bruised, blisters rising across his back.  And with each blow, the young yuppie professional reverted to an animal, a pig squealing in pain.  Thrashing and flailing wildly, he managed to dislodge the sheets; they twisted and billowed around him, hampering his movements.

 

The fact that he broke free yet again was not only miraculous, it was unintentional.

 

Nick had shifted his weight; going slightly off balance, he let his fistful of hair go to brace his hand against the headboard.  At that moment, Luke happened to jerk backwards, an instinctive flinching from the inevitable next blow from his tormentor—and ended up slipping to the floor, dragging the wadded sheets with him.

 

As Carlos backed up, his sculpted, buff body slick with sweat, Nick popped up off the bed.  They both glared down at the twisted boy on the floor.  Carlos glanced up at Nick—and paused.  Then he spoke to Luke, awe and reverence obvious in his voice.  “Dude, you fucked up.  He toldja to take what ya got comin’—fuckin’-A, man, I think ya got more comin’ now!”

 

He’d seen the light of sexual rage in Nick’s eyes and recognized it for what it was; he acknowledged the driving force of will behind it—and determined to be worthy of it when he was on camera.

 

Nick, for his part, focused both his lens and his fury on the soft lean blond boy beneath him.  Normally cool and in control, there was something about the handsome young lawyer that triggered a rage response in the Herculean stud.  “Motherfucker,” he hissed, “Motherfuckin’ faggot cunt, yer gonna regret that…”

 

The icy tone of the threat slashed through the red haze of pain and terror clouding Luke’s mind.  He looked up at the huge alpha towering over him.  Nick’s red, swollen cock was dangling over his belly, oozing hot transparent drops.  Even in his pain and fear, the brutalized white-collar pansy was attracted to the engorged shaft of his assailant.  And while the blond boy’s stunned brain was unable to make the link between lust and violence, it was obvious that his erect tool had made it and responded enthusiastically.

 

Still clutching the camera, Nick raised his boot, hanging it over Luke’s face; the kid had just enough time to realize what was gonna happen.  “No!” he squealed, “Fuck, no, please!”

 

He wasn’t fast enough to get his arms up to block the blow.  Nick drove his foot down, his hard thigh muscles pumping like a piston as the thick black sole slammed into Luke’s face.  The camera centered on the boot, grinding into the kid’s face.  Luke wailed and writhed, his arms slapping aimlessly at Nick’s legs and his kicking feet making occasional contact with Carlos’s.

 

Holding the camera with remarkable steadiness, the hugely-developed sadist filmed himself stomping the young lawyer’s face into an unrecognizable pulp. The sound of the occasional crunch of bone as his nose or a cheekbone was broken was accompanied by a shrill shriek, but otherwise Luke was unable to either protest or plead.

 

After venting his anger on the helpless blond twink, Nick stepped back, muscular flanks heaving with exertion.  His furry chest was slick with sweat, much as Carlos’s was, after the energetic beating he’d delivered.  The scent of mansweat filled the room; acrid with testosterone and adrenaline.

 

All it needed was the aroma of mansex, and Nick knew it.  “Ok, man,” he said to Carlos, “Time to get the money shot.  Ya ready to waste this worthless piece of meat?”

 

Carlos broke out into a broad, eager grin.  “Fuck yeah, man—whaddaya want?  I’ll do ‘im however ya want!”

 

His desire was clear to Nick—and the camera.  He focused the lens on Carlos’s face before replying.  “Fuckin’ fag’s gotta die gettin’ plowed like a real man—I mean, all he’s been fucked by is other fags, huh?  So he’s gotta learn what a real man feels like as he dies.  Strangle him with yer belt, dude, choke ‘im out so he dies on yer dick!”

 

Carlos had no idea that he shuddered with pleasure at the suggestion; he simply bent down and grabbed Luke by an arm and a legs and threw him back onto the bed like a bag of garbage.  The moaning, mewling cunt landed on his back crossways on the now-bare mattress so that his ass was just on the edge at the side of the bed.  Carlos approached the bed slowly, holding the wide leather belt in one hand and his enormous, throbbing cock in the other.

 

Mustering just enough of his feeble strength, Luke raised his head.  Opening his swollen, bruised eyes, he could dimly see the muscle-bound killer approaching him—his eyes naturally attracted to the sparkle of gold from the chain around Carlos’s neck.  Despite the blurriness of his vision, the terrified faggot could see the powerful alpha with his weapons in his hands—one to fuck, and one to kill.

 

And for the first time—in spite of all the evidence, in spite of everything he’d heard; hell, in spite of everything he’d suffered—Luke finally realized that he was about to die.  He didn’t know why, but he knew how.  He didn’t know when—but he knew it would be soon.

 

But first, he was gonna get fucked.

 

Nick bent down as Carlos forced Luke’s legs apart, zooming in as the ex-con’s long, thick, pulsing cock impaled the blond twink’s ass.  The moment the huge purple mushroom tip penetrated Luke’s fuckhole, splitting the sphincter, the kid started screaming again.  The high-pitched shrieks torn from the writhing slut echoed from the wall; Carlos looked worriedly at Nick.  “Hey, man, do we need to shut him up?” he asked.

 

“No rush,” Nick drawled, “This place is pretty soundproof.”  He chuckled darkly.  “Trust me on that, dude—the meat can scream his worthless life out and ain’t no one gonna hear ‘im in here.”

 

Luke heard every word.  His response wasn’t flight or fight; he froze in terror, his screaming dulled to a deep, visceral, gasping moan.  As he lay on his back, being beaten and raped by a pair of powerful sadists, he glanced up at the ceiling and had a brief moment of clarity.

 

The ceiling, like the walls, was painted white, but Luke was seeing a rainbow of color parade across his vision.  He wasn’t delusional, he wasn’t hallucinating—not yet, at any rate; he was seeing lights reflected off the Strip.  That was when lucidity kicked in.

 

He was in Las Vegas.  He was here for a legal convention, he had an expense account, everyone had told him how much fun—and sex—he would have in Sin City…

 

That had been his reality until about forty minutes ago; now, there was no way to reconcile that to the universe of torture he currently inhabited.  The excruciating agony, the sheer cold horror he’d suffered in that time had damaged him mentally as well as physically.

 

Not that it mattered.  The terrified twink fairy had heard the words, but hadn’t experienced the reality of death; his self-centered core would deny the very possibility of his own death until it happened.

 

And both Carlos and Nick knew it.  It was time Luke knew it too.

 

“Go for it, buddy,” Nick said, shuddering with excitement, “G’wan and fuck the fag to death.  Choke ‘im out as he chokes yer chicken, man.  Show ‘im how a real man handles worthless faggot cockpigs!”

 

Carlos needed little encouraging; still convinced of his own heterosexual superiority, his shark-like grin grew as he bent down.  Grabbing a handful of long blond hair, he lifted Luke’s head and slipped the belt under his neck, then looped it over and around the front of the throat.  The punk’s eyes widened even more; his hands instinctively came up to clutch at the thick leather strap.

 

“Leave it alone, motherfucker,” Carlos snarled as he slipped back off the bed and placed himself between the kid’s legs, “or I’ll break your fingers, or arms.  Or both.”  With a shuddering gasp, Luke’s arms fell limply to his sides.

 

Not that it mattered—Carlos gave the shocked queerboy something else to occupy his mind—and his ass.  With no warning, the buff, inked ex-con lunged, ramming his thick, glistening pole in full-length in a single, powerful, agonizing thrust.  He didn’t stop feeding his vein-wrapped shaft into the shrieking pansy’s boycunt until his wiry pubes were digging at Luke’s smooth, flexing asscheeks.

 

Pulling back out just far enough to keep his massive, spear-shaped head still planted firmly in Luke’s colon, he drove home another thrust, more powerful than the last had been.  Nick recognized what was happening and backed away, panning the lens out to allow a wider view, from which it was easy to see the Carlos was literally fucking Luke further onto the bed.

 

Once he’d gotten his fuckmeat into the right position, Carlos picked up the loose ends of the belt; Luke had been too busy flailing his hands against the alpha’s rock-hard chest in a vain attempt to stop the rape to try to remove the strap.

 

Now, it was too late.  By this point, the torture, both mental and physical, had reduced Luke to a nearly catatonic state—but even so, there was still enough pig lust in him to feel his own cock, bizarrely erect throughout the entire ordeal, throb a little harder as Carlos swam into view through tear-streaked eyes.  The hulking alpha with his tatted, well-defined chest was so close, Luke could smell his mansweat, thick with hormones.  Cutting through his mental haze, the cold metallic glitter of Carlos’s gold chain and cold eyes caught Luke’s fragmented attention.

 

And then he wasn’t able to breathe anymore.

 

It wasn’t just that, though, it was the excruciating, crushing pain of a two-inch-wide leather strap compressing his neck with nightmarish force.

 

The camera captured the twink’s panic as his ruined face began to swell and darken.  As the homo punk choked, his fingers scrambled frenetically at the belt wrapped around his throat; his nails dug into the black leather—and into his own flesh.

 

Luke wasn’t aware that he was clawing his skin open; in comparison to everything else, that pain was negligible.  As bad as it had been before, this assrape was even more violent; Carlos had stopped with the long, drawn-up thrusts.  The powerful alpha, his muscled flanks and thighs slick with mansex sweat, was using the belt as a handle to hold the fuckmeat down while his strong hips pumped with the rapid speed and inexorable force of a jackhammer.  Over and above the horrible pain of strangulation, the unlucky twink had the sensation of a steam piston being driven into his rectum, churning and tearing at his tender guts as he died.

 

And his killers made sure he knew what was happening.

 

“Fuckin-A, Carlos, waste that fuckin’ faggot,” Nick said gleefully as he knelt on the bed to let the camera get a better view of Luke’s suffering.  “Make it hurt, man, make sure the worthless sack of shit knows he’s dyin’!”

 

“You heard the man, cocksucker,” Carlos sneered down into the kid’s swollen face.  “Shit, ya useless motherfucker, yer halfway there—yer eyes are buggin’ out, dude, an’ I can see blood vessels poppin’ in ‘em.  Fuck, that’s gotta hurt, huh?  Does it?  Hope yer likin’ the pain, asswipe, cause it only gets worse from here.”

 

By now the belt was sunk so far below the surface of Luke’s neck that he could no longer grasp at it; instead, the dying youth began to flail at his assailants.  As his slim, smooth legs kicked vainly at Carlos, his hands went towards Nick.  The camera caught a quick view of the pleading, imploring look on the blond’s once-handsome face before his thrashing arms forced Nick back.

 

“Goddam, you stupid motherfucker, ya just ruined a great shot!” Nick barked in anger.  Speaking to Carlos—but still looking directly into Luke’s congested face—he said, “Think the fag needs another beatdown, yeah?  Needs to be tenderized some more; it’s still too stupid to take what’s comin’ to it.”

 

Carlos chuckled.  “Here, man,” he replied, “Grab the end of the belt—here, the one in my right hand.”  Nick did so, not allowing any slack in the thick, choking strap that he and Carlos were now both pulling taut around Luke’s throat. With his right arm now free, Carlos began punching Luke in the face, driving blow after roundhouse blow into the shuddering twink’s face.  As his fist crushed the boy’s nose and knocked out another tooth (Nick’s boot had taken care of a couple already), the tempo of his pumping pelvis never slowed; while Luke was getting his face beaten in, his ass was subjected to vicious repeated penetration.

 

And he was still conscious enough to feel it.  All of it.

 

He couldn’t see very well; his eyesight was dim and occluded, but he could still make out Carlos’s looking shape.  The light glinting off the thick links of his gold chain helped define his form for the fading young lawyer; some part of him knew that Nick was off to the side with the camera, but he was visible only as an ominous dark shape.

 

With his windpipe slowly being crushed, Luke wasn’t able to smell the acrid scent of mansex flooding the room, a musky, heady scent of sweat and pheromones, adrenaline and testosterone.  He could hear, though.  He could hear his torturers’ taunts clearly, he could hear their deep breathing, ragged with rage and sexual excitement—and he could hear something else, too.  It was a wet, meaty, smacking sound that seemed to be coming from two separate sources.

 

His brain was too traumatized to realize that the sound of a hard, driving buttfuck sounded almost identical to that of a hard, driving, fag-bashing.  He was hearing every thrust of Carlos’s cock up his ass and every blow of Carlos’s fist in his face.

 

But there was a limit.  Luke was young, healthy, and despite his slim build, very strong.  That had worked against him tonight; it had lengthened the time of his suffering.  Eventually, though, he reached a point where his conscious mind could take no more; the battered, abused punk actively craved death as the most immediate way out of his torment.

 

Some part of his fading awareness was still trying to process what had happened; just a little while ago—not even an hour and a half ago—he’d been a successful young lawyer in Vegas for a convention, having dinner with a partner of the firm, networking with coworkers over drinks…

 

And now he was being raped, beaten, and strangled…all he’d wanted was a good time, a little hot mansex—what the fuck had happened?

 

It was the despairing bleat of a mind dying alone in fear and pain, far from any form of hope or comfort.

 

The camera caught it all.  Nick crept closer, his muscled body glistening in the reflected neon as a trickle of sweat ran down between his hubcap pecs into his dark, curly chest fur.

 

“Here, man, lemme get that back,” Carlos said as he finally stopped pummeling Luke’s now-unrecognizable face.  Taking the end of the belt from Nick, he continued, “Yer gonna need both hands to get this part recorded right—and anyway, I wanna off this scumshit faggot myself.”

 

As Nick relinquished the killing strap back to Carlos, he reoriented himself on the bed for the best view.  At the same time, the hulking ex-con spit into Luke’s swollen black face.  “Ya hear that, ya homo cumdump?” he snarled at Luke.  “Time to die, fuckpig.  Time to fill ya fulla cum an’ toss ya out to rot like the garbage ya are.  I’m doin’ ya an honor, you disgusting fairy; no way a queer-ass pansy like you deserves to hold my manload, but I guess it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, huh?  Yeah?  So die, motherfuckin’ faggot, die on my cock!”

 

He jerked the belt with all the force that his massive, bulging biceps could apply—and that was a lot.  As the thick black leather strap sank deeper and deeper into the blond cunt’s throat, it was accompanied by a series of cracking, crunching sounds.

 

As the sounds grew louder, Luke’s face grew darker.  He arched his back up instinctively as his throat was crushed; his smooth body, lubed by the film of deathsweat that was literally being squeezed out of him, pressed up against the steel-hard, unyielding firmness of Carlos’s torso, bearing down on him.

 

The young attorney would no longer have been recognized in his office; his youthful face a ruined mass of flesh.  The lower half, smeared with blood and drool, was disfigured by the thick purple tongue protruding from his split, swollen lips.  More drool bubbled out around it, creating white, foamy strands that oozed down Luke’s face.  Above, the boy’s eyes bulged grotesquely, rolled back so that only blood-streaked whites were visible.

 

His panicked flailing and thrashing had slowed as brain death began to set in; from violent random clawing, his struggles had diminished to the point that his hands seemed to be bestowing gentle caresses on his killers—one hand was stroking Carlos’s firm, strong arm while the other was rubbing the soft smooth denim on the thigh of the jeans Nick was still wearing.

 

But as his voluntary nervous system started to die off, the involuntary system kicked in.  Luke still had some vague, dim awareness left in him as his body began to tremble and shudder, signaling the onset of violent, uncontrollable convulsions.

 

Luke didn’t know this, of course, but from experience, both Nick and Carlos did.  “Oh hell yeah, this cunt’s about to blow!” Nick chortled evilly as he crouched over the two sweaty men, locked together in a primal brutal embrace of sex and death, his own erect, throbbing shaft dangling over Luke’s head and dripping precum onto the bitch’s mangled black face.

 

Luke wasn’t the only one about to blow; Carlos could feel the sperm near the boiling point in his huge, puckered scrote.  “Fuck!” he grunted, “Fuckin’ faggot whore!”  As his face pulled back into a rictus of rage, Nick realized the “straight” ex-con was on the verge of cumming; he adjusted the camera angle to get the best view.

 

The buff, inked sadist wrapped the belt around his own hands for a firmer grasp.  As he felt the explosion of spunk building at the root of his cock, he jerked back on the thick black strap was hard as he could.  And then Carlos shot his wad.

 

It was incredibly brutal.  The crunching sounds that had come from Luke’s neck before were nothing compared to the intense cracking noise as the kid’s larynx was crushed into splinters of cartilage.  There was still enough of a spark of life in the used-up faggot to respond, both to the pain of a mangled esophagus and to the sensation of boiling hot seed pumped into his guts.

 

Luke began to cum.  His thin but long dick had remained erect the entire time—by now, both Nick and Carlos were so used to this phenomenon that they didn’t pay attention to it.  After all, every one of these cumlicking deathpigs had gotten hard and shot a load as they died; why would this one be any different?

 

What was left of a (possibly) once-brilliant legal mind was dissolving into a sputtering electrochemical stew.  Nothing was left of Luke, the Texas lawyer; all that remained was an ass and a cock—an opening for seed to be pumped in and an opening for seed to be pumped out.

 

And pump out he did.  As Carlos leaned back, Nick’s camera centered on Luke’s dark, swollen shaft.  It began to pulse visibly, swiftly accelerating until the long tube of manmeat seemed to be convulsing on its own.  Suddenly, a spasm of incredible violence rocked Luke’s long, lean, helpless body.  The mangled sphincter clenched around the base of Carlos’s rod like a cockring, triggering and explosive orgasm that was matched—if not exceeded—by the fuckmeat’s own cumshots.

 

The very first load shot straight up out of the shaft, falling back to splatter over all three men on the bed; the second went to the side, spewing Nick’s chest hair with pearly sperm that also managed to smear the far right side of the camera lens—it created a blurring effect that didn’t impact the focus.

 

Carlos, grunting violently as he continued to unload his aching balls into the almost-dead meat, leaned forward to brace himself.  As he bent over his victim, another powerful jet of semen erupted from Luke’s uncontrolled shaft.  Searingly hot spunk was splattered up Carlos’s hard torso, from his ripped abs, up through his sweat-matted chest hair, all the way up to the underside of his chin, some of the pearly DNA caught in the links of his chain.

 

The fading spark of physical awareness trapped within Luke’s cold, dying brain was able to feel a new warm wetness; hot thick fluid was spurting into his face with intense pressure.  The spasming homo was too far gone to realize that Nick was shooting huge wads of cum in his black, twisted face; he could only process the physical sensation.

 

And the last sensation the slim blond twink faggot was able process was an abundance of spunk.  If he’d been able to think anymore, he might have appreciated his death, submerged in a sea of jizz.  Instead, he got one final violent convulsion that wracked his body in unimaginable agony, wringing a solid stream of boyspunk out of his shaft.  Luke, unlucky to the last, didn’t get to enjoy his complete death load; he died mid-spurt, his muscles continuing to empty his balls in mindless spasms.

 

Carlos continued to pump his shaft into the corpse for another minute or so as his huge hot load drained into the dead homo’s ass.  With a deep grunt, he pulled out and stood up.  At the same time, Nick got off the bed, too, and centered the frame on Carlos.  Taking the message, the tattooed stud posed, arms up, proudly showing his massive flexed biceps.  Grinning at the lens, he swayed his hips.  His still-hard dick swayed, the head—still oozing large pearls of jizz—dripping fluid across the floor.

 

Panning to the side, the frame focused on Luke’s corpse, used up and splayed across the bed.  The meat’s smooth, firm chest and flat belly were smeared with sweat and spunk.  His face was also a blank, congealing pool of sperm, but his swollen, livid tongue was gruesomely obvious.  His spread legs kicked randomly and his semi-hard dick throbbed feebly, but his hands were frozen, clenched in agony.

 

“Hey, dude,” Nick called out, “Your belt…”

 

“Oh yeah, thanks,” the buff alpha responded, “That cost me more’n fifty bucks; I wanna get it back.”

 

Nick got some great footage of Carlos manhandling Luke’s limp corpse.  The belt was so deeply embedded into the meat’s neck that Carlos had to hold the head down.  Suddenly, a mischievous grin crossed his face.  He was still nude, his amazingly developed body completely bare; instead of using a hand, he braced the dead faggot’s head with his foot, smashing his sole into the meat’s face and freeing up both hands to pry his belt free.

 

After, Nick shut off the camera and set it back on the dresser as Carlos went into the bathroom to clean up.  Once he came out, Nick went in, telling Carlos to get dressed—they needed to figure out what to do with the body.

 

It didn’t take Carlos any longer to slip on his jeans and engineer boots than it too Nick to wash off his cock.  And when Nick came out, Carlos had a proposition.

 

 

Somewhere near half-past two in the morning, two pairs of headlights snaked north out of Vegas, heading up I-15 towards the Valley of Fire.  Just south of the Moapa reservation, they exited, crossing over to the Great Basin highway and taking a more directly northern route into the vast desert wasteland.

 

They traveled for some time, until they pulled off the road to the east, well north of Coyote Springs, at which point it became obvious that one of the vehicles was at a distinct disadvantage going cross-country.  The vehicle in question was a convertible Mustang, top down, with Carlos at the wheel.

 

They’d secured the coordinates via GPS, which he was following as best he could.  Behind him, Nick’s heavy-duty Ford F250 had four-wheel drive and fared better.  But, of course, the ‘Stang wasn’t coming back from this trip.

 

It had been Carlos’s idea.  Luke’s nude body was on the floor of the back seat, his clothes in a wad next to him.  In the trunk were five five-gallon plastic containers full of gas.  After all, he had a car he needed to get rid of and they both had a corpse to dispose of…

 

They turned left into a dry gully, the ground on each side rising sharply as the Mustang bucketed over the narrow wash, littered with rocks as small as softballs and as large as—well, bigger than the Mustang, at any rate.  About a mile up the gully, a half-submerged boulder took out the oil pan and Carlos brought the shuddering wreck to halt.

 

Getting out, he waited till Nick, moving carefully a half-mile behind, caught up.  He’d had the hard job; his truck needed to get back out.  They’d both known the Mustang wasn’t coming back, any more than Luke was.

 

One Nick arrived, he shut off the pickup but left the headlights on, starkly illuminating the rear of the red convertible.  “This is perfect,” he said as he got out.  “So far out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere ain’t no one gonna see the flames.  G’wan and pop the trunk; let’s get this bonfire on!”

 

The two men stood together in the warm desert air, each dressed in nothing more than jeans and big black boots, they poured twenty-four gallons of gasoline over Luke’s slim, lithe body, now battered beyond recognition and stiffening into rigor mortis while curled in a fetal positon on the rear floorboards of the ruined car.  The last gallon was used to leave a flammable trail back to a safe distance; once they’d done so, Carlos produced a lighter—he’d cut back on cigarettes, but he hadn’t quit—and applied it the gasoline-soaked dirt.

