Ride-along with Captain Dan

Pete sat quietly in the front seat of the pickup.  He’d been hired as a deputy by the county less than a month ago and while he’d had a chance to ride along with some of the older, more experienced deputies, tonight was his first pairing with Captain Dan.

 

Pete, like everyone else in the small staff that comprised the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department, idolized Captain Dan.  Tall and broad-shouldered, with buzz-cut blond hair and sky-blue eyes, the muscular and powerful Dan was the epitome of macho law and order.  Everyone wanted to be like him; even Sheriff Waites was intimidated by the man.  But then again, the Sheriff was getting old and fat.  Ever since Major Barrett had passed away three years ago, the county had decided to let the rank of Major lapse, meaning that Dan was the highest-ranking officer under the Sheriff.

 

It wasn’t a good idea to cross him.

 

Pete knew he’d been honored by being chosen for the ride-along.  All new recruits were being trained by Captain Dan, of course, but no one had yet been selected to go out on patrol alone with him this soon after hiring.

 

They’d circled around town a few times, but little had been happening on this chilly Tuesday evening.  Come Friday night, the town would be hopping as all the outlying farm workers came in and got drunk—but now there was nothing.  Dan, wasn’t discouraged, though.

 

“There’s a spot I know,” he said as he aimed the truck out of town, “One of the county roads has an exit on the interstate.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Pete said, “CR 451.  It crosses the county line to the grain mill, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, “But that ain’t the point.  Lotsa drug trafficking along that section of the interstate.  We don’t really have the funds to do much of an interdiction but Taylor County does.  They’re doin’ a roadblock tonight at the Hopewell Street exit—which means if the traffic backs up enough, anyone who’s carrying will turn around at the county line and take the first exit, looking for a way cross-country.  And the first exit heading west from the county line—”

 

“—is CR 451,” Pete finished up triumphantly.

 

“Right!” Dan replied.  “I dunno if we’re gonna be lucky enough to take down one of them fuckers, but I’d damn sure like to give it a try.  You on board?”

 

Pete glanced over at the Captain.  There was something so powerfully masculine about the muscle-bound figure in tight khaki chinos, glossy knee-high boots and a khaki shirt so tight, the buttons strained to keep it closed across the broad chest—Pete would be on board with anything the older man wanted.

 

It wasn’t just the cop’s overwhelming physique—Dan trained relentlessly, honing his control skills to the point that he seemed to naturally take command in any situation.  There was never any question—when he gave an order, it was obeyed, almost mindlessly.

 

Pete was only twenty-one, and at exactly six feet tall was still several inches shorter than Dan.  His body may not quite have been in Dan’s class, but he was well-built and strong, with short brown hair and clear dark eyes.  His broad, youthful face, covered with a dark shadow of scruff, was a striking contrast to the Captain’s hard, set face with its high cheekbones.  The deputy was wearing the same khaki outfit as his superior, but his chinos were tucked into a tightly laced pair of Danner 8” Tachyon combat boots.  As much as he admired the tall leather boots that Dan sported, Pete knew there was no way he could keep a pair that glossy.

 

Ten minutes after turning off onto the county road, the Captain pulled off onto a gravel path and reversed the truck.  He’d managed to have enough county funds diverted to allow him to purchase a huge 4X4 pickup—for the department, he said, not that anyone else would be stupid enough to take it out—that had come in handy while he was raiding meth labs and pot fields out in the far-flung sections of the county.  It took a moment to maneuver the truck to his satisfaction, but when he was done, it was pointy out towards the road but was far enough back in the brush to be hidden.

 

Leaving the engine running, he killed the lights.

 

“Now we wait,” he muttered.  “I betcha we pop at least one of these little druggie faggots tonight.”

 

Pete tuned in to the contempt for both criminals and homosexuals that dripped from the Captain’s voice.  It was a good thing to know, to help stay on his superior’s good side.

 

“That’s all they are,” Dan continued.  “You’ll see soon enough, boy.  Ain’t none of the fuckin’ thieves and drug dealers real men.  Fuckin’ cocksuckers, that’s all they are, every last one of ‘em.”

 

“You sound like my uncle Bill,” Pete said.

 

“Bill?  Bill who?”

 

“Bill Traster, my mom’s brother.”

 

“Naw!  Ol’ Bill Traster?  Used to be in homicide in Oklahoma City?”

 

“Yeah, that’s him.  He’s retired now; took a bullet to the hip.”

 

“Well whaddaya know.  I remember Bill from the Academy.  Yeah, he knew a thing or two about handlin’ these fuckin’ pansy scumbags.  One time he told me—”

 

But the reminiscence was cut off as green motorcycle roared past their concealed truck.

 

“That was a Kawasaki Ninja,” Dan said with a fierce grin on his face.  “Now, who do we know in town with a green motorcycle like that?”

 

It was a rhetorical question; they both knew well that there was only one person in town with a green Kawasaki—Robbie Clebbs. Pete wasn’t surprised when the Captain flipped the lights and floored the truck, heading out after the bike; Robbie was notorious.  He was a bit surprised that they had to be chasing the punk at all.

 

“Didn’t you bust Robbie last month?” Pete asked.  “Just before I got hired—I’d heard you got him after that meth lab out on the Ellis place blew up.”

 

The pickup’s cab was only illuminated by the dashboard lights, but they were enough for Pete to see the way the older man’s face drew taut, his lips compressed in a determined line.  “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice cold as death, “Yeah, I got him—and daddy’s money got him off.  Dunno who got paid where, but it never even came before the grand jury.”

 

Nothing further needed to be said about daddy’s money; even Pete knew that Robert Clebbs, Sr. owned two of the three car dealerships in the county.

 

“Little homo fucker’s been lyin’ low for a few weeks,” Captain Dan went on.  “Haven’t seen him around at all—which means he’s been up to no good.”

 

Dan radioed the stop back to dispatch, reporting it as a speeding vehicle.  Despite the fact that they didn’t have a radar gun with them, Pete said nothing—after all the Captain was the kinda guy who’d be able to tell how fast a vehicle was going just by looking at it.

 

But still, they’d managed to overtake the bike relatively soon after lighting it up…

 

The motorcycle pulled over onto the wide level shoulder at a curve; the pickup crawled in over the gravel behind it.  The high-intensity headlights lit up the kid on the bike clearly.  Pete leaned in for a better look; it had been a few years since he’d seen Robbie.  His kid brother had pointed Robbie out as the one everyone in the county high school went to for drugs.  Eventually, the punk had dropped out and gone to dealing full time.

 

Ol’ man Clebbs was reportedly disgusted with his son’s behavior and didn’t allow Robbie to live at home—but all the kid’s bills got paid somehow, despite the fact that he’d never worked a legitimate job in his short, wasted life.  The bike had been a present for his eighteenth birthday and the fact that he hadn’t trashed it yet was a minor miracle.  Pete had been sure that Robbie’s involvement in the meth lab explosion would have finally earned him some prison time.  Kid wasn’t nineteen yet, but time in the joint would do him some good.

 

Robbie turned back as Captain Dan slowly opened the door.  “Driver, face forward!” he barked.  Pete didn’t get a glimpse of his face, but he could see that the closest the punk had bothered to come to a helmet was a red bandanna tied around his head; under it, long, slightly curly black hair fell nearly to his shoulders.  The boy had twisted his lean, firm torso around far enough for Pete to have noticed that under the kid’s leather biker jacket, his smooth but strong chest was covered by a cheap white t-shirt with a Rolling Stones logo printed on it.

 

A punk-style belt made of gear link chain circled his narrow waist, supporting a tightly-fitting pair of well-worn skinny jeans.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of motorcycle boots—Icon 1000 Elsinore boots, in black leather, the left one up on the bike’s heel rest, the right one on the gravel, steadying bike and rider.

 

As Dan slid out of the truck’s driver seat, he reached down and drew his side-handle baton.  “Hey, Cap!” Pete said softly, but urgently, nodding at the older man’s holster, which was still snapped shut.

 

“Naw,” Dan said, a cold light glittering in his blue eyes like ice crystals, “This little cocksucker ain’t worth the ammo.  C’mon with me, boy, an’ keep yer eyes peeled.  No tellin’ what the strung-out faggot might try.”

 

They marched towards the youth on the motorcycle, the crunch of their boots in the gravel loud in the clear night air of the isolated county road.

 

Holding the baton in one hand, Dan pulled a heavy, oversized flashlight out of a loop in his belt.  He flicked it on just as Robbie turned to face him.  Like Pete, the punk’s youthful face was covered with scruff, but Robbie’s was the result of lack of shaving, where Pete’s was carefully trimmed to an exact appearance.

 

As the bright light shone into to the boy’s red eyes, he blinked blearily and threw his arm up across his face.  “A’right!  Enough!” he called out.  “Whatcha tryin’ to do, blind me?”

 

“Shaddup, punk,” Dan barked, “Get that hand down and look at me.”

 

As ordered, Robbie brought his hand down and squinted up into the light.  Recognizing Captain Dan, he unconsciously groaned aloud.  This asshole had it out for him, and given what he was carrying tonight, things could get seriously unpleasant.  While he wasn’t too worried about the baggie with his personal stash of weed—some of it already rolled into joints—that he had tucked down inside his left boot, the solid gram of fentanyl next to it was worth a fortune, and he still owed that dude back in Dallas for most of it.  If it got confiscated and he couldn’t repay, his life might literally be over…

 

He began to reach for what was tucked inside his right boot—a Marine combat knife, seven inches of serrated carbon steel.  As long as the cops didn’t draw on him, he should be able to take the Captain down.  That dumbass deputy would panic and Robbie’d have the Captain’s gun by then.  But he needed to move fast.

 

Robbie bent swiftly, diving for the knife—but he didn’t move fast enough.

 

Dan whipped around, spinning the baton by its side handle, and clubbed the boy on the side of the head, hard enough to dislodge the bandanna.  Robbie’s eyes rolled back in his head and, already half off his bike, he collapsed face-down into the gravel with loud grunt.

 

As Robbie groaned in semi-consciousness, Dan knelt beside him and began frisking him.  The older man ran his hands along the kid’s body, reaching under his leather jacket and fondling his slim, firm torso inside its t-shirt.  Finding nothing there, Dan moved lower, his questing hands prying through the denim at the long, thick bulge in the boy’s crotch.

