Trucker 12–Trucker vs Wetback

As the narrow black ribbon of roadway veered sharply to the right, the Trucker gripped the large wheel of his rig and maneuvered the semi carefully around the sharp curve.   A few more yards ahead was another bend to the left, completing the S-curve that the black and yellow caution sign had warned about.


Even though he like to hunt along the lesser-traveled roadways, he wouldn’t normally have been on this treacherous stretch of state highway in west Texas if the interstate hadn’t been torn up for repairs.  Everyone had been exiting at Big Springs, so the Trucker had too, heading north.  His plan was to cut across a corner of New Mexico near Carlsbad before turning back south to El Paso, all on state highways.


At some point, most everyone else had turned off to head back to the interstate, trying to skirt around the construction.  The Trucker was content to slowly wend his way along the back roads.


After all, he was horny.  Who knew what kinda prey was waiting for him out there?


That question was answered much sooner than the sadistic predator thought it would be.  Skirting the Guadalupe Mountains National Park to the south, the Trucker noticed a lone figure on the side of the road, near the turnoff for a county road heading due south towards a ranch.  On getting closer, the figure resolved itself into a young Mexican kid, hitching west.


There was no one in sight and hadn’t been for miles.  The Trucker pulled over and watching in the side mirror as the punk ran towards the cab.


Young—early twenties at most.  His brown skin was highlighted by his almost shoulder-length hair, so black it was almost blue.  The boy had the hard, muscled body of a manual laborer, a fact not hidden by his slightly dirt-stained wifebeater, the thin cotton plastered to his well-built torso by sweat.  The spic’s firmly-muscled legs and bulging crotch were equally well displayed by his tight jeans, so well-worn that they were tantalizingly threadbare in strategic spots.  They were tucked into an old pair of pull-on workboots that had probably risen halfway up the kid’s calf when they were new—now they slouched and looked worn and soft as suede.


Soon enough, the door popped open and spic kid climbed in, in a swirl of hot air filled with tang of boysweat.  “Gracias, señor,” he said, rubbing his hand vigorously through his long hair to dislodge the dust.


“Where ya headed?” drawled the Trucker.


“West, señor.  Las Cruces.  I have job there, si?”


“Uh-huh,” the Trucker muttered noncommittally.  He already knew the little spic fuck wasn’t gonna make it to Las Cruces.  “Headed to El Paso myself.  I can get ya closer—maybe.”


The boy had been eyeing the Trucker the entire time; the buff alpha wasn’t surprised.  After all, he was dressed to attract attention from any horny little cockpig he came across.  His large muscled form was barely encased in a gray t-shirt so tight, his large erect nipples were clearly defined.  His huge, hubcap pecs were highlighted by the glint of metal from the dogtags dangling between them.


The older man’s tight jeans weren’t as worn as the hitcher’s, but the impossibly large bulge in his crotch was difficult to miss, as was the way his powerful legs were wrapped tightly in the denim all the way down to where they were tucked into his well-used but still intact black leather combat boots, worn loosely-laced and untied.  Above, his dark blue trucker’s cap was pulled low, shielding his eyes so that all that was visible of his face was his cheeks and his strong jaw, covered with a blue shadow of rough, wiry stubble.


The Trucker shifted into gear and started the rig moving forward, slowly merging back onto the empty two-lane blacktop.  As he did, he noticed in his peripheral vision the searching sidelong glances his passenger was giving him.  The boy was interested in him.  As he shifted the engine into a higher gear and the massive semi began to pick up speed, the Trucker leaned back in the driver’s seat.  He’d wait for the kid to make his move.


It didn’t take long.  About five miles further west, the Mexican spoke up. “S-say, señor, I can do un pequeño para ti, no?  A lil’ favor so you take me to Las Cruces?”


A broad grin crossed the Trucker’s face, but he didn’t look at the little punk.  “Yeah?  What kinda favor?  You got dinero?”


“N-no, señor, no dinero—but maybe I can do somethin’ else…”


With that, the spic reached out and placed his hand on the Trucker’s firm thigh, letting it slide over the denim towards the older man’s crotch.  The older man laughed out loud.


“Yeah, boy?” he chuckled, “Ya want me to fuck ya?”


The kid snatched his hand back.  His face flushed with anger.  “I ain’t no maricón!” he snapped.  “And I ain’t your niño—me llamo Jorge!” 


“So what the fuck are ya offerin’, then—boy?” the Trucker said, drawling out the last word in emphasis.


Still flushed—perhaps now in embarrassment—the Mexican punk was silent for a few seconds.  “I-I put it en mi boca, no en mi culo, compendre?   My mouth…”


The kid was offering a BJ but didn’t want it up the ass.  The Trucker had no doubt he’d be able to overcome the cunt’s objection to a good buttfuck.  Still, he might as well let the fucker suck on it a bit…


Taking one hand off the wheel, the hulking alpha reached into his groin and unzipped his fly.  Since he was doing it one-handed, it took him a couple of minutes to extract the full length of his massive cock.  Semi-soft, it slapped down loudly on his denim-wrapped thigh, pulsing and slowly swelling.


The Mexican youth stared down at the enormous tube of manmeat and gulped nervously.  Gingerly, he reached out for it.


“G’wan,” the Trucker snapped.  “You said you’d suck it, cerdo, now put it in yer mouth.”


“B-but you still drive, señor…” Jorge said hesitantly.


“Yer bitch ass ain’t enough to distract me while I’m drivin’, puta.  Suck my fuckin’ cock!  Ahora, perra!”


The labor-hardened slut had worked his way across country by hitching rides and doing whatever work he could pick up.  He’d picked tobacco in North Carolina, worked with a landscaping crew in Memphis and had done construction work in Dallas.  Every time he’d moved on, he’d ended up managing to trade blowjobs for rides and sometimes a bit more.  And if they weren’t grateful enough for his services, he’d steal whatever wasn’t nailed down.  There was a long, rough road behind him, but he’d never met anyone he couldn’t handle.


Until now.


And now he was scared.  This guy could hurt him; this guy could fuck him up bad.  He needed to have him pull over, say “Gracias, pero no gracias,” and wait for the next dude.


But he didn’t.  He kept moving toward that thick, throbbing shaft.  He wasn’t gay—no way was he a maricón—but he wasn’t able to pull away.  He didn’t know why; he wasn’t deep enough to analyze his own homosexual lust.  He just knew that he should get out, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and that was scaring him.


But then his hand wrapped around the huge flesh tube, and he knew he had to have it in his mouth.  Leaning awkwardly across the space between the seats, he tried to suck the Trucker’s cock.  It was so big he damn near dislocated his jaw trying to stuff it all in.  Gagging on the salty, musky head, the buff youth attempted to deep-throat the Trucker.


The potholes didn’t make it any easier.  Every time the cab jerked, the vein-bound tool slipped further down the punk’s throat, making him choke and cough.  The Trucker chuckled malignantly.


“You suck at suckin’,” he laughed.  “Gotta do better than that, boy—that won’t get ya five miles on this road!”


By this point, the experienced killer had spotted a wide spot on the shoulder ahead, an unmarked area to pull over momentarily.  He headed for it, keeping one hand on the wheel and the other entangled in the spic’s long black hair.  As he coasted to a stop, he grabbed the back of the kid’s head and shoved, hard.


Just as Jorge felt the cab decelerate, his windpipe was plugged with thick, throbbing manmeat.  He placed both hands on the alpha stud’s thigh and pushed as hard as he could, trying to raise his head up off the Trucker’s dick, but the older man was easily able to hold him down with one arm.


The hardbodied slut felt his fist bolt of outright fear—he couldn’t breathe and he literally couldn’t break free.  As his eyes watered uncontrollably, he curled his hands into fists and began to beat against the Trucker’s leg.  He could feel the large muscles flex in the top’s leg as he braked to a stop—and then the implacable force on the back of his head was gone.  The Trucker needed both hand to completely brake the rig.


Jorge instantly popped up, gasping for air.  “Mierda!  No mas!” he coughed out, drool running down his chin.


The Trucker parked the semi, cutting the ignition.  Grabbing a hank of the kid’s hair again, he pulled Jorge’s head up and spit in his congested, tear-stained face.  “Shaddup, ya stupid spic faggot,” he sneered and slammed the punk’s head into the dash with sudden, devastating force.


Jorge was literally stunned; it was like a bright red explosion of pain in his skull.  His eyes, wide with surprise, stared into the Trucker’s, with no comprehension of the hot flame of erotic rage that illuminated their otherwise cold blue depths.  The bewildered slut had barely taken in the Trucker’s words.


“P-pero…pero p-pensé…” he whispered.


“I don’t give a fuck what ya thought, fuckmeat,” the Trucker growled and rammed the boy headfirst into the dash again.  This time the kid went limp, sliding onto the floorboard like a sack of dirty laundry.


It took surprisingly little time for the Trucker to drag the Mexican to the sleeper section of the cab and close it off.  He had no qualms about being disturbed; he hadn’t seen another car for over an hour.  Tossing his cap to one side, he pulled off his t-shirt and left it on the floor.  Still in his jeans and boots, he squatted over the unconscious form of his passenger.  Gripping the low-slung collar of the spic’s wifebeater with both hands, he gave a short, strong yank and the thin cotton parted like wet tissue paper, revealing the homo punk’s muscled chest, the brown skin smooth and taut over his firm pecs and flat belly.



It was warm in the cab; the Trucker hadn’t wanted to switch on the AC and run the battery down.  Beads of sweat glittered like shards of glass scattered across the limp boywhore’s smooth, buff torso.  The hardbodied killer had no difficulty pulling off the punk’s worn and well-used workboots but his hands slipped momentarily on the kid’s sweat-slicked belly when he unfastened the button on the waistband of the victim’s jeans.  After that, though, it went smoothly.  One quick jerk and the young spic was lying nude on the floor except for a pair of white tube socks clinging to his calves—and displaying a thick, dark, uncut cock standing to attention from a curly nest of black pubes.  The Trucker smirked; little fag had been goin’ commando—and he said he didn’t like it up the ass.  Yeah, right.


And tough shit if he was telling the truth.


Bending down, the Trucker grabbed the unconscious youth under the arms and lifted him bodily up onto the bunk.  As he did, the kid started to moan.  Once the alpha had the boy laid out on the bed on his back, he could see the bruises on the kid’s face more clearly; the impact with the dash looked like it had split the fucker’s bottom lip.  The long eyelashes began to flutter, then suddenly large dark eyes were looking up into the Trucker’s own.


“M-madre d-d-de Di-dios…” Jorge muttered, his head pounding with pain.  Just regaining awareness, he wasn’t able to recall what exactly had happened—he’d been scared, and it hurt—


—then his eyes focused on the powerfully-built man towering over him, a man with a handsome, stubbled face and an evil grin and the biggest carajo he’d ever seen, purple and oozing…and he remembered.


“No—no—lemme ‘lone—” he blurted out as the Trucker let out a quiet chuckle.


Without a word, the older man climbed into the bunk and parted the boy’s legs.  Dazed as he was, Jorge could see what was about to happen.  Predictably, he became frantic.


“No! No en mi culo, no!” he protested loudly, doubling his fists and beating them against the Trucker’s chest with loud meaty smacks, as if he was hitting a side of beef—and with just as much of an impact.


“Shaddup and take my cock, ya dumbass spic fag,” the Trucker growled and punched Jorge straight in the face, his rocklike fist smashing the kid’s nose, breaking the cartilage with a loud crunch.  The Mexican youth squealed in agony and clutched his wounded face—leaving the Trucker undisturbed to position the pulsing, leaking head of his engorged tool up against Jorge’s pink, trembling fuckhole.


The sadistic top rubbed his precum over the clenched sphincter; it was all the lube the poor slut was gonna get.  Then he popped just the head in.


Jorge screamed; it had a high nasal pitch since his sinuses were blocked with blood.  Again he was pressing against the Trucker’s broad chest in a vain attempt to push his rapist off.  The searing pain in his boycunt was unimaginable…it was like someone had shoved a baseball up his ass…


The Trucker grinned and spat in the whore’s twisted face, streaked with trickles of tears and blood.  “That’s it,” he sneered, “Squeal like the cockpig ya are, boy.  Love it, dontcha?  Yeah, all you worthless spic fags fuckin’ love takin’ a white man’s rod, huh?  Fuck yeah, it’s yer lucky day, vato—you’re gonna get to spend a nice long time ridin’ my shaft.  Enjoy it, maricón!”


Jorge screeched as the Trucker inserted another two inches—and held that depth.  For the next few minutes, he fucked the kid swiftly but shallowly, letting him become accustomed to his ass muscle being stretched to its fullest extent.


And after a bit, Jorge began to relax.  His sphincter slackened and his colon accepted another couple of inches of the Trucker’s cock.  His cries had subsided to groans that slowly evolved into moans of pleasure.


Despite the fear and pain of the earlier assault—and his initial denials—the brown-skinned homo was getting his rocks off getting fucked.  His cock was fully extended, a good six inches of oozing, uncut manflesh.  His eyes were focused on the mesmerizing flickers of light that glinted on the dogtags dangling from the Trucker’s neck, twirling in the air as the alpha indulged in a controlled and (for him) gentle fuck.


And then it happened.  Jorge submitted to his pleasure in bottoming, wallowing in getting filled with mancock.  “Oh, si, si…mas, si, mas…” he moaned, wrapping his arms and legs as far as he could the top’s well-developed torso.  “Por favor, mas…”


“Yeah, I thought so—fuckin’ cumsuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the Tucker muttered and rammed the rest of his dick into Jorge’s ass.


He’d only been about halfway in before—and not the thickest half.  The whoreboy’s sphincter had been at its limit before; to penetrate the kid completely, the alpha had to tear him open.


Something had entered Jorge’s universe; he’d had no idea that pain like this was even possible.  He shrieked at the top of his lungs, so loudly that his voice cracked, turning his agonized cry into a croak.


“Oh fuck yeah,” he heard the Trucker say, “Take it all, spic.  Feel me, cocksucker, feel my dick buried in yer worthless guts…”


And he could.  This strong handsome gringo had filled him before, filled his ass and that aching void inside him…but now he was being not only filled by the older man, the dude was piledriving into his asshole, overflowing him, the huge mushroom tip catching and tearing at his innards as the vein-wrapped tube of flesh rode roughly over his prostate with every thrust.  The labor-hardened Mexican had thought he’d be able to handle any situation; now he was squealing in horrible pain as another dude held him down and wrecked his fuckhole.


And yet, the constant rough prostate massage left the helpless youth fully erect, precum leaking in an almost steady stream from the half-covered head of his dick.


“Lookit yer fuckin’ cock, cholo,” the Trucker jeered, “Hard as a fuckin’ brick, aintcha, yeah?  You like gettin’ hurt, dontcha, boy?  You ain’t nothing but a worthless dirty spic who gets off bein’ treated like the piece of homo shit you are, yeah?”


Jorge’s wide dark eyes were ringed with gray circles of shock as he looked into the scruffy, seductive face of madness hanging above him.  “Por-por f-favor, no!  N-no, señ-señor, Dios m-mío, no!”


He beat against the Trucker’s furry chest and sweaty, heaving flanks with as much impact as if he had been beating an oak tree.  He tried to get his feet into a position when he could obtain some leverage against his overpowering assailant, but all he managed to do was kick his legs in the air, his smooth firm thighs clenched around the buff older man’s waist.


