M4M4Whoreboy

It had been a rough week at work.

 

Joe felt tense and restless.  He usually enjoyed his work—a lot—but sometimes, some people made it unpleasant, especially when they fought—well, it didn’t matter.  It was over.  But Joe couldn’t relax.

 

He turned to his usual resource in times like these—the hookup app on the various phones he’d collected.  He no longer remembered who they’d belonged to; occasionally, he’d dump one to make sure activity couldn’t be traced back to him—but he’d pick up a new one as well, now and then.  It all balanced out.

 

The one he picked up at random was a white iPhone 6.  It had several apps uploaded; Joe chose one, again at random.  Then he leaned back on the sofa and casually scanned through the posts.  The first two pages were a mix of scrawny, effeminate twinks, bald pudgy trolls and obvious fakes using airbrushed models’ photos as profile avatars.  It wasn’t till he hit the third page that something caught Joe’s eye.

 

The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, and his profile said twenty-three.  His chestnut-colored hair was soft and wavy with long bangs, but there was a certain cast to his face betrayed a lack of youthful innocence behind the young face.  The boy’s hazel eyes, wide and long-lashed were slightly sunken and underneath, the flesh was just starting to sag and become lined.

 

The kid was a whore, and probably a junkie.

 

That he was a whore was certain; it was part of his profile:

 

“—Clint, 23, 4.8 miles

Looking for:  generous daddy

Preferred position:  all up in me

Favorite activity:  you pay you pick I do it all”

 

There were a couple more photos, showing Clint in nothing but bikini shorts.  He had a swimmer’s build, slim with taut wiry muscle.  A light coat of dark brown hair furred his belly, condensing into a dark line that ran down to his groin, vanishing beneath the waistband of the shorts.

 

The part about being a junkie was just something that Joe felt; there was nothing to prove, or even specifically indicate it.  But the dark circles under the whore’s eyes, the vague hint of pallor on the boy’s skin—Joe had seen that before.

 

Yeah, this one could get used.  No one would miss it; no one could care.  He could have some fun with the faggot and then—well, not put it out of its misery, no.

 

It was gonna endure a fuck of a lot more misery before he was done with it.

 

The first thing Joe had done when he’d gotten home was take a shower; he still wasn’t dressed.  He took a quick selfie torso shot, nothing above the shoulders or below the waist.  He replied to the post with the image, then strolled casually to the dresser to put some clothes on.  He already knew it wouldn’t be a matter of if the whore would respond back, but when.  And he suspected that it’d be sooner than later.

 

The stupid cunts always responded back.

 

The buff hardman pulled on a pair of jeans, so tight that damn near every vein on his huge cock was visible, and so worn they felt like suede, cinching it to his narrow waist with an inch-wide black leather belt.  Over this went a plain white t-shirt, clean but just as tight as the jeans.  He slipped on a pair of Chippewa eight-inch steel-toed boots, leaving them loosely laced and untied.

 

It was then that the phone buzzed.  Joe had been right; the little whore had responded.

 

“Fuk yeah daddy 100 and u can do what u want make me ur bitch rm 118”

 

Accompanying the notification was a location tag.  Joe didn’t know the Tavern Inn, but he was familiar enough with the part of town it was in to have a pretty good idea of what the place would be like.

 

Yeah, he could have some fun with this one, and no one would complain.  Whores of every gender were found dead in that neighborhood on a monthly, if not weekly, basis.

 

Grinning, the muscled killer paused in front of the mirror.  The jeans tucked onto the boots, the t-shirt so tight his large nipples tented the thin cotton stretched across his broad pecs…yeah, there was no way any fag whore was gonna be able to resist.  But still, it was a chilly evening…

 

When he stepped back in front of the mirror, he’d donned a black leather aviator jacket, zipping it up only a couple of inches from the waist.  It completed the outfit and Joe, satisfied, headed out.

 

Three highway exits and four stoplights later, the homicidal stud pulled his Camaro into the parking lot of the motel.  It was a one-story L-shaped building running back from the street, with the office a separate cinderblock structure across from the end of the hotel building.  No street number was visible, but the backlit sign stretched across the façade of the office read “Tavern Inn”.  Under that was a poster that read “Newly renovated—rooms by the week or month available!”

 

Turning in, Joe drove past the office and back into the motel lot.  Room 118 turned out to be in the far corner, near the end of the building.

 

Avoiding the potholes in the in the poorly-maintained parking lot, Joe parked at the far side, up against a vine-engulfed chain link fence that separated the motel property from the auto body lot next door.  He wasn’t too close to room 118 but he could cross the lot straight from his car without having to pass in front of any other rooms.

 

It got better; a glance back at the office showed a car pulling in and stopping at the entrance.  Anyone on duty was about to be needed at the front desk.  He was out of the car and striding across the lot in a heartbeat, the thick treaded soles of his boots making faint grinding sounds on the loose surface of the deteriorated asphalt.

 

The door in front of him was a faded turquoise.  He gave three sharp taps, it popped open and he stepped in unseen.

 

It was perfect; the fuckmeat had invited him in of its own free will.

 

Inside, the room was dim, but Joe had no problem focusing on Clint.  The well-used young rentboy was wearing nothing but red gym shorts and a pair of red and black Adidas Pro Model kicks.  He stood near the center of the room, his lean, firm body silhouetted by the bedside lamp directly behind him.

 

The sheets on the queen-sized bed were tangled into a mass off to one side; they looked cheap and thin, but they at least appeared clean.  True to the sign out front, the room did seem to have been remodeled, judging by the hastily-installed paneling and the slapdash paint job.  Some of the furniture looked as if it had been expensive at one point, but it was mismatched, marred, and at least a decade out of fashion—possibly leftovers from a hotel liquidation broker.  The heavy musk of mansex and various kinds of smoke was undercut by the sharper tang of paint and toxic chemicals from the cheap paneling.

 

Clint noticed Joe looking around.  “It’s cheap,” he said without any tinge of embarrassment.  “I usually Uber to a trick’s place but I went on a rock binge this afternoon.  Dude offered me some and after I left him, I blew all my cash on more.  Damn—crack’s great, but the down sucks after.  Anyways, now you’re here.  You got the cash?”

 

Joe smiled.  He did have it, and he pulled out his wallet to prove it, opening it up and letting the slut see the Franklin nestled inside.  The moment Clint reached for it, though, he closed it back up and slid it back into his pocket.

 

“Uh-uh,” he said brusquely, “Afterwards.  Let’s see if ya deserve it all first.”

 

There was a brief flash of fire in Clint’s eyes, a last flicker of a human soul that resented the dishonor of the insult.  Then it was gone, as the whore won out.  The punk smiled.  “Time yer done with me, daddy, you’ll wanna take care of me for the rest of my life.”

 

It was Joe’s turn to grin.  “If yer that good, boy, I may do just that.  Now get outta them shorts and let’s see what I’m payin’ for.”

 

Clint grinned and began shucking off his shorts.  While he did so, Joe slipped out of his leather jacket, laying it carefully on the back of an upright chair, then peeled off his shirt as well.  His last action before turning back to face the whoreboy was to unzip his fly and extract his freakishly large cock.

 

The look on Clint’s face when he saw Joe’s monster hog was pure awe.  The kid wasn’t badly hung himself, with nearly eight inches of thick stiff boymeat, but it looked like an overcooked frankfurter compared to the buff fagkiller’s tackle.  Joe noticed Clint’s intimidation and grinned maliciously.

 

“Ya ready to service my dick, boy?  Ready to give it what it deserves?” he jeered as the hot young punk approached slowly, mouth agape and hand reaching out to take Joe’s huge manhood.  There was something in the older man’s tone of voice, though, that made Clint pause—not a red flag, just a hint of something half-acknowledged.  The rentboy hesitated, giving Joe a good once-over.

 

The dude was certainly his type; older, erotically masculine, incredibly well-built.  From his boots and thickly-muscled legs wrapped in denim, up past his gigantic jutting cock, to the coarse, wiry fur spread heavily across his ripped abs and the broad mound of his pecs, the stranger had everything Clint wanted in a man.   And there was something more, something unseen, just below the surface—a hard, cold edge that the slut to which the slut somehow found himself attracted…

 

“Yeah,” he said breathily, “I’m ready to service it, bro.  Whaddaya want me to do?”

 

“Aw, that’s easy,” Joe grinned, “I want you to suffer.”  Clint was only briefly aware of movement on his left side before Joe’s fist slammed into his jaw like a runaway train, stunning the whoreboy and knocking him to the floor.

 

Dazed and groaning, Clint rubbed his aching face, feeling his split lips and swelling skin.  Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, he looked up just in time to see Joe lock the room door and slip the chain on.  As the buff sadist turned and headed back towards him, Clint swiveled into a half-sitting position and spoke up, his voice weak and shaky.

 

“Wh-what th’ fuck, dude?” he whined, “What’s that for?”  He had to crane his neck as Joe loomed over him, cock dangling just above his head.

 

Joe answered in action, not words.  He kicked Clint in the belly, the rigid steel toe of his Chippewa boot sinking deeply into the punk’s firm, flat belly.

 

“HOOG!!” the whore spat out as his breath was violently expelled.  Clutching his injured gut, the kid fell over and writhed on the floor.

 

“Stupid piece a’ shit,” Joe drawled casually, “I toldja I wanted you to suffer.  I wanna see you hurt.  The more pain yer in, the more I get off.  Ya feel me, bitch?  Not yet?  Don’t worry, you will.  You gotta work for my load, cunt, and these little love taps don’t even count as foreplay.”

 

As Clint huddled and sobbed on the floor, Joe raised his leg and stomped on the kid, driving the tread of his boot deep into the soft, smooth flesh on the boy’s back and leaving a detailed black bruise.  It was too much for the young rentboy; he rolled to the side and scrambled on the floor, gasping and desperate to escape.  Clawing at the foot of the bed, he managed to get enough leverage to raise himself upright.

 

But there was nowhere for him to go.  And Joe was right there.

 

“Hey, motherfucker, where ya goin’?” the older man said, and Clint turned to look at him.  The kid’s hazel eyes were huge with fear and bewilderment, but there was something else, too—a wounded look, as if the punk had no right to expect such treatment.

 

Joe’s sense of homicidal contempt shifted into high gear.  The boy was a faggot whore.  If he didn’t already know that this was exactly what he deserved, Joe was gonna go to great lengths to ensure that he learned it thoroughly.

 

Clint open his mouth to speak but he never got a chance.  Joe clocked him in the side of the head, a stunning blow that sent the rentboy staggering across the room into the dresser.  The nude whore clutched at the furniture to keep from falling.

 

When he looked up, Joe was coming at him, fists—and dick—upraised.

 

“NO!” Clint screamed, now truly scared, “Stop!  I didn’t do nothin’—”

 

Whatever the slut thought he could do to avoid the inevitable was useless.  The thickly-muscled hardman descended upon him like the wrath of God, fists raining down blows of unbelievable force.  As the young whore got the living fuck beat out of him, he sank to the floor, arms raised above his head to ward off the hammer-like impacts.

 

That pissed Joe off.

 

“Quit fightin’ me, faggot, and take yer fukkin’ beating.  The more you resist, the more I gotta hurt ya.”  Here Joe bent down, thrusting his hard, grinning, masculine face into the kid’s weeping countenance, “And believe me, motherfucker, I wanna hurt you.”

 

He kicked out hard, swiftly, twice, and was rewarded each time with the crunch of bone as his boot made contact with Clint’s ribs.  The fuckmeat squealed, a bleating, despairing cry of helpless pain.  Joe’s engorged cock throbbed with pleasure at the sound.

 

“Yer mine, asswipe,” he told the terrified rentboy, “Mine to use how I want.  Mine to beat to hamburger and fuck raw.  Mine to use and leave behind like cum-soaked toilet paper.  Hear me, motherfucker?  I wanna cum and I’m gonna use you to do it.”

 

Under other circumstances, the diatribe he’d just heard might have made Clint horny, but the beating he’d suffered drove all thoughts of sex out of his mind.  He’d gotten hold of a crazy john.  He’d heard stories of dangerous tricks who did…things…to the dudes they’d hired, but Clint was too smart for that shit.

 

This wasn’t happening to him.  It couldn’t.  He was too smart…

 

…but if he was so smart, why did he hurt so bad?

 

Then Joe clenched a hank of his thick brown hair and hoisted him aloft.  The pain was excruciating; Clint thought that his scalp was being torn off, but it only lasted until Joe had got him up off the floor.  Then the hardbodied killer grabbed the kid by the throat, releasing his hair and holding him straight out.  Joe’s right bicep bulged with power needed to keep the whoreboy’s Adidas Pros dangling inches above the carpet; as Clint watched wide-eyed in choking horror, a vein in the buff sadist’s arm began to throb.

 

Clint kicked wildly.  Staring the gagging slut in the face and sneering with contempt, Joe calmly and carefully turned and walked to the small round table in the corner of the room.  Unmatched to anything else in the room, it was small and incredibly flimsy, with a particleboard surface inadequately covered by a paper-thin veneer.  Together with an aluminum-framed chair, it served as a desk, but it didn’t allow much room for work given that it also supported a thirty-two-inch no-name flat screen TV.

 

It allowed even less room to work once Joe rammed Clint’s head right through it.

 

It didn’t take much effort to punch the cunt’s skull through the thin particleboard, but the force broke Clint’s nose and lacerated his cheek.  As he hit the floor, the rentboy had the brief, lucid thought that he’d be off his game until his face healed.  Then the pain hit.

 

“Owwww…” he moaned, “Dude…don’t do this… give ya anything ya want…”

 

“Yeah,” Joe said evenly, “Ya sure will.”

 

He bent down and grabbed Clint’s ankles, slowly dragging him out form under the table.  The kid was half-stunned still, but he could feel the motion and fear rose within him, a bitter taste like bile in the back of his throat as his taut young body throbbed in pain.

 

He couldn’t get out of this himself.  He needed help, and he needed it now.

 

“HELP!!” he shrieked, turning his face towards the door, “IN HERE!!  FUCKING HELP OH GOD OH SHIT—GAAGHGHK!!!”

 

Again, Joe responded with the icy precision of a professional killer.  He dropped Clint’s legs, stepped up to the boy’s head and raising his leg, stomped the whore’s face, swiftly, powerfully, brutally.

 

He ground the heel of his Chippewa boot into the faggot’s mouth, his dick pulsating each time he heard the crack of Clint’s jaw snapping.  The cunt gurgled and coughed, hacking up half a dozen of its teeth as the twisted hardman crouched over it and spit in its face.

 

“That’ll keep ya quiet, fuckmeat.  Now shut up and get ready for my dick.”

 

He snagged the rentboy by the throat again; lost in a vast space of fiery agony, Clint felt a faint weightlessness as he was tossed onto the bed on his back.  The impact wasn’t as severe as others he’d already endured, but anything that caused the jagged edges of broken bones to grind together deep inside him caused inexpressible suffering.

 

Joe knew that and planned to take advantage of it.  Of course, he needed to be in the right place to do so.

 

As Clint writhed and moaned in horrible pain, Joe climbed up on the bed, hoisted Clint’s red kicks up to his shoulders, bending the agonized punk in half, and started probing the slut’s anus with the cue-ball-sized head of his dick.  The boy could feel the pressure and he knew what was coming next.  He didn’t want it.

 

His head and face were afire with horrific pain—to the point that his prior injuries weren’t even distant memories—and every attempt to vocalize was cut short by instant agony.  His hands were still free, though, and the moment Joe started to force his member into Clint, the cunt responded with a frenetic, clawing frenzy.

 

The boy’s hands rose up like embattled birds of prey, talons gaping wide, searching for any weak spot.  The impetus given them by Clint’s sheer panic gave them a force the used-up whoreboy could never have attained in the usual course of his wasted life.  His fingers raked Joe’s face, nails digging into the dark, wiry scruff covering the killer’s jaw—not quite enough to draw blood, but much more than enough to piss Joe off.

 

It was a simple disarming move, so to speak; one Joe had often used on the job.  Batting Clint’s left arm away, he wrapped his right arm around it and twisted, forcing the sweaty, gasping youth to strain as hard as he could to stop his arm from being bent backwards at the elbow.

 

Clint failed, of course.  He knew he was gonna fail, and so did Joe—which was why the sick killer felt such an erotic rush as he gazed into the terrified whore’s huge dark eyes just before he ripped the kid’s elbow socket apart like it was a chicken carcass.  There was a gristly cracking sound and the rentboy howled in inarticulate agony, his slim firm body rigid and trembling as it tried to process the trauma.

 

He was still howling when Joe plowed his massive cock up the kid’s ass in a single powerful thrust.  Clint’s screams suddenly spiraled up past an audible pitch.  The sound he was emitting was more like a ragged wheeze than a cry of pain—not that he wasn’t in pain.

 

Clint’s physical suffering was so intense it was nearly hallucinatory; he had a sense that none of this was happening—that he was already dead and was being tormented for his sins.  He’d asked this muscle-bound stud over to give him a nice hard fuck—and at a discount; he’d been horny—and the sudden explosion of violence and pain, with no warning at all, had traumatized his psyche as much as the beatdown had damaged his body.

 

He was getting fucked now, but this wasn’t what he wanted.  Even the fuck itself, as Joe’s enormous unlubed member tore open his unprepared sphincter and ground roughly over his prostate, caused him unspeakable agony.  And his arm…oh fuck, his arm—

 

“Yeah, fucker, yer just what I was lookin’ for tonight,” Joe commented with a wicked grin as his well-developed torso, gleaming with a slight film of perspiration under the dim light, pumped rhythmically between Clint’s smooth thighs.  “I needed a piece of meat to work my frustrations out on.  I can jack yer worthless ass up as much as I want, and ain’t no one gonna care what happens to cheap fag whore, amiright?”

 

Clint wasn’t looking and he was trying not to listen.  In fact, he’d come pretty damn close to putting himself into a trance state—not because he was adept in meditation, but as an instinctive reaction to protect what was left of his fracturing mind from this excruciating nightmare.  He had gone utterly limp, and since every movement brought forth new waves of nauseating pain, he let his tight young body flow with Joe’s thrusts, matching the sadistic top’s vigorous pumping.  It somehow seemed to make everything hurt less.

 

“Uh-uh, cunt.  Yer goin’ slack on my hog, meat.  Ya got all nice and tight when you were sufferin’ an’ now yer actin’ like a cocktease.  That pisses me off, motherfucker.  I showed ya my money, yeah?  And you said whatever I wanted…”

 

Joe’s voice trailed off as he reached down to his crotch with both hands.  The kid hadn’t been able to shut out his assailant’s cruel taunts, but he was gonna keep pairing his motion with that of Joe’s as long as he could.  It was only a sound—a familiar metal clank—that brought him back into hellish reality.

 

The sound was a belt being unbuckled.  Clint couldn’t lift his head much, but he could see Joe on his knees, Clint’s own legs wrapped around his waist.  His sculpted, hirsute torso flexed with each powerful thrust of the hips.  And without missing a beat, the handsome killer was slowly pulling his belt from around his tight waist, winding the long black leather strap around his hand.  Once it was completely off, he unwound it and passed the tip back through the buckle, making a simple but effective garrote.

 

Grinning, he kept eye contact with Clint the entire time.

 

He finally dangled it out over the boywhore’s heaving chest.

 

“You know what this is for, dontcha?”  It was more a statement than a question.  “You know how this is gonna end.  It’s happened to plenty of yer fag whore buddies, yeah?  Now it’s your turn, bitch.

 

Clint’s hazel eyes were huge with panic.  Despite the horrific agony of his mangled mouth, he tried to plead for his life.  He’d heard the stories…and there was his old fuckbuddy Rick, they never caught the guy who did that…

 

This involuntary defense mechanism—drifting off into inconsequentia—was abruptly terminated as Joe slipped the leather noose over Clint’s head and tightened it.  From that moment on, Clint was in the here and now, fighting for every last second of his useless life.

 

This was the point Joe was hard for—the way the cunts always thrashed and jerked when he began throttling their life out.  The most reamed-out whorefucks invariably locked their assholes around his shaft as death set in and they panicked, and this one was no different.

 

Clint’s left arm was useless, but his right worked fine; as his battered and bruised face began to swell and darken even further, he clawed frenetically at the thick leather strap encircling his throat.  It was already sunken so deep that he couldn’t get his fingers under it—all he did was tear at his own flesh until he drew blood.

 

The rentboy’s lithe young body was awash in physical misery; the symptoms of asphyxia that began to occur only added to his suffering.  The tight, fiery ache in his chest, the overwhelming pounding in his head, the excruciating pressure on his throat—and through it all, he was fully aware of the killer’s huge hog plowing his guts.  And his own erection.

 

The dude was snuffing him and fucking him like a rutting boar—and he was so fuckin’ hard it hurt.

 

Somehow that scared him most of all.  It set off a blind panic that transferred the meat’s attention from the belt around its throat to the stud holding the belt; in a flash, the whore’s hand came up, scrambling and digging at Joe’s face.  Even an experienced killer can be caught off guard, and this was one of those occasions; Joe jerked his head back and arced back to keep his face out of the flailing kid’s reach.  Instead, the desperate hand first beat on the buff killer’s broad, muscled chest, then snatched a thick fistful of the older man’s chest hair.  When it jerked back, it didn’t manage to pull out any of the sadist’s fur—but it did manage to piss him off.

 

“Goddam motherfucker,” he growled, grabbing the punk’s wrist with his free hand while keeping the belt tight around its neck with the other.  Slamming the slut’s arm down on its chest, he grabbed its index finger and bent it backwards.

 

“Just don’t get it, ya dumbass fuck?” Joe snarled, “You only exist to make me cum when you die [CRACK].”  The unfortunate whore wasn’t able to scream as its finger was broken, but with his dick, Joe could feel the way the pain registered in its ass.  He grinned with pleasure and moved on to the next finger.

 

“You need to stop fightin’ me, faggot, and die like the fuckin’ slutpig you are [CRACK].”  Again, the meat clenched its sphincter in agony.  Joe held the belt around its throat steady, neither increasing nor decreasing the pressure.  The bitch’s air was sealed off—but it was still reversible, and the whore knew it.  It didn’t matter what Joe said, it had to believe it could survive.

 

Good.  The more it suffered, the more it milked Joe’s cock.  He moved on to the third finger.

 

“You know it yerself, asswipe; you know this is why you were put on this planet.  That’s why yer pathetic fag dick is hard [CRACK].”  Blackened and twisted in nightmarish pain, the punk’s once-handsome face had become a grotesque mask of agony.  Its wavy hair was dark and matted with sweat, the hazel eyes were red with hemorrhages and bulging frantically from their sockets.  A swollen purple tongue protruded from the loose, mangled mouth as foamy drool oozed down its chin.

 

And even so, there was still some Clint left inside to hear Joe’s words, and as his brain progressively died of oxygen deprivation, the sadistic sex killer’s perverted logic made sense to the young rentboy.  And when the next blast of pain came, some sick part of him was eager for it.  When Joe bent the pinky finger not backward but outward, off the side of the hand, Clint had become an almost mindless being, living solely for the sake of the next intense stimulus—looking for one intense enough for…but the lucid thought was interrupted.

 

Joe was close; he could feel his hot potent seed churning in his huge, hairy sack, but he still had some last rage to vent, and he did it by using the whore’s face as a punching bag, pounding the fucker with both left and right jabs, transferring the belt from one hand to the other.  With each blow, the cunt’s firm smooth body jerked violently; the legs curled and kicked.

 

If the whore hadn’t already suffered irreversible brain damage, Joe’s beating would have had the same effect.  As it was, the punk flailed violently enough to kick off the Adidas Pro on its left foot; the sneaker tumbled to the floor as the toes curled in death agony inside the white ped sock.

 

And still some part of Clint held on.  Something more, yes, it needed something more.

 

Joe could feel his dick begin to tingle and swell.  He could also feel the rentboy’s hot rigid shaft pressed against his own furry ripped abs; the fuck was still hard even after he’d pulped its face.  It wasn’t dead yet.  He could still see the huge puppy-dog eyes, now red and staring.  He was about to blow, and the fag didn’t deserve to see it.

 

He splayed out his huge strong hand and pressed it onto the slut’s ruined face.  At the same time, he dug his Chippewa boots into the bed, wrapped the end of the belt a couple of time around his other hand, and gave it a brutally powerful jerk.

 

In a fraction of a second, the whoreboy’s esophagus collapsed just above the larynx, the cartilage crushed into a wad of gristle.  At the same time, three cervical vertebrae—C2, 3 and 4—were dislocated, mangling the spinal cord.

 

The tiny spark of painpig soul left in the cheap whore finally found justification for its ultimate orgasm in death.  As the massive trauma to its central nervous system sent the cunt’s slim but strong body into violent convulsions, it began to spew semen from its hard thick rod like an oil well striking a gusher.

 

Joe felt the hot spray of boycum on his thickly-furred belly at the same time he felt the punk’s rectum grip his pulsing tool and milk his load out as if there was a conscious effort to make him shoot.

 

“Fuckin’ die, ya worthless faggot!” Joe roared, and as he hosed the meat’s intestines with his seething manload, he jerked the belt again, ripping the bitchboy’s spinal cord out of its skull.  The meat responded with one last violent jerk, the limbs drawing in and wrapping around Joe as if giving its killer one last embrace.

 

Then the whore flopped back, quivering and trembling, utterly owned and used.

 

Joe collapsed on top of it, heaving and spent, the weight of his furry muscled body pressing the shuddering corpse into the mattress.  After a few minutes, he’d caught his breath and began the slow process of peeling his cum-matted chest off the corpse’s torso while simultaneously extracting his still-oozing hog from its ass.

 

Climbing off the bed, he headed for the bathroom, his boots echoing loudly off its tiled surfaces.

 

The smell of new grout was overwhelming; even the thin, rough towels were new.  Joe found their sandpaper-like texture perfect for scrubbing congealed slutcum out of his wiry chest fur and off his massive schlong.  Tossing the towel into the toilet—which reeked of bleach—he tucked his enormous manhood back into his jeans and returned to the bedroom.

 

The room was mess, but the splayed corpse of the horribly beaten rentboy took center stage.  Spread-eagled on its back, with its parted legs and cum-dripping ass pointed directly towards the door, Joe decided it couldn’t be better posed if he’d done it deliberately.  He decided to leave his belt where it was; it was so buried in the dead whore’s throat, it’d be difficult to remove in any case.

 

Striding to the chair where he’d left his clothing, Joe picked up the t-shirt and balled it up.  He was still warm from his well-deserved and very satisfying workout; He slipped on the leather jacket and stuffed the t-shirt into its pocket.  He headed out the door without a backwards glance at the boy whose life he’d just so viciously and cold-bloodedly ended.

 

He took the T-tops off his Camaro for the drive home, basking in the crisp cool air with deep sense of well-being.

 

 


 

 

“Hey Danilo, whatcha got?”

 

The beat cop paused in the open doorway of the motel room, leaning against the jamb and glancing up at the detective, his face weary and his expression jaded.

 

“It’s a bad one.  Fag whore was offed.  Cocksucker died hard.”

 

“Bad trick?”

 

“Probably.  Manager says he’d been here about a month.  No regular hours.  Had guys in and out all the time.”

 

“ME seen him yet?”

 

“No, they’re on the way.”

 

The detective stepped into the room and took a good long look.  He returned to the beat cop.

 

“Musta been pretty goddam violent, and doesn’t look like it happened too long ago—you ask if anyone heard anything?”

 

The cop grimaced.  “C’mon, man, you know this place as well as I do.  Remember that chick that they hauled outta here last month?  The one that was gonna testify against that biker gang?  They held her down and injected her with battery acid and didn’t no one here hear or see a goddam thing.  You think anyone’s gonna care a pansy whore gets offed?”

 

The detective sighed.  “Yeah, I know, but its my job to ask.  Yer right, though, might was well sign off on this one and shove it to the back of the caseload pile.  Ain’t no one cares about these wastes of human flesh.  Tell the guys from the ME’s office to send me their report; I got crimes against real human beings to solve.”

 

The beat cop watched the detective walk off with contempt.  Figured he’d be the one left here with the stiff corpse of a worthless homo slut, waitin’ for the meat wagon to show up.  Like anyone would give a shit if he tossed it in the dumpster and went and had a beer.  If those ME dudes didn’t show up soon, that’s exactly what he’d do…

Trucker 18–Trucker vs Teen Fuckmeat

It was when he got off the interstate in Holbrook that the Trucker first began to notice how the wind was picking up.  While it was true that winter driving in the Arizona desert didn’t have the same dangers as, say, the Midwest, it was still cold—and now the wind was building.

 

An even colder front was moving in, and the straight-line winds were expected to be intense for the next twelve hours.  He was headed for a little place in the national forest south of Zeniff—a small consignment load—but he didn’t need to be there till tomorrow evening.  Might be a good idea to pull over and let the front pass through.

 

And anyway, he was overdue for a kill.

 

The urge had been building in him again; he was almost surprised how quickly it’d come back.  But the need to beat a faggot to a pulp and drain his balls into its quivering meat was almost overwhelming.  Maybe he’d find a playtoy at the next stop.

 

If there was a next stop.  The empty desert receded into the darkness on all sides surrounding the Trucker’s rig; as the wind increased, though visibility decreased as dust began to billow across the two-lane state highway.  Suddenly, the Trucker noticed a hazy glow in the distance.

 

It turned out to be an intersection in what was literally a one-traffic-light town.  A county road crossed the highway; to the south was a small cluster of ramshackle frame houses.  To the north, nothing was visible in the immediate area.  All four corners of the intersection were occupied.

 

To the Trucker’s immediate left was a truck stop—a small one, not part of a chain.  It’d give him a place to park, but it didn’t appear to have many amenities.  Two trucks were already in the lot, one hauling a Walmart trailer, the other a refrigerated unit.  On the other side of the county road was an ancient motor court motel, complete with neon sign.  Most of the neon was out, but enough remained for the Trucker to make out the name “Ranch Hand’s Rest”.

 

Continuing counter-clockwise, across the highway a dollar store, now closed for the night but with its parking lot still brightly lit.  The remaining corner was occupied by a fast-food joint, also closed for the evening.

 

The Trucker eased his rig into the lot and circled in the back, pulling around so that it was facing back out.  No sense in wasting valuable time later on trying to turn the thing around.  Once he was satisfied with his parking job, he killed the engine and climbed out.

 

He paused for a moment to zip his black leather aviator jacket up against the cold wind; underneath, he was wearing nothing but a thin cotton t-shirt.  His muscled legs, wrapped in tight, faded jeans, powered him swiftly across the parking lot towards the truck stop.  The heavy tread of his black Chippewa logger boots was almost muffled by the ragged gusts of icy air.

 

The air inside the truck stop wasn’t icy, but it was far less pleasant, heavily laden as it was with grease and the scorched scent of food that had been sitting under a heat lamp for too long.  The cashier, it appeared, also had to maintain a small “deli” with offerings of hard, dry chicken tenders, rubbery breakfast tacos and pizzas pooled with red grease.  There were a couple of booths between the counter and the racks of merchandise, but the entire place seemed empty.

 

“Men’s room?” the Trucker barked at the half-asleep cashier.

 

“In the back on the left,” she said with a jerk of her head to indicate the direction, then became instantly engrossed in her phone again.

 

The doorway to the rear hall was between two wall coolers.  The hallway was short, starkly lit, paved with tile, had two doors for two restrooms—and a boy.

 

He was leaning against the far wall, near the door to the men’s room, and he was eyeing the Trucker pretty openly.  He looked young—late teens at most, way too young to be whoring himself out.  And he was dressed like a typical teenager in a white fleece hoodie, skin-tight skinny jeans and white canvas Vann SK8-HIs.

 

But the way he leaned against the wall, one leg thrust out and bent back at the knee so the sole of his sneaker was on the wall—and the deep glittering light of lust in his large brown eyes…

 

The Trucker headed into the men’s room.  No sense rushing anything.  He’d let the kid make the first move; if the little fuck was looking for some dick, well, the Trucker would be happy to oblige.  He had plenty of dick to offer, and a lot more to go with it.

 

He was still standing at the urinal, grinning and pounding out piss, when he heard the door open behind him.  He didn’t even need to look to know it was the boy.

 

“How much to suck my cock, boy?” he asked evenly.

 

There was a faint gulp behind him, then the kid’s voice stammered forth, “Tw-twenty bucks.  Up-up front.”

 

“Not in here.  You got a place?”

 

“Uh, yeah—over in the motel.”

 

Without responding, the Trucker shook off his massive hog, shoved it back into his jeans, and stepped to the sink to wash his hands.  In the mirror, he could see the boy waiting anxiously behind him.  Even in the reflection, the thick bulge in the kid’s crotch was visible, and the way the boy kept rubbing his hand over it didn’t make it any less obvious.

 

The hulking sadist saw his own smile grow more pointed.  The little faggot wanted it bad.  And bad was exactly what he was gonna get.

 

“Okay,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, “Get out.  Wait for me outside.”

 

The kid blinked and paused for a moment.  “Uh—okay.  I’ll be out on the curb.  Name’s, uh, name’s Quinn…”

 

The Trucker ignored him.  There was another pause, then the kid left.

 

After washing up, the Trucker casually strolled back into the store and bought a cup of black coffee.  Figuring enough time had gone by to disassociate him from the boy, he headed back outside, sipping at his cup.

 

The coffee tasted like diesel fuel, but the fuckmeat was exactly where he was supposed to be.  The kid seemed eager, almost bouncing on the toes of his hightops.  “C’mon, this way,” he called out as the Trucker approached him.  The boy began to cross the street.  “I’ve got the one on the end, right here.  See?  Real close.  Got an arrangement with the manager; I get the same one every weekend.  Not like there’s enough business to hafta worry about it bein’ booked…”

 

The Trucker let the punk babble away, focusing his attention on the way the kid’s tight jeans cradled the firm mounds of his asscheeks and anticipating what it’d feel like to force the swollen purple head of his cock between them.

 

“…and man, if my folks found out what I was doin’, I’d be in such deep shit.  I mean, fuck, dude, I got my big bro’s car while he’s off at school—he’d beat the shit outta me if he knew.  And my dad…”

 

The boy kept on, the silent footfalls of his Vanns drowned out by the heavy tread of the Trucker’s Chippewas, as he led the way back to his room—and to his doom.

 

As he’d said, it was the room on the end, marked with a small plastic plaque inscribed “17”.  Directly in front of the door sat a black 2010 Mustang convertible—the car the little fuck wasn’t supposed to be driving.  It was one of three cars in the lot—and one of those, parked way over by the office, was evidently the night clerk’s.

 

Inside, the quality of the motel matched its occupancy rate.  As the Trucker leaned back against the door on surreptitiously engaged both the deadbolt and the chain lock, he glanced around to take a quick survey of the room.

 

The room was unpleasantly dim, with cheap worn carpeting in a shade of dark green not popular since the seventies—from which decade the dark, splintery plywood paneling seemed to come as well.  There was a bed, covered by a scratchy polyester comforter with a gaudy floral pattern, with a nightstand that held a phone, a digital alarm clock and metal lamp with a dented shade.

 

There was a desk/dresser combo unit, cigarette burns scattered over its surface like chicken pox.  The mirror over the desk section was intact but badly warped; just looking at the skewed reflection made the Trucker dizzy.  A small flat screen TV stood on the dresser, pointed at the bed, next to it was a cable box.

 

Just past the dresser was the opening into the restroom.  Even from the entrance, the Trucker could see the cracks in the grout between the ancient white tiles.  And it didn’t take a drug-sniffing dog to determine the bathroom was the source of the overpowering scent of cheap antiseptic that almost—but not quite—drowned out the reek of stale cigarette smoke.  Not that the AC unit was helping the air quality.  Located under the front window, it rattled and clanked like a rollercoaster as it exuded fetid puffs of dry, scorching air into the already-overheated room.

 

While the Trucker scoped out the room, Quinn pulled off his hoodie, showing that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.  The skin on his slim, boyish torso was firm and clear.  There was a faint down of hair on his flat belly, but otherwise his chest was smooth but for his large pink nipples.

 

“I get paid first, dude.  Sorry, but it’s a house rule.  Gotta have the cash up front,” he said casually as he sat on the bed and kicked off his sneakers—they were loosely laced and left untied for easy on/off action, it seemed.

 

The Trucker, in the middle of sliding off his leather jacket, grinned.  “Sure,” he said nonchalantly as he folded the jacket over the back of the chair by the desk.  He dug into his back pocket and fished out his wallet, taking a twenty out and replacing the wallet.  The kid wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy trying to peel his skin-tight jeans off.  The Trucker palmed the bill and pulled his own t-shirt off, laying it over his jacket.

 

Finally out of his clothes—he’d been freeballing under the jeans—Quinn slipped his kicks back on and stood up.  “Hey, I gotta hit the restroom real quick; you wanna—”

 

He broke off at his first glimpse of the Trucker half-dressed, wearing only his jeans and laced workboots.  The twink’s greedy little eyes went straight to the glittering point of light in the middle of the hunk’s muscular, fur-covered chest—the Trucker’s dogtags, nestled in the dark mass of wiry fur between the huge mounds of his pecs.

 

Quinn’s dick, already hard, began to visibly pulsate.  Smirking, the Trucker held out the twenty.  The boy gulped and reached out for it unsteadily, still focused on the stud’s amazing physique.  “I, uh…thanks…” he mumbled, turning and laying on the nightstand.  As he turned, he heard the unmistakable sound of the Trucker unzipping his fly.

 

He was right.  When he turned back around, the hardbodied killer had managed to extract the full length of his enormous, vein-wrapped horsedick.

 

Despite Quinn’s obvious desire to get to the bathroom, the Trucker’s cock hypnotized him like a snake hypnotizing its prey.  And though Quinn had no way of knowing it yet, its venom was just as deadly.

