M4M4RightNow

“Cum fill my hole—looking NOW

It’s a warm wet night and I need to be bred right now

R U man enough?  Send pic”

 

The photo attached to the post was only a torso shot; it was difficult to determine the dude’s age.  But the pic showed a lean, boyish chest with broad smooth pecs.  Large dark nipples weren’t the only thing to stand; a large tattoo was inked across the left pectoral—the anarchy symbol, a letter A made of three crossed lines, with a circle around them.

 

There was a faint haze of brownish fuzz across the guy’s flat belly; there was nothing else distinguishing about the pic—but it was enough for Joe.

 

He’d been off work, but it had rained all day.  Now, long after the sun had set, he sat listening to the pattering of raindrops against the window.  He was bored and horny, and that meant one thing.

 

Some lucky faggot was gonna spend the last few minutes of his life with Joe’s huge cock buried in his ass.

 

He’d trolled through the app he’d downloaded to an earlier victim’s phone.  Nothing stood out, so he’d held off until later in the evening.  The really sick homos, the ones who most deserved to be put down like dogs, tended to crawl out from under their rocks under the cover of darkness.

 

And he’d been right.  This fucker right here was just beggin’ to get whacked.

 

He sent a reply—a dick pic, full erect.  “U bitch enough to take me all the way?”

 

The response was quick and detailed.  An address, and the info the door was unlocked.  The pansy wanted Joe to come right in, head for the bedroom where the queer would be on the bed on his hands and knees.  He wanted Joe to walk in and stick his dick right up his ass.  No foreplay, no talk—just plug his hole and start banging him.

 

Joe could do that.  He let the dude know.

 

“Cool can you make it quick—got more dudes cummin later gonna be a serious cum dumpster—Cliff ”

 

Joe smirked as he padded off to put some clothes on, his hard, muscled body moving like a panther’s in the dark.  No, it wasn’t gonna be quick.  No matter how much Cliff begged, it wasn’t gonna be quick at all.

 

The hardcore sex killer selected his outfit with care.  It was warm and humid outside; the rain was the last of the summer showers, but it hadn’t cooled off quite yet.  He pulled a black sleeveless t-shirt over his hairy chest; it displayed his well-developed biceps and furry forearms perfectly.  Next, he slipped into his favorite pair of jeans well-worn and skin-tight, cinching them around his narrow waist with a wide belt of black leather.  Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of engineer boots, also of black leather, with a buckled strap across the ankle and another at the top of the shaft.  It was easier just to pull them on over the legs of his jeans…

 

Dressed to kill, Joe stood up and headed for the door, his dick already tenting the crotch of his jeans in anticipation.  He needed to drain his huge, hairy balls badly, and that meant he needed a cumrag—a human cumrag.  Time to head out.

 

Within fifteen minutes, Joe had arrived at the address given to him, a gated apartment complex in a decent part of town.  Cliff had already sent him the gate code; Joe drove into the complex, looking for the right apartment.

 

It took a while.  The rain had stopped-or, rather, the air had become so saturated with water that everything was wrapped in a warm, soggy mist like fog.  The apartments were three-story units in long rows down alleyways; the ground floor of each unit was a garage and an entryway.

 

Finally locating the right unit, Joe parked in front of the garage door.  He glanced up and down the alley, but no one was out on a wet night like this.  Trying the front door, he found it unlocked as promised and entered the unit.

 

He found himself in a small entryway with a tiled floor.  To his immediate right was a door to the garage; straight ahead were the stairs.  The slutboy had informed him that the bedroom was on the third floor, so Joe headed up the steps.  Halfway up, they turned and doubled back and Joe found himself in a dimly-lit living/dining area; off to his left was a dark space that was obviously the kitchen.  The stairs continued up, and so did Joe.

 

There were three doorways on the third floor; two of them—presumably leading to a bedroom and a bathroom—gaped blackly at the landing at the top of the stairs.  The third one, though, was illuminated by a faint flicker of light.  Joe entered the room.

 

Dark shapes of furniture lined the walls.  Joe had to maneuver around what appeared to be a club chair—it was difficult to make out, but there appeared to be clothing draped over the back of the chair.  A fragment of color caught briefly in the faint light—a silk tie lay on top.  As he passed by, the bulked-out alpha snatched the tie and stuffed it in his pocket; no telling how it might come in handy at some point in the evening.  The motion had been too quick and subtle to be seen.

 

But in any case, the only thing that could be seen clearly was the bed.  It was king-sized and had a mirrored headboard with a built-in shelf; the flickering light—the only light in the room—came from three LED candles sitting on this shelf.  The bed itself had been stripped down to the fitted sheet, but it wasn’t bare.  Crouched on his hands and knees on the bed with his ass in the air, the fag was staring into the mirror, trying to get a better look at the dude who was gonna breed him.

 

Cliff was twenty-eight but with his lean, lithe body and nearly shoulder-length tousled dirty-blond hair, he looked younger.  He worked as an account manager at a bank, where he got by with a button-down look and a quiet demeanor; there was no hint of his wild, sluttish sex life at the office.  Once he got home, though, the whore came out to play—and played hard.

 

The youth was a serious power bottom; he loved to get fucked by anyone anytime—as long as he was off work.  “You don’t shit where you eat,” was his motto, and he stuck by it, but his sex drive was so intense, he was usually trolling for tops on his phone as he sat at stoplights on the way home.

 

The room was dim—he liked a sense of anonymity, of danger—and it was difficult to see, but it looked to Cliff like he’d scored big-time tonight.  Yeah, he had other dudes lined up later on, but this hulking muscular stud damn sure looked like he knew how to handle a hot bottom boy.  Cliff couldn’t see the guy’s face in the mirror, but he didn’t really care.  What he could see of the body was hot as fuck; what he really wanted a look at was the dude’s dick.

 

He got it soon enough.

 

Standing at the foot of the bed, Joe grinned at how easy the horny faggot was making it.  This pansy wanted a thick tubesteak up his ass bad, and Joe was just the man to give it to him.  Unzipping his fly, he reached down into his crotch and slowly extracted his massive cock like a handler pulling a python out of a cage.  He heard a faint gasp and realized the homo had caught sight of it.  The punk had seen it before, when Joe sent his dick pic, but it had been a close-up without a good sense of scale.

 

Now Cliff could see the full size of Joe’s shaft, the impressive length and frightening girth obvious as the thick rod of manflesh throbbed and swelled.  The dark veins wrapped around it practically writhed as they pulsed with blood.  Eager as he was, Cliff had never seen a cock that big and wasn’t sure his asshole could take it.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of dicks up inside him before, but this…this was something different.

 

Good thing he had a fresh bottle of poppers.

 

Joe climbed onto the bed and moved forward until he was up on his knees directly behind Cliff.  Pulling up his cock, he let it fall back down onto the homo’s bare backside where it landed with a loud, meaty slap.  Cliff moaned and quivered like a bitch in heat and Joe’s grin got wider and more shark-like.

 

“Ya want that, do ya, cunt?” he jeered, grabbing his dong and steadily slapping it against Cliff’s smooth, rounded asscheeks.

 

“Go easy, dude,” Cliff gasped his breath shuddering in erotic anticipation, “I ain’t—I mean, you’re—Jesus, that thing is gonna hurt.  Just go slow, man, ok?”

 

Since Cliff’s face was closer to both the mirrored headboard and the sources of light, Joe could make it out much better than Cliff could his.  The long-haired queer’s eyes were large and dark, with long lashes.  His nose was long and straight, and around his mouth was a sandy-brown stubble, a goatee just a shade darker than his hair.  Joe could also make out the small dark bottle clutched in the cunt’s hand.  So the faggot liked his poppers?  Good.  Joe could make use of that.

 

He decided to give the slut something to look at.  It was warm up on the third floor and Joe was sweating a little.  He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head, bending back slightly.  While still unable to make out Joe’s face, Cliff could make out his incredibly well-developed torso very well, drinking in the details of the dominant stud’s thickly-muscled chest—broad pecs with large dark nipples jutting out, seemingly hard enough to cut glass.  Thick, dark, abundant fur spread across the alpha’s abdomen and ran down his ripped abs, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans, demarcated by the wide leather belt.

 

“Oh fuck it,” Cliff muttered.  “Fuckin’ hell, lookit that bod.  Put it in me, man.  It’s gonna hurt, but I want you in me so fuckin’ bad…”  He opened the bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply, holding first to one nostril and then the other.

 

Joe wasn’t waiting for an invitation.  And he wasn’t waiting for lube either; he was going in dry.  The little fuck needed to feel it.  He pressed the thick, swollen head of his cock against Cliff’s pink puckered sphincter and pressed slightly.  Cliff moaned loudly.

 

Then Joe rammed his shaft home, shoving it all the way in until his pubes were rasping on Cliff’s baby-smooth asscheeks.  His enormous shaft speared the pansy’s colon, ripping open the clenched ass muscle and tearing at the tender lining of the rectum.  Cliff screeched in pain as the huge rod sank deep in his guts, further than anything had ever penetrated before—

 

—and could also feel an electric shock run through his own dick as Joe’s cock rode over his prostate like an out-of-control semi.  He’d been right, it hurt so bad, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…but he was still getting hard.

 

“Damn, man, no,” he whined, “Pull out, dude—jeez, I toldja to go slow, lemme get used to it!  Goddam, I think ya tore somethin’…” Digging his hands into the mattress, Cliff tried to pull himself off Joe’s dick.

 

“No ya don’t, bitch,” Joe said calmly, and grabbing Cliff’s right bicep, pulled that arm around behind the boy’s back.

 

 

“Wha—?” Cliff asked in bewilderment.  “What the fuck ya doin’?”

 

Joe didn’t both to explain.  Fishing the tie out of his pocket, he brought the slut’s left arm around in the same way—expending a little more effort this time since Cliff was disposed to resist—and with the ease of an expert soon had the gay youth’s hands bound securely behind his back.

 

Cliff’s fear started to override the horrible pain of torn flesh in his anus. There was always the possibility of something going wrong in these blind anonymous hookups—but nothing ever had before.  Now, though…this guy was hurting him, and he couldn’t get away.

 

“Get off me!” he yelled.  “I don’t wanna do this anymore!”

 

Without saying a word, Joe hunched over the cunt’s lithe, smooth body and began pumping his cock fast and hard, plunging all the way into Cliff’s ass.  As often as he’d offered his fuckhole up to anyone who’d use it, Cliff had never been fucked all the way up into his guts before.  There was something horrible about the searing pain—something that made it feel like he was being badly fucked up on the inside.  And yet despite all that, his own cock was so hard it actually hurt…

 

“Stop!” Cliff cried.  “Goddammit, no!  This is fucking rape—stop!!”

 

“Shaddup, faggot,” Joe said evenly, “Ya know ya want it.  You like it like this, dontcha, ya worthless cocksucker?  This what ya been looking for, huh?  A real man to come in and pound the shit outta yer ass?  So quit squawkin’ and enjoy the ride, motherfucker, or I’m really gonna make ya hurt.”

 

Laying his head back down on the mattress, Cliff realized he had no choice.  He couldn’t free himself; he was pinned to the bed as if the alpha’s enormous shaft had impaled him on the mattress.  “Oh god,” he moaned tearfully, “Oh god, oh god, oh god…”  His lean, straining body was wracked with pain with every thrust of Joe’s long, thick rod; his long brown hair darkening as sweat was forced from his smooth skin.

 

Hearing a clinking sound behind him, the humbled and submissive youth glanced in the mirror.  It took him a moment to notice the glint of light winking off to the power top’s side.  It was a belt buckle, he realized; the rapist had unbuckled his belt.  It had no significance for him.

 

What did have some significance was that he was still lucid despite the increasingly nightmarish nature of the evening.  After all, some part of his bottom pig soul reasoned, all that was really happening was he was getting a good rough fuck, right?  And that was what he’d been looking for anyway, right?

 

But for all the times he’d whored his ass out, he’d never endured so much pain—and even worse, somehow, he’d never been made to feel so trapped and helpless.  This dude was not only rough, he was incredibly powerful and Cliff was utterly at his mercy.

 

And it wasn’t long before he learned Joe had no mercy at which to be.

 

“Yer gettin’ loose on me, asswipe,” the hulking alpha growled.  “Tighten up that fuckhole boy, or I’m gonna tighten it for ya.”

 

“I—I ca-can’t…” Cliff said, his body and his voice jerking with Joe’s deep, powerful thrusts.  He looked pleadingly at the top in the mirror.  As he spoke, Cliff could see the alpha’s hands moving at his waist.  The dude was slowly and menacingly removing his belt, but the boyslut was too full of cock to care why. “Dude, you-you’re reamin’ me ow-out…”

 

“So ya wanna play it the hard way, faggot?” Joe sneered.  “Figures.  You worthless fag cunts always hafta have some sense beaten into ya.”

 

He drew his right fist back and slammed it down onto Cliff’s kidney with the force of a piledriver; the thick, meaty slap of flesh on flesh sounded like someone hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat.  The sudden agony of the kidney punch made Cliff squeal, a loud, high-pitched sound almost identical to that of a pig.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Joe grunted, “Felt that one in my cock.  That what ya like, fag?  You need to be hurt to get off?  Fuck yeah, homo, can do.  I’ll put yer worthless ass down so hard you’ll cum for joy, ya disgusting little assfuck.”

 

Moaning and gasping for air, Cliff wallowed in a small dark cloud of pain.  He could hear Joe speak; he could even make out the words, but he was too busy trying to deal with the agony in his ass and his guts and his back to bother to comprehend what was being said to him.  He could only writhe in abject fear and pain, which worked Joe’s cock even better—and caused Cliff even more pain in his traumatized rectum.

 

Glancing up at the mirrored headboard, the dazed youth could see the buff older man’s torso shifting in the dim light as the alpha brutally plowed his hole.  The fur on Joe’s chest started to darken and mat with sweat; the room was hot and stuffy and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly more charged with male pheromones with each passing moment.  In horror, Cliff could see Joe’s thick, strong arm draw back, bicep swelling with latent power, and he knew he was gonna get hit again.

 

Joe timed the blow with the thrusting of his cock so that he was balls-deep in the kid’s guts when his fist impacted Cliff’s back like a cannonball, fracturing a rib.  The slut grunted in pain and the entire length of his smooth, slim body, slick with sweat, went rigid.

 

“Hell yeah, work my cock, you fuckin’ pansy,” Joe muttered as Cliff’s colon clamped down on his swollen shaft in agony.  “Now I got yer number—abuse gets ya off, huh, ya disgustin’ pervert?  Huh?  Ya like gettin’ a beatdown from a real man?  Well it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night, asswipe, cause I’m the man to put ya in yer place and make ya stay there!”

 

Grinding his hips at an incredibly swift speed, Joe powerfucked the bound, helpless homo as he spoke, reaming the kid mercilessly.  “Ya wanna know where yer place is, you dumbass sack a’ shit?” he sneered, “It’s ridin’ my cock down into yer grave and then takin’ a nice long dirt nap.  You ain’t no good to me or anyone else once you’ve soaked up my manspunk.  Like any other cumrag, yer just gonna end up another piece of garbage.”  Another blow, this one totally unheralded, struck Cliff’s other kidney, the sudden organ trauma literally taking the slut’s breath away.

 

“Course, ya gotta milk my load outta me first,” the sadistic killer drawled casually as the long-haired punk shuddered silently beneath him, desperately trying to draw a breath.  “Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you work my dick right.  I got a sure-fire means of inspiration.”

 

With that, he tossed his belt down onto the bed in front of Cliff.  The lean young man, already suffering under the brutal blows to his back and the violent assfuck, stared dully and uncomprehendingly at it.  Wrapped tightly in an aching haze, he could only tug his hands feebly at the silk binding and endure the pain.

 

The gay punk had retreated into a mental fugue state once the assault had begun, hearing the words that were spoken to him and suffering the pain of the beating and the rape, but not allowing anything to sink any deeper into his psyche.  His body was responding automatically; the heady funk of testosterone and mansweat in the air would have kept his dick just as hard even if Joe’s gigantic hog wasn’t crushing his prostate under its huge, vein-wrapped girth.

 

The youth had whored out his twink body on hundreds of occasions; while he’d always known that the danger of running into someone like Joe was out there, he also knew that it was the kinda thing that would always happen to someone else—never him.  After all, he just wanted to get fucked.  What was wrong with that?

 

But Cliff’s need for dick had increased.   Getting fucked led to getting bred multiple times a night by anonymous strangers—which led to Joe.  To the extent that Cliff allowed himself to think, he wondered vaguely how this had happened.  He could feel the top’s strong, muscled thighs press against his own with every thrust of the dude’s cock and felt a faint sense of shock that this should have been the best fuck ever—such a fuckin’ stud—and had turned out so bad.

 

Joe sensed the boy going slack beneath him and knew immediately what was happening.  He’d offed enough fuckmeat by now to know that the kid was withdrawing; he was minimizing his psychological damage by submitting to the physical rape without processing any mental input.

 

Joe didn’t like that.  He wanted the kid to suffer mentally as well.  He wanted to rape Cliff’s mind as well, to fuck and abuse and destroy the useless fag’s entire being.  And he knew exactly how to do it.  He started by leaning forward, stretching out and laying full-length on top of his writhing victim, feeling the slim youth’s smooth back writhing under his chest.

 

Cliff, likewise, could feel Joe on top of him, the wiry, sweat-matted chest hair scraping and scouring the tender skin on his back every time the unlucky punk shuddering in pain.  He looked up, quite by accident, and for the first time, got a look at Joe’s face in the mirror—and froze, his blood running ice-cold in terror.

 

The man fucking him was brutally handsome, his face composed of hard, sharp angles and deep shadows.  Some of the latter, the ones that ran across the alpha’s chin and cheeks, were blue and scratchy, shadows of scruff.  Dark, slightly curly hair, a long straight nose and full lips curled into a sneer of disgust completed the face of what could have been a portrait of masculinity in the abstract.

 

But it was the look in the eyes—the beautiful, long-lashed, ice-blue eyes—that instilled such fear in Cliff.  It shifted and changed, with rage and lust and disgust chasing each other, but the glint of homicidal glee never faded.  Without another word being said, Cliff realized this guy wasn’t just gonna kill him—this guy was gonna get off while killing him.

 

Then Joe clamped one big strong hand over Cliff’s nose and mouth, completely cutting off his air.

 

“You’re startin’ to bore me, faggot,” the cruel alpha said quietly, the wiry scruff on his cheek scraping the bound cunt’s ear ash he bent his head down to whisper.  “Time for me to blow my load and split.  Time for you to die, you homo trash.  You need to massage my rod good and hard, and I got an idea.”

 

Joe had spoken softly and calmly, taking his time as Cliff, squirming and kicking beneath him, slowly suffocated with the top’s powerful hand clutching his face.  When he judged the fuckmeat desperate enough, Joe brought up the bottle of poppers which he’d picked up off the bed after binding Cliff hands.

 

With one hand, Joe unscrewed the top of the small dark bottle.  With the other, he released the fag’s left nostril only.  As Cliff inhaled deeply and desperately, Joe applied the bottle. The slutty young homo found himself involuntarily taking the largest hit of poppers he’d ever done in his short, wasted life.  Joe closed his air off again and held on for sixty seconds as the meat, riding on its rush, bucked and jerked frantically beneath him, Cliff’s smooth back sliding along Joe’s muscled chest and ripped abs on a film of slick boysweat.

 

Joe suddenly released Cliff’s face, letting the kid exhale.  This close to his meat, Joe could smell the chemical fumes on the cunt’s outgoing breath.  Before the slut could breathe in again, Joe closed off everything but his right nostril and reapplied the bottle.   Lack of oxygen meant that Cliff had no choice but to inhale another lung-busting hit of poppers, deeply and lengthily.

 

The young homo felt himself losing it; his head spun and there was a loud throbbing in his ears.  His cock was so fuckin’ hard and his ass was getting plowed and he wanted it to go on all fuckin’ night—

 

—and that was when Joe released his head again, picked up the belt, and wrapped it around the fuckmeat’s neck.

 

Leaning back, Joe pulled on the thick strap of black leather, forcing Cliff’s head up off the bed.  The boy slowly bent backwards as Joe continued to pull; for every fraction of an inch that the kid’s head moved back, the pain in his twisting spine grew geometrically.  The force caused the belt to sink deeply into Cliff’s neck—not completely cutting off his air but impeding the flow down his trachea enough to cause the bitch to wheeze frantically.

 

Cliff’s hands jerked and pulled at the silk tie binding his wrists; Joe could feel the boy’s fingertips desperately twining in the fur on his ripped abs.  Nothing the kid could do would loosen the knot; he was as helpless as if he’d been caught in a steel trap.  Cliff looked up involuntarily—and caught sight of his own image in the mirror.

 

Somehow, that was the worst thing of all.    His mind was still fogged with an intense chemical haze from the forced poppers; it only seemed to intensify the horror.  He’d been pulled so far backwards that his chest was off the bed.  His face was already starting to turn blue and his painful, labored attempts to breathe deeply had forced saliva out of his mouth where it ran down his chin in a foamy drool.  It was grotesque and sickening—and he wasn’t actually even being strangled yet.

 

But it was coming.  He knew it was coming.

 

The most surreal aspect of the whole thing was his cock.  He was being raped and murdered, but—as he could see very well—the biggest, most intense erection he’d ever experienced was flopping around between his smooth thighs and slapping against flat, sweat-beaded belly.

 

“Don’t,” he cried out, “Please stop…”

 

At least, that’s what Cliff heard in his head.  What came out of his mouth was more of a choking, gagging sound, accompanied by more streamers of drool trailing from his chin.

 

“Shaddup, faggot, and work my dick,” Joe growled.  He wrapped the belt around both palms and, grinning sadistically, rode Cliff’s ass like a bucking bronco, using the belt to control the meat like reins.  Joe’s thick cock, plugged up the kid’s fuckhole like a baseball bat, could sense whenever the homo’s jerking and kicking slowed; the alpha lost that sensation of moist velvet caressing the swollen, leaking head of his shaft.

 

To get it back, all he had to do was pull on the reins and cut off a little more of Cliff’s air.

 

The next fifteen minutes—the last fifteen minutes of Cliff’s life—were a pit of nightmarish horror as the smooth young faggot was slowly and incrementally choked to death.

 

Every jerk on the belt made it that much harder to breathe, to pull air into his lungs.  Cliff no longer paid attention to the searing pain in his ass; he could still feel the alpha’s enormous cock reaming out his rectum, but his entire being was focused on the effort of breathing.  And again, another pull on the belt, and this time Cliff both heard and felt something crack in his neck.  Against his will, he tried to look in the mirror again.  It took a little effort—his head was tilted back now, so he had to point his eyes downward but they responded slowly, and it took a moment for him to see himself.

 

Joe’s cock was still smashing Cliff’s prostate, keeping the slut in an erect state, which is why Cliff wasn’t able to piss himself when his eyes focused on his image.

 

For a moment, he refused to recognize himself.  That couldn’t be him, that gargoyle in the mirror.  Cliff was rapidly aging out of the twink category, but he prided himself on his youthful, boyish appearance.  He’d always looked younger than his actual age, and that alone had gotten him lots of dick.

 

But that thing in mirror was a caricature.  His face, yes, but swollen and purple, his full lips now blue and parted by his thick, protruding tongue.  His face burned and felt hot, so very hot—and that thing was sweating, its near-black skin smeared with clammy perspiration—but no, not him, not him…

 

Joe had glanced up and noticed the direction of the dying pansy’s stare.  “Oh fuck yeah, watch yerself die, you piece of queer-ass shit,” he chortled cruelly.  “You like that, yeah?  You sick fuckin’ pervert, this is what you been lookin’ for, ain’t it?  You been layin’ here night after night, lettin’ any dude who walks through the door fill you with cum, hopin’ that one of ‘em would put you outta yer fuckin’ misery and waste yer sorry ass, yeah?  Well I’m here, boy, and you’re done.”

 

The muscled killer bent forward, not allowing any slack in the remorseless leather strap.  His head nearly nuzzled Cliff’s, his hot breath disturbing the meat’s long hair, now damp and stringy with agonized boysweat.  “See the way yer eyes are buggin’ out?” he whispered, the stubble on his cheek scraping Cliff’s left ear.  “Watch the whites turn red as blood vessels pop.  You can hear it, cantcha?  That pounding in yer empty fuckin’ head?  It’s yer pulse—you’ll be able to hear your heart start to fail.  Damn, fag, yer droolin’ some pink foam now, see?  Know what that is?  That’s blood.  We done jacked up yer windpipe real bad, boy—and yer dick is still hard as a fuckin’ brick!”

 

The pain was clawing at Cliff like some vicious living entity.  The front of his throat had been squeezed so far back by the belt that ran around it that the cartilage of his trachea had cracked.  Every drawn-out and desperately-fought-for cubic inch of air that the cumslut drew into his burning lungs was accompanied by a searing pain in his fractured windpipe.  And even though the pounding and dark buzzing in Cliff’s head made rational though difficult, the struggling homo had no problem feeling Joe’s massive shaft still plowing his hole, a relentless, unstoppable reaming that he had never known could exist—it was like he was getting fucked to the depths of his sick little faggot soul.

 

Joe could see that the meat was just barely hanging on.  The little fuck’s ass was starting to spasm weakly; it felt good—but not good enough.  Time to kick this shit into high gear.

 

“Looks like it hurts,” Joe chuckled, his lips inches from the side of Cliff’s head.  “Looks like it hurts like fuck.  Does it?  Does it hurt, fag?  I hope the fuck it does.  The more it hurts, the more you work my tool.  And I gotta tell ya, cumdump, you ain’t workin’ it good.  You ain’t givin’ me no satisfaction, boy.”

 

Still trembling on the edge of functionality, Cliff heard and understood every word, but his entire being was engaged in the struggle of just staying conscious.  The battered and abused youth knew that if he blacked out, he’d never wake back up.

 

The alpha’s cold, dry chuckle would have made Cliff’s blood run cold if he could have spared the attention.  “Guess that means I gotta hurt ya some more,” Joe whispered seductively.  “Ya like that, dontcha?  Sure you fuckin’ do, you pig fuck; lookit how yer little faggot dick is droolin’ precum.  Guess what, dude—I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser, cunt.  Know how I’m gonna do it?  Huh?  Know what hurts bad enough to do that, bitch?”

 

Joe’s head hovered beside Cliff’s, his breath hot on the punk’s ear as he whispered.  “Death, motherfucker,” he hissed.  “Death is the ultimate pain.  You’ll never suffer more agony that what you’re about to experience.  And your dying convulsions are gonna suck the sperm right outta my balls.  I’m gonna pump yer stupid fag ass full of cum and leave your dead meat to rot.  Don’t that sound hot as fuckin’ hell?”

 

The struggle to live was wearing Cliff down, but he wasn’t ready to die.  Some arrogant part of his weak, sputtering personality simply refused to believe that he was gonna die; the part that regarded him as the main character in his own story couldn’t accept that the story was about to have a dark ending.

 

And some part of his sick pig soul didn’t want to die because it felt so good—the sharp, searing pain in his torn rectum, the shattered sensation in his crushed throat, the blooming bruises on his back…the searing, throbbing agony of his forced, involuntary erection…it all hurt so fuckin’ good.  At the very end of his short, wasted life, some part of Cliff embraced the pain, wallowed in it, fetishized it—because on a deeply subconscious level, the reamed-out and used-up fag knew that pain was the last thing he’d feel.  Only death would release him from pain, and he didn’t want to die.

 

Joe knew it all.  He knew what the meat went through when he snuffed it, and he didn’t give a shit.  He was doing the homo a favor—taking a worthless pansy and giving it a purpose as his personal cumrag.  Little fucker should be thanking him.  Instead, the stupid cunt wasn’t even able to give his thick oozing shaft the intense stroking it needed.

 

“I’m done with you, ya worthless asswipe,” Joe snarled, his voice dripping with menace.  “You’re even useless as a faggot—ain’t even a good buttfuck, huh?  I’ll be doin’ the planet a service by takin’ out a waste of space like you, bitch.  You think someone’s gonna care how much you’re sufferin’?  Fuck that—no one’s gonna give a shit that you’re dead, motherfucker.  No one cares.  Time to die like the garbage you are, queermeat.”

 

Joe’s next move was so swift that Cliff never noticed it—not that the bound, struggling homo was in enough control of his sense to note anything at all.  The muscle-bound alpha brought both ends of the belt together, looping the loose end through the buckle—a simple slip knot.  Then, with a single brutal jerk of his powerful biceps, he cinched the belt around Cliff’s neck, sinking it in even deeper than it had been before.  As the leather strap whipped into place, it moved so fast it flayed the tender flesh around the punk’s throat in a neat circle.   The slashing pain was so intense, for a brief, horrific moment Cliff thought his throat had been cut.

 

It would have been no more horrific than what happened next.  Joe had only given the belt a casual yank, but his brute strength had been enough to tighten the belt to the point that it completely crushed Cliff’s trachea.  The lean, long-haired bottom pig was still alive, but no matter what happened, he’d be dead within five minutes.

 

His bulging, bloodshot eyes locked on the mirror, the choking, dying faggot could see the depths of his own suffering in the grotesque and distorted mask his once-handsome visage had become.  Black and swollen, his cheeks smeared with snot and foamy drool, Cliff’s face was etched with strangled agony.  His legs were useless, pinned under him as his killer’s weight bore him down onto the bed.  His arms still struggled against the silk binding, to no avail.

 

He could feel it all, though—from his crushed and mangled larynx to Joe’s wiry pubes scraping his smooth asscheeks with every balls-deep thrust, to his own erect and oozing cock–even as he died, Cliff continued to suffer.  Well past rational thought, he caught motion in the mirror and could see Joe draw his powerful arm back, but this time he wasn’t able to follow the idea to its logical conclusion.

 

“Die, motherfucker,” Joe snarled and unleashed the ultimate rabbit punch on his victim.

 

The muscle-bound killer’s fist struck the back of Cliff’s head with the force of a sledgehammer.  Simultaneously, Joe jerked back violently on the belt.  The combined impact drove Cliff’s head forward while his neck was pulled backwards.  There was a loud, wet crunching sound and the top three vertebrae of Cliff’s neck exploded into tiny shards of bone, tearing through his spinal column like shrapnel.

 

Unluckily for Cliff, the damage to his nervous system was catastrophic but not instantly fatal.  His spinal cord was severely damaged but hadn’t been completely severed.  The pain was beyond anything in the young homo’s imagination.  It was a searing electrical shock that tore through every nerve fiber in his body, completely filling the lean punk with burning agony. As his head lolled forward limply on his broken neck, his muscles contracted involuntarily, his slick, smooth body trembling with rigidity.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” Joe grunted with pleasure as he hunched forward and unloaded a steady stream of cum into Cliff’s guts.  The nearly-dead meat felt the splash of manseed deep inside, but his traumatized nerves could only record the boiling heat of Joe’s load, as if the killer had pumped his victim full of molten lead.