Nothing he did had the slightest effect on the Trucker; the sadistic stud continued to pound his rod deep into the Mexican kid, tearing his way violently through the punk’s rectum.  Each thrust was like the slash of a razor within his colon; every time the muscled alpha grunted and pumped, the boy endured a new blast of agony…


…and was getting off on it.


That was the worst for Jorge; he couldn’t understand why his own uncut meat was achingly stiff when he was suffering some of the worst pain he’d ever encountered.  His body was betraying him—it was siding with his attacker.


Realizing his struggles were useless, the smooth, hardbodied fag stopped fighting and held the Trucker tight, a vague idea in his head that it might hurt less if he just held on.  The Trucker noticed.


He didn’t like it.


“You ain’t movin’ on my dick enough, ya worthless fairy wetback,” he barked angrily.  “What’s wrong, cunt—too much cock for ya?  You better get to work milking my rod, or I’ll make ya milk it—and I’ll make it hurt.  Think yer in pain now?  You ain’t felt nothin’, bitch.  This is gonna feel like mommy’s kisses by the time I’m done jackin’ up yer useless homo ass!”


Jorge realized he’d made a mistake, but he was too terrified to move.  The buff gringo had utterly overpowered him; he knew there was no escape.  In his migrations he’d met plenty of guys who’d introduced violence into the situation, but he’d never encountered anyone he couldn’t take.  This was different.  His only hope was to give the cruel, muscle-bound rapist what he wanted and hope the dude would let him go after he’d shot his load—after all, he was in the country illegally; he wasn’t gonna go to the cops…


…and deep in his pig soul, some part of him wanted it to continue.  In a dark corner of his psyche that he’d never consciously acknowledge, he was lusting after the viciously abusive alpha.  He wanted the older man’s hot wad in his ass, but the desire was being smothered by outright terror.


Especially when the Trucker leaned in so close his dogtags bounced on the kid’s broad, smooth chest and whispered, “Time to die, ya piece of garbage.  Tiempo a morir, niño.  I’m gettin’ bored fuckin’ ya, an’ I gotta schedule to keep.  Ready to cum an’ go, cunt?  Don’t worry, you’ll get a nice long dirt nap in a ditch when I’m done with ya.”


Leaning back, the hardbodied alpha sneered down at the boy writhing on his dick and spit into the kid’s pain-twisted, tear-streaked face.  He was pissed; fuckin’ spic didn’t comprehend enough English to take the full force of his mindfuck.


Ok, then, he’d make the meat understand manually.  Leaning forward again, the dogtags jangling loudly, he wrapped his huge hands around Jorge’s throat and started squeezing.


Jorge knew enough English to understand what the Trucker had said; he had simply just refused to let them sink in.  What sank in were the Trucker’s large, powerful hands, clamping down on his windpipe and sealing it off.  El gringo loco was really gonna kill him.


No, this wasn’t happening.  No.  He was young and strong; he could fight his way out.


And that was when he finally realized he wasn’t strong enough.


In the overheated, pheromone-laden atmosphere of the cab’s sleeper section, the two male bodies intertwined.  As Jorge tried desperately to pry the Trucker’s hands from his neck, his own hands slipped on the older man’s bulging muscles, slick with mansweat.  The Trucker squeezed even harder.


The Mexican punk started to panic.  There was a fiery pressure in his chest and a deafening pounding in his head; it made it hard to think.  He had to get away; it wasn’t a rational thought, it was a physical imperative.  In frantic blindness, the boy reached out, clawing at whatever was within his grasp.  In a flash, he’d managed to clench a fistful of the Trucker’s dark, wiry chest hair and jerked as hard as he could.


He never understood what a huge mistake he’d made; he was just aware that his involuntary reaction triggered an explosion of violence.


The Trucker’s cruelly handsome face darkened with terrifying anger.  “You goddam motherfucker,” he hissed, incandescent with rage, “You stupid spic cocksucker, I’m gonna jack yer worthless ass up so fuckin’ bad!”


Shifting his weight, he managed to take one hand from Jorge’s throat and still keep the buff slut’s airway closed.  He balled the free hand into a fist and pummeled the kid’s face, using the blows to punctuate his verbal abuse.


“Fuckin’ suffer, you useless sack a’ shit! (WHAM) Think yer gettin’ away? (WHAM)  Only place you’re goin’ is infierno, ya cumguzzlin’ queer wetback! (WHAM)  I’m gonna choke ya out while ya ride my dick all the way to hell, cunt! (WHAM)  Ya feel me, bitch? (WHAM)  No? (WHAM)  How ‘bout that one? (WHAM)  Ya feel that one, faggot? (WHAM)”


The second blow snapped Jorge’s left cheekbone; the third split both lips.  The fifth blow broke his nose with a loud crunch—and the last one dislocated his jaw.  As the Trucker had demanded, the well-built immigrant laborer suffered; he suffered bad.  The beating seemed to go on forever with all the force of a jackhammer.


And the unfortunate youth endured the torment while being raped and strangled.  No matter how badly he was beaten, his stunned mind was still agonizingly aware that he was choking to death, that an enormous shaft of manmeat was destroying his rectum—


—that his own cock was still painfully straining, erect and oozing.


And the end of the beating brought no relief.  The Trucker reapplied both hands to Jorge’s throat, clamping down even harder.  Now he was using enough force to deform the esophagus.


It hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad.  The Latino whore could feel his windpipe slowly constricting under the pressure being applied.  The soft tissues in his neck were already compressed together, sealing off the airway; this was the cartilage itself collapsing.


The Trucker could feel pressure building as well—in his case, it was in his nutsack.  His huge hairy balls had drawn up, a sure sign that he’d be spewing his seed very soon.  As his muscular ass flexed and pumped, reaming his hard cock into the helpless spic’s fuckhole, testosterone oozed from his body in his sweat, matting his dark, wiry body fur and filling the semi’s cab with manmusk.


Beneath him, the fuckmeat was turning black, the boy’s face darkening and swelling from lack of air.  The youth’s dark eyes were streaked with blood where tiny vessels had ruptured under the strain; the hemorrhages were present around the bulging eyes as well, in the taut, purple skin.


Jorge was wasting what precious little oxygen was left in his bloodstream by flailing wildly.  The Trucker held on, grunting with pleasure, as the dying punk worked his dick, massaging the engorged shaft as he kicked and thrashed.



The boy kept wrapping his legs around the Trucker’s waist and locking his feet together, as if he was trying to hold his killer tightly to him, but, despite panic adding to the strength of his lean, hard body, the violence of the Trucker’s thrusts repeatedly broke Jorge’s leg holds.  On one occasion, the slut’s right sock came off, leaving his toes free to curl in agony as he died.


And it was agony.  As the Trucker increased the pressure on his neck, more of the unlucky cunt’s tongue was forced out from between his dusky blue lips.  Jorge’s face contorted as he choked to death; the motions caused his drool to bubble up into white foam that slid down his cheeks.  It was accompanied by a thick, grotesque gagging sound, the last useless croak of meat near death.


It was also accompanied by an increase of precum leaking from the meat’s tool; the Trucker could physically feel the difference as the punk’s swollen mushroom tip smeared across his ripped abs.


“That’s it,” the heaving, sweating alpha whispered, matching his thrusts to the increasingly rhythmic jerking of Jorge as his brain began to die, “That’s it, faggot.  Fuckin’ die, you piece of dick-suckin’ shit.  Die with my cock jammed up your queer ass, motherfucker.  Yeah, work my shaft as you die—oh fuck yeah, boy, that’s it, milk my cock—goddam, ya worthless spic cumrag, fucking die and soak up my spunk…gonna leave your cum-filled body to rot in a fuckin’ ditch…”


Technically Jorge was still alive, but there wasn’t enough left of the hard young wetback to be aware that his killer was talking, much less understand the words.  His world had contracted to a dark cold cloud of pain and pounding—pain and pounding in his head as his racing heart desperately tried to push non-existent oxygen through his shuddering body, and pain and pounding in his ass as the Trucker continued to ream his fuckhole.


And in that little back corner of his mind where his unacknowledged cockpig soul was still clinging tenaciously to life, he was aware of the burning, frothing sensation in his balls.  His brain was too far gone to understand what it meant; there was little left but sensation, the sensations of cold and pain…and a need for release.


And that’s when it happened.  With a final seismic grunt, the Trucker tightened his fingers one last time and was rewarded with a loud cracking sound and the feeling of Jorge’s esophagus collapsing into a mangled mass of cartilage under his hands.


The Mexican meat felt the injury more than it was able to hear it, although an echo of the intense crunch did manage to worm its way into that last single spark of awareness.  And with that, Jorge’s entire existence fused into a single bright moment when pleasure and pain fused together and became indistinguishable.  It was a solid electric shock that finally let him release; he was too far gone to know what was releasing, he only knew that it was draining from him.


Too close to death to realize that his semen was jetting from him in a solid stream, splattering across the Trucker’s sweaty, heaving chest and matting heavily in the fur, the fuckmeat convulsed violently, his torn, spasming sphincter clutching at the alpha’s huge dick like a drowning man clutching a log.


The muscled older man gave a loud, strangled cry as his cock swelled and spat out a near-endless geyser of cum, filling the corpse’s guts with massive amounts of searing manspunk.  The last sensation of Jorge’s wasted life was that as his life drained out through his dick and the chill of death seized him, there was one last spark of warmth filling his ass and his intestines—


—and then the useless spic whore found that death wasn’t peace, it was an icy howling vortex of blackness—


Shuddering and breathing heavily, the Trucker held onto the convulsing meat for a couple more minutes before standing up, inhaling deeply and pulling his thick dong out of the dead body.  Jorge, his handsome face swollen and unrecognizable and his throat visibly crushed, was still convulsing violently.  As the Trucker slipped past the privacy curtain and started the ignition on the rig, the trembling corpse managed to flop itself out of the bunk, landing in a huddled mass of flesh on the floor.


Turning up the AC, the buff top went back to the sleeper area and gathered up Jorge’s clothing, jamming the single loose sock down into one of the meat’s boots.  Bundling the boots with the jeans and shirt, the Trucker drew the curtain and carefully examined the landscape, using his outside mirrors as well.  No one had been by on the road while he’d been entertaining himself, but he still wanted to check.


Satisfied, he opened the door, then went back and grabbing the meat by its bare foot, dragging the corpse the corpse through the cab.  The sadistic alpha jumped from the rig, his loosely-laced combat boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  The dead spic tumbled out behind him, hitting the ground like a sack of dirty laundry.  Glancing around quickly, the Trucker strode quickly across the two-lane blacktop, one hand clutching the cunt’s clothing, the other hand gripping the dead punk’s ankle—the foot was still twitching, the toes curling in final death throes.


On the other side of the road was a deep drainage ditch; it had been visible on the side of the road for miles, but since the land sloped away to the west at this point, it wasn’t visible here unless one was standing right at the edge of the shoulder.  No one would see anything here unless they were actively looking for it.


It was perfect.  The Trucker tossed the clothing in first, then held Jorge’s quivering corpse up one-handedly, he dangled it over the drop and let go.  The meat fell into the ditch—about five feet below—with a muffled thud.


Quickly crossing back to the semi, the Trucker climbed into the driver’s seat, slipped his cap back on and slowly edged his way back onto the road.  It was still warm in the cab; he was heading out with his shirt off and a dead kid’s cum drying to a glaze on his chest pinning his dogtags to his  fur.  He’d stop off at a rest area ahead somewhere and clean off.  In the meantime, he wanted to get across the state line.


Checking the side mirror, he caught a glimpse of movement—in the sky.  A small black shape, moving in lazy circles.  In a moment it was joined by another, then a third.  The Trucker understood.  With an evil grin on his face, he accelerated into the west and left Jorge to the buzzards.

“Killer Party, Dude!”

Todd stumbled unsteadily on a root and staggered into a tree. He was very drunk and very high. He was drunk and high most nights; tonight, on his eighteenth birthday, the only difference was in degree. He was shitfaced.

The sounds from the clearing behind him had grown faint. He was far enough away to take a leak. Eddie and Jimbo and Mario were back there around the fire, partying without him. He wanted to get back quickly.

Todd grinned goofily, remembering Jimbo pulling up in his truck and telling him to climb in. “C’mon, dude,” he’d said, “We’re gonna go get you completely fucked on your birthday. I got a whole half-ounce of wicked weed here”— he slapped the half-laced construction boot his jeans were tucked into—“and some shrooms in the other boot. Gonna be a killer party, dude.”

On the way out of town they’d picked up Eddie and Mario. Each of them had snagged a case of cheap beer. The beer was warm, but none of them minded. It was a chilly night; the beer would cool. Besides, warm beer never stopped any of them from getting their drunk on.

Jimbo was the oldest, at twenty-one. He’d known Todd for years—in fact, when Todd had been thirteen, Jimbo had gotten him high for the first time and taught him how to jack off. Eddie and Mario were both nineteen and hung around with Jimbo a lot, so Todd had gotten to know them as well. They were always the ones with alcohol—if one of them couldn’t get it, the other could.

They spent all their free time together—they were worthless little punks, so they had plenty of free time. They had lots in common—they dressed similarly, they all lived in basements and converted garages because their families didn’t want them in the house, and their highest ambition was to get as wasted as possible on whatever they could get hold of.

Todd, who idolized Jimbo, tried to dress just like him. He wore the same tight jeans tucked into boots—but Todd’s boots were ropers. He wore the same black ball cap, white t-shirt and leather jacket—but Jimbo’s jacket was black and plain, while Todd’s was brown with black fabric cuffs.

The resemblance ended there. Todd was short and slim, with curly brown hair. Jimbo was taller and more muscular with shoulder-length black hair and a faint black moustache.

Eddie was muscular as well, but slightly less developed than Jimbo. He wore the same unofficial “club uniform” with his own individual touches. His jacket was denim and his cap was white. He had combat boots on. He had dirty blond hair and a tuft of down on his chin that he pretended was a goatee.

Mario had a lean swimmer’s build like Todd but was more than six inches taller. His boots were ropers, too, and his cap was dark blue. His black leather jacket was identical to Jimbo’s—they’d actually gone out together and stolen them at the same time. Mario was Mexican and his hair was black and short. He’d gelled and spiked it (and had taken shit from the others for doing so).

Another thing they had in common—they were all well-hung and knew it, the same way they knew Mario’s thick tool was uncut. They made a lot of noise about the chicks they’d banged, but all the girls in town knew that they were useless and spent whatever money they could grab on booze and drugs. Despite their tough talk and hard bodies, they were shunned.

For release, they turned to circle jerks. A lot. There would undoubtedly be one tonight, more likely two. They were horny boys full of testosterone and semen and the thing they wanted to do most was get their rocks off while tripping balls.

They drove to a place they’d partied at before. Off the state highway south of town was a dirt road. It was actually a maintenance road that ran alongside a line of electrical towers that marched across the landscape. They pulled over at the fourth tower and went north into the woods. After about a hundred yards, they came to the spot they were looking for. It was a clearing about thirty feet across. There was a large fire pit in the center, ringed with stones, with logs laid around it as a kind of seating.