 

The slow, steady of movement of the Trucker removing his belt broke the trance.  The clank of the large brushed-silver buckle and the stealthy sound of the inch-and-a-half wide strap of black leather sliding among the denim loops stirred something in Quinn.

 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back…” he said hesitantly, then darted into the bathroom and locked the door.  Behind him, the Trucker laid the belt over his shirt and jacket.  He could afford to be patient.

 

Quinn wasn’t as quiet in the bathroom as he thought he was; even through the closed door, the Trucker could hear the click of a lighter and the hissing, bubbling sound of the kid inhaling some kind of drug.  In a small town like this, that probably meant meth.

 

Well, that was fine.  Little fuck should be off his guard when he came out.

 

The Trucker was right.  Thirty seconds later and high as fuck, Quinn stepped out of the bathroom with a big grin on his face and a big erection between his legs.  “Hey, man, yer gonna hafta take it easy with that big dick you—”

 

The Trucker sucker-punched the teen in the jaw.  Stunned, Quinn slammed back into the bathroom door, then slumped to the floor—not unconscious, but too dazed to be functional.  He was aware that the buff older man had hit him, and had then moved away.

 

“Wh-wh-wh…” he tried to start, but speaking hurt.  A lot.

 

Then he heard a harsh slapping sound—a single slap, actually, repeated slowly and menacingly.  Painfully turning his head, Quinn tried to see what was happening.

 

He was at ground level, looking across.  The first thing he could see were the untied laces of the Trucker’s dirty, well-worn Chippewas.  Raising his eyes up the thick, denim-clad legs, he was again confronted by the sadist’s frighteningly huge cock.  But the source of the sound was above that.  Quinn looked up to see the cruel serial killer standing over him with the doubled-over belt in one hand, ginning and slapping the palm of his other hand with it.

 

“Wh-whath’fuck?” the young faggot managed to mutter.

 

“Just gonna have a little fun, dude,” the Trucker chuckled, his deep bass voice vibrating the root of Quinn’s cock, still somehow semi-hard even after the assault.  “Just gonna beat the fuck outta ya, rape yer worthless homo ass, and snuff ya—don’t that sound like fun?”

 

Quin glanced up in disbelief just in time to see the Trucker’s powerful arm snap downward.  Cringing, the lean teenager threw his left arm up to block the blow.  It turned out to be an excruciating maneuver.  Even doubled over, the thick leather strap hit the boy’s arm with such force, it wrapped itself around it momentarily.  With sadistically perfect timing, the Trucker viciously jerked the belt back towards himself.

 

The snapping of the bones in Quinn’s forearm breaking was less noticeable than the shearing sound as an inch-and-a-half wide strip of the outer layer of skin completely circling his arm was flayed off.

 

For a moment, the amateur boywhore sat wide-eyed, staring in horror at his raw, dangling forearm—then the pain hit and he screamed.  Briefly.

 

“Shaddap,” the Trucker snarled and lashed him across the face.

 

That got a quick, loud shriek, then the boy collapsed to the floor.  The Trucker stood over him for a moment, looking down, gloating, and fondling his stiff manhood.  Then he dug into the pockets of his folded jacket, pulled out his pack of Marlboros and leaned back to burn one as the punk queerboy sobbed sloppily on the floor.

 

“You lucky-ass motherfucker,” he jeered, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the already stale air of the motel room, “You get to take my load.  I was lookin’ for some hot boymeat for a beatdown and a good pump an’ dump—an’ there you were.  Course, a dumbass teen fag like you takes a lotta beatin’ ‘fore its ready for my dick.”  He paused for effect, taking another drag.  The fuckmeat was still sniveling, but it was listening.

 

Good.  It needed to know what to expect.  It needed to be prepared to receive his shaft, and that meant a good manual tenderizing.

 

He stubbed out his smoke.  “Ready, motherfucker?  I’m gonna beat ya like a bitch, just cause it gets my dick hard to hurt teenaged faggots before I dick ‘em down.  Got it?  Then let’s get started.”  Standing over the prone youth, he brandished the belt again, wielding it like a whip and brought it down on smooth, silky flesh of Quinn’s back with a sound like a pistol shot.

 

This time Quinn didn’t squeal or shriek; he flat-out screamed.  The intense, slashing pain across his tender adolescent flesh was too much to endure.  He scrabbled wildly on the floor on all fours like an animal, then, regaining his feet as if by magic, bolted right past the Trucker, heading for the door.

 

The Trucker lunged after him, more out of rage that the faggot was trying to avoid what was coming to it than out of any concern it would get free.  His experience with snuffing homos in motel rooms served him well; Quinn managed to get the deadbolt unlocked with the hand on his working arm, but maddened by pain and terror, fumbled uselessly with the chain.  The twink slut’s escape attempt was as useless as everything else in his wasted life.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then was whirled around and pinned up against the door, slamming it shut again.  Then, before the young cunt could say anything, plead for its life, anything—the Trucker’s right hand shot out and clamped around its throat like a vise.  Quinn gagged involuntarily, his eye wide as his air was cut off and he was literally deadlifted straight off the floor.

 

As his hightops drummed against the door, Quinn could see the massive bicep of the Trucker’s arm bulging with seemingly effortless power while holding him off the ground.  The buff older man tossed the belt over his shoulder, then reached out with his left hand, over Quinn’s shoulder—and re-locked the deadbolt.

 

“Where ya think yer goin’ motherfucker?” the Trucker asked Quinn with a cold, hard grin on his hyper-masculine face, “This party ain’t even got started yet, you cunt.  I gotta work off a little stress before I can settle down and choke yer faggot life out with my dick up yer ass.  I toldja that already, but you small-town homos gotta have everything beaten into ya, right, dumbass?”

 

Quinn, his face purple and swelling, was in no position to answer back.  His legs and his good arm scrambled frantically as he dangled and choked in the sadistic serial killer’s powerful grip.  He pawed frenetically at the Trucker’s broad chest.  The stud’s pecs, hard as marble, suffered no visible damage from the twink’s one-handed onslaught, but once Quinn curled his fingers in the older man’s wiry chest hair and began pulling, the dying punk became a nuisance.  And when he caught the Trucker’s dogtags inadvertently and nearly yanked them off, the buff psycho had had enough.  He spun around and flung Quinn through the air with the ease of a rag doll.

 

Violent motion, an even more violent impact, then a hazy darkness filled with pain were what Quinn experienced next.  He didn’t know he’d been thrown into the dresser and that his smooth young teen body had broken the mirror and smashed the television before it fell back limp to the floor.  What he did know, when he became aware of his surroundings, was that he was in agony—and he could hear that slapping sound again.

 

The guy was coming back.  The hot, sexy guy, the one he’d wanted so bad…the one who was hurting him so bad…

 

Quinn forced his eyes open.  Again, he was at ground level.  Again, those dirty Chippewa boots were approaching…but this time, he knew what it meant.  But he’d let his mind wander.  He was only vaguely aware of the sudden movement of his assailant, and didn’t even have time to flinch as the Trucker swung the belt at him again.

 

Except this time, it wasn’t a single swing.

 

As Quinn cowered and squealed like a pig under the repeated lashes of the heavy belt, the muscle-bound sadist felt his huge, stallion-like shaft begin to pulse and ooze with bloodlust.  Every loud slap of leather on skin, every bleat of agony from the crouching, helpless teen slut, propelled another drop of hot precum out of the thick purple head of his dick.

 

Then, for a moment, it stopped.  The Trucker stepped away, fired up another smoke, and observed his prey for a moment.

 

The youth’s back was no longer the smooth expanse of pale silky skin it had been before.  The Trucker’s foreplay had left the slut covered in red, angry welts.  On at least two occasions, the violent lashing had broken the boy’s skin, and a thin trickle of blood was creeping down the whimpering kid’s flank.

 

The Trucker took another drag, walked back to the prone, shuddering punk and knelt down by his head.  He exhaled the smoke into the cunt’s face.  “Ya ready, motherfucker?” the buff killer asked jovially.  “Ready to die on my cock like a worthless fag?”

 

Quinn was swimming in a sea of pain, but he was aware enough to understand what was being said to him.

 

“N-no…” he gasped, turning his huge, tear-filled eyes up to his tormentor in desperation, “Pl-please…no-no…”

 

“You ain’t ready?” the Trucker taunted in mock surprise, “Ok, I guess I need to kick some sense into ya, huh?”

 

And without another work, he drew back his foot and kicked Quinn in the side with his steel-toed work boot, hard enough to break two of the little fuck’s ribs in several places.  The writhing cunt’s shrieks of pain began to annoy the brutal sadist; his next kick was directly to Quinn’s face, silencing the faggot by breaking his jaw.  The boy continued to sob and moan as the Trucker kicked him twice more in the flank, breaking more ribs and further shattering the ones he’d already broken.

 

By the time the Trucker stopped kicking Quinn and, shoving the toe of a boot under him, flipped him over onto his back, the teen homo was bleeding internally from half a dozen wounds to his guts caused by bone shards.  As he lay on his back, gasping, his sweet young face a bloody wreck, the Trucker leaned over him, spit in his face, then stomped him twice, leaving the imprint of the deep tread of his boots imprinted on the boy’s flat belly.  Then he bent down and ground out the glowing butt of his smoke on the whore’s smooth, tender flesh.  It sizzled for a moment before the sadistic alpha reached out for the boymeat again.

 

Quinn’s entire universe had shrunk to a tiny bubble of agony; trapped inside it, the kid wasn’t able to realize that the hardbodied psycho had picked him up by the throat again—the young cunt couldn’t breathe anyway.  And he was barely able to register the sense of flight as he was flung like garbage across the room again.

 

He damn sure felt it when he hit the wall and crushed a hole in the drywall, though.  He felt it even more when he fell back and smashed the nightstand, sending everything on it crashing to the floor.  And even as he bounced back, to lay stretched and trembling across the bed, he could hear a jangling noise that made him look up.

 

The Trucker had looped the belt around his own neck at some point—the noise was the silver buckle striking the dogtags as the powerful sadist closed in.  As Quinn watched, the older man slowly drew the belt from his neck.  Grinning with evil lust, he held the looped leather strap out as he approached the trapped, defenseless teenager.

 

And Quinn realized that the moment that strap got around his neck, he was dead.  Even if he hadn’t been injured, he was in no way strong enough to fend off the hairy, muscled serial killer he’d willingly invited in.

 

The Trucker tossed the belt down onto the bed next to Quinn’s head; the boy would have grabbed for it but for his broken arm—and the fact that he was paralyzed by terror.  The sinewy, hulking killer loomed over him, grinning with obviously sadistic intent, the slowly turned and paced to the end of the bed, letting Quinn get a look at the way his lat muscles tensed and flowed and the tight bunching of his glutes as he walked.  The man literally exuded power in his pheromones and his physique managed to inspire Quinn with both lust and despair—the latter because the more he saw of the Trucker, the more futile he felt any escape attempt to be.

 

The hardbodied stud stopped at the foot of the bed, grabbed the teen’s legs, and parted them effortlessly, despite Quinn’s best attempts to keep them closed.  It didn’t matter.  Nothing he did mattered.  And then there was a sudden pressure against his sphincter—

 

“Keep fightin’ it, faggot, I love when th’ meat squirms on my thick fuckin’ manshaft,” the Trucker sneered, and shoved.

 

Quinn screamed.  Loud and shrill, it was torn from the depths of his slim teenaged body as the older man’s huge cock plowed through his rectum like a runaway train, ripping his asshole mercilessly as it pounded his prostate and plunged into his intestines.  In the nightmarish waves of searing pain that pummeled his lithe, smooth form with each brutal thrust of the Trucker’s hips, the young homo wasn’t aware that his own tube of boymeat was stiffly slapping his rapist’s ripped abs—and was already smearing the Trucker’s belly fur with teen precum.  He just kept screaming.

 

Not for long, though.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ bitch,” the Trucker grunted and punched Quinn in the face, rocking his head back.  The kid moaned and peered blearily up at his assailant through his right eye—the left one was already swelling and turning black.

 

“Fuck yeah, ya dumbass cunt,” the sick stud growled as he placed the punk’s legs on his shoulders and dug his work boots into the sheets for better traction, “Now yer feelin’ me, yeah?  Huh?  Lemme know if you can feel this!”  He began to ride the teenaged slut like a bronco, pounding his shaft so hard and so fast into Quinn’s colon that his huge scrote slapped the boy’s hormone-filled balls like billiards, striking with such force that it damn near bruised the kid’s sack.

 

Instinctively, Quinn closed his eyes and tried to struggle, but the heavy mass of the muscled stud pinned him down prostrate on the bed.  He could hear a jingling somewhere but didn’t connect it to the Trucker’s dogtags until he felt the cold metal on his chest.  He opened his eyes—to the extent he could open the left—and found the older man’s hard, unshaven face next to his.

 

“It’s been fun, fuckmeat, but I gotta get some rest.  Time to blow a load and go catch some Z’s.  Time to die.”

 

He held up the belt, giving the terrified cocksucker a gentle smile that he couldn’t hold.  It broadened into a shark-like grin almost immediately.

 

“Ready to get yer pitiful life choked out, faggot?”

 

The lithe young teen was in more pain and more fear than he could have believed possible, but the thought of being released from his torment into the dark freedom of death filled him with cold terror.  “No, please,” he whimpered, “Please, don’t—”

 

The Trucker looped the belt back through its buckle, making a simple noose.  Quinn kept babbling.

 

“Oh fuck no, please, please, oh god, please, for fuck’s sake don’t do this—”

 

The Trucker grinned again.  With his enormous rod still planted firmly in the boy’s ass, he slowly lowered the leather noose over the kid’s head.

 

“Oh god no please no fuck oh shit oh fuck don’t nonoNONO—GACK!!”

 

His pleas were choked off as the Trucker jerked the thick strap tight, sealing off Quinn’s windpipe and silencing the faggot forever.

 

The young homo fought with the strength left in him; consciously, he knew it was hopeless, but the animal midbrain in his adolescent mind continued to try to claw its way to air.  Sadly for the teen slut, the fact that he was flailing both arms in panic didn’t prevent him from feeling every last agonizing grind of bone on bone as his broken arm thrashed impotently.

 

His right arm and hand worked perfectly well, though.  The Trucker watched the cunt dig vainly at the leather belt sunk deep into its throat flesh.  As the lean teen body shuddered beneath him, his wiry body hair scraped the smooth young flesh.

 

Suddenly, Quinn changed his focus.  His hand came up, fingers hooked into talons, and he began to gouge at the older man’s face. The Trucker was still pumping steadily, feeling the sperm start to seethe in his overloaded, aching balls—he had no intention of taking any shit from a goddam sack of fuckmeat that was only still alive because he hadn’t cum yet.

 

He plowed his fist into its face three times in a row; fast, jackhammer blows that squashed the bitch’s nose like a rotten tomato, with a nice satisfying squelching sound, blackened its other eye and knocked out three teeth.

 

The last impact, the one that knocked out the teeth, was to the lower jaw.  But the dying meat had been without air long enough for its tongue to start swelling, protruding from between the blue lips with a gush of foamy drool.  The hardbodied stud’s sucker-punch snapped the jaw closed; the cunt bit through its tongue, damn near severing the tip.

 

“Fuckin’ take it,” the rutting alpha snarled, spitting in the fuckmeat’s face, his spittle flowing into the pink foam trickling down the punk’s face, “Take my fuckin’ dick and die, ya piece a’ shit!”

 

As their bellies slapped together in the throes of violently forced mansex, the Trucker could feel the teen’s hard, oozing cock being pressed against his furry ripped abs.  The little fuck was nearly brain-dead, but asphyxia and the vigorous prostate massage provided by brutal assrape kept its tool stiff and leaking.

 

The Trucker was almost there.  He could feel his seed starting to boil over, the electric tingling deep at the root of his gigantic rod that let him know he was about to spew his thick potent alpha load.  The meat needed to die.  Now.

 

It was almost there anyway.  Quinn was gone; all that was left was a convulsing sack of teen boymeat.  The swollen face, bruised and black, was unrecognizable.  The entire thrashing body was covered in cold death sweat, literally squeezed out of it along with its worthless life.  The cunt’s left arm was convulsing just as powerfully as the right, the broken limb flopping grotesquely about.

 

And still the boymeat drooled and gurgled.  The Trucker had to feel it die, had to feel that final clenching of its colon as it suffered its final agony.  It was easy enough to do.

 

He jerked the belt forward, roughly, swiftly, with one hand while swinging with the other fist, deep, piston-like punches that drove the fag’s skull savagely backwards.  As the thick strap around the spine went in one direction and the cranium on top of it went another, there was a loud crackling noise—the erotic sound of the teen fuckmeat’s top two cervical vertebrae shattering and slashing through its spinal column.

 

That was what the Trucker had been waiting for—that final intense overload of the central nervous system.  Oh fuck, the way the boycunt’s rectum seemed to collapse on his tool, almost sucking his scalding semen out—

 

“Fuck!” he cried out, “Fuck! Fuck! OH FUCK!!!”

 

He hunched over, his massive, muscle-bound body shuddering and convulsing itself as he pressed the still-thrashing corpse of the teenager beneath him, cursing and beating its face in.  Despite the intensity of his release, the alpha was dimly aware of a splash of warmth against his abs and up into his thick chest fur as the meat unloaded involuntarily during its death throes.  It didn’t matter.

 

The Trucker had so much cum to drain out of his balls he spent the next five minutes hosing the dead slut’s innards with his hot manseed.  After his scrote emptied, he spent another couple of minutes relaxing and catching his breath with his cock still jammed up the dead kid’s ass.  Finally, reluctantly, he took a deep breath, pulled his hog out of the corpse, and headed to the bathroom to wash up.

 

He wasn’t in any hurry.  He wasn’t in a position to know that the boycunt had spent the entire weekend whoring itself out, but he’d figured out enough to know that the little fuck was getting banged here on a regular basis.  And he’d made damn sure no one had seen them together, or had seen him enter this room.  Or even approach the motel, for that matter.

 

It took a few minutes to scrub the thick ropy strands of boyspunk out of his chest and belly fur, but he had enough experience to know that teen boys are cum bombs, full of semen, waiting to go off at any moment.  He was an expert at setting them off, and didn’t mind cleaning up some of the mess afterwards.

 

Only some of it, though.  As he re-entered the bedroom and slipped his shirt back on, he lit up a traditional after-sex cigarette and leaned back against the door, proudly surveying his handiwork.

 

The body was sprawled face-up on the bed, legs and arms both spread wide, with the left arm bent at an unnatural angle.  He’d left the belt where it was; it was sunk so deeply into the fucker’s neck, it’d probably have to be cut off.

 

Above the collapsed section of the esophagus, there was little recognizable of the boywhore once known as Quinn.  Even the hair was matted and dark with sweat.  The face was a grotesque swollen purple mask.  The body, aside from the left arm and some heavy bruising on the torso, was relatively unmarked, but the torso was completely smeared with cum.

 

The corpse’s feet still shuddered and kicked as random signals shot down its ruined nervous system.  One of the cunt’s Vann hightops had come off and was on the floor beside the bed; the Trucker could see the toes curling in death agony inside the ankle-high ped sock.  The other hightop sneaker scraped and jerked randomly over the cheap thin sheet.

 

The room itself was mute testimony to the violence of the Trucker’s need to cum.  The TV and mirror were in pieces on the floor, the wall over the head of the bed was damaged and the nightstand and its contents destroyed.

 

The hardbodied alpha grinned and finished his smoke.  Just looking at the scene made his cock throb again, but he needed sleep.  He slipped on his leather jacket and quickly left the room, setting the lock in the doorknob to engage as he left.  Whoever entered the room next would need a key.

 

It was past two in the morning as his Chippewa boots echoed on the pavement as he crossed back to his cab.  No one was out to see him.  He gave the truck stop itself a wide berth to avoid being spotted by anyone at the counter and made it back to his rig unobserved.  He slept for five hours and was back on the road again by half-past seven.  There was no sign of any disturbance as he left; the motel across the street, at that time of the morning, was dead as a doornail and silent as a tomb.

 


 

The call had come in at ten in the morning, and it damn sure wasn’t how the sheriff wanted to start his week.  A fuckin’ murder.  He hadn’t had to deal with a homicide in this place…ever.

 

And then that scene.  His deputy had come outta the room puking, and the sheriff couldn’t blame him.  That teenaged boy with his legs spread and a thick flow of dried glazed cum that had leaked from his asshole, the sheer cruelty and viciousness of the attack…

 

And the parents.  He’d traced them through the car.  They didn’t know he’d taken it.  And when they found out what had happened to their eighteen-year-old son, what he’d spent the past year doing in that little motel…

 

And the gossip.  He’d stomped on the local paper—there was only one little weekly—and made sure that the story didn’t get spread.  But everyone knew.  A fag murder, right in their town.  Even the homo’s parent suffered.  The car was towed to be processed for evidence; when they came to town from Zeniff to pick it up, three days later, their house was vandalized.

 

Goddam faggots, the sheriff mused.  Should all be killed.  Nothin’ but trouble.

 

 

Trucker 17–Trucker vs Small Town Slut

Autumnal thunderstorms were moving across the Midwest and even where it wasn’t actively raining, the roads were still dangerous.  Traffic was slow on the highway, forcing the Trucker to downshift, quietly cursing to himself.  He peered ahead through the driving rain; his exit was coming up.

 

He’d headed north on I-49 out of Joplin, Missouri two hours earlier.  It shouldn’t have taken him so long to reach the town of Nevada; it was only about fifty miles north of Joplin, but the weather and the traffic had conspired against him. But he’d finally made it.  He eased his rig off the interstate and turned left onto the state highway that ran through town.

 

He was running empty; he needed to be in Kansas City tomorrow afternoon to pick up a load, but while on the way, dispatch had alerted him to the chance of earning a little extra by what should have been a quick side jaunt over to Fort Scott, Kansas to pick up a couple of pallets of return items from a dollar store to drop at the freight yard in Kansas City.  Hence his exit from the interstate.

 

The night was thick with a heavy mist, almost a fog, that seemed to mingle with the lowering clouds so that everything was shrouded in moisture.  He slowed his rig considerably; the two-lane state highway had intersections for farms and small towns scattered along it at random.  He slowed even more as he passed through the town of Deerfield, so he was only about five miles past it when he got the alert from dispatch that the Fort Scott job was cancelled, with no explanation.

 

“Goddamit,” the Trucker muttered, his face grim as he tried to figure out the best way to get to Kansas City from here—he wasn’t sure if heading back to the interstate would be faster than continuing to Highway 69, given the weather.  That’s when he saw the truck stop sign. And decided to pull over.

 

He could use some food while he figured out what to do.  And he could use a moment to relax—poor weather on poor roads made him tense.

 

The truck stop was at an intersection that had a street light on the highway.  The road it was on headed north, but nothing was visible beyond the intersection.  On the left side, the “truck stop”—an old gas station with some oversized canopies installed to accommodate big rigs—sat at the corner.  Across the street there was a small paved lot evidently intended for overnight parking; there was a single darkened cab there now.  The Trucker pulled in, circling the lot so he could head straight out without backing when he needed to.

 

The rain, which had tapered off, began pattering on the roof of his cab again.  Before he opened the door, he grabbed his rain coat—a black hooded Carhartt Shoreline jacket—and zipped it up over the white cotton undershirt, all he’d been wearing in the warm, humid evening.  Ensuring his wallet was in the rear pocket of his tight, worn jeans, he shut off the rig’s rumbling engine and climbed out.  The thick soles of his black leather engineer boots splashed in a puddle when he hit the ground; the concrete lot was awash.

 

The tall, powerful figure strode across the empty street towards the truck stop, but headed around it.  Behind it was a small diner with a lighted sign that read, simply, “24HR”.  He wanted food.  As he got past the tall, floodlit canopies, he saw that there was more. To the right of the diner, there was a low building with another sign, this one reading “Office”.  It was the end unit of a small motel built in an L-shape, that enclosed the back end of the property.  The far end of the L was behind the diner and abutted up onto the state highway.

 

Two of the units had cars parked in front.  There was a dim glow in the shaded windows of the office, but not much activity.  The diner, on the other hand, had several vehicles pulled up around it and gave more promising signs of satisfying his immediate needs.

 

And as to satisfying his other needs, well, he wasn’t expecting much, but if the opportunity arose, he wouldn’t turn it down.  And the comparative bustle of the diner seemed to offer more chance of that, too, he put the quiet, almost-empty motel out of his mind and opened the restaurant door, heading into the thick miasma that was equal parts grease and burnt coffee.

 

There were several people at the counter—a family of three, with disgruntled looks on their faces, a couple of single guys who had the shopworn look of traveling salesmen, a brassy, big-tittied woman at the far end, engaged in a loud but incomprehensible conversation on her phone.  Across a narrow isle from the counter, a row of dimly-lit booths lined the window; the Trucker chose one at random on the right and sat down.

 

He hadn’t been there for more than three minutes when a gum-chewing waitress materialized at his side.  “What’ll it be, hon?” she drawled.

 

The Trucker had barely glanced at the plastic-covered menu, but he’d seen enough.  “Gimme a bowl of the beef stew and a cup of coffee, black.”

 

“Nothin’ else?  You get a side if you want it.  C’n add a salad for two bucks, too.”

 

“No,” the Trucker said, taking the time to scope out the place, “Just the stew.”

 

“Comin’ up.  Save some room for the pecan pie, hon, it’s to die for.”  With that, she vanished as abruptly as she’d arrived.  Within a matter of seconds, she was back with a white ceramic cup and a metal pot full of bitter, burnt coffee.  As the Trucker tried to drink it without grimacing, she popped back up with a large bowl full of a dark, viscous stew.  “Anythin’ else, hon?” she asked mechanically.  He shook his head and she left.

 

The Trucker wasn’t alone for long, though.  The boy had been sitting in a booth to the left of the door when the older man had come in and turned right, which was why he didn’t see the kid until he’d already started approaching.  Before the Trucker could react, the youth slid into the opposite side of his booth.

 

“Hey, dude,” the kid grinned, “Name’s Brandon, what’s yours?”

 

The boy was young, a small-town punk with shoulder-length sandy blond hair and large puppy-like brown eyes.  The eyes were glowing with a natural lust that the kid was too young and inexperienced to suppress; his teenaged horniness was so obvious, he might as well have been wearing a sign.

 

“Yeah?” the Trucker said off-handedly, “Whaddaya want?”

 

The boy—Brandon—was staring at the Trucker’s torso, his gaze fixated on the way the older man’s huge nipples jutted up through the thin cotton mesh of his t-shirt.  He was too engrossed to notice that his question hadn’t been answered.  “You, man,” the boy said with a quick, nervous grin.  “You pulled over at the service station, right?  Well, I’m here to service truck drivers.  Been doin’ it for years, ever since Ma bought the motel.”

 

The Trucker looked the kid over again, evenly but curiously.  “Kinda bold, aintcha?  Do ya offer yerself to every dude who walks in here?”

 

“Not every dude, just the ones who look like they want it—and can afford it.  Ya gotta hustle if ya wanna make a buck, as Ma says.”

 

The strapping sex killer grinned and Brandon, seeing acceptance in the Trucker’s expression, smiled.  The adolescent slut wasn’t anywhere near as good at reading people as he thought, although he wouldn’t be aware of his deficit until it was too late to profit by the knowledge.

 

The Trucker pushed aside the bowl of salty stew and looked Brandon dead in the face.  “So, how much?  And for what?”

 

Knowing he had a good one hooked, the kid’s smile grew wider; he was utterly unaware that he was the one who was hooked.  “Aw, man, for a hot stud like you—shit, dude, you c’n stick it up my ass for twenty bucks.”

 

The grin on the Trucker’s face grew broader too.  He’d hoped to have a little fun; he hadn’t expected to run across a cheap little boywhore so horny it damn near climbed into his lap.  As the kid spoke, the powerful killer felt his balls start to ache.  They needed to be drained, bad—and he’d just found the perfect piece of fagmeat to use as a cumrag.

 

“Twenty?  Yeah, I can do that.  You gotta place?”

 

Brandon young, smooth face lit up as he broke into an infuriating smirk.  “Fuck yeah, man, I got my own place.  I toldja Ma owns the motel here, right?  I got the end room over there all my own.  Told Ma that once I hit eighteen, I was a man, and a man need his own space, an’ she agreed, so she lemme have that room.  Course,” here his face fell momentarily, “that was three months ago and she says I gotta be out by the time I hit nineteen—but hey, maybe some hot trucker will come along an’ take me away from all this, yeah?”

 

His sexualized eagerness was so obvious it made him pathetic.  The Trucker figured he’d be doing the community a favor by offing the worthless whore.  “Yeah, boy,” he drawled, “I bet yer gonna meet someone who’ll take you away real soon.”  He tossed a ten and a five onto the table and slid out of the booth.

 

Brandon followed suit.  The Trucker had the chance to fully appraise the boy once he stood up.  The kid stood a couple of inches shorter than six feet; the Trucker towered over him.  Brandon wasn’t scrawny; he’d been on the local high school wrestling team (where he hadn’t been popular, his erections too obvious in his Lycra wrestling gear).  He had a dark gray fleece hoodie that zipped up the front, wearing it unzipped, with the hood thrown back.  Below the waist, his muscled legs were encased in nearly skin-tight Levi’s.  The cuffs of the boot-cut jeans were incongruously stuffed into the tops of a pair of Adidas NMD XR1 PK kicks, white with black and gray stripes.

 

Brandon led the way out.  Once outside the diner, the Trucker zipped up his jacket and Brandon drew his hoodie up over his head; the rain had started falling harder.  The kid headed across the cracked and pitted asphalt; the older man could see he was going for the end room, out by the state highway.  As Brandon weaved circuitously, avoiding getting his kicks wet and the Trucker’s boots splashed heavily through the puddles, two semis roared past, mere yards from the room.  Ma wasn’t stupid; she’d given the boy the shittiest room she had.

 

As the kid unlocked the rear door, the Trucker glanced back towards the office.  Despite the neon glow of the word “open”, the office seemed dark and quiet.  The only two cars in the lot were in front of doors in the other wing.  This room was completely isolated.  With a malicious smile, the serial killer followed the teen rentboy into the room and locked the door.

 

If he’d wait a few seconds longer—and looked towards the highway—he might have seen the shadow of a human figure slip around the corner and crouch down at the front window, as if it was peering through a space between the curtains.

 

Once inside the room, Brandon flipped the switch just inside the door, turning on the single overhead bulb in the ceiling fan; the latter came on as well, revolving in slow, lazy circles that wouldn’t disturb a fly.  The kid continued on to the bed and, sitting on it, switched on the lamp on the nightstand.  He was already kicking his sneakers off when the Trucker entered.

 

“Hey, lock the door, wouldja?” the punk said, slipping out of his hoodie.  “Don’t want my Ma or Manny, that spic she hired, to come bargin’ in here in the mornin’, huh?  He’s even worse than she is about gettin’ all up in my business.  I think he wants to bang me but I don’t fuck with no wetbacks, ya know?”

 

The boy seemed nervous, running off at the mouth.  The Trucker kept quiet and let the kid run on; he knew he’d be able to shut the meat up when the time came.  He unzipped his Carhartt jacket and tossed it onto a chair.

 

Brandon, in the meantime, pulled off his t-shirt, giving the Trucker what he hoped what a seductive glimpse of his hard, smooth, muscled torso.  The Trucker smirked and peeled his own t-shirt off.  The homo teen gaped as the older man’s fur-covered, muscle-bound chest was revealed, a vast landscape of masculine power with a visual focus of a pair of dogtags gleaming dead center between his massive pecs.  The kid’s hormone-ridden form shuddered.

 

“Goddam, you’re…you’re…”  he couldn’t finish his sentence.  He stood up and slid out of jeans.  They clung to his legs and as he tried to free his feet, he stumbled and fell against the table, nearly knocking the ancient-looking desk phone off.  He dove for it and recovered it, setting it back onto the table with a relieved sigh.

 

The Trucker had fished out his Marlboros and fired one up as he watched Brandon peel off his clothes.  The boy turned to him sheepishly.  “That coulda been bad—there’s a button on the phone that goes directly to the phone at Ma’s bedside so she can handle guest emergencies.  Fuck, if I’d woken her up—she don’t know what I get up to, y’know…”

 

The kid was still sporting a pair of white briefs and white ankle socks.  His thick teenaged cock and sperm-filled balls were visible through the thin cotton—and anyway, the briefs couldn’t contain his swelling dick for long.  He stood up and glanced around the room.

 

“I, uh, I need to go to the bathroom,” he faltered, then paced quickly around the bed to the bathroom door on the far side of the room.

 

The moment the bathroom door closed, the Trucker sprang across the room and bent down behind the nightstand.  He quickly unplugged the phone from the wall jack and had just made it back to the ashtray to take another drag off his smoke when the bathroom door opened.  Brandon came out, looking like he was tweaking badly.

 

Then a certain familiar scent hit the Trucker’s nose and he realized that’s exactly what was happening.  Brandon had gone into the bathroom to smoke meth.

 

In the meantime, the punk had come back around the bed and was slipping his Adidas NMDs back on.  “It’s, uh, wet in there…um, I mean…the floor is wet and I don’t like wet socks on my feet, yeah?” Brandon said with a sickly grin.  He headed back towards the bathroom.  “I won’t be long.  Oh…uh, by the way, I, uh, I’m gonna need more than twenty.  Like, um, fifty.  Yeah, fifty would be good.”

 

“You want me to pay you more money?” the Trucker asked quietly and evenly.

 

Brandon, encouraged by the lack of obvious outrage at the request—it wasn’t the first time the little junkie had upped his prices once he’d gotten a john into his room—smiled and ran his hand through his long sandy hair.  His smooth body was already covered with a glistening patina of sweat forced from him by the drug.

 

“Yeah, man—you into it?  C’mon, a hot stud like you, out on the road for hours at a time—you take a hit now and then, dontcha?”

 

The Trucker smiled and stood up.  He reached down and slowly inched his zipper down, staring straight into Brandon’s eyes as he did.  The faggot didn’t bother to keep up eye contact, he was too busy gazing with eager anticipation at the Trucker’s crotch.  When the zipper was finally down, the buff alpha reached in and began extracting his enormous shaft like he was pulling a rope up out of a well.

 

“You wanna know what I wanna hit, motherfucker?” he hissed at the gaping teen, “You.”

 

“Huh?” Brandon asked confusedly, reluctantly dragging his gaze up from the Trucker’s cock to his face.

 

It never got there.  It caught a flash of motion and the Trucker’s fist slammed into the kid’s face like a sledgehammer.

 

The blow hit Brandon with the force of a swung baseball bat; the boy was knocked sideways into the bathroom, sprawling on the cold tile floor.  His right hand, which he’d kept balled into a fist, came open and a glass ball with a tube coming out of it—his meth pipe—went skittering across the floor and shattered against the base of the toilet.

 

“I ain’t payin’ you shit, faggot,” the Trucker snarled as he stormed into the tiny room, grabbed the stunned adolescent by his long hair, and dragged him, squalling, back out into the bedroom.

 

Brandon hadn’t been popular on the wrestling team—at least on the floor; he’d been very popular in the locker room and showers—but he’d been good.  No one had treated him like this, and he was pissed.  This motherfucker had gotten the drop on him and was gonna try to stiff him after promising to pay.

 

Over my dead body, Brandon thought as he lay on the floor, rubbing his sore jaw.  He didn’t have the slightest hint how right he was.

 

Slowly rising to his feet, he squared his broad—for a teenager—shoulders and stared at the Trucker, showing his assailant that he wasn’t intimidated.  “You hit me, asswipe, an’ ya broke my pipe.  Yer gonna have to pay for that.”

 

The Trucker smirked and stared back.  “Make me, you useless cocksucker.”

 

Brandon had maneuvered himself around to the foot of the bed, which was a better position to make a break for the door.  The Trucker was standing between him and the bedside lamp, and the alpha’s massive, over-developed silhouette was painfully obvious to the kid.  He suddenly realized he was challenging someone who could easily overpower him and literally mop the fucking floor with him.

 

This was bad.  This was really bad.  The teen panicked, spun around, and lunged for the door.

 

“No ya don’t, faggot,” the Trucker growled and, coiling his bulging muscled form, pounced at the terrified kid.

 

Brandon had just reached the door when the Trucker caught him by the hair again, jerking him violently backwards.  “NO!!” the boy screamed—just as the entire room rattled with the noise of a semi going by on the highway.

 

“Yeah, man,” the Trucker said as he hoisted Brandon aloft by his hair.  The kid squealed in pain, his hands grasping the Trucker’s wrist as he lifted his body up to prevent his scalp from taking his entire weight.  “What the fuck make you think yer worth even twenty bucks, you fucking piece a’ shit?” he sneered while Brandon’s Adidas’ kicked and flailed several inches above the thin cheap carpet.

 

“Lemme go or I’m gonna fuck you up so fuckin’ bad—” the punk gasped out as he continued to hang from the Trucker’s outstretched and powerful arm.

 

“Ok, cunt, time to teach ya yer place,” the Trucker said evenly, then whirled and flung the teen bodily across the room into the nightstand.

 

It hurt.  Brandon knew he was gonna be hurt; he’d just been able to process enough of the sensation of violent motion to realize it was gonna hurt, but nothing more than that.

 

He hit the table with his back, slamming against the wall and snapping three of its legs off.  The lamp shattered loudly against the wall; pieces of it sliced his shoulder—not deeply, but enough to draw blood.  The back of his head hit the drywall hard enough to put a large dent in it, while the phone smacked the wall and bounced off, its bell banging inside.

 

Without the bedside lamp, the only illumination was the overhead bulb.  It shed its lurid rays over the scene of masculine domination below.  The Trucker, strong, sweating, muscular, loomed ominously over the pain-twisted form of the buff but overpowered teenager lying in the shattered remains of the nightstand.

 

Brandon was stunned, barely aware of what was happening, but he knew he was in trouble.  He knew that he needed help—and the closest help was Ma.  He opened his eyes—there, directly ahead of him, was the phone, lying on its side on the floor, the handset a foot away.