 

At the same time, the shattering of his spine had also triggered the fag’s straining cock.  Cliff’s dangling head no longer allowed him to look in the mirror, but he had a perfect view of the long, ropy strands of semen that were being violently expelled from his own purple, engorged shaft.

 

It hurt.  He was cumming so hard it hurt.  It felt like his innards were being ripped out and expelled from his body in a squirt of boyspunk.  Unable to look up, he never saw his cum splatter and smear on the headboard mirror.

 

Joe held the corpse close to him for a few moments, his powerful, bulked-out body shuddering as the fag’s death throes continued to milk his swollen, sensitive shaft.  Finally, he withdrew his still-oozing rod from the punk’s mutilated asshole and let Cliff drop to the bed.  The randy young fag spent his last seconds on earth suffocating face-down in puddle of his own sperm.

 

Standing up, Joe turned to the chair with the clothing piled on it and extracting a pale blue button-down shirt, used it to wipe the sweat and cum off his hard, hairy torso still-erect cock before tossing it onto the floor.  Tucking his long shaft back into his jeans, Joe then grabbed his own shirt from the floor beside the bed and put it back on.

 

The last thing he did was retrieve his belt.  It took a moment to pry it from around Cliff’s loose, shattered neck.   It had sunk so deeply into the flesh of the throat that Joe had to sit on the bed for a moment with the head of the trembling corpse in his lap so he could dig the leather strap out.  Once he’d clawed it free, he stood up, dumping the pile of dead manmeat onto the floor with a loud thump.  Treading on the dead body with a contemptuous sneer, the muscled alpha threaded the belt back around his waist and left the room.

 

In the silent darkness, broken only by the faint flickering candlelight, Cliff’s body began to cool and stiffen.  Long minutes later, there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and someone walked into the bedroom.

 

Joe hadn’t been the only dude Cliff had been intending to trick with that night; he’d had multiple appointments.  The next guy in line had arrived.  It took a few minutes of confusion for him to locate the corpse, but once his did, he backed away in horror and fled the apartment, not stopping to alert anyone—or to wonder why the sight of the murdered slut had left him hard.

 

Over the next six hours, three more dudes arrived ready to fuck Cliff, only to leave hurriedly—in in terror, one in frustration, and one curiously stimulated and more eager than ever to find someone to fuck.  None of them called the police.

 

The body wasn’t officially found for another two days, after the mail had backed up and one of the neighbors complained about the smell.

Adam–Fourth Kill–Bye Bi Boy

His name was Jeremy, he was twenty-seven years old, he was bi-curious, and he wanted to fuck Adam.  He was also drunk, which was how Adam knew so much about him so fast.

 

The buff killer was back at the SoHoLo Hotel for the first time in weeks.  He liked it here; the ambience was nice and there was lots of fuckmeat.  Perhaps too much—his last kill had closed the place down for almost a full week.  The second gay snuff in two months had given the place a bad name; it had shut down, ostensibly for security upgrades, but Adam didn’t see anything different.  He wasn’t worried.

 

He never worried about getting caught; somehow, he knew it wouldn’t happen.

 

He’d hit up the bar first and had better luck this time.  No party in progress, and since it was the middle of the week, it was relatively quiet; the clientele seemed to be mostly confined to hotel guests.

 

Adam had seen several potential cumdumps in the place, but one dude at the bar caught his eye.  Like Adam, he was a redhead, but whereas Adam’s hair was a lustrous coppery color, almost metallic, this guy had an unruly mop of carroty-orange hair that seemed to suit his snub nose, emerald-green eyes and freckle-spattered face perfectly.

 

The dude looked a little disheveled, as if he’d had to dress in a hurry and had thrown on what was at hand.  He wasn’t badly built; the Domo-kun character emblazoned on his dull yellow t-shirt was stretched so tightly across his chest that it was almost pulled out of recognizable shape.  A pair of skinny jeans in dark brown denim showed that he had some decent muscles in his thighs and calves—to say nothing of the nice large bulge in his crotch with the accompanying ridge down the inside of his left thigh.  His feet were laced into what looked like a new pair of dark gray Nike Lunar Fingertrap trainers.

 

Adam had taken the dude in with a single glance; the dude took longer to let his eyes wander over Adam, but the guy’s interest was obvious.  Not that Adam was surprised; he’d dressed to get some looks.

 

Bearing in mind the atmosphere of his hunting ground, the experienced killer had gone with an upscale casual look.  He wore a light blue button-down shirt, but he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbow and left the shirt unbuttoned, exposing his white cotton t-shirt underneath.  He also wore jeans, tight and faded, but clean.   He’d slipped on his old pair of Puma Cell running shoes, the black ones with white stripes.

 

Everything he wore but the kicks looked like it was size too small on his massive, muscle-bound bod.  He’d gotten several admiring looks—from both sexes—on the way in.  And he’d damn sure captured the attention of the guy at the bar.

 

All it took was a smile and a nod and soon Adam wasn’t alone in his booth.

 

That was when the whole story came out.  Jeremy had been in the bar for a couple of hours already, throwing back cheap beer but in the last half-hour or so, he’d switched to well drinks and was feeling no pain—a situation Adam was sure he could rectify easily.  He worked in construction, for a company that had a highway maintenance contract with the city.  He’d left his phone at home when he went to work.  His chick knew the code and accessed the phone—and found an email exchange where he’d replied to an M4M ad.  Nothing had ever come of it, but she’d had no idea of that side of him and went berserk.

 

He’d already scheduled a couple of days off work.  Now he was here alone at this hotel, he was drunk, horny, and bi-curious as ever, and, he slurred lasciviously, he wanted to bone Adam.

 

“I ain’t ever been fucked by a dude,” Adam said.  “We can go to your room and see what happens, though.”

 

Here Jeremy faltered slightly; there was something else he wanted to do, but even in his drunken state, he was hesitant to admit it.  “Well, I…thing is, I, uh, I wanna…fuck, man, yer shoes are so hot…”

 

Adam took the hint.  “You wanna worship my kicks?  Yeah, man you can do that.  Kinda like yours myself.”

 

Jeremy grinned with inebriated cheer.  “Aw, fuck yeah, man, this is gonna be so hot!  C’mon, bro, les’ go—I’m up on…um, it’s seven, I think…yeah, room 726.”

 

Adam wasn’t afraid of getting caught, but he wasn’t completely reckless, either.  He didn’t want to be seen leaving the bar with the drunk fucker.  “I gotta go take a leak first.  Plus, I need to settle my tab.  You go on and I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

 

“You ain’t gonna back out on me, are ya?” Jeremy asked anxiously.

 

“Fuck no, dude,” Adam said, leering at the smaller man.  “I’m gonna show ya such a good time tonight, you ain’t ever gonna go back to pussy again.”

 

Jeremy stood up, a huge happy smile on his freckled face and an obviously throbbing bulge in his groin, and headed for the door.  Drunk as he was, he walked in a remarkably straight line.

 

Adam chuckled contemptuously and ordered a shot of Jack.  When it came, he downed it and paid the bill, then slowly sauntered out, heading for the elevators.  Just as the elevator doors were starting to close, he dived in and found a giggling teenaged couple already in the car—with the button for floor seven pushed.

 

“Nine, please,” he said, and the boy obliged, disentangling himself from the girl just long enough to hit the floor button.

 

Adam let them get out on seven and continued to nine, where he walked down the hall to the emergency stairs and used them to get back to seven.  By the time he emerged on the floor, the hall was empty.  Reaching room 726 unseen, he knocked at the door, hoping the meat hadn’t passed out.  Unlikely—it was drunk, but not that drunk.

 

Jeremy opened the door just a crack, glanced around, and then opened it wide, standing behind it.  Adam stepped inside, turning as the door closed behind him to see that the dude had stripped to nothing but his sneakers and a pair of red briefs that did nothing to hide his thick shaft of manmeat.

 

The dude didn’t have a bad body; he was broad-chested and had some muscles, but he wasn’t anywhere near as built as Adam was.  Or as hairy.  There was the faint shadow of a strawberry-blond haze on his flat belly that seemed to thicken slightly as it plunged beneath the waistband of his briefs, but other than that, his skin was soft and smooth as silk.

 

“Fuck, man,” Jeremy said breathlessly, “I been dreamin’ about doin’ some a’ this shit since before high school.  Come over here an’ sit down, I wanna work on your feet before I fuck ya.”

 

Adam played along, walking into the room.  This was one of the least expensive rooms in the hotel; it still had the stripped-down, ultra-modern vibe, but it lacked the fancy bathroom and the huge window with the great view.  It compensated for the latter by covering the large closet doors with mirrors that reflected the gleaming black furniture and everything else.

 

Some of the less congruous items reflected in the mirror were Jeremy’s work clothes, piled in a chair—jeans and white t-shirt, both filthy; a yellow reflective vest and a similarly-colored hard hat; and on the floor next to the chair, a pair of dirty, well-worn construction boots, slouching and completely unlaced.

 

On the closest nightstand, Adam noticed a package of new bootlaces—one lace still in the open package, the other out and coiled to one side.  Even from this distance, the words “heavy duty” could be seen clearly on the package, as well as the length of seventy-two inches.  The sick sadist grinned; looked like the foot-fetish pervert was planning on doing some boot maintenance.

 

Jeremy caught Adam’s first glance at the chair and looked away momentarily, embarrassed.  “Yeah, I hadn’t had time to change when Amber kicked me out.  Had to check in wearin’ that gear; lucky I was able to get some shit together in a bag.”

 

“Ok, where do ya want me?” Adam asked, determined to give the little sicko enough rope to hang himself, so to speak.  He was gonna off the dude no matter what—he just wanted to see how badly the fucker deserved it.

 

He wanted to see how badly the guy needed to suffer before he was purified into prime fuckmeat, ready to receive his cock.

 

“Over here—sit over here,” Jeremy panted, indicating a chair in the corner of the room.  Adam obligingly sat, with the nightstand on his right and the mirrored closet door on his left.  The moment he was down, the half-nude punk was on his knees at Adam’s feet.

 

Jeremy grabbed Adam’s right foot, lifting it and caressing the Puma sneaker.  Raising it higher, he held it in one hand, bending forward and rubbing his face on the shoe’s upper while running his other hand up Adam’s leg, fondling his thick thigh muscles through the denim.   “Fuck yeah,” the dude moaned, his voice hitching in sexual excitement, “I been wantin’ this for-fuckin’-ever, man…”

 

He bent his head forward again and ran his tongue over the black leather sneaker.  Adam leaned back in the chair and slipped off his dress shirt, then peeled off the white t-shirt.  Jeremy glanced up, his eyes running up the skin-tight denim wrapped around the stud’s thigh muscles.  Passing the wide leather belt, the bi dude’s gaze swept along the trail of dark fur leading up from Adam’s waistband, rippling over his perfect washboard abs and spreading out into a thick, wiry forest of chest hair on his massive pecs.

 

“Holy shit, man, I wanna fuck you so bad…” Jeremy said, his voice low and taut with sexual energy.  He saw Adam’s smile but he was too lost in his desires—and too drunk—to see the cold, cruel glint in that smile.

 

“You ain’t done workin’ my kicks yet,” Adam told him.  This time, Jeremy picked up a little—a very little—of the tone of contempt in the hardbodied killer’s voice; he paused for a moment, looking back up into the copper-haired hunk’s face.  But there was no hint of emotion in the hooded, long-lashed eyes, and Jeremy bent down and applied his tongue to Adam’s other sneaker, still flat on the floor.

 

Adam sneered down at the kneeling footpig.  This little shit thought he was gonna fuck Adam?  He had to be taught how wrong he was.  And Adam was just the dude to make sure he learned his lesson real good.

 

The muscle-bound necro freak slowly unzipped his fly.  Reaching in with both hands, it took him a couple of minutes to fully extract his dick.  Jeremy was too busy slobbering over Adam’s Pumas to notice anything until he heard a dull thump above him.

 

Looking up, he saw a seven-inch tube of manmeat, over an inch thick—and completely soft.  “You want it hard?” Adam asked, leering down at him, “You gotta earn it, bro.  Ain’t goin’ in ya till it’s hard.”

 

Jeremy blinked in confusion.  “What?  I—no, man, I ain’t gay.  I-I ain’t takin’ anything up the ass, dude, ok?  Nothin’ wrong with it, but I don’t swing that way.  You’re supposed to ride my dick, remember?”

 

Given his drunken state, he was remarkably eloquent in stating his desires. It had remarkably little impact on what happened to him over the next forty minutes.

 

Adam stood up abruptly.  Jeremy, knocked back on his ass, threw an arm behind himself for support.  “Watch it, motherfucker!” he yelled with alcohol-fueled bravery, “Don’t make me fuck you up!”

 

Adam smiled coldly down at him.  “So,” he said with a quiet, calm voice, “You really think you’re man enough to fuck me, you little faggot?”

 

Jeremy’s face went red.  “I ain’t no faggot!” he shouted angrily.  “Dint I tell ya I gotta piece a’ pussy?  I was just lookin’ for someone to take my load, and I been curious—”

 

Disturbed, the slim young man had scooted himself backwards until he reached the bed and could go no farther.  Adam had moved forward as the punk had moved back and was towering over him, looking down with a contempt-filled smirk.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he jeered, “Yer gonna act like you don’t want the D, but you ain’t fooling no one, cocksucker.  See, problem is, I ain’t no homo either.  There’s only one way for you to earn my cock, ya fuckin’ fairy, and you ain’t gonna like it.”

 

Jeremy stared up at the hulking dude, his eyes wide with sudden fear.  “You’re crazy, bro.  You’re fuckin’ psycho. Ain’t no way I’m gonna—GAACK!!”

 

Adam had pounced with the swiftness of a jaguar, clamping his left hand around Jeremy’s throat with the speed and force of a bear trap, cutting off the dude’s air.  With a single deep grunt—the same sound he made when doing squats in the gym—he single-handedly lifted the guy up off the floor and held him dangling at arm’s length in the air.

 

Jeremy’s Nikes kicked furiously but were unable to find any support.  His fingers clawed frenetically at Adam’s hand but for all the impact they had, he might as well have been scratching at a statue.   Gagging and choking, Jeremy’s panicked, bulging eyes watched in horror as Adam held up his right hand, balled into a fist.  The brutal alpha kissed his own knuckles, said, “From Hell with love, cunt,” and sucker-punched Jeremy in the face so swift and so viciously, the fucker never saw it coming, and never felt it land.

 

That isn’t to say he didn’t feel pain.  His next sensation was huge explosion of pain; his lips were split, there were…things in his mouth and he could taste blood.  He jerked violently, which made his head hurt worse, and drooled the solid objects out of his mouth, which turned out to be teeth.  Three of them.

 

“Gha…gha…” Jeremy grunted, his closed-off windpipe preventing any further protest.

 

Adam grinned cheerfully.  “This next one’s from Hell, too,” he said.  “But there ain’t no love in this one.”  There was a flash and what seemed to be a violent explosion that filled his mind with a red haze and a sound like someone crumpling stiff paper, only louder.  The force of the blow had been so intense it momentarily delayed the pain of his crushed nose—but not for long.

 

Agony slammed through Jeremy’s firm young body like a physical blow; he was starting to lose consciousness from lack of air and everything from his neck up was already in terrible pain, but this new torment amplified the process.  The red sea of pain in which he swam suddenly rose up and swallowed him down in a tsunami of suffering.  Jeremy was aware of little else…there was a brief sensation of violent motion, and the red sea became oblivion.

 

When he regained consciousness, Jeremy felt pain in every limb.  He was lying on the floor with no further idea of the force with which Adam had flung him down than that which his aching, battered body provided him.  He hurt so bad he couldn’t move—but he could breathe.  The lithe young redhead instinctively curled into a fetal position as he coughed and gagged.  At the moment, catching his breath was more important than trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

 

And he didn’t have to figure anything out, in any case.  Sensing the presence of Adam, Jeremy opened his eyes—just barely, his agonized grimace forced them into slits—to see, in the mirrored closet doors, the reflection of the powerfully-built alpha grinning psychotically behind him.  The muscled stud was holding something in his hands but Jeremy’s eyesight was too blurred to make it out.

 

“You stupid faggot,” Adam chuckled with malevolent glee, “You don’t even know how to use a hot pair of kicks right.  You damn sure don’t deserve the ones ya got on, so I’m gonna take ‘em, asswipe.  And I’m gonna break ‘em in the right way, cunt.”  He bent down and in a single violent motion grabbed the waistband of Jeremy’s red briefs and jerked forcefully.  There was a rough tugging sensation at the dude’s waist, a ripping sound, and suddenly Jeremy’s Nikes were all he had left on.

 

Tossing the torn underwear into the corner, Adam grabbed a fistful of the slim youth’s bright red hair and pulled him, moaning and blubbering, to his knees, facing the mirrored doors.  “Open yer eyes, fuckwad,” Adam hissed, “Open ‘em up and lookit yerself.”

 

The tone of command, tinged with contemptuous arrogance, was too powerful to resist; Jeremy obeyed instinctively.  Reluctantly forcing the swollen lids of his eyes open, he could see his own ruined face, streaked with blood, snot and tears, staring desperately back at him from less than three feet away.  His vision was still somewhat blurry, but he could also see now what Adam was holding in his hand.

 

It was the bootlace from the nightstand—seventy-two inches of heavy-duty braided nylon.

 

Adam, standing directly behind him, patted Jeremy on the shoulder.  “See, the right way to break in those sexy sneakers ya got is to wear ‘em while yer fuckin’ a good piece a’ meat.  And that’s just what I’m gonna do; ya feel me, brah?  I’m gonna be wearin’ ‘em while I fuck ya.”

 

The hulking, hard-bodied stud stretched the bootlace out to its full length, then began to wrap each end around his palms.  He did this multiple times, getting an unbreakable hold on the nylon cord while still leaving a good long length free between his hands.  “’Course, I ain’t no cumsuckin’ faggot pig.  I don’t stick my dick in no worthless homo shit like you, motherfucker.  Know what that means?  Means that if we’re gonna get them kicks christened right, yer gonna die.”

 

Adam lunged forward and wrapped the bootlace around Jeremy’s neck so fast the battered bi kid never saw it happen.  There was a blur, and then he couldn’t breathe.

 

This was worse than before.  It hurt worse; the thin nylon cord dug deeply and painfully into his throat, sinking below the surface of the flesh even as his fingers clawed frantically at it.  And earlier, when the psycho stud had held him up and choked him, Jeremy had been afraid he might die.

 

Now, he knew it.  He just didn’t believe it.

 

Pulling the nylon cord tight, Adam stood over him, grinning down at his kneeling, struggling victim.  “Hey, dude,” he whispered sensually, “Look in the mirror.  Watch yerself die, faggot.  Watch yerself choke to death.”

 

Jeremy’s eyes were already wide in terror; he couldn’t help but to watch the scene reflected in the mirror.  It showed him himself—part of him refused to recognize that swollen face, battered and bleeding, as his—on his knees, jerking fitfully and pawing at his throat.  Standing behind him was the half-dressed alpha, his furry muscled chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his powerful biceps bulging as he viciously tightened the cord around his victim’s throat.  The hardbodied stud stood with his legs spread, the toes of his Puma Cells digging into the carpet as he slowly choked the life out of the punk.

 

The worst thing of all, though, was the expression on Adam’s brutally handsome face; it was a look that mingled contemptuous lust and a murderous triumph.  There was no hint of mercy or pity in that look; it was the look of an experienced sex killer.

 

As Jeremy coughed and gagged thickly, he realized that this time the dude wasn’t gonna let go.  If he was gonna get out of this alive, he was gonna have to do it on his own.  A single glance in the mirror should have forewarned him of the futility of the effort—Jeremy was neither weak nor scrawny but he was no match of someone of Adam’s massive build—but reason and panic aren’t compatible and the inability to breathe had shoved Jeremy pretty firmly into the latter state.

 

He thrashed about on the nylon cord like a deep-sea fish fighting a line; Adam was forced to dig in with both feet to maintain his balance while keeping up the pressure.  In the back of his head, some part of Jeremy’s flashed up the memory of his purchase of the bootlaces and felt a vague touch of irony at his selection of the “heavy-duty” pair.  The bootlace was durable; he’d be dead long before it broke.

 

“Quit fightin’ it, motherfucker,” Adam hissed, his face twisted with rage.  “You piece of faggot shit—best thing I can do to ya is put ya down.  Does it hurt, asswipe?  I fuckin’ hope so.  You deserve to die squealin’ in agony like a stuck pig, you goddam homo!”

 

Jeremy had stopped trying to dig the cord out of his throat—it had sunk in too deeply; all he was doing was tearing at his own flesh.  His eyes, already starting to bulge grotesquely from their orbits, could see every detail of his own murder.  Among other things, he could see Adam’s arms, so he transferred his attention there, clawing at his assailant like a cornered bobcat.  Bending backwards, he managed to pull one leg up underneath him and plant it in front of himself.  Lifting up, he tried to do the same with the other.  If he succeeded, he’d go from a kneeling position to a standing position and might have a better chance for defense.

 

His actual chance of defense against an experienced sociopath like Adam was nil whether he succeeded or not—not that he did succeed in rising to his feet; Adam had noticed the movement—had anticipated something of the sort, in fact—and had thrown his weight forward, right on Jeremy’s neck.  If the lithe young fag had kept trying to arc backward to free his foot, he’d have broken his own neck.

 

“G’wan,” he whispered huskily in Jeremy’s ear as their heads were pressed together, “Keep movin’, pussyboy.  I wanna hear yer spine shatter.  It sounds like a fresh branch breaking, a kinda wet cracking snap as your spinal fluid sprays out and your vertebrae shred your spinal cord.  It’s so fuckin’ hot, that sound, it’s gettin’ me hard just thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

 

A thick grunting sound came from Jeremy’s swollen lips as he backed down into his kneeling position again.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Adam sneered.  “All you fuckin’ fags are the same.  Keep thinkin’ somethin’ gonna save yer stupid ass at the last second, too goddam dumb to take the easy way out when I offer it to ya.  Suffer, you cumsuckin’ cunt; watch yerself die in terror and agony like ya fuckin’ deserve.”

 

Jeremy gazed at himself in the mirrored closet doors a blasé expression that had more to do with fading consciousness than boredom.  The whites of his unfocused eyes were becoming peppered with tiny red hemorrhages; it was difficult for him to see as a pounding gray haze filled his vision.

 

Adam could see well enough; he knelt behind Jeremy and pulled him towards himself, the bitch’s sweaty, shuddering back pressed against his muscled chest, his wiry fur digging into the punk’s smooth, slick flesh.

 

“Shit, motherfucker,” he growled seductively, “Think yer gonna die here soon.  Your dick is hard as fuck—can ya feel it, cocksucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  Ya feelin’ that shit, asswipe?  It means yer brain is startin’ to shut down.”

 

Jeremy wasn’t able to see very well, but he could hear.  The words came through distorted and slow, but still audible over the jackhammer pounding of his frenetic pulse that echoed off the inside of his skull.  And yes, he could feel his erection.

 

It hurt.  Fuck, it hurt so bad.  He was so fuckin’ hard it felt like his dick was gonna split.  He tried to reach down, to feel himself, but he’d lost fine motor control in his arms; they raked convulsively at the air.

 

Adam knew there was still a spark of humanity left in the twitching fagmeat he was strangling.  He wanted to humiliate what little was left of the stupid faggot who though he was gonna fuck Adam.  As he bunched his deltoids and triceps and tightened the braided nylon bootlace, he spoke derisively.

 

“You see yer face, asshole?  Yer “girlfriend”—bet he’s a real cunt—wouldn’t wanna fuck ya now, huh?  All purple an’ swollen—damn, yer one ugly-ass homo!  Lookit the way yer droolin’ all over yerself, ya disgustin’ sick-ass bitch.  And once you’re down, I’m gonna slip on those Nikes and fuck your dead ass good and hard.  I’m gonna plant my seed in yer cold boymeat, and I’m gonna take your kicks when I go.  All they’re gonna find is a sack of dead meat I used for a cumrag.  You got that, cunt?”

 

It was the last thing the cunt got.  The constricting agony in his throat intensified—the bunched-up skin in his neck felt like it was shredding—then there was sudden, horrible release of the tension.  It wasn’t the release he’d been praying for, though—it was accompanied by a nightmarish crushing sensation, a cracking and shattering of cartilage that was felt more than heard.  What little was left of Jeremy realized, not that his esophagus had collapsed, but that he was a dead man.

 

And in the blink of an eye, Adam held a thrashing, jerking piece of meat in his arms, a lithe, smooth-skinned corpse that was not only convulsing violently, it was spewing its death load with the force of an opened fire hydrant.  Jeremy sprayed the closet doors with cum, his hot sperm splashing off the mirrored surfaces and splattering over the heaving, sweaty bodies of both killer and victim.

 

“Goddam right,” Adam snarled, “Got what ya deserved, you fuckin’ faggot cunt.  Now you’re prime fuckmeat.”

 

Dropping the dead sack of manflesh, Adam stood up.  He was breathing heavily; his huge chest, sweaty and matted with cum, heaved with his recent exertion.  He wasn’t done yet, though—he bent back down and picked up Jeremy’s body.  He had to clamp down on it; the boymeat was still convulsing as he lifted it in his powerful arms and tossed it face-down on the bed.

 

Approaching the shuddering corpse, Adam’s long thick cock finally began oozing precum.  Snuffing the homo had got him hard and throbbing, but the thought of cornholing the dead meat was what really got him off.  Well, that and something else.

 

Sitting on the neatly-made and undisturbed bed, Adam slipped off his Puma Cells and placed them on the nightstand next to the unused bootlace.  Then he got up, his toes curling in his ped socks, digging into the plush carpet.  He stood behind the quivering sack of fagmeat and untied the Nike Fingertraps, pulling them both off.  Jeremy had died with his ankle socks on; Adam grabbed one of the spasming, jerking feet, feeling it quiver in his hand under the white cotton sock.

 

With a deep shuddering sigh of pleasure, the buff killer grabbed the other foot and brought both feel together on his dick.  He moaned faintly as his shaft pulsed between the twitching socked feet, the steady stream of his precum soaking into the absorbent white cotton.

 

He knew he might cum if kept it up, so he dropped the sexy dead boyfeet and sat back on the bed, slipping his feed into the dead cunt’s Nikes and lacing them tightly.  Then he spread the legs of the shuddering meatsack.  “This is how you break in a good pair of kicks, ya dumbass pansy,” he whispered.

 

Climbing up on the bed, Adam mounted the corpse, aiming the swollen purple head of his rod directly at the dead dude’s fuckhole.  With a single, savage lunge, the muscled necro freak speared Jeremy with his tool, penetrating the sphincter with no other lube but his precum.  It wasn’t as if Jeremy was in any position to complain with his black, congested face buried in the comforter.

 

There was a brief resistance, then the ass muscle went slack as Adam penetrated the corpse’s colon.  “Oh yeah,” Adam sighed with pleasure as his cock sank full-length into the dude’s limp, quivering body.  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  Nothing like some hot fuckin’ meat to plow.”

 

True to his word, the powerful alpha began to plow the corpse, the smack of flesh on flesh echoing in the quiet room.  The only other sound was Adam’s heavy breathing and the deep grunts of sexual arousal that he let out with every brutal thrust of his hips, every deep plunge of his huge swollen cockhead into the dead faggot’s guts.

 

Jeremy’s body was still trying to understand it was dead; it trembled and jerked under Adam in its final death throes.  To get better traction, the well-built sociopath planted the Nike Fingertraps on the comforter and dug his toes in as his massive dick plumbed the depths of their former owner’s corpse.

 

The dead guy’s smooth back was still slick with sweat, now cold and clammy.  Adam placed his hands on the small of Jeremy’s back, but they slid off.  “Goddam motherfucker,” the necro psycho muttered under his breath, his rage building along with the pressure of sperm boiling over in his puckered nutsack.

 

Suddenly both reached a crisis point.  As he tried to keep his spunk from erupting from his pounding, pulsing shaft, Adam began beating the corpse, slamming his hammer-like fist into the dead homo’s back.  “Fuckin’ faggot!” he roared, “Ya goddam cum-slurpin’ asswipe!”  Each blow of his fist, each thrust of his rod, was bringing him closer to orgasm.

 

And then it was there.  He’d fucked the limp body hard enough to turn the head to the side; as the muscled killer transferred his attention to Jeremy’s dead, cum-covered face, breaking bones and knocking teeth out with every hate-filled punch, a sensation went down his dick like and electric wire had been inserted.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!” Adam yelled as his body hunched over, violently and uncontrollably; he shot a steady geyser of manseed into the dead dude’s ass that lasted for a good twenty seconds without interruption.

 

Then his hard, bulked-out body convulsed and he cursed and shot again, even harder.  And then again, and again.

 

Adam didn’t know how long he stayed with his cock stuck in Jeremy’s body, hosing the corpse’s guts with cum.  It seemed to last a long time, and when he finally pulled out, backing off the bed, his knees were a little weak and his scrotum felt empty.  A thick, slimy wad of white spunk leaked out of Jeremy’s reamed-out ass and trickled down his taint to soak into the comforter.

 

Glancing around, Adam spied Jeremy’s Domo-kun t-shirt over in the chair; he got it and used it to wipe off the sperm still oozing from his rod  and the drying crust from his chest fur before carelessly tossing it on the floor.  He then retrieved his own shirts, slipping the white t-shirt back over his broad sweaty chest, then putting the button-down back on.  Finally, he picked up his Puma Cells from the nightstand.

 

He walked back over to the corpse.  Jeremy was motionless now; the brutal assfuck had stilled his death throes.  The boy was still lying face down; from the door, it wouldn’t be obvious that too much was wrong with him, aside from the mottled appearance of his badly-beaten flesh.  Once they rolled him over, things would be different—but to roll him over, they’d have to peel that fancy, expensive comforter off him.  It was stuck to his chest and belly by a thick dried glaze of his own cum.

 

Tucking his Puma kicks under his arms, Adam took a final glance, to impress the satisfying memory of his latest kill in his mind, then left the room.  He headed for the stairwell, just to make sure no one saw him and wondered why he was carrying an extra pair of sneakers under his arm.  He made it to his car, and then home with no unpleasant consequences.

 

Actually, there was one unpleasant consequence, but Adam didn’t learn about it until the end of the week, when it was announced that the SoHoLo hotel was closing until further notice.  Nobody paid attention to a snuffed fag or two, but three in the same place—and that place a hip, high-end hotel—made the news in a bad way.