 

The flame, low and blue, streaked towards the Mustang.  There was a drawn-out, pregnant pause—and then a roar.  Not an explosion, not a big Hollywood bang to illuminate the night sky, but the deep, guttural roar of fire taking hold after finding plenty of fuel.  Luke’s funeral pyre wasn’t showy, but it burned fiercely.

 

As Nick carefully navigated his truck back to the paved road, something occurred to Carlos.  “Hey, man, you seemed to be kinda into it tonight—you sure you got enough good stuff recorded?  No offense, dude, but I got a financial stake in it too, now.”

 

Nick chuckled deeply as he hit pavement and headed back to town.  “Don’t worry, Carlos.  I got plenty of good footage; our viewers will be happy.  Trust me.”

 

And he did have the footage.  Carlos was utterly unaware of the hidden cameras Nick had planted throughout the condo, and Nick planned to keep it that way.  He’d have shots of tonight’s snuff from multiple angles; more than enough to make an underground online hit.

 

 

Later on, they were proved right about the location of the body dump.  By the time a state employee found the vehicle, what was left of Luke was a rotting chunk of carbonized meat fused to the car chassis; he was finally ID’d by his dental records some three weeks after he was reported missing.  The autopsy noted the missing teeth and broken bones of the face and concluded he’d died from extreme homicidal force, but could determine little else.

 

The VIN on the vehicle was traced to male whore who’d been raped and murdered on the east coast a couple of months earlier.  Local cops wondered about a serial killer but could make no connection between a dead rentboy on one side of the continent and a dead upstanding lawyer on the other side.

 

Like a stiffening corpse, the case soon went cold.

M4M Bathroom Break

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories4 Comments

It had been unusually hot the past week; not just hot but almost tropically humid as well.  The conditions made being outside during the day an unpleasant experience—which explained Joe’s presence on this dark, silent suburban street after midnight.  It was just too uncomfortable to jog any earlier.

 

The buff alpha believed in keeping himself in shape; in addition to running, he kept up an active gym membership.  But his last kill had been someone he’d met at a gym.  Joe wasn’t a member there, but he knew lots of people went to more than one gym.  He’d decided to stop going for a couple of weeks, just to let things die down.

 

Even in a city this size, the discovery of two strong, healthy young men, found overpowered, raped and murdered, had hit the local news with the force of a bomb.  Especially the way he’d left the meat posed.  And they traced that first faggot—the hot Asian dude—back to his gym.

 

Joe was gonna stick to jogging for a bit.  Not like he couldn’t find a way to work the rest of his muscles…

 

…he just didn’t expect to find a way right then and there.

 

The street was lined with houses, small but nice, that were set back from the road by a lawn.  A line on each side as he jogged along, passing by in dark monotonous rows—

 

Except there was light in one window.  Ahead, two houses down, on the right.  A golden rectangle falling on the lawn, crossbarred.  Light shining through an open set of blinds.  Joe wasn’t normally a voyeur…

 

…well, fuck, yes, he was.  He wanted to know what was there to be seen.  Slowing his steps, he paused on the sidewalk in front of the house and glanced around.  Certain he was unseen, he stole across the lawn and peered through the window.

 

It was worth the effort.  He had come in right in the middle of a hot blowjob; two hot, hard dudes were going at it right there on the living room couch.  One, tall, almost platinum blond, was standing, facing the sofa.  His back was to the window.  The other, a shorter boy with a lean swimmer’s build and smooth tan skin, was seated with his face buried in the blond’s crotch.  As his head bobbed on the top’s dick, his abdomen turned slightly and Joe could just barely make out the tattoo of a star on the boy’s left pec, above and to the left of the nipple.  It was a somewhat clumsy inking, a simple outline that was obviously amateur.

 

As Joe watched, he could see the top’s ass flex, the smooth cheeks dimpling each time they clenched in pleasure as he shoved his tool down the other boy’s throat.  The hulking killer, peering unseen at the brutal throatfuck, felt his own huge dick get hard.

 

And then he remembered he’d brought a phone along—the one that belonged to that last cumsucking homo he’d wasted, the one from the gym.  It was in a pocket of his shorts, along with his keys, the only other thing he took with him.  Quickly, he whipped it out and opened the hookup app the kid had used to contact him.

 

He clicked “nearby”.  Sure enough, the profile pic that popped up closest to him was the kid who was chugging cock.  He opened the profile—and felt his shaft getting stiffer as he read, chuckling quietly.

 

“DTF Dude—

25 yo/WGM/5’9”/145 lbs

Looking for raw dick.  Discrete, can’t host.  Can travel.  Fit guys only.”

 

The profile pic didn’t show the face; it was bathroom selfie showing a smooth torso, muscled but lean.  The star tattoo was the identifying mark; it was what let Joe know he had the right cocksucker.

 

Grinning, he favorited the profile.

 

The powerful alpha turned his attention back to the show in front of him.  The blond top was really pounding the kid’s mouth but the greedy young cockpig didn’t seem to have any trouble keeping up.

 

Things were just getting good when a light flashed on the periphery of Joe’s vision—specifically, the porch light from the house next door.  Instantly, he turned and dashed back across the lawn.  He’d reached the sidewalk and had slowed into his leisurely nighttime jog before he heard the door open behind him.  Swiftly glancing back, he noticed a man wearing a robe stepping out; the porch light illuminating his tired, drawn face—and the retractable leash in his hand, at the other end of which a small, elderly Chihuahua trundled along.

 

Well, they hadn’t noticed him.  He felt a surge of rage—of power flowing through his powerful body; it was generated by his frustrated desire.  He’d wanted to see then end of the skullfuck.

 

But he’d keep trolling the app to see the next time the hot little bitch was on.  Wasn’t gonna have the slut back at his place, though; ya don’t shit where you eat, as they say.  It’d have to be someplace else.  Well, when the time came, he’d improvise.

 

As he turned his course back towards his home, he was glad for the darkness and seclusion the night provided.  His jogging shorts did nothing to hide his enormous erection; he looked like he’d gone jogging with a jousting lance.

 

 

Joe had to work the next two days.  His job didn’t have regular schedule; once he was done, he was off till he was needed again.  He’d had to file the hot young homo for later.

 

Now, it was later.

 

It was a bright, clear morning and Joe was feeling jumpy.  He wanted something physical to do—and he reached for Andy’s phone.  He pulled up the hookup app and ran a search for “DTF Dude”.  He’d already accessed Andy’s profile and changed the profile pic to a landscape.  Now he sent a body pic of himself, attaching the following message:

 

“Hey man—

I got an 8in dick 4 u 2 ride—HMU.  32, 185, 6 foot 4.”

 

After the message was sent, Joe waited a few minutes.  Once a few minutes stretched into twenty, though, he decided to get up and get moving.  He’d be surprised if the lean cocksucker he’d seen through the window was uninterested in his buff, toned body—he’d put on fifteen pounds of muscle mass over the last six months or so.  But there was no accounting for taste.  And besides, the little fag might just be busy.

 

He was still avoiding the gym.  An overnight cool front had left the morning temperature pleasantly temperate.  Joe decided to go for another jog.

 

He threw on a simple white wifebeater t-shirt and a pair of black Adidas jogging shorts.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled on a pair of ped socks that could no longer be seen once he slipped on his sneakers.

 

He wore a bright orange pair of Nike Air Zooms, tightly laced. Standing in front of his mirror, he admired how they set off his powerful calves and muscular thighs.  Even if this kid never answered back, he knew he’d be getting some looks while he was out.  He wouldn’t have any problems finding someone to fuck.

 

Several miles east, the city had put in a jogging and biking trail along a “greenbelt” than ran beside what had a drainage ditch for outflow from the river.  They’d actually done a nice job with the area, adding a dog park, some restrooms and some playgrounds.  The far end of the trail terminated at the city rec center.

 

Joe enjoyed running there during the day in the middle of the week; he had it mostly to himself.  He was halfway there when the dead fag’s phone beeped.

 

Well, whaddaya know.  The cocksucker had responded.  Joe pulled over at a convenience store and opened the app.  Sure enough, there was a message.

 

Kid said his name was Brad.  He said he’d been at work earlier but was now on his way to the gym.  Or at least, he had been.  He’d seen the pic, and he wanted Joe’s cock.  Everything else could wait.

 

Joe sat back in his car and guffawed aloud.  He quickly replied, telling the punk where he was going.  He suggested that they meet at the park and run together for a bit.

 

Not only did the fag respond, he had a suggestion of his own—a detour to one of the cinderblock restrooms that dotted the greenbelt.

 

Joe peeled out, heading towards the park.  Fuck, this one was eager.  The powerful top grinned as he accelerated, wondering how eager the fucking cunt was gonna be in an hour or so.

 

They’d arranged to meet in the parking lot at the south end of the trail. There would be far less traffic there; the rec center and sports fields were at the other end.  Joe didn’t have long to wait; within five minutes, a blue Volkswagen pulled in and a dark-haired boy got out.

 

It was clearly Brad.  He was shirtless; his star tattoo was clearly visible even under the runner’s tan tinting his smooth flesh.  His gray jersey shorts hung halfway down his firm thighs but Joe’s eyes were drawn down to the bitch’s kicks.  The slut was sporting a pair of Nike Frees, in bright electric blue; the trademark swoosh and the laces were fluorescent yellow.

 

Clearly, the little homo was trolling to get fucked.  Good.  Joe’d make sure he got what he wanted—and then some.

 

Getting out of his car, he headed towards the kid, who heard him approach and looked up.  His clear, bronzed face lit up as he saw Joe’s muscular form—and a bulge started to form noticeably in his groin.  “H-hey,” he muttered, then cleared his throat.  “Hey, man, you the dude from online?”

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “you Brad?

 

The youth blushed and grinned.  “Yeah—Bradford, actually.  Family name, y’know, but everyone just calls me Brad.”

 

Joe smiled warmly down at the horny fuckmeat.  “C’mon, man, let’s hit the track.  Work up a nice sweat, and you can point out that bathroom ya mentioned.”

 

Brad’s grin grew wider and more lascivious.  There had been no need to dance around gingerly to determine interest; it was obvious to both that the kid wanted Joe’s cock, and that Joe wanted to give it to him.

 

They took off together, jogging along at an easy pace.  The trail wound in and out under the trees, leaving the pavement alternately in glaring light and deep shadow.  After a quarter mile, it bent out into an open area.  The brazen sun in the cloudless sky beat down on the two firm, fit male bodies moving along the path, and Joe was hot.  Literally.

 

In a single graceful movement, Joe whipped his wifebeater up over his head, pulling it off.  He tucked it into the waistband of his shorts but one end came free.  It fluttered along behind him like bandanna in a rear pocket as he ran.

 

Brad kept ogling Joe as they moved along the trail; he couldn’t keep his eyes off the older man’s sculpted chest, darkly furred and glistening with light sweat.  His thick legs pumped powerfully, slamming his neon orange Zooms against the white pavement.  The young slut’s equally-bright Nikes kept up with the pace, his lean, tight torso also covered with a sheen of perspiration.

 

The randy young cocksucker was so hard, he was having difficulty running.  Luckily, he didn’t have far to go.  “Just up here, man, on the left.  See?  Over there; the doors are on the far side.”

 

Joe looked in the direction the kid indicated.  In the trees on the far side of the path was a low cinderblock building, partially hidden behind some trimmed shrubbery.  From the main trail, two paved paths extended around each side of the building; a small post by each path bore a sign indicating gender.  The men’s room was the further one.

 

“You been here before?” Joe grunted as they approached.

 

“”Y-yeah,” Brad panted.  “I gave a dude a great hummer here a coupla weeks ago.  Fuck, I musta swallowed a whole fuckin’ pint of cum…”

 

“You take it up the ass?”

 

Brad almost tripped.  “Fuck, yeah, dude—I want your shaft in my asshole; c’mon, man!”

 

The horny cunt broke into a full-on sprint, dashing ahead.  Joe kept up his easy jogging pace, taking time to look around.  They’d been running for about twenty minutes and had passed a few others on the path, but no one was within eyesight at the moment.

 

The buff sadist chuckled darkly and broke into a run himself.  Good as time as any to get started.  His own gigantic shaft was starting to swell and pulse…

 

The men’s room was dark and spare; the floor was a concrete slab with a drain in the middle.  The walls were bare cinderblock all the way up to the roof; the topmost line of blocks were the open, decorative type that let in air and some light.  There were no windows and a single light fixture was in the center of the ceiling.

 

On the right side of the room were two urinals, separated from three pedestal sinks by a partial dividing wall.  On the opposite side were three toilet stalls.  “Here,” Brad gestured, heading for the stall furthest from the door, “I like this one best—less likely to be noticed in here if anyone comes in.”

 

Joe paused just outside the stall while the horny youth with the slim runner’s build peeled his jogging shorts off and kicked them into the far corner by the toilet.  The muscle-bound sadist leered at the kid’s lithe body; the only thing the little slut had on under his shorts was a jockstrap.  Joe considered having him leave it on, but before he decided, it was off anyway.

 

Brad assumed the position.  He placed his palms flat on the wall above the toilet and bent forward.  His slender but strong and firm body, nude except for his bright blue and yellow kicks, was presented at the best angle to take cock.

 

Joe appreciated the fact.  His huge tool was fully erect now; an even darker circle forming on the groin of his black shorts—a circle that grew as his dick continued to ooze precum.  Fitting his broad shoulders through the narrow entrance to the stall, he locked the door behind him.

 

He took a moment to bend down and remove his shorts.  Normally, he’d have dropped them exactly as the queerboy did, but Joe had a reason for reaching down to the floor.  Snagging the discarded jockstrap, he doubled it and wrapped it around his hairy forearm.

 

Brad was panting as he anxiously awaited the Herculean stud standing behind him.  He could feel the alpha’s physical presence like an electric charge that grew as the stud got closer.  His lean but strong body thrilled when he felt the thick, firm head of the dude’s cock press against his fluttering rosebud asshole.

 

Joe gripped the punk’s hips tightly, mounting the kid and holding his fuckhole in position while he lined up his massive hog.  He didn’t want to frighten his prey yet, so he inserted his dick slowly and gently, penetrating the faggot smoothly and easily.

 

It took a great deal of discipline; Joe grunted with the effort.  Brad heard, and assumed it was in lust.

 

The horny cunt was trying not to cry out anyway; even slowly inserted, the cock penetrating his ass was the largest hog he’d ever had stuffed inside him.  And it hurt.  Even slow, it hurt.

 

But fuck, it hurt so good.  This motherfucker was a real man, and that was what he wanted—a real man inside him, filling his colon with hot, throbbing manmeat.  So he ground his teeth and did his best to keep quiet as the enormous shaft plowed deep into his rectum.

 

He succeeded only partially.  With each gradual thrust of the top’s dick, Brad gave a faint but audible moan, so high-pitched as to be nearly a squeal.  Stretching his bright Nikes, he rose up on his toes and tried to angle his ass to ensure the smoothest passage for the horsedick that was impaling him.

 

Suddenly his sphincter collapsed; as he gave a faint gasp, his ass relaxed and allowed Joe’s tool easier entry.  The hardbodied alpha felt it too; digging his fingers into the soft flesh on the Brad’s hips, he sank his pulsing shaft deep into the kid’s quivering rectum.  The young slut dug his fingers into the wall as Joe began to pump, dragging his long, vein-ridged cock out of the boy’s ass, leaving just the swollen head inside before ramming the whole thing all the way back in.   As his bright blue kicks bounced on the floor, the eager young homo gave a low moan that slowly increased in intensity as Joe’s thrusts intensified—

 

—and then the door to the rest room opened.

 

They froze.  Two hard, sweaty males locked in full anal penetration, keeping still as footsteps crossed the room behind them.  After a nerve-wracking pause, the sound of piss splashing into one of the urinals echoed through the cinderblock room.  It went on forever; the dude seemed to have a bladder like a racehorse.

 

Finally, it ended.  After the flush, they heard water splashing into the sink, followed by withdrawal and use of paper towel.  By the time the door slammed closed, Joe had started plugging Brad’s hole again, both of them panting in lust and the heat.

 

“F-fuck,” the slim, smooth youth gasped, “that was close—“

 

“Shut up,” Joe muttered.  “Just bend over and take my cock, bitch.”

 

Brad shut up.

 

But as he took it, his feet began to slip.  He was struggling to brace himself against the wall under the brutal onslaught, but his Nike Frees were starting to slide on the smooth and slightly slick concrete floor. “Sh-shit, man…” he bleated uneasily.

 

Joe grunted in annoyance and slammed the punk forward into the wall.  Brad gave a short, swift yell but quickly drew his left leg up and placed it on the toilet seat.  It was clean but cheap and thin, warping under his weight when he brought his other leg up.  But it held up as the slim fit fag kneeled on it and got his ass pounded.

 

And Joe’s swollen hog had remained fully embedded in his colon as he repositioned himself.  As Brad clung to the wall, his lean smooth torso shining with a sheen of pheromone-laden sweat, he was aware of Joe’s hog above all else.  It filled him utterly; he could feel every thick vein scraping the inside of his rectum, he could feel the enormous head, spongy but firm, probing deep into his guts.

 

Joe’s muscled abdomen was also covered with a light film of sweat that left testosterone-laced beads of moisture glittering like diamonds among his chest hair.  They shook and danced as the buff alpha grunted and pumped his toy’s fuckhole, his toes curling for purchase inside his orange Zooms.  Larger and stronger than Brad, he didn’t have the same traction issues…

 

The randy punk started really enjoying his vigorous cornholing.  They started low, his whimpers of pleasure, but they kept pace with the tempo of Joe’s thrusts and gradually grew louder.  The hulking alpha shifted his right foot back, the orange Nike scraping along the concrete floor.  Having steadied himself, he hunched over the boy’s sweating, heaving back and drove his huge throbbing cock even more brutally up the kid’s ass.

 

The sound of wet, firm flesh slapping together echoed through the cinderblock room, accented by the grunting and groaning that accompanied rough sweaty male sex.  It increased in speed and intensity before a voice interrupted the rhythm.  “F-fuck!” Brad cried out through gritted teeth, “yer killin’ my ass, man, I’m gonna cum!”

 

“Not yet you ain’t,” Joe muttered.  “You ain’t got me off yet, bitch.  I ain’t done with ya.”

 

“Dude, I can’t hold out much longer,” the lean fag slut panted as his toes curled in his kicks and his fingers curled against the wall.  “I’m gonna blow…”

 

Joe gave a slight chuckle—without missing a single pump of his gigantic dick—and said, “So think of something else.  Here, I got something to take yer mind off it.”

 

And after a brief pause, Brad’s mind was very much taken off his orgasm.

 

He didn’t know what was happening at first; he was aware that the alpha stud was no longer griping his hips—and he was very aware of the thin but strong band of fabric and elastic that was suddenly looped around his neck.  But even as it started to tighten, Brad didn’t realize that his own jockstrap was the ligature.

 

And he damn sure didn’t realize he was about to die.  “What are ya—“ he managed to squeak out just before his trachea was clamped off.

 

Joe didn’t need to hear the whole question.  Pulling back on the twisted ends of the jockstrap, he bent the lithe youth back until he could speak directly into the kid’s ear.  The boy’s short dark hair brushed against his cheek as he whispered, “What am I doing?  I’m offin’ ya, faggot.  Yer gonna die here, cunt; how ya like that?”

 

Brad was not in a position to immediately comprehend the words; he was in a position that was causing him a lot of pain, with his body tortuously bent backwards.  He was almost literally nailed to the toilet by Joe’s massive meat spike while the straining elastic of the jock brutally yanked his slick, smooth torso back in an arc.

 

But while the words might not have been understood, the action certainly was; the helpless bottom boy could feel pressure mounting in his head as his circulation was shut off above the neck.  Instinctively, he reached back, twisting his arms awkwardly behind his head.  His hands, scrambling in panic, groped frantically at empty air until, by chance, he found Joe’s wrist.

 

The hard-bodied killer grunted with annoyance; the sensation of the bitch’s hands clawing desperately at his straining arms pissed him off.  “Quit fightin’ it, ya sack of shit,” Joe hissed, “You ain’t goin’—“

 

The rattling of the doorknob warned him just in time—they were about to have company again.

 

Deep in his terror, Brad heard it too; it generated a futile spark of hope within his pounding heart.  The embarrassment of being found getting fucked in a public bathroom never registered with the desperate youth; he was willing to risk anything if meant a chance to break free from this powerful, brutal psycho.

 

Joe, of course, knew every thought and emotion running through the meat’s paltry mind—he’d put down enough of these little faggots to know they were pretty much all the same.  He knew the meat was gonna start to squeak and squeal and struggle violently in hope of a rescue.

 

He wasn’t putting up with that shit.  Time to show the worthless pansy cunt exactly who was running the show.

 

It all happened instantly.  The hulking alpha threw himself forward, simultaneously jerking back on the twisted strap around the kid’s throat, his biceps bulging with effort.

 

For Brad, the pain of the tightened ligature was immediately overshadowed by the agony he experienced as his slim form was crushed between the cinderblock wall and Joe’s huge, heaving body.  His face was forced to the left, his head buried between the killer’s massive pecs; suddenly, he could hear no more than the swift frantic beating of his own heart and the slower, more controlled tempo of his killer’s.  As the trapped punk shuddered, Joe’s wiry chest hair scratched at the back of his head.  He could feel it scraping his cheek, the back of his neck, down his back between the shoulder blades.  He could feel the vicious alpha’s ripped abs pressing into the small of his back, sliding on a light coat of sweat…

 

Joe drove himself forward, his powerful thighs and calves straining at the effort, his orange Nikes planted firmly on the concrete floor and giving him enough traction to grind his fucktoy into silent submission; his thick, engorged shaft remaining deeply implanted in Brad’s ravaged asshole. He could feel the bitchboy writhing frantically but silently, the kid’s neon kicks flailing in empty air.

 

The swiftness of the assault was amazing.  Brad was rendered utterly impotent in the blink of an eye; he wallowed helplessly in crushing pain as the restroom door opened and the unknown dude strode across the floor, a few feet away—a thousand miles away.

 

He was useless.  Help was there, right there, all he had to do was make some sound, some sign—but his lean body, strong with youth, was no match for the powerfully muscled mass of his killer.  As Brad’s face swelled and blackened grotesquely, he dimly realized that he was dying to the sound of piss pounding into a urinal.

 

He tried.  He fought to live, but his feeble struggles did little more but inflict more pain on himself—and to enrage Joe, who took note and planned to extract his vengeance once the coast was clear.