 

“Wha’ th’ fuck…” Robbie muttered vaguely in response to the hard, clutching grip on his dick, but Dan had already released it and was now probing Robbie’s tight buttocks.  Pete watched with a strange, tingling excitement as the Captain took his time on the boy’s thick, muscled thighs and calves, coming eventually to the boots.

 

Dan’s expression changed subtly as he patted down the black leather biker boots—a triumphant light came on in his eyes as gripped the left boot and said, “There’s something down here.  C’mere, boy, make sure he’s restrained.”

 

Hurrying eagerly to Dan’s side, Pete pulled the cuffs off his belt.  Kneeling next to Dan, he swiftly cuffed Robbie’s hands behind the still-stunned punk’s back, then turned to watch as the Captain reached down inside the snugly-fitting boot and extracted the long, vicious-looking knife.

 

“Fuck, man,” Pete gasped, “You could do some serious damage with that thing.”

 

“Hell, yeah,” Dan grunted, an odd smile on his face.  He tucked the knife carefully into his belt, trusting the inch of black leather to hold it even without a scabbard.  Turning back to the prone figure, he reached for the right boot.  “Let’s see if this piece a’ shit is carryin’ anything else.”

 

Robbie managed to regain full consciousness just as Dan pulled the elaborately-wrapped package of fentanyl and the baggie of pot out of his other boot.  He began to struggle in the gravel.  “Lemme up, you bastard!” he yelled.

 

Dan knelt on the prone youth instead, placing one booted foot on the middle of his back and one knee on the kid’s ass.  Pocketing the weed, he held up the package and shone the flashlight on it; there were words stenciled on.  “China white,” he read aloud, then stood up.

 

“Fuckin’ police brutality!” Robbie shouted.  “”Y’all had no reason to hit me!  I’m gonna sue!”

 

Dan lashed his foot out suddenly.  Robbie’s awareness that the Captain’s knee-high glossy boots had steel toes was indicated by a loud, painful grunt.

 

Dan looked at Pete.  The younger man saw an intense smoldering heat in the Captain’s glance.  “China white,” he repeated to Pete, ignoring Robbie’s outburst, “You know what this stuff is?”

 

“Naw, Cap—that’s a new one on me.”

 

“We don’t get it much here.  Street name for fentanyl.  It’s an opiate that’s several hundred times more potent that heroin.  People die from this stuff on a daily basis—and this motherfucker wants to bring it in here.  C’mon, help me get the fuckin’ waste up on its feet.”

 

They bent over Robbie, each running an arm under the boy’s armpit and forcibly dragged him up to his feet.

 

“Gonna sue,” Robbie mumbled, “Dad’ll get me off…won’t spend a day in jail…county’s gonna pay out the ass for you two fucks…”

 

“Want me to call for a cruiser to come pick ‘im up?” Pete asked.  With no rear seat, they couldn’t haul him in in the pickup.

 

The Captain didn’t answer.  He was looking at Robbie, his clenched face somehow allowing a wide play of emotions on it—rage, contempt, frustration…and something else.  Pete couldn’t quite make it out.

 

“Cap?” he asked again, “A cruiser?”

 

Dan paused, a half-step ahead and turned to Pete in such a way as to silhouette his profile.  “Naw,” he said.  “I got a better idea.”

 

Highlighted as it was in the clear light, the huge bulge erecting a tent pole in the Captain’s tight chinos was obvious.  And as soon as he saw it, Pete realized what that other emotion had been, the one he couldn’t identify.

 

“This faggot’s got enough drugs to kill everyone in the county.  He’s got—and went for, you saw it—a dangerous weapon.  Now the little pansy is gonna run back to daddy and get away scot free.”

 

Dan stepped ahead and turned to face them both, the headlights of the truck illuminating his massive, muscle-bound form from behind.  “I think it’s time this little homo learned what real men do to strung-out little cocksuckers.  And I think he needs to learn to good and long and hard, so he don’t forget.  Whaddaya think, Pete—you in?”

 

Pete grinned; there was no need for him to answer aloud.  The visible swelling in his crotch spoke for him.

 

Dan saw it and grinned back.  He shoved Robbie brusquely, making him stumble and fall face-down in the gravel.  With his hands still cuffed behind him, the handsome, leather-clad teen was unable to protect his face; he cried out in pain as sharp-edged rocks abraded his face.  “You fuckin’ sonovabitch!” he shouted angrily as he writhed in the gravel, trying to regain his feet, “I’m gonna have yer badge for that!  Daddy’ll make the Sheriff give it to me so I can use it for target practice!”

 

Dan chuckled and glanced at Pete.  “You hear that?  Little queer fuck just threatened us.”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Robbie screeched.

 

Dan’s next words were spoken to Pete in a calm, detached tone, as the older man stared the younger steadily in the eyes.  “C’mon, son, time to step up.  Time to be a man.  Get this piece a’ shit cocksucker into the back of the truck and we’ll show ‘im what happens to pansy-ass little fuckwads in my county.”

 

It hit Pete suddenly—he was being tested.  Dan wanted to make sure the rookie was a well-built mentally as he was physically.  Pete knew they had already gone too far; the kid would clearly accuse them of brutality.  And Dan was right, the punk’s old man would buy the little fuck’s way off the drug charges.  There was really only one way out.

 

Pete nodded at Dan and advanced toward the figure struggling on the ground.  He was totally unaware that his reflections on what was going to happen had caused the bulge in his tight chinos to swell, but the Captain noticed it.

 

“Get up, assfuck,” Pete snarled as he bent down, caught Robbie under the arms, and dragged him to his feet again.

 

“You too!” the enraged teen screamed shrilly.  “Gonna get yer badge too!”

 

Pete lifted the thick sole of his size eleven Danner boot and, planting it on Robbie’s ass, shoved hard.  The boy stumbled five steps towards the back of the pickup, managing to remain on his feet.

 

“Good,” Pete said.  “If you fall, my boot ain’t goin’ upside yer ass; it’s goin’ upside yer head.  You hear me, boy?  Get yer worthless ass to the back of the truck, now!”

 

Somewhat intimidate, Robbie mumbled defiantly, but kept moving.  Pete was right behind him, with Dan following.  At the rear of the truck, Pete opened the tailgate.

 

“Now what, pig?” Robbie sneered.  “Can’t climb up that high without my hands.  You gonna help me up, cop?  Gonna protect and serve me, huh?”

 

Silently, without a word, Dan stepped forward, reached out a huge hand and wrapped it around Robbie’s throat.  With a single jerk of his massive, heavily muscled arm, the Captain lifted the kid straight up.  Gagging as he choked, Robbie flailed his legs aimlessly, his Icon boots kicking in the air a good four inches above the gravel.

 

“You want me to serve you, you cum-guzzlin’ faggot?  Here, have a nice big serving of whoop-ass, dickhead!”

 

As Dan drew his arm back, Pete could see how the bicep and the tricep bulged and the huge deltoid swelled.  When his fist launched forward again, the enormous power packed into his muscles exploded with the force of an industrial piston.

 

He punched the teen straight in the jaw, nearly breaking it.

 

Robbie’s mouth sagged misshapenly open as he passed out, stunned into unconsciousness by the single blow.  Dan flung the lean, limp form into the bed of the truck with a contemptuous flick, as if we was tossing out litter.

 

“C’mon, get in,” the older man said, closing the tailgate.  “I know the perfect place to, uh, dump some garbage after we get done teachin’ this cocksucker the error of his ways.”

 

Pete opened the passenger door, but paused before getting in.  “Uh, Cap—” he began before awkwardly stopping.  The older man looked at him, his sky-blue eyes focused on the rookie with laser precision.  Pete started again.  “Cap, um, how many times you done somthin’ like this before?’

 

The hardbodied blond alpha froze for a moment, then relaxed slightly.  “I haven’t.  But I’ve been planning it out for a long time.  See, this county is bein’ flooded by these deviant punks.  All of ‘em, all the troublemakers and speeders and dope-smokers.  Problem is, their daddies didn’t teach none of ‘em right.  They didn’t teach ‘em that you gotta obey Authority, no matter what.  No matter how much it hurts or how scared you are, if Authority wants to put its dick up yer ass or use your body as a punching bag, you gotta obey.”

 

A broad, almost beatific smile spread across Dan’s face, giving his hard features a masculine charm that somehow unaccountably pulled something deep inside Pete.

 

“So we gotta teach the fuckers ourselves,” the older man continued.  “And since it’s the most important lesson in their useless lives, it’s gotta be driven home, ruthlessly, relentlessly.  Even if it’s the last lesson they learn—so long as they learn it.”

 

Pete knew that much of what he’d just heard didn’t make sense, but he also knew that all of what he’d heard made his dick leak.  “Cool,” he replied, returning the Captain’s smile.  “Just asking.  Let’s get goin’ before the biker boy wakes up.”  He climbed into the passenger seat.

 

“Yeah,” Dan remarked as he settled into the driver’s seat, “That’s a good clue right there.  If ya pull over a dude on a bike, check out his crotch.  More’n likely, his dick’ll be hard.  Faggots love motorcycles; somethin’ about the way it vibrates their assholes or somethin’.”

 

The pickup rumbled into life and Dan pulled off the shoulder.  Darkness had fallen, a hazy, almost glowing darkness as a heavy mist thickened in the chill night air.  It lay like a blanket over the isolated rural countryside, muffling what faint sounds were present.

 

After a couple of miles, they drove out of the mist; several miles further from town, Dan veered the truck to the left.  Pete, who hadn’t noticed the dirt track, winced, but soon found himself bouncing in the cab as the 4X4 jolted down a little-used dirt track.

 

“Never even knew this was here,” he remarked.  “Where’s it go?”

 

“There’s an old quarry back down here,” Dan replied.  “Very isolated—it’s a great dumping ground.”

 

Pete was quiet, letting his imagination soar and his thick cock throb.

 

Eventually they came to the end of the track, a wide, barren circle of dirt beyond which was a low rise of rocks.  When Dan killed the truck, Pete got out and took a look.  Beyond the rocks was a huge gap in the earth, at least a quarter-mile across.  It was deep, too.  Pete shined his flashlight into the depths; the reflection came back to him scattered from a watery surface some three hundred feet below.  It was a perfect place to dump unwanted garbage.

 

Dan, in the meantime, had opened the tailgate and was trying to drag Robbie out.  Torn between fear and outrage, the teen was resisting the Captain valiantly, fighting as if he knew his life was at stake.  He couldn’t do much in the way of damage with his hands still cuffed behind his back, but he was pissing Dan off.

