Alpha Male Eddie

Eddie was pissed, but that was nothing new.  It was what had got him kicked out of the Corps after three years; he still seethed with rage at the memory of the Marine shrink’s diagnosis: fragmented personality with psychotic breaks trigged by latent homosexuality.  That motherfucker.


Eddie was ALL man, and he damn sure knew how to show it.  Every facet of his image, from his chiseled, rock-hard body to his military gear and clothing, to his jacked-up matte-black Dodge Ram picked, was specifically designed to show that was a true Alpha Male.  Nothing—nothing—would ever disprove that.


But every now and then, something slipped.  And when that happened, things got—


Well, for example, there was JJ.



It started one summer evening just as the glaring sullen heat of the day was fading into a swift dusk.  Eddie just happened to be driving by the Hudson Street Skate Park when he saw the boy.  He didn’t know why he pulled over, but he did.


The boy was heading out, walking away from the park with his skateboard under his arm.  He seemed to be headed for the bus stop at the corner—that was when Eddie decided to make his move.  He quickly pulled to the curb and asked if the kid needed a lift.


“Sure, man,” the kid grinned, adolescent hormones giving the teen’s voice just enough depth to prove that he was sexually mature.  “Name’s Jeremy,” he said, opening the door and climbing up into the cab, “But my friends call me JJ.”


JJ was in fact seventeen—and was sexually mature.  Two years ago he’d managed to get Amy Schneider from down the block to give him a handjob and just lately he’d talked her into blowjobs.  He wasn’t going steady with her or anything, but none of the other girls he went with would suck his dick yet.  He was supposed to see Amy tonight and was anxious to get home.


For a brief moment, the two males sat and scoped each other out.  JJ’s face was smooth, with just a hint of youthful fullness; his hair was short and dark, but it was mostly hidden under a black ball cap—with, Eddie noted with interest, a Marine Corps logo.  Maybe the boy’s daddy was enlisted on the base.


The teen’s gear was nothing special—a gray t-shirt and black mid-thigh shorts covered his lean, lithe body but showed his smooth, firm legs to advantage.  A pair of black Converse Play hightops with a red heart logo completed the skatepunk look.


For his part, JJ was almost mesmerized by Eddie; he’d never seen such a perfect male form.  And Eddie wasn’t dressed to be ignored.  His military affinity was clear from the way he kept his dark blond hair buzzcut and his facial hair trimmer in a razor-straight line.  His khaki utility pants, bloused into a pair of black leather combat boots, wrapped tightly around his thickly muscled legs.  The pair of dogtags dangling against his skintight olive-drab t-shirt drew attention to his huge sculpted pecs and his almost-perfectly ripped abs.  But there was something both compelling and repellant about his face—JJ couldn’t say what.  Maybe it was the cold hard lines of his cheeks, or the grim set of his mouth…or maybe the unnerving glare of those piercing green eyes, icy and fiery at the same time…


It was Eddie who broke the silence.  “So, where ya goin’, man?” he asked, the friendly, open tone of his voice making the teen relax visibly.


“Aw, I’m headin’ out to Jupiter Road—over where it crosses Adams, y’know?  Gotta meet my girlfriend…”


Eddie chuckled and JJ blushed boyishly.  “Well, she ain’t my girlfriend…I mean… well, she kinda—”  He lapsed into a confused silence as Eddie continued to grin.


“Yeah?  What, she letcha dip yer wick, huh?” the older man laughed coarsely, making the teenager blush even harder.  Finally, Eddie decided to relent.


“Yeah, I gotta head out that way for business—ya mind if we stop at my place on the way?  Need to pick up something.”


“Naw,” JJ said, “And lissen, about Amy—”


“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Eddie said tersely.


“No, but seriously, man, I get to thinkin’—see, maybe I could get a real girlfriend—one a’ them hot senior bitches that won’t even look at a junior like me—if I had a hard body.  Like yours.  Man, how do I do that?  Whadda I gotta do to look like you?”


Eddie glanced at the teen covertly, noticing the boy’s wide-eyed, innocent look.  The little fuck wanted to pretend to be an Alpha Male?


“Ya wanna get swole?  C’mon, boy and I’ll show ya some of my routine if ya want.”


Of course JJ wanted.  Eddie shut off the loud rumble of the truck’s huge engine; from his vantage point in the jacked-up cab, he could see that there was no one about.


“You c’n leave yer board here,” he said and jumped from the truck, his combat boots crunching loudly in the gravel lot.  JJ followed, but his lean teen body made far less noise when he hit the ground; he watched the well-built older man enviously as he trailed him into the apartment.


Half of Eddie’s bedroom was devoted to weights; in the center was the standard inclined bench, now laid flat, with a rack of barbell weights on the left and one of dumbbells on the right.  All the weights, including the hex dumbbells, were metal—the set looked old, but was obviously still functional.


The other half of the room also caught JJ’s notice—not so much the twin bed and the inexpensive dresser as the posters on the wall.  For a moment, the kid thought they were movie stills—then he realized he was looking at blown-up photos from war correspondents across many wars.


They were almost all photos of corpses.


On the far wall was a large flag with a grinning skull superimposed over a pair of crossed daggers.  Chains of roses frames the image; a motto, split to appear above and below, read “Die, Motherfucker, Die”.


Eddie noticed JJ looking at it.  “I’m gonna get that tattooed,” he said proudly, “Right here, on my right bicep.  Already got the money for it, too.  But the guy I wanna do it is in prison; I gotta wait till next year for him to get out.”


JJ took all this in with the silent reverence of a teen who feels he’s in the presence of a serious badass.  His admiration for the red-blooded male in front of him overpowered any sense of unease the gruesome photos had generated—after all, the dude was in the military, just like his dad.  Mighta even had to kill someone.  If he got to know him better, he’d ask, JJ decided.


“So anyway, I’m up to pressing three hundred and twenty-five right now, but I like to start down at two seventy-five for a few reps before adding the final fifty,” Eddie explained.


JJ looked at him questioningly.  “You don’t use a spotter?” he asked.


“Fuck,” Eddie sneered, “Spotters are for pussies.  Real men don’t need no help to lift.  Watch.”  And with that, he pulled his shirt off in one smooth sweep, letting the dogtags fall jingling back to the center of his broad chest.


And even though neither of them realized it, the sight of Eddie’s smooth hubcap pecs and erect, jutting nipples got JJ hard.  Eddie wasn’t in a position to notice it and JJ was used to the spontaneous erections of adolescence without thinking about what caused them—although he did find it odd how his breath caught was he eyed the older stud’s six-, or fuck, eight-pack abs, so taut and ripped.  As Eddie stood before him, booted, in tight pants and with that amazingly sculpted torso, JJ realized he’d never seen a more perfect male form.  He was overwhelmed with desire, but in his mind, it was desire to be Eddie.


If he’d come right out and said that, it might have prevented what happened next.  But probably not.


“Ya gotta get yerself positioned right,” Eddie was saying as he settled back on the bench, sliding under the already-loaded barbell, “Yer gonna fuck up yer back if ya don’t…” he trailed off, his face going blank.  He was looking at JJ, but his gaze seemed to be miles away.


Only seemed.  His head was right at the level of the kid’s crotch.  Eddie had suddenly realized the little punk was hard.  He’d gotten hard while looking at Eddie.


The kid was a faggot.  A little fuckin’ faggot tryin’ to act like a real man.  A little fuckin’ faggot who’d wormed its way in, wantin’ to make him a homo too.


The break was swift and silent.  Eddie blinked, smiled, and sat up.  “But for you, dude, I’d suggest building up those arms first.  Try some daily reps with a five-pound dumbbell, like one of these.”  He picked one of the hex weights up off its rack and strolled over to the skatepunk.  “In fact, these are good for lotsa things.  Like puttin’ fags’ lights out.”


“Huh?” JJ asked, his youthful face full of innocent confusion as Eddie smashed it with the dumbbell, knocking the teen senseless to the floor.



JJ was climbing.  He didn’t know to where, but it was a long and painful climb, and the higher he went, the more painful it got.  It had started as a general agony but seemed to be devolving to a specific ache.  Just as he regained consciousness, he located it in his jaw.


The pain ballooned in severity as he blinked and groaned.  His eyesight was blurry, and he was utterly unable to comprehend the change of circumstances he’d undergone since his last memory.  He vaguely recalled the buff shirtless dude who was standing over him with a look that could be either a hate-filled snarl or a vicious grin.  And the teen couldn’t place the significance of the blood-smeared dumbbell the guy was holding.


“Www…wwh…whaa—” he tried to speak, but there were hard lumps in his mouth.  He spit them out and saw two of his teeth tumble down his own chest, leaving faint bloody streaks on his smooth skin.


That was when he realized he was nude.  Well, he still had his Converse kicks on; he could feel them, but otherwise he’d been stripped nude.  And he was—he was on the military dude’s workout bench, evidently.  It had been raised from a flat to an inclined position, and he was on it on his back, completely nude.


He didn’t try to move; it was useless.  he could see hid hands–hinging above his head, they’d been handcuffed separately to the barbell, one on each side of the bench.


As he looked at the barbell in confusion, Eddie spoke.  “G’wan and try it, cumsucker.  I got four hundred pounds on that thing.  Yer fag ass ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  His voice was filled with a cold glee that sent chills down the teen’s back.


“Ay…ain’t no fag…” JJ managed to mutter, rolling his head to the side and spitting out blood.


“Course ya ain’t, you fuckin’ lyin’-ass fairy.  I saw yer boydick get all stiff when ya saw a real Alpha Male.  That’s why ya came here, yeah?”


JJ couldn’t think.  His head hurt.  In a way, it was why he was here, but not that way—but he couldn’t think.


“Fuckin’ luring me in from the side of the road—betcha could barely keep from grabbin’ my cock right there in fuckin’ public, huh, ya goddam homo?  Ya wanna see what Alpha Male meat looks like?  Here ya go, asswipe.”


His eyes blazing with psychotic fury, Eddie jerked his zipper down and dug inside his tight utility pants.  And as dazed and bewildered as JJ was, he couldn’t help but be in awe of the massive tool the buff young stud pulled out.  Over eight inches long, nearly two in diameter, wreathed in pulsating veins and with a huge purple head—it was as terrifying to the trapped teen punk as any deadly weapon would have been.


And in its own way, that was exactly what it was.


The captive youth gaped at the erect member that dangled directly over his face.  With terrifying speed, the malicious grin on Eddie’s face was replaced with an enraged snarl.  “You fuckin’ pervert!!” he screamed, and before JJ could even flinch, the hardbodied ex-Marine began pounding him in the face with the blunt metal dumbbell.


The sounds in the next few minutes were unbelievable—the wet squelching sound of flesh beaten until it splits, the crying and bleating of the teenager as he was forced to submit to the brutal violence of the older, more powerful man, the rattling of handcuffs and jingling of dogtags, the crunching and snapping of facial bones…


When Eddie finally stood up and tossed the bloody dumbbell aside, his massive, well-defined torso glistened with a film of sweat.  He paused to catch his breath and admire his progress.


The faggot was still conscious, but not coherent.  It gurgled and coughed up some blood and a few more teeth before lying back, gasping—it couldn’t breathe through its crushed nose.  The eyes were dark and swollen shut, the lips were split, the jaw was fractured and both cheekbones were broken.


It wasn’t enough.  The faggot hadn’t suffered enough.  Eddie still needed to show what an Alpha Male did to impudent skatefags who tried to sneak in for gaysex.


He needed to fuck it, to plant his potent manseed deep inside the boymeat.  That’d show the fucker, all right.  Show it just what the fuck was up.


As he wandered in and out of dark clouds of pain, some small part of JJ’s mind that wasn’t cowering in a corner wondered exactly what the hell had happened.  This major stud had offered him a lift, had offered to show him how to get swole, and then just—


The kid’s thoughts were interrupted by a sensation of movement.  He could feel the Marine dude grab his ankles and yank; with a supreme effort, the youth managed to pry open his swollen eyes—to watch in horror as the buff psycho placed JJ’s Converse hightops on his shoulders.  Even then, his terrified psyche wouldn’t let him go all the way—he could see the huge pulsing shaft that was pointed right between his legs, but he refused to acknowledge what it meant.


But reality could be denied only so long.  Even with his eyes closed again, he could feel the pressure starting to build against his anus as the huge thick spongy head of Eddie’s dick probed the tiny opening.   Suddenly Eddie muttered, “Ya know what a real Alpha Male is? He’s a man who can make anyone submit to his cock.”  JJ braced—but it wasn’t enough.


This pain wasn’t like the pain of the brutal beatdown his captor had administered.  It was much, much worse.  His adolescent sphincter could only stretch so wide; it was a virgin hole utterly unused to external penetration and lacked the flexibility to handle the older man’s enormous tackle.


Eddie literally tore the teenager a new fuckhole.  JJ’s cry of outraged discomfort spiraled into a shriek of terrified agony as his ass muscle split open and Eddie’s gigantic throbbing member pounded its way relentlessly up his ass, tearing at his rectal lining as it went.  Nothing in the young skatepunk’s life had prepared him for this—this nightmarish pain of impalement, of being torn open from the inside—


To Eddie, he was just a tight fuck.  And a noisy one.  “Aw, shaddap and take it like a fag, ya cunt!!” he roared, spitting in JJ’s face.  He then drove his point home by driving his fist into the kid’s face, cutting his scream off abruptly.  As the skatepunk lolled listlessly on the narrow bench, the buff ex-Marine took a savage joy in using the virgin boymeat as his own personal fuck toy.


Drifting in and out of consciousness, JJ was still aware that his ass was being pounded with relentless fury; he couldn’t help but be aware of it. The thick pulsing veins that sheathed Eddie’s massive tool rode roughshod over his prostate, massaging the hormone-filled adolescent until his own boycock rose up stiffly, as if in defiance of the vicious assrape.


He could only moan in bewildered agony, but it was enough for Eddie to hear.  It was enough to trigger another break.


“Ya like that, ya fuckin’ piece a’ shit fairy?  Moanin’ like a goddam whore with a dick in ya—cocksuckin’ pansies like you need to fuckin’ die!”


Leaning over JJ, Eddie wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and began squeezing.


Nothing in the teen’s short, useless life had prepared him for this level of trauma and abuse; the entire attack had left him stunned and defenseless—not just physically, but in a profoundly psychological sense as well.  Despite the pain, he still simply couldn’t believe that what was happening was real.


That all changed now, instantly, with the cessation of breath.  Whatever his failings, whatever he’d suffered, JJ still had the lithe, lean body of a fit and active teenager.  That body sprang into action, instinctively, in a frantic attempt at self-preservation.


For his part, Eddie was taken by surprise.  He’d been heavily trained in the art of the hand-to-hand kill, but he’d never actually killed anyone before.  He didn’t expect such a violent reaction—but his training enabled him to retain control of the situation.


As JJ thrashed and kicked, Eddie leaned forward, pressing down on the boy and pinning him under the weight of his muscles.  He could feel the teen’s smooth, firm belly and strong pecs flexing valiantly under him, sliding against his own massive chest on a film of sweat.  His dogtags dropped onto the punk’s swollen, blackening face, then slid to the side.


The muscle-bound stud endured the aimless frenetic buffetings of the boy’s hands; he’d already wrapped his powerful arms around the kid’s legs as a grip to fuck him, so all the gagging youth could do with his legs was squeeze at Eddie’s waist.


“That’s it,” he hissed psychotically into JJ’s pain-twisted face, “Yer dyin’, homo.  Does it hurt?  I hope so, ya sick fuck.  Goddam piece a’ shit—yer dick is hard!  You deserve to die, ya disgustin’ pansy.  Fuck you, ya fuckin’ faggot!!”  And having worked himself into a frothing anger, he spit in JJ’s dark, congested face and dug his thumbs into the teen’s larynx.