 

He reached out his hand.  He could see it; his vision was blurred with tears of pain, but he could make out his splayed fingers reaching out to the phone—and suddenly, there was a pair of boots, gleaming black leather engineer boots between him and the phone.  And as he watched, one of those boots was lifted and planted on the back of his outstretched hand…and then it pressed down…hard, its thick-treaded sole grinding his hand agonizingly…

 

“I unplugged the phone anyway, you dumbass motherfucker,” came the deep bass voice in a sneering tone, and Brandon lost hope.  He lost even more a minute later when he was screaming in pain as the Trucker ground his boot down, shattered all five metacarpals, rendering the punk’s right hand useless.  The sadistic killer grinned as he saw the boy reaching out for the phone with his left hand.  Stupid little fuck hadn’t wanted to believe the truth…so let ‘im try the phone.

 

Tears rolled down Brandon’s pained face as he dragged the phone towards him by the cord, holding his crushed, lamed hand to his chest.  He knew that the Trucker was standing next to him; without even looking, he could feel the hypermasculine presence just inches from him, looming over him.  He shoved the thought as far into the back of his mind as possible and began pawing at the pushbuttons on the phone.

 

The Trucker looked down in amused contempt and, unbuckling his belt, slowly began sliding it out from around his waist.

 

Finding he couldn’t get a dial tone, Brandon uttered a despairing bleat as he realized the Trucker had indeed unplugged the phone—which meant he had something planned from the beginning.  The teen faggot desperately tried to avoid thinking about what that something was.

 

“Hey, cunt,” he heard softly above and automatically turned to look up.

 

The hard-bodied alpha stood over him, his huge cock erect and hanging over the boy’s head.  Above, the older man had one arm raised; for a brief moment, Brandon felt himself attracted to the power shown in the developed musculature of the upraised arm—then he noticed that the hand was clutching a doubled-over belt.

 

The kid had just enough time to raise his arm in a feeble attempt to ward off the blow when the Trucker slashed downward, the inch-thick raw leather striking Brandon’s arm and shoulder, taking an inch-wide swath of skin off the former.  The stunned adolescent screamed, as much in shock as in pain.

 

“Toldja you ain’t callin’ for help, dumbass,” the Trucker sneered and backhanded Brandon across the face with the belt.

 

“Stop!” the boy cried, clutching at the welt on his cheek.

 

“FUCK YOU!!” the Trucker roared in rage; as Brandon curled into a fetal position under the sudden onslaught, the sick alpha let his anger punctuate his speech, “You don’t (sounds of vicious crack of belt on flesh and pitiful crying) tell me (crack, sobbing) when to stop (crack, loud cry); I ain’t stoppin’ (crack, blubbering), till I’m fuckin’ good (crack, whimper) and ready (crack, “no…please…”), ya feel me, faggot (crack, loud howl of agony)?”

 

The older man paused for a moment, his heaving torso slick with sweat.  The homo punk was turning out to be a pretty good workout; he was enjoying himself.  He left the kid a shuddering pile of welt-covered flesh, moaning and sobbing on the floor and crossed back to the dresser, where he noted with annoyance that his smoke had burned down.  He pulled another out of the pack and lit it, tossing the belt aside as he turned to contemplate the scene.

 

The nightstand and most everything that had been on it was in pieces and the wall behind it was dented.  Brandon, still in a fetal position, had wrapped his hands around his knees and was rocking himself, his eyes wide open.  The teen cocksucker hadn’t run into anything like this in high school wrestling—he was going into mental shock, literally unable to process what had happened to him.

 

That was fine.  The Trucker knew how to snap him out of it.  Teenaged meat was all the same; the body needed some tenderizing but the brain was usually so soaked with hormones, it went into vapor lock.  Best way to break that was physical stimuli.

 

The more painful, the better.

 

He crossed back to Brandon and looked contemptuously down at the naked young slut.  Then, without a word, he ground his cigarette out on the teen’s back.

 

The Trucker had been right about pain; it worked like a charm to free Brandon from his shock.  The searing pain of the burn sliced through the fog in the punk’s mind—Brandon suddenly had one powerful crystal-clear thought in his head:  he needed to get out.  Now.

 

It was a move he’d learned in wrestling; rolling to one side, the strong adolescent tucked in his legs, planted his Adidas kicks firmly on the floor, and lunged for the door.

 

He flung himself forward, under the reach of the Trucker’s grasping arm.  The latter realized what was happening just in time.   He wasn’t quite fast enough to snag the cunt when made his first move, but didn’t need to be.  As the boy pawed frantically at the door’s lock, the Trucker simply reached out, grabbed a thick hank of the kid’s hair, and jerked.  Hard.

 

Howling, Brandon found himself jerked backwards by his scalp.  It hurt like fuck and as he raised his hands and tried to disentangle the sadist’s fingers from his long hair, he failed to notice how the Trucker was now holding him face to face.

 

Then he glanced up and caught the look on the serial killer’s face.

 

“You fuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the Trucker said evenly and plowed his fist into Brandon’s jaw, stunning the youth so badly he never felt it when the older man reached down and, with a single strong jerk, tore his briefs off.  The elastic waistband dug painfully into his skin before it parted, but Brandon was too busy simply trying to maintain consciousness to notice.

 

The boy’s long cock flopped out, not fully erect—but close.  It sprouted from the dark lush tangle of his adolescent pubic hair, above his dangling sperm-laden balls, and continued to stiffen even as the Trucker part-shoved and part-threw him onto the bed.  Brandon moaned groggily as he twisted his smooth, lithe teenaged body on the cheap polyester bedspread.

 

The buff older man strode to the remains of the nightstand.  After rooting through the debris for a few seconds, he stood up with the phone in his hands.  He turned to the bed and looked down at Brandon just as the kid was coming to.  The punk’s large eyes, blank and bewildered, returned the Trucker’s icy glare.

 

The slut touched his jaw tenderly, feeling the swollen knot that was forming and the split in his lip.  Sheer luck had prevented him from getting his jaw broken or even a tooth knocked out—but the night wasn’t over.

 

“Wha…wha happen…” he slurred.

 

“I decked you, faggot,” the Trucker said without any inflection in his voice.  He continued to stare coldly down on his prey.  “You ain’t gettin’ outta here.”

 

The memory of the last few minutes finally came crawling back into Brandon’s shaken brain, and fear began first to bubble up through the pain and then to boil over.

 

“Wh-why?” he asked plaintively.

 

“Cause I need to drain my balls, asswipe.  I’m gonna drain ‘em into you.”

 

The look of confusion on the boy’s face became more marked.  As the hardbodied alpha unplugged the phone from the cord, Brandon’s eyes darted towards his hands, still not comprehending.

 

“Y-you c’n d-do that w-w-without havin’ t’ hurt me, mister,” the teen quavered, “H-honest, you-you don’t hafta pay or anythin’.  I-I was just kiddin’ about the money, mister!  Please!”

 

The Trucker’s masculine, scruff-darkened face, which had been expressionless up to this point, contorted into a malicious grin.  The gleam in the eyes of the muscled serial killer, lit by equal intensities of rage and lust, was much more terrifying to the prone and defenseless youth than his cold composure had been.

 

“You stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker sneered, “I ain’t gonna fuck you—I’m gonna snuff you and let your dyin’, thrashin’ boymeat milk the load outta my shaft.”

 

“Wh—I—wha—” Brandon sputtered, blank terror written across his boyish face.

 

“Ya see this?” the Trucker held up the phone cord.  At the same time, he tossed the phone aside; it hit the floor a few feet away with the same loud banging/ringing sound as before.  It didn’t distract Brandon, though, his eyes remained focused sharply on the older man as he slowly raised the cord.  The kid’s eyes moved from waist level, where the powerful killer’s huge rod jutted stiffly, intimidatingly, up along the ripped, furry six-pack of the Trucker’s abs to his massive chest, covered with dark wiry hair.

 

The movement stopped just as Brandon’s gaze was reaching nipple height—right at the point where the dogtags hung.  The glitter of reflected light they gave, nestled between the older man’s broad pecs, had an almost hypnotic effect on the punk.

 

“I’m gonna wrap this around yer neck and choke the life right outta ya.  Fuckin’ hot, yeah, faggot?  Let’s get it on.”

 

Brandon was still blinking his eyes and trying to process the words he’d heard when the alpha sprang onto the bed and roughly parted the kid’s legs.  He didn’t even have time to cry out before he felt horrible unremitting pressure against his asshole.  He’d been fucked many times—but nothing this large had ever been forced inside him.  He didn’t think he could take that much cock without getting literally ripped open.

 

He was right.

 

The Trucker plowed his way in, remorselessly, relentlessly, giving a grunt of pleasure as he felt the boy’s sphincter resist momentarily, then give way as the flesh tore.  Brandon screamed in agony; it was a horrible slashing pain, like he was getting assfucked with a razor blade.

 

“Shaddup, fuckmeat,” the Trucker snarled and popped him in the face again, crushing the teen’s nose with wet, pulpy sound.  The kid’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp, blood leaking from both nostrils.

 

“Lame-ass fuck,” the alpha muttered as he doubled the cord around Brandon’s throat, leaving the ends dangling loose for the moment.  He wanted the punk awake for what was gonna happen next.

 

Little piece of faggot shit needed to know he was dying.

 

As Brandon began to groan and shudder, slowly climbing his way back into an agonized consciousness, the Trucker fucked him brutally, plunging his huge manshaft deep into the helpless teen.  The slapping sound of the alpha’s spunk-filled balls slapping against the rentboy’s taint filled the air, already thick with the musk of sweat and mansex.

 

The terrible pain of the older man’s dick impaling his guts forced Brandon awake; he blinked rapidly, his eyes already filling with tears.  His face ached so bad, his nose was squashed like a rotten tomato and his ass—oh fuck, his ass was being torn open from inside, he was full, he was so fuckin’ full of the Trucker.  The hardbodied stud, pinning him down, grunting with the pleasure of dominance, seemed to be swelling in his colon.  The kid could feel every ridged vein of the alpha’s cock as it plugged his rectum and thrust remorselessly against his prostate.

 

And that was when the ass-raped youth suddenly realized his own dick was hard.  It was so hard it hurt.  Erect and glistening, the kid’s shaft pressed against the Trucker’s belly as the two male bodies entwined in violent forced sex.  The swollen purple head of Brandon’s cock was being shoved through the wiry fur that covered the top’s washboard abs; with every thrust of the Trucker’s tool up the boy’s ass the pressure caused Brandon’s dick to fell like it was being scrubbed with steel wool.

 

The pain was intense and, stunned as Brandon was, he was still horrified to find that the agony was making his dick ooze.  As his long, turgid rod plowed through the fur forest, it left a slimy, glistening trail of precum.

 

The Trucker felt the hot trickle on his belly and knew exactly what was happening.  He’d offed enough of these little homos to know how their adolescent bodies reacted to a good fuck.

 

“Ya like that, you sick little fuck?” he sneered, grinning down at his helpless victim with contempt.  “That whatcha been lookin’ for, faggot?  A real man to fuck ya and punish ya like you deserve?  You need a real man to put ya outta yer misery, asswipe; you’re a lousy fuck.  Had to split your asshole to get my hog in and you still ain’t tight enough to make me cum.”

 

Brandon opened his mouth as if to speak, but only croaked.

 

The grim humor left the Trucker’s handsome face, leaving behind the intense gleam of bloodlust.  “Time to die, motherfucker.”

 

Reaching down, he picked up the ends of the cord and lifted them.  Brandon could only watch in terror as the muscle-bound killer wrapped the cord around each hand a couple of times.  He couldn’t miss it—the Trucker’s hands were only inches from his face.

 

“I’m gonna strangle yer pansy ass to death,” the cruel sadist said evenly.  “It’s gonna take you a while to die.  You’re gonna suffer, faggot.  It’s a slow, painful way to get snuffed and you’re gonna fight it until your brain starts to die and you go into excruciating convulsions.”

 

Here the older man bent down, his demonically masculine face coming closer and closer until the stiff bristles on his face painfully scraped the smooth skin of the boy’s cheek.  “And that’s why I’m doin’ this, cunt,” he whispered breathily, erotically, into the terrified punk’s ear.  “As you kick and die, yer ass is gonna work my cock so good.  Worthless fag like you ain’t gonna be able to make me cum, so I’m gonna snuff you slow and let yer death throes milk my load out.”

 

Brandon, his adolescent face taut with pain and terror, opened his mouth to speak—to beg, to plead, to bargain.  He never got the chance.  With a sudden, swift jerk of his thickly-muscled arms, the Trucker yanked the cord tight.  It instantly sank into the boy’s flesh, creating a deep groove in his throat.

 

“Gurk!” the punk spat out, a wordless sound forced past his tongue as his esophagus was suddenly cinched off at a point just above his larynx.  The slut’s eyes, already wide in fear, took on the proportions of dinner plates as he tried desperately to inhale with no result.

 

The Trucker expected the burst of panic and the frenetic clawing and scrambling that accompanied it.  Most meat went through the process, especially teen meat with little discipline or self-control.  Not, of course, that those attributes would help it survive, but they’d prevent it from burning up the oxygen remaining in its bloodstream with useless flailing.

 

The kid dug at his neck, clawing and scraping at his own flesh in a useless attempt to grab the cord, his struggling body flexing and jerking.  “Fuck yeah,” the brutal older man grunted as Brandon’s ass pumped itself along his huge—and now fully and massively engorged—cock.  Despite the mind-numbing terror that clouded his mind, the youth heard the erotic tone of sexual pleasure in the alpha’s voice.

 

That made it worse.  This guy was a fuckin’ psycho and killing him, Brandon realized (more accurately, finally let himself realize) was literally getting the dude off.  This was really happening.  It wasn’t a nightmare or a joke or even a scary abusive john—he’d had those before.   He was trapped and dying, and even though he wasn’t bound, he was utterly helpless.  The hardbodied, horse-dicked stud was raping him and strangling him and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.

 

The Trucker knew this frenzied response to panic was coming, too.  “Saddle up, motherfucker; gonna ride ya like a bronco,” he muttered as he pulled the phone cord tighter around the teen’s neck.  He knew Brandon was past hearing him; he was right.

 

For the next forty-five seconds, until oxygen deprivation set in, the adolescent rentboy became a feral animal.  The deep, penetrating realization of impending death triggered an instinctive attempt at frantic self-preservation.

 

The Trucker held on, his cock planted firmly in the boy’s ass, as the latter thrashed on the bed.  Brandon flung his arms out, smacking them against the top’s hard hubcap pecs with the same impact as if he was beating a marble statue.  While the Trucker moaned and grimaced in sexual gratification, Brandon, utterly unconscious of his specific physical motions, wrapped his legs around the Trucker and squeezed, his smooth, strong teen thighs pressed firmly against his killer’s waist and his Adidas NMD kicks shuddering in midair.

 

His hands curled into fists, Brandon beat ineffectually at the Trucker’s chest, making the sadist’s dogtags jump around, providing a jingling accompaniment to the punk’s death.  Slowly at first, then gradually more perceptibly, the kid’s frenzy began to slow as portions of his brain started dying of oxygen deprivation.

 

He stopped beating on the Trucker and relaxed his hands slightly, uncurling his fists.  Although he was still theoretically trying to fend off his assailant, he was actually caressing the older man’s chest at this point, his quivering fingers dragging over the large thick protrusions of flesh that were the Trucker’s nipples before becoming lodged in the wiry chest.  Brandon clutched at the alpha’s fur as if he was a drowning man clutching a rope.

 

“Yer dyin’, faggot,” the muscular alpha growled, “How’s that feel, huh?”

 

The gagging, choking teenager wasn’t able to answer—but he didn’t need to.  The way his long hard dick throbbed as it slapped roughly against the Trucker’s furry washboard abs said everything that needed to be said.  As his dangling dogtags bounced and danced on the kid’s heaving chest, the cruel, hardbodied killer grinned.

 

The handsome adolescent that had hit on him in the diner was gone.  In his place was a thrashing piece of teen meat that was slowly and agonizing succumbing to the cold commanding hand of death.  Brandon’s Ma wouldn’t have recognized her boy now—his face, terrifyingly swollen, was so dark and congested it was nearly black.  His full lips, puffy and purple, had been parted by his thick tongue.  As he gagged, spittle was flung from his mouth and a white stream of foamy drool ran down his chin.

 

The pain had taken him.  It was everything; it was all.  It was in his head and his lungs, in the frantically increasing tempo of his pounding pulse, in his ass and his guts—and in his dick.  His sperm-filled balls and his hard, straining rod ached and pulsated so badly that what little consciousness he had left was still able to feel it.

 

Brandon was almost dead, but he could still suffer.  And the Trucker knew it.

 

“Not yet, homo,” he muttered, “I ain’t hurt you bad enough to cum yet.”

 

The look in the teen punk’s bulging, petechiae-stained eyes let the Trucker know he’d scored a hit.  Somehow the little fuck had managed to hear him and understand him.  And that was exactly what the vicious serial killer wanted to see.

 

“Fuck you, faggot,” he barked cruelly, spitting into the youth’s blackened face, “Die, motherfucker.”

 

His masculine face twisted into a snarl, the Trucker grunted and jerked his powerful arms.  As his thick biceps bulged with the strain, the phone cord sank deeply into Brandon’s throat.  A split-second later, a loud, satisfying crunch reverberated in the air.  The teenager’s windpipe had collapsed, crushed into a useless mass of bloody gristle.

 

For once, the experienced killer was taken by surprise.  Brandon’s convulsions were violent—and immediate.  The Trucker just had time to grab onto the meat before the lithe firm teen body beneath him began to buck and flail frenziedly.  The older man shuddered with pleasure as the boy’s silky-smooth skin slid over his flesh on a film of cold death sweat that had been squeezed out of the dying punk.

 

But it was in the pelvic area that Brandon’s convulsions had the greatest impact.  The brain-dead kid’s colon seemed to collapse around the Trucker’s cock.  It felt like it was sucking on his shaft, as if a vacuum had been generated, as the smooth, velvety rectal lining fluttered over the swollen purple head of the older man’s dick.

 

“Fuck,” the Trucker muttered, “Gonna shoot.  Gonna fuckin’ blow.  Gonna—”

 

Brandon beat him to it.  The smooth meat spasmed violently—the legs squeezed painfully tight around the Trucker’s waist, the black and white Adidas sneakers quivering in the air, the fingers curled in the alpha’s chest hair, yanking at it—and then the dead cunt’s dick pulsed so strongly that the Trucker could feel it as it was pressed against his belly.  Instantly a solid jet of boyjizz shot through the air.

 

Brandon’s death load landed in his own face.  As his eyes glazed and faded into their final thousand-yard stare, he suffered the indignity of having them covered over by a pool of his own spunk.

 

The dead kid kept unloading.  It added something extra to the ass action; the Trucker couldn’t hold it in any longer.  He erupted into loud inarticulate cries as he flooded the fuckboy’s guts with sperm.  For at least twenty seconds, the two male bodies, one just dead and the other very much alive, continued to spew semen as they remained entwined in a sick, erotic embrace of death.

 

At last the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his body still flushed and tingling with the intense satisfaction of a powerful orgasm.  Beneath him, the adolescent corpse continued to tremble in its death throes.  With a sense of regret, the alpha slowly extracted his huge shaft of manmeat from the kid’s guts; it had felt so snug, wedged deep into the dead boy.  It slid out of the meat’s ass with a faint but audible “pop”, along with a heavy trickle of pearly cum.

 

The Trucker crossed the room weak-kneed and almost unsteady.  Grabbing his Marlboros, he lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply as he leaned against the wall to recover and to take stock of the scene.

 

The strangled teenager lay splayed on his back, his shuddering legs spread wide.  He’d managed to keep both of his Adidas kicks; they scraped and shuffled against the disarranged polyester bedspread.  The fucker’s cock as still hard; the erection was slowly fading—but very, very slowly.  There was a solid glistening trail of boyspunk up the center of the meat’s flat belly and smooth chest.  It led up to and over Brandon’s face, paling to cyan as the blood drained out of it.  The dead punk’s long hair, dark and moist with sweat, was fanned out above his head.

 

The serial killer smiled in satisfaction.  This one had been good.  The fagmeat had ended up draining his scrote the way he wanted it—the way he needed it—drained.  He finished his smoke and flicked it contemptuously onto the corpse where it hissed out in a pool of cum.

 

Heading to the bathroom, the older man swiftly wiped off his chest and abs with a moist towel, tossing it into the toilet when he was done.  Having cleaned the faggot’s jizz out of his wiry fur, the Trucker bent down and grabbed his shirt, but didn’t bother putting it on.  Instead, he wadded one corner of the thin cotton shirt and stuffed it into his back pocket, letting the rest of the shirt hang out.  As he did, his hand brushed his wallet, and he was reminded of something.

 

He located Brandon’s jeans and found the dead kid’s wallet.  The homo had twenty-five bucks; the Trucker slipped it out and into his pocket.  It’d help—barely—pay some expenses.   And it wasn’t like the boywhore needed it anyway.

 

Smiling grimly, the buff stud slipped his Carhartt jacket on over his bare torso.  He could tell by the sound that it was raining harder than ever, so he raised the hood as he opened the door.  Sure enough, it was pouring.  Hunching over, he dashed from the room without bothering to turn out the light.  The thick soles of his boot splashed in the puddles as he bolted back to his rug, never looking back.

 

If he had, he might have noticed that the door to Brandon’s death pit hadn’t closed completely.  And even before he crossed the street, a short, stocky figure had slipped into the room.  By the time the Trucker had reached the cab of his semi, the door had truly been closed.

 


 

Manny was exhilarated, and horny as fuck.  He didn’t know who the powerful stud who’d just left was, but he wanted to go to him for a number of reasons, none of them healthy.

 

Manny was twenty-one.  He was only five and a half feet tall, but he was broad and muscular.  His hard was blue-black, and curly and his skin was dark brown.  He was born in the US, but his parents hadn’t been.

 

Not that that hadn’t stopped Brandon from calling him wetback all the time.  And the old woman wasn’t any better, paying him less than minimum wage and threatening to call ICE anytime he complained.  No one was hiring in this bumfuck little town and he had no money to leave.  His job as maintenance man for the motel was all he had. So he put up with it.

 

But he hated them both.  And now here was the little gingo cocksucker, fucked and dead.  Manny couldn’t have been more pleased.  Or hornier.

 

He’d always wanted his chance at that smooth white body, but he knew the spoiled teen faggot would not only reject him but use any approach as something else to hold over his head.  He’d never made any move in that direction.

 

But now Brandon was helpless, vulnerable, and laid out for Manny’s pleasure.  It was almost as if it had been done deliberately, and in the swelling rush of lust and hate, the young, strong Latino had no hesitation at the thought of sexually abusing the corpse of a teenager.

 

When he’d first found to body, he’d been stunned—and wary.  Brandon had been beaten badly, and between that and the swelling caused by strangulation, his face was not easily recognizable.  Even though it was Brandon’s room, Manny wasn’t sure that it was Brandon, at least not until he got a closer look at the long, circumcised cock.  Yeah, that was the white boy’s dick.

 

And from the looks of the room, the handyman could tell someone had finally given the little pansy exactly what he’d been asking for, for years–the someone being that truck driver who’d just left.  That was someone Manny wanted to know.  That kinda power—that was something he wanted to feel.  But first, he had this stupid cunt lying dead in front of him, and the thought of giving him the D was too much to bear.

 

The buff, swarthy Latino peeled his wet t-shirt off, his rain-slicked chest glistening under the overhead light.  His tight work jeans were tucked into his work boots, a pair of Red Wing Heritage Mocs.  Usually, he wore them loose, but he’d laced them up tightly this time, all eight inches—he’d been standing in four inches of water, making sure that the roof was draining properly.  That bitch in the office would be all over his ass if he hadn’t fixed it right…

 

At any rate, he had no intention of unlacing them.  He just unzipped his fly and hauled out his thick uncut fireplug of a cock, stiff and throbbing, before approaching the bed.

 

“Hey, niño,” he hissed, stroking his rod as he approached the head of the bed, “Guess what this cholo’s gonna do with ya?”

 

He reached out and grabbed a handful of the dead teen’s hair, jerked the head toward the edge of the bed.  Brandon’s still-limber corpse bent sideways at the waist; Manny was easily able to position the torso so that the head hung back off the side of the bed, the mouth gaping and the tongue protruding.

 

“Gonna take some wetback cock in yer mouth, jefe, before I go wake yer ma an’ tell ‘er ya got yerself fucked to death,” Manny sneered down at the cum-covered face.  He grinned as he grabbed his dick in one hand and the back of Brandon’s head in the other, and shoved.

 

There was pressure, as if he was fucking someone in the ass.  Manny preferred being on the receiving end, but he could dominate when he wanted—and right now, he wanted.  His face tensed as he inserted his engorged, near-black tool into the dead teen’s mouth.  It plowed its way down the corpse’s throat, roughly squeezing Brandon’s swollen tongue out of the way.

 

Manny sighed with pleasure as his cock slid all the way down; just as his balls nestled down onto Brandon’s broken nose, the oozing head of his dick touched against the compacted mass of cartilage that blocked off the punk’s esophagus.  “Fuck yeah, ya dumbass puta!”

 

He rose up on his toes, flexing his brown leather boots, as he rammed his pulsating shaft down the dead kid’s blocked-off throat.  “Goddam maricón blanco, take my carajo!” he growled as he hunched his hard, stocky body over the adolescent’s corpse and skullfucked it.

 

Bent over Brandon’s inverted body, Manny could feel his wad seething and churning in his balls.  He looked down at the punk’s sperm-glazed belly and flaccid but still impressive dick, and felt himself lose control.  A searing heat boiled over in his puckered sack and suddenly, with a loud, convulsive cry, his spunk exploded into the narrow, confined space of Brandon’s crushed windpipe.

 

It was too much for the space to hold.  Manny felt the warmth of his own load flow back up the outside of his rod; as he withdrew his sticky, cum-covered shaft, he could see the overflow leaking out of the dead boy’s nostrils and gaping mouth.  “There ya go, maricon, ya like the taste of wetback cum?”  He spit contemptuously in the corpse’s face.  “Fuckin’ puta!”

 

The hardbodied handyman entered the bathroom.  Plucking a hand towel off the rack, he wetted it at the sink and scrubbed his dick off.  Turning, he noticed a bath towel already in the toilet.  He tossed his own in—and flushed.  Within seconds, the bowl backed up and overflowed.

 

Manny grinned.  Fuck it—it was gonna be the next guy’s problem.  He was getting out tonight.

 

Tucking his dick back into his jeans, the buff young Latino headed back into the bedroom, collected his wet t-shirt, and strolled out into the slowly fading rain.  The thick rubber soles of his work boots splattered the large puddles as he crossed the parking lot to the office.  Brandon’s Ma was about to have a rude awakening.

 


 

Two hours later, he was done.  He’d remained outside the room the entire time, keeping his eye on the parking lot across the street.  The rig with the dark blue cab hadn’t moved the entire time.

 

He’d spent most of the time answering the county deputy’s questions, then the sheriff’s questions—generally the same ones, over and over again—before they told him they were done with him for the moment.  As far as he was concerned, they were done with him for good.  With the mortified wailing of Brandon’s Ma ringing in his ears, Manny headed across the street.

 

He paused at the side of the cab.  A cold front had come through with the rain.  He was still shirtless, his large dark nipples erect in the chill pre-dawn air, with his wallet as his sole possession.  It didn’t matter.  All his cash was in his wallet and he could buy anything he needed.  And what was in his head was more valuable anyway.

 

He knew who Brandon’s killer was, and that was his ticket outta here.  He climbed up onto the cab and knocked boldly at the door.

 

The front section of the cab was empty.  As Manny watched, the privacy curtain that separated the sleeper section was drawn aside and the huge muscled stud he’d seen earlier came out.  Fuck, he was big—and so goddam hot.  The young Latino felt his cock stiffen again.

 

The Trucker opened the window.  “Whaddaya want?” he asked, his gruff voice low and wary.

 

“Your load, jefe.  And a ride outta here.”

 

The older man’s expression combined caution and hostility.  Manny spoke quickly.

 

“I know what ya did to the maricon.  Takes a real man to fuck a faggot up that bad, vato, an’ I been lookin’ for a real man fer a long time.  Now that I found ya, yer gonna get me outta this fuckin’ barrio.”

 

The Trucker looked down at the stocky hardbodied Latino.  “Or what?” he asked.

 

“The five-oh is still peelin’ yer playtoy off the bed back there,” Manny replied cockily.  “All I gotta do is stop back by over there.”

 

The Trucker was silent for a moment, obviously considering the alternatives, the he opened the door of the cab.  “Ok, c’mon in,” he said, moving back and letting the buff young man in.

 

Once inside, Manny glanced around.  “Aw, this is sweet!” he said in an admiring tone, as he rubbed his hands across the rock-hard tabs of his nipples and luxuriated in the warmth of the cab.  “You gotta nice setup in here.”

 

“Thanks,” the Trucker muttered, eyeing the punk cautiously.

 

“An’ I see ya got room for two,” the dark-haired youth added.  The Trucker merely growled.

 

Manny turned to face the alpha.  After the kill, the Trucker had come back, stripped, and climbed into his bunk, wanting to make sure he had enough rest to finish his haul in the morning.  He stood in front of Manny in nothing but a pair of briefs, his powerful, fur-covered mass of muscles on display for the Latino cocksucker to worship.

 

And that’s exactly what Manny proceeded to do.  Before the Trucker could comment, the short but well-built handyman had dropped to his knees and jerked the waistband of the Trucker’s briefs down, exposing the killer’s massive dangling tackle.

 

“Aw fuck, jefe, it’s even bigger than I’d hoped,” Manny moaned, opening his mouth and licking the thick purple head of the older man’s cock.

 

The muscle-bound sadist looked down in bemused contempt as the Hispanic faggot, clad in nothing but jeans and tightly-laced boots, tried to gobble down his dick.  Manny was having some obvious trouble going down on the enormous shaft; the Trucker chuckled as the youth gagged on the cue-ball-sized head.

 

“Well?” the killer sneered, a dangerous glint in his eye, “I thought you were gonna blow me in exchange for a ride outta town.”

 

Manny gagged again, lifted his head up, and wiped tears out of his eyes.  “Hang on a sec, man…damn, yer big…”  Still using one hand to guide the older man’s rod into his mouth, the kneeling homo slipped one hand down to his groin.  Unzipping his fly, he pulled out his own thick uncut tool, still sticky with cum, and began to flog it.

 

“Suck my fuckin’ cock, faggot,” the older man snarled.

 

Manny tried.  If he couldn’t get the hulking stud’s huge shaft of manmeat down his throat, it wasn’t for lack of desire.  The Trucker noticed this, grinned, and decided to show the cocksucker some pity.

 

“You want it bad, dontcha, faggot?” he jeered.  “Then it’s yer lucky day, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna help ya.”

 

Towering over Manny, his nude body emanating masculine physical power, the Trucker clamped his hands on the back of the Latino’s neck with the force of a bear trap and shoved his engorged tool down Manny’s esophagus.

 

“There ya go, ya spic fuck.  You wanted my cock?  Ya got it!”

 

Manny got it all right; the older man’s horsedick had plugged his windpipe completely.  The Hispanic punk couldn’t even cough; his throat was too blocked for him to make more than faint but increasingly frantic grunting noises.  He let go of his own hard, oozing cock and placed his hands against the Trucker’s massive thigh muscles, shoving and pushing in a desperate attempt to move his head away from the killer’s groin.

 

“See, I don’t leave no witnesses alive, you dumbass wetback,” the Trucker taunted the choking punk.  “But sure, I’ll get ya outta town—I’ll dump your rotting, cum-filled corpse so far outta town ain’t no one gonna find it.”

 

Twisting his handsome face into a grimace of hate, the Trucker forced his rod even further into the panicking handyman.  Manny tried to move, scraping his Red Wing boots on the sleeper’s floorboards, but the Trucker managed to pin him down so he couldn’t rise.  His swelling face, swarthy to begin with, was swiftly turning a livid black as drool that had been denied egress from his mouth began to leak in a stream from his nose.  The taut skin of Manny’s cheeks, now swollen and horribly sensitive, were being ground and abraded by the older man’s wiry pubic hair.

 

“Jesus, are all you spics such lousy cocksuckers?” the Trucker scoffed as he loomed over his silently suffering victim.  He grinned, feeling his huge tool pulse with power as the dying homo beat his hands helplessly against the older man’s legs.  The Trucker looked down, his gaze meeting that of Manny, who’d managed to turn his eyes upwards.

 

As he choked silently, the young buff Hispanic cast his gaze up along the Trucker’s furry washboard abs, up his chest past the dangling dogtags to see the gleaming light of psychosis shining in the alpha’s eyes.  Manny realized that blackmailing a serial killer was a really, really bad idea.

 

It was shame he wouldn’t live to profit by the knowledge.

 

The boy was fading fast on his dick, the Tucker realized.  He’d rammed his shaft down the faggot’s airway some two and a half minutes ago; already the motherfucker was becoming more docile, more accepting of approaching death.  Within seconds, he’d be pas the point of no return—brain death would set in.

 

Well, he hadn’t asked to drain his morning wood, but as long as he had a piece of dying fagmeat convulsing on his cock, why not?

 

Grinning, the buff alpha held on and felt Manny choke to death on his dick.

 

The point of death in a slow suffocation is hard to determine, but the Trucker knew the meat was close when the violent convulsions started.  Even as he remained upright on his knees, Manny’s body jerked and shuddered.  As it did, it somehow managed to create an incredible suction in the lungs.

 

The Trucker grunted and sweated, trying not to blow his wad as the dying spic’s esophagus collapsed around his cock like a vacuum seal.  He curled his fingers in the cocksucker’s hair, looking down over Manny shoulder to see how the meat was obviously—and obliviously—curling its toes inside its tight boots.

 

Suddenly there was a scalding splash on the alpha’s thighs; Manny, his hands still pressed against the Trucker’s legs, had blown his death load hands-free.  It was what the Trucker had been waiting for; with a loud “FUCK! FUCK!” he spewed a huge geyser of thick creamy spunk down Manny’s throat, flooding the dead fuck’s lungs.

 

The hardbodied alpha didn’t remember much about the next few minutes beyond the electrically explosive sensation of orgasm.  When he was done, he let go of Manny.  The corpse fell to the floor in a heap, a creamy trickle of cum leaking from the dead spic’s lips.

 

Steeping back, the Trucker felt completely drained.  He knew there was no sense remaining in town, and while he needed a good shower, this wasn’t the time or the place.  He wiped himself down as best he could, then shoved Manny’s warm, quivering body onto the floorboards of the passenger seat.

 

Dressing quickly in his worn jeans, a gray t-shirt and his black harness boots, the Trucker started his rig.  He wanted to be on the road before anyone come looking for the spic who’d been the one to find the dead fag’s body.  As he pulled onto the road, though, before he could get out onto the state highway, he saw the deputy from the motel come running towards him, flagging him down.

 

The Trucker shifted into idle and lowered his window.  “Can I help you, officer?”

 

“Hey, you hear anything about what happened over here last night?”

 

“Me?” the Tucker asked innocently, “Naw, I was sleepin’ all night.  What happened?”

 

“Kid got murdered.  Knew the little faggot was gonna get whacked sometime, but his ma’s carryin’ on like it was the Kennedy assassination or somethin’.  Anyway, hang on here for a sec.  I gotta do a routine check.”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said nonchalantly, but he raised the window and kept his eye on the cop.  The latter crossed back to the motel and in a moment reappeared, leading a plump, gray-haired woman whose eyes were swollen with crying.  It was obviously Brandon’s ma.

 

As they approached, there was a faint scraping noise form the passenger side of the cab and Manny’s corpse suddenly flopped back and began convulsing violently.  As the dead spic’s firm muscles contracted involuntarily and his eight-inch boots kicked at the floorboards, the deputy and the old woman crossed in front of the truck.

 

The Trucker didn’t have a moment to think; the reaction was instant, that of a hardened killer.  He reached out his right leg and planted the thick sole of his black leather harness boot against Manny’s jaw.  With a single powerful flex of his calf, he stomped on Manny’s head.  The cocksucker’s skull was sheared off the top of its spinal column as the loud wet splintering sound of shattered vertebrae filled the cab.  With one last kick of its boots and one last spurt of seed from its cock, the muscled Hispanic corpse lay still on the floor.

 

Turning, the Trucker lowered the window again.

 

“There,” the deputy told the old woman, pointing up at him.

 

“No,” she replied, dabbing at her eyes with a soiled handkerchief, “No, ain’t seen him before.”

 

“Ok,” the cop told the Trucker, “Thanks.  You can go.”

 

The Trucker did so, before the cop had the bright idea of asking the waitress in the diner to ID him.

 


 

More than twenty miles west of town, the state highway crossed a series of deep, narrow gullies by means of several bridges.  The Trucker pulled over on the shoulder just short of one.  Checking to make sure there was no other traffic—the road was deserted—he got out.

 

He strode to the edge of the gully and looked down.  Yeah, it’d do.  It appeared to be dry for most of the time, but after the recent torrential rains, there was a decent stream of water at the bottom—not deep or swift, but turbid and filthy and unlikely to inspire closer inspection.  It was perfect.

 

Opening the passenger door, the powerful serial killer reached in and grabbed Manny’s corpse under the arms.  The buff young homo was still warm to the touch, his firm muscles now flaccid and useless.  His last load, the wad forced from his cock when his neck was broken, was congealing on his smooth flat belly.

 

The alpha dragged Manny like a side of beef, the dead spic’s boot’s cutting a furrow in the roadside dirt that led to the edge of the ravine.  “Here ya go, ya fuckin’ piece a’ garbage, this far enough outta town for ya?” he jeered, and tossed the dead youth over the side.