 

Adam watched the broadcast about the closing and it made him think.  He was gonna hafta change his hunting pattern.  While that wasn’t a bad thing—falling into a pattern was fatal for a serial killer, and besides, it was beginning to bore him—he hadn’t made arrangements for anything new yet.

 

The more he searched for a new and interesting plan, the less progress he made, and then something else came to mind.  Why not something old and interesting?  He cast his mind back to the days when he was just developing an interest in snuff, and suddenly an idea occurred to him.  He wasn’t sure he could carry it out perfectly, but it seemed with an idea.

 

The more Adam thought about it, the harder his dick got.  Oh fuck yeah, it’d be worth it just to give it a try.  Alone in his room, his handsome face twisted with malicious glee; anyone seeing his expression would have known immediately that it meant death.

M4M4S&M

The best ads are clear, concise and direct; they get their point across with ease.  This was a very good ad.

 

“22, white, 5’ 10”, 125 lbs looking 4 older.  Need a daddy to punish me.  R U rough enough?  Send pic; will contact if you’re worth it.”

 

The words were appended to the photo of a young man’s torso—lean and smooth, with some muscles but not overly buff or developed.  Dark areolae surrounded the nipples, two hard plugs of pale flesh.  It was a body that would appeal to a lot of dudes.

 

It certainly appealed to Joe.

 

He’d been skimming through a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior kills—he couldn’t remember which one; after a while, the meat tends to blur—when he came across the pic.  He knew the moment he read the words that this little motherfucker was gonna be his bitch tonight.

 

He responded to the ad with nothing but a photo of his own torso.  No words were needed; his massive, fur-covered pecs and ripped hairy abs spoke for themselves.  And given how fast the horny little cunt replied, they didn’t just speak, they commanded.

 

“Hell yeah dude u got the power to stick it in me and make it hurt?  Want ya to hurt me”

 

For a moment, Joe started blankly at the small screen, unable to believe his luck.  When he finally responded, it was with a broad, shark-like grin and an erection so hard it hurt.  “Yeah boy I’ll hurt u good I promise”

 

He’d be as good as his word—it was a promise he’d keep with pleasure.

 

The reply was swift.  “Cool cum now”

 

Along with it was a map location file.  Joe opened it and noted with interest the neighborhood; most of the houses in that area were million-dollar-plus mansions.  This should be interesting, he decided; clearly this kid was living with his parents or other relatives.  At least it wasn’t a gated community, and it wasn’t too far away—only about twenty minutes if he took the freeway.

 

Joe didn’t need any time to prepare.  The image reflected in his bedroom mirror was adequate for the purpose; it showed a dark-haired, muscular stud in black clothing—a t-shirt that was two sizes too small, so skin-tight that his large nipples were clearly defined on his broad chest.  Below the waist (circled by a thick leather belt with a large buckle of dull, burnished metal), his jeans were equally revealing.  His crotch bulged and a thick ridge was traceable halfway down his thigh.  The mirror didn’t reach down far enough to reflect his slightly worn harness boots.

 

Pulling up the app, he texted “OMW” and headed out the door.  Outside, the summer night was hot and unusually humid.  Even on the highway, with the T-top of his Camaro open, a slight gleam of perspiration burnished Joe’s bulging biceps and hairy forearms.  He stepped on the gas and headed into the dark night.

 

The address wasn’t in a gated community, but the house he was headed to had gates—luckily, they were open.  A long drive led up to massive, rambling house, its exterior done in a half-timbered, faux-Tudor style that owed nothing to historical accuracy.  He followed the driveway past the courtyard that contained multiple garages, around to the main entrance, where he parked and exited the car.  No lights showed anywhere in the façade of the house.

 

The double front door sat in darkness under a deep porch, but the darkness wasn’t so intense that Joe failed to spot a security camera aimed directly at him.  He paused on the doorstep, considering his options.  The idea of being caught on camera was disturbing—but on the other hand, he’d probably been on video since he’d driven onto the property.

 

If that was true, he needed to get inside in any case and see if he could find the recording; he wasn’t about to leave that kind of evidence behind.  He knocked at the door and was surprised to find it open immediately.

 

The figure in the doorway was lit from behind by a dim lamp in the rear of the foyer.  It took Joe a moment to focus on the lithe, lean form which soon resolved into a youth with tousled blonde hair.  The boy was shorter than Joe, with a snub nose and freckles across his cheeks.  His smooth, slim abdomen was bare; the only clothing he wore was a pair of lounge pants—the striped flannel looked like pajama bottoms.  His feet, in white ped socks, seemed to slide on the polished parquet flooring of the vestibule.

 

“Come in,” the kid said abruptly, glancing out the door before shutting it hurriedly, “Quick, before anyone sees ya.”

 

Since the nearest neighbor was at least a heavily-landscaped half-mile away, Joe grinned at the boy’s paranoia.  The youth noticed the look of contemptuous amusement and blushed.

 

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered shamefacedly, “But seriously, dude, I gotta keep this on the DL.  My folks’ll freak if they find out; they don’t even know I like dick.  I mean, they’re on vacation, but I gotta be careful, y’know?  I even shut off the security cameras so nothin’ will be recorded.”

 

That was what Joe needed to know.  He could let the beast out tonight, and let it rage unchained.

 

“This way,” the kid said, heading up the stairs.  “I’m Bart, by the way.”

 

Joe grunted his reply and followed, the thump of his boots echoing in the cavernous stairwell.  Like the rest of the house, the upper hall was shrouded in in darkness.  Bart led the way towards an open double door from which an orange light flickered.

 

Once inside the doors, Joe looked around and realized he was in the largest bedroom he’d ever seen.  On the far right, in a large window-filled bay, was a huge TV with a pair of recliners in front of it.  To the immediate right was a California king waterbed sheathed in plush mauve velour.

 

Just opposite the door was a large gas fireplace, already lit.  The kid was standing in front of it, on what appeared to be a bear-skin rug; the rug was surrounded by a divan and a couple of chairs, all upholstered in thick mohair.  On the left was a large cheval mirror that appeared to be an antique.  Its handsome appearance was somewhat jarring, given the off-putting décor of the rest of the room.

 

“It’s my parents’ bedroom,” Bart admitted; Joe had already figured that.

 

The older man approached the boy, who was standing with his back to the fireplace.  As he got closer, he could almost feel the heat from the lust in the kid’s eyes was they slid over his well-defined form.

 

“Strip, boy,” Joe said.  “Let’s see what ya got.”

 

As Bart reached for the drawstring at the waist of his flannel pants, he turned his large blue-gray eyes up to Joe and grinned.  “Goddam, dude—I wanna see what you got, too.  Bet a big fucker like you’s got the tackle to tear my ass up good.”  He dropped the pants as he spoke, revealing his legs, his firm thighs smooth while his calves were shaded with a faint golden fuzz.  Six inches of thick but semi-soft boycock dangled from a tangled mass of dirty blond pubes.

 

Smirking, Joe peeled off his shirt, revealing his powerful, V-shaped torso, wide across his broad, hubcap pecs and narrowing to his tight, firm waist.  The fur on his sculpted abs darkened and thickened as it descended his flat belly in a black treasure trail that vanished behind the dull burnished steel of his belt buckle.  Above the dark forest on his pecs, the firm twin mounds of his large nipples protruded, hard in the open air.

 

At the sight, Bart’s dick stiffened and enlarged.  His eyes followed Joe’s hand as it descended to his crotch below the belt buckle and grasped the zipper.  Slowly and longingly, the youth’s eyes lowered with the zipper itself, achingly tracing its path until the fly was wide enough for Joe to reach in and extract his enormous shaft.

 

“Oh fuck,” Bart moaned sluttishly, “That’s gonna tear me the fuck open.  Shit, bro, I need to be hurt—and you’re the dude to do it.  Use me, man, make me your whore.”

 

Joe grinned, moving forward slowly.  “So ya wanna get hurt, do ya, boy?  How bad ya wanna get hurt?”  His cock pulsed rhythmically with each step.  Bart noticed.

 

“I—uh, I want ya to hit me.  Slap me around while you’re fuckin’ me.  Spit on me, treat me like shit.”

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “Treat ya like shit?  You are shit, faggot.  And I’m gonna make damn sure you know it.”

 

The blond youth wriggled like a bitch in heat.  “Yeah,” he squealed, “Oh fuck yeah…”

 

Joe had reached the bearskin rug; turning so that the orange glare of the gas fireplace was out of his eyes, he was able to note a few more details about the room—the faint tiger-stripe pattern on the velour bedspread, the utter incongruousness of the saccharine Thomas Kinkade print on the far wall…

 

…and the useless and unused set of elaborate cast-iron fire tools set to one side of the fireplace.  Turning his back to the kid, he went to the set and pulled out the poker, holding it up and examining the brass-handled shaft of iron.

 

“Don’t worry, cunt,” he said quietly, “I’ll hurt ya.  I’ll hurt ya good…”

 

Whirling back to the boy with a broad smile on his face, he realized that his control was slipping.   There wasn’t gonna be any foreplay with this little fucker.  “Ya ready, fag?” he asked and without waiting for a response, swung the poker like he was aiming for the fences.

 

It connected with Bart’s left flank with a loud thump, knocking the kid to his knees.  The boy screeched in pain and clutched his side.  He looked up a Joe, his expression a confused mix of pain and angry bewilderment; his large blue-gray eyes full of tears.

 

“Hey,” he gasped in ragged breaths, “Whatdja do that for?”

 

“You needed to be punished, right, bitch?  Your own words.  So I’m gonna make damn sure you get punished real good—ya get me, cocksucker?”

 

“Wh-what’re ya talkin’ about?”  Bart whimpered.  “I ju-just wanted to get slapped around a little, dude, y’know?  I didn’t mean I actually wanted ya to hurt me!”

 

Joe grinned again.  For the first time, Bart noticed the disturbing, shark-like quality.  “Gee, that’s too fuckin’ bad,” the older man chuckled, “Cause I’m planning on beatin’ the shit outta you, faggot.  Oh, don’t worry—I’m still gonna fuck ya.  But first I’m gonna fuck ya up.”

 

“Wha—no—no, dude, no—” In sudden fear, Bart was scooting backwards, slowly and unconsciously crawling off the bearskin rug on his ass.  “No, this ain’t what I—AAAHHH!”

 

With no warning, Joe had swung the poker again, this time up over his shoulder and straight down onto the kid’s right leg, the iron tip making contact with the kneecap with a loud crunch.

 

“JESUS FUCKIN’ CHRIST!!!” the agonized youth shrieked as his kneecap shattered.  He sobbed in pain as Joe laughed mockingly.

 

“Whadda fuckin’ pussy,” Joe sneered, “Man up, homo, we’re just gettin’ started!  I ain’t even completely hard yet, cunt—it’s gonna be a long night.”

 

Panic gripped Bart’s hormone-drenched mind as he writhed in searing pain; despite this nightmarish turn of events, his dick was somehow still hard.  His rich suburban white-boy psyche hadn’t been able to fully assimilate the onslaught of violence; some part of him still seemed to be expecting hot raunchy mansex.  At least, his hot throbbing cock seemed to expect it.

 

Joe was still planning on hot raunchy mansex as well—he just wanted to tenderize the meat a little first.

 

Bart rolled over and climbed awkwardly to his feet, whimpering and blubbering and unable to bend his right knee.  “No,” the young blond faggot sobbed, “No, not this—I just wanted your dick, dude, please…”

 

“You ain’t gettin’ my manmeat till I’m done workin’ ya over, bitch.  Now shaddup and take what you deserve, you worthless little fuck!”  Joe began to slowly pace toward the kid.

 

The lean, smooth youth, his tear-streaked face ashen with shock, tried to move backwards in a clumsy hopping motion.  Surprisingly, he managed to remain vertical even as Joe approached.  The alpha tossed the poker down onto one of the sofas as he passed by—both hands were free when he reached out and grabbed hold of the unfortunate punk.

 

Joe held Bart by the upper arms, lifting him straight into the air until the kid’s white ped socks dangled a good four inches above the floor.  He brought the little pansy’s face up to his, and for the first time, Bart got a really good look at the seething rage boiling in the eyes of the stud—the sexy stud he’d thought would make this a perfect evening.

 

The fact that the rage was obviously entwined with a smoldering lust somehow only seemed to make the situation more terrifying.  And worst of all—his own dick was still so pulsatingly erect it ached as precum trickled from his enlarged piss slit.

 

“You wanted me to spit on ya?  You wanted me to treat ya like shit?  You got it, ya cumguzzlin’ motherfucker; I’ll treat ya like the piece of shit you are.  Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m gonna make damn sure you not only know exactly what a worthless faggot you are—you’ll feel it.”

 

Bart shook his head numbly, hearing the words but refusing to understand them.  He couldn’t refuse to listen to the pain, though—the throbbing in his left side, up under the ribs, the horrific pain in his right knee, the increasing ache in his shoulders as they were forced to support his entire body weight…none of it could be ignored.  The kid moaned incoherently as he kicked vainly in midair.

 

“No…no…not this…not here…not me…” he mumbled in stupefied shock.

 

“You, here and now—and this,” Joe snarled.  Bart experienced a violent sensation of movement that lasted only a split second before a sudden shattering impact that left him dazed and shuddering in agony on the floor.  It took more than a sixty seconds for the realization that he’d been thrown into—and through—the cheval mirror.  Groaning loudly, the slim, smooth youth was rolling on top of small shards of mirror glass, grinding them into his back.

 

“Ya like that one, cunt?” Joe chuckled, strolling in Bart’s direction.  “I sure did.  Teachin’ little fucks like you their place always gets me hard.  You gotta a lot of learnin’ to do in the next hour, you faggot slut.  You like pain, ya disgusting little perv?  Then suffer, scumbag!”

 

Reaching Bart as he spoke, Joe raised his foot and placed it on Bart’s crotch.   Without the slightest hesitation, the sadistic alpha applied pressure, grinding the horny, hormone-riddled youth’s cum-filled ballsack under his bootheel.  The boyslut’s moaning spiraled up into the piercing squeal of a terrified pig.

 

“Aw, yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Joe chortled.  “Ya feelin’ me, boy?”  He pressed down, crushing Bart’s thick boycock under the sole of his boot.  The oozing ridge of flesh remained erect despite the intense pain—Bart screamed in agony until his voice cracked, but was still aware of his unaccountably rigid tool.

 

“You disgusting little painpig,” the muscled older man sneered at the crying, cowering youth, “Lookit how hard yer cock is, dicksucker—you just lovin’ this shit, aintcha?  How ‘bout I give ya a little more”—here he leaned forward, letting the weight of his hulking, powerful body rest on his bootheel—“just enough to pop yer balls and grind yer homo nutsack to meat paste?”

 

The brutal stud ground down on the shrieking punk’s scrotum; for a few terrifying seconds, Bart’s testicles were in such excruciating pain that he thought they really would burst.  Then suddenly the inexorable pressure was gone.  It was such a relief that the boy almost passed out; the pain in his knee was practically forgotten.  It didn’t last long.

 

Joe struck out with his strong, muscled leg, his steel-toed boot catching the prone slut on the hip.  It was a swift, vicious kick, with enough force to flip the writhing whoreboy over onto his stomach, revealing the multiple lacerations from mirror shards on his back.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the cruel alpha muttered.

 

Bart was in deep fear.  This hadn’t worked out like he’d planned at all.  He was just gonna find a hot stud and get some dick tonight before his folks got back tomorrow; instead, he was on the floor in nightmarish pain and his parents’ bedroom had morphed from a passion pit to a scene of brutal violence.  He didn’t—wouldn’t—follow the scenario to its logical conclusion, but he knew he had to get out before things got any worse.  Unsteadily, he rose to his hands and knees.  Well, one knee.  He still couldn’t get the right one to bend right; it hurt too much to try.  He made a motion towards the door in a wobbly crawl—and then he heard Joe’s quietly mocking voice behind him.

 

“Tryin’ to fly, little bird?  Maybe it’s time to clip a wing.”

 

Bart turned his head and looked up as the buff sadist walked up to him.  Despite the way tears had blurred his vision, he could see the tall man looming over him with desperate clarity.  The dude’s enormous hog was dangling over him, dripping hot beads of precum into the kids’ blond hair.  Beyond the huge hairy expanse of muscled chest, the hard, handsome face looked down on him, glowing with a bizarre mixture of lust and incandescent contempt.

 

It was terrifying and erotic; he’d have pissed himself if his dick wasn’t so hard.

 

Then Joe stepped kicked at the queerboy’s left leg, making him fall flat to the floor.  Stepping up to where Bart’s arms were stretched out on the floor above his head, the sick stud placed his big black boot in the middle of the boy’s right forearm, halfway between the hand and the elbow.

 

Smiling cheerfully, but without saying a word, the powerful alpha bent down, grabbed the boy’s right wrist.  His biceps bulging, the muscled sadist pulled upwards with a mighty jerk.  There was a loud double snapping sound, like tree branches breaking, as Joe bent the fucker’s arm to ninety degrees, shattering the radius and ulna almost simultaneously.

 

Bart tried to scream; the cold, glassy pain of fractured bone tore through his lean, tortured frame.  He opened his mouth, instinctively taking a lungful of air, but before the pent-up shriek could escape, there was a flash, a violent impact, and the young slut slumped to the floor—not completely unconscious, but lost in a dark haze, shot through with flashes of agony like bolts of lightning.

 

Joe chuckled; the kick he’d aimed at the faggot’s head had connected perfectly with the asswipe’s jaw.  “That oughtta keep ya quiet for a bit, dickwad,” the older man smirked as he walked away, heading for the huge waterbed.

 

When he reached the bed, Joe sat on the velour bedspread; crossing his legs, he slowly pulled his left boot off, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thump.  Across the room, the kid flinched at the sound.  Joe, stripping the white, calf-high tube sock from his leg, kept his eye on the punk as the latter began slowly and painfully wriggling his way towards the door.  No need to rush; there was no way the badly abused meat was gonna be able to reach the door before Joe was done gettin’ naked.

 

And if he did, were was the little shit gonna go?  The brutal alpha had made sure his fucktoy was too badly fucked up to make it down the stairs.

 

Bart was unable to think that logically; he was driven by a reflexive drive to flee imminent danger.  But it hurt to move, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…  How did this happen?  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  He hadn’t meant it about the pain, please, dear God, he hadn’t really meant—please, no, no more pain…

 

He’d managed to squirm some four feet across the room before he heard the unmistakable thud of the dude’s other boot hitting the floor.  Moaning in terror, the lean, smooth boy tried to increase his speed but only managed to intensify his pain.  He inched along on his belly, his long hard cock scraping uncomfortably across the wood floor.  Every movement of his limbs sent jagged shockwaves of suffering through his slim firm body as his shattered kneecap was pressed against the boards under him.  Even worse was the searing torture as the splintered ends of broken bones ground together in his arm.

 

Behind him, Joe stood up, peeling his tight jeans off his thick, muscles legs.  Folding the faded denim neatly, he placed them on the bed, next to his leather belt.  The belt, though, he picked back up before heading toward the shuddering, crawling mass of battered flesh.

 

Without his boots, Bart couldn’t hear Joe coming closer, but he could feel the powerful tremors of the bulked-out stud’s footfalls.  They were coming closer, oh holy fuck, this crazy motherfucker is getting nearer—

 

And then he was there.  Joe bent down and looped the belt around Bart’s throat before the kid realized what happened.  The towering killer whirled, jerking the helpless punk around and dragging him back towards the fireplace.  Bart’s airway wasn’t completely constricted but it was cinched off enough that it cut off the agonized scream building in his chest.

 

“Didja think I was done with ya, you stupid motherfucker?” Joe asked sardonically.  “You wanted pain, faggot, you wanted a real man to make ya submit, yeah?  Well ya fuckin’ got one, bitch, and you ain’t done submittin’ till I say yer done, understand?”

 

Joe bent down and picked up the poker again as he passed the sofa on the way back to the fireplace; Bart, being dragged along on the floor behind him, saw the action but was suffering too badly to assign any significance to it.

 

Once he reached the bearskin rug, Joe spun around, flinging the lean, limp boyslut onto the center of the rug and whipped the belt from around his throat.  As the raw leather on the inside of the belt was torn away, it took the top layer of skin with it, leaving an angry red welt of raw flesh around Bart’s neck.

 

Joe tossed the belt aside—it landed on the sofa in the same spot the poker had been—and stood over the smooth young boy.  Bart was writhing in excruciating pain; he’d been dragged and thrown around like a sack of potatoes—not like a human being with internal injuries and multiple broken bones.  Even the wood floor bore witness to Bart’s torment; it was streaked with blood that trickled from the lacerations on his back.

 

On his back, groaning fitfully, the dazed homo opened his eyes, focusing blearily on the alpha stud towering over him.  Joe was nude, his cock magnificently erect and jutting out a good eight inches in front of him, hot transparent drops of precum seeping from the engorged head.  Beyond the huge hard shaft, the killer’s torso widen from the tight waist up to the dark forest of fur clinging to the broad and powerfully muscled chest.  And above that, the merciless glare of hate, contempt—and somehow, lust…

 

“No…”  Bart whispered in a croak as Joe lowered himself, grinning.

 

“Yeah,” Joe said.  “Time to take it in the ass, cunt.”

 

On his knees, Joe grabbed Bart’s legs and forced them apart.  Without a pause—and without even so much as spitting on it—he rammed his enormous tool into the kid’s quivering fuckhole.  The thick, vein-wrapped dick tore open the boy’s clenched sphincter like tissue paper before ripping its way through his colon and lodging deep in his guts.

 

After all he’d endured, Bart had thought he’d gotten jaded to the pain.  He was wrong.  Holy fuckin’ shit, was he wrong.  For a brief, insane moment, the slut thought someone had jammed a steel umbrella up his ass and opened it.  He shrieked so intensely that his voice cracked again; his mouth was open, but only a croaking, gasping noise emerged.

 

“Can ya feel me, boy?” Joe jeered.  “I’m balls-deep in yer ass, slut.  Jeez, cunt, you musta had a buncha tiny-dicked fairies bang ya, huh?  Don’t it feel good havin’ a real man tear you a new fuckhole?  Feels hot as fuck to me!”

 

Still unable to control his breathing or his voice, Bart could only stare up at Joe, his mouth and his blue-gray eyes open wide in shock and horror—and his innards full of mancock.  He was finally getting fucked by the hot stud, just the way he wanted, but he no longer wanted it.

 

Joe knew it.  It just made him hornier and more vicious.  “This what you were lookin’ fer, cunt?” he said with malicious glee.  “This what ya wanted when you asked for someone to hurt ya?  Gotta tell ya, fag, the moment I saw yer add I knew I was gonna be makin’ you into fuckmeat tonight.”

 

Bart was shaking his head in denial—not of Joe’s words; he wasn’t in an adequate condition to comprehend or process the sense of what was being said to him.  It was a denial of reality, of the horrific universe of pain in which he found himself.  But the agony was too intense to be denied, and that was the reality that was etched in tense lines across the youth’s taut, tortured face.

 

As he relentlessly pounded Bart’s ass, the brutal alpha knew shock was setting in; the boy wasn’t listening anymore.  And he didn’t want that.  The little fucker wasn’t meat yet; there was still plenty of time for a good mindfuck.  All he needed to do was grab the homo’s attention.

 

“Am I hurtin’ ya enough, cocksucker?  No?  What, ya want more?  Fuck, yer one greedy-ass painpig aintcha?  Ok, motherfucker, here ya fuckin’ go!”  Drawing his powerful arm back, he slammed his huge fist straight into Bart’s tear-stained face.

 

The loud smack of flesh on flesh merged seamlessly with the punk’s grunt of pain as his lips were split under the impact of Joe’s blow.  His head rocked back and stuck the floor violently but the bearskin rug cruelly provided enough padding to prevent Bart being knocked out. As his head rebounded, it was met with another line-drive blow straight from Joe’s shoulder; this one was rewarded with a loud crunch as the boywhore’s nose was crushed.

 

The kid’s lean body, bathed in sweat wrung from his physical torment, jerked rhythmically as Joe continued to force his massive hog up Bart’s torn, bleeding rectum.  The young pansy was dazed from the sadist’s powerful punches; he was stunned and limp in an excruciating aura of suffering.

 

But he was still awake enough to hear Joe’s cruel taunts.  “Fuck yeah, motherfucker, now we’re talkin’!  That got yer motor runnin’, didn’t it, ya pain-lovin’ pervert?  Yer sportin’ some serious wood, assfuck; the harder I hit ya, the harder yer dick gets.”

 

The muscular alpha leaned down and whispered into Bart’s ear.  He was close enough that despite his flattened, bloody nose, the kid could still smell his rank, powerful mansweat, laden with testosterone.  Bart brought up his left arm—his right was lying uselessly by his side, bent into an impossible shape—and tried to brace himself, placing his palm flat on Joe’s chest.  It was a futile gesture of protest; it had no impact on his assailant.

 

Bart could only curl his fingers in his torturer’s chest hair and hang on as the top raped his ass and fucked his mind.  “If ya liked that, you sick fuck, yer gonna cream when ya find out what I got planned for ya.  I’m gonna snuff you, faggot.  I’m gonna kill you.  You’re gonna die here, tonight, with my cock buried in your guts.  Don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  Hell yeah, cunt, time to die!”

 

Bart moaned faintly.  The pain of the beating radiated through his lean, fit body, but the searing agony of the huge tube of manflesh, barbed with thick veins, that impaled his guts was what he was suffering from the most.  This pain was alive and sentient, it tore its way through his tender innards, mercilessly keeping pressure on his prostate—and keeping him achingly erect.

 

“Yer dick is oozin’” Joe guffawed.  “That gets ya off, huh?  Yer just lovin’ the thought of gettin’ offed by a real man—ha!  Fuckin’ piece a’ shit faggot—all you cocksuckers deserve to be killed, an’ all y’all know it, too.  Every homo I snuff cums as it dies.  You ain’t gonna be no different, motherfucker.  I’m gonna put you down and yer gonna blow your fuckin’ load, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my dick.”

 

With his cock still buried balls-deep in the battered and broken boy, Joe rose up on his knees, turned, and picked up the poker.  Straitening himself, he held it up horizontally in front of Bart, then slowly lowered it until it touched his neck—a bar of iron running across the trembling boy’s throat.

 

Bart could feel the cold metal pressing against the skin.  He knew what was coming but refused to consciously acknowledge it.  That didn’t stop the fear that was building with him, though; Joe could see the terror in the boy’s eyes.  The buff killer grinned and applied pressure.

 

The poker sank into Bart’s throat like a garrote, just above the larynx.  As it pressed deeper into his flesh, it deformed his esophagus more and more, stressing the cartilage and closing off the airway.  Bart’s crushed nose had already been interfering with his ability to breathe; now, with each passing second, it was becoming more impossible for him to draw breath.  Fear turned to panic.

 

Joe recognized the symptoms and braced himself.  He’d already done a good job of hobbling the fuckmeat while he was tenderizing it; the cunt only had one good arm and one good leg.  Even so, there is a strength in frenzied desperation that can momentarily compensate for the most intense agony.

 

Joe leaned back and held on; both his hands were on the poker as he forced it into the punk’s neck, one on each side of the head.  While he could have let go with one hand and still kept some pressure on the metal shaft, it wouldn’t have been as evenly applied and he didn’t want to give the meat an inadvertent chance to draw air.  Besides, it wasn’t like the little shit could actually hurt him, even in the depths of panic.  Nor could he squirm away—he was pinned to the bearskin rug by Joe’s huge engorged cock.

 

The muscled alpha jerked his head up and back, out of the range of the kid’s left hand which had come up, clawing and fluttering around his face like a startled bird.  Curling his toes, the hulking sadist flexed his powerful thighs and ram-rodded his swollen tool deep into the meat’s fuckhole.  The veins on the thick tube of flesh rode over the helpless youth’s prostate like the ridges on a ribbed condom.  The boy responded with a dramatic increase in precum; the steady stream that emerged from the purple tip left a smeared trail in the body fur as the homo’s dick slapped and slid against his rapist’s flat, firm belly.

 

As the last remaining space in his windpipe was closed off, Bart’s labored breathing became a shrill squeal, then stopped for good.  His strained face, already bruised enough to make recognition difficult, began to darken and swell.  Now his panic reached a point near dementia—now, even searing agony wasn’t enough to penetrate the vortex of asphyxiation-driven terror.

 

Bart turned into a writhing animal, flailing in blind panic.  He beat against Joe, his left hand balled into a fist, his useless right hand flopping as the right arm thrashed; the excruciating agony of the broken bone ends grinding together having no effect in Bart’s mindless fear.  Both of the meat’s legs were wrapped around Joe’s tight waist, kicking in the air— and despite the sheer torture of the slut’s shattered right kneecap, the right leg was flung with such force that the ped sock flew off, a white ball of cotton that landed on one of the chairs.

 

Bart was finally getting what he wanted—the fuck of a lifetime by someone who was willing to hurt him the way he needed to be hurt.  It was a shame it hurt so much more than he’d anticipated that he was only vaguely aware he was being fucked at all—but it was what he deserved.

 

And his hard cock proved it, straining, glistening, erect, and as purple as Bart’s face.

 

“Ya know what happens when ya die?” Joe whispered to the shuddering meat in a low, erotic tone, as the poker sank even deeper into his neck.  “Your asshole starts to spasm.  As your brain begins to die, your body will shudder and convulse.  It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my cock.  Ain’t that cool?  Yer gonna suffer the way all you little fuckin’ faggots need to, and you’ll give your worthless life meaning by milking out my load as you die.  Just lay back and lemme snuff yer homo ass, bitch.”

 

Bart stared at Joe, his eyes bulging with hypoxia and shock.  The cute, snub-nosed blond was almost unrecognizable.  The meat’s face was swollen and black, the tongue protruding horribly, surrounded by foamy drool.  The whites of the eyes were turning red as tiny blood vessels started to rupture within.

 

The dying boy heard Joe’s words; his brain was starting to shut down, but there was still enough of him left to understand what had been said to him.  Images flickered through his fading mind; the romantic shadows that the gas fireplace cast on the bearskin rug, the shattered remains of the cheval mirror—how was he gonna explain that to his folks?—the online photo he’d received of a hairy, muscular, V-shaped torso that has inspired such lust in him.  It was the torso of the man who was murdering him.

 

And it hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad.  Dying didn’t feel good; it wasn’t gentle or peaceful—it hurt like fucking hell.  Even the pain of bruised flesh and broken bones faded into the background as the suffering youth felt his lungs strain to function, a fiery pressure like nothing he’d had to endure before.  But after a few seconds, it was surpassed by the pressure in his head.