They’d found it several months ago—they damn sure weren’t smart enough to build something like this. They’d come back several times and had seen no sign of use, so they felt it was a safe place to get high and beat off. They didn’t want anyone else around—they might get the wrong idea. It’s not like they were faggots or anything, just having a little fun…

They dragged in brushwood and lit a fire. Ben passed out beers and Jimbo pulled the pot out of his boot. “Best place to hide it—who’s gonna look in your smelly boots?” He rolled a joint for each of them—Todd first, for his birthday—and the party got started.

They knew what was coming—they’d talk some about the latest action movie and how they’d waste the villain if they ever ran across him. Then the conversation would swing around to chicks. They talked longingly about the chicks they wanted to bang and told elaborate lies about chicks they had banged. Their cocks would be throbbing and straining in their jeans the entire time. At some point Jimbo would give the signal by rubbing his hand on the bulge in his jeans. They would all do the same for a few minutes, looking back and forth at each other in silence.

Jimbo would be the first to pull out his rod. Then they would sit together gipping the cock of the one to the right while their own was grabbed by the person to the left.

Since it was Todd’s birthday, he would get to sit on Jimbo’s left. Jimbo would have assaulted anyone who said he was queer, but it was an open secret among them that they all wanted his dick and sitting on his left was an honor.

And it had all gone as planned until Jimbo began rubbing his crotch. They’d already worked through one case of beer and Todd realized he had to piss. This was the first time he’d been allowed to jack Jimbo and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. He muttered “gotta take a leak” and sprinted into the woods. Mario had been to his left and would be “handling” Jimbo till he got back. He wanted to return before Mario finished Jimbo off.

Todd was happy and severely intoxicated, but like his friends, his dick was painfully erect and would remain so until release. It was too hard for him to piss. He stood facing the tree, staring down at his hard cock with a blissful grin on his face. The savage blow that slammed him face-first into the tree took him completely by surprise.

Todd reeled back, bruised and bleeding. His upper lip was split. His dick was still hard despite being scratched from contact with the rough bark of the tree. A gloved hand tightly gripped his mouth and he felt the edge of a blade against his throat. A harsh voice whispered in his ear.

“Make a sound and you’re dead, motherfucker. Nod if you understand that.”

Todd, stunned and terrified, didn’t move. The hand clenched his face viciously and the knife was pressed to his throat, just breaking this skin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

“Do you understand?” The voice was slower and colder this time. Todd nodded.

“Ok, here’s what’s gonna go down. I’m gonna ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them very quietly. If you make any other sound, I’m gonna rip your throat out and leave you to die like a dog. You got that?”

Todd nodded again. The hand was slowly removed from his mouth but never moved more than two inches away from his face.

“Ok, bitch, how many of your friends are back there and what the fuck are you doing?”

Todd replied in a tear-choked whisper, “Please, sir, there’s only four of us sir. It’s my birthday and we’re just having some fun. Please don’t hurt me, sir, please!”

The hardman holding him gave a grim chuckle. “A birthday party, yeah—that’s why your fly’s open and you got a hard-on. Bad place for a party, punk. I got some business here tonight and you’re in the way.”

The hand clamped down hard on Todd’s mouth but the knife was withdrawn. For a single second, Todd thought he was safe.

Then the knife was slammed into the side of his throat, the tip puncturing through and out the other side with one blow.

The blast of pain caused Todd’s muscles to go rigid. At the same time, a flood of adrenaline was dumped into his bloodstream. The combined result was that Todd’s engorged cock began spurting out thick, ropy stream of cum.

Todd could feel the knife being violently twisted inside him, the razor edge carving and slicing his larynx and esophagus. With each twist came another burst of agony and another blast of sperm.

The pain of his death orgasm was so completely overwhelming that Todd never realized that the knife had been removed from his throat and his killer had left. He was coughed up a great gout of blood. It ran down his chin, splattered down his leather jacket and onto his boots. He stared in horror at the blood on his hands, not comprehending what was happening to him. It spilled on his still-spurting cock. Blood and semen covered the tree trunk in front of him.

Todd sank to his knees as he bled out. His mind had shut down; the only sensations he was aware of were pain and orgasm. He pitched face first onto the ground, struggling to rise again, not knowing that he was a dead man. For a few seconds, his boots scuffled in the dirt. They slowed to an occasional spasmodic kick as life ebbed out of him. Then there was nothing but a quivering corpse with its face in a muddy puddle of blood and sperm. Todd had died without getting his chance to beat Jimbo off.

Back in the clearing, the circle jerk was in full swing.

Jimbo moaned softly. Sweat ran down his face as he looked down at Mario’s hand working his thick shaft. The cholo punk was tugging his meat hard and his balls had drawn up close to his body. Mario’s uncut cock was being yanked by Eddie, whose dick was throbbing in Jimbo’s grip.

Jimbo was close to shooting his wad but something was off. He let go of Eddie and knocked Mario’s hand away. “Lay off, dude,” he snapped, “Todd needs to be here. Dude, it’s his birthday and we need to get him off.”

“We’ll get him the next time round, when you break out the shrooms,” said Mario.

“Nah, I want him here for both.” Secretly, Jimbo had been waiting for this day for a while. He felt it was a rite of passage to let Todd handle his enormous rod. Todd was becoming a man.

He had no idea Todd’s cooling, stiffening corpse was less than a hundred feet away.

“I got an idea,” Eddie said suddenly. “Let’s split up and look for him. Keep your dicks out. If you find him first, you get to make him beat you off.”

“He’s gonna beat me off whether I find him first or not,” growled Jimbo. His hormones were in full flow and he had gone into full alpha-male mode. “All right, let’s go find the little fuck. Stay here, Mario; if he comes back first, he can jack you till we get back. Eddie, go that way; I’ll look over here.”

They vanished into the underbrush, leaving Mario at the fire. He dug down into his boot and pulled out the butt of his joint. He lit it and inhaled deeply, idly stroking his erection.

A gloved hand gripped his chin, another clamped on the top of his skull and his head was jerked violently. Mario gave an involuntary grunt as his cervical vertebrae splintered and shattered with explosive cracking sounds. His body felt a massive shock, as if he was being electrocuted. A stream of liquid fire ran the length of his uncut cock and erupted in a single massive spurt of cum.

He collapsed in a nerveless heap, his dazed eyes staring across the clearing into the treeline. Mario never heard his killer approach or leave. Someone out of nowhere had snapped his neck like a twig—he hadn’t even had time to exhale his smoke.

But Mario wasn’t dead yet. His head was propped against a log, which kept it raised above the ground. He was paralyzed from the neck down. His heart was still beating and his lungs were still working—but breathing was difficult. Every gasp of air was a struggle; a rasping, choking sound accompanied the white foam that emerged from his gaping mouth. As it oozed down the side of his face, the foam was tinted pink by the small trickle of blood that leaked from his nose. He couldn’t feel the semen drying in his coal-black pubic hair, but he could smell the piss and shit that had flooded out of him when he lost control of his bowels.

With immediate medical attention, Mario would live—as a quadriplegic on respirator, only able to communicate by moving his eyes. Without it, he was dying slowly and painfully by respiratory paralysis. Each breath was a little shallower and the awareness of impending death grew stronger.

The single thought in his brain was that Jimbo would find him. Jimbo would fix things; he could fix anything. Paralyzed and dying, Mario could finally admit his worship of Jimbo to himself. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. Jimbo would save him. Jimbo wouldn’t let him die.

There was a rustling in the bushes just beyond Mario’s line of sight. His sprits rose, thinking that Jimbo had returned, but it was Eddie who staggered into view, blinking blearily at the fire. His dick was still out, preceding him like a flagpole, but since he too had stashed a joint down his combat boot and had hotboxed it in the two minutes it took to convert Mario into a helpless pile of meat, he was too stoned to see his buddy’s quivering body lying next to the log.

Mario could see him, though. And Mario could also see the shadowy figure dressed in black that had slipped from the treeline behind Eddie. His vision was starting to fade, but he clearly saw the firelight glinting on the long serrated knife in the figure’s hand. He tried to call out to Eddie, but he was losing control of his diaphragm muscles. His entire will to live was focused on breathing; speaking was too great an effort. Mario realized he was going to watch helplessly while Eddie got dropped.

Eddie never saw death coming for him. The knife that ended his life was inside him before he could react. His scream of pain was an automatic response, and the gloved hand over his mouth stifled it effectively.

Mario saw it all.

The knife had swung up in a swift arc and slammed sharply upward at a point just below the angle of Eddie’s jaw. The hitman had pulled Eddie’s head down to the left to allow the blade to slice a straight line into the brain through the opening at the base of the skull by which the spinal cord entered. The blade was so long that its tip struck Eddie’s cranium near the back of his head just above his left ear—from the inside.

Eddie’s world ended in a blast of agony. The physical reaction to massive brain trauma was instantaneous. He went up on his toes, spunk flowing out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. He began to convulse violently, each spasm flinging his cum out in a wide semicircle.

The killer shifted Eddie’s body to get a better grip. He brutally ground the knife inside Eddie’s skull, hacking his brain into quivering chunks and slashing away the spinal cord. The body went as limp as a rag doll, the flaccid penis still a good five inches long, semen glazing the head. The killer lowered Eddie to the ground as a gush of piss soaked the corpse’s jeans.

The silence of death was broken by Mario’s labored breathing. The killer looked straight at him, but all Mario could see of his face was a cold stare, calculating the level of threat. The rest of the face was hidden by camouflage paint.

Before anything could happen, the sound of a branch snapping burst from a point behind the hitman’s left shoulder. He quickly dragged the pile of meat that had been Eddie off in another direction, disappearing into the woods fifteen yards from the point where the sound had originated. Mario was alone again.

Not for long. It was Jimbo who came out of the woods next, pausing like Eddie had done when he entered the clearing. The swelling of hope that Mario felt was punctured by the fear that Jimbo would be attacked too. But Jimbo approached him without interference.

Jimbo was higher than any of the others had been—as unacknowledged leader, he’d kept the bag of weed tucked down inside his boot and had dipped in numerous times. The fact that Mario was lying on the ground in a twisted heap had no significance in his drug-fogged mind. He grinned foolishly as he walked towards Mario.

“Has that little faggot come back yet? Shit, I bet Eddie found him and is getting’ whacked off right now. Fuck, dude, when he gets back, I’ll make him lick my dick. Make a man of him,” growled Jimbo, massaging his dripping pole. He blinked and peered at Mario’s face.

Mario was facing away from the fire and Jimbo was unable to see the tears of relief which oozed from Mario’s eyes. But he could see—uncomprehendingly—the look of horror that came over Mario.

He couldn’t see the thin wire that had descended in front of his face, but he could damn sure feel it.

The slicing pain that circled his neck was excruciating but the inability to breathe that accompanied it was terrifying. Jimbo struggled to free himself like a fish on a line. The garrote tore into his flesh—the leaking blood made Jimbo’s hands slick as they scrambled frantically at his throat. It was no good. He couldn’t get a grip on anything.

Jimbo’s mind was aflame with panic, trying to understand what was happening to him. The concept that someone had just walked casually out of the woods and started killing him never occurred to him The world was fading and it hurt so bad, it hurt worse than anything else this is what death feels like it’s slow and it hurts Mario help me…

Mario watched Jimbo die, knowing that he was watching his own death. Jimbo was going to save him. But Jimbo was dying and Mario couldn’t help. He could only watch as Jimbo was slowly strangled.

Mario watched for a long time. Jimbo was young and hard and fought viciously for his life. But he was an ignorant redneck punk who spent most of his time stoned and drunk and he was in the hands of a professional killer. He never had a chance.

The hitman forced him to his knees. Jimbo could feel the killer’s strong, thickly muscled legs at his sides. He could feel something long and hard against the back of his head as his head was forced back into his killer’s crotch.

“On your knees, kid,” Jimbo heard whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna let your friend watch you get snuffed before I put his lights out for good.”

Mario looked up into Jimbo’s blackening face and his mind snapped in terror. He had never seen anyone strangled before. In all the action movies he’d seen, the victims had gone limp in thirty seconds and looked like they’d fallen asleep.

Jimbo didn’t look like that at all.

His eyes bulged horribly. It was impossible to tell if they were red because if bust blood vessels or because he was utterly baked. His face was a livid purple color and his tongue protruded grotesquely. Spittle leaked from the corners of his mouth and dangled from his chin. His hands, bloody from clutching his throat, grasped weakly at Mario, just out of reach. Jimbo was dying like a dog, his life being mercilessly choked out, slowly and painfully.

The last conscious thought in Jimbo’s failing brain was questioning. He was aware that he was being killed, killed by someone stronger and more bad-ass than himself. But who? And why? All he’d wanted to do was have some fun, to get fucked up and then get his rocks off…

And then, as the darkness dragged him down, he could feel that he’d done both. The most painfully intense orgasm he’d ever experienced overwhelmed him as death overcame him.

Jimbo’s spunk sprayed directly into Mario’s face. Mario, catatonic in terror, didn’t blink as cum splashed into his eyes and open mouth. Jimbo’s death cum splattered into Mario’s black spiked hair. It so completely covered his face that it ran down the back of his neck.

As Jimbo lost the battle for his life, he shot one last enormous wad of cum directly into Mario’s mouth. The hitman released the wire and Jimbo collapsed. Mindless spasms jerked in the legs, scuffling Jimbo’s loose construction boots in the dirt. Then all was quiet.

Mario stared blankly at the killer. There was nothing left inside him now. He had seen his savior, his idol die horribly in front of him and knew that he was next. So his mind simply stopped functioning.

He didn’t feel the hitman’s boot on his head, grinding semen into his hair with the tread. He didn’t smell his killer’s ripe combat boot that clamped his head into place while he bent down and grabbed Mario’s arm. He did feel a blast of pain when the hitman jerked his arm, causing his spinal cord to completely sever and a small trickle of cum to leak from his dick. Then there was nothing else to feel. Mario’s eyes stared dully, clouded by Jimbo’s spunk.

The killer crouched over Mario’s body, listening intently to make sure no one else was around, before he dragged the corpses into the woods. No one would find them for months, especially if he went back and moved the truck. He needed to hurry, though. He had business to attend to.

Todd spent the night of his eighteenth birthday rotting in the woods. It had been a killer party, dude.

Mankiller–Snuff Movie 1

Tony sat bolt upright at the wheel of his car, staring directly ahead at the steps leading up to the gym’s back door. A feeling of shock, of the pleasure of the forbidden washed over him, leaving him feeling rubbery in his limbs. A man was coming down the steps into the parking lot; a man Tony recognized. It was as if he’d run into his favorite porn star—and in a way, he had. But there was a bit more to it than that.

This could be the opportunity he was looking for. It was certainly no time to be self-conscious. Brushing away any anxiety he might have, Tony left his car and approached the guy.

This gym had a huge gay clientele; being approached by another man in the parking lot was a common enough occurrence here. Especially here, in fact. The rear parking lot was small and surrounded by the back side of a strip mall. The ground sloped down from the front (where most of the parking was located), hence the need for stairs down from the back door. The lot was secluded and known as a good place for hookups.

