Joe wasn’t worried about breaking lockdown. After all, it wasn’t like his job allowed him to practice social distancing, and it was damn sure essential. When the government needed him to do a job, there were no excuses. But Joe didn’t use a gun and the only other was to neutralize a target silently and swift was to get up close and personal.
So the thought of venturing out for some R&R didn’t bother him. And he was sure that there was some dumb fag out there who was just as willing to ignore his own safety to get some dick.
That was just what he wanted—young dumb fagmeat. Much as he enjoyed getting paid to off dudes, he always appreciated the chance to do it on his own time so he could drain a load into the fucker as it died. And it seemed the younger the homo was, the more it wanted cock. Probably raging hormones, he figured. Didn’t matter, as long as there was one available.
There was always one available.
He spun through the hookup apps on his stolen phone. He’d have to remember to take the one belonging to his next cumdump; he’d been using this one too long. It didn’t take him too long to find some prospective meat.
“Looking for hookup RIGHT NOW
–18, 5’10”, 132lbs. Home alone @ Kappa Tau frat house, brothers at formal. Want 2 get plowed but u gotta cum & go by 11”
It was accompanied by a torso shot, a lean, firm swimmer’s build with muscle but not overly developed. A second photo showed a hard stiff boycock rising eagerly from a tangled mass of dark pubes.
Joe responded with a shot of his own chest. Letting the image of his swollen pecs and ripped abs, covered with wiry fir, do its magic, he started to dress. He’d just slipped into a tight pair of jeans, comfortably worn and faded, when the phone pinged. The little homo slut had responded.
And he hadn’t been kidding; he wanted Joe to come to the frat house. Seemed he was a pledge who’d drawn the short straw and was left to watch the house when everyone else went to the formal.
And he was a virgin.
Joe got the map location and slid his feet into his big black pair of Chippewa loggers, tucking the jeans into the wide, untied boot tops. Over this, he pulled on a navy-blue compression t-shirt that emphasized his incredibly well-developed upper body. Slipping the keys to the Camaro into his pocket, the last thing he did before he left was tie a bandanna around the lower half of his face.
It was jet black with a skull’s grin. He strode to his car, dark erotic death stalking the night.
The frat house was two blocks from the college, over on Ramsdale Street. Ramsdale was more or less the Greek Row for the local campus of the state college. About half a dozen frat houses—and half as many sorority houses—were located on it, in what had once been large, upscale homes.
The Kappa Tau house was no different than the others, except it was dark and quiet. A two-story white Colonial, from the front it bore a striking resemblance to the Cunningham’s house on “Happy Days.” But Joe, who’d parked on the next street over and had slid noiselessly though the shadows, was to go around to the back. The gate was open; once past it, he found himself in a paved area with a large swimming pool. A wing of the house extended down one side of the pool area and wrapped around to the back—there was a lot of space inside.
He knocked at the rear door. An overhead light flashed on and the door opened.
The boy who opened it was young and cocky. Well, maybe he wasn’t, but he was unlucky enough to have full lips which formed a natural pout and large emerald-green eyes circled by long dark lashes. With his prey’s dark bangs sweeping low across his forehead, his pert snub nose and smooth white cheeks with a faint down on the upper lip, barely visible, Joe felt his cock pulse and throb in his jeans.
On opening the door and finding Joe looming over him with his leering mask, the boy flinched. Then he blushed and grinned embarrassedly. “Nice mask. C’mon in, my room’s this way…”
He led the way through a large kitchen fitted with industrial appliances. Out in the hall, the were passing a dimly-lit game room when Stu paused at the doorway to dark, cavernous media room from which a deep bass hum was coming.
“Hang on, someone left somthin’ on,” he said, then darted in. There was a click and the hum stopped.
“Assholes,” he muttered, emerging form the darkness, “I drew the short straw, so I gotta housesit while they go off and party…”
“Everything’s closed,” Joe said quietly as he followed the kid up the stairs.
“Yeah, they’re all over at Mikey’s. His folks got a huge place over on Conover—you know, in that gated community? And since the hotel cancelled the reservation, the bros decided to move it there. Fuck, I bet they’re having a blast—his folks are in Colorado, y’know.”
Joe didn’t know and didn’t care, but it explained how bunch of fratboi douches could hold a formal in the middle of a lockdown. And without any nearby authority figure to shut it down, the buff serial killer figured he’d have plenty of time for some nice brutal foreplay before he finally snuffed this bitch.