JJ had been going on for nearly a minute with no oxygen; he should have been starting to black out, but some perverse physiological anomaly was enabling him to remain conscious.  It wasn’t a benefit.  He could hear and comprehend everything being said to him.  He didn’t understand why he was being called a faggot, but he knew his dick was hard and he knew he was dying.


And he knew when Eddie crushed his larynx.  He could feel the older stud’s thumbs slowly gouge the thick mass of cartilage out of place; he could hear as well as feel the gristly crunch as his voicebox was pulped.  Again, it was pain of a kind he hadn’t realized could exist and his physical reaction was innate, and instant.


Eddie had never experienced anything like it—the way the teen’s virgin rectum clenched up on his swollen member, squeezing it vigorously, almost desperately, as if it knew that making him ejaculate was the only way to stop the agony.  The boy’s thrashing ceased; he gripped his murderer tightly, sensually—an instinctive response to minimize movement and hence pain.   But to the homicidal ex-Marine, it seemed to be a drawn-out moment of intimacy—of him finally proving, and the worthless faggot finally understanding, exactly how Alpha Male Eddie truly was.


Now that Eddie had asserted himself as Alpha, he still needed to mark the meat as his.  He still needed to pump it full of his potent manseed, to neutralize its faggotry.  It needed it.  The faggot needed his cum.


And it hadn’t suffered enough.  It was still alive.


“Ain’t dead yet, faggot,” he grunted, pounding his shaft into the twink’s ruined fuckhole, “Ain’t dead yet.”  The hardman tightened his hands remorselessly around JJ’s neck, feeling the erotic sensation of the rubbery esophagus being crimped shut by the sheer force of his powerful hands.


JJ could feel it too, in a way.  The pounding in his head was worse than the pounding in his ass; the pressure that had built up in his skull felt like it was shoving his eyes out of their sockets.  In spite of the way they bulged grotesquely, he still couldn’t see much—but the great black explosions in his field of view weren’t just blood vessels rupturing in his eyes.  The oxygen deprivation was catching up to him.


He’d been a healthy little punk, and it betrayed him physically.  He’d managed to stay conscious long enough to still be awake as brain damage set in.  So he was unlucky enough to be able to feel his windpipe being crushed but was totally unaware that a long stream of drool was oozing out past his protruding tongue and was trickling down his left cheek.


Reason and meaning ebbed from the dying teen but sensation and pain remained.  The thrashing boymeat could still feel its own erection.  Eddie could feel it, too.


“Still hard, ya fuckin’ pervert?” he snarled, “Fuck you, faggot—fuck you!!”


Jamming his thumbs under the angle of JJ’s jaw, on each side, the ex-Marine, his phenomenal strength amped up by psychotic rage, squeezed his hands with all the power he could muster while simultaneously wrenching them in opposite directions.  In a fraction of a second, Eddie totally destroyed the major anatomic structures of JJ’s neck.


The collapse of the trachea yielded the same viscerally satisfying crunch that had accompanied the mangling of the unlucky youth’s larynx.  This was enhanced by a loud snapping sound that came from a deeper location—by the placement of his thumbs and pressure applied to the right way on the back of the neck, he’d managed to pop the kid’s skull right off his spine, shattering the first cervical vertebra and sending bone shards slicing into JJ’s spinal cord.


Whatever the punk’s screaming terrified adolescent brain wanted to do after that was moot; the electrical signals coming from the cerebellum shorted out.  The adolescent body responded to its damaged nervous system in the way it was most primed to: it went into instant convulsive orgasms.


It was the convulsions that got to Eddie, too; the way the smooth, lithe teen body suddenly clutched him tightly and shuddered beneath him—it was almost as if it was deliberately milking his swollen, pulsating rod.  He felt the hot splash of the boy’s cum on his chest and realized that the faggot was spewing a steady stream of boymilk all over him; it was being smeared across his chest as their bodies pressed together in a frenetic coupling of semen and death.


“Aw, fuckin’ faggot!” he screamed, pounding his right fist into the dead boy’s already-ruined face, and felt his balls draw up beneath him.  Then he had to hold on tight as his own ejaculation rendered him powerless, clutching the trembling corpse as he spunked, again and again, pumping what felt like quarts of searing hot manseed into the worthless homo cumrag.


Eddie lay on top of the teenager’s dead body for nearly ten minutes, feeling the corpse quivering beneath him until it finally lay still.  When he disengaged himself, he had to peel his chest from the twink’s; the boy’s cum had already started to dry.  His thick shaft, still engorged and leaking, came out of the kid’s ass with an audible pop.


Eddie left the room and took a shower.



When he returned, he paused in the doorway to admire his work.  He was proud of himself; he’d taken a worthless faggot out of the world, and he’d shown it he was full Alpha Male as he did it.


It had fallen off the bench while he’d showered, but it was still handcuffed to the barbell, so it hung by its arms, resting on its left hip.  The smooth chest was covered by a crusty glaze.  One of the Converse sneakers still twitched every few seconds, but otherwise it was still.  The face couldn’t be seen; with its neck broken, the dead kid’s head was slumped forward.  Only the boy’s sweat-matted black hair was showing.  And its softening cock, pearls of semen dripping from the tumescent head.


Eddie had put his pants and boots back on after the shower; now he slipped the t-shirt back on as well.  Then he stepped up to the weight bench and unlocked the cuffs that held up JJ’s corpse, letting it slump to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.  Stowing the cuffs in his nightstand drawer, he paused and considered for a moment; then, picking up the teen’s clothes and cap, he left the apartment.


At his truck, he opened the bed.  He used an old section of carpeting as a bedliner, cut to fit; he rolled it back and tossed the clothes into the bed.  Retrieving the skateboard from the cab, he placed it in the bed, too.  Then looking around to make sure no one was observing him, he darted back into the apartment.


When he came back out, he was carrying the meat.  He placed it in bed of the truck, then rolled the carpet back over it—not perfect camouflage, but good enough in the dark.  Hopping in the cab, he started the huge beast up and headed out.


The front part of the skate park was still brightly lit and in active use; most of the punks out now were older, probably late teens or early twenties, but there were a few who looked younger—some much younger.  Eddie ignored them; if they weren’t faggots after his dick, he had nothing against them.  But now he knew that fags hung out at this park, and he intended to send a message.


The rear part of the skate park backed up to the interstate and wasn’t used after dark; this was enforced not so much by chains or fences as by the simple expedient of keeping the place unlit and as dark as possible.  The few daredevils who regarded it as a challenge had already injured themselves enough to serve as a warning.  One boy had died; another had suffered massive brain damage and was still on a respirator.


The back end of the park was left alone at night.  Tonight, though, it wouldn’t be.


All Eddie could see was a pit; he couldn’t tell its shape or form, and he didn’t need to know.  He tossed the reamed-out boymeat, nude except for its sneakers, into the darkness and heard it hit the concrete below with a boneless thud.  It was followed momentarily but its clothes, hat, and board, the latter of which clattered noisily down into the pit before evidently landing on its wheels and rolling some distance away.


An unexpected breeze picked up, ruffling Eddie’s buzzcut hair.  He glanced over at the lighted part of the park, his steely gazing sighting on the heedless youths darting about.  Yeah, this place was infested with faggots.  He’d have to keep his eyes peeled.

Mac Solo: The Interrogation

The guard glanced down, carefully placing the rugged soles of his combat boots so that he avoided making a sound.  The tightly-laced leather footgear fit him snugly, especially the right one—he kept a blade hidden there.


He was young, but he was trained and confident, an efficient killer.  His hard lean body vibrated with violence and testosterone; it oozed out in his sweat and soaked into his tight-fitting clothing.


The boy’s cold dark eyes glittered as he squinted and scanned the underbrush around him.  Black tactical gloves tightly gripped his modified AK-47, ready to spring to action at the slightest alert and spit swift burning death.


He was prepared to do it.  He was paid to guard, not to question what he was guarding or why.  He was there to kill anyone he saw.  It was a job he was good at—a job he enjoyed.


He was twenty-three and just under six feet tall.  He kept his russet hair short for strategic purposes; long hair gives opponents a grip during hand-to-hand combat.  He flexed his muscular legs, encased in black military-grade cargo pants; above, a skin-tight black compression t-shirt camouflaged his broad chest


The young merc was very familiar with hand-to-hand combat—he’d already had the experience of killing a man and watching him die, kicking, in his arms.  He enjoyed it—it got him hard.  He knew he’d found his place in life.  He loved killing, and he loved getting paid to do it.


So here he was, peering into the woods for intruders—and desperately hoping to find some.  He didn’t know what behind him was so important or who was supposed to be coming to jeopardize it; it didn’t really matter.  He was getting paid good money and he had the chance to take a life.


Cold and arrogant, the hard young merc’s cruel eyes glinted as they attempted to pierce the shadows.  Half-hard at the thought of killing, he really wanted someone to be there.


Someone was there, but not the someone the guard wanted.


Mac was so close to the young hardman he didn’t need the night vision goggles anymore; in fact, he could almost reach out and touch the punk.  The gun was that only reason he didn’t—at the moment, it directly (if unknowingly) at Mac, crouched deep in the underbrush a yard away.  So he paused.  This kid was young, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.


Slipping his hand down his own thick, muscled leg, Mac gripped the hilt of the Ka-bar combat knife hidden in his boot sheath.  He silently withdrew seven inches of razor-sharp carbon steel, darkened so it wouldn’t reflect any surrounding light, not that that was a problem in this situation.  Mac could see his target, but just barely.  It was enough, though—enough for him to see the kid turn slightly to the side.


Mac’s body, taut and hard with well-trained muscle, was a killing machine; it sprang onto action as if a switch had been flipped.  In the blink of an eye, death came to the young mercenary—swift, brutal agonizing death, but not so swift that the hardman wasn’t aware of what was happening.


He heard Mac first, of course, as the professional killer launched himself from the underbrush, and pivoted to face the attack.  He wasn’t fast enough—a sudden blow from behind knocked the gun out his hands; at the same moment a gloved hand was clamped across his mouth, the fingers digging in mercilessly as the powerful hand clench tightly.


The merc was stunned by the lighting attack; the overconfident punk had thought himself equal to anyone.  He needed to shift his weight, if he could grab this fucker’s arms and tuck under just right, he could throw the dude…


Then Mac yanked his head back and pressed the blade against the boy’s throat.  The hardman, young, but experienced, had just enough time to realize what he was feeling when the older, stronger—better—killer began cutting his throat.


Even with a sharp blade, it took Mac a few second to saw through the punk’s windpipe.  The flesh itself parted easily, but the trachea was tough and rubbery; Mac was forced to tighten his grip on the unfortunate merc’s face to vise-like intensity.  He cut through the thick tube of cartilage as the youthful hardman’s muffled squeals increased in pitch and intensity before subsiding into a desperate, wheezing gurgle as the esophagus was penetrated.


Mac kept up the agonizing, inexorable pressure, his fingers brutally clutching the dying kid’s face, until he’d slashed the boy’s throat open practically to the spine.  Then the ruthless killer planted the thick sole of his utility boot on the kid’s ass and shoved him forward.  As the dying merc stumbled forward and fell to his knees, the silent specter of death slipped back into the darkness.


The guard’s hands flailed desperately at his torn-out throat, fingers clawing at the horrific wound.  Things were going gray and cold; the vicious punk had done this to enough men to know what was happening—he was bleeding out.  Some dark corner of his mind, as it faded to black, wondered if his assailant had had a hardon…


As the thought crossed his panicked mind, the young merc lost control of his bladder.  As hot piss flowed down his legs into his boots, he voided his bowels helplessly, the earthy stench of bodily waste mixing with the hot coppery smell of blood on the cool night air.


Then the icy nothingness stole in and the kid flopped forward.  He died alone in the dark, spending his last few seconds on earth drowning agonizingly in his own blood, his face planted in the mud.



Frank wondered what Joey was doing.  He wasn’t worried about the boy; the kid was a professional and could take care of himself.  He’d known that from the moment he’d seen the kid’s cold, soulless eyes.


Frank’s face was colder and more soulless.  He was thirty-eight and had been a hired mercenary since he’d left the Marines fifteen years ago.  He knew that Joey could handle himself because he was good judge of men—how hard they were and how tough they’d be to kill.  Joey had reminded Frank of himself at that age—young, hard, and full of hormones that drove a bloodlust.  Joey got off on killing, Frank had realized, just as much as Frank did himself.


The experienced hardman had smirked at Joey’s tactical gear, though—it was the mark of an amateur.  Frank himself had dressed his strong, sinewy body in more casual clothing—tight jeans tucked into a pair of plain black leather combat boots.  A dark t-shirt under a brown leather jacket completed the ensemble, along with a gray knit cap over his short brown hair.


He was armed as well, holding his AK-47 up and at the ready.  From a thick black leather belt around his waist hung a twelve-inch scabbard containing a massive hunting knife.  Peering into the underbrush, Frank was caught up for a moment in a gliding beam of moonlight that glinted from his cold green eyes and darkened the shadows on his lean, hard face.  His grim, tight-lipped visage was an archetype for a hardened killer.


And he had no idea that within five minutes, he’d be nothing but mangled, quivering meat, cooling on the forest floor.


The attack was swift, silent, and brutal.  Mac had approached within five feet of the guard, letting the man pass by him before springing out from behind.


Frank was taken by surprise, in more ways than one.  He’d been sure enough of his own skill that he’d neglected some basic precautions—a final lucid moment of regret for is arrogance that flashed across his mind as a powerful arm wrapped around his throat and yanked him backwards, off-balance.


Frank knew the move; he knew what to expect—he just wasn’t fast enough to stop it.  The muscles in the small of his back tightened—a useless move.  His fall was broken, as he expected it would be, by the razor-sharp tip of a blade that pierced his leather jacket like it was wet paper.


Before Frank could react, nine inches of sharp icy steel had penetrated his back just below the ribcage, the serrated edge of the blade slashing effortlessly through the merc’s flesh, muscles and organs with only the slightest change of resistance to indicate the type of tissue it was cutting through.


Not that anyone needed to be told.  Mac knew he was slicing through the hardman’s kidney and spleen because that was where he was aiming.


And Frank knew, because he could feel every inch of it.  Just to be sure, though—and to keep his target immobilized by shock—Mac twisted the blade viciously, reaming the sharp cutting edge and cruelly honed serrations deep inside the merc’s shuddering body.


Adrenaline flooded Frank’s system in an uncontrollable wave as he rose up, his feet curling in agony involuntarily inside his boots.  When Mac jerked the knife back out, he slashed it wide, almost literally cutting his way out; only the shock prevented Frank from screaming in horrific pain.


Then, before the shock subsided, Mac put an end to Frank’s ability to make any sound at all.  Whipping his arm around in front, the dominant killer rammed his blade down with a swift, powerful motion.  In a split second, the long wicked steel shaft pierced Frank’s chest, slicing between his ribs and puncturing his heart like a balloon full of blood.  The dying hardman gave a loud grunt as the impact to his chest drove the air out of his lungs—then was unable to inhale again.


All Frank found he was able to do was shudder and suffer silently in the crushing iron grip of the rock-hard warrior who was neutralizing him so efficiently.  He trembled for a few seconds of mind-bending pain as his quivering heart sliced itself into lunchmeat on the blade impaled in his chest.


Then the jerking sack of meat that had moment before been a talented killer slid to the ground.  As Mac rolled the corpse onto its back and withdrew his knife, the dead man’s boots combat carved furrows in the dirt as the body kicked mindlessly in its death throes.  Mac had vanished back into the woods long before the cooling pile of meat stopped shuddering.



There was one guard left, Mac knew—and he knew he needed to interrogate him.  Mac had been assigned to retrieve a certain item located in a structure ahead.  This last guard would know where the item was inside.  Based on the intel he’d received, Mac knew that last dude knew more than the others—and was more dangerous.