 

He didn’t wait long.  A loud flush was followed by the door opening.  Motherfucker didn’t even wash his hands.  Not that it mattered—what mattered was that Joe and Brad were alone again.

 

Joe didn’t ease off the pressure right away.  He continued to grind the homo cunt against the wall with his heaving, sculpted body, bending his head close to whisper in his meat’s ear, “Like I was sayin’ before we were interrupted—you ain’t goin’ nowhere but Hell, you faggot cumdump!”

 

Then he pushed back, standing erect but with his huge stiff dick still impaled in Brad’s quivering ass.  The sadistic alpha yanked back on the jockstrap like he was reining in a runaway horse, forcing the agonized youth to bend backwards.  Brad’s head was tilted so far back his bulging, reddening eyes were gazing sightlessly at the ceiling while his hands clawed frantically at the empty air in front of him, occasionally slapping at the wall.

 

The horny gay kid was close to death.  His air had been cut off long enough for progressive brain death to begin; his vision was already clouded with big black explosions of hypoxia.  He was randomly beating the bare cinderblock wall because he no longer had either the physical or mental coordination to assail his killer.

 

And yet, he was still able to suffer.  His breath had been cut off, not his nervous system; even in mortal fear, some part of his mind registered the agony in his knees and shins, pressed into the hard plastic toilet seat and supporting his weight.   And that was the least of the torture he was currently enduring.

 

Through the whole ordeal, Joe’s thick shaft, wreathed with veins, had continued its merciless probing of his guts.  Even as Brad had been forced against the wall, he had still felt the massive flanged tip of the alpha’s cock plunged deep into inside him and held there, nestled in his guts, wet and throbbing.  He knew he was impaled on a huge rod of oozing purple manmeat; in other circumstances, he’d be hard as hell.

 

And that was the worst of it—he was hard as hell. He was in pain—oh fuck, he was in so much pain—but some of that pain was in his dick  It was erect and straining so strongly that it was causing him severe torment.  Bent over backwards in violent assrape, Brad naturally couldn’t see his how his swollen tool had flushed into an angry red as it slowly darkened to match the purple-black shade of his face.

 

“Goddam, fag, I’m just about done with ya,” his killer sneered in a deep, guttural growl.  “I’m gonna blow my wad inside ya as I choke your useless life out.  Yer gonna be found in a park bathroom, fucked, filled with cum and snuffed.  Ha!  Ya like that, queerboy?  Ya think anyone’s gonna care?  Naw, not for worthless faggot scum like you, cunt.  Die, bitch, die on the toilet like the piece of shit you are!”

 

Some slight sense of the words sank through to Brad, but what little consciousness he had left was busy fending off pain and trying to stay aware as  long as possible.  His head was a ball of nightmarish agony; his nerveless hands were now slapping at his face, now distorted beyond recognition.

 

The handsome young man with the short dark hair and runner’s tan had been replaced with a grotesque caricature.  His smooth cheeks, now bloated and purple, were streaked with white froth that was being forced from his mouth past his dark, distended tongue.  His eyes, once large and clear, had rolled back in his head, showing only the whites—which were visibly turning red with each passing moment as more and more blood vessels ruptured under the pressure of manual strangulation.

 

Joe could feel the meat trembling on the edge of the abyss.  The scumshit homo was starting to shudder bonelessly; from experience, Joe knew that the next step down into the grave would be violent rhythmic convulsion.  And that was exactly what he was waiting for.  Grinning, he twisted the jockstrap one final time and pulled it so tight the tendons stood out on his neck. Almost immediately, he could feel the fag’s neck give.  With a loud cracking sound, he succeeded in crushing the motherfucker’s esophagus.

 

It started slowly, almost gently, the way the fucktoy began backing his ass up onto Joe’s dick.  The hard-bodied sadist didn’t need to thrust anymore; he just needed to hold on and squeeze the meat at the right time.  The cunt’s death throes would milk the sperm right outta him…

 

He was right, of course; as more and more of Brad’s brain shut down, the more his lean, lithe, sweat-slicked body began to jerk and thrash.  Swiftly, he lost control, flopping forward as full-body convulsion wracked his slim form.  Joe quickly leaned forward himself and, placing his hands on the back of Brad’s shoulders, forced them forward to the wall.  The experienced killer used his own weight to pin the flailing slut there as he died.

 

Brad was gone.  There was a slight flicker of light left in some brain cells, cells able to process input from the nervous system.  There was no register of emotion or personality left, only that of physical sensation—and even that was faulty.

 

It equated the hot explosion of spunk internally to the hot explosion of spunk externally; it determined no difference between the boiling jet of seed injected deep into Brad’s intestines by Joe’s pulsing cock as the killer snarled and grunted, and the violent spurt of the unlucky punk’s death load that spattered the cinderblock wall with the corpse’s own DNA.

 

Joe continued to press Brad into the wall; it took him a few minutes to unload completely.  The shuddering body had slipped off the toilet seat and was only held up by Joe’s pressure.  When he was done, the muscled alpha withdrew his shaft from the corpse’s ass and stood up, letting the body tumble to the floor of the bathroom stall like the pile of meat it was.

 

Brad’s body, still quivering and kicking, fell face down.   His one identifying mark, his star tattoo, couldn’t be seen and the jockstrap was so embedded in his neck as to be invisible.  All he had left in the way of clothing was his ped socks and his blue and green Nike Frees, now scraping jaggedly and arrhythmically on the concrete floor.

 

Joe took a moment to tear off some TP and wipe down his still-dripping cock before he bent down and scooped his clothing off the floor.  The muscled killer dressed quickly before he left the stall, letting the door swing shut behind him.  Chuckling at  the sound of children playing in the park outside, he washed his hands in the sink, splashing a little water on his face after.

 

Within two minutes, he was back out on the jogging trail, just another runner taking advantage of the unexpectedly pleasant weather.

 

 

As the afternoon set in, Brad’s body cooled and gradually became still, the lean but firm muscles ceasing to quiver mindlessly as time went by.  As it lay quietly on the concrete floor, the door to the bathroom opened—and then the door to the stall.

 

There was a pause, then the corpse jerked.  It jerked again, more strongly, none of the movements under its own power.  The body was being manipulated.  Another jerk, and the interloper was gone.

 

For the rest of the afternoon, the stiffening corpse was undisturbed; it wasn’t discovered until nearly six in the evening.  The reporting officer noted that except for the ligature, the body was completely and utterly nude.

Trucker 8–Trucker v Loose End

On By m3mayhemIn The Trucker1 Comment

Mark was livid.

 

The psychopathic homosexual serial killer he was tracking had at least a twenty-four hour lead on him.  And it wasn’t as if Mark could discern a pattern anyway; despite being one of the best profilers employed by the FBI, he still couldn’t determine exactly why the dude had offed two low-level hustlers—one a paid dancer at a club—in the same night.

 

And the state in which he’d left them, especially that kid in the motel room…

 

Dan was still incommunicado on assignment and Mark was getting increasingly frustrated.  He needed to find this motherfucker, and fast.  This was gonna hit the news soon, even if it wasn’t linked across state lines to that dead trooper.  The stripper knocked off in his apartment coulda been kept under wraps, but the room maid who found the dead drug slut in the motel went full mental and half the town knew something had happened by the time Mark had arrived.

 

Where the fuck was this guy?

 

————————————————————————–

 

 

The guy in question was in the last place Mark expected him to be.  It was a cliché—and a true one—that criminals returned to the scene of their crimes, but even an experienced profiler wouldn’t have expected to find the Trucker in room 115 of the Waters Motel.

 

He’d planned to ask for the room when he checked in, but it turned out to be the one the aged clerk gave him anyway.  He’d checked in using cash and a false name (like everyone else who used the place), leaving his rig back at the truck stop, as he’d done on his earlier visit. The only difference was that he was carrying an overnight bag on his walk to the motel.

 

This time, the room didn’t reek of crack and mansex, just a slight musty smell that the aggressively citrus-scented cleaner couldn’t quite overcome.  The furniture was intact, but the mirror didn’t match the dresser.  The TV and bedside lamps were new and very, very cheap.

 

The drywall had been replaced, but the paint was half a shade off, just barely noticeable.  Most of the occupants of the room were doubtlessly too intent on other things to notice these details—much less guess at the savage beating, rape and murder that had caused them.

 

The Trucker dropped his bag on the floor.  For a brief moment it all came back to him—the white-hot rage that burned within him when he discovered the whore stealing, the pleasure he got out of throwing the worthless cunt across the room before beating the fuck out of him, the fag suffering an agonizing, drawn-out death while riding his cock…

 

The powerful sadist grinned, his dick hard at the memory.  Then he shook his head brusquely, clearing his mind.  He was here for a specific purpose.  Well, he always had a specific purpose—but now he had a specific target.

 

He glanced at his watch in the dim, depressing glow of the overhead light.  Past ten p.m.—he needed to get ready.  Retrieving his bag from the floor, he tossed it on the bed and began to strip.

 

Slipping off his loosely-laced work boots, he took off his jeans, peeling the thin denim from his bulging thighs and thick calves.  Taking off his trucker’s cap, he ran his hands through his thick, fine hair, tousling the black strands before peeling off the thin white cotton t-shirt that clung to his hubcap pecs like a second skin, his large nipples proudly protruding from his broad chest.

 

Except for the white tube socks clinging to his muscled calves, the Trucker stood nude in the center of the room, facing the mirror.

 

He took a moment to admire his own body—an erotic, powerful killing machine.  His broad chest, slightly glistening with sweat in the warm room, rose and fell with his even breaths.  The faint motion was just enough for a dim shimmer of light to reflect from the dogtags nestled snugly in his wiry chest hair.

 

In the mirror, the Trucker’s eyes followed the line of fur down his firm, rippled abs.  The happy trail became denser as it approached his waist, finally bursting out in a bush of curly black pubes.  From the center of this dark nest, the alpha’s enormous cock jutted proudly.  The memory of the last time he’d been here, the justice he’d meted out to the thieving boywhore, had gotten him hard.

 

As he watched the mirror, he could see his dick throb; the pulsations were visible from halfway across the room.  And soon so was the faint twinkle refracting from a transparent drop of precum.

 

Not yet, he thought.  He needed to get ready; he had a plan to put into motion.

 

And he knew he’d have an opportunity to drain his shaft later on.

 

Padding back to the bed, his feet still clad in the tight white cotton socks, he opened his bag and began extracting clothing.  He removed a tan shirt and pair of slacks first.  Underneath them was a pair of glossy brown leather boots, nearly knee-high.  When they were out, all that was left, rattling in the bottom of the bag, was a pair of hardened steel handcuffs.  Well, that and a bottle of Jack Daniels that quickly went into the nightstand drawer.

 

It was the Trooper’s uniform—well, most of it.  The Trucker was planning on walking a fine line between enticement and intimidation tonight.  Not that that was particularly unusual for him, but tonight his sense of purpose added something extra—perhaps a touch of anticipation, of eagerness, to tease his jaded appetite.

 

He dressed carefully.  The Trooper had been slightly smaller than him, so the clothes were tight.  The Trucker didn’t realize quite how tight until he tried to pull the smooth khaki trousers up over his thick, strong thighs.  The tan-colored chinos clung to the alpha’s firm legs, stretching the seams to their limits.

 

Leaving the pants undone, he slipped on a clean white t-shirt, followed by the Trooper’s tan button-down shirt.  The Trucker left the top two buttons unfastened, allowing a glimpse of his curly chest hair over the collar of the t-shirt.

 

After tucking the shirttail into the waist of the pants, the muscled stud picked up the jeans he’d tossed on the bed and unthreaded the thick belt from the loops.  The belt, nearly two inches of black leather, was soon cinched tightly around his waist.

 

It wasn’t the Trooper’s original belt.  He hadn’t kept the badge, and he’d gotten rid of the gun too.  Guns weren’t his style to begin with—he liked to linger over his kills—but he had another reason as well.

 

After all, the local fags would clam up around a real cop.  But a dude in a cop uniform would be an irresistible lure for some of the cockpigs, whether or not they were into roleplay.

 

The Trucker sat on the bed and pulled the knee-high glossy boots on before standing and facing the mirror again.  His smile became colder and more evil as he assessed his appearance.

 

In front of him stood a tall, intimidating man whose body was rippled with muscles.  The khaki uniform seemed to be painted onto his powerful physique; even the brown leather boots were bulging with his hard, thick calves.  The black belt didn’t quite match, and there was no badge—no way he could be legitimately accused of impersonating an officer.

 

The cuffs he jammed into his hip pocket were the real deal, though.  And as smoothly as the tan chinos clung to his firm, rounded buttocks, the cuffs were obvious.

 

Again, there were cockpigs who would find that irresistible.  And the Trucker had a strong suspicion that his target would be one.  Now, he just needed to wait.  Quickly placing his original clothing into the bag, along with the work boots, he laid the bag smoothly into the top drawer of the dresser.

 

Turning out the light, the Trucker opened the blinds in the window.  And waited.

 

He had a decent view across the parking lot and the street to the main entrance of the gay bar.  As it turned out, he had to wait just over an hour before he saw the cunt he was stalking saunter down the street.  The punk paused under the electric glare of the bar’s sign to check his wallet before pushing open the blacked-out door and vanishing inside.

 

The Trucker stood up straight, feeling his throbbing dick tentpoling the tight khaki chinos.  The angry sensation of heat in his scrotum told him it was time to get the show on the road—he was done waiting.  He strode out the door, ensuring the room was ready for his return with a quick backwards glance.

 

The Trooper’s boots thumped loudly on the parking lot blacktop, a forceful, masculine sound.  The brown leather uppers gripped his legs snugly, bulging slightly as his thick calf muscles flexed with each step.

 

He crossed the street quickly.  As it happened, there was no one out front when he approached the place.  He slipped inside the door, noting the appraising leer of the bouncer—who was rubbing his groin.

 

The entryway was small and garishly lit.  Once past it, though, the Trucker found himself in a Stygian blackness, broken by random strobe lights that induced instant disorientation by virtue of being out of synch with the pounding music.  The cold, experienced killer grinned happily.

 

It was perfect.  So much chaos—no one would be able to describe him with any accuracy.

 

Another benefit of the flashing, psychedelic atmosphere was that it gave him a brief moment of anonymity to reconnoiter.  Once he stepped out of the shadows, he’d be the center of attention.  He knew it.  It wasn’t arrogance—it was simple fact.  In the skin-tight cop uniform, he would be irresistible to all the cumpigs in the bar.

 

He was only after one.  But he already knew that one was interested in him.  The cunt wouldn’t recognize him in this getup—but would be flattered to be singled out.

 

After all, the Trucker was a well-built, powerful man, and he was dressed to highlight his physique.  And the testosterone he was pumping out with his pheromones drew fags to him like moths to a candle.  Or flies to a flytrap.

 

Either way, the insects died horribly.

 

He’d entered at one corner of a large open space.  At the other was a huge TV screen, playing music videos that were utterly unrelated to the music actually playing.  Two-thirds of the open area was dance floor; the remainder was a collection of rickety tables and chairs, sparsely occupied.  The bar stretched along three of the four walls, with stools pulled up.  Most of the clientele was either at the bar or on the dance floor.

 

Pausing in the shadows, the Trucker surveyed the crowd.  It was just about midnight and the club was in full swing.  Even though it was a small town in the middle of nowhere, it was the only gay bar in the county, so it tended to be pretty popular.  And the proximity of the truck stop didn’t hurt.

 

The clientele was a mix—some twinks, some fat old trolls, and an assortment of muscular farm boy/manual labor types.  That made it easier to sight his prey.  He was after a twink; there weren’t enough to allow the punk to blend in.

 

The buff alpha spotted the boy—he was halfway down the bar on the left-hand side of the room.  As the Trucker sized up his victim, he noticed that the kid was facing away from him, slowly nursing a Bud Light. In a room full of men in blue jeans and work boots or cowboy boots, the boy stood out—not so much as to draw a lot of attention, but enough to make him easy to track.

 

His shoulder-length black hair gleamed in the light, pulled back in a ponytail.  The Trucker smirked in contempt—at least it was clean this time.  Last time he’d seen the fucker, it had been greasy.  It had also been loose and spread out over the ears, which was why the brawny killer hadn’t noticed the multiple silver studs piercing the kid’s ears.

 

The boy was about five foot ten, with a tight, lean swimmer’s build that was amply displayed by his too-small t-shirt, thin cotton in bright red that clung to his smooth torso and slim waist like a second skin.  Beneath, the punk’s black skinny jeans gripped his taut asscheeks tightly and revealed every muscle in the youth’s legs.

 

His shoes were what stood out the most; a pair of Nike Kobe X Elites in black and red.  Taller than most sneakers, they came several inches above his ankle.  The cuffs of his jeans had gotten tucked inside; it gave him the appearance of wearing black cloth lace-up boots.

 

Time to make his move.  The Trucker crossed to the bar, heading for the stool next to the kid.  As he reached it, he made sure to jostle his prey while ordering a shot of Jack.  Naturally enough, the boy turned and eyed the Trucker.

 

The cold, calculating killer ignored him, at least for the moment.  But out of the corner of his eye, he could see the way the boy was checking him out.  In fact, he could almost literally feel the punk’s hot, lascivious gaze sliding up and down his powerful body.

 

The kid was taking the bait.

 

The Trucker finally turned and acknowledged the boy, letting his glance flicker over the kid’s slim, firm body.  The boy blinked, looked up into the Trucker’s face and gulped.  “H-hey, man, wh-wh-what’s up?” he stammered, trying to give a show of insouciance and failing miserably.

 

The older man gave the youth a friendly smile. The little piece of shit was hooked.  Time to play with his catch a little before reeling him in.

 

“Hey,” he rumbled casually in his deep bass voice.  “Just checkin’ things out.  What’s up with you?”

 

The punk’s lips must have gone dry; he literally licked them before replying.  “Just looking for some fun,” he said, recovering a slight measure of nonchalance.  “Name’s Zach…”

 

Here he broke off and peered up at the Trucker closely.  “You look familiar,” he said questioningly.  “Are you a model?  You do porn?”

 

The well-built alpha chuckled pleasantly.  “Naw, man, I ain’t done no porn—“  He broke off, remembering the video of him snuffing the stripper.  “Well, nothin’ you seen, boy.”

 

As he expected, this aroused the kid even more.

 

“So you done something?” Zach asked eagerly.  “What’d you do—play a cop?  That outfit is so fuckin’ hot…”

 

The Trucker laughed.  “No, I didn’t play a cop.  But I can.  Why—you want one?”

 

Here Zach hesitated, embarrassed.  He blushed, then muttered, “No, not a cop…”  The punk turned his reddened face away for a moment.  He seemed to consider for a moment before shrugging his discomfort off and turned back to the Trucker.

 

“Naw, I don’t want a cop.  I wanna jail guard.  I spent three months in juvie—it don’t matter why—and there was this one guard who’d let me suck him off.  He was so damn hot, I’da let him do anything he wanted, but that was all he’d do to me.”

 

Grinning bashfully, he shook his head, flicking his black ponytail.  “You’re even hotter than he was.  Can ya be a guard with a prisoner at your mercy?”

 

The effort to control himself forced the Trucker to dig his fingernails into the surface of the wooden bar.  “Yeah,” he said evenly, “yeah, I think I can do that.”

 

He turned to fully face the boy, standing in such a way that the enormous erection tenting the chinos in his crotch was instantly obvious to Zach.  The young slut again lost his cool, gasping aloud as he gazed on the evidence of the older dude’s ability to give him everything he wanted.  Forcing his eyes away, the kid found them drawn to a glint of light at the stud’s waist.  Peering closer, he could see the rounded metal arcs of handcuffs peeking out of the stud’s pocket.

 

That was it.  That was all that was needed.  The Trucker had landed his catch.

 

Time to take the fish back and clean it.

 

The Trucker could see that the fucker was still nursing his beer.  “Ya might wanna get somethin’ stronger than that horse piss before I go Attica on yer ass, boy,” he chuckled.

 

Zach’s face, pockmarked with adolescent acne, flushed red again.  “I-I can’t, dude.  I’m only eighteen.  The bartender slips me a Bud or two cause I suck him off sometimes, but they won’t serve me here.”

 

“Well, damn, bitch, yer gonna need something stronger for sure.  I gotta fresh bottle of JD back in my hotel room.  Let’s have ya hit it, then I’ll hit you—ha!”

 

The kid lit up at the suggestion.  “Fuck yeah, dude, let’s go!” he chirped giddily, slamming the remainder of his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Zach followed the Trucker out of the bar and across to the motel as eagerly as a puppy; if the young cunt had had a tail, he’d have been wagging it.  His tall Nike hightops padded quietly on the pavement, the sound completely covered by the older man’s heavy footfalls—not that there was anyone to hear.

 

It was past midnight in a small country town; most of the action was already inside the bar (or one of several straight bars in town).  They were able to reach the room without being seen by anyone, not that Zach paid attention.  But the Trucker did.

 

The Trucker opened the door and went in, flicking on the lights as he entered.  He stepped to the side to allow the boy to enter, then closed the door behind him, making certain that the self-locking latch had connected properly.  Again, Zach paid no attention, seating himself on the bed and looking around.

 

The alpha crossed to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of disposable plastic cups.  He handed them to Zach.  “Here,” he said, “get that wrap off them while I get the bottle.”  He allowed a slight gruffness into his tone, noting how the boy seemed to shudder at the ring of command in his voice.

 

The little cocksucker liked to be dominated.  He liked to be forced to obey.

 

So it was time to give him something to obey.  He grabbed the cups from the kid.  “Now strip the bed, boy.  Next time I look at it, I don’t wanna see nothin’ but the bottom sheet, ya hear me?”

 

The Trucker turned away from him to get the whiskey bottle out of the nightstand, which was probably a good thing; the sadistic killer was unable to completely hide the look of malevolent glee that crossed his face.

 

He opened the bottle and  filled the cups,  each about half full.  They were eight-ounce cups; each had the equivalent of four shots.  Turning around, he was pleased to see his order had been obeyed; everything had been swept off the bed into a pile on the far side of the room; the kid was sitting on the edge of the bed, his tight black jeans highlighted by the dingy, off-white fitted sheet.

 

The Trucker handed one of the cups to Zach.

 

“Here’s to yer jail rape, dude,” he grinned, “here’s to a fuck so long and hard you’ll remember it for the rest of yer life—no matter how long that is.”  He bumped the rims of the plastic cups together before tossing back the entire cupful.  He steeled himself as the smoky amber liquid coursed down his throat, setting his blood aflame.  He cleared his throat twice, shook his head, and set the cup down, staring expectantly at Zach.