He kept close behind the kid, the boy’s ass at his eye level. He glued his eyes to the tender rounded buttcheeks, tightly wrapped in denim, as they flexed in front of him. The punk was in a bright yellow t-shirt and his jeans were so pale and worn they were a faint sky blue. His Nike Air Force 1 hightops were nearly the same shade.
At the top of the stairs, the kid turned left and opened the first door on the left. Flicking on the overhead light, he unapologetically led Joe into the most stereotypically filthy dorm room he’d ever seen.
He already knew that most of the assholes associated with the fraternity came from wealthy families; the detritus in the room confirmed that fact. There were the usual piles of beer bottles pizza boxes, and dirty clothes—but the beer bottles were imports and craft beers, the pizza boxes were from local gourmet parlors, not the big chains, and the wadded-up clothing included designer jeans and expensive dress shirts.
Stu caught Joe’s glance and had the decency to blush. “Yeah, since they cancelled classes, we ain’t done too much. See, my dad says he’s spending enough for this place and I might as well stay here. Most of the guys have heard something like that from their folks. It’s fucking great—we eat and drink and party, an’ don’t even gotta go to class!”
The boy crossed the room, pulling his shirt off over his head as he did so. He missed Joe’s contemptuous smirk behind his back, but by the time he turned and face his guest, Joe was taking his own shirt off, revealing his huge, hairy chest, so much more developed than Stu’s smooth, lithe torso. The well-built sadist shook out his shirt—his bandanna had come off and gotten caught in it—before laying over the back of a chair.
Stu’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Joe’s chest; it was one thing to have seen a photo but for the virgin slut to have such a stud in his actual presence was more than he’d hoped for this evening, and he was willing to abandon all caution in his near-mindless lust.
“Well?” Joe barked gruffly, “Strip, fucker. I wanna see what I’m gonna be stickin’ my dick in.”
The young homo damn near wriggled with pleasure at the command. Joe’s disgust at the worthless cocksucker rose in proportion to his need for sexual release. It was a combination that invariably had horrific consequences for the object of Joe’s attention.
Stu was on the verge of learning that, but he was too horny to pay attention to any red flags. He kicked his Nikes off and shimmied his way out of his jeans, his long, thick boycock swinging ponderously from side to side as he did so. He was generously endowed, six inches already and only semi-hard.
It was nothing compared to Joe’s meat, though, and the hardbodied fagkiller thought it was time for his prey to see that for itself. He unzipped his fly and hauled out his throbbing, erect cock, maintaining eye contact with Stu the entire time. The boy wanted to look but couldn’t bring himself to break the older man’s hypnotic gaze; he already knew he would do whatever the man asked of him.
Of course, he had no idea how much was to be asked of him.
Then Joe chuckled and blinked, letting the boy drop his eyes and behold the enormous tube of manflesh that was going to be rammed up his ass. Stu gulped. He reached a slightly shaky hand up and swept his dark chestnut bangs from his eyes.
“That’s—I, uh, I mean…” he faltered.
“What’s wrong, boy?” Joe asked, his deep basso silky smooth as he leered at his prey. He reached down and began unbuckling his belt. Stu hadn’t noticed the inch-wide strap of black leather circling the older man’s waist before, and there was something somehow sinister about the stud’s action.
“I, uh, I ain’t never had no one up in me before,” the fratboi said tremulously, his expression suddenly wary. He took a step back. “That, um, your—your dick, I mean, it’s, uh, it’s so big, and, and, I’m just not sure…”
“You backin’ out, boy?” Joe asked, giving his voice an edge. Just a little one.
Stu gulped again, loudly this time, and blushed. “It’s not that, it’s just…it’s, uh, it’s—”
“It’s what, faggot?” Joe asked.
The fratboi reacted to the word as if he’d been slapped. Despite his own obvious desires and everything he’d initiated, he couldn’t acknowledge it out loud, especially not with that word.
“I ain’t no faggot!” he cried out, so angry he was almost in tears.
Joe threw his head back and laughed, a deep, manly vibrato of derisive amusement.
Something snapped in Stu’s head. Had he been experimenting with someone similar to himself in physique who’d happened to call him a faggot, Stu might have become a sex murderer himself. A red haze of anger filled his mind that focused his attention and his rage on Joe; he launched himself at the older dude he’d invited over for sex.