 

“C’mon, boy, I could use some help!” Dan called.  Pete obediently switched off the flashlight, slipped it back into his belt, and headed for the truck.  The young cop helped grab hold of the writhing, squirming youth in the bed of the pickup, feeling the muscles in the kid’s lean, strong body moving underneath his leather jacket.

 

Between them, the two powerful adults had no problem manhandling the punk out of the truck and standing him on his feet.

 

“Now what?” Pete asked.

 

“Now you hop up in the back of the truck yourself,” Dan grinned.  “We gotta lesson plan to stick to.”

 

“You fuckin’ psychos!” Robbie bawled, his voice tremulous with fear.  The little fucker wasn’t very quick on the ball even when he wasn’t higher than a kite, but he knew that these dudes had gone too far, even for these oo-rah hyper-martial types.  They’d gone way past the point of losing their jobs and were into federal pen time now.  He had the feeling that something was happening that even daddy might not be able to fix.

 

Dan spun Robbie around, making him face Pete as the latter scrambled up into the bed of the pickup.  “Here,” Dan said, bending the teen over the opened tailgate, his huge hand splayed over the back of Robbie’s head, forcing his face down into the bed, “Keep ‘im down.  Pin his shoulders.”

 

An electrical thrill, almost sensuous in nature, jolted through Pete’s strong, hardbodied form as he knelt with his knees on the kid’s shoulders.  He brought his legs together, the leather of his Danner boots pressing snugly against Robbie’s temples.  “All right, teach,” he said, smiling happily, “What’s lesson number one?”  He was liking this.

 

Dan stepped up, grabbed Robbie’s chain belt, and with a single jerk, yanked the boy’s jeans down as far as the tops of his boots.  It made for an effective set of shackles; the kid couldn’t spread his legs farther apart than eighteen inches in any direction; there was no way he could run.

 

It also made for an effective display of Robbie’s bare ass.  Too lazy to care about underwear, the punk invariably went commando.  Tonight, it put him at a distinct disadvantage.

 

Dan pulled his baton back out of his utility belt.  “Lesson Number One,” he said, with a wide, sharklike grin, “Is that when Authority says ya gotta take one up the ass, it means you gotta take one up the ass.  At least the little faggot came dressed to learn.”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Robbie screeched over their coarse, brutal laughter.  And he wasn’t.  What little part of his wasted life hadn’t been devoted to the pursuit of drugs had been devoted to the pursuit of pussy.  But Robbie was about to experience an entirely new set of sensations, both physically and mentally.

 

“Shaddup and take it, motherfucker,” Dan snarled and shoved the baton into Robbie’s smooth, tight, and utterly vulnerable asshole.

 

The teen’s scream was loud and piercing, with a lingering echo from the other side of the quarry.  The cold, rigid metal shaft tore roughly past his sphincter as it was jammed viciously into his tender colon.  He went stiff with sudden, searing pain, the smooth rounded globes of his buttocks tensing visibly.  He rose up on his toes in an instinctive attempt to climb off the impaling rod in his ass; his boots scuffled in the dirt but it did him no good.

 

Pete felt the lithe young body twist and jerk in pain beneath him.  Bending forward, he put his hands on the punk’s back, feeling the kid squirm beneath the leather jacket.  The well-built cop shuddered with pleasure.

 

“Scream all ya want, cocksucker,” Dan laughed cruelly, “Ain’t no one around to hear ya.  We can do what we wanna with ya out here, you fuckin’ fairy, and no one will ever know.  So keep screamin’, asswipe.”

 

He stopped and bent forward, whispering into Robbie’s ear.  Since Pete was bent over Robbie as well, their large muscular bodies were pressed together and Pete could hear every word.

 

“Keep screamin’, you homo piece a’ shit,” Dan murmured huskily into the wailing kid’s ear.  “I like hearing you scream.  I like it a lot.”

 

Pete suddenly became aware he could feel a hot trickle of precum leaking from the pulsing head of his own cock.

 

Dan shoved the baton in again.  “Get it outta me!” Robbie howled, his lean body shuddering in pain.  “I’ll do whatever ya want me to, I swear, just stop!”

 

The alpha cop pulled the nightstick out of the teen’s ass, then smacked him across the buttcheeks with it.  “Ya hear that?” he asked Pete with malicious glee.  “He’ll do anything we want.  Ain’t that nice?”

 

Bending back down over the punk, Dan said, “What we want is for you to learn yer lesson.  The first lesson was to take it up the ass when Authority tells ya to.”

 

Dan stepped back a couple of paces and unbuttoned his khaki shirt.  He bared his furry chest to the cool night air, his large dark nipples hardening at once in the chill.  As he reached down and unzipped his fly, the moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the Captain in three-quarters profile.

 

It was an image Pete would never forget.  The moonlight gave a sliver tint to Dan’s golden flattop hair.  His massive pecs threw dark shadows across his hair-covered chest like mountains shading a forested valley.  The glossy, knee-high boots gleamed brightly, but it was what was dangling in the air above them that caught Pete’s attention.  Dangling—and dripping.

 

Pete had never seen a dick that big before.  He stared at it, then looked up, his wide eyes catching Dan’s bright blue ones.  “G’wan,” the older cop said, grinning, “Pull it out.  You know you wanna.”

 

And he did.  Still kneeling on Robbie’s back, Pete reached down and hauled his own throbbing shaft up out of his chinos.  Like Dan’s, it was erect and oozing, transparent drops of precum splattering on the teen’s leather jacket.

 

“Lesson Number Two,” Dan said calmly, “Is that when Authority tells ya you gotta take it up the ass again, you gotta take it up the ass again.”  Lunging forward, he rammed his huge, engorged tool all the way up into the kid’s asshole, tearing the already-traumatized sphincter on its way in.  Robbie’s piercing shriek reached an octave Pete hadn’t thought possible in a male.

 

“Fuck yeah, faggot,” Dan sneered, “Keep that shit up.  I could feel that scream all the way down to the base of my cock.”  The huge, hulking alpha looked up and Pete was held entranced by his blazing blue eyes.

 

“See, this is how ya gotta get ‘em to learn who’s boss.”  Turning back down to the squealing youth riding his enormous hog, he jeered, “Ain’t that right, boy?  You gonna listen now, huh?”

 

Pinned down by the powerful rookie with the Captain plowing his ass mercilessly, Robbie was being crushed in the twin grip of pain and fear.  Sobbing and whimpering, he wasn’t lucid enough to realize he’d been asked a question and he needed to answer it.  Dan thought he needed to learn that, too.

 

“Hey, Pete, he ain’t answerin’,” the Captain called out as he continued to pump his cock up the kid’s ass without throwing off the tempo of his deep, gut-fucking thrusts.  “Show ‘im what a bad idea it is not to pay attention in class.”

 

Pete scooted backwards off of Robbie.  He reached down and grabbed a hank of the teen’s long black hair and pulled his head up off the bed of the truck, bending his neck back until the terrified punk was looking Pete directly in the eyes.  Robbie’s face was taut and strained, a mask of agony, while his wide eyes darted wildly, fruitlessly seeking any form of succor.

 

“You’d better answer the Captain when he asks you a question, asswipe,” Pete said calmly and, balling up his free hand, smashed it into Robbie’s face.

 

Afterwards, Pete was never able to explain precisely in words the sensations that ran through his sharp warrior brain or his young, muscular form.  There was something about the sensation of breaking the kid’s nose with a single blow, the soft, crackling, crunching sound of the cartilage collapsing under his fist that reverberated through his whole body but seemed to center in his dick.

 

It was his first taste of power over another male, the first time he was able to deliberately use his strong young body to make a young worthless punk suffer, and it was…indescribable.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Dan cried, “Now yer gettin’ it, dude!  Now yer makin’ ‘im learn!”

 

With a wide, goofy, lovable grin and an intoxicating swell of lust, he punched Robbie in the face again.  And again.

 

As the rape continued unabated, Robbie mewled in pain and spit out three teeth.  The effort almost made him scream; both his cheekbones were broken and his face was already bruised and swelling.  But the real agony was in his reamed-out asshole; with every thrust of Dan’s huge dick, the firm, lean youth could feel the thick swollen veins individually as they plunged past his excruciatingly enlarged sphincter.  Worse, the constant battering and grinding his prostate had to endure resulted in an unwanted and entirely involuntary erection.  Robbie’s dick wasn’t as big as either Pete’s or Dan’s, but it wasn’t small, either.  The fact that it was stiff and throbbing as it slapped against his belly—his t-shirt had ridden up during the sexual assault—was clear to all three of them, audibly as well as visibly.

 

Dan, his blond hair dark and his chest fur matted with the sweat of rough physical exertion, looked at Pete with an almost leering grin.  “Lookit the homo’s cock.  Toldja he was a faggot—they all are.  Disgusting fuckpig,”—this last was to Robbie—“yer daddy shoulda shoved his cock up yer ass years ago and showed ya how to obey a real man with Authority.  Maybe ya wouldn’ta ended up a worthless drug-dealin’ cum-drinkin’ sack a’ shit, huh?”

 

As terrified as the traumatized kid was, he was still just barely lucid enough to hear and understand the words of the two muscle-bound cops who were torturing him.  Given how the alpha cop’s tool was plunged deep into his guts, Dan’s next comment, though, blew what little was left of him mind.

 

“Motherfucker’s gettin’ loose,” he said to Pete.  The rookie could see a gleam in the Captain’s cold blue eyes—a gleam of murderous insanity that sent another thrill through Pete’s hard, powerful body.  It was a sensation of both mental and sexual anticipation, the sense of being on the verge of discovering a whole new world of pleasure, the more exciting for its being utterly taboo.  The young cop’s breathing became deep and intense, almost erratic.

 

“Problem is, little cocksucker don’t know how to pay attention,” Dan drawled.  “So that’s Lesson Number Three—payin’ attention.  Lessee now, whadda we got to make a faggot pay attention?  Oh—fuck yeah, I know!”

 

He reached down to his belt and pulled out the combat knife he’d taken off Robbie.  Holding it up, he displayed it to Pete, still wearing his impishly malicious grin.

 

As the moonlight glinted off the razor-sharp blade and the vicious serrations, Pete found himself quickly looking away—his dick was pulsing a little too hard; beneath it, his hairy scrotum was drawing up, preparing to be emptied…he needed to calm down for just a moment; wherever this was heading, he wanted to be in at the end so fucking bad…

 

Robbie hadn’t seen the knife and probably wouldn’t have reacted if he had.  The spoiled teen punk was being brutally violated; he instinctively knew that worse was to come, since there was no other way out—these dudes weren’t just gonna let him go.