 

Manny’s limp corpse tumbled ass over elbow down the gully into the slimy trickle of water, landing on it back with a wet splat.  As the Trucker watched, it sank in some, the water rising up over the blackened face and the dull, half-lidded eyes.

 

Smiling with the satisfaction of a job well done, the older man headed back to his rig.  As he climbed in, a chill gust of wind from out of the west swept across him; he was gonna have to break out his leather jacket if this weather kept up.  And judging by the dark thunderheads building up to the west, it looked like it was going to keep up.  As he sifted into gear and pulled back out onto the highway, the Trucker wondered if more rain would wash the (literally, now) wetback’s body away—and where it would end up.

 

Not that he cared.  He had a haul to see about—and then maybe it’d be time to have his dick serviced again.

Trucker 15–Trucker vs the Lucky One

The Trucker was a cunning and intelligent predator.  The senses and skills associated with hunting were highly developed in him; he was excellent not only at killing but at avoiding danger.  Some of this was innate, but some of it was forced on him by his lifestyle; running freight, as he did, he occasionally found himself re-running routes and stopping repeatedly in the same place over a period of time.

 

So when he got back to the town where his last kill had taken place, he was on high alert.  He’d been gone several weeks—more than enough time for whatever kind of trouble the snuff of a methhead whoreboy stirred up to settle back down—but there was no sense being careless.

 

As he pulled into the oversized parking lot at the one truck stop in town, the Trucker decided he’d go out on the prowl.  Who knows?  Maybe it’d turn out to be safe.

 

And after all, he was hungry for meat.

 

It was a cold night.  The buff killer was wearing a black Nike compression t-shirt with long sleeves.  Tucked into the narrow waist of his clean but worn jeans, it clung tightly to his massive, heavily-muscled torso.  Along with the black leather harness boots he sported, it was a warm enough outfit in the heated cab of his truck, but there was an icy wind blowing outside that would necessitate a little more protection.  Reaching into the sleeper compartment, the Trucker drew out an aviator jacket in distressed black leather and slipped it on.

 

As he leaped down from the cab, his thick-soled boots hit the ground with a loud thump.  Striding quickly across the cement lot, his wide-legged stance testifying to the massive package between his legs, he was the image of masculinity.  When he reached the street, he turned left, heading in the direction of the gay bar he’d hit up last time.  He’d poke around a little, make sure nothing suspicious was going on—then he’d be ready to hunt down some fagmeat and drain his hairy sack into it.

 

It was only a few blocks to the bar.  Once he reached it, the Trucker found that there was a line at the door; a large poster announcing the presence of a locally famous DJ explained the crowd.  The hardbodied killer paused—he had no intention of waiting in a line; too many potential witnesses would be given too much time to observe his appearance.  He’d have to try elsewhere—

 

As he turned, he noticed a couple of boys standing at the far end of the building’s façade, near the unattended exit door.  Despite the wind, they seemed in no hurry to join the line and escape into the warmth of the bar’s interior.  Before he could take a step in their direction, a man exiting the bar paused and engaged the two boys in conversation.  The Trucker was too far away to hear what was being said, but it was obvious that some kinda bargain was being struck.  As if to prove his point, the older bar patron began walking swiftly away, the taller youth following in his trail.

 

So, then.  A couple of boywhores who had decided to skip paying a cover charge and just pounce on random dudes as they were leaving the bar.  One of them had managed to pick up a john, leaving the other for the Trucker.  The grinning serial killer sauntered over to check out the lucky motherfucker.

 

When he got closer, the shock of recognition tingled through his muscular frame.  The kid was short, his slim, firm, wiry body obvious in his tight black skinny jeans and dark blue Nike Air Jordans.  It was impossible to tell what kind of shirt he was wearing under his gray fleece hoodie, but under the pointed hood his face was easily seen.  Long curly hair so jet-black it almost gleamed blue was counterpointed by the deep liquid pools of his long-lashed, gazelle-like eyes, also deep black.  The clear skin on the boy’s broad, youthful face had a dark, almost olive tone to it.

 

He was the kid who’d played pool with the Trucker last time he was here.  The one the alpha had set his sights one, before the little punk had been saved by a group of rentboy friends who’d carried him off to drink elsewhere.

 

Well, well, well.  Seems like luck only goes so far.  As the Trucker ambled up to the kid, he idly wondered where his little pack of pansy friends were.  Looked like they’d be too late to save him tonight…

 

The kid recognized the Trucker as well; his face lit up.  “Hey, dude,” he called out, “I was hopin’ I’d see you again!”

 

The kid was telling the truth.  He’d been entranced by the Trucker’s rugged and utterly unfeigned masculinity the moment he’d laid eyes on the alpha in the poolroom a couple of weeks ago.  But Jimmy and Don had come up, and they’d scored some ice, and that had meant more at the moment.

 

That was then and this was now.  And now he was broke and needed a john bad, one with a lot of money.  Not that he wouldn’t let this stud fuck him for free if he could, but money was the primary focus.

 

“Hey,” the Trucker drawled, casually leaning back against the wall.  “You, uh—available?”

 

The kid grinned.  Now that he was closer, the Trucker could see that the boywhore was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt under the hoodie.  That wasn’t all he could see; a line of thick dark fur was peeking above the collar of the t-shirt—the little fuck must be as hairy as he was, the Trucker realized; maybe more.  It certainly didn’t show on his smooth young face.

 

“Yeah, I’m free,” the boy replied with a cocky grin, “But I ain’t exactly free, if ya get my drift.”

 

The Trucker got it, all right.

 

“How much for the whole night?” he asked.

 

The kid scrunched up his face in pretended thought, unconsciously giving himself a boyish, elfin expression by biting his bottom lip.  “Five hundred,” he said, well aware it was too much but willing to take a shot and bargain if he had to.

 

The Trucker bit his bottom lip as well—to stop an overwhelming impulse to bray laughter in the faggot’s face.  Five hundred for a night with this reamed-out fuckmeat?

 

“Five? No,” the Trucker said firmly but seriously, pretending to think himself.  “How about three?”

 

The Trucker watched the whore’s eyes almost literally light up with dollar signs.

 

“I—uh, yeah, ok—” the rentboy faltered, stunned at his good luck.  He’d have settled for fifty.  “C’mon an’ follow me, I gotta place, a room.  We can get busy an’ ain’t no one gonna disturb us…”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said laconically, “Lead the way, boy.”

 

“Name’s Kristos,” the kid replied and this time the Trucker wasn’t able to contain his snort of amusement.  The boy took it in stride; he wasn’t gonna let anything distract him from the possibility of earning three hundred bucks just for letting the hottest dude he’d ever seen fuck him.

 

“Naw, man, seriously,” Kristos said.  “I’m half Greek.  My mama is second-generation Greek.  She insisted; it’s her the name of her favorite uncle.”

 

The Trucker’s ears picked up at the mention of the fuckmeat’s mother.  “How old are ya, boy?” he asked casually.

 

“Twenty-one,” Kristos promptly lied; his birthday was still over two weeks away.  But he was used to lying about his age; he’d been doing it ever since he ran away from home and started whoring himself out four years ago.

 

“Uh-huh,” the Trucker replied absently.  He was sure the punk was lying, but it didn’t matter.  However old the kid was, he wasn’t gonna get any older.  “So where’s this room ya got?”

 

“This way,” Kristos said, heading towards the street and turning left.  The steady beat of his boots on the pavement assured the kid that the Trucker was following him, but at some little distance behind.  Dude was being cautious, he reflected—nothing wrong with that.  Probably had a wife somewhere and was just out on the prowl for boys on the DL.

 

A right and another left brought them onto a pitted, run-down little street that ran parallel to the highway frontage road, one block behind it.  The Trucker realized they were going to one of the sleazy little motels that lined this section of the highway.  Infested with whores and drugs, City Hall was still determining how to deal with this two-block section that was considered a blight on the town.  In the meantime, business flourished.

 

Kristos, already on the other side of the street, crossed the rear parking lot of a sordid little place called the Lady Luck Motel.  The Trucker lounged behind, not wanting to be seen entering the same room as the fuckmeat.  Ambling around a corner, he saw the boy disappear into an open door—room 27.  With a grin, he noticed that the door had been left open a crack.  After a quick glance around confirmed no one was watching, the huge, hardbodied killer slipped silently into the room.  He closed and locked the door behind him, slipping the chain on as well.

 

The room itself was as cheap and sleazy as it had promised to be.  A remodel sometime in the sixties had left the wall swathed in cheap faux-wood paneling, now loose and splintered and almost visibly oozing formaldehyde vapor.  The furniture dated from a later era, probably the eighties—light wood veneer with brass accents and large panels painted dark green.  The furniture was a decrepit as the paneling, pocked with cigarette—and undoubtedly crack pipe and meth pipe—burns and large white rings where drinks had stood.

 

There was a queen-size bed against the far wall, stripped down to the fitted sheet; the bedding piled on the floor next to the left side of the bed.  On the left wall was a desk/dresser combo unit with a no-name brand flat TV standing on it; beyond it was the door to the bathroom.  To the right of the door was a small round table with two chairs, not really big enough to serve as a dining table for two people.  The whole place reeked of old musty smoke, detergent whose lemon additive didn’t completely mask the astringent scent of the powerful cleaning chemicals—and the unmistakable musk of mansex.

 

Kristos had already pulled off his hoodie and his t-shirt, revealing a slim, firm torso darkened with fur.  His body hair was everywhere, on his chest, down his belly, even marching down his upper arms.  It was long and dark and silky, much like the long jetty ringlets on his head.

 

The Trucker slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing over a chair as he watched the rentboy.  The kid sat on the bed and kicked off his Air Jordans before standing back up.  Smiling contemptuously, the older man peeled his Nike compression t-shirt off.  The youth grinned eagerly as the alpha’s broad, hairy chest was exposed, the massive rise of his pecs emphasized by the gleaming dogtags nestled in the dark, fur-lined depression between.

 

“C’mon, man,” Kristos said, “Pull it out; lemme see what ya got.”

 

“You first,” the Trucker demanded.

 

The Greek boy’s eyes narrowed slightly; he made it a rule to make sure he was got at least some cash down before getting completely nude—but fuck, this dude was hot, and he wanted to see what kinda tackle the guy had swingin’ between his legs.  He wriggled out of the tight black jeans; naturally, he’d gone commando for easy access.

 

Kristos’s legs were a hairy as the rest of him, long dark fur on his thighs and calves and a positive bush of black pubic curls.  Luckily, his already-erect dick was six and half inches, easily visible despite the mass of fur from which it sprouted.  His balls, on the other hand, were hard to discern; the punk was so aroused his scrotum was already starting to pucker.  He wanted the Trucker bad—and it was obvious.

 

The hard-bodied alpha returned the kid’s cocky grin and unzipped his fly.  Extracting his enormous manhood hand-over-hand from the depths of his groin took a moment; for each inch of manmeat that appeared, Kristos’s breathing became swifter and more intense.  Goddam, he thought, lookit the size of that thing…

 

He wondered if he could really take it.  If not, he’d have to give the guy his money back.  Speaking of which—

 

“Ok, I’m gonna need to get some money before we go any farther,” the hairy youth said evenly.

 

“Uh-uh,” the Trucker replied, “You don’t get paid until I’m done.”

 

“That ain’t the way I work, man,” Kristos responded.  “Don’t have to pay the whole thing—call it a deposit.”  He looked the Trucker in the eye; he’d be willing to cut an alpha stud like this a discount afterwards if the fuck was a good as it looked like it’d be—but there was no way he’d be doing anything for free.  It didn’t matter how hot the dude was; it was against what he called his principles.  But he knew the vibes of a deadbeat by now and this guy wasn’t giving them off.  He wasn’t quite sure what kinda vibes he was picking up on, but they definitely weren’t those of a broke-ass scumbag…

 

If Kristos had been more in tune with the vibes the Trucker was giving off, he’d have pissed himself.  As it was, he got no warning at all.

 

“You want me to pay something now?” the muscled alpha growled.  A brief twinge flashed in Kristos’s hormone-sodden brain, the first hint of a danger signal.  “Fuck that.  And fuck you, faggot!”

 

The power contained in the Trucker’s massive right bicep was unleashed in a sudden, explosive blow like a bolt of lightning; the impact of his bunched-up fist in the kid’s face was just as swift and unexpected.  Kristos experienced a powerful blast of pain and fell to the bed; three more blows in rapid, relentless procession smashed against his face, breaking his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth before the boywhore even realized he’d been punched.

 

Stunned, the boywhore coughed up two upper left molars, tasting blood in his mouth.  His face was throbbing and swelling; he could feel the puffiness when he spoke.

 

“W-what the fuck…” he moaned softly, the effort of moving his lips and tongue almost being too much for him.  But the words were meaningless anyway; he knew what the fuck.  What the fuck was that this motherfucker had decked him.

 

Kristos had been robbed before; during his years as a teen street whore, he’d been beaten several times and raped more than once.  He was pissed at himself for not recognizing a psycho sooner.  But he was also pissed at the Trucker.  He wasn’t gonna deal with this shit again; this time, he’d fight back.

 

It was an unwise decision.

 

“Motherfucker!” yelled the slim, hairy youth, ignoring the pain in his face.  “Whaddaya want, asshole?  Money?  Free sex?  You ain’t gettin’ it, bitch; I’ll claw yer fuckin’ eyes out and scream loud enough to alert every cop from here to the highway!”

 

With that, he launched himself off the bed, straight at the Trucker.

 

With the honed instincts of an experienced killer, the hulking alpha had known that an attack would follow the outburst.  Seeing the muscles in the boy’s legs coil, he pivoted back, planting his right harness boot firmly on the floor behind him, ready to take his weight.  When the kid sprang, the Trucker was in perfect position to grab him by the nape of his neck and, whirling on the foot he’d planted behind him, propel the punk headfirst into the dresser/desk unit.

 

Kristos barely had time to realize something had gone wrong before his lights were put out.

 

If fate had been kind to the rentboy, he’d never have woken up again.  As it was, he wasn’t out for very long.  When he woke—his consciousness creeping back slowly and painfully—he was crumpled on the thin, threadbare carpet.  Directly in his line of sight were a pair of black leather boots.  Helpless, his eyes focused on the thick straps and metal rings on the boots; it seemed to be an instinctive maneuver to draw his attention away from the horrible pain in his head—to say nothing of the fear.

 

From above the boots, the came a voice, a deep, rugged growl.  “You stupid fuckin’ pansy,” the Trucker sneered.  “Didja really think you had a chance against a real man, faggot?  Huh?”

 

The muscle-bound alpha, his upper lip curled with contempt, kicked Kristos, hard.  There was a loud snap, making the boy cry out in pain and clutch as his broken rib.

 

“I was just gonna snuff ya tonight,” the killer said reflectively, “Just fuck ya and put ya down nice and easy.  But you fucked it all up, son.  You pissed me off.  Now, you gotta die hard.  Now, it’s gotta hurt.”

 

As the dark-haired boywhore turned his tear-streaked eyes up to his tormenter, the Trucker crouched down to give Kristos a better look.  Despite the agony, despite the sheer terror, the furry young slut felt his cock stiffen as he looked into the ice-blue eyes of the handsome, hyper-masculine stud.

 

The Trucker saw it too.  Instantly, his face was filled with a terrifying mix of rage and lust.  He spit into Kristos’s face.  “You disgustin’ sack of homo shit, you like this, yeah?  The idea of me takin’ you out gets ya off?  You like gettin’ hurt?  Fuck yeah, cunt, why didn’t ya just say so?  I’ll fuck you up so bad yer own mamma won’t recognize you.  I’ll fuckin’ squeeze the cum outta yer dyin’ boymeat, asswipe.  Goddam, I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad you’ll scream for joy!”

 

The muscle-bound psycho reached down and grabbed Kristos by the throat, then hoisted him into the air, instantly and effortlessly, as if the kid was no more substantial than a pillow.  The rentboy choked and slobbered.  His eyes rolled back in his swollen, purple face; his nose had been broken on impact with the dresser, streaking his face with trickles of blood.

 

Pivoting abruptly, the Trucker slammed the punk whore violently up against the outside door.  Still clutching the kid single-handedly by the throat, the hardbodied killer leaned in, his face—both erotically hot and emotionally cold—filling Kristos’s field of vision.  “It’s yer lucky day, ya fuckin’ painpig,” he hissed sneeringly.

 

The choking, semi-conscious youth caught at the word ‘lucky’; he’d certainly felt lucky when he’d brought this muscular stud back to fuck him…

 

…but now he couldn’t breathe.  Holy fuck, it was horrible; his head was swelling, his face was swelling and the trauma he’d already suffered to those areas was intensifying his pain to excruciating levels.  In an almost mindless surge of panic, Kristos began beating his fists against the Trucker’s huge pecs.  His effort had virtually no effect besides hurting his hands; it was like beating a stone wall.  Even the sound was muffled by the thick layer of wiry fur covering the older man’s chest.

 

As dark explosions burst before the kid’s eyes, his hands faltered and fell away.  He was reduced to scratching at the door behind him, his clawing fingers seeking out the doorknob—mindlessly; he had no plan of action.  As he gagged and drooled, his legs began jerking, his heels drumming loudly against the hollow-core door.  It was a little too loud; it may have saved—or at least lengthened—Kristos’s life.

 

The Trucker spit in his face again before pulling him away from the door and tossing him limply onto the bed.

 

Gasping for air, unable to breathe through his blood-clogged nose, Kristos rolled onto his back.  He moved slowly; the slightest effort to turn his body shoved the broken ends of his rib together.  The internal grinding sensation was so painful, it literally took his breath away again.

 

By the time he got onto his back, the Trucker had crossed the room and was standing next to the bed, looming over him.  The alpha’s gigantic erect cock jutted out in front, the thick purple head oozing hot drops of precum onto the slut’s flat, furry belly.  Kristos’s eyes lifted above the Trucker’s intimidating shaft, past his ripped abs and up to his massive pecs with large dark nipples standing out above the dark wiry chest hair.  The dogtags no longer caught the light, but an occasional glint marked their position, dangling in the middle of the stud’s muscled chest.

 

And above that, the face.  The cold, masculine face in which Kristos could see his own death.  The whoreboy quickly looked away, refusing to acknowledge what he had seen there.

 

“L-le-lemme g-go,” he muttered, his voice thick with tears and pain.  “W-on’t tell an-anybody…”

 

“I know you won’t tell anybody,” the Trucker replied calmly.  “You’ll be fuckin’ dead.”

 

Kristos couldn’t ignore it any longer.  He burst into open sobs, desperately trying to understand how a simple trick with a hot stud could have gone so nightmarishly wrong.

 

As if he could read the kid’s mind—and he damn near could; none of the meat he offed seemed to have the intelligence to come up with an original thought—the Trucker jeered at the battered and terrified youth.  “You deserve this, ya fuckin’ cunt.  Ya know that, dontcha?  You know it and want it; yer faggot dick don’t lie.  This is what you been looking for for years.  You wanted a real man to come along and finally give yer worthless fairy ass some meaning by usin’ you as his personal cumdump and then wipin’ you off the planet like a stain.  Lay back and enjoy it, bitch, I’m gonna use you up till yer dead, then leave your rottin’ corpse for the maid to throw out like a cumrag.  Think the police are gonna care if I snuff a worthless faggot like you?  Fuck, they’d probably give me a medal; they hate cumsuckin’ homos like you.”

 

In spite of himself, as the cruel verbal abuse washed over him, Kristos could feel his own cock get harder and harder, until it ached horribly.  He was almost numb with fear and his sense of bewildered terror was somehow amplified when he felt searing drops of precum land in his groin that didn’t come from the Trucker.  The fact that he was aroused while at the mercy of a murderous psycho only emphasized the nightmarish and surreal situation.

 

Slowly, Kristos tried to turn away, doing his best to ignore the stabbing pain in his abdomen as the jagged edge of a broken rib tore at the fragile, gossamer-thin tissue of his lung.  Smirking, the Trucker reached over and grabbed the cunt’s thighs, rolling Kristos back onto his back and forcing his legs apart.

 

The kid emitted a pathetic bleat of pain as the alpha positioned himself between the boy’s firm, furry legs.  Kristos was too distracted to notice how the older man was lining up his enormous cock with the kid’s fuckhole—the rib had punctured his lung, and the boy was having trouble breathing.

 

He had no trouble letting out a loud screech of agony as the Trucker abruptly penetrated him, the alpha’s huge shaft of throbbing manmeat plunging full-length into the kid’s tender, unprepared guts.  The massive swollen head, lubed by nothing but its own precum, tore viciously at Kristos’s velvety rectal lining and ground relentlessly over the punk’s prostate.  The boy could feel his own rod swelling and pulsing uncontrollably, even as he wailed in pain.

 

“Shaddup, motherfucker,” the Trucker growled and popped him in the face again—a single blow, the muscle-bound top’s bicep pumping with the force of a mule kick.  Kristos took it full in the jaw, which was hit hard enough to be dislocated.

 

“Yeah, that’s more like it,” the cruel alpha said, roughly sliding his dick in and out of Kristos’s innards as the kid lay back on the bed, trembling and mewling softly.  The boy was literally overwhelmed by the violence and trauma he’d suffered; he sobbed quietly, every motion of his mouth causing terrible pain to shoot through his jaw.

 

“Take my cock, faggot,” the Trucker murmured, looking down at the youth’s slim body, the olive skin covered by a mass of black fur, matted with sweat.  The Trucker was sweating himself; the room was charged with the acrid scent of adrenaline, the musky smell of mansweat, the heady pheromones being pumped out by two males bodies entwined in violent contact.  With every thrust of the older man’s dick, their bodies slapped together, rubbing over each other.  It was hot as fuck.

 

It wasn’t enough.  The Trucker needed more and he decided it was time to go for it.

 

“You just ain’t doin’ it for me, cunt.  What a sorry-ass homo—can’t even milk a load outta me.  Guess I’m gonna hafta do it manually, huh?  You gonna make me jack off?  Okay, asswipe, I’m gonna use you to jack off.”

 

Propping Kristos’s ankles on his shoulders, the Trucker leaned forward, pinning the youth in a fetal position with his dick up the kid’s ass.  Wrapping his huge powerful hands around the boy’s throat, he grinned down at his helpless prey, his face lit with lunatic glee.  “Are ya ready, fucker?  Wanna die?  No?  Yer cock sez ya do, asswipe.  Yer cock is tellin’ me that yer just another worthless faggot that gets off by gettin’ offed.  I’ve wasted dozens of you little cocksuckers and you’re all just the same—squeeze ya a little bit and ya blow yer death load all over the place.  At least you’ll kick and jerk nice and hard as I choke ya to death.  You ain’t got no idea how good it feels when a fuckwad like you dies on my cock.”

 

Kristos didn’t understand the words, but he understood when the massive hand around his throat tightened as cruelly and relentlessly as a bear trap.  The complete inability to breathe forced the boywhore to surface from a dark pit of mental and physical shock into a sharply-edged nightmare.  Instantly, his hands went to the Trucker’s wrists—clawing, prying, any desperate move he could think of to break the older man’s grip, or at least lessen it.

 

It was utterly futile; nothing he could do, exerting all his remaining strength, so much as budged the alpha’s hands by a fraction of an inch.  They merely squeezed tighter.

 

The horrible crushing pain in his throat was slowly starting to seem like less of a concern, though, compared to pressure inside his skull.  There was a feeling of swelling, both in his skin and on the inside—in his brain.  It throbbed swiftly, the pressure hammering at the interior of his cranium…

 

…but even that pain was fading before the conviction that something horrific was being done to his guts.  As dark spots burst in his field of vision, Kristos had the sensation that the huge, cue-ball-sized head of the Trucker’s massive cock was ripping and tearing at his rectum, tearing away his intestines, disemboweling him internally.  He’d never had a dick that big inside him; the Trucker had literally split him open on the first thrust.  Now, as his nervous system was starting to short out from oxygen deprivation, the torn nerve endings in his ravaged colon became hyperactive, as did those in his crushed, battered prostate.

 

Kristos was becoming hypersensitive; every jolt to his nervous system was amplified dozens of times in his dying brain.

 

The Trucker sneered and spit into the punk’s dark, swelling face.  “Die, ya fuckin’ asswipe.  C’mon, motherfucker, let go and jack me off.  Only way it’s gonna stop hurtin’ is if you give up and die, faggot; the longer you fight against it, the more yer gonna suffer.”

 

Kristos’s hand drummed on the Trucker’s broad, muscled chest with no other result than to make the dogtags jump around.  The kid’s face, already purple and swollen with bruises, was now unrecognizable.  His tongue, black and obscene, protruded from blue, bloated lips over which a stream of bloody foam dribbled.  The drool leaked down the boy’s cheeks and over his chin.  The dark, liquid eyes were bulging horrifically, the whites red with hemorrhages.

 

 

The slut’s struggles became more spasmodic; the Trucker had reached his arms around the kid’s legs to keep them in place on his shoulders, now he had to tighten his arms as they jerked randomly and violently.  It was obvious that Kristos had only seconds more to live.

 

“Lights out, faggot,” the sadistic alpha grunted and clenched his hands as hard as he could.

 

It felt—and sounded—like he was crushing Styrofoam as he squeezed Kristos’s esophagus into a bloody pulp.  The same slight resistance before giving way, the same loud crackling sound…

 

For Kristos, it felt like what it was—death.  His brain was nearly dead already in any case; there was just enough left of the homo slut to feel the terrible pain of his crushed windpipe…and then another pain took over.  The young boywhore died in searing, screaming agony as he shot his death load.  He’d never imagined that an orgasm could be that intense—or hurt so bad.

 

As his lithe, furry body clenched the Tucker in its death agony, the violent rhythmic convulsion milking the alpha’s cock perfectly, the older man felt a hot splash on his chest.  Glancing down, the dying punk’s dick rose up and shot a solid stream of jizz directly into the Trucker’s face, some of it splashing into his left eye.

 

“Goddammit!” he yelled in rage.  Instantly grabbing the boy’s chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other, the Trucker twisted Kristos’s skull in a full one-eighty, the vertebrae snapping like popcorn.

 

With one last sudden convulsion, the dead boy’s asshole sucked on the Trucker’s cock, triggering a huge explosion of manseed.  “Fuck!  Goddam!  Fuck!” the alpha yelled, his muscular body bucking and thrusting, hunched over the trembling corpse of the smaller kid as the top hosed its guts with semen.

 

The Trucker didn’t know how many times he’d unloaded inside the dead kid when it was all over.  He spent a few moments catching his breath, lying on top of the corpse, warm, furry cum-covered belly to quivering furry cum-covered belly.

 

After a couple of minutes, he withdrew his enormous shaft from the rentboy’s ass.  As soon as his harness boots hit the floor, he walked to the bathroom.  Soaking a towel in the sink, he proceeded to wipe the slut’s spunk off his chest and to clean his own dick before stuffing it back into his jeans.

 

Walking back into the room, he looped his compression t-shirt through his belt; he didn’t want to put it on while his torso was still wet.  Picking up his jacket, he turned and admired the corpse displayed on the stripped-down bed.  The lean, lithe body was still shuddering, the large pools of semen that had puddled on the chest were just starting to coagulate and mat the dark body hair.

 

Slipping on the leather jacket, leaving it open open just enough for his large dark nipples to stiffen in the chilly air, the Trucker unlocked the door and slipped out.  After a quick glance around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, the alpha moved quickly.  At first he was quiet, but after a block, he broke out whistling, a broad grin covering his face as he headed for his rig.  Running into that little motherfucker again—he’d been really lucky.


 

“Aw, Jesus, not another one,” Ayers whined.

 

Donato eyed him curiously.  “What’s yer problem?  Not like ya gotta do anything more than a little paperwork.  No one’s gonna give a shit if we blow this one off.”

 

“I know,” Ayers replied, “But I’m just sick of havin’ to see this crap.  I mean, lookit this one.  Sweet Jesus in a chicken basket, his head’s backwards.”

 

“Yeah?  So?  Some dude really hates fags.  I know the feelin’.”

 

“And lookit this—there are fingernail marks on the door.  Poor kid musta seen what was comin’ and tried to get away.  Musta been horrible.”

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ayers?  You suddenly feel like cryin’ cause some worthless fuckin’ homo got wasted?”

 

“Aw, chill, Donato, I ain’t goin’ queer.  It’s just that—well, it musta been bad, y’know?  Real bad.”

 

“Little fag cunt probably deserved it,” the younger cop said callously.  “C’mon, let’s get this finished up.  I’m hungry.  You want ribs?  The waitress over at the barbecue place was makin’ eyes at me the other day.  Let’s go and see if she’s on shift.”

Adam–Third Kill–Room Service

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“B-but why?” the buff youth wailed.

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Carlos and Nick 3: Keeping It in the Family

For Carlos, it started with a text from Nick: “be @ office in ½ hr—got a job”.  In this context, Carlos knew exactly what “job” meant.  And the fact that Nick wanted him at the office so quickly meant it had to be something good; at this hour of the day, traffic made that timetable impossible.  Nick must be really excited.

 

Carlos was already casually dressed in tight but faded jeans, a navy-blue thermal shirt with long sleeves; it clung to the hard-bodied convict like it had been painted on.  On his feet were a pair of boots—brown leather ropers, so worn, they slouched and were soft as leather.  The outside temperature was in the lower 40’s—a chilly evening for Vegas.  Carlos was used to colder weather; he didn’t bother to put a jacket on before he left the condo.  On the other hand, he kept the top up and the heat on in the Mercedes.

 

The office that Nick referred to was literally that; he’d rented some space in an office/warehouse park in the southwest part of town off Blue Diamond Road.  It consisted of a suite of two rooms, the inner devoted to the technical aspects of the production.  Carlos rarely entered it; Nick kept it freezing for the sake of the server and expensive desktop units he used for editing and storage.

 

The outer room, however, was furnished for people to meet.  A sofa and four chairs, all cheap but relatively comfortable, were spread out with a couple of strategically-placed chairs.  In one corner was a desk with a monitor; this desktop was considerably cheaper than anything in the inner room but served well enough for things like bookkeeping and communication.  This was where Nick was seated when Carlos entered.

 

The slightly older stud was clearly eager; Carlos wasn’t fully in the room before Nick started talking.  “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to an email he had up on the computer screen.  “It’s a commission, and a damn good one—look at that amount!”  The young killer sat casually on the corner of the desk and leaned his buff body inwards for a better view of the monitor; he blinked in surprise and grinned when he saw the number of zeros after the dollar sign.  “Holy fuck—where’d that come from?  What do they want?”

 

“They wanna cop scene with two vics.  Busting a couple of fag whores, blackmailing them into sex and then snuffing them.  One vic is strangled, the other—well, let’s just say they’ve seen your work and they want you to get creative with a blade.”  Carlos chuckled at this news, and Nick noticed the bulge in the younger stud’s jeans swell visibly.

 

And the psycho killer said he wasn’t gay.  Nick knew better, but he was too smart to admit it.  He was also too smart to admit that this commission had been the result of his posting the video he’d secretly recorded of Carlos raping and murdering the young blond hustler.  Carlos still had no idea his brutal performance had been witnessed—by this time—by many, many others.

 

“Oh hell yeah, I’m down for wastin’ more homos,” the buff, tattooed sadist smirked.  “I take it you already got a plan.  Any good meat lined up?”

 

Nick’s face broke into a broad grin.  “Fuck yeah, man, you know it.  I already have this one framed in my head to get the right shot. I was savin’ these two for a special occasion, and if this doesn’t fit the bill, then nothing ever will.  Check these fuckin’ cunts out.”  And with that, he pulled up a video file, moving his chair aside to give Carlos a better view as he did so.

 

“This was sent to me by someone who wanted to see them snuffed,” Nick added by way of explanation, “But they couldn’t fund the project and I wasn’t gonna waste my time on it.  Now that we got a job, I’ll see how much these two fags want and offer them more.”

 

The video popped up to full screen; Carlos could feel his hog swelling even more within twenty seconds.  It showed two dudes, one obviously older than the other, fucking in the missionary position.  The older man was firm, fit, and looked like he was in his late thirties.  He had light brown hair that was starting to recede slightly in the pattern caused by an excess of testosterone; he compensated with a short goatee that was almost a dark gold in color.  His broad chest was covered with tightly curled fur and was almost—but not quite—as muscled as either Nick or Carlos.

 

The younger slut’s hair was lighter, almost blond, but was darkening in places.  His form was slim and smooth, and he looked like he was in his late teens.  He was the bottom in the sex scene; despite the way his handsome young face was twisted in the pain and pleasure of rough anal sex, there was still a noticeable resemblance between him and the older dude fucking him.

 

“This was shot a couple of years ago,” Nick said by way of explanation.  “The older dude is Ed and the younger is Johnny.  When this was shot, they were thirty-six and sixteen.  Video came with contact info, see—I’ve already talked to them.  They’re local—and they’re father and son.  Seriously.”

 

“Fuckin’ hell!” Carlos barked in surprise.  “So that’s why they look alike?  These perverted sacks a’ shit need to die like dogs!”

 

As a chilly grin spread across Nick’s face, he could feel his own cock start to stiffen.  “No shit, man; that’s the idea.  You up for puttin’ ‘em down?  I’ll take daddy and you can take son.  We’ll set it up like the cop porno and fuckin’ waste the faggots with extreme prejudice.  First, though—we gotta meet them.”

 

“What?  Why?”

“I want them to feel comfortable.  Nothing to alarm them. And we can set up the cop scenario—that’s what we’re being paid for, after all.  Let ‘em know where the shoot’s gonna be, that sorta thing.”

 

Carlos’s face showed the reluctance with which he acquiesced; it was obvious he wanted to get hold of the incestuous pair and wreak havoc on their unsuspecting male bodies right away.  “Yeah?” he demanded, “So where is it gonna be?  Gonna whack ‘em in the condo?”

 

“Naw,” Nick chuckled, “I gotta better idea than that.  Leave it to me, dude, just leave it to me…”

 


 

Four days later, on a much balmier Saturday, the long violet dusk of the desert was fading into blackness as Carlos stepped out of the bathroom in cheap but clean motel room.  Looking around the room, he could see Nick, already in costume.

 

Carlos himself was dressed as agreed; he was role-playing a motorcycle cop.  But since this was supposed to be “straight” gay porn, so to speak, he was dressed as the gay ideal of a motorcycle cop, which meant lots of black leather—tight leather pants tucked into a pair of nearly knee-high glossy motorcycle boots.  Even the utility belt and shoulder harness were leather straps, the latter worn over his broad, bare chest.  Shirtless, the winged skull tat on the ex-con’s left pec would be visible on camera, as would the fully inked sleeve on his right arm.

 

Picking up a classic black and white bike helmet from the dresser, Carlos turned to Nick.  Around his throat, the massy links of his thick gold necklace glinted in the bleak light of the bare overhead bulb.  “So?” he asked, “How do I look?”

 

Nick grinned appreciatively.  “Those homos will be beggin’ for yer shaft when they see ya in that getup,” he chuckled, “But speakin’ of shafts, I can see the one in yer boot”.  Glancing down, Carlos could see the hilt of his shank protruding from his boot.  It was a Ka-Bar Becker, a Bowie combat knife with a nine-inch blade of jet black carbon steel, customized with jagged serrations.  It was unlikely that the cocksuckers in the next room would notice it against his black leather gear, but there was no sense in taking a chance—he slid the viciously-edged weapon deeper into his boot.

 

Nick’s costume, while erotic, was slightly more conservative; a standard police uniform, complete with badge.  On the other hand, it was two sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin, the white stripe running down the outside of the legs of the slacks highlighted his bulging thighs and muscular calves as it disappeared into Nick’s tightly laced combat boots.

 

“And them?” Carlos asked, nodding at a door in the side wall.  “Are they ready?”

 

Nick’s grin grew wider and more shark-like.  “Fuck, whaddaya think?  Ain’t no way they’re ready for how bad we’re gonna fuck ‘em up.”

 

The door led to a connecting room in the cheap one-story motel Nick had found east of downtown, off the Boulder Highway—an old, run-down motor court with a defunct neon sign displaying the name Snake Eyes.  During the initial meeting, he’d given Ed some cash to rent a room there on his own—then Nick had gotten the connecting room himself under an assumed name.

 

There had been some rocky moments in the initial interview; Ed and Johnny had been somewhat hesitant about the scenario.  The rough sex wasn’t an issue, once they were told they’d be paid extra, but the cuffs were more of a concern—turned out they’d never done bondage before.  It took the offer of even more cash to get them (well, Ed, actually, like a good boy, Johnny let daddy do the talking) to agree.

 

And even then, the older pervert demanded a down payment.  Nick simmered with repressed rage as he handed five Franklins over to the well-built but slightly smaller man.  That cash was gone for good, he reflected angrily; the fucker wasn’t likely to bring it back to the shoot.

 

Once the money was settled, though, things went more smoothly for a while.  The meeting at the motel was arranged and the plot agreed to—Carlos and Nick were to bust in and find Ed and Johnny fucking; after separating and cuffing them, Carlos would fuck Johnny while Nick fucked Ed.  Surprisingly enough, Ed—who’d only appeared in the video as a top—had no problem with the thought of taking Nick’s cock up his ass, but Johnny seemed intimidated by Carlos’s massive dong; both tops had been  wearing revealingly tight jeans that day specifically to show off.

 

After a hurried, whispered conference between father and son, Ed spoke up in an embarrassed tone.  Johnny thought Carlos was hot as fuck but, had admitted, the kid had never taken a dick that size and was gonna need something to help with the pain.  It took another ten minutes of hemming and hawing for him to confess that Johnny wanted meth on the set.

 

Nick and Carlos glanced at each other.  They didn’t particularly care what the fuckmeat did to itself, but they didn’t want to be inhaling those toxic fumes themselves.  It was agreed that Johnny could smoke in the bathroom with the fan on prior to the killers entering the room.