Joe was surprised the kid had it in him. He wasn’t surprised in a literal way, his training prevented him from ever truly relaxing. He was always prepared to be attacked—and to kill in self-defense—at all times. He could kill coming out of a sound sleep.
A pissed-off rich little frat punk wasn’t a threat. Joe had his belt off by now; as soon as Stu got within reach, he lashed out, cutting the boy across the face with the doubled-over leather strap. The teen meat fell to his knees, clutching the dark angry welt on his cheek and squealing like a bitch.
“Wha—wha—” Stu moaned when suddenly he heard Joe laugh. It was that same deep laugh of supreme satisfaction. As the fratboi kneeled, his eyes downcast, Joe’s Chippewa boots came into view. Reluctantly raising his eyes, Stu ran his gaze up the stud’s thickly-muscled legs in tight denim to the huge jutting tackle—he had to skip that; it led to imagining what it’d be like in him but there was no way that could happen without causing him permanent damage.
Above, though, those furry washboard abs and the broad hubcap pecs with the thick nipples standing out in silhouette, and then that cold, confident, masculine face leering down at him, obviously enjoying his pain…how had this happened? He’d just wanted a little fun…
And then the older dude raised his arm again, the one with the belt. Stu’s eyes kept rising, following the upward arc. As it paused, he whimpered, but did nothing to protect himself.
It was a bad call. Joe had no mercy in him; this blow was more vicious than the first.
Stu squealed like a pig as the thick leather belt slapped across the side of his head, knocking him to the floor where he lay cowering and cradling his aching skull. Joe stood over the quivering pile of boymeat, leering and fondling his enormous rod. He was anticipation plunging his swollen member into that tender young flesh when he noticed movement from his prey.
Stu was trying to crawl away.
Joe stood for a moment and let him go. When he was about halfway across the room, the fratboi got up onto his hands and knees, the rounded, peach-like globes of his asscheeks pointed directly at the older man.
Joe couldn’t resist such a target. Three quick steps and he was beating Stu’s ass mercilessly, the kid crying as his ass reddened and formed welts under the assault. At some point it got to be too much; the punk rolled over and began to resist.
“Stop it! Stop it! Fucking stop it!!!” he screamed, when a well-aimed slash with the belt form Joe reminded the fucker that in rolling over, he’d exposed his balls to attack. With a loud screech, Stu tucked back into a fetal curl, sobbing loudly.
Joe tossed the belt onto the bed. His bloodlust, his need to dominate this little faggot, to force it to suffer and die for his sexual gratification, was rising to an uncontrollable point. He approached the writhing teen.
In his pain and fear, Stu could hear the footfalls of Joe’s heavy boots get nearer. He still didn’t know how things had gone bad, but it was obvious they had. But he was a young and dumb homo with a limited imagination. Stu had no idea that within minutes, if not seconds, what now seemed “bad” was going to appear as gentle as his mother’s caresses.
He got his first inkling when Joe began kicking him.
The Chippewa boots were steel-toed. Everyplace they landed developed a huge black bruise—at the least. Since the boy was curled up on his side, his back bore the initial brunt of the alpha’s attack.
“Ya fuckin’ little piece a’ shit faggot—how’s that feel, huh? Goddam homos need to get kicked around a little, just to remind ‘em that they’re garbage. Right, motherfucker?” Every time his boot contacted Stu’s flesh, the boy jerked and cried out in pain. Joe put a little more force into the next kick, catching the fratboi in the upper back, just left of the spine. There was a muffled snapping sound and Stu’s next cry had a difference in tone and tenor that let the sadist know he’d succeeded in inflicting some internal damage to the pansy.
The kid rolled onto his back, his teen body heaving and covered in sweat as he panted, looking desperately up at his assailant. “Pl-please, no…” he gasped, his dark eyes casting a beseeching gaze on the hardbodied killer.
“No?” Joe said with an evil smirk as he raised his boot, “Ya don’t like this?” Driving his leg down with all the power his thick muscles could muster, he stomped Stu’s flat smooth belly, driving the sole of his boot down into the boy’s gut like a piston. The sound the homo fratboi made as his lungs were violently and forcibly compressed was an extended, wheezing grunt, devoid of all consonants.
As he plunged his boot into Stu’s belly, Joe had leaned over, staring into the boy’s face, maintaining eye contact so he could enjoy not only the cunt’s pain, but his sudden, frantic fear as he found his diaphragm momentarily paralyzed by the sudden physical shock.