 

His response was to shut down completely; aside from the cries of pain forced involuntarily from him, the terrified boy said nothing.  He clenched his eyes closed, forcibly shutting out the image to Pete’s grinning, joyful face, his dark eyes lit from within by a slowly strengthening gleam of sexual sadism.

 

The mist had caught up to them, a heavy cloud that surrounded the trio at the back of the truck and isolated them even further from reality.  The refracted glare of the headlight made it bright enough for them to see, but it intensified the feeling that Dan and Pete were alone in a universe of their own making, where Robbie was no more than a thing to be used…

 

…because that’s exactly what he was in reality.

 

The pinned, cuffed youth was still in his t-shirt and biker jacket; the thick chill mist didn’t touch his upper body.  It wrapped moist tendrils around his long erect dick, but since he was resolutely ignoring all tactile sensations, he was unaware of either the cold or his cock—that, especially; he wasn’t gay, the was no way he had an erection while getting raped.

 

Dan could feel his huge balls swelling, overloaded with hot manspunk.  Looking at Pete’s face and seeing the sweat trickle down the rookie’s cheeks to be lost in the young cop’s thick dark facial scruff, he knew Pete was feeling the same thing.  This was it.  This was why he’d brought the boy out here.  Fuck, this was why he’d brought both boys out here.

 

Tightening his powerful ass muscles, Dan brought his legs together, his knee-high glossy boots pressed against Robbie’s calf-high biker boots.  Driving forward with extra force, he shoved his cock further up the teen’s ass than ever before.  His thick tool ground mercilessly against the punk’s prostate; the pressure, added to the adrenaline and the sheer raw testosterone flowing in the kid’s lean, randy body, made Robbie’s dick throb—but the boy made no sound other than a faint grunt.

 

“Time for yer final lesson, faggot,” Dan jeered.  “Ya hear me, boy?”

 

In full mental retreat, Robbie said nothing.  He never heard the words.

 

Dan glanced up at Pete.  The rookie was still crouched in the bed of the pickup, holding Robbie’s head up so he could look in the punk fucker’s battered and bruised face.  Below, and pointing right at Robbie, Pete’s enormous shaft was pulsating visibly.

 

“Yer right, the asshole ain’t payin’ attention, Cap,” the younger cop said huskily, with a catch in his breath.

 

Dan grinned.  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I can get the motherfucker’s attention.  Watch this.”

 

Raising his arm, he slammed it back down, driving the into Robbie’s body.  Seven inches of razor-sharp steel pierced the teen’s black leather jacket like it was butter, then the serrated blade punctured the kid’s back and sliced smoothly and cleanly through flesh and muscle into the center of his right kidney.

 

Robbie was a master of denial, but sudden massive organ trauma was too much for the teen to ignore.  His body went rigid in the remorseless grip of instant shock; the muscles in his colon clenched involuntarily, clutching at Dan’s throbbing, cum-filled shaft like a hand in a velvet glove.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” the alpha cop yelled, the thick fog dulling the sound after a few yards.  “Now the faggot’s ready to learn!”  Twisting the knife violently in the wound, he made Robbie scream in pain.

 

Pete, still clutching a fistful of the boy’s hair, looked deeply into the teen’s wide, almost crazed eyes, ringed with dark circles of shock, and yet another thrill.  It was—it was—no, he couldn’t quote place it, but he was almost there…

 

Dan stabbed Robbie in the back again.  This time he angle the knife upward near the previous wound, driving the cold hard shaft up through the kid’s liver and diaphragm into his right lung.

 

The pain was worse than anything Robbie could imagine.  He struggled forward, digging his Icon Elsinore boots in, trying vainly to pull himself off the knife that was lodged deep in his smooth, slim torso.  Breathing irregularly, his eyes wildly sought those of Pete, but without any recognition of who he was looking at—it was merely the instinctive reaction of a human in mortal agony to seek another human face.

 

Not that any of the faces around Robbie had any human pity.

 

“Final lesson, you motherfuckin’ faggot,” Dan snarled, sweat running down his huge furry chest as he pumped himself closer to orgasm, “Is, you pull a weapon on Authority, Authority’s gonna fuck you up.  You got me, you homo garbage?”

 

Dan looked up, with an expression Pete hadn’t seen before.  The alpha cop held up the blood-stained knife.  “Here,” he said, tossing the weapon to the rookie, “Fuck ‘im up.”

 

Agilely snatching the knife out of the air, the young hardbodied cop looked at it, almost wonderingly.  He glanced back up at Dan, his face an open question.

 

“Go on,” the older man said, still thrusting his cock relentlessly up the teen’s ass, “We ain’t got all night.  I know you wanna.  You know you wanna.  Do it, man.”

 

Pete stared back down at the blade, knowing a line was about to be crossed.  Did he want to really cross it?

 

Yeah.  Fuck yeah.  He want to cross it so bad he was about to cum.  He jammed the blade sideways into Robbie’s throat.

 

It went through smoothly at first, until it hit the larynx.  Pete had to apply a little pressure to saw through the vocal cords and the trachea, but his tight grip on Robbie’s hair helped him finally shove the tip of the blade out the other side of the teen’s neck.

 

Then he let go, leaving the knife embedded in the kid’s neck.

 

It was the look that Robbie gave him—the teenager’s pleading, despairing look, the way his tongue protruded, having been forced out by the sawing action of the blade at its base, the gurgling syllables of sheer terror coughed out by the dying punk, “Gah!  Ng!  Guk!”…

 

Pete suddenly understood the sensation he’d been unable to place before.  The hidden thrill was power, not just over the kid’s suffering, but over his life.

 

Well, actually, it was the power to end it that Pete found so fucking hot.

 

As the agonized kid gargled and drowned in his own blood, he was given something to swallow.  Without having to touch it, Pete’s dick suddenly exploded, sending a solid stream of searing hot manseed directly into Robbie’s face.  As the boy shuddered in his last few moments on earth, a jet of thick creamy sperm was shot into his open mouth.

 

Grunting and rutting uncontrollably, Dan found release for the pressure in his scrote, hosing the punk fuck’s innards with his spunk.  Robbie jerked and trembled as he died; every shudder and convulsion seemed to milk more cum out of the alpha’s pulsing shaft.

 

Neither of them noticed that as Robbie’s throat was cut, his dick had spewed his death load all over the rear bumper of the pickup.  Robbie had noticed it though; as he died, the horrific pain in his throat and his back was nothing compared to the way his life seemed to be ripped out of him through his cock.  As his semen shot uncontrollably from his body, it seemed to take him with it.  And his mouth was filled with the taste of blood and cum…

 

His lean, lithe body went limp, spunk still trickling from his dick.

 

Dan had pulled out and stepped back a couple of paces.  His massive, engorged cock was still pulsating, pushing out pearly beads of jizz.  Gasping deeply, he gave Pete an admiring glance.

 

“Passed yer test, son.”

 

Pete was sitting in the bed of the pickup, a somewhat dazed look on his face.  He perked up a little, hearing Cap’s words, and grinned sheepishly.  He reached down into his lap and shoved his still-erect shaft back into his chinos, seeing that the Captain was doing the same thing.

 

“C’mon down an’ help me get rid of this piece of trash,” Dan said amiably, buttoning his khaki shirt back up,  “And we’ll head back to the station to get cleaned up.”

 

Pete scrambled out of the truck as Dan bent over the still-trembling corpse and removed the handcuffs.  Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the package of fentanyl and shoved it into the inside breast pocket of Robbie’s leather biker jacket.  “Just in case,” he said to Pete.  He could see that the rookie didn’t get it but was playing along anyway, which was good enough.  He’d learn.

 

The two hulking, muscle-bound men picked up the corpse of the slim young teen like a rag doll.  At Dan’s direction, they carried it the edge of the quarry and tossed it into the mist-filled pit.  There was a thick, wet thump after a few seconds, but not the sound of a splash.

 

“I don’t think it hit the water,” Pete said.

 

“It don’t matter,” Dan replied, “That’s why I put the China White back.  You’ll see.  Trust me.”

 

And Pete did.

 

They climbed into the cab of the truck and within a few minutes were heading back towards the county road.  As they approached it, Dan slowed to a stop and dug something out of his pocket.  In the faint glow of the dashboard lights, Pete could see it was the bag of weed.  Dan fished one of the already-rolled joints out of the baggie and grabbing a lighter out of the cab’s console, fired it up.  After taking a huge hit, he offered it to Pete.

 

Gingerly, the rookie took the joint.  He looked questioningly at Dan as the alpha cop exhaled a thick blue cloud of pungently sweet smoke.  “G’wan, son,” the Cap said in his deep bass voice, “It’s been an intense evenin’ and we deserve to chill out.  After all, there are some benefits to actually bein’ Authority.”

 

As Pete took a huge, lung-busting hit off the joint, Dan laughed aloud.  Putting the truck in gear, he pulled out onto the county round and head back to the station.

 

 


 

It was late the next morning when the Captain got the call; by rights, he should have been off, but his dedication was such that he was known to pull doubles when he felt like it.  No one else in the department complained; it gave them more time off.

 

The body had been found by a couple of teenagers; by the time Dan got out to the quarry, Deputy Rand had already managed to run a couple of lines down and retrieved it; it had landed on a large boulder near the bottom.

 

Dan didn’t like Rand; he hung out with Eddie Phelps, that fat idiot.  Dan had always wondered how Eddie  had gotten hired by the department, but he’d been there longer than Dan, so there was little the latter could do about it.  At any rate, Rand had been on duty and had gotten the call first.

 

Dan approached the other cop, who was crouched over a body bag.  “Whatcha got?” he drawled nonchalantly.

 

“Coupla kids said they were down here to go swimmin’ and saw the body—”

 

“It’s a mite too cold to go swimmin’,” Dan interrupted.  “Might wanna check into that.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Rand said dubiously, “But this is really kinda a big fuckin’ deal.  Lookee here,” the deputy said, opening the body bag.  “It’s Robbie Clebbs—and he’s been fucked up bad.  Real bad.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Dan said.  “You got anything to go on?”

 

“Well, his bike was found back on CR 541.  Hard to tell, but looks like there mighta been a fight.  Kid’s been stabbed.  They left the knife stuck in his throat.  It’s his own—I recognize it.  And, well…”

 

“And what?”