And to the casual observer, that’s exactly what it would look like; two hot guys getting together. Tony was just under six feet tall. He had full brown hair, shoulder-length, that fanned out behind him. His face was clean and smooth, with large dark eyes that glittered with secret lust. He wasn’t heavily-muscled but there was strength in his slim build. He’d been on his way into the gym, so he was wearing a bright green t-shirt stretched over his firm chest and a pair of short black shorts that showed off his perfectly-formed legs. He wore blue Nike Airs with green laces that matched his shirt.

The guy he was approaching was much larger and more muscular. He was about six and a half feet tall, with short hair several shades darker than Tony’s. He was wearing an orange t-shirt that strained over the dude’s bulging pecs and constricted his arms, digging into the massive biceps. From beneath his white satin shorts, legs like the trunks of trees, shadowed by a haze of dark curly fur, dropped into yellow construction boots laced up over his ankles.

“I know you,” Tony said as he approached. “I’ve seen some of your stuff online.”

The larger man faced Tony. His short black hair faded into a dark stubble that shadowed his cheeks and covered his strong jaw. His eyes, ice-blue and narrow, fixed on Tony suspiciously. “I done a lot of stuff online,” he growled hesitantly.

“Yeah, I know,” Tony grinned back. “I been a fan for long time. Had no idea you were in this state, much less this city. I loved that last post—the kid with the long blond hair.”

“I fucked lotsa kids with long blond hair,” the muscular dude snapped back.

“You did more than fuck him. He had a belt made of woven metal links. I liked the way you improvised with it.”

The large man paused for a moment, eyeing Tony steadily. He was clearly debating with himself whether or not to trust Tony. “You saw that? You liked it?”

“Dude, you made me cum so hard I could barely walk afterwards. Name’s Tony. I make films—porn mostly, I got a little place set up in an old abandoned warehouse on the south side of town. I do underground films. Mostly gangbangers and hustlers shooting up and fucking each other on camera. I got a real nice distribution network, though. But I wanna do a film with you.”

The stud still didn’t look convinced, but he held out his hand. “I’m Nick. But I ain’t doin’ anything for under a thousand. You hit that point, we can talk.”

Tony gave a slight smile. “Oh, I can do that. C’mon back to my studio—yeah, I really call it that—and I’ll show ya some of my work and we can discuss payment. But yes, it’ll be at least a grand.”

Nick thought for another moment, then agreed. He placed his gym bag into his car, then got into Tony’s for the ride; he’d be brought back afterwards. He was too big and too strong to worry much about getting into cars and going to isolated locations with strange men; he could handle himself.

He’d proved that much online when he’d strangled the blonde kid with his metal mesh belt so hard the pattern of the mesh tore his victim’s skin and left his corpse oozing blood as well as semen.

The drive was long and quiet; things needed to be seen before things could be said. Even Nick, major alpha male that he was, has some misgivings about the neighborhood when they came to a stop. The street was nothing but fences and brick walls with doors in them; it was an alleyway in an old industrial area. About a third of the buildings on the block had collapsed; great piles of brick and cinderblock with weeds sprouting—and, in some cases, attaining a great height, testifying to the age and neglect of the area.

Tony pulled up to an old fence. A shiny new chain and padlock secured the rusted gate; Tony idled the car as he unlocked it and pried the gate open. Once he’d gotten back and moved the car in, he went back and locked up.

Nick looked around. He was in a small loading yard behind the grimy shell of a disused factory. The building was ancient and several stories tall. Most of the windows were gone, leaving rusting wire mesh in the frames, and huge cracks ran down the masonry. But the building still looked relative stable.

Tony unlocked another padlock—this one to a door on the loading dock—and led the way in. The air was full of mold and dry rot. Most of the space near the loading dock had been gutted; the area was filthy and uninhabitable.

Tony noticed Nick’s expression. “Yeah, it’s disgusting. And perfect. Once you see this, you don’t bother looking any further. But most of these rooms are useless. We’re going downstairs.”

If anything, the basement of the building was worse. The smell certainly was; the rancid stench from upstairs was augmented by large green pools of stagnant water. Nick was seriously doubting that anything financially useful could happen here when he saw where Tony was leading.

Somewhere on the south side of the building was a large open space. In the center of this space was a platform or foundation of concrete, three feet thick, with steps leading up. On the platform was what appeared to be a large metal room, square, some thirty feet by thirty feet.

They mounted the steps and walked around the side—there was just enough space to walk single file between the metal wall and edge of the platform—to find a door. Well, not a door so much as a hatch. It even had a wheel in the center of the exterior to lock the door into place, giving the whole thing the appearance of a huge bank vault. Nick could see florescent orange cables snaking out of the open hatch. Leaving Tony for a moment, he followed them around the next corner and saw that they connected with a gas-powered generator.

His curiosity satisfied, he returned and trailed inside behind Tony. His construction boots made a flat thumping sound on the metal floor. He was in what looked like a hallway, with doorways off each side and one at the far end. Poking his head into the nearest, he found a small room with thick metal walls covered with rows of hooks. There was a doorway from it leading into the next room; they all seemed to be interconnected.

“What the fuck is this thing?” he asked.

“Damned if I know,” chucked Tony, “I’m just glad it’s here. Watertight and if I pull the door closed just enough to let the power cables in, it’s also damn near soundproof. You sure can’t hear anything on the street. I got one work room and two set rooms, all at the far end.”

In fact, the metal structure had been a large curing oven used in a proprietary galvanizing process. It was built to contain a hellish environment and was still admirably suited to the purpose.

Tony had managed to fit out the two end rooms on the left side as a living room and bedroom. He’d hung blankets on the walls to hide the bare metal and put large area rugs on the floor, then brought in enough cheap furniture to simulate an apartment setting. Utility lights in shiny aluminum shells were clamped to the steel girders that formed the top of the structure.

Once he’d been shown the set, Nick was led into the chamber at the end of the corridor, where Tony had set up his playback and editing equipment. He had Nick sit in one of the office chairs as he pulled up some of his work on a video monitor.

It was obvious Tony liked it violent. Nick’s cock was standing at attention as he watch clips of extremely rough sex. Off camera, Tony’s voice could be heard exhorting the various tops he was filming. Nick began to realize that Tony actually had both the capability and the desire to make a snuff film.

“I dunno,” he said. “I’ve never actually killed anyone on film before.”

“Bullshit,” snapped Tony, “what about that blond kid? I saw what you did to him with that belt. He couldn’t have survived that.”

“No,” admitted Nick, “but he didn’t die on camera.”

“That’s exactly what I wanna fix,” Tony chuckled quietly.

Nick looked at him carefully, still uncertain. “You said you can make a thou?”

“Fifteen hundred. Cash. I’ll blur anything that can identify you.”

The idea of fucking someone to death on camera was too enticing. Nick knew he wouldn’t refuse, no matter who the victim was, but he wanted to maintain a show of independence. “I get final call on who I waste.”

Tony grinned, his white, even teeth glittering like a shark’s. His large dark eyes lit up with smoldering lust; he knew he’d won. He was eager and excited. “I’ve seen enough of your vids to have an idea of what you like. Young, smaller than you but well-built, race not an issue but you really like hurting whores. I got the perfect bitch.”

Tony opened up a series of jpegs on his laptop, letting Nick flip through the images. They were all of the same boy. “Name’s Ricky. Mexican or something, think it’s short for Ricardo. Claims to be straight but he loves cock. And crack. If we let him smoke a little first, he’ll be totally amped to get banged. Won’t even notice he’s getting offed till it’s too late.”

Nick started the slideshow and watched high-def pics of the nude slut swipe across the screen. He was young, all right. He looked like he was in his mid- to late teens, somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. It wasn’t until Nick found a close-up of his face that he could see the tiny lines of dissolution and self-abuse that radiated from his eyes; in another year or two, he’d start to look his real age—probably around twenty or so—and a couple of years after that, his earning potential as a whore would be finished.

Nick liked what he saw. After all, the slut wouldn’t be worth much for long, so it wasn’t as if wasting him now was cruel or anything. He’d be starving on the streets in a few years. And anyway, he was hot. The pics revealed a young, slim boy with shiny blue-black hair and eyes almost nearly as dark. In the first pic he posed on the sofa in the other room, tight white t-shirt wrapped around his firm, lithe torso. His skin-tight jeans emphasized his slim waist, his strong legs, and the thick, rounded bulge in his crotch. Light brown leather lace-up boots came half-way up his calves.

He grinned impudently at the camera, his dark, smooth skin showing a slight sheen of sweat. The grin remained on his face through most of the remaining pictures, a series taken as he stripped. In the last one, he was standing spread-legged, his smooth swimmer’s build nude but for his unlaced boots, his thick, uncut cock dangling out in front.

It was a done deal. Nick wanted to wipe the grin off the whore’s face with his cock. He could feel precum oozing out as he thought of the spic punk thrashing underneath him—in fear, or lust; it didn’t matter.

“You’ll make sure I can’t be ID’d?” Nick turned back to Tony.

“Dude, I’d be in just as much trouble as you. And I ain’t shot a snuff movie before, but some of these cunts have OD’d just before or after a shoot. I gotta place to dump the body; it’s always worked. So, whaddaya think? A grand and a half, my network, and Ricky here dyin’ on your dick—you in?”

Nick broke out in a broad grin. “Fuck yeah, I’m in. Get the bitch over here.”


The frame is clear, but slightly unsteady. It opens on a sofa. A boy is sitting on it, leaning back, lighting up a glass stem. The click of the lighter and the sizzle of the crack rock are audible.

The boy is nude, except for his boots—shiny, light brown leather, laced halfway up his calves. He’s slim, with smooth creamy olive-colored skin. He sits with his legs spread, the firm smooth path of his thighs pointing the way to the thick, uncut tube of meat that rises up out of his crotch.

A voice off-camera is heard.

“That’s it, dude, take a good hit. You’re amazing; most guys can’t get it up on that shit, but you’re hard as a steel spike. Here, ya need to push the straight? I’ll find something. Get as high as ya want, dude, you’ll need it. Nick’s gonna love fuckin’ the shit outta ya.”

A hand reaches in from behind the camera, handing the boy what appears to be a section of coat hanger. The punk takes it, grins almost shyly at the camera, and uses the wire to push the chunk of scouring pad to the other end of the glass tube, then back again before re-lighting it.

Suddenly there’s a noise and the camera goes all tilty. The voice is back. “Hey Nick, help me move this table outta the way; I wanna get a good view. Nah, don’t worry about the camera, I can edit it out later. By the way, Nick, this is Ricky.”

There’s a loud bang and a curse as the frame shakes out of recognition, then goes black. When it comes back on there’s been a lapse of a minute or two.

“Nah, it’s ok. Dropped it plenty of times before. Nice thick rug protects it when it hits the floor. So, yeah, like I was sayin’, when I saw what Nick can do, I thought of you and knew you’d be perfect for this scene. Dude, he’s gonna fuck you like you ain’t never been fucked. I promise it’s the hardest you’re gonna get fucked—and the hardest you’re gonna cum—in your life. Promise, dude.”

The camera pulls back into focus. The boy is sitting on the sofa, looking with trepidation at the large, heavily muscled stud standing over him, nude but for the thick gold herringbone necklace wrapped around his muscular neck, sporting a huge, glistening erection. The coffee table that had been in front of the sofa has been moved off to the left and is just barely visible in the frame; there’s nothing to block the view of the sofa.

The man reaches down and starts fondling the boy. He sits beside him, running his hands over the kid’s body. The punk grins and gulps nervously, his wide eyes looking like circles of dead black as the crack pinpoints his pupils. A hand reaches in from behind the camera again, this time proffering a small white grain.

“Here, dude, take another hit. He’s got a huge fuckin’ cock, and I want you to enjoy it. And he’s gonna play rough. You like bein’ treated like a slut? Don’t worry, Nick here knows how to choke a bitch. You’re gonna remember this fuck for the rest of your life.”

As the Latino youth coughs out a thick cloud of smoke, he turns his head to the camera and speaks in a heavily accented voice.

“Hey, vato, you’re still payin’ me dos grandes, si? And if this cholo’s gonna choke me, I wanna safe word. I say mariposa and he lets go.”

There’s a dry chuckle from behind the camera. “No problem, little butterfly. You’ll get what you deserve when—uh, after he cums. On camera. And I already showed ya the cash, didn’t I? Just relax. Enjoy getting used like a bitch. Pretend like it’s the last fuck you’re ever gonna get.”

The kid takes another hit, then tosses the glass pipe aside. Still holding his breath, he lies back on the sofa and raises his legs in the air. Gripping them behind the knees, he pulls them apart and up to his chest, his tight boots hanging in the air.

The camera begins moving. It closes in on the Mexican kid’s asshole. The high-def image clearly shows the faint black hair ringing the quivering pink sphincter as the boy wriggles in anticipation.

The frame moves out and captures Nick, moving in to mount the whore. His thick, engorged cock is already dripping, transparent beads of precum welling up on his huge mushroom-shaped head. It zooms in again to get a close-up of the dark purple mound of flesh spearing the kid’s fluttering fuckhole before rising to capture the grimace of pain on the slut’s face.

“Fuck yeah,” says the voice behind the camera, “how’s that feel, dude? Looks like it hurts. Looks like it hurts like fuck. Ya likin’ that? Does it hurt good, ya slut?”

The kid opens his eyes and moans directly into the camera. There’s something off about it, something artificial. It’s more than just being anesthetized; he’s acting. It’s clear that he’s done this before. The dude fucking him is huge, and it hurts, but obviously nowhere near as much as his mugging for the camera would make it seem.

“Hey, Nick,” comes the voice behind the camera, “I don’t think we’re getting Ricky’s best work here. Start roughing him up a little; let’s see if that gets the bitch in the mood.”

The larger man turns to the camera and grins. “Sure,” he says, “I been waitin’ to wail on his ass.”

The hardbodied stud places his hands on the whore’s shoulders, pinning them firmly to the cushion as he ramps up the pace of his pumping. He fucks the slut with long, deep strokes, ensuring that the kid feels every last inch of his cock.

And he does. It’s obvious, as the camera closes in on the punk’s strained, clenched face. The kid gives high-pitched whimpers with each thrust, his white-knuckled hands grasping and pulling his knees apart so the heavily-muscled alpha top can lay his firm thick torso between them.

The camera pulls back from the slut’s face and moves down his body. It focuses briefly on the kid’s boots, hanging in the air, thick black soles bobbing with each pump of the muscled dude’s dick. The rhythm is emphasized as the camera pans down to the action, zooming in on the hustler’s fuckhole. Well-used as it obviously is, it’s still completely plugged with the stud’s gleaming purple shaft. He looks like he’s been impaled on a vein-wreathed spear.

As the camera holds the shot, the top goes into overdrive, fucking the kid swiftly and brutally. His massive balls slap repeatedly against the boy’s ass, the slut’s squealing rising in frequency until it becomes that of a pig.

The camera pulls out to show that Nick is still pinning Ricky to the sofa by his shoulders. The whore has stopped squealing and is gasping and whimpering again, his eyes wide with pleasure/pain. The hard dude turns to the camera and grins again before speaking to his bitch.

“Ya like that, ya little cunt? Like bein’ slammed like a fucking whore? Cause you’re getting’ more of it, you spic motherfucker. Take my cock, you cumsucking slut!”