The last guard was in his early thirties.  He’d dressed completely in black, much like Mac had, to become almost invisible in the shadows under the trees—excellent camouflage for a hunter.


A tight black jumpsuit emphasized the hardman’s tight, muscular body; around his slim waist a webbed utility belt was wrapped.  Two knives, a pistol, a baton, and several less identifiable weapons dangled from it; the merc was prepared to inflict swift, brutal death one anyone he targeted.  His combat boots were black waterproof fabric with rubber soles that allowed him to move quietly.


He was good, but he wasn’t too good.  Above his hard, handsome chiseled face, a few golden curls had escaped from under his black knit cap.  They glinted in the moonlight—just enough to catch Mac’s eye.


He shifted slightly to the right, centering himself on the guard, who was still unaware of his presence.  He wasn’t unaware for long, though.


The hardman heard a faint stirring to his left and whirled to meet the threat, only to find that he was half a second too slow.  A swift shadow split from the surrounding darkness and slammed him up against the tree behind him.  A large powerful hand in a leather glove clamped over his mouth.  The tips of the fingers were free; they dug painfully into the guard’s cheeks as his lips were sealed.  At the same time, the guard felt the icy touch of a blade at his throat; the knife was still razor-sharp despite being stained with the blood of two men.


“Awright, motherfucker,” Mac growled in a gruff whisper.  “I’m gonna ask some questions and yer gonna answer.  Gimme a bad answer or no answer and you’ll be gargling yer own blood.  Ya feel me?”  He lifted his hand from the man’s mouth.


“Fuck you,” the guard sneered, “I dunno nothin’ and wouldn’t tell ya if I did.”


“That was a bad answer,” Mac said quietly and, clamping the dude’s mouth closed again, stuck the knife into his flank.  It was a controlled thrust, only about an inch and a half deep—just enough to pierce the jumpsuit and the guy’s flesh and puncture the oblique muscles.  The merc gave a loud grunt, his face grimacing in pain—that part of it not covered by Mac’s glove, at any rate.


“I can do that a hundred times with killin’ ya,” Mac said.  “Start talkin’.  You know what I’m here for—where is it?”


“Toldja I don’t know nothin’.  Besides, yer just gonna kill me anyway.”


“I might let ya live—if you’re helpful enough.  If not, you’re gonna die slow and hard, asswipe.”  Mac pressed the blade against the hardman’s throat again, this time with more pressure.  A thin line of slowly-trickling red appeared.  “All I have to do is press a little harder and you’ll be bleeding out like a fuckin’ stuck pig.  Now talk, damn you!”


The guard knew death was staring him in the face, and acquiesced.  “There’s a cabin two clicks to the east,” he said sullenly.  “It’s in there.”


“How many men between here and there?”


“None, man, we’re it.  No one’s s’possed to know it’s here.  How the fuck did you find out?”


“Shut the fuck up, asshole, I’m askin’ the questions.  Now tell me ‘bout it, bitch.”


The merc glared up at Mac, then sighed, knowing his life depended on cooperation.  “It’s in a case on a table.  No traps, no alarms.  Someone’s s’possed to come by for it in the mornin’.”


“I don’t believe you,” Mac growled, cutting the dude’s neck—not enough to be dangerous, but enough that the guard felt it.


“I swear,” the man moaned, fear overcoming his bravado, “I’m tellin’ the truth, man swear to God—don’t hurt me.”


“Good,” the older, more experienced killer murmured thoughtfully, “Good.”


“So—so I did what ya wanted, right?” the guard asked anxiously.  “Y-ya ain’t gonna kill me, right?”


“Wrong,” Mac said evenly and buried his blade to the hilt in the merc’s belly, all seven inches of cold steel piercing the hardman’s firm flat abs and sinking into his belly.


The guard gave a deep, despairing moan, his hands clutching at Mac’s wrists in a vain attempt to pull the knife back out of his guts.  His eyes, wide with shock, turned to those of his killer’s.  “I-I cooperated,” he gasped in frantic confusion, “I did wh-what ya wanted…”


“Stupid sack of shit—only reason I kept ya alive was to get info,” Mac sneered.  “I don’t need you anymore.  Ya told me everything ya know; now you’re useless.  Time to die, fuckwad.”


Gripping the merc’s shoulder tightly, Mac used his other hand to rip the knife upwards, slashing open the dude’s torso.  It took a few seconds of nightmarish agony for him to saw his way through the well-built guard’s abdominal muscles, but Mac was powerful enough to hold the man down and gut him like a deer.


Stepping back, Mac held his knife up.  The hardman stared in horror at the blood-streaked blade, curls of flesh dangling from the serrations.  His hands had been clenched to his belly in pain—for some reason, he reached out to Mac at this point, his hands outspread in a futile supplicating gesture.


It was his last mistake.  As soon as he let go of his torso, there was a loud slurping thump—and the dude’s intestines slid out of his sliced-open abdomen, landing in a stinking, quivering pile of tangled meat on the dude’s own boots.


His back still to the tree, the guard slid down to a sitting position, his lap full of his own guts.  He looked back up at Mac as the latter approached, but the dying man was too far gone in shock to speak.  He could only look up as the stronger, more expert warrior spoke.


“Stupid fuck,” Mac muttered, “All alike, you young punks.  Think yer hot shit, but ya fold like a pussy the minute things get tough.”  And with that, he unzipped his fly and drew out his dick.  As the merc started to fade out, he could see his killer was holding the blade in one hand and his semi-hard cock in the other; both were seven inches long.


Things went gray for a moment, but suddenly warm liquid was splashing in the hardman’s face.  With a great effort, he opened his eyes for the last time—to see that the man who had successfully interrogated and wasted him was expressing his final contempt by pissing all over him as he died.


“Ain’t worth takin’ time for a piss break,” Mac jeered.  Then the guard’s eyes dilated.  He shuddered violently under his golden shower for a few seconds, then slumped over onto the ground, his own piss flowing out to mingle with that of his killer’s.


Mac stuffing his dick back into his jumpsuit, Mac turned to the east.  He still hadn’t decided if he’d wait in the cabin till morning; part of him wanted to give whoever showed up a vigorous, violent welcome.

M4M Oedipus Sex

Joe was relaxing, at least for the moment.  He sat shirtless on the sofa, his tight jeans hanging open and unbuckled, his feet propped up on the coffee table. He was playing with a cell phone, occasionally swigging from a bottle of beer at his side.

He wasn’t familiar with this kinda phone; it was the one he’d taken off the bitch he’d choked.  He’d held on to it for a couple of days while he kept his eye on the news.  There’d been a brief mention of a body found in a motel room, then a flare of attention as the story of the photo surfaced.  The pic of the boy’s corpse had been quickly scrubbed off the internet but public interest was really high.

So it would have to be a particularly stupid—or uncontrollably horny—faggot putting himself out online for sex now, at least in this part of town.  Joe had been planning to write another ad himself, but he didn’t know how much could be traced back to him from the last cunt’s computer.  And anyway, his curiosity had gotten the better of him.  There were several hookup apps on the kid’s phone and he wanted to see what was out there.

He didn’t have to search long.  The first app he looked at allowed anonymous postings; within the first two pages, he found what he wanted.


My daddy is out and I’m home alone.  18, 122, 5’8”.  Daddy’s a SWAT officer—can you fill his boots and my hole?  Don’t have a car so I gotta host, lol.

–Daddy’s Boy”

Joe’s dick was so hard it hurt.  Damn.  He hoped no one had gotten to this boy yet.  He wanted daddy?  Joe could do that.

Deep in thought, he was unaware of the evil leer that twisted his handsome but somehow cold face.  Oh yes, he could do that.  He could be a very good daddy—or a bad one, depending on the definition.


You wanna get dicked down by daddy?  Let’s roll.  32, 170, 6’4”.  Got some fatigues I can wear.


He never used the same screen name twice.  While he waited for a response, he popped off the couch and went into the bedroom, rummaging in the closet briefly until he found his desert camo outfit.  They were the real thing; he’d bought a complete army combat unit—ACU—from an army surplus store.

The sand-colored t-shirt was a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so tightly around Joe’s muscled torso it looked wet.  He tucked it into the camo-patterned pants before buttoning the form-fitting pants around his slim waist.  He got the jacket on—it was too warm to close it up—and was just slipping on the socks when a chime from the dead kid’s phone alerted him to a message.

So the stupid little fucker was gonna respond, knowing that there was a killer out there?  Joe grinned again as he accessed the app and read the note.

“Damn daddy I want u in me.  What size shoe u wear?”

Joe paused, intrigued.  He responded.  “12—why?”

The reply was immediate.  “Perfect will u wear daddy’s boots when u fuck me? 1280 Stafford Ave/home alone front door unlocked/upstairs 1st door on left/ill be naked on bed waiting”

Still chuckling, Joe sent a message in the affirmative.  There was a perverse thrill in fucking and snuffing the teen while wearing his father’s boots.  Of course, he still needed something to wear on the way there.  He slipped on a pair of short black leather engineer boots; he could quickly remove them when he got there.

He knew the address; a relative had lived around the corner at one point.  It was an upper middle class neighborhood about twenty minutes away.  He considered that it might be some kind of trap, but only briefly; he had too much common sense to think such an elaborate ruse likely.

Of course, he also had too much common sense to take chances; when he got there, he parked on a side street two blocks up, pulling up the last block with his lights off.  As he approached the house, he walked on the grass verge on the far side of the sidewalk to avoid the inevitable thumping his thick-soled boots would cause.

The house was large, with a stone fascia stretching up two stories.  It was also dark; there was no sign that anyone was there, but that was what he expected.  The massive front door, unlocked as promised, was set with two large panes of glass, frosted and worked with lead.

Joe found himself on a square of tile surrounded by what seemed like a sea of neutral-colored carpet stretching off into the darkness.  As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he became more aware or his surroundings—dining room on the right, huge useless formal living room to the left, hallway straight ahead probably leading to kitchen.  The stairs started in the living room and curved up into blackness.

What a nice expensive house to desecrate with a rape and murder.

He started up the stairs, not caring how much noise he made now—in fact, he made sure the bitch knew he was coming.  The kid needed to be ready.

The kid was ready.  JC was so excited, he was afraid he was gonna cum before the dude got in the room.  He was a horny little fucker and had already jacked off twice that day, but he was so full of hormones and semen that he was almost literally ready to spunk at the slightest touch.

His dad had been doing yard work.  JC sat at his window overlooking the back yard, watching the muscled older man work his half-dressed body in the afternoon heat, cutting the grass and edging.

As daddy thrusted and flexed his hard, sweaty torso, JC beat his meat frantically, imagining getting brutally fucked by his macho father.

It’d never happen, of course, his father was ex-military and straighter than an arrow.  He was out right now at some strip club with his police buddies; he’d likely bring back a whore to fuck sometime after the place closed—he usually did.

JC’s bedroom was next door; he always liked listening to daddy grunt and pump on the other side of the wall.  Tonight, though, he had other ideas.   Tonight, he was get as close to daddy as he could.

The guy he’d contacted online had the same build and stats as JC’s dad, except for the age.  And he’d said he’d fuck him wearing military gear and daddy’s boots.

So it seemed only logical that he’d get fucked on daddy’s bed.

JC entered his father’s bedroom confidently, knowing he had at least a couple of hours before the titty bar closed.  The room was done in a dark masculine blue, with a black wrought iron metal bed covered with a simple fleece blanket.  JC swept it back, knowing that the linens underneath were high-quality; dad like to fuck his whore on 800-thread count percale—almost as smooth as satin.

The room was dark but there was enough reflected light bleeding through the open blinds from the streetlights outside to allow him to see.  Evidence of daddy was everywhere; combined with the scent of his cologne, it made a heady mix that would have gotten him hard if he wasn’t already.  Happened every time he entered the room.

His father’s black leather boots were on the floor in front of the dresser.  The laces were still tightly tied; the zippers up the sides were undone.  Daddy had put most of his tactical gear in the closet and locked up his gun, as usual, but there were some bits and pieces scattered about.

One of his many pairs of handcuffs was on the nightstand; daddy was probably gonna use ‘em on his whore later.  A belt of webbed black nylon, with a hard plastic clasp, was slung over the headboard of open ironwork.  Looking at them, JC felt his dick throb.  Aside from his socks, he was nude; it jutted in front of him, long, erect and dripping on daddy’s thick pile carpet.  The desire to be used like a slut swept over him; the horny teen decided he’d ask his hook-up to use the handcuffs.

He was in his own home, in his cop father’s bedroom.  The thought that he was in any kind of danger never crossed his lust-filled mind.

Sweeping back the blanket, JC climbed onto the bed.  He gathered up the pillows, propping them under his head so he could lie back at an inclined angle.  Sighing with comfort, he stretched out on his back on the expensive sheets, reflecting that even the bed smelled like daddy.  The idea tripped his raging hormones into overdrive—where was the guy?

There—in the silent house, he could hear the front door open, quickly followed by heavy footsteps across the foyer.  JC eagerly tracked the footfalls up the stairs.

He was right outside the door.  It was gonna happen.  JC was gonna get fucked in daddy’s bed by a hard dude in military gear and daddy’s boots.

JC wasn’t a virgin, but he had never hooked up with an anonymous stranger before and he’d never had sex in his own home before—much less in daddy’s bed.  The excitement was intense.  He closed eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to slow his racing heart.  If he didn’t calm down, he’d blow his wad before the guy was in the room…

Joe paused at the door at the top of the stairs.  It was about halfway open, the ambient lighting giving a faint glow to the darkly-hued walls.  He could make out a figure recumbent on the bed, moving slightly.

He stepped into the room and approached the bed.  The teen was stretched out, his smooth, lithe body glistening slightly in the half-light, sweating in the warmth of the night.  Joe reached down and switched on the bedside lamp.

The kid had evidently been in the dark for some time; he winced and shielded his eyes.  “What’s that for?” he whined.

“I like to see who I’m fucking.  C’mon, boy, lemme see your face.”

The kid blinked a couple of times, then rolled back onto his back.  Under long, disheveled sandy blond hair, hazel eyes flashed up, now green and now brown, framed by silky black lashes.  The young, eager face was shaded with a faint fuzz, noticeable on the upper lip.

His body was slim but not thin; the kid had some muscles.  He had firm thighs and calves; his feet were bare except for black ped socks that ended below his ankles.  His pecs gave a rise to his chest and his abdomen was smooth and flat.  A slight trail of fur started on his lower belly, growing darker and thicker as it merged with his pubic hair.  From that curly mass, the teen’s thick cock stood erect.  Long and thick (although neither longer nor thicker than Joe’s), it rose stiffly like a pole, the tip glittering with moisture.

Joe grinned.  Hot little motherfucker—he was gonna enjoy raping him.

He was gonna enjoy murdering him even more.

JC was even more pleased—damn, this dude looked almost exactly like daddy had in those old photos taken back when he was in the military.  He even had a real ACU—JC knew what that was; he’d obsessed on his father’s various uniforms and tactical outfits.  Holy fuck.  Holy fucking shit, daddy was gonna fuck him…

“Over there,” he muttered breathlessly, nodding towards the dresser.  “His boots—please, dude…  Fuckin’ fuck me in—“

He was almost incoherent in his lust.  Joe’s grin became downright evil, but it didn’t matter, the horny piece of shit probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d pulled out a weapon—speaking of which, he took a quick glance around the room.

The black combat boots in front of the dresser were clearly what the cunt wanted.  Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, Joe kicked off his black engineer boots one at a time.  He padded over to the dresser in his socks before snatching them up.  He sat at the foot of the bed and slipped them on, zipping them up. Already tightly laced, they encased his feet snugly and firmly.

No matter how much thrusting he did, he’d have plenty of traction.