 

“And the kid’s been, uh…he’s been sexually assaulted.  This is some seriously sick shit, man.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Yeah—he had fentanyl on him.  Big ol’ fuckin’ wad.  Kinda surprised the kid had enough cash to get it.”

 

“Maybe he didn’t,” Dan said, thoughtfully.  “Maybe this is some kinda gang payback for a drug deal gone wrong.”

 

Rand considered the suggestion.  “Yeah, that makes sense.  It’d explain this level of violence–they wanted to make an example of him.   I take you’ll head the investigation?  You know old man Clebbs is gonna raise holy fuckin’ hell about this.”

 

Dan sighed.  “Yeah, make sure I get all the files on it.  I’ll see what I can find out, but I suspect the guys who did this are back in the city by now.”

 

As he headed back to the cruiser, Rand called back out to him.  “Hey, am I crazy, or did I see that new guy Pete at the car wash, hosing out the back of yer 4X4?  I thought you wouldn’t let anyone else touch that thing—are ya fallin’ for the kid?”

 

“Naw,” Dan replied with a boyish grin.  “Got a little dirt on it last night is all.”

 

“Yeah, but I also heard you requested him as a partner.”

 

“I see somethin’ in that kid.  He’s goin’ places, I tell ya.”

The Mule

The wind whipped round Josh’s helmet as he throttled his bike up over the speed limit. The Kawasaki lurched as he let off the clutch, almost throwing him. He knew he’d get pulled over if a trooper saw him out here on a state highway, going ninety miles an hour, and he didn’t have the skill to outrun a highway patrol car, anyway. But he was running out of time and had to take the risk.

And anyway, getting a speeding ticket wasn’t so bad. They’d never think anyone on a crotch rocket would be smuggling drugs. It wasn’t like he had any place to conceal them except his backpack; and there was nothing there but dirty clothes and toiletries. His youth would probably count against him—he was twenty but looked younger—but it was obvious he had nothing secreted about him.

He wore a skintight black t-shirt that showed the outlines of his pectoral muscles and the exact placement of his nipples. From under the sleeve stretched around his right bicep a snake tattoo writhed down his sweat-covered arm. Leather gloves kept his grip firm on the handlebar. His jeans were so tight they weren’t capable of hiding anything, neither his wallet attached by a chain to his belt or the thick gourd-like bulge that mushroomed out of his groin. The jeans clung to his leg down to the point where they disappeared into his calf-high black motorcycle boots with thick buckled straps circling his legs. No real reason to suspect he’d be carrying anything else.

And even if they did, even the dogs wouldn’t be able to sniff out the fourteen small balloons filled with heroin working their way through his intestines. He certainly hadn’t had any problem boarding his flight from Mexico six hours ago; he’d passed through the security at Escobedo International Airport in Monterrey without breaking a sweat.

He was sweating now, though. He wanted the damned things out of him and was cursing himself for ever getting involved. This was scary shit, dude, and Josh had every reason to be scared. But he had every reason to go on, too.

He’d never intended to get into debt with Rocky. But Josh hadn’t had a sugar daddy in a while (and never had worked in the usual sense of the word at all) and Rocky kept fronting the coke and meth—reeling him in, of course, though he’d been too doped up to see it.

He wasn’t doped up now. He’d found some while he was south of the border, but he’d used it all there. Even Josh wasn’t stupid enough to try to board an international flight with a bag of coke.

He was down, and down hard. He needed another boost. He needed to get back to Rocky. He knew that he was just getting himself in deeper, but it didn’t matter. Besides, there were other options. Rocky had offered to let him work off his debt with sex, but Josh chose being a drug mule with a sense of relief. Rocky was one of the hottest guys Josh knew, but he was also the scariest.

The man—Josh only knew that he was slightly older but was so well-built, Josh felt like a small child in his presence–was worse than a sadist; he was a sociopath. He’d let Josh watch some video he’d taken of one of his sessions with a delinquent customer. Josh had made him stop, pale and shaking, ten minutes in.

“I can’t believe he lived through that,” whispered Josh.

Rocky was silent. After thirty seconds, Josh ran to the bathroom and vomited.

And here he was, hurrying back like an anxious lover. But he thought he had an edge that would keep him safe for at least one night. And maybe he could tame the wild beast. Just one good fuck and Rocky would care enough for him not to hurt him.

Josh wasn’t old enough to have realized that sometimes a romantic nature can be fatal.

Rocky had arranged to meet Josh at a small motel on the rough side of town. He’d promised Josh some money and some extra coke when he showed up–his pay for a successful mission. Josh would hang around in the motel room until nature took its course and the balloons reappeared.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d let Rocky fuck him. He was counting on the fact that Rocky couldn’t afford to hurt him too badly until he got his heroin back to keep him safe. It never occurred to Josh that there was a flaw in his logic.

He’d called Rocky when he landed to confirm the meeting, so he already knew where to go and which room to knock at. He pulled off the state highway into the motel parking lot, hearing the gravel crunching under his tires. He cut the engine on the bike and got off, wheeling it over to room 113 so he didn’t attract too much attention with the noise.

Josh pulled off his helmet, revealing short, almost curly brown hair and thick, rosy cheeks that gave a hint of innocence to his cornflower-blue eyes that they certainly didn’t deserve. Leaving the helmet on the bike, he moved towards the building. The thick black soles of his boots clumped on the concrete walkway as he nervously approached the door.

Rocky opened up immediately. Josh gulped as the large muscular figure loomed in the doorway. Rocky was a good six inches taller than Josh. And while Josh certainly wasn’t underdeveloped, it was very clear that Rocky was much stronger than he was. Josh was still a bit unsettled just by being in the same room with the man; he radiated an air of menace and barely-suppressed violence that Josh found as erotic as it was disturbing.

Rocky let him enter and closed the door behind him. He stood grinning at Josh. Six and a half feet tall with short black hair under a baseball cap, Rocky was wearing nothing but his jeans and boots; his t-shirt was draped over the back of a chair. He’d been waiting here for Josh for a day or two and hadn’t bothered with his hygiene during that time. A faint musky reek of sweat drifted from him and his face was covered with rough black stubble.

It all made Josh hard. He stood silently, waiting for Rocky to say something, admiring his hard, firm body. Rocky’s left arm writhed with tattoos, a colorful sleeve of ink covering his bulging biceps from the shoulder to the wrist, too many shapes and patterns to assimilate. It was a warm evening and the AC wasn’t working well–Josh could see beads of sweat rolling down the smooth topography of Rocky’s chest and was filled with the desire to let his tongue trace the same path.

Rocky’s black jeans were too tight to leave much to the imagination; Josh felt that if he looked closely enough, he might even be able to see the veins wrapped around the huge, thick ridge outlined in denim in Rocky’s crotch.

Josh sat himself on the bed. Rocky looked down at him and couldn’t help noticing the huge hard-on tenting his jeans. He smiled to himself–he could have the kid anytime he wanted, just as he’d thought. Even though Josh had seen the kinds of things that got Rocky off in the sack, he’d still be willing to get fucked.

And once Rocky had Josh where he wanted him, there’d be no escape. He’d checked in with cash on Friday evening, at a time when the place was full of whores and tricks; no one had looked at him twice. He’d taken the room under a false name. No one would know who he was when all was said and done.

Well, Josh would know, but he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.

Rocky reached down and grabbed his thick package. “How about it?” he asked Josh. “I know you want it. I seen ya lookin’. Get your clothes off and I’ll bang ya.”

Josh hesitated momentarily–the things on that video had been terrifying–but relaxed with the knowledge that Rocky wouldn’t be able to do anything bad to him; not if he wanted his heroin back. It would be different if he didn’t have this hold over Rocky, he reflected as he slipped off his high motorcycle boots and wriggled out of his skin-tight jeans. Thick white socks clung to Josh’s chiseled calves; his muscled legs rose to a smooth, slim torso with a flat belly that looked like silk covered with a fine down. His massive shaft swung excitedly between his legs as Josh jerked his shirt off over his head, tousling his hair.

Josh lay back on the bed, displaying his lithe, firm body for Rocky, trembling with anticipation. He’d always wanted Rocky inside him, but had been too scared of what Rocky would actually do to him. Now he could enjoy it, as rough as it might get, because he represented an investment that Rocky couldn’t afford to waste. As long as he’d been in debt to Rocky, Josh would never have let himself get this far into the dude’s power, but now the tables were turned and Josh had something Rocky needed. He felt safe to enjoy a good fuck with a dangerous man, without worrying about the consequences.

Rocky unzipped his fly and let his hog flop out like a length of sausage, dripping at the tip. He’d wanted Josh just as much as Josh wanted him, but he was smarter, stronger, and infinitely crueler and had worked things out to the smallest detail. He already knew the lust-tinged thoughts percolating through the hot younger boy’s mind and had worked on allaying his fears to the point that he knew Josh wouldn’t begin to resist until it was too late. The kid was young and strong, but he was also a drug-addicted slut and not very clever; there were things about the situation he’d overlooked–just as Rocky had expected.

But he’d notice some things. Rocky still needed a little compliance from him still. He tossed the kid a rock, a lighter and a glass straight. “Light up, man,” he chuckled. “After all, I want ya in a good mood when I fuck ya. And yer gonna wanna be numb before it’s over, anyways.”

As the sharp, sweet scent of crack and the bubbling hiss of the melting rock filled the room, Rocky sat on the bed, his eyes moving over Josh’s lean body, glistening with sweat. Josh was too busy to notice Rocky’s surreptitious movement, sliding his hand down to his black leather harness boot as if to check something.

Josh’s big purple cock was lying along his stomach like an iron rod. Rocky was too horny to wait any longer. Kneeling between Josh’s legs, he threw the boy’s feet, still in white athletic socks, up on his shoulder and began spearing the thick, spade-shaped head of his dick into the kid’s ass. Josh whimpered and grimaced in pain as Rocky’s fireplug shaft pierced him like a javelin. He groaned as Rocky thrust in even further.

“Shut up, bitch, I ain’t even halfway in yet,” Rocky snarled.

“Oh fuck, please go slow,” moaned Josh. “You’re too big. It hurts.”

“Yeah,” grinned Rocky, “I know.” And he rammed himself in even harder.

“Fuck!” cried Josh. “Get out–yer killin’ me! Ease off, man, I can’t do this!”

Rocky had managed to get one hand in his pocket. He smiled down at Josh as he pulled it back out, holding some cable ties. He’d already known that this would happen–it wasn’t the first time–and he was prepared. “Too late to back out now,” he whispered.