For about twenty seconds—the longest twenty seconds of Stu’s life, at least up to this point—the teen fag was unable to inhale. He literally couldn’t breathe; it was the most terrifying thing he’d ever had to endure. But it was more than a scare; it was an epiphany.
This dude could do this to him. And if he could do this so easily and casually, what else could he do?
And it was at that point that Stu realized that he’d let the muscled stud do anything he wanted, anything, as long as he didn’t do that again. Please, whatever happened, just let him keep breathing. He clutched at Joe’s leg, one hand tightly gripping the unlaced Chippewa boot, the other higher up, clenched behind the stud’s knee like an embrace.
It wasn’t an embrace; it was desperate plea, and Joe recognized it for what it was. He ground his boot into the cunt’s firm belly, leaving an exact image of the tread as a deep, black bruise. Stu lay on his back, beating his curled fists on the floor as he tried to inhale. Tears welled in his huge eyes as his face went red; then, in a loud and sudden gasp, his diaphragm stopped spasming and he was able to suck in air.
The muscled stud was laughing at him, standing over him with his huge jutting cock dripping with anticipation. If it hadn’t been for the pain, Stu would have thought he was in a porno.
But he couldn’t ignore the pain; it hurt to breathe. The sadistic alpha he’d invited over had kicked him hard enough to break one of his ribs, in the back. The jagged edges of the bones ground against each other every time his chest expanded or compressed.
He’d been hurt. This wasn’t some sort of mind game. As Stu lay on the floor, looking up at the buff stranger, something else crossed his mind, something that he refused to recognize in full. It wasn’t just that this scary motherfucker could do something as terrifying as stop Stu’s breath—it was that he might want to. Blinking away his tears, the fratboi peered up at Joe with sudden terror in his eyes.
Joe was experienced enough as a killer to recognize the look; he pounced on the little fuck, clamping one hand around the boy’s neck like a claw and lifting the teen bodily from the ground, one-handedly, until the boy’s toes curled frantically in the air four inches above the dirty, scarred wood floor. The cunt gazed in horror at the alpha, its hands clawing frenetically at Joe’s iron-tight fingers, to no avail. He held it aloft, watching it choke. It was time, he decided. It needed to know its place.
“You know where this is goin’, dontcha.” It was said as a statement, not a question. “Yer gonna die. Ya hear me, cunt? You were put on this planet for me to use you. The only value of your existence is in how hard you make me cum as you die. You get it? No? Don’t worry, faggot, you don’t have to understand, you just have to convulse hard enough as you die to jack me off.” With a grunt and a jerk of his massive bicep, he flung the fratboi into the wall hard enough to crumble and collapse a square yard of plaster.
Stu lay on the ground, not processing anything. Part of him had known, of course; the scene had gotten too bad too fast for any other outcome. This psycho couldn’t let him live, not after what had already happened. But that part had also convinced itself that he’d be able to talk his way out it maybe.
Now he knew that there was no way to talk himself out of whatever what gonna happen next. And then he heard the footsteps.
He couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to watch death approach. And when Joe’s scuffed Chippewas strode into the narrow area of floor on which he’d focused his eyes, Stu snapped. He tried to beg but started sobbing uncontrollably, then pissed himself.
“Christ, what a worthless goddam faggot,” Joe sneered, “I offed fourteen-year-old guards in South America who put up more fight than you, ya piece a’ shit. Get up here.” Grabbing Stu’s arm just above the wrist, he spun his shoulder and flung the punk onto the closest twin bed.
The privileged and entitled teen, now terrified and humiliated, saw Joe approach him, grinning malevolently and wielding his enormous shaft like a club, slapping it vigorously into the open palm of his other hand. He knew that that huge rod was going to get shoved into his ass, and he would suffer, and he would die…and he suddenly felt something in his groin.
He was getting hard. No, that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right. But then Joe spoke. “There ya go,” he chuckled malignly, “Fuckin’ homos always want the D, even when they know they’re gonna die. Just can’t help it, can ya, cocksucker?” Still in his jeans and boots, he climbed onto the bed and, planting his hands on the teen’s firm, smooth thighs, forced the boy’s legs apart.
“Here ya go, cunt,” he grunted, “This is whatcha want—fuckin’ take it, bitch!”
And suddenly Stu was full of cock.