Quickly rising, Joe stood at the side of the bed, towering over JC.  Looking down on the slut coldly and contemptuously, he slowly slipped out of his jacket, revealing his magnificent torso wrapped tightly in the khaki-brown t-shirt.  Tucking his hands down below the trouser waist, he grabbed the bottom edge of the shirt and slowly, almost sinuously, peeled it up and over his head, giving JC a view of his bulging pectorals and furry washboard abs.

The teen faggot gasped, his heart skipping a beat.  This was gonna be better than he ever imagined.  “Th-the cuffs…” he stuttered, gesturing towards the gleaming metal item on the nightstand.  “Y-ya wanna put ‘em on me?  It’s ok…”  As he wallowed in his pig-like lust, he was almost breathless.

Joe snatched up the handcuffs.  As he leaned menacingly over the kid, JC reached up, fondling Joe’s chest, twining his fingers in the wiry fur before moving up to feel the bulging biceps, hard as steel.

Joe smirked openly.  “What, ya wanna get raped by yer daddy?  Is that what you’re lookin’ for, boy?  C’mere, bitch, gimme those hands before I have to take ya down!”

JC felt the older man’s overwhelming strength—and his own powerlessness against it—as Joe grabbed his arms, roughly forcing them up over his head.  Before he could react, cold steel was tightened painfully around his wrists, the cuffs looped through the open ironwork of the headboard.  He was bound to the bed, unable to free himself on his own.  These were law enforcement handcuffs of case-hardened steel.  The only way out was with the key.

“Fuck me, daddy, c’mon!” JC moaned, lost in a tidalwave of hormone-fueled lust.  “Stick your fuckin’ SWAT cop cock up my ass!  Show your son how much ya want him, how much ya wanna plow his hole!”

But Joe didn’t move.  JC looked up at his surrogate father’s face and felt the first flash of unease as he met the older dude’s ice-cold eyes and expressionless face.  Daddy was supposed to fuck him long and hard, telling him how much he loved his boy.

This guy didn’t look like he loved his boy.  His disdainful stare left JC uncertain what was happening.

Joe broke the tension of the moment by reaching into his pocket while simultaneously sitting on the edge of the bed next to JC.  He’d fished out his pack of cigarettes; JC’s eye grew wide with concern as Joe proceeded to light one up.

“Dude!” he yelled, “You can’t do that!  No one smokes in here; my dad’ll smell that sure as shit!”

Joe turned his head slowly.  Cold and hard, he gazed down into JC’s concerned face.  “So?”

“B-but you’re gonna get me in trouble!  C’mon, man, don’t do this to me!”

“You have no idea what I’m gonna do to ya, boy.  Get ya in trouble?  Bitch, you’re already there!”

Joe’s smile was even colder and harder than his previous expressionless state.  An icy thrill ran through JC’s body as the awareness of his vulnerable position slowly percolated through his thick, slow-moving mind.

The terrifying awareness only grew as Joe contemptuously flicked his ashes over both JC and the bed.  “Please!  Daddy’s gonna kill me when he finds out about this!” the teen begged.

Joe exhaled a cloud of smoke into the helpless boy’s face.  As the teen cunt coughed and choked, Joe chortled deeply.  “Yeah, daddy’s gonna kill ya, bitch,” he sneered, “and he’s gonna cum in your worthless homo fuckhole when he does.”

JC didn’t react, largely because he was incapable of comprehending what he’d just been told—if he didn’t know better, it sounded like this hot daddy lookalike wanted to kill him.  But that was nuts.  It couldn’t be right.

“Dude, enough—lemme up!  Goddammit, I’m gonna get so fuckin’ grounded when he gets home!  Lemme up NOW or I’m gonna call the cops!”

Joe laughed.  He bent his head back and laughed loudly and contemptuously.  “Ya wanna call the cops, you little motherfucker?  Wanna call in your daddy’s friends so they can tell him how his punk-ass queerboy son got scared after lettin’ a dude come over to fuck ‘im?  Yeah?  C’mon, you stupid cunt, it that what ya want?”

JC’s face went blank.  The teen had managed to get by on his looks; his angelic, boyish face had charmed a lot of people.  His mental abilities, consequently, were atrophied and nowhere near up to dealing with what was going on.  The boy was simply not capable of understanding the situation.

Joe had expected this—they never really believed they could die, not the young, stupid ones.  Even as they screamed in the agony of death, they didn’t get it until the very end.

Thank God.  Getting them to that final realization of mortality, that moment when they gave up their last vital spurt of semen, was what made dealing with these useless cunts worthwhile.

Joe’s assessment of JC’s mental state was accurate; the kid’s heart was speeding in fear, but it was fear of what his father was gonna do when he got home.  He was concerned to the point that he forgot about the sex—but not for long.

Taking another drag, Joe set the cigarette carefully on the edge of the nightstand, noting the way the teen’s worried eyes followed him.  Standing over the prone youth, he maintained an icy eye contact as he slowly reached down and unfastened his fly.  As soon as his thick hog fell out, the boy broke the contact to gape at the massive tube of meat. Joe chuckled at he picked his smoke back up.

As swiftly obsessed with the smoking as JC had been before, it slipped just as quickly out of his mind as Joe’s enormous cock dangled over him, clear precum dripping on the punk’s smooth flesh.  He gasped, struggling in a wave of both fear and lust.

“Oh daddy…” he whispered.  Joe stiffened, a cold, tight grin on his face.  The cunt had surrendered.   Not as if Joe would have given him a choice, the fucker was cuffed to the bed and wasn’t leaving it alive.  But he liked knowing that the punk’s desire for him was greater than his fear.

Even though he’d already told the stupid piece of shit he was gonna get snuffed.  Goddam.  Motherfucker’s gotta want his daddy’s dick bad.  Joe decided it was time to oblige.

Leaning forward, he ground his butt out on the smooth varnished surfaced, deliberately provoking a reaction.  He liked his victims kicking a little when he penetrated them.

JC squealed indignantly, stunned at the desecration of his father’s bedroom.  His attention was still on assessing the damage when Joe’s massive cock was thrust brutally up his ass.  There was no warning, no lube, no slow accommodation—there was just an enormous shaft of meat impaling his tender rectum.

He screamed.  At least he thought he did; a deafening shriek echoed in him mind.  The fact that it never emerged from his mouth was due to the fist that Joe slammed into the kid’s face.  The pain was almost unnoticed in the trauma he was already experiencing, the physical assault overwhelmed by the sexual.

Then a pause.  Joe was fully inserted, his pubic hair grinding and scraping against JC’s smooth, peach-fuzz-covered asscheeks.  The teen lay back, not resisting, gasping and hyperventilating.  He was utterly unaware of the bruise darkening the left side of his face, or that his lower lip was split.

This was it.  This was daddy sex.

It hurt.  It hurt bad.  JC was starting to panic; the agonizing sensation of a hard shaft thrust up his ass was so intense, he was unable to catch his breath.  Now he could hear himself—he could hear the high-pitched whine he was emitting with his gasping.

The man over him was silent, his eyes cold slits that seemed to hide a glittering rage.  JC could feel the hard muscled body pressing him down, see the matted fur on the alpha’s heaving chest.  The older man’s musky scent filled the boy’s nostrils as he shuddered in pain, writhing on the smooth sheets.

Joe smirked down at the moaning teen.  “Feels good, don’t it, cunt?  Yeah?  Ya like that, yer gonna fuckin’ love this!”

He began thrusting his hips violently, knowing the boy hadn’t had time to get his tight sphincter accommodated to the huge tool spearing it.  He felt his shaft, ribbed with veins, pumping deeply into the kid’s tender, quivering fuckhole as the little slut thrashed his legs, kicking desperately at Joe’s back.

JC’s eyes widened in agony.  As he inhaled deeply, prior to letting out a massive shriek, Joe leaned down and grabbed the punk’s throat with one hand, drawing his other back in a fist.

“Lissen up, you cocksucking faggot,” he snarled, “You make one more sound and I’m gonna fuck you up bad.  I’ll start by breaking your jaw and just kinda work my way around my face.  Ya got me, motherfucker?  Ya feelin’ what I’m sayin’?  Just take the dick, bitch, like you’re supposed ta.”

Then he leaned down, glaring intently into the youth’s eyes, awaiting the erotic moment when fear overcame pain.  It was the way the agonized, frantic light in the cunt’s eyes faded and died.  They glazed over momentarily, only to be quickly filled with another light—dim at first, but fated to grow ever more intense until it went out permanently.

JC knew to the depths of his soul that the man fucking him, the man over him and in him, was deadly serious about what he’d said—not that he had any idea how deadly yet.  Even so, he was unable to remain completely silent.

“Daddy?” he whispered tearfully, “Please don’t hurt me—please don’t.  Y-you can fuck your boy, oh please, d-daddy…I want you daddy, just please don’t hurt your boy…”

The teen boy’s smooth face, pleading and distraught, his large tear-rimmed hazel eyes framed by long dark lashes, would have melted a heart of lead.

Joe’s heart was stone.  Stone doesn’t melt.  He leaned down slowly, almost gently, before spitting in JC’s face.

“You don’t want daddy to hurt you?  What the fuck you think daddy is here for?  Shut the fuck up and take my cock, you stupid piece of shit!”

Before the fuckmeat could react, Joe started pumping vigorously, long swift strokes ramming his swollen purple head into as-yet unreached depths of the kid’s colon.  And again, taking advantage of the pause as the punk inhaled to get enough air to scream, Joe quickly rabbit-punched the youth, snapping a cheekbone.

“Ya didn’t do what daddy said, you worthless cumsucking homo, so daddy’s gotta make ya.  Now lessee—whadda we got to keep daddy’s useless punk quiet?”  Joe glanced around and noticed the webbed belt draped over the headboard, easily within reach.  Grinning broadly and evilly, he bent down over the helpless boy.  “Ya like daddy’s shit, huh?  Lessee how much ya like daddy’s belt around your throat, you useless faggot slut!”

Joe was experienced.  Under different circumstances, JC might have appreciated the swift smoothness with which Joe, in a single movement, wrapped the belt around both of his broad, strong hands and around the trapped punk’s neck simultaneously.

JC was drowning in a tidal wave of pain, too caught up in trauma to pick up much of what the alpha stud was saying.  It felt like a hand grenade had been shoved up his ass and detonated.  The rugged material of the guy’s camo pants was scraping and burning the smooth flesh on the inside of his firm thighs; he wasn’t helping matters himself as he frantically flailed his legs.  The dude was too big, too strong, for JC to get his legs up under the older man’s ripped torso and push him off.

Joe had had enough; the little slut was pissing him off.  “What’s wrong, you stupid piece a’ shit?” he snarled, “Thought ya wanted a daddy to fuck ya!  You’re a goddam useless faggot if ya can’t even take daddy’s dick—but don’t worry, motherfucker.  I’m still gonna fuck ya—up.”

Bending down over the agonized, terrified teen, Joe spit in his face before whispering “What’s that thing fathers always tell their sons when they’re pissed—‘Boy, I brought ya into this world and I can take ya out’?  Well, tonight, let’s pretend I’m step-dad—not there for the first part, but there for the second.  I’ll take ya outta this world.  You can ride daddy’s dick all the way into your grave.”

He pulled the webbed belt tight around the kid’s neck.  There was no hesitation, no chance to comprehend the concept of death.  In the depths of an excruciating rape, JC suddenly found himself getting strangled.

Oh fuck.  Oh fuck.  It was worse than he could have ever imagined.  There was no air.  He didn’t understand what was happening—he’d wanted to get fucked by daddy but daddy was a straight faggot-hating SWAT cop.  He’d put himself out for something as close as possible—and he was, this dude looked so much like daddy and was wearing his boots and military gear—it was perfect.  How did it go wrong?

Joe could see the helpless bewilderment in the punk’s face.  The struggles of the trapped youth were erotic as fuck; he fought for air, he fought to free himself, he fought to stop the violent rape—and it was all utterly useless.  His smooth, firm legs thrashed against his assailant’s sweaty flanks, the sound of skin slapping together loud in the half-dark bedroom—louder even than the grunting and choking from JC’s closed-off windpipe.

“You’re dying, you fuckin’ cocksucker—how’s that feel, huh?  Ya likin’ daddy’s hard tool now that he’s showin’ ya what he does to worthless faggot boys?”  Joe jeered down into the kid’s twisted, swelling face.

JC was enveloped in a wall of fiery pain; the nightmarish agony of his impaled asshole now joined with the crushing pain in his throat and the mounting pressure in his head and chest.  His ears rang and pounded as he frantically jerked his arms, making the handcuffs clatter loudly against the headboard.  He wrapped his slim but strong legs around Joe’s abdomen, his feet, still in his low black socks, drumming desperately against the alpha’s slick pumping back, able to feel every single thrust between his legs as well as deep in his guts.

Joe loomed over the dying teen, his iron-hard arms jammed straight down into the bed with the black nylon belt wrapped tightly around his hands, forcing the little fucker’s neck so deep into the pillow that he head bent slightly forward, aiming his face directly at Joe’s

Joe watched intently as he grunted and pumped his shaft into the punk’s traumatized colon.  The boy’s beautiful hazel eyes were no longer beautiful, or even hazel.  As they began bulging excruciatingly from their orbits, blood vessels both within and around the eyes began rupturing, stippling the kid’s face with petechial hemorrhages.

JC thrashed, blindly, violently, doing his damnedest to straight-arm death.  He was young and strong, and even though he was overpowered and out-matched, he fought for his life with the desperate strength of panic. Despite the black roses blooming in his mind as parts of his brain began to die, he still believed that he could get out of this situation alive.

Joe was well aware of this; most of these stupid little cocksuckers had no concept of their own mortality.  Well, at least not until it was placed in context for them, ignorant pieces of shit…

“Lights out, cunt,” he whispered, bending close to the teen’s swelling, blackening face.  “Lookitya, motherfucker, yer chokin’ and droolin’ like a fucking dog.  Yer dyin’ with my dick up yer ass and it feels so fuckin’ good, bitch.  And ya know who’s gonna find ya?  Daddy!  That’s right, daddy’s gonna come home and find your fucked-out, choked-out corpse cuffed to his bed.  Think he’s gonna beat off over your raped ‘n murdered body?  I bet he spits on your disgusting faggot meat and burns the fuckin’ mattress!”

In the depths of JC’s mind, there was a tiny part of his personality left alive in the eye of the electrochemical storm caused by his failing, short-circuiting brain.  It still felt pain, and it could still feel and acknowledge humiliation.  He was sliding into an icy pit of terror, desperately trying to claw his way with the last of his strength, anything to avoid that, oh please, oh fuck, don’t let daddy find me like this don’t let him find me fucked and strangled in his bed—

Snarling and gritting his teeth, Joe pulled his arms tight, his biceps bulging, sweat and pheromones forced out of his muscular body by the effort of the snuff.  His hips were thrusting so swiftly, it felt almost like an automatic reflex, not controlled by conscious thought.  As the teen died, his sphincter contracted spontaneously, cinching up on Joe’s thick purple rod, making it even more sensitive to the velvet-like interior of JC’s shredded rectum.

As the punk’s head began shuddering, the older stud realized that the youth was entering the final stretch; brain death was starting to set in.  He could feel his spunk boiling up, his huge balls contracting as his scrotum prepared a geyser of semen.

It was time.

One last brutal jerk of his arms and he was rewarded with the dry cracking sound of shattered cartilage as the boy’s esophagus collapsed.  His body responded by immediately convulsing in violent death throes; Joe could only hang on to the bucking bronco of dying flesh, letting its quivering colon grasp and stroke his engorged cock.

JC’s face, black and twisted beyond recognition, shuddered as his tongue protruded grotesquely between swollen blue lips, foam oozing down the boy’s twitching cheeks.

Suddenly the teen’s slim, lithe body jerked violently; as his feet kicked convulsively, one black ankle sock was yanked off; it was later found in the corner of the room by CSI.