 

And that was what was presumably happening on the other side of the connecting door right now.  Nick had a video feed from one of the cameras he’d set up previously over there streaming to his phone; the screen showed Ed utterly nude but for the thin gold chain around his neck, from which a plain cross of the same shiny metal gleamed in a nest of his chest fur.  The wiry muscles of his hairy body rippled as he paced the room, his long tool swaying as he turned.

 

The sick faggot was clearly impatient for his son to come out of the bathroom so he could fuck the slim teenager.

 

He didn’t have long to wait; the door opened suddenly and the blond kid walked out.   Unlike his dad, he wasn’t nude; he sported a pair of plain white cotton briefs that barely contained his short but incredibly thick cock and cradled his smooth bubble-butt asscheeks.  He’d left his sneakers on too, a pair of Puma Redon Moves in black.

 

There were two double beds in the room, each under the gaze of several different types of camera.  Nick hadn’t left any angles uncovered by either video or a still camera set for multiple timed shots.  As the father/son pair approached the bed on the left, Johnny’s face swam into view; even on the small screen of Nick’s phone, the kid’s twitching bloodshot eyes showed how hard the little fuck was tweaking.

 

Not that it mattered.  The adolescent homo embraced the older man; as they kissed, each obviously thrusting his tongue deep into the other’s mouth, the family resemblance became very clear.  The same deep brown eyes with long lashes, the same snub nose, dimpled chin and full, red lips—no one watching the scene could miss the fact that they were watching father and son indulging in incestuous gay sex.

 

Ed reached down and with a swift yank, jerked Johnny’s tighty whities down past his knees; they fell to the floor and Johnny stepped out of them, his fireplug-like dick popping up and smacking his abs, splattering his smooth flat belly with precum.  Panting with lust, Johnny hopped onto the bed and, rolling onto his back, spread his kicks in the air as he waited for daddy to come mount and penetrate his ass.  Ed was already there, his erect shaft probing at his teenaged son’s sphincter.  The moment daddy rammed it in, Johnny grimaced and he let out a loud moan that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

 

Smirking, Carlos looked over at Nick, who nodded back.  It was time.  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Carlos, chuckled, then put his boot to the connecting door.  Kicking it open, he drew the gun from his shoulder harness holster and burst into the other room.  “Police!” he bellowed ferociously for the camera, “Everyone freeze!”

 

Nick followed, also with a drawn handgun—the guns were real but not loaded.  After all, shooting the pansies wouldn’t have been any fun.

 

“Well, whadda we got here?” Carlos jeered.

 

“Looks like that report about faggot whores in this room was right,” Nick replied.  “C’mon, ya sick perverts, up against the wall.”

 

Ed and Johnny disentangled themselves, got out of bed and slowly back away from the “cops”, hands in the air.  “Isn’t there something we can do about this?” Ed asked, sticking to the script, “Some way we can work this out?”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos leered, “Like what?”

 

Ed looked over at Johnny.  “Go on, boy,” he said, “Show him what.”  With his father’s sanction, the firm, slim youth reached out and grabbed Carlos’s crotch, rubbing his hand over the enormous bulge in the black leather, fondling the long shaft.  The boy’s eyes widened as his fingers slid over the detail of every vein wrapped around the monster hog; daddy wasn’t this big.  Johnny was glad he’d gotten high first; he was gonna need it.

 

Ed, for his part, had reached out and started unbuttoning Nick’s tight shirt.  “Hey, I think these cocksuckers are tryin’ to bribe us.” Nick laughed, slipping his gun back into the holster dangling from his thick belt.

 

“Yeah, ya think so?” Carlos replied.  “Bribin’ a cop’s a punishable offense.  I say we punish their asses, dude; whaddaya think?”

 

“I think we need to take these faggots into custody, man, make sure they don’t try to get up to nothin’,” Nick drawled, shrugging off his black shirt.  “Turn around and put yer hands behind yer back, ya queer-ass bitch!” he barked as he spun the older man around.  Ed, fit but less powerful, was a top with his son, but the rough manhandling he was getting from the muscled stud was keeping his dick hard.

 

As Nick locked the steel cuffs around Ed’s wrists and, pressing the helpless bound man to the wall, began fondling him, Carlos turned to Johnny.  A cold grin slowly crept over his sexy, cruel face as he reached up and slid the inch-wide leather holster harness strap off his right shoulder.  “You too, boy,” he hissed at the slim, firm teen who was backing away, intimidation clearly showing in his face.  “Turn around, bitch.  You don’t wanna make me come after you.”

 

The threat implicit in the ex-con’s husky voice carried to his intended victim, if not to the kid’s father.  But the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree; the harsh authoritative tone of command managed to fill the boy with both fear and lust.  He obeyed implicitly, almost unconsciously, whimpering slightly as Carlos removed the harness completely.  Placing the revolver on the dresser, he proceeded to use the leather straps to bind the teenager’s arms like a roast trussed for the oven.

 

“There ya go, boy,” the muscular, inked stud growled, “Now get over on the bed.  We’re gonna show y’all how the law ‘round these parts handles faggots.”  He pushed Johnny towards the bed on the left; the unexpected shove knocked the youth off-balance, causing him to stumble into the wall, knocking his head on the cheap pine paneling.

 

“Hey!” Ed yelled, “You leave him alone!”  It was improvisation for the sake of the porn film—but there was a note of concern in the tone the both of the sadistic killers picked up on.  “You too, cunt,” Nick spat out, “Sit down on that bed, motherfucker!”

 

As Carlos ran his hands over the teen’s smooth, silky skin, making the adolescent moan in anticipation, Nick stood spread-legged at the foot of the other bed, facing Ed.  “Unbuckle my belt,” he commanded the well-built older man.

 

“My-my hands,” Ed stammered, “They’re still cuffed—”

 

“You stupid cocksucker,” the alpha snarled, slapping the pervert’s face, “Use yer fuckin’ mouth!”

 

Ed winced and shuddered under the blow, but his erect shaft pulsed and squeezed out a dribble of precum.  Nick chuckled.  Oh yeah, this pansy liked it rough and hard.

 

Good—he was gonna get rough and hard in abundance.

 

In the meantime, though, he had to work his mouth assiduously on the thick leather strap of Nick’s belt.  It took a while for him to get it undone.

 

Carlos, on the other hand, wasn’t into foreplay.  He’d fondled the twink enough; now he was ready to fuck.  Standing up, he undid the fly on the tight leather pants—not a zipper, but several buttons he needed to release.  As his hand worked its way down his groin, his enormous rod suddenly fell out like a toppled tree—a big, thick log crashing down.

 

Johnny’s big brown soulful eyes grew wide; both fear and lust were reflected in them as the young fag was confronted with the longest, thickest cock he’d ever seen.  The kid’s own shaft, already semi-hard and pulsing, sprang to full attention.  Carlos leered down at the adolescent and chuckled.  “Yeah, ya like that, dontcha, ya little cock pig?  Put it in yer mouth, bitch.”

 

Johnny blinked at the powerful ex-con and hesitated.  “Suck my fuckin’ dick, cunt—now!” Carlos barked loudly.  The slim youth gulped, leaned forward, and wrapped his lips around the huge oozing tube of pulsing meat.

 

As his son started to suck Carlos’s cock, Ed, still seated on the other bed, had managed to get Nick’s belt undone. Now the latter had a new task for the older man’s mouth.  Lifting his leg, he placed his thick-soled combat boot on Ed’s thigh.  “Untie it, motherfucker,” he demanded, flexing a strong bicep in front of the manwhore’s face as a show of power.  “Work it with yer mouth, slut, and hurry the fuck up, cause yer gonna do the other one too.”

 

Ed was more experienced with this kinda thing; there was no hesitation on his part as he bent his head forward and seized the woven nylon laces with his teeth.  When he jerked his head to the side to free the knot, the side of his face brushed against the boot; like his son, his tool responded to the sexual stimulus by swelling and drooling precum.

 

“Fuckin’ bootpig pervert,” Nick sneered and Ed dripped even more.

 

It only took a couple of minutes for the older man to untie both boots and little more for Nick to unlace them to the point of being able to slip out of them.  The entire time, the action was accompanied by the slurping sound of Johnny deep-throating Carlos’s shaft.

 

“Get on your back, faggot, and spread your legs,” Nick demanded, “Time for you to learn how much trouble yer in—see, cops on this beat know how to make you homos hurt.  By the time we’re done reamin’ yer fuckholes, you won’t want any other men.”

 

Ed struggled to comply, scooting himself backwards up the bed as best he could with his hands cuffed behind him.  Lying on his back was gonna hurt with the handcuff on, but he was gettin’ paid extra, so he’d deal with it.

 

On the other bed, Johnny was having a little trouble maneuvering himself, so Carlos grabbed his arm, lifted him up, and tossed him down on the bed.  The kid’s cry of pain coincided with Nick’s sudden penetration of Ed’s sphincter; the older man’s face was twisted into a grimace of discomfort.  He was gritting his teeth and trying for too hard not to cry out in pain himself to pay attention to his son’s distress.  Besides, the boy liked getting hurt.

 

“You squeal like a worthless fuckin’ pig, boy,” Carlos growled menacingly, “I like that.  Let’s see if I can make ya do it more.”  Positioning himself between Johnny’s legs on the bed, Carlos propped the punk’s Pumas up on his own shoulders and slapped the swollen purple head of his dick against the teen’s quivering pink fuckhole, splattering the smooth asscheeks with clear precum.

 

Then, without warning, he rammed his rod home, spearing Johnny’s ass; his rigid tool tore through the boy’s colon, gouging the tender rectal lining and striking the prostate as it rocketed deep into the teen’s guts.

 

The look on Johnny’s face showed Carlos he’d gone too far—he’d wanted to make the kid yell, not scream, but his innate sadism had taken over.  Quickly, he leaned forward and, clamping his large, strong hand over the punk’s mouth, squeezed it shut.  Johnny’s shriek of agony was muffled to a high-pitched squeal as tears flowed copiously from his eyes.

 

In any other situation, the noise would have been both noticeable and startling; as it was, Johnny’ father was too busy getting fucked himself to care.

 

The small room, already crowded by two double beds, a cheap dresser and a single nightstand, was swiftly filling with the sounds and scents of man-on-man sex.  Sweat and testosterone filled the air with an erotic masculine musk as two pairs of tightly entwined male bodies writhed on the beds, locked together and rutting in an excruciatingly sexual embrace.

 

Ed moaned and groaned with pleasure as Nick’s swollen shaft plunged deep into his intestines; Johnny, on the other hand, needed to be held down and muffled until his teenaged fuckhole had relaxed enough to accept Carlos’s cock.  It took more than five minutes of powerful reaming for the kid to calm down enough for the ex-con to remove his hand; the mesmeric gleaming and jingling of the thick links in the stud’s gold necklace seemed to help, somehow having a calming effect.

 

“Just shut up and take my dick,” the powerful, tattooed alpha hissed at the youth, bound and pinned helplessly under his heavy muscles.  Johnny’s true fag nature came to the fore; doing what he was told, he relaxed his ass muscle and accepted the thick tube of meat.  Closing his eyes, the teen sank back into a sensation of both pleasure and pain, sighing as he heard his father’s staccato grunting—the older man was getting pounded good.

 

Ed had been right, the cuffs were painful as hell, given that his arms were compressed behind his back by not only his own body weight but that of the well-built fucker on top of him.  But the violently intense shafting the handsome furry daddy was getting felt so erotic that he ignored both the way the metal cuffs were digging into the small of his back and the way his gold cross  pendant had slid up his hairy chest to lodge uncomfortably under his chin.  He simply spread his legs wider.

 

Ed didn’t get a chance to indulge his bottom pig side often, since Johnny was naturally an intense power bottom.  He’d forgotten how good it felt to have a real man ramming a thick cock up his ass; it’d been far too long…

 

Lost in sexual indulgence, Ed paid no attention to what was happening to his son.  The kid was doing what he loved the most, getting fucked, and that was all Ed knew.

 

So Ed never noticed when Carlos reached down and slowly withdrew the wickedly sharp blade from his boot.

 

Nick noticed; he was expecting it.  He and Carlos glanced at each other; a quick nod was all that was needed to confirm that the action was about to swing into high gear.  First, though, Nick grabbed Ed’s chin and jerked it away from the other bed.  Simultaneously, the brutal convict leaned forward and slapped his hand over Johnny’s mouth, sealing the kid’s lips so he couldn’t scream.  Then he flashed Johnny the knife.

 

The teen’s eyes grew wide with horror as he stared at nine inches of viciously-serrated steel.  “Shh,” Carlos whispered, “Quiet, motherfucker or I’ll stick this in ya.”

 

Johnny was only eighteen; he’d never come up against anything like this in his short, wasted life.  Lying helpless and bound on his back, with this sicko’s huge cock up his ass, the youth knew he was utterly trapped.  His eyes scanned up Carlos’s ripped abs, past his massive inked chest, wiry fur matted with fucksweat, up to where the thick gold links glittered in the dim light.  The blade, evil and hard, was matte black; it didn’t reflect light–a dark, cold presentiment of death.

 

Something was seriously wrong here, the teen realized—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do to escape whatever nightmare was coming.

 

He was right.

 

Grinning maliciously, Carlos hunched down over the bound punk, so close that every frantic breath Johnny took was impregnated with mansweat and testosterone; terrified as he was, he responded instinctively to the pheromones.  As the cruel alpha slid the sharp, icy tip of the Ka-Bar blade down, the smooth, silky skin of Johnny’s chest, the boy’s thick, fireplug dick began to throb and pulse on its own, standing up and slapping Carlos’s hard belly and splattering it with precum.

 

On the other bed, Nick was driving his steel-hard shaft into Ed’s ass, keeping the older man’s face turned away from the intimidation process his son was undergoing; daddy would see what was happening to his boy soon enough, but for right now, Nick wanted to make sure Carlos had a little sadistic fun.

 

After all, he’d have his own turn later.  They’d worked out a symbiotic plan of snuff, cruelly effective, in which each would enjoy his own kill.  Carlos got to go first; Nick got to watch.

 

And when it got bad, Ed got to watch, too.

 

Though cold terror had seized his soul at the sight of the vicious blade, Johnny couldn’t quite believe that anything bad was going to happen; this was the best fuck he’d even gotten. Even Dad wasn’t this well hung, this muscled, this well-wrapped in tight black leather–the smooth slickness of which Johnny could feel as his thighs brushed against Carlos’s powerful, pumping legs.  Despite the older man’s hand gripping his mouth painfully, the boy could still smell the dark, masculine scent of the leather.

 

Carlos was enjoying himself, digging his shiny motorcycle boots into the sheets to help with traction as he thrust his massive rod into the kid.  The teen’s large dark eyes glittered with both lust and fear—the prey was right where Carlos wanted it.  “Hey, boy, ya sure seem to like gettin’ stuck with a long, hard shaft, huh?  Yeah?  So lessee how ya like gettin’ stuck with another one!”

 

Rising up over the bound, helpless teenager, the well-developed convict placed all his weight on the hand over the boy’s mouth.  By this point, his other hand had reached the level of Johnny’s smooth, flat belly, now heaving in panic.  Slowly and steadily, Carlos applied pressure, driving the razor-sharp blade into the skin several inches above the navel.

 

The knife was designed for killing; it slid into Johnny’s guts easily, like a hot knife into butter.  Despite Carlos’s weight grinding his mouth shut, the youth’s high-pitched squeal was loud enough to catch his father’s attention.  Nick let him look—it wasn’t as if he was gonna be able to help.  Like Carlos, though, he understood the need to keep his victim quiet until fucker was fully controlled.

 

Clamping down on the older man’s mouth, Nick whispered in his ear.  “Wanna watch yer boy die, motherfucker?  I sure the fuck do, so shaddap and enjoy the show.”  Ed was strong and fit, but not as strong or as fit as the younger man who was now pinning him to the bed; he kicked and jerked frantically, trying to reach his son, but it was going to take him a little time to learn how futile his struggles were.

 

For the moment, Ed was forced to lie there and take Nick’s cock up his ass while watching his boy suffer.

 

And Johnny was suffering badly.  The serrated blade sliced down through his intestines but didn’t cut any major blood vessels on the way; Carlos was inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of fatal injury.  That way he got to play with his meat longer.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude, that sure tightens yer ass up,” the sadistic ex-con jeered. “You must really be likin’ my blade.  That’s whatcha been wantin’, huh, faggot?  You been lettin’ daddy fuck ya for years, but he ain’t never hurt you good enough, huh?  Go on and tell him, cunt, tell yer fuckin’ father how much you love me guttin’ ya like fresh kill!”

 

As he took his hand from Johnny’s mouth, Carlos twisted the nine-inch blade, now fully inserted into the teen’s belly, in the wound, then yanked it back out in a single, brutal jerk.  The youth stared at the dripping knife, the small strings of flesh dangling from the serrations reflected in Johnny’s wide, glazed eyes.  His mouth was wide too, but his pain was so extreme, all that came out was a single agonized croak.  Shuddering violently, the poor kid turned to his father, appealing mutely for help—and seeing that there was none to be had.

 

Carlos, in the meantime, ran the tip of the blade down the teen’s left flank, then rammed the blade upwards under the rib cage.  This time, the length of sharpened steel slashed through the punk’s spleen and liver.  “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Johnny cried involuntarily as his body went rigid with shock.

 

“Aw hell yeah,” Carlos moaned, grinning over at Nick—and Ed.  “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, dude!  Goddam boy pussy gets all good and tight—fuckin’ piece of fag meat!  Shit, man, hope yours jacks ya off as good as this one when ya waste it, man!”

 

Nick chuckled, easily maintaining control as Ed’s struggles and muffled cries both became more frenetic.  “It will, bro, I got it covered.  Gonna take a while to put this one down, so go ahead and work that little bitch over.  Daddy here needs some tenderizin’—he gets to watch.”

 

“Hear that?” Nick sneered into Ed’s incredulous, bewildered face, “You disgusting perverts are both gonna die tonight.  Fuckin’ incest faggots—gettin’ both you and yer boy here killed, huh?  Look on the bright side, cunt; yer both gonna die fulla manspunk—now don’t that make ya feel better?”  The older man shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the words out of his ears; as his head whipped from side to side, his gold cross lodging in the crook of his neck as his furry pecs slid across Nick’s in the same direction.  As their chest hair entwined, it was compressed and matted by a thin layer of sweat.  Even in his fear for himself and his son, Ed was suddenly aware of how painfully erect his nipples were with each scrape of his chest.

 

And his dick was still erect too—what the fuck?  Johnny was being murdered right in front of him, how the fuck could his dick be hard?  Jesus, this guy’s cock, too, it hurt so fucking bad, it filled his ass so—

 

—and then a shrill scream from Johnny redirected Ed’s attention.

 

Carlos was in a rush of bloodlust.  He knew the symptoms by now; the intense eroticism of every moan, every whimper he elicited from the meat; the utter clarity that allowed him to control the desperate youth who fought like the wounded and dying animal he was.  He could feel the excitement start to build deep in his balls, but he’d need to exercise control over both himself and his meat to cum the way he wanted.  And after all, this one was gonna be a money shot in the literal sense of the word.

 

The boy was sobbing softly, almost lost in shock, with the long Ka-Bar knife buried to its hilt in his left side.  The belly wound was bleeding internally, but he wouldn’t bleed out from that for another half hour or so.  This one in his side, though had cut that time to less than twenty minutes; Carlos was going to have to get the motherfucker to milk his cock before the little shit’s lights went out for good.

 

Good thing the kid responded to pain; he was about to endure a lot of it.

 

“Ok, you cumsuckin’ sicko,” Carlos growled, “Foreplay’s over.  You ready to earn my load?  Fuck no, you ain’t; no way no incestuous fairy like you ever gonna earn my cum—but I’m gonna make you work it outta me anyway.”

 

“Hey, asshole,” Carlos called across to Ed, “Yeah, you, motherfucker—did ya smack yer boy while fuckin’ ‘im?  Y’know, give the little cunt a good whack across the face like he deserves?  No?  Too bad, asswipe; your pervert son likes pain.  Fuck yeah, dude, that get ya off the way it gets me off?  C’mon, lessee how much pain he likes—lessee how much I have to stick him to make me cum!”

 

Still without breaking eye contact with Ed—or the timing of a single thrust of his cock—Carlos jerked the knife from Johnny’s side, whirled it expertly in the air, and slammed it back down into the kid’s chest.  The blade speared through the left pectoral, slipping between the ribs to puncture the left lung and come out Johnny’s back.  By the time the hilt was resting on the teen’s chest, the tip of the blade had sunk three inches into the mattress.

 

It was a shame the involuntary reaction was so violent; the convulsive thrashing caused the embedded blade to shred the existing chest wound.  “Fuckin’-A!” Carlos yelled as Johnny’s legs clamped tightly around his waist; the killer’s leather-clad legs pumped furiously as the stabbed teen flailed helplessly against him, his own chest hair matted into dark, wiry swirls.

 

Johnny had been held too tightly in an iron grip of pain and fear to think rationally, but this impaling thrust was driven home with an icy shaft of agony that somehow brought clarity to the tortured youth.  The teen lifted his head, his pain-twisted face streaked with tears, his short hair now dark and slick with sweat.  There was no trace left of his meth high; he strained his eyes to focus on the jingling links of Carlos’s chain dangling just in front of his face.

 

The horrible rigid metal shaft embedded in his chest was starting to overwhelm the kid; despite a minimum of outward bleeding, his chest cavity was starting to fill with blood.  The pain in his lung, his guts, his ass—it was all starting to go cold and gray.  His ears were ringing—what was happening here?  He couldn’t quite remember…daddy had been fucking him and then there were cops…what had he done?  Why was a cop raping him and killing him?

 

Daddy would know.  Johnny turned his head and saw his father being held down and viciously fucked.  Daddy was looking at him—and crying.  Why was he crying?  Johnny tried to reach out to him to no avail, then tried to speak.  “Da—urk!” the teenager grunted as a bubble of blood burst from his lips and trickled down his chin.

 

“Daddy can’t help ya now, cunt,” the buff, inked sadist sneered.  “And you still ain’t worked the spunk outta my tool yet—fuck, you’re even useless as a faggot, ain’tcha?  Ok, looks like I gotta make yer ass work.”

 

“Hey look,” he called over to Nick, “I looked this one up online.  If I do this right, I can make this boymeat convulse so hard his ass sucks my load right outta my balls—course, it’s gonna cause nightmarish pain.  But after all,” he said, turning his handsome and gleefully malevolent face back to Johnny, “That’s what yer here for, ain’t it, meat?  To suffer and die on my dick just so I can cum, right?  So get to work, ya fuckin’ homo, start drainin’ my sack!”

 

With that, he pulled the knife out of Johnny’s chest with a flourish, sending a spatter of blood across the ceiling before he swiftly reversed the blade.  Leaning forward, he placed one hand on the boy’s forehead, shoving the head back and the jaw up.  “Time to die, fag,” he hissed as he placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh on the underside of the jaw, about two inches back from the chin—and slowly inserted it.

 

The next thirty seconds were not only Johnny’s last, they were also the most nightmarish he’d experience.  Carlos was lying flat on top of the suffering teen, the kid’s slick, smooth body writhing beneath that of the powerful convict; during the entire cruel ordeal, Johnny was aware of his helplessness under the crushing weight of his powerful killer.

 

And Johnny was aware—as gruesomely slow as the upward progress of the blade seemed to the one who was enduring it, it was still faster than death, or even unconsciousness by blood loss.  Johnny experienced every single second of pain as nine inches of sharpened steel began to penetrate his skull.

 

As the knife inched its way up, it severed the boy’s tongue near the base before slicing up through the soft palate into the sinuses.  “Fuuuuck…” Carlos moaned, glancing over at Ed and Nick, intertwined in an intense male embrace of lust and power.  “The meat’s finally gettin’ it, bro, he’s sufferin’ so fuckin’ bad…”

 

Turning back, the cruel stud spat into the punk’s gray, agonized face; the teen’s wide, pain-crazed eyes were ringed with dark circles of shock.  With a loud grunt, Carlos reapplied pressure to the knife.  Immediately he encountered resistance; wrapping one tatted bicep around the top of the kid’s head, he shoved harder and was rewarded when the blade jerked upward with a loud crunching sound.

 

The expression in Johnny’s eyes as his septum shattered and the carbon steel blade ripped through his sinuses would be difficult to describe in words, but the grasping, shuddering convulsions that wracked the teen’s body culminated in his rectum, frantically (if involuntarily) milking Carlos’s swollen cock.

 

The tight leather pants cradling the buff killer’s ass afforded little protection as the dying boy’s Puma Redons kicked and flailed; Johnny’s smooth thighs had locked around Carlos’s waist reflexively as the convict’s vein-wrapped shaft ground against the adolescent’s hormone-swelled prostate. The sense of power the sick sex murderer felt in feeling the youth’s smooth body twist and jerk in agony beneath him became more intense the closer the kid came to death.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the sweating, tattooed stud grunted as he hunched over Johnny’s thrashing form, “That’s it.  Now yer feelin’ me, meat.  Gonna unload in yer ass real soon here, ya worthless cumdump, my balls are already startin’ to boil over—aw, fuck!  Fuck! AARRRGGH!!”

 

With a loud cry, Carlos went rigid and shot a stream of hot spunk deep into Johnny’s guts; at the same time, he clenched his biceps and shoved the knife violently.  There was a crunching sound as the serrated steel blade tore free from the boy’s sinuses and thrust up through the brain, the tip embedding itself on the inside of the cranium.

 

At that point, Johnny ceased to be Johnny.  The teenager’s eyes rolled back in his head; he no longer felt pain or terror or his last nightmarish seconds on earth. He also didn’t feel his death load, spontaneously generated by massive brain trauma.  Carlos felt it, though; the adolescent’s sweating, heaving body suddenly went rigid—and then there was no teen boy left in Carlos’s arms, just a violently convulsing piece of meat that was orgasming explosively because it didn’t know it was dead yet.  A geyser of hot sperm splashed up along the alpha’s abs, matting in his dark, wiry belly fur. A second, stronger—and longer—jet of spunk splattered on the scruff-covered underside of the killer’s jaw; thick streams of cum trailed off to smear across the winged skull inexpertly inked over Carlos’s left pec.

 

The muscular ex-con kept fucking the meat, grunting and snarling as the cumdump’s death throes worked wad after wad out of the killer’s stiff, unyielding shaft.  When he’d finally emptied his huge, puckered sack, Carlos pulled out and knelt on the bed above the still-shuddering corpse.  He reached up and yanked the knife out of the meat’s head—it took both hands and a little effort to pry it loose—and glanced over at the other bed.  Nick, riding his prey like a bronco, grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

 

“Goddam, dude, that was one fuck of a money shot,” he said, chuckling, then spat into Ed’s face; the latter was weeping with his eyes shut.  “Got me so fuckin’ amped up, I think it’s just about time to put this queer bitch down too.  Here, toss me the phone; I’ll yank the cord out.”

 

“Naw, man,” Carlos replied, “Too much work.  Here, use these.”  With that, he spun Johnny’s trembling meat over and quickly untied the intricate knot he’d used on his holster harness; the corpse continued to thrash on the edge of the bed, but didn’t fall. “Here, use this,” he said, handing over the harness.

 

Nick grabbed one of the black leather straps and help it up.  “It’ll work; thanks, bro.”

 

Carlos wanted to get a close-up of the action; there was camera mounted on a tripod on the far side of his bed—there hadn’t been enough room to pose one similarly by Nick’s bed—and he reached back to get it.  The camera slipped from his hands; Carlos had to lunge for it, knocking the tripod over behind the bed.  From this awkward position, he turned to move closer; in order to steady himself, he planted one boot directly on the back of the dead kid’s head.

 

And that was the moment Ed chose to turn his head and open his eyes.  That was the image that was seared into Ed’s brain after watching Johnny’s horrific death—his boy’s killer posed on one knee over the quivering corpse, still-dripping hog hanging out of the tight leather pants, one boot grinding his poor dead son’s head into the mattress…he’d never get to fuck that sweet young ass again…

 

Despair rose up within the older man, despair that soon turned to terror once he remembered he was still helpless in the control of two younger, stronger sex killers.  He opened his mouth—even he didn’t know if he was gonna beg or plead or just scream—but to no avail; as he did so, Nick wrapped one of the holster straps around his neck and pulled.

 

“Ready to join yer boy in a dirt nap?” the dominant sadist chuckled, twisting the inch-wide leather strap around his hands for better leverage, “Cause it’s time to die, dude; yer gonna die on my dick like a fuckin’ dog…”

 

The older faggot had been so wrought up by the sadistically cruel assault on his son that his concern for himself had been subsumed into a general sense of terror and panic; now that he’d been forced to watch Johnny being raped and tortured, the words of his tormentor meant little.

 

The fact that he couldn’t breathe, though—that was something else.  He’d loved his son, in his own sick way—but he needed to breathe.  Ed went rigid immediately, fighting for air; the secondary pain of his gold cross, caught under the strap and digging into his flesh, was but a minor annoyance at the moment.

 

“That’s it, cumsucker!” Nick crowed.  “I knew ya had some fight left in ya; you faggots are too stupid to know death when ya see it.  Well, don’t worry, cunt, it’s gonna take several minutes to choke the life outta ya; you’ll have plenty of time to learn that yer dyin’.”

 

As the crushing pain circling his throat intensified, Ed was also aware of how much harder his ass was being pumped by the younger, stronger top.  And another presence—the other one, the one who killed Johnny—he was there, shoving a camera into Ed’s face.

 

And whispering.

 

“Hey, man,” Carlos was hissing, “Yer boy died hard.  Didja like watchin’ it?  Fuckin’ hot as hell, wasn’t it?  It felt so fuckin’ good, makin’ him suffer, and now yer gonna do the same for my bro here, yeah?  And the best part is, we been recordin’ it all.  Dudes all over the world are gonna pay us so they can beat off watchin’ you and yer cocksuckin’ kid get snuffed—ain’t that sexy shit?  Smile for the camera, asswipe, give ‘em a grin before ya get offed.”

 

The older man thrashed and heaved violently on the mattress, his chest and hard, flat belly writhing against Nick’s as their body fur interlocked like a zipper.  His handsome face was growing congested as the holster strap sank deeper into his neck.  His dark eyes bulged open, forcing him to stare into the faces of the two grinning alpha killers hovering over him, two hard, muscled men taking pleasure in his pain and suffering—

 

—and he was suffering.  Nick had never stopped fucking him, but now the sadistic top was aggressively plunging his engorged tool deeper into Ed’s rectum than ever before; even this pleasure had become agony.  The metal handcuffs that kept his arms twisted excruciatingly behind his back had dug in his wrists far enough to cut off the flow of blood to his hands; they were nothing but useless, throbbing lumps.

 

But the trauma being inflicted on his throat was merely the most unendurable; not only was his esophagus slowly compacting into a mangled mass, but his own pendant—the gold cross (that he’d always secretly superstitiously believed would protect him from the evil he now knew existed beyond any doubt) was compressed so firmly into the tender flesh on the side of his neck that it was literally tearing the skin, making a trickle of blood seep onto the sheets.

 

“Ya likin’ that shit, fuckwad?” Nick taunted his older but well-developed victim.  “Yer ass is grabbin’ my cock like it wants more—fuck, man, if I’d known it took a good strong chokeout to make ya work my shaft right, I’d squeezed yer throat long before now.  Hey, bro,” he called over to Carlos, “Did he teach his fucktoy kid right or did ya have stick ‘im first to have fun?”

 

“Naw, dude,” Carlos drawled, winking and sticking his tongue out at Ed’s swelling, horror-filled face, “Stupid sack of shit acted like he’d never had a dick up his ass till I slipped my shank into his guts—an’ even then, I hadda twist the blade in ‘im before he really showed how much he liked gettin’ buttfucked.”

 

“Shit, man,” Nick snarled down at Ed, “Like father, like son.  Both of ya lousy fag fucks who need pain to teach ya how to take a real man’s hog, ain’t that right, cunt?”

 

The buff sadist pumped his tool up the dying porn star’s colon with ruthless efficiency; his biceps and triceps, already glistening with mansweat, began to bulge with the effort he put into cranking Ed’s windpipe permanently shut.

 

Ed could feel it, too, the effort Nick was expending on both his neck and his fuckhole.  The jackhammer pounding of his frantic pulse in his head was echoed in the furious reaming that his rectum was enduring; there was a fiery ball of pressure that was swelling in his chest and his face was about to burst—and then his eyes…oh fuck, he couldn’t close his eyes, the hard, handsome faces of his killers hovering over him, so close they could kiss…with a sense of despair, he realized that their jeering triumph in his death would be the last thing he’d see on earth…

 

And still they tortured him, not just physically, but mentally as well.

 

Carlos was particularly cruel; as he sneered and spit on their helpless victim, his thick cock—still hanging out of his tight leather pants, dripping with cum—began to stiffen again.  “I really got off on hurtin’ yer son, ya perverted fuck,” he whispered. “He was really cryin’ for his daddy when he died—too bad you were too busy gettin’ fucked, faggot.  Know what part’s the best?  Loadin’ him up with my seed.  It don’t matter how many times ya fucked yer little boy in the ass, he’s gonna end up takin’ a nice long dirt nap fulla my jizz, not yers, asswipe.”

 

“Goddammit,” Nick barked in intense anger, “Yer gettin’ loose, old man.  What, ya want it tighter—or ya need some more pain?  Yeah, that’s it—just like any other faggot, I’m gonna hafta hurt ya to make ya grip my shaft right.”  Twisting the ends of the strap together, the sweating, powerful killer yanked them to one side so he could hold them both in the same hand; as he did, Ed’s gold cross bent under the stress of the increased pressure, tearing an agonizing three-inch slash into the side of Ed’s throat as it did so.  Sadly for Ed, it did no further damage—he had no hope of escaping his suffering by bleeding out.

 

But even that pain was soon overtaken by new suffering.  The buff, strong—but not quite strong enough—musclebound victim hadn’t noticed the sidelong glance Nick had slipped Carlos.  Carlos, did, though, and recognized it as a hint for a close-up.  Zooming the camera in on Ed, he had a perfect angle to capture Nick balled-up fist raining blows into the bound, trapped stud’s dark, puffy face.

 

Each loud, wet smack of flesh on flesh was accompanied by a raging curse from Nick; the hulking alpha had shifted into sadistic bloodlust mode.  “Stupid fuckin’ (WHAM) sack a’ shit (WHAM), ya wanted to get paid for me to fuck ya ( WHAM WHAM WHAM); are ya gettin’ paid good enough now (WHAM?) Ya worthless goddam (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) pervert (WHAM), how old was yer kid (WHAM) when ya started fuckin’ ‘im (WHAM) ya fucking child-molestin’ homo (WHAM)?”

 

Nick paused to catch his breath; without dropping the tempo of his brutal assfuck, he pulled back a bit, still gripping the leather holster strap tightly in one hand.  The lifted the meat’s head up from the blood-spattered pillow.  Carlos leaned forward, allowing the fag’s battered and swollen face to fill the frame.  Ed had been a strikingly handsome man of thirty-seven, with his testosterone-influenced receding hairline, his honey-gold goatee and the long lashes rimming his large, dark, liquid eyes.

 

The only thing recognizable in the bloody, pulped ruin now being captured on camera was the goatee surrounding the swollen, blue lips.

 

“Fuck, dude,” Carlos panted as he looked into Ed’s violently-beaten face, “I think this meat’s nearly done.  Ya fucked it over real good, bro.”  The erotic hoarseness in his voice was underscored by the steady transparent stream oozing from his by-now fully erect dick.

 

Semi-conscious in a universe of screaming pain, some pig corner tucked into the back of Ed’s brain heard and agreed.  His own thick, vein-wreathed rod, already achingly stiff, smacking swiftly between his own and Nick’s flat, furry bellies in time to the rapid assfuck, suddenly began to splatter beads of precum everywhere.

 

“Yeah?” Nick grinned at Carlos (and the camera), his cruel sadism glinting in his eyes like a cold light.  “Think it’s time to put the fucker down?  Ya may be right, bro; I’m gettin’ kinda bored with these faggots.  Guess it’s time to dump my load and split.”

 

He shifted slightly as Carlos moved closer to the headboard and reversed the angle, looking down on the writhing, interlocked male bodies, glistening with sweat and slapping together in a swift, animalistic rhythm.

 

Nick was close to shooting his load, but he recognized that he’d brutalized the meat too much for any further mental abuse to avail.  He needed one final blow to the nervous system, quick, strong and fatally brutal, to make the faggot’s fuckhole tighten up around his cock.

 

He knew exactly what to do.  Wrapping the strap ends around the palm of his right hand, Nick placed his right hand flat on the meat’s slick, heaving (but not breathing) chest.  Lowering his face, the psychopathic sex killer glanced up at Carlos and the camera impishly through his own tousled bangs.

 

“Hey, bro,” he whispered, “Check this shit out.”

 

And then he jerked on the holster strap.  Hard.  Gritting-his-teeth hard, tendons-standing-out on his-neck hard, veins-standing-out-on-bicep hard.  At the same time, grunting with the physical strain, he shoved his other arm down on the fuckmeat’s muscled chest.  The buff older man’s face bent forward and his neck seemed to elongate.  As his face turned down, his thick, protruding tongue pushed out of his mouth, forcing a long foamy stream of drool to fall into his chest fur.

 

“That’s it, cunt, time to go bye-bye,” Nick hissed and yanked again.  There was a sickeningly loud cracking, crunching sound as the muscle-bound alpha literally tore his victim’s head off the top of his spine, crushing the esophagus and shattering three vertebrae simultaneously.

 

The impact to Ed’s nervous system was immediate.  He died instantly, his entire musculature going rigid in a heartbeat.  The muscles in his cock stiffened, forcing a violent eruption of semen from his agonizingly erect shaft.  The first load was so abrupt and intense, it actually shot between his head and Nick’s, splashing against the wall three feet above the top of the headboard—although some fallout landed in his dark blond hair.