 

Bart knew his face was swollen; he knew his eyes were bulging and his tongue was sticking out—he could feel it.  All of it.  Every agonizing second of it.  His head was swelling; the pressure within was phenomenal.  He didn’t understand why his skull didn’t just burst; the pain was beyond human endurance, and that pounding—that sledgehammer pounding in hear ears and inside his cranium, getting faster and faster…

 

But somehow, even in the depths of his nightmarish suffering, the slender young cockpig remained aware of the massive dick in his ass, and of his own hard tool, pressed between his sweat-slick, slender body and the hard, muscled form of his killer.  As he lost control of his limbs, as the overwhelming pounding of his pulse in his ears reached an insane tempo, he still knew he was being banged like a cheap whore.

 

White foam trickled down the cunt’s black, puffy cheeks.  His left hand no longer grabbed at Joe’s face; it was stroking the side of the alpha’s head in an almost loving caress as Bart’s desperate fight for life faded into a feeble, nearly gentle touch.

 

“You’re dyin’, motherfucker,” Joe whispered.  “Yer lights are goin’ out.  Mommy and daddy are gonna come home and find yer worthless, fucked-out ass right here in the middle of their bedroom.  They’re gonna see you got beaten and used like the homo cunt ya are.”

 

Bart nodded, but he wasn’t replying to Joe.  He’d reached a tipping point; enough of his brain had died off that he wasn’t coming back—he was starting to convulse.  Even if Joe removed the poker, Bart would still end up a vegetable, a brain-dead sack of meat.  Sadly for the boy, though, there a piece of him still left aware, a tiny piece of trapped sentience doomed to witness his own death.

 

Joe could feel the change coming over the meat; he was too experienced in boysnuff not to know what was coming.  “Oh hell yeah,” he muttered in sexual anticipation, “Now yer startin’ to work my tool.  C’mon, faggot, lessee if we can make ya kick real good—the more you suffer, the harder I cum!”

 

His face twisted into a hate-filled snarl, Joe shoved forward, his thick biceps bulging and glistening with sweat as he forced the iron rod deep into the queerboy’s neck.  Bart hacked and choked, a huge bubble of drool erupting past his swollen tongue, as the poker crushed his esophagus with a wet crackling sound, like someone tearing apart gristle.    His protruding, blood-red eyes stared into Joe’s with one last look of horror and despair before rolling back into his head, leaving nothing but a sliver of white showing under the fluttering lashes.

 

And then the convulsion began.  The small corner of awareness inside Bart had no memory capability; it couldn’t recall Joe’s promise that he would suffer horrific pain during his death throes.  It was still capable of suffering the pain, though and it did.  The unlucky boyslut’s last few seconds on earth were nightmarish.

 

The meat arched its back, squeezing its hard cock against Joe’s abdomen and the left hand clutched Joe’s right shoulder in an iron grip.  The left leg wrapped tightly around Joe’s waist and he could feel the smooth right thigh pressing against his hip—the right calf bent outward grotesquely at the ruined knee.  Similarly, the right arm slapped against Joe’s left arm but the hand itself dangled, limp and useless, to the side, jerking randomly as the slim but strong body convulsed violently.

 

“Shit, you worthless punk,” Joe moaned between gritted teeth, “Keep that shit up, yer gonna get my load.”  As the youth convulsed and shuddered under him, the rippling spasms that traveled along the inside of the rectum had a suctioning effect on Joe’s huge shaft; he’d plugged the kid’s colon so completely that the rectum itself was stretched and taut around the massive member, like a condom.  Every dying quiver of rectal musculature stroked the sadist’s hog.  It felt kinda like getting a handjob and a blowjob simultaneously—and the fact that he had to snuff a fag to feel it only made it more erotic.

 

As the sperm in his hot, puckered balls began to seethe, Joe grunted.  He was losing control himself; in a moment, he’d be shuddering violently himself in orgasm.  Not yet, though—the motherfucker was still alive—the meat still needed to know that it was dead—

 

—then, with a loud, inarticulate cry, Joe jerked and bucked powerfully, driving the poker so forcefully into Bart’s throat that the punk’s head popped forward with the sickening sound of shattering vertebrae.  For Bart, it was a bolt of lightning; there was an undefinable sensation of great heat and great pain.  For Joe, it was an electric shock that raced through his body and trigged an intense orgasm.

 

Jets of cum erupted from the killer alpha’s engorged cock, splashing hot manseed deep inside the meat.  The meat responded; in the last moments of life, the hot wet geyser in the meat’s ass, the incessant pressure on its prostate and the devastating blow to the nervous system all combined to force a savagely powerful explosion of spunk from the corpse.

 

The last nerve signals that were transmitted to Bart’s brain were those of his orgasm—but the spinal cord was torn and damaged, so the signals were corrupt.   The unfortunate youth could only interpret them as searing pain, as if molten metal or liquid magma was being forced along his urethra; he was too brain dead to know he was cumming longer, harder, and more intensely than he ever had in his short, wasted life.

 

Joe knew it, though, and could feel its heat and intensity as a solid stream of boycum splattered up his belly and onto his chest, the pearly seed matting his dark chest hair.  Load after load of steaming semen splashed across his pecs as both killer and meat continued to jerk and grind against each other’s sweat-and cum-sticky bodies.

 

After a few minutes, Joe was able to get better control of himself; the magnitude of his orgasm kept him shuddering for a bit longer as he strained to empty his balls.  At the same time, the convulsions of the corpse in which his cock was still buried began slow and lessen in ferocity; in another minute, the body was reduced to a twitching pile of meat and Joe was able to pull out without too much trouble.  Sometimes, the meat can knot up on yer tool…

 

Stretching himself and sighing contentedly, the buff, hardbodied alpha ambled off to find the bathroom.

 

When he did, he noted the palatial appointments—the sunken marble tub, the matching marble vanity tops, the multi-jet rainfall shower—there was even a bidet, for fuck’s sake.  Smiling with amused contempt, he grabbed the thickest, most decorative-looking guest towel he could find and, soaking it in the sink, used it to clean the dead boy’s cum off his chest and belly, as well as wiping down his dick.

 

Then, with a malicious grin, he took the towel over to the tub and wedged a corner of it down into the drain as tightly as he could, before turning the hot water on full blast.  As he left the bathroom, he idly wondered how long it would take the tub to overflow.  After all, he wasn’t quote done here.

 

Back in the bedroom, he retrieved his t-shirt and jeans, quickly slipping the shirt on.  Tucking the shirt into his pants, he zipped the fly and threaded the belt back around his narrow waist.  Then he sat on the bed, pulling his sock and boots back on, eyeing  the evening’s work critically as he did.

 

His experience told him the composition was unfinished.  The dead kid was splayed out on his back with both the right arm and right leg bent at impossible angles and a single sock on his left foot.  The head was bent forward around the poker as if his was trying to look down his chest.  The meat’s face was starting to fade from black back to a cyan blue; it was still swollen and streaked with drool.  The eyes no longer protruded quite so grotesquely, but the tongue still did.  The smooth chest and belly were smeared with a white crust—the fag’s own cum, some of which was still leaking from his deflating cock.

 

Something was still needed, something to drive home the contempt Joe felt for the meat—and for the parents who raised it.  Something that would—oh, yes.  That would work.

 

Smiling broadly, Joe strode across to the corpse, the loud thumping of his boots fading once he stepped on the bearskin rug.  Placing one hand flat on the cunt’s forehead, he shoved it back while grabbing the poker with his other hand.  He turned, shifted slightly, and knelt between the meat’s spread legs.  With a loud grunt and a single powerful thrust of his arm, Joe rammed the poker up the corpse’s ass, tearing and mutilating the dead flesh until it had gone a good two feet into the meat’s intestines.  Only the brass handle and few inches of black iron stuck out of the kid’s ass; the head of the instrument, deep inside the corpse, had been smeared with Joe’s cum as it punched its way through the boy’s innards.

 

Joe stood up and took a step back for another critical glance.  There.  That was perfect.

 

He wasn’t the type to whistle, but if he was, he would have been whistling as he headed for the door; he’d gotten his dick milked and he’d put another fag down good and hard; all in all, a good night’s work.  As he got to the bedroom door, something caught his eye—a cellphone on an otherwise bare dresser.  Probably the meat’s.  That could be handy; he needed to dump the one he’d used to respond to the ad—he’d used it too many times.  Didn’t need to be traced.

 

Powering up the phone, he saw it had a touch lock.  Well, that damn sure wasn’t a problem.  He strolled back to the corpse and used the stiffening index finger to unlock the phone.  Once it was open, he reset the lock to his own finger.  Then, in a burst of inspiration, he took some photos of the corpse, from different angles and varying degrees of closeness.

 

Once he finished recording the brutality he’d visited upon the meat, he turned and left the room.  The echo of his big black boots on the staircase lingered for a moment after he’d gone, but soon the big house was quiet, the flickering of the still-lit gas fireplace providing the only hint of heat or motion in the darkness.

 


 

Elaine unlocked the front door and stepped into the entryway in a brusque manner indicative of her anger and impatience.  The flight had been late and that stupid shuttle bus driver was so slow—and Larry had actually tipped him instead of telling the useless towelhead to go back to driving a camel in whatever fly-ridden country he was from…

 

Huffing and grunting under the weight of the luggage in the doorway behind her, Larry was no less in a foul mood; his face was red in the overheated way some men get in their mid-forties when they get stressed.  “There, I think that’s everything,” he said, dumping the bags on the floor.  “Are you sure the maids come back tomorrow?  Some of this stuff’s gotta be—”

 

“Shh!” Elaine cut him off.  “What’s that sound?”

 

Now the she’d drawn his attention to it, he could hear it too.  It sounded like a waterfall—or at least, water falling from a height.  “It’s coming from the dining room,” he said.

 

He headed in that direction with his wife following him.  In the dining room, their worst fears—for the moment—were confirmed; water was pouring from the ceiling, running down the wires and the chain for the chandelier and splattering all over the antique damask-and-lace tablecloth.

 

“Oh my God,” Elaine squeaked, “Where’s that coming from?”

 

“Our bathroom is upstairs,” Larry replied in a dazed voice.

 

“Oh no, what has Bartholomew been doing?”

 

At this suggestion, Larry’s face went puce.  “By God,” he growled, “If that brat’s responsible for this, I’m gonna take it outta his fuckin’ hide!”

 

He dashed for the stair, bawling, “You’re dead meat when I get a hold of ya, boy!”

 

Elaine trailed after him, wailing.  “Don’t you hurt him, Larry!  It must be an accident!”

 

Larry raced up the stairs, rounding the turn at the top and propelling himself into the open bedroom door—and there he paused, trying to make some sense of the bizarre scene in front of him.  The splashing form the bathroom, the water running across the floor, the broken mirror—and Bart lying naked on the floor.  He didn’t look right.  Was he drunk?  Had he gotten wasted, broken the mirror, left the tub or shower running and passed out in front of the fireplace?  If that was the case, Larry was gonna kick his ass so hard.  He walked towards the prone youth.

 

Elaine burst into the room just as Larry realized that Bart had indeed gotten wasted last night, but not in the sense that Larry had originally intended.  Looking down at the beaten and strangled corpse of his son, the older man swayed on his feet.  Dear God in heaven, what the hell was that sticking out of his ass?

 

He was in no condition divert his wife from the nauseating sight.

 

“What the fuck is going on in here?” she demanded as she entered.  “Did Bartholomew do all this?  Where is he?”  She drew level with her husband, took one look down, shrieked at the top of her lungs and fell into a dead faint.

 

It was all over the local evening news.  It didn’t make state news until photos of the corpse began appearing anonymously on social media sites.  The first ones targeted were ones to which Larry or Elaine subscribed…

Adam–Third Kill–Room Service

It was about eight-thirty on a warm summer evening when Adam pulled into the parking lot on the west side of the SoHoLo Hotel.  Getting out of his car, he could a bank of clouds still illuminated from underneath by the setting sun.  They were lit in a garish blood-red.

 

Adam took it as a good sign.  For a moment, his handsome face flashed an evil, shark-like grin before it lapsed back into its normal innocent expression.  He reached into the car and grabbed a gym bag before heading towards the hotel lobby.

 

He’d enjoyed himself so much the last time he was here, he’d left the place a five-star rating on Yelp, hoping to offset some of the negative publicity that swirled around the hotel once the violated corpse of his kill had been found.  Now he was back and on the hunt again.

 

This time, he didn’t want to wait around in the lobby.  He’d checked out the amenities online from the well-equipped exercise room and the full-service laundry in the basement to the luxury spa and executive suites on the tenth floor.  He’d decided to start in the bar.  If that didn’t work out, he’d hit up the gym and the pool, in that order.  Maybe the top-floor sauna after that.

 

Surely, the copper-haired stud thought, he’d find some dude to play with.  At any rate, he’d brought a change of clothes along, just in case he struck out in the bar and needed to get more…physical.  Otherwise, he was dressed casually in a dark green button-down shirt and a pair of tight jeans, faded to pale blue.  On his feet were the gray Nike Flight Falcons that he’d used on his last kill here at the hotel.

 

Holding his gym bag casually, Adam crossed the large lobby area, circling around the open work space in the center.  A few of the carrel-like spaces were occupied, but no one caught Adam’s eye.  He headed for the darkened passage that led to the bar and the elevator lobby.

 

The hip, modern décor with flames and falling water, did nothing to illuminate the murky entrance to the bar, but the raucous babble of voices and music were sufficient indication of its location.  Just outside the door was a sign with plastic letters spelling out “Morrison bachelorette party.”

 

Sighing, Adam poked his head into the bar.  On the far left was a small impromptu stage where three drunk women were wailing off-key at a karaoke machine.  The handsome sex killer shook his head in disgust and withdrew.  He’d pinned his hopes on finding fresh meat in the bar; now he’d have to fall back to plan B and see if there was anyone in the hotel’s well-equipped exercise room.

 

The elevator lobby was just behind him; within two minutes, he was outside the glass door leading to the hotel’s gym.  Peering in, he saw a middle-aged woman, lean and stringy in a t-shirt and yoga pants, riding a stationary bike.  He dismissed her immediately, focusing his attention on the other occupant of the room.

 

The young man—he was no older than his early twenties—was over by the free weights, working his biceps with a set of dumbbells.  He was wearing nothing but a pair of gray Under Armor shorts, leaving his broad, well-built chest, streaked with sweat, to glisten under the overhead fluorescents.  His short hair was also darkened and spiked by sweat, but the stubble on his cheeks and his strong jaw showed its true chestnut color.  Below the shorts, muscled legs descended to a pair of white and gray Nike Zooms.  Presumably the dude was wearing ped socks; Adam couldn’t see from his position.

 

The woman on the bike finished her workout and walked towards one of a pair of cubicles to the left side of the exercise room; they were changing rooms—not that the broad bothered to change anything but her shoes.  She emerged quickly and, opening the door, headed towards the elevators.

 

Adam took his chance, stepping forward and catching the door before it closed—and then he was in.  He headed directly for the changing room and swiftly got into his workout gear.

 

The t-shirt that clung tightly to his massive pecs was a bright, eye-catching yellow.  There was a tear at the collar, deep enough to reveal his furry chest and the lack of sleeves emphasized his thick biceps and hairy forearms.  His powerful legs were bracketed between the Flight Falcon kicks and a pair of black Adidas shorts.  The outfit was designed to draw attention to his strong, hard body.

 

 

It did the trick.  From the moment he stepped back into the gym area, the other dude focused on him with laser intensity.  Deep hazel eyes ringed with long lashes roamed over Adam’s hot, hard body.  There was a visible tenting action in the kid’s shorts as he approached, holding out his hand, a big grin on his face.

 

“Hey there,” he said with a slight Southern drawl.  “Name’s Clint.”

 

Adam shook his strong, sweaty hand.  “Hey,” he responded, “I’m Tim.  Just got into town.”

 

Clint perked up.  “Me too!  Here for the horse show tomorrow—you know, down in the arena?”

 

Adam shook his head; he was honestly unaware of what was happening in the arena downtown over the weekend.

 

Clint gave a sheepish grin.  “Yeah, well, it ain’t a big deal.  I’m assistant to Clyde Sanger—you prob’ly ain’t heard’a him; he’s a horse trainer.  He got himself a nice room downtown, but said there weren’t no more vacancies, so he put me up here.  Anyway, reason I’m yammerin’ my mouth off—I didn’t get the chance to work the horses—Clyde did it himself tonight—and if I don’t get a good workout in before bed, I can’t sleep.  I was hopin’ you’d spot for me.”

 

Adam nodded sympathetically.  “Sure, bro, I’ll spot ya,” he said.

 

“Cool, man!”  Clint smiled enthusiastically and, heading to the bench, lay on it.  He’d already fastened a pair of forty-five pound weights on each side of the bar.  “I like to start by pressin’ one-eighty,” he confided.  “No way I coulda asked that lady in here earlier to spot me; weight woulda killed the broad.”

 

“I gotcha,” Adam said, flexing his arm so the thick vein running down each bicep popped out. Clint stared up at him, lust glittering in his eyes, before laying back, gripping the bar and lifting almost two hundred pounds.

 

Clint strained under the weight.  His handsome, scruffy face flushed red and pulled back into a rictus of Herculean effort.  His bare pecs, glistening with sweat, bulged massively as he struggled; his Nikes were pressed firmly against the floor to give him leverage.

 

Slowly, he extended his arms out to full length, then brought the barbell back down to its rest.  Adam walked to the head of the bench and stood there while the buff boy pressed seven more reps.  By the eighth, Adam had seen enough to get hard himself.

 

This was prime meat.  Time to get the show on the road.  He stepped forward as Clint lifted the bar again.  The kid glanced up—and found he could look right up Adam’s Adidas shorts.

 

Adam, of course, was commando.  Clint had a perfect view of the stud’s huge, hairy balls and, above them, his massive, vein-wrapped member looking less like a tent pole in his shorts and more like a baseball bat under a napkin.

 

This wasn’t Clint’s first time at the rodeo, so to speak.  He was twenty-two and had been working for Clyde since he was sixteen.  He’d started accompanying his employer when he was seventeen—and had managed to sneak out of the hotel and get himself fucked on that first trip.  He’d been on more than two dozen trips since then, and had only struck out twice.  He was no virgin.

 

But he’d never seen a cock this big.  Fuck, it was huge, and he wanted it so bad.  He gasped aloud—and in his distraction he let the barbell slip.  For a brief moment, it hung in the balance, then it tipped to the side and Clint found that he was unable to stop it.

 

Adam saw the barbell moving sideways.  “Here, dude, I got it,” he said, leaning forward and grabbing the bar with both hands.  He then impressed the hell outta Clint by easily lifting a hundred and eighty pounds, setting the bar back in its rests.  When he straightened up, he wasn’t even breathing hard.

 

“D-damn, man,” Clint stuttered, disconcerted both by Adam’s tool and his strength.  “Shit, buddy, you’re powerful as fuck.”  And with an unmistakably direct look at Adam’s crotch, he continued, almost shyly.  “And speakin’ of a powerful fuck, I, uh, I gotta room by myself up on the eighth floor…”

 

Adam grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye.  “Well, hell, bro, what we waitin’ for?”  He stepped to the far side of the exercise room and retrieved his gym bag as Clint gathered up his own gear.  The deviant sex killer followed his victim out to the elevator, watching the kid’s frim ass flex in his Under Armor shorts.  Hell yeah, he wanted to stick his dick into that meat—the thought was getting him even harder.

 

So was the thought of making the little fucker into meat in the first place.

 

Clint hadn’t bothered to put his shirt back on; his well-developed chest glistened with sweat in the dim elevator lighting.  His dark eyes were glued to Adam’s crotch.  As he stared he rubbed the massive bulge in his own shorts almost absentmindedly.  Adam smirked, looking at his prey.  The kid was strong and tough, only about three inches shorter than Adam, and nearly as well built.

 

Adam was gonna have to plan this carefully; the punk would probably put up a fight.  As an experienced killer, he knew he could take the boy down—but he didn’t want to get injured doing it.  This was going to take either a little finesse or a lot of brute force.

 

The car slid to a stop on the eighth floor; the ride had occurred in silence, but Clint spoke as soon as they stepped out.  “It’s down here, on the right.  Just a little ways,” he said reassuringly, as if he was afraid Adam would change his mind.

 

Adam had no intention of changing his mind.  As he tagged along behind the buff boy, he could feel sexual desire flowing though himself like an electrical charge.  Such prime fuckin’ meat; it was gonna be so hot fucking that sexy corpse…

 

Caught up in his thoughts of murderous lust, Adam almost walked into Clint when the latter stopped and opened the door to his room.  He followed the punk into the room and glanced around.

 

The room wasn’t quite as swanky as the last one he’d been in; it was smaller and the view wasn’t as good—the window was large, but it looked out over a side street at the solid glass wall of an office building—but it still had a certain hip sparseness to it.  Like the other room, a floor-to-ceiling divider wall separated the bedroom form the bathroom with the bed facing the window, its head against the divider.  On the far side of the room was corner unit that combined desk, TV stand and minibar; there was a small dresser on the near side.

 

Clint flicked on the lights.  There were three; one on a nightstand next to the bed, one on the dresser and one on the desk.  Together, they cast a warm yellow glow into the dark room.  Once the lights were on, the hot young faggot didn’t waste any time; tossing his shirt aside on the floor, he kicked off his Nikes and shimmied out of his shorts.

 

Of course he was freeballing underneath.  His thick cock sprang out the moment his shorts were lowered, slapping up against his flat ripped abs.  It was over six inches long and about an inch and a half thick, not including the pulsing veins wrapped around it.  It rose in a graceful curve from a mass of bushy brown curls that filled his crotch.

 

Wordlessly, the buff young slut approached the bed and began stripping it, first peeling back the thick, soft sand-colored comforter, then the crisp white high-thread-count cotton sheets.  As he worked, Clint put his hard body on display, his thick muscles flexing as he bent down or reached across the mattress.  In the space of a few seconds, a large, luxuriously-appointed bed had been pared down to bare platform for fucking, with only a single fitted sheet left.

 

When he was done, he turned back to Adam, silent, almost nervous, nude except for a pair of black ped socks.

 

Adam smiled—it was more like a sneer.  “Get on the bed, boy,” he commanded as he pulled off his sleeveless yellow t-shirt.  He approached the bed, still in his shorts and hightops.  As he loomed over the young man, he could see the boy’s eyes fixed on his chest, the pupils moving as they traced the contours of his furry, hubcap-like pecs.

 

“I wanna see your dick…” Clint said breathlessly, almost in a moan.  His shaft pulsated powerfully twice, then there was a glitter in the piss slit of his engorged head as his precum started to flow.

 

Adam turned abruptly and walked to the window without saying a word.  Standing with his back to the bed, he slowly slipped the Adidas shorts down his legs, stepping out of them without removing his Nikes.  He, like the kid, was commando underneath; as he bent down to retrieve the shorts, Clint got a perfect view of the older stud’s firm, perfect asscheeks flexing with the movement.

 

When Adam turned around, Clint gasped aloud.  He’d had a glimpse of Adam’s dick while the dude was spotting him, but that had been partially obscured and at an awkward angle.  Now he could see the enormous club-shaped shaft of engorged, pulsating flesh clearly.

 

He wanted that cock.  He’d never wanted dick so badly in his life.

 

Even from the window, Adam could see lust glinting in the boy’s eyes.  The fag was hooked; all he needed to do was reel him in.  He approached the bed, slowly and deliberately—almost ominously.

 

Clint sighed in sexual contentment as the (slightly) older man climbed onto the bed—and onto him, sitting on his torso and straddling him.  The young fag could feel the buff stud’s firm asscheeks planted on his belly as Adam’s huge tool jutted over his chest, dripping hot pearls of transparent precum onto Clint’s hard, glistening pecs.

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” he moaned, arching backwards and thrusting his pelvis up, his own cock slapping against the small of Adam’s back, “Fuck me, dude, stick it in me…”

 

Adam looked down in disgust at the muscular homo writhing in sexual pleasure beneath him.  He wanted nothing to do with the pathetic, mewling degenerate shuddering between his legs; he was just looking for a hot sexy corpse into which he could sink his aching shaft and find release.

 

That meant he had to put a little effort in—luckily, it was work he enjoyed.  Plus, it’d make up for the workout he’d cut short.

 

And, of course, tough meat like this always benefitted from tenderizing.

 

Clint opened his large, dark eyes, placing his hands on Adam’s thick, powerful thighs as he gazed worshipfully up into the perverted killer’s face.  “Damn, bro, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he muttered, fondling the alpha’s tree-trunk-like legs that were wrapped around his waist.  “I gotta tell ya, dude, I work hard and I play hard.  After a long day workin’ out the horses, I like to get rid’ myself, but I ain’t never seen no hossdick like yers.”

 

The youth ran his eyes lasciviously up the top’s well-defined torso, then let his hands follow suit.  They slid up Adam’s smooth, sweat-slicked flanks to lodge in the stud’s chest hair.  Clint sighed with erotic pleasure as he curled his fingers in the dark, wiry fur spread across Adam’s broad, muscled chest.

 

Clint was too engrossed in sexual desire to pick up on Adam’s silence or to notice the expression of lust-laced rage on the stronger man’s face.  The boy was focused completely on the muscled form that straddled him, pinning him to the bed.  Instinctively, irresistibly, he reached up and grabbed Adam’s enormous cock with both hands.

 

“Goddam,” he whispered, his eyes huge as he slowly jacked the long, thick shaft.  “I—uh, I don’t know…I mean, uh—well, I want ya in me, but—well, shit, dude—this thing it gonna tear me open.  You’ll go slow, won’tcha?”

 

Adam leaned forward, placing one large powerful hand on the kid’s chest and resting his weight on it.  Clint grunted as the air was pressed out of his lungs.  Even though he was looking directly into Adam’s face, the horny young faggot still thought the gleam that lit the copper-haired top’s eyes was lust; he was incapable of recognizing the glitter of gleeful cruelty that was radiating from the alpha.

 

“You want it slow, boy?” Adam whispered huskily.  “I can make it slow.  I can make it go so slow you’d beg me to end it if you could still speak.”

 

“Holy shit,” Clint gasped, writhing ecstatically under the serial killer’s heavy, well-built body, “That’s the hottest fuckin’ thing anyone’s said to me.  Fuckin’-A, man, use me.  I wanna be your sex toy.  Just—just don’t hurt me too bad, ok?  I, uh, I still gotta work tomorrow…”

 

“Don’t worry,” Adam smirked, “I guarantee you won’t be in any pain tomorrow.”

 

Clint’s handsome young face broke into a broad smile, despite the intense pressure on his chest.  “Goddam, man,” he moaned, “That hog’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad but I’m gonna cum before it’s all the way up my ass…”

 

“You’ll dump your load before that, cocksucker,” Adam responded.

 

Once again, Clint failed to notice the coldness in the stronger man’s voice.  “Oh no,” he chirped as well as his compressed torso would allow, “I usta shoot a wad at the slightest touch but nowadays I need to get fucked before I can cum.  Nothin’ else does it any more, not even BJs.”

 

As he spoke, the hard-bodied punk ran both hands up the one arm Adam was using to pin him to the bed, feeling the knotted muscles slide under his palms. Once he reached the shoulder, he brought his hands back down, curling his fingers in the wiry, sweat-matted hair covering the alpha’s wide, powerful chest.  Lost in physical admiration, he smiled happily up at the murderous stud.

 

Adam permitted himself a small, icy grin as he shifted his weight to his other hand—and moved it higher up Clint’s chest, making it more difficult for the kid to breath.

 

“Yeah?” he sneered, “Ya whored yerself out so much you gotta get yer fuckhole reamed so you can spunk?  I got another way to get it outta ya, you worthless fag—I can just squeeze it outta ya.”

 

Even if Clint had missed the tone of Adam’s voice, this time there was no way to miss his words.  The boy was young, well-built and extremely attractive; he had gotten many protestations of love—but no abuse.  His eyes widened in confusion as Adam’s contempt caught his attention.

 

“Wh-what?” he gasped in bewilderment.  “What-what’d ya c-call me?”

 

“I said you were a worthless cumsuckin’ piece of shit,” Adam said calmly, “And I’m not gonna fuck you, ya stupid homo; I’m gonna fuck your dead meatsack corpse.”

 

His eyes wide as dinner plates, the muscular slut stared up at the alpha, incomprehension writ large on his face.  His brain simply refused to process the words.  “Wh-” he stammered, “I—wha—I don’t under-understand—”

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’re dumber than a sack of hammers.  Guess I gotta beat it into ya, asswipe.”

 

Adam reached out and snatched up the lamp on the nightstand.  In spite of its weight—the base was a two-foot rectangle of polished stone and carved wood—he swing it around easily and cracked Clint across the skull with it, putting the kid’s lights out good and hard.

 

With the fuckmeat lying limply beneath him, Adam held the lamp in one hand and wrapped its power cord around his other hand.  He pulled hard enough for the veins to pop out on his bulging biceps, but within seconds he’d pulled the cord free from both the base and the outlet simultaneously.

 

In the increased dimness of ambient light, he tossed the lamp to the floor, barely noticing the sound as the shade crumpled and the bulb shattered with a loud pop.  His bulked-out hairy chest sweaty and heaving with exertion, Adam swiftly used the cord to bind Clint’s hands to the open metalwork of the bed’s headboard.  As he jerked the cord tightly around the kid’s wrists, the latter moaned, an indication that he was starting to regain consciousness despite the vicious blow to the head that had left blood trickling from a nasty cut on his temple.

 

Pain, in fact, was the first thing Clint experienced on awakening, the unexpectedness of the blow adding shock to the sensation of physical damage.  He could feel weight on his abdomen, but it took him a moment to clear the aching dimness out of his mind and remember the stud he’d picked up down in the exercise room.  Dude had hit him—what the fuck?  He tried to push the guy off him, only to find his hands above his head, so tightly bound that the circulation was cut off.

 

And that was when fear joined shock and pain.  Clint’s eyes widened and his cock wilted.

 

“Wacha doon?” he slurred, still disoriented and lacking some fine motor control.

 

“I’m gonna strangle you to death, then I’m gonna fuck your corpse, that’s what I’m doing, faggot.  Ready to die?”

 

 

Adam waited for what he knew would follow.  First, about fifteen seconds of quiet as the meat tried to digest the meaning of his words.  Second would be a rigidity, a stiffening of the body in horror as full understand sank in.

 

Third depended on the nature of the meat.  Clint went with begging.

 

“Why-why ya wanna kill me, man?” he whimpered, “I ain’t done nothin’ to ya.  Please, bro, don’ hurt me—you can do anythin’ ya want, I won’t say anythin’, I swear I won’t!”

 

Terror had enhanced his slight southern drawl.  Adam’s first response was twitch in his dick, followed by a visible increase in the precum drooling from his purple tip.  Clint could feel the hot liquid spattering his chest and moaned in fear.