The boymeat gripped his killer instinctively and uncontrollably; his thick cock started to spurt a steady stream of cum.  The dying cunt didn’t just shoot a wad; a fountain of sperm erupted from his rigid shaft as if his death load had to pump out all the genetic material he’d ever produce.

As hot spunk splashed over Joe’s chiseled chest, he lost his control and, pulling the corpse onto his dick by the belt around its neck, flooded the teen’s intestines with his boiling seed.  In the back of his mind, he was aware that he was yelling, cursing the useless little faggot, the cumsucking teenager, worthless piece of shit—

He gasped abruptly, coming back to himself, still violating the youth’s corpse but slowing down the frequency of his thrusts as he coated the cunt’s guts with sperm.  The kid was still convulsing, his mindless body jerking and shuddering on the semen-soaked sheets, his quivering sphincter still stroking Joe’s engorged, sensitive rod.

Joe grunted and trembled, holding himself still, letting the teen slut’s final death spasms milk the last drops of cum from his dick while a few pearly beads oozed from JC’s cock.  The muscles at the root of the boy’s tool clenched in cadaveric spasm, leaving his purple shaft swollen with blood and still hard even in death.

Gripping the youth’s jerking legs tightly so they wouldn’t slip out of his hands, the muscled stud slowly withdrew from the corpse’s torn and ripped asshole.  Joe stood up and retrieved his shirt and jacket from the floor where he’d tossed them. He fished his smokes out of the breast pocket on the jacket and lit one up while he relaxed a bit, surveying his work.

It was a striking composition, a very stark tableau.  JC was lying on his back, still shuddering.  His feet, one still in a black sock, jerked across the smooth dark sheets.  A faint rattling sound came from the headboard where the convulsive clenching of the corpse’s fists were shaking the handcuffs against the iron.

The teen’s face was horrifying, head thrown back, eyes and tongue protruding, his skin black and swollen with his distended lips highlighted by the fountain of foam that had seeped from his blocked-off mouth and even now was drying into a scaly crust on his grotesquely dark cheeks.

The condition of the body told the story.  The legs spread, blood and cum dripping from the boy’s ass, were clear indications of the brutal rape, the black swollen face and the torn flesh at the wrists were evidence of the punk’s helpless and fear in the face of overwhelming violence.  The point was underscored by the black webbed belt, still deeply sunk into the corpse’s throat.

As for the spunk glazing the kid’s thighs and crotch and pooled so deeply in the hollows of his flat smooth belly that it hadn’t yet started to thicken, well, Daddy could make up his own mind about that.

Of course, Joe realized, he could always help daddy make up his mind about that.  Quickly slipping out of the combat boots, Joe finished putting his own gear back on, occasionally using JC’s dark, congested face as an ashtray.

He finished dressing at about the same time as he finished his cigarette, grinding out the glowing coal on JC’s forehead, leaving a sizzling black scorch mark.  Bending down, he retrieved the combat boots he’d worn when fucking the cunt.  He slammed them down onto the boy’s belly, splattering the coagulating semen.  Putting his weight into it, he ground them down into the boy’s abdomen, leaving deep treadmarks in the skin.

Joe stood back and reviewed the scene.  Something was missing.  What—ah!

He darted forward and snatched one of the boots, leaving the other on its side on JC’s belly.

Slipping his hand down inside the still-warm boot, Joe smashed his fist into the teen’s staring face, driving the thick sole of the combat boot—still covered in the kid’s own cum—into the corpse’s cheeks and nose, slamming the heel into the swollen mouth and dark forehead.

When he was done, he left the boot upright on the boy’s smashed face.

Picking up the youth’s cell phone off the nightstand, he took a couple of minutes to snap some striking photos of the corpse, both distance and close up.  Despite the dimness, the pics were crystal-clear; the phone had a good flash.

Slipping the phone into his pocket, Joe took a last look around to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.  A tiny glint of metal at the corner of the nightstand caught his eye.

Joe grinned evilly as he snatched it up and slipped it into his pocket with the phone.  He chuckled as he left the room; when he got to the privacy of his own car, he laughed out loud.

Well, who knows—maybe daddy wanted his boy’s hole.  Maybe when daddy got home, he’d fuck his son’s corpse before calling the cops—or maybe he’d be too afraid of contaminating the crime scene.  Either way, daddy would have plenty of time to decide, cause it was gonna take a long time to get the little motherfucker off the bed.  Those case-hardened steel cuffs were hell to cut through and the little piece of metal sitting in his pocket was the key…

He figured forty-eight hours should do it.  By then, the kid would be outta daddy’s life.  And daddy would be missing him.  That was when Joe would start texting him the pics; that way, daddy would have something to jack off to.

Grinning broadly, Joe started his car.  He certainly hoped daddy appreciated his thoughtfulness. But just in case, when he pulled away from the curb, he drove several blocks before turning on his lights.

Mac and Bill 1

They had scoped out the kill and were ready.

They didn’t know who the client was. Sometimes the client was private and sometimes it was a government contract. It didn’t matter. All they needed to know was who the targets were and whether they were supposed to die easy or hard.

This job, they were supposed to die hard.

The targets were a couple of drug lords. Intelligence had it that they were meeting in a neutral location to work out a territorial dispute. They had kept security light— some local punks who hadn’t been able to pay their tabs.

Mac grinned as he sighted the first sentry. He and Bill were gonna enjoy this. The actual targets would be done too quickly—a couple of taps to the head and it’d be over. But the men standing guard–oh, yeah, this was gonna be fun.

Mac and Bill had over a hundred kills of this kind between them. They’d worked out a method that involved incredible precision. Mac had found on an earlier kill that if a knife enters the target’s brain at a certain point and depth, it strikes an area that controls orgasm. The target will drop like a rag doll and cream his jeans on the way down.

He’d practiced it on his next few hits and when he felt confident, he demonstrated it to Bill. It had been on a job south of the border. Bill had already whacked his target—a Mexican hardman who gagged and coughed his life away in Bill’s arms after his throat had been slit.

The sentry Mac was going for was a young man with dirty jeans and combat boots. He wore a tight black tee which covered the handgun tucked down the front of his pants. He’d heard his buddy’s dying gasps and started moving in that direction. Mac had come behind him and clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth; ramming his razor-sharp knife into the guy’s kidney. As the hardman stiffened in agony and shock, Mac had called Bill and had him watch as he lifted the man’s chin and slammed the knife up through the guard’s jaw, puncturing his tongue and soft palate and piercing his brain. After seeing the massive, sticky wet spot form in the dying man’s crotch, Bill had been a willing and able student of form.

Now it was time to send these two punks out the same way.

Mac saw that Bill had the same hard grin as he did. This was gonna be real smooth. These two were practically kids, barely old enough to buy their own beer. Hardman wanna-bes. The wanted to be men; they were gonna die like men. And it was gonna hurt.

The two mercs had gotten close enough to overhear the guards. From their conversation, they had learned the names of each. Danny was short and dark, with shoulder-length black hair. He was wearing tight jeans and hightops, but had no shirt covering his well-developed chest. Bobby was the other one; he was practically a skinhead, with a razor-thin goatee. He was wearing a white wifebeater and showing the tattoos on his muscled arms to an admiring Danny. At the start of the conversation, Bobby had pulled a bag of weed out of his boot and fished papers from the back pocket of his jeans. They had passed a joint back and forth while talking about how fucked up they’d gotten and how many bitches they’d reamed out. When they finished, Bobby had rolled the each their own before they split up.

The warriors’ smiles got tighter. High on guard duty—these two were the definition of ‘young, dumb, and full of cum.’

Time to let that cum out.

Bobby was walking further up the road. Mac trailed him silently, timing the kill.

The hit on Danny was quick and brutal. It was over in an instant, but a lot happened in that instant.

Danny had just taken a lung-busting hit of his own from the joint when Bill grabbed the hair on the top of his head and pulled it back. At the same time, he brought his commando knife upward into Danny’s exposed jaw, slamming it home into the punk’s brain. Danny’s eyes opened wide with pain and fear as his cock swelled and began spurting uncontrollably. The dying punk jerked backwards several times, grinding his ass into Bill’s crotch before going rag-doll. Bill lowered the still-twitching corpse to the ground and turned to follow Mac.

Mac was crouched down in a ditch about ten yards behind Bobby. Bobby was fucked up—he’d been hotboxing his joint and had smoked it down in less than two minutes. Mac wasn’t worried about cover; the guy was too stoned to have any reaction speed.

Mac crept in silently for the kill. About ten feet behind the guard, he pulled his knife from his boot sheath.

He jumped forward quickly, one hand clamping the punk’s mouth, his fingerless leather glove forming a seal to muffle any noise. The other hand pressed the knife into the base of the guard’s head. There was a resistance, then a slight crunching sound as the tip of the knife penetrated the base of the skull. After that, it slid in smooth and easy.

Bobby’s reaction was immediate. He stiffened in a seizure that jerked his body erect. He arched backwards and his eyes rolled back. A grunt was forced out that was muffled to a moan by Mac’s glove.

“Shut up and die, motherfucker,” Mac whispered in Bobby’s ear.

In the dark buzzing vortex of his swiftly-diminishing consciousness, Bobby somehow knew that while he was being told to shut up and die he was spunking so hard it was agony.

After that, there was nothing left but the convulsions of brain trauma. Bobby thrashed violently, his boots digging furrows in the dirt. Mac held him tightly and reamed his knife into Bobby’s brain. The punk shuddered and went limp in Mac’s arms. Mac lowered him to the ground and wiped his knife on the corpse’s shirt.

Looking up, he saw Bill had been enjoying the show. They quickly regrouped and pressed on. There were at least two more guards between them and the final targets.

Things got quiet after they left. The dead meat that had been Bobby still kicked a little as random nerves fired. One of these kicks dislodged the bag of weed in his boot.

Danny’s body lay on its back, glazed eyes staring at nothing. Down the left side of the face was a small trickle of blood from the nose and another from the corner of the mouth. The body occasionally gave a slight twitch, the hightops scraping the dirt.

Mac and Bill crept silently up the road, leaving the piles of twitching meat behind them to rot.

Three hundred yards down, a sound to their right made them freeze. There shouldn’t have been any more guards this far out from the target, but intelligence had been incomplete before. Mac sent Bill further down the road to reconnoiter and went to investigate the sounds himself.

Moving silently through the underbrush, Mac emerged suddenly into a clearing. Right in front of him, leaning against a tree, was a young guard beating his meat. This was Frank.

Frank was wearing an open shirt-sleeve work shirt over his tight white undershirt. His jeans, opened at the fly to display his fully erect cock, were tucked into his dirty, slouched work boots. In his right boot was a half-ounce bag of weed—it was their advance pay for guard duty.

Frank was higher than a kite and had been thinking about the bitch he’d banged in an alleyway last night as he jacked himself. Precum was just starting to ooze from his mushroom tip when merc materialized in front of him. Franks bloodshot eyes widened as he tried to focus on the man who was going to end his life. The guy was wearing all black, from the cap on his close-shaven head to the tactical gloves and the combat boots.

Then bright pain exploded in Frank’s face.

Mac had been caught slightly by surprise, but hadn’t hesitated in wasting the punk. He’d stunned the little fuck with a line-drive punch straight from the shoulder. The steel knuckles built into his gloves added power to the blow.

Frank, semi-conscious, reeled away from Mac. His cheekbone was broken and his lips split. His dick, forgotten but still hard, bobbed in the wind.

Mac stepped forward and slid his left hand under Frank’s left arm and across his chest, grabbing his right shoulder. He reached his right hand around the back of Frank’s head to grab his chin from the left and pulled both of his arms back violently.

There was a cracking sound as Frank’s vertebrae shattered and his spinal cord ruptured. His head was twisted 180 degrees and his stunned, terrified eyes were staring directly into Mac’s.

Frank’s body stiffened and shuddered. His muscles went rigid involuntarily, forcing a geyser of cum to spew from his dick. Faint gasping sounds escaped his lips as he struggled to draw air with muscles and lungs that had stopped working.

There was another shudder and another fountain of spunk. Then Frank’s legs gave way, his boots buckling at the ankles and digging out paths in the dirt. Mac held him all the way down, starting into his eyes. The last thing the punk saw as his wasted life slipped away was the merciless face of the hard man who’d offed him.

Kneeling on the dead meat, with his leg on the corpse’s ass and his gloved hand pressing strongly on the blank, staring face, Mac paused and listed. These fucks usually traveled in pairs.

Sure enough, there was a rustling sound ahead and a little to the left. Mac moved quietly back into the woods, leaving the body in the clearing behind him to stiffen. After a while, the cum dried, leaving the corpse with glazed eyes and glazed thighs.

Mac was moving quietly parallel to the road. About ten yards beyond the clearing where he’d left Frank’s body, he was brought up short by a motorcycle hidden in the brush, with a helmet hanging from the handlebars. The sound he was tracking was louder now, and seemed to come from his right. He moved off in that direction.

It didn’t take him long to find the other guard. He was taking a leak into a small stream, with his back to Mac. This one had a shock of unruly black hair and a gold loop in his ear caught the light. He was wearing a white t-shirt tucked into tight leather pants cinched by some kind of metallic belt. The leather pants, in turn, were tucked into high biker boots. This one was young, about nineteen or twenty.

Mac slowly reached for the length of nylon cord in his pocket. He looped it around the kid’s neck in a flash and pulled hard.

The punk, as high as the others, hadn’t seen it coming. He flailed wildly, struggling for breath. Mac tightened his hold on the guard’s windpipe and braced himself as his victim fought—vainly—for his life.

The punk had some fight in him, too. He spent some time grabbing ineffectively at the cord digging into his neck, but Mac was pulling it violently and it was embedded in the flesh. That was when the kid panicked.

He stopped struggling with the cord and reached up, trying to connect with anything that would release his agonized throat and let him breathe again. In his terror of death, he lost control of his bladder. His dick was still out and the piss dribbled down his leather pants onto his desperately kicking boots.

The guard’s flailing hands batted aimlessly at Mac’s face and caught at his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Mac could see that the stupid little fuck had a tribal armband tattoo. Then the victim’s hands were in his face again and he decided enough was enough.

He kicked the guy’s boots out from under him and kneeled to follow him down. The guard was now sitting on the ground with his legs jerking out in front, boots tearing up the dirt and leaves. Mac could see the pot leaf emblazoned on the punk’s belt buckle. He wondered if the kid had any idea that he was going to die wearing it when he put it on today. He gave the cord a hard tug and there was a crunching sound.

Mac knew he could let the punk go now; his windpipe was crushed and he’d be dead in sixty seconds no matter what. But he held on, watching the guy’s flaccid cock suddenly swell and turn a vivid purple—the same purple as the guard’s face. A foamy trickle of saliva escaped past the kid’s swollen, protruding tongue. His hands had stopped beating violently at Mac’s face and were moving slower, almost caressing him.

The punk’s random jerking became a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, the kid shot a load and he shot hard. Mac felt a splatter of semen on his cheek. The guy shot his next three loads into his own face. Cum dripped from his dull, half-open eyes down over the tip of his tongue and off his chin.

Mac held on to the wetly pulsating meat for a little while longer before removing his cord. He had to tug at it as it was buried deeply in the guard’s throat. He turned and left as quietly as he had come, on his way to rejoin Bill.

The silence that settled over the kill after Mac’s departure was only broken by the death throes of the corpse. These became fewer over time, but with each spasm, a slight trickle of sperm leaked out onto the leather pants.

Mac found Bill near what the map had marked as the last turn in the road. Beyond this point, the road ascended in a straight line to the cabin where the final targets were supposed to be located.

Naturally, there were another couple of guards around the bend.

Bill had already scoped them out. He told Mac that he’d gathered from their conversation that they were brothers. The younger brother wouldn’t give them any problems—he’d only come along to get high and would be easy to drop. The older brother, with bright red hair, would be tougher. He’d worked for the targets before and acted as if he knew how to handle himself. He didn’t, but he could still cause problems.