 

At the same time, his colon and lower intestines contracted around Nick’s engorged cock; it was like a hand in a velvet glove jacking him off.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, Nick flooded the meat’s guts with boiling sperm.  He continued to twist Ed’s head around, mangling the spinal column.

 

This triggered Ed’s second deathload, a steady jet of spunk that lasted a good ten seconds straight, spewing huge pearly loads of spunk all over both his chest and that of his killer.  This load, though was interrupted by a third one, form a different source.

 

Still holding the camera, recording all the action, Carlos had shot a second wad completely hands-free.  Recorded for the paying viewers to see, his thick, creamy load squirted a flood of hot manseed over both the corpse and its killer.

 

“That’s it, bro,” Nick gasped hoarsely, “Spunk all over that fuckin’ faggot!”  Inwardly, he exulted in feeling Carlos’s hot semen splatter on his chest, but, still ejaculating uncontrollably himself, he didn’t process the emotion; he could only shudder and shoot.

 


 

Several cum-drenched minutes later, Nick and Carlos both found themselves in enough control of themselves to disengage from the bed and get themselves cleaned up.  Carlos moved first—largely because, unlike Nick, his dick wasn’t stuck in a quivering corpse.  Retreating to the bathroom to wash up, he chuckled with contemptuous amusement at Johnny’s meth pipe sitting on the top of the toilet cistern, along with a lighter and small baggie partially full of powder.  He left them alone.

 

Nick, for his part, withdrew his leaking shaft for the dead man.  He rolled Ed over and uncuffed him; when he did, the shuddering body slid limply to the floor with a thump.  Picking up his discarded cop outfit, he went back through the connecting door into the adjoining room, using that bathroom to wash off the evidence of violent sex.

 

By this time, Carlos had finished up and returned into the death room.  He gathered up his own gear, including the gun and the holster harness Nick had used to kill Ed; that took a bit of time to recover, given how deeply it was embedded in the meat’s neck.  At one point, he ground his boot into Ed’s face to hold his head down as he pried the strap out of the corpse’s crushed throat.  He carried the armful  of gear back into the other room and dumped it on the bed, only to be brought up short when Nick asked, “Where’s yer shank, bro?”

 

He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it.  He went back into the other room and began poking around on the bed; almost immediately, he noticed it tangled in the sheet on the other side of the teenager’s cooling, stiffening corpse.  It was still covered in gore, so Carlos used the cheap motel sheet to wipe it down; his actions made the bed shake slightly.  Not enough, but enough to dislodge Johnny’s body.  The dead teen rolled off the bed, landing on top of his father’s corpse.  Ed was face-up and Johnny face-down; they’d have been looking each other in the eye, had Johnny’s eyes not been rolled too far back in his head that only the whites showed from under his half-open lids.

 

Just then, Nick came back into the room.  “Aw, ain’t that sweet,” he jeered, “the faggot lovebirds united forever in death.  Let ‘em rot there.  You get the cameras on that side an’ I’ll get the ones on this side.  We should be able to clear out in about half an hour or so.”

 

Because of the layout of the room, the bodies on the floor between the beds made it difficult to reach everything on his side, which might account for what happened later.  But Nick had been right; they were gone within thirty minutes.

 


 

The bodies weren’t found for another eighteen hours; the maid who found them subsequently required psychiatric treatment, as did one of the two first responding police officers.  The other, a twenty-six year old rookie named Rog, found a camera tripod that had fallen behind one of the beds.  Even before the autopsy results revealed that both males had been raped as well as murdered, Rog had realized that someone, somewhere, had a video of what happened.

 

And despite the tremendous swell in publicity surrounding the case once DNA results revealed that the victims were father and son, Rog kept his surmises to himself, and laid his plans.

 


 

Nick was laying plans, too.  The commission was not only paid promptly, it included a sizeable gratuity—and a distribution agreement, with a percentage on the gross.

 

“Shit, bro, we’re gonna be fuckin’ millionaires,” he laughed a week later.  He and Carlos were both sitting in the office.  “I already paid the condo off.  Think I’m gonna soundproof that second bedroom.  We can have all kinda fun in there.”

 

Carlos didn’t care; Nick was giving him all the cash he needed.  He had wheels and a crib—and the opportunity to waste any fag he wanted, when he wanted…how he wanted…

 

“Cool, dude,” he drawled contentedly.  “Ya got any new hits?”

 

“I got a message yesterday, saying somthin’ might be coming.  Believe it or not, I haven’t checked email yet; I was too busy payin’ off debts.  Lessee if we got anything.”

 

Turning on the monitor, Nick fired up the PC, grinning broadly.  Part of it was the financial—and artistic, so to speak—success.  But part of it was what he’d learned about Carlos.  Straight, my ass, some cold, calculating part of his mind thought—he mighta gone into prison straight, but he came out a full-blown fag.  That might come in handy someday.

 

It took a while for the system to boot up; it took even longer for the email to come up.  Carlos had lost interest and was surfing on his phone when a loud ping echoed through the office.  Nick clicked on a couple of things, then his eyes grew wide.

 

“We got another commission,” he said quietly.  “Holy fuck, bro, come lookit this.”

Trucker 10–Trucker v Birthday Boi

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

 

Specifically, his eighteenth birthday party.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And his jeans were so tight, it was obvious.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The Trucker remained still, not moving a muscle.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

An adequate pit for slaughtering the little homo pig.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Birthday boi was gonna suffer—bad.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Unluckily for him, the sound annoyed the Trucker.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And he was right.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then the Trucker spoke.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Dylan wasn’t getting out that easy.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But oh fuck, those last two blows…

 

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

 

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

 

Maybe it was time to let him know.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He was suffocating.  He was gonna die.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

M4M4yung

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“ok when and where” Joe returned.

 

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

 

“Yeah”

 

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

 

“k.  omw”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied tersely.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

This was gonna fuckin’ hurt.

 

And he wanted it so fuckin’ bad.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He was gonna enjoy this.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Convict 4–Sin City Snuff

Carlos was horny and impatient, an explosive combination.  Worse, it didn’t seem like he’d moved the Mustang more than thirty yards in the last fifteen minutes—he’d never seen traffic this bad.  Of course, it was understandable; there was a lot to look at on the Vegas Strip.

 

His decision to head to Las Vegas was sudden but the desire behind it wasn’t; he’d always wanted to be in Sin City.  He’d never really thought it through until last week, though.  The motivation had been provided by his last snuff; he’d gotten off on the media coverage for the first few days—until the police started asking questions about a red convertible Mustang.  That was too close for comfort.  He got out.

 

It made sense, anyway.  He’d knew he’d find lots of deserving fags to waste there; more importantly, he could find rich fags to waste and rob.  Fuck, some dudes in Vegas could have lots of cash on them.  He could be livin’ large, keeping his tight body in shape during the day, raping and snuffing worthless cumsuckers at night.

 

It took several days to drive across country but he had plenty of cash already.  Gas, food, cheap motels—he didn’t spend much.  The only other thing he wanted to spend was his sperm; rage and lust built up in him and he ended up relieving the pressure one night in a tiny fleabag in the middle of nowhere on I-44 south of Springfield, Missouri.

 

After that, he was able to maintain control until he got to Nevada.

 

But it had built up again.  He needed release—now.

 

He’d taken I-40 all the way to Kingman, Arizona and then gone north on 93; he ended up driving into Vegas from the south, coming up the Strip past the iconic “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign.  His thrill at recognizing the landmark was topped by the overwhelming awe of the glittering towers in front of him.

 

And then he hit the traffic.  It was Saturday night.  Worse than that—although Carlos had no way of knowing it—it was Fight Night.  Saturday night on the Strip was always a mess; thousands of vehicles and tens of thousands of pedestrians congealing into a thick ooze. Fight Night amped it up by a factor of a hundred or more.  The next light north was Tropicana; on the northeast corner, a major boxing match was taking place at the MGM Grand.  Not only was traffic totally gridlocked but it seemed as if every cop in the county was out.  Fight Nights were notorious for spawning violence.

 

It took Carlos three hours to drive three miles.

 

It was a warm night; even this early in the year, the temperature was hovering just under ninety degrees as it approached midnight.  Naturally, Carlos had kept the top down on the Stang.  Now he found himself getting a fair amount of appreciative attention from the folks on the sidewalks.

 

As always, he was dressed to lure; the simple leather vest that stretched across his hard tattooed pecs highlighted his muscled, inked arms.  His furred chest glistened with sweat, but only slightly—it was a dry desert heat.

 

The boys on the street ogled and leered; they’d have been even more impressed if they could have seen him below the waist; the skin-tight black jeans he had on did nothing at all to hide the enormous bulge running down his thigh.  The sadistic ex-con was already so horny that his massive hog was throbbing visibly beneath the restraining denim.

 

Well above the ankles, the tight jeans disappeared into the cuff of a pair of combat boots, untied and loosely laced.  Carlos found that tucking the jeans into the boots made concealing and transporting his knife easier; the massive Bowie blade was hidden against his leg.  To reach it, all he had to do was slip his hand inside his boot and pull up on the cuff of the jeans.

 

He was impatient, ready for a kill.  And here he was, stuck in fuckin’ traffic.

 

His frustration mounted as he inched along, but he noticed a change ahead; large islands of darkness amid the intense, elaborate lighting.

 

The north end of the Strip was less densely populated; there were fewer open casinos.  Circus Circus still squeaked along, but the Riviera across the street was closed down and fenced off, in the process of demolition.  South of Circus Circus was a huge dark construction project that had been sitting idle for several years after running out of money.  To the north of the Riviera was a similar property, the vast 68-story Fontainebleau Tower—also unfinished for years.

 

There was little to tempt pedestrians along this part of the road; traffic eased off some and allowed Carlos to change lanes.  He decided to take the next right and get off the Strip for a while.

 

The next light turned out to be Riviera Boulevard, a short street that ran east from the Strip to Paradise Road.  There were some occupied office buildings and convenience stores at the eastern end, but most of the block was dominated by the dark, deserted hulks of the Riviera on the south side and the Fontainebleau on the north.

 

Carlos turned the red Mustang convertible onto the side street; as the beam of the headlights swung down the dim-lit pavement, the muscled killer felt his dick stir.  The street wasn’t empty; there was a boy walking away from him.  The figure wasn’t clear; the kid was nearly three hundred yards ahead of him.  Before Carlos could size him up properly, the dude turned a corner and vanished.

 

The horny ex-con sped up, finally reaching the same spot.  There was a drive leading south from the street, past the rear entrance of what had been the Riviera convention center. It connected with some open parking lots for the businesses that faced Paradise and other lots associated with the defunct casino that now contained demolition equipment.

 

The closest lot to the convention center entrance had some cars in it; all of which seemed to be occupied.  Carlos switched off his headlights, realizing he’d wandered into an impromptu cruising spot hidden behind the deserted resort.  He didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself, even though he knew that the guys in the cars wouldn’t notice anything—they were otherwise engaged.

 

To the right was the covered portico entrance for the convention center; Carlos could make out the slim figure of his prey sauntering in the dark driveway.  Wasting no time, the sadistic killer turned in and pulled up to the kid.

 

The boy approached the car with the feigned nonchalance and suppressed eagerness of an experience whore.  He was young, too, no more than nineteen; it was clear he’d gotten an early start at renting his firm, lithe body out.  He wasn’t dressed colorfully or flamboyantly but his tight, worn clothes emphasized his slender but muscled form.  His tawny hair was long, almost shoulder length, not entirely straight but by no means curly.  In the front, the sandy blond bangs were spiked exuberantly over brown eyes, large and deceivingly soulful.

 

Carlos already knew the little cunt didn’t have a soul.  The rentboy was just meat.

 

But he was sexy meat.  His chest, broad without being overly developed, was covered with a film of sweat that rendered the skin-tight thin cotton of his white wifebeater nearly transparent.  Around the boy’s throat there glittered a long chain made up of heavy gold links.  Carlos doubted the fucker bought it for himself (he was right on that; the boywhore had stolen it from a trick earlier that night)—and he damn sure wasn’t gonna need by the end of the night.

 

Below the cunt’s flat firm belly and narrow waist, seductively wrapped with a black belt with large metal studs, a pair of faded skinny jeans clung to his hips; tears in the denim showed the smooth pale flesh underneath. Under the ragged cuffs, the boy had on a pair of simple while leather Adidas hightops.

 

As the kid leaned over the car door, his face was dimly lit by one of the parking lot lights further to the east that was still working; Carlos could see faint glitters of gold hair in the barely-visible goatee around the teen’s mouth.  The kid grinned impishly and batted his long lashes.  “Whassup, man?” he drawled, letting his eyes caress the older man’s brawny form.  “Ya lookin’ for some fun?”

 

With an easy grin on his own face, Carlos replied.  “Yeah, dude, I gotta load I need to blow.  How much to help me out?”

 

The boy stood up, thrusting his shoulders back and his chest out.  It was a purely involuntary reaction—the whore was utterly unaware of the way he was presenting the flesh on sale.  “Man, I don’t get less than fifty an hour—but you can do what ya want with me in that hour.  Fair enough?”

 

Carlos paused for a moment as if considering the financial aspect.  “Sure—hop in.”  He’d drag the kid out somewhere, rape, snuff and rob him, and use any cash the kid had to get a cheap room.  All he had left now were Franklins and he’d be sure to be remembered if he flashed one at the desk clerk in the kinda place he was looking for.  Cheap and sleazy was cheap and sleazy, even in Vegas—especially in Vegas—and his plan was to lie low for a few days to take stock of the situation.

 

The boy obeyed Carlos’s instruction literally, hopping over the door and into the passenger seat.  He was slightly shorter than Carlos was, probably about five feet ten.  He seemed to weigh about a hundred and fifty pounds; not scrawny by any means but slender when compared to Carlos’s powerful mass of toned muscle.

 

The young punk buckled himself in as the alpha pulled out of the lot and turned left, the way he’d come in.  As he got closer to the Strip, his hand crept down towards his boot, feeling its way down towards the knife.

 

“Hey, man, you gotta place yet?  No?  Turn right up here.  I live a few blocks up; you can park behind my building.   It’s dark back there; no one can see us in here if you put up the top.”

 

Carlos’s hand froze and withdrew.  “You got a place close?  I need a place tonight.  How about this—I’ll pay ya two hundred for the night.  I’ll leave by dawn.  And it’s already past midnight.”

 

The rentboy jumped on the offer—fifty an hour was wishful thinking for him; two hundred for the night was more than he could have hoped for.  It not only paid the weekly rent (due on Monday), it left him enough to get good and high Sunday.  He’d let this stud bend him over and breed him, if that’s what the hot buff Hercules wanted; he found himself getting excited at the thought.

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” the teen slut moaned, “for that kinda money, you can do what ya want all night long.  Turn left at the next light—there, in front of the Stratosphere…”

 

Carlos relaxed—all of him but his cock.  This was perfect; the little faggot had his own place nearby.  He’d let the little cockpig lead him back into his own killing pit.  He made the left onto Sahara as directed and soon found himself in what looked like a war zone wedged between the Strip and the highway.

 

In the shadow of the massive Stratosphere Tower lurked an intensely squalid neighborhood; a small grid of streets (all named after cities) that had once been major thoroughfares before Las Vegas Boulevard developed on the east side and I-15 put through on the west.  The tiny roadside motels had been cut off from traffic decades ago; even before the massive resorts went up, these places had folded into rent-by-the-week efficiency apartments.

 

“There,” the whore said, pointing down a dark street due east of the casino.  Only a single block long, it ended at a cinderblock wall, tagged with gang signs, blocking access to Industrial Boulevard to the west.  One side was a group of squat square buildings, surrounded by an iron fence.  Clearly a former motel, each small square structure housed four rooms per floor, each with a single rectangular window (also covered with iron bars), underneath which was an AC built into the wall.

 

A gap in the fence led Carlos to an open lot behind the buildings.  He pulled to the far end of the space, up against the fence that evidently circled the entire property; beyond was a disused, crumbling alleyway and another graffiti-tagged wall.  The alpha glanced around, taking in the dismal sight.

 

“C’mon, dude,” the teen piped up, “I’m right over there, number 208.  Name’s Shaun, by the way.”  Releasing the seatbelt, he tensed his lithe young muscles and popped up out of the seat and over the car door, just as he’d jumped in; he seemed to take a childish, almost innocent pleasure in it.

 

He paused, waiting for Carlos to follow.  “By the way…”  Here the young punk stopped, as if embarrassed.  But the thought of two hundred bucks overcame any delicacy the reamed-out slut possessed.  “I can get kinda loud.  But it’s ok, most of the neighbors are out nights like me.  And it ain’t like anyone round here hasn’t heard me get plowed anyways.”

 

Carlos got out of the car with a wolfish grin, his rubber-soled combat boots silently hitting the pavement.  As he stepped to the front of the car, a flickering security light intermittently lit his strong, well-developed body.  For the first time, Shaun got a full-body glimpse of the masculine alpha.  He gasped aloud at the huge throbbing ridge plainly visible through the black denim, running down the stud’s leg.

 

“F-fuck, man,” the teenaged rentboy gulped, “I, uh—I…I get the money, whatever happens, right? I-I mean, even if I can’t take it?”  The pleading look in his face was as erotic as the whining, begging tone in his voice was annoying.

 

“Hell yeah, cunt,” Carlos said in a low, guttural tone as he chuckled grimly. “I promise ya, no matter what happens, you’ll get paid.  Maybe even more than you deserve.  I’m generous that way.”

 

Resuming his cockiness, Shaun smiled and brushed his blond bangs from his forehead.  “Cool.  C’mon, stud, I’m up here.”  He turned and headed toward the closest building to the left, his Adidas hightops slapping on the broiling pavement.  Carlos followed the lean, lithe youth up the stairs to the covered exterior walkway.  Two doors opened out onto it; Shaun stopped at the first.  A sheet of paper, pinned to the door, fluttered in the wind.  The boy snatched at it, muttering something about a rent notice.

 

“The dude next door is out turnin’ tricks,” the rentboy said in a confidential tone as he jabbed his key questioningly into the dark doorway; the entire complex was sunk in an almost Stygian blackness.  “Lucky bitch got himself hooked up with a gay bachelor party—he’s gonna be gettin’ banged all night.”

 

Carlos was barely able to suppress a contemptuous snort.  “You make a lot of noise, boy?  Are ya a screamer?”

 

Even in deep shadow, the sadistic alpha caught the blush on the teen whore’s face.  “Well—not usually,” the kid admitted sheepishly, “but I ain’t sure I can take yer hog without yellin’.  The unit that backs on to me is empty, though, and the one downstairs is too damaged to rent.  So it’s ok, dude, I can make as much noise as I want and ain’t no one gonna hear.”

 

“That’s good, punk, that’s real good,” Carlos said with a leer, “cause yer damn sure gonna be squealin’ by the time I’m done with ya.”

 

The young boywhore giggled, the sound of a horny teenage faggot about to get laid.  Carlos’s grin widened into a shark-like leer as Shaun got the door open.  The hard buff killer slipped into the room behind his prey, locking the door behind him as the slut switched on the light.

 

The room, unsurprisingly, was small and dim.  It had been a decent motel room at one point, but that point was half a century ago.  The conversion to an efficiency apartment had been piecemeal and clumsy.   The bathroom had the tub and toilet only; the sink had been built into a vanity in the bedroom proper.  This had been expanded to include a two-burner electric stove, a mini-fridge and a microwave.  There was no oven.  The closest thing to a dining space was a tiny bistro table onto which the teen cunt tossed the rent warning.

 

There was window next to the door that looked out over the balcony/walkway, and a small window across from the bed with the AC in the wall underneath.  Shaun crossed to it and turned it on.  Starting with an asthmatic wheeze, it pushed the air around with a loud grinding noise but did little to cool the almost uncomfortably warm room; the place must have been literal hell in high summer.

 

The sheets on the double bed were twisted and wadded; the only part of the nightstand that wasn’t covered with beer bottles and soda cans was reserved for an overflowing ashtray.  The closet was beyond the bed; it was jammed so full of dirty clothes that the door couldn’t be closed.

 

Shaun noticed Carlos looking at the closet and blushed with embarrassment.  “Yeah,” he admitted shamefacedly, “I know, but it’s kinda hard to get to a laundromat without a car.”

 

The vicious, sadistic killer smiled at his prey in a gentle, reassuring manner.  “If ya work my cock good enough tonight, I’ll make sure that that ain’t a problem for ya anymore.”

 

Shaun’s eyes lit up; his adolescent body stiffened with an influx of hormones and greed.  A hot stud who could take care of him financially and fuck the living shit out him at the same time—

 

The slim but firm teen exhaled, shuddering in ecstasy.  “F-fuck, man, you can do what ya wanna to me…you can hurt me if ya wanna, as long as ya take care of me…”

 

Carlos’s handsome, hard face twisted with a sneer of contempt; the stupid fuck was makin’ it too easy.  “Shit, boy, I can take care of ya.  I’ll take care of ya good.  Tonight.  Now get yer faggot ass over here.”

 

Shaun approached the hulking killer like an eager puppy; if he’d had a tail, he’d have been wagging it.  He moaned erotically as he felt Carlos’s large strong hands fondling his firm body; he gasped as the powerful alpha gripped the punk’s collar and, with a single jerk of his muscled arms, ripped it open, shredding the thin white cotton.

 

Shaun stood in front of Carlos with his chest bare, the smooth skin tautly clinging to the pecs and biceps on his slender build only marked with a faint peach-skin fuzz on his flat belly; it clustered around his navel.  The young whore looked up into the eyes of the man who was about to rape and murder him, reading the hot flame of homicidal lust as the feeble glow of mere desire.

 

Silently, the buff older man bent down and hooked his fingers in a tear in Shaun’s skinny jeans, a frayed rip in the faded, skin-tight denim, high up on the thigh.  With a rough jerk, Carlos tore the material clean through, shredding the jean leg and baring the teenager’s smooth thigh and calf down to the white athletic sock that peeped out above the white Adidas hightop.  Another brutal yank, slightly lower down, revealed the other leg.

 

Shaun seemed somewhat stunned at the way he’d been abruptly and violently stripped; all that was left to him was his shoes and what now looked like ineptly-made jean shorts, held up by his thick, metal-studded belt.  But the horny youth took the hint and slipped out of the remains of his pants.

 

Standing nude, wearing just his hightops and his thick gold chain in front of the burly ex-con, the teen whore’s cock jutted stiffly in front of him.  Just over six inches of throbbing boymeat, what it lacked in girth was compensated for by the huge mushroom-shaped head, pulsing and oozing clear precum.  It sprang proudly—almost arrogantly—from a tangled mass of sandy-blond curls.

 

The young slut peered up impishly at the muscular man who was planning on murdering him.  “So,” he chirped winsomely, “whaddaya think—ya like?”

 

Carlos maintained his silence for a little longer.  Staring coldly down at the punk, he shrugged his broad shoulders, dislodging the leather vest and letting it slip off.  Even though Shaun had a good idea of Carlos’s physique, tattoos, and massive furry chest, he still gasped at the reveal of the killer’s hubcap pecs, crawling with ink.

 

The sadistic top grinned and reached down to his crotch.  Grasping hold of the zipper, he lowered it slowly, almost like a stripper.  And after all, he did have the complete attention of the kid, breathless and sweating in anticipation.

 

Once he got the zipper down…nothing happened.  He had to reach in to grab ahold of his enormous tubesteak; luckily it was only semi-hard, since he had to bend it nearly double to get it out.  Once it was out, it dangled between the alpha’s legs, jerking and dripping.

 

Shaun paled.  Even soft, it was more than eight inches long and two in diameter.  That wasn’t a human cock, that was a horse dick.  A cold chill washed over his body; his own shaft wilted slightly.  “Man, th-that—“ he stuttered, trying to formulate his concern, “I-I ain’t g-gonna be a-able to take that…”

 

“Shut the fuck up, faggot, and get on yer knees,” Carlos barked roughly.  “Open wide, you worthless homo, cause it’s time to suck my cock!”

 

The hard-bodied top’s stinging words struck the boywhore like a blow; his face flushing pleasurably, he obeyed instantly, dropping to his knees.  He turned his face up to his dominant trick, his trepidation belied by the erotic anticipation in his puppydog-like eyes.  Crouching on the floor, the teen moved one hand to his groin; as Carlos stepped up to him, Shaun started jerking his cock.

 

The boy opened his mouth and Carlos didn’t bother to give him a chance to speak.  Lunging forward, he shoved his engorged tool down Shaun’s throat with a single, swift plunge.

 

The teenage cocksucker had already given two other BJs earlier in the evening—one of whom was the dude from whom he’d stolen the gold chain—but he still wasn’t prepared for the huge onslaught of manmeat that plugged his esophagus and cut off his air.

 

The punk stopped playing with his dick, his hands flailing momentarily in the air before he groped blindly at Carlos’s legs.  Pawing at them, Shaun placed his palms flat on the alpha’s thick, muscular thighs and tried to push away; he was coughing and gagging but unable to draw his breath.  In his frantic fear, he tried harder to push Carlos away, forcing him out of his mouth, but it was like trying to topple Stonehenge with his bare hands.

 

Carlos’s hands clamped his head in a vise grip, strong fingers tangled in the boycunt’s long blond hair, which left him unable to pull back and free himself.  Tears flowed from his large, dark eyes as his hands fumbled down the aggressive top’s legs.  At one point, Shaun was gripping Carlos’s combat boots tightly, unconsciously.  As his questing hands searched futilely for a vulnerable spot, the gagging, cock-stuffed teenager felt a long hard shaft running up the stud’s leg from his boot.

 

He was too focused on trying to breathe to wonder what it was.  Later, when he found out what it was, he wasn’t in a position to appreciate the irony.

 

At the moment, he could only appreciate Carlos’s huge, pulsing hog, mainly because it was choking him to death.  He was aware of the hard stud’s curses and mutterings as he hunched over and brutally skullfucked the nineteen-year-old fag.  “Take it, ya fuckin’ cunt,” the tattooed ex-con grunted as he reamed Shaun’s mouth, “ya want my load?  Huh?  Ya ready for my hot wad?”

 

Shaun could only squeak and beat his hands aimlessly against his assailant’s immovable thighs, but he had years of experience as a cumsucker and felt some relief as he recognized the symptoms of impending orgasm.  Carlos’s breathing quickened along with the tempo and depths of his thrusts into Shaun’s darkening, swelling face.  Then the thick, vein-wrapped shaft pulsed violently; as the buff sadist grunted and clamped down excruciatingly on the punk’s head, Shaun could feel on his tongue the cum channel that ran along the underside of Carlos’s cock as it started to swell and pump.

 

And then, a burning, boiling heat.  “Fuck!” Carlos snarled, “Fuck!  Goddam!  Fuckin’ homo cunt!” He clamped down on Shaun’s head as the blond boy found his mouth full of hot smoky seed, a steady stream that forced him to gulp it down—and even so, it overflowed from his mouth and ran down his face, dangling off his chin in long, ropy strands.

 

Carlos stepped back, his phenomenal rod still completely hard and oozing a pearly thread.  He chuckled contemptuously as Shaun, on the floor on all fours, heaved and coughed, struggling to breathe as he vomited up the older man’s sperm.  After several minutes the boywhore finally regained enough control to speak.  “D-dude…” he gasped, his voice ragged and pleading, “I-I earn-earned my money, r-right?  Huh?  P-please?  Yer h-h-hot as fu-fuck, man, but I…I can’t take any more…”

 

“You stupid little fuck,” Carlos said coldly, “ya think you drained all my spunk?  Hell no, ya sack a’ shit, we’re just gettin’ started—you ain’t come close to earning yer pay yet, you fuckin’ faggot-ass whore.”

 

Shaun looked up at the top, his weary, well-used face already glazed with manseed.  He’d bitten off more than he could chew, so to speak, and he knew it.

 

“Get on the bed, boy.  On yer back with yer legs in the air like the useless goddam whore you are.  Do it.  NOW!”

 

The young slut had no choice but to implicitly obey the ring of command in the ex-con’s voice.  He was afraid; this was gonna hurt and this dude didn’t have any boundaries.

 

But he wasn’t afraid enough.

 

Shaun did was he was told, easing himself back onto the double bed, sweeping one arm behind him to shove the wadded mass of blanket, top sheet and pillows to the floor.  He lay full-length on the mattress, bare but for the fitted sheet, and raised his legs in the air.  An experienced professional, the teen whore reached down hooked his hands up under his knees to full spread his legs and allow plenty of access to his fuckhole.

 

Carlos stood, smirking, at the foot of the bed, looking at the slut like he was appraising a piece of meat—which was more or less exactly what he was doing.  The rentboy’s shoes hung in mid-air; below, his firm smooth legs were splayed, forming a V that pointed directly at the youth’s pink quivering asshole.  Between them, the kid’s long swollen cock pointed straight towards his flat belly, beyond which, taut, smooth skin rose and fell over the teen’s pectoral muscles.  The boy’s nipples were sharp and erect.

 

Carlos towered over him, his inked body shiny and glistening with sweat in the warm room.  The menace of the killer’s hardened body was accented by his cold face and closely-shaven head—and, of course, the massive, erect, dripping horse dick jutting out from the open fly of his tight jeans.

 

Shaun had been taking dick up his ass for years; he’d fled a sexually abusive stepfather in his early teens and headed to Vegas.  At one point he’d actually managed to get a part as a dancer in a show in a cheap off-Strip casino by lying about his age—not that anyone had really cared—but his drug use and general whorishness ensured it didn’t last long.  Ultimately, he’d been selling his body to survive for at least three years.

 

And even so, he’d never seen a cock that huge.  He loved to deepthroat, but he hadn’t been able to get more than a third of that enormous hog down his throat without damn near passing out.  His sphincter had been stretched and strained, but he was still afraid that this dude was gonna be more than he could take.  Part of him wanted to beg and back out, just tell the dude to go, no harm, no foul, just go…

 

Part of him, though needed the money.  It was Saturday—well, Sunday morning now—and rent was due Monday.  He’d pawn the gold necklace he’d swiped, of course, but combined with what this dude was offering, he’d have enough to pay the rent and still spend the rest of the week cranked out of his skull.  And meth killed his appetite, so he didn’t need to worry about buying food…

 

Plus, the older stud was so fucking hot.  Yeah, it was gonna hurt, but Shaun felt a certain pride in knowing he was gonna take this incredibly sexy gangbanger’s shaft.

 

Lust and greed won out.  The stupid young whore, despite his experience, disregarded the red flags.  He pulled back his knees, spreading his legs, offering his tender, vulnerable rosebud up to the murderous parolee.  Knowing that he was about to endure intense pain, Shaun braced himself, consoling his fears with the thought that it’d be worth it in the end (and not recognizing his own pun).

 

“C’mon and stick it in me, stud,” he muttered through gritted teeth.  It was the last specifically conscious action he took for the next few minutes.  Carlos pounced on him so swiftly that his preparations were derailed; before he could so much as gasp, the tattooed, hulking ex-con had placed his huge mushroom tip against the kid’s ass.  Shaun felt the pressure—and then his world exploded in agony.

 

It was far worse than he’d imagined.

 

He was being torn inside; he could feel it.  It had happened before—the pain was like getting raped with a razor blade.  Last time, he’d ended up shitting blood for a month and a half.  And this was much worse.

 

The thoughts passed through his mind in a split-second of lucidity; the pain itself hit him with force of an industrial piston.  So did Carlos’s dick.  Even before his mind processed the agony he was experiencing, his lean teenaged body erupted in a fury of self-preservation.  Scrabbling at the alpha’s hard body like a feral cat, Shaun found his hand slipping uselessly over the top’s sweat-lubed skin.  His legs, forcibly kept apart by Carlos’s mass between them, jerked in the air, the white leather Adidas kicks bobbing uselessly.

 

It had all happened so quickly that the young slut hadn’t had the chance to scream yet; as soon as his brain recovered from the initial shock, he shrieked—an ear-splitting falsetto that triggered an innate rage response in the ex-con.

 

“Shut the fuck up, you worthless cocksucker,” the powerful killer roared, backhanding Shaun across the face hard enough to split his upper lip.  “What kinda homo whore are ya, you stupid motherfucker?  I thought ya liked gettin’ fucked in the ass, queerboy; ya get paid for it, right?  So shut yer cumhole and take my goddam cock!” Spitting angrily into the kid’s befuddled, pain-wracked face, he reared back and bitchslapped the teenaged rentboy again.

 

A light came on inside Shaun’s head—a dim one, to be sure, insufficient to light the vast empty space around it, but nonetheless he did have enough brightness to realize that he’d asked for far too little money for what was gonna happen tonight.  But that was as far as he could go with the implications—the hot dude liked to hit; he was just getting his freak on.  As soon as Shaun could get this fucker off of him—and out of him—he’d demand more cash.  But that was easier said than done; the dude was huge, and strong, and Shaun’s efforts to free himself were completely futile.

 

Carlos was tired of wrestling with the little punk, though.  The stupid sack of shit kept trying to pull himself up off Carlos’s throbbing dick.  Enough was enough; the sadist’s hot Latino blood was boiling over in rage and lust.  It was time to make some meat.

 

Carlos had laid himself flat on the boy, full-length, keeping one hand free to fend of the kid’s frantic flailing while he humped his inhumanly long rod up the wailing teen’s ass.  He slowly dropped the other hand down his side until he could reach the cuff of his jeans.  Pulling it up, he was able to grasp the hilt of his combat knife and slip it up out of the boot sheath.

 

Shaun never saw it coming.  He was too busy struggling, trying to break free from the iron grasp of intense pain that clamped him to the bed—and too busy trying to think of the terms he’d negotiate to accept the pain.

 

That was when everything changed.  That was when he saw the knife.

 

At first, for a single moment, the whored-out youth that it was joke, a novelty item, a movie prop.  It was just too big to be real.  Then Carlos, smiling faintly, laid it on his chest, and Shaun could feel the cold steel edge resting against his flesh.

 

His tender, exposed vulnerable flesh.  This was no joke.  The knife was real.

 

“You’re making too much noise, asswipe,” Carlos snarled menacingly at Shaun.  “You make any more, I’m gonna stick ya, you got it?”

 

Shaun was silent, staring at the hard, inked face of a killer—the word “Revenge” across his neck—mere inches from his own.  He knew it now; this hot stud whose massive dick was even now shoved into his guts, was a stone cold killer.  He’d heard about dudes like this, dudes who got off on hurting—or killing—other dudes.  As a rentboy, it was something of an occupational hazard, but it was more legend than reality.  Things like that didn’t happen, and the certainly didn’t happen to Shaun.

 

Except it was happening now.

 

“Guess ya won’t be needing this; I can use it,” Carlos chuckled.  The young slut winced as the powerful alpha reached out, but Carlos was only grabbing the gold chain.  A swift yank and it parted at the clasp, twisting it slightly.  Nothing that couldn’t be fixed.  He tossed it to the floor; he’d pawn it tomorrow.  Right now, it was time to make some meat.

 

Shaun’s shocked whimperings began to build, a torrent of pleas.  “Please, dude, don’t kill me,” he begged breathlessly.  “I’ll do anything—anything, seriously, man, hurt me as much as ya want, just don’t kill me…”  The teen boywhore’s voice, already cracking with adolescent hormones, was driven by panic into a high-pitched, sniveling whine.  “Please, dude—oh fuck, no, don’t do this—“

 

Carlos sneered, spitting into the horrified kid’s face.  He picked up the knife and silently began running it down Shaun’s lean, heaving torso.  He kept the cutting edge on the skin, applying just enough pressure to break the surface.  It didn’t even hurt, but the scratches bled slightly, the red ooze mixing with the sweat forced from the boy’s pores by physical and mental distress.

 

For Shaun, though, it was the beginning of the end.  He could feel the blade and he lost it.  Carlos felt a warm splash across his furry belly.  Looking down, he realized that the terrified teen had pissed on him—the kid had lost control of his bladder.  At the same time, the punk’s panicked mewlings reached their maximum annoyance level.  “Oh god oh fuck don’t please don’t you can take my money the chain whatever you want please don’t kill me please no oh god please fucking don’t oh shit oh please…” the helpless boycunt babbled mindlessly, hoping somehow to appease his assailant.

 

It had the opposite effect.

 

“I told you what would happen if ya didn’t keep yer cumsucking mouth hole shut!” Carlos snarled as he rammed the blade into Shaun’s sweaty, heaving flank.

 

It took no more than a second for the full foot of sharpened carbon steel to penetrate all the way into the young kid’s strong but lean body.  That can seem like a long time when it’s your body getting penetrated.

 

For Shaun, it took forever.  The blade tore through his intestines and impaled both his liver and his spleen.  He went rigid instantly, his lithe form clenched tight in excruciating pain.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, the tortured youth noted the grunt of pleasure from Carlos as his sphincter involuntarily tightened on his killer’s cock.  Wracked with agonizing shudders, Shaun inhaled deeply; he had no control over the scream that was about to erupt from his lips.

 

Carlos did, though.  He clamped his huge, strong hand across the helpless slut’s mouth, sealing off his cries and reducing his nightmarish screams to muffled grunts and moans.

 

From experience, the sadistic alpha knew he had to shut down the meat’s ability to cry out, and this time, he was grateful for his knowledge of torture and murder almost immediately.  As Carlos lay on top of the trembling boycunt, he yanked the knife back out, placing it back on Shaun’s chest so the dying fag could admire his own blood.  He’d taken care to avoid major blood vessels—by now, he was damn near an expert on anatomy; who says ya can’t learn anything useful in prison?—and while the teenaged rentboy had suffered a serious injury that would eventually cause him to bleed out, his death was not imminent.

 

Carlos was just settling in to enjoy his prey a little more when the sound of footsteps reverberated on the outside staircase.  The apartment was so old, the whole place shook with the footfalls, which became more intense as they rose higher on the stairs.