 

He knew damn well Zach hadn’t had much in the way of hard booze before, not if he was already known at the bar.  He didn’t seem to know what a large amount he’d been handed, and he didn’t want the hot cop dude to think he couldn’t take it.  Without hesitation, he shot back all four ounces as well.

 

Well, not as well.  Not well at all, in fact; it took a moment for it to hit him, then he fell to his knees with his hands at his searing throat, coughing and crying.  His face was bright red and he was gasping like he’d drunk acid—but he didn’t puke.  He kept the booze down.

 

“That’s it, boy,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Don’t puke.  Ya know what happens if ya puke in jail, dontcha, bitch?  Ya gotta lick it up!”

 

Even as Zach tried to control his choking, he could feel his cock stiffening in his groin, painfully restrained by his tight jeans. This was it; this was the real deal.  This hard motherfucker was gonna treat him like the pig he was.  He couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

 

And that was when the alcohol hit.  The Trucker had been right; Zach wasn’t used to that amount of liquor—certainly not at once.  The boy tried unsteadily to rise off his knees.  He put his hand out to the nightstand for support but kept missing it, his hand grabbing at air.

 

“C’mon, bitch, stand up,” the muscled strongman snapped, stepping forward and jerking the boy upright by his arm.  Once on his feet again, Zach grinned up at the Trucker.  The pockmarked teen was only attractive in his youth, his smooth slim body.  His face was slightly rounded, with a weak chin and large, bloodshot brown eyes.  His nose was crooked and slightly snub, and his long black hair was coarse and stringy.

 

Ain’t no one gonna miss this one, the Trucker thought.  And after all, he was at the height of his attraction now; really, it was a mercy to waste him.

 

Of course, the Trucker’s method wasn’t going to be merciful, but that was beside the point.  The worthless little faggot needed to be taught a lesson and the powerful alpha was gonna make sure the cunt learned it if was the last thing the boy learned on earth—which it would be.

 

But for now, he was willing to take his time, to play a little.  And he was curious to see just how far he could go before the cumpig realized that his fantasy was becoming a snuff.

 

“C’mon, punk, get outta that shirt,” he barked, “ya know the drill; I gotta search ya, make sure you ain’t got no weapons.”  Zach complied right away, pulling the tight red t-shirt up over his head and shaking his ponytail free.  He stood facing the Trucker, swaying drunkenly, his soft, smooth skin glistening faintly with a thin sheen of sweat as his chest heaved in excitement.  The long, swollen ridge in his groin, wrapped tightly in black denim, pulsed visibly as the teen gasped raggedly in lust.

 

“Up against the wall, boy, NOW!” the older man shouted suddenly, “assume the position!”  Startled, the kid jumped, but instantly did as he was told, wheeling around and placing his palms flat on the wall.  Then the Trucker approached.

 

The muscle-bound alpha pressed himself against Zach’s back, leaning in to whisper.  “Gonna frisk ya, bitch—and if I find anything, I’m gonna do a cavity search.”  With that, he placed his large, strong hands on the teen and began to fondle him.  He wrapped one arm around the boy’s chest, holding him in place like an iron bar while he shoved the other hand down the front of the kid’s jeans.

 

The Trucker grabbed hold of Zach’s long, throbbing cock and began to twist it and squeeze it, slowly increasing the force until the youth was whimpering in pain.  Floundering in a haze of lust and alcohol, Zach found himself unable to break free; with each brutal wrench of his scrotum, he could feel his tormentor’s huge pecs bulging in effort, pressed against his back.

 

The young cockpig loved it.

 

“F-fuckin’-A,” he slurred, moaning ecstatically, “yeah, dude, I’ll be yer fuckin’ prison bitsh.  Use me, you fucker…”  He broke off in a breathy gasp, shuddering with pleasure.

 

Without saying a word, the Trucker let go of the boy’s dick and withdrew his hands.  With a sudden, practiced movement, he jerked Zach’s hands around behind his back and had them cuffed before the boy even realized what had happened.  Even when he did realize, he was too incapacitated by the booze to do much.

 

He stood and swayed, staring blearily at the Trucker as the latter slowly unbuttoned the cop’s tan dress shirt and tossed it on the floor.  Next, the older stud unbuckled his thick leather belt and unsnaked it from his tight waist, hanging it over the headboard of the bed.  Only after all this was complete did his pull off the thin white cotton t-shirt.

 

If Zach had been less drunk, he might have recognized that amazing chest, broad and muscled with dark wiry hair; it had certainly drawn his attention the last time he’d seen it.  Unluckily for him, the alcohol was interfering with his sense of danger to such an extent that even the sight of the dogtags nestled between the alpha’s hubcap-like pecs didn’t send up a red flag.

 

“C’mere, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  “C’mere and work my chest, you jailyard cumslut.”

 

Zach approached the brawny sadist slowly, almost hesitant to touch the Trucker for fear that his fantasy would pop like a bubble.  The Trucker grunted with impatience.  He reached out and snagged the teen by one of his ear studs and brutally yanked him closer, making Zach cry out in pain.  But before he could yelp again, his face was being ground into the alpha’s chest; the older man’s fur scraping at his skin like steel wool.

 

“Work it, cunt, get yer tongue out and work it!” came a vicious hiss.  Zach did as he was told, running his tongue along the dude’s skin, slurping up a heady salty mix of mansweat and pheromones.  The teen’s adolescent body, already in a ferment of hormones, went into overdrive.  He felt the hard metallic edges of the dogtags slicing against his face—painful, but too dull to break the skin.

 

As Zach knelt to run his tongue down the length of the Trucker’s rippled abs, his own young, slim body was flooded with testosterone and adrenaline.  When the buff alpha pulled the boy back up to his feet and forced the kid’s face into his pits, the youth was pressed against him and he could feel the hot rigid shaft in the punk’s crotch.  “C’mon, ya fuckin’ jailbait, work my pits good,” he growled, “show me how ya keep yer cellie clean.”

 

The Trucker abruptly stood up straight and, grabbing Zach by the upper arms, threw him down onto the bed on his back.  The boy drew a sharp, surprised intake of breath.  His eyes opened wide as the Trucker loomed ominously over him and, bending down, grabbed the fly of Zach’s jeans.  A single rough, swift jerk undid the button; the loose zipper came down immediately.

 

Another couple of jerks and the Trucker had peeled the jeans off the kid completely, turning them inside out as he shucked the boy like corn.  There was a slight ripping sound as the cuffs were forced over the heels of Zach’s Kobe X’s, but a little extra tightening of his bicep was enough to power through the resistance.

 

Zach didn’t protest the damage to his pants; he was both too drunk and too horny to care.  Despite the former, he was able to demonstrate the latter with no doubt; his own dick had bobbed up ecstatically the moment it was free from the confining denim, slapping against his flat belly and spattering precum like a fine rain, the drops of which were caught on the soft brown fur surrounding his navel.

 

“Fuck, man,” the horny young punk moaned, “you got me in cuffs, you can lock me up and do what the fuck you wanna do to me…”

 

Nude but for the Nike hightops laced above his ankles, Zach’s smooth skin gleamed with the slight film of sweat worked up by his sexual ecstasy.  He writhed in erotic helplessness as the heavily-muscled stranger towered over him.

 

“Do me,” the teen gasped, almost involuntarily.  “Stick it in me…”  It was obvious that his rational mind was shut down, overpowered by the hormones rampaging through his slender but firm body.  The adolescent faggot wanted dick.  He wanted it rough, and he wanted it now.

 

The Trucker was only too happy to provide.  But not yet.  He’d left a pack of Marlboro Reds on the dresser.  Wheeling abruptly on the heel of his boot, he walked across the room and took a moment to light one up, completely ignoring the desperately randy youth shuddering on the bed.

 

Turning back, he could see that the little fuck had raised his head.  Whimpering faintly, the kid was gazing at him with a look of raw sexual hunger.  Zach was actually right—the Trucker could do whatever he wanted to the teenager.  No one could stop him.

 

His grin deepened, giving him a predatory, carnivorous look.

 

The Trucker approached the bed again slowly, his incredible body rippling with menace.  He exhaled a cloud of smoke over the boy before placing the cigarette, still lit, on the nightstand. Reaching down to his groin, he lowered his own zipper.  His massive dong was too large to fall out of the trooper’s tight beige chinos on its own; the Trucker had to reach in with both hands to extract the thick, pulsing tube of meat.

 

Drunk and horny as he was, Zach blanched when he saw the monster cock emerge, throbbing and dripping.  Things were long past the point of him having the power to object, though, even if he hadn’t been swamped in teenage horniness.  But when the older man bent down over him, the youth lost whatever trepidation had penetrated his whiskey-fumed haze.

 

His large dark eyes greedily drank in the alpha’s broad hairy pecs as they got closer.  For a moment, he was distracted by the jingling dogtags before looking up to the stud’s scruffy face, hard and handsome, with icy blue eyes…

 

The punk’s reverie was shattered as the Trucker grabbed him by the arms and yanked him roughly, positioning him so that his head was at the head of the bed.  Instantly, the sadistic strongman was on the bed on his knees, his large callused hands pressed against the boy’s smooth, firm thighs and forcing them apart, then lifting them.

 

Before Zach knew it, he was staring fuzzily at his Nike Kobe Xs, kicking the empty air over the Trucker’s shoulders.

 

“Yeah, cunt, ya liked gettin’ fucked in juvie, huh?” the Trucker sneered, gripping his dick in one hand like a club and slapping it into the palm of the other, spattering as much precum on Zach as the randy teen had himself.  “Ya liked bein’ backed into a corner and gettin’ raped?  Hell yeah, boy, I’m gonna shag ya like a prison bitch, you fuckin’ sack of shit!”  Zach laid his head back on the bed, shuddering in bottom pig pleasure.  He never saw it coming; he didn’t see the Trucker aiming his gigantic cock right at the kid’s tender pink fuckhole.

 

He damn sure felt it.

 

The adolescent felt pressure against his sphincter—a pressure that swelled to excruciating pain in the blink of an eye.  It happened so fast that Zach couldn’t breathe.  The slim youth looked up at the Trucker with tormented, watering eyes as he gasped like a dying fish, unable to catch his breath from sheer agony.

 

The searing, white-hot pain of ripped flesh and torn muscles slashed through the mist of alcohol in his brain.  His desperate hyperventilation seemed to go on forever; he was forcing his air out with a high-pitched panicked whine that didn’t give his lungs enough time to absorb oxygen.  As darkness mercifully closed in on the nightmarish physical shock he was experiencing, Zach seemed to see, without quite registering it, a cold, cruel light of lust illuminating the alpha’s eyes without thawing their cold steel-blue tint.

 

The Trucker spent the next couple of minute raping the kid’s motionless ass.  Unconsciousness caused the boy’s muscles to relax; his sphincter, torn and bleeding, gave way at last, allowing the Trucker to penetrate deep into the punk’s colon.

 

Zach came to slowly, moaning and blinking.  The horrible spearing pain in his ass was still there, but now he could feel the pulsing immenseness of the muscled stud’s rod plugging his rectum.  The powerful man was bearing down on him with each vicious thrust of his hips; the handcuffs binding the slut’s hands painfully crushed between his back and the stripped bed.

 

“Dude—“ Zach managed to wheeze out.  “Y-yer hurtin’ me…please stop, man, lemme just…just…”

 

“Shut up,” the Trucker snarled, “ya wanted to get fucked like a prison bitch?  You got it, cunt.  I’m gonna use you like fresh meat and the more ya squeal, the more I’m gonna ream out yer hole like the jailyard pig you are.  Trust me, you worthless piece of shit, I know how to make you hurt.”

 

Tightly gripping the youth’s slim hips, the sadistic killer held him down on the bed and drilled the kid’s mangled fuckhole, his powerful thigh muscles flexing and bulging with each excruciatingly deep pump of his shaft.  Zach tried to protest but the violence and pain of the assault left him unable to speak; he could only stare beseechingly into the cold, contemptuous face of his tormentor.

 

The cruel alpha smirked at the pain-wracked adolescent writhing on his dick.  “Guess what, faggot?” he hissed malevolently.  “You’re locked in with a killer—just like prison, huh?  Ya got what ya want; is that fuckin’ hot or what?”

 

Zach was still trying to figure out how his greatest fantasy had morphed into an excruciating nightmare.  The actual meaning of the Trucker’s words took some time to sink in.  When they did, they hit a brick wall of deliberate incomprehension.

 

“No…you c-can’t…you haven’t…” the teen squeaked in a high, terrified pitch.

 

The Trucker leaned down and rested his body full length on top of the boy, sweat-streaked skin to skin, full length.  The punk’s legs twisted painfully to the side as the weight of the older man’s well-built body crushed him; the dogtags digging into the kid’s heaving chest.

 

From this position, the Trucker’s hard-edged, masculine face, twisted with rage and sick lust, filled Zach’s field of view.   “Yes I can,” the sadist whispered icily.  “And I have.  Right here.  Look around ya, boy—you ain’t gonna be the first homo cunt I wasted in this room.”

 

Again, Zach’s face was blank; the teenager was either too frightened or simply too stupid to understand the allusion.  Not that it bothered the Trucker—he was looking forward to enlightening the cunt.

 

“I knew you were a worthless pansy slut the first time I laid eyes on ya,” the brawny, powerful sadist growled.  “Or the first time you laid eyes on me.  Just another disgusting faggot who wanted my body.  And since ya couldn’t keep yer homo trap shut, you’re gonna get my body—all up in your guts.”

 

A dim light of recognition glinted in Zach’s shocked, terrified eyes.  That face, that broad hairy chest—he had seen them before; in fact, he’d gone home that night and jerked off until he was sore over the memory of them.

 

This was the hot guy from the truck stop; the one who’d asked about the bar.  He’d come back in a couple of hours later, bare-chested, sweaty, hot as all fuck…

 

…and that was the night that cheap-ass rent boy got the shit beat out of him.  Kid was raped and strangled, in this motel…

 

The Trucker watched the horrifying realization dawn on the boy. The panic in his victim’s face made his dick, sunk deep into the teen’s rectum, pulse and swell.  He knew exactly what thoughts were running through the punk’s head.

 

“This room, dude,” the Trucker whispered with malicious cruelty as one hand crept towards the head of the bed.  “That spot on the wall where I frisked ya?  They fixed it good—I threw that cunt into it so hard he went through the sheetrock.  Slammed the motherfucker through the TV, too.  Thieving queer-ass cocksucker tried to steal my wallet, so I fucked him to death.”

 

He drew back his hand, now clutching the belt he’d left over the headboard, without once allowing Zach’s wide, shock-rimmed eyes to escape from his own terrifyingly hypnotic gaze, at once white-hot with lust and ice-cold with killing rage.

 

“It took him a long time to die.  And it hurt—I made sure of that.  When he finally died, he was grateful to escape the agony.”   The Trucker lowered his face down to Zach’s, so close that his dark scruff scraped against the boy’s cheek as the alpha whispered into his ear.  “And all he did was to try to steal my wallet.  You squealed about me to the cop.”

 

He pulled back and raised himself up so that he was kneeling over Zack, his enormous shaft still jammed up inside the frightened teen’s smooth body.  He held the belt now in both hands, letting the import of both his words and the leather strap sink in.

 

“The cop, yeah?  You remember him?  I raped and tortured him to death, too.  I took my time with him and left his baton jammed up his ass.  You’re the last loose end—and the one with the biggest lesson to learn.”

 

Zach understood.  He knew what was about to happen, and why.  He also knew that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to evade the brutal violence he was about to endure, but this didn’t resign him to his fate.

 

In a moment, the teenager went into full reflex mode, his lean but muscled body thrashing and flailing in blind panic.  He wrapped his legs around the Trucker’s firm, hard flanks and squeezed; the alpha responded by slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and hoisting them back onto his shoulder, where the punk’s Nike kicks flailed uselessly in the air.

 

Zach was in too much fear to be able to cry for help or even scream effectively; he gibbered and squealed like a stuck pig, spittle flecking his thick lips.  As his sweat-streaked body writhed on the bed, his terror was so strong that a stream of piss was shot out of his long cock, even though it was still semi-erect from the adolescent hormonal overload.

 

The Trucker glared down at the helpless, fear-maddened teenager.  “Stop squealin’, you stupid motherfucker,” he barked in anger.  “You don’t even deserve to die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit; I shoulda just offed ya.  But I wanna drain my balls, and since I gotta snuff ya anyway, I might as well dump my load in yer ass as I take ya out.”

 

Zach’s first panic had faded, simply because he didn’t have the energy to sustain his frenzied thrashing.  “No…no…you…no…” he moaned quietly.

 

“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the Trucker said evenly as he drove his fist into Zach’s jaw.  The boy gave a deep, instinctive grunt of pain as his mouth slammed shut and he bit through his tongue.  The vicious alpha spit into the face of the suffering youth, the phlegm sliding down the kid’s smooth cheeks and mingling with the blood leaking out of his mouth.

 

Stunned, awash in agony and sheer terror, Zach inhaled deeply.  He’d found his voice again; even though no conscious thought was involved, his animal midbrain realized that the only way to survive the next hour was to get help by alerting others.  He didn’t know he needed to scream; it was going to happen anyway.

 

The Trucker knew he needed to scream, though, and he wasn’t gonna have it.  Zach had stopped inhaling and had opened his mouth wide to shriek, when it all came to sudden halt.  Instantly, a thick band of crushing pain circled his throat, and he couldn’t scream.  He couldn’t breathe.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Nothing.  Nothing he could do.  He wrung his hands in the cuffs underneath him, the sudden panic overriding the pain as the case-hardened steel tore cruelly into the tender flesh in the small of his back and bloodily flayed the skin from his wrists.  Nothing.  That pain around his throat—it was the belt…

 

Still fucking the boy’s torn asshole, deeply and intently, the Trucker focused his eyes on Zach’s face and watched him start to die.  The kid continued to kick and writhe as he fought for his short, wasted life; all that the youth’s frantic struggles accomplished was to give this killer’s cock a nice, vigorous massage.  As he twisted and jerked, he burnt though his oxygen even faster.

 

His face swelled and darkened, turning purple—and so did his dick.  The teen could feel his own erection, but the sensation was lost in the horrifying agony of strangulation.  As his throat was compressed, Zach’s eyes, wide with terror, started to bulge.  He could feel his tongue swelling, too—it seemed to fill his entire mouth.

 

The worst pain of all was still in his ass, though—that was the truly nightmarish part of Zach’s situation; he wasn’t only forced to suffer the pain and violence of a slow murder, he also had to endure the pain and violence of a vicious rape.  It was too much.  It was overwhelming.  His weak adolescent psyche crumbled under the onslaught of the attack.

 

The Trucker had no intention of letting him slide into a catatonic haze, though.  He wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot.  “You stupid motherfucker,” he contemptuously taunted the dying teenager, “this is what happens to dumbass squealin’ cocksuckers.  Only reason yer still alive, faggot, is cause you ain’t milked my cum out.  Does it hurt, you worthless cunt?  Ya want me to stop it?  I’ll end your useless homo life the second I fill your guts with sperm.”

 

He gripped the belt forcefully, straining his biceps as he tightened the strap around the boy’s neck.  Bending down, he spit into the kid’s distorted, blackening face as he sneered, “When it hurts bad enough, you’ll wanna die.  Make me cum, slut, and I’ll stop the pain and the fear.  C’mon, you worthless fag, drain me and die”

 

The helpless, choking youth could feel the rigid stiffness of his own dick.  Even as his lithe, smooth body convulsed and kicked, he was still gruesomely aware of his own throbbing erection.  As Zach twitched beneath him, the Trucker could see that the teen was swiftly going under.  He kept up the tension in the belt; the room filled with the musk of sex and sweat, forced out of his bulging muscles by the effort.

 

Suddenly the punk went rigid, his stiff dick bobbing up, its oozing head smacking wetly against the alpha’s rippled abs.  His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but blood-streaked whites under fluttering lids.

 

He was edging—literally.  Zach was trembling on the brink of irreparable brain death.

 

The Trucker grunted in anger.  He wasn’t even close to cumming.  Worthless little faggot couldn’t even make him shoot as he died.

 

Ok, so it wasn’t time for him to die.  The Trucker slackened the belt; after a couple of convulsive gurgles, Zach began to cough uncontrollably, blood-spotted mucus from his damaged throat splattering his cheeks.

 

The powerful sadist, his hard, heaving body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, remained looming over the gasping adolescent, his monstrous shaft still jammed deeply into Zach’s guts.  He stopped pumping, though, taking a moment to let the boy wake up.  The Trucker wanted him conscious again before starting the next round.

 

And anyway, the fuckmeat was still desperately trying to catch his breath; in his struggles, he was working his killer’s shaft pretty damn good on his own.

 

The traumatized youth slowly clawed his way back into consciousness; the pain flooded in as he gradually came to.  The dark lividness of Zach’s drool-smeared face drained away while his breathing slowed slightly—it was still rapid and ragged, but he was no longer gasping violently in an attempt to stave off brain death.

 

The kid’s fuckhole was still gripping the Trucker’s thick tool like a fist in a velvet glove, but it was no longer jacking him off.  On his shoulders, the hard-bodied top could feel the high fabric tops of Zach’s Nikes, resting now as opposed to flailing in the air, but still trembling perceptibly.  With his arms still wrapped around the boy’s legs, the silky-smooth flesh of the latter’s inner thighs was pressed against his rapist’s sweaty, powerful flanks.

 

Finally, the boycunt recovered his voice—barely.  “P-pl-please…” he croaked, “I-I can’t…don’t…”

 

“You stupid piece of shit,” the cruel, hulking brute sneered in reply.  “I ain’t done with ya yet, cunt; you ain’t made me cum yet.  Ya know what that means, meat?  It means you ain’t learned your lesson yet.  You ain’t suffered enough yet.”

 

The belt was still wrapped around Zach’s neck; no longer crushing his windpipe, it was still sunk into the skin.  With a deliberate intent to cause pain, the Trucker viciously jerked it free from the punk’s throat, flaying the skin underneath.  Zach was still too weak to do more than shudder and make faint mewling noises, as much in fear as in agony.

 

The Trucker passed the end of the belt through the buckle, making a loop, and slipped it back over the boy’s head.  Now he had a slipknot leash to pull the kid up with one hand.

 

He did so.  The other hand he used to deliver a driving roundhouse punch to Zach’s face; the immediate result was a wet smacking sound, a deep involuntary grunt of pain and the faint crunching sound of the teen’s cheekbone breaking.

 

“Fuck yeah, you worthless cocksucker, that felt good, dinnit?” the muscle-bound alpha chuckled gleefully at his helpless prey.  “Ya musta really liked it, cumpig; yer reamed-out ass worked the head of my shaft great—that what it’s gonna take, huh?  You a pain pig, cunt?  Damn, fag, ya shoulda said so!  Hell, I’ll give ya all ya want!”