Mac went carefully forward and checked them out. They were standing by the far side of the road. Both had dressed similarly in tight black shirts and tight jeans. The ginger guard was in his mid-20’s and had his shirt tucked into his jeans. When he turned his back to Mac, he could see a 9-millimeter jammed down the back of the guy’s jeans, the handle out for access. Ginger was wearing combat boots and thick leather bands around his wrists, one of them holding a watch.

Junior was about 18 or 19. He was wearing a ball cap and didn’t have his shirt tucked in. He was squatting with his back to Mac, who could see that the kid was going commando. He’d tucked his jeans into ropers.

Mac returned to Bill.

“I found two more guard back there,” he said.

“Any problems?”

“Nah. They kicked a little. But we need to get one of these to talk. Need to find out if there’s any other surprises.”

Bill grinned.

“Good cop, bad cop? It’s my turn to be bad cop.”

They sprang out simultaneously. Bill went for Ginger, kicking his legs out. The guard fell to his knees with Bill behind him, one hand clenched in his hair. The other held a knife at the side of Ginger’s throat.

Junior had risen and was facing Mac when he jumped. Mac slammed the kid back into a tree and pressed hard on him, gloved hand over his mouth. He too had a knife, pointed at Junior’s belly.

Bill yanked up on Ginger’s hair.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, talk!”

Ginger snapped back, “Fuck you! I ain’t tellin’ ya shit!”

Bill hadn’t expected him to. He turned to Mac with a smile.

“He says he don’t wanna.”

Mac eased his pressure on Junior’s mouth just enough to let him speak.

“What about you? You feel like talking? “

“Don’t you say a word, dude!” shouted Ginger. “Those guys’ll fuck us up bad!”

Mac leaned forward, pinning Junior to the tree with his full body weight. He forced Junior’s head to the right, giving him a direct view of his brother.

“Watch what happens if you don’t talk. Go for it, Bill.”

With a violent jerk, Bill thrust his knife into Ginger’s throat, the tip coming out the other side. The sharp serrated blade tore through the punk’s vocal cords and windpipe, neatly spearing the adam’s apple.

Ginger made a choked gurgling sound. His face was a mask of pain and terror.

“Watch him,” whispered Mac into Junior’s ear, “watch him die.”

Ginger’s hands flailed helplessly in front of him. His body jerked and shuddered as a pink foam began to leak from the corners of his mouth. He sagged forward. The only thing keeping him from falling face down in the dirt was Bill’s hold on his hair.

Bill had gotten rock hard. He pulled Ginger’s head back into his groin. In his last few seconds alive, Ginger was dimly aware of only one other thing beside the agony of death—the sensation of a hot iron rod covered in fabric pressed against the back of his head.

Mac eased up on Junior’s mouth again. “Now talk, bitch,” he growled. “How many others between here and the cabin?”

Junior started crying—they’d been right; he was the weak one. When he spoke, it came out in one long gasp of terror, all at once.

“Ohfuckdon’tkillmepleasedon’tilltellyaanythingohfuckohshit,” he pleaded.

“Quit babbling, you little shit and tell me—anyone else between here and the cabin?’

Junior gulped hard and just barely managed to control his panic. “No one, dude,” he sobbed, “just them two dudes that went up there and the guys driving their cars—I swear. Fuck, dude, don’t kill me—I told ya what ya wanted to know. Oh God, please don’t kill me!’

Mac clamped his hand back over Junior’s mouth and turned to Bill with a grin.

“Whaddaya think?”

“Nah, he’s useless. Waste the little fuck.”

Mac turned back to Junior. “Sorry, kid,” he said with a smile. “If he says I gotta waste ya, I gotta waste ya.”

Junior stared at him with terrified eyes, He began struggling, tears running down his face.

Mac stabbed his knife upwards into Junior’s belly. Even with Mac’s gloved hand firmly covering his mouth, faint screams could be heard.

Mac slowly withdrew the knife. “You’re gonna die with your boots on, like a real man,” he whispered. “This is gonna hurt.”

With a single controlled jab, he rammed the knife up through Junior’s jaw and tongue, embedding it in the soft palate. The intense burst of agony combined with the shock of the gut stab had halted Junior’s struggle. He stood shuddering, his eyes wide.

Mac jammed the knife up into the kid’s brain. Junior’s eyes dilated, then rolled back so only the white could be seen. His tight muscular body arced forward, grinding his groin into Mac’s. Mac felt Junior’s hard dick rubbing against his own through several layers of fabric, getting him hard as well.

Then he felt liquid on his balls and the base of his cock and knew that the kid was cumming so hard in his dying moments that the spunk had soaked through. Mac lost control and shot his wad. As his own jizz spread over his belly and the kid’s cum oozed onto his balls, Mac skullfucked Junior with his knife, reaming in and out and shredding the kid’s brain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw that Bill hadn’t been able to control himself either. Still holding Ginger’s corpse by the hair, he’d positioned the body so it was facing him. He pulled his long rigid dick out and stuck it in Ginger’s mouth. A quick, violent facefuck and Bill growled, then gave a low groan, sending ropy strands of his spunk over Ginger’s mangled larynx. He was still oozing when he pulled out, sperm mixing with the blood drying at the corner of Ginger’s mouth.

“Sorry,” muttered Bill when he noticed Mac watching him. “Just seeing the two of you…well…”

“Don’t apologize. I didn’t know it would be like that. We’ll have to find a way to get ourselves off on every kill. Why should we let these fucks have all the fun?” As he finished saying this he kicked Junior’s blank staring face with his steel-toed boot.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “Shame we can’t have much fun with the targets. But I still got more spunk of my own to let out.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Mac. They cleaned themselves using the shirts of their dead fuckbuddies. “I think we can still have some fun during cleanup.”

They started climbing the hill in the direction of the cabin.

The approach to the cabin was difficult. Just a few yards past the spot where Ginger and Junior were turning cold and stiff, the line of sight forced them into the treeline—Mac and Bill could be seen from the cabin if they stayed on the road. The need for silence slowed them, especially if the two “drivers”—more likely professional killers—were outside.

They were. One of them was clearly a hardman type. Well-built, with thick short dark curls, he wore a white t-shirt and jeans, both skin-tight. His camo-patterned cap was backwards and his combat boots were desert camo.

The other guard surprised the mercs. He was about 18, little more than a kid. A black wifebeater showed tattoos on his muscled arms and pecs. His strong legs ended in colorful expensive sneakers. They later found that he was the nephew of one of the targets. He’d killed before and thought he was a major bad-ass. Mac and Bill agreed not to kill him right away.

They had plans for him.

The guards were standing between the cabin door and the cars, which were parked parallel to the front of the building. By keeping low and moving carefully, Mac and Bill had reached the other side of the cars, where they split up.

Bill whipped around the rear of the car and put the kid’s lights out. A lightning-fast blow to the jaw knocked the boy out.

The kid grunted when he got decked and the hardman heard. He turned towards Bill and opened his mouth to say something. He never had the chance. Mac was on him immediately, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other slashing mercilessly at his throat with a knife.

The hardman fell to his knees, hands grasping his throat. A look of horror and disbelief was in his eyes—he’d cut the throats of several men himself, but he didn’t know the pain and terror of watching his life spurt out. He tried to scream in agony but no sound came from his mangled larynx. The only noise was the uncontrollable gasping and gurgling from the wound.

The guard fell face down in a swiftly-spreading pool. He spent his last few seconds coughing up blood and scrabbling his boots ineffectually on the ground. The smell of blood and piss filled the air.

Bill had hogtied the boy to make sure he stayed put. The kid started to moan quietly.

“Hey, we need to shut him up. Whaddaya think?”

“Hold on a sec,” said Mac. He unlaced the dead guard’s boots and pulled them off. He yanked the corpse’s socks off and tossed them to Bill. “Gag him with these.”

Bill balled the guard’s reeking socks and shoved them into the boy’s mouth. The kid had no choice but to lie quietly until the mercs came back for him.

Time to take out the targets. There were two of them, Carlos Camacho and Eddie Herrera. Carlos was in his late 20’s and seriously hardcore. He was a major player in street gang drug activity in the western part of the state. He was wanted on several murder charges. His head was shaved but he wore a goatee and his arms were covered in tattoos. Bill and Mac, each watching through different windows, had no difficulty identifying him. He wore a white sleeveless t-shirt and tight white chinos. On his feet were expensive ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

Eddie had come up from Mexico to facilitate the flow of the drugs to Carlos. On his arrival, he’d found a rival supplier trying to make inroads with Carlos. He’d resolved the issue by leaving the rival and his entourage of guards alone—as dismembered corpses in a ravine. He was here tonight to work out the final details of the deal with Carlos in a place where they wouldn’t be interrupted.

He had no clue that both the deal and his life were about to be cut off.

Eddie was in his early 30’s and was beautiful to look at. His large brown eyes with long lashes had looked into the death stare of many men without losing the charm of innocence. His face, though, was hard and cold, showing the killer inside. He wore a long-sleeved western shirt tucked into tight blue jeans that sported a large belt buckle. His cowboy boots were dusty and plain, far less costly that the ones sported by Carlos.

The mercs quickly got the drop on their targets. The door splintered as soon as Mac applied his boot to it. He and Bill burst into the main room of the cabin, aiming their silenced handguns, taking Carlos and Eddie by surprise. The thugs were helpless.

“On your knees, assholes!” shouted Mac.

Then went down on their knees and raised their hands. Since the intruders were wearing paramilitary gear, Carlos and Eddie thought they were some branch of law enforcement. They foresaw legal issues, loss of time and money.

They didn’t see death staring them in the face—but they would, very soon.

“What have you done with Jose?” demanded Eddie.

“Who’s Jose?” asked Mac.

“My nephew,” replied Eddie, “He drove me here. If you hurt him—“

“The kid out front?” grinned Mac. “He’s safe. He’s gonna work for us. Now stand up and turn around. Spread ‘em”

Mac held the thugs at gunpoint while Bill frisked them. He did it thoroughly, making each man moan by squeezing the bulges between their legs. Nothing wrong with a man having a little fun on the job.

Neither Carlos nor Eddie was surprised when the handcuffs went on; they expected it as part of the arrest process. Mac was still pointing his gun at them, forcing them to keep their faces to the wall. They could hear Bill moving things behind them but had no idea what he was doing.

They soon found out. After a couple of minutes, Mac had them turn around. In the center of the room, a black nylon cord had been draped over a rafter. Each end of the cord terminated in a slip-knot loop, hanging about eight feet off the ground. Beneath each loop was a chair.

Even being forced up onto the chairs and having the loops placed around their necks didn’t faze the hardened thugs—they prided themselves on their reputation as tough motherfuckers and expected a little psychological torture in pursuit of a confession. The first conscious awareness they had that this wasn’t an ordinary arrest didn’t come until Mac and Bill had unzipped their captives’ pants and pulled out their thick, uncut cocks.

It was also their last conscious awareness. The mercs kicked away the chairs. After that, it was desperate, futile, primal fight for life.

Carlos and Eddie died a horrible, lingering death. With their hands bound but their legs free, they kicked at each other in their maddened struggle for breath.

Carlos had the strong, fit body of a street thug. This made him suffer longer. He jerked and kicked at his end of the rope, feeling Eddie die beside him. His face became congested and blue, with foam boiling from his open, swollen lips. His thick tool was fully erect.

Next to him, Eddie was also dancing on air, his boots flailing wildly beneath him. The slipknot had tightened agonizingly around his neck, causing great folds to form in the skin of the throat. Eddie’s thirteen-inch throat was constricted to a circumference of about five inches.

The blood, unable to escape, backed up in Eddie’s head. Vessels ruptured in his eyes and nose and his face turned black. His tongue and his bloodshot eyes bulged. A trickle of blood from the nose dripped onto the tip of his tongue. Like Carlos, his massive dick was standing up straight.

Carlos had stopped kicking. With his boots together, pointed down at the floor a couple of feet beneath him, he was arcing his body violently at the waist. He wasn’t ready to give up the battle for his life yet.

Eddie was. After a couple of convulsions, all Eddie could feel was burning agony in his throat and more burning agony in his cock. The sensation in his dick grew uncontrollably. As searing pain and death overwhelmed him, Eddie was unaware that cum had erupted from his cock in a steady stream. It shot up like a fountain and splattered back down onto all four of them. Several jets went up before Eddie’s spasms slowed and he dangled limply. The cum stains on his boots were washed off a moment later when his bladder voided post-mortem and piss flowed down his legs.

Mac pulled his straining cock out, already oozing with precum. He almost shot his wad watching Eddie die. He turned to Bill.

“You ready to finish off this little punk?” he asked.

Bill nodded. He was already beating his meat. He reached out and grabbed Carlos’s rigid dick.

Carlos’s body had let him down. It refused to let him die easy. The world had gone gray and soundless explosions burst inside his head but he was still conscious. Eddie’s spunk had splattered on his face and Carlos knew what that meant. He’d strangled men before and had seen them shoot as they died.

Carlos felt Bill’s hand on his cock, felt the smooth leather tactical glove stroke his shaft. He resisted the urge to shoot the seed bubbling up in his balls, but his dick was being controlled by automatic reflexes. He was getting jacked off as he died and he was going to blow his load whether he wanted to or not.

Carlos gave a vigorous jerk, thrusting his cock forward at Bill. It spat out a wad of cum, catching Bill full in the face. At the same time, Mac, pounding his meat furiously, shot his own load over Carlos’s legs and boots.

Bill didn’t even have to touch himself. He gushed his load when he caught Carlos’s dying facial. He continued to yank the thick rod in his hand. Carlos’s eyes rolled back in his head. Foamy spittle had run from the corner of his mouth and dripped from his jaw. Each tug on his meat was rewarded by another spurt of cum.

Bill grabbed the thug’s legs and jerked them downwards, hard. There was a thick cracking sound. Carlos felt sharp, stabbing pain in his neck and sank into the nothingness of death. His neck had stretched and his body went rigid at the moment of death, shooting out one last spray of sperm that splashed down Bill’s chest.

It took a few minutes for Mac and Bill to catch their breath. They cleaned themselves in the cabin’s washroom before retrieving Jose, who was still hogtied on the ground outside. They put him to work moving the bodies.

At gunpoint, they forced him into the driver’s seat of one of the cars. Bill sat next to him; Mac sat behind, the muzzle of his gun against the back of the boy’s head. He had to drive out to the first pair of corpses and load them into the trunk, then work his way back to the cabin. On the way down, they forced him to drive over Ginger’s body, still lying in the middle of the road.

“Shut up, bitch,” snarled Mac. “Just a pile of dead meat—which is what you’ll be, if you don’t shut your fuckin’ hole.”

Jose stopped whimpering, but terror was growing inside of him. He’d thought he was tough because he’d shanked a couple of dudes. This level of cold-bloodedness was beyond him. He was still too young to be this hard.

At each kill, Mac stayed inside the car with his gun on Jose as long as he was visible. Bill got out and had his gun in point-blank range of the kid the entire time. Jose had to drag each body to the car and lift it into the trunk. Every time he bent over a body, his eyes met the horror-filled death stare of the corpse and his panic increased.

They left the bodies in the car when they got back to the cabin. Taking a spade that was lying by the side of the building, they marched Jose into the woods. After about two hundred yards, they found what they were looking for. It was a clear spot, on the side of a hill overlooking a dry creek bed. Here they forced Jose to dig a pit.

The boy was almost hysterical now. Deep down, he knew that there was no way he’d survive this night. He had only one hope to hold on to, that his uncle was somehow all right and would save him. He hadn’t been inside the cabin yet.

That one hope was enough. He would still struggle for his worthless life. He sobbed in terror, but he dug the pit his own corpse would rot in.