It wasn’t like being stabbed or impaled; it was like being shot. The massive, unlubed rod of manmeat had literally ripped open his sphincter and ramrodded its way through his colon and into his intestines before Stu even realized he’d been penetrated.
The teen’s eyes widen, huge dark circles of shock forming around them. The circles were contrasted by the paleness of his face as the pain hit.
“Oh my FUCKING GOD IT—” [WHAM WHAM]
Joe cut off the meat’s scream with two quick punches to the face. As it lolled and gurgled for a moment, shuddering in agony, he reached out and picked up the belt. He looped it through the buckle, making a basic but effective noose. Once he was done, he began plowing the teen’s fuckhole.
Stu, cowed by a black eye and bloody nose, had a sudden, vivid mental image of an industrial plumber’s snake up his ass, ripping out his guts. He had no idea getting fucked could hurt so bad; this couldn’t have been what he’d wanted—but as his lithe young body was violently jerked by the brutal force of the rape, it was accompanied by the sound of flesh on flesh as his own hard boycock slapped against his belly and Joe’s.
Then Joe held the noose in front of his face. “Time to die, fuckmeat.”
The fratboi panicked. He knew what the noose meant; in an instant, his scrambling arms entwined with Joe’s as the punk tried to snatch at the instrument of his death. Joe’s face twisted into an angry snarl; knocking the kid’s arms out of the way, he balled up his huge fist and raised it.
“Stop fightin’ me, faggot [POW]! You want this [POW], you need this [POW] and goddam sure know you deserve it, you cumsuckin’ pile of fuckmeat [POW], so stop resistin’, motherfucker!”
As each roundhouse blow landed on Stu’s cheek or chest or jaw, his teen body jerked and went momentarily stiff, his ravaged colon clutching tightly at Joe’s engorged member. The fratboi was responsive to the pain; it only made Joe more eager to begin choking the life out of the worthless little cumdump.
The worthless little cumdump was almost ready to allow it to happen. The beating had broken Stu’s will; he surrendered. His arms fell, twitching, to his sides and he didn’t react when Joe grabbed a handful of his long bangs to jerk his head up off the bed so the noose could be slipped over it. He even felt the rough, rawhide-like sensation of the unfinished leather on the inside of the belt as it settled around his throat without reacting.
Then it tightened, and everything changed.
The pain of the sudden, crushing constriction of his esophagus was nothing compared to the terror provoked as his airway collapsed to barely a tenth of its former diameter, reducing Stu’s ability to breathe down to a laborious, drawn-out wheeze. The punk’s eyes were huge with panic; he grabbed at Joe’s arms, his fingers clamped to his rapist’s biceps as if they were riveted, while his taut, smooth body arced and heaved under the stud’s weight.
As the fratboi jerked and spasmed, struggling tortuously to inhale, Joe leaned over, his rugged, unshaven face leering down at the helpless teen. “I can feel my load about to boil over, bitch,” he grinned as his hard, taut body hunched and thrusted, plunging his huge shaft balls-deep into the virgin adolescent. “Yer one lucky faggot, asswipe—you get to die so you can be my cumdump. You want this; yer homo cock is hard as hell.”
And it was. Stu’s long thick boycock was so stiff it ached; in his terror, he’d forgotten about it but, but now he could feel it again, being compressed between the firm flat bellies of two males locked in a violent embrace of sex, pain and power.
And death. With a grunt and a brutal jerk, Joe tightened the belt around Stu’s neck and cut off his air completely. The overprivileged fratboi found himself enduring his worst nightmare; something so horrifying he hadn’t considered the possibility of it happening to him before this terrible, surreal evening.
He lasted about thirty seconds. Then Stu disappeared and the primitive animal emerged from the midbrain, engaging in the primal struggle for survival.
It might have been dangerous for Joe—if he hadn’t been a powerful, well-built, and highly experienced killer. He knew what to expect from his fuckmeat; all faggots died pretty much the same way. They fought it at first; they fought it hard. It wasn’t till irreversible brain damage set in that they could let go of the desire to cling to their worthless little homo lives and work his dick like it deserved.
And in the end, they loved it. Joe knew that. Even the most useless cocksucker he’d ever snuffed had blown an enormous deathload as he ended its miserable existence. This one wouldn’t be any different—but for now, it needed to be brought back under some control. The stupid fuck wasn’t brain-dead enough to appreciate what Joe was doing for it and the kicking and clawing was getting annoying.