Josh’s eyes grew wide. He still didn’t realize the danger he was in; he wasn’t panicking–he just wanted Rocky to stop hurting him and suddenly realized that wasn’t going to happen. Before he could react, Rocky had secured his right hand to the headboard with one of the cable ties.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Josh yelled angrily. “You think I’m gonna give you your shit if you rape me? Ain’t happening, dude. Now untie me and get outta my ass. I’ll blow ya, but you’re too big to fuck me.” He was beating at Rocky’s broad, sculpted chest with his left hand, trying futilely to push the larger, stronger man off of him.

Rocky caught hold of Josh’s flailing arm by the wrist and cinched it to the headboard as well. Josh began jerking his arms harder in a desperate attempt to free them but only succeeded in making the thin but tough plastic strap embed itself even more painfully in his skin.

Josh was beginning to realize that things weren’t going according to his plan. He whimpered and began to thrash but wasn’t able to move very much. He was pinned down to the bed, practically nailed to the mattress by Rocky’s enormous cock, his legs almost immobilized by Rocky’s strong arms.

Suddenly, Rocky bent forward, folding Josh’s legs until his knees were resting on his chest and Rocky’s leering, terrifying face hung a foot over his own. Josh just had time to wonder why he’d never noticed the homemade teardrop tattoo by Rocky’s eye before it hit him that not only was his ability to move restricted even further now, he also couldn’t get a deep enough breath to enable him to cry out loudly.

He stared fearfully into Rocky’s eyes and saw lust reflected back—but an ice-cold lust that regarded him as an object to be used for mere pleasure and discarded. Rocky wouldn’t “care for him” after just one fuck.

Rocky would dispose of his corpse after just one fuck.

Terror, true terror, can have different effects on different people (to state the obvious) and in Josh’s case, it induced a flaccid immobility. Rocky realized at once what had happened. He spit on Josh’s face, watching his spittle gleam on those rubicund cheeks.

“You—you can’t. You can’t kill me,” Josh whispered in horror, “I’ve still got your stuff in me…”

Rocky smiled gently. He moved his arm down to his boot and back, holding up a serrated hunting knife with a black seven-inch blade that he’d retrieved from his boot sheath. He reached his heavily-tattooed left arm down to stroke Josh’s face as he whispered in reply, “Who sez ya gotta be alive for me to get my shit back?”

The realization of the huge gap in his reasoning made Josh rigid with mental shock; he’d walked willingly into the lion’s den. And tonight, the lion was hungry.

Rocky had been waiting for the rigidity. He felt Josh’s sphincter tighten around his cock. Throwing himself back up on his knees, he pulled Josh’s body back towards him with as much force as he could, impaling the boy on his swollen shaft.

Josh wailed loudly. Rocky hit him—move of a love tap, really, didn’t even leave much of a bruise—and Josh subsided into a quiet sobbing. Rocky bent forward, fully inserted into the boy’s ass and stroked his tear-stained face again. He started to whisper once more. ”Hey, hey, hey. Shhh. C’mon, look up at me. It’s ok. I’m just kidding. I ain’t gonna cut the shit outta your dead body. Really, I ain’t.”

Josh snuffled and blinked hopefully up into Rocky’s face. The gentle smile encouraged him. “You’re not?” he whispered tremulously.

Rocky was straight up on his knees, with the kid’s legs parted around him, his hard strong body looming over the helpless, bound youth. He toyed with the knife for a moment, his smile fading slowly. “No,” he said. “I’m gonna cut it outta ya while you’re still alive, you useless cunt.”

His arm flashed down like lightning. Before Josh had enough time to process the words spoken to him, all seven inches of black cold carbon steel had torn through his hard flat abdomen, ripping viciously through his intestines.

The force of the blow made Josh exhale violently. There was nothing wrong with his lungs—yet—and he inhaled again immediately, only to blast it out again in agony.

Rocky leaned down and grabbed Josh’s jaw with his left arm. Josh’s field of vision was filled with Rocky’s leering face as the vicious sadist twisted the knife in his entrails. His eyes, circled with black rings of shock, looked up blankly into those of his assailant.

“Fuck yeah,” moaned Rocky as he yanked the knife up outta the wound, “lookit that nice fuckhole. Want me to stick it in there, Josh? Yeah, you’re just dyin’ for a hard cock inside of you, aincha, faggot?”

He held the knife in front of Josh’s eyes. Even in the chemical stew of shock, Josh realized that the bleeding shreds of meat caught in the serrations were parts of himself.

“Business before pleasure, though,” chortled Rocky as Josh’s rectum tensed at the root of his cock again; a spontaneous reaction to the pain. Inserting the knife back into the wound, he began cutting upwards, away from himself, slicing through the smooth flesh and opening a slit in the abdominal cavity.

Josh’s eyes grew so large in shock and horror that Rocky almost thought they’d pop. He was enjoying himself. He’d been right; Josh was fun to fuck. Shame it’d only be the once, but it was worth it. Josh was working his cock real good.

“Yeah, you little punk, time to get my investment back. Thought you could hold my delivery ransom till you got fucked, huh? How you like it, bitch? Was this the fuck you wanted? It’s damn sure the one I wanted. Set you up from the beginning, you cunt. Gave you the shittiest leftovers from making rock and meth—didn’t cost me a dime, bitch, but it got ya to think you had to go get me the real stuff. So now I’m gettin’ the real shit back and havin’ a little fun, too. Fuck yeah, dude, we shoulda done this sooner. You’re a great lay, motherfucker.”

In the vain denial of death that only the young and strong truly possess, Josh raised his head as he continued to flail his arms, trying to free himself. He was not equipped mentally for the sight of Rocky pulling out loops of his small intestine and slicing them open. The older man had felt through them with his hands until he’d located the balloons—and started cutting. Now he was squeezing Josh’s guts and popping the heroin out like he was shelling peas.

Josh shuddered and went rigid. His ass tightened in agony around Rocky’s dick once again. Rocky leaned back, dropping the slippery organ he’d been clutching—he’d just removed the last one—and inhaled deeply in blood-soaked lust.

He looked down at Josh. The boy lay beneath him, exposed, vulnerable. A four-inch slit, from which a pink loop of slashed intestine protruded slightly, ran up his belly. He was otherwise unmarked.

Aside, of course, from the mask of terror and agony stretched tightly across his young, innocent-looking face.

Josh’s brain was too full to work. He knew he was watching himself die. The pain itself would have rendered him unable to move, but the realization that he had never known that someone could actually go that far

How could he not have thought it? After the video he’d been shown, how could he not have realized that Rocky would go to these lengths? He’d been a fool…

He deserved it. Deep in his pig soul, he knew this was how his worthless life would end; this was why he was attracted to Rocky in the first place. Because Rocky was enough of a man to use him as he deserved to be used and then toss him aside like a reamed-out fucktoy whose utility was long gone. He’d served his brief purpose and could be disposed of; he knew it and welcomed it.

But the physical intervenes, as they say. Whatever Josh’s little crotch-rocket-riding, biker-gear-wearing soul craved, his body wanted to live. It fought back.

Rocky had counted on it. From long experience, he’d recognized the deathpig symptoms the moment he’d met Josh. He’d groomed him towards this moment, letting little hints drop about what was in store; just enough to titillate. He’d known, no matter what Josh had said, the boy would be turned on by the thought of a man who could to something like that to him.

Well, now the little fuck was getting it. He shuddered and jerked, looking up at Rocky’s face beseechingly, the skin on his face taut with agony. Rocky ran his eyes down the youth’s slim, blood-streaked body. Deep in the kid’s rectum, the head of Rocky’s dick was banging away at his victim’s prostate. Josh’s thick tool slapped against his belly in time to the pounding his ass was getting.

If Rocky had been inclined to remorse—he wasn’t—this would have ended it. Despite the horrible pain and the terror of imminent death, the punk was hard. It was all the proof Rocky needed that he’d been right; the little shit was a deathpig. Getting offed was getting him off.

Josh probably wouldn’t have put it in those terms, if he had been capable of putting things in any terms at all. At the moment, all he could do was lie back and try to breathe. Keep breathing was the thought he kept clinging to like a spar tossing on a violent sea of pain. If you’re breathing you’re still alive oh fuck keep breathing oh shit he’s so fucking deep in me oh god please just breathe…

His full, red lips, parted, gasping, drew Rocky’s eyes to the kid’s pale, snot-covered face. “I know,” he grinned down, “Hurts, don’t it? Must suck to get your guts yanked out, sliced open and then stuffed back in. But you knew it was coming, you fucking bitch. Thought you’d hold out on me? You wanted me to gut you like a deer, didn’t ya? You wouldn’t’a done it otherwise.”

Josh shuddered and sobbed violently, only able to express himself with faint mewling sounds. “Shut up!” snapped Rocky, backhanding Josh across the face with the hilt of the knife, splitting his upper lip and leaving a small laceration on his cheek. Josh’s blubbering became more subdued but did not cease altogether.

“You’re taking too long to die, fuckwad. You’re not bleeding out quick enough. I’m getting bored; you’re not worth keeping alive to fuck anymore. Your job is over, you useless piece of shit. When they find you—whatever parts of you they can find—they’re gonna know it’s just another sorry-ass drug mule who got cut up to get the load out. They ain’t gonna look for the load I put in ya. They ain’t even gonna look for me; dead thugs like you show up here all the time. They’re gonna haul your meat off and move on to the next dude. Get it, bitch? You’re gonna die on my cock and no one’s gonna know or care.”

Rocky leaned down over Josh’s face, carefully watching the reaction to his words. Once again, the mental shock produced a physical response, a tightening, stiffening throughout the entire body. Rocky could feel Josh’s colon wrap around his engorged rod like a glove.

This was it; this was the moment to hold. Before Josh was aware of what was happening, Rocky had clamped one hand down over his face and with the knife in the other, slashed brutally at his throat one, two, three—four times in lightning-quick succession.

Then he tossed the knife to the floor, placed his hands on Josh’s shoulders and, with his dick planted firmly in Josh’s ass, watched the kid die.

Josh’s eyes, already wide with shock, rolled back as his throat was sliced open. He could taste his own blood; could hear himself gargle his life away—and could feel an uncontrollable swelling in his cock. As he began to gray out, his blood pressure dropped dramatically everywhere but in his groin, where his muscles had locked in excruciating rigidity in reaction to the penetrating pain of Rocky’s enormous tool.

Josh’s entire body rocked with convulsions as he fought to stay conscious, desperately clinging to his wasted life. His asshole constricted tightly around Rocky’s shaft, tugging at it as if suction was being applied.