 

“Ain’t gonna say nothin’?” Adam sneered.  “Course you ain’t gonna say nothin’—you’ll be dead, asswipe.  You’re gonna be a sack of rotting meat.  You ain’t telling no one nothin’.”

 

“B-but why?” the buff youth wailed.

 

“Cause I wanna,” Adam said coldly.  “Cause it gets me off.  Cause I ain’t no homo.  I don’t fuck other dudes, you worthless cocksuckin’ pig; I fuck meat.”

 

Clint stared in confusion up at the alpha’s handsome, masculine face, now twisted bewilderingly into a mask of rage.  He couldn’t understand why this was happening.  He was just gonna have some innocent fun getting fucked in the ass by a strong, muscled stranger.  How had he ended up bound and helpless under a sociopathic killer?

 

 

“No—fuck, please no…” he whispered in terror.  They were the last words he ever spoke.

 

“I’m horny,” Adam growled.  “I wanna cum.  Time to take a dirt nap, motherfucker.”  Leaning forward, he wrapped his huge, powerful hands around the kid’s throat and squeezed.

 

Clint was in instant agony; it felt like a bear trap had closed on his neck.  He tried to scream but all that came out was a thick, wet gagging sound.

 

Adam glared down at the panicked, struggling youth.  “Die, you stupid sack of shit,” he hissed, “My balls are so fulla cum they hurt.  Choke and die, asswipe, so I can fill your useless boymeat with my spunk.”

 

The writhing, terrified punk knew he was dying.  His young, innocent was swelling and turning red.  He jerked his arms frantically, his well-developed delts and triceps quivering with the strain, slowly managing to unloosen the knot,even though he was unaware of it.

 

“Quit fightin’ it, faggot,” Adam snarled.  “More ya fight, more I make it hurt.  Ya got that, cunt?  You’re dyin’—how long it takes and how bad it hurts is all up to you, bitch.”

 

Clint gagged and heaved, hearing the words but unable to control his strong young body.  Adam, of course, knew that most of the kid’s movements were involuntary; he just wanted to watch the boy suffer as he tried to stop the physical reactions.  “Dumbass cocksucker,” the cruel alpha sneered, “I toldja to stop strugglin’.  Now I’m gonna hafta hurt ya.  Hold on, fuckwad, this is gonna blow yer tiny faggot mind.”

 

Twisting his hands, Adam positioned them on Clint’s throat with his thumbs resting on the punk’s larynx—and then squeezed.  Hard.  Really fucking hard.

 

Clint’s eyes were already starting to protrude from lack of oxygen; there was nothing in his agonized, distorted face to indicate the new depths of pain he was plumbing as his voice box was slowly crushed.  His legs, on the other hand, expressed his reaction eloquently; his thick, muscled thighs flexing as he kicked violently.  As he flailed, the sock was pulled off his left foot, which was left bare, toes curling with exertion.

 

Viciously, Adam spat into Clint’s darkening face.  “Ya feelin’ the burn yet, homo?  Useless fag like you deserves to die in a fuckload of pain, right?  So take what’s comin’ to ya, boy, die like a fuckin’ dog!”

 

His thumbs dug deeply into the bulge of cartilage in Clint’s throat.  As it began to deform and give way under his brute strength, Adam’s cock began to pulse even faster, the veins wrapped round it becoming more engorged with lust and rage-fueled blood.

 

Clint’s dick had a different response.  Adam felt a wet spurt against the small of his back, and a persistent warm trickle under his asscheeks.  Clint had pissed himself in sheer terror as his throat was being crushed.

 

Suddenly, a faint crunch came from the kid’s windpipe; the larynx had collapsed and folded back into the esophagus.  Between the pain and the horrific impact the sound of the physical damage made, Clint went momentarily insane.

 

Thrashing like a landed fish, Clint’s hands slipped free of the cord.  The boy beat his hands vainly against Adam’s massive chest.  He pressed his hands against the top’s arms and tried to pry them away from his neck.  He pressed his feet—now both bare—against the bed and tried to lift himself up and shove the alpha off.  Nothing worked.  All he succeeded in doing was to burn through most of what little oxygen remained in his bloodstream.

 

“That’s it, you stupid sack of shit,” Adam whispered, “Give it up.  You’re done; fuckin’ die already.  Only way the pain’s gonna stop, asswipe.  Go to fuckin’ sleep and let it go.”

 

Still Clint struggled, straight-arming death for as long as the strength in his young hard body held out.  By now, most of his resistance was involuntary.  His eyes bulged unseeingly from his tear-streaked, blackening face, his thick, protruding tongue was almost as purple as Adam’s dick.  Foam bubbled out past his blue, swollen lips as his hands gradually slowed from panicked pounding to near-gentle caresses of his killer’s shoulders and arms.

 

And his cock was starting to swell, too.  Even as Adam was violently strangling his prey, he could feel the spongy tip of the meat’s shaft pressing against the small of his back.  The sensation of the kid’s stiffening cock touching him further enraged the psychotic stud.

 

Spitting into Clint’s black, unrecognizable face again.  “Die, you fuckin’ pig!” he hissed.  Underneath him, there was little left of Clint to understand; the buff gay boy started to shudder as large parts of his brain started to die.  The pain in his throat, the pounding in his head and the horrible pressure in his chest were all starting to fade, along with his consciousness and his personality.  A loud, buzzing darkness had started at the periphery and was now rapidly eating its way to the center of the fag’s universe, and the darkness was death.  The punk’s heart began to fail, beating in an increasingly (and excruciatingly) erratic pattern…

 

…and there was a deep, vital ache in his scrotum, like he’d been kicked in the balls, except it ran the entire length of his unaccountably erect, swollen cock…

 

As his body progressed from violently flailing to slow, pre-death convulsions, Clint’s randomly-moving hands stroked his killer’s hard, sweaty body.  One hand reached up and slid almost tenderly down Adam’s cheek while the other, clutching at the alpha’s chest, ended with its fingers curled tightly in the wiry fur.

 

“Fuck you, faggot,” Adam whispered and clenched his hands together as tightly as he could. The cracking, splintering sound of Clint’s esophagus collapsing into a mangled ball of cartilage rang out like a shot in the dimly-lit room.

 

The meat’s eyes rolled back in its head and the body began to convulse rhythmically, jerking and flopping between Adam’s powerful thighs as he straddled the dying punk.  All of Clint’s short, spunk-filled existence contracted into a blast of searing agony that boiled up out of his balls and shot out great strands of pearly boyseed, jetting straight up and raining back down on both the killer and his victim.

 

Grimacing with rage and effort, Adam kept throttling the corpse, feeling the meat convulsing in its death throes under him.  The punk’s load had splattered in his hair and down his back; some of it had even shot over his head and landed in the kid’s own face, where it pooled in his half-open eyes from which only the blood-streaked white peeked.  More boyspunk had fallen on the homo’s cheeks, where it blended perfectly with the foamy drool still leaking of the meat’s face.

 

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Adam muttered, “Nice piece a’ fuckmeat.”  Releasing the corpse’s neck, he reached down.  Looping his arms under the meat’s still-quivering legs, he brought them up, placing the ankles on his shoulders.  The strong alpha inserted his tool into the dead kid’s fuckhole and shoved.  Despite being flaccid in death, there still wasn’t enough elasticity in the sphincter to take the full girth of the top’s shaft.  Adam felt the ass muscle tear as he mounted the corpse.

 

The meat was still shuddering in its death throes as Adam pumped his rod deep into its guts.  Out of corner of his eye, he could catch a glimpse of its feet, resting on his shoulders.  The toes were curling; it was a mindless reflex, of course, the random firing of nerves as the last few functional brain cells died, but they seemed to be perfectly timed to Adam’s thrusts.

 

It was almost like the fagmeat was still alive.  Adam didn’t like that.  Without missing a beat, he reached around and grabbed the corpse’s crushed throat, digging his fingers into the spinal ridge in the back while placing his thumbs under the corner of the jaw.

 

As he fucked the meat, he applied pressure to his thumbs.

 

The alpha’s hard, sweat-soaked body pumped the dead homo brutally.  Adam could feel his balls drawing up, ready to fill the corpse with hot geysers of mansperm.  His breathing became labored and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he tried to delay his orgasm—then he gave in.

 

“Fuckin’-A!” he shouted, tightening his hands involuntarily as his muscled form shuddered violently in physical release.  There was a faint cracking sound, barely audible over Adam’s deep, orgasmic grunts and the corpse went rigid; for a brief moment, the slack dead intestinal muscles tightened around Adam’s throbbing, shooting tool before lapsing back into limp death, this time irretrievably.  The buff killer had literally popped the meat’s skull off its spine when he shot his wad.

 

Sighing with sexual satisfaction, Adam held his position for a little longer, his still-oozing dick buried in the corpse.  When he finally stopped shuddering in ecstasy, he pulled out and stood at the foot of the bed, his chest and sides heaving as his breathing gradually slowed back to a normal pace.  Abruptly, he turned and headed for the bathroom.  He needed a shower.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the bedroom, pulling on his jeans a slipping back into the green button-down.  He didn’t put the Flight Falcons back on, though; he slipped the hightops into his gym back—along with the dead boy’s Under Armor shorts.  They looked like they’d fit him.  He laced the fuckmeat’s Nike Zooms onto his own feet before zipping up the back and heading towards the door.

 

Just before stepping out of the room, he turned for a final look back.  The dead fag was splayed out on the bed, hands near the head with the fingers curled in final death agony.  The body wasn’t twitching anymore; the neck snap had taken care of that.  The abuse and violence inflicted on the sexy, unfortunate youth was as obvious as the fact that his corpse had been violated after death.

 

With a huge, self-satisfied grin, Adam left the room.  He hung the “do not disturb” tag on the door on his way out, wondering how long it’d take for the punk’s boss to get pissed off enough to come looking for him.  The meat would be nice and stiff by time it was found.

M4M4Rent

It had been too long, and there was too little online.  Joe was frustrated and horny.  He was also uneasy; there were things going on…

 

Specifically, there had been a couple of fags snuffed recently that he’d had nothing to do with.  That bar back from Mack’s, that had the air of an amateur—twink was probably offed by a jealous boyfriend, or something.  The other one, though—that construction dude in the old Androy Hotel—that was something else.  That was someone who knew what he was doing.

 

So Joe had been worried, and he’d laid low a bit.  Turned out, he wasn’t the only one; when his hormones built up and he felt the need to drain the semen from his aching, overfilled balls, he found little to choose from while trolling on the hookup apps.

 

That was when he spotted the ad.

 

“19yo looking for gen daddy who can top me  5’10”, 145.  work out daily so you gotta be tough and buff enough to handle me  can’t host  cash only”

 

If the pickings had been better, he might have ignored it—he damn sure wasn’t gonna pay for the privilege of fucking the slut, and things could get tricky if the cash was asked for up front—but Joe was feeling the need to unload badly, so he responded to it anyway.

 

After all, wasn’t like the whore was gonna be able to spend a dime by the time Joe was done with him.  But he’d need to get a room somewhere; he wasn’t gonna waste meat in his own home.  You don’t shit where you eat.

 

“Powerful daddy, 32, 6’5”, 185.  I can bang ya all night long.  Can’t host either, know a place we can go?”  The message was accompanied by a body shot; the pic only showed Joe’s ripped, hairy abs and bulging pecs.

 

It was enough.  The reply was immediate.

 

“cum get me and we’ll work it out.  U no curley’s bar on olive st?  meet me @ back door in alley 20 mins ok?”  This one had the boy’s pic.

 

He certainly looked no older than nineteen, if that.  The photo was a nude, from the head to the knees; it showed a dark-haired youth with a slim but muscled body.  His smooth, creamy skin was unblemished.  His broad, almost innocent face had large blue eyes and a dark smudge on the upper lip that appeared to be an attempt at a mustache.

 

Below the waist, a long, glistening cock jutted proudly from a black tangle of pubic hair.  Kid had no qualms about putting it out there, that was for certain.  He knew how to market himself.

 

Tonight, he’d done it perhaps a bit too well.

 

Joe knew Curley’s; it was a gay piano bar, somewhat run-down these days, which catered to old queens with pretensions to money and culture.  It should have been a happy hunting ground for someone like this little slut; he musta struck out tonight for some reason.

 

Joe smiled.  Given the chance, he was gonna make sure the kid was struck out for good.  But he still needed a kill pit.  He wasn’t coming back here, and he didn’t wanna blow any cash on a motel room.  Well, as the whore said, it’d get worked out.

 

Joe slid his thick, muscled legs into a pair of tight black jeans before slipping on his eight-inch tall Timberland Classic boots, leaving them untied and loosely laced.  Pulling a khaki-green compression t-shirt over his head, he stood in front of the mirror and admired the way it highlighted his huge chest and washboard abs.  He made sure his own shoulder-length black hair was in place before heading out the door.

 

Within five minutes, he was in the driver’s seat of his classic Camaro, heading south towards Olive Street with the T-tops open.  It was a pleasant evening, and Joe was up for some fun.

 

There was still some traffic on Olive Street, but the side street was empty and the alley behind the bar was absolutely deserted—except for a lone figure, standing in the garish orange glow of a streetlight, smoking a cigarette.  Joe recognized the dark-haired youth from his face pic.  The kid was wearing a day-glo yellow t-shirt that clung to his well-built torso like a glove; the shirt was advertising some bodybuilding organization.

 

The little slut was clearly on the make—his low-slung skinny jeans in faded denim barely cleared his waist, letting skin flash between the bottom of the t-shirt and the beltline of the jeans.  This let the boywhore show off the tramp stamp tattoo on the small of his back just above his firm, well-rounded asscheeks.  The belt itself was thick black leather, pierced with dozens of flat, square studs.

 

On his feet, the kid sported what appeared to be a pair of black and white hightops with red laces—they were actually a pair of Asics JB Elite wrestling shoes.  Like the rest of his outfit, they were worn with the idea of attracting attention to his body, and they did the trick well.

 

Joe pulled the car up to him.  The kid approached and leaned into the window.  “You the dude from the app?” he asked, his voice slightly slurred.  Alcohol wafted on his breath.  Joe nodded, hoping the boy wasn’t too drunk to enjoy the ride.

 

“Cool,” the kid said, “Name’s Connor.”  Walking around the car, he opened the passenger door and hopped in.  “So, you gotta place we can go?”

 

“No,” Joe said evenly.  “Can’t go back to my place; the ol’ lady got home early.”

 

“Goddam!  Well, fuck…” Connor spat out.  “Shit, ya got money for a motel room?”

 

“Depends on how much you want for yourself,” Joe replied.

 

The whore paused to think, his large blue eyes narrowing, giving his face an almost feral look as he glanced at Joe, obviously considering how much he could get away with asking for.

 

“Dude, I get a hundred an hour,” he said at last, watching Joe carefully for a hint as to how his outrageous demand had been received.

 

The alpha killer smiled calmly; he’d been expecting something similar.  Little fucker was delusional—but Joe could work with that.  “Ok,” he said.  “Two hours.  But for that, no, I don’t got cash for a room.”

 

Connor’s face lit up, then fell a bit.  “Ok, I’ll take ya back to my place.  But it’s a shithole.  Don’t judge me by it, ok?  I got plans, bro—big plans.  You watch; yer gonna see me on the news some day.”

 

“Fine,” Joe said, shifting the Camaro into drive, “Now, which way?”

 

“Right onto Ransom Street and back out to the highway.  I’m in a place over on Willow Falls.”

 

Joe knew the area—cheap, run-down apartments and by–the-week motels.  Connor’s place turned out to be the former.

 

The apartment complex called itself “The Lakes” by virtue of a trash-filled ditch that functioned as runoff for a nearby creek.  It had rained yesterday, so the ditch was full—Joe couldn’t help but notice as Connor led him towards a building in the rear that faced the ditch.

 

It was a low, two-story building, about fifty years old.  All doors opened out onto the front; those on the second floor accessible by a balcony reached by an iron staircase at each end.  Connor’s was on the ground floor, third from the end.  Joe noticed how few lights were on in the building as a whole.

 

“Toldja it was a shithole,” Connor muttered.  “They ain’t renewing anyone’s leases—think I was the last person to sign a new one.  Plan on tearin’ the place down, I hear…”

 

With that, he unlocked the door and led the way inside, where it was even more of a shithole than outside.  A two-room apartment with a tiny kitchenette at one end of the front room and a bathroom at one of the back room.

 

The front room was furnished with a cheap futon; the mat was torn and leaking stuffing.  There was a warped particle board side table with a lamp and a cigarette-burn-scarred coffee table on which a Nintendo game console sat.  Facing it was a large flat-screen TV, easily the most expensive item in the apartment.

 

That assessment didn’t change when Joe saw the back room.  Under the pitiless, barren glare of a solitary overhead lightbulb, a single mattress was on the floor, completely bare.  There did seem to be a set of sheets, though, in a pile of apparently dirty laundry spilling out of the closet.  On the floor next to the bed was another lamp, a mate to the one in the living room.  The shade and bulb were missing.  By the lamp was an overflowing ashtray.

 

A tiny doorless room in the corner held the toilet and bathtub; the rest of the end of the room was taken up with the sink vanity with the mirror above—it reflected most of the smallish room.

 

Joe looked around in disgust.  The air reeked of stale cigarette smoke and boysweat.  Connor caught the look.  “It’s hard to get to the laundromat, an’ I don’t have a car.  Can’t use the laundry room here, man, the spics an’ niggers will steal all my threads.”

 

“Yeah?  Well lessee what ya look like outta yer threads, boy,” Joe replied, reaching down to the hem of his compression tee and pulling it up over his head.  Connor stiffened; even though he’d seen Joe’s fantastic physique in the body pic he’d gotten, the sight of that furry, muscular torso, already glistening with sweat in the warm bedroom, in real life was intensely erotic.  As the rentboy slipped off his own shirt, revealing his smooth firm chest, well-built but not bulked out like Joe’s, he already knew he wanted the older stud’s cock, bad.   But first, he wanted his money.  He whipped out his hard, throbbing cock.

 

“Cash up front, dude, or ya don’t get to touch the goods.  Ya gotta pay ta play, bro,” Connor said.  He’d always asked for payment in this manner, casual and cocky.  He twerked his hips briefly, letting his long dick bob about in the open air, as an enticement.

 

He had no idea of the nightmarish violence his usual request was about to unleash.  As usual, it started with an incredibly stupid move on the part of the slut.

 

Joe had turned around, seeking a clean spot to toss his compression t-shirt.  It took a sec; there weren’t many options.  Finally spotting a clear area on the floor, he bent over and let the shirt drop—and felt a simultaneous tug on his back pocket.  The one he kept his wallet in.

 

The buff, hulking alpha immediately stood up straight and turned around.  The slim but well-built boywhore had slipped Joe’s wallet out of his pocket and was rifling through it.  Spotting a wad of cash in the bill compartment, he yanked them out and pocketed them before turning back and glancing at the ID.

 

Connor’s eyes widened.  “Holy shit,” he said, “Is your name really—”

 

He never completed the sentence.  Joe’s rage was instant and overwhelming; he rabbit-punched the rentboy in the jaw, splitting his lip and sending him reeling.

 

Connor staggered back, dropping the wallet and clutching his face, his blue eyes wide with shock—he’d had no idea the blow was coming.  Tears running down his face, he looked up at Joe.  “Wha—what the fuck, dude?!?”

 

Joe’s eyes glittered with a dangerous, angry light.  “You tryin’ to steal from me, faggot?  You got no idea how big a fuckin’ mistake you just made.  You will, though.  By the time with you, you’ll know exactly how bad you just fucked up.”

 

Connor’s reaction was different than most of Joe’s prey.  Perhaps his physique inspired him; he was more toned and much more muscular than most of his johns—he was used to getting his way.

 

He got angry.  It was like putting out a fire with gasoline.

 

“You owe me, you sonovabitch!” he shouted petulantly.  “You want this body, asshole?  Then pay for it—now!”

 

The cold killer noted with amusement that despite getting punched in the face, the homo whore was willing to continue, as long as he got paid.

 

“I don’t pay,” Joe said calmly, stepping forward and wrapping his huge hands around Connor’s biceps.  “You, though—yer gonna pay, faggot.  Yer gonna pay hard, you thieving little sack of shit.”

 

In one single, swift moment of brutal violence, the powerful sadist lifted the unsuspecting cocksucker in the air by his arms, and turning on his heel, flung the punk across the room into the vanity.

 

It happened so fast, Connor didn’t realize what was going on.  He screamed in pain as he impacted the mirror and shattered it, before falling onto the vanity.  The tap on the sink tore into his flat, smooth belly before he rolled off and landed breathless on the floor.

 

He didn’t have time to catch his breath before Joe was on him again.  “Worthless pansy scum,” the alpha hissed before snatching the moaning rentboy by the arms and hurling him through the air again, into the bathroom.

 

This time, the impact was more intense.  Snagging the shower curtain and tearing the rod from the wall, Connor slammed into the tiled wall and fell into the hard, unforgiving fiberglass bathtub.  There was a momentary blast of agony, and the boywhore was knocked out.

 

He was only unconscious for a few moments.  It wasn’t long enough for Joe’s anger to subside.  He was dragging the limp boymeat out of the bathroom when it began to shudder and moan, as consciousness slowly and painfully flowed back in.  The enraged sadist dropped Connor to the floor and stood, towering over him.

 

Sure, he’d been planning on snuffing the faggot, but that woulda been a nice slow strangle.  This fucker—he had to pay.  Presumptuous little cocksucker had swiped his wallet and seen his ID.

 

No one had done that before.  A lesson needed to be taught here—not of course, that the pupil would benefit by his knowledge.  As soon as he learned what he needed to, he’d die.

 

The boy’s large blue eyes blinked open.  A large bruise was rising on his cheek where he’d hit the tile in the bathroom.  Another, caused by the vanity faucet, discolored his abdomen.  He closed his eyes again, groaned loudly, and then looked dazedly up at his assailant.

 

There was still some fight in him.  “Du-dude…” he uttered painfully, “Wh-when I g-g-get back onna my feet, I’m gon-gonna fuck ya up so b-bad…”

 

“No you’re not, ya piece of cumsucking shit,” Joe snarled.  “Wanna know what yer gonna do?  Yer gonna beg for your wasted life as I put the beatdown on ya, rape yer sorry ass and waste ya.”

 

Stooping down, he wrapped his huge hands around the teen’s throat and lifted him into the air.

 

Connor found himself dangling, hanging from his neck.  He instantly grabbed at Joe’s hands, trying to pry himself free of their choking, crushing grip.  Young and strong as he was, he was no match for the experienced killer—even with all his strength, he couldn’t move so much as a single one of the alpha’s fingers.  Worse, his air was cut off.  He’d been too groggy to process Joe’s words when they were uttered, but now the full import hit him like a ton of bricks.

 

He was gonna be murdered.

 

Connor panicked.  He’d always been the strongest and most fit of the small clique of rentboys he hung with; he always been far and away stronger and more fit that his johns.  This was the first guy he’d come across who could take him—and suddenly, he was taking him out.

 

The slut went feral.  He reached out, clawing, towards Joe’s face; too short to reach, he ended up clutching helplessly at the killer’s bulging biceps and triceps.  As his legs jerked and flailed, his bladder voided involuntarily, piss splattering on his jerking wrestling kicks.  Joe chuckled, then spat into the boy’s swelling, darkening face.  “Oh no you don’t, whore,” he jeered, “No nice easy choke-out for you.  I gotta beat some sense into ya, motherfucker.”

 

Connor had brief sensation of violent motion.  The hulking alpha had let go of his throat, but just as the cunt tried to draw a needed lungful of air, he was hit with a shattering blast of pain.

 

Joe had rammed Connor straight through the closet door, snapping the kid’s left humerus, the bone in the upper arm.  The battered, bleeding faggot found himself huddled on a pile of clothes, semi-conscious and moaning.  It was dark, except for the light coming through the large, Connor-sized hole in the cheap, hollow-core door.

 

Suddenly, a shadow fell across him.  Protectively holding his arm, mewling from the sharp agony of a broken bone, the boywhore turned his large, tear-filled blue eyes up and caught sight of Joe’s eyes staring right back at him through the mangled door.  The eyes of the buff killer were also blue, but they glittered with a cold sadistic light.  Even though Connor was in shock and in full mental retreat from the nightmare that his current reality had become, he still recognized the gleam of homicidal lust.

 

When Connor lost his shit this time, he pissed all over his dirty laundry.  This time, he drained himself; when he was done, the pile of clothes reeked of more than just sweat.  He scrambled off the sodden pile, cowering and gibbering in the corner of the closet as Joe tore the remainder of the door form its hinge and paced inexorably towards him.

 

As much as he consciously blocked the thought, Connor knew the approach of death when he saw it.  He was young and strong, but this towering slab of solid, hairy man-muscle was much more powerful than he was, and he knew it.  “No…” he whimpered as Joe approached slowly, menacingly.  “Please, no…don’t, bro, don’t do this…I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry, just please don’t hurt me no more…”

 

Joe was grim and silent as he bent down and grabbed a handful of the whoreboy’s hair.  Yanking viciously on it, he dragged Connor, moaning and crying, to his feet and led him out of the closet like a dog on a leash.  The buff young slut staggered out and fell to his knees again.

 

“Please—” he started.  He had time enough to get just the one word out before Joe hoisted him into the air by his throat again.  This time Joe held the thrashing punk up at his eye level—with a single hand.  The muscles of his upper arm, already glistening with sweat, bulged with the strain of keeping the kid aloft.

 

“Lookitya, ya stupid faggot,” the cruel killer hissed, his face suddenly lit with a brutal, unholy glee.  “Y’know what?  You’re gonna die tonight.   And it’s gonna hurt, you worthless sack a’ shit.”

 

To emphasize his point, Joe drove a roundhouse punch directly into Connor’s face, as hard as he could.  There was a loud squelching sound as the rentboy’s nose was smashed into a pulp of crushed cartilage.   The powerful sadist drew his arm back again; the next blow was rewarded with a loud crunch as the teen’s cheekbone snapped.

 

With his esophagus closed off, Connor had no way to protest; using his good right arm—his broken left dangled uselessly—he could only claw at Joe’s thick, fur-covered arm as huge gray circles of shock formed around his wide, frantic eyes.  His face, already swelling and darkening with lack of oxygen, was now a mass of fiery pain.  A surge of panic shot through his smooth, muscled body, and he managed to catch hold of some of the skin on Joe’s arm.  Jerking quickly, the kid managed to scratch his assailant, drawing blood.

 

It was a bad move.

 

“You motherfucker!” Joe snarled.  Lifting Connor even higher, he rammed the boy down onto the floor, as hard as he could.

 

And then before Connor could catch his breath, he was introduced to Joe’s Timberland Classic boots—the hard way.

 

It was like the older man was trying to kick a field goal.  Joe relished the sounds of ribs snapping like twigs and Connor’s shriek of pain as fragments of broken bones tore through his guts like shrapnel.  “Now you’re feelin’ me, ya cumsuckin’ faggot,” he muttered with a twisted grin on his cruel, handsome face.

 

Then he placed his foot on Connor’s flat, heaving belly and put his weight on it, grinding the tread pattern of the boot sole into the boy’s soft, smooth flesh.  The punk screamed in pain as the hulking, hardbodied killer stomped down with all his force, putting his weight into it.

 

“Shaddup, ya stupid fuckin’ faggot,” Joe snarled, “You love this shit.  Lookitya, you goddam cocksucker, yer dick is hard as fuck.  You love gettin’ treated like the sack of fuckin’ garbage you are, ain’t that right?”

 

Connor’s turned his once-smug face, now a purple mass of bruised flesh, up to his attacker.  His eyes were so swollen he could barely open them; when he did, tears flowed uninterruptedly.  “Wh-why?” he gasped as he clutched at the rough brown leather of the muscled alpha’s work boot, his fingers tangling in the loose laces.  “Why, du-dude? Sorry…p-please, so…s-so sorry—”

 

Despite his blurred vision, Connor could see well enough to see the dangerous flash of rage in Joe’s eyes.  He gasped in terror, knowing he was looking death in the face  He was even able to realize that there was something else behind the rage…something like glee—or could that be lust…

 

He didn’t notice the flash of motion until the last second.  “No!” he screamed—it was the last coherent word he ever spoke.

 

The reinforced toe of Joe’s boot made impact with the boywhore’s chin with high velocity as he delivered a brutally swift kick.  The blow was devastating; Connor’s jaw shattered into three separate pieces.  The inarticulate screech that escaped his mangled mouth had an animalistic quality to it.  The “fight or flight” instinct kicked in involuntarily; the boy was clearly unable to fight his way out of the situation so, taking advantage of the fact that Joe’s boot was no longer pinning him down, he rolled over and began to scramble awkwardly with one arm towards the doorway.

 

As the fuckmeat twisted away, Joe noticed that the fucker’s cock was not only hard, it was glistening at the tip.

 

Watching the rentboy’s bubble butt flexing in the tight jeans, his tramp stamp gleaming under a sheen of sweat, Joe realized how badly his puckered, aching scrotum needed release.  His balls were overfilled with manseed and needed draining immediately.

 

Time to mount the meat.

 

Striding forward Joe reached out to grab Connor by the waistband of his jeans.   The badly beaten rentboy heard the thumping of Joe’s boots approaching from behind and threw himself forward; all Joe managed to grab was the thick studded belt.  Since it was already unbuckled, one end slipped free and Joe was left with nothing in his hands.

 

Connor reached the doorway and, grasping at the jamb, tried to regain his feet.  Despite the agony as the jagged ends of broken ribs slashed at his innards, the dazed teen whore hoped he’d be able to make the front door—it was only a few feet beyond…

 

That was when Joe caught him by the waistband and jerked him back from the doorway.  Pinning the struggling meat to the floor face-first, the horny alpha yanked the youth’s jeans down to his knees.

 

Then, crouching over the shrieking boywhore, Joe placed his thick, throbbing, ooze-smeared dickhead against the pink, fluttering sphincter and drove the pulsating shaft deep into Connor’s guts, penetrating the punk until his thick, wiry pubes were scratching the kid’s smooth asscheeks.

 

In spite of the agony of his battered body, broken arm, and pulverized face, this new ripping, slashing sensation in his rectum took precedence in Connor’s universe of pain.  It wasn’t as if he’d never been fucked before; he did that for a living.  But he’d never been so viciously impaled on such a huge rod of manflesh; no one who’d fucked him before had ever been this big—or this brutal about it.

 

The well-built teen punk screamed, the movement of his shattered jaw increasing his torment.  As he pawed helplessly at the thin, stained carpet covering his bedroom floor, his stunned mind was trying to comprehend how what started as a simple trick had ended in such horror, but he wasn’t really capable of sustained rational thought.  His thrashing, useless attempts to escape were purely involuntary.