Time to remind the fucking cunt who was boss.
Jerking the belt noose tight with his left hand, the muscled mankiller began beating the fuckmeat’s face in. As his huge right fist slammed into the punk’s once-handsome face, the faggot threw its arms up to block the devastating blows, to no avail. As impact after brutal impact crushed the fratboi’s nose and knocked half his teeth down his throat, he was still suffering from oxygen deprivation.
It was more than the twink could handle. His lithe young body wasn’t used to this level of abuse. He continued to shudder and tremble, his velvety homo colon milking Joe’s gigantic, vein-sheathed rod, but the frantic panic-inspired thrashing slowly ceased under the vicious beating he was enduring.
Sweating and heaving, Joe finally stopped pounding on the meat. He’d managed not to break the swift, rough tempo of his fucking even as he punched the living (just barely) fuck out of the spoiled rich kid. “Yeah, that’s it,” he growled at the quivering, semiconscious pile of boymeat he was raping, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but a long dirt nap, motherfucker, so stop fightin’ and work my dick!”
The boy’s face was ruined, beaten to a pulp and swollen beyond recognition. His skin was black and his bulging, horror-filled eyes were dilating as ruptured blood vessels turned the whites to dusky pink. His entire body began to move in rhythmic spasms; each one was accompanied by a thick, sickening grunt from the kid’s sealed-off throat. And with every grunt, a streamer of foamy drool trickled down the dying fratboi’s chin.
“I’m getting close,” Joe suddenly muttered in a choked voice. “Ya ready, you little piece a’ shit? Ready to die on my cock like yer supposed ta? Fuckin’ milk me as you kick off, faggot; this is yer only shot. You were put here to make me cum as you die, you worthless spunkpig; do yer fuckin’ job and I’ll let ya rot in a ditch with my load in yer guts, yeah? So come on, cunt, earn my seed!”
The hard-bodied alpha dug his Chippewas in for traction as he fucked the boy to death, the deep tread of the boots digging into the mattress as the brutal assrape made the twin bed bump and creak. On top of it, the sweaty male bodies slapped together in a frenzied combination of bloodlust and brain death. The shuddering sack of boymeat that had been Stu had slipped past the point of conscious thought with Joe’s taunts ringing in his ears; he fell screaming into the cold vortex of death knowing that everything he was suffering was so that a complete stranger could cum.
But the body wasn’t dead yet. The heart still beat—wildly and ever more erratically, but it still beat. The nerves still functioned; there was still enough gray matter left alive to suffer. The meat could still feel pain, and still respond to it.
That was all Joe needed. He was so fucking close, but he had to hurt the faggot one last time.
As the dying teen homo jerked and convulsed on his cock, Joe placed his hand over the meat’s face, pressing down on it, covering those blank bulging eyes as he wrapped the end of the belt a couple of times around his other hand. Pressing down on the cunt’s head, Joe pulled back on the belt. He looked down at the adolescent’s sweat-slick lithe body thrashing under him and grinned.
And in that last moment, the part of Stu’s brain that could still register sensation went hyperactive. Everything, from the rough, wiry chest hair scraping his skin like sandpaper, to each individual vein encircling his killer’s gigantic cock as it tore through his rectum, was taken in by the agonized, dying fratboi.
Then, his massive biceps bulging at the effort, Joe jerked the belt, violently. It was quick, brutal, and very effective. By pushing the meat’s head and body down as he pulled its neck up, Joe not only shattered the kid’s cervical vertebrae, he severed the spinal cord from the brain, literally pulling it out through the hole in the bottom of the skull with a thick, gristly, cracking sound.
The teen’s taut body reacted instinctively to the massive nervous system trauma. Already fully erect from a combination of overabundant hormones, remorseless prostate stimulation, and basic faggot horniness, Stu wasn’t mentally present to enjoy the massive deathload that spewed involuntarily from his rigid form. In fact, with his spine ripped from his brain, he couldn’t feel anything at all.
That didn’t stop his dying nervous system from responding to Joe’s massive load. As the muscled, booted killer clutched the teen’s thrashing corpse, he cried out, hoarsely and inarticulately, and hosed the fucker’s guts with his sperm. Thick, hot jets of semen coated the dead fag’s rectum and intestines, the sudden warmth setting off another blast of spunk from the dead boy—huge, pearly wads that splattered and matted Joe’s thick chest fur.