Suddenly, the open wound in the kid’s throat was covered in pink foam as he drowned in his own blood. Josh’s last physical sensation as everything faded into a screaming whiteness was that there was a white-hot wire running down the center of his dick; his final orgasm was so intense that his dying brain was too dull to interpret between pleasure and pain.

Josh’s body thrashed and flailed as thick, ropy streams of semen flew from the purple, straining head of his cock, splattering both himself and Rocky. His ass clenched and grasped, milking a burning wad out of Rocky’s swollen, aching rod. As Josh’s final loads splashed on Rocky’s chin and spattered his arms, obscuring some of his tattoo, the kid’s legs kicked away his last few seconds on earth, the white athletic socks still clinging to his sculpted calves but twisted around where he’d flailed against the denim of the jeans Rocky still wore.

Rocky grunted as he shot another load. He raised his arm and slammed the blade back down, grunting as the last wad of sperm exploded deep in Josh’s guts while the blade punched through the punk’s left pectoral and plunged directly into his quivering aorta. “Fuck, yeah…” moaned Rocky as he watched Josh’s eyes dilate and glaze over and a last milky spurt ooze from the fucker’s dick.

Rocky paused for a moment, waiting for the kid’s sphincter to relax in death. Once it did, he pulled his long hog back out of the corpse and stood up. Josh was on his back, legs spread, socks still on. His hands were bound to the headboard by the cable ties. A dull, gorgeous death stare gave a certain nobility to his violated corpse.

There was a lot of blood on the bed. Some had leaked from the opening sliced in his smooth flat belly (the protruding, sliced-open intestines testifying to the drug mule angle) down his flanks and stained the sheets at his sides, but most of the mess was up by his neck. The bloody froth exuded by his final breaths obscured the gaping wound where his throat had been torn out. And everywhere were pools of cum—which DNA testing would show were the victim’s own. And as Rocky knew, no one would care beyond that point. Just another addict pervert who made a really bad choice in a lifetime of bad choices.

Rocky showered quickly. He’d managed to keep the blood off his jeans and boots, but after throwing his t-shirt back on, he took Josh’s motorcycle boots—they’d fit him too. As for the rest—well, the maids in this part of town had dealt with worse.

Mac and Bill 1

They had scoped out the kill and were ready.

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

This job, they were supposed to die hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to let that cum out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then bright pain exploded in Frank’s face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mac returned to Bill.

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

“Any problems?”

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

Bill grinned.

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

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

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

Bill yanked up on Ginger’s hair.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, talk!”

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

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

“He says he don’t wanna.”

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

“What about you? You feel like talking? “

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ohfuckdon’tkillmepleasedon’tilltellyaanythingohfuckohshit,” he pleaded.

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

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

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

“Whaddaya think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had plans for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On your knees, assholes!” shouted Mac.

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

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

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

“Who’s Jose?” asked Mac.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Victim POV 6–The Hog and the Pig

It’s chilly tonight, but not cold. I’ll go with my leather bomber jacket; if I leave it open over a white t-shirt, it’ll show off my torso. Not that I’m a big, muscely guy; I’m slim and lithe. But that shows off just as well and lotsa guys like it.

Enough of ‘em like it that it pays to keep in shape. I’ve just gotten in from the gym. Their pool is chilly and crowded, but the pool in my complex isn’t heated, so it’s where I go in the winter. Plus, I find a lot of contacts there. Half my income comes from guys I meet at the gym.

Not tonight, though. A lot of looks, but no bites. Well, there was that one dude—old and fat, but I’da done him if he’d had any money. But he didn’t; I could tell just by looking. I always know where the money is. Like my momma said, “Don’t marry money—just fuck it.”

Bless her heart, crazy old bitch was right.

I need to find a new daddy soon though; the money from the last one has just about run out. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’ll fuck a dude just because I think he’s hot—but if he don’t have cash, he better be real hot.

At any rate, I’m home and getting ready to head out on the prowl. I’ll start down at Club 69 and work my way down the other bars on the strip. If it’s a bad night, I’ll have to head out to The Underpass. Most nights I’m able to avoid that place, though. Good thing, too.

Too many rentboys vanish from that place.

Let’s see, tight jeans that highlight my package, check. And I won’t need to strip them off; I’ve cut a slit in the ass. I ain’t wearin’ shorts underneath—I’m ready to go. After all, if my jeans are tight, it can take too long to peel ‘em off; I ain’t gonna break the mood—I like getting’ fucked in tight jeans. Equally tight t-shirt visible beneath my sleek leather jacket, check. Ok, what kinda boots do I wanna get fucked in? Lessee…

Oh fuck yeah, these black leather Demonia boots with the buckled straps around the calf. Laces and a zipper for easy access—not that I’ll be taking them off. I’ll be watching them hanging in the air beyond the shoulders of whoever is fucking me tonight.

And whoever the john turns out to be, he’ll be lucky. I’m a good lay. Worth the price. My slim, smooth body, my firm denim-covered and leather-booted legs—yeah, whoever gets to fuck me better appreciate the favor I’m doin’ him.

Let’s get goin’.

Like I said, I need to find a new daddy. Car is on the fritz—I could call a cab, but I ain’t gonna waste the money; it’s only two blocks out to the main drag and then three blocks down. And this leather jacket blocks the wind pretty well. But still, I deserve a working car. I’ll find someone to pay. And even if not, I’m horny. One way or another, I’m gonna get fucked tonight, but believe me, someone’s gonna pay.

Someone’s gonna pay a lot.

It’s dark down these side streets. I wish they’d repair the streetlights. Not enough tax dollars in this neighborhood, I guess. But it gets kinda dangerous. On the other hand, most people have their headlights on, so you can tell when a car is coming. But what’s coming now isn’t a car, it’s a motorcycle.

Ok, I’m interested. It’s a Harley, a Softail Classic. Gleaming black and chrome with studded black leather saddlebags, two seats—when it glides through the gleaming circle of the streetlight, I can see that the black finish is highlighted by strategic points of dark midnight blue.

Guys on bikes are always hot; guys on Harleys especially so. And this dude doesn’t disappoint. As his bike rumbles up to the curb, I get a good look. Older than me, but not more than, say, thirty-one or two. Long, shoulder-length black hair—no helmet laws in this state, so it fans out under the red bandanna tied over his head.

He’s dressed—well, actually, he’s dressed a lot like I am. His leather jacket is the huge bulky kind favored by bikers, with zippers over half the surface. On him, it looks real. He’s clearly not a poser or one of those weekend warrior types, desk jockeys who like aspire to street cred by tooling around the suburbs on overpriced bikes.

This one’s a real biker dude. The waves of testosterone his hard body gives off are damn near visible. His diesel jeans are skin tight. They outline the thick, firm muscles of his thighs. Below his knees, his legs are encased in black motorcycle boots, rising most of the way up his tight calves. The thick-soled leather boots are held on by five leather straps with bright steel buckles. They look like mine, but they’re real—no zipper for easy access.

Bet he leaves them on when he fucks; too much of a pain in the ass to take them off. Fuckin’ hot.

He’s got a dark t-shirt under his jacket; in the shadows, I can’t make out the color. It doesn’t matter; what I can see of him shows me how well-built he is. Strong muscled dude on a crotch rocket—man, I already want his dick. Now, if I can just figure out how to make some money outta this, it’ll be a perfect night…

He’s pulled to the curb just past where I’m standing. I’ve been able to take all this in within a matter of seconds. Now, he turns to look at me.

His eyes are like embers of coal—blazing, yet hard as stone. I’m both attracted by their beauty and repelled by their coldness. A well-groomed black goatee covers his strong jaw with fur; his handsome, chiseled face is almost emotionless.

I can’t tell if he wants me or not.

It’s cold. And once he shuts the Harley off, it’s quiet, too. The apartment buildings along this stretch of the street are set well back. And the tenants in the front basically install iron bars over the windows and ignore anything that happens on the street.

The biker stud appraises me coldly. I’ve never felt such an icy, impersonal sensation before and it scares me.

There are literally hundreds of people within the sound of my voice, but I’ve never felt so alone and helpless before. There’s something about this guy, about his mere physical presence, that seems to take control.

I’m his and we both know it. I don’t know how it happens, but it does, when I catch his eye again. His face contorts with a contemptuous smirk, and I know I’ll do whatever he wants.

Fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He won’t pay me; for all I know, the dude might actually hurt me. But it doesn’t matter. Even if he’s one of those sick fucks who gets off on pain, he’s still gonna fuck me tonight. I want it. I want him—no matter what.

He grins at me and I flinch. It’s a sly grin, full of complicity and dark promises, and it gets my cock hard (like it wasn’t already). He twists his head, more or less beckoning with it and I approach him.

When he speaks, his voice grinds through the lower registers and makes my dick and balls vibrate. “Hey, bitch,” he rumbles, “get on and I’ll give ya a ride.” He chuckles and stares at me brazenly.

Not daunted in the slightest, I stare right back. Dammit, I’m the one in control. Or at least, I’m gonna show him I’m not a pushover.

“Yeah?” I sneer at him, “I like a long ride—how long can ya last?”

He stops chuckling. “I’ll last longer than you will, cunt,” he snaps coldly, “get on. Now.”

I obey. I don’t know why. I mean, I’ve done dozens of guys—dozens of dozens. But I’ve never come across anyone like this guy before. And I don’t know what to think or how to react. He’s such a fucking stud, but he scares me. He scares me a lot. And part of my fear is that I’m so attracted to him, I’ll let him do whatever he wants, as long as I get his load.

And that’s a bad thing. It puts him in control, not me. And there’s something about this guy—I don’t think he has a lot of control.

And the fact that that thought gets me hard is the scariest thing of all. But it doesn’t stop me from getting on his bike.

I slip onto the Harley’s rear seat and wrap my arms around the stud as he throttles the bike up and heads out toward the highway. I cling to his torso like it’s a boulder—and it’s just as hard and firm as if it truly was. I press my face against the biker’s back, burying it in the slick, smooth leather, inhaling its scent, feeling his muscles flex against my cheek as my shaft grows so hard it aches.

I enjoy the ride. I enjoy it a lot. Fuckin’ crotch rocket, vibrating on my sack and my tool—this dude must be so fucking horny, riding around like this all time. I’ll bet he needs some release. That’s ok; he can release it all in my aching fuckhole.