When he was finished, shaking with exhaustion and with his grimy face streaked with his tears, they forced him to drag the corpses up one by one and throw them into the pit. Jose slowly emptied the car. By the time he’d pulled up the last body, the blood-caked hardman outside the cabin door, he had barely enough strength left to roll it into the pit. The corpses had been tossed in at random, boots on faces, groins to asses. The young punks had ended their worthless lives violently and were being left to rot like garbage.

Mac and Bill allowed Jose a little rest before taking him back to the cabin. They shoved him through to broken door and the first thing Jose saw was his uncle, still hanging from the beam. Carlos was dangling next to him, his neck grotesquely elongated. Jose fell to his knees, the last spark of hope dying inside him.

Mac cut the cord over the rafter and the bodies hit the floor with a thud. Jose dragged one body to the pit and Bill dragged the other.

When it was done, Mac made Jose stand at the edge of the pit and pull out his cock. His six inches of meat drooped in terror.

“Little hard-ass punk—can’t even get it up!” jeered Mac. “C’mere, Bill, let’s see if we can’t have a little fun offin’ this bitch.”

Mac wrapped a thin wire garrote around the kid’s neck and pulled it tight. The wire bit into the flesh, causing thin streams of blood to streak Jose’s throat. The boy sank to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat. Bill knelt beside him, tugging on his dick.

Jose was aware he was being jacked off, but the knife-like pain that shut off his air was more immediate. As his eyes bulged, everything grew dark and the edges of his vision shrank to a small vibrating circle. He could see his uncle’s twisted, blackened face staring back at him from the pit, Eddie’s own cum drying to a glaze on his face. Jose knew what was happening to him; when he shot his load, he knew he was dying. Before his sight vanished into oblivion, he saw his spunk raining in showers over the bodies in the pit.

Neither Bill not Mac had so much as undone their flies. Both had creamed their boxers as Jose hosed down the corpses with sperm. They rolled his body into the pit and left it the like the others to decay into a stinking pile of meat.

They returned to the cabin to clean themselves again and then started back to their local base. Time to send out word that they were ready for another job.

Trucker 1–Trucker v Marine

He sat in the cab of the parked semi. He’d left the lights off; he was sitting in the darkness looking out into the cold hazy night.

He’d pulled his rig all the way around to the far end of the truck stop lot, up by the chain-link fence at the edge of the property. He didn’t know yet if he’d be using his sleeper cab tonight or not. Maybe he’d find someone to fuck who had his own place. Either way, it didn’t matter, but there was more privacy out here on the edge.

And the fence helped. One of his earlier toys had managed to get out of the cab. It’d been in a different state, but he’d been at the edge of the lot that night too. The kid hadn’t been able to get past the fence before he’d been caught.

The Trucker smiled grimly. The punk had pissed him off, having to be chased down like that, but he’d paid. Oh yes, he’d paid. He’d squealed for mercy in agony before it was over…

A rush of lust flowed over the Trucker’s body at the memory. He took a deep, shuddering breath and regained his composure. Slipping out of the driver’s seat, he drew the curtain that partitioned off the sleeper compartment and turned on a light off to one side, giving himself one last glance in the small mirror.

A well-built man with sky-blue eyes staring out of a hard face looked back at him. Hair in loose black curls tumbled almost to his shoulders; his thick goatee was the same dark shade. He was broad-shouldered and handsome in a hard, craggy way that managed not to draw attention to his face.

In other words, he had the perfect face for a serial killer. Good enough to draw in victims without being so striking that it impressed itself on the memory of any possible witnesses.

Well, it was good enough, at any rate. He flicked out the light and returned to the driver’s compartment. He was clean and fully dressed and had already located the nearest bar by way of an app he’d been using for a couple of years. Luckily, it was less than a mile from here; he could actually see the place from here.

It was on a side street just off the highway exit, so it was literally just around the corner from the truck stop. From here, the Trucker could see the lights out front, but he could also see a long, low structure in the back. It looked like a motel.

First time he’d seen a fag bar with a motel attached. Not a bad idea, though; bet the place made a killing.

Maybe he needed to make sure it did make a killing.

He opened the cab door, but only used a single step or two before he leaped to the ground, his scuffed, worn ropers contacting the tarmac with a loud thump. The moment they did so, the Trucker reached into his faded denim jacket and extracted a pack of smokes from an inside pocket. That pocket was the main reason he’d held onto the jacket, worn and stained as it was. Most denim jackets don’t have inside pocket—it was useful. For—surprises.

His tight jeans were also faded and worn; they cradled his firm ass, leaving nothing to the imagination. Good thing the bar was close. They wouldn’t keep the cold out for long, nor would the thin, clean white cotton t-shirt he wore under his jacket. The outside temperature was just above the freezing point—not too cold, but cold enough to discourage loitering, especially when combined with the steady wind. Good thing it was dry, or else getting outta here would be a bitch.

And the Trucker’s plans involved a relatively easy getaway. They always did; it was why he chose the occupation to begin with. He was usually several counties away—if not several states—by the time his playmates were found.

Lost in the pleasant memories of past pleasures, the Trucker reached the end of the lot and wheeled about, heading towards the corner. He usually hunted twinks, but tonight, he was in the mood for someone with some fight in him. He wanted a faggot slut who’d give him a workout; someone who’d put up a fight before being put down. There was a military base nearby—next town up the highway, he thought it was; maybe he’d be lucky and stumble on a hot little army boy…

He paused for a last look back at his rig, just to keep an eye on it. Not that he was worried; it was a load of cheap imported textiles. Not fragile, not perishable, and certainly not valuable enough to draw unwanted attention.

It was cool. He released the concern from his mind as he prepared for the hunt.

There were several bars along this stretch of road. Most were straight strip clubs; some were just cheap dives. The proximity of the highway, the truck stop, and the military base all brought in a booming trade to this tiny little town, and the exchange of money for sex was exploited to the fullest.

The Trucker noticed several bars advertising rooms for rent on a nightly or hourly basis. Seemed that the standard business model in town was to buy a long lot, build a bar in front and a row of very basic motel rooms in the back. Serve cheap booze and charge a high hourly rate for the rooms.

Seemed like it was a successful model, at that.

Well, it explained what he’d seen behind the gay bar; it was indeed a motel. Maybe he wouldn’t be returning to his rig tonight, after all.

The industrial dance music was overpowering the moment he opened the door. A beefy dude in a tight black t-shirt stepped up; SECURITY was stenciled across his burly chest. “Cover’s five bucks, stud,” he said flatly.

“Are you shittin’ me?” snapped the Trucker—before reaching ruefully for his wallet. Don’t make a scene. Don’t make them remember you.

A cover charge for this shithole! Oh well, it was ok. Someone would pay. The Trucker smiled gently at the bouncer. Someone would pay for the indignity of the cover charge.

The inside was a haze of smoke and lights. At least this wasn’t one of those pansy-ass places that banned smoking in bars. The Trucker plucked another Red from the pack and lit it, leaning back against the outer wall and watching the boys at play.

There were several twinks on the dance floor who caught his eye, but they were slobbering over other twinks—and anyway, he really wasn’t in the mood for that. Not tonight. But the place seemed to be filled with local small-town boys and older truckers. Maybe a couple of military dudes, but they seemed to be sticking together. Nothing else was—

That was when the Trucker saw him, over on the far side of the dance floor, rockin’ out all by himself. A Marine. Well, he was wearing Marine combat fatigues, and there were enough military dudes near him to call him on it if he was fake. And even from this distance, the Trucker could spot the tiny beads of light reflecting off the chain holding the Marine’s dog tags.

He was young—no more than twenty-one or –two. It was hard to get a glimpse of his face under the circular flat-topped cap; all that was visible beneath the low desert camo brim was a pair of full lips, almost pouting.

Almost begging to be hurt, the Trucker thought.

It was an interesting look—the kid didn’t want anyone to know who he was, but he didn’t mind them knowing what he was; his combat fatigues made his military status clear. An olive-green t-shirt clung to the boy’s slim but muscled torso, darkening in spots where sweat had soaked through. The kid was giving himself a good workout dancing, given the thick soled lace-up combat boots his camo trousers were bloused into. The pants themselves were slightly baggy, but the Trucker could still get a good idea of the boy’s firm legs moving within them.

He watched the kid dance with various guys out on the floor. The Marine seemed to be almost aggressively horny, grabbing at every guy within reach. He kept getting shot down, though; there was something demeaning about his desperation that turned most dudes off.

It didn’t turn the Trucker off, it got him hard. He could put that desperation to good use. He’d give the Marine a whole new sense of desperation before morning.

The Trucker gave a slight dry chuckle; he was anticipating getting his five bucks’ worth outta the kid—and then some.

He circled the floor impatiently, like a shark sensing fresh blood. The place was packed—it was Saturday night, so it was naturally busy. And actually, it was already well past midnight.

The Trucker needed to work fast. The hours had been posted outside; the bar closed at two in the morning. That left just over an hour for him to lure the little fuck in and put him down. And he wanted to put the Marine boy down, hard. His impatience getting the better of him, he glanced angrily in the kid’s direction—

–and made immediate eye contact. The punk had been getting tired. He was worn out. He’d been flaunting his ass all night, frantically searching for a hot top to plow his hole before his furlough ended tomorrow morning.

The Marine had only been given a forty-eight hour leave; he’d spent the first day visiting his family. He didn’t see them often and they expected it; he’d been a major punk as a teen and had ended up being given the choice of the military or jail. He’d chosen the former.

He liked it. He especially liked being told what to do. Every command, every order, sent a thrill through his body that seemed to quiver the base of his cock. He had trouble not creaming his jeans when his drill sergeant snapped at him.

But he couldn’t play on base. It could be done, sure, but his family lived in town. It’d get around. So he’d take his occasional leaves, run down the highway to the truck stop exit, and book a room behind the gay bar.

Then he’d go out looking for someone to humiliate him like his drill sergeant while fucking him. It was a surprisingly difficult role to fill—most of the tops he found weren’t alpha enough to treat him the way he wanted to be treated. But on rare occasions, he did find what he was looking for. And when he did, he let his inner pig out to play.

But this time, he was striking out. Damn, the bar was gonna close in an hour. And his leave was up as of eight in the morning. That was what—six, seven hours?—to find a fuck memorable enough to keep him beating off till his next furlough. He needed to act fast

That was when he looked up, in utter sexual hopelessness, his huge hazel eyes catching the piercing glare of a man staring at him from just off the dance floor. The dude was taller than him and older, maybe mid-thirties. Very well-built and showing it in tight, faded jeans held by the thick brown strap of a distressed leather belt with a large buckle.

The man’s black hair was long, with a slight curliness, a sharp black goatee circling his mouth and covering his strong jaw with stubble. Under a denim jacket as faded and worn as his jeans, his white t-shirt had become transparent in the spots where sweat had soaked through, revealing dark fur on the man’s chest. The brown leather roper boots on his feet were as scuffed and worn as his belt.

This dude was the real thing; the Marine could feel it immediately. This was what he’d been looking for. He felt that old thrill running through him, straight from the base of his erect tool, as he looked up and caught the erotic look of contempt from—

–the Trucker, noticing he’d gotten the boy’s attention, jerked his head in command and wheeled about. Turning his back to the Marine, he went to the bar. The boy would follow. The Trucker knew for sure. He’d seen it. In that momentary flash of the eyes, he’d seen enough of the pig in the Marine’s soul to know how this night would play out.

He checked his watch and began calibrating. This place would close in an hour. He’d stay chatting and drinking till then, getting the punk well lubricated. No one was leaving now; they’d be unremarked in the crowd that was pushed out the door at closing. They’d get a room here. Let’s see—he’d already slept at the truck stop for a good eight hours. So—in the room by two, play with the kid for a bit before putting him down, say half an hour—no, he’d been through basic training, so he might be able to fight it out a little. Say forty-five minutes to fuck and waste him. Back at the rig by three, three-ten, out on the highway by three thirty, no one finds the body till eight at the earliest—doubt the maids come around that early, but ya never know, gotta take everything into account…

That would put him in the next state before the earliest the body could be found. Perfect.

“Hey,” came a voice from behind him, hesitant, eager, uncertain, vulnerable. The Trucker’s cock stiffened even further as he grinned to himself before turning slowly to face the Marine. He turned slowly, his cold eyes sliding over the Marine’s trim, tight body. The boy was still winded after dancing, his slim, firm chest heaving, the olive t-shirt plastered to every curve by sweat.

The punk’s hazel eyes flashed briefly up at the Trucker’s, then turned away shyly, a faint blush rising on his downy cheeks. He ducked his head, just enough for the brim of his round camo cap to cover his eyes. All the Trucker could see of the kid’s face was his tremulous, eager grin.

He smirked. This was gonna be easy. The fucker wanted to be used; he wanted to be used hard. Good. He’d be in hog heaven before he realized he was getting slaughtered like a pig.

The Trucker remained silent for a moment, watching the kid tremble as he waited for a response. Just before the marine could turn away, crestfallen at another failure, the Trucker spoke up laconically. “Whaddaya drinkin’?”

The Marine looked up, his face instantly beaming. “Whatever beer they got on tap. I don’t care.”

The Trucker got two draft beers from the bar and commandeered a small table. The beer was weak and watery, as he knew it would be. Even the kid was unimpressed. “I got a bottle of Jack back in my room for later. It’s yours anytime you wanna come back and fuck me. I’d kill for your load, dude; just sayin’.”

The Marine was ready. He clearly wanted to get fucked, now. But there was still at least a half hour before closing, when he and the boy would be lost among dozens of others in the mass exodus for the hotel rooms and a night of strenuous fucking. He had to fill the time somehow; he damn sure wasn’t drinking any more off this horsepiss beer.

“What ya looking for?” he drawled at the kid. And that was all he needed to do. The Marine spent the next half-hour proudly divulging his entire sexual history along with his favorite activities. The Tucker smiled and nodded the entire time, never listening to a word. After all, the fucker would be dead within an hour; no one gave shit about what he wanted.

“Last call!” yelled the shirtless, buff bartender. He was in a hurry and clearly had plans of his own. “C’mon, ladies, time to swallow! Ya don’t have to go home, but ya can’t stay here!”

The Trucker stood up as the interior lights came up. He aimed his face down, not making eye contact with anyone else in the crush heading to the door. The kid had bounced to his feet and grabbed the Trucker’s hand. The Trucker looked down in disgust at the pig touching him without permission as the punk dragged him out the door and around the corner towards the motel. “C’mon, man, we’ll crack open that bottle of Jack I got and you can stick your cock in me!”

The Trucker jerked his hand out of the Marine’s. The kid faltered momentarily but continued towards his room once he saw that the Trucker was still following.

For his part, the older man was seething. The kid would pay for grabbing his hand. That and the cover charge.

Kid had a lot to answer for. The Trucker wondered if the boy would last long enough to pay the debt in full. Oh well—if not, it’d still be a fuck of a lot fun trying.

The punk’s room was the one on the right end; at least, that was the one he staggered towards. The Trucker noticed that not all the rooms were occupied; the window on the one that abutted the Marine’s had the blinds open on an unlit room. That was good.

From the Marine’s point of view, it was bad—or at least extremely unlucky. It was extremely unlikely, however, that he would be in a position to appreciate the point when the time came. He was drunker than he’d thought; even that weak beer had had some effect. It didn’t matter; he was young enough and strong enough to get hard no matter how drunk he got.

He did have some other performance issues, though. The door key fought with him, in collaboration with the recalcitrant lock. Frustrated, he finally managed to get the door open when he was least prepared for it, losing his balance and stumbling across the floor to land face down on the bed in the dark. He giggled drunkenly and pushed himself up off the bed as the lights came on and he heard the door close behind him.

He could also hear all three locks engage—the handle knob, the deadbolt and the chain lock—but failed to see any significance in it.

He turned and saw the Trucker leaning against the door, appraising his body coldly, one hand rubbing the thick tube outlined in the crotch of his jeans. The Marine grinned. This was gonna be a good one, he could tell. This one was gonna hurt him the way he liked it. He opened the top drawer in the decrepit chest against the wall and retrieved the bottle of Jack, already open but still three-quarters full.