The heaving hardbodied fagkiller spent the next five minutes shuddering and gasping, his enormous tackle still buried in the corpse’s ass as he randomly spewed his DNA, pumping and thrusting until his aching balls were completely drained. Then he felt composed enough to extract his manmeat from the dead fratboi and get off the bed.
He paced around, looking for a bathroom so he could clean the homo spooge off his chest. He finally found one—a connecting bath, shared with the two punks in the next room. Used by four adolescent boys with no supervision, no self-discipline, and minimally-paid housekeeping, the room was so filthy that Joe went back to the other bedroom and snatched the dead fuck’s yellow t-shirt off the floor. Returning to the bathroom, he used it as a washrag to clean the cum off, then tossed it into the disgusting toilet.
Tucking his rod back into his jeans, the hulking stud strode back into the killing room and picked up his own shirt and his bandanna. Remembering his need for a new phone for his next fag hunt, he swiped the dead punk’s iPhone off the dresser and pocketed it. He was about to head out when he remembered his belt. He liked that belt. He didn’t want to leave it behind.
Retrieving it was a bit difficult; it had been tightened around the boy’s throat to the point that the dead fuck’s neck had been compressed to about three inches in diameter. Even after Joe managed to get the belt back through the buckle, the part that was still actually wrapped around the neck was embedded too deep for him to easily pull it out.
In the end, he dragged the still-trembling corpse off the bed, letting it tumble face-first onto the floor. Then, placing his big black boot on the homo’s back, he was able to get enough leverage to pry the belt loose.
Looping it back around his waist, he had a moment to admire his kill. The fratboi was huddled on the floor like a sack of garbage, partly turned on its side, its ass was pointed directly at the door, the cum and blood seeping from the shredded sphincter clearly visible from across the room.
Joe felt great; he loved his work, but he had to be quiet and efficient. He couldn’t linger over it and savor it, the way he could when he put down fags just for the fuck of it, like this. As he slipped on his shirt and head out of the room, he was a very happy sadist.
And a careful one. He didn’t forget to tie his bandanna back on before he left. After all, it was dangerous out there…
It was Ben who raised the alarm; he was Stu’s roommate in the fraternity. He’d been one of the last ones to arrive back from the “formal”, and was no more (or less) drunk than any of the rest of them, but unlike the others, he’d decided to go up to his room to divest himself of his uncomfortable rented tux as soon as he got in.
The sound he made couldn’t really have been described as a scream; nonetheless, it got everyone’s attention. A crowd of elaborately-dressed boys clambered up the staircase, to be met by Ben, stumbling down it. He was ashen-faced, trembling, and damn near incoherent.
“Stu!” he moaned, pointing upstairs, “He’s…oh, fuck! And he’s…oh, Jesus, he’s, he’s been—”
Realizing they weren’t going to get more out of him, the majority of the members headed up to confront the gruesome scene awaiting them.
For some time afterwards, confusion reigned in the frat house, except for one small room where Sam, Mark, and Ronny met. Sam was the fraternity president, Mark the veep and Ronny was the secretary. By rights, the treasurer should have been there too—but Ben was the treasurer, and he wasn’t very useful at the moment.
“Shit,” Sam muttered, “This is gonna get us shut down. Sure as shit, you just watch. And for a fuckin’ pledge, too!”
“When are we gonna call the police?” Ronny asked querulously. “The longer we wait, the worse it looks!”
“I know that, asshole,” Sam snarled, “We’re waiting to hear back from Mark’s dad, remember? He said he’d help us with any legal trouble.” Suddenly, he rounded on Mark. “He did say that, right? And he’s gonna return your call, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s gonna call me back,” Mark replied, obviously nowhere near as calm as he was desperately pretending to be. “But y’know, he’s gonna be asking about a lotta shit…they always do when a frat’s involved…”
“What kinda shit?” Sam demanded nervously. “Whaddaya mean?”
“Well, he’s a pledge, and, well, y’know, frats have a bad name nowadays because of hazin’, and shit like that…”
“Yeah, well—” Sam started out defiantly, then fell quiet. They all did. They were all trying very hard not to think about the fact that their hazing ritual involved inserting certain…items…into the pledges’ anuses. Depending on the inserter, the insertee, and the item being inserted, things had gotten carried away on occasion in the past.
As they sat in the darkened room waiting for a call from the lawyer, it occurred to each of the young men that Stu had gotten hazed a little early–and had ended up blackballed.