 

Zach was wedged into an excruciating position—his slim, firm torso brutally yanked up by the loop of leather around his neck, his arms twisted agonizingly behind his back while his expensive kicks had slipped from the Trucker’s shoulders but were still caught in the latter’s arms.  The only part of the boy still touching the bed was his ass—and the Trucker’s huge, rigid cock was still plugging it.

 

Zach retreated mentally; the sheer horror that the knowledge of his helplessness, his utter inability to prevent or evade whatever nightmarish torture this sexual psychopath wished to inflict on him, plunged him into a state where he was capable of little more than response to stimuli.  His fogged attention, like an animal’s, focused blearily on bright, shiny objects, which was how Zach found himself staring at the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling against the latter’s hard furry chest, as the tortured teen homo wallowed in agony.

 

The Trucker could see the blank, stunned look in the eighteen-year-old kid’s eyes; it was the look of a youth who had been subjected to an unexpected and shockingly violent assault.  The sadist’s powerful body was filled with a strong urge to overwhelm and destroy the boy, to literally fuck him to death.

 

He braced himself by extending one leg, planting the glossy brown boot on the floor and tensing his thighs, making them bulge visibly in the tight beige chinos he still wore.  He channeled his sexual rage into his fist, driving it into the side of the kid’s head with such explosive savagery that he lost his grip on the belt—he’d literally knocked the little fuck right out of his own hand.

 

Zach’s head whipped to the side, flinging his dark ponytail behind as his skull hit the nightstand with a loud crack.  The impact toppled both the lamp, which fell to the floor and broke, and the bottle of Jack, which stayed on the stand.  The amber-colored fluid splashed across the flat surface, drenching Zach’s hair and adding a distinct smoky scent to the pheromone-laden air.

 

“Goddam it,” the Trucker muttered in the deep, guttural growl of a predator, “that shit cost more than you’re worth, you miserable pansy.”  He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the semi-conscious teen, so close that even in his deep, pain-wracked haze, he could feel the killer’s wiry scruff as it grazed his cheek.  “You owe me, cunt; how ya gonna pay?  Huh?”

 

Then the Trucker paused.  At this distance he could see the studs in the kid’s ear much more clearly; there were three—and the top one had a slight sparkle.

 

“Motherfuck—ya been holdin’ out on me, boy.  Bad mistake.  If that tiny chip is real diamond, it might cover the cost of my booze.  Maybe.  Lemme take a look.  If it’s real, I’m gonna take the other one too.”

 

He spread his huge hand out and placed it on the side of Zach’s head; placing all his weight on that arm, he forced the kid’s head down onto the nightstand with such power that the unfortunate youth was already mewling with pain when the Trucker started fondling the top stud.  He held the ear between two fingers, one looped about the stud, the other around its back.

 

Then, with a single tremendous jerk, he tore the stud out of the teen’s ear.

 

The sharp agony of ripped flesh snapped the tormented adolescent out of his catatonic state; he tried to scream but could only push out a high, thin shriek that spiraled into a croak.  His bloodshot eyes, huge and darkly ringed by shock, were riveted on the Trucker, who was examining the stud under the light on the other nightstand.

 

The pain in his ear, now throbbing with his pulse as blood flowed from the wound, was so severe that he even managed to forget the gigantic rod that even now was still skewering his torn colon.  But what he couldn’t forget was his own erection; his dick was so stiff as to be downright painful.  He didn’t know how it could still be so hard after all he’d suffered.

 

It never occurred to him that he liked it.  On some level, he wanted and deserved it, but he could never have admitted it.

 

And whatever he desired, pain overrode the physical and fear the mental aspects.  No matter how hard he got, how close he came to shooting his wad, he was still going to fight death to the very end.  He wouldn’t submit, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

The Trucker didn’t give him the choice.

 

Repositioning his big cop boot on the thin carpet, he shifted his muscled mass and pulled Zach back upright on the bed by the belt around his neck.  Reaching around to the other side of the punk’s head, he ripped the top stud on that side out too.

 

This time, the response was much stronger.  This stud had been torn from the side of the punk’s head that had been drenched in whiskey; the alcohol burned like fire as it trickled into the open wound.

 

Zach screeched like an ape, twisting and shuddering violently.  His black Nikes kicked the air behind the Trucker’s head—until the kid made the mistake of jerking one leg in and kicking the Trucker right in the side of the head.

 

“Ok, meat, that’s it.  Yer done.”  Enraged, the powerful alpha yanked the belt in a whip-like motion, unexpectedly snapping Zach’s head down and to the side so that it smashed back onto the nightstand.  Except it didn’t—it smashed into the half-empty whiskey bottle and shattered it, shards of glass slicing open the skin at Zach’s temple.  A jagged edge left on the base of the bottle left a shallow—but long and painful—slash across his cheek.

 

Instantly, the teen was jerked back up into position, his rectum rotating on the Trucker’s engorged tool.  Scrambling his pricey kicks, Zach drew his legs up and, planting his feet on the older man’s rippled washboard abs, pushed himself off the bed—and off the Trucker’s cock.  The smooth young teen, half-insane with fear, threw himself on the thin, cheap carpet, bleating in terror as he tried to wriggle away from his killer.

 

The Trucker had grunted with surprise at the blow, but otherwise didn’t make a sound.  He simply stood up and strode towards Zach, his powerful muscled form looming over the nude youth.  Flat on his back with his arms twisted behind him, the kid was still erect despite the pain from his mangled ears, and slashed head, all still bleeding.

 

But as the Trucker towered above, Zach shot another golden stream of piss involuntarily across his firm, smooth chest, already glittering with sweat.  The teenager was lost in a rising tide of doom; turning his head to the side, he could see the shiny finish on the tall cop boots.  His eyes traveled up the legs, muscles visibly bulging through the skin-tight sand colored chino trousers…

 

…and above that, a huge shaft of meat, dark, throbbing and oozing—and streaked with blood.  His blood.

 

The heaving, furry chest above, dogtags lying between the broad, hubcap-like pecs…and above that, the face…that face.  That hard face, the cold, cold rage in those eyes that showed there would be no mercy, no remorse, nothing but the desire to inflict as much pain as possible.

 

In his mind, Zach screamed; what came out of his mouth was a feeble gurgle.

 

The Trucker trembled with rage as he glared down at the worthless fag who dared to defy him, to try to escape the consequences of his actions.  The tall, well-built killer bent over slowly at the waist, extending his hand and reaching out to the helpless boy who cowered and sniveled in terror.  The muscle-bound stud grabbed the end of the belt that was still looped around the kid’s neck.

 

Standing up, the half-nude alpha continued to raise his arm as if he was doing curls with a set of weights.  As the bicep on his arm flexed with the strain, the Trucker lifted Zach up off the ground and held the slim young teen dangling in the air.

 

The boy kicked weakly, his Nike hightops dancing in the air as his own weight tightened the leather strap around his neck and cut off his breath.  Struggling uselessly as the incredibly powerful older man literally hanged him by holding him in the air, the sweaty, shuddering punk was nonetheless aware of his own dick slapping wetly against his firm, flat belly as he thrashed and choked.

 

The red-tinted blackness that filled Zach’s bewildered mind had the effect of focusing his attention on the hard, chiseled face of his assailant.  It was somehow getting him even hornier; he could feel it even as he felt consciousness slipping away.  That strong, hard jaw, that jet-black goatee surrounded by fainter fuzz—a five o’clock shadow of gunmetal blue that darkened the sadist’s cheeks—and those eyes.  Again, those eyes—so blue, bright with a light that curiously combined the heat of lust and rage with the calculating coldness of an experienced killer.

 

And then Zach was snapped out of it.  In fact, he was damn near snapped out of life forever.  With the loud, snarling growl of a vicious predator, the Trucker whipped his arm to the side.  The belt popped like a whip as the teenage boy flew through the air and slammed into the wall so hard he blacked out for a moment.

 

But it was just a moment; as he blinked and tried to breathe—the impact hadn’t loosened the leather noose enough for him to inhale—he could feel death approach in the heavy tread of the boots on the floor behind him.  He was lying near the far wall of the room, facing it, his back to the room.  Turning his bulging eyes up, he could see the huge dent his body had made in the drywall.

 

As the boots paused, directly behind him, Zach had a brief flash of clarity—and memory.  Something this hot, erotic, cruel, brutal psycho…something this dude had said…the other guy.  That whore.  He’d been killed in this room—but he’d been beaten into hamburger first.

 

And part of that beating had put him through the wall too.

 

Once again, despite his huge and painfully throbbing erection, Zach lost control of his bladder to such an extent that the stream of urine that shot out of him hit the wall and splashed the teen with his own piss before he was hoisted into the air again, his slender young body jerking and kicking.

 

The Trucker sneered contemptuously at the choking boy.  The muscles in the powerful alpha’s arm were knotted with the strain of holding the kid up off the ground, but it was worth the effort to watch his expensive Nike kicks flail as they desperately sought some support to relieve the crushing pain in the suffering punk’s throat.

 

Then, in a lightning-swift motion, the strongman flung his helpless young victim across the room again.  In his suffocating haze, Zach felt a brief giddiness but was mostly unaware of his flight.  He was aware when it was interrupted, though, the impact of smashing headfirst into the flatscreen TV piercing through his dying fog.

 

This time, when he landed on the floor on his back, the belt noose loosened.  His lungs, full of useless carbon dioxide, emptied immediately with a loud sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt.  Much like before, his esophagus had been so badly crushed and traumatized that the expelled breath was accompanied by bloody mucus.

 

The Trucker approached.  He stood over his victim, his cold, stony gaze taking in the sight of the raped and tortured youth.  While his prey stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed shock, gasping violently, the vicious sadist took pleasure in letting his enormous cock jut out over the shuddering, sweating teen.  Large clear drops of precum welled from the slit in the center of his purple, engorged mushroom tip; they fell at random, sprinkling the writhing adolescent with his killer’s bodily fluids.  “Stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker said in his steely bass voice, his cold even tone more frightening than any screaming or ranting could have been.

 

He bent down.  Zach saw him coming.  He was completely and utterly unable to prevent whatever was coming; all he could do was gasp and try to inhale as much oxygen as possible in case it was cut off.

 

It was.  Instantly.  The Trucker snatched the belt again.  This time, there was no admiring, gloating dangle for the meat; the teenager experienced swift motion and terrible, slashing pain, but was too traumatized to realize he’d been thrown into the dresser and had shattered the mirror.   The glass slashed at the smooth, soft skin on his back but, like his encounter with the whiskey bottle, the injuries were agonizing but not serious.

 

When he fell to the floor this time, he landed face down.  The majority of Zach’s attention at this point was absorbed in trying to breathe; it was few seconds before the faint crunching sound of boots grinding glass into the carpet seeped into his awareness.

 

The Trucker was stepping on the remains of the mirror as he moved towards writhing prey.  Without a word, his huge muscled body moving with startling swiftness, the older man snatched the lithe, trembling teen, not by the belt this time, but by his long black ponytail.  For a single horrifying moment, Zach was suspended by his hair and felt his scalp starting to tear before the Trucker threw him on the bed.

 

Actually, threw him at the bed.  Zach smacked face-first into the headboard before rebounding and rolling back; he ended up nearly in the center of the mattress but turned ninety degrees to the orientation of the bed.  His long, smooth legs hung over the side, hightops not quite touching the floor.

 

On his back again now, he could look up and see the hulking form of his torturer towering implacably over him.  The powerful stud’s vicious sadism was obvious in his massive, throbbing cock, jutting proudly over the trapped youth and oozing a steady stream of transparent precum.  Above that, the psycho’s furred and heavily muscled torso was heaving, a faint sheen of sweat making his hard body glisten.  The stony, merciless look of cold masculinity on the handsome face was accented by the icy glitter in the eyes.

 

Zach looked into those eyes and he knew—no matter what type of personal hell he was gonna endure in the next few minutes, there would be no return from the silent darkness this time.  Death was staring him in the face.

 

But Death was gonna fuck him first.

 

Hoisting the kid’s legs, the Trucker dropped the punk’s Kobe X Elites on his shoulders and shoved the thick purple head of his shaft against the boy’s torn, quivering sphincter.  At the first hint of pressure, Zach moaned in terror and writhed, trying to wriggle away from the huge tool about to penetrate him.

 

And yet, with all the pain and the fear, the hormone-fueled adolescent still felt the overwhelming physical lure of the hard-bodied older man.  The funk of mansex and pheromones that pervaded the room so densely that it nearly coagulated into a visible fog that intensified the young slut’s sexual dilemma.  Zach’s own dick was hard and pulsating and he didn’t know why.  But as the Trucker lunged at him again, the boy couldn’t spare the time to worry about it.

 

“P-please…” the battered youth gasped faintly, “I-I’ll do any-anything…use me…hu-humiliate me, I w-won’t tell anyone…”  Here the slender kid gave way.  Stupid little piece of shit that he was, even he could figure out that tonight was gonna end with him taking a dirt nap.  He burst into tears.  “D-don’t kill me, man, p-p-please, I won-won’t tell anyone but don’t k-kill me, please, man, oh fuck, oh please—“

 

The Trucker’s sole response was an evil grin that spread slowly across his sexy masculine features. Zach saw it and understood, instantly breaking into loud, hysterical sobs as he went into panic mode.  The older stud decided that the meat needed something else to think about than becoming meat.  With a single powerful, brutal thrust, he plunged his monstrous vein-wrapped cock all the way up the teenager’s ass, tearing the sphincter and mangling the colon.

 

Eyes so wide with pain and shock that they seemed about to pop out of his head, Zach’s sobbing spiraled up into a frenetic shriek of agony.  “Shaddup, faggot,” the Trucker barked, popping the unfortunate punk in the jaw one last time before cinching the belt down on his neck.  The cunt’s scream was instantly throttled off into a wet gagging sound.

 

Wrapping the thick leather strap around his hand—so he could control the tightness of the noose while keeping one hand free—the Trucker flopped forward, his heavy, powerful body crushing the slender youth beneath him.  Zach’s legs, propped up on his assailant’s shoulders, were compressed back towards his body until his knees were resting on his chest.  And the weight of both males on his arms, still cuffed around his back, was excruciating.

 

The last few minutes of Zach’s short, wasted life were filled with unimaginable pain and terror.  He was pinned under the sheer physical bulk of his killer, feeling the alpha’s hard muscles flexing against him on a light lube of sweat as the older man continued to plunge his enormous shaft deep into the boy’s torn, bleeding guts.  The alpha’s wiry body fur scraped against the teen’s soft, silky flesh like steel wool.

 

The Trucker jerked the belt tightly.  His dogtags, laying on the meat’s smooth firm chest, were dislodged by the violence of the fucking; they slid up to Zach’s neck and slipped, jingling, into the depression circling his throat, caused by the leather garrote.

 

At this distance, the twisted sadist could enjoy the effects of the strangulation in detail.  As the slim, dying teen writhed beneath him, the cunt’s cock stayed hard as it slid on oily sweat between two flat, firm bellies pressed together in desperate, brutal sex.  His confusion was obvious, even on his swelling, darkening face.

 

“Ya don’t get it, do ya, you stupid cumsuckin’ fag?” the cruel, powerful top sneered.  “Yer lovin’ this shit.  You fuckin’ bottom pain pig, you love gettin’ plowed, dontcha?  Yeah?  Ya fuckin’ love gettin’ put down like the cheap cockslut you are—fuck, dude, lookit how hard ya get when yer gettin’ snuffed like a useless homo cunt!”

 

Zach’s body, slender but strong with youth, was wracked and contorted with pain.  The thick leather strap embedded in his neck was a constant source of agony—and the wretched punk, twisted in the nightmarish pain of slow, tortuous death, found the crushing torment in his windpipe less painful than the tearing, rending pain in his colon as his cruel, evil killer fucked him swiftly and brutally.

 

Zach’s black Nike kicks were twitching in the air behind the Trucker’s head; his current helpless position rendering them impotent as weapons.  As his bloodshot eyes bulged grotesquely, forced from their orbits by the pressure building inexorably inside his skull, he could just barely make out the crimson trademarked swoosh jerking and twitching in the distance.

 

Inches away, the Trucker admired the teen’s black face, swollen and distorted beyond measure.  He found the adolescent slut’s suffering erotic and, determined to draw out the torture as long as possible, let a little slack into the leather strap around the young whore’s neck.  Zack was allowed a single brief gasp of fresh oxygen to momentarily clear the death fog clouding his mind before his throat was clamped off again.

 

“You stupid cumsack,” the powerful alpha whispered into the ear of the dying teen, so close that the teenager writhed involuntarily with pleasure at the scrape of his killer’s scruff across his cheek, despite all the pain and horror.  The screaming, pounding silence that was filling the empty spaces of his pathetic cumslut soul was not yet loud enough to drown out the cruel taunts of his killer.

 

“You made me do this,” the psycho strongman hissed at his helpless young victim.  “You talked, you pansy-ass cunt.  You did this.  Does it hurt?  Good!  I want you to hurt.  I want you to die in fuckin’ agony on my cock, you disgusting faggot.  You wanted a prison fuck, you punk-ass bitch?  Fuck, dude, you got death fuckin’ row!  Now die, you fuckin’ homo meat; milk me and suck up my spunk like a sponge.  Best thing anyone can do to yer worthless fuckmeat is use ya as a cumrag and throw ya in the dump like the fuckin’ garbage you are, motherfucker!”

 

With a snarl, he jerked his arm, making the thick leather strap squeeze the queerboy’s throat shut.  Zach was sinking back into the stimulus-response phase of imminent death, but this time there would be no recovery.  The quivering youth hadn’t been able to take much advantage of the brief respite he’d been given; his contorted position—bent double with his killer’s muscled bulk crushing him into the mattress—had made it difficult for the semi-conscious punk to suck air.  He’d gasped and slobbered in panicked asphyxiation, but he hadn’t been able to get enough oxygen to stave off brain damage.

 

Zach had heard the Trucker and understood him, but just barely; the sadistic stud’s cruel taunts were the last words the brutalized teenager would hear in his life.  As his brain died, the universe contracted into a cold darkness.  Zach’s last five minutes of life slowed to a crawl.  Rational though all but ceased; the suffering boy was sunk in a pit of sensation—of pain.

 

He was vaguely aware of the powerful alpha pressing down on him; he could still feel the hairy thrusting form on top of him.  He could hear—without understanding what he was hearing—the deep, ragged breathing and strained grunts of the dude who was fucking him and killing him.  A faint memory of start of the evening flickered like a guttering candle in the dying kid’s mind…the hot cop, the booze—even now, he still reeked of whiskey—the erotic click of the cuffs behind his back…

 

The last truly conscious emotion to pass through Zach’s mind a fleeting sense of despair, like the plaintive bleat of a slaughtered sheep. Then the physical took over and the teenaged faggot was submerged in a crimson wave of pain.

 

It hurt.  The young punk’s smooth, slim body was wracked with agony, with an excruciating torture that shorted out his nervous system to the point that it was unable to discern pain from pleasure.

 

From inches away, the Trucker watched the face of the adolescent cumslut swell and darken.  Blood still leaked from his mutilated ears and his cheek, but it was sluggish and too thick to flow much.  Zach’s battered face was twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable mask.

 

Wrapping the belt around his hand for greater control over the meat, the Trucker jerked the strap brutally, causing it to sink deeply into the boy’s neck.  The gay bottom boy went rigid, his swollen purple lips parted by his protruding tongue, forced out on a lube of foamy drool that trickled down the teen’s smooth cheeks.

 

The indefatigable power top continued to plow the dying kid’s ass.  Even as he murdered his victim, the timing of his thrusts wasn’t thrown off by a single thrust; his huge horse dick kept plunging deep into the meat’s fuckhole like it was being rammed by a piledriver.

 

It was getting a good workout, too.  The Trucker was vaguely aware of the Nike basketball shoes flailing randomly in the air behind his head as he kept the cunt’s legs propped up on his shoulders, but the little fucker, his body pinned into position by his larger, stronger killer was convulsing violently on the inside.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure; he realized the stupid piece of shit must be suffering nightmarish intestinal cramps for the punk’s guts to polish his knob so vigorously.  Zach’s own dick didn’t give the impression of pain; quite the opposite—it slapped, oozing and throbbing, between the two heaving, writhing male bodies, smearing precum over the teen’s flat smooth belly as well as the Trucker’s furry rippled abs.

 

The dogtags bounced off Zach’s flat, firm chest repeatedly before slipping off to the side where they occasionally added a faint jingle to the quiet, desperate sounds of sex and death.

 

Zach’s youth worked against him, prolonging his suffering until  the oxygen had been completely wrung from his quivering body.  In the end, even the physical started to fade.  The teenaged faggot no longer felt the pain from his limbs, twisted agonizingly in their sockets.  He couldn’t feel his eyes, bulging and rolled back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites showed under his fluttering lashes.

 

By a cruel neurological twist, though, he could still feel his rectum being savaged.  The erratic electrochemical bursts in his dying brain conveyed nothing more than a long thick hard shaft viciously impaling his innards; there was nothing left to process the concept of rape, of a throbbing vein-wrapped cock plunged up his boycunt.

 

In a way, it was a shame.  Zach was getting fucked exactly as he wanted; roughly, by an amazing muscled alpha who bound him and mounted him ruthlessly.

 

By the time the end came, Zach was past all sense of the irony of the where and how of his murder, past all fear—in a sense, past all pain.

 

The Trucker had a lot of experience of putting sluts down; he recognized the way the adolescent’s convulsions had lost their rhythmic tempo and slipped into spasms that were more intense but also more erratic.

 

Fuck, it felt wonderful.  The silky flesh of the teen’s guts sliding over his engorged mushroom tip while the motherfucker’s colon gripped his shaft like a fist—the worthless squealing cumpig was finally learning his lesson.  He was getting exactly what he deserved, the disgusting piece of homo shit.

 

The Trucker could feel the sperm boiling in his balls.  He was close; he just needed one last thing—he needed to know that the firm, smooth, slender teen had truly died on his cock.

 

One last brutal yank on the thick leather belt and the sociopathic sadist was rewarded.  The young kid’s esophagus collapsed with a loud cracking that was instantly followed by an even more intense and erotic snapping sound, like the splintering of green wood.   With a single powerful movement, the Trucker had crushed Zach’s windpipe and broken his neck.