 

The whoreboy’s hightop Asics wrestling kicks managed to grab a purchase on the carpet, but it did no good; Joe was pinning the meat to the floor.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but to fuckin’ hell,” Joe growled in Connor’s ear.  “You ain’t gettin’ offa my dick till you’re dead, cunt.  Does it hurt?  Good.  You better enjoy the pain, boy, cause when it stops, you’re dead.  Hear me, ya worthless homo?  As long as yer still in pain, yer still alive.”

 

As he rammed his massive shaft, writhing with veins like a log wrapped with barbed wire, into the critically injured teen rentboy, the buff alpha lowered himself to lay full length on the flailing kid.  Bending his head down so that his dark scruffy cheek scraped against Connor’s, Joe whispered into the squealing cumsucker’s ear.  “Ain’t gonna be long now, cockpig.  It’ll be over soon.  Gonna hurt ya one last time, then you’ll get to take a nice long dirt nap, pumped fulla my cum.  Fuck yeah, that’s whatcha want, ain’t it, faggot?  Yer dick’s still hard, you queer sack a’ shit, cause you know yer gonna die fulla my spunk.  Yer gonna get dumped like trash to rot with my sperm all up in yer guts…”

 

Connor heard the words, but physical shock had finally kicked in.  He could process the meaning, but his young, hard body, already full of testosterone and adolescent hormones, was suddenly flooded with adrenaline.  He shuddered violently, as much in chemical overload as in fear.  The older man was pumping harder and faster; his breath was becoming ragged—

 

Connor knew what was coming but had no way to brace himself against the onslaught of semen and pain he was going to be forced to endure; he could only wail aloud as a shriek of terror tore silently through his frantic mind.  He was gonna die.  It was gonna happen now.  No, it couldn’t, this couldn’t happen, he was just gonna meet a john to get banged real quick, he was gonna go hang with Stevie and Paulie later tonight…

 

Joe pulled himself back up on his knees, jerking Connor up with him, pulling the teen up onto his knees as well.  Connor’s right hand clawed aimlessly at the air, for just a moment.  Joe was panting, his rock-hard, sweat-soaked body smacking brutally and wetly against the abused teen.  His balls were aching so bad, he had to let go, it had to happen now…

 

It did.  As the first searing gush of manspunk hosed Connor’s guts, Joe reached around and grabbed the young faggot’s chin with one hand, placing his other hand on the back of the kid’s head and grabbing a hank of his black hair.  Then, with a single swift yank, the buff killer rotated the whoreboy’s head through a full one hundred and eighty degrees.

 

A loud sound like popcorn popping echoed in the room as five of Connor’s vertebrae shattered simultaneously, bone fragments slashing through his spinal cord.  The unfortunate youth could both hear and feel it; despite the damage to his nervous system, the cord was not completely severed.  Because of the powerful sadist’s straddling position, the slut’s wrestling shoes beat randomly against Joe’s Timberland boots.  An agonizing bolt like a lightning strike tore through the teen’s muscular body; an electrochemical blast that flipped a switch somewhere in cockpig’s balls.

 

As his neck was broken, Connor shot a huge deathload, a hot geyser of boyseed that jetted into the air to splatter back on both killer and victim.  Conner wasn’t dead yet, but he had no idea he’d shot the hottest, hardest, most intense load of his short, wasted life.  What he did have an idea of, though, was how much sexual pleasure the killer john had gotten from snuffing him.  To his utter horror, Connor most of his last few seconds on earth staring directly into the eyes of the man who’d killed him—as the dude was still cumming in his ass.

 

Joe held the twitching, mortally damaged teenager close, leering in orgasmic ecstasy into the wide, stunned blue eyes of the fuckmeat.  “Die, faggot,” Joe moaned gutturally, “Suffer and die…”

 

But Connor wasn’t dead.  As the last wad of jizz blasted out of his swollen shaft, he applied more pressure to the meat’s chin and twisted his head a further ninety degrees.  One last snapping sound, one last violent convulsion to milk the last drop of cum from Joe’s cock, and all Connor was aware of was loud white buzzing that appeared at the edges of his vision as the lights became too bright and I cant see oh dear god whats happening to me no wait—

 

The meat was still quivering as Joe withdrew his erect, still-oozing tool.  He walked to the vanity, admiring his body in the shattered remains of the mirror, the way the fur on his torso was swirled and sweat-matted.  He needed to clean it up, of course—there was a large hand towel that had fallen to the floor.  He picked it up, soaked it with hot (well, warm—and kinda brown) water from the sink, and wiped his entire body down.

 

Stuffing his enormous cock, still semi-hard, back into his jeans, Joe grabbed his compression t-shirt and slipped it back on, then stood over the quivering corpse, trying to make up his mind.

 

It wasn’t like Joe gave a shit about what happened with the meat when he was done with it, but lately there had been a lot of weird shit going on.  It was almost as if someone had been following him.  At any rate, he decided, there was nothing wrong with taking some precautions.

 

He looked around the room.  Hell, it looked abandoned as it was.  And the fagmeat had said they were only waiting for it to leave before tearing this place down.  Well, maybe Joe could do the owners a favor.

 

Turing off the light, Joe reached down and grabbed the twitching sack of dead flesh by the right wrist.  Striding towards the front door, he dragged Connor’s body behind him out of the apartment.  After all, it wasn’t like anyone was gonna miss the worthless cockpig.  When he got to the front door, he cracked it open and glanced out carefully.  He didn’t expect to see anyone, and he didn’t.

 

It was only fifteen steps to the ditch.  Joe lugged the still-jerking boymeat across a small patch of ground that was mostly dirt with sparse outcrops of crabgrass.  Connor’s Asics shoes—which he’d tightly laced on several hours ago, horny at the thought of getting fucked while wearing them—now carved trails in the bare soil as his corpse was dragged through the dirt to be dumped in a ditch.

 

Joe tossed the body, watching it hit the bank and roll limply down into the trickling stream of polluted water that seeped through the drainage ditch.  He stood for a moment, spit into the ditch, then turned and headed back to his car.

 

Once he was back on the highway, he was feeling the post-kill euphoria, when a bright flash in his rearview mirror caught his attention—and made him laugh aloud.  The flash had come from the sky, and the resounding crash of thunder practically rattled the car.  Pulling up the weather app on his phone, Joe was surprised at the size of the storm moving in—this one would produce hail.  The important thing, though, was the heavy rain that was approaching.

 

Who knew how far downstream the meat would be washed by morning?

Adam–Second Kill–Finale of a Footpig

The place was called the SoHoLo and it had opened three months ago in an attempt to lure some business to the suburbs on the north side of town.  A ten-story hotel, the exterior was severe in angular concrete, but the interior was a different matter.  Large rooms whose luxury belied the “loft-style hotel” concept were matched by a lobby that glittered with rare woods and hip furnishings.

 

At least it was nothing like a filthy roll in the leaves, Adam thought.

 

He was seated in a deep leather armchair in the shadows at the edge of the lobby.  Ahead of him, brightly lit in the center of a large open area, was the hotel’s business center; a large pen filled with what looked like study carrels, each with a docking station for laptops and Wi-Fi access to printers.

 

Behind him was a dark passage leading to the dimly-lit restaurant and the even murkier bar.  The passage contained one notable feature—a water wall that was as tall as the hallway itself and ran for a good ten feet in length, located directly across from the elevators.  The rippled wall down which the water cascaded had cutouts with gas jets, making the falling water sparkle with backlit flames.  From where he was sitting, Adam could hear the soothing, splashing sounds of the water.

 

His attention was focused elsewhere, though.

 

The dude was young—early twenties, likely a recent college graduate.  He was diligently working in the end carrel; even at this distance, Adam could just make out a spreadsheet on the guy’s laptop screen.  His hair was dark brown, almost black, as was the faint scruff on his cheeks that thickened to a goatee around his lush, full mouth.  He had an olive-skinned, almost Mediterranean complexion that complemented his large, dark eyes.

 

He was dressed in business casual—a light blue long-sleeve button-down dress shirt that seemed to pull open at the buttons when the dude stretched his arms, indicating a broad chest.  Under, he had on the tightest pair of chinos Adam had even seen; navy blue dress slacks that looked sprayed on.  The bulge in the guy’s crotch was visible halfway across the lobby.

 

He’d even carried the business casual look to his sneakers; they were Puma Classic in a two-toned suede look, blue-gray at the toes and natural brown across the rest of the uppers.  To complete the look, a light gray sports jacket was dangling from the back of the chair in which the guy was sitting.

 

The dude had gotten up to go to the bathroom about thirty minutes ago—it was located in the passage next to the water wall.  Adam had gotten a good look at him, admiring his thick firm legs as he approached and his firm bubble butt as he walked back.

 

More importantly, though, they’d made eye contact.  The dude had grinned a bit.  Then, on his way back, he turned and deliberately looked at Adam.  This time his grin was broader and he demonstratively shifted his swelling junk in his groin as he returned to work.  Adam was prepared to wait him out.

 

After all, Adam was dressed to attract a little attention himself.  He didn’t want to look to slutty in a hip, high-class place like this, so his clothing was restrained but still eye-catching enough to lure his intended prey.

 

He sported a red Polo tennis shirt, so tight across his chest that his nipples were visible underneath.  They were also visible because he was sitting with his aviator jacket—brown distressed leather—thrown wide open so his whole firm, muscled torso was on display.  The shirt and jacket only added to the lure of his face, attractive in an oddly feral way under his red-gold hair and the golden scruff on his cheeks.  Below the waist, he wore tight beige jeans.  Clean and relatively new, the skinny jeans fit him like a second skin.

 

 

In fact, the only things he was wearing that hadn’t been purchased in the last three weeks were his kicks—gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.

 

He’d stolen them from one of the first corpses he’d fucked.  Tonight, he was gonna have them on when he fucked another corpse.

 

A flicker of movement caught his eye—the hot dude in the carrel had shut off his laptop and was gathering his belongings; he appeared to be shutting it down for the evening—after all, it was already past ten o’clock.  If he was staying here, he needed to pass by Adam to get to the elevators—but Adam knew the guy would be heading his way no matter what; the quick, lustful understanding in their brief eye contact ensured it.

 

And that was fine with Adam.  After all, if he was gonna fuck a corpse tonight, he first needed to make one.

 

The dude looked as if he was going to stroll right past, but he paused hesitantly just as he drew abreast of Adam.  His large dark eyes turned to those of the attractive young man in the leather jacket.

 

“Hey,” he said with a sheepish grin, “What’s up?”

 

Adam smiled back, “Not much, man.  Just chillin’.”

 

“Name’s Josh,” the young professional said.  “You, uh, you lookin’ for a little fun?”  As he asked, he subtly reached down and rubbed the growing bulge in his groin.

 

Adam let his eyes linger on Josh’s crotch as his smile spread.  “Yeah, I’m up for some fun,” he replied, the tent pole in his own groin putting emphasis on the word “up”.  Standing up, he asked “So, you gotta room?”

 

Josh took a moment to reply; he’d noticed how Adam’s tight jeans had outlined the massive ridge of his dick. “I—uh, yeah, I gotta room here…man, you gotta stick that thing in me…” he muttered, distracted by lust.

 

Adam stood up.  He loomed over Josh, being about five inches taller than the dark-haired young man.  They were about the same age, but Adam was larger and much more buff.  From Josh’s point of view, he’d found a perfect power top to plow his ass tonight.

 

“Got anything to drink?” Adam inquired.

 

“Got a bottle of Crown Royal in the room.” Josh responded.

 

“Well, fuck, man, let’s go!” Adam said, letting Josh lead the way to the elevators.

 

The ride was quick and quiet; the elevator car, elegantly paneled in dark wood with backlit panels, swift hummed to a stop at the seventh floor.  As the doors open, Josh grabbed Adam’s hand.  “Down this way,” he said, nodding to the left, “Room seven twenty-six.”  The well-built psycho withdrew his hand and let the prey lead the way to the room.

 

Josh slipped the key card out of his wallet and slid it into the slot on the handle.  The light on the lock turned green, there was a clicking sound, and Josh opened the door wide, letting Adam follow him in.

 

It was designed to look like a trendy New York loft; that meant little fitting-out of the room interior.  There was no ceiling; ducts, wiring, piping for sprinklers, all was visible hanging from the steel beams supporting the floor above.  The walls were exposed brick—likely a brick veneer on a steel frame.  The floor was bare concrete with area rugs, opulently deep and soft, scattered in strategic locations.

 

There was no separate bathroom.  To the left of the entry was an elaborate marble shower stall, a wide vanity with double sinks (and a TV embedded in the mirror above) and an ostentatiously simple toilet.  A single interior partition wall that extended up eight feet—as opposed to the ten-foot base of the rafters—was all that demarcated this space from the open room in general.

 

On the other side of the partition wall was the king-sized bed, headboard against the wall and foot pointing to the exterior wall—which was one solid single polarized window, showing a vast exterior vista without allowing anyone outside to see in—as long as the interior light was low.

 

On the far side of the room was a simple black dresser with sliver fittings, with a matching mirror above; to its left, a chrome bar bolted to the brick wall served as a closet.  On the near side, a huge armoire in the exact same pattern as the dresser, turned out to house a TV; the two armchairs facing it looked angular, modern, and uncomfortable as hell.

 

The room was beautiful.  Adam grinned; it’d make a nice, fashionable tomb for the meat once he was done with it.

 

Grabbing his hand again, Josh dragged him over to the bed.  Reaching up, he did his best to get Adam to bend down and kiss him.  The perverted top pushed him roughly away.  “You said you had some Royal, boy.  Go get it.”

 

Josh’s dark, puppy-dog-like eyes seemed a bit hurt, but he obeyed.  “How do ya want it?”

 

“Straight.  I like it straight, you faggot bitch.”

 

Josh flushed and inhaled sharply, but the way the bulge in his tight chinos pulsed was obvious.  The mini-bar was in the armoire with the TV, along with real glasses and full-sized ice cubes.  Turned out Josh took his on the rocks.

 

Adam took a gulp of the potent, smoky liquid.  He watched Josh do the same.  “So whaddaya lookin’ for, bro?” he asked the young professional.  Josh had tossed his laptop bag on the bed; now he moved it to the dresser and began peeling the multiple layers of blankets, comforters and sheets off the overstuffed bed.  “I want you to fuck me,” he said simply as he stripped the bed down to the flat sheet and the pillows.  “I can’t take too long, though—I have a meeting at eight in the morning.”

 

Adam smirked.  “Oh, I’ll fuck ya, faggot, don’t worry about that.  But you gotta work for it, cunt.  You gotta earn my dick first.  Ya hear me?”  He slipped out of his brown leather jacket, laying it on top of Josh’s laptop.

 

Josh stood still by the side of the bed, breathing heavily.  He could see Adam’s powerful, intimidating form much more clearly now without the jacket, and he was mesmerized.  “Yessir,” he said, “What must I do?”

 

“Lessee what ya got.  Strip, bitch.”

 

As Adam flipped around one of the armchairs, sitting in it and watching the show, Josh shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the other chair.  He sat on the bed and began unlacing his two-toned Pumas.  “Put ‘em back on when you’re done stripping, boy,” Adam demanded.  Josh glanced up and flushed again, this time smiling with pleasure.

 

Little shit wanted to get fucked with his kicks on.  If he was into sneakers, Adam could work with that.  Fuck yeah.

 

Standing up, Josh wriggled out of his skinny jeans, revealing his thick, hairy thighs.  He was wearing a pair of black briefs.  The jeans went onto the chair on top of the jacket and the briefs went onto the floor—they’d been far too inadequate to contain his thick, throbbing dick, anyway; it was already sticking out, pressed against his thigh and leaking precum out into his body fur.

 

And Josh had plenty of fur.  He wasn’t tall, but he was muscular and furry as hell.  When he managed to unbutton his dress shirt, his body hair was visible under his white cotton t-shirt; when he pulled that off, the dark mass of fur that covered his swarthy chest and flat belly was displayed perfectly in the indirect light—the only lit bulb in the room was in the bathroom; everything else was hinted at in the angular shadows.

 

Josh tossed the dress shirt and t-shirt on the other armchair as well.  This time, Adam caught motion from the chair in the corner of his eye; a dark silk tie that he hadn’t noticed before—evidently it had been draped over the back of the chair—now fell on top of Josh’s clothes.

 

Still a fledgling predator, he noted it for later.  He had no definite plans; he was learning to adapt to the circumstances of his kills.

 

Josh got the briefs off, letting his long cut cock free to bob about and drizzle precum.  Wearing nothing but a pair of black ped socks, he sat back on the bed and began to put his shoes on again.

 

“Furry little fuckin’ monkey, aintcha?” Adam jeered as Josh laced the second Puma on.

 

“I’m a Sephardic Jew,” Josh said, “My family came from Spain.”

 

“Like I give a shit, faggot,” Adam sneered.  “Get over here and lick my kicks, cunt.  Put yer tongue on my Nikes and clean ‘em good, asswipe, then you’re gonna take ‘em off me.  You got it, fuckwad?  Worship my sneakers, you sack of shit, and if ya can do that right, you may earn my cock!”

 

Josh scuttled forward eagerly, his tight, muscular body huddled on the floor as he slurped greedily at Adam’s Night Falcons.  “Yeah, bitch, work that tongue,” Adam commanded.  “Work it good, cunt.”

 

The crouching youth lapped at the alpha’s sneakers for a couple more minutes before Adam had him untie them and slip them off.  “Back up, boy, on yer knees,” he barked as he stood up and, pulling his shirt off over his head, tossed it onto the chair behind him.  Josh looked up in awe at Adam’s buff, broad chest, his dark nipples proudly erect on his bulging pectorals.

 

Adam had been working out more often since his first kill, and it showed.  He had no intention of letting the meat nearly slip through his fingers again; he knew that this time, he needed to dominate it from the beginning—and he took steps to ensure he had the physique to do so.

 

From Josh’s position, on his knees between the top’s legs, he seemed to be looking up at a golden-haired god.  It had been a warm evening to wear a jacket, and Adam’s thick biceps and firm triceps were glistening with a faint sheen of sweat.  So too was his hard, rippled abdomen—not at furry as Josh’s, it still had a golden down that collected the testosterone-laden mansweat, generating an invisible cloud of pheromones around the alpha.

 

Seeing the hypnotic effect he was having on the meat, Adam grinned down at the fag.  High-class pretty boy in town on business, slumming for a night with an anonymous hookup.  Only one way he was gonna earn Adam’s dick.

 

Adam didn’t think he was gonna like it.  The thought made his grin even more shark-like.

 

The towering killer opened the waistband of his jeans and, unzipping the fly, letting his enormous shaft fall out.  Josh’s eyes glittered with lust; the volume of precum leaking from his pulsing dick increased visibly as Adam let the jeans fall to the floor and stepped out of them, kicking them to one side.

 

The top was commando, of course; he’d been expecting a scene like this of some sort.  Nude but for his ped socks, he sat back in the armchair and held his right foot out.  “Now put my kicks back on, homo.  This one first.  Lace ‘em up nice and tight so they don’t slip off when I grind ‘em into yer worthless face.”

 

Josh paused for a moment, gulped, and lick his lips.  “Y-yessir,” he stammered in a low voice that was almost a moan.  As he gently slipped the Nikes back onto Adam’s feet, lacing them as told, he stooped to kiss them at times in the process.  Any time he tried to move his lips above the hightop ankles, Adam pushed him back down.

 

“Naw, man,” he said contemptuously, “Don’t put yer fag lips on me.”

 

Josh blushed with embarrassment.  “Yessir,” he muttered, “No sir…”  Having gotten both Nikes back onto Adam’s feet, he returned to his worship.

 

Adam stared down at the dark-skinned punk.  The little shit was totally in his control; he’d do anything Adam wanted—it was so fuckin’ hot.  Maybe he could—

 

But no.  Adam liked his meat, if not cold, at least utterly helpless and defenseless.  Josh wasn’t gonna get Adam’s dick until it was too late for him to enjoy it—which was gonna be about another fifteen minutes here or so.

 

“Get up on the bed, faggot,” Adam said, reaching across and grabbing the silk tie from the other armchair.  “I’m gonna tie your hands behind your back with this.”

 

As Adam stood up, Josh scrambled across the room to the nightstand.  He opened the drawer and pulled a couple of things out.  One was a band of heavy scarlet silk, at least three feet long.  “Here, use this,” Josh said, tossing it onto the bed.  “It belongs with the robe in the bathroom.”

 

The other item he got from the drawer was a silicone cockring; he was too busy slipping it on to see that Adam still had the tie.  Once he got the cockring into position—and his thick tool instantly turned purple and started swelling—Josh knelt on the bed, facing away, his hands behind his back.  Adam bound them with the tie, noting that the material was so fine it was hard to get a knot.  He shoved Josh down onto the bed and grabbed the red silk belt.  It seemed to be much sturdier.

 

“Roll over, asswipe.  On yer back,” he demanded.  Josh obeyed, rolling over, his dark, throbbing cock pointing straight at the ceiling.  Lifting his thick, strong leg, Adam placed one foot on the mattress and with a single powerful bound, stood up on the bed.  Josh, on his back with his arms tied behind him, found himself looking up at the well-built hardbodied alpha looming over him with a thick hard dripping cock even larger than his own tied-off rod.

 

The strawberry-blond muscle god sneered down at his fit and furry meat.  Stupid little cocksucker still had no idea how soon this was gonna go south on him.  Adam made sure he precum dripped across the kid’s chest, smearing in the dark wiry chest hairs.  Standing over the kid, straddling him, he let the hot transparent drops splatted on Josh’s chin.

 

Bound by silk and trapped by lust, Josh could only gaze up at the erotic specimen of aggressive masculinity towering over him.  This was just what he wanted, a hot stud who’d treat him like something to be scraped off his shoe—his shoes, those hot fucking Nikes…

 

Adam could feel his scrotum pucker and his seed bubbling up; he needed to unload soon.  He walked to the head of the bed and turned around.  He was standing with his feet on each side of Josh’s head, facing down towards the boy’s feet and the foot of the bed—and the huge window beyond.

 

Looking down into Josh’s swarthy, eager face, dark eyes glazed with erotic anticipation, Adam raised his right foot and placed his shoe directly on Josh’s face.  “Lick it, you faggot sack of shit,” he barked coldly.  “Lick the treads of my kicks like the piece of garbage you are.”

 

He spit on the kid’s heaving, sweat-matted chest.  With his Nike in Josh’s face, the perverted little punk was unable to see Adam looping one end of the robe belt back on itself, securing it with a slipknot.  Before Josh had the chance to be aware what was happening, Adam had removed his foot, bent down, and slipped the silken loop around his neck.

 

“Hey, what—” the slut blurted out.

 

“Shaddap, ya worthless homo scumbag, an’ get yer tongue back on my Nikes!” Adam roared.

 

And with that, he put his foot down—literally.  He began applying pressure to Josh’s face, slowly and gradually at first, but inexorably.  It took about forty-five seconds for the lust-engulfed footpig to realize his own discomfort.

 

The boy was assiduously licking the tread of the sneaker, in pig heaven, when he became aware of the crushing sensation.  “Hey, man, what’re ya doin’?” he managed to blurt out.

 

Adam’s response was to wrap the free end of the silk belt around his hand and pull it tight.

 

“Hey—urk!” Josh grunted, trying to protest as the silk band around his neck cinched inward.  “Dude, stop, (cough) yer (hack) chokin’ me—nngah! (gag) Fuck, (hack) what-uk! ack! ackth! whatcha doin’?”

 

Adam looked up.  Outside, he had a magnificent view across the highway, over the river and past the fields beyond.  Lighting from an oblique angle gave him a reflected glimpse of himself in the polarized glass, his muscle-bound body towering over his helpless, kicking meat as he ground his foot into its face, just as he’d promised.

 

His sense of power was almost overwhelming.

 

“What am I doin’, faggot?  I’m wastin’ yer sick, sorry ass, that’s what I’m doin’,” he jeered down at the struggling youth.  “Fuckin’ cumsucker, your perverted ass has gotta be dead before I’m gonna stick my dick in it.  I don’t fuck no homos, you disgustin’ queerboy, but I’ll shag good dead meat any fuckin’ day, ya get me?

 

Josh tried to speak, to plead—to scream, even—but Adam’s Night Falcon was smashing his face with excruciating force, pressing down while the choking ligature around his throat was being pulled up.  Between the two, Josh could feel his neck being pulled out of position.

 

He wasn’t as built as Adam, but he was strong, and he wasn’t gonna go quietly.  He kicked and thrashed, his thick, hairy, muscular legs jerking and flailing across the white cotton sheets.  His torso writhed violently from side to side in a vain attempt to free himself while Adam bore down with all his weight relentlessly on Josh’s face.  With a deeply satisfying crunch, the sadistic alpha felt the cartilage of the meat’s nose collapse under his sneaker.

 

The frantic youth was reduced to inarticulate noises to register is protest and his pain.  “Ng!  Urg! Agag!” he grunted in agony as the scarlet silk cord constricted his esophagus even further.

 

Adam watched the hard, hairy body kick and die under his Nikes.  His precum was almost a steady stream; it was so fuckin’ hot makin’ boymeat.

 

Only thing hotter? Bangin’ it.

 

That was when the loose knot in the silk tie binding Josh’s hands finally gave way; his repeated desperate jerking and pulling finally bore fruit.  His hands were free.

 

Immediately the frantic gay slut began pawing at Adam’s firm, muscular calf, trying to relieve the crushing agony.  His mind aflame with panic, the writhing footpig had no idea why he was being strangled; the alpha’s words had made no sense to him.  All he wanted to do was worship the stud’s hot, hard body, his firm legs laced into those sexy-ass Nikes…

 

…that were crushing his face so badly his upper lip split.  He tried to move Adam’s legs, but the dude’s muscles were like carved marble, utterly, inexorably immobile, still ruthlessly grinding and crushing his head as the silk belt continued to tighten around his throat…

 

Josh had just wanted to indulge his inner pig.  He’d forgotten how often pigs end up getting butchered.

 

“That’s it, you cum-guzzlin’ fag, fuckin’ choke and die.  Die with my kicks grindin’ yer worthless face, ya stupid sack of shit!”

 

Glancing up for a moment, Adam caught another glimpse of himself reflected in the window.  Projected on the view across the river, his large, muscled form towered over the helpless meat, thrashing on the bed beneath his foot.  His arm bulging as he pulled the scarlet silk belt tight, his overwhelmingly buff body was the very image of dominance.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Adam whispered, his huge cock throbbing swiftly as the power of the image swept through him.  He looked down as the hairy youth flailed in panicked desperation, enjoying the ultimate control of ending the faggot’s life.

 

Josh was in excruciating agony; his head and his windpipe were being crushed simultaneously.  It hurt so bad, he was barely lucid—he kept trying to slip into some form of denial, grasping at the delusional hope of his freeing himself from his killer’s relentless grip.  But the physical distress kept building; eventually it became too much for even Josh’s frenzied mind to deny.

 

His lungs were on fire; he thought his chest as going to explode.  The pulverizing force of the alpha’s rock-hard thigh and calf muscles smashing his mouth and mangling his already-broken nose was now accompanied by an insane pounding on the inside of his skull.

 

It was his heart.  He knew that he was hearing—and feeling—his own heart race from lack of oxygen.  As much as he refused to acknowledge it consciously, some part of him knew he was gonna hear his heart fail, too.  He was gonna hear himself die.

 

Worst of all, though—as he kept clawing at the top’s remorseless legs, he kept stroking the hard, clenched muscles, feeling the strong foot flexing in the gray Night Falcon on his face—worst of all, despite the terror and agony, some part of his sick pig soul found it so hot he was hard.

 

He was so hard it hurt.  The cockring was working too well.  He was being tortured and strangled to death, but his dick was so hard, he could still feel it straining painfully.

 

He could also hear the words of his tormentor.

 

“Time to die, cocksucker.  The only meetin’ yer makin’ in the morning is with the coroner.  Hang on, motherfucker, I’m gonna off ya hard.  This is gonna hurt like fuck.”

 

His mind aflame with terror, Josh made one last Herculean attempt to free himself from the grip of his powerful, sadistic torturer.  His fingers clutched Adam’s leg with as little effect as if he was trying to uproot a tree with his bare hands.  His own legs kicked and flailed frantically as Adam, lips curling in contempt, pulled relentlessly on the silk band about his neck.

 

The well-built alpha was right; the pain was worse than anything Josh had ever imagined.  His dark, furry body thrashed so violently in his agony that one of his two-toned Pumas was pulled off his foot and went flying across the room.  As he kept kicking, the black ped sock began to come off as well.

 

Adam spit on the lithe, hairy form jerking below him.  As his Nike hightop held Josh’s head pinned to the bed, the vicious killer gave the belt a might yank and the eager young footpig got the privilege of experiencing every excruciating sensation of suffering two causes of death simultaneously.  The first was the crushing of his esophagus; as he struggled, the terror-engulfed homo heard a loud crunching sound and felt the cartilage in his windpipe collapse, his larynx ground into a mangled mass of gristle.

 

Already near brain-death from strangulation, Josh’s black face was spewing foam from his closed-off airway, but as bad as the pain was, his oxygen had been cut off for a while.  But Adam kept up the pressure, mashing his hightop sneaker into the pigcunt’s swollen, purple lips and protruding tongue as he put his massive bicep to work pulling up on the silk belt.

 

There was a sound like a tree limb breaking—it was the shattering of four vertebrae in Josh’s neck.   The young faggot heard the sound—and then heard nothing else.  He died in what felt like a nightmarish blast of lightning, his hard, firm body going rigid.

 

The hairy little footfag had died with his deathload still churning, trapped in his puckered balls.

 

As Adam looked down at the quivering boymeat, his long, thick hog dripped hot precum into the dead cunt’s chest hair, already matted with agonized deathsweat squeezed out of the slut.  Hot fucking piece of meat—he was ready.

 

Jumping off the bed, the hulking top grabbed the trembling corpse by the legs and rotated it ninety degrees so that its ass was at the side of the bed.  Still holding the dead fag’s ankles, Adam propped them up on his shoulders, feeling the soft pseudo-suede of Josh’s remaining Puma Classic scrape against his scruffy cheek as the body convulsed.  On the other side of his head, the boy’s foot shuddered, causing the loose ped sock to slip off and leaving his toes free to curl in his death throes.

 

Squatting slightly, Adam placed the throbbing head of his dick against the corpse’s fuckhole and shoved, hard.  Even in death, Josh’s sphincter tried to resist him—but the buff alpha, deep in the throes of necrolust, tore through the rigid muscle with a single brutal thrust, sliding the entire length of his massive shaft through the dead homo’s asshole.

 

Adam’s rod plowed like a piston into the meat’s guts, scraping along Josh’s prostate.  Despite his spinal column being shredded by the shrapnel of his shattering vertebrae, random nerve impulses still coursed along his hard, furry body.  As the top’s vein-wrapped cock pressed against the fuckmeat’s swollen gland, it triggered a reaction that was purely physical; a simple example of stimulus and response.