He zips past the Underpass and stops at the light at the interstate access road. I know where he’s going; there’s a cheap motel on the other side of the highway. Wonder if he’s local. Maybe; I didn’t need to give him directions here.

I’m surprised when he pulls around back of the motel. No idea why he didn’t park in the main lot—but he fishes a key out of his pocket; he’s already got a room. I follow him across the gravel parking lot, my boots crunching in the large marks left by his boots.

We walk around the building and enter room 134. He unlocks the door and steps inside; I follow and he shuts the door behind me, leaving us in total darkness. Only when the door is completely closed does he turn on the light.

I immediately turn to face him, grabbing for his crotch. I’d thought it was what he wanted and I’m surprised when he shoves me forcefully onto the bed without touching his cock.

“Get your pants off, whore, I’m gonna fuck ya,” he growls, pulling off his leather jacket. His t-shirt, I can now see, is dark brown and tighter on him than mine is on me. He peels it sinuously to reveal a flat furry belly and hairy hubcap pecs; the biker is a damn near perfect archetype of masculinity.

I sit up and pull off my jacket and my shirt. The biker looks down at my smooth, firm chest and breathes heavily. “I said pull your pants off, cunt, not your shirt.”

“I don’t have to. There’s a hole cut in the ass,” I tell him, staring him defiantly in the eyes.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve had to do. His dark blazing eyes turn on me with a burst of lust and rage like I’ve never seen before. I’m suddenly strongly aware that I’m alone with a strange man and no one knows where I’ve gone or with whom.

I’ve been in this situation many times before. What is it about this time that makes me aware of my vulnerability?

And more to the point—why do I not care? I’m so fucking horny right now—and there’s something about the dude’s look—that sneering, disgust-filled look of domination—that makes me want him even more.

He thinks I’m a piece of shit. And as long as he fucks me, I’m ready to let him treat me like one.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m better than this; I’m the one who decides, the one who chooses…

Oh my god, I don’t care. He’s unzipping his fly. Holy fuck—the hog that flops out is enormous. It’s a thick, long uncut slab of meat—and it’s not even fully erect yet.

Now I know there’s something wrong with me. His tool is gonna split me wide open. I can tell just by looking that this is gonna hurt like all kinds of fuck. And even so, my own shaft starts to throb at the thought.

I’ve never really believed in pheromones, but it’s the only explanation. The dark, muscled biker reeks of sex, and I want it so bad, I’ll do whatever it takes to milk the sex right out of his hard body…

He leans over me. I gaze up into his granite face, merciless as stone as he speaks quietly in white-hot rage. “You fuckin’ whore. Ready for any dude’s dick, huh? Any place, any time, as long as you get paid, right? Bet you’da taken my rod right there on the street if I’d flashed some bills at ya, huh, cunt?”

He grabs my boots and thrusts my legs apart and I feel the weight of his lithe, panther-like body on me.

He’s on top of me, his hard, cruel, bearded face filling my field of view. The hot musky scent of mansweat washes over me, pinning me to the bed with an almost physical force. I place my hands on his chest as he lies on top of me, feeling his rock-hard pecs under the fine black fur covering his torso.

His eyes are lit with an icy gleam as he sneers down into my face. “Lick me, you faggot whore. I worked up a lotta sweat, ridin’ my hog all day. Get your fuckin’ punk tongue into my pits and slurp up my sweat, you cheap-ass cumchugger.”

He reaches down and grabs a hank of my hair, pulling my face into his left armpit. The reek of his sweat and hormones is as overwhelming as his wiry hair; it’s like his pits are lined with steel wool that grinds my face as he chuckles evilly.

Goddam, this ain’t right. He’s such a man—oh fuck, I want him so bad. Yes, if this is what it takes, I’ll lick your musk. I’ll lick anything ya want, dude…

He manipulates my head like I’m a puppet; I simply let my tongue hang out of my mouth and let him apply it to whatever part of his body he desires. He sits up on his knees, pulling my head up with him, never letting my face get out of contact with his hard chest. He twists my head to one side as he applies my mouth to his left nipple. “Suck it, cunt,” he snaps before spitting in my face. I close my eyes and feel the warm trickle of his spittle sliding down my cheek as I fervently tongue the hard knot of his nipple.

Without warning, the biker stud drags my head roughly to the right, scraping my skin along his chest hair—much smoother than his pit hair, but still being ground against my skin—to stop with my face buried in the moist valley between the swellings of his iron-hard pecs. Oh fuck, this hot alpha dude wants me, wants my tongue to taste his pheromones and sex chemicals…

My cock is so hard, it hurts. I don’t know how this is gonna end—and I don’t care. The call, the sexual need emanating from this man is overpowering; I already know that I’ll do whatever it takes to make him fill me with his DNA.

And that scares the fuck outta me. There’s something wrong with this guy. He doesn’t just wanna fuck me.

He wants to hurt me.

And I want his load so bad—oh fuck, god help me—I’ll let him.

As my face is forced abrasively across the biker’s chest, I soon find his right nipple forced into my mouth. As I slurp greedily at the small hard mound of flesh, I feel his free hand scrabbling around my ass, gripping my firm cheeks, squeezing, probing—finding the tear in the seat.

He drops me abruptly, looking expressionlessly down into my face. “You worthless fucking slut,” he says levelly, coldly.

I have to release my dick. It’s straining in my crotch, too tight, too hard. I have to set it free. I don’t break eye contact with the biker—I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. He has control and I know it. But my hand gropes down, unseeing, and unzips my fly, letting my thick, dripping cock spring out.

The biker looks down at my face and still his expression doesn’t change. “Did I tell ya you could get your dick out, slut?” he drawls, savoring his building rage. “You were ready to fuck any dude who came down the street, huh, you useless motherfucker? Yeah, ain’t that right, cunt? Goddam cut open your fuckin’ jeans so anyone can come along and shove a cock up your loose faggot asshole, yeah?”

Oh shit, I’m scared. He’s angry. Goddam Jack the Ripper type, down on whores—but still…

What the fuck is wrong with me? This guy is bigger and stronger than me. And he’s a fucking sadistic psycho who’s gonna get off on hurting me—

Why do I want to let him?

It’s his domination. No, no—I’m my own fucking person; I can’t be enjoying this—

He shoves me back down on my back and jerks my legs up, resting my boots on his shoulder. I remember putting them on tonight—I was gonna watch them bob in the air as I got my ass drilled by some hot stud.

Ok fuck, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen but this isn’t what I meant…

He’s grinning at me as he reaches into his crotch. He’s gonna stick that monstrous shaft into me. No, dude, no; I’m not ready for that thing—you haven’t even used any lube—

OH GOD NO GET IT OUTTA ME FUCK GOD NO

please please please pull it out it’s too much please pull it out

oh god yes I can feel it receding oh thank you god

NO NO NO FUCK DON’T SHOVE IT IN AGAIN HOLY FUCK WHY IS MY DICK SO HARD

his face, his dark, cruel, handsome, sneering face

Ok. Ok. Ok.

My sphincter has collapsed. He’s torn it. He’s hurt me. Oh fuck, he’s hurt me bad; no one’s ever fucked me so bad I’ve needed to go to the hospital…

What? What’s he saying?

“You worthless fucking whore. How many cumshots has your worn-out fuckhole sucked up, huh, cunt? See, even now, your shredded colon ain’t used to mancock after all them homo dicks you been willin’ to ride. You need a real man to show you your place. And ya know where your place is, faggot? It’s screaming and writhing on the end of my cock. And you’re gonna be doin’ it tonight, cunt.”

I hear the words, but they don’t make sense. I can only absorb so much anyway and right now, I’m full of cock.

The pain, the pressure is phenomenal. I’ve been fucked a lot, but this guy is… Well, he’s…

Oh fuck, he’s compacting my guts. I don’t want this. I want to get fucked, but this dude’s raping my guts. He’s reaming my innards violently.

Oh my god it hurts it hurts so bad this isn’t sex you’re gonna kill me this is gonna tear me open I’m bleeding you’re tearing me apart in the inside…

I don’t understand why I’m so helpless. He’s tearing me open on the inside, but he’s such an alpha stud I can’t stop him…

“Fuck, dude, I was almost there. Your ass was nice and tight around my tool, but I think I stretched ya out. You really are a worthless cunt, ain’t ya? Can’t even make me cum. What kinda faggot whore are ya?”

The pain. Everything he’s put me through, and it’s not enough. His hard, muscled body, pressing against me, is slick with the sweat of his efforts; even his jeans are streaked with dark sweat marks trailing down to those strapped-on boots rising nearly to his knees.

Beyond him, I can see my own Demonia biker boots hanging in the air as he rapes me mercilessly. I remember putting them on, thinking about how I’d watch them bob as I got fucked by a john who’d pay well for the privilege…

No. He’s not getting away with it. Enough. I start grabbing and scratching at his slick, muscled body, my fingernails snagging and tearing at his body hair as he bends over me and fucks me violently.

Mistake. Oh fuck, his anger. His face is twisted with fury as he reaches down and—

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Fuck his hand is like a vise around my thought OH MY GOD I CAN’T BREATHE WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOUR OTHER ARM—

pain pain he’s punching me in the face piledriving his fist into my face as his other hand clamps down on my throat

I can’t breathe

fuck the pain he’s talking what’s he saying names he’s calling me names

he wants me dead I need to die to make him cum

my face his fist into my face every blow

“Fucking cunt!” WHAM

“Cocksucking faggot whore!” WHAM

Stars lights bright lights in my head my cock is hard I can feel it straining

“Die, you worthless faggot cumdump!” WHAM

my head my face the pain I can feel his cock fill my ass with every blow but I CAN’T BREATHE

it’s him that’s all there is he’s over me and on me and in me this biker stud, this hot hard reeking man, I can see him, his face contorted in lust and rage as he dominates me

wasn’t supposed to die like this wasn’t supposed to die tonight

oh fuck, solid streams of molten metal, life, genes, my inner material flowing up outta my cock I give my sperm as the teeth of my zipper tear open my scrotum

it hurts so bad I’m cutting my sack the pain in my chest he’s still punching me why god why I only wanted sex I didn’t want to get used and die

OH MY GOD THE CRUSHING PAIN IN MY THOAT MY WINDPIPE COLLAPSED

no air no air he’s still punching me my nose it crunched just like my throat

pain crushing pain my chest my throat my head

tearing pain my sack my swollen balls

fire flowing lava being pumped into my ass the biker’s spunk it’s filling me overflowing burning lava flowing out of my own dick is it my cum or the bikers