 

The very last thing Zach experienced in his useless cumslut life before the searing electrical blast of bone shards slicing into his spinal cord sent him into screaming cold eternity was an eruption of searing heat in his groin.  In an instant, his existence shrank to the white-hot wire of pain/pleasure that ran along the underside of his cock; almost immediately, a similar agonizingly hot feeling, akin to molten lead, was pumped into his ass and up his guts, a last scorching sensation of heat as he slipped into frigid dark death.

 

The Trucker spent the next minute shuddering and spunking, filling the dead teen cunt with his sperm.  As his hulking muscled body jerked and shuddered in violent orgasm, he was vaguely aware of the teen’s thick, ropy cum splashing across his broad, hairy chest.  The hormone-laden adolescent was so full of semen that his corpse spewed a steady stream of pearly jizz for at least thirty seconds straight, catching both shuddering, sweating male bodies in a rain of glistening spooge.

 

Long after he’d emptied his balls of seed, the Trucker found himself still fucking and cursing at the convulsing sack of boymeat.  Regaining a measure of control, he took a deep breath and pulled his still-pulsing cock out of the corpse.  Getting quickly off the bed, he let Zach’s legs flop back, spread wide, one landing on the bed.  The other leg hung off the side, the Nike hightop just barely touching the floor.  As the body twitched, the expensive kick scuffed a ragged furrow in the thin cheap carpeting.

 

The Trucker felt a little rubbery after his explosive release of anger and semen; he staggered back to the dresser for his smokes, finding the pack undamaged from the earlier violence but surrounded by glass.  Lighting up a Red, he turned back and admired the gruesome scene.

 

Zach was still trembling; erratic spasms rippled the muscles under his smooth, sperm-glazed flesh.  Above the splayed legs, the teen’s long dick was still semi-erect, a faint trickle of pearly ooze leaking from the head onto his flat belly.  A pool of cum was congealing in the shallow smooth valley between the slight mounds of the youth’s pectorals.  The arms, of course, were still twisted behind the corpse’s back.

 

Taking another drag on his cigarette, the Trucker vaguely wondered if keys to official law enforcement handcuffs were universal across states or agencies or some other way.  If not, the coroner was gonna have a fun time; the keys had gone out the cab window somewhere on the other side of the state line.

 

Above the chest, things got ugly.  The thick leather belt was sunk so deeply into the boy’s throat that the Trucker had no intention of trying to retrieve it—something else for the coroner to enjoy.  And above that, the face was still swollen and congested with blood; the lividity would slowly drain away but that process had not yet begun.  As a result, Zach’s face bore no trace of his usual expression of slack-jawed adolescent lust.  Instead, it spoke eloquently of the torture the kid had endured, the agonizing pain and nightmarish terror in which the teenager had died.

 

The rolled-back eyes gave a blank white stare while the tongue, livid and swollen, still protruded from between blue lips.  The punk’s smooth cheeks were streaked with drool, snot and blood, but none of the wounds were bleeding anymore; even his mangled ears had stopped seeping.  At least one wasn’t; the other was hidden by the youth’s ponytail coiled beside it.

 

Even the room attested to the horrific violence of the teen’s murder.  The broken lamp and the shattered whiskey bottle—still adding its heady scent to the musky, smoky atmosphere of the room—were just the start of the physical destruction; the Trucker had deliberately targeted his violence towards the parts of the room he’d destroyed on his earlier visit.

 

After all, that was why he’d placed his clothes in the dresser drawer.  This time, they wouldn’t be covered with glass.

 

The buff older man picked his way across the debris-strewn floor and got the bag containing his clothes.  Snatching his pack of smokes as well, he crossed to the bathroom.  Soaking a hand towel in warm water, he wiped the dead teen fag’s spunk out of his body fur.   Wadding the towel up, he tossed it into the toilet before sitting down, pulling off the knee-high boots and stripping himself from the beige chinos trousers.  Just for the fuck of it, he rolled the latter into a ball and dropped it in the toilet as well, first fishing the diamond-chip studs out of the pocket.

 

It took just a minute to wriggle back into his familiar tight jeans and snug cotton t-shirt; it took even less to slip the trucker cap back onto his tousled black locks, slick with sweat.  Since his tube socks had never come off, he simply stepped into his scuffed work boots and left them loosely laced and untied. He pocketed the studs, picked up his bag and the cop’s boots and walked out of the bathroom.

 

Approaching the bed, he decided to add one bit of artifice to the naturally-posed scene.  He left the still-trembling corpse with one boot placed upright on the face and one on the groin.  He had no doubt they’d topple and perhaps dislodge before the body was found, but it didn’t matter.

 

It was dark and still outside.  The Trucker moved slowly along the pavement to the edge of the property, where he could walk along the edge of the blacktop.  That way, his boots wouldn’t thump with each footfall until he reached the street.  Not that there was anyone watching, of course, but avoiding attention immediately after a snuff was innate to the experienced sexual sadist by now; it was how he avoided capture for so long.  But loose ends like that little piece of shit needed to get what they deserved—which was sliding down the Trucker’s cock into their graves.

 

The muscled hardman grinned coldly.  He started whistling as he strode back to his rig.

M4M41(+1)

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories33 Comments

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot.  He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

 

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym.  In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body.  He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

 

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up.  The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

 

The youth snapped out of his reverie.  It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down.  Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

 

The “cocksucker” was actually already there.  Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

 

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up.  Well, that, and throw off any investigation.  Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

 

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim.  And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

 

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean.  The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

 

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship.  But it had to be discreet.  He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

 

Joe chuckled.  He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself.  And then he’d turn him into meat.

 

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick.  After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway.  And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags.  But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

 

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

 

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching.  The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it.  The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough.  Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

 

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear.  The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection.  Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

 

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style.  They looked clean and new.  His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

 

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time.  The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

 

After all, in a way, he was.

 

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent.  His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied.  Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

 

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close.  “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

 

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in.  As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

 

Joe grinned.  It was perfect.  Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

 

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness.  As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode.  “So, man, ya ready to drain my load?  Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!”  Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

 

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot.  But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting.  Jake was gonna finish up soon.  “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me.  We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

 

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250.  Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles.  It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

 

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot.  Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street.  Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked.  “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

 

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan.  Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street.  The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

 

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left.  Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property.  He opened the door and let Joe in.

 

On the inside, the condo was small.  The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner.  Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom.  The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

 

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up.  Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right.  It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else.  The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

 

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

 

Andy took off his running jacket.  Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser.  “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket.  “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.”  Closing the door, he turned back to Joe.  “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

 

He never saw the blow coming.  Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door.  Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

 

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain.  His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap.  As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

 

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin.  There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

 

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger.  “Dude, you made a huge mistake.  When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear?  I’m gonna—“

 

“Yeah?” Joe growled abruptly, cutting Andy’s bluster off mid-stride.  “Whaddaya think yer gonna do to me, faggot?”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger.  “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

 

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.”  As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities.  In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

 

Andy grunted and kicked.  Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself.  As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing.  His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

 

That was what was binding his hands.  Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather.  Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it.  He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

 

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it.  He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

 

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself.  “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

 

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck.  Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver.  The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

 

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs.  With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles.  They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him.  And it was just about time to get started…

 

That’s when Joe heard the lock on the front door.  “J-jake,” Andy gasped irregularly, “h-he’ll fu-fu-fuck ya up…”

 

The roommate was coming home.  Joe realized he had to act quickly.  Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

 

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try.  Joe was counting on it.  Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

 

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping.  The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

 

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice.  “Hey, dude, were are ya?  I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

 

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated.  He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth.  He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it.  His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

 

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door.  A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room.  “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

 

Jake grunted and whirled around.  Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes.  His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

 

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was.  He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand.  The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.  The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

 

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow.  Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

 

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer.  Your buddy is straight?  Too bad—sucks to be him.”

 

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth.  “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

 

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude.  Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was.  He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle.  Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

 

After all, he was gonna be here a while.  His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

 

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles.  Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time.  He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

 

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser.  He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire.  Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back.  With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding.  Now all he needed was something for the feet…

 

There—draped over the closet doorknob.  A jump rope; perfect.  In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

 

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed.  Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall.  It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body.  The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

 

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay.  Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

 

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home.  A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble.  What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

 

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him.  The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

 

But the cigarette was what angered him.  He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted.  It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally.  There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

 

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly.  “What’s wrong, bitch?  Ya not inta smoke?”  With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

 

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain.  “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!”  He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back.  The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

 

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared.  He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw.  As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

 

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick.  As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

 

“No…” the trapped boy moaned thickly.  “D-don’t, man, k-keep aw-away…p-p-please…”

 

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed.  “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh?  What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt?  Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

 

“What?” Andy yelped.  The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

 

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs.  Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

 

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

 

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole.  The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was too much, too intense.  He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

 

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock.  As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

 

Jake was waking up.

 

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare.  Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head.  As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed.  The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right.  He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

 

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted.  And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped.  Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Joe growled, spitting into the hot Asian boy’s face, “take my fuckin’ rod, you motherfuckin’ homo cunt!”  As his huge tool plowed into Andy’s tender ass, the thick veined ridges on his shaft tore at the unfortunate cunt’s soft fuckhole like barbed wire.

 

It was too much.  Andy shrieked, loud and hard, his vocal cords stretching taut and sending a vibration that echoed through his entire body.  Joe felt it and shuddered in pleasure.

 

Jake felt it and shuddered in terror.

 

Joe was still pissed.  “Goddam queer-ass fag motherfucker!” he snarled in anger, “Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit!  Yer makin’ more noise than you’re worth, you little homo cunt—guess I need to stop yer fuckin’ pig squealing, cunt.  Lessee now, what’s good to choke off your cumsucking throat…”

 

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand.  Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside.  Joe seized on it like a gift.

 

“Oh hell yeah, this work fuckin’ great,” he smirked diabolically.  “Dude, you musta wanted this—you damn sure dressed to get snuffed, faggot!”

 

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote.  Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

 

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good.  Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry.  He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

 

And it was a frenzy.  It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

 

That wasn’t supposed to happen.  He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

 

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him.  Watching him get fucked.

 

Watching him die.

 

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody.  He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly.  As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly.  Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

 

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though.  His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally.  The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

 

After that, Joe was more deliberate.  Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it.  But then, a distraction—

 

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably.  “What’s goin’ on?  Andy?  Dude?  What the fuck is happening?”  His voice shook with impending tears.

 

“What the fuck is happening, dude,” Joe sneered, turning to look Jake straight in his terrified, uncomprehending face, “is that your bud here is gettin’ some dick.  And then I’m gonna waste him.  Watch close, motherfucker—when I’m done with him, it’ll be your turn.”

 

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face.  “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you.  So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

 

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole.  As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

 

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course.  “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror.  “I ain’t gay!  Andy ain’t gay!  We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

 

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right.  “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

 

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee.  “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy?  Huh?  And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh?  I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick.  He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too.  I mean, it only makes sense, right?  So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

 

With a faint chuckle, Joe hovered close over Andy and spat in his face yet again.  “But first,” he chuckled quietly, “I gotta off this motherfucking pervert.  Ya look healthy, boy.  Too bad.  Just means you’re gonna suffer longer.”

 

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them.  He was suffering enough already.  A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen.  Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

 

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain.  The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain.  The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

 

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

 

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying.  Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump.  Ya like that?  Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya!  It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

 

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror.  It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point.  Andy was getting raped.  Andy was getting murdered.  Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple.  His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

 

It was the stuff of nightmare.  But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

 

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts.  Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

 

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded.  Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

 

Maybe he was gay.  But Jake wasn’t.  He was gonna fight.

 

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought.  Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought.  And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

 

His audience in mind, Joe resumed taunting Andy.  “Like it, dontcha, cunt?  You fuckin’ love havin’ a real man hold you down and put you in yer place, huh, fag?  Can’t hide it when ya die, boy, yer hard cock is tellin’ your buddy here how much yer lovin’ this, you useless homo cum dumpster!”

 

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again.  “Stop!” he screeched.  “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

 

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat.  He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw.  He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face.  “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive.  He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet.  He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

 

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him.  A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock.  Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

 

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

 

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish.  The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

 

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that.  Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

 

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder.  He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff.  He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

 

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering.  Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

 

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face.  It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail.  Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

 

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts.  He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

 

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too.  Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

 

“Watch ‘im, dude,” he grunted as his firm, furry ass flexed with his energetic thrusts, “watch ‘im choke.  Fuck, man his dyin’ ass is grippin’ my shaft so tight—the harder I squeeze his throat, the harder he squeezes my dick.  Goddam dickpig likes it, yeah?  An’ I bet you’ll fuckin’ love it, you worthless cocksucking faggot!”

 

 

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death.  His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

 

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought.  His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions.  His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

 

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable.  The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death.  Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth.  One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

 

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock.  His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts.  Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

 

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock.  “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth.  “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is?  Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

 

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck.  Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch.  Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

 

Andy himself experienced it differently.  For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body.  Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

 

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness.  They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

 

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

 

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

 

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff.  And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it.  Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs.  Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

 

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back.  The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum.  The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath.  He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

 

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle.  As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room.  The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

 

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp.  Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head.  The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen.  His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle.  Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

 

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath.  The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall.  He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

 

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom.  For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

 

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom.  A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence.  The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness.  It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

 

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor.  He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy.  But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

 

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse.  It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move.  Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

 

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate.  “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy!  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

 

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead.  His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him.  The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

 

He needed more of the same, Joe realized.  A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

 

Maybe a little foot worship.  He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

 

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it.  Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

 

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

 

Jake was still far too confused to understand.  He remained motionless.

 

“Take his sneaker off, you stupid scumshit, or I will hurt you.”

 

This registered.  Jake blinked twice and shook himself.  “Take-what?  T-take it off? B-b-but my han-hands…”

 

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert.  You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet.  Do it!”

 

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought.  Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip.  Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

 

“Good bitch,” Joe sneered.  “Keep goin’, fag.  Get the shoe off, bitch.”

 

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head.  To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze.  His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

 

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker.  Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab.  Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

 

It took several minutes.  Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull.  He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire.  It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

 

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off.  The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

 

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done.  “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

 

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

 

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain.  He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve.  He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

 

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot.  As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

 

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out.  Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

 

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage.  “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

 

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind.  The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face.  “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief.  This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay.  And Jake wasn’t gay.

 

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock.  “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face.  “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

 

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion.  Joe next statement was what motivated him.  “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

 

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze.  Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

 

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth.  Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

 

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance.  “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

 

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear.  Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

 

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy.  He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

 

 

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum.  Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

 

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out.  But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

 

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily.  “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.”  But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat.  His heaving got stronger.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up.  The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed.  “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya.  But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker.  Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first.  Lessee, what’ll work…”

 

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva.  “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth.  Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat.  “There ya go, asswipe.  Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

 

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point.  The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control.  Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

 

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel.  But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury.  He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp.  Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

 

And reeking of mansex.  It was Andy’s cumrag.

 

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half.  He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric.  “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat.  He could, and would do what he said.

 

Jake had to obey.  His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey.  He had no choice.  He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance.  And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot.  Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

 

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them.  Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids.  He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

 

“You stupid cumsucking piece of shit,” Joe chuckled malignly, “did ya think I was really gonna let ya try to bite my cock?  Fuckin’ dumbass faggot, yer gonna pay for that—and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you worthless asswipe!”

 

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes.  His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it.  He was truly helpless now.  This couldn’t be happening.  Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this.  He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

 

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy.  “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me.  Work me.  Milk me…”

 

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy.  The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear.  His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat.  As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

 

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie.  The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

 

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym.  This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving.  It was a surreal nightmare.  The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

 

Then Joe made it real.  Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock.  And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

 

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock.  Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

 

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee.  He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow.  His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

 

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness.  The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

 

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice.  “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert.  I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh?  Yeah, faggot?  Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

 

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat.  “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted.  A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

 

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down.  Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

 

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

 

Pubic hair.  Another dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?  How—how had this happened?  He’d gone to do his usual routine after work.  Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home.  As usual.

 

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered.  And some dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?

 

And then a new imperative arose.  His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant.  But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock.  It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

 

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

 

He wasn’t gonna let it happen.  His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize.  He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee.  “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh?  Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet.  C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes.  In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

 

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus.  The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

 

“Fuckin’-A, ya homo cocksucker, that’s it.  Work my dick as you die, fuckmeat; lessee if you can milk more cum outta me than your dead butt-buddy here.  Yer last sensation is gonna be my spurtin’ sperm floodin’ yer lungs—don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  C’mon, you faggot motherfucker, show me how grateful yer gonna be for my load!”

 

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken.  It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing.  Or oozing at the tip.

 

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen.  He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face.  He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

 

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse.  He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing.  But then there were NO words to describe the entirety.

 

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did.  He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

 

He was dying with an erection.  That-that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Ever.

 

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth.  And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse.  And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

 

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions.  In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

 

It’d catch on soon enough.  Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy.  Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

 

Not when it was getting so good…

 

“That’s it, faggot, let go.  Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost.  Go on and die.  It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool.  Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

 

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool.  “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die.  You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

 

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand.  If he had, he might have agreed.  Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch.  He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation.  He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

 

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum.  As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms.  The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

 

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull.  His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat.  Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse.  Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

 

And then he died.  Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco.  In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc.  This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

 

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life.  The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier.  If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

 

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive.  The boy had come bolt upright on his knees.  His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin.  His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down.  But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

 

Jake was already dead.  In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

 

He fell on top of Andy.  Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

 

Joe looked down at himself.  “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

 

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly.  Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

 

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers.  Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure.  No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

 

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet.  He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

 

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry.  Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight.  It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous.  It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

 

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen.  It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat.  Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy.  Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing.  First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

 

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before.  But now…

 

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses.  Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back.  His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists.  The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

 

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen.  The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin.  The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

 

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

 

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead.  As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes.  His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat.  His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

 

Too late for that now.

 

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits.  As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

 

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room.  The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

 

It was too much for Joe.  He wanted a piece of that action.  Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest.  The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

 

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist.  There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked.  The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

 

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed.  But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer.  He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

 

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head.  He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

 

And he was still horny.  He still had more seed to unload.  Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones.  Whatever—it didn’t matter.

 

What mattered was that he needed to cum.  Again.

 

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was.  Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight.  Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test.  If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry.  And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

 

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

 

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness.  There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

 

Stupid piece of shit.  Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to.  Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

 

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself.  Joe smiled.  He understood.  That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves.  And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

 

That’s how they knew.  That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down.  They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

 

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening.  At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

 

And then the rodeo was on.

 

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself.  He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

 

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body.  Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head.  As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

 

Fuck.  He’d snapped Jake’s neck too.  Oh well.

 

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy.  It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser.  He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

 

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it.  While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it.  Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

 

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped.  Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible.  Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could.  Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them.  The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

 

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea.  Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks?  Fuckin’ hot!

 

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly.  He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up.  That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

 

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor.  “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face.  The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

 

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth.  Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

 

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop.  As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

 

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door.  Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with?  The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot.  He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

 

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym.  In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body.  He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

 

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up.  The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

 

The youth snapped out of his reverie.  It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down.  Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

 

The “cocksucker” was actually already there.  Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

 

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up.  Well, that, and throw off any investigation.  Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

 

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim.  And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

 

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean.  The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

 

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship.  But it had to be discreet.  He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

 

Joe chuckled.  He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself.  And then he’d turn him into meat.

 

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick.  After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway.  And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags.  But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

 

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

 

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching.  The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it.  The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough.  Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

 

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear.  The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection.  Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

 

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style.  They looked clean and new.  His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

 

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time.  The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

 

After all, in a way, he was.

 

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent.  His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied.  Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

 

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close.  “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

 

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in.  As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

 

Joe grinned.  It was perfect.  Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

 

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness.  As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode.  “So, man, ya ready to drain my load?  Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!”  Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

 

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot.  But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting.  Jake was gonna finish up soon.  “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me.  We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

 

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250.  Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles.  It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

 

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot.  Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street.  Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked.  “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

 

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan.  Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street.  The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

 

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left.  Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property.  He opened the door and let Joe in.

 

On the inside, the condo was small.  The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner.  Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom.  The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

 

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up.  Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right.  It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else.  The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

 

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

 

Andy took off his running jacket.  Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser.  “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket.  “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.”  Closing the door, he turned back to Joe.  “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

 

He never saw the blow coming.  Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door.  Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

 

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain.  His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap.  As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

 

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin.  There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

 

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger.  “Dude, you made a huge mistake.  When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear?  I’m gonna—“

 

“Yeah?” Joe growled abruptly, cutting Andy’s bluster off mid-stride.  “Whaddaya think yer gonna do to me, faggot?”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger.  “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

 

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.”  As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities.  In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

 

Andy grunted and kicked.  Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself.  As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing.  His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

 

That was what was binding his hands.  Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather.  Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it.  He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

 

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it.  He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

 

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself.  “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

 

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck.  Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver.  The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

 

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs.  With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles.  They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him.  And it was just about time to get started…

 

That’s when Joe heard the lock on the front door.  “J-jake,” Andy gasped irregularly, “h-he’ll fu-fu-fuck ya up…”

 

The roommate was coming home.  Joe realized he had to act quickly.  Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

 

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try.  Joe was counting on it.  Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

 

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping.  The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

 

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice.  “Hey, dude, were are ya?  I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

 

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated.  He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth.  He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it.  His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

 

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door.  A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room.  “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

 

Jake grunted and whirled around.  Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes.  His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

 

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was.  He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand.  The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.  The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

 

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow.  Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

 

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer.  Your buddy is straight?  Too bad—sucks to be him.”

 

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth.  “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

 

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude.  Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was.  He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle.  Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

 

After all, he was gonna be here a while.  His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

 

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles.  Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time.  He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

 

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser.  He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire.  Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back.  With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding.  Now all he needed was something for the feet…

 

There—draped over the closet doorknob.  A jump rope; perfect.  In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

 

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed.  Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall.  It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body.  The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

 

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay.  Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

 

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home.  A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble.  What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

 

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him.  The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

 

But the cigarette was what angered him.  He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted.  It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally.  There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

 

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly.  “What’s wrong, bitch?  Ya not inta smoke?”  With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

 

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain.  “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!”  He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back.  The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

 

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared.  He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw.  As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

 

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick.  As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

 

“No…” the trapped boy moaned thickly.  “D-don’t, man, k-keep aw-away…p-p-please…”

 

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed.  “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh?  What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt?  Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

 

“What?” Andy yelped.  The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

 

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs.  Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

 

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

 

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole.  The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was too much, too intense.  He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

 

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock.  As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

 

Jake was waking up.