 

Carlos already knew—it was the next-door neighbor returning.  So did Shaun; Carlos could tell just by the look in the youth’s eyes.  The way a light of hope sparked deep within them, the way they broke their fearful stare at Carlos’s face to turn with anticipation towards the door past which the unknown manwhore would momentarily pass, these showed Carlos that Shaun had not yet accepted his fate.

 

The boy’s muffled grunts and groans increased in both intensity and volume; he was frantically trying to attract the attention of his neighbor.  The guy was passing right in front of the door; as Carlos struggled to keep his dick up Shaun’s ass and his hand over his mouth simultaneously, he could feel the flimsy floor of the unit bobbing up and down in time to the footsteps along the walkway outside.  This place really was a shitty little dive.

 

Perfect place for this whore to die.  Carlos was tired of fighting him. Time to make sure he couldn’t call for help, no matter what.  The husky stud drew himself upright, his powerful, chiseled form silhouetted the grim light of the single nightstand lamp .  His strong right arm, bulging with muscles and writhing with tattoos, brandished the blood-streaked Bowie knife.

 

From the corner of his eyes, Shaun could see the viciously serrated blade hovering in the air.  Danny was home next door; if he could scream now, Danny would call the cops, they could save him, he’d be ok…

 

Then then blade slashed forward, moving with the speed of lightning.  Shaun tried to scream, but his throat was blocked.

 

With steel.

 

Carlos had slammed the blade into the side of Shaun’s throat.  Without striking a single major blood vessel, he’d expertly speared the unfortunate teen’s larynx, slashing the vocal cords as the sharp serrated blade gutted the bitch’s voicebox, leaving him coughing and gagging in unimaginable pain, made even more intense by the fact that it was utterly mute.

 

Shaun could gasp and wheeze, gurgle and moan, but he couldn’t cry for help.  He was gonna die mere inches away from his oblivious neighbor, helpless and alone with a cruel killer.

 

Whatever sins he might have committed, he atoned for them in a protracted welter of pain, blood and sex.  The last few minutes of his life were a literal living hell, and they dragged out nightmarishly; for all the agony Shaun was in, none of his wounds were immediately fatal.

 

Left as he was, he’d bleed out eventually, but it’d take time.  Carlos, though, had no intention of leaving the thrashing rentboy as he was.  He drove his swollen shaft brutally up the punk’s ass, his powerful, heaving body pinning the terror-filled teen to his own bed.  Glaring down into the slut’s twisted, tear-stained face, he spat on the cunt and snarled, “I told ya you’d have to work to get a second load outta me, you stupid homo fuckwad—you ain’t doin’ it for me, bitch!  Only time I can get yer worn-out fuckhole tight enough around my hog is when I’m stickin’ ya; guess ya like it, huh?  That what gets ya off, you disgusting pervert, gettin’ reamed with a long, hard shaft?  Fuckin’-A, cumsucker, why didn’t ya say so?  Saddle up, faggot, cause I’m gonna stick ya lots more—yer gonna love this shit!”

 

The anguished youth gurgled desperately, his mouth full of the nauseating coppery taste of his own blood.  He could hear and understand the words being spoken but had no capacity for further reaction.  His entire existence was full of pain and cock.  Even in the deepest pit of panic, Shaun was aware of Carlos’s angry, pulsing shaft impaling his guts; the searing, stabbing pain in his rectum was every bit as intense as that in his side, or his throat.

 

The tortured boywhore barely noticed the sensation when Carlos ran the tip of his combat knife down the center of the kid’s chest, the razor-sharp point barely scratching the surface of the boy’s silky-smooth skin.  He stopped at a point several inches below the sternum.

 

Glancing down at the teenaged hustler, Carlos sneered, then slowly began shove the blade into Shaun’s flat, quivering belly.  He counted it out allowing ten seconds to penetrate a quarter-inch into the kid’s writhing body.

 

As the length of sharp steel was being inserted into his guts, Shaun screamed—or would have, if he’d been able.  His head was thrown back, eyes almost impossibly wide and ringed with black circles of shock.  His face distorted in agony, the boywhore’s mouth was stretched wide to scream but the only sound that came out was a grotesque wheezing noise.

 

“Hell yeah, you fuckin’ faggot pig!” Carlos crowed in triumph as he forced the knife forward relentlessly, “enjoy it, ya useless homo cumdump!  Enjoy the pain, ya sack of shit!”

 

The ex-con was an experienced fag-killer by now; he knew that when the resistance to the blade lessened that he’d hit a void—he’d shoved the knife in far enough to penetrate the stomach.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered gleefully at the shuddering boymeat wallowing beneath him, “I’m fuckin’ yer guts good now, cunt, and damn if it ain’t got yer ass all nice and tight.”

 

Tensing the bulging bicep in his killing arm, Carlos drove the knife in even deeper.  Slicing through Shaun’s firm, slender abdomen with a loud squelching noise, the twelve-inch steel blade tore through the thrashing, gurgling youth’s back and into the mattress beneath.

 

The teen rentboy was now pinned to the bed with a Bowie knife through his gut and a killer’s cock up his ass.  His smooth white body was marked by blood flowing from his wounds, but most of the bleeding was internal.  The exception was his face; his futile gasping had caused an occasional bubble of blood to form on his lips; they’d spattered his cheeks when they burst, streaking the pale blond hairs on his cheeks.

 

Shaun was no longer capable of rational thought; his entire awareness was focused on physical sensation, on the tsunami of torture being inflicted on his body.  The violent assfuck he was enduring made his slim form buck and jerk on the bed—but the knife was stuck in the mattress; it remained still.

 

It was sawing him open from the inside.

 

The worst thing of all was that, above the terrible agony of brutal buttrape and repeated stabbings, Shaun could also feel his own erection.  And somehow, that seemed to hurt more than anything else…

 

Carlos could see that the whore was almost meat.  “Fuck yeah,” he whispered, more to himself, since he was damn well aware the cunt was no longer lucid.  “Die, you goddam faggot piece of shit…motherfucking cumpig…”

 

With a single vicious jerk, Carlos yanked his knife up out of Shaun’s belly.  The writhing punk gasped as the razor-sharp steel slashed up out of him.  He didn’t have time to exhale before the buff, aggressive sadist slammed the blade back down into his chest.

 

It was the death blow.  But it wasn’t clean; the knife hit a rib on the way in, shattering it.  Bone fragments exploded like shrapnel, riddling the unfortunate youth’s viscera as the blade itself penetrated the heart, puncturing it like a large, wet, pulsing balloon.  Even then, it didn’t stop, slashing its way through the torso, emerging below the clavicle—and, again, pinning the kid to the bed.

 

Shaun stiffened, every muscle in his body going rigid with trauma-induced shock.  His torn, bleeding sphincter closed down on the thick root of Carlos’s dick like a cockring.  At the same time, the hormone-swamped teen’s shaft snapped to attention, smacking against his killer’s muscle-rippled belly.

 

Instantly, the rentboy began convulsing—and so did his dick.  It swelled and pulsed visibly as it shot a solid stream of semen in an intense, steady jet.  While the teenager slutboy’s heart ruptured and flayed itself to hamburger against the blade that impaled it, his dying body expelled a desperate geyser of genetic material, a final, reflexive, useless attempt at self-preservation.

 

It was the full-body convulsions, though, that milked the cum out of Carlos’s tool.  He held on to the flailing, kicking teen as the boy died, letting the cunt’s violent death throes jack him off.  The powerful alpha grunted in pleasure, then roared out curses as he pumped multiple hot wads of spunk into the bitchboy’s mangled intestines.

 

At some point, Carlos regained control of himself.  He was heaving and shuddering, his engorged rod still buried deep in the ass of Shaun’s corpse.  Sweating and gasping, he remained there for a few minutes, feeling spasms still flowing down his shaft, forcing the last few drops of seed out of him.

 

He pulled out, his massive hog bobbing up once it was free of the dead boy’s fuckhole.  The fag whore was still quivering and trembling, pinned to the bed like an insect.  Grinning with pleasure, Carlos leaned forward and jerked his knife out of the meat.  The youth’s mangled corpse convulsed violently as the blade was withdrawn, the white leather Adidas kicks tearing and scuffling at the sheets, before one last violent spasm squeezed a teaspoon of semen out of the meat’s semi-erect dick.  Then it went still.

 

The hard-bodied ex-con stood triumphant over his victim, bloody knife held out in one muscled, inked arm.  His enormous cock jutted out in front of him, dangling over the prone corpse of his prey, still dripping pearls of manspunk onto the mute, helpless form.

 

Carlos’s attention was caught by a glint of light on the floor near his boot.  Bending down, he noticed it was the thick gold chain.  Chuckling, he picked it up and pocketed it, then looked around and located his leather vest.  Snagging it and reaching into an inside pocket, he retrieved his pack of Marlboro Reds.

 

It was hot in the room; the powerful ex-con felt uncomfortably warm.  He was gonna need more money to get a decent place in the heat; he had enough for the moment, and the chain in his pocket would certainly help—but for tonight, he was staying here, in this miserable sweatbox.

 

And it stank of blood and mansex.

 

Whirling around in disgust, Carlos strode to the bed and shoved Shaun’s cooling, stiffening body to the floor on the far side.  He switched off the light on the nightstand and opened the door.

 

The buff alpha, still half-nude, stepped out on the walkway.  He was pleasantly surprised to find a cool desert breeze blowing.  Taking another drag off his cigarette, he looked up at the garishly-lit Stratosphere Tower only a few blocks east.  To the south, he could see the glittering, blinking towers of the Vegas Strip.

 

Standing in the darkness, he knew he was where he was meant to be.  So many rich homos to fuck, rob and slaughter—cheap whores, high-priced escorts, tourists looking for fun—he couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

 

His cock, still dangling out of his open fly, grew stiff again.

Trucker 8–Trucker v Loose End

Mark was livid.

 

The psychopathic homosexual serial killer he was tracking had at least a twenty-four hour lead on him.  And it wasn’t as if Mark could discern a pattern anyway; despite being one of the best profilers employed by the FBI, he still couldn’t determine exactly why the dude had offed two low-level hustlers—one a paid dancer at a club—in the same night.

 

And the state in which he’d left them, especially that kid in the motel room…

 

Dan was still incommunicado on assignment and Mark was getting increasingly frustrated.  He needed to find this motherfucker, and fast.  This was gonna hit the news soon, even if it wasn’t linked across state lines to that dead trooper.  The stripper knocked off in his apartment coulda been kept under wraps, but the room maid who found the dead drug slut in the motel went full mental and half the town knew something had happened by the time Mark had arrived.

 

Where the fuck was this guy?

 

————————————————————————–

 

 

The guy in question was in the last place Mark expected him to be.  It was a cliché—and a true one—that criminals returned to the scene of their crimes, but even an experienced profiler wouldn’t have expected to find the Trucker in room 115 of the Waters Motel.

 

He’d planned to ask for the room when he checked in, but it turned out to be the one the aged clerk gave him anyway.  He’d checked in using cash and a false name (like everyone else who used the place), leaving his rig back at the truck stop, as he’d done on his earlier visit. The only difference was that he was carrying an overnight bag on his walk to the motel.

 

This time, the room didn’t reek of crack and mansex, just a slight musty smell that the aggressively citrus-scented cleaner couldn’t quite overcome.  The furniture was intact, but the mirror didn’t match the dresser.  The TV and bedside lamps were new and very, very cheap.

 

The drywall had been replaced, but the paint was half a shade off, just barely noticeable.  Most of the occupants of the room were doubtlessly too intent on other things to notice these details—much less guess at the savage beating, rape and murder that had caused them.

 

The Trucker dropped his bag on the floor.  For a brief moment it all came back to him—the white-hot rage that burned within him when he discovered the whore stealing, the pleasure he got out of throwing the worthless cunt across the room before beating the fuck out of him, the fag suffering an agonizing, drawn-out death while riding his cock…

 

The powerful sadist grinned, his dick hard at the memory.  Then he shook his head brusquely, clearing his mind.  He was here for a specific purpose.  Well, he always had a specific purpose—but now he had a specific target.

 

He glanced at his watch in the dim, depressing glow of the overhead light.  Past ten p.m.—he needed to get ready.  Retrieving his bag from the floor, he tossed it on the bed and began to strip.

 

Slipping off his loosely-laced work boots, he took off his jeans, peeling the thin denim from his bulging thighs and thick calves.  Taking off his trucker’s cap, he ran his hands through his thick, fine hair, tousling the black strands before peeling off the thin white cotton t-shirt that clung to his hubcap pecs like a second skin, his large nipples proudly protruding from his broad chest.

 

Except for the white tube socks clinging to his muscled calves, the Trucker stood nude in the center of the room, facing the mirror.

 

He took a moment to admire his own body—an erotic, powerful killing machine.  His broad chest, slightly glistening with sweat in the warm room, rose and fell with his even breaths.  The faint motion was just enough for a dim shimmer of light to reflect from the dogtags nestled snugly in his wiry chest hair.

 

In the mirror, the Trucker’s eyes followed the line of fur down his firm, rippled abs.  The happy trail became denser as it approached his waist, finally bursting out in a bush of curly black pubes.  From the center of this dark nest, the alpha’s enormous cock jutted proudly.  The memory of the last time he’d been here, the justice he’d meted out to the thieving boywhore, had gotten him hard.

 

As he watched the mirror, he could see his dick throb; the pulsations were visible from halfway across the room.  And soon so was the faint twinkle refracting from a transparent drop of precum.

 

Not yet, he thought.  He needed to get ready; he had a plan to put into motion.

 

And he knew he’d have an opportunity to drain his shaft later on.

 

Padding back to the bed, his feet still clad in the tight white cotton socks, he opened his bag and began extracting clothing.  He removed a tan shirt and pair of slacks first.  Underneath them was a pair of glossy brown leather boots, nearly knee-high.  When they were out, all that was left, rattling in the bottom of the bag, was a pair of hardened steel handcuffs.  Well, that and a bottle of Jack Daniels that quickly went into the nightstand drawer.

 

It was the Trooper’s uniform—well, most of it.  The Trucker was planning on walking a fine line between enticement and intimidation tonight.  Not that that was particularly unusual for him, but tonight his sense of purpose added something extra—perhaps a touch of anticipation, of eagerness, to tease his jaded appetite.

 

He dressed carefully.  The Trooper had been slightly smaller than him, so the clothes were tight.  The Trucker didn’t realize quite how tight until he tried to pull the smooth khaki trousers up over his thick, strong thighs.  The tan-colored chinos clung to the alpha’s firm legs, stretching the seams to their limits.

 

Leaving the pants undone, he slipped on a clean white t-shirt, followed by the Trooper’s tan button-down shirt.  The Trucker left the top two buttons unfastened, allowing a glimpse of his curly chest hair over the collar of the t-shirt.

 

After tucking the shirttail into the waist of the pants, the muscled stud picked up the jeans he’d tossed on the bed and unthreaded the thick belt from the loops.  The belt, nearly two inches of black leather, was soon cinched tightly around his waist.

 

It wasn’t the Trooper’s original belt.  He hadn’t kept the badge, and he’d gotten rid of the gun too.  Guns weren’t his style to begin with—he liked to linger over his kills—but he had another reason as well.

 

After all, the local fags would clam up around a real cop.  But a dude in a cop uniform would be an irresistible lure for some of the cockpigs, whether or not they were into roleplay.

 

The Trucker sat on the bed and pulled the knee-high glossy boots on before standing and facing the mirror again.  His smile became colder and more evil as he assessed his appearance.

 

In front of him stood a tall, intimidating man whose body was rippled with muscles.  The khaki uniform seemed to be painted onto his powerful physique; even the brown leather boots were bulging with his hard, thick calves.  The black belt didn’t quite match, and there was no badge—no way he could be legitimately accused of impersonating an officer.

 

The cuffs he jammed into his hip pocket were the real deal, though.  And as smoothly as the tan chinos clung to his firm, rounded buttocks, the cuffs were obvious.

 

Again, there were cockpigs who would find that irresistible.  And the Trucker had a strong suspicion that his target would be one.  Now, he just needed to wait.  Quickly placing his original clothing into the bag, along with the work boots, he laid the bag smoothly into the top drawer of the dresser.

 

Turning out the light, the Trucker opened the blinds in the window.  And waited.

 

He had a decent view across the parking lot and the street to the main entrance of the gay bar.  As it turned out, he had to wait just over an hour before he saw the cunt he was stalking saunter down the street.  The punk paused under the electric glare of the bar’s sign to check his wallet before pushing open the blacked-out door and vanishing inside.

 

The Trucker stood up straight, feeling his throbbing dick tentpoling the tight khaki chinos.  The angry sensation of heat in his scrotum told him it was time to get the show on the road—he was done waiting.  He strode out the door, ensuring the room was ready for his return with a quick backwards glance.

 

The Trooper’s boots thumped loudly on the parking lot blacktop, a forceful, masculine sound.  The brown leather uppers gripped his legs snugly, bulging slightly as his thick calf muscles flexed with each step.

 

He crossed the street quickly.  As it happened, there was no one out front when he approached the place.  He slipped inside the door, noting the appraising leer of the bouncer—who was rubbing his groin.

 

The entryway was small and garishly lit.  Once past it, though, the Trucker found himself in a Stygian blackness, broken by random strobe lights that induced instant disorientation by virtue of being out of synch with the pounding music.  The cold, experienced killer grinned happily.

 

It was perfect.  So much chaos—no one would be able to describe him with any accuracy.

 

Another benefit of the flashing, psychedelic atmosphere was that it gave him a brief moment of anonymity to reconnoiter.  Once he stepped out of the shadows, he’d be the center of attention.  He knew it.  It wasn’t arrogance—it was simple fact.  In the skin-tight cop uniform, he would be irresistible to all the cumpigs in the bar.

 

He was only after one.  But he already knew that one was interested in him.  The cunt wouldn’t recognize him in this getup—but would be flattered to be singled out.

 

After all, the Trucker was a well-built, powerful man, and he was dressed to highlight his physique.  And the testosterone he was pumping out with his pheromones drew fags to him like moths to a candle.  Or flies to a flytrap.

 

Either way, the insects died horribly.

 

He’d entered at one corner of a large open space.  At the other was a huge TV screen, playing music videos that were utterly unrelated to the music actually playing.  Two-thirds of the open area was dance floor; the remainder was a collection of rickety tables and chairs, sparsely occupied.  The bar stretched along three of the four walls, with stools pulled up.  Most of the clientele was either at the bar or on the dance floor.

 

Pausing in the shadows, the Trucker surveyed the crowd.  It was just about midnight and the club was in full swing.  Even though it was a small town in the middle of nowhere, it was the only gay bar in the county, so it tended to be pretty popular.  And the proximity of the truck stop didn’t hurt.

 

The clientele was a mix—some twinks, some fat old trolls, and an assortment of muscular farm boy/manual labor types.  That made it easier to sight his prey.  He was after a twink; there weren’t enough to allow the punk to blend in.

 

The buff alpha spotted the boy—he was halfway down the bar on the left-hand side of the room.  As the Trucker sized up his victim, he noticed that the kid was facing away from him, slowly nursing a Bud Light. In a room full of men in blue jeans and work boots or cowboy boots, the boy stood out—not so much as to draw a lot of attention, but enough to make him easy to track.

 

His shoulder-length black hair gleamed in the light, pulled back in a ponytail.  The Trucker smirked in contempt—at least it was clean this time.  Last time he’d seen the fucker, it had been greasy.  It had also been loose and spread out over the ears, which was why the brawny killer hadn’t noticed the multiple silver studs piercing the kid’s ears.

 

The boy was about five foot ten, with a tight, lean swimmer’s build that was amply displayed by his too-small t-shirt, thin cotton in bright red that clung to his smooth torso and slim waist like a second skin.  Beneath, the punk’s black skinny jeans gripped his taut asscheeks tightly and revealed every muscle in the youth’s legs.

 

His shoes were what stood out the most; a pair of Nike Kobe X Elites in black and red.  Taller than most sneakers, they came several inches above his ankle.  The cuffs of his jeans had gotten tucked inside; it gave him the appearance of wearing black cloth lace-up boots.

 

Time to make his move.  The Trucker crossed to the bar, heading for the stool next to the kid.  As he reached it, he made sure to jostle his prey while ordering a shot of Jack.  Naturally enough, the boy turned and eyed the Trucker.

 

The cold, calculating killer ignored him, at least for the moment.  But out of the corner of his eye, he could see the way the boy was checking him out.  In fact, he could almost literally feel the punk’s hot, lascivious gaze sliding up and down his powerful body.

 

The kid was taking the bait.

 

The Trucker finally turned and acknowledged the boy, letting his glance flicker over the kid’s slim, firm body.  The boy blinked, looked up into the Trucker’s face and gulped.  “H-hey, man, wh-wh-what’s up?” he stammered, trying to give a show of insouciance and failing miserably.

 

The older man gave the youth a friendly smile. The little piece of shit was hooked.  Time to play with his catch a little before reeling him in.

 

“Hey,” he rumbled casually in his deep bass voice.  “Just checkin’ things out.  What’s up with you?”

 

The punk’s lips must have gone dry; he literally licked them before replying.  “Just looking for some fun,” he said, recovering a slight measure of nonchalance.  “Name’s Zach…”

 

Here he broke off and peered up at the Trucker closely.  “You look familiar,” he said questioningly.  “Are you a model?  You do porn?”

 

The well-built alpha chuckled pleasantly.  “Naw, man, I ain’t done no porn—“  He broke off, remembering the video of him snuffing the stripper.  “Well, nothin’ you seen, boy.”

 

As he expected, this aroused the kid even more.

 

“So you done something?” Zach asked eagerly.  “What’d you do—play a cop?  That outfit is so fuckin’ hot…”

 

The Trucker laughed.  “No, I didn’t play a cop.  But I can.  Why—you want one?”

 

Here Zach hesitated, embarrassed.  He blushed, then muttered, “No, not a cop…”  The punk turned his reddened face away for a moment.  He seemed to consider for a moment before shrugging his discomfort off and turned back to the Trucker.

 

“Naw, I don’t want a cop.  I wanna jail guard.  I spent three months in juvie—it don’t matter why—and there was this one guard who’d let me suck him off.  He was so damn hot, I’da let him do anything he wanted, but that was all he’d do to me.”

 

Grinning bashfully, he shook his head, flicking his black ponytail.  “You’re even hotter than he was.  Can ya be a guard with a prisoner at your mercy?”

 

The effort to control himself forced the Trucker to dig his fingernails into the surface of the wooden bar.  “Yeah,” he said evenly, “yeah, I think I can do that.”

 

He turned to fully face the boy, standing in such a way that the enormous erection tenting the chinos in his crotch was instantly obvious to Zach.  The young slut again lost his cool, gasping aloud as he gazed on the evidence of the older dude’s ability to give him everything he wanted.  Forcing his eyes away, the kid found them drawn to a glint of light at the stud’s waist.  Peering closer, he could see the rounded metal arcs of handcuffs peeking out of the stud’s pocket.

 

That was it.  That was all that was needed.  The Trucker had landed his catch.

 

Time to take the fish back and clean it.

 

The Trucker could see that the fucker was still nursing his beer.  “Ya might wanna get somethin’ stronger than that horse piss before I go Attica on yer ass, boy,” he chuckled.

 

Zach’s face, pockmarked with adolescent acne, flushed red again.  “I-I can’t, dude.  I’m only eighteen.  The bartender slips me a Bud or two cause I suck him off sometimes, but they won’t serve me here.”

 

“Well, damn, bitch, yer gonna need something stronger for sure.  I gotta fresh bottle of JD back in my hotel room.  Let’s have ya hit it, then I’ll hit you—ha!”

 

The kid lit up at the suggestion.  “Fuck yeah, dude, let’s go!” he chirped giddily, slamming the remainder of his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Zach followed the Trucker out of the bar and across to the motel as eagerly as a puppy; if the young cunt had had a tail, he’d have been wagging it.  His tall Nike hightops padded quietly on the pavement, the sound completely covered by the older man’s heavy footfalls—not that there was anyone to hear.

 

It was past midnight in a small country town; most of the action was already inside the bar (or one of several straight bars in town).  They were able to reach the room without being seen by anyone, not that Zach paid attention.  But the Trucker did.

 

The Trucker opened the door and went in, flicking on the lights as he entered.  He stepped to the side to allow the boy to enter, then closed the door behind him, making certain that the self-locking latch had connected properly.  Again, Zach paid no attention, seating himself on the bed and looking around.

 

The alpha crossed to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of disposable plastic cups.  He handed them to Zach.  “Here,” he said, “get that wrap off them while I get the bottle.”  He allowed a slight gruffness into his tone, noting how the boy seemed to shudder at the ring of command in his voice.

 

The little cocksucker liked to be dominated.  He liked to be forced to obey.

 

So it was time to give him something to obey.  He grabbed the cups from the kid.  “Now strip the bed, boy.  Next time I look at it, I don’t wanna see nothin’ but the bottom sheet, ya hear me?”

 

The Trucker turned away from him to get the whiskey bottle out of the nightstand, which was probably a good thing; the sadistic killer was unable to completely hide the look of malevolent glee that crossed his face.

 

He opened the bottle and  filled the cups,  each about half full.  They were eight-ounce cups; each had the equivalent of four shots.  Turning around, he was pleased to see his order had been obeyed; everything had been swept off the bed into a pile on the far side of the room; the kid was sitting on the edge of the bed, his tight black jeans highlighted by the dingy, off-white fitted sheet.

 

The Trucker handed one of the cups to Zach.

 

“Here’s to yer jail rape, dude,” he grinned, “here’s to a fuck so long and hard you’ll remember it for the rest of yer life—no matter how long that is.”  He bumped the rims of the plastic cups together before tossing back the entire cupful.  He steeled himself as the smoky amber liquid coursed down his throat, setting his blood aflame.  He cleared his throat twice, shook his head, and set the cup down, staring expectantly at Zach.

 

He knew damn well Zach hadn’t had much in the way of hard booze before, not if he was already known at the bar.  He didn’t seem to know what a large amount he’d been handed, and he didn’t want the hot cop dude to think he couldn’t take it.  Without hesitation, he shot back all four ounces as well.

 

Well, not as well.  Not well at all, in fact; it took a moment for it to hit him, then he fell to his knees with his hands at his searing throat, coughing and crying.  His face was bright red and he was gasping like he’d drunk acid—but he didn’t puke.  He kept the booze down.

 

“That’s it, boy,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Don’t puke.  Ya know what happens if ya puke in jail, dontcha, bitch?  Ya gotta lick it up!”

 

Even as Zach tried to control his choking, he could feel his cock stiffening in his groin, painfully restrained by his tight jeans. This was it; this was the real deal.  This hard motherfucker was gonna treat him like the pig he was.  He couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

 

And that was when the alcohol hit.  The Trucker had been right; Zach wasn’t used to that amount of liquor—certainly not at once.  The boy tried unsteadily to rise off his knees.  He put his hand out to the nightstand for support but kept missing it, his hand grabbing at air.

 

“C’mon, bitch, stand up,” the muscled strongman snapped, stepping forward and jerking the boy upright by his arm.  Once on his feet again, Zach grinned up at the Trucker.  The pockmarked teen was only attractive in his youth, his smooth slim body.  His face was slightly rounded, with a weak chin and large, bloodshot brown eyes.  His nose was crooked and slightly snub, and his long black hair was coarse and stringy.

 

Ain’t no one gonna miss this one, the Trucker thought.  And after all, he was at the height of his attraction now; really, it was a mercy to waste him.

 

Of course, the Trucker’s method wasn’t going to be merciful, but that was beside the point.  The worthless little faggot needed to be taught a lesson and the powerful alpha was gonna make sure the cunt learned it if was the last thing the boy learned on earth—which it would be.

 

But for now, he was willing to take his time, to play a little.  And he was curious to see just how far he could go before the cumpig realized that his fantasy was becoming a snuff.

 

“C’mon, punk, get outta that shirt,” he barked, “ya know the drill; I gotta search ya, make sure you ain’t got no weapons.”  Zach complied right away, pulling the tight red t-shirt up over his head and shaking his ponytail free.  He stood facing the Trucker, swaying drunkenly, his soft, smooth skin glistening faintly with a thin sheen of sweat as his chest heaved in excitement.  The long, swollen ridge in his groin, wrapped tightly in black denim, pulsed visibly as the teen gasped raggedly in lust.

 

“Up against the wall, boy, NOW!” the older man shouted suddenly, “assume the position!”  Startled, the kid jumped, but instantly did as he was told, wheeling around and placing his palms flat on the wall.  Then the Trucker approached.

 

The muscle-bound alpha pressed himself against Zach’s back, leaning in to whisper.  “Gonna frisk ya, bitch—and if I find anything, I’m gonna do a cavity search.”  With that, he placed his large, strong hands on the teen and began to fondle him.  He wrapped one arm around the boy’s chest, holding him in place like an iron bar while he shoved the other hand down the front of the kid’s jeans.

 

The Trucker grabbed hold of Zach’s long, throbbing cock and began to twist it and squeeze it, slowly increasing the force until the youth was whimpering in pain.  Floundering in a haze of lust and alcohol, Zach found himself unable to break free; with each brutal wrench of his scrotum, he could feel his tormentor’s huge pecs bulging in effort, pressed against his back.

 

The young cockpig loved it.

 

“F-fuckin’-A,” he slurred, moaning ecstatically, “yeah, dude, I’ll be yer fuckin’ prison bitsh.  Use me, you fucker…”  He broke off in a breathy gasp, shuddering with pleasure.

 

Without saying a word, the Trucker let go of the boy’s dick and withdrew his hands.  With a sudden, practiced movement, he jerked Zach’s hands around behind his back and had them cuffed before the boy even realized what had happened.  Even when he did realize, he was too incapacitated by the booze to do much.

 

He stood and swayed, staring blearily at the Trucker as the latter slowly unbuttoned the cop’s tan dress shirt and tossed it on the floor.  Next, the older stud unbuckled his thick leather belt and unsnaked it from his tight waist, hanging it over the headboard of the bed.  Only after all this was complete did his pull off the thin white cotton t-shirt.

 

If Zach had been less drunk, he might have recognized that amazing chest, broad and muscled with dark wiry hair; it had certainly drawn his attention the last time he’d seen it.  Unluckily for him, the alcohol was interfering with his sense of danger to such an extent that even the sight of the dogtags nestled between the alpha’s hubcap-like pecs didn’t send up a red flag.

 

“C’mere, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  “C’mere and work my chest, you jailyard cumslut.”

 

Zach approached the brawny sadist slowly, almost hesitant to touch the Trucker for fear that his fantasy would pop like a bubble.  The Trucker grunted with impatience.  He reached out and snagged the teen by one of his ear studs and brutally yanked him closer, making Zach cry out in pain.  But before he could yelp again, his face was being ground into the alpha’s chest; the older man’s fur scraping at his skin like steel wool.

 

“Work it, cunt, get yer tongue out and work it!” came a vicious hiss.  Zach did as he was told, running his tongue along the dude’s skin, slurping up a heady salty mix of mansweat and pheromones.  The teen’s adolescent body, already in a ferment of hormones, went into overdrive.  He felt the hard metallic edges of the dogtags slicing against his face—painful, but too dull to break the skin.

 

As Zach knelt to run his tongue down the length of the Trucker’s rippled abs, his own young, slim body was flooded with testosterone and adrenaline.  When the buff alpha pulled the boy back up to his feet and forced the kid’s face into his pits, the youth was pressed against him and he could feel the hot rigid shaft in the punk’s crotch.  “C’mon, ya fuckin’ jailbait, work my pits good,” he growled, “show me how ya keep yer cellie clean.”

 

The Trucker abruptly stood up straight and, grabbing Zach by the upper arms, threw him down onto the bed on his back.  The boy drew a sharp, surprised intake of breath.  His eyes opened wide as the Trucker loomed ominously over him and, bending down, grabbed the fly of Zach’s jeans.  A single rough, swift jerk undid the button; the loose zipper came down immediately.

 

Another couple of jerks and the Trucker had peeled the jeans off the kid completely, turning them inside out as he shucked the boy like corn.  There was a slight ripping sound as the cuffs were forced over the heels of Zach’s Kobe X’s, but a little extra tightening of his bicep was enough to power through the resistance.

 

Zach didn’t protest the damage to his pants; he was both too drunk and too horny to care.  Despite the former, he was able to demonstrate the latter with no doubt; his own dick had bobbed up ecstatically the moment it was free from the confining denim, slapping against his flat belly and spattering precum like a fine rain, the drops of which were caught on the soft brown fur surrounding his navel.

 

“Fuck, man,” the horny young punk moaned, “you got me in cuffs, you can lock me up and do what the fuck you wanna do to me…”

 

Nude but for the Nike hightops laced above his ankles, Zach’s smooth skin gleamed with the slight film of sweat worked up by his sexual ecstasy.  He writhed in erotic helplessness as the heavily-muscled stranger towered over him.

 

“Do me,” the teen gasped, almost involuntarily.  “Stick it in me…”  It was obvious that his rational mind was shut down, overpowered by the hormones rampaging through his slender but firm body.  The adolescent faggot wanted dick.  He wanted it rough, and he wanted it now.

 

The Trucker was only too happy to provide.  But not yet.  He’d left a pack of Marlboro Reds on the dresser.  Wheeling abruptly on the heel of his boot, he walked across the room and took a moment to light one up, completely ignoring the desperately randy youth shuddering on the bed.

 

Turning back, he could see that the little fuck had raised his head.  Whimpering faintly, the kid was gazing at him with a look of raw sexual hunger.  Zach was actually right—the Trucker could do whatever he wanted to the teenager.  No one could stop him.

 

His grin deepened, giving him a predatory, carnivorous look.

 

The Trucker approached the bed again slowly, his incredible body rippling with menace.  He exhaled a cloud of smoke over the boy before placing the cigarette, still lit, on the nightstand. Reaching down to his groin, he lowered his own zipper.  His massive dong was too large to fall out of the trooper’s tight beige chinos on its own; the Trucker had to reach in with both hands to extract the thick, pulsing tube of meat.

 

Drunk and horny as he was, Zach blanched when he saw the monster cock emerge, throbbing and dripping.  Things were long past the point of him having the power to object, though, even if he hadn’t been swamped in teenage horniness.  But when the older man bent down over him, the youth lost whatever trepidation had penetrated his whiskey-fumed haze.

 

His large dark eyes greedily drank in the alpha’s broad hairy pecs as they got closer.  For a moment, he was distracted by the jingling dogtags before looking up to the stud’s scruffy face, hard and handsome, with icy blue eyes…

 

The punk’s reverie was shattered as the Trucker grabbed him by the arms and yanked him roughly, positioning him so that his head was at the head of the bed.  Instantly, the sadistic strongman was on the bed on his knees, his large callused hands pressed against the boy’s smooth, firm thighs and forcing them apart, then lifting them.

 

Before Zach knew it, he was staring fuzzily at his Nike Kobe Xs, kicking the empty air over the Trucker’s shoulders.

 

“Yeah, cunt, ya liked gettin’ fucked in juvie, huh?” the Trucker sneered, gripping his dick in one hand like a club and slapping it into the palm of the other, spattering as much precum on Zach as the randy teen had himself.  “Ya liked bein’ backed into a corner and gettin’ raped?  Hell yeah, boy, I’m gonna shag ya like a prison bitch, you fuckin’ sack of shit!”  Zach laid his head back on the bed, shuddering in bottom pig pleasure.  He never saw it coming; he didn’t see the Trucker aiming his gigantic cock right at the kid’s tender pink fuckhole.

 

He damn sure felt it.

 

The adolescent felt pressure against his sphincter—a pressure that swelled to excruciating pain in the blink of an eye.  It happened so fast that Zach couldn’t breathe.  The slim youth looked up at the Trucker with tormented, watering eyes as he gasped like a dying fish, unable to catch his breath from sheer agony.

 

The searing, white-hot pain of ripped flesh and torn muscles slashed through the mist of alcohol in his brain.  His desperate hyperventilation seemed to go on forever; he was forcing his air out with a high-pitched panicked whine that didn’t give his lungs enough time to absorb oxygen.  As darkness mercifully closed in on the nightmarish physical shock he was experiencing, Zach seemed to see, without quite registering it, a cold, cruel light of lust illuminating the alpha’s eyes without thawing their cold steel-blue tint.

 

The Trucker spent the next couple of minute raping the kid’s motionless ass.  Unconsciousness caused the boy’s muscles to relax; his sphincter, torn and bleeding, gave way at last, allowing the Trucker to penetrate deep into the punk’s colon.

 

Zach came to slowly, moaning and blinking.  The horrible spearing pain in his ass was still there, but now he could feel the pulsing immenseness of the muscled stud’s rod plugging his rectum.  The powerful man was bearing down on him with each vicious thrust of his hips; the handcuffs binding the slut’s hands painfully crushed between his back and the stripped bed.

 

“Dude—“ Zach managed to wheeze out.  “Y-yer hurtin’ me…please stop, man, lemme just…just…”

 

“Shut up,” the Trucker snarled, “ya wanted to get fucked like a prison bitch?  You got it, cunt.  I’m gonna use you like fresh meat and the more ya squeal, the more I’m gonna ream out yer hole like the jailyard pig you are.  Trust me, you worthless piece of shit, I know how to make you hurt.”

 

Tightly gripping the youth’s slim hips, the sadistic killer held him down on the bed and drilled the kid’s mangled fuckhole, his powerful thigh muscles flexing and bulging with each excruciatingly deep pump of his shaft.  Zach tried to protest but the violence and pain of the assault left him unable to speak; he could only stare beseechingly into the cold, contemptuous face of his tormentor.

 

The cruel alpha smirked at the pain-wracked adolescent writhing on his dick.  “Guess what, faggot?” he hissed malevolently.  “You’re locked in with a killer—just like prison, huh?  Ya got what ya want; is that fuckin’ hot or what?”