 

As his corpse shuddered and convulsed, Josh’s dick, kept hard even in death by the tight cockring circling its base, spasmed visibly, then expelled its deathload in a single extended geyser of cum.  The furry young footpig had shot his wad the moment he got a dick up his ass.  If he’d still been alive, he’d have cum just as hard—it was a shame his short, wasted life had been brutally snuffed out just before the most intense orgasm he’d ever experience.  His dead dick pumped and swelled so violently that the silicone cockring snapped, shooting across the room like a rubber band.

 

His firm, hairy body, still slick with sweat, convulsed on Adam’s dick.  As it did, Josh spewed dead boyseed into his blackened, swollen face, his pearly spunk splattering the froth surrounding his thick, protruding tongue.  His head was turned to the side so that his bulging, bloodshot eyes stared sightlessly at the window; from this angle, the tread pattern of Adam’s Nike was livid where it had been ground into the corpse’s face.  Semen was starting to fill the furrows left in Josh’s cheek.

 

The dead boymeat gave one last massive shudder; as it did, the colon clenched and writhed around Adam’s huge, primed shaft.  “Fuck!” the alpha necro shouted as his manspunk boiled over and he flooded the corpse with cum.  “Yeah!  Fuck yeah!”  Grunting and cursing, he continued to unload in Josh’s ass for what seemed like ten minutes straight.  Each jet of hot semen was shot into the punk’s guts so intently that it was almost surprising it didn’t bubble back up out of his mouth.

 

The towering, muscled killer, shuddering himself in sexual exertion, spent another minute or two posed over the corpse before he withdrew his still-leaking cock; as he did, he noticed the dead fag’s dick was still hard, even without the cockring—evidently the muscled had gone rigid at the moment of death, trapping the organ in its swollen, engorged state.

 

When he stood up and stepped back, Josh’s quivering body slid off the bed onto the floor, coming to rest in a sitting position, back against the bed, legs spread out in a V in front of him.  He didn’t stay upright for long—as his corpse shuddered, his head bent forward, then his entire torso twisted and he slumped over onto his left side.  Adam stood over him for a moment, admiring the furry pile of quivering meat, before he turned and strolled into the bathroom to clean up.

 

Once he’d washed off the layer of body fluids, reeking of pheromones and mansex, Adam returned to the bedroom and got dressed.  He stopped before putting his leather jacket back on, though—he needed something first.

 

He hadn’t been sure the first time and he hadn’t liked that kill.  He was proud of this one.  He wanted his trophies.

 

Approaching the still-jerking meat, he knelt down; untying the Puma Classic, he slipped it off of the quivering foot.  Standing up, he glanced around for the other one.  It took a bit of time to locate; the fucker had kicked it straight at the window; when it ricocheted off the glass, it had flown across the room and landed behind the chair on which Josh had tossed his clothes.

 

He kept his Nikes on, but he rolled the Pumas up in his jacket and strode to the door.  Just before he opened it, he took a backward look at the room.  It really was first-rate, the way the bed faced the magnificent view across the river.    It was so nice, it took might take one a minute or two to notice the huddled pile of twitching boymeat on the floor at the side of the bed.

 

It really was first-rate.  Much better than a tussle in the dirt and leaves.

 

Adam decided he needed to hang out here more often.  He left, ambling down the hall towards the elevators with his victim’s kicks rolled up in his jacket and tucked under his arm.

Leather Pig Snuff

It started as a chance encounter, a shared elevator ride that lasted no more than forty-five seconds, but it changed the outcome of the evening for the two men involved.

 

The hotel was packed, of course; while the crowd at LFF—LeatherFetishFest—was tiny compared with that of, IML or Southern Decadence, there was still plenty of action to be had over the three-day weekend and the hospitality suites on the top floor were continually busy.

 

That was where David was coming from.  It was the last night of the con and he’d been scoping out the hot manmeat in the party suites.  Now it was after midnight, and even though the rooms were still packed, David was ready to go.  He took a last tour around the rooms, pausing to watch two dudes fuck in the far corner.  One guy with a leather mask over his face was bent over with his jeans down around his knees; he was taking it up the ass from a mohawked stud in solid rubber that adhered to his fit body like paint.  A number of guys among the admiring crowd were recording the action on their phones.

 

It was hot as fuck, and it was making David hard.  That was a bad sign; usually his self-control was stronger.  It had to be; he didn’t play at these events.  It was too public; these days, there were security cameras everywhere.  Every time he entered and left the hotel, it was recorded somewhere.  So he got horned up and inspired, but saved his playtime for when he got home.

 

At home, he knew where to hide the bodies.

 

And it wasn’t as if David was easy to miss.  Tall, broad, furry and very muscular, he’d had attracted attention in any gay gathering—in fact, the fags clustered around him like moths to a flame—but in his gear, he was the hottest dude in the room, no matter what room it was.

 

At the moment, his magnificent physique was well-displayed in a pair of quilted leather jeans.  The diamond-stitched quilting stretched tightly around his powerful legs and his groin, which was kept sealed by a pair of zippers, one on each side of the massive bulge in his crotch; when both were unzipped, the front of the crotch opened like a flap.

 

He’d worn it during playtime at home and had found it handy; he wore it now, imagining the looks on some of the boys in the room, if they knew what he was imagining doing to their tender, defenseless bodies…

 

The leather jeans highlighted David’s thighs; below that, he sported a pair of glossy, knee-high Wesco harness boots.  He used these at home, too; the thick soles were perfect for grinding into homo faces.

 

The only new item of gear he wore was the plain leather vest he wore open over his bare, hairy chest.  He’d bought it specifically for LFF; the front was cut so that it was too wide to close—it hung open so wide that the rigid erectness of David’s large dark nipples were visible to everyone.

 

As he left the hospitality suite, he stopped and checked himself at a large mirror near the door, well aware of the eyes focused on him.  It wasn’t unusual; he’d had many offers to appear in porn—but he didn’t want his face to be that recognizable.  And it would have been; it was striking.  Wavy hair so black it glittered above a wide, open brow and large emerald eyes lined with long lashes, his face alone was enough to cause an erection.  The wiry, jet-black goatee surrounding his full lips and covering his dimpled chin, with a faint but discernible scruff on his cheeks, completed the effect.

 

It was a look to fall in love with—right down to the thin gloves on his hands, encasing them in black leather so tight it looked painted on.  It was a look to die for—as some had found out too late.

 

Catching a glimpse of several lust-struck admirers in the mirror, David sneered at them and left the suite.  Prettyboys, all of them; he coulda had any one of them to fuck however he wanted, but for David, fucking was never enough.  And none of these sluts were worth the trouble of cleaning up afterwards.

 

The hotel was large and pricey; the long corridors were plush with predominant colors of white and gold.   The elevators were around the corner in a bay like a miniature temple, picked out in marble and onyx.  David sauntered leisurely down the hallway, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting.

 

Soundlessly, he turned right at the corner and took an immediate left for the elevators—and that was when he saw The Boy.

 

And The Boy saw him.

 

They stared at each other, silently, for a long, long time, their eyes saying all that needed to be said.

 

The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, about ten years younger than David.  Under spiked brown hair, his face was handsome and haughty, his dark eyes arrogantly aware of his own physical beauty.  His body was perfect, slender and lithe but toned and well-defined.  Standing shirtless—but for an over-the-shoulder strap that part of his leather belt—the skin of his lean, muscled torso was smooth and silky-looking, with small dark nipples.  The belt was around the waist of a pair of skin-tight leather jeans; unlike David’s, the youth’s pair was smooth and not quite glossy, but they clung erotically to his thick, firm thighs and emphasized the massive bulge in the crotch well enough.  The jeans were slightly too long; the hems were bunched into the boy’s laced but untied black and white DC skate shoes.  The ensemble was completed with a two-inch-wide leather wristband on the right arm and silver bracelet inset with turquoise on the left.

 

After a brief, intense struggle, David’s self-control gave up the fight.  He had to have this one.  As if on cue, the kid spoke up.

 

“Damn,” he said with a cocky grin, “Where you been?  I haven’t seen you before; I’d’a remembered a stud like you.”

 

“I been around, boy,” David drawled.

 

“Name’s Kirk,” the kid replied.  “I’d given up hope of gettin’ laid tonight, but damn, dude, you can stick that rod as far inside me as ya want.”  He nodded towards David’s groin, which was swelling visibly.

 

David grinned.  “How old are ya, boy?”

 

“I’m twenty-two.  And I got my own room here.”

 

Exactly ten years younger than David himself.  “Yeah?  This place is expensive as fuck—how’s a kid like you afford it?  You here alone?”

 

It was Kirk’s turn to grin.  “I got a daddy.  He paid for the room; he thinks it’s a seminar to help get me get a better job.  He’ll believe whatever I tell him; he’s kinda stupid that way, so he let me come here alone.”

 

David grunted.  That explained a lot of the cockiness.  Little fuck could get anything he wanted—and with a body like that, anyone.  He’d be willing to bet “daddy” was loaded, and probably expected that his boy was lying but was willing to keep paying and playing just to keep the slut coming back home.

 

“So, anyway, wanna fuck me?” Kirk asked and David burst into a huge smile; he’d made up his mind.  The slut wasn’t coming back home, not this time.

 

“Sure,” he said slowly.  “Where’s your room?”

 

“Third floor, in the front,” Kirk replied, pressing the call button for the elevator.  “Got a great view of the street party from there.  Stood in front of the window and waved my dick at a bunch of boys out there this morning; they loved it.  Man, I’m having the time of my fuckin’ life here.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” David said, letting a slight hint of contempt slip into his tone, “But I’m gonna fuck ya so hard you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”

 

“Ooh, you big, tough man,” Kirk jeered teasingly, stepping forward and running his hands over the older man’s biceps, “Lessee if you can live up to that promise.”

 

Just then the elevator arrived, the ping of the signal echoing in the marble lobby.  The doors opened silently and both leather-clad males stepped in. “Oh, I can fucking guarantee it,” David said quietly as the door closed and the descent started.

 

The ride was brief, but long enough for Kirk to reach out and fondle David’s thick shaft through the tight leather.  David smiled beatifically and leaned against the rear of the cab, letting the hot boy run one hand over his groin and another over his chest.  The alpha closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure—he was gonna be able to release tonight; he wasn’t gonna hafta wait to get home to drain his aching balls…

 

The elevator slowed, and Kirk stood up.  When the doors opened, he grabbed David by the hand and steered him around the corner and down the hall.  Even from this angle, the older, larger stud could see the young punk’s cock, straining violently in the confines of his groin.  The boy wanted the older man just as badly as David wanted him.

 

This was gonna be so fuckin’ fun.

 

The boy opened a door on the left side of the hall and turned on the lights.  His lean, shirtless torso glistened with sweat in the warm room; it was reflected in the broad expanse of glass in the wide picture window overlooking the street.  There was a chair and side table in front of the window; Kirk pushed them aside.  “C’m’ere, dude,” he said eagerly, “Lookit this shit.”

 

David strode to the far end of the room, noting the elegant dresser/mirror/TV stand on one side and the huge king-sized bed on the other, the latter with the bedding twisted in a knot and the expensive pale green Egyptian linen fitted sheet stiff with cum.  Reaching the window, he looked down into the huge crowds of men, wrapped in various degrees of leather, still partying out on the street.  It wasn’t even one in the morning; they’d be out there for hours.

 

Without bidding, Kirk reached up and slipped David’s vest off, tossing it onto the bed.  Embracing the older stud, he turned to that their backlit silhouette was clearly visible to the power fags milling on the street below and started sucking on the muscular alpha’s  thick, hard nipples.   David groaned erotically, feeling the boy’s tongue fluttering of the painfully stiff knot of flesh.

 

Lifting his head, Kirk looked David in the eyes, his young face flush and intense with lust.  “Fuck me here, stud.  Fuck me in the window.  I want ‘em to see.  I want ‘em all to watch me gettin’ plowed by a fuckin’ god like you.”

 

David grinned his charming, adorable grin that made Kirk feel faint.  “Ya like guys to watch ya get banged, huh?  Fuck yeah, bitch, I can do that.  I can fuck ya in public.”

 

Immediately, Kirk whirled around and bent over, bracing himself with one hand on the windowsill.  “There’s an opening,” he gasped excitedly.

 

Reaching down, David found it was true. In the deep depression separating the firm leather-covered globes of the kid’s ass, there was a series of snaps securing built-in access to the wearer’s ass.  One swift motion—and a rapid-fire popping of the snaps—and Kirk’s pink, pulsing fuckhole was exposed to open air.  “Stick it in me, fucker!” he cried.

 

“Not yet, faggot,” David barked.  “Ya want my cock?  Then come get it, motherfucker.  Get back here and free my tool.”

 

 

The boy whipped around obediently and grabbed the double zipper in David’s crotch.  He pulled both down simultaneously but the hulking top’s shaft was too long to be released without some help; tenderly, Kirk reached in and grasped the thick, hot, throbbing tube of manmeat, pulling it out from its musky leather confinement.

 

“C’mere, pup,” David commanded.  “Over here in the window.  No!  Stay down, bitch.  On yer knees, punk, get over here on yer knees.”    As Kirk crept the few feet to the window, the older stud glanced out onto the street and smirked.  “Let’s give the boys a show.”

 

As Kirk knelt in front of him, David started dickslapping him, the alpha’s thick, meaty shaft splattering precum across the youth’s model-perfect face.  Kirk blinked as the salty fluid spattered over his eyes and gripped the top’s powerful legs, feeling his thick thigh muscles flex under the tight quilted leather.

 

Brandishing his cock like a club, David grabbed a hank of the kid’s hair, feeling the spiking gel crunch in his hand.  As he beat the boy’s face with his engorged rod, he looked out the window, noticing that a large crowd had gathered around.  Three stories up and lit from behind, David knew that the action was clearly visible from the street without any identifying details being revealed.

 

And the audience seemed to be extremely appreciative of the performance so far.

 

The older leatherstud gave Kirk one more strong smack with his weapon-like dick, this one hard enough to knock the boy’s head sideways and make him grunt.  It did nothing to dampen the horny young punk’s enthusiasm, though.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” David demanded and Kirk responded eagerly, running his tongue over the swollen, purple head, greedily lapping up the precum still oozing from the pulsating piss-slit.  David was not pleased and let the disobedient pup know.  “I said suck it, motherfucker, not lick it,” he snapped, slapping Kirk in the face.

 

The boy gasped and pulled back; the blow had been soft, almost gentle, but it was unexpected.  He rose up straight, but remained on his knees.  David looked down at him angrily—and laughed.

 

“Fuck, you little leather pig, I knew ya’d like that—lookit that fuckin’ tentpole yer sportin’!  Pull that bad boy out, slut, or yer gonna tear them hot fuckin’ pants.”

 

Kirk blushed, realizing it was true; his dick was so hard it hurt.  He hurriedly unbuttoned his fly, freeing his aching hog from its constricting leather prison.  Like the alpha, his rod was seeping pre-ejaculate in a steady stream; it splashed out as his cock popped out of his crotch like an erotic jack-in-the-box, leaving large drops of the viscous, transparent fluid smeared across David’s knee-high Wescos.

 

“Get back on my shaft,” David barked.  “You ain’t a pup, you’re a pig.  So choke on my cock like a pig.”

 

Kirk paused as if to object, then, leaning forward and opening his mouth wide, he tried to swallow the older man’s tool.  He could only get the massive tube of throbbing manflesh a few inches into his mouth.  He simply couldn’t open his jaw enough to suck the alpha’s cock and still be able to breathe.

 

David, on the other hand, didn’t have the same priorities.  He ensured they were up against the window and visible to the mass of partying studs on the street below before wrapping his gloved hands around the kid’s head and slowly forced his enormous rod into Kirk’s throat.  At first, the leather-clad punk accepted the thick tubesteak but within a few seconds, things had changed.

 

David’s dick had cut off his air.

 

Kirk heaved and gagged, shaking his head and trying to pull back—only to discover that David’s grip on his head as a firm as a vise.  A sudden sharp fear rose in his breast, and he placed his hands on the power top’s thighs, feeling the quilted leather under his palms as he tried to push himself away.

 

He never noticed how his own cock had started to throb faster—but that was understandable; at that moment, David’s cock was also moving faster.

 

David could feel the boy struggle and gurgle on his shaft; it felt too good to ignore.  The youth’s beautiful face was turned up to him, helpless and distressed, the large, dark, puppy-like eyes watering.  “Fuck yeah, that’s my good little pig,” David grunted and started skullfucking Kirk brutally.

 

He rammed his dick down the kid’s throat with exaggerated thrusts that were obvious on the street outside.  Even on the third floor, the roar of the crowd’s approval was audible to both men—with different effect.  David was spurred to amp up the tempo of the facefuck while Kirk, his fingers scrabbling over the powerful stud’s boots, was still trying to find a way to break free long enough to inhale.

 

Kirk turned his seeking hands upwards, pawing at the top’s firm, furry belly.  His tear-streaked eyes turned up to the alpha’s face.  Looking down, David took pity—so to speak—on the horny but overwhelmed punk and pulled out of his throat.

 

Kirk bent over, coughing and gagging, spitting up foam on the floor between David’s boots.  The buff older man smirked down at the incapacitated boy.  “You ain’t done yet, pig,” he chuckled, “Stand up.  NOW, faggot!”

 

The ringing tone of command in his voice shot through Kirk like a jolt of electricity; he instantly stood upright.  His face was still red and slightly swollen, but the glint of lust was still visible in his eyes.  David recognized it for what it was.  “Turn around and bend over, cunt; I’m gonna fuck ya right here where everyone can see it,” he jeered.  “Ya like that, fuckpig?  Ya like havin’ an audience watchin’ you get plowed in the ass?  Does that make ya hard, slut?  Goddammit, cocksucker, I said bend over!”

 

Kirk’s obedience was immediate.  Facing away from David he bent over and grabbed his knees, the opening in the ass of his leather jeans exposing his pulsating fuckhole.  The muscled, leather-clothed top spit into his palm and lubed his cock with it—it was all the lube the lithe young boy was gonna get.

 

With no warning at all, David buried his shaft so deep in Kirk’s ass that his wiry pubic hair scratched the boy’s smooth asscheeks where the opening in the jeans was wide enough.  The beautiful bottom squealed shrilly, to the accompaniment of a rising cheer from the street below.

 

“Fuck, man, yer killin’ me!” the punk yelled, jerking forward.

 

“Not yet,” David hissed, grabbing at Kirk’s shoulder strap.  “Quit tryin’ to get away, fuckboy, we just got started.  You don’t wanna disappoint yer fans down there, do ya?”

 

Kirk whimpered and moaned as the hard-bodied top ran his hands over the boy’s smooth back, slick with sweat, but the kid never lost his erection. Even from the third floor, Kirk’s thick dick could be seen clearly by the crowd of randy, drunk faggots on the street below, swinging and bobbing with each ramrod thrust up his ass.

 

“Unh-unh-unh,” the punk grunted repeatedly, his toes curling inside his skate shoes as he experienced every inch of David’s enormous, vein-wrapped shaft plunged into the depth of his colon.  It wasn’t that he was inexperienced—he’d been gangbanged in this room the night before—but he’d never had anyone this large inside him before.  Even though his sphincter had finally relaxed to the point that Kirk didn’t feel like he was shitting razor blades every time the alpha drove his rod in, some corner of the kid’s mind was wondering if he’d been damaged and what he’d have to say to Daddy if he ended up needing medical help.

 

But then that corner was flooded with the lust that washed over the rest of Kirk’s body.  It was hard to focus on anything but how full he was of manmeat.  The atmosphere was charged with sex, heavy with the scent of mansweat, testosterone and leather.  The pain was receding and Kirk was slipping into his accustomed bottompig role, grinning with pleasure.

 

“Yeah, you fucker, give it to me!” he moaned ecstatically.  “Ram it in me, man!”

 

“Fuckin’ homo cunt,” David sneered, “Ya like bein’ watched as ya ride my dick, huh?  Shameless little whore, aintcha?  Take it, bitch, take the D.  Lemme hear how much ya want it.”

 

He was pounding the boy so hard Kirk was having trouble maintaining his balance. He tried grabbing the windowsill, but it was nothing more than a strip of metal an inch wide; his hand kept slipping.  David was holding him up with the leather shoulder strap.  The intensity of the fuck was obvious; from outside, both could hear a faint cry arise from the street, “Oh hell yeah, breed that bitch!”

 

They were getting carried away.  David decided it was time for a change of pace.  Keeping his cock buried deep in Kirk’s guts, he stopped pumping and pulled the boy’s torso back so that they were both standing upright, Kirk’s back pressed against David’s heaving, furry chest.  He slid a hand down towards the kid’s groin, and for a moment Kirk thought David might be trying to jack him off—but the muscled alpha unfastened the shoulder strap at the point where it attached to the belt in front.  Immediately afterwards, he’d freed it from the connection in the back, too.

 

Still in his tight leather jeans, Kirk was now nude from the waist up.  He felt David loop it around his throat, letting it hang down his back.  He had no idea what the stud was gonna do next.

 

What David did next was wrap his muscular arms around the boy’s lean torso, holding him in a tight embrace.  Kirk sighed happily, nestling back against the top’s chest.  David began fucking the kid again, starting slowly.  Simultaneously, he bent his head forward, letting his face scruff scrape Kirk’s smooth cheek.  Swamped with lust, the punk moaned shudderingly and reached up, running his hands through David’s hair.

The gathering on the street outside had gotten larger; dozens of dude were straining their eyes for a better view of the third-floor sex scene—and straining the crotches of their pants as well.  Even if no facial details could be discerned, the silhouetted forms framed in the window were perfectly clear.  So was what happened next.

 

Wrapping one arm around Kirk’s waist, David pressed his other hand between the bitchboy’s shoulder blades, bending the kid forward.  Spreading his skate kicks wide, Kirk gripped his own knees for support.  Then he felt the strap around his throat tighten—not unbearably, but enough to establish control.

 

Suddenly, with no warning, David began plowing his massive cock back into Kirk’s ass with mind-numbing speed and force, powerfucking the slim, buff youth mercilessly.  The aggressive alpha was holding the strap in both hands, pulling back on it like reins.  It wasn’t enough to choke the kid, but it was more than enough to dominate him.  His lean, lithe form bent backwards as he barked out short cries in the same tempo as David’s thrusts.

 

“Yeah, faggot,” David jeered, “That’s what it feel like to get banged by a real man.  Ya feelin’ me, cunt?  Ya like ridin’ genuine rock-hard manmeat, dontcha, ya little homo leatherpig?  Fuck, boy, take it—take my fuckin’ cock!”

 

The furry, well-built top was pounding the leatherboy’s ass so hard that his hips seemed to move in a blur.  Kirk cried out inarticulately in both pleasure and pain; his fuckhole had never withstood this amount of abuse before; it hurt so bad—and it hurt so good.  He was afraid he was gonna be injured but his own dick was so hard it hurt; even the gradually-increasing tightness of the strap around his throat was erotic as all fuck…

 

At that point, a chant that had started outside had finally grown loud enough for the heaving, interlocked men to hear: “Money shot!  Money shot!”  Above this, a single voice yelled “Finish ‘im off!”

 

“He’s right,” David chuckled, “It is time to finish you off.  Free show’s over—get on the bed, cunt.”  Quickly reversing the strap so that it hung down the front, the hulking top pulled out, feeling his log-like cock smack against the quilted leather on his thigh.  He shoved Kirk at the bed.

 

The boy scrambled to the center of the king-sized mattress, shoving the wadded, cum-stained bedding to one side.  His soft leather jeans slid smoothly over the expensive, high-thread-count fitted sheet.  He crouched in the center of the bed with his ass point up.

 

“Naw, bitch, on yer back,” David demanded and Kirk eagerly rolled over and spread his legs.  The leather pants swelled as the kid’s thick thighs and well-developed calves bulged under the strain of keeping his legs hefted into the air—but he didn’t use his hands.

 

And it wasn’t as if he needed to keep them up long—David was on him, and in him again, with surprising suddenness.  Kirk wrapped his legs around David’s waist, leather on leather, and embraced the muscled top as the latter once again probed the depths of his guts with his enormous rod.

 

Kirk looked up into David’s handsome, scruffy face, inches from his, and fell in instant love; the alpha seemed to be so happy fucking him.  “Are you rich?” he whispered.  “Daddy’s rich, but he can’t—”

 

David grabbed Kirk’s jaw, the scent of his leather glove wafting into Kirk’s nose as the older man squeezed the punk’s mouth painfully.  “Shaddup and take my dick, fag,” he sneered.  Increasing the pressure of his grip, he forced the youth’s mouth open and spit in it.

 

Despite himself, the young boyslut was turned on by this; David, of course, knew it right away—the naïve little faggot thought he was tough, but his dick had swollen and throbbed. Pressed as it was against David’s hard, ripped belly, the alpha had gotten the message.

 

He responded with a backhand across Kirk’s face.  This one had a little kick to it.

 

Slightly stunned, the boy grabbed his face, turning his dark eyes, wide and hurt, to the older man.  “What—why—”

 

David slapped him hard, again.  The glove seemed to make it sting even worse.

 

“Why?  Ya wanna know why?” David growled down at the bewildered youth, “Cause you’re pain pig, cunt.  See, when I hurt ya like that, it made yer ass muscle clench.  Just a little, though.  You must be one fuck of a slut, boy, yer ass is all worn out.  But see, now I know what it takes to make you milk my shaft.”

 

As a bruise slowly started to darken on Kirk’s left cheek, a blemish that somehow added to his youthful beauty, the kid lifted his head, his confusion obvious.  “Wha—I still—I don’t—”

 

“For fuck’s sake, you stupid sack of shit,” David snarled, “I’m gonna waste yer worthless ass.  Your butthole is gonna spasm as you die, and that’s gonna jack me off.  Got it, you stupid little fuckwad?  Good.  Time to die, cocksucker.”

 

Gathering the ends of the strap in his hands, he crossed them in front of Kirk’s neck, then wrapped them once around his palms to ensure a better grip.  He spit in the youth’s terrified face one more time.  “Dumbass piece of fuckmeat,” he muttered contemptuously, then jerked the strap tight.

 

This time, the strap around his throat was enforcing considerably more control over Kirk.

 

The sudden cessation of air induced instant panic.  Kirk’s mind was aflame; he’d never imagined anything like this happening to him, even within the limited range of his intellect.  Even the consequences were difficult to visualize—but David helped him there.

 

“They’re gonna find you here, ya know,” he taunted.  “Fucked and strangled.  Poor Daddy; havin’ to be told his hard-workin’ boy got himself filled with cum and snuffed at a fetish con.”

 

Despite the deafening pounding of his pulse, Kirk heard and understood the words.  His embrace of his perfect lover had morphed into a frantic struggle with his killer; his hands were clawing desperately at the point where the crossed ends of the strap were digging into his neck—excruciatingly, it was right on his larynx, slowly crushing his voicebox—as the heels of his kicks drummed relentlessly on David’s taut ass; the quilted leather came in handy here.

 

As he felt the dying boy’s colon writhing around his swollen shaft, some cold, detached corner of the killer’s mind wondered about that.  This was the first time he was doing something like this; usually he waited till he got home and offed some cheap rentboy or whatever other fuckmeat he could grab.  It wasn’t as if he planned this—but it had all worked out so right.  The beautiful boyslut with his own cum-splashed room—he was just begging to be snuffed.

 

David was more than happy to help.  In fact, he was overjoyed.  The pressure in Kirk’s head had increased to an agonizing extent; his dark eyes were bulging grotesquely—which meant he was unable to close them, to block out the sight of his killer towering over him, broad-shouldered with dark wiry fur in a triangle that stretched across both broad pecs, narrowing as it followed his torso down to his tapered waist—a triangle of body hair that pointed down to a dark line that led below the waistband of his leather pants to the dark tangled mass of his pubes.

 

And the face, the dark goatee, the rough scruff covering the cheeks, the glittering lash-lined emerald eyes—it was still a look to fall in love with.  It was still a look to die for.  Kirk was coming to accept that the two were not mutually exclusive.

 

The pain, though—that was something else.  In all his pampered existence, Kirk had never known anything like this.  The crushing, grinding pain in his throat, the vacuum-like pressure in his chest, the banging, pounding, screaming pain in his head…

 

…the straining, throbbing, pulsating pain in his cock…

 

“Hell yeah, cunt, now you’re learnin’,” David sneered, feeling the kid’s rectum contract as his swollen face darkened through purple into a frantic, livid black.  Kirk’s lips, thick and blue, were forcibly parted by his dark protruding tongue.

 

Kirk’s dying brain heard the words but was too busy enjoying the fireworks show.  Large areas of the boy’s field of vision were exploding into flares of blackness as blood vessels popped in the whites of his eyes, turning them red.

 

He was coming full circle, the fight for life slowly subsiding to a sensual dying caress of his killer.  Kirk’s desperate flailing had slowed, his hands now gently stroking the sweaty, bulging biceps of the man who was killing him.  The youth’s firm, leather-clad legs were wrapped tightly around the alpha’s waist, squeezing forcefully, as if to match the pressure on his neck.

 

As his ass fluttered and rippled on David’s tool, Kirk’s own rod continued to swell and throb at the tempo of the dying boy’s pulse—and his heart was slamming away its last few functional seconds before spasming into orgasmic arrhythmia.

 

“That’s it,” David whispered, “That’s a good little piggie.  Shh, just let go.  Die, motherfucker, let go and die.  It won’t hurt anymore once you’re dead, cunt.  Oh yeah, stop fuckin’ fightin’ it and die on my dick, fag.”

 

The pounding inside Kirk’s head had reached an overwhelming level; it dominated his entire universe—and then it seemed to falter.  There was a an intense, knife-like pain in his chest—Kirk was unaware of it, but it was the moment his heart failed—and just at that moment of silence, David words made it through the cold haze of impending death.

 

And Kirk knew he still loved him.  He died in convulsive agony on the dick of the greatest love he’d ever experienced.

 

His deathload was ample proof.  Kirk was young, strong, and very physically fit; his death throes were correspondingly violent.  Gripping his killer in an iron embrace, his body went through convulsions so intense, all David could do was hold on and allow his dick to be milked like a cow’s teat.

 

It was worth it.  Snuffing at the con was worth it.  This little fuck’s rectum was like a velvet glove sliding over his engorged, lubed head as it collapsed and spasmed along full length of manmeat buried in it.  Their hard, sweaty bodies, locked together in a haze of pheromones and leatherscent, ground against each other and writhed on the mattress.