 

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare.  Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head.  As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed.  The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right.  He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

 

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted.  And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped.  Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Joe growled, spitting into the hot Asian boy’s face, “take my fuckin’ rod, you motherfuckin’ homo cunt!”  As his huge tool plowed into Andy’s tender ass, the thick veined ridges on his shaft tore at the unfortunate cunt’s soft fuckhole like barbed wire.

 

It was too much.  Andy shrieked, loud and hard, his vocal cords stretching taut and sending a vibration that echoed through his entire body.  Joe felt it and shuddered in pleasure.

 

Jake felt it and shuddered in terror.

 

Joe was still pissed.  “Goddam queer-ass fag motherfucker!” he snarled in anger, “Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit!  Yer makin’ more noise than you’re worth, you little homo cunt—guess I need to stop yer fuckin’ pig squealing, cunt.  Lessee now, what’s good to choke off your cumsucking throat…”

 

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand.  Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside.  Joe seized on it like a gift.

 

“Oh hell yeah, this work fuckin’ great,” he smirked diabolically.  “Dude, you musta wanted this—you damn sure dressed to get snuffed, faggot!”

 

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote.  Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

 

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good.  Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry.  He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

 

And it was a frenzy.  It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

 

That wasn’t supposed to happen.  He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

 

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him.  Watching him get fucked.

 

Watching him die.

 

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody.  He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly.  As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly.  Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

 

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though.  His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally.  The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

 

After that, Joe was more deliberate.  Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it.  But then, a distraction—

 

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably.  “What’s goin’ on?  Andy?  Dude?  What the fuck is happening?”  His voice shook with impending tears.

 

“What the fuck is happening, dude,” Joe sneered, turning to look Jake straight in his terrified, uncomprehending face, “is that your bud here is gettin’ some dick.  And then I’m gonna waste him.  Watch close, motherfucker—when I’m done with him, it’ll be your turn.”

 

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face.  “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you.  So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

 

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole.  As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

 

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course.  “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror.  “I ain’t gay!  Andy ain’t gay!  We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

 

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right.  “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

 

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee.  “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy?  Huh?  And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh?  I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick.  He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too.  I mean, it only makes sense, right?  So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

 

With a faint chuckle, Joe hovered close over Andy and spat in his face yet again.  “But first,” he chuckled quietly, “I gotta off this motherfucking pervert.  Ya look healthy, boy.  Too bad.  Just means you’re gonna suffer longer.”

 

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them.  He was suffering enough already.  A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen.  Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

 

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain.  The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain.  The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

 

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

 

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying.  Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump.  Ya like that?  Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya!  It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

 

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror.  It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point.  Andy was getting raped.  Andy was getting murdered.  Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple.  His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

 

It was the stuff of nightmare.  But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

 

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts.  Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

 

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded.  Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

 

Maybe he was gay.  But Jake wasn’t.  He was gonna fight.

 

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought.  Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought.  And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

 

His audience in mind, Joe resumed taunting Andy.  “Like it, dontcha, cunt?  You fuckin’ love havin’ a real man hold you down and put you in yer place, huh, fag?  Can’t hide it when ya die, boy, yer hard cock is tellin’ your buddy here how much yer lovin’ this, you useless homo cum dumpster!”

 

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again.  “Stop!” he screeched.  “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

 

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat.  He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw.  He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face.  “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive.  He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet.  He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

 

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him.  A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock.  Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

 

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

 

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish.  The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

 

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that.  Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

 

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder.  He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff.  He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

 

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering.  Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

 

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face.  It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail.  Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

 

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts.  He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

 

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too.  Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

 

“Watch ‘im, dude,” he grunted as his firm, furry ass flexed with his energetic thrusts, “watch ‘im choke.  Fuck, man his dyin’ ass is grippin’ my shaft so tight—the harder I squeeze his throat, the harder he squeezes my dick.  Goddam dickpig likes it, yeah?  An’ I bet you’ll fuckin’ love it, you worthless cocksucking faggot!”

 

 

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death.  His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

 

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought.  His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions.  His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

 

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable.  The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death.  Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth.  One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

 

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock.  His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts.  Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

 

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock.  “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth.  “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is?  Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

 

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck.  Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch.  Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

 

Andy himself experienced it differently.  For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body.  Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

 

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness.  They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

 

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

 

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

 

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff.  And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it.  Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs.  Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

 

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back.  The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum.  The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath.  He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

 

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle.  As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room.  The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

 

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp.  Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head.  The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen.  His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle.  Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

 

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath.  The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall.  He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

 

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom.  For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

 

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom.  A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence.  The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness.  It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

 

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor.  He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy.  But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

 

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse.  It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move.  Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

 

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate.  “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy!  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

 

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead.  His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him.  The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

 

He needed more of the same, Joe realized.  A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

 

Maybe a little foot worship.  He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

 

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it.  Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

 

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

 

Jake was still far too confused to understand.  He remained motionless.

 

“Take his sneaker off, you stupid scumshit, or I will hurt you.”

 

This registered.  Jake blinked twice and shook himself.  “Take-what?  T-take it off? B-b-but my han-hands…”

 

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert.  You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet.  Do it!”

 

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought.  Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip.  Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

 

“Good bitch,” Joe sneered.  “Keep goin’, fag.  Get the shoe off, bitch.”

 

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head.  To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze.  His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

 

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker.  Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab.  Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

 

It took several minutes.  Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull.  He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire.  It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

 

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off.  The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

 

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done.  “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

 

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

 

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain.  He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve.  He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

 

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot.  As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

 

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out.  Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

 

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage.  “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

 

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind.  The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face.  “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief.  This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay.  And Jake wasn’t gay.

 

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock.  “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face.  “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

 

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion.  Joe next statement was what motivated him.  “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

 

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze.  Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

 

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth.  Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

 

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance.  “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

 

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear.  Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

 

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy.  He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

 

 

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum.  Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

 

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out.  But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

 

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily.  “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.”  But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat.  His heaving got stronger.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up.  The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed.  “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya.  But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker.  Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first.  Lessee, what’ll work…”

 

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva.  “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth.  Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat.  “There ya go, asswipe.  Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

 

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point.  The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control.  Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

 

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel.  But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury.  He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp.  Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

 

And reeking of mansex.  It was Andy’s cumrag.

 

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half.  He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric.  “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat.  He could, and would do what he said.

 

Jake had to obey.  His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey.  He had no choice.  He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance.  And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot.  Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

 

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them.  Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids.  He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

 

“You stupid cumsucking piece of shit,” Joe chuckled malignly, “did ya think I was really gonna let ya try to bite my cock?  Fuckin’ dumbass faggot, yer gonna pay for that—and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you worthless asswipe!”

 

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes.  His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it.  He was truly helpless now.  This couldn’t be happening.  Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this.  He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

 

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy.  “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me.  Work me.  Milk me…”

 

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy.  The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear.  His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat.  As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

 

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie.  The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

 

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym.  This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving.  It was a surreal nightmare.  The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

 

Then Joe made it real.  Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock.  And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

 

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock.  Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

 

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee.  He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow.  His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

 

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness.  The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

 

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice.  “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert.  I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh?  Yeah, faggot?  Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

 

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat.  “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted.  A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

 

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down.  Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

 

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

 

Pubic hair.  Another dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?  How—how had this happened?  He’d gone to do his usual routine after work.  Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home.  As usual.

 

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered.  And some dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?

 

And then a new imperative arose.  His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant.  But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock.  It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

 

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

 

He wasn’t gonna let it happen.  His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize.  He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee.  “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh?  Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet.  C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes.  In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

 

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus.  The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

 

“Fuckin’-A, ya homo cocksucker, that’s it.  Work my dick as you die, fuckmeat; lessee if you can milk more cum outta me than your dead butt-buddy here.  Yer last sensation is gonna be my spurtin’ sperm floodin’ yer lungs—don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  C’mon, you faggot motherfucker, show me how grateful yer gonna be for my load!”

 

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken.  It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing.  Or oozing at the tip.

 

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen.  He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face.  He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

 

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse.  He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing.  But then there were no words to describe the entirety.

 

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did.  He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

 

He was dying with an erection.  That-that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Ever.

 

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth.  And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse.  And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

 

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions.  In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

 

It’d catch on soon enough.  Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy.  Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

 

Not when it was getting so good…

 

“That’s it, faggot, let go.  Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost.  Go on and die.  It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool.  Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

 

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool.  “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die.  You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

 

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand.  If he had, he might have agreed.  Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch.  He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation.  He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

 

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum.  As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms.  The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

 

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull.  His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat.  Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse.  Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

 

And then he died.  Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco.  In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc.  This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

 

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life.  The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier.  If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

 

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive.  The boy had come bolt upright on his knees.  His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin.  His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down.  But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

 

Jake was already dead.  In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

 

He fell on top of Andy.  Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

 

Joe looked down at himself.  “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

 

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly.  Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

 

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers.  Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure.  No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

 

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet.  He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

 

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry.  Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight.  It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous.  It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

 

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen.  It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat.  Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy.  Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing.  First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

 

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before.  But now…

 

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses.  Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back.  His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists.  The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

 

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen.  The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin.  The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

 

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

 

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead.  As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes.  His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat.  His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

 

Too late for that now.

 

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits.  As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

 

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room.  The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

 

It was too much for Joe.  He wanted a piece of that action.  Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest.  The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

 

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist.  There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked.  The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

 

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed.  But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer.  He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

 

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head.  He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

 

And he was still horny.  He still had more seed to unload.  Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones.  Whatever—it didn’t matter.

 

What mattered was that he needed to cum.  Again.

 

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was.  Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight.  Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test.  If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry.  And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

 

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

 

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness.  There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

 

Stupid piece of shit.  Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to.  Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

 

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself.  Joe smiled.  He understood.  That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves.  And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

 

That’s how they knew.  That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down.  They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

 

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening.  At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

 

And then the rodeo was on.

 

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself.  He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

 

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body.  Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head.  As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

 

Fuck.  He’d snapped Jake’s neck too.  Oh well.

 

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy.  It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser.  He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

 

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it.  While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it.  Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

 

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped.  Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible.  Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could.  Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them.  The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

 

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea.  Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks?  Fuckin’ hot!

 

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly.  He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up.  That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

 

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor.  “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face.  The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

 

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth.  Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

 

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop.  As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

 

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door.  Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with?  The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Convict 3–No Trace of Mercy

On By m3mayhemIn Carlos the ConvictLeave a comment

As Carlos merged back onto the highway from the Winterbourne Road onramp, he became aware of a loud whistling sound accompanied by a jet of cold air.  Glancing up, he realized that the strip of duct tape covering a tear in the convertible roof had peeled off.

 

His broad, tattooed chest was still glistening with sweat from his revenge fuck.  Even though it wasn’t that cold outside, it was chilly enough to be uncomfortable against his bare skin.  He abruptly made up his mind to head back to his motel room for a moment.

 

He wasn’t done for the night, fuck no.  His adrenaline and testosterone were flowing; he was flush with cash—and he was hard again.  A quick stop to pick up a couple of things, and he’d be back on the street.

 

Another unlucky fag was gonna get snuffed tonight.  He was out there somewhere, right now, trolling the streets for dick.

 

Carlos put the pedal down.  He was unaware of the ugly leer that twisted his hard, handsome face into a sadistic grimace; he just knew he was in a hurry.  He was riding a high fueled by lust and endorphins, and he was gonna take advantage of it.  The twenty minutes it took to get back across town to his motel seemed endless.

 

He was in the room for only about five minutes.  After hiding the cash, it only took seconds to cross to the closet and pull a jacket off a hanger.  He’d gotten it at a pawn shop earlier that day, after he’d bought his other clothes.  It was a heavy leather biker jacket, a brand named “American Armor”.  Slightly worn but in excellent shape, it had zippered sleeves, wide double-breasted lapels with snaps and a thick quilted lining; it was legitimately made for a biker.

 

And used by one, to judge by the smell.  It was rank with sweat and smoke, but above all, the dense, heady scent of leather emanated strongly from it; one whiff would get the fag pigs running.

 

Laying the jacket across the back of a chair he dug in the closet for another purchase he’d made that day, this time in an army surplus store.  Taking the box to the bed, he opened it to reveal a new pair of black nylon combat boots with thick rubber soles and—the real selling point for Carlos—a boot sheath in each one, for right- or left-handed action.

 

The brawny convict sat on the bed and slipped his engineer boots off, noticing a stain of Will’s blood on the right toe.  He quickly wiped it off with a tissue before carefully setting the boots to the side.  They were still his favorite, but the new pair would hold a knife better.

 

He laced them tightly up his calf, making sure they were snug.  In the future, he’d use the zippers on the sides, but he needed to ensure the fit the first time.  He also needed to test the fit of his knife; he wasn’t sure the sheath was designed to handle his foot-long blade.

 

Carlos paused on the way out the door, admiring his hard, lightly-furred body in the mirror.  He was still all in black, from his combat utility boots to his tight jeans to the musky jacket hanging open and giving a tantalizing glimpse of his broad pecs and ripped abs.  Even the shiny black do-rag was still knotted onto his shaved head.

 

 

The hard-bodied convict grinned.  He looked hot, and he knew it.  What’s more, he looked dangerous.  The bulge in his jeans several inches below his knee caused by the handle of his knife wasn’t obvious enough to cause comment, but it might cause some interest.  No true bottom pig faggot would be able to turn him down, and he was counting on it.

 

His earlier prey had been specifically targeted for money, but now Carlos was flush with cash.  When he stalked out of hotel room, he wasn’t out to find a victim with cash.

 

A demon of sexual rage still burned in his chest. This time, he was just out to make a homo slut suffer.

 

Back in the stolen Mustang, back on the prowl.  Carlos was looking for meat on the hoof and he knew where to find it—back at his old cruising grounds.  Actually, he’d had several, all notorious pick-up spots in disreputable areas on the edge of the gay ghetto, several of which had been redeveloped while he was in the pen.

 

River Oak Park hadn’t, though.  It was still dilapidated and dark; the trails that wound under the eponymous oaks had large areas of zero visibility where the pathway lights were out.  At least it had the oaks; the “river”—more an embanked storm culvert than a natural waterway—was dry with the lack of recent rain.

 

It wasn’t a place most people chose to use for relaxation, so it became a place a few people chose to use for sex.  Carlos had met the fag he’d whacked—the one he got sent away for—in this park; then they’d driven elsewhere.

 

He’d put out his headlights even before pulling into the parking lot; his car a dark shape gliding among several others.  Drifting slowly into a space, he shut the vehicle off and glanced around.

 

Even in the dim light—only three of parking lot’s sixteen light poles were working—he could see several dudes.  Some were hanging out in the parking lot itself; as he watched, he saw one boy, barely out of his teens, so fucked on booze or drugs—well, it must have been something to make him crawl in through an open window instead of just opening the car door.  Whatever the case was, the car started up and left the park immediately.

 

Carlos wondered idly if the boy would be seen alive again. If it had been his car…

 

Other dudes seem to emerge out of and melt back into the darkness of the park.  Carlos decided it was time to get out; he wasn’t gonna do anything in the car, at any rate.

 

As his broad, muscular body slipped into invisibility under the bare, interlocking branches of the oaks, he moved forward silently.  The rubber soles of his combat boots had been designed for stealth; it emphasized the intensity of the hunt.

 

Carlos was horny, hard, and ready to kill again.  Time to take down another worthless cocksucking pansy.  His black eyes, wide and sparkling in the darkness, peered around eagerly.  So many disgusting fags; who was gonna be the lucky cunt to taste his sperm and his steel?

 

Just under a mile away, the creek bed made a sharp turn south.  The path, running along the north side of the creek, bent as well.  The inside of the bend, on the south side of the path between it and the creek, was actually a flat peninsula screened by brush—very popular and currently in use by several couples.

 

North of the path the land was also covered with low-lying underbrush, but rising to the north as it did, it was less congenial to immediate public buttfucking; one had to hike some ways up a hill to reach a level but secluded clearing.  Still, that side of the path wasn’t unpopulated.

 

Trace stood alone in the dark, in the bushes on the north of the path, angry and impatient.  The teen shifted, his long, lean body stiff and uncomfortable.  Jimmy shoulda been there almost an hour ago; Trace wasn’t gonna wait for him much longer.  After all, he’d sneaked out of his house that night just so Jimmy could skullfuck him.

 

If Jimmy wasn’t gonna show, Trace was sure he could find other dudes to ream his throat just has hard as Jimmy did.

 

Trace was just six weeks past his eighteenth birthday; his wide blue eyes made him look even younger.  His black hair was long and carefully negligent, with long bangs spread over his forehead, almost hanging into his eyes.  In the back, it was longer and layered.  Combined with his smooth cheeks and wide, easy-going grin, he had a look that ensured he got what he wanted in terms of sex.

 

Trace could have had any girl in the senior class, but what he wanted was Jimmy, tight end on the football team.  It wasn’t that Trace was pining for a sports hero to take his virginity—he’d been with half the football team and a third of both the basketball team and the wrestling team before he got out of his junior year—but there was something about Jimmy…

 

Jimmy was straight.  If he wasn’t, he was good at playing it—he’d only meet Trace in the park after dark, in a pre-arranged location so no one would know.  And it was hard to believe that his contempt for homosexuals was role-play, given the way he slapped Trace around while ruthlessly breeding his mouth.  One day, if he thought he could take the pain, he’d let Jimmy up his ass…

 

Trace had loved every fucking second of it.  And tonight, Jimmy wasn’t here.  Even worse, Trace could hear the sounds of sex all around him in the darkness.  He couldn’t see anything, but his teenage body was responding to the outpouring of semen and testosterone around him.

 

It was maddening.   It was an itch he couldn’t scratch—and it was centered deep in his balls.  The lean, well-built youth was as randy as a cat in heat.  He was done waiting for his top.

 

The lust- and hormone-fueled teen decided he couldn’t wait any more.  He followed his hard dick out into the darkness to meet his fate.

 

He was certainly dressed to meet someone.  Trace had a slim swimmer’s build—lean and firm, not scrawny—and he knew how to accentuate it.  Tonight, his smooth chest was covered with a simple white cotton t-shirt at least one size too small, looking as if it had been painted onto his low, broad pecs and his flat belly.

 

Since the night was chilly, he wore a blue denim button-down shirt open over the t-shirt.  His equally-revealing jogging jeans were less faded, but the way they clung to his tight ass and highlighted his package left nothing to the imagination.  The jeans had elastic gathering the ankles, so they appeared to be bloused into Trace’s red canvas Converse hightops.

 

The young fag hadn’t specifically dressed like a slut—but he was a slut, and a good-looking one at that, and he felt no need to hide his light under a bushel.  In fact, he wanted all the hot dudes to see just how much he was flaming.  Not that he was particularly effeminate.

 

But he did love dick.

 

Stepping out onto the path, the horny teen followed his eager, throbbing cock into the darkness.  The new moon, thin as a fingernail paring, shed little light and the occasional working light within the park itself didn’t do much to dispel the blackness.  Trace could sense other men just off the path, but couldn’t see exactly what they were doing—or if they were interested.

 

He walked on, the white soles of his canvas hightops almost silent on the paved footpath.  The ground to his left sloped down to the creek, while that on his right rose gently into a heavily wooded section of the greenbelt.  He’d wandered just over half a mile when he realized that he hadn’t seen anyone for a while.

 

Shrugging, Trace decided that dudes looking for a hookup didn’t go this far into the park.  He turned, deciding to try his luck in the parking lot, when he heard footsteps behind.

 

Instead of leaving, the young slut made the worst mistake of his life and paused to listen.  The footfalls were faint and the path curved around a bend in the creek five yards ahead—he couldn’t see anyone.

 

And then suddenly, there he was.  A tall, muscular stud, appearing out of the murk and looming over him.  Thirty feet back was a light pole; the glow wasn’t bright, but it was good enough to see the hot dude who’d come out of nowhere.

 

Just a single glance at the teen he stumbled across told Carlos all he needed to know.  After all, the little fuck wasn’t dressed to hide his assets; even in the dim lighting, he could see the punk’s thick junk through his tight jeans.  It was the eyes, though—the way lust illuminated them. Cat-like, they almost glowed in the dark.

 

The little faggot wanted it bad, Carlos realized.  Well, he was ready to give it—bad.  Real bad.

 

Trace gazed up in wonder at the muscled cholo looming over him.  The well-built dude was all in black, practically camouflage in this part of the park, but the aroused teen could still make out the older man’s huge pecs.  Even in the dim light, he could see the tattoos half-hidden under the leather jacket, the dark treasure trail undulating over the stud’s ripped abs as it disappeared beneath the waistband of the tight black denim.

 

Carlos had read the signs right.  A single look at the strapping con had driven all thoughts of Jimmy out of the youth’s mind.  This dude—this was a real man.  Trace wanted this guy inside him.  Deep.

 

Carlos could see the boy’s mouth open and silently mouth the word “wow” before his tongue darted quickly across his lips.  He knew the little fag was thinking about gagging on Carlos’s fat hog; the kid’s worthless pig lust was radiating palpably from his tight, hormone-filled body.

 

Time to make his move, he decided.  This was gonna be easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

 

It was just gonna be a lot, lot slower.

 

“Ya want my dick, boy?” Carlos grunted in a low voice, already knowing what the answer would be.

 

“Uh-huh,” Trace muttered, barely audible.  Tentatively, he reached his hand out toward the swollen bulge he could just barely discern in the top’s groin.

 

“Not here, puta,” Carlos snapped.  “I ain’t pluggin’ yer face on the path.  I don’t give no free shows, vato, got me?

 

Wide-eyed, the teen slut nodded; the gruff bass of the alpha’s hoarse voice seemed to vibrate along his spine and the root of his dick.  “Up there,” he gasped, jerking his head to the right where the ground sloped up to more dense woods.

 

As they turned and silently made their way uphill, Trace found himself walking stiffly.  His cock was so hard it hurt.

 

In a moment, they were picking their way through the trees.  The thick carpet of dead leaves crackled under the soles of the kid’s Converse sneakers.  Carlos’s military-style combat boots made much less noise.

 

Not that it mattered; they were too far back into the greenbelt to see the path.  Five yards further on, a high chain link fence marked the edge of park land.  Beyond, the tree line dwindled down to a swath of waste ground that bordered a landfill a mile away.

 

They were completely isolated, for all intents and purposes—even Carlos’s.

 

Trace’s hands fumbled hurriedly in his groin as he unzipped his fly to give some release to the aching six-inch cock trapped in his tight jeans.  Carlos stood and watched him in silent contempt—stupid little homo couldn’t even control his disgusting urges.