“Toss it here, bitch, and strip,” snapped the Trucker, “and keep your boots on. You’re gonna need some traction when I fuck ya.”

The Marine’s dick stiffened even further at the order. He tossed the bottle to the Trucker (who caught it one-handed, opened it and took a deep swig) as he sat on the end of the bed and undid the blousing straps around his ankles. Once they were off, the wide cuffs of the fatigue pants opened up and he was able to slip them off right over his boots.

As he did, he kept glancing up at the Trucker. The older dude had shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair. With a fluid motion, he reached down and pulled his white t-shirt up over his head, shaking his long black hair free.

The Marine paused for a moment of lust, looking at the top’s beautifully sculpted chest and abdomen, covered in wiry black fur. With his shirt off, the smell of his sweat and pheromones overpowered the small room. The Trucker compensated by lighting another smoke. He took a deep drag before picking the bottle back up and tossing back another mouthful. Then he noticed the audience.

“Get it off, slut. I ain’t banging ya till yer nude; pigs don’t wear clothes.”

The Marine’s shirt came off quickly, his lithe torso slick with perspiration. His boxers gave him more difficulty; they hung up on his erect cock. Soon, though, they were off. And instinctively, the Marine knew what to do.

He stood to attention in front of the Trucker, boots firmly planted side by side, throbbing shaft jutting out in front, slim, muscled body unencumbered by anything but the dog tags dangling in the center of his chest.

He’d kept his camo cap on, though. It didn’t matter; the Trucker wasn’t looking for oral tonight. He had free access to the parts of the little shit’s body that he wanted to fuck; that was what was important.

The Trucker took another drag, exhaling the cigarette smoke directly into the boy’s face, smiling as the fucker flinched and grimaced. Oh dear, if that bothered him, he was gonna find tonight extremely unpleasant, to say the least.

He took another swig of Jack and another drag, letting the kid just stand. Punk didn’t seem to mind; even now, there was a transparent bead of precum welling on the kid’s thick purple head…

“Here,” he said abruptly, thrusting the bottle at the Marine, “drink up. A toast, bitch. Suck it down, cunt; let’s see how good you can swallow. A night to remember.”

The youth reached out hesitantly, taking the bottle in spite of feeling drunk enough already. He didn’t want to black out. But that was the point: a night to remember, at least until the next time he could get his hole plugged. So sure, what the fuck. Even if he’d been sober, he was too uneducated to associate the phrase with a disaster that took the lives of the majority of those involved. He tipped the bottle up and slammed back a hefty amount of booze. “A toatht,” he slurred happily, “a night to remememberer…”

“Turn around and bend over,” growled the Trucker, “now. Stand here at the foot of the bed, place your hands on the mattress and keep you back straight or I’ll beat the fuck outta you. Got that? No matter how hard I plow you, you’re gonna keep your back flat and level. If you don’t, you’ll knock my ashtray off.

And if you knock my ashtray off, the only thing I’ll be able to do with my smokes is stub them out on your ass. So keep your back flat and still or I’ll grind burning embers into your tender cheeks. Got it, Private Fuckwad? It’s time for drill, soldier, and you’re the one gettin’ drilled.”

With that, the Trucker unzipped his fly, letting his long thick cock flop out. A couple of quick strokes and the swollen purple shaft stood erect and waiting. The Marine was trying to keep still and failing; even his puckered pink fuckhole was quivering with excitement.

The boy jerked when the Trucker dropped the cold glass ashtray onto the small of his back—jerked, but not enough to dislodge the ashtray. The Trucker grinned. He’d have the little fucker jerking harder than that soon enough. In fact, now.

Without any warning, he grabbed the Marine’s hips and brutally thrust the bulbous head of his dick ruthlessly past the punk’s straining ass muscle. The kid gave a loud wordless wail, his boots flexing as he instinctively rose up on his toes and tried to tilt his rectum to allow for easier entry.

As he did, he could feel the ashtray starting to slide. The agony of the forced fuck was making him sweat. The few drops running down the hairy crack of his ass did nothing to lube the massive veined member ripping open his poor abused boycunt, but it did a helluva job for the ashtray.

The Marine found himself arching and writhing, shifting his back to keep the ashtray on, shuddering with pain as the Trucker’s cock tore his rectal lining; it felt like someone had shoved a billiard ball up his ass. He began whimpering and moaning.

The Trucker took another drag off his cigarette, then flicked the ashes onto the boy’s back. He didn’t aim for the ashtray; he had no intention of using it. It was there to give the slut something to fail at.

He noticed that the kid had ducked his head down, pressing his forehead into the mattress as a form of support. It was the sound that caught his attention—or, rather the lack of it. Soldier boy’s dog tags had been hanging down and jingling on their chain during the entire fuck, but when the kid lowered his head, they came to rest on the mattress. “Hey, bitch, get yer fuckin’ head up!” he barked. The Marine lifted his head obediently, his desert camo cap coming off and revealing his buzz-cut red-gold hair. He bent his neck back, turning his tear-stained face to the ceiling.

The Marine was in his own private world where the pain and the pleasure of the brutal assfuck merged into a steady glow. He could feel the older man grunting and pumping, behind him, inside him. He could feel the dude’s jeans, worn smooth with use, pressing up against the smooth taut backs of his thighs, flexing with each thrust up his ass. He could feel the stud’s pubic hair, curly and wiry as his chest hair, scraping the sensitive skin of his asscheeks like steel wool. He shifted his feet outward to accommodate more dick, feeling his combat boots knock up against the Trucker’s ropers as he carefully balanced the slick ashtray darting across his smooth back.

The slut was getting used to it, the Trucker thought. His sphincter has relaxed. He’d been hurt, but the worthless pig had enjoyed it.

If the pig enjoyed it, the Trucker didn’t. About time for him to have some fun. Let’s see—first thing to do is take care of that ashtray…

It wasn’t difficult; all he had to do was time an extra-deep thrust to the right point. He made sure the fucktoy bucked backwards in reaction; that flipped the ashtray up over his shoulder and let it land within his field of vision on the bed.

The Trucker hoped the whore would notice that it hadn’t been used. “Oh shit, cunt, you done fucked up now. I still got a lit cig I was just about to put out. Guess what happens now?”

The Trucker ground the smoldering butt slowly into the kid’s twitching asscheek. The Marine screamed uncontrollably as the small spot of flesh began to blacken and smoke. Without pulling his cock out of the young punk’s ass or removing the still-glowing stub of cigarette, the Trucker threw himself forward, forcing the unfortunate slut down onto the bed and shoving his face down into the mattress.

He held the position for a good forty-five seconds or so, even after the butt had gone out, sighing in pure erotic pleasure as the flailing youth pumped his ass in agony and fear along the top’s throbbing shaft. One hand on the boy’s ass, the other splayed in the short red hair, forcing his head down, in complete control of the useless fucking squealing pig.

The Marine was learning that, while a little of what you like does you good, a lot’ll kill ya. Despite the pain, he’d enjoyed the merciless fucking. This, though—this was a-whole-nother level.

A hot, searing pain on his ass. He screamed involuntarily, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the Trucker curse. He knew, somehow, when his face was buried in the bedding, that it was to shut him up, not smother him.

This sick fucking psycho was gonna hurt him bad. But he wasn’t gonna kill him. That shit couldn’t happen to him; he was a Marine after all.

Suddenly, the pressure on the back of his head was gone; he could lift his head—he could breathe again. There was still a searing spot of pain on his ass, but he was too busy gasping for air to be able to scream. And by the time he got his breath back, he had other things to occupy him.

The Trucker grabbed the gasping fucktoy roughly by the shoulder, twisting him around. Keeping the boy impaled on his stiff cock the entire time, he grabbed the kid’s legs as well and managed to completely flip him without letting him off his dick. He was now staring down into the punk’s face.

The Marine was taken by surprise; before he could react, he was flat on his back with his legs spread; his eyes focused on his desert combat boots now hanging in the air past the alpha stud’s shoulders—what the fuck is going on here, what’s he doing now, oh fuck, that snarl of hate and lust oh my god what’s he gonna do…

Before he could say a word, the older man’s face contorted terrifyingly in rage and his hands clamped tightly around the Marine’s throat, squeezing with a force the poor boy wouldn’t have believed possible.

He fought. Oh god, how he fought. The Trucker knew he’d picked a good one; even if the worthless cunt hadn’t picked up anything else in the military, the physical training had made him hard to kill—and that made him a good fuck.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, it’s time to get what you came for. You wanted my load, right? You said you’d kill for it, remember? Will ya die for it? Cause that’s what it’s gonna take, motherfucker. You gotta die on my cock to get my cum. What’s that? You don’t want it that bad? Tough shit, cunt. The cancellation penalty’s even worse.”

He leaned forward and spit into the boy’s confused, tear-stricken face. It was obvious that the kid had no idea that he’d been targeted by a serial killer; despite detailed training in the military, the punk was so paralyzed by terror that he was unable to defend himself coherently.

He was young and strong, though, and his slim, lithe, sweat-slicked body thrashed violently on the bed as suffocating panic set in. The bitch flailed his arms desperately, sending the ashtray flying onto the floor with a loud clunk. His boots kicked frantically in the air as his bulging eyes peered up uncomprehendingly out of his blackening face into the leering, contempt-filled eyes of his killer. His dog tags jingled briefly as they skittered across his sweat-soaked chest before sliding off into his reeking armpit.

His hands clawed furiously at the Trucker’s chest, catching at the fur, tracing with frantic, erotic desperation the slick, firm muscles flexing, flexing to end his worthless life. He somehow realized the futility of grasping ineffectually at sweat-lubed skin and transferred his attention to his attacker’s face—but the alpha stud was experienced at putting whores down; he knew to expect the panicky gouging and dodged his head to one side while repositioning himself so that he could pin the fuckhole down with one arm crushing his esophagus.

With his other arm free, he began punching the Marine in the face, delivering shattering roundhouse blows with all the force his rage could muster.

“Quit fightin’ it, you useless faggot cunt. This is all you’re good for, you fuckin’ pansy Marine wanna-be. You thought you were a soldier, you worthless fuck? You ain’t dyin’ to serve your country, fuckwad, you’re dyin’ to serve my dick. How ya like that, huh? Take it, you fuckpig, take the pain. You know you love it and deserve it, you fuckin’ worthless homo cocksucker. Guess what your CO is gonna think of ya when they find your used, reamed-out, cum-filled corpse in this faggot fuckhole, yeah? Bet the thought just makes you wanna cum, worthless cum-sucking homo pig!”

Under a hail of pain and brutal physical impact, the Marine could hear and understand the Trucker’s words. They were the last words he was capable of understanding; at the moment they were said, he’d been without oxygen for over two minutes.

His thoughts were a jumble of random sensations jelled into a solid state of terror. His dying mind seemed to have broken into multiple compartments; the final fragmentation of a psyche confronted by horrifying, agonizing, yet phenomenally erotic death…

…because in one compartment, the Marine felt huge throbbing waves of heat originating in his puckered ballsack and flowing up the shaft of his cock, rendered so extraordinarily sensitive by approaching death that the slightest touch had the force of an electrical shock…

…and in another compartment, the Marine felt the terror and confusion of the sudden, random brutality of his death; just half an hour ago, he’d been surrounded by dozens of hot studs in the bar, any one of whom he’d have gladly blown—how did he go from that to getting raped and strangled in so short a time…

…and yet another compartment was flooded with the exquisite agony of death, the explosive, imperative pressure in his chest, the swelling torment of his head as his face turned black and blood vessels ruptured throughout his eyes and face…

…but the Trucker looked down on it all, and moved by the youth’s obvious terror, took a moment to ease the horror of death by driving another blow into the faggot’s grotesque, distorted face.

As he wrapped his other hand back around the fucker’s throat, applying bear-trap pressure to the dying kid’s windpipe, the Trucker watched the punk’s slime-covered tongue force its way past the swollen blue lips, thrust agonizingly out of the youth’s mouth accompanied by streams of foamy drool that seeped down the Marine’s death-contorted face.

The rational part of the punk’s brain began to fail from oxygen deprivation, but physical sensation continued to transmit; the Marine could still feel the Trucker’s huge hog plugging his colon and fucking his guts, even if the boy’s brain was too damaged to understand what he was feeling. As his universe collapsed into a constricting ring of blackness and pain, the Marine’s slick, smooth, muscled limbs thrashed convulsively; while his boots drummed mindlessly on the marble-like muscles of his killer’s back, his hands and arms flailed wildly on the bed. One random swing of his arm sent the bottle of Jack flying off to shatter against the wall.

Suddenly the Marine went stiff. It was the last convulsion of a slow, painful, brutal death, the final tightening of all muscles. It was what the Trucker had been holding on for; it was why he did this. The combination of the death spasm in the fucktoy’s sphincter and the convulsion in the lower intestine—it was like a spontaneous suction on his swollen shaft, with the ass muscle working as a cock ring—oh fuck, he was almost there—

The dying punk suddenly gave a violent convulsion under the Trucker. As he did so, the Trucker felt the hard burning shaft of the dying Marine’s cock begin to throb and pump; burning streams of semen erupting in a violent, desperate death orgasm as the Trucker felt the motherfucker’s esophagus collapse beneath his hands, the cartilage yielding with a satisfying crunch that added to the force of his orgasm when the older dude pumped the dead fucktoy’s ass full of hot cum.

The Trucker’s hard, muscled body locked up as firmly as the corpse of the younger boy thrashed violently under him, the alpha top nearly paralyzed and only able to emit a low, rough growl as he pumped his spunk uncontrollably up the dead Marine’s reamed-out cunt.

The Trucker spent the next few minutes gasping and trembling, his cock still buried in the corpse, feeling his balls drain of sperm. After he caught his breath, he pulled out of the still-twitching Marine, admiring the black face on the corpse, swollen almost unrecognizably.

The Trucker lit another smoke as he looked down at the body. Fuck, he was still hard. And the stunned look of horror on the corpse’s face was too irresistible.

Before he was aware of it, the Trucker was back on the Marine, violating the body, shoving his engorged shaft past the slimy, swollen tongue into the crushed throat.

The Trucker skull-fucked the corpse for several minutes before spilling so much seed that it overflowed the Marine’s crushed throat and mouth, pearly white streams oozing out the corpse’s nose.

He’d kept casually dragging on his smoke the entire time; when he was done, he ground the butt out on the whore’s forehead before stepping into the bathroom and soaking a towel to wipe the glaze of the dead Marine’s cum off his chest, where it was matting the fur.

Returning to the room, the Trucker pulled the white cotton t-shirt down over his massive furry chest; it instantly glued to him with a transparency due to the sweat from his recent workout. Picking up his denim jacket, he approached the bed.

The faggot Marine slut was still twitching and quivering on the bed. There was a small dark burn mark on his forehead where the Trucker had put out his butt, almost invisible against the throttled, blackened skin. The older dude grinned down at the corpse, hoping the homo pig had enjoyed his last few nightmarish minutes on earth.

He turned and walked towards the door, unfastening the multiple locks. As he opened the door, he glanced at his watch—2:42. Perfect. He’d be out of the state before the body was found. He took one last glance around the room to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

As his eyes rested on the convulsing corpse, a glint of light caught the Trucker’s eye. He returned to the bed to notice the Marine’s dog tags catching the light. With one deft motion, he reached down and jerked the chain off the corpse’s neck.

Slipping the dog tags over his own head, the Trucker smiled grimly as he fastened he denim jacket and headed back towards his truck. These cheap-ass textiles ain’t gonna deliver themselves, ya know. And there are so many bars and small towns and truck stops out there.

The Trucker chuckled as his worn ropers thumped across the motel’s tarmac. It was a big country. A veritable buffet of sex and death, just waiting for him…