 

Zach was still trying to figure out how his greatest fantasy had morphed into an excruciating nightmare.  The actual meaning of the Trucker’s words took some time to sink in.  When they did, they hit a brick wall of deliberate incomprehension.

 

“No…you c-can’t…you haven’t…” the teen squeaked in a high, terrified pitch.

 

The Trucker leaned down and rested his body full length on top of the boy, sweat-streaked skin to skin, full length.  The punk’s legs twisted painfully to the side as the weight of the older man’s well-built body crushed him; the dogtags digging into the kid’s heaving chest.

 

From this position, the Trucker’s hard-edged, masculine face, twisted with rage and sick lust, filled Zach’s field of view.   “Yes I can,” the sadist whispered icily.  “And I have.  Right here.  Look around ya, boy—you ain’t gonna be the first homo cunt I wasted in this room.”

 

Again, Zach’s face was blank; the teenager was either too frightened or simply too stupid to understand the allusion.  Not that it bothered the Trucker—he was looking forward to enlightening the cunt.

 

“I knew you were a worthless pansy slut the first time I laid eyes on ya,” the brawny, powerful sadist growled.  “Or the first time you laid eyes on me.  Just another disgusting faggot who wanted my body.  And since ya couldn’t keep yer homo trap shut, you’re gonna get my body—all up in your guts.”

 

A dim light of recognition glinted in Zach’s shocked, terrified eyes.  That face, that broad hairy chest—he had seen them before; in fact, he’d gone home that night and jerked off until he was sore over the memory of them.

 

This was the hot guy from the truck stop; the one who’d asked about the bar.  He’d come back in a couple of hours later, bare-chested, sweaty, hot as all fuck…

 

…and that was the night that cheap-ass rent boy got the shit beat out of him.  Kid was raped and strangled, in this motel…

 

The Trucker watched the horrifying realization dawn on the boy. The panic in his victim’s face made his dick, sunk deep into the teen’s rectum, pulse and swell.  He knew exactly what thoughts were running through the punk’s head.

 

“This room, dude,” the Trucker whispered with malicious cruelty as one hand crept towards the head of the bed.  “That spot on the wall where I frisked ya?  They fixed it good—I threw that cunt into it so hard he went through the sheetrock.  Slammed the motherfucker through the TV, too.  Thieving queer-ass cocksucker tried to steal my wallet, so I fucked him to death.”

 

He drew back his hand, now clutching the belt he’d left over the headboard, without once allowing Zach’s wide, shock-rimmed eyes to escape from his own terrifyingly hypnotic gaze, at once white-hot with lust and ice-cold with killing rage.

 

“It took him a long time to die.  And it hurt—I made sure of that.  When he finally died, he was grateful to escape the agony.”   The Trucker lowered his face down to Zach’s, so close that his dark scruff scraped against the boy’s cheek as the alpha whispered into his ear.  “And all he did was to try to steal my wallet.  You squealed about me to the cop.”

 

He pulled back and raised himself up so that he was kneeling over Zack, his enormous shaft still jammed up inside the frightened teen’s smooth body.  He held the belt now in both hands, letting the import of both his words and the leather strap sink in.

 

“The cop, yeah?  You remember him?  I raped and tortured him to death, too.  I took my time with him and left his baton jammed up his ass.  You’re the last loose end—and the one with the biggest lesson to learn.”

 

Zach understood.  He knew what was about to happen, and why.  He also knew that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to evade the brutal violence he was about to endure, but this didn’t resign him to his fate.

 

In a moment, the teenager went into full reflex mode, his lean but muscled body thrashing and flailing in blind panic.  He wrapped his legs around the Trucker’s firm, hard flanks and squeezed; the alpha responded by slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and hoisting them back onto his shoulder, where the punk’s Nike kicks flailed uselessly in the air.

 

Zach was in too much fear to be able to cry for help or even scream effectively; he gibbered and squealed like a stuck pig, spittle flecking his thick lips.  As his sweat-streaked body writhed on the bed, his terror was so strong that a stream of piss was shot out of his long cock, even though it was still semi-erect from the adolescent hormonal overload.

 

The Trucker glared down at the helpless, fear-maddened teenager.  “Stop squealin’, you stupid motherfucker,” he barked in anger.  “You don’t even deserve to die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit; I shoulda just offed ya.  But I wanna drain my balls, and since I gotta snuff ya anyway, I might as well dump my load in yer ass as I take ya out.”

 

Zach’s first panic had faded, simply because he didn’t have the energy to sustain his frenzied thrashing.  “No…no…you…no…” he moaned quietly.

 

“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the Trucker said evenly as he drove his fist into Zach’s jaw.  The boy gave a deep, instinctive grunt of pain as his mouth slammed shut and he bit through his tongue.  The vicious alpha spit into the face of the suffering youth, the phlegm sliding down the kid’s smooth cheeks and mingling with the blood leaking out of his mouth.

 

Stunned, awash in agony and sheer terror, Zach inhaled deeply.  He’d found his voice again; even though no conscious thought was involved, his animal midbrain realized that the only way to survive the next hour was to get help by alerting others.  He didn’t know he needed to scream; it was going to happen anyway.

 

The Trucker knew he needed to scream, though, and he wasn’t gonna have it.  Zach had stopped inhaling and had opened his mouth wide to shriek, when it all came to sudden halt.  Instantly, a thick band of crushing pain circled his throat, and he couldn’t scream.  He couldn’t breathe.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Nothing.  Nothing he could do.  He wrung his hands in the cuffs underneath him, the sudden panic overriding the pain as the case-hardened steel tore cruelly into the tender flesh in the small of his back and bloodily flayed the skin from his wrists.  Nothing.  That pain around his throat—it was the belt…

 

Still fucking the boy’s torn asshole, deeply and intently, the Trucker focused his eyes on Zach’s face and watched him start to die.  The kid continued to kick and writhe as he fought for his short, wasted life; all that the youth’s frantic struggles accomplished was to give this killer’s cock a nice, vigorous massage.  As he twisted and jerked, he burnt though his oxygen even faster.

 

His face swelled and darkened, turning purple—and so did his dick.  The teen could feel his own erection, but the sensation was lost in the horrifying agony of strangulation.  As his throat was compressed, Zach’s eyes, wide with terror, started to bulge.  He could feel his tongue swelling, too—it seemed to fill his entire mouth.

 

The worst pain of all was still in his ass, though—that was the truly nightmarish part of Zach’s situation; he wasn’t only forced to suffer the pain and violence of a slow murder, he also had to endure the pain and violence of a vicious rape.  It was too much.  It was overwhelming.  His weak adolescent psyche crumbled under the onslaught of the attack.

 

The Trucker had no intention of letting him slide into a catatonic haze, though.  He wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot.  “You stupid motherfucker,” he contemptuously taunted the dying teenager, “this is what happens to dumbass squealin’ cocksuckers.  Only reason yer still alive, faggot, is cause you ain’t milked my cum out.  Does it hurt, you worthless cunt?  Ya want me to stop it?  I’ll end your useless homo life the second I fill your guts with sperm.”

 

He gripped the belt forcefully, straining his biceps as he tightened the strap around the boy’s neck.  Bending down, he spit into the kid’s distorted, blackening face as he sneered, “When it hurts bad enough, you’ll wanna die.  Make me cum, slut, and I’ll stop the pain and the fear.  C’mon, you worthless fag, drain me and die”

 

The helpless, choking youth could feel the rigid stiffness of his own dick.  Even as his lithe, smooth body convulsed and kicked, he was still gruesomely aware of his own throbbing erection.  As Zach twitched beneath him, the Trucker could see that the teen was swiftly going under.  He kept up the tension in the belt; the room filled with the musk of sex and sweat, forced out of his bulging muscles by the effort.

 

Suddenly the punk went rigid, his stiff dick bobbing up, its oozing head smacking wetly against the alpha’s rippled abs.  His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but blood-streaked whites under fluttering lids.

 

He was edging—literally.  Zach was trembling on the brink of irreparable brain death.

 

The Trucker grunted in anger.  He wasn’t even close to cumming.  Worthless little faggot couldn’t even make him shoot as he died.

 

Ok, so it wasn’t time for him to die.  The Trucker slackened the belt; after a couple of convulsive gurgles, Zach began to cough uncontrollably, blood-spotted mucus from his damaged throat splattering his cheeks.

 

The powerful sadist, his hard, heaving body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, remained looming over the gasping adolescent, his monstrous shaft still jammed deeply into Zach’s guts.  He stopped pumping, though, taking a moment to let the boy wake up.  The Trucker wanted him conscious again before starting the next round.

 

And anyway, the fuckmeat was still desperately trying to catch his breath; in his struggles, he was working his killer’s shaft pretty damn good on his own.

 

The traumatized youth slowly clawed his way back into consciousness; the pain flooded in as he gradually came to.  The dark lividness of Zach’s drool-smeared face drained away while his breathing slowed slightly—it was still rapid and ragged, but he was no longer gasping violently in an attempt to stave off brain death.

 

The kid’s fuckhole was still gripping the Trucker’s thick tool like a fist in a velvet glove, but it was no longer jacking him off.  On his shoulders, the hard-bodied top could feel the high fabric tops of Zach’s Nikes, resting now as opposed to flailing in the air, but still trembling perceptibly.  With his arms still wrapped around the boy’s legs, the silky-smooth flesh of the latter’s inner thighs was pressed against his rapist’s sweaty, powerful flanks.

 

Finally, the boycunt recovered his voice—barely.  “P-pl-please…” he croaked, “I-I can’t…don’t…”

 

“You stupid piece of shit,” the cruel, hulking brute sneered in reply.  “I ain’t done with ya yet, cunt; you ain’t made me cum yet.  Ya know what that means, meat?  It means you ain’t learned your lesson yet.  You ain’t suffered enough yet.”

 

The belt was still wrapped around Zach’s neck; no longer crushing his windpipe, it was still sunk into the skin.  With a deliberate intent to cause pain, the Trucker viciously jerked it free from the punk’s throat, flaying the skin underneath.  Zach was still too weak to do more than shudder and make faint mewling noises, as much in fear as in agony.

 

The Trucker passed the end of the belt through the buckle, making a loop, and slipped it back over the boy’s head.  Now he had a slipknot leash to pull the kid up with one hand.

 

He did so.  The other hand he used to deliver a driving roundhouse punch to Zach’s face; the immediate result was a wet smacking sound, a deep involuntary grunt of pain and the faint crunching sound of the teen’s cheekbone breaking.

 

“Fuck yeah, you worthless cocksucker, that felt good, dinnit?” the muscle-bound alpha chuckled gleefully at his helpless prey.  “Ya musta really liked it, cumpig; yer reamed-out ass worked the head of my shaft great—that what it’s gonna take, huh?  You a pain pig, cunt?  Damn, fag, ya shoulda said so!  Hell, I’ll give ya all ya want!”

 

Zach was wedged into an excruciating position—his slim, firm torso brutally yanked up by the loop of leather around his neck, his arms twisted agonizingly behind his back while his expensive kicks had slipped from the Trucker’s shoulders but were still caught in the latter’s arms.  The only part of the boy still touching the bed was his ass—and the Trucker’s huge, rigid cock was still plugging it.

 

Zach retreated mentally; the sheer horror that the knowledge of his helplessness, his utter inability to prevent or evade whatever nightmarish torture this sexual psychopath wished to inflict on him, plunged him into a state where he was capable of little more than response to stimuli.  His fogged attention, like an animal’s, focused blearily on bright, shiny objects, which was how Zach found himself staring at the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling against the latter’s hard furry chest, as the tortured teen homo wallowed in agony.

 

The Trucker could see the blank, stunned look in the eighteen-year-old kid’s eyes; it was the look of a youth who had been subjected to an unexpected and shockingly violent assault.  The sadist’s powerful body was filled with a strong urge to overwhelm and destroy the boy, to literally fuck him to death.

 

He braced himself by extending one leg, planting the glossy brown boot on the floor and tensing his thighs, making them bulge visibly in the tight beige chinos he still wore.  He channeled his sexual rage into his fist, driving it into the side of the kid’s head with such explosive savagery that he lost his grip on the belt—he’d literally knocked the little fuck right out of his own hand.

 

Zach’s head whipped to the side, flinging his dark ponytail behind as his skull hit the nightstand with a loud crack.  The impact toppled both the lamp, which fell to the floor and broke, and the bottle of Jack, which stayed on the stand.  The amber-colored fluid splashed across the flat surface, drenching Zach’s hair and adding a distinct smoky scent to the pheromone-laden air.

 

“Goddam it,” the Trucker muttered in the deep, guttural growl of a predator, “that shit cost more than you’re worth, you miserable pansy.”  He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the semi-conscious teen, so close that even in his deep, pain-wracked haze, he could feel the killer’s wiry scruff as it grazed his cheek.  “You owe me, cunt; how ya gonna pay?  Huh?”

 

Then the Trucker paused.  At this distance he could see the studs in the kid’s ear much more clearly; there were three—and the top one had a slight sparkle.

 

“Motherfuck—ya been holdin’ out on me, boy.  Bad mistake.  If that tiny chip is real diamond, it might cover the cost of my booze.  Maybe.  Lemme take a look.  If it’s real, I’m gonna take the other one too.”

 

He spread his huge hand out and placed it on the side of Zach’s head; placing all his weight on that arm, he forced the kid’s head down onto the nightstand with such power that the unfortunate youth was already mewling with pain when the Trucker started fondling the top stud.  He held the ear between two fingers, one looped about the stud, the other around its back.

 

Then, with a single tremendous jerk, he tore the stud out of the teen’s ear.

 

The sharp agony of ripped flesh snapped the tormented adolescent out of his catatonic state; he tried to scream but could only push out a high, thin shriek that spiraled into a croak.  His bloodshot eyes, huge and darkly ringed by shock, were riveted on the Trucker, who was examining the stud under the light on the other nightstand.

 

The pain in his ear, now throbbing with his pulse as blood flowed from the wound, was so severe that he even managed to forget the gigantic rod that even now was still skewering his torn colon.  But what he couldn’t forget was his own erection; his dick was so stiff as to be downright painful.  He didn’t know how it could still be so hard after all he’d suffered.

 

It never occurred to him that he liked it.  On some level, he wanted and deserved it, but he could never have admitted it.

 

And whatever he desired, pain overrode the physical and fear the mental aspects.  No matter how hard he got, how close he came to shooting his wad, he was still going to fight death to the very end.  He wouldn’t submit, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

The Trucker didn’t give him the choice.

 

Repositioning his big cop boot on the thin carpet, he shifted his muscled mass and pulled Zach back upright on the bed by the belt around his neck.  Reaching around to the other side of the punk’s head, he ripped the top stud on that side out too.

 

This time, the response was much stronger.  This stud had been torn from the side of the punk’s head that had been drenched in whiskey; the alcohol burned like fire as it trickled into the open wound.

 

Zach screeched like an ape, twisting and shuddering violently.  His black Nikes kicked the air behind the Trucker’s head—until the kid made the mistake of jerking one leg in and kicking the Trucker right in the side of the head.

 

“Ok, meat, that’s it.  Yer done.”  Enraged, the powerful alpha yanked the belt in a whip-like motion, unexpectedly snapping Zach’s head down and to the side so that it smashed back onto the nightstand.  Except it didn’t—it smashed into the half-empty whiskey bottle and shattered it, shards of glass slicing open the skin at Zach’s temple.  A jagged edge left on the base of the bottle left a shallow—but long and painful—slash across his cheek.

 

Instantly, the teen was jerked back up into position, his rectum rotating on the Trucker’s engorged tool.  Scrambling his pricey kicks, Zach drew his legs up and, planting his feet on the older man’s rippled washboard abs, pushed himself off the bed—and off the Trucker’s cock.  The smooth young teen, half-insane with fear, threw himself on the thin, cheap carpet, bleating in terror as he tried to wriggle away from his killer.

 

The Trucker had grunted with surprise at the blow, but otherwise didn’t make a sound.  He simply stood up and strode towards Zach, his powerful muscled form looming over the nude youth.  Flat on his back with his arms twisted behind him, the kid was still erect despite the pain from his mangled ears, and slashed head, all still bleeding.

 

But as the Trucker towered above, Zach shot another golden stream of piss involuntarily across his firm, smooth chest, already glittering with sweat.  The teenager was lost in a rising tide of doom; turning his head to the side, he could see the shiny finish on the tall cop boots.  His eyes traveled up the legs, muscles visibly bulging through the skin-tight sand colored chino trousers…

 

…and above that, a huge shaft of meat, dark, throbbing and oozing—and streaked with blood.  His blood.

 

The heaving, furry chest above, dogtags lying between the broad, hubcap-like pecs…and above that, the face…that face.  That hard face, the cold, cold rage in those eyes that showed there would be no mercy, no remorse, nothing but the desire to inflict as much pain as possible.

 

In his mind, Zach screamed; what came out of his mouth was a feeble gurgle.

 

The Trucker trembled with rage as he glared down at the worthless fag who dared to defy him, to try to escape the consequences of his actions.  The tall, well-built killer bent over slowly at the waist, extending his hand and reaching out to the helpless boy who cowered and sniveled in terror.  The muscle-bound stud grabbed the end of the belt that was still looped around the kid’s neck.

 

Standing up, the half-nude alpha continued to raise his arm as if he was doing curls with a set of weights.  As the bicep on his arm flexed with the strain, the Trucker lifted Zach up off the ground and held the slim young teen dangling in the air.

 

The boy kicked weakly, his Nike hightops dancing in the air as his own weight tightened the leather strap around his neck and cut off his breath.  Struggling uselessly as the incredibly powerful older man literally hanged him by holding him in the air, the sweaty, shuddering punk was nonetheless aware of his own dick slapping wetly against his firm, flat belly as he thrashed and choked.

 

The red-tinted blackness that filled Zach’s bewildered mind had the effect of focusing his attention on the hard, chiseled face of his assailant.  It was somehow getting him even hornier; he could feel it even as he felt consciousness slipping away.  That strong, hard jaw, that jet-black goatee surrounded by fainter fuzz—a five o’clock shadow of gunmetal blue that darkened the sadist’s cheeks—and those eyes.  Again, those eyes—so blue, bright with a light that curiously combined the heat of lust and rage with the calculating coldness of an experienced killer.

 

And then Zach was snapped out of it.  In fact, he was damn near snapped out of life forever.  With the loud, snarling growl of a vicious predator, the Trucker whipped his arm to the side.  The belt popped like a whip as the teenage boy flew through the air and slammed into the wall so hard he blacked out for a moment.

 

But it was just a moment; as he blinked and tried to breathe—the impact hadn’t loosened the leather noose enough for him to inhale—he could feel death approach in the heavy tread of the boots on the floor behind him.  He was lying near the far wall of the room, facing it, his back to the room.  Turning his bulging eyes up, he could see the huge dent his body had made in the drywall.

 

As the boots paused, directly behind him, Zach had a brief flash of clarity—and memory.  Something this hot, erotic, cruel, brutal psycho…something this dude had said…the other guy.  That whore.  He’d been killed in this room—but he’d been beaten into hamburger first.

 

And part of that beating had put him through the wall too.

 

Once again, despite his huge and painfully throbbing erection, Zach lost control of his bladder to such an extent that the stream of urine that shot out of him hit the wall and splashed the teen with his own piss before he was hoisted into the air again, his slender young body jerking and kicking.

 

The Trucker sneered contemptuously at the choking boy.  The muscles in the powerful alpha’s arm were knotted with the strain of holding the kid up off the ground, but it was worth the effort to watch his expensive Nike kicks flail as they desperately sought some support to relieve the crushing pain in the suffering punk’s throat.

 

Then, in a lightning-swift motion, the strongman flung his helpless young victim across the room again.  In his suffocating haze, Zach felt a brief giddiness but was mostly unaware of his flight.  He was aware when it was interrupted, though, the impact of smashing headfirst into the flatscreen TV piercing through his dying fog.

 

This time, when he landed on the floor on his back, the belt noose loosened.  His lungs, full of useless carbon dioxide, emptied immediately with a loud sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt.  Much like before, his esophagus had been so badly crushed and traumatized that the expelled breath was accompanied by bloody mucus.

 

The Trucker approached.  He stood over his victim, his cold, stony gaze taking in the sight of the raped and tortured youth.  While his prey stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed shock, gasping violently, the vicious sadist took pleasure in letting his enormous cock jut out over the shuddering, sweating teen.  Large clear drops of precum welled from the slit in the center of his purple, engorged mushroom tip; they fell at random, sprinkling the writhing adolescent with his killer’s bodily fluids.  “Stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker said in his steely bass voice, his cold even tone more frightening than any screaming or ranting could have been.

 

He bent down.  Zach saw him coming.  He was completely and utterly unable to prevent whatever was coming; all he could do was gasp and try to inhale as much oxygen as possible in case it was cut off.

 

It was.  Instantly.  The Trucker snatched the belt again.  This time, there was no admiring, gloating dangle for the meat; the teenager experienced swift motion and terrible, slashing pain, but was too traumatized to realize he’d been thrown into the dresser and had shattered the mirror.   The glass slashed at the smooth, soft skin on his back but, like his encounter with the whiskey bottle, the injuries were agonizing but not serious.

 

When he fell to the floor this time, he landed face down.  The majority of Zach’s attention at this point was absorbed in trying to breathe; it was few seconds before the faint crunching sound of boots grinding glass into the carpet seeped into his awareness.

 

The Trucker was stepping on the remains of the mirror as he moved towards writhing prey.  Without a word, his huge muscled body moving with startling swiftness, the older man snatched the lithe, trembling teen, not by the belt this time, but by his long black ponytail.  For a single horrifying moment, Zach was suspended by his hair and felt his scalp starting to tear before the Trucker threw him on the bed.

 

Actually, threw him at the bed.  Zach smacked face-first into the headboard before rebounding and rolling back; he ended up nearly in the center of the mattress but turned ninety degrees to the orientation of the bed.  His long, smooth legs hung over the side, hightops not quite touching the floor.

 

On his back again now, he could look up and see the hulking form of his torturer towering implacably over him.  The powerful stud’s vicious sadism was obvious in his massive, throbbing cock, jutting proudly over the trapped youth and oozing a steady stream of transparent precum.  Above that, the psycho’s furred and heavily muscled torso was heaving, a faint sheen of sweat making his hard body glisten.  The stony, merciless look of cold masculinity on the handsome face was accented by the icy glitter in the eyes.

 

Zach looked into those eyes and he knew—no matter what type of personal hell he was gonna endure in the next few minutes, there would be no return from the silent darkness this time.  Death was staring him in the face.

 

But Death was gonna fuck him first.

 

Hoisting the kid’s legs, the Trucker dropped the punk’s Kobe X Elites on his shoulders and shoved the thick purple head of his shaft against the boy’s torn, quivering sphincter.  At the first hint of pressure, Zach moaned in terror and writhed, trying to wriggle away from the huge tool about to penetrate him.

 

And yet, with all the pain and the fear, the hormone-fueled adolescent still felt the overwhelming physical lure of the hard-bodied older man.  The funk of mansex and pheromones that pervaded the room so densely that it nearly coagulated into a visible fog that intensified the young slut’s sexual dilemma.  Zach’s own dick was hard and pulsating and he didn’t know why.  But as the Trucker lunged at him again, the boy couldn’t spare the time to worry about it.

 

“P-please…” the battered youth gasped faintly, “I-I’ll do any-anything…use me…hu-humiliate me, I w-won’t tell anyone…”  Here the slender kid gave way.  Stupid little piece of shit that he was, even he could figure out that tonight was gonna end with him taking a dirt nap.  He burst into tears.  “D-don’t kill me, man, p-p-please, I won-won’t tell anyone but don’t k-kill me, please, man, oh fuck, oh please—“

 

The Trucker’s sole response was an evil grin that spread slowly across his sexy masculine features. Zach saw it and understood, instantly breaking into loud, hysterical sobs as he went into panic mode.  The older stud decided that the meat needed something else to think about than becoming meat.  With a single powerful, brutal thrust, he plunged his monstrous vein-wrapped cock all the way up the teenager’s ass, tearing the sphincter and mangling the colon.

 

Eyes so wide with pain and shock that they seemed about to pop out of his head, Zach’s sobbing spiraled up into a frenetic shriek of agony.  “Shaddup, faggot,” the Trucker barked, popping the unfortunate punk in the jaw one last time before cinching the belt down on his neck.  The cunt’s scream was instantly throttled off into a wet gagging sound.

 

Wrapping the thick leather strap around his hand—so he could control the tightness of the noose while keeping one hand free—the Trucker flopped forward, his heavy, powerful body crushing the slender youth beneath him.  Zach’s legs, propped up on his assailant’s shoulders, were compressed back towards his body until his knees were resting on his chest.  And the weight of both males on his arms, still cuffed around his back, was excruciating.

 

The last few minutes of Zach’s short, wasted life were filled with unimaginable pain and terror.  He was pinned under the sheer physical bulk of his killer, feeling the alpha’s hard muscles flexing against him on a light lube of sweat as the older man continued to plunge his enormous shaft deep into the boy’s torn, bleeding guts.  The alpha’s wiry body fur scraped against the teen’s soft, silky flesh like steel wool.

 

The Trucker jerked the belt tightly.  His dogtags, laying on the meat’s smooth firm chest, were dislodged by the violence of the fucking; they slid up to Zach’s neck and slipped, jingling, into the depression circling his throat, caused by the leather garrote.

 

At this distance, the twisted sadist could enjoy the effects of the strangulation in detail.  As the slim, dying teen writhed beneath him, the cunt’s cock stayed hard as it slid on oily sweat between two flat, firm bellies pressed together in desperate, brutal sex.  His confusion was obvious, even on his swelling, darkening face.

 

“Ya don’t get it, do ya, you stupid cumsuckin’ fag?” the cruel, powerful top sneered.  “Yer lovin’ this shit.  You fuckin’ bottom pain pig, you love gettin’ plowed, dontcha?  Yeah?  Ya fuckin’ love gettin’ put down like the cheap cockslut you are—fuck, dude, lookit how hard ya get when yer gettin’ snuffed like a useless homo cunt!”

 

Zach’s body, slender but strong with youth, was wracked and contorted with pain.  The thick leather strap embedded in his neck was a constant source of agony—and the wretched punk, twisted in the nightmarish pain of slow, tortuous death, found the crushing torment in his windpipe less painful than the tearing, rending pain in his colon as his cruel, evil killer fucked him swiftly and brutally.

 

Zach’s black Nike kicks were twitching in the air behind the Trucker’s head; his current helpless position rendering them impotent as weapons.  As his bloodshot eyes bulged grotesquely, forced from their orbits by the pressure building inexorably inside his skull, he could just barely make out the crimson trademarked swoosh jerking and twitching in the distance.

 

Inches away, the Trucker admired the teen’s black face, swollen and distorted beyond measure.  He found the adolescent slut’s suffering erotic and, determined to draw out the torture as long as possible, let a little slack into the leather strap around the young whore’s neck.  Zack was allowed a single brief gasp of fresh oxygen to momentarily clear the death fog clouding his mind before his throat was clamped off again.

 

“You stupid cumsack,” the powerful alpha whispered into the ear of the dying teen, so close that the teenager writhed involuntarily with pleasure at the scrape of his killer’s scruff across his cheek, despite all the pain and horror.  The screaming, pounding silence that was filling the empty spaces of his pathetic cumslut soul was not yet loud enough to drown out the cruel taunts of his killer.

 

“You made me do this,” the psycho strongman hissed at his helpless young victim.  “You talked, you pansy-ass cunt.  You did this.  Does it hurt?  Good!  I want you to hurt.  I want you to die in fuckin’ agony on my cock, you disgusting faggot.  You wanted a prison fuck, you punk-ass bitch?  Fuck, dude, you got death fuckin’ row!  Now die, you fuckin’ homo meat; milk me and suck up my spunk like a sponge.  Best thing anyone can do to yer worthless fuckmeat is use ya as a cumrag and throw ya in the dump like the fuckin’ garbage you are, motherfucker!”

 

With a snarl, he jerked his arm, making the thick leather strap squeeze the queerboy’s throat shut.  Zach was sinking back into the stimulus-response phase of imminent death, but this time there would be no recovery.  The quivering youth hadn’t been able to take much advantage of the brief respite he’d been given; his contorted position—bent double with his killer’s muscled bulk crushing him into the mattress—had made it difficult for the semi-conscious punk to suck air.  He’d gasped and slobbered in panicked asphyxiation, but he hadn’t been able to get enough oxygen to stave off brain damage.

 

Zach had heard the Trucker and understood him, but just barely; the sadistic stud’s cruel taunts were the last words the brutalized teenager would hear in his life.  As his brain died, the universe contracted into a cold darkness.  Zach’s last five minutes of life slowed to a crawl.  Rational though all but ceased; the suffering boy was sunk in a pit of sensation—of pain.

 

He was vaguely aware of the powerful alpha pressing down on him; he could still feel the hairy thrusting form on top of him.  He could hear—without understanding what he was hearing—the deep, ragged breathing and strained grunts of the dude who was fucking him and killing him.  A faint memory of start of the evening flickered like a guttering candle in the dying kid’s mind…the hot cop, the booze—even now, he still reeked of whiskey—the erotic click of the cuffs behind his back…

 

The last truly conscious emotion to pass through Zach’s mind a fleeting sense of despair, like the plaintive bleat of a slaughtered sheep. Then the physical took over and the teenaged faggot was submerged in a crimson wave of pain.

 

It hurt.  The young punk’s smooth, slim body was wracked with agony, with an excruciating torture that shorted out his nervous system to the point that it was unable to discern pain from pleasure.

 

From inches away, the Trucker watched the face of the adolescent cumslut swell and darken.  Blood still leaked from his mutilated ears and his cheek, but it was sluggish and too thick to flow much.  Zach’s battered face was twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable mask.

 

Wrapping the belt around his hand for greater control over the meat, the Trucker jerked the strap brutally, causing it to sink deeply into the boy’s neck.  The gay bottom boy went rigid, his swollen purple lips parted by his protruding tongue, forced out on a lube of foamy drool that trickled down the teen’s smooth cheeks.

 

The indefatigable power top continued to plow the dying kid’s ass.  Even as he murdered his victim, the timing of his thrusts wasn’t thrown off by a single thrust; his huge horse dick kept plunging deep into the meat’s fuckhole like it was being rammed by a piledriver.

 

It was getting a good workout, too.  The Trucker was vaguely aware of the Nike basketball shoes flailing randomly in the air behind his head as he kept the cunt’s legs propped up on his shoulders, but the little fucker, his body pinned into position by his larger, stronger killer was convulsing violently on the inside.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure; he realized the stupid piece of shit must be suffering nightmarish intestinal cramps for the punk’s guts to polish his knob so vigorously.  Zach’s own dick didn’t give the impression of pain; quite the opposite—it slapped, oozing and throbbing, between the two heaving, writhing male bodies, smearing precum over the teen’s flat smooth belly as well as the Trucker’s furry rippled abs.

 

The dogtags bounced off Zach’s flat, firm chest repeatedly before slipping off to the side where they occasionally added a faint jingle to the quiet, desperate sounds of sex and death.

 

Zach’s youth worked against him, prolonging his suffering until  the oxygen had been completely wrung from his quivering body.  In the end, even the physical started to fade.  The teenaged faggot no longer felt the pain from his limbs, twisted agonizingly in their sockets.  He couldn’t feel his eyes, bulging and rolled back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites showed under his fluttering lashes.

 

By a cruel neurological twist, though, he could still feel his rectum being savaged.  The erratic electrochemical bursts in his dying brain conveyed nothing more than a long thick hard shaft viciously impaling his innards; there was nothing left to process the concept of rape, of a throbbing vein-wrapped cock plunged up his boycunt.

 

In a way, it was a shame.  Zach was getting fucked exactly as he wanted; roughly, by an amazing muscled alpha who bound him and mounted him ruthlessly.

 

By the time the end came, Zach was past all sense of the irony of the where and how of his murder, past all fear—in a sense, past all pain.

 

The Trucker had a lot of experience of putting sluts down; he recognized the way the adolescent’s convulsions had lost their rhythmic tempo and slipped into spasms that were more intense but also more erratic.

 

Fuck, it felt wonderful.  The silky flesh of the teen’s guts sliding over his engorged mushroom tip while the motherfucker’s colon gripped his shaft like a fist—the worthless squealing cumpig was finally learning his lesson.  He was getting exactly what he deserved, the disgusting piece of homo shit.

 

The Trucker could feel the sperm boiling in his balls.  He was close; he just needed one last thing—he needed to know that the firm, smooth, slender teen had truly died on his cock.

 

One last brutal yank on the thick leather belt and the sociopathic sadist was rewarded.  The young kid’s esophagus collapsed with a loud cracking that was instantly followed by an even more intense and erotic snapping sound, like the splintering of green wood.   With a single powerful movement, the Trucker had crushed Zach’s windpipe and broken his neck.

 

The very last thing Zach experienced in his useless cumslut life before the searing electrical blast of bone shards slicing into his spinal cord sent him into screaming cold eternity was an eruption of searing heat in his groin.  In an instant, his existence shrank to the white-hot wire of pain/pleasure that ran along the underside of his cock; almost immediately, a similar agonizingly hot feeling, akin to molten lead, was pumped into his ass and up his guts, a last scorching sensation of heat as he slipped into frigid dark death.

 

The Trucker spent the next minute shuddering and spunking, filling the dead teen cunt with his sperm.  As his hulking muscled body jerked and shuddered in violent orgasm, he was vaguely aware of the teen’s thick, ropy cum splashing across his broad, hairy chest.  The hormone-laden adolescent was so full of semen that his corpse spewed a steady stream of pearly jizz for at least thirty seconds straight, catching both shuddering, sweating male bodies in a rain of glistening spooge.

 

Long after he’d emptied his balls of seed, the Trucker found himself still fucking and cursing at the convulsing sack of boymeat.  Regaining a measure of control, he took a deep breath and pulled his still-pulsing cock out of the corpse.  Getting quickly off the bed, he let Zach’s legs flop back, spread wide, one landing on the bed.  The other leg hung off the side, the Nike hightop just barely touching the floor.  As the body twitched, the expensive kick scuffed a ragged furrow in the thin cheap carpeting.

 

The Trucker felt a little rubbery after his explosive release of anger and semen; he staggered back to the dresser for his smokes, finding the pack undamaged from the earlier violence but surrounded by glass.  Lighting up a Red, he turned back and admired the gruesome scene.

 

Zach was still trembling; erratic spasms rippled the muscles under his smooth, sperm-glazed flesh.  Above the splayed legs, the teen’s long dick was still semi-erect, a faint trickle of pearly ooze leaking from the head onto his flat belly.  A pool of cum was congealing in the shallow smooth valley between the slight mounds of the youth’s pectorals.  The arms, of course, were still twisted behind the corpse’s back.

 

Taking another drag on his cigarette, the Trucker vaguely wondered if keys to official law enforcement handcuffs were universal across states or agencies or some other way.  If not, the coroner was gonna have a fun time; the keys had gone out the cab window somewhere on the other side of the state line.

 

Above the chest, things got ugly.  The thick leather belt was sunk so deeply into the boy’s throat that the Trucker had no intention of trying to retrieve it—something else for the coroner to enjoy.  And above that, the face was still swollen and congested with blood; the lividity would slowly drain away but that process had not yet begun.  As a result, Zach’s face bore no trace of his usual expression of slack-jawed adolescent lust.  Instead, it spoke eloquently of the torture the kid had endured, the agonizing pain and nightmarish terror in which the teenager had died.

 

The rolled-back eyes gave a blank white stare while the tongue, livid and swollen, still protruded from between blue lips.  The punk’s smooth cheeks were streaked with drool, snot and blood, but none of the wounds were bleeding anymore; even his mangled ears had stopped seeping.  At least one wasn’t; the other was hidden by the youth’s ponytail coiled beside it.

 

Even the room attested to the horrific violence of the teen’s murder.  The broken lamp and the shattered whiskey bottle—still adding its heady scent to the musky, smoky atmosphere of the room—were just the start of the physical destruction; the Trucker had deliberately targeted his violence towards the parts of the room he’d destroyed on his earlier visit.

 

After all, that was why he’d placed his clothes in the dresser drawer.  This time, they wouldn’t be covered with glass.

 

The buff older man picked his way across the debris-strewn floor and got the bag containing his clothes.  Snatching his pack of smokes as well, he crossed to the bathroom.  Soaking a hand towel in warm water, he wiped the dead teen fag’s spunk out of his body fur.   Wadding the towel up, he tossed it into the toilet before sitting down, pulling off the knee-high boots and stripping himself from the beige chinos trousers.  Just for the fuck of it, he rolled the latter into a ball and dropped it in the toilet as well, first fishing the diamond-chip studs out of the pocket.

 

It took just a minute to wriggle back into his familiar tight jeans and snug cotton t-shirt; it took even less to slip the trucker cap back onto his tousled black locks, slick with sweat.  Since his tube socks had never come off, he simply stepped into his scuffed work boots and left them loosely laced and untied. He pocketed the studs, picked up his bag and the cop’s boots and walked out of the bathroom.

 

Approaching the bed, he decided to add one bit of artifice to the naturally-posed scene.  He left the still-trembling corpse with one boot placed upright on the face and one on the groin.  He had no doubt they’d topple and perhaps dislodge before the body was found, but it didn’t matter.

 

It was dark and still outside.  The Trucker moved slowly along the pavement to the edge of the property, where he could walk along the edge of the blacktop.  That way, his boots wouldn’t thump with each footfall until he reached the street.  Not that there was anyone watching, of course, but avoiding attention immediately after a snuff was innate to the experienced sexual sadist by now; it was how he avoided capture for so long.  But loose ends like that little piece of shit needed to get what they deserved—which was sliding down the Trucker’s cock into their graves.

 

The muscled hardman grinned coldly.  He started whistling as he strode back to his rig.