 

Well, then—Carlos was gonna have to control them for him.  Reaching down to his own groin, he hauled his huge tube of meat out, letting it dangle and drip in the night air.

 

The teen froze.  He was mesmerized by the older dude’s tool.  Fuck, Jimmy was hung, but this guy put Jimmy to shame.  He wanted this cock inside him, fuck, he wanted it so bad…

 

He swiftly shucked off his button-down shirt, tossing it negligently onto the ground before pulling off his tight t-shirt and tossing it on top of the other.  As he stepped toward Carlos, a thin sliver of faint moonlight illuminated his soft, flat belly and smooth chest, firm but not overly developed.

 

He approached the towering cholo stud, hesitantly but eagerly.  His huge blue eyes, framed by long lashes that added an extra hint of vulnerability to his beautiful, youthful face, turned expectantly up to those of the erotic, mysterious alpha.

 

Like a good bottom pig, he was awaiting orders.  He didn’t have long to wait.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” Carlos snarled abruptly.  “Down on your knees and gag on it, you worthless homo—now!”

 

Trace jerked, startled by the suddenness of the order, but he obeyed.  Falling to his knees on the soft flooring of leaves, he opened his mouth wide and took the swollen, oozing head into his mouth, tasting the salty drops of precum trickling from the tip.

 

Carlos grunted as the teen slowly began deepthroating him.  He felt the boy’s esophagus wrap tightly around his shaft as the kid buried his face in the alpha’s crotch, grinding his nose voluntarily into the stud’s pubic hair.

 

“Goddam, puta, you mother fuckin’ cocksucker,” the grinning killer hissed, “fuckin’ punk gobblin’ down my dick—you a natural born faggot, aintcha?”

 

Trace made the mistake of trying to answer, gurgling on the shaft of flesh jammed down his throat.  He was rewarded with a hard bitchslap across his face.  “Shaddap!” Carlos growled.  “Lick under my head, cunt.  Run your tongue down my tool.”

 

The boy obeyed, wrapping his arms around the stud’s thick, muscled legs.  As he chugged down the convict’s cock, he ran his hands up and down the taut denim, feeling Carlos’s hard, chiseled thighs and calves.  His hands sank lower and lower, down towards the alpha’s combat boots…

 

…and encountered the hilt of the knife.

 

“What?” Trace muttered in surprise as he pulled his head up off Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “What was that?”  He peered up into the stranger’s face, obscured in the darkness.

 

He couldn’t see the look of cruel anger building in the brawny convict’s face, but he could hear the menace in the older man’s cold whisper.  “It was gonna be a surprise for ya, boy.  See, vato, you’re broken.  I’m gonna fix ya.  When I’m done with ya, you won’t be a faggot no more.”

 

Trace scrambled backward across the dead leaves, trying to get to his feet.  “Wh-whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, man?” he quavered as the realization of impending danger began to percolate through his haze of lust and hormones.

 

“I’m talking about stickin’ you like the useless fag pig you are, punk.  And the first thing I’m gonna stick you with is my cock.  Shame ya didn’t give me more head, fairy, cause that’s all the lube yer gonna get.”

 

“What? No!” the youth squealed in fear.  “Dude, I just give head—ain’t no one been up my ass!”

 

“Tough luck, cunt,” the vicious convict sneered.  “Guess that means this is gonna hurt like a bitch, huh?  Good.  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you ain’t too tight.”

 

“M-man, I th-think I gotta go,” Trace whispered as cold fear stole over his smooth slim body, trembling in the pale moonlight.  “I-I gotta be-be somewhere…”

 

He had time for just one yelp of terror as Carlos sprang at him and slammed him sideways into a tree.  Unluckily for the randy, adventurous teen, there was no one close enough to hear it.  As he slumped unconscious to the ground, there was no hope of rescue.  And Carlos knew it.

 

It only took a moment to bind the punk’s hands behind his back, using his own button-down denim shirt, twisted into a band.  That done, Carlos flipped the boy onto his back, making sure the boy’s bound hands were bent up into an agonizing position under his own body weight.

 

Carlos was gonna teach the teen homo a thing or two about the pain he felt all faggots deserved, before “fixing’ him for good.

 

He started by parting the slut’s legs, leaving his jeans and hightops still on.  Shrugging off his leather jacket, he laid it between the boy’s spread legs.  As he did, the kid began to moan.  The fluttering eyelashes in his gorgeous face signaled the slow, reluctant return of consciousness.

 

Carlos grunted in contempt.  Little fuck hadn’t even hit the tree hard enough to break the skin.  If that was all it took to lay him low, he realized, he was gonna hafta be careful or he’d fix the fag before he got to have any fun with him.

 

The strapping convict stood over the prone, helpless teen.  Stripped to the waist, his powerful, tattooed torso gleamed in the faint sliver light in the small clearing.  The teen swam back to a stunned awareness to see the ominous muscled silhouette looming over him—and he realized just how isolated and alone he was.

 

Trace began to blubber, jerking and yanking his arms helplessly against the tight binding.  “P-please, man, no,” he sobbed, “I’ll do anything ya-ya want, dude, you can stick it up my ass, I w-won’t tell anyone—“  He trailed off into incoherent weeping.

 

Carlos just stood silently over the cowering, helpless boy.  He didn’t say a word—he just held up the knife.

 

It was the same one he’d bought his first day out.  The razor-sharp edge, all twelve inches of it, glinted wickedly in the faint light, as did the deep, evil serrations on the other side.  The hilt ended in a handle with a handguard; Carlos could be assured of a secure, well-balanced grip whether he was slashing through organs or slicing through bone.

 

Tonight, he was planning to do both.  But he needed to be careful.  Little queer-ass pansy was fragile; he’d have to make sure he was only hitting non-vital areas to start.  Good thing he’d learned all about inflicting nightmarish but non-fatal pain in prison.

 

But to start with, he wanted to fuck.  His throbbing shaft needed care and a warm, moist sheath.  This teen’s ass would work perfectly, but he knew it’d take time, effort, and some slight discomfort to pop the cherry hole.

 

He had a better idea.

 

“So you ain’t never had anyone up yer fuckhole, huh, you worthless slut?  What kinda fag are ya, bitch?  We’re gonna fix that right now.  Don’t worry, cunt, my shaft ain’t gonna hurt ya.  Well, not after I open ya up with this.”

 

Dropping to his knees on his jacket between the kid’s legs, Carlos leaned forward over the prone youth and held his knife up in front of the boy’s face.

 

Trace already knew that things were bad, that he was in more danger than he’d ever been in before, but he wasn’t able to absorb the implication of the knife.  For one thing, at seventeen inches with a twelve-inch double-sided stainless steel blade, it was both larger and incomparably better designed to inflict pain and death than any blade he’d ever seen before.  He simply couldn’t imagine it being used on him.

 

That changed the moment Carlos lifted the helpless youth’s legs and rammed the knife straight through the tight denim cradling his ass up into his rectum.  The sadistic killer hadn’t just cut himself a fuckhole through the jeans, he forced the blade up into the unfortunate kid’s colon, slicing his sphincter suddenly and brutally.

 

Carlos paused for a moment, his biceps bulging as he forced the blade in deeper.  Then he twisted it viciously deep in Trace’s guts before yanking it out again in a swift, cruel, slicing motion.  Holding the bloody blade up for a moment, the evil killer admired the evidence of his own malignant sadism.

 

Beneath him, the teen writhed in agony, experiencing an entire spectrum of pain he’d never known existed.  The cold, glassy slashes deep inside his tender fuckhole were too intense for him to scream; he could only gurgle and spray saliva as he tried desperately not to vomit in pain.

 

Carlos could see the amount of agony he’d inflicted on his victim.  “Fuck yeah, cunt, looks like you’re finally ready to take my dick.  ‘Course, even after slittin’ ya so it won’t hurt so bad, I’m still gonna tear ya some, but you like the pain, right faggot?”

 

As the bound, helpless teen writhed and mewled in pain, the brutal convict grabbed his club-like cock and plunged it into the kid’s mangled ass.  The only lube was the boy’s warm blood as Carlos proved true to his word; the slashes he’d cut in the cunt’s sphincter weren’t enough—his thick, pulsing shaft tore Trace’s ass open even more painfully than the knife had.

 

The young virgin had reached a snapping point; the pain was too much.  He shrieked in a shrill cry of agony, fear and despair.

 

It was music to Carlos’s ears.  It was proof of the pain he was able to inflict on this worthless little faggot—but it could also draw the attention of others.  He wasn’t done torturing this motherfucker, not by a long shot.  He needed to keep the meat quiet.

 

He brought his blade into play again.

 

For a few months, he’d shared a cell with a straight serial killer.  The guy had had lots of useful tips; Carlos had learned a lot from him.  Like how to silence a fucktoy while still keeping ‘em alive.  It caused unimaginable pain—but who cared?

 

He used it now.  “Stupid pansy piece of shit, guess I gotta shut you up, your fuckin’ pig squeals are goddam annoying, motherfucker,” he snarled as he stuck the tip of his blade into Trace’s Adam’s apple.

 

Tightening his strong bicep, he drove the sharp steel tip down into the boy’s larynx.  He had to apply some force when he felt the resistance of the cartilage, but he was able to slice through the voicebox and slit Trace’s vocal cords with ease.  Once the knife was inserted far enough to do the appropriate damage, the cruel killer abruptly yanked it back out.

 

He’d rendered the helpless teen boy mute and wallowing in unimaginable agony, without endangering a single major blood vessel.  Trace wasn’t dying; he only wished he was.

 

The pain was far beyond anything he’d ever imagined; in him mind he was screaming in horrific agony.  The fact that all he could hear was a wet gurgling sound accompanied by a faint spray of blood scared him so bad he was barely coherent, but the grotesque blood-gargling sensation in his throat was nothing compare to the red-hot iron shaft being shoved up his ass…

 

At some point, Trace wished devoutly he’d stayed in the bushes and waited for Jimmy, but it was a fleeting thought in the whirlwind of slashing agony that was enveloping him.  As he gasped frantically, he heard air whistling through the slash in his neck.

 

“Yeah, that shut ya the fuck up, dinnit,” sneered the dark-skinned cholo sadist.  “Now take my dick, homo, make me cum.  I’m gonna give ya exactly what you deserve, you useless cocksucker; I’m gonna stick ya like a fuckin’ pig.”

 

Sitting up on his knees with the boy’s feet on his shoulders and his arms wrapped around the helpless youth’s legs, Carlos held the knife in front of Trace’s pale face.  He saw its icy glint reflected in the teen’s wide, shock-ringed eyes as he continued to taunt his terrified victim.

 

“Look at it, cunt,” he whispered sharply.  “Lookit how sharp it is.  You already felt it, bitch—didja like it?  Sure the fuck hope so, ya cumsuckin’ fairy, cause you’re about to get a whole lot more of it.”

 

Bending down, he snarled in Trace’s weeping, gurgling face.  “Quit whining, you stupid fuck.  You’re out here cause you love ta get all kinda shafts stuck in ya, right?  So here ya go, you fag piece of shit, I’m givin’ ya one that’s longer and harder than any you’ve ever had—or ever will.  Now shut the fuck up and get ready to blow your load as I fuck ya to death with both my dick and my blade—two shafts at once, huh, ya cock pig?”

 

Holding the blade upright, he pointed the tip down and rammed it into Trace’s soft, flat belly, the knife penetrating the smooth skin with no resistance at all.  It sliced through the punk’s tender guts, slashing through the intestines.  Grunting forcefully, Carlos applied pressure with his arm, causing the tattoo on his bicep to bulge visibly as he forced the blade all the way through the teen’s slim, writhing body and pinning him to the earth underneath.

 

Trace’s struggles were involuntary; he was embedded in a fiery wall of pain like an insect in amber.  He wasn’t rational—he only knew that he must not move, the slightest movement made the horrible burning slashing in his guts much much worse…

 

He didn’t have much luck remaining motionless.  Carlos was ruthlessly raping his ass.  As the twisted convict pumped his enormous tool up the teen’s slit, bleeding fuckhole, the force of his thrusts jerked the kid along the ground.  Unfortunately for the young slut, the knife that was impaling him didn’t move; it was buried in the ground.

 

Every time Carlos shoved his cock deeply into Trace’s ass, the boy’s body was forced against the blade, widening the wound as he got fucked.

 

Mewling silently, the panicked boyslut jerked his head from side to side.  The slit in his neck was small and barely visible; aside from a fine mist sprayed with each desperate breath, there was very little bleeding.  He was trying frantically to scream, his beautiful face twisted in pain and terror, smeared with snot and tears.

 

But it was the hurt, bruised expression in his eyes that tripped a switch in Carlos.  There was something about the vulnerability of the hot young teen’s face that sent his sadistic anger into overdrive.

 

With another deep grunt, he yanked the knife back up and out of the kid’s abdomen.  Trace flailed in agony, his red chucks kicking the air just over his killer’s broad shoulders as the wheezing and gurgling increased in his damaged windpipe.

 

“Fuck, ya like that dontcha, ya sick fuck?”  Carlos grinned maliciously at his young, helpless victim.  “Goddam pig, yer ass sure grabbed hold of my dick when I stuck ya.  Shit, lookit yer cock, you disgusting queer-ass bitch, you’re gettin’ hard—you disgusting fuckin’ piece of shit, gettin’ banged by a real man gets ya all stiff even when yer gettin’ snuffed!”

 

Trace heard the words but they meant nothing to him; his mind was a chemical stew of adrenaline and testosterone that was incapable of coherent thought—but it was able to process the sensation of bewildering and somehow painful erection.

 

It didn’t have long to process it, though.  Carlos leveled the blade at the waist on the boy’s left side, then rammed it in at an upward angle.  This time, stabbing diagonally into the unlucky teen’s torso, the brutal killer was able to shove the knife in up to the hilt, all twelve inches of sharpened steel buried deep inside the punk’s firm, quivering body.

 

The powerful cholo groaned in pleasure as massive organ trauma caused involuntary spasms in Trace’s colon and esophagus.  As the viciously serrated blade sliced through the kid’s liver, spleen and stomach before puncturing his right lung, his rectum grasped Carlos’s thick, throbbing rod and began milking it in long, rolling convulsions.  At the same time, the boy started vomiting; there was nothing in his stomach to come up, but the cruel, excruciating internal injuries he’d endured triggered an uncontrollable retching that only intensified his agony.

 

“Now yer gettin’ it, huh, puta?” the fag-hating alpha hissed at the dying teen.  “Now yer gettin’ what all you fuckin’ queers deserve—a long hot shaft in your ass and a long cold shaft in your guts.  Told ya I’d fix ya, you stupid homo—you ain’t gonna be no faggot by the time I’m done with ya; you’re gonna be fuckin’ meat!”

 

Gripping the long handle-like hilt of the military knife, Carlos twisted and ground it in the wound, slashing the boy’s tender innards into ribbons of bleeding flesh.  Then he yanked the blade out in a sing, swift, brutal jerk.  Grinning malevolently, he spit in the cunt’s vacant, stunned face before holding the dripping knife in front of it.

 

“Look at it, fag,” he whispered evilly.  “See those strings of meat hanging off the serrations?  Those are your guts, you worthless cock-gobblin’ pussyboy.  And as much I as keep guttin’ ya like a fish, you’re still hard and drippin’ on my dick.  Ain’t no way to help ya, motherfucker; yer a natural-born homo.  So I guess you’re just garbage, huh?  Ain’t no one gonna miss garbage.”

 

The convict’s muscular, inked body heaved with lust and rage, his broad back and tatted chest glistening with hot reeking mansweat.  Trace’s smooth, flat swimmer’s chest was also covered with sweat, but his was a clammy, cold sweat wrung agonizingly from the teen’s lithe dying body.  But the strong, strapping body of the enraged alpha hunched over him, driving his thick swollen cock up the convulsing teen’s ass, gave off so much heat he was steaming slightly in the chill night air.

 

The kid’s jeans rasped against Carlos’s pubic hair as the hulking alpha’s huge, hairy balls slapped at the slash he’d cut in the denim to access the pansy’s ass.  The killer’s own tight jeans massaged his tight, taut ass as his muscled legs planted his combat boots firmly on the ground, guaranteeing plenty of traction for powerful thrusts.  As the slashed, sliced teen thrashed in mindless agony, his Converse hightops quivered and flailed over Carlos’s broad, heaving shoulders.

 

Raising the knife up over his head, Carlos brought it back down, slamming it home in Trace’s broad, shallow pectoral on his left side, slipping it between two ribs just below his heart.  It was a smooth, swift stab right into the chest, completely puncturing the left lung and—like the belly stab—completely impaling the tortured teen and pinning him to the ground.

 

The force of the blade through his lung rippled through his body, forcing his breath out with a long, ragged groan, whistling through his mangled vocal cords.  Convulsions flowed down his once-virgin body, each one causing his cock to rise up and smack wetly against his killer’s furry belly and his rectum to stroke the cruel con’s engorged tool.

 

Now, Carlos realized, the clock was running.  He’d taken care of the teen fag; the disgusting little pervert wasn’t gonna suck no more cocks—but Carlos still demanded his orgasm of rage.  The punk bitch was meat but he still hadn’t drained his righteous killer’s cock.

 

The homo whore needed to suffer more.  That was always the answer.

 

Carlos lay full-length on top of the dying young boy.  Trace was barely alive; as his lungs slowly collapsed, all his attention was now focused on being able to breathe.  He wasn’t able to comprehend that he was enduring the last few moments of his life—he only knew that he had to keep breathing.  It was hard; there was a heavy weight on his chest, sliding around on a film of sweat and compressing his somehow stiff and oozing cock…but breathe, ignore the pain, ignore the warm soft flesh sliding on your dick as you writhe in agony, just breathe…

 

And the sadistic cholo chuckled.  “Time to die, vato.  Just fuckin’ die on my cock like ya deserve, you fucking pervert punk!”

 

With that, Carlos held the knife across Trace’s neck and began to slice through his throat.  This time, he went below the larynx.  The esophagus itself was, he knew from experience, a rubbery piece of tissue.

 

It took him a little while to saw through it.

 

The ultimate agony of fatal trauma managed to focus the boy’s attention, gruesomely ensuring his full awareness of the final nightmarish horror of his last few seconds alive in a sadistic quirk of physiological fate.

 

Trace gasped and gurgled louder than ever as his throat was slashed.  He could feel each back-and-forth cut of the razor-sharp blade through the flesh and tendons of his neck.  As unimaginable pain rocked his nervous system, his swollen, purple dick pulsed with each slice of the blade.

 

So did his eager fuckhole.  “Yeaaahhhh…” grunted Carlos.  “Fuck yeah, you fucking fag cunt, ya like gettin’ put down by a real man, huh?  Then take, this, cocksucker!”

 

His powerful arm bulging, Carlos flayed the teen slut’s trachea open, listening with erotic glee as the young boy gagged and choked, gargling his own blood.  “Fuckin’ die, fag!” the angry, lust-driven alpha cried as the slim, sweaty sack of meat under him milked a massive boiling wad of  manspunk out of his almost painfully-swollen cock.

 

As the handsome teen hacked and drowned in his own blood, the screaming icy darkness that descended on him was held back by a single jolt of hot fluid flooding his mangled guts.  Somehow, it seemed to be accompanied by another in his groin; a single, white-hot wire sounding his long, thick, agonizingly hard dick…

 

Coughing up one last gout of blood, the gay teen kicked his chucks on his killer’s shoulders as a solid ropy stream of semen spurted out of his cock and was immediately smeared with his blood against his belly and that of his vicious, dominant killer.  The shuddering meat pumped a continual flow of DNA for more than twenty seconds but by that time, the teen’s blood pressure had dropped so low that brain death was occurring.

 

There wasn’t enough of Trace left to enjoy his death load.

 

Gasping, Carlos remained in place for a good two minutes as he caught his breath, his pulsing, oozing rod firmly sheathed in the corpse’s warm, moist, quivering colon.  Every few seconds the hulking, sweating convict shuddered violently and spat another stream of pearly seed into the boy’s mangled fuckhole.

 

Finally feeling his pulse return to normal, the burly killer pulled his still-dripping shaft out of the dead teen’s ass and rose to his feet.  Bending down, he retrieved his biker jacket and fished his pack of smokes out before slipping into the warm embrace of the leather.  He lit one up, inhaling deeply as he let his huge purple hog swing free and drip-dry, the cum swiftly drying to a white glaze in the cool night air.

 

Clenching the cigarette in the side of his mouth, Carlos knelt over the kid’s body, still trembling and spasming randomly in death.  “Toldja I’d fix ya, you cumsuckin’ homo,” the muscled killer chuckled vindictively.  “Ain’t gonna suck no more cocks, huh?  Unless the folks at the morgue or the undertaker’s wanna have some fun, but you still ain’t gonna be suckin’, huh, you worthless piece a’ shit pervert?”

 

Picking up his knife, Carlos looked around for a cloth.  He spied Trace’s t-shirt, a pile of white fabric easily seen in the darkness.  Grinning, he grabbed it and used it to wipe down his blade. He make sure to clean all the dangling strings of flesh trapped in the serrations, leaving the punk’s own t-shirt to be found smeared with the victim’s blood and meat.

 

Taking a final drag off his smoldering butt, he ground the glowing tobacco ember out in the very center of the dead youth’s forehead.  Rising to his feet, Carlos glanced around carefully.  There was no need; there was no one within sight or earshot.

 

And the few that Carlos encountered on his way back to the parking lot were too intent on their own activities to notice him.  Silently, he slipped back into the Mustang and had pulled out of the lot and onto the street before turning on the headlights.

 

Three minutes later, he was back on the highway.  He headed back to his motel room, finally feeling that he’d earned a rest for a job well done.

 

Not that his job was done.  They all needed to be put down—all of them.

 

Carlos felt renewed; the well-being derived from a sense of purpose filled him with excitement.  This was what he was here for—to put fags in their place.  And their place was taking his cock, then taking a dirt nap.

 

But he needed money.  Some homos had money—a lot of money.  Carlos could have all the fun he wanted, but with a little judicious hunting, he could be living good.

 

As he slowed the ‘Stang for the exit for his motel, the twisted convict began to laugh out loud.  He knew he was on the path of righteousness; being wrong couldn’t feel this good.

 

Fags needed to be taught a lesson.  He was just the man to learn ‘em.

 

 

Trace’s desperate parents reported him missing the following morning but his slaughtered corpse wasn’t found for another four days.  One of the local street whores met his dealer in the park; he got his fix for a discount if he gave the dude free sex.  Looking for somewhere to do their transactions in private, they inadvertently stumbled across the mangled body.

 

That night, Carlos beat off watching the news coverage.