As the kid moans, “Si, si,” the stud spits in his face, then slaps him. The punk gives a deep moan of pleasure that rises into a wail of pain as the top pounds his ass violently. He moves his hands up on top of the bitch’s shoulders, grasping him around the base of his neck, to hold the fucktoy in place while the alpha stud reams out his hole.

The camera closes in on his grip. His large, muscled hands, the outer edges dusted with fine black fur, are gripping the top of the boy’s shoulders tightly. So tightly, in fact, that it’s clear they’re gonna leave bruises.

“Fuck yeah, dude,” comes the voice from behind the camera, “fuck that bitch up good. Hurt ‘im, man, show him you’re fuckin’ boss!”

The muscled stud suddenly draws his right arm back. His bulging biceps bunch up as he slams a piledriver of a punch directly to the punk’s face.

The kid grunts in pain and surprise. The top hasn’t dropped the rhythm of his fucking; the slut has to deal with the assault while his rectum is getting plugged with a huge amount of meat.

He goes out like a light. The top laughs, as does the cameraman. The latter speaks up. “Don’t stop there, man. Long as he wakes up again, you can do what ya want.”

“Aw fuck,” Nick grins at the camera, “I ain’t gonna waste him while he’s out—ain’t no fun in that. Ya want some more bruises first? No prob.”

The stud’s sense of timing is perfect; again, without breaking the rhythm of his thrusting, he manages to rise up on his knees. From that position, he delivers blow after blow to the whore’s chest and belly. The kid jerks with each smack of flesh, eventually starting to wake.

His eyes flutter open. He looks around, lost and scared. It obvious that he’s still higher than fuck and has very little capacity to understand what’s actually happening to him.

He tries to stop it. “No, no me gusto,” he gasps out raggedly. “Mariposa, señor, madre de dios, marip—“

The alpha stud grabs the whore’s throat, moving like lightning. The kid’s voice is cut off in mid-plea.

He’s not getting any air. It’s clear, on camera, that it takes a moment for the fact to register in his drug-addled brain. His expression is one of confusion as thick grunting sounds are forced out of his blocked esophagus.

“Yeah,” whispers the alpha top, leaning over the slut and looking into his face, “I bet you like that too, ya worthless fuckin’ cunt. Ready to go all the way, you cocksuckin’ faggot? Fuckin’ spic whore suckin’ off gangbangers in alleys—yeah, this is what ya been looking for. None of them cholos ever put you in your place. And your place is rotting in a dumpster with your ass fulla my cum. Enjoy it, fuckwad.”

The Latino punk opens his eyes wide, an expression of stunned unfocused disbelief on his handsome dark face—that’s getting darker by the second. He coughs and gags, his hands gripping the stud’s arms and trying to pull them off. He jerks and twists violently, trying to get out from under the top’s heavy muscled body but the dude remains perfectly still, squeezing the boy’s throat. His cock is buried in the kid’s ass, not moving, letting the youth’s struggles pump his hole around the gleaming, swollen tube of flesh.

“Hey, man! Ricky!” the voice behind the camera calls, “look over here, dude! Fuckin-A, man you’re dying! How’s that feel, bro? Gotta tell ya, it’s hot as fuck to watch!”

The brown-skinned boy turns his face directly to the camera. He continues to kick and struggle as he reaches out to the camera in desperation. His eyes, wide and frantic, are starting to protrude slightly; it gives an added air of panic to his expression. The skin of his face darkens like that of a ripening olive.

Suddenly the alpha top starts fucking him again. The camera pans out a bit to get the full-body shot; Nick thrusting himself brutally into the dying whore’s rectum. It’s unclear if the set has AC; both killer and victim are sweating profusely, their entwined bodies glistening as they slide over each other in an agony of sex and an ecstasy of death.

The slut’s brown leather boots kick uselessly at the air for a moment before he contracts his tight smooth legs and drums his heels furiously against the alpha top’s back and ass. The stud grunts and spits in the kid’s swollen purple face.

The camera frame moves. The image shakes and blurs for a brief moment. When it clears, the cameraman has moved to a point near the end of the sofa. From here, there’s a close up on the top’s thick tool spearing the hustler’s straining pink hole. The thick, purple, swollen shaft, shiny and thick with veins, is shown in great detail—then the camera moves again, closing in on the dying boy’s face.

The purpose of the shot is obvious. The kid’s swollen face is the same shade as his killer’s swollen cock.

“Dude, you’re getting fucked good,” the cameraman laughs. “I told ya you’d remember this fuck the rest of your life, which should be about a coupla more minutes. Ain’t it cool, dude, getting fucked to death by this fuckin’ alpha stud? Bet yer lovin’ it, you cumsucking spic whore. Fuck, lookit that shit—I knew you’d like this, you worthless fuckpig!”

As raucous laughter brays from behind the camera, it closes in on the space between the two heaving, sweat-lubed bellies, one rough with hair scraping painfully across the other. Again the image shakes as the cameraman moves closer to the action, but not so badly as to lose the picture.

Ricky’s dick is rigid, pressed against Nick’s belly like a bar of iron. It’s wrapped in the dark “happy trail” line of hair marching down the stud’s ripped abdomen. After a momentary blur, the frame goes in for extreme close-up. As sweat-soaked flesh writhes and presses together, a thick dark mushroom-shaped tip can be seen oozing clear precum. It’s hard to see because of the violence of the motion. The shot isn’t held long.

The camera pulls back some and pans slightly up. The slut is flat on his back, his head bent back into the sofa cushion in a futile attempt to be free of the crushing pain in his throat. His hands clench, claw and scrabble over the alpha’s arms, scratching at his skin but otherwise having the same impact as they would on iron girders; the stud’s grip is implacable.

It’s clear that the spic is overwhelmed in panic; he’s almost literally grasping at straws. What he does grasp at, however, is the muscled dude’s gold necklace. In an instant, the kid snatches it off his neck.

“Goddam it!” roars the top. “You fucking cunt, that cost more than you’re worth, you useless fucking whore—you’re gonna regret that!”

And with that, he lets go of the kid’s neck. The boy gasps deeply, arcing his back up off the sofa to inhale as much air as he can. He lets it out in one huge moan—and then the hard dude is back on him, clamping down on the throat.

“What the–?” comes from behind the camera. But the cameraman apparently catches on right away. As the stud leans down and puts his face up against the boy’s, the camera comes in close enough to pick up the look of rage in the alpha’s face—and his whisper.

“Ya get more air, cunt? Good. You ain’t gonna die that quick. You gotta pay. You pay in pain, fucker. Got it? I’m takin’ the cost of that necklace outta your hide. And believe me, you fucking spic faggot, I’m gonna cash your ass out. Now just sit back and enjoy what ya got comin’, you fucking worthless druggie scum.”

Nick’s face is hard and cold as he leans over Ricky and spits in his face. The youth’s hands are tight around his killer’s wrists, trying desperately to wrest them from his throat.

The attack is stunning in its unexpected brutality. The alpha top clamps his left hand over the whore’s throat. He draws his right hand back and slams his huge knotted fist into the kid’s face. The slut’s body rocks with the blow, his legs kicking out.

“Oh fuckin’ hell, dude,” the cameraman moans, “you gotta hurt ‘im more than that. You hear that, Ricky? You fuckin’ crackhead whore, this stud’s gonna end your worthless life in agony on his cock. And it’s all gonna happen on camera. Dudes you don’t even know are gonna jack off watching you shoot and die with a cock up your ass like a fuckin’ cholo cunt.”

The top draws back and punches the boy again. This time, the blow lands on the youth’s firm, slim chest with a loud thunk.

The camera closes in on his face again. The alpha stud has kept up the pressure on the punk’s throat. As much pain as he’s in from the beating, it’s the strangulation that not only killing him but causing the most pain.

That much is obvious as the frame is filled with the Mexican boy’s face, swollen and distorted nearly out of all recognition. His body may jerk with each vicious blow, but the agony of death is reflected in his puffy blue lips parted by a thick, swollen tongue framed in a froth of drool that streams back along the spic’s blotched cheeks.

His eyes are bloody and bulging; staring into death with the horror of someone totally unprepared. Thick grunting sounds are forced out with the foamy bubbles that leak from his lips.

The camera pulls back, for good reason. The whore is in his death throes. As the alpha stud grunts and pants and pumps his tool up the dying slut’s fuckhole, the boy’s arms flail and his hands scrape and beat with frantic but weakening desperation.

The camera moves down the length of the jerking, interlocked bodies. The boy’s legs close instinctively, his smooth thighs slipping over the stud’s sweaty flanks. His feet no longer kick in protest at his killer’s assault; now his heels drag along the cushion of the sofa, the brown leather of his shuddering boots sliding along the top’s muscled calves.

The frame takes a perspective view from near the feet, capturing everything up to the face in the view. From this angle, the spic’s hands can be seen clawing at the alpha’s arms and shoulders; they flutter like dying birds. The kid is almost dead; he’s been without air for at least four minutes now.

There’s a blur and the camera resumes its wide, side-on view. All of Nick’s glorious body can be seen, pumping, thrusting, shining with sweat like a fierce animal—like a mankiller. Ricky is sweating and gleaming too, but his movements are becoming less coordinated as parts of his brain begin to die.

The camera zooms in for a moment—just like an earlier shot, this one shows the whore’s thick, uncut dick, standing straight up out of a black forest of pubic hair. Each jerk of his dying body, each thrust of his killer’s hips, makes Ricky’s instinctively swollen shaft stab into Nick’s tight hairy abs and smear them with the precum that’s flowing in a nearly steady stream.

The Mexican kid is losing it. There’s still some fight in him though; he makes one last attempt to break free and manages to get his thumb into the stud’s left eye.

This proves to be Ricky’s last mistake.

“Fucking cunt!” screams Nick. Without relaxing his crushing grip around the boy’s throat, the top wraps his left arm around the kid’s right—the one that’s in his face—and with a quick jerk, snaps it, tearing the elbow out of joint and shattering the humerus, the upper arm. The pain must be phenomenal, but the dying whore is already in agony.

The stud goes full bull male alpha in rage. He pulls his huge arm back and, putting his massive muscles to good use, begins piledriving his fist into the young slut’s face while screaming in such anger that foam flies from his lips. “Die, you worthless fucking spic faggot! Think you can hurt me, you stupid fucking crackhead? Take my fucking cock and die like the fucking cumslut piece of shit you are! Fuck yeah, I’m gonna unload in your worn-out fuckhole and it’s gonna be the last thing you feel, vato, comprendre? Stupid motherfucking cocksucking faggot whore, die like the useless pig fuck you are!

Suddenly Nick grabs a handful of Ricky’s short but thick black hair, near the scalp. In a split-second, he throws himself forward, putting the weight of all his muscles onto the hand he’s using to crush Ricky’s throat. At the same time, he jerks his other arm back towards himself, pulling Ricky head violently in the opposite direction from his neck

The camera pulls out just in time to catch the full-body effect. The sound is deep and vital; an erotic snapping and shattering that signals the irrevocable end of life. Ricky reacts as if to an electric shock. His whole body spasms; his arms and legs splaying wide—and then instantly contracting in a convulsion; wrapping tightly around his killer’s hard, slick body as Nick, deep in orgasm, cries out incoherently.

As the whore holds his killer in a dying embrace of severe neurological shock, the camera zooms in again on the faces. They’re next to one another; the killer’s, drawn back in the feral pleasure of filling the young cunt with his seed, the victim’s, in the final surrender to a more powerful man.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” screams Nick. He rises up onto his knees and the camera comes in for Ricky’s last close-up. A long, thick cock moves in from the bottom of the frame, a hand grasping it tightly. As Ricky drools and twitches, his brain completely disconnected from his quivering body, the cameraman beats off into the boy’s face. The frame becomes unsteady for a moment as he shoots, semen spurting into the slut’s black, distorted face and pooling into his bulging, bloodshot eyes.

The camera frame widens for one last time, showing the stud gasping for air, his cock still buried in the twitching fuckhole. He shudders for a moment, evidently draining the last drop of sperm out of his rod, judging by the deep, satisfied sigh he emits. He pulls out of the corpse’s ass, backing himself up on his knees before standing up. He steps up and spits in Ricky’s dead swollen face one last time before the video ends.

************************************************** **************************

Nick sat on the end of the sofa where his feet had been. Tony was sitting in an armchair on the other side of the small room. Both were leaning back, not moving much, semen still leaking out of the heads of their dicks. Ricky’s body had been rolled off the sofa and was lying face down, still twitching, on the rug, a thick slime of cum leaking out of his savagely torn rectum.

“Dude, you really think we can make money doin’ that?” asked Nick.

“Man, we can get rich doing that. I fuckin’ promise,” replied Tony.

“Ok, then, here’s the deal—you cut me in on the profits. We can work out the percentage later. Until we make a profit, you pay me fifteen hundred per video.”

Tony didn’t need to hesitate. “Fuck yeah, it’s a deal, dude. We’re gonna make a killing!”

Fantasy Scenario 6

Wow. These kids get younger each year. Maybe it’s just that I’m getting older. It doesn’t matter. But I seem to save fewer of them as time goes by.

It doesn’t matter. I still love my work. Pain and fear still exist. The fuckmeat still squeals and dies in a welter of blood and semen. Nothing changes.

Thank God!

The one I’m watching is Mexican. Straight black hair, beautiful black eyes. He’s adorable. I’m gonna cum so hard when he dies.

He’s hustling as hard as he can. Skin-tight faded jeans highlight his junk. He must be wearing a cockring; I’ve been watching him for twenty minutes and he’s been rock hard the entire time. Oh, that’s good. This is gonna be fun.

I know this boy’s a whore and already lost and beyond redemption. But I’m feeling wild tonight, so this will be perfect. I have some frustrations to work out. This one’s gonna be messy.

He hasn’t had any luck. They seem to be going for the more well-built rentboys tonight; this kid is slim, almost a swimmer’s build. He’s got on a simple white t-shirt and a pair of scuffed lace-up work boots.

He looks like part of a landscaping crew and that may be what he does during the day. This may just be a sideline to make some extra money.

Oh, I hope he’s straight. His suffering will be so much more intense.

Ok, he’s the only one left on the street now. Time to get the show going. He’s grateful that he’s got a paying customer and hops in my car right away. I ask him how much he wants for a blowjob and then punch him in the face hard. He stares at me, stunned. I pop him on the jaw and put out his lights.

He’s out for a while, which is good, because it’s a long drive. I’ve saved this location for a special occasion. It’s an abandoned house way out of town near the intersection of a couple of two-lane state highways. The nearest inhabited building is a cement plant about a mile and a half up one of the highways, and at this hour, it’s closed. And it’s not guarded; I’d checked.

I needed a place in a middle of nowhere. See, this one gets to scream.

I’ve already got a mattress and my steel frame in place. I’d made this one custom for this situation; I’d been planning it for some time and had set up everything I needed in advance.

I strip the kid of everything—I was right, he’s got thick leather cockring on, which I leave in place–but put his boots back on. I love it when they die with their boots on. Did you know that’s the title of a movie? It’s an old western.

Doubt I could get anyone to produce the porno I’d want to go with that title.

Bitchboy goes on his back on the mattress. This frame has two pairs of upright posts at one end of the mattress. The whore’s hands are tied to one pair and his ankles to the other. He’s lying there with his fuckhole in the air, unable to move. Perfect.

Even better—he’s starting to wake up. This is an almost unique experience for me; I think it’s the first one I’ve done where my snuff toy wasn’t drugged. This should be fun.

None of his senses will be dulled. There won’t be any chemical joy offsetting the horror. He’s going to experience this in a way none of the others did.

He gives a loud moan as I stuff my thick cock into his ass. He’s only semi-conscious, but he’s coming around quickly. Little Mexican cunt has been fucked before—but never like this, I’ll bet.

He’s awake now. Awake and unhappy. He’s yelling at me in Spanish and twisting his body, trying to get away from my dick.

Tough luck—the kid’s impaled on my meat and isn’t going anywhere. He’s scared, but he doesn’t want to show it, so he’s acting tough and threatening to hurt me. So sweet and smooth with those soft black eyes, trying to be intimidating—I love him and am almost moved to pity.

Almost. Not quite. Time to turn it up.

“Shut up, you fucking cholo cocksucker,” I snarl at him. “You’ve had plenty of cocks up your faggot fuckhole. You ain’t ever had anyone like me, though. My dick ain’t the only hard thing that’s getting stuck into you. I’m gonna hurt you, fucker, and there’s not a goddam thing you can do about it. You’re gonna like there and suffer like a punk bitch so I can cum.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about? Get the fuck off me, you fucking psycho bastard; I’m gonna fuck you up! GET FUCKIN’ OFF ME!!”

He’s yelling because there’s nothing else he can do. His legs are tied back up over his head, rope looped around his booted ankles running to the steel posts at the end of the mattress. The only part of his body he can really move is his ass—and I’m so deep in him that he can’t manage to squirm off my dick, hard as he tries.

I start pounding his hole as hard as I can, relentlessly fucking the living shit out of him. He screams loudly; it must really hurt since I’m not using any lube but my own spit. But this is only foreplay, of course. He may not know it, but this is the most fun he’s gonna have tonight.

I mean, the LAST fun he’s gonna have tonight.

I keep reaming him till he settles down. Good little whore; now he’s starting to enjoy it. I love him so much. It’s a shame he can’t be saved. Thanks ok, though; I’ll send him off right. He starts moaning with pleasure. And then—he’s working his ass in synch with my thrusts. He’s matching my rhythm. Damn—little spic whore is good!

He really wants me to cum. He’s working desperately to make me give him my load. He has no idea what it’s gonna take to get that—but I think it’s about time he found out. I pick up my knife from the floor beside the mattress.

It’s a black Ka-bar seven-inch serrated fighting knife. It’s a vicious, brutal tool that’s designed to kill. I let the fuckmeat get a good look at it.

“What, did you think I was gonna blow a wad into you and be done like one of your usual tricks? You’re gonna have to do more than that to get my sperm, cumpig. You’re gonna have to die like the worthless fucking faggot whore you are. I’m gonna cut your useless pig throat. Watching you bleed out and die in agony is gonna make me shoot. That’s how this ends for you, bleeding and dying on my cock.”

He looks at the knife and then back at my face, those amazing eyes wide with terror. He’s trying to process what’s happening. His brain isn’t able to handle it; the idea that his existence is about to end just won’t compute.

I make it compute. Without missing a stoke in my fucking, I lean down and kiss him, ramming my tongue deep in his mouth. Then I take my knife and start slicing into his throat.


He screams; oh my god, does he scream. Deep whooping shrieks. Oh, it’s beautiful. Each one resonates throughout his entire body and works my shaft life a velvet glove.

This takes some precision. I don’t want him dying too soon. I want to savor these precious moments. I have to grab his hair in one hand to hold his head still while I slice deeper into his tender, exposed throat, carefully avoiding the carotid and the jugular. The last thing I want if for him to bleed out too soon.

He’s still shrieking; the pain must be phenomenal. Let’s see if I can intensify the horror for him.

“Fucking die, you whore. You’re gonna leave this world with my dick in your worthless guts. You’re gonna scream and bleed and suffer and it’s gonna last as long as I want it to, to make me cum. I’m gonna dump my load into you and throw out your rotting meat like garbage. I want this to hurt, punk. The more you suffer, the more I enjoy it. Look into my eyes and see how much I want to hurt you, fucker.”

He obeys and stares into my eyes, but he doesn’t stop shrieking. His screams get louder as he realizes how much pain I can inflict on him at will. It’s incredibly erotic, how consumed with terror his is. As I lie on top of him, I feel a warmth spreading over my groin and belly. Thanks to his too-tight cockring, he’s still sporting a serious tent pole, but he’s lost control of his bladder. He’s pissing himself in fear.

Still screaming. I’m so glad I found this place; this isn’t something I could have done closer to town. The tempo of his cries increases with the speed of my thrusts while I’m fucking him. But I’m so close to shooting my wad. Time to grant my beautiful fuckmeat its release.

I plant one hand squarely on the Mexican’s face and slash into his throat as hard as I can, penetrating the carotid and the trachea simultaneously. Suddenly, my adorable cholo isn’t screaming any more; he’s gargling. The gout of blood that’s been pouring over my hand changes to a pink froth as the punk bitch struggles futilely to breathe. His head shudders beneath my hand as his rectum spasms against the engorged head of my cock. I cum explosively in his ass as I hear his last breath gurgle out of his mangled airway and see his eyes glaze over.

Oh, it’s the best one yet. And I wasn’t even able to save him.

What shall I do with my next true lost soul?

Fantasy Scenario 5

Jesus, this is harder than I thought. I knew finding two boys at once would be difficult but I didn’t know it’d be this bad. Virtually all of my lost souls are trying to buy drugs, and that’s usually not a spectator sport.

I might be in luck, though. Think I’m gonna get both a seller and a buyer. I don’t really know if the dealers count as true lost souls. I can get them in the car, but that’s about it. But I’ve got my eye on a Mexican kid I’ve seen before.

He acts as a middleman—he gets the buyer to wait in his car around the corner while he texts the guy who actually has the drugs. He then walks the drugs around to the buyer and returns with the cash. This way, the goods being sold move around and are less susceptible to raids, while the kid actually doing the deal on the street only has possession of either the drugs or the cash for a very brief time.

But something’s gone wrong today. I’m idling in a spot about three-quarters down the block and I’ve been watching him for a good ten minutes. He’s hard to miss. His swarthy face is slightly pockmarked and he’s spiked his glossy black hair. He’s wearing a magenta dress shirt open to the middle of his belly, displaying his smooth, hairless chest. The sleeves are rolled up. His jeans are so tight they appear painted on and he’s got a pair of genuine shitkickers on his feet. Around his tight waist is a brown leather belt that is buckled by a metal object only slightly smaller than a hubcap. He’s about twenty-two or –three and even if he’s not a lost soul, he’s still prime fuckmeat.

He’s looking worriedly up and down the street; his guy hasn’t shown. Worse, the kid he’s buying for has come around the corner to look for him. I wonder if the buyer was stupid enough to pay up first. He looks stupid enough.

He’s about eighteen, a typical suburban kid whose mommy and daddy don’t realize their snowflake is spending his college savings to get high. His dirty-blond hair is cut short on the top and sides but is longer in the back. He’s well-built, something like a jock, and is a good six inches taller than the dealer. His white t-shirt highlights his broad chest and even his skinny jeans can’t hide his muscular legs. He’s wearing expensive kicks, bright blue with orange laces. Clearly not a kid “counseled in the ways of patience”—he wants a hit, and he wants it now.

The spic dealer was in a bad spot. This kid could beat the shit out of him. Maybe I could help them both…

Wow, it actually works. I tell them I don’t sell out of my car, but if they’ll come back to my place, I’ll give the kid a sample. If he likes it, he buys it and I’ll give the dealer a cut on any business he sends my way. I’m amazed they both agree without hesitation; I’d expected some resistance.

I let the kid load his own needle. He’s a cocky little shit and says he’s used to heroin—I’m willing to bet this spoiled rich kid hasn’t come across anything as pure as the junk he’s shooting into his veins. He immediately slumps back unconscious, with the syringe still stuck in his arm.

The spic leans over him, concerned. The second his back is turned, I give him a swift bash in the head with a hammer. He goes limp, falling onto the kid.

Getting them positioned is easy. The spic is on his back on the bed with his hands bound behind him, his head at the foot of the bed. I already know I’m going to strangle him; it’s my favorite way of offing the fuckmeat. Later on, I plan on trying out a new toy with the kid. In the meantime, he’s gonna watch. I’ve secured him to a heavy wooden chair by tying his ankles to the front legs and by binding his hands behind the back of the chair using the strip of latex with which he’d tied off his arm.

Both of them are nude but I’ve slipped the boots back onto the Mexican. I’ve given white boy his shoes back, too. I like it when they die with their footwear on.

I don’t need to gag them. This complex is such a rathole that it’s never more than half full. Right now, my unit is the only one occupied in this building. My closest neighbor is six units and a firewall away. She’s eighty and is so deaf she runs the TV at full volume. Cocky rich boy gets to scream. I place his chair at the foot of the bed so he can get a close-up view.

The kid had convulsed a couple of times, so he’s not fully awake. He’s in a fugue state, drooling and staring dully through half-open eyes. Time to mount up, though; the Mexican is starting to wake up. I press myself down onto him, pushing his knees up to his chest while I thrust my dick into his vulnerable ass. This position, as I’ve indicated before, pins the fuckmeat to the bed so he can’t get any leverage while still leaving my hands free.

The spic yells as my thick cock tears into his tight rectum; I’m inflicting a lot of pain. I love ripping virgin holes open. His yell becomes a torrent of Spanish; he’s screaming at the top of his lungs. It doesn’t go on for long. I place a wooden rod—a sawn-off broom handle, actually—across his throat. I grip one end in each hand and lean forward with my entire weight. The stream of babble is cut off with a croak.

His screams have woken white boy up a little. He’s still not quite capable of speaking, but he’s aware of what’s happening as he watches me rape and strangle the dealer. There’s nothing like a nice preview of coming attractions, and I make sure he gets the full benefit.

“Look at him,” I snarl at the kid, “watch him die. See the pain and fear in his face. He’s gonna die riding my cock. You’re gonna die like this too, but I’m gonna hurt you more. This little fucker is dying so I can cum. Watch him fight—it won’t go on long. By the time I’m done, he’ll want my load so bad he’ll cum himself. Won’t even have to touch his dick. See? Look down here. His thick uncut dick is hard already. He knows he’s dying like a bitch with my cock jammed up inside him. He’s fighting because he thinks he wants to live, but his hard cock knows better. He wants to end his life filled with my spunk…”

The spic is turning his head from side to side, trying to get out from under the rod across his throat. It’s hopeless and his panic is getting worse because he can understand every word I’m saying. He stops trying to escape and stares at me in horror, blood vessels already starting to burst in his bulging eyes. His purple, foam-flecked lips are moving; if he could speak, he’d be begging for his life. He’s helpless. He has no choice but to lie there and take my cock while I choke the life out of him.

“Oh yeah,” I moan, pumping my meat into the spic’s trembling hole. I stare into the white kid’s terror-filled face. “Watch this. Watch me get off by taking this little fuck down. Little fuckin’ bitch is gonna cum so hard when he dies. All you little bitches want to go out full of cum. You’re gonna love getting killed with my load inside you.”

Now I’m talking directly to the Mexican. “You want it, cholo? You want my hot jizz? Work for it. Die for it. Die, motherfucker; make me cum!”

The spic is looking at me desperately, searching for a sign of pity. There is none. I spit in his face and his mouth, aiming for his swollen, protruding tongue. I ease the pressure on his neck for a brief moment only so I can throw myself back onto him with more force. I do major damage this time.

There’s a low crunchy sound as I crush the spic’s larynx. His final frantic gasp for air ends in a short guttural hiss. It’s obvious the pain is excruciating; he draws his legs in sharply, the heels of his cowboy boots digging into my ass. His entire face is purple and his brain is dying. His death throes become a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, he’s tightening his legs and clamping his quivering fuckhole down to the very base of my cock. Cursing violently, I shoot a wad into his ass with each jerk. His own massive uncut tool blows thick gobs of spunk in synch. One particularly intense convulsion launches a stream of semen over the spic’s head; it splashes on rich boy’s firm belly.

I’m still cumming and spitting in the Mexican’s face as his convulsions fade into a gentle trembling. When he goes limp, I collapse on top of him, exhausted. I kiss him deeply, my tongue roaming in his mouth, feeling his own thick, swollen tongue. I look up into the kid’s tear-stained face. “He had it easy,” I tell him. “I’m using an ice pick on you.”

His terrified moans lull me to sleep, my dick still stuffed up the spic’s ass.

The kid is unconscious when I wake up. This makes positioning him on the bed easier—not that he’d have any fight left in him. The heroin has worn off by now, but he’s been strapped to that chair for more than thirteen hours. I’m willing to bet he can’t feel his arms or legs.

And he’s still in deep psychological shock after watching his dealer die while getting raped. There’s nothing like letting the fuckmeat stew in its own mental juices.

I tie him face down on the bed, spread-eagled. A length of nylon cord around each wrist and ankle is secured to one of the legs of the bed frame. He’s waking up and starting to struggle, but he stops when he sees where he is.

I never took the spic off the bed. White boy has been tied face down onto the rotting corpse. His face is pressed against the dead Mexican’s; he can stare directly into the beautiful cloudy eyes. He starts moaning and blubbering.

I stand right in front of him at the foot of the bed. “Look at me, you little fuck,” I say, snapping my fingers. “Up here. This is what’s gonna happen. I’ve got two things I’m gonna stick in you. One is my dick. See how hard it is? I’m gonna love plowing your hole. Hurting you is gonna feel so good. The other thing I’m gonna stick into you is this ice pick. If I’m careful, I can do a lot of damage before you die. But understand this, you fuckin’ punk bitch, you’re gonna die. And you’re gonna love it, you little snuff pig. Oh, you’re gonna fight, and you’re gonna scream in agony from pain you’ve never dreamed possible, but in the end you’ll be so grateful for the death I bring you that you’ll shoot your wad.”

I spit on him, and then smile coldly. “You’ll love dying, punk. It’ll get you off.”

He understands me. He’s sobbing brokenly as I force myself into him. He tries to resist but I tear relentlessly into his sweet tender ass, shredding his rectum with my fat thick tool, making him bleed internally. I lie quietly on top of him for a moment, letting him settle back down onto the dead spic beneath him. I didn’t show him the bottle of poppers I’d placed on the bed. Bet he’s never even heard of them. It’s gonna be hot, watching his reactions…

I insert the ice pick into his kidney, slowly, sensuously. As long as I avoid major organs and blood vessels, I can do this for quite a while without killing him. He cries out and writhes, his body wriggling erotically against mine. Little fuckin’ snuff punk, he loves it for all that he cries and pleads for me to stop. He loves getting penetrated…

He needs some pillow talk. I whisper to him. “I know, I know. You got up today with raging morning wood. Your first thought was about getting high. You pulled on your tight clothes and laced up those hot kicks that are still on your feet. And not once did you think that you’d end the day dying with a thick cock jammed up your ass. But you’ve always wanted this. Inside, you’ve always wanted a man to overwhelm you and dominate you to the point when pain and death and orgasm fuse into a single burning, agonizing blast of spunk…”

Laying down the ice pick, I seal his mouth with one hand and hold the poppers to his nose. I keep it there for a while. When he becomes still and quiet, I start inserting to ice pick lovingly into his side. After it was in up to the handle, I removed it and stuck it in slowly elsewhere. I filled his back and sides with holes. There wasn’t much of a mess; most of the bleeding was internal.

Oh yeah, the little fuck bitch was getting off. He was still sobbing and begging for his life, but the moans he gave when I timed the slow thrust of my cock to the insertion of the ice pick told the true story. They were moans of pleasure. He’s getting fucked by two tools at once.

“You like that, you dying little faggot? You like having me inside you, having my cold hard steel inside your body? It hurts so good your dick is hard, fuckmeat. Are you ready for it? Are you ready for the final agony, the one that’s gonna make you blow your load all over that dead spic underneath you?”

He’s screaming now, pleading for his life in mindless terror. His body is ready, though. His erect rod is poking at the Mexican’s flaccid scrotum; I can hear the balls slapping with each jab. He’s ready to shoot.

I give him another rush with the poppers and force his head down, face turned to the side. Pinning him down with one hand in his blond hair, I slam the ice pick through his ear and into his brain.

Oh my god, I love brain trauma. Brain damage makes the fuckmeat really work my cock. The kid convulses wildly and I ride him like a bucking bronco while reaming the inside of his skull with the ice pick. I’ve rammed it into the part of the brain stem that controls orgasm. I can’t see the stream of cum that he shoots, but it’s flowing down the Mexican’s sides like water. I’ve short-circuited his brain to produce an orgasm that utterly drains his balls.

The kid’s uncontrollable jerking and flopping are yanking the spunk out of me. As I shoot, I keep skullfucking the punk’s head with the ice pick, totally destroying his brain. When I’ve stopped unloading, there’s nothing left but quivering meat.

I instantly start falling asleep. I burrow down and pull the bodies on top of me like blankets—one cold and stiff, the other warm and twitching, both drenched with jizz.

I fuck them each in turns during the night. The first time, I shoot my wad down the kid’s throat while piercing the Mexican’s cock and balls with the ice pick. The second time, I wedge my hard dick down past the spic’s enlarged tongue. I insert the ice pick into the kid’s urethra and I’m stabbing his bladder when I blow my load. The spic’s throat is so crushed that it’s completely blocked. I shoot so much cum that the Mexican’s mouth overflows and it trickles down his face.

Later on, I cut off their cocks and scrotums, shoving each into the other’s mouth before sealing it with duct tape. There’s an abandoned crack house six blocks away. I bind the kid’s hands—I’d never untied the spic—and shove them both into the crawlspace under the house. They’re gonna have to rot a long time before the smell alerts anyone. By the time they’re found, all the evidence will look like gang drug activity.

I feel better. I’ve saved one, perhaps two lost souls. Still not sure about the dealer. Either way, it doesn’t matter. What’s important is how much fun I had with two of them. I’ll keep my eyes open in the future. The opportunity may not come up, but if it does, I’ll be ready.

Meat Chronicles 16–Make a Lunge for the Border

He’s young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, to judge by his appearance. Latino, with smooth brown skin. Slim, with tight jeans and a black t-shirt under a gray hoodie. There’s a knit cap over his hair and square-toed shitkicker boots on his shuffling feet.

He looks cold, out there on the corner, where the rentboys usually hang. But it’s too cold for them, and I don’t think this one’s a whore. He looks a little too rough; the sluts tend to be more hip. And he seems embarrassed, uncertain.

Think I should find out what his story is. He looks like he wants it, but is scared to death of finding it—whatever “it” is.

I grin. I know what “it” is. And he’s right to be scared.

I’ve been sitting in my van in a dark parking lot about a third of the way down the block. Despite the cold, I’ve left the ignition off. I have a very clear view of him. He can’t see me; he’s unaware of my existence. But he won’t be for long.

I start the van and pull out of the lot; he swivels and focuses on me instantly. I drive slowly past the pool of light in which he’s standing and ease over to the curb just past the illuminated circle. No one is out to see anything on this chilly night, but there’s no sense in taking chances.

Despite whatever trepidation he might be feeling, the chicoputa is at the passenger door quickly. When he opens it, I get my first clear glimpse of him in detail. I lean forward, scanning his face carefully. I’ll fuck him no matter what he looks like—after all, he’s just meat—but I wanna see if it’s gonna be doggie style or missionary.

Missionary, definitely. His huge black puppy-dog eyes are almond-shaped. My eyes are drawn into them by his long, lush eyelashes. A stray curl of hair that’s escaped his knit cap reveals his silky blue-black hair.

His full, red lips give his face an erotic vulnerability that gets a boost from the fine shadow on his upper lip; despite his age, he has the wispy moustache of puberty.

He smiles sweetly—and nervously—and hops in right away. He pauses uncertainly for a moment, then reaches over and grabs my cock, already tent-poling my jeans.

Cin-cincuenta dolares,” he stammers.

“Fifty bucks?” I reply. “Sure, I can do that. Lemme get somewhere private. Get in the back, cholo, if ya wanna get chingado’d. And drop your pantalones.”

He obeys, scrambling into the back and unbuttoning his skin-tight jeans, letting them slide to the floor—he’s not wearing a belt. He reaches down to his waist and pulls off his hoodie in one swift, smooth motion. For a brief moment, he stands, lithe, firm torso wrapped in a black t-shirt that comes down to mid-belly. Beneath that, his smooth flat abdomen sweeps down to the haze of black curly hair from which a short, thick, uncut dick stands erect and dripping. There’s a hint of black fur on his smooth, firm thighs and calves that disappear into the tops of his brown leather shitkickers. His jeans have slid all the way down. Bracing himself against the side with in hand, he reaches down with other and works the cuffs of his jeans over his boots so he’s able to get the former off without removing the latter.

Then the t-shirt comes off. His taut, tight abdomen is tattooed. Across his smooth, flat brown belly is a huge tattoo in blue ink—two crossed knives, in the center of which is a blazing circle surrounding an eagle, holding a writhing snake in the shape of an “M” in its beak. Above are the letters “MM” several inches high.

It’s a gang tattoo. In this case, Mexican Mafia. And since I can see the word “Mexikano” on his right bicep; it’s specifically the Texas Mexican Mafia.

Oh fuck yeah. I can’t wait to shove my hard dripping shaft up this worthless little gangbanger’s asshole. Fucking cunt wants it, too. His eyes are shining with lust as he looks at my tool…

At any rate, fuck foreplay. I lunge at the meat, driving my fist into his beautiful spic face, catching him on the jaw, and utterly, completely stunning him.

He grunts before falling to his knees. It’s a deep, vital sound that gets me even harder. I bend down between his legs and grab…his wallet.

With a quick jerk, I snatch it out of his back pocket of his discarded jeans, pulling with enough force to snap the belt loop. I have the wallet and its chain, which turns out to be two feet long.

Oh, that’s perfect. The kid groans and looks up at me with a wounded expression. He sees the wallet in my hand. “Por favor, señor, no dinero! No dinero!

I know ya ain’t got any money, cunt; that’s not what I want.

I lunge, my animal instincts taking over, forcing the kid onto his back. I grab his ankles—his boots, actually, feeling the scarred leather of his dirty workboots as I grasp them roughly and hoist his legs up to my shoulders. I’ve left his wallet, long chain attached, on the right.

I still have plans for it.

He jerks his firm, brown legs, trying to free them from my grip. I’m bigger and better-built; he doesn’t stand a chance. I lean over him, slowly bending his knees until they’re forced back to his chest. The punk tries to resist, his breathing labored and frightened, his eyes wide with bewilderment. His knit cap—it’s black or dark blue—still clings to his head, slightly askew. Several locks of long black hair have escaped and fan into the air as the kid struggles. He still doesn’t understand what’s happening.

Time for a little enlightenment. My cock is primed and ready to go; so is the meat. I think it’s time to get them together.

Judging by his scream, the kid thinks differently. There’s no one close enough to hear; the only impact the noise has is to vibrate his innards a little, making them constrict slightly as my shaft tears its way past his sphincter and plunges deep into his tender colon.

“Yeah, scream like a bitch, ya fuckin’ faggot,” I sneer at him, “feels so fuckin’ good on my cock. Go on, cholo, scream. Lemme feel your punk ass get a good grip on my dick.”

I spit in his face. He stares up at me; if his eyes had been wide before, they’re enormous now. His entire face is stretched into a mask of shock, his mouth a perfect O. He’s literally stunned and is—momentarily, at least—unable to comprehend what’s happening to him.

I get it. Little motherfucker is a virgin. This is his first time gettin’ it up the ass. Been spending his time blowing his homies in alleyways—probably hasn’t ever asked for money before. It would explain his nervousness when he first approached me.

I grin down at him. “Helluva time to turn puta, esé. You’re gonna love this. I’m gonna give ya the hardest, best, most painful fuck of your entire life.” I can’t stop myself from chuckling as I smile down into the spic’s eyes, brimming with tears. “And the last. La ultima cogida.

It takes a moment for my words to work their way into the Latino slut’s fear-jammed mind. I can see when it happens; that moment of terror, the eyes widening with the realization that his life might be ending tonight. I can see it processing. He’s gonna scream. I don’t care if he does; like I said, there’s no one to hear him.

So I don’t know why I stop him, but I do. Just as he gasps, filling his lungs with air in order to heave out what would surely be a tremendous cry of panic, I slam my fist into his face with the force of a piledriver. I can feel the satisfying crunch of his cheekbone under my hand.

He expels his lungful of air—not in a scream, but in a deep, shocked grunt that reverberates through his firm body. I can feel the blow in my cock. “Hell yeah, you fuckin’ spic puta, ya love getting’ hurt, huh? I can tell by the way yer fuckhole milks my cock when you’re in pain. Tell me, vato, did your gangbanger buddies slap ya around while you were blowin’ them? Bet ya loved it, ya fuckin’ pain pig; bet ya begged ‘em for more. Lessee how much more you can take, si? Mas dolor, perra, mucho mas dolor.

He moans in pain and confusion, but it doesn’t last long. He’s smaller than me, but he’s a tough little street punk nonetheless and he doesn’t want to go quietly.

Good. I’m in the mood for a little workout. And the longer he struggles on my cock, the better it feels. And the better it feels for him, too, the little fag slut, judging by the way his cock is suddenly erect; its dark swollen head leaving a trail on my skin as it slips over my firm flat belly.

He looks up at me—now there’s a look of rage to go with the pain. I’m already anticipating him when he suddenly explodes into a scrabbling, scratching fury like a feral cat—which is pretty close to what he is. A wild little street punk whose wasted life is gonna end agonizingly on the head of my dick without anyone ever knowing or caring.

My hands are pressing against the inside of his thighs, just above the knees, forcing his legs up against his chest—and slightly apart. I’ve thrust myself between them while fucking him so that by now, his smooth, taut legs have wrapped around my sweaty torso of their own accord.

The useless little cocksucker, enraged by the pain of getting his ass violated, kicks violently now. The thick soles of his dirty, rough workboots catch at my flanks as the boy thrusts his legs down, trying to pull me off using just his legs. He’s trying to find a weak spot on me, something to use to his advantage. Luckily I’ve built up a good sheen of sweat—these feral little street whores are always a good workout—so his boots don’t find a purchase.

Still, the scraping is painful. And this piece of shit is here to be on the receiving end, not the giving.

I think the cunt needs a reminder.

The next blow comes straight down from my shoulder into the kid’s mouth. His head bounces off the carpeted floor of the van as his arms and legs splay out in shock; his boots leaving one last bruise as they fall back limply onto my back. The meat rolls his head to the right and coughs out something small, red and white. It’s an incisor. His head moves back, his eyelids fluttering as he struggles to maintain consciousness. His lips are already split and swollen, a trickle of blood leaking from the right corner of his mouth.

He’s limp and jerking, not fighting me, at least for the moment. He’s still pinned to the floor by my cock; he ain’t goin’ anywhere. I wanna admire his wallet.

Specifically, I wanna admire the chain he’d used to secure it to his jeans. It’s a small gauge, but sturdy, and there’s more than two feet of it.

I hold it in front of the stunned whore. His eyes follow the chain blearily. “Mira, puta, su cadena. Your own chain.” I lay it across his neck as I reach up and snatch off his cap, finally revealing an untidy mop of long, slightly curly black hair. I grab a handful of greasy black silk, jerk his head up, and wrap the chain all the way around his neck.

He moans, clears his throat and opens his eyes. His hands crawl up his chest to his neck; just as his questing fingers encounter the chain, I wrap it around my hands and jerk as hard as I can, my biceps bulging as the links of the chain compress the punk’s throat to the point that they sink into the flesh.

He fights, of course. This is the kinda struggle I’d wanted. Before, the kid was thinking and planning.

Now, I’ve got the feral street whore back. He claws and scratches, reaching instinctively for my face. I lean back, keeping him out at full arm length. And my arms are longer than his. The tips of his fingers scrabble in the stubble of my goatee on my chin, but he can’t quite come close enough to actually grasp anything. All he can do is fondle the facial hair of the man who’s raping and strangling him.

“Hey, cholo,” I tell him, my jaw dropping just enough when I speak to allow his frantic hands to stroke my chin. “Tiempo de morir. Did I get that right, cunt? Time to die. Here, if ya didn’t get it in two languages, maybe this’ll get the point across.” I jerk my arms further apart, grunting with the exertion as tendons stand out in my arms.

The spic arcs violently. Balling his hands into fists, he beats at my arms, desperately trying to break my grip. His face swells and darkens as his eyes focus frantically on my face. Despite the excruciating pain of strangulation, he still doesn’t realize he’s dying. He can still feel my cock plugging his hole, after all.

I grin at him before spitting in his purple face. His eyes bulge up at me, blood vessels starting to burst and stain his whites with red. “Tu es carne. You got that, concha? You’re nothing but meat. You’re gonna gag and choke and milk the cum outta my shaft as you die. When I’ve filled your worthless ass up with my spunk, I’ll throw your useless corpse into the canal like the pile of rotting meat you’ll be. Even if anyone finds ya, they won’t give a shit. So keep fightin’ it, cunt, the longer you live, the more ya jack my dick.”

Man, this one’s hot. Little spic slut is stronger than he looks; he fights for more than five minutes.

At first, he’s wild. I didn’t expect him to last long; he fought so hard that I was sure he was using up all the oxygen left in his bloodstream. He continues to beat and kick at me for about ninety seconds, his eyes looking up into mine, tears leaking from the corners the entire time.

“I know, I know,” I tell him softly. “Sucks, don’t it? Didn’t think you were gonna go out like this, huh? Not tonight, huh? Tough shit. You’re just a useless spic cumpig. No one cares how or when you go out. So ya might as well make me cum and make your death have some meaning, huh? Not like anyone’s gonna give a fuck about your worthless puta ass.”

He’s not fighting as hard now. I can lower my head. When I do, he doesn’t try to rip and gouge my face, now he caresses my cheeks.

His legs, too, have slowed. He’s not kicking the living shit outta me anymore; now I can feel his smooth firm thighs embracing my flanks, our entwined bodies writhing together in a vital dance of sex and death. Between us, his uncut tool burns and twitches violently as if it has a mind of its own.

As indeed, it must. I recognize the signs. I can stop my inept attempts at Spanish. The kid isn’t dead—not by a long shot—but there’s not enough working brain matter for him to appreciate my taunting. He’s still conscious (in a way) but my ability to use his fear to chemically stimulate his own body is at an end.

His brain is too damaged to comprehend my words. Well, that’s a goddam shame. But I ain’t done havin’ fun with my meat. And fuck, it ain’t even really meat yet.

The wiry muscular little cholo begins to convulse rhythmically as more and more of his brain dies and his nervous system begins to collapse. His rectum spasms and writhes, his guts clenching around my thick, hypersensitive shaft as his taut teen body grips me tightly in its death throes.

As I feel my seed boiling up in my balls, ready to overflow and inject this dying teen meatpunk with my genetic material, claiming his unwanted fuckhole as my own to dispose as I wish, I spit into his grotesque mask of a face. His beautiful Latino features are blackened and distorted, his eyes bulging, his tongue a purple protrusion surrounded by foam that oozes from both corners of his mouth. On the left, it leaves a trail of white slime down the punk’s cheek. On the right, it’s the same—except the drool has mixed with the blood from the split lips. The trail is pink.

I don’t think there’s enough left of him to hear me—and if there is, it damn sure ain’t enough for the spic punk to understand English—but I let him know anyway. Just cause the meat’s tender enough doesn’t mean I can’t pound it a few more times.

“Almost there, cunt, almost there. Fight it, you bitch, keep scrambling to stay alive. Lemme feel ya fight to the very end, ya fucking whore, lemme feel you die like a worthless cumsucking pig on my cock—“

There’s a loud crunch as his esophagus collapses. In the ultimate agony of death, his arms and legs contract around me; he clings to me desperately as life leaves his body and the neurons in his brain begin to fire at random. As he shudders and trembles, holding me in the iron grip of one suffering a traumatic death, I feel his orgasm; his cock is so swollen I can feel it pulse and writhe as jets of semen erupt between us, hot on my skin.

At the same time, his stretched and torn sphincter gives one last convulsion, cinching about my dick like a cockring. As the punk’s rectum flutters and spasms over the engorged head of my tool, I can feel my release pumping the meat’s ass full of my seed. I grunt and cry out, but then I’m dizzy…

…I can feel hot jizz flowing out of me, pumping so hard it hurts…

…I don’t let go; I have to hold on to something as I cum, something to brace myself—this chain in my hand…

…oh fuck you gotta be feelin’ this cunt, my huge load’s gotta be the last thing ya feel…


Ok. I’m ok. I’m back under control.

I’m on my knees with my cock still sunk deep in the quivering meat. And now it really is meat. I don’t think there’s any brain activity left—and if there is, well, that chain is buried too deep for me to bother digging it out.

I pull out and stand up, cum still dripping from the head of my cock. I let it drip onto the meat, watching it vanish into the pools of the slut’s own semen that spread over his flat belly.

I get dressed quickly. There’s no real reason to rush; no one has seen me and no one knows we’re here. But still, the sooner done the better, as long as I’m careful. And I have been careful.

I open the back doors of the van. Barely a foot beyond is a short wood and metal guardrail intended to prevent anyone from driving into the drainage ditch. It’s about eight feet down at that point. At the moment there’s just enough water to cover the body, but a front is coming through tonight and it’s supposed to rain for two days. By the time he rots enough to pop up, he’ll be halfway to the ocean.

I grab the meat under the armpits and drag him out. His leg spasms, making his scarred workboot kick. I drag him up over the guardrail and tumble him headfirst into the ditch. I make a second trip, picking up his clothes and belongings and toss them in after.

Well, I’d wanted a little Mexican tonight. Now what do I want for dinner?

Meat Chronicles 7–Chokin’ a Bitch

Ok, now I know there’s something wrong with me. I shouldn’t be back out this soon; it’s way too dangerous. I just got rid of the last one’s head yesterday. Maybe I need to get some help.

Nah. I’m havin’ too much fun. There’s just so much hot meat out there. But speaking of hot–I need to stay out of the burbs. I’ve over-hunted and need to keep a low profile in those parts of town.

So I’m just north of downtown, ogling the rent boys. One of these guys is gonna be the lucky whore who gets my full attention tonight.

I grin and shift my dick, already hard in my tight jeans. I’ll make sure the meat has a thoroughly entertaining evening before I waste him. Now, let’s see–who looks like he wants my cock?

There are several boys on the street in front of the bars and more in the alley behind them. My sights are set one specific boy, though. He’s trolling for dick, stepping out of the shadows and boldly peering into each passing car. There’s not much traffic back here. I may be able to lure him in without anyone noticing…

He’s in his early twenties and tall; a little over six feet. His swarthy skin hints at ethnic blood–I think he’s Latino. Black hair, short on the sides but a little longer in top, matches the black stubble on his cheeks and chin.

He’s wearing a tank top with dark blue and white horizontal stripes that shows off his muscled brown arms and shoulders. Tight black skinny jeans cling to his ass and legs, showing how far his soft brown leather boots come up his calves. He grins at every potential john, his white teeth highlighted by his black moustache and large brown eyes.

I pull up and see what he’s looking for. As I thought, he’s Hispanic, his English broken and heavily accented. As he climbs into the passenger seat of my van, his hair gleams blue-black for a brief moment under the done light. I gather he’s a laborer, moonlighting for fun and profit.

Well, he ain’t gonna make any profit tonight. As for fun–well, that’s subjective. After all, most of these whoreboys are true deathpigs deep in their festering, rotten cores.

At any rate, I’m damn sure gonna have fun, even if the meat doesn’t.

He’s eager, and very horny. Fucking whore can’t keep his hands off my dick; he’s fondling the hard bulge in my crotch all the way back to the apartment. His other hand is jammed into his own waistband so he can play with himself. Two hard, straining cocks for the ride.

When we get to the apartment, I stop in the living room. He’s not ready for the killing pit in the bedroom yet; I need to prime him a little first.

Actually, he hauls out a small bag of coke and a straw. The coffee table has a glass top; he’s got a couple lines laid out in no time. I decline his offer, so he snorts them both himself. Then he gets frisky.

Seems he’s a kisser. I don’t kiss whores, though; I just kill them. Still, his hard body pressed against me feels good. There’s a strong smell of alcohol on his breath and his cologne doesn’t completely cover the sour tang of sweat wafting from his pits.

He unzips my fly. Pulling my throbbing dick out, he bends downs and starts blowing me. He’s a very talented cocksucker; he does it well and it’s clear he loves doing it. I wrap my hand in his black hair and force his head down in my crotch, plugging his throat with my dick. He gobbles it down for a minute or two, then starts gagging and choking. I keep his head forced down on my groin for another thirty seconds before I let him up, coughing and spluttering.

He wipes the slobber off his soft cumpig lips, lust lighting his eyes as he gazes at my erect shaft. He’s got his own dick out–an impressive piece of meat on its own–and one of his hands is busy sliding along it.

The whore dives back onto my dick, jacking himself furiously. His tongue slides over the head and laps at my leaking precum. It feels good, and he’s a great cock gobbler, but it just isn’t doing it for me. Something is off. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.

He’s taken his shirt off. His smooth chest, with its swelling pectoral muscles and a trail of dark fur leading down from his flat belly, presses against me.

I can hear his heart beating. I don’t like that.

I think it’s time to make it stop.

I’m getting that feeling again, the incredible erotic excitement that comes over me as I’m about to take another man’s life.

“C’mon, puta,” I tell him, grabbing his hair and pulling him up off my cock. “Time to get earn your pay. Let’s see if you like my dick as much when it’s up your ass.”

He looks at me and nods, then puts his head back down and puts his full lips around my mushroom head again. He runs his tongue over it one last time, his huge brown eyes gazing adoringly up into mine through long lashes.

He draws back reluctantly and, slowly rising to his feet, braces himself against the wall as he pulls his boots off. As he wriggles out of his skin-tight black jean, I quickly strip myself. After slipping out of my own jeans, I sit back on the couch and put my combat boots back on. The fuckpig watches and, taking his cue from me, puts his own back on. Now that they’re not obscured under his jeans, I can see that they’re brown leather work boots, with thick black soles. They’re worn to the point that they’ve become slouched and soft as suede.

Almost as soft and smooth as the whore’s skin.

I’ve cleaned up the bedroom a bit. Sheets cover the bloodstains on the mattress. This cunt’s hot and ready; I won’t need to bind him. Good thing, too, because I don’t have any restraints out.

The slut climbs on the bed, rolls onto his back and grabs the backs of his knees. He holds his legs apart, boots hanging wide in the air. He wants cock, and he wants it now. He’s buzzing on coke–the pupils in those beautiful brown eyes have shrunk to pinpoints. The long meaty tube of his dick lies limply across his belly; cocaine makes it difficult to get hard.

I may be able to help him with that. I don’t think he’ll appreciate my method, though. Not that I give a shit what the fucker thinks; by the time I blow my load, the cunt won’t be thinking at all.

I start slow, kneeling on the bed and plugging the rentboy’s fuckhole. He moans softly as my rod slides into him, inch by inch. When I bend down over him, getting myself into position to plow his ass, he reaches up with both arms and grasps the back of my head. He pulls at me, wanting me to kiss him.

I push him back and speed up my thrusting. He closes his eyes and lays his head back, a true power bottom whore. He wriggles on my dick like a pig, wallowing in lust. But he still can’t get it up.

I reach down onto the floor beside the bed, feeling around for a moment—I don’t take my eyes of the Latino’s face as I fuck him—before I find what I’m searching for. It’s a two-foot wooden dowel (an old sawed-off broom handle, actually). I lay it on the bed beside the boy’s body, jerking in time with my thrusts. He doesn’t see it; he hasn’t opened his eyes yet.

I slide my hands up his chest, slowly, letting them linger over his nipples before continuing up to his neck. I wrap them around his throat and begin to apply pressure—gently at first. I’m curious how the meat will respond.

I’m not disappointed. He inhales deeply, shuddering with pleasure as he arches his back and presses his belly up against mine.

Little fuck likes to be choked. Let’s see if it’s the real thing or just puppy love.

I pick up the wooden bar. Holding it horizontally with one hand on each end, I press it across the whore’s throat with my body weight.

I’m larger and stronger than the hustler. Between the choking bar across his throat and my cock in his ass, he’s pinned to the bed.

Well, that sure the fuck got his eyes open again. A playful squeeze around the neck might be fun, but a good throttling terrified him.

That’s unfortunate—for him.

“What’s wrong, puta?” I whisper to him. “You expected somethin’ else? A quick bang, you take my load, you take my money and adios? Think again, cunt; I’m gonna kill you. That’s right, you worthless faggot whore, as you die, your convulsions will constrict your rectum and jack me off. Just so you know what’s happening.”

He freaks. I expected this; I pull my head back and to the side as his fingers, hooked into claws, flail frantically at my arms and chest. His eyes, wide with disbelief, stare into mine out of a reddening, panicked face.

I’m forced to duck and bob my head to avoid his clutching hands. Luckily, his nails aren’t long enough to scratch my skin; he must bite them.

Well, not anymore.

He kicks at me, hard. It hurts. His boots are soft and old, but I think he’s had them re-soled. I’m gonna have bruises all over my ass and legs tomorrow. Better remember to find a good spot to dump this one; I don’t want it found until long after I’ve healed.

His hands scrabble desperately over my chest and face. It’s seriously annoying. I ease up off his throat for a moment. He inhales deeply as I draw my arm back and drive a roundhouse blow straight from my shoulder to his jaw. He grunts loudly, his head rocking back and bloody spittle flying from his split lips.

I pull back again and aim the next punch directly into his solar plexus. He doubles up, almost sitting directly up, emptying his lungs with a loud whoosh.

I push him flat and slam myself back down on top of him, bar in place across his throat, before he can inhale again. He looks up at me dully, uncomprehendingly, an expression of wounded confusion.

“You don’t get it yet, do you, ya stupid fucking whore?” I snarl at the meat. “You’re dying. I don’t give a fuck who you are or what you want. I want to feel you kick and die with my tool up your ass, you cocksucking cumpig.”

He’s almost there; almost where I want him. He understands part of it, at least—he knows that he won’t survive this. He’s still fighting it, though; he hasn’t reached the point of acceptance.

He will. He’ll submit; they always do. It’s not like they have any choice; they’re gonna die whether they accept it or not. But they always do.

Because in their inner core, this is what they really lust after. They don’t just want to be used—they want to be used up and thrown away.

My brown-skinned fuckmeat hasn’t realized this yet, but he will. And until he does, he’s working my dick well enough.

Despite the obvious futility, he still struggles—not that he has the strength to do any damage any more. His hands bat weakly at my chest as his eyes bulge horribly from his distorted, blackening face. But part of him is starting to respond. Consciously or not, he’s getting hard. I can feel the hot fat tip of his cock poking at my navel as his body slides against mine on a film of musky death sweat. His legs have slowed and his boots now scrape along the outsides of my thighs.

“That’s it, you fucking piece of shit. This is what you’ve been looking for, ain’t it, cunt? Night after night, takin’ load after load, but it’s never enough, never the big one. This is what you’ve wanted; a man who’ll fuck you right out of your misery and put an end to your worthless faggot life in a blast of hot cum. Admit it, bitch, you’re lovin’ this, you fucking cumsucking death pig; that’s why your own fuckin’ tool is drippin’. So die, you fucking cunt!”

I spit in his face and launch myself up; the pressure is off his throat for too brief a time for him to inhale, but it lets me throw myself back down onto him with increased force. Accompanied by a loud crunching sound, the broom handle sinks deeply into the rentboy’s neck. The cartilage of his esophagus shattered beyond repair, the whore instinctively clutches me in a crushing embrace, his arms wrapped tightly around my back and his legs around my own.

His black, shuddering face is inches from my own. I can see spots in the whites of his glazing eyes where blood vessels have burst. Drool pushed out by his dark, swollen tongue has frothed onto his mustache and beard.

His dick slides and pulses between us, a hot, rigid bar slipping along my abdomen. It leaves a snail-like glaze of precum in a trail across my stomach. I force the bar down into the meat’s throat as hard as I can one last time, hearing the faint snapping sound of the hyoid bone breaking. And that’s when the cunt gets it.

He holds me tightly, desperately, passionately, as his hands caress my head and he drags his bootheels up the backs of my calves. I can feel his cock throb as it pumps a steady flow of semen.

“Fuck yeah, now you’re getting’ it, meat! Fuckin’ work my cock, you dying fucking faggot; fuckin’ die and make me cum, cunt…fucking pig…”

I become incoherent in my orgasm as the whore quivers and convulses, squeezing the last few drops of spunk out of his dick and mine. As I tremble in the final seconds of ejaculation, I press on the broom handle again—inadvertently, this time. For the third time, there’s a cracking sound, much louder this time, and the slut’s head lolls forward with the flaccidness of a broken neck.

I pull my still-dripping cock out of the corpse’s ass. I’m pretty pleased; it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to ream out a whore. And it’s not like the cops are gonna look too hard for missing rentboy; hustlers are a dime a dozen out there and they’re always getting whacked by some sadist or another.

Nice to know there’s a pool of ready-made victims for those times when I’ve had too much fun in the burbs. Now if I can just remember where I was when I noticed that unattended dumpster…