 

Kirk gave one last gagging gurgle as foam erupted from his lips and cascaded down his cheeks in messy white strands.   Blood vessel continued to pop in his eyes.  Then, with no warning, he clutched David tightly.  A single last coughing gag sent a copious flow of drool down his face—and a violent spasm along the length of his dick.

 

Kirk shot a solid stream of cum out of his erect cock.

 

At the same time, his sphincter contracted like a cockring around the base of David’s dick.  It was all the latter had been waiting for.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, he unloaded his aching ballsack into the dead kid’s guts.

 

Kirk’s conscious brain was dead; his nervous system could only process physical sensations.  It was still aware enough that when David jerked violently in orgasm, tightening the strap and crushing Kirk’s larynx to a mangled was of gristle, it was interpreted as pain.  It was still enough of a stimulus to prompt a second geyser of semen to erupt from the fuckmeat.

 

Cold death, momentarily held at bay by an injection of boiling, life-giving manseed into his intestines—but it wasn’t enough.  Shuddering, convulsing and cumming, the choked-out cumsack once known as Kirk sank into a painful and well-deserved death.  David held on for a little while longer, though; his balls weren’t completely drained and the hard boycorpse went through an extended period of post-mortem convulsions.

 

Two hard, leather-clad bodies, shuddering together, one clutching the helpless, lifeless other.

 

Over the next fifteen minutes, David shot two more loads.  On the first one, he grunted, stiffened, and shot a long steady stream into the corpse’s guts.  The second one hurt; he cried out as he came, driving his fist into the youth’s grotesquely distorted face.

 

As he headed toward the bathroom, he glanced back.  Kirk’s lithe, firm corpse was still quivering and kicking.  His leather shoulder strap was embedded so deeply in his neck is was almost invisible.

 

Luckily, there were fresh towels in the bathroom; he was able to clean himself adequately afterwards.

 

David’s flight out was at noon, but he didn’t feel the need to sleep.  He simply tucked his cock back into his leather pants, slipped the vest back on and left the room.  Five minutes later, he was out mingling with the boys on the street.  It was inevitable that the subject of the window show would come up at some point, although it took forty-five minutes for David to stumble onto a conversation about it.

 

“Nice boots,” a bear with a thick beard remarked.  “Hey, didja see the shit that happened up there?” He nodded at Kirk’s third-floor window, now just an empty rectangle of light.

 

“I heard about it,” David replied.

 

“Man, that bottom was hot.  Whaddaya think he’s doin’ right now?  Maybe he’s just chillin’…”

 

“Yeah, I imagine he’s chillin’,” David returned, “He might even be downright cold by now.”

M4M4Black

Joe’s phone beeped.  Actually, it wasn’t his phone; it had belonged to one of his kills—Joe had kept it for the gay hookup app the cunt had installed.  After altering the dead kid’s profile, he was using it to troll for victims.  Seemed he’d found one.  Glancing down, he read the screen—

 

Tapdisazz: hey daddy wassup

 

The buff sadist quickly replied—

 

Powertop4boi: my dick.  what ya want

 

Tapdisazz:  ur dick

 

This was accompanied by a pic.  It was a neck-down nude body shot of a young man, not powerfully built but with well-defined muscles.  Based on the lighting, the dude was black; his skin was a relatively light mocha shade, but his thick cock was a seven-inch bar of dark chocolate.

 

Joe was intrigued.  He hadn’t wasted a nigger before.  This could be fun.

 

Powertop4boi:  yeah I can slip ya the D.  u host?

 

Tapdisazz:  can host 962 walnut st apt 7H how long

 

Joe knew the street, if not the specific address; three block south of the MLK Boulevard exit on the interstate.  Bad neighborhood for an evening stroll—but as a predator among predators, the experienced killed wasn’t afraid.  He knew he could handle himself in any situation.

 

Tapdisazz: u comin man need to get fucked bad

 

Powertop4boi: gimme 20 will plow ur hole

 

Tapdisazz: k homey hurry want ur nut in my azz

 

Joe chuckled.  Faggot was gonna get his cum and a fuck of a lot more.

 

It was already past midnight—he’d been lying nude in bed; he jumped to his feet quickly and crossed to his dresser.  It was still record-breakingly warm for the time of year, so he slipped a black sleeveless muscle t-shirt over his head; it clung to his muscular torso as if it had been painted on.  Next on was a pair of beige cargo shorts that reached just below the knee.  They were tight enough to clutch his firm, rounded ass tightly but still displayed no more than his hard, hairy calves—half of which the well-built stud immediately covered with white tube socks.

 

He’d had to pull the socks so high up his legs to make sure he could get on his sand-beige combat boots.  They rose halfway up to his knees; once he had them tightly laced, he checked himself in the mirror.  In a way, he had kinda a casual-military-commando thing going.  It was unintentional, but he liked the result.

 

Slipping his wallet into his rear pocket and his keys into his front, he headed out to his car.  Within five minutes, he was on the interstate—and in another ten, he’d reached his exit.

 

Turning south on MLK Boulevard, he slowed to a halt a red light.  The first couple of blocks were lined with tote-the-note care lots, pawn shops and shade-tree mechanics.  Back in the darkness off the main street, there was a fair amount of furtive activity that melted away briefly on the odd occasions that headlights turned down the side streets.

 

The next major cross street to the south was Lamar; every weekend, there was guaranteed to be at least two murders within a five-block radius of MLK and Lamar—usually drug, robbery or gang-related.  And this was despite a large police presence; Joe passed two cruisers and a motorcycle cop during his three-block trip from the interstate.

 

Turning left onto Walnut, he followed the potholed street for another two blocks before arriving at his destination.  The address turned out to be located in a complex of dilapidated two-story buildings of fourteen apartments each, seven upstairs and seven down.  From the open parking lot in the street, the complex was laid out on a slope that led down to a malodorous, weed-choked drainage ditch at the back of the property.  Building H was next to the ditch, last building on the right side.

 

The unseasonal warmth did nothing to help the dank stench wafting up from the ditch.  Even so, several people were out in the dark—mostly young black dudes.  One punk in dreads, wearing sagging jeans showing the top three inches of plaid boxers, gave Joe a particularly hostile glance as he slipped by on the other side of the concrete steps.

 

His paramilitary appearance was arousing suspicion in an area rife with drug trade.  Again, he wasn’t concerned with his own safety—but his dick was hard and he didn’t wanna go home without burying it in nigger ass.  If one of these motherfuckers started some shit before he got to the meat’s apartment, he wasn’t sure he’d have the chance to fuck the asswipe before real trouble started.

 

In any advent, it didn’t matter; he reached building H without incident.  Apartment 7H was the one at the far end of the building on the ground floor.  The thumping of his hard-soled combat boots on the cement walkway was drowned out by music that turned out to be coming from apartment 6H; someone into old school gangsta was blaring Tech N9ne’s “Breathe” so loud the flimsy, hollow-core front door of the unit was visibly rattling.  Joe had to beat his fist heard against the door of 7H to get a response.

 

After a moment, the door opened and the towering alpha found himself facing a kid in his late teens—no older than twenty, certainly.  The boy was almost assuredly mulatto.  It wasn’t that his skin was so light that indicated that one of his parents was white—it was his stunning, startlingly light blue eyes.  His nose was broad but not overly so; his lips were thick, but they looked soft and luscious, not like a caricature.  Short curly hair like steel wool covered his scalp.

 

The punk was shirtless; his broad smooth chest was tattooed with the words “Lamar Pride” in three-inch-tall calligraphic letters in an arc descending from one shoulder and rising to the other.  Joe wasn’t aware of any local gang known as Lamar—but he did know that Lamar High School was a couple of miles away.

 

Around the black fag’s neck was what looked like a thick-linked dog chain, looped back into itself in a slipknot.  The kid sported a pair of UA Mo’ Money basketball shorts in shiny gray; despite their bagginess, they did nothing to hide his long, semi-erect cock.  Under the shorts, the boy had stayed true to form with a pair of Adidas “Light Em Up” basketball hightops.

 

Little fuckin’ gangsta wannabe.  Joe grinned broadly—wastin’ this little nigger cunt was gonna be so fuckin’ hot

 

“Holy shit…” the kid gasped, gazing up at the hard-bodied stud looming in his doorway.  Joe’s body was bulked out from his recent workouts and it was obvious the black kid was into well-built white tops.

 

“C-c’mon in,” he stuttered.  “I-I’m Deonte.”  Stepping to the side, he let Joe into the apartment.  The towering alpha filled the doorway momentarily as he paused and glanced around.  It didn’t take long—there wasn’t much to glance at.

 

The apartment was an efficiency—a single room with a closet and a couple of alcoves.  One was the bathroom, the other could best have been called a kitchenette.  There was a small fridge, a sink and a two-burner cooktop but no oven.  On one side of the room was a large flat-screen TV; facing it was an unfolded sofa bed.  To one side was an overstuffed armchair in the same light floral upholstery—now dark and stained with age—as the sofa; the set had probably belonged to the cocksucker’s gramma or something, Joe figured.

 

Interestingly enough, the off-white sheets covering the two-inch thick foam rubber mattress were that color by design; they, along with the pillowcases, were all clean and in good condition.

 

Not that he cared.  Good a dump as any to put down the black boy.  He turned back and grinned at his prey.

 

Deonte couldn’t believe his luck.

 

The nineteen-year-old really was a gangbanger wannabe; he worked at the local fast-food burger joint for minimum wage and supplemented his income by dealing drugs.  Nothing on a huge scale, but right now there was half a pound of skunk weed in the closet and about thirty dime bags of coke in a baggie taped under the toilet lid.

 

Competing as he was in a hyper-masculine culture, he’d always wanted to be dominated by older white daddies; he wanted to be violated by “the Man”—and the hulking, toned dude standing here now fit his desire perfectly.  And it was the first time.  No other white guy had been brave enough to come down here to the hood.  This fucker was hardcore…

 

He was so lost in lust he was unaware of how far out his now fully-erect cock was tenting his ball shorts—and was utterly unaware of the small but growing circle of precum that darkened the material at the tip of the tentpole.

 

It darkened even more once Joe spoke.

 

“So ya wanna real man’s cock, boy?  Think yer thug enough to handle my cock?  Lessee what ya got.  Strip, bitch, I wanna see if ya got as big a dick as niggers are supposed to!

 

Deonte’s face blushed visibly against his pale brown skin.  Grinning, he shucked the ball shorts, stepping out of them to reveal a pair of smooth but muscled brown legs and a jet-black dong the size of a Louisville Slugger—almost as big as Joe’s.

 

The sex killer chuckled.  “Damn, I guess they were right.  You jigaboos got nice big dicks.”

 

The black youth stiffened; he expected a certain level of racial abuse in the encounter, but this guy was going a little far.  Still, for that body, the horny young fag was willing to endure a lot.

 

It was probably a good thing that he had no idea how much he’d have to endure over the next hour.

 

Joe reached down and grabbed the bottom edge of his shirt, then slowly pulled it up over his head, revealing his incredibly toned torso, covered with dark wiry fur.  Deonte swallowed loudly—more of a gulp, actually—and his thick cock suddenly pulsed and began oozing clear beads of precum.

 

His already-broad grin widening, Joe slid his hands down to his waist and, with a quick shove, dropped his shorts.  As they pooled around his combat boots, Deonte literally gasped aloud at the huge shaft that rose straight up in a tube of thick, throbbing manmeat to press against the white alpha’s hairy, ripped abs.  He’d been with punks better hung than he himself was, but no one anywhere near this big.

 

“Fuck, dude,” the young thug said, wiping his thick, soft lips with the back of his hand, “You got some serious junk, dawg—ain’t sure that’s even gonna fit.”

 

Joe’s handsome face twisted into a smirk.  “I’ll make it fit, cunt.  Now be a good little bitch—come over here and put those fat nigger lips on my nipples.  Now, boy!”

 

Deonte jumped to attention and moved towards the leering stud.  Still standing near the door, Joe reached a hand behind himself and made sure the keyless deadbolt was on, then swept his arm around to catch Deonte by the back of the head and jerk him closer.

 

“Get yer fuckin’ nappy-ass head down and work my nips, ya worthless coon!” he barked.  The black kid flinched at the words but before he could do anything more, his face had been mashed into the top’s hairy, hubcap-like pec; a rock-hard plug of flesh penetrating into his mouth.

 

Obeying instinctively, the black punk began tonguing it, despite his rising concerns about this white motherfucker.  Dude was gettin’ too race-heavy for Deonte to feel comfortable; he wanted to be dominated, not treated like shit.

 

Which was a shame, really, since he was about to be treated like much less than shit.

 

“Work it, fucker, lemme feel yer tongue,” Joe grunted, clamping his large hands on Deonte’s head and feeling the short, tightly-curled hair scraping his palms like steel wool.  He dragged the kid’s face across his chest, making sure to grind the thug’s face into his own wiry chest fur.

 

“Now work the other one, ya nigger faggot,” the brutal alpha hissed as he roughly manhandled the young buck’s head onto the other large, erect nipple.  “That’s it, work it good or I’ll beat like a fuckin’ field hand!”

 

It was too much for Deonte.  Bracing his strong arms against Joe’s chest, he pushed off abruptly enough to startle the sadist, despite his experience.  Whirling in his expensive (for him) Adidas kicks, the youthful thug tried to twist his way around his now-frightening hookup—only to find that the front door wouldn’t open to his frantic fumblings.

 

Then a large hand slapped down on his shoulder; before Deonte knew what was happening, he’d been flung back a yard and a half, landing on his back on the hard wood floor with enough violence to force the breath from his trim, firm body.  As the trim black homo gasped for air and blinked his bright blue eyes in pain, his field of vision was filled by the image of Joe looming ominously over him, nude except for the boots that indicated he expected lots of combat tonight.  It was an overwhelmingly intimidating sight, made even more so by the huge straining shaft jutting out in front of the white hunk, dripping searing beads of boiling precum.

 

“Big mistake, ya fuckin’ jungle ape,” Joe chuckled, reveling in racist cruelty.  He lashed out with one powerful leg, showing Deonte that his Desert Storm combat boots had steel toes with a swift kick that caught the nigger slut on the hip and fractured his pelvis.

 

The pain was sharp and shattering; the black punk swiftly shed his tough nigga image as he writhed and squealed on the floor.  Even though the vision in his amazingly bright blue eyes was blurred by tears, he could still make out the contemptuous way in which Joe curled his bottom lip as the toned and fit killer planted one of his boots on his prey’s heaving chest and bent down over him.

 

“Stupid-ass little coon pansy,” he sneered with a hard, sharp edge to his voice, just before he hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on Deonte’s face.  Leaning forward, the sadistic alpha put his weight on the boy’s chest, the thick sole of his boot crushing the slut’s ribcage until he could no longer inhale.

 

Deonte’s beautiful eyes widened almost comically as he struggled to breathe.  His mouth gaping like a fish, the young black stud grabbed frantically at Joe’s thick, hairy calf, trying futilely to pry the white dude’s foot off him.  As his hands clutched the top’s leg uselessly, the alpha bent down and viciously swatted them away before reaching out and gasping the loose end of the slipknotted chain around Deonte’s neck.

 

Wrapping it around his hand, Joe jerked it, simultaneously removing his boot and standing up straight in a single, almost graceful movement.  Deonte took a deep breath the moment the pressure on his chest was removed—

 

—only to find it cut off again, infinitely more painfully, by the chain-link noose he’d voluntarily slipped around his own neck.

 

Now the black cunt’s eyes were bulging grotesquely as his b-ball hightops kicked helplessly in mid-air.  Raising his powerful arm over his head, Joe hoisted Deonte up to his own eye level.  “I ain’t playin’ no games with ya, you black-ass cumsucking fag—yer takin’ my dick, now, ya got me, ya nigger bitch?  And ya better take it good, ya fuckin’ spade, or I’m gonna beat ya like a field hand!”

 

The struggling thug grasped and clutched at Joe’s thick and incredibly powerful forearms, his fingers prying at the killer’s hands, desperately and futilely trying to break free of his strangling grip.  His eyes rolling wildly, he kicked and jerked like a fish on a line—his head was buzzing and panic was setting in; he didn’t know how much longer he could remain conscious.

 

Then Joe turned to the side, drawing his arm back and swinging Deonte around like a pendulum.  With a swift twist, the cruel top snapped the kid in the air like cracking a whip, flinging the flailing faggot face-down onto the bed where he landed spread-eagled.

 

The black teen was too brutalized to be fully functional; as he floundered on the thin foam mattress, clawing the chain away from his throat, he could hear the steady, measured tread of the buff alpha’s boots approaching from behind but was unable to react.  He was awake enough to know that something had gone horribly wrong with his hot white daddy fantasy.

 

Since he sold drugs—even if just on a low-level scale—Deonte carried a 9-mm piece with him at all times.  He’d rarely have more than a grand of cash on him at any one time, but in this hood, that was enough to justify a home invasion; as a result, Deonte never went anywhere without his gun—except that when he got back from his last delivery, not twenty minutes before he’d found the hot honky online, he’d left the gat in the car.

 

The realization that he was defenseless entered the young buck’s head just before Joe’s gigantic cock entered his ass.

 

Deonte was starting to rise and had gotten up on his hands and knees.  As the cruel sadist reached the foot of the bed, he was presented with a smooth black bubble butt, the asshole pulsing pinkly in the middle like a target for his thick, oozing head.  Without hesitation—and without lube—Joe instantly plunged his massive shaft into the faggot’s fuckhole up to the hilt.

 

The teenage homo screeched as Joe’s hog split open his sphincter, tore past his prostate and buried itself agonizingly in his soft, tender guts.  He tried to pull forward, away from the searing pain impaling his ass; he only succeeded in enraging his tormentor.

 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, ya stupid-ass piece of shit!” he snarled, reaching out and grabbing at the dog chain, “Just can’t control yer howlin’ either, can ya, you fuckin’ baboon?  That’s ok—I know how to make niggerboys like you obey!”

 

With a loud grunt, Joe yanked the loose end of the slipknot, sealing off Deonte’s throat and pulling the kid’s head back and up, making him arch his back in an excruciating semi-circle.  The strong, smooth light-skinned youth clawed the air in front of him as Joe began riding him like a rodeo cowboy, one arm out to the side as he used the other to jerk the chain like a bridle slung round the neck of his mount.

 

“Take it, nigga, take that white dick up yer jigaboo ass,” Joe chuckled maliciously as he pounded the black boy’s hole.  “That’s what ya wanted, right, bitch?  Cracker cock tearin’ yer coon ass up?  Fuck, yeah, boy, ya gotta be lovin’ this shit!  Enjoy it, ya lucky fuckin’ nigger fag!”

 

Keeping his tight combat boots planted firmly on the floor, the overpowering alpha shifted his positon slightly so he could thrust his throbbing manmeat even deeper into his prey’s rectum.  His powerful thighs bulged as he sped up the tempo of his pumping, driving his engorged rod further into his panicked and writhing victim.

 

On his hands and knees, with his spine bent achingly backwards, Deonte was still aware of his own thick, erect shaft and the way it slapped against his belly with every thrust of his assailant’s hips.  His right hand was fumbling vainly at the chain, which was sunk too far into his neck to reach—his left hand was on the bed supporting him; if it didn’t, he’d have fallen forward and dangled from his choker.

 

The young thug queer could hear the frantic tempo of his pulse pounding in his head as pressure built in his chest.  At first, the horrible reaming agony in his ass had been overwhelming; it was only when the oxygen deprivation reached a certain point that the nigger teen, his smooth chest slick with cold sweat squeezed out of his lean form by force, began to feel the true pain of being strangled to death.

 

As it so happened, the moment he hit that point, Joe gave some extra power to his thrust and sank his tool further into Deonte’s shredded innards than ever before.  It was too much for the gangsta-wannabe; reacting reflexively, he jerked with all the force of a bucking bronco.  The violence of the motion caught Joe momentarily off-guard—enough to make him lose his hold on the chain.  Before he realized it, the smooth black buck had slipped off his dick, leaving it bobbing and dripping fat translucent beads of precum onto the spotless sheets.  Deonte blindly yanked the dog chain away from his throat.  He’d expended the last of his oxygen in shaking off his rapist; the slim but muscled punk could only flop onto his back, gasping desperately for air as the pressure and the pounding in his head began to decrease.

 

Glancing towards the foot of the bed, the black cocksucker had a view down the entire length of his own firm, smooth body, brown and glistening with sweat in the dim light.  His dick, a seven-inch shaft of jet-black meat stood tall and straining between his legs; beyond that, his feet, still tightly laced into his Adidas kicks, were spread wide.

 

And towering between them was the crazy white dude, his hairy, muscled body also gleaming under a fine layer of perspiration.  And his cock was hard and straining, too—but it looked like it still hadn’t reached its full erect length.

 

When it did, getting raped was gonna be like being impaled on a caveman’s club.  And as his glance moved further up the stud’s body (some fuckpig corner of his brain still lustfully noting the alpha’s broad furry pecs and bulging biceps), he couldn’t help but realize that the cold, icy glint in the older top’s eye was the look of death.

 

This motherfucker was gonna kill him.

 

Even though his young and well-built body had been nearly put out of commission by oxygen deprivation, panic provided the desperate thug with enough of a jolt to propel him up off the bed.  It took a mighty heave to bring his slim but strong form away from the sagging coil net and thin mattress and Deonte wasn’t really aiming anywhere in particular.

 

Since the move was totally unexpected, and Joe had to go around the chair (toss it aside, actually, but it still took a moment), Deonte had time to reach the door and, opening it, get his head outside to call for help.

 

Unfortunately, in his disorientation, he didn’t realize it was the closet door.

 

It wasn’t until his eyes focused on the large bag of weed he’d hidden that Deonte realized his error.  By then the clumping of the sadist’s thick boot soles on the wooden floor told the terrified youth that the man was almost on him again.

 

He almost pissed himself in terror, but his traitorous erection prevented more than a dribble from coming out—and that little burned like fire along his urethra.  It didn’t matter; his mind was suddenly and utterly diverted from his dick.

 

He was face down, head halfway into the closet, so he couldn’t see what his assailant was doing; he felt the closet door being ripped from his well enough, though.  And he damn sure felt the door again when the killer stud slammed it on his head.

 

Leaning on the door, crushing Deonte’s head between it and the jamb, Joe kicked the moaning, writhing teen in exactly the same spot he had before, grinding the fracture of the pelvis into an outright break.  The boy shrieked, then sank into a subdued blubbering.

 

Joe had caught sight of what was in the closet.  As he kept his prey’s head pinned in the door, he bent down and whispered into the trapped kid’s ear.

 

“So yer a pansy-ass nigger drug dealer, huh?  Fuck, they’ll gimme a medal for this kill.  Ya hear that, ya worthless gangbanger wannabe?  I’mma be a goddam hero for snuffing yer faggot ass!”

 

Standing back up, he spoke again.  This time, he put some emphasis on his words by repeatedly slamming the door on the black teen’s head.

 

“So now it’s time to learn (WHAM) yer goddam place (WHAM), you fuckin’ uppity (WHAM) niggerboy (WHAM)!”

 

Deonte cried aloud with each blow, his entire body jerking with the force of the impacts and making his hightops kick the floor.  But it was the final blow on the final word that quieted him down, largely because it was the one that fractured his skull.

 

It didn’t cause major brain trauma but it was painful and terrifyingly loud; the young black thug heard his skull crack like an eggshell.  He instantly became light-headed with shock and did not resist as Joe dragged his limp form back to the hideaway and tossed him onto it on his back.

 

It was only when the larger, more muscled alpha actually climbed up on him that he came out his daze; the white dude’s weight on top was driving Deonte down into the crossbar of the folding frame.  Even with this new pain, the slim black buck was still unable to do more than moan inarticulately as Joe propped his legs up on his shoulders and began to stuff his—finally—fully-erect cock into the punk’s reamed-out ass.

 

“Do-don’t…no, stop…p-p-please, d-dawg, ya ai-ai-ain’t got-gotta do this…” the boy begged.

 

Joe leaned over and grabbed the chain, spitting into Deonte’s face before ramming his cock all the way up the homo’s ass—and jerking the chain tight.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ faggot junglebunny.  Only thing you homo niggers are good for is killin’—dark meat is real good at soaking up the cum of a good white man, boy, didja know that?  Yer about to find out, you stupid black bitch!”

 

And with that, Joe assumed the killing position.  He was fucking Deonte missionary style with the kid’s “Light ‘Em Up” sneakers on his shoulder while boy was getting lit up good.  The alpha was hunched over him, one hand pulling back hard on the choke chain around the black thug’s neck, the other hand splayed out over the punk’s forehead, pressing down for support—and squeezing, right along the fracture line, because he knew it caused the dying nigger agony.

 

“How ya likin’ that, boy?” Joe grunted gleefully as he shagged the teen as remorselessly, making sure the kid felt every thrust.  “That what ya were lookin’ for tonight when ya said ya wanted my nut?  I bet not, ya ignorant fuckin’ nigger.”

 

Pushing forward on Deonte’s head, Joe pulled backward on the chain to counterbalance, tightening the metal links around the boy’s throat.  As they sank into the skin, the kid’s finger’s clawed at his neck, scraping and breaking the skin but unable to grasp the slick metal surface.  The teen’s pale blue eyes bulged as his face swelled, but his field of vision was filled by Joe’s face; Deonte could look at nothing but the man who was killing him.

 

“See,” Joe said in a maliciously conversational tone of voice, “The problem with you nigger fags is that y’all never learn yer place.  And yer place is on the end of my cock, milking out my spunk.  So I gotta make ya learn, boy.  I can tell yer a stupid-ass fuckin’ coon, too, just by lookin’ at ya, bitch—ya know what that means?”

 

Deonte was in an uncharted world of pain and terror; his secret sex fantasy had turned into a nightmare.  The crushing pain in his closed-off throat was preventing him from screaming from the slashing, searing trauma being inflicted on his anus.  Amazingly, his own dick was still so hard it literally hurt.

 

And somehow, through it all, the youthful thug could see the cheery insanity in the cold killer’s light in Joe’s eye when he spoke next.

 

“It means I gotta hurt ya.  Yeah?  You get it, yeah?  Niggers learn best by beatin’, so I beat into yer head over there that you were my bitch.  An’ now I’m gonna make the lesson stick by wastin’ ya.  After all the last thing ya learn sticks with ya forever.  So once ya learn how fuckin’ good white man seed feels inside yer nigger fuckhole, I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out and leave yer reamed-out corpse for yer homies to find.  What ya say, dawg, we tight?”

 

Then Deonte learned that the nightmare could get worse.  Joe’s jackhammer thrusts mangled the teen’s innards, the thick, unlubed shaft of flesh, wreathed with veins like barbed wire, tore at the punk’s rectal lining and ripped into the lower duodenum.  As the chain sank deeper into his throat, small areas of skin were forced agonizingly through the openings in the large links.  Unable to loosen it in the slightest, Deonte transferred his hands to Joe’s wrists.

 

It was like trying to pull down concrete posts.  The flailing black youth was sweating harder now, his own distinct musk adding to the heady mix of testosterone and adrenaline filling the room.  His struggles intensified as his thick lips parted, forced aside by his swollen purple tongue, slowly pushed out his mouth on a tide of drool that trickled down Deonte’s chin and streaked his face with white foam.

 

He no longer tried to pry Joe’s hands away from his throat; realizing the futility of the attempt, the dying nigger clawed desperately at his killer’s handsome, contempt-filled face but the powerful top was both larger and stronger and was easily able to avoid his blind thrashing.  His expensive Adidas shoes kicked and jerked without making contact with his assailant.

 

The horrific pain in his mangled ass and his broken his had faded into a kinda buzzing in the background, overtaken by the relentless pounding and pressure in his head, amplified by the way the sadistic alpha was squeezing his damaged skull; even the fiery tightness in his chest was fading.

 

Funny thing was, even as his brain began to die, Deonte could still feel his own raging hard-on.  Somehow, through the cold grayness that was creeping inexorably over his firm, lithe body, the black fag could feel the pulsing warmth of his deathload boiling in his puckered balls, waiting for the final traumatic signal to erupt in a burning froth of DNA.

 

As his wasted life began to fade, the nigger thug’s struggles began to slow into caresses.  His hands, no longer claws, gently slapped at Joe’s massive, hubcap pecs, almost as if they were stroking the wiry fur.  His entire body bucked and curved, griping his rapist’s cock firmly holding it in place as the rectal muscles began to convulse.

 

And then Deonte reached the tipping point of brain death.

 

Joe knew he’d reached the sweet spot when the punk’s random thrashing became more rhythmic and less focused.  The nigger was already meat.  Joe merely confirmed it when he gave one last final violent jerk to the chain, sinking it deep enough into the slut’s throat to crush the esophagus with a loud cracking sound.

 

Perhaps it was the final blast of pain that flipped the switch in the black fuckpig’s shorted-out brain, but that was the moment that Deonte’s swollen scrotum exploded, sending jet after jet of ropy streams of cum spurting from his hard dick.  Joe could feel the wet warmth splatter across his ripped abs and spew across his chest.

 

At the same time, the gangsta wannabe—now nothing but fuckmeat—went rigid with orgasmic convulsion, making his sphincter—despite being torn now in two places—clamp down around the root of Joe’s shaft like a cockring while his colon rippled in its death throes like a velvet glove over the alpha’s huge, engorged rod.

 

With a loud, deep grunt, Joe unloaded in the nigger’s ass, his scalding sperm flooding the black boy’s guts.  Some faint spark of Deonte’s faggot soul was left to respond to getting knocked up by his killer; as Joe shot his wad, the teenaged homo erupted with one last fount of spunk before the kid subsided into quivering meat that hadn’t quite realized it was dead yet.

 

With a deep and satisfied sigh, the vicious killer withdrew his still-erect tool from his victim, stood up and glanced around.  Locating the bathroom, he crossed to it and washed himself up, tossing the towel he’d used into the toilet and flushing it.  He closed the door on the overflowing mess as he walked out.

 

Deonte was lying sprawled on his back, cum leaking from his ass, stained pink with blood from his shredded colon.  His pale blue eyes were less stunning now that they bulging grotesquely and utterly bloodshot with petechial hemorrhages.  White foam had dried to a crust on his face while large pools of his own spunk slowly congealed on his chest.

 

Joe slipped back into his shirt and shorts, glancing around the shitty efficiency apartment, partially in contempt, partially to ensure he’d left nothing behind.  Pausing for a moment, he turned back and snagged the bag of weed from the closet; he might be able to use it a lure for fresh meat.  He shoved it into his pocket and left, leaving the door closed but unlocked.

 

He’d have given anything to be a fly on the wall when the little fucker’s homies learned that he was a faggot—and he’d lost a half pound of weed.  Poor niggerboy; his rep was gonna be total shit.

Trucker 10–Trucker v Birthday Boi

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.

 

M4M4yung

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…