Carlos Solo–Doubling Down On a Losing Pair

It had been a cloudy, and for Vegas, a cool day, never getting higher than the mid-sixties.  Tooling around in the convertible Benz, Carlos had kept his leather biker jacket on all day.  Now that the sun was setting, he was disinclined to remove it, especially since he was heading into a gay bar.

 

He didn’t want to go in; the sight of so many worthless perverted faggots flaunting themselves in public would enrage him—hell, the thought of slaughtering some of ‘em already had him hard—but Nick had a commission, so he needed a boywhore that was willing to put out on film.

 

Of course, by the time he and Nick were done with the slut, it would be put out permanently.  And Carlos could inflict on it all the suffering he wanted to mete out on all the disgusting assmunchers he was about to endure.  That would make it worthwhile.

 

The bar actually occupied the entirety of a small L-shaped strip center.  The place was only a few blocks west of the Strip, but it was some ways south of the airport.  The main entrance was on the extreme left, under a backlit plastic sign reading “Ruby’s Roadhouse” in red letters, each one of which was outlined a different color of the rainbow.  It was a low, non-descript building with windows lining the front that had either been heavily tinted or simply painted over on the inside.

 

The parking lot was full of a random assortment of vehicles, but the number of California plates indicated that a number were rentals.  This wasn’t the kinda place most tourists knew about, but there were some dudes who could find boymeat in any town.  Carlos’s black harness boots thudded heavily on the asphalt as he made his way between the cars.  There was no line; he walked right in—and had to fork out a cover charge.

 

The hardbodied killer ground his teeth.  Whatever cunt he found better have some cash to make up for it, or he’d take it out of its flesh.

 

As he headed into the bar, he grinned, knowing he’d take it out of the whore’s flesh in any case.

 

He had to cross the dance floor to get to the bar itself.  He shoved his way through the crowd, glowering at the homos and pansies that surrounded him.  The looks they returned were just as intense, if less hostile.

 

The fagkiller was dressed to lure in his prey; under the jacket was a white cotton wifebeater two sizes too small.  It clung to each individual ab on his ripped six-pack and showed off the ink on his bulging biceps where the leather jacket hung open.  Around his neck the thick gold chain flashed brilliantly when a spinning disco light happened to fall on it.  In the darkness, it was difficult to see how much his tight black jeans revealed of his thickly muscled legs and the massive bulge in his crotch; that became obvious only when he emerged into the light.

 

He could feel homo eyes crawling over him like a literal physical sensation; it made him shudder with revulsion in the same way he would if he’d had insects on his skin.  They all needed to die.  Not quickly, with a gun or a bomb, but slowly and individually, each one bleating out its worthless life in Carlos’s hands…

 

Lost in reverie, the buff ex-con suddenly found he’d reached the bar.  He ordered a shot of Jack, tossed it back, and turned around, leaning on the bar and surveying the crowd.  A room full of provocatively-dressed useless twinks, writhing against one another to the pulsing beat of industrial dance music and disco lighting effects—yeah, they all needed to be snuffed, but Carlos didn’t see anyone worthy of bearing their sins on camera.  Then his eye was caught by movement on is extreme left.

 

The boy had been in the shadows next to the restroom entrance.  He’d caught Carlos’s attention by stepping forward under one of the dim overhead lights, but his appearance didn’t provide much information.

 

He was wearing a plain gray fleece hoodie with the hood up, obscuring his face in shadow; all Carlos could make out was lower half, which showed a cocky grin, and a faint golden haze on the upper lip.  The jacket was only zipped a quarter way up from the waist, though, showing that the kid was wearing a tight dark tank top underneath.

 

The punk sported a pair of Nike mid-thigh shorts in Green Bay Packers colors, green spreading out from the thick lump in the crotch to the yellow running down the sides of the legs, drawing attention to how the smooth firm thighs descended to strong calves covered with a golden dusting of fur similar to that on the boy’s lip.  On his feet were a pair of expensive Nike Jordan 4 Breds.

 

Carlos had no doubt he’d found his whore.  He’d want to see it in the light before making the final call but the way the fucker dressed, the way it carried itself—it didn’t get to be that obvious a cumslut without having looks worth paying for.

 

The boy sidled up to Carlos.  Now that he was closer, the buff fagkiller could make out the cunt’s face.  He was young, early twenties at the latest.  His face was strikingly handsome, with regular features, clear skin, a pert, upturned nose and sandy blond hair.  But the boy had the face of an experienced whore; his expression was hard and calculating and his beautiful blue eyes were cold.  As like called to like, Carlos recognized the slut as a predator, looking to prey on anyone he felt was weaker or more stupid than he was.

 

Not that he wasn’t still a faggot.  His long side-eye glances at Carlos were full of equal parts cupidity and lust.  The little cocksucker was obviously torn between the desire to get fucked by Carlos and the urge to rip him off.   To Carlos, though, it didn’t matter; what mattered was him being able to lure the fucker to the warehouse.  To that end, he needed to strike up a conversation, since it didn’t seem like the kid was gonna speak up himself.

 

“You a Packers fan?” he asked brusquely, looking down at the boy’s shorts.

 

“Naw,” the kid drawled easily, “It’s just a look, y’know?”

 

That got the ball rolling.  His name was Colton—at least, that was the name he gave to Carlos—and he was plenty interested in the ex-con’s porn movie offer.  If, that is, the price was right.

 

“You’ll really pay me a grand?” he asked, his eyes glinting with greed, “For just an hour’s work?”

 

“Sure,” Carlos grinned, repressing his anger and refusing to allow a snarl to form on his face—not that the boywhore would’ve noticed; he was too lost in dreams of incipient hardcore fame.

 

“Cool!” the cunt said eagerly, “You can bill me as Colt.  No, even better—Colt 45!”

 

The convicted killer had to make a major effort not to gag.  “Sure, if that’s what ya want,” he commented blandly.

 

“Hang on, I wanna ‘nother drink,” Colton said, digging into his pockets and pulling out an anemic wad of cash that turned out to consist of exactly three ones.  “Hey, gimme some money,” he said to Carlos.

 

“What?” the muscular sadist asked blankly.

 

“Front me some cash.  An advance.  I ain’t leavin’ this place without at least fifty bucks in my hands.”

 

Carlos looked levelly at Colton for a long while.  Usually, he didn’t mind advancing money to the meat; he always got it back when he was done.  This one, though, wanted to spend some of it.  It wasn’t the loss of the cash that bothered Carlos, it was the principle.  Goddam faggot should be paying him for putting it out of its miserable existence.

 

“Ok,” he said reluctantly, digging into his back pocket.  He pulled two twenties and a ten out of his wallet and handed them to the boy.

 

“Thanks!” the cunt chirped and headed for the bar.  While he was gone, Carlos texted Nick that he’d landed some prey and would be out at the warehouse soon.  As he typed, he occasionally glanced up, keeping an eye on Colton and making sure the fucker didn’t duck out with his money.

 

The rentboy didn’t sneak out, though; he had other plans.

 

“Hey, I wanna run by my place before we go to the set,” Colton said, returning to Carlos with a big bottle of cheap malt liquor.  The ex-con was amused to find a bar selling the shit—at least the cocksucker hadn’t spent much money yet.

 

“What for?” he asked the kid.

 

“I wanna shower before gettin’ nekkid,” the punk said with a mischievous grin.

 

“We gotta shower at the set,” Carlos responded.

 

“…and I wanna change.  And get my poppers.  C’mon, dude, just a quick pitstop.”

 

Carlos’s lips were compressed into a thin straight line when he agreed to run the motherfucker by his apartment on the way out to the warehouse.  This cunt was asking for too much and the more he gave way, the more Carlos’s vicious, perverted combination of rage and lust mounted within him.

 

The meat was gonna pay.  One way or another, it was gonna pay.

 

“Awright,” the convicted killer growled, “Let’s get moving.”

 

The slut chugged his bottle of cheap booze and followed the hardbodied older man out the door.  Carlos wasn’t concerned about being seen; at this hour on a Friday night, the fag bar was packed, with dude entering and leaving constantly.  The heavy traffic hid the fact that the kid in the hoodie was following the leather-clad stud into the parking lot.

 

Carlos slid soundlessly into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes.  The boywhore, clearly impressed at the ride, slid into the passenger seat and gave the ex-con his address.  Soon, they were out of the parking lot, heading north on Las Vegas Boulevard.  Carlos left the top of the convertible down; it was a pleasant evening—and, more importantly, the outside noise was long enough that he didn’t have to hear whatever the meat jabbering away about.

 

Judging by what little he could pick, up, the stupid cunt was blathering about something he was going to do tomorrow—as if the motherfucker was gonna be alive tomorrow.  Well, it would learn its mistake soon enough.

 

Colton’s apartment turned out to be in a squalid little building south of Sahara and east of Boulder Highway, a two-story structure built in the early sixties and not maintained with particularly loving care.   It stretched the width of the narrow block, shaped like a bracket—a long row of apartments with metal stairs and an exterior balcony for the second floor.  The units at each end were turned end-on, forming the short sides of the bracket; in the middle was the parking, entered by either street.

 

The building’s address was on Worth Street; the ground floor unit on that end was the manager’s apartment.  Colton’s was the other end.  Carlos drove to the far end of the lot, avoiding any open spaces, and pulled up next to the building at the far end, well past the parking area—and all the doors and windows.  He figured the faded ocher mark on the crumbling asphalt was a no parking fire line—but he knew damn good and well that cops in this neighborhood had more important things to do than worry about illegal parking.

 

Colton jumped out of the car, heading briskly around the corner.  Carlos got out and slipped off his leather jacket, tossing it onto the floorboards of the back seat, where it was virtually invisible.  He started to follow the whore, when suddenly he heard one of the apartment doors open.  Freezing momentarily, he forced himself to relax and crept to the corner of the building.  Just then, he heard voices.

 

“Hey, Colt, that you, dude?”

 

“Uh, yeah, hey, Denny…I, uh, I don’t have time—”

 

“’S’cool, man.  Just wanted to tell ya Buddy’s been lookin’ for ya.  He sez he gotta great batch of quality meth, but you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ till he gets the fifty bucks back, ok?  Said he’d be back latter for it.  Gotta run, yo.  Peace!”

 

There was the slam of a car door, then Carlos saw a small foreign car with a make indistinguishable in the darkness—there were no lights on the apartment building and on the other side of the parking area was a featureless wall of concrete blocks three stories high.  The car headed away, towards the street.  Deciding it was a bad idea to wait any longer, he dashed around the corner, his boots pounding on the pavement, and got to Colton’s front door just in time to keep the whore form slamming it his face.

 

“I changed my mind,” the kid said, struggling to shove the door shut, “I ain’t goin’.”

 

Carlos’s fury didn’t impair his intelligence.  He was able to put the conversation he’d just heard together with the fucker’s request for fifty bucks in the bar and realized the piece of shit had never intended to accompany him to the set.

 

He thought he could rip Carlos off for drug money and just walk away.  The goddam little motherfucker actually thought that.

 

Colton must have seen something in Carlos’s eyes; his efforts to close the door, which had been energetic, suddenly became frenzied—downright panicked, in fact.

 

They didn’t do him a damn bit of good.

 

Carlos force himself through the door with such violent intensity that the inside door hand was buried in the sheetrock and Colton was flung halfway across the room.  The kid landed flat on his back on top of a brass-and-glass coffee table that had been the height of Eighties fashion but was by now so decrepit that Colton’s weight reduced to a pile of bent metal and razor-sharp shards.

 

Groaning and rubbing his face, Colton looked up to catch the muscle-bound ex-con grinning sadistically as he pulled the door free of the wall, closed it, and locked it behind him, maintaining eye contact with the kid the entire time.  There was something deliberately malicious about the actions that filled Colton with an almost overwhelming fear.

 

The room was small.  Colton lay on the floor between a loveseat and an easy chair.  The loveseat had been an expensive piece at one time, but now its blue-and-gold brocade was worn and split, with tufts of soiled stuffing peeping through.  The easy chair, with its ottoman was brown velour, stained and rubbed bald in spots.  There was a spindly side table with a thrift-store lamp; on the other wall, a large LED TV completed the living room furniture.

 

The kitchen was the far end of the room, just beyond the loveseat.  There was no dividing line, just a small fridge, a single sink and what almost looked like a miniature electric range lining the far wall with about two square feet of tiled counter.

 

The place was so small, Carlos could see the grout missing between the tiles from the front door.

 

To the left, just past the TV, was a doorway that presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom.  At least, that was what Carlos assumed when he noticed the way Colton’s eyes kept darting towards it, as if he was calculating his chances of making it.

 

And that’s exactly what the terrified little rentboy was doing.  Colton was a greedy, drug-addled slut, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could make it into the bedroom before the muscular psycho reached him.  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t maneuver himself into a position that tilted the odds in his favor…

 

His hood fell back, revealing a sandy blond disheveled mop.  Carlos’s eyes narrowed as he watched Colton’s tight, fur-covered calves shift and his Nikes dig into the carpet.  He knew exactly what the fucker was trying to do, but he wasn’t worried.  This little wad of fagmeat wasn’t going anywhere except to its grave.

 

Suddenly, Colton sprang into movement, exactly as the experienced boykiller expected.  The only thing Carlos hadn’t specifically foreseen was the direction of Colton’s flight; instead of breaking for Carlos’s right or left, the homo tried scrambling right over the loveseat.  Carlos reached out to grab him and caught a firm grip on the edge of his hoodie.

 

Colton fumbled frantically with the zipped; as he did so, in his fear, he kept straining to get away from the hulking sadist.  When, quite by chance, he managed to get his zipper undone, he was so overbalanced that instead of breaking for the kitchen, he simply tumbled over the back of the loveseat onto the floor.

 

He braced his palms on the thin, scratchy carpet, lifted his eyes—and before he could get level, found himself confronted with Carlos’s black leather harness boots.

 

Colton didn’t want to keep raising his eye, but he was somehow compelled.  The Latino convict’s jeans did nothing to hide his thick thigh muscles and firm calves, but once Colton got the bulge in the sicko’s groin, the kid had to pause.

 

His faggot pig interest in the powerful older stud had been subdued by need for cash (he wouldn’t let himself go far enough to recognize the meth addiction that caused the need for cash) but Carlos could see the look that now crept over the cocksucker’s face.  Grinning with malignity, he reached down to his crotch and slowly slid his zipper down.  Then, with equally dramatic pacing, he extracted his massive tube of thick, potent manmeat, laying his pulsating rod out for the worthless pansy to admire.

 

Colton, in his tank top and shorts, rose onto his hands and knees.  Looking up, he reached out for Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “Dude, I want that in me—”

 

“Too late, asswipe,” Carlos snarled, and kicked him in the face, snapping his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth.  “Ya tried to rip me off, motherfucker.  Ya need to learn whadda real bad idea that was.  Betcha startin’ to figure that out, huh?  That was lesson one.  Here’s lesson two, cunt.”  Raising his foot, he stomped hard on Colton’s head, driving the thick sole of his boot deep into the boy’s cheek, leaving a deep, livid bruise that matched the tread pattern perfectly.

 

The young punk, stunned by the repeated impacts to his cranium, moaned and shuddered on the floor as Carlos stood over him, sneering.

 

“Didja like that, faggot?  Betcha did; you little cumsuckin’ pansies love it when a real dude lays a good hard beatdown on ya.  Every goddam homo I wasted died with a hard-on and you ain’t gonna be no different.”  He stopped to spit on the groaning whore.

 

Colton was in a lot of pain.  He’d been beaten before; sometimes, he even got paid for it.  And sometimes, the other guy had been really trying to hurt him, but somehow, this time was different.  He head was still reeling, too much to for him to analyze anything—but he knew he had to get away from this nutjob, or he was gonna die.

 

He began to climb to his knees, slowly.  He was well aware that Carlos was standing right next to him, watching his movements, but whatever happened, he wasn’t gonna be in a position to do anything if he was still on the floor.  So he got up.

 

As the boy rose shakily to his feet, his eyes, desperately avoiding his tormentor’s massive, jutting cock, skipped up to the Hispanic stud’s ripped abs, clearly visible through his skin-tight cotton wifebeater, and furry, muscle-bound torso.  For a moment, his gaze was caught by the glimmer of the thick gold chain around Carlos’s neck—like any good whore, gold could distract him even in times of crisis—but he had to look away once he reached the ex-con’s handsome face and found the cold, contemptuously amused smirk waiting for him.

 

His next glance was at the killer’s thickly-muscled arms, writhing with ink, but he had to look away from them, too.  It was an instinctive reflex; it meant he didn’t have to consciously acknowledge the sheer physical power capable of being unleashed upon his lean young body.

 

Carlos knew the little slut was gonna run.  They always thought they could get away.  Maybe he should warn the motherfucker; he didn’t feel like chasing the meat—just pounding it.  “Don’t even try, you stupid little—”

 

Colton bolted.

 

He fled like a startled deer and was through the doorway on the side of the room, Carlos hot on his heels.  It was another instinctive reaction for the boy; he had a vague idea of locking he bedroom door behind him, buying enough time to get out the bedroom window.  But when he turned into the tiny L-shaped hallway that led to the bathroom one way and the bedroom the other, he was confronted with the fact that he’d closed his bedroom door.

 

He was sweaty with panic, and his palms were slick.  The few seconds he spent fumbling with the doorknob were enough for Carlos to catch up.

 

Colton had no way of knowing the details of what was happening to him; he felt a violent whipping sensation followed by a bone-jarring impact that seemed to tear at him.  A fraction of a second of weightlessness was followed by an impact of such intensity that he lost consciousness.

 

Back in the hallway, Carlos snarled.  In his rage, he reached up to his collar and without thinking about it, ripped the thin cotton top like wet paper, tearing the shreds from his ripped, muscled torso and tossing them on the floor behind him.  Throwing the fucking cunt through the closed door had whetted his rage, not diminished it.  He barged through the open doorway, dislodging the remaining pieces of the door that still clung to the twisted hinges—mute evidence to the violence of Colton’s impact.

 

The kid was huddled on the floor near the head of the bed, moaning and twitching in a pile of splintered particle board that had once been a cheap nightstand.  Carlos flicked on the overhead light as he entered; under its bleak glare, he could see the heaving fuckmeat stirring and regaining consciousness.  Its smooth, youthful skin hadn’t yet started the inevitable roughening that was the natural result of drug addiction, but blood was trickling from a number of lacerations across its back, chest, and thighs.  Some of the cuts had been inflicted by a porcelain lamp, the shattered remains of which could be seen spread around Colton’s body.

 

The kid was vaguely aware of Carlos’s approach.  His vision was blurred, and his swollen eyes didn’t want to open.  When they did, he was confronted with a familiar sight—and one that filler him with despair.  Some part of his faggot soul thrilled at finding himself at floor level with a muscular stud’s harness boots, but he already knew that Carlos’s proximity meant pain.

 

He had no idea how right he was about to be proved.

 

The dazed slut had been aware that Carlos had picked up something behind him.  The powerful killer’s grunt indicated that he was putting effort into something, but even when the bent and stripped base of the lamp fell to the floor in front of him, Colton still hadn’t figured out what Carlos was up to.

 

Not that it mattered; he’d learn in good time.  In any case, the fagkiller’s next action put that lamp right out of the boy’s mind.

 

Colton was still mostly face-down; Carlos pressed his boot down on the nape of the fucker’s neck, pinning him to the floor.  Casually reaching down and grabbing the collar of kid’s tank top, he proceeded to rip it off the whore as easily as he’d torn his own off.

 

Standing back upright, looming over his victim, Carlos looked down at the pathetic faggot huddled shirtless on the floor.

 

“Get up, motherfucker.  Now, goddamit!”

 

Colton heard and knew he had to obey.  He tried, he really did, but only managed to make it to his knees before Carlos lost patience and grabbed him by the throat.

 

If Colton had been an impartial observer, he would have been impressed with the sheer physical strength it took to lift his strong young body one-handed and hold it aloft, arm ramrod-straight, with no other support.  Colton, of course, was not an impartial observer; in fact, given that his entire body was now dangling from a powerful hand clamped around his windpipe, he was starting to choke—and it was terrifying.

 

He did himself no favors.  His panic only made him kick his legs, his Nike 4 Breds swinging inches above the thin beige carpet, as Carlos tried to yank his shorts down.  If he’d kept his legs still, it would’ve been over faster—but then, Carlos wouldn’t have enjoyed an early preview of the punk gagging as his face darkened with asphyxiation.

 

Once Colton had nothing left on but his socks and kicks, Carlos tossed him onto the bed, then paused and waited for him to recover.

 

He wanted the meat to be fully awake and aware for what happened next.

 

It didn’t take long; the fucker was awake and scrambling much faster than Carlos would have given him credit for; the muscular fagkiller pounced on the bed with the swiftness of a tiger, not letting his prey have the opportunity to escape.  After a quick tussle, Colton found himself on his back with the Latino’s heavy, powerful body straddling him.

 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere yet, cunt,” the tattooed convict snarled at the boywhore trapped helplessly underneath him.  Colton struggled, but Carlos was kneeling on his arms.

 

“L-look, dude, I, I didn’t wanna—” the kid started, but Carlos bent down over him.  The Hispanic ex-con, face to face with the young meth whore, shifted his right leg, reaching down and pulling Colton’s left arm free.

 

“Shaddup,” the hulking sadist growled, “What you want don’t matter anymore.  Yer gonna learn, asswipe; yer gonna learn what happens to thieving little faggot whores.  Good with stealin’ shit, are ya?  Got light fingers?  Tell ya what—let’s see if we can make ‘em a little lighter!”

 

He held Colton’s hand up into the kid’s face, wrapping one of his own huge hands around the boy’s smaller one, clutching it tight, with the fingers point straight out.  With the other hand, he grabbed the kid’s index finger and began bending it backwards.  Slowly.

 

He wasn’t trying to break the finger, he’d grabbed it far too close to the first knuckle to break the bone.  Instead, he slowly and relentlessly torqued it so far back he separated it at the knuckle joint.

 

Colton’s eyes began to bulge as his sinews and tendons began to rip free like cast-off mooring lines.  When the finger finally came loose with sickening gristly cracking sound like a chicken wing being torn from the carcass, the boy began to shriek.

 

Carlos reacted instantly—the walls of this shithole were too thin for him to enjoy the meat’s screaming.  A few line-drive punches straight to the fucker’s face shut him up, with Carlos emphasizing the point.

 

“Shut [WHAM] yer goddam cocksuckin’ mouth [WHAM] and take it, motherfucker [WHAM]!”

 

As Colton flopped back on the bed, Carlos, still straddling him, reached down and buckled the thick black leather belt that encircled his tight waist.  Pulling it gently free, he wound the end without the buckle around his right hand.

 

“Fuck, son, looks like yer daddy didn’t beat ya enough.  That the problem, huh?  That why yer a thief? That why yer screamin’ like a girl?  That why yer takin cock up yer ass like a girl?  I can fix that, you sick piece a’ shit.  I can fix you for good.  But first, I’m gonna beat ya like yer daddy shoulda.”

 

The metal edge of the buckle made a mean whistle as Carlos whipped it though the air.  The thud of metal on flesh was erotic as fuck, while Colton’s shriek of pain was glorious.

 

The belt buckle left a huge red welt on the punk’s smooth chest.  As the hulking sadist raised his powerful arm to land another blow, the whoreboy raised his left arm, index finger dangling uselessly, to try to ward off the impact.  With a snarl, Carlos batted it out of the way and began lashing the cunt.

 

The first two blows hit Colton on the face, the metal edges of the buckles splitting the skin, leaving the kid with a pair of slashes on his right cheek, trickling blood as the skin underneath turned black and puffed up with the intense bruising.   The boy kept yelling and crying; Carlos needed to keep him quiet, given the thin walls of the cheap apartment.  That was easily done—he pounded his fist into the slut’s face a few times, leaving the boy dazed and groaning as the vicious fagkiller continued to lash at him with the belt, leaving the punk’s smooth flesh severely marked with the evidence of a brutal beating.

 

Finally, heaving with the effort, his huge muscular body glistening with sweat, Carlos tossed the belt down.  He’d worked off his current surge of anger, but meth whores are tough meat and need a bit of tenderizing.  The cunt might need a few more love taps…

 

Colton was in a deep fog of physical agony and fear.  His entire body, from his impaled asshole to his pounded face, seemed to pulse with indescribable pain.  He’d stopped thinking coherently and was just enduring, holding on.  Never good at rational thought to begin with, the stupid little slut could only sink into the state of a dumb beast and try to weather the storm.

 

And yet through it, all, Colton was vividly hyperaware of his own inexplicable, humiliating erection.

 

Carlos was aware that he’d thrashed the meat too hard and that he was losing command of its attention when the whore’s fuckhole began to loosen up on his shaft.  It happened sometimes; the really stupid ones had some kinda mental breakdown at the concept of imminent death.  They’d never tried to conceptualize the end of their own existence, and they simply couldn’t handle it.

 

He wasn’t getting off that easy.  The mindfuck was half the fun.  And the one sure way to snap the fucker back to reality, as Carlos knew by experience, was to snap one of its bones.

 

Colton could see the hardbodied killer leaning over him, the thick gold chain dangling down as Carlos reached for his right hand.  As the powerful sadist began bending his right thumb backwards, the kid, realizing he was getting the same treatment as earlier, pulled himself out of his self-induced trance.

 

“No…w-wait… pl-please wait—AAIIIEEGHHughph!”

 

This one was like pulling a drumstick loose.  It was tougher; there were more tendons and ligaments to rip apart.  Carlos paused in the middle to quiet the kid’s howl of pain by popping him hard, once, in the jaw, then returned to pulling Colton’s thumb out of its socket.

 

By the time the sick fagkiller let go of the boy’s hand, Colton was through.  He lay back on the bed, limp, his eyes wide and surrounded by huge circles of shock so dark they almost looked like makeup.  He was used up.  There was no fight in him.  He wasn’t retreating into an inner world, he was just there, riding the Hispanic’s thick cock like an inflatable sex doll.

 

Well, that was an easy fix.  Reaching into his back pocket, Carlos pulled out something he’d tucked away earlier—the power cord he’d ripped out of the bedside lamp after he’d thrown the cunt through the door.  Smiling gently, he held it out, letting it dangle in front of Colton’s eyes.  The boy looked at it blankly, with virtually no curiosity.  Its significance utterly escaped him.

 

He didn’t retain the luxury of ignorance for long.

 

The moment Carlos looped the cord around his neck, Colton began shaking his head.  Dumbass meth head that he was, even he knew what it meant as the hypermasculine fagkiller cinched the plastic-covered wires around his throat.

 

“No…no, don’t, no no NOOOOackgth—” his final plea for his life ground to a choked gurgle as the muscled hardman tightened the cord.

 

The whoreboy choked and gagged, his eyes boggling incredulously as his oxygen supply ceased.  Instantly jerking and twisting, he began clawing desperately at his throat, his fingers—at least, the ones that were working—frenetically trying to dig at and under the vicious ligature.

 

Carlos grinned triumphantly as the boy writhed beneath him, feeling the kid’s smooth, firm body pressing desperately against his own heavy muscled bulk.  “Yeah, cunt, that’s it!  Show me how bad it hurts to die, motherfucker. Work my rod, you worthless whore, jack me off as you kick yer useless faggot life away, bitch!”

 

The cord had sunk too far into Colton’s neck for the slut to be able to grasp it; all he was doing was tearing and abrading his own flesh trying to reach it.  He transferred his attention to the next available thing: Carlos himself.

 

As an experienced whorekiller, Carlos knew that the meat would turn on him at some point.  Once the punk’s maimed hands flew up into the air, the sadistic psycho jerked his head up and back, keeping his face out of reach of the homo’s flailing fingers.  Colton brushed the tip of his chin a couple of times, then went for his chest.

 

Carlos’s furry torso and hard, sculpted pecs easily withstood the dying cunt’s onslaught, but the little fuck was spiraling into blind panic.  As the pressure increased inside Colton’s head, he could feel his eyeballs and tongue swelling.  It was fucking excruciating; his head felt like it was gonna pop like a balloon.  The was a crushing and fiery pain in his chest from his aching lungs and his heart was pounding faster than seemed possible, the frightening tempo slamming though his confused, congested skull.

 

And through the entire ordeal, he could still feel his innards being reamed by the muscle-bound ex-con; the enormous head of the Latino’s cock seemed to tear through his guts like a plumber’s snake, shredding him from the inside.  Yet despite everything, his own dick was still painfully hard; as it was compressed between his sweaty flat belly and Carlos’s ripped furry abs, he could sense the hot precum leaking from it…

 

In blind pain and terror, he clawed and scratched at Carlos, his fingers digging into the older man, leaving long red marks on his skin, running down his chest.  With a loud grunt, the convicted killer neatly shifted both ends of the cord to his left hand without loosening the hold on the kid’s neck.  This freed his right hand for necessary control measures.

 

“Keep yer hands [WHAM] to yer fuckin’ self, [WHAM] ya stupid cocksucker! [WHAM]” Punctuating his demand with his fist, Carlos watched the boy’s hands drop to his sides.  He’d gotten his message across.  The meat was learning its place.

 

It took a little longer for him to get the lesson across; the meth whore didn’t die easy.  Its eyes, huge and bloodshot, stared with blank horror into its killer’s face as thick, foamy drool bubbled out past its black, protruding tongue and ran down its smooth cheeks.  The lithe young body, slick with the cold sweat of massive physical crisis, jerked and thrashed against Carlos, the smooth skin rubbing erotically over his thick fur.

 

“You’re on yer way out, motherfucker.  Hope yer enjoyin’ yer last few seconds on Earth, faggot, cause you were gonna die tonight anyway.  I was gonna snuff ya on camera.  All you fuckin’ pansies are good for is drainin’ my load as ya die on my cock, but I’d’a made ya famous. But ya had to try to rip me off—what a fuckin’ moron.  Now, yer gonna be just another junkie whore strangled in a cheap rat trap.”

 

The meat was no longer fighting against Carlos; as its body began seizing, it clutched at him as if seeking something to brace itself while it convulsed.  Each jerk of the body tightly clenched the cunt’s colon and the torn remains of its sphincter; it was like the dying homo was trying to jack Carlos off with its asshole.

 

“Get it, bitch, get that load,” the muscular ex-con snarled as he pulled on the lamp cord, the veins in his thick biceps starting to bulge, “C’mon, faggot, milk my spunk, motherfucker!”

 

Most of Colton was dead.  His legs flailed randomly, his feet jerking and drumming so violently the lost the Nike in his left foot, kicking it to the floor.  On the inside, there was nothing left but a red fog filled with a high-pitched whine.  But as Carlos felt his balls pucker and an electric tingle at the base of his enormous shaft, he gave one last powerful tug to the cord.  With a loud, thick crunch, the whoreboy’s hyoid bone snapped and its esophagus collapsed, crushed inwards into an impenetrable wad of bloody, mangled gristle.

 

The sound and sensation penetrated the whining fog.  Somewhere deep within Colton misfiring brain, some last shred of the fag’s personality recognized the sound as the signal for the end.

 

It was ok.  He could stop fighting.  He’d always known, down inside, that it might come to this someday—getting wasted by a psycho john.  But until this moment, he’d never let himself realize that he’d always deserved this—it was why he did what he did.

 

He needed this.  The young cunt needed a strong, powerful man to put an end to his worthless existence.  He was getting exactly what he deserved.

 

At that moment, his ass was flooded with hot potent manseed.  It was the trigger for release—the release of the punk’s load, his life, his soul.

 

Colton died spewing a solid jet of thick boycum.  As Carlos pumped the meat full of sperm, the kid’s DNA and life poured of his body simultaneously in a geyser of semen that smeared across their chests as their shuddering muscled male bodies intertwined, once in orgiastic ecstasy, one in convulsive death.

 

Carlos lay on top of the meat for a few moments, his sweaty flanks heaving as he caught his breath.  As he finally peeled himself stickily from the corpse, it was still shuddering violently, spread-eagled on its back with one sneaker off and its grotesquely swollen face jet black.  He paused to admire his work for a moment—and then he heard something.

 

Someone was knocking at the door.  Loudly and insistently.

 

“Hey Colton, open up!  It’s me, Buddy!”

 

More knocking, rattling the knob.

 

“I know yer in there, asshat.  I want my fuckin’ money, ya hear?”

 

Now it was banging, the thin door barely withstanding the impacts.

 

“Goddamit, if you ain’t in, I know ya got that leather jacket worth fifty…”

 

The next sound wasn’t from the door, it was from the window in the front room.  A very faint tinkle of glass—just enough to let Carlos know that this Buddy fucker was breaking in.

 

Looking around quickly, the buff killer, still shirtless with his cock out and dripping cum decided the closet was his best chance to take the newcomer by surprise.  He slipped in, pulling the door behind him until it was open just a crack.  Just in time, too, as a shadow darkened the doorway.

 

 


 

 

Buddy knew exactly where Colton kept that hot leather jacket.  If that cheap piece of ass didn’t pay his debts, buddy had no hesitation in helping himself to even the account.

 

Buddy was a twenty-two-year-old thug, and looked it.  His build was similar to Colton’s but he was leaner and wirier, and slightly shorter.  He kept his dark hair trimmed short and his goatee was remarkably like Carlos’s in shape and color, if not effect.

 

Carlos looked hot and erotic with his goatee; Buddy just looked scuzzy.

 

He wore an Oakland cap under a pulled-up sleeveless hoodie in blue fleece.  He was shirtless underneath, the hoodie vest unzipped down to his navel to reveal his smooth chest and his flat belly.  His black mid-thigh gym shorts displayed his firm thighs and furry calves; on his feet were Adidas Entrap hightops.

 

Weasel-like, his dark eyes flitted form side to side as he made his way through the window and into the apartment.  With no lights on, it took him a moment to adjust to the dim ambient lighting that was tricling form the bedroom.  Once he did, it became obvious that something had happened.

 

His first presumption, on seeing the smashed furniture, was that he wasn’t the first person to come looking for Colton’s valuables tonight.  Well, he damn sure didn’t want to run into any trouble.  Hopefully, the other dude was gone.

 

Creeping around the corner, the young drug dealer was too high himself to notice the remains of the bedroom door.  Buddy was in the doorway before he spied the inert form of Colton spread out on the bed, luridly lit by the stark overhead bulb.

 

“Colt?” Buddy asked hesitantly, “Th-that you, mang?”  He stole forward, bending over and poking the still-warm body.

 

Then, with a sick grin on his face and a quick glance back at the doorway, he began fondling the dead boy’s still-oozing cock.

 

With his free hand, Buddy reached down and pried his own stiff rod free of his shorts; his dick bobbed in the air, already throbbing with excitement.  “Always knew someone’d fuck ya up right, motherfucker,” he whispered hoarsely as he jacked himself with one hand and let the other roam over the cum-glazed corpse.  “Goddam, wish I coulda been here to see ya get what ya deserved.”

 

Glancing down, he suddenly noticed Colton’s cast-off Nike 4 Bred on the floor next to the bed.  His grin broadened and got more perverse as he bent and picked it up, then held it up to his face.

 

For a brief moment, Buddy was in heaven, huffing the dead whore’s sneaker as he jacked off over the corpse.  Then he heard a noise behind him.

 

What happened next, happened fast—fast than Buddy could comprehend.  He never truly knew what hit him.  At the sound, he whirled around, still inadvertently clutching the Nike to his face.  He had one brief glimpse of Carlos emerging from the closet, but since they were less than four feet apart to start with, he didn’t have time to register anything beyond a huge, tatted, muscle-bound stud, shirtless and with his huge cock hanging out.  Then Carlos was on him.

 

Seething with rage at the faggot perversion he was witnessing from the closet, the sadistic killer launched himself at the thug cunt, slamming one hand into the sole of the shoe Buddy still had pressed to his face.  At the same time, Carlos’s other hand shot past the dealer’s head and circled back, anchoring the back of his skull.

 

With swift, vicious brutality, the ex-con crushed the Nike into the boy’s face, then twisted his head more than one hundred eighty degrees.

 

The snapping of the punk’s neck was a loud as popcorn in the silent bedroom.  As Buddy’s vertebrae became shrapnel, ripping through his spinal cord, the massive trauma to the nervous system sent a shock through his already-stimulated scrotum.

 

The last thing Buddy saw as everything went white was Colton’s black, congested face.  He never felt the spontaneous, hands-free geyser of spunk that he shot all over Carlos at close range.  Thick gobs of semen splattered on the toes of the fagkiller’s boots as the already-dead thug fell with a dull thud, a boneless sack of meat.  His Adidas kicked twice, violently scuffing on the floor, then trembled and became still.

 

Carlos looked around for a moment and spotted a t-shirt on the floor in the corner.  He used it to scrub the cum of two dead boys off his chest and belly, then tossed it back on the floor.  He’d left his belt on the bed next to the whore; kicking the dealer’s corpse aside, he retrieved it and slipped it back around his waist.

 

He turned back at the doorway, taking a last look.  Colton, of course, hadn’t moved.  He was still splayed on his back, legs spread like the whore he’d been.  Huddled on the floor next to him, Buddy’s face stared grotesquely backwards, the jaw agape and the eyes rolled back in the head with only the whites showing.  The Nike he’d coveted had rolled a yard away when it was dropped by his nerveless fingers in the seconds before the rest of him hit the floor.

 

All in all, Carlos felt relatively satisfied.  Since the door was still locked, he decided to leave the apartment by the window, after checking out the scene to make sure he wasn’t observed.  Slipping his jacket on when he got in the car, he started it up and crept out of the lot in first with the headlights off.  He was halfway down the next block before he switched them on and sped up.

 

One thing was still bothering him.  He’d told Nick he had a boy.  Well he’d had two, but hadn’t managed to get them on film.  Reaching for his phone, he decided he might as well break the bad news to his business partner.

 

Just then, as he was approaching the intersection with the highway, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.  Or, rather, someone.  A dude…just a glimpse.  But it might be something.

 

He put the phone down and made a U-turn.

 

 


 

 

“Aw, fuck,” Schweitz cried in disgust, “Not another garbage run.  Hey, Nuñez, will ya lookit this shit?  More dead fags.”

 

“Yeah,” Nuñez sighed, “I heard.  Let’s just get it over, huh?  Sooner we get done here, sooner we can get back to workin’ real cases.”

 

“Ain’t gonna make sergeant handlin’ fuckin’ animal jobs like this…ok, the one on the bed, rough play with faggot boyfriend.  Got what he was askin’ for.  The one on the floor—I dunno.  Don’t really care, neither.”

 

“Think he offed the one on the bed?”

 

“Maybe.  But he didn’t twist his own fuckin’ head off.  Wish I knew who did.  I’d shake the guy’s hand and give him a medal—”

 

“Hey, detective, the ME guys are here,” interrupted one of the patrol cops outside from the living room.

 

“The meatwagon?” Schweitz barked, “Great.  I dunno, we’ll say some jealous homo killed his pansy and the fag fucking the pansy.  Deep-six the file as killer unknown.”

 

“Fine by me,” Nuñez replied, nodding to the ME techs as they entered to collect the corpses.  “Tag ‘em, bag ‘em, and drag ‘em the fuck outta here, boys.  It’s time for lunch.”

 

By three that afternoon, both detectives had had three beers and forgotten they’d had a double murder case that day.

 

Brotherly Love, part 2

Bound to a chair in a puddle of his own piss, Ross could only gaze on in abject horror as Eddie manhandled the corpse of his younger brother.  The buff ex-Marine took the dead teen’s wrist in one hand and grabbed a hank of his hair in the other and proceeded to drag the still-twitching body off the bed and along the floor toward the older adolescent.  Josh’s ped socks were peeled back and off, first the right, then the left.

 

In a moment of utter calm, Ross noticed that his brother’s toes were curling in their death throes, then wondered if he was losing his mind.  In the next two minutes, it became obvious that that was the more preferable alternative to accepting what was happening as reality.

 

“I’m gonna drain ya first, faggot,” Eddie chuckled, looming over him with his huge throbbing cock almost directly at eye level.  Even after everything that had happened, some part of Ross still wanted that massive, oozing, vein-gnarled shaft.  But he was able to break the spell long enough to glance hesitatingly upwards, taking in Eddie’s full physique as the muscular psycho hulked over him.  The stud’s bulging biceps and thick hubcap pecs were ample proof of the physical power the fagkiller was able to bring to bear on his helpless teenage victims.  Dogtags?  He hadn’t noticed the dogtags before.  His attention had been on other things, but there they were, dangling between the twin mound of his chest—

 

“There ya go,” Eddie said, snapping Ross back to reality, “Gonna milk ya dry first, so you can pay attention to milkin’ me when I waste ya.”

 

As he spoke, he lowered Josh’s head into Ross’s crotch, letting the teen’s stiff boycock project into the gaping mouth of his dead brother.

 

Ross gurgled in horror as Eddie forced the corpse further down onto his shaft, shoving Josh’s limp head forward until the dead kid was deepthroating his brother.  He titled the head back so that the eyes were staring straight up at Ross.

 

“Look at it,” the powerful sadist sneered, “Ya got a dead fag on yer cock.  Only good for one thing—use it, motherfucker, make it yer cumdump.”

 

And with those words, he began to bob the head up and down on Ross’s involuntarily erect boycock.  Looking into Josh’s vacant, starting eyes, the teen moaned in horror as the psychotic hardman started jacking him off with his brother’s skull—but part of the horror was that he’d jacked off himself, at one point, at the thought of his brother sucking his dick.

 

And this felt better than he’d imagined.  So much better, he couldn’t admit it to himself.

 

Eddie noticed, and laughed harshly.

 

“I thought so—you sick faggot fuck.  Yer fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?” he crowed, his clenched fist forcing the dead boy’s head repeatedly into Ross’s crotch.  The older teen shuddered and tried not to think about what was happening and how much it hurt that the words spoken by this cruel psychopath were right.  It did feel good—holy fuck, it felt fantastic the way Josh’s throat willingly engulfed Ross’s throbbing, hormone-primed cock—and that was wrong.

 

But the musclebound ex-Marine, spurred by an overwhelming sadistic impulse, kept jacking the adolescent punk off using his brother’s corpse.  The mere mindfuck alone was making Eddie’s massive tube of manflesh swell and pulse.

 

“Stop,” Ross moaned in a weak voice. In his pain and fear and confusion, he had a dim idea that what was happening now was some kind of challenge, or test.  If he blew a load down the dead boy’s throat, it meant, in some undefined way, that he was acknowledging the vicious stranger’s right to do what he had done, and was doing—and was going to do.

 

Ross stopped thinking at that point.  Or, rather, he closed his eyes tightly and tried desperately to think about anything else.

 

Eddie noticed his attempt and smirked.  “Tryin’ to ignore me, asswipe?  Haw!   Pansies don’t have any self-control.  That’s what makes ‘em so easy to snuff—it’s like they already know what they deserve.  This lil’ punkfuck here that’s milkin’ yer shaft, now, it knew it wanted a good hard exit.  It got so hot n’ horny about blowin’ its deathwad, it couldn’t even work my spunk out. That’s why I’m usin’ it to drain ya first.”

 

Here he bent down, grinning, his hard, handsome—and frighteningly jovial—face inches from Ross.  The hardman’s dogtags clinked as they bounced off Josh’s bobbing head.

 

“See, when yer time comes, ya piece a’ shit, I’m gonna make goddam sure that the last few seconds of yer useless life are devoted to making me cum.  Yer gonna go out like a fuckin’ dog, bitch, so hurry up and spunk.  C’mon, motherfucker, the sooner ya shoot, the sooner you can start dyin’ on my dick!”

 

And as Eddie pumped Josh’s head faster and faster on Ross’s cock, the teen turned his tear-streaked face away, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.  He couldn’t give in.  He couldn’t cum.  He’d die if he did.

 

He was gonna die anyway, but he didn’t know that.  Or, rather, his mind wasn’t capable of harboring that idea yet.  That would come later.  Ross was focused on not cumming now, but it was getting more and more difficult.

 

He could feel the precum seeping out of his hard teen cock, adding to the lubrication of Josh’s still-slick esophagus.  His younger brother had only been dead a few minutes; it was almost as if Josh was still there, deliberately giving him a blow job—no, he couldn’t think that; he’d shoot his wad…

 

“Yer gettin’ off, aintcha?” Eddie asked with an abrasive, mocking laugh as he continued to pump Josh’s skull onto his older brother’s shaft.  “Don’t matter if the faggot’s dead—it can still give head, huh?”  The powerful ex-Marine reached out and grabbed a handful of Ross’s hair, forcing the boy’s head down.

 

Having both brothers by the hair, Eddie manipulate the corpse even faster, keeping up an even stroke, making sure that Josh’s immobile throat was perfectly aimed for plugging by Ross’s oozing rod.  “C’mon, motherfucker, shoot.  Ya know ya wanna.  How many times you beat off thinkin’ about this pansy wrappin’ its lips around yer meat, huh?  Now ya got it, an’ it’s the best kinda fag to cum in—a dead one.  C’mon, you goddam punkfuck, unload a wad down its throat!”

 

Ross couldn’t hold back.  His eyes were clenched, his jaw was clenched even tighter; his teeth hurt.  The swollen bruise on his chin where Eddie had decked him was throbbing and his lithe adolescent body was slick with sweat as he vainly tried to stifle his orgasm.  Suddenly he cried out, a hoarse, inarticulate shout of visceral physical release.

 

As Ross hunched over his dead brother’s head, spewing hot jets of hormone-packed teen semen down Josh’s unresponsive throat, Eddie broke out in loud, cruel laughter.  Ross continued to grunt and spasm, but tears were trickling down his smooth cheeks.

 

He’d never cum this hard before, ever.  Why couldn’t this have happened before Josh was…before he’d been…

 

And as the boyseed kept streaming out of him, Ross knew he’d been defeated.  He’d fight whatever was coming next; he’d have to, but the hot hardbodied man to whom he’d been willing to freely give his body earlier in the day was now going use his body in unspeakable ways.  And there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.

 

Eddie knew it, too.  He let go of Ross’s hair and stood up, jerking Josh’s head up off Ross’s still-leaking boymeat.  The dead kid’s jaw hung limply open, white trails of sperm leaking from both corners of the spunk-filled mouth.  Without glancing at it, Eddie forcefully jerked his arm, flinging the corpse down to one side like disposed garbage.

 

Ross looked at Josh in a kind of blank despair, then raised his eyes and met Eddie’s gaze.  The look of cold, cruel triumph twinkled in the fagkiller’s eyes like stars in a summer’s twilight.  Reaching into a pocket of his camo pants, he pulled out a set of handcuff keys.

 

“Now yer ready to ride my fuckin’ manhog all the way down into yer grave, fucker.  Buckle up, bitch, this is gonna be long and painful.  But remember, you better work my dick good, ya faggot asswipe, or I’ll make it hurt worse.  Milk my shaft or you’ll be fuckin’ beggin’ to die, yeah?”

 

The keys jingled as he bounced them in his palm, slowly striding to Ross’s rear.  “Time to get the show on the road,” came the low and somehow still-sexy voice from behind, “I got some business tonight.  Need to start wastin’ yer ass so I can drain my nads and get goin’.”

 

Ross’s hands were suddenly pulled painfully up behind him, but even as he cried out, there were some metallic clicks and suddenly his arms were free.

 

The “fight-or-flight” response is strong in the young; it kicked in the moment Ross felt the cuffs released.  Directly from his sitting position, he lunged toward the door, completely forgetting that his legs were still strapped to the chair legs.  The panicked homo toppled forward, falling across his brother’s still-quivering legs and stunning himself as his forehead hit the floor simultaneously with the high wooden back of the chair striking the back of his head.

 

In a deep fog, Ross felt his legs being untied and the chair being removed, all to the sound of a deep rumble that he was too dazed to recognize as Eddie’s sardonic chuckling.  He came abruptly out of his haze, though, when the hulking sadist bent down, grabbed a hank of his dark hair, and jerked him up onto his knees; Ross had to cooperate with the movement to avoid having his scalp ripped open.  As he knelt, panting, Eddie grasped his upper arms form behind, the ex-Marine’s hands completely encircling the teen’s biceps.

 

With no more effort than if he was tossing a pillow, Eddie flung Ross onto the bed; the kid hit face-down, but his momentum rolled him up and over so that he ended up diagonally across the bed, on his back.

 

Ross raised his head to see Eddie approaching the bed, grinning ominously.  The psychotic ex-Marine’s well-defined body glistened in the dim light under a thin sheen of sweat.  The boy allowed the jingling of the dogtags to pull his eyes from Eddie’s cold deadly gaze, but in letting them drift down, he found himself confronted with the sadist’s enormous shaft, dripping in anticipation—

 

—and Ross, knowing what it was dripping in anticipation of, began whimpering.

 

Eddie reached the bed and climbed up on it, slowly parting Ross’s smooth, firm thighs like a lover; only the vicious smirk on the hardbodied top’s face showed that this wasn’t gonna be a romantic scene.  Bringing Ross’s legs up until they rested on his shoulders, Eddie nestled himself in and began slapping his huge rod on Ross’s dick and balls as if he was beating them with a club.  Ross moaned loudly, partly in pain and partly in pleasure.

 

Ross would have denied the pleasurable aspect if he’d had the chance, but Eddie beat him to it—literally, with a sudden powerful backhand the split the teen’s lip.  “Ya like real mancock, faggot?  Good.  Take it, cunt, take my thick meat all the down to its root!” he snarled.  Ross felt a sudden pressure against his sphincter, and then his virgin asshole was torn open.

 

“Aw fuck yeah!” Eddie grunted, “Nice and tight.  Caughtcha just in time, didn’t I, you and the other one?  Gonna waste yer faggot ass before ya can breed.  Yeah, bitch, ya feel that in ya?  That’s the dick of a real man, a man who knows how to put down the baby fags before they can spread their perversion.  Enjoy my cock, ya worthless homo; it’s too goddam good for the likes of you!”

 

He spit in Ross’s grey, taut face, then leaned back and started pounding the teen’s fuckhole in earnest, whaling on the kid’s ass like a jackhammer.   It was more than Ross could take; the initial penetration had been agonizing, but this was unendurable.  The thick, engorged head of Eddie’s tool was scourging the tender lining of the kid’s colon.

 

Ross shrieked, high and shrill, like a girl.  Eddie chuckled and reamed him even harder.  It was a big house, and the neighbors weren’t close.  The teen boy screamed for more than three minutes straight, to absolutely no avail, before Eddie got bored with the noise and put an end to it by punching Ross hard in the face, twice, breaking his nose.

 

“Goddam, cunt,” he growled, “Yer fuckhole gets a real nice flutter when ya scream, but it ain’t worth that shit.  Keep it down or I’ll do it for ya.”  All this was said with an even tone as the muscular ex-Marine fucked the teen relentlessly.

 

Ross hadn’t completely shut up, but he managed to back it down to a low, snuffling sob, made nasal by a crushed nose and sinus passages blocked with blood.  But the remorseless, machine-like pounding in his ass was painful, it was agonizing, it was…starting to feel good.

 

Pumped full of adolescent hormones, Ross realized with dismay that his cock was getting stiff again.  It was happening outside of his control, as his rectum slowly relaxed around the huge shaft that was impaling it.  His moaning was starting to subside, too, as his ass began to stretch to fit the shape of Eddie’s cock.

 

The sadistic fagkiller knew what was happening, and why.

 

“You know yer gonna die,” he said, looking down into Ross’s face a he fucked the teen inexorably, his dogtags resting on the kid’s smooth chest, “Fuckin’ faggots are all alike.  I wasted yer worthless little shit of a brother and I’m gonna waste you too—and yer still fuckin’ hard.  Love the D so much yer willin’ to die for it, huh, cocksucker?”

 

Ross responded by struggling.  He didn’t stop to consider if it was physically possible for him to escape the older, stronger man’s grasp; he began writhing and flailing as soon as Eddie’s words seeped into his consciousness.  He’d refused to acknowledge the obvious outcome of the situation, despite watching Josh get slaughtered in front of his eyes, but Eddie’s voice drove it home.

 

He fought hard.  Eddie chuckled as the teenaged punk thrashed beneath him, the way the boy’s smooth, sweat-slicked skin slid against his chest and belly like suede…not that he was a fag, of course.  But the homos needed to learn their place, and it felt so fuckin’ good teachin’ ‘em.

 

Ross curled his fists and beat at Eddie’s massive, rock-hard chest.  The kid was punching as hard as he could—harder, even, as fear and adrenaline amped up his power—but for all the effect he was having, it might as well have been a cinderblock wall.  He reached for Eddie’s face, but the powerful psycho knocked the boy’s hand’s away with ease.

 

Nothing was working, and Ross was wearing himself out.  He stopped struggling and lay back on the bed.

 

“Given up, huh?” Eddie sneered, “Figures.  See, there might be a reason to let ya live if you were a good fuck, but you dumbass fags can’t even do that right.  So now I’m gonna hafta make ya work might shaft, and work it right.”

 

He bent down and thrust his cold, hard face right into Ross’s, grinning maniacally.  “This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  Goddam, I love this shit!”  He clamped his big left hand around the punk’s throat and began squeezing.

 

His grip had a steel-like strength, instantly narrowing Ross’s windpipe to a point where it nearly closed.  Not quite, though.  The sadistic hardman wanted to watch his prey struggle a bit.

 

Ross had exhausted himself into complacency, but that all changed when his air supply was cut.  He could still breathe, but it took effort—a lot of effort—to get oxygen; every strain was accompanied by a faint wheeze as a few cubic inches of air entered his lungs.

 

“How’s that feel, faggot?”  Eddie jeered, “Ya likin’ that?  No?  Better start workin’ my dick, ya little slut, cause the moment I get bored with yer homo ass, I’m gonna crush yer fuckin’ throat and let ya die on my cock.  Now move yer ass, motherfucker!!”

 

His right hand was still free to make the fist that he drove into Ross’s face.  The first one came so suddenly, so fast, that the kid didn’t have time to flinch.  Eddie pounded the boy six times, half a dozen meaty thuds reverberating in the room as the ex-Marine blackened the teen’s eyes and knocked three teeth down his throat.

 

And with each blow, Ross’s ass squeezed Eddie’s dick tightly.

 

And with each blow, Ross’s hard boycock lurched up off his flat smooth belly, a transparent bead of precum sparkling like a jewel on the head of his dick.

 

“That’s it, asswipe, just like that.  Ya need more?  Ya like bein’ a punchin’ bag, ya goddam homo?  Fine with me, ya sick fuck!”

 

Ross sobbed incoherently, his tears mingled with snot and blood, as Eddie turned his attention lower and sent two roundhouse punches into the boy’s chest, one landing on each firm pec with a loud, hollow thump.  “Hoog!” Ross cried out, not so much a spoken word as the inarticulate sound of air forced violently past the vocal cords.

 

Grinning, Eddie then plowed his fist like a piledriver into the teen’s flat belly, three powerful blows in succession, driving every last inch of reserve air from the bottom of the boy’s lungs.

 

Ross raised his head up off the bed.  His eyelids were swelling but they stayed open, and the look of horror and despair in the adolescent’s eyes was what Eddie wanted to see.  The faggot was starting to learn its real place in the world.

 

Time to finish the lesson.  He tightened his grip.  The movement was easy, nonchalant, barely noticeable—and it completely cut off Ross’s air.  The kid’s expression didn’t change; his body was still rigid and stunned by the battering it had endured.  And then he began to convulse.

 

It wasn’t a genuine convulsion, but he was trying violently to inhale.  Nothing was happening, no air was coming in, so the lithe teenaged fag began to spasm, almost as if he was drowing.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Eddie grunted, “Work for it.  Work for that air, ya stupid bitch.  Just keep tryin’, dumbass, it feels so good on my shaft.”

 

Ross heard the ex-Marine’s harsh taunting voice; he didn’t know what was happening to him, but he knew it was Eddie’s fault.  It gave him somewhere to focus his panic—and his hands.  He tried to pry off the vice-like hand that was squeezing his airway shut with no effect at all.  As the pressure inside his skull began to mount, the teenager was swiftly losing control.

 

Suddenly, Eddie found his face full of scrabbling, clawing fingers.  He quickly jerked his head to the left, dodging enough that Ross’s gouging fingernails ended up scraping across the buff killer’s broad, rock-hard chest.  The long red scratches weren’t painful, but Eddie was pissed.

 

“Don’t you fuckin’ fight me, faggot!” he roared and began pounding his fist into the boy’s face…but this time he didn’t stop.

 

It felt too good; every time his wrecking-ball fist plowed into the boymeat, it jerked and twitched, giving his huge throbbing rod an extra squeeze as it reamed out the cunt’s rectum.  “That’s it,” the muscular killer grunted, “That’s what fags are good for.  Gotta make fuckin’ meat puppets outta ‘em first, though, yeah?”

 

By some cruel quirk of fate, Ross was still awake.  His face was being caved in—with occasion blows to the chest and stomach to change things up—but he hadn’t lost consciousness yet.  The pain of the beating was terrible, but it was fading.  Even the unbearable burning in his chest was fading.

 

The pain in his head, though, that wasn’t fading.  The pressure and the pounding within his cranium were nightmarish; he could feel his eyes bulge excruciatingly despite swollen blackened lids.  The horrible sensation in his mouth was his thick purple tongue slowly protruding past his split, bleeding lips.  The pain below, where he was getting raped—

 

—but that wasn’t his ass.  He knew he was still getting fucked; he could tell Eddie’s tool was buried deep in his guts, but the pain, the intense aching pain he was feeling was from his own cock.  It was literally so hard it hurt.

 

“I gotta go; time to unload,” Eddie announced.  “Say goodnight, motherfucker; time to make ya into meat.”  He slammed his fist three times into Ross’s jaw, breaking it in several places.  Then, before the tortured adolescent could react, Eddie leaned forward and put his weight on the hand around the boy’s throat.  With the meat pinned into place, Eddie placed his other hand behind its head.  His next movement was so fast as to be nearly invisible, but it was effect.

 

He jerked the head up while pressing the neck down in one single, swift, and very powerful movement.  The loud wet cracking sounds of the fag’s vertebrae shattering were what triggered Eddie’s orgasm.  He’d done what he needed to.  He’d shown the faggot that he was a real alpha male.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!  Yeah!  Die, ya faggot scum! Fuck! Fuck!”

 

All of Ross’s existence was compressed into the final nightmarish seconds of his life as his spinal cord was ripped out of his brain and a cataclysmic shock tore through his nervous system.  His entire being was distilled into that final blast of searing agony where his soul was stripped from its moorings and expelled from his body in jets of hot semen.  His deathload hollowed him out; as thick streams of boycum spewed from his erect shaft and covered both Eddie’s chest and his own, the teenaged faggot slid into the cold void of death.

 

Eddie shuddered and shot, grunting and punching the meat.  The homo was dead; it was shuddering and kicking in its death throes.  Even its sphincter flexed in death, milking Eddie thoroughly.  Finally, with a satisfied sigh, he extracted his mammoth shaft from the corpse and got off the bed.

 

Looking around, he spotted a door in the corner that evidently led to a bathroom.  He was right; the rich bitch had an attached bath.  Inside, he contemptuously swept aside bottles of cologne and scented body wash to soak a face towel in the sink.  Once wet, he used it to clean off his dick and wipe the dead boy’s cum off his chest before tossing it into the toilet.  Heading back to the bedroom, he paused in the doorway to admire the tableau.

 

Two dead baby fags—not a bad day’s work.  One was huddled on the floor, the thick red lines of blood that had leaked from the multiple holes in the body were now coagulated, thick and viscous.  From the way it was curled on its left side and partly rolled forward, its torn and bloody asshole was visible from the hall door.

 

The other was splayed on the bed, its face an unrecognizable mass of bruised and bloodied flesh, its lithe lean body covered with the evidence of a horrific beating—and with cum.  Its thick boycock, going limp in death, still oozed an occasional drop of semen.

 

It was perfect.  The parents should be grateful he put the worthless little homos outta their misery.  Even as he looked at the still-warm corpses, Eddie massive rod twitched.  He grinned, but reluctantly tucked it back into the combat fatigues.  After all, he did have other things to do tonight.

 

The tread of his boots echoed across the tiled entryway as he strode to the table where he’d tossed his shirt.  Slipping it on, he headed to the back door, stopping to exam the alarm.  He noticed it was set for internal alarm only; there was no central or police monitoring.  When he opened the door, it went off.  It was loud and shrill, but when he closed the door behind him, it became muffled.  As he headed deeper into the back yard it became inaudible.

 

He climbed back over into the vacant property and strolled back to his truck the way he came.  It was a weekend evening in upscale suburbia, and everyone was indoor, blinds closed, watching TV.  Not one of them noticed the well-built psychotic murderer casually walking their streets.

 


 

Following its programing when set for internal mode, the alarm sounded for four hours straight, then shut itself off.  It was still armed, though, so it went off the next time a door was opened—in this case, the front door.

 

“Goddammit, I’m gonna kill those kids!” Roger snarled as he dove for the keypad.

 

“Ross!  Josh!  What are you two doing?” his wife bawled up the stairs.  “Just look at this!  Josh left his shoes on the stairs!”  She headed up the stairs herself, not bothering to pick her son’s boots up.  “You answer me now!  I’m not your goddam maid that you can leave your shit lyin’ around for me to pick up!”

 

Roger dug his fingernails into his palms, tying to control his temper as his wife’s abrasive voice trailed off overhead.  For a brief moment, there was calm in the house.

 

Then she shrieked at the top of her voice.

 

Roger could feel his temper slip from his grasp as he raced for the stairs.  Dr. Stone of the First Baptist had practically promised him the vote of the congregation for the city council position.  He mounted the stairs, his anger rising with his elevation.

 

If either of those two little bastards did anything that could damage his election campaign, he’d tear them new assholes…

 

 

 

 

 

Meat Chronicles 21—Homo for the Holidays

Goddamn, it’s hard to maintain control sometimes.  There’s a pile of teenage fuckmeat lying on the floor in front of the passenger seat of my van and I wanna drain my distended, over-pressurized balls into it right away.  Can’t let myself go yet, though—I need to tenderize the fucker first; it’s a tough piece of meat.

 

I’d marked this one for prey some time ago, but he’s eluded me each time, mostly by proximity.  I first saw him about five weeks back, outside the liquor store.  Too young to buy his own booze, he was lurking in the parking lot and pouncing on anyone who seemed likely to make purchases for him.  I ignored him—for one thing, I’m known there, and for another, every square inch of the place, inside and out, is recorded on video.  You don’t shit where you eat.

 

I’d seen him there on a number of later occasions, but nowhere else.  As long as he stayed there, he was safe from me.

 

Today, I happened to spot him on the side of the road, three blocks from the liquor store.   Luring him in was so goddam easy; stupid fuckin’ cunt was looking to get fucked up.  I’d offered to give him a lift to the store, knowing he’d ask me to get him something, but he kept going on about wanting anything—from weed to meth to coke.

 

He said he was twenty, but he was barely eighteen, if that; his skin was too clear and his teeth were too intact for him to have experienced such heavy drug use for too long.  He had dark wavy hair and dark eyes, the wide oval lids ringed with long lashes.  He wore a black t-shirt with a Wu-Tang Clan logo in gold; the sleeves were ripped off showing his muscled arms.  The punk wasn’t badly built—nowhere near as powerful as I am of course; the little fucks I waste can never hope to compete—and the shirt was stretched tightly across his chest, highlighting his pecs.

 

His skin-tight brown jeans were very old and worn; they were tucked into a pair of brown leather harness boots that came almost halfway up the cunt’s calf.  It was the same outfit I’d seen him in each time.

 

He hopped in my van the moment I offered him a lift.  When talking about what he was looking for, he put his hand on my thigh; I could feel the warmth of his skin through the tight denim.  “You hook me up, bro,” he said, grinning lecherously at me, “And I promise you a good time.”

 

I grinned right back.  “Aw, dude, I’ll getcha so fucked up you won’t know what hit ya.”  I always try to keep my word.

 

As usual, the meat started babbling; it always does.  It can be about different things—its boring past, its dumbass desires or worthless ambitions—but as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t help picking up a thing or two.  He called himself Mikey, like I cared, and said he’d left home at the age of fifteen and had been on the streets ever since (I knew he was younger than twenty).

 

I drove past the liquor store and pulled into the parking lot of a half-empty strip mall.  “Whatcha got for me?” the cunt asked.

 

“A sucker punch,” I replied, driving my right fist straight out into his jaw with the speed and power of a pneumatic piston.  His head hit the window so hard I thought the glass had cracked.  It hadn’t, but the meat had.  It slumped forward, sliding limply off its seat, still and unconscious on the floorboards.  Stupid bitch had a glass jaw.

 

And now I get to make it die on my dick.  I just need to find the right spot to snuff out its worthless life.  Shouldn’t be too hard.

 

It takes me longer than I expected to find the right place, but I do find it.  Elmhurst Avenue, south of downtown—an old neighborhood, the side streets are lined with sixty-year-old apartment buildings and ninety-year-old houses cut up into apartments.  The avenue itself is lined with low brick buildings and empty lots; perhaps one out of every five buildings shows some hint of occupation.  It’s a place where the rents are cheap and yet still overpriced, a neighborhood reeking of failure and despair.

 

I find what I’m looking for at a corner formed by one of the side streets.  It looks like its most recent used had been as a car lot; the whole corner was paved flat.  In the middle of the lot is a cinderblock building with a canopy that may or may not have been a gas station in a past incarnation; at any rate, it had been gutted by fire at some point—above the gaping black holes of the windows and door, black cones of soot mar the peeling white paint.

 

The entire lot is surrounded by a high chain link fence topped with barbed wire; the fence is rusted and bent but it still stands.  The gate, which rolls parallel to the street on a track, had been forced and is still ajar.  I can’t see any other vehicle on the crumbling concrete pavement, so I cautiously pull in and head for the structure that first caught my eye—the sheet-metal garage in the back corner.  It’s got two overhead doors on the left and some sort of reception/office area on the right with a door and windows.  Well, doorways and window openings; the only thing intact is the overhead door on the extreme left.  The rest of the building has been gutted—not by fire this time, but by vandalism.

 

I slowly back my van in, making sure no one’s around to notice.  Luckily the building next door, a furniture clearance warehouse, had expanded at the back; the garage was up against two blank brick walls.  Shifting into park, I roll down the window and cut the engine, listening carefully.  A car goes by on the Avenue.  There’s a rustling in the corner that’s likely a rat.  Otherwise, there’s nothing.

 

It’s a perfect place to snuff the fag.

 

I get out, letting my combat boots hit the oil-stained cement with a thud, and casually stroll around to the passenger door.   Opening it, I bend down and grab the meat’s boots and pull them off his feet.

 

They might fit me.  I’m keeping them.

 

I open the back the van and dump the meat on the floor; he’s easier to strip that way.  I sit him up and pull off his shirt, tossing it over my shoulder to land on the filthy floor.  The kid has a great torso, with hard smooth pecs displaying large and jutting nipples.  I take a moment to squeeze and twist the firm mounds of flesh, pinching and pulling at them.

 

The cunt must like it.  He starts moaning and the long soft lashes ringing his large eyes begin to flutter.  He blinks blearily a few times, trying to focus—and then he comes to, all at once.  It’s easy to recognize.  He has the hard edge of a street slut faggot, but he’s still too young and naïve to be able to cover his fear.  And he is afraid.

 

Just not enough.

 

“Wha—?” he started, but I don’t want him awake yet.  It’d ruin the surprise.  A little love tap does it; I don’t clock him hard, just enough to split his full red lips and make them bleed a little.  But his lights go out and I’m able to peel his tight jeans off without further interruption.

 

He’s freeballin’ underneath, six and a half inches of uncut boycock lolling along his smooth thigh.  Underneath it, he’s endowed with a decent sack, covered with a forest of dark curly pubes.

 

Good enough for me.  I’ve been wearing a button-down flannel shirt, left open; I slip out of it and sling it over the back of the driver’s seat.  After unzipping my fly, it takes a minute to haul my tackle up out of my crotch, but it’s rigid and rarin’ to go them moment it hits the open air.

 

And so am I.  A quick glance around to confirm that no one was gonna spoil my playtime, and I hop in the van and close the door.  Next time I open it, this stupid little motherfucker ain’t just gonna be dead, he’s gonna be glad he’s dead.

 

It’s dim in the back of the van, but not too dark.  I can see the whoreboy; he’s starting to stir again.  That’s good—I want him awake for this.  I wanna see the pain and fear in his face.

 

Speaking of pain, it’s time I inflicted some on him.  I’ve got a number of random items in my kill van—things I’ve picked up from time to time that might come in handy.  Let’s see; what will fuck this cunt up…ah, that’ll work.

 

It’s a length of sixteen-gauge jack chain, about three and a half feet.  I kneel over him, slowly winding it around my fist.  The teen slut blinks and gazes up at me; I can see the glint of lust in his big faggot eyes was they scan my body, from my erect, jutting shaft along my ripped abs to my broad, furry chest.  They never make it to my face, thought; they stop dead at the chain around my hand.

 

Already scared and confused, the runaway punk turns gray.  “Wha—what’s goin’ on?”

 

Dumbass piece of shit can’t figure it out; in fact, he doesn’t even seem to realize he’d been stripped nude yet.  But I don’t suffer fools gladly; I gladly make fools suffer.

 

“Remember when I toldja I was gonna get ya so fucked up you wouldn’t know what hit ya?” I leer down at him.

 

“Uh-huh,” he nods, his face drawn with trepidation.

 

“Well, I lied.  Yer gonna know,” I say and hold up my chain-wrapped fist.  “It’s this.  This is what’s gonna hit ya.”

 

I slam it into his face as hard as I can, feeling his left cheekbone snapping under the impact.  The chain digs deep, tearing into his skin.

 

The cunt squeals and cries out, clutching his face.  I shift downward and land two rapid-fire blows in the center of his smooth, vulnerable belly.  They strike with the heavy slapping sound of flesh on flesh, the chain giving an added impetus to the force.

 

The kid rises up with an anguished expression, his face taut as the gutpunches violently expel the air from his lungs.  His cheek is already black and swollen, but he seems to have forgotten about that little bit of foreplay in his sudden inability to breathe.  Gasping futilely, he rolls onto his side in a fetal position.

 

The cunt doesn’t get to long to comfort himself.  I dive between his legs, forcing them apart as I roll him onto his back.  He squirms away, kicking his legs blindly.

 

“Don’t fight me, faggot,” I snarl.  As he twists to the side again, I pound on him again, this time nailing his kidney.  He instantly flops onto his back, gasping, and I can part his writhing teen legs with ease.  “You know ya want this dick, so shaddup and take it, cunt!”

 

I rub the thick oozing head of my dick over his ass, leaving a trail of precum through the soft down covering those firm rounded cheeks.  He’s still struggling, but not so much that I can’t easily overpower him.

 

He’ll fight later, when the panic sets in.  I can tell; he’s the type.  At some point I’m gonna hafta ride him hard and rough.  For right now, though, the only thing he’s afraid of is getting raped.  He has no clue how much worse it’s gonna get.  He gets a hint, though, when I suddenly plunge in balls-deep, with no warning and my precum the only lube.

 

I dunno if he’s a virgin, but I can tell instantly that anyone who’s been up his hole before me wasn’t anywhere near as hung as I am.  My massive erect tool punches through his asshole like an awl; I can feel it when his strained sphincter give way and tears open under my relentless cock.

 

His eyes grow huge and his face is a mask of pain and shock as my shaft plunges deep inside him.  He’s gripping my arms, each of his hands tightly clutching my powerful biceps while his guts are relentlessly pounded by my dick.

 

Well, the cunt damn sure ain’t a virgin now.

 

He’s finally getting enough air back into his lungs to speak.  “St-stop…no, fuck no, stop!”

 

I punch him again, this time landing one on his broad smooth chest, hitting the left pec with a satisfying thud.  Again, just a love tap—didn’t even break the skin with the chain.  “Shaddup, bitch, and take my cock.”

 

Dumbass motherfucker doesn’t shut up.  Goddam, I’m really doin’ a service to the planet by riddin’ it of stupid pieces of faggot fuckmeat.  Even worse, this one’s startin’ to struggle.

 

“Wh-wh-what? What?  Help! HELP!!!  HEL—”

 

Ok, so I make it shut up.  One hand on its throat, my chained fist emphasizin’ my point to the cunt.  Makin’ sure I drive it into its head, so to speak, though I’m specifically aiming for its face.

 

“I toldja [WHAM] to shut [WHAM] yer fuckin’ [WHAM] face!! [WHAM]”

 

Oh fuck, I can feel every individual impact reverberate through his firm adolescent body, his pain communicated directly to my dick, his traumatized colon milking and massaging it with every agonized muscle contraction.  It feels so good, I wanna keep goin’…but I can’t.  It’ll kill the meat, and I ain’t done with it yet.

 

And even now, I’ve reduced the left side of its face to hamburger.  The eye is swollen shut, the cheek is flayed, the lips swollen and bleeding, and the nose is listing badly to starboard.  It occurs to me that offin’ the homo will be a mercy killing—sparing it from a lot of painful reconstructive surgery.

 

Of course, by the time I’m done with it, it’ll be a mercy killin’ anyway, ha!

 

At the moment it’s still conscious; it turns its head and coughs up a gout of blood and a couple of teeth.  It’s lying back, gasping, with its mouth open and eyes—well, eye—closed.

 

And during the entire beating I never once even slow the tempo of the assrape.  Man, it felt so fuckin’ good, pounding the teen’s ass and face at the same time. The boy’s a natural painpig; the way his fuckhole worked my rod it all the proof I need.

 

The fact that he got hard as I whaled on his face just adds to the evidence.

 

“You fuckin’ pervert faggot,” I snarl, “Lookit this shit.  Goddam, I was right again.  All you little boyfags are lookin’ for is a real man to come along and make ya suffer like you deserve.  Tell ya what, motherfucker, if this kinda foreplay gets yer little homo dick hard, yer gonna blow yer pansy wad at what’s comin’ next!”

 

He looks at me, opening both eyes so wide that even the left one opens up a narrow slit—but since it’s leaking tears, I doubt it’s helping him.  He’s trying to speak, but the left side of his jaw is swollen and misshapen.  Wonder if I broke it—damn, I hate to have missed that.

 

Oh well. I can make up for it before I’m done with the kid.

 

He gurgles and bleats; it’s not incomprehensible—I just don’t care enough to try to figure out what he’s sayin’.  As long as his ass keeps grippin’ my hog, he can start singin’ the national anthem, for as much as I give a shit…

 

…except he ain’t grippin’ quite as tight as he was.

 

Well, goddamn.  Guess I gotta tighten the meat up again.  I start unwinding the chain from my fist.  I think I’m gonna start a rebellion here, and I need a little somthin’ to help me put it down.

 

“You know where this is headin’, dontcha, cunt?” I say, smiling down at him.  His fear is palpable, almost tactile.  Just a tiny spark to set it off.  “This kinda shit happens all the time.  Dumbass faggot picks up the wrong dude, ends up a pile of well-used homo meat.  Guess what, motherfucker—I’m that wrong dude.”

 

I was right.  He has the wiry athleticism of youth, keyed up to extremes by panic.  There’s no way he’s gonna be able to overpower me; as hard as he thrashes and beats his balled fists against my fur-insulated chest, he ain’t doin’ me any damage.

 

Still don’t mean I gotta put up with this shit, though.  Rising up on my knees without pulling my rod out of his ass, I start lashing him brutally with the chain.

 

The pansy screeches like a pig gettin’ its throat slit; I’m leaving welts in the shape of chain links on his smooth, tender boyflesh.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I jeer at him, spitting in his twisted, agonized face, “You just fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha?  Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  Hell yeah, bitch, keep screamin’—the more it hurts, the more ya work my dick.”

 

He squeals and throws up his arms to block the blows.  Big mistake.  Ever seen what a well-swung chain’ll do to human fingers?  His snap like toothpicks.

 

For a moment, he shuts up.  The only noise in the van is the slapping sound of a brutal assfuck.  The adolescent fagwhore stares, silent and agape, at the mangled remains of his right hand, splayed out like a crushed starfish.  I slash again with the chain, catching him across the left forearm with enough force to wrap the chain completely around it.  I grab his left hand with my free hand and stare him dead in the face.

 

“You deserve this, you motherfucking piece of faggot shit,” I sneer and jerk the chain, breaking both of the bones and ripping off a strip of flesh that completely encircles his arm.  He sputters and drools as his arm folds over, but I’m just about done with him.

 

“Yer a boring fuck, bitch, and I got shit to do today.  ‘Bout time to waste yer fag ass.  Hope ya kick a lot as ya die, motherfucker; it really helps get me off.”

 

Raising my hand in front of his bruised, terror-filled face, I let him watch me partially unwind the chain from my hand until I have a good two feet stretched in front of him.  “Ready to die, cocksucker?  Ready to choke to death so you can be my personal cumdump?  Not like you got any other reason for bein’ on this planet, ya useless cumguzzler; might as well work my shaft as ya get what’s comin’ to ya.”

 

He moans and shakes his head wildly as I lean forward and wrap the chain around his throat.  “Shh, shh,” I whisper, “Don’t worry—I promise, it’s gonna hurt. I promise.”

 

I yank the metal chain tight, so tight I can see his flesh welling up in the open spaces in the links.

 

The lithe teen body goes rigid with agony beneath me.  It feels so fuckin’ good, the smooth, soft flesh, taut with nightmarish suffering, pressed firmly against my hairy, muscular body.  The cunt doesn’t know how lucky he is; so many of his faggot buddies crave and yearn for the ultimate fuck.  Just like this stupid fucker, they deny it and fight it to the end, but I can see the gratitude in their eyes as they start to glaze over.  They stare into eternity with the knowledge that they’ve taken my load and thus achieved their greatest and highest use.

 

And they invariably blow a thick deathwad.

 

“That’s it, asswipe,” I grunt as I whale on his ass, “Fuckin’ die on my cock.  Ride my shaft right into yer grave, homo.  Ya know ya want this; that’s why yer teen dick is hard, right?  Fuck yeah, even a dumbass like you knows baby fags need to be put down by a real man.”

 

The meat’s eyes open wide—even the swollen one manages, a little—and it give me a look that tells me I need to hang on tight.   The boycunt is starting to panic; it’s not yet in a mindless frenzy of fear, but it’s coming soon.

 

And holy fuck does it feel good when the meat flails in mind-searing terror, its rectum sucking on my tool as if that’s what it was designed for.  On with the mindfuck.

 

“Yer gonna cum when ya die,” I casually remark to the meat, “Won’t be able to help it.  Shit, you shoulda seen the last teen cunt I offed; fucker musta shot damn near a quart of spooge.  Couse, he held out for a while.  Took him a long, long time to die…”

 

The meat’s close; there’s a developing glint in its one good eye reminiscent of insanity.

 

“You ain’t as good as he was, though,” I go on, “In fact, you’re a boring fuck.  Yer even useless as a faggot.  Hurry up an’ die, motherfucker, so I can toss yer worthless cumdump corpse out there in the filth and get outta here.  I’m a busy man, asshole—”

 

That did it.  The meat thrashes violently, as if its being electrocuted.  It can’t kick me, since I’m already between its legs, but they flail in the air behind me, feet and toes curling in agony in midair.  The cunt beats at my face with its right hand, slapping me since in can’t form its shattered fingers into a fist.  Its left arm flops and jerks uselessly at its side, the broken forearm limp and helpless.

 

And the entire time I hold the boyfag close to me, letting its ass milk my throbbing, oozing rod as I incrementally tighten the chain around its throat.

 

It’s obviously dying at this point.  Its face is congested and black, so distorted as to be almost unrecognizable.  Drool has bubbled out beside the engorged, protruding tongue and flows down both cheeks in white, foamy streams.  The slut is slick with sweat; the beads standing out on its forehead trickling painfully into its bulging eyes, now too swollen for mere bruised eyelids to hold them in.

 

“Now yer learnin’ yer place, cocksucker,” I tell the grunting, shuddering bitchboy, “You been needin’ this for a long time.  Die, fuckwad, choke and kick and die in agony!”

 

The cunt is arching its back, pressing its firm, flat belly against my furry ripped abs.  I can feel its hard thick boycock pressed firmly against me; the perverted little shit is so aroused by asphyxiation that its oozing precum as it dies.  Fuck, ain’t nobody gonna miss this disgustin’ babyfag.

 

Catch ‘em and take ‘em out while they’re still young so they do as little damage to society as possible.  And deep inside, the fuckers want it anyway.  They know gettin’ put down by a real man is the best thing that can happen to a fuckin’ useless pussyboy.

 

This one’s on its way out.  Its flailings are getting weaker and more uncoordinated; I brace myself and tighten the chain with as much force as I can.

 

The loud crunch of the teen’s larynx echoes in the confines of my van.  There’s a brief lull—the kid is shuddering beneath me, its blackened and drool-soaked cheeks distending with some final vain effort at exclamation, but no air is getting past the mangled wad of cartilage blocking its windpipe.  I can see one last gleam of consciousness left in its good eye, and in it I can recognize the true horror of a stupid faggot finally experiencing the brutal death it deserves.

 

And then the convulsions begin.

 

Once the convulsions start, the meat has reached a tipping point.  Too much brain damage has set in; whatever miserable excuse for a human once animated the body is gone and isn’t coming back.  But adolescent boys have a lot of stamina.  As the meat rhythmically writhes and kicks under my muscled weight, I realize it may be possible that there may still be some deep inner spark of personality still lit.

 

I let go of the chain and punch the thrashing cunt in the face.  Still pounding its ass, I lay at full length, my powerful form restraining its thrashing, and grab its head with both hands, forcing it back and to the side.

 

One hand is gripped around the jaw and the other around the back of the skull.  Slowly and inexorably, I force the fuckmeat’s head past its normal point of rotation.  I can feel “twangings”—the only way I can describe it—as the cervical tendons and sinews begin to snap. Suddenly, bone meets bone and I reach a hard stop.

 

The faggot is still convulsing beneath me.  It feels good, but my cock needs more.  And I know how to get it.

 

My biceps bulging with the effort, I twist the homo’s head with a might jerk and am instantly rewarded with the crunchy, popcorn-like noise of shattering vertebrae.

 

As bone shards tear through its spinal cord, the meat finally responds properly, its colon clutching tightly to my engorged shaft, milking the swollen, throbbing member desperately.  Fuck yeah, that’s it—don’t back off now…

 

With a primal grunt, I force the fucker’s head further.  More popcorn, the ass gets tighter—

 

Fuck fuck fuck I’m cumming take it you sack a’ shit, take my load ya worthless faggot scum, feel my hot manseed scald yer guts as you slide into cold death, motherfucker—

 

In the back of my mind I register the hot gooey splash of the teen’s thick and seemingly endless deathload.  The slut has stopped thrashing and is rigid from sudden massive nervous system trauma.  I’m locked into the corpse, almost helpless myself as I pump wad after wad of manspunk into the quivering cumdump.

 

After a moment, I realize I’ve finally emptied my huge aching sack.  The dead whoreboy has stopped unloading, too, only a slight pearlescent trickle oozing from the semi-soft dick.  Pulling my shaft out of the trembling corpse, I remain on my knees as I use the bitch’s t-shirt to sponge its death wad out of my chest fur.  After I wipe my tackle off, too, I stuff it back into my jeans, then open the van door.

 

I climb out and toss the cum-soaked t-shirt onto the floor.  Walking warily to the open doorway, I peer out and make sure the coast is still clear.  As I expected, no one is out in the middle of a muggy gray weekday, and close as it is to the holidays, this neighborhood damn sure isn’t considered a shopping area for anything but drugs and sex.

 

In other words, no one’s around, and if they were, they wouldn’t care.

 

I drag the dead punk’s body to the edge of the van and unceremoniously dump it out onto the filthy, oil-stained concrete floor, not bothering to remove the chain from around the throat of the the badly beaten corpse.  Some homeless bum or cheap whore looking for a quick pump-n-dump will find it sooner or later, but I don’t give a shit.  I toss its jeans out, too, after rifling the pocket and taking the wallet.  It’s got a driver’s license in it, but again, I don’t care.  I’ll take the three bucks in cash though; every little bit helps.

 

Easing the van out of the garage, I’m still carefully scanning to make sure no one’s noticing me.  I turn left onto Elmhurst and realize how good my timing is; half a block down is a city street crew attaching some forlorn-looking holiday decorations to alternate light poles.  Given the surroundings, the cheap and tattered tinsel isn’t so much a mockery as a final touch of sordidness.

 

Well, no one can say I didn’t do my part.  I left them a nice dead faggot with a creamy cum-filled center.  And my gift?  This nice pair of brown leather harness boots.  Think I wear ‘em on my next kill.

M4M4Whoreboy

It had been a rough week at work.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The kid was a whore, and probably a junkie.

 

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

 

“—Clint, 23, 4.8 miles

Looking for:  generous daddy

Preferred position:  all up in me

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The stupid cunts always responded back.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

That pissed Joe off.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 


 

 

“Hey Danilo, whatcha got?”

 

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

 

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

 

“Bad trick?”

 

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

 

“ME seen him yet?”

 

“No, they’re on the way.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 1

The dark and crowded bar presented something of an obstacle course to anyone carrying a pitcher of beer, and especially to someone of Pete’s broad-shouldered, muscular build, but he managed to get back to the table without spilling any of the golden, frothy liquid.  Seating himself, grinning, he expertly poured a couple of glasses without generating an overflowing head.  He then slid one of the glasses across the table to Dan.

 

Pete had been working out heavily, as per Dan’s instructions, and it showed.  The younger cop was much more built now than he was when they’d first met.  This was the first night in two weeks that they’d both been scheduled off together, and they took advantage of the fact by going out to celebrate.

 

It was just sheer chance that Brody was in the same bar.

 

They’d kept up their surveillance of him; the pair of bulked-up cops hadn’t forgotten their pursuit of drug traffickers, but there’d been little movement in that area.  On the other hand, there hadn’t been much movement from Brody either.  Ever since he’d wasted the teenaged faggot, he’d laid low; they knew that because either Pete or Dan had spent part of virtually every day trailing him.  Not that they’d intervene if he initiated another snuff; Pete was still waiting for the signal, and Dan hadn’t given it yet.

 

Tonight, though, was for relaxing and celebration.  Both men had dressed down in plaid western-cut button-down shirts; Dan had rolled up the sleeve of his, showing off his furry forearms.  Both men also wore very tight, very worn jeans and boots—Dan’s was a pair of steel-toe Rocky western ropers while Pete sported a comfortable pair of Wolverine Moc Toe 8-inch workboots.  They pretty much looked like the other country guys in the bar—which was likely why Brody never saw them, even though they weren’t in stakeout mode.

 

It was Pete who first noticed him.  “Well, I’ll be goddammed!” he said in amazement.

 

“What is it?” Dan asked.

 

“Look over there, Cap—ain’t that Brody?  See, next to that buff, dark-skinned dude at the bar…”

 

Dan squinted into the crowd.  “Yeah, it sure is.  Well ain’t that a coincidence.  And here I thought we were givin’ him the evening off.”

 

For a time after that, they ignored the rogue killer; after all, he wasn’t gonna kill anyone in public.  Dan was congratulating Pete on his physical progress, letting the younger man know how proud he was and suggesting some further areas of improvement, but Pete kept noticing how the captain’s eyes were wandering back to Brody.

 

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him.  “Ok, Cap, out with it—what’s he doin’?”

 

Dan shook his head.  “Naw, it ain’t him.  It’s the guy he’s talking to.  I swear I seen him somewhere recently.  Or maybe his picture.”

 

Pete craned his neck to see the guy better, but his view wasn’t as good as Dan’s; all he could make out was the guy’s back.  He seemed to be a well-built Latino in a yellow t-shirt, torn, stained jeans and a pair of black Timberlands.  His blue-black hair was nearly shoulder length and while he was older than most of the fags Brody went for, Pete could see the attraction.

 

“Yeah?” he asked, “Think we should keep an eye on them?”

 

Dan looked Pete levelly in the eyes and said, with little fanfare, words that made the young hardbodied acolyte’s heart leap with joy, “Yeah, we should.  You’re ready, boy.  You can take ‘im if ya hafta.”

 

 

Within ten minutes, Brody and the Latino man got up and headed for the door.  With little fuss, Dan and Pete left their table as well, keeping close to their prey but not close enough to be noticed.  Outside, it was even easier to stay in the shadows; while Brody headed for his truck, the cops headed for Dan’s.

 

The moment he was behind the wheel, Dan snapped his fingers.  “Tony Rodrigues, that’s who he is,” he said.

 

“Who, Brody’s new fucktoy?” Pete asked.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, grinning.  “Came across the wire a couple of days ago—he’s wanted in Calabesa County on suspicion of raping and murdering seventeen-year-old Billy Webber—his stepson.”

 

Pete whistled, his eyes wide.

 

“Yeah,” Dan chuckled, “Looks like we’re might have us a rasslin’ match tonight ‘tween these two.  So much the better.”

 

His grin took on a darker hint that was mirrored in Pete’s face when he glanced at the younger man.  “Loser’s gonna take us on.  No matter what happens, Body’s goin’ down tonight.”

 

Pete felt his powerful muscles tighten in anticipation.  The feeling of rigid hardness penetrated his entire body, as the thick, pulsing bulge in his crotch proved.  “So we’re gonna be there for the kill?  How’re ya gonna manage that, Cap?”

 

“Easy,” Dan grinned.  “Who’s working the east side tonight?  Mike, yeah?”

 

He got on the radio and called out to Mike.  It seemed that nothing much was happening on the east side tonight and Mike was glad to do the Captain a favor.  Providing him with Brody’s plate number and a description of his truck, Dan asked Mike to delay the driver.

 

“Ya just want me to hold him for a few minutes?”

 

“Yeah, Mike—I just wanna check out a hunch without a possible suspect around.  I appreciate it.”

 

“No problem, Captain—glad to help!”

 

Pete looked at the older man questioningly.  “What was that for?”

 

“That’s how we’ll be in on the kill,” Dan replied, “We’ll get there first.  We’ll be there watching as it goes down.”

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” Pete chuckled.  “Damn, that’s good.  Watchin’ one snuff the other so we can be on the spot to waste the one left alive.  Fuckin’ hot as hell!”

 

“You ready for this, boy?” Dan asked, his face serious for a moment.  “You ready to end a man’s life, to feel him die in yer hands?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete responded in a strained voice, “I been fuckin’ ready since day one, man.”

 

Dan didn’t have to see Pete’s huge erection straining the worn denim of his jeans to know that the younger cop was eager.  The question was—was he able?  Tonight, Dan would learn for certain just how far he could trust Pete with his plans for the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department.

 

And some of those plans were…extreme.

 


 

Brody was in a foul mood as he slowly maneuvered his pickup up the rutted gravel road towards his trailer.  He’d have to talk to Dan about that cop who pulled him over.  Pure fuckin’ harassment.  He wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t fuckin’ acting like it, either.

 

On the other hand, the dude was with was drunk; in fact; the fucker was totally bombed.  He was laying back in the passenger seat, slurring out boasts about his sexual prowess and leering at Brody.

 

Dude seemed to have no idea he was gonna be the one taking it up the ass tonight.  He’d learn soon enough, though. Maybe he’d put up a fight.  Brody kinda hoped so; his internal rage needed a good venting.  Beating the shit outta this drunk muscled faggot would feel damn good.

 

He shut off the truck.  “We’re here,” he told the guy—couldn’t remember his name and didn’t care anyway—and jumped out of the driver’s seat.  The other guy fumbled at the door handle, got it open, and managed to get out of the truck without falling.  Staggering, he followed Brody up the steps.

 

The buff killer had headed to the bar straight after work; he was still in his work clothes—torn, stained jeans tucked into his laced, untied Redwing construction boots and a white tank top clinging to his huge hairy chest.  As he mounted the steps, though, he could feel the gaze of the hardbodied homo behind him and knew that it was centered on his ass.  He grinned; if the motherfucker thought he was gonna be shagging Brody, it was gonna be a pleasure to teach him otherwise.

 

Brody was all man.  He didn’t take dick from nobody.

 

Neither did Tony.  At least, he never had before and had no plans to change that, but he was too fucked up at the moment to consider the matter at all.  He’d never had a problem getting hard even when he was drunk; his seven and a half inches of thick, vein-wrapped manmeat was already stiff as he watched the trailer trash stud climb the steps in front of him.

 

Brody flipped the light switch as soon as they entered.  Tony’s first drunken thought as his glance swept the trailer’s dark and dingy interior was that he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place.

 

Then Brody turned towards the kitchen and the sight of his firm, rounded ass covered in the soft, faded denim, filled Tony’s mind with other thoughts.

 

Brody grabbed a beer from the fridge.  He didn’t ask, or care, if his guest wanted one.  As far as Brody was concerned, it’d be a waste of a good beer. Drunk homo wouldn’t be around long enough to finish it anyway.

 

“Bedroom’s in there,” he grunted, nodding towards the partially open door on the other side of the clothing-strewn living room.  Popping the top of his beer, he took a long swig, then noticed that the motherfucker was still standing there, swaying slightly.

 

“Whatcha waitin’ for?” he snapped.  “G’wan, get in there an’ strip.  Get on the bed.”

 

Tony finally picked up on the instruction, without picking up any deeper meaning in the stud’s harsh tone.  By now, he’d absorbed all the alcohol that had still been in his stomach when he left the bar—he wasn’t just drunk; he was stupid drunk.  Grinning inanely, he staggered into the bedroom.

 

Behind him, the buff killer polished off his beer and crushed the can in his fist.  He peeled off his dirty t-shirt, baring his powerfully muscled torso.  The gleam of his sweat-slick skin under the dim overhead light was matched by the faint twinkle of his thick gold necklace, half-hidden in the dense fur that swept across his massive chest.

 

He was looking forward to this.  The piece of faggot shit in the other room might think it was a top but by the time Brody was done with it, it’d know its true place on earth—or in it.

 

Grinning maliciously, he reached down and unzipped his fly, then slowly extracted his formidable shaft.  Once free of the confines of his jeans, it pointed straight at the bedroom, so hard it ached.

 

It knew its prey was in there, and Brody wasn’t one to deny it.  He headed for the door with his rod jutting in front of him like a weapon; the thud of his boots was muffled by the threadbare carpeting.  He was intent on the kill and didn’t look back.

 

If he had, he might have noticed the way the guest bedroom door was being slowly and stealthily opened.

 


 

In the bedroom, Tony had at least been lucid enough to strip off his clothes; his t-shirt and jeans were piled sloppily on top of his Timberlands.  His hairy, muscular body was the first thing Brody could see when he entered.  The drunk Latino was grinning stupidly and hard as a rock.

 

“C’mon, man,” he slurred, “C’mon an’ suck it.  I got it ready for ya.”

 

Brody’s answering grin was colder and more malicious.  The dumbass actually though he was gonna be driving.  The psycho clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.  This was gonna be fun.

 

“Get on the bed, faggot,” he said, the cold steel in his voice cutting through the haze in Tony’s alcohol-soaked brain.

 

“Huh?” the buff Hispanic chirped, peering blearily at the larger man.  “Wha’, ya wanna suck me off on the bed?  Naw, get on yer knees.’

 

Brody didn’t bother to conceal the line-drive punch that he aimed at Tony’s head.  The nude furry fag saw the powerful blow coming at him but was too wasted to dodge it.  He took the full impact in his face, falling back, stunned, onto the bed.

 

Stunned and wasted, yes, but not incapacitated.  Tony wasn’t quite as tall and powerful as Brody was, but the difference was minor.  He was strong, and he’d been caught off guard to the extent he’d had no clue that he was about to be attacked.  He rose up off the bed before Brody could approach him.  A hurt anger glowed in his red-rimmed eyes as he wiped his busted lip with the back of his hand, leaving a bloody smear.

 

“Wha’ th’ fuck, man?” he demanded.  His voice had the slightest hint of a whine in it; just enough for Brody to hear, and to spark his contempt.

 

“Get back on that bed with yer fuckhole in the air, ya worthless pig,” Brody barked, “I’m gonna jam my rod so far up yer ass you’ll be gaggin’ on it from the inside.  Bend over, bitch—now!”

 

Tony’s drunkenness meant that his reaction was more stupefaction than anything else; it soon shaded into amusement.  “Aw, naw, dude, I fuck—I don’t get fucked,” he laughed easily, as if he’d entirely forgotten that he’d been punched in the face two minutes earlier.

 

Brody decided to remind him.  He kneed Tony in the crotch, driving his hard patella into the Latino’s hairy, low-hanging nads.  As he grunted, painfully and viscerally, and crumpled, Brody jerked his leg up again, this time planting his knee deep into Tony’s flat, firm belly.

 

The buff Hispanic expelled the air in his lungs with a forced wheeze and fell straight to the floor, gasping and shuddering at Brody’s feet.  The tall redneck killer squatted down and, placing one knee on Tony’s back, leaned forward.

 

“Guess what, asswipe,” he hissed menacingly, “You’re already fucked.”

 

He stood erect and drew back one foot, then drove his steel-toed Red Wing boot crushingly into the heaving, gurgling fag.  Brody’s cock visibly pulsed and stiffened at the wet snapping sounds caused by two of Tony’s ribs shattering under the brutal impact.

 

If the hardbodied Mexican had been able to catch his breath, he would have screamed; he’d broken bones before, but he’d never endured the pain of sharp jagged shards tearing open his left lung.  And suddenly, regaining his air became much, much harder.  The pain cut through the alcohol-induced fog in his brain like—well, like a sharp knife.  As he writhed, nude, on the filthy floor of a stranger’s bedroom, Tony understood that he was in trouble.  A lot of trouble.

 

Brody, on the other hand, was filled with satanic glee; his uncouth backwoods brain full of a barely controllable mix of red-hot lust and white-hot rage.  The faggot was learning his place.  But if this was kindergarten, Brody was ready to accelerate the lessons to post-graduate level.

 

“C’mon, motherfucker,” he sneered as be bent down and grabbed Tony, “My dick it gettin’ cold and I wanna warm it up in yer guts while I jack you up.”  Brody locked his hands around the moaning homo’s upper arms; they weren’t quite big enough to encircle Tony’s thick, strong biceps, but they were close.  He hoisted the Hispanic dude in the air and held him close—their chest fur bushed and tangled together—while he looked Tony straight in the eyes.

 

“Ready to get what’s comin’ to ya, spicmeat?  Fuckin’ wetback pansy—ready to get what ya deserve?”

 

Tony still couldn’t speak clearly, but he didn’t need to.  Much to his horror, he felt his long, thick tube of manmeat slowly but visibly growing rigid.  Since Brody was strong enough to hold him dead-arm straight at eye level mere inches away, within seconds the two hard cocks were practically jousting with each other.

 

The look of triumph in Brody’s eyes was cold, hard, and terrifying.  Dominance had been established, but in this pairing, there would not be an alpha and a beta.  There was only an alpha and a null—soon to become a negative.

 

Tony already knew he had to act fast if he was going to leave this room alive, but his vicious assailant’s inherent sadism worked against him in more ways than one.  He figured he might be able to scramble away once he was tossed on the bed.  Brody, however, had other plans, and he put them into action with a blindingly swift maneuver.  Letting go of Tony’s right arm, he grabbed at the fucker’s throat, his left hand clamping around it like a steel trap.

 

He was then free to ball up his right hand into a fist and slam it like a wrecking ball into the left side of Tony’s torso—exactly where his boot had landed.  The Hispanic homo had recovered enough breath to scream, but his throat was cinched off.  He could only gurgle and writhe, his toes curling in agony barely an inch above the dirty carpet.

 

When Brody tossed him onto the wadded pile of stained, yellowed sheets, Tony was less concerned with escaping and more concern with trying to breathe without shrieking.  He was about to find out it didn’t matter if he shrieked or not—no one would care.

 

It wasn’t that there was no one else nearby; it was just that those who were nearby wanted to hear him scream.

 


 

Pete crouched in the doorway with Dan right behind him.  As close as they were, the captain could sense the raw sexual excitement surging through his buff young deputy.  It emanated into the hazy atmosphere of the darkened hallway—an electric aftertaste, a whiff of cordite, something hot and powerfully charged.

 

The two men watched silently but intently as Brody beat Tony into submission before raping him.  They did nothing to intervene.  They were representatives of the law, but it was an artificial law, a human construct.  This situation was under the jurisdiction of the law of the jungle—a much older and more primitive law that gave to the strong the right to do whatever they desired to the weak.  It was the law by which all four men lived their lives—even Tony, who had used it to his advantage with his stepson.

 

Problem was, Tony met someone even stronger.

 

But four aroused hardbodied males within a fifteen-foot radius, all pumping out pheromones in an area already permeated with mansex, were adding fuel to a raging fire.  And the brutality Brody was inflicting on the Mexican fag was nothing compared to the explosion of violence that was soon to come.

 


 

As Tony wallowed in pain on the bed, Brody’s towering presence suddenly loomed over him.  In his agony, the well-built Latino had lost sight of the vicious bastard who’d inflicted it on him—until Brody was there, his shadow thrown across Tony’s muscular body.

 

 

For a moment, the battered boykiller glanced up at his assailant.  It was a terrifying sight—the hulking psycho standing over him, huge muscles gleaming with a light sheen of sweat and an angry, jutting erection that would intimidate the most submissive bottom whoreboy.  The glint of the thick gold necklace nestled in Brody’s wiry, luxuriant chest fur naturally drew Tony’s gaze up to the sadist’s hard, masculine face, covered with dark, unshaven scruff and filled with such hate and lust that Tony almost lost control of his bladder.

 

He had to get out of here.  Now.

 

Despite the pain it caused him, he managed to roll over onto his belly and begin to squirm away.  He might not have been as bulked-out as Brody, but he’d been powerful enough to waste his stepson without breaking too much of a sweat; he might stand a chance against this loco motherfucker if he could just beak away—

 

—and then Brody was on him, a sudden crushing weight as the hardbodied killer landed on his knees on Tony’s back, pinning him face-down on the bed.  The startled Latino reached out for the side of the mattress, seeking something to grip so he could pull himself out from under, but Brody stopped that maneuver cold.

 

He shifted his weight, keeping one knee in the middle of Tony’s back and placing the other in the middle of the spic’s right forearm.  “You ain’t going nowhere, ya fuckin’ wetback,” he snarled, his redneck voice thick with racial hate, “Not till I’m done with ya.”

 

He laid his right hand on top of Tony’s and curled his fingers between those of his victim.  In another setting, the gesture would have been intimate, even loving.

 

Here, it just gave Brody a better grip, letting him use greater force as he jerked Tony’s arm back with enough power to break it at the point where his knee was placed.

 

The thick, almost gristly double snap of the radius and ulna shattering simultaneously was drowned out by Tony’s screech of pain.  His escape plans evaporated as he stared incredulously at the way his useless right arm hung at a bizarre angle.  His muscled body heaved and twitched; Brody rode it out with a vicious grin, his thick meaty cock slapping on Tony’s bare back as the cunt flailed.

 

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, cocksucker,” the sadistic top crowed, “Lissenin’ to yer bitch ass squealin’ like a fuckin’ pansy turns me on.”  Still kneeling on Tony’s back, he silently unbuckled his belt and snaked it out from around his waist.  Beneath him, the furry, muscled spicmeat was still bucking and jerking in pain.

 

Tony never saw Brody double the belt up; her never had the chance to flinch from Brody’s upraised arm or to try, however uselessly, to ward off the impending blow.  He never knew it was coming until it was there.

 

Then it was all he knew.

 

Instead of holding the ends of his thick leather belt, Brody held it in the middle, leaving the ends—including the large metal buckle—to cause the actual strike.  As a result, the power of his blows was instantly doubled.  The end with the leather strap left vicious welts that added to the agony caused by the buckled end tearing at Tony’s taut manflesh.

 

The first lash was almost as painful as the broken arm, a searing slice across his right shoulder blade, as if a butcher was making a preliminary cut before slicing off a specific cut.  The next one came before the fiery agony of the first had subsided, and from that point on, Tony only remembered that his arm was broken when his mindless thrashing ground the jagged ends of the bones together.  And even then, it didn’t matter.  What mattered was that the sheer excruciating torture of Brody’s insanely violent attack convinced Tony that he was being flayed alive.

 

He wasn’t that lucky.  Death would’ve come sooner that way.

 


 

Pete’s bloodlust was near the boiling point.  Dan couldn’t blame the younger man; he was no less full of testosterone and cum than Dan himself.  And the scene playing out in front of them certainly wasn’t cooling them off.  Two hardbodied males on the bed, one screaming in pain, the other grunting with the muscular effort of inflicting pain…

 

They could see well enough; Dan had decided it was safe enough to crack the door open a little wider.  The two motherfuckers in the bedroom were too engrossed in their own relationship, so to speak, to notice much of their surroundings at this point.

 

And so the pair of buff lawmen crouched with erect, straining cocks, as Brody beat the screaming Mexican to a pulp, whipping the thrashing faggot until he drew blood, then moving on to a different spot.

 


 

After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually closer to ten minutes, Brody stopped swinging his belt.  Still straddling the fagmeat, he could feel it twitch and shudder beneath his firm muscular thighs.  It moaned and sobbed quietly, as if it already knew that begging was useless and that its best choice was to accept what was being done to it.

 

It expected to be hurt again; some deep dark area of its brain, walled off by battlements of denial, even expected death.  What it didn’t expect was Brody’s long swollen shaft rammed brutally up its virgin hole as the violently powerful redneck mounted it from behind and took it like a bitch.

 

Tony was a top.  He’d enjoyed the fuck outta raping his teenaged stepson.  He’d never felt any desire to take it up the ass, and this new source of agony somehow transcended the pain of broken bones and lacerated skin.  It was…invasive, somehow, in in the way nothing else had been.

 

And despite his suffering, the memory of Billy’s snuff flooded into Tony’s traumatized mind.  From nowhere, the thought flashed through his head that he’d inflicted exactly this pain on the teenaged punk.  Adding to the effect caused by Brody’s cock grinding against his prostate, it created an involuntary physical reaction.

 

To his horror, Tony found himself with a raging hard-on while he was getting viciously assraped.

 

Again, he screamed at the top of his lungs—but not at top of his vocal cords.  He’d been shrieking and crying so long that his already hoarse voice cracked.  The sounds he gave off now were guttural and grating.

 

Brody found it instantly annoying.  He liked his meat screaming, but he didn’t like it gargling.  He’d never let go of his belt, even when he’d plowed his tool into the pansy’s asscunt; he’d intended to use at some later point.  The noise the spic homo was making decided him; that point was now.

 

If the fucktard wanted to gag, Brody would give it a goddam good reason to gag.  He looped the belt over its head, then switched the ends in his hands so that it crossed at the back of the neck.  After that, all he had to do was lean back and jerk on the reins.  By easing up on the belt (or vice versa), he controlled if the meat breathed or if it choked, if it gasped for air or if it gagged in suffocating horror.

 

The hairy, muscled wetback was his fucktoy, a sack of meat to enjoy as it died on his cock.

 


 

Tony, of course, didn’t think of himself that way, but nobody gave a shit what he thought.  And by this time, lucid ratiocination was beyond his abilities.  With a monstrous cock up his ass and a thick leather strap cinching off his windpipe, self-preservation took up more of his mind than self-image.

 

But some part of him was also recalling Billy’s violent convulsions as the teenaged punk had died.  Tony had strangled him with a belt.  He’d forgotten that.  He’d raped his stepson and choked the boy to death with a belt.  Now it was happening to him.

 

The inside of Tony’s head felt like it was going to start spewing out of his ears; the pressure and the pounding were unendurable—but he could only claw ineffectually at the thick strap with his one good hand.  He couldn’t move; he was pinned to the bed by what felt like a telephone pole being reamed up his ass.  He couldn’t even scream aloud anymore.

 

And that was the point when Tony lost his Alpha card.  He was suddenly flooded with remorse for what he’d done to his stepson.  Now that he was suffering the identical agony he’d put the little cunt through, he developed a rudimentary sense of empathy.

 

It came too late to redeem him as a human being; it just made his last few minutes on earth as thrashing fuckmeat even more painful.

 


 

From behind, Brody couldn’t see the spic’s face.  He didn’t get to watch the way his bitch was drooling, or the way its eyes bulged and its face darkened from purple to black, but he didn’t need to.  He could feel its asshole working his dick, massaging the full length of the thick, throbbing shaft as he plowed it into the fucker’s guts.

 

The more brain damage the homo suffered, the harder its fagcunt stroked Brody’s rod.  The hardbodied redneck pumped his massive hog faster and faster into the dying shitsack, feeling beneath him its powerful muscles clenching and relaxing involuntarily as it started to lose physical control and coordination.

 

One thing it hadn’t lost yet was consciousness.  Brody didn’t know how he knew it could still hear him—but he knew.  He bent down to whisper into the motherfucker’s ear, so close, his rough, unshaven cheek brushed against the faggot’s head.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ wetback,” he hissed, “Still drunk, asswipe?  Still so drunk ya think you can fuck me?  Only thing yer good for is sinkin’ in th’ swamp after you die and milk my load outta me.  Ya hear me, boy?  Work my dick, faggot, work it good!”

 

With a snarl, Brody rose up and jerked brutally on the belt, his hands tightly gripping the ends as the thick bands of muscles in his biceps strained visibly under the skin.  The pressure on the dying pansy’s throat was inexorable.

 


 

Tony both felt and heard his esophagus collapse.  It was a soft crunching sound, like some crushing plastic foam, with the snapping of the hyoid bone adding a moment of punctuation.

 

When it happened, Tony shot his load.  It was an instinctual and uncontrolled reaction—the reflexive response of hypersexual manmeat to overwhelming physical trauma.  Since he was pinned face down on the bed, no one knew he’d spunked.  Not even Tony.  What he’d felt was an excruciating ache, as if his scrotum had been turned inside out, and in a way, it had.

 

In other circumstances, it would have been his best orgasm to date; he unloaded more sperm onto Brody’s stained sheets than he’d ever shot before.

 


 

It wasn’t how the meat’s dick reacted to a mortal wound that interested Brody so much as how its rectum did.  And the spicmeat’s ass was handling the buff killer’s engorged member like it was deliberately jacking him off.  The faggot’s fuckhole seemed to have a mind of its own, one not affected by lack of oxygen—one that wanted the alpha’s seed.

 

“Oh fuck,” Brody grunted, dropping the belt, “Oh fuck!!”  With a loud, inarticulate cry, the muscular killer leaned forward and wrapped his powerful arms around the corpse’s head.  His hips pumping at a frantic tempo, the redneck stud gave a massive grunt and twisted his arms.

 

The movement was quick and brutal; he wrenched the spic’s head off its spine.  The top two cervical vertebrae shattered with a popcorn-like burst, clearly audible outside the bedroom.  The sound damn near made Dan and Pete cum.  It did make Brody cum.

 

He jerked and heaved, his muscle-bound form shuddering violently as he hosed the dead fucker’s guts with his semen.  As the dead man continued to kick and twitch on his cock, Brody hunched over and spewed jet after jet of seething sperm up the corpse’s ass.

 

Gasping and heaving, he finally slowed.  Gingerly, he began to extract his still-oozing manhood from the dead faggot when the door was kicked in.

 

Brody looked up, angry and confused, as Pete and Dan piled into the room.  Pete had his shirt off, baring his huge furry chest; Brody hadn’t realized how pumped up Pete had gotten.  Behind him, Dan just finished unbuttoning his shirt and was slipping it off.

 

Then Brody realized that Pete’s fly was open. and his enormous tackle was hanging out.  And hard.

 

It happened in the blink of an eye.  “Take ‘im, Pete!” Dan barked, and the younger man threw himself at Brody.

 

Brody might not have known why it was happening—but he knew what was happening.  It was gonna be a fight to the death.  And if he lost, he was gonna take it up the ass.

 

 

 

Alpha Male Eddie

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

 

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

 

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

 

Well, for example, there was JJ.

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

They were almost all photos of corpses.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Eddie left the room and took a shower.

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Cuttin’ Down Ebony Woods, Part One

It was Frankie who bagged the first nigger.

 

It helped that his military-issue combat boots had rubber soles; the coon never heard him coming.  And after Frankie got there, the coon never heard anything, ever.  Period.

 

They’d met at two-fifteen on a Sunday morning in a back alley.  Sordid, filthy and dimly lit, it was filled with garbage bins and piles of trash, like most of the alleys on their turf—except this one wasn’t on their turf.

 

It didn’t matter.  A message had to be sent.  The two-story building that they met behind was filled with niggers and faggots who needed to learn the meaning of white power.

 

Jack had been responsible for collecting the guns; he had sources for untraceable small arms.  He handed Frankie, Mike and Hank nine-millimeter pistols and half a dozen extra clips each, keeping the same for himself.  Ed was the only one he didn’t provide a gun for—he had his own favorite Colt .45 and kept his pockets filled with extra shells.

 

Mike handed out zip ties, twenty-five to each Nazi—lotta apes to corral inside.  They grinned at each other and waited for their chance.

 

“We’re gonna go in quiet,” Jack had said.  “I wanna get in there and get control of the situation so we don’t have no howler monkeys screamin’ down the street.  All the shit stays inside—we can get as loud as we want in there, got me?”

 

They got him.  They all waited in patiently in the darkness of the alley—five muscle-bound skinheads, filled with rage and lust and racial hatred that was about to violently boil over.  They didn’t have to wait long.

 

The nigger bouncer was in its early twenties.  It had an expensive fade, a gold grill in its teeth and a black t-shirt with the word “security” printed across its broad, muscular chest.  It was checking the alley for the last time to make sure the bar back could empty the trash.  It wasn’t expecting trouble, and it damn sure wasn’t expecting Frankie’s bat or the powerhouse swing that connected it to its head with a loud crunch.

 

The hardbodied coon fell to the pavement and thrashed violently in a puddle of stagnant rainwater, the massive dent in its thick skull revealing the extent of brain damage it had suffered.  Quickly, Jack jumped forward and put his green twenty-hole Doc Martens to work, stomping the dying nigger’s head, kicking the open wound in in the skull with his steel-toed boots.  Soon the big ape was lying still, dead coonmeat stretched out on the pavement.

 

“One down, too many to go,” Jack growled and the thugs made their way in through back door.

 

Just inside the back door was a storeroom—and inside the storeroom were two faggots, one nigger, one white.  The boys burst into the room just as the nigger was shoving its thick black cock up the white twink’s ass.  For a moment, it was hard to determine which party was the most surprised.

 

With the guns, it wasn’t hard to determine which party was in charge.  The white punk stood up, pulling off the darkie’s thick rod with an audible pop.  They were both young—late teens, both of them.  The nigger sported back and red DC skate shoes while the white fag had gray Etnies, but were otherwise nude.

 

“Fuckin’ hell, lookit this shit,” Jack said, his face contorted with disgust, “A fuckin’ faggot gettin’ banged by a fuckin’ ape.  Almost as bad as an actual human gettin’ fucked by one.  Whaddaya say, boys?

 

“I say we off ‘em now,” Hank said, his muscles rippling under his white t-shirt as he brandished a claw hammer.

 

“Hang on,” Jack said, grinning.  “We need to do this quiet, remember?”

 

That was all the white homo needed to hear.  It opened its mouth wide and inhaled, but Jack was even faster.  He decked the cocksucker in the jaw, putting its lights out.  The nigger flinched and cowered in fear, trembling.

 

“P-please,” it begged, “Pl-please d-d-don’t hur-hurt me—”

 

Frankie noticed it had a goatee.  “Hey, look,” he jeered, pointing at the dark, curly hair outlining the jigaboo’s mouth, “It’s got pubes on its fuckin’ face!”

 

“That’s its face pussy,” Ed laughed.

 

Hank grabbed a bottle out of a nearby box; a single sniff after removing the cap showed it to be nearly pure grain alcohol.  “Ya like shovin’ things in yer coon pussyface?” he snarled at the terrified fag, “Here, shove this in!”

 

He forced the bottle into the monkey’s mouth.  Mike, standing next to him, stepped up and wrapped a muscular arm around the cunt’s head, locking it into place, while Frankie, simply but effectively, pinched its nose shut.  Within a space of fifteen seconds, Hank managed to pour almost a quart of 190-proof alcohol down the teenaged nigger’s throat.  They all held on for a full count of three minutes—just as if they were strangling it—then let go.

 

The young niglet had been carded on entry and hadn’t been drinking that night.  The booze hit it like a semi.  The coon cocksucker was still scared out of its mind, but was too fucked up to resist.  It staggered for a moment, then fell back on the pile of garbage bags that had been stacked to be taken outside.

 

“There ya go, Hank,” Jack said.  “Frankie got one outside, this one’s yours.  After all, y’all missed the fun last time…”

 

Hank grinned sadistically and grabbed another bottle.  The baby ape focused blearily on the Nazi’s black DM’s as he approached, then looked up.  “N’more…” it muttered.

 

“Aw, c’mon,” Hank chuckled, “Just one more itty-bitty drinkie-poo.”  He forced the bottle between the nigger’s thick lips and before the faggot realized that this bottle was plastic, not glass, Hank had poured three pints of commercial-grade drain cleaner down its throat.

 

The reaction was instant and explosive, but silent.  It rose up, flailing, eyes so wide the whites looked like dinner plates.  A torrent of rancid foam spilled from between its thick lips as it stared in horror and desperation into Hank’s hard, sneering face.  “Ya just swallowed a mouthload of white-fuckin’-power, ya piece a’ monkey shit.  How’s that taste, huh?”

 

The agonized coon felt the warm trickle of Hank’s spit on its face and tried to cry out but the caustic chemicals had already eaten at its vocal cords and peeled off the lining of its esophagus.  It could only foam and drool and piss itself, clutching its belly in nightmarish pain, and try to stagger away.

 

“Hey, Frankie,” Hank called out casually, “I taught the fuckin’ thing to play dead—why’ncha teach it how to stay?”

 

Laughing, Frankie stepped up, swinging his bat, low and hard.  There was the hard, wet cracking sound of a green, healthy tree limb being snapped and the nigger fag collapsed to the floor, its broken tibia and fibula folding up under it.

 

“What about that one?” Ed asked as a faint moan from the corner told them the niggerlover was regaining consciousness.

 

“Let’s save it for the party.  Mike, zip it.”

 

As Mike bound its hands behind it with zip ties, Jack and Ed dragged the stunned twink homo through a pair of swinging doors and out into an area near the back of the bar.  Behind them, the cocksucking niglet shuddered impotently on the floor.  Even had it gotten immediate medical attention, the chemicals were too strong; the young ape was being eaten away from the inside.

 

But there was no medical attention.  The teen coon could hear everything that happened in the next room.  It had the satisfaction of living longer than most of those around it, even if those extra moments were spent writhing in nightmarish agony on the cold concrete floor, alone in the dark.


The bar itself stretched off to the right.  Two buff young bucks were working there.  Both were shirtless, their smooth ebony skin glistening under the flashing lights from the dance floor.  Out on the floor were three couples—all of them nigger fags, kissing and slobbering on each other.

 

Jack was sick at the sight.  “Ok, fuckers, time to rock n’ roll.  We got us some jungle bunnies to round up.  Ed, you, Frankie and Hank get the ones out there.  Mike and I’ll grab these two.  Ready to make some noise?”

 

The boys nodded eagerly, hate and sexual excitement reflected in their masculine faces.  “White power, motherfuckers!”

 

The cry rang out among them all, echoing over the dance floor, drowning out the nigger gangsta rap.

 

“White power, motherfuckers!  White power!  White power!”

 

Jack and Ed fired their guns, aiming at the ceiling.  Even if the dry-humping nigs on the dance floor hadn’t heard the shouts, they damn sure heard the gunfire.  So did everyone else in the building, and they did exactly what they’d been told to do in live shooter situations: shelter in place.

 

They froze, waiting to be hunted down like the animals they were.

 

The boys leered at each other and the Ebony Woods Coon Slaughter got started.

 

“Awright, get over here, ya fuckin’ apes!” Jack snarled at the bartenders.  The young coons looked at each other, then approached hesitantly, trembling with fear.  One was tall and muscular, with an expensive fade and a thick gold chain around its neck, the other was slightly shorter and not a heavily built but well developed.  Both wore skin-tight satin pants that clearly showed the outlines of their thick black cocks, like male strippers, and both sported black go-go boots.

 

“What the fuck do we got here?” the vicious Nazi thug sneered.  “On yer knees, jigaboos.”

 

Behind him, Frankie and Hank had rounded up the six Sambos on the dance floor and with Mike’s help, was getting them to pull each other’s clothing off.  As each coon was stripped down to its glistening chocolate skin, its hands were securely bound behind its back with zip ties.

 

The black bartenders knelt in front of Jack, looking up at the muscled skinhead in his Gold’s Gym shirt and his Doc Martens, an overwhelming presence of hate and testosterone.  The taller one began to cry.

 

Jack pointed his Glock 17 at the nig’s face.  “Aw, is de wittle jungle bunny scared?  Eat shit, ya fuckin’ nigger!”  There was a loud pop and a hole appeared in the darkie’s forehead while its brains were blasted out a hole in the back of its skull.  It fell forward, dead, but not still, its legs thrashing in its death throes.  The white thug popped another cap into it, pithing the brainstem and quieting the monkey.

 

The other coon bartender, its face splattered with its coworker’s blood, gasped and began to wail, a high, atonal keening sound.

 

“Aw, shaddap,” Jack snapped, shooting it point-blank in the mouth.  The hardbodied black buck swayed on its knees for a moment, blinking, piss running down its leg, with its teeth blown out through the back of its neck, then it fell forward, a sack of dead monkey meat.

 

The herd of coons on the dance floor were paralyzed with terror, the white niggerlover among them.  Mike stepped over to Hank and, after a quick discussion, borrowed the claw hammer from him.

 

“Awright, Hank,” Jack ordered, his voice steely with purpose, “You an’ Frankie stay here and guard this lot.  I got somethin’ special planned for these nignogs.  Fuckin’ pansy-ass coons think they can flaunt their faggot nigger asses in our part of town?  We’re gonna show the whole fuckin’ city how white power handles this bullshit.”

 

Standing up straight and squaring his shoulders, Jack adjusted the thick, straining bulge in his crotch.  Grinning at each other, the rest of the boys did the same, shifting their straining denim-sheathed cocks to more comfortable positions.  The evening was just getting started.

 

“Ok, you fuckers, it’s search and destroy time.  Mike, Ed, you’re with me.  We’re gonna through this fuckin’ monkey hut room by room and hunt down any nigger we can find.  No fuckin’ mercy, ya got that?”

 

They got it.  They didn’t need to be told.  They weren’t looking to dispense mercy, they were looking to dispense terror and torture—and testosterone.  These were gonna be sick kills; just the thought of the horrific death about to rain down on the isolated groups of trapped coon faggots made their hard white manshafts drip with anticipation.

 

Just outside the bar was the entry and the bouncer’s nook.  There was a door to one side to a restroom; on the other side were the stairs to the second level.  Most of the second floor consisted of catwalks over the dance floor, but there was a sign next to the staircase that showed there was a smoking lounge and another restroom as well.

 

“Ok, I got this one,” Jack said nodding towards the downstairs restroom.  “You head on up.  We’ll meet back in twenty minutes.”

 

“They’re gonna get bored,” Ed said, indicating Hank and Frankie back on the dance floor.

 

“Don’t worry,” Jack said, “What I got planned will make up for it.  And anyway, they’re gonna be busy going through the wallets and stripping the bling.  Fuckin’ nigger apes think they can own property—they fuckin’ are property, goddamit!”

 

Ed grinned and Mike felt his dick throb.  They turned to head up the stairs—and at that moment, a figure moved out of the entryway.

 

It was the Hispanic bar back.  Dressed in a tight, stained t-shirt and jeans tucked into pull on work boots, he was young and swarthy with shoulder-length blue-black hair.  He was carrying a mop, but dropped it, stunned, as soon as he saw the trio of white power skinheads.  Jack drew to plug the fucker, but Mike got there first with the hammer.

 

The first blow of the steel head shattered the spic’s jaw; its hands fumbled at its face in shock and horror as Mike wielded the heavy tool again, this time impacting the beaner’s skull hard enough to shatter it.  The brown-skinned wetback fell to the floor in a coma, its boots jerking on the tiles as its damaged brain, peppered with skull fragments, short-circuited.

 

Jack gave Mike a thumbs-up as Ed slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Fuck yeah, bro. Righteous.”

 

The three hardbodied, big-dicked Aryans turned back to their cold-blooded coon hunt.

 

Jack entered the restroom with his gun drawn and his dick hard.  The room was silent, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.  To his left were three sinks, with mirrors over them.  On the right were three stalls with the doors closed and at the far end was a long metal piss trough.

 

The thick soles of his twenty-holed boots echoed eerily on the tiled floor as he slowly paced down the room.  The buff young thug paused in front of the first mirror and admired himself for a moment, the way his t-shirt was stretched tightly across his huge pecs, the way his long thick shaft of pure white manhood was standing to attention during his righteous purge of the niggers.

 

Whirling, he pressed the barrel of his gun against the door of the first stall and slowly opened it, the sound of metal scraping on metal loud in the silence.  As the door inched open, it revealed two coons huddled together in each other’s arms, their white eyes huge with terror.

 

Jack grinned and grabbed his scrote, adjusting his huge, cum-filled balls as he took stock of the situation.    “Well, well, looky here, a coupla jigaboo fags hangin’ out in the toilet.  Feel at home in there, ya pieces a’ shit?  Get the fuck out here.  Now.”

 

The two boys, trembling in terror, shuffled their way out of the stall.  In their early twenties, both were in skinny jeans and button-down shirt—one light blue, the other a blue and purple plaid.  The one in blue was wearing brown suede Chelsea boots; the one in plaid had a pair of Air Jordan 4 “Tattoos”.  Young, hip, slightly upscale urban fags, they were unused to violence and petrified at the sight of Jack’s weapon.

 

“Over there,” the menacing Aryan snarled waving the quivering monkeys to the far end of the restroom, next to the trough.  He opened the door to the middle stall with his gun, only to find it empty.  Shrugging, he turned to the last stall.

 

It was locked.

 

With a broad smirk on his chiseled face, Jack raised his booted foot and kicked the door in.

 

This one had gonna full gangsta thug, with a Lakers jersey that showed off its smooth, muscled arms and a pair of low-hanging jeans that looked like they’d been belted around its legs below its ass, showing off a pair of skin-tight black briefs underneath.  It had on a yellow Lakers cap, with the brim turned back at an angle, thick braided chains around its throat and a pair of untied Timberlands.

 

And the coon was so frightened, it’d lost control of its bladder.

 

Jack laughed triumphantly at this proof of his power.  He’d scared the piss outta the fuckin’ ape without even seeing it.

 

“More fuckin’ vermin,” he growled, “Goddam building’s infested.”  He reached in and manhandled the gibbering, terrified darkie out of the stall and shoved it towards the others.

 

“Here,” he snarled, handing a pair of zip ties to the nigger in plaid, “Bind their hands.  No, not in front, ya stupid fuckin’ monkey, in back.  And do it tight or I’ll bust a cap in yer worthless ape skull, ya hear me, boy?”

 

Its hands trembling, the jigaboo obeyed, cinching its faggot boyfriend’s wrists closely, then moved on to the cowering gangsta bitch.

 

“Nice, obedient coon,” Jack jeered, “Woulda fetched a good price back in the good ol’ days.”

 

Once it was done, Jack felt safe enough to set down the gun and secure its hands itself.  Then he lined all three niggers up, facing the piss trough.

 

“On your knees, you cunts,” he barked.  “Fuckin’ niggers should always be on their knees in the presence of a white man, but you faggots are so uppity I’m gonna hafta show y’all what real white power is.”

 

He’d been digging something out his pocket; it was a folding tactical knife.  The blade was only four inches long, but the forged steel was razor-sharp and serrated.  The hardbodied skinhead grabbed the nappy poll of the coon in the blue shirt and forced its head down over the lip of the trough.

 

“Time to die, ya nigger sack a’ shit,” Jack spat and, reaching up under the Sambo’s chin with his knife, began slicing its throat open.

 

“No!!!” it screamed, “O god no don’t please god no no nonono–AAAIIIIEEEAgghghg—”

 

As its shrill animal shriek of mortal agony echoed off the tile walls of the small, harshly lit room, Jack pressed his crotch against the nigger’s head so it could feel his hard cock as it gagged and choked on its own blood.  The coppery scent of righteous bloodletting began to overtake the acrid tang of nigger piss.  After a minute or so, the jigaboo stopped twitching, its brown Chelsea boots finally growing still on the stained white tiles.

 

Jack left it slumped over the trough and moved to the next nig in line, executing the homo coons with the efficiency of an industrial slaughterhouse.

 


 

Upstairs, Ed had turned right and headed into the smoking lounge while Mike went directly forward into the upstairs restroom.  The smoking lounge was hazy and dimly lit, with sofas and chaise lounges scattered about.  There was a TV showing music videos on one wall, muted, and a smaller bar, closed up, at the far end of the room.

 

There were also four jungle bunnies hiding behind the various pieces of furniture.  It took Ed a couple of minutes to round them all up and get them to bind each other with the zip ties.  Soon they were all kneeling on the floor, looking up at him in abject terror.

 

Ed was an intimidating sight.  Tall and well-muscled, his white wifebeater didn’t hide a single detail of his powerful, heavily inked arms.  His close-shaven head with its broken nose and expression of merciless hate filled the niggers with cold despair.

 

He approached the first coon on the far right—an older one, mid-twenties, well-built, with a simple black leather moto jacket, a white t-shirt, and tight jeans of black leather over white Adidas hightops.

 

“Ya good with yer mouth, faggot?” Ed demanded as the leather-clad jigaboo flinched, “Fuckin’ nigger cocksuckers oughtta get put right the fuck down if they can’t work their tongues right.  Lessee if yer worth the air yer breathin’, ya piece a’ homo shit.  Lick my boots clean.”

 

As the other Sambos huddled together, quivering with fear, the nigger hesitantly bent its head down towards Ed’s red Doc Marten boot.  “Goddam it, ya useless coon faggot, lick it!” Ed snarled, cracking the jigaboo on the back of its head with the gun.  It cried out, a hopeless bleat of despair, but it obeyed, loudly slurping the oxblood leather.

 

Ed watched for about thirty seconds, then hocked up a wad of phlegm and spit on the kneeling nigger.  Reaching down, he unzipped the fly of his tight faded jeans and pulled his huge, pulsing manshaft out, sighing loudly with relief as the massive tube of flesh was allowed room to expand.

 

Then he suddenly and swiftly drew back his foot and kicked the nigger in the face, his steel-toed boot knocking out three of the cunt’s teeth.  As it whined on the floor, its hands clasped over its mouth, Ed brandished the pistol.

 

“You suck, ya fuckin’ porch monkey, an’ not in a good way.  Get up here and wrap yer thick niggery lips ‘round the barrel of my .45.”

 

The coon looked up, bewildered and horrified.

 

“C’mon, nig boy, pretend it’s yer master’s cock and start suckin’.  Let’s see if yer good enough to suck anythin’ outta this long hard shaft.”

 

The nigger, tears streaming down its glistening ebony face, closed its eyes, opened its mouth and took in the gun.

 

“Yeah, that’s it, ya punk-ass bitch,” Ed jeered, “Suck it like a white man’s cock an’ maybe I’ll let ya feel the pure power of a white load.”

 

Then he pulled the trigger.

 

There was a loud click as the hammer came down on an empty chamber.  The nigger jumped and squealed, pissing inside its leather pants in terror and collapsing to the floor as Ed guffawed loudly and massaged his erect cock.

 

“Guess what?” he chortled.  “We’re gonna play a game.  I know you jigaboos prob’ly ain’t even able to read, but even yer dumbass ape brains should be able to figure this one out—it’s real simple.  You darkie dicksuckers are gonna take turns gobblin’ my gun like it’s a cock.  An’ if yer lucky, you get the prize of sucking a big blast of white power from my hot, hard barrel.  Sound like fun?  Fuck yeah!”

 

Grinning viciously, he turned to the next nigger in line.  “Open wide, faggot,” he smirked.

 


 

Mike had already slipped on his brass knuckles by the time he entered the upstairs restroom.  This one was smaller, with two stalls, two urinals and one sink.  The stalls had no doors—but that didn’t stop the coons from trying to hide there anyway.  Mike found two crouched in the doorway and silently motioned them out with the gun.

 

From the next stall came a series of beeps someone activating a cell phone.  Mike flung himself into the stall to find a jig in a blue satin jersey, baggy jeans and Nike Air Precision kicks on its knees, desperately trying to dial 911 through its streaming tears.

 

Without needing to think, Mike punched the nigger in the mouth, shattering its jaw.  It crumpled to the floor, whimpering as Mike ground the big black heel of his engineer boot onto the phone, crushing it before the call could be completed.  The other two Sambos hadn’t moved—they were frozen with fear—so getting them zip-tied was quick and easy.

 

The buff young Aryan pulled his thick, vein-wreathed cock out of his jeans, stroked to for a moment, then strolled into the toilet stall and beat the semi-conscious nigger to death.

 

He crouched over the coon, grinning, then rolled it onto its back.  “Fuckin’ niggerboy thinks it’s gettin’ away?  Looks like I’m gonna hafta mark it.  Ain’t gotta brandin’ iron, but these here brass knuckles will do just fine.”  Then he started swinging.

 

Each powerful impact of the hardbodied, rage-filled youth’s fist resulted in a wet pulpy crunch as the Nazi rained agony down onto the thrashing, helpless nigger.  “Hell yeah, ya fuckin’ jigaboo, ya tastin’ yer own blood?” he jeered as he punched the coon’s teeth down its throat, “That’s what white-fuckin’-power tastes like!  Have some more, boy!  Tastes just like fried chicken an’ watermelon, don’t it!”

 

As the yard ape’s face caved in, Mikes repeated blows splattered the walls of the stall with blood.  By the time the skinhead came shudderingly to a stop, the coon was still twitching, its Nikes scraping on the floor tiles, but its face was an unrecognizable ruin and it had suffered catastrophic brain damage.  As Mike exited the stall to turn his attention to his remaining targets, the bleeding inside the nigger’s shattered skull was slowly but surely becoming fatal.

 

“Ok,” he said with a demonic grin on his blood-spattered face as he pulled the claw hammer out of his belt, “Who’s next?  Don’t both y’all volunteer at once, now!”

 


 

“Oh fuck, no, please, sir, don’t—”

 

Jack laughed cruelly.  “Yeah, bitch, ya better fuckin’ call me sir!” he jeered as he forced the coon’s head down over the trough, feeling its tight wooly curls under the iron grip of his hand.  This time, Jack had taken the time to haul his enormous throbbing mancock out; it was resting on the jigaboo’s shoulder as the Nazi stud brought his knife around to its throat.  He started slicing and the coon started screaming.

 

“Ohgoddon’tnonoMOMMAMOMMAMOMMaagghurrghh…” There was a high-pitched hiss as Jack sawed his way into the trachea, then the nigger gargled its own blood for a couple of minutes as its lithe, jean-clad legs flailed and its Nike Jordan Tattoos kicked in the pools of nigger blood and piss on the floor.  Then it lay still for a moment, blood splashing into the piss trough and its hands randomly clenching as it died.  Suddenly, with a final convulsive spasm, it flipped back out of the trough.

 

Jack left the dead monkey to bleed out on the restroom floor.  He turned his attention to the remaining jungle bunny—and the fuckin’ nig bolted, sprinting for the door.

 


 

The next nigger fag in line had on a bright red t-shirt a size too small, tight black jeans, and gray Ugg Hannen boots.  Ed smirked as he slowly and deliberately thrust his gun between its lips.

 

“C’mon, cocksucker,” he chuckled, “Lessee ya get a load outta this.  Work it, you nigger fuck, suck it like it’s yer master’s dick.”

 

Closing his eyes tightly, the jigaboo worked the gun barrel with its tongue.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ed sneered, “Now deep-throat it, you cunt.”

 

The dark-skinned ape did as it was told.  It took as much of the gun barrel into its mouth as it could.  Ed pulled the trigger and the back of the jigaboo’s head vanished in a spray of red mist.  A Jackson Pollock splatter of blood, brain tissue and bone shards spread over the wall behind it.

 

Ed jerked the gun out of its mouth.  It remained upright on its knees for about another five seconds, its dead eyes wide, smoke drifting from its open mouth and the crater in the back of its head, then it collapsed into a pile of jigmeat.

 

“Oops,” the sadistic Aryan muscleman chortled, “Guess I need to reload.”  He replaced the spent casing with a live round and turned to the next darkie homo in line.  “Your turn, motherfucker.  Suck it.  Suck it hard, faggot.”

 

This one was wearing a St Louis cap backwards, a white wifebeater identical to Ed’s, showing off its large sweaty ape-like muscles and a pair of Diesel jeans with untied Timberlands.  And this one didn’t want to play the game.  It turned its head and kept its mouth shut.

 

“Aw fuck yeah,” Ed barked out happily, “I was hopin’ I’d have an excuse to do this.”

 

He grabbed the nigger, jerking it up out of its kneeling position and threw it face down over the arm of one of the sofas.  Before it could recover, he’d yanked its jeans down past its knees.  The faggot was freeballing, of course.  Ed just smiled viciously.

 

“Man, I been wantin’ to do this shit to a nigger for a long time,” he chuckled gleefully, “I been wonderin’ how bad this’d fuck up a jungle bunny.  Stupid fuckin’ piece a’ shit!”

 

On the last word he violently shoved the barrel of his .45 up the coon’s ass and pulled the trigger three times.  The first chamber was empty—but the second one wasn’t.  Nor the third.

 

The first bullet traveled up through the street ape’s innards at a slightly upwards trajectory.  It pierced the intestines multiple times, holed the spleen, liver, and left lung, then tore its way upwards, smashing a rib and tearing an exit hole out of the coon’s back, near its left shoulder blade.

 

The second bullet moved in a straight line up the center of the body mass, ripping open the pancreas and stomach, missing the nigger’s heart but puncturing the esophagus and lodging in the cervical vertebrae, instantly paralyzing the rebellious Sambo.

 

As is lay face-down on the sofa, blood tricking from its nostrils and piss tricking into its Timberlands, slowly, agonizingly suffocating as it lost the ability to inhale, Ed turned back to the two remaining coons.

 

“Anyone else wanna get a good hard white power fuck?” he snarled, brandishing the pistol and reloading it.  His question was met with silence.  “Yeah, I thought not,” he sneered, “Worthless faggot cowards.  Get over here, you fuckin’ nigger waste, and lick yer boyfriend’s shit outta my gun!”

 


 

The two nigs flattened themselves against the far wall as Mike approached with the hammer in his hand.  One of them, a young ape in a Raiders cap, white t-shirt, black jersey gym shorts and a pair of Puma Ferrari hightops, kept darting its wide eyes about in panic.  It was sporting lots of bling around its neck, multiple thick gold chains which it kept fingering.  The other coon was older, a lean, muscular buck with a black do-rag on its head and a dark goatee.  It was in obvious fear as well but seemed to have better self-control.

 

As expected, the darkie in the Oakland cap suddenly feinted right, signaling an obvious move to the left.  Mike shifted his weight to one side, letting it begin its sprint for the door, then swung the hammer, neatly striking the coon on the side of its head, sending it into a boneless, unconscious sprawl on the floor.  The young skinhead turned to the other nigger.

 

This one, seeing the score, chose not to run.  It was a buff young thug, its black muscle shirt revealing its smooth, dark skin, glistening with nigger sweat.  It swung its arms up in a defensive posture, revealing a nice pair of biceps; its feet, in a pair of LL Bean duck boots, shuffled over the floor tiles as it tried to move into an advantageous position.

 

“C’mon, ya white-ass motherfucker!” it shouted.

 

“That’s about right, boy,” Mike sneered, “This white man’s gonna fuck yer momma right into the ground, and yer daddy too.  But let’s start with you, ya fuckin’ jigaboo.”

 

The nigger roared and lunged at Mike in a fog of fear-crazed rage.  Again, the young Aryan was able to dodge his attacker and swing the hammer—this coon got it in the face.  There was a faint pop as its cheekbone shattered, then it squealed, holding its hand up to its face as its left eye began to blacken and swell shut.

 

“Goddam,” it moaned, “Oh, fuck…”

 

It glanced up just in time to see Mike looming over it, his “These Boots Were Made for Stomping” t-shirt pulled tautly across his huge, muscled chest and his long thick manshaft drooling precum, and his powerful arm raised over his head.

 

And in his hand, the hammer had been reversed.  The head was pointed to the rear, with the claw forward.

 

“Oh fuck no—” the coon had time to gasp before the snarling Nazi swung the hammer like a pickaxe, smashing the thick steel claws through its skull and sinking them deep into its brain.  As the yard ape shuddered violently with massive cerebral trauma, Mike cranked the hammer down as if he was yanking out a nail, and peeled back the top of the nigger’s cranium, exposing the mangled gray matter.

 

“Only way to get somethin’ into a nigger’s head is by rammin’ it through its thick monkey skull,” Mike chuckled, jerking his hammer back out of the dead coon’s brain and letting the convulsive sack of jigaboo meat slump to the floor and shit itself.  Then he turned his attention to the moaning nig he’d knocked out, just now starting to stir.

 

The Aryan killer strode over to the prostrate jungle bunny.  “Hey, fuckwad,” he hissed as the spade began to blink and open its eyes, “Wakey, wakey.  I got somethin’ for yer pansy nigger ass.  Look up here, coon.  See it?  It’s my boot.”

 

As soon as the nigger focused its eyes on the upraised engineer boot hanging over its face, Mike stomped it.  Hard.

 

His erect cock pulsed with the electric sense of white power as he felt the jigaboo’s face cave under his boot and heard the crunching and squelching noises of brutal facial trauma.  It felt so good, he did it again.  And again.  And again, ramming his boot into the cunt’s face, kicking out its teeth, dislocating, then shattering its jaw, splintering the orbits of the eyes…

 

And all the time blood was flying from the Sambo’s face and precum was flying from Mike’s hard cock.

 

By the time he’d regained control of himself, the young, hardbodied skinhead had managed to avoid orgasm, but the nigger hadn’t avoided death.  There was still a faint gurgling from the ruined crater that had been its face, but that was post-mortem.  The coon was meat.

 

Having heard the popping of Ed’s gun from the smoking lounge, Mike decided to saunter in that direction to see what we going on.  Behind him, piles of ape flesh twitched randomly on the bathroom floor.

 


 

The last coon in Ed’s batch was very young—just a niglet.  It didn’t look old enough to be in the club, but it was clearly a fag.  Hair in an expensive fade, each ear pierced multiple times with diamond studs inserted, a retro denim jacket over a green t-shirt with the words “Ride Me Cowboy” in yellow, skin-tight skinny jeans faded to the same shade as the jacket and a pair of white Converse trainers.

 

It was also sobbing uncontrollably, so terrified it didn’t hear Ed’s words.  It had already pissed itself and its jeans had dark streaks down each leg that originated at the crotch.  It made no resistance as Ed forced the gun into its mouth and pulled the trigger.

 

There was a loud click.  The nigger flinched and sobbed louder, but had no other reaction.  Ed pulled the gun out and turned back to the first nig.

 

“Looks like it’s back to you, boy.  Suck my rod, you fuckin’ faggot.”

 

The nigger shuddered inside its leather gear, closed its eyes and opened its mouth with no protest—having been beaten, its spirit had been shattered.  It was ready to obey.

 

It didn’t have to obey long.  There was a muffled pop inside its mouth and a sudden jet of blood and bone out the top of its head.  The older coon in the moto jacket fell dead to the floor with the grace of a sack of dirty laundry, and Ed was alone with the baby fag.

 

“Man, yer cryin’ is annoyin’,” he snarled as he pointed the gun at it and pulled the trigger repeatedly.  Two shots were fired, aimed randomly, and hit the coon in the torso, one a through-and-through shot that pierced the spleen, stomach and liver and one that shattered a rib, punctured a lung and lodged in the spinal column.  Suddenly paralyzed from the chest down, the teenaged niglet fell forward.

 

“Comin’ in,” Mike called from outside as a heads-up, then entered the room.  Each Nazi grinned fraternally at the sight of the other’s hard, oozing cock.

 

“Check this one out,” Ed said, indicating the baby homo, “C’mere an’ watch it die.”

 

The teen coon was looking at the muscle-bound skinheads in horror as it slowly suffocated, blood pooling in its non-functioning lungs.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid ape?” Mike jeered as he stroked his dick, “Hope it hurts like fuck, dumbass.”

 

Its eyes bulged and drool leaked over its thick lips as it spent its last moments on earth listening to the taunts of its sadistic, sexually aroused killers.

 

“Yer dyin’, ya sack a’ nigger shit,” Ed smirked, “Gettin’ a start on wipin’ all you fuckin’ useless jigaboos off the planet.  Burn in hell, nigger.”

 

The teen coon died, Ed’s voice ringing in its ears.

 

“Let’s go see if Jack’s offed all of his yet,” Mike suggested.  “I ain’t wasted near enough coons yet.”  They headed for the stairs.

 


 

“You fuckin’ cunt,” Jack growled, his deep bass voice vibrating with rage and suppressed lust as he stood over the sprawled nigger, “You fucked up so fuckin’ bad…”

 

The coon moaned and rubbed its head; the Lakers cap had fallen off when the monkey went down.  It looked up to find itself staring down the barrel of Jack’s Glock.  The Nazi motioned the nig into the toilet stall.

 

“In there, faggot.  You like gettin’ cocks shoved down ye throat?  You like drinkin’ piss, you fuckin perverted jigaboo?  You make me sick, you sack of shit.  Lick that toilet, nigger.  Get down on yer cocksuckin’ knees and run yer fuckin’ tongue all over it, you disgustin’ homo!”

 

The spade shuddered and closed its eyes but it had no choice; it knew that it’d end up with a slug in its brain if it didn’t obey.

 

What it didn’t know was how much more merciful as slug would have been.

 

After several minutes of loud slurping, Jack suddenly spoke up: “Bite it.”

 

The coon paused, confused.  Jack bent down and whispered.  The terrified jungle bunny could feel the skinhead’s goatee brush its face and his hot breath on its ear.  “Open yer fuckin’ nigger mouth and put yer fuckin’ nigger teeth on the edge of the lip like yer gonna bite a chunk out.”

 

The thug wanna-be tried to control its sobs, but it did as it was told.

 

Behind it, Jack stood up.  He raised his knee-high green Doc Marten boot and with no warning, power-stomped the back of the cunt’s head with such force he drove the nigger’s face through the bowl, shattering the porcelain.  Coon teeth scattered across the floor like a handful of dropped coins as the toilet was flowed out over the stunned nigger’s torn and mangled face.

 

Without a paused, Jack bent down, grabbed a handful of woolly hair and dragged the jigaboo out of the stall and over to the piss trough.  He bent it roughly over the edge; there was a loud snap and the faggot went limp in his arms—he’d broken its neck.

 

But it wasn’t dead.  And it could still sense things—like the nightmarish agony of Jack’s serrated knife slowly slicing its neck open like roast beef.

 

Satisfied, Jack pocketed his knife again and left the restroom.  Behind him, the last nigger still hadn’t been luck enough to die.  The angle of its head down in the trough and the fact that the carotid artery hadn’t been pierced meant that blood didn’t reach the wound until after it had reached the spade’s brain.  It hung in the piss trough, helpless, paralyzed, blood tricking down its face and its own piss pooling in its Timberlands.

 

Jack met Ed and Mike just as they were coming down the stairs. All three Aryan grinned at the sight of each other, manfully erect and spatter with nigger blood.

 

“Off to a good start?” Ed asked

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Jack grinned and gave the boys fist bumps.

 

There was a sudden scraping noise off to the side but a quick look reassured them that it was just the brain-damaged spic bar back having a seizure.  Its eyes were rolled back in its head, blood trickled from its nose and ears and its boots scuffled on the floor.  Nothing to worry about; the wetback had been neutralized.

 

“C’mon, let’s get back to the others,” Jack said, “Time to get the real fun started.”

 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Ed asked, “You never did say what you got planned.”

 

Jack grinned and slapped both Mike and Ed on the shoulder.  “Boys,” he said, smiling, “We’re gonna have us an ol’-fashioned nigger auction.”

 

—End of Part One

Trucker 18–Trucker vs Teen Fuckmeat

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

 

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

 

And anyway, he was overdue for a kill.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Not in here.  You got a place?”

 

“Uh, yeah—over in the motel.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Stepfather Knows Best

It was past midnight and Tony was pissed.  That fuckin’ punk had a curfew, and he damn well knew it; Tony had made sure of that.  So where was the little asswipe?

 

There had never been any love lost between Tony and his stepson.  Of course, he’d only been Billy’s stepfather for a year and they’d never been on good terms.  It was obvious that Tony hadn’t loved Billy’s mother, which hadn’t endeared him to the teen, but things had gotten much worse in the seven months since she’d died.

 

As Tony ground his teeth and waited for Billy, he wondered, with a bitter grin, how the kid would react if he knew that Tony had murdered her.

 

Stupid bitch had wanted his body so bad.  Tony was thirty-two, six feet tall and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of pure muscle that he exercised daily working in the freight yard of a lumber company.  He was Hispanic—Tony was short for Antonio—with fairly long blue-black hair, dark liquid eyes and black wiry fur covering his sculpted form.

 

He was also uneducated, sullen, violent-tempered—and gay.  It irked him, and he’d kill to protect his macho image, but he accepted it physically.  He’d married Billy’s mom for two reasons, one of which was the she simply wouldn’t leave him alone.  She’d met him at one of the neighborhood supermarkets and instantly fallen for his dark Latin looks and his phenomenal physique.

 

But the main reason was that she’d agreed to insure her life for a two million dollars with him—him alone, and not the kid—as beneficiary.  “Don’t worry, querida, I’ll take care of William,” he’d told her.  But Guillermo had been his father’s name; the obnoxious sixteen-year-old didn’t deserve to be called by the same name as that noble man.  He still intended to keep his word, though.

 

He’d take care of Billy.

 

Her death had been easy to arrange.  Tony wasn’t smart but he had the cunning and instincts of a predatory animal.  He’d made it simple.  The day after the kid’s seventeenth birthday—she’d wanted to have a party but of course the little fuck spent the night out getting high and banging some cheap high school slut—he’d simply pushed her down the stairs, then called 911.  When he got down and found out she was still alive, he broke her neck.

 

The autopsy concluded death by misadventure.  It was officially an accident.

 

It was taking a while to wind things up, though.  He was waiting for the final legal matters of his wife’s estate—such as it was—to finish up before taking the money and blowing town, leaving Billy behind.  Tony had already gotten the money, all two million of it, and stashed it in an account under a false identity he’d created, having set up a residence under that name in a small town on the other side of the state.  All that was left was the deed of the house.  It wasn’t worth much—but Tony was greedy.

 

He was also intolerant of his spoiled punk of a stepson.

 

But ever since his mother’s death, the teen fuckwad had become more and more insolent, sneering at Tony, daring him to try to punish him.  “You ain’t my dad!” he yelled so often that the words rang continuously in Tony’s ears, “The moment I’m eighteen, I’m outta here!”

 

That one made Tony smile.  He planned to be outta here himself long before then.

 

But lately, Billy had gotten worse.  He’d come home at two in the morning, bleary, red-eyed, obviously drunk and/or high every time, usually boasting about whatever freshman chick had been unlucky enough to get her cherry popped by him.  Tony really didn’t give a shit what the boy did, but he was drawing attention to the household.  Already the older man had been visited twice by the cops and three times by the truant officer.

 

The last thing Tony wanted before he cut and run was to be noticed by the cops.  The problem needed to end—now.  He’d told Billy two days ago that he needed to be in by midnight, or else.  He didn’t finish the sentence, but his manner and gestures made his meaning clear. Billy sneered but didn’t argue.

 

He’d gotten home on time last night, but there was something in his actions and his unpleasant expression that made Tony suspect his plans hadn’t worked out.  There’d ended up being no temptation to break curfew.

 

Tonight, however…

 

It was nearly two in the morning before Tony heard the front door open.  Billy stumbled in, drunk, his pale blue eyes bloodshot.  The teen punk flipped on the hall light just as Tony stepped out of the tiny living room.

 

“You hadda curfew, boy,” Tony growled.

 

“Huh?  Whozzat?” Billy slurred, rubbing his bleary eyes as he struggled to remain upright.  His red-gold hair gleamed under the overhead bulb the kid swayed.

 

Billy was almost as tall as Tony, about five feet ten, but much slenderer.  He wasn’t scrawny, but his lean adolescent body wasn’t remotely in the same class as his stepfather’s muscle-bound form.  The alcoholic flush in his youthful face emphasized the band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his nose and his long lashes gave his pot-reddened eyes an almost feminine appearance.

 

Billy was wearing a skin-tight pair of low-rise skinny jeans that just barely covered his ass.  His feet were tightly laced into a pair of DC Court Graffiks.  The kicks were pale gray that stood out under the jet-black jeans.  The boy’s lean, smooth chest was wrapped in an untucked thin cotton t-shirt, bright yellow—it was a Pikachu shirt.

 

Tony, standing shirtless with his arms crossed over his furry bulging chest, wore nothing but a pair of old worn work jeans tucked into his eight-inch black leather Timberland boots.  He’d just started tucking his jean cuffs into the laced boots three weeks ago after disturbing a rattler under a pile of seasoned timber.

 

“I said,” Tony snarled, a dangerous tone in his voice, “You hadda curfew.  Where ya been, you little shit?”

 

“I been out,” the teen snapped, “An’ it ain’t yer buzz—busy—business where.”

 

Tony clenched his fist so tightly that the knuckles cracked audibly.  “As long as yer livin’ in my house, you spoiled brat—”

 

It ain’t your house!!” Billy yelled.  “It’s my mom’s!  And you ain’t my dad, so quit tellin’ me what to fuckin’ do!”

 

“As long as you’re living in my house,” Tony began again, very slowly and deliberately, “You’re gonna do what I say.  Period.  You ain’t eighteen yet, boy.”

 

“Or what?” the drunken punk sneered, “Whaddaya gonna do? Tell ya what, ya greasy spic, I’m gettin’ out tomorrow.  Already told my friends about it.  Once I find me a place an’ get settled in, I’m havin’ a big-ass party and gettin’ as fucked-up as I want…”

 

He paused and giggled for a moment as Tony glowered at him.  “Oh yeah, gonna have a big ol’ party…gonna have all my friends over, all the ones you hate…gonna tell ‘em about how I came in one day an’ saw you jackin’ off to a vid of two dudes fuckin’—didn’t know that, didja?  Well now everyone’s gonna know…”

 

Again, he giggled—for the last time in his life.

 

If he’d been less stoned, less drunk, he might have noticed the way Tony’s face contorted with rage, the way the powerful older man’s eyes glittered and his thick muscles tensed.  But Billy wasn’t looking; he was too busy pawing at his phone, trying (and failing) to type an incoherent text to the girl he’d fucked earlier that evening.

 

He barely noticed the thud of Tony’s boots, but the jingling sound struck him, and he turned.  Tony wore a gold chain and medallion—the only things of any real value he owned; they’d been a wedding gift from Billy’s mother.  The chain wasn’t heavy—she couldn’t afford the big thick links he’d wanted—but the medallion was a thing of wonder; she’d spent a large part of Billy’s college savings on having it custom-made to Tony’s design.  After all, she was marrying someone with a stable job who’d surely help her son when the time came.

 

Tony loved the medallion.  From a disk two and a half inches in diameter rose a lion’s face, all of it in solid gold—the blue-collar stud, born in early August, was a Leo.  The eyes and the fangs of the beast were platinum and gave it a ferocious look.

 

The whole thing usually rested snugly on Tony’s chest, nestled in his thick fur, but when he moved suddenly or violently, it bounced around, the heavy medallion making a jingling sound as it rattled along its chain.  It was this that drew Billy’s attention—but not quite fast enough.  All the adolescent punk saw was a blur; his eyes never had the chance to resolve it into Tony’s fist, rocketing straight for his face.

 

There just the blast of pain on his jaw and Tony’s fury-filled voice, “You piece a’ fuckin’ shit!”

 

The sucker-punch to his jaw knocked Billy across the entryway; he staggered into the wall, stumbling with such force that his shoulder dislodged a chunk of plaster.  Stunned, the teen fell to his knees.  He braced himself against the wall as Tony loomed over him.

 

“You goddam faggot,” Billy muttered, rubbing his split lower lip, “Gonna call 911 on yer ass…”  He reached out for his phone, lying on the floor a few feet away.

 

“Naw you ain’t,” Tony jeered.  Before Billy could grasp the phone, Tony casually put his boot down on it.  He grinned at Billy, then ground the thick treaded heel onto the phone, obviously relishing the cracking sound as he crushed the screen.

 

“Goddam it!” Billy squawked, “Do you know what that cost?”  He seemed to be angrier about the damage to his phone than the damage to his face.

 

Billy’s hair wasn’t overly long, but it was long enough for Tony to bend down and grab a hank of it.  “Better’n you, ya whinin’ little leech; you ain’t earned a dollar in yer useless life.  Now get the fuck up!”  He jerked Billy’s hair upwards, forcing the adolescent punk up off his knees to avoid injuring his scalp.

 

Billy’s hands instantly went up to Tony’s fingers, trying to pry them out of his hair.  “Lemme go!” he demanded petulantly.

 

“Shaddap,” Tony snarled and gutpunched the teen, his piston-like fist sinking deep into to the kid’s flat, smooth belly.  “HOOG!” Billy cried, doubling over; he would have fallen to his knees again had Tony not been holding him up by the hair.

 

The hardbodied older man, sweating slightly from his exertions, towered over the moaning smart-ass punk.  “Boy, yer ma never taught ya no discipline.  I’m gonna teach ya respect the hard way—an’ I guaran-fuckin’-tee you ain’t gonna forget.”

 

Whatever Billy may have thought of this proposition went unexpressed; the youth was jerking and gasping ineffectually, still trying to get his breath back.  He couldn’t ignore the painfully forceful yanking on his scalp, though, as Tony dragged him relentlessly toward the stairs.

 

The house was old—almost a century—and had been built in what was originally a working-class neighborhood that had never risen in value.  It wasn’t just run-down; it some areas it was almost ineptly small.  The staircase was steep and narrow, the wood risers creaking and splintered.

 

Billy found that being dragged upstairs practically on his hands and knees was a painful experience.  He had no idea that in just a few minutes he’d be in such agony that this discomfort would seem like a mother’s caress.

 

“Let…let…lemme go!” he gasped out just as they reached the top landing.  Directly across from it the door to the master bedroom stood open.  Tony jerked Billy around in front of him, towards the gaping rectangle of darkness.

 

“Shut the fuck up, asswipe,” he snarled.  Planting his big black boot against the boy’s ass, he shoved hard, sending Billy flying blindly into the darkened bedroom.  The teen clipped the corner of the dresser with his hip.  His cry of pain was cut short by a loud crash as he slammed into the closet door and slumped, dazed, to the floor.

 

He could barely comprehend what was happening, but he knew that his stepfather had assaulted him.  Despite the intense physical pain and the sudden fright of the unexpected attack, there was a hard kernel of joy in Billy’s shallow, arrogant mind: he had the fucker right where he wanted him.  He was gonna get the fag put away for a long, long time.

 

The idea that he might not survive to do so hadn’t occurred to him yet, but it was about to.

 

It was to dark to see more than a hulking. moving silhouette outlined in the doorway, but Billy knew Tony was coming for him.  The rank odor of mansweat, cologne and adrenaline increased, Tony’s sheer proximity taking Billy by surprise.  Before his startled cry could escape his windpipe, though, his air was completely cut off.  Tony’s hand had clamped down on his throat like a vice and now the muscled Latino was dead-lifting the kid off the ground.

 

Billy suddenly found himself dangling in midair, the toes of his DCs jerking helplessly inches off the floor.  This was a new kind of pain; his entire body weight was hanging off his neck and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t inhale.

 

The ginger punk began to panic, clawing at Tony’s hands as his legs kicked violently.  He still couldn’t see much in the darkness, but there was a flash of light that danced and glittered at his eye level.  His pulse pounding deafeningly in his ears, Billy instinctively reach for the light.  His fingers, bent into rigid hooks, soon snagged it—it was Tony’s medallion.

 

In his frantic thrashing, Billy ripped it—and a few curly chest hairs—away from Tony’s chest.

 

“MOTHERFUCKER!!” Tony roared.  Tensing his powerful arm like a slingshot, he hurled Billy across the room at random.

 

The kid hit the partially-open bedroom door, slamming it shut hard enough to jam it into its frame.  When he fell to the floor this time, he didn’t rise—he was out cold.

 

Tony, in the meantime, had crossed the room and flipped the light switch.  A bedside lamp and a floor lamp in the opposite corner came on simultaneously.  Cursing, Tony scouted the floor for a few moments before giving a grunt of satisfaction as he noticed the medallion halfway under the dresser.  He picked it up and pocketed it.

 

Now that the important matter had been dealt with, he turned his attention back to his stepson.  Tony was violent and ignorant, but he wasn’t stupid; he knew as well as Billy did what would happen if he let the little shit out of this room alive.

 

And since that was the case, and he’d always wanted to ram his huge shaft up the swaggering teen’s tight asshole, why not have a little fun?  Especially since he could show the fuckwad exactly what he’d always thought of him.

 

Now that all bets were off, he could show the little sack of shit just how badly he wanted to fuck him—and fuck him up.  He strolled casually to the bed and began to strip the covering off.

 

Billy moaned and stirred, coming slowly and painfully back to consciousness.  He was lying in a heap on the floor; when he first opened his eyes, they were at floor level.  All he could see of Tony was the older man’s boots as he walked around the bed.  The teen’s lithe body was claiming his attention, though; even though nothing was broken, he was hurting badly.  His smooth, silky skin had sprouted ugly purple bruises and his back and sides ached horribly where he’d impacted the doors.

 

Suddenly, Billy blinked.  He’d been so focused on his own physical discomfort, he’d stopped paying attention to Tony—he never noticed his stepfather approaching him.  But now his field of vision was completely filled with the muscle-bound Latino’s boots.  The thick treaded soles, still stained with dried mud, the black leather tightly cinched to the blue-collar stud’s powerful legs by the heavy-duty tan nylon laces…

 

Billy rolled onto his back and looked up at Tony towering over him.  For the first time, the arrogant teenager felt a sense of fear.  Above the boots, Tony’s tight jeans only emphasized the power of his bulging legs.  And above his waist, circled by a black utility belt of webbed nylon the older man’s ripped abs and massive, fur-covered pecs amply demonstrated what the tight jeans only hinted at—Tony’s phenomenal physical strength.  If Tony really wanted to fuck him up, Billy realized, there was little he could do about it.

 

And at that moment their eyes met and Tony gave his helpless stepson a grin so full of malicious intent that Billy’s blood ran cold.

 

“I’m gonna hafta teach ya respect, boy.  Yer gonna learn to respect me, hear?” the powerfully-built man chuckled, “Dumb-ass motherfucker, I gotta break ya like an animal to make ya learn.  Best way to do that is pain.”

 

Before Billy could react, Tony lifted his leg and stomped on the boy’s abdomen, his huge Timberland boot grinding its treaded sole deep into Billy’s soft flat belly, driving his stomach up into his diaphragm.  The boy cried out, an inarticulate wail of pain as the air was brutally forced from his lungs; instinctively, he reached out and grabbed Tony’s relentless boots.  His hands clenched the smooth black leather tightly as he tried to shift the crushing footgear.

 

“Get yer fuckin’ hands off my boot, goddam it!” Tony barked out.  Quickly, he jerked his foot back, then gave Billy a swift, vicious kick.  The sadistically angry older man grinned with pleasure at the faint cracking sound caused by the impact of his steel toe with the teen’s flank.

 

Billy was still trying to inhale; he wasn’t able to scream as both floating ribs on his right side—and the first false rib above them—snapped cleanly in two.  The pain was horrible, but aside from minor tissue damage as the jagged broken ends of the bones dug into his tissues, the young punk hadn’t suffered any serious damage.

 

Yet.

 

Tony was surprised at how erotic the sound of breaking bones was.  It was almost good as the visual of the cocky adolescent suffering.  His dick pressed against his tight jeans, resentful that it couldn’t expand to its full glory—not a situation Tony would endure long.  He unzipped his fly and let his enormous tube of manmeat flop out.  It was already dripping.

 

And a single bead of transparent precum dripped on Billy’s smooth chest.  The writhing teen delinquent hadn’t seen what was going on—his face was contorted into an agonized grimace, his eye tightly closed—but despite the trauma of three broken ribs, he still was able to feel the hot splash of manjuice on his tender skin and opened his eyes.

 

He opened his eyes even wider when he saw Tony’s erect, oozing cock.

 

Billy wasn’t gay.  The thought of two men having sex sickened him.  On the rare occasions he’d been in school, he was notorious on the campus for bullying (and sometimes downright assaulting) any other dude he even thought was homosexual.  His discovery of Tony’s secret had been the final tipping point for his decision to leave home.

 

But now here he was, battered and at a severe disadvantage—he refused to recognize himself as helpless—and trapped in a room with a faggot.

 

A powerful faggot.  One who had the physical strength to make the obnoxious teen his bitch.

 

Looking down at his victim, Tony saw fear in Billy’s face for the first time, and that sealed the deal.  That was what he needed—to dominate the little shit, to put the fear of Tony into him.

 

And to fuck the shit outta him while doing it.  He grabbed his massive rod, brandishing it like a club.

 

“Guess where this is goin’, asswipe,” he chuckled, grinning malevolently, “An’ there ain’t a damn thing yer gonna be able to do about it.”

 

He kicked Billy again, quick, sharp, short; a vicious impact on the kid’s hip that split the skin.  “AAH!!” the punk yelled.  He wasn’t able to yell again; raising his boot high so that Billy could admire it for the brief moment it was held over him, Tony stomped him again.  This time he went for the sternum, slamming his heel into Bill’s solar plexus.

 

The kid was totally unaware of anything that happened in the next two and a half minutes; he was too busy trying to breathe—and not doing it well.  By the time he was in enough control of his nervous system to inhale with some semblance of regularity, Tony was leaning against the dresser, smoking a cigarette and stroking his thick, swollen member.

 

The older man leered at the gasping, traumatized youth.  “Get up, asswipe,” he commanded.

 

“F-fuck you,” Billy spat out.  Tony darted across the room and before Billy even realized what was happening, the muscle-bound stud kicked his stepson in the face.  His steel-toed boot hit Billy’s face like a speeding truck, cracking the jawbone and knocking out three teeth.

 

The teen’s agonized howl reverberated down Tony’s dick; this was his first real chance to explore his attraction to sadism—and it felt hot as fuck.

 

“Keep talkin’ back, fucker,” the hulking Latino moaned, his sexual arousal clearly audible in his voice.  “Gimme a reason to hurt you, cunt…”

 

Even though his slim teen body was wracked with pain, Billy heard—and, on some instinctive level beneath conscious thought, understood—Tony’s husky, erotic tone.  He knew what he had to do.

 

In spite of the pain, he had to obey.  Because if he didn’t, things would get much, much worse.

 

Slowly, stiffly, the kid rolled over and began the harrowing process of bracing himself on the wall and rising first to his knees, then, finally, to his feet.

 

“Strip,” Tony said, staring coldly into the boy’s tear- and blood-streaked face.  Billy damn sure didn’t want to strip, but he couldn’t say anything about it even if he dared; it simply hurt too much to open his mouth.  He pulled off his Pokémon shirt, his tight, smooth chest shuddering with suppressed sobs.  His belt, which had been hidden under the shirt, glittered in the light.  It was something he’d picked up in a retro store, advertised as “genuine 80’s punk rock”—lengths of ten-millimeter marine chain in a bundle, bound together with thick leather thongs at regular intervals along its length.

 

Fuckin’ jackass thought he was a trend-setter.  Tony smirked contemptuously.  “Yeah, motherfucker, that’s it,” he chuckled as he fondled his manmeat and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into Billy’s face.  “Show daddy what ya got.  Get them jeans off; I wanna see ye sweet ass.”

 

Billy hesitated.  He couldn’t do this.  It didn’t matter how bad he got beat—he wasn’t gonna take a dick up his ass, especially not this motherfucker’s.

 

“Do it, you sack a’ shit, or I’ll make ya do it.  Fuckin’ strip, I said.  Now.”  Tony wasn’t smiling any more, and the gleam of merriment in his eyes was somehow more terrifying—because less sane—than the openly mocking humor in his earlier manner.

 

The teen was shuddering in pain and fear; his hands trembled so badly he could barely undo his belt even though it was merely looped into a loose granny knot.  His smooth skin was slick with cold, nervous sweat.  His adolescent adrenal system had so overloaded his body with hormones that they oozed out of his pores; the atmosphere was heady with his youthful pheromones as his shaking fingers managed to unfasten the belt.  As he unbuttoned the waistband and started lowering the zipper, Billy was brought up short by Tony.

 

“Hold up, bitch.  Yer belt—I want it.  Toss it to me.”

 

Billy obeyed, submitting to his stepfather’s commands in a dazed manner.  Tony caught the belt, then tossed it onto the stripped-down bed.  “Ok, bitch, keep strippin’.  C’mon, cunt, strip an’ I’m gonna make ya daddy’s bitch.”

 

Quivering in revulsion and horror, the humbled youth paused to kick off his Court Graffiks, leaving his black no-show ped socks covering his feet as tears coursed down his cheek.  His jeans dropped to the floor, showing that the little punk was commando.  His uncut teen cock was impressively long and thick for being completely soft.

 

 

Billy’s chest and his hip ached badly and the swollen throbbing of his mouth and jaw were almost unbearable, but they paled in comparison to what he expected was going to happen next.    He had no idea how bad it was going to get, though—but Tony did.

 

“Get on the bed, boy.”

 

Those five words struck a chill in Billy’s heart.  To the oversexed adolescent, they were more terrifying than threats of beating—even in his stunned and dazed state, he knew what it meant.

 

He was gonna get ass-raped.  The leering grin on Tony’s swarthy, masculine face confirmed it.  The teen’s naturally rebellious nature, confronted with this horrifying prospect, rose up on its hind legs.

 

“Fuck you, ya faggot!” he screamed, his fear overpowering the searing sensation of opening his mouth.

 

The grin vanished from the muscle-bound Latino’s face; if Tony’ command had chilled Billy’s blood, the expression on the blue-collar stud’s face froze it solid.  Not solid enough, though, to prevent the kid’s sudden dash for the door.

 

The boy was good.  He’d never gone out for sports, but his slim firm body was strong with the power of youth—and of fear.  Before Tony had realized what was happening, Billy had managed not only to reach the bedroom door, but to get it open.

 

Billy’s heart lurched in terror as he heard the loud thump of Tony’s boots hitting the floor behind him.  He realized that his only chance was to make it out of the house; unless he jumped through a window, his only way to do that was to get downstairs.  He bolted for the landing.

 

He almost made it.  He’d actually reached the top step when Tony tackled him full-body, slamming him into the wall hard enough to punch through the plaster and break the lathes behind…

 

…and the next thing Billy was aware of was that he was stretched out on the bed.   He didn’t remember how he got there, but he remembered everything else, and he knew what it meant.

 

He’d lost.  It took all his willpower to open his eyes; he already knew Tony would be standing there next to him.  He didn’t want to look at his brutal stepfather’s face—and as it happened, he didn’t have to.

 

As his lids fluttered open, the first thing he saw was Tony’s massive cock, hanging lividly directly over his face.  It was so close he could see every pulsing vein wrapped around the engorged shaft of manmeat.

 

“Hey there, fuckmeat,” Tony chortled, “Ya like it, dontcha?  Take a good long look, ya little shit, before I stick it up yer ass.”

 

The enormous shaft was so close, Billy didn’t have the option not to look.  As he watched, the huge, intimidating shaft of rigid manmeat began to ooze.  As a sexually active adolescent, the punk knew exactly what precum was—and what caused it.

 

It disgusted and nauseated him, but there was nothing he could do.  The kid had simply too badly beaten, was in too much pain to fight anymore.  “Just fuckin’ do it, man…” he whispered, his fractured jaw making every word agony, “Just…please…don’t hurt me no more…”

 

Tony’s loud, cruel guffaw echoed off the walls.  “Don’t hurt you?” he jeered incredulously.  “It’s hurtin’ you that gets me off, ya dumbass motherfucker!”  He mounted the bed and forcefully pried Billy’s smooth, firm legs apart, manhandling them up to his shoulders.  Reaching down and grabbing his cock like some huge caveman’s club, the older man fondled Billy’s ass with his free hand.

 

He bent over the prone, helpless teen and whispered, “An’ if you ain’t had no dick up there, boy, this is gonna hurt worse than you can imagine.”

 

This close, Billy had more than a closeup of Tony’s hard, masculine face—he could smell the muscle-bound sicko, a musky mix of sweat, testosterone, and cheap cologne that gave the blue-collar stud his own unique manscent.  Billy had smelled it often before—albeit without its current heavy load of pheromones—and had always been somehow revolted by it.  Now, though, it was taking on new associations.  For the rest of his life, that particular scent would inspire terror.

 

It was a good news/bad news scenario for the once-cocky teen punk: the bad news was that he’d be forced to endure that odor for the rest of his life—but the good news was that he’d only be forced to endure it for about another half-hour or so.

 

And he’d have other things to complain about long before the end of that period of time.

 

Like assrape.  Tony wasted no time; Billy felt an increasing on his fuckhole—then Tony shoved, hard and long and Billy screamed, hard and long.

 

He wasn’t being raped; he was being stabbed.  The pain was so excruciating that Billy couldn’t believe it was being inflicted by something as blunt as a penis—he had no doubt that Tony had rammed a butcher’s knife into his ass.

 

For Tony, the feeling was bliss.  He’d wanted to dominate this obnoxious teenaged piece of shit ever since he met him, and now that he had his dick sunk balls-deep into the punk’s guts, he was gonna torture the kid until he unloaded inside him.

 

But these houses were cheaply built and close together; Billy was making far too much noise.  “Shaddap and take it, motherfucker,” he barked and popped the boy on the jaw again.  The fracture gave way and Billy was suddenly pulled between two poles of suffering—the horrific sensation of tearing tissue as his ass was impaled and the slicing torment of the broken ends of bones grinding together in his jaw.

 

The teen had the wiry strength of youth, but the physical and mental trauma was starting to overload him.  He was cold, very cold, and things were going gray.  There was a loud buzzing in his ears; he reached out, instinctively, for some kind of support as he desperately tried to maintain consciousness.

 

And that was how Billy ended up tightly clutching Tony’s hairy, muscular arms as his stepfather brutally fucked him.  What little strength the suffering youth had left was put into keeping awake by keeping hold of Tony; Billy somehow had a subconscious awareness that if he went out now, he’d never wake up.

 

It was a bad choice; it turned out that staying awake was much, much worse.

 

“Goddam, yer gettin’ loose,” his furry, sweat-slick stepfather grunted, pumping his long manmeat up the kid’s ass rhythmically, “Thought you were a virgin—you been gettin’ banged by the whole fuckin’ football team?  Haw!”

 

Billy’s face, contorted with agony and wet with tears, was still responsive to other feelings; even as he suffered, the hint of being gay stoked enough of a spark of anger to make him flush.  It was what Tony did next that made the boy go pale.

 

“I know how ta make ya get all nice an’ tight,” Tony said with an evil smirk, and brandished Billy’s chain belt.  The teen lay still, staring at it blankly; with everything he’d undergone, he’d forgotten about it.  “Saw this online one time,” Tony went on, “An’ I always wanted to try it.  On you, motherfucker.”

 

For a brief moment, an image was seared into Billy’s terrified mind—his hairy, muscular looming over him; that broad, fur-covered chest, the huge dark nipples hard and jutting with Tony’s sadistic excitement, his swarthy face glowing with contemptuous lust, his dark eyes flashing, and his arm—oh, his thick, powerful arm raised and ready to strike—

 

It moved so fast that Billy didn’t even see it; in fact, his first sensation after the impact was hearing it.  The slap of metal on flesh was louder than his stepfather’s ragged guttural breathing.

 

The older man had doubled the belt over, then swung it downwards; it had struck Billy’s chest diagonally from upper left to lower right.  Each individual link of the multiple chains hit the punk’s smooth, tender skin at high velocity.  The immediate reaction was akin to shock but when the pain did register, even a broken jaw couldn’t keep Billy from screaming.

 

“Aw fuck yeah!” Tony yelled, “Fuckin’-A, that’s it!  Felt that one all up an’ down my dick, motherfucker!”  He raised his arm again, his back lit image again striking terror into the helpless, tortured adolescent.  “C’mon, ya smartass piece a’ shit, let’s hear ya mouth off now!”

 

This time Billy raised his right arm to ward off the blow.  Again, it was a very bad idea—but the teenaged delinquent, who rarely had good ideas at his best—was suffering the impediment of broken bones and an enormous cock up his ass.  Even as he swung his mighty arm down, Tony had seen the kid’s defensive move and knew what would happen—the belt looped around Billy’s arm, centripetal force accelerating it as it tore into his flesh.  Before it could unwind itself, the sick sadist jerked the belt back.

 

Two distinctively separate sounds reverberated off the walls like gunshots.  The first was the sharp cracking noise of Billy’s right forearm bones snapping simultaneously.  The second was more of a moist crackling pop as his shoulder dislocated.

 

It was too much; it was overload—and it got worse.  As Billy hoarsely screamed himself into a white haze of agony, Tony aimed another blow at the boy’s heaving flank, oily with sweat.  The chain belt hit the point where Billy’s ribs had been broken, and the teen surrendered to the pain; almost gratefully fleeing consciousness despite his fear of never coming to again.

 

He needn’t have worried.  Tony was enraged that he’d lost his prey, but not enough to snuff it while it was out.  The little asshole hadn’t suffered anywhere near enough yet.  The buff older man simply wrapped the belt around the limp teen’s neck and continued to rape the kid’s ass.  He was bound to wake up sooner or later.

 

It took the fucker a few minutes crawl his way back to excruciating consciousness.  The moment he saw the punk’s long dark eyelashes begin to flutter, Tony pulled the belt tight.  Not enough to cut off Billy’s air; just enough to let the asswipe know that the fun wasn’t over yet.

 

Billy, utterly engulfed in agony, had stopped trying to fight back.  The horrific pain of being kicked, beaten, and chain-whipped had broken his spirit, just as Tony had intended.  The nightmarish torture of assrape and multiple broken bones had left the teen, if not in shock, then very close to it.  The ginger punk’s eyes were open, but nothing was registering.  His perspiration-soaked skin was gray and clammy and his pulse was becoming slow and faint.

 

Problem was, his fuckhole was becoming slack—but that was why Tony had put the belt around the kid’s neck.  One sharp tug could help fix all that.

 

Tony did more than tug it.

 

Billy’s eyes opened wide as the chain links burrowed into his flesh; the pressure was forcing skin out within the spaces, deeply embedding the pattern of the links into his neck.  Keeping his swollen shaft buried in the teen’s rectum, Tony pulled slowly on the ends of the belt, incrementally tightening it around Billy’s throat.  A look of panic was stamped on the boy’s face as he gave a loud wheeze and felt his windpipe cinch shut.

 

Tony smiled down at Billy.  “Yer gonna die harder than yer mom did when I offed her.  Course, I just wasted her for the money—stupid cunt was dumb enough to put on the life insurance.  You, now—this is different.  I wanna see you suffer, asshole.  I wanna watch you choke to death with my cock up yer ass,–ya feel me, motherfucker?  Naw?  How ‘bout this?”

 

With that, the muscle-bound Latino jerked the belt, hard.  His biceps bulged from the effort, dark veins rising to the surface as Tony exerted his strength to inflict the torture he knew the obnoxious, cocky teenager so badly deserved.

 

Billy’s face wasn’t pale any longer; it was dusky blue and darkening quickly.  His livid eyes already seemed to bulge from his face.  The youth squirmed frantically, his smooth, lithe body writhing on a film of sweat beneath the powerful weight of his stepfather.  His firm thighs clenched against the older man’s legs, his feet kicking and his toes curling in his black socks.

 

“Whaddaya think, fuckwad?  Gonna wipe out yer whole goddam family.  Ain’t none of ya worth shit.  Hell, I gotta snuff yer worthless ass just to get ya to milk a load outta my dick.  But hey, fucker, yer gettin’ hard too—prob’ly gonna spunk yerself, boy, so don’t say I never gave ya nothin’!  Haw!”

 

Billy knew he had an erection; he could feel it—he could feel everything.  His collapsing esophagus, his violated and abused colon, the glassy pain of jagged bone ends grinding together, yes oh holy fuck even as his lungs burned and his racing heartbeat echoed in his skull he could still feel all of it and somehow the worst was the fiery pain of his unnaturally swollen and throbbing cock and his seething balls.

 

The teen’s face was black and taut, distorting his appearance; even his red-gold hair was dark with cold deathsweat that was being squeezed out of his slim youthful body.  As the pressure in his head increased, blood vessels began to burst in Billy’s eyes, leaving large black voids in his field of vision, like negative explosions.  He could vaguely feel that something was wrong with his mouth but he had no way of knowing how his broken jaw had given way to his relentlessly swelling tongue.  It protruded grotesquely, while his cheeks were smeared with foamy drool that ran from his mouth.

 

In his last moments, Billy reached out to his stepfather.  His right arm was too damaged to move, but he raised his left, and placed it on Tony’s chest.  For a moment, the boy’s hand remained flat, nestled in the stud’s wiry fur—then suddenly, it curled and jerked sideways.

 

Tony hadn’t been expecting it.  Maybe Billy hadn’t either; he was so close to the line between life and brain death that deliberate movement was—unlikely.  One way or another, the dying teen punk had clenched his hand and clawed not only at Tony’s chest hair, but at his nipple.

 

The swarthy blue-collar alpha roared in anger.  His movement was swift and sure; it looked like a practiced kill strike even though Tony had never done this before.

 

Passing both ends of the belt to his left hand and jerking up with it, the powerful sadist balled his right hand into a fist and plowed it into Billy’s face as hard as he could.  The boy’s head snapped back as his neck was jerked forward; there was a loud gristly wrenching sound as his cranium was violently separated from his spine.

 

Teenaged boymeat, full of hormones and already forcibly erect from asphyxia and intense prostate massage, suddenly experienced a profound shock to the central nervous system—the result was only natural.  Billy’s firm, lean body went rigid, his legs wrapped tightly around Tony’s waist and the shredded remains of his sphincter tightening around the base of his stepfather’s cock.  Suddenly, he exploded into a single violent spasm, his engorged tool spewing a solid stream of boycum all over his own and Tony’s chest.

 

At the same time, the strong muscles of his rectum, flowing rhythmically in the teen’s death throes, massaged the full length of Tony’s huge rod.  With a loud grunt, the older man unloaded in the kid’s ass, hosing out his guts with manseed.  For several minutes, they clung together, bodies entwined and shuddering in orgasm and death.

 

 


 

 

Tony had time; it wasn’t like anyone was looking for the little piece a’ shit.  Once he pulled out of the still-quivering boymeat, he strolled out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom, taking some time to leisurely clean his cum-smeared dick and stuff it back into his jeans.  Then he went back into the bedroom and pulled a plain white cotton t-shirt out of the dresser and slipped it on.

 

He glanced around the room for a moment.  Nothing here he really needed.  He’d hoped to make some extra money from selling the house, but fuck it, now.  The two mil was good enough.  He could buy anything he needed, and there damn sure wasn’t anything sentimental about this place.  He’d just burn it the fuck down.

 

But first he turned back to Billy.  The seventeen-year-old’s corpse was on its back, legs and left arm splayed.  The right arm was lying twisted at an unnatural angle.  The punk’s smooth, firm chest and flat belly were covered with a thick glaze of the kid’s own semen; it had even splashed into his contorted, damaged face which had faded from black to cyanic blue.

 

Tony approached the bed, noting how the corpse’s feet kept twitching in their black ped socks.  He reached up and grabbed the belt, sunk horrifyingly deep into the boy’s throat; using it as a handle, he dragged Billy’s body off the bed.  It hit the floor with a loud, boneless thump, not that Tony noticed, or would have cared.

 

He cared even less about what he was doing to the corpse as he dragged it downstairs and out to the bed of his pickup.  He bent down and picked it up, cradling the dead teen in his arms in what could have been mistaken for a tender moment—then tossed Billy’s carcass into the back of the truck like a side of beef.

 

Tony walked back into the house, the thudding of his heavy Timberland boots echoing in the empty house, checking to make sure he’d left nothing of any value behind—not that there was any need to worry; everything worth anything had already been sold, hocked, or traded for quick surreptitious sex.

 

House wasn’t worth much anyway, he knew, it was run down and needed serious repairs, so losing it wasn’t much of a financial loss in any case.  Tony had already located four bottles of lighter fluid in a cabinet over the fridge—the broad had smoked like a coal furnace and Billy liked to pretend he was a man by smoking Swisher Sweets—and it took him no more than twenty minutes to saturate what he considered to be the most flammable parts of the house with the fluid.  He made sure to open the windows partially to allow for oxygen, but to close the curtains and blinds.  It was four in the morning by this time, and it was unlikely that any of the neighbors would be up, but Tony was feeling vindictive and wanted to make sure that the place was beyond saving before anyone noticed.

 

He lit the flame in the back hallway on the ground floor before heading out.  He locked the front door behind him.

 

Easing his truck quietly out onto the street, he waited until he turned onto the next block before switching his headlights on.  Once he did, he headed straight for the high school, driving carefully, and under the speed limit.  He had no intention of getting pulled over now.

 

The high school had security cameras; Tony already knew about them because Billy had been caught vandalizing the place.  The stupid shit had practically circled the school; as Tony saw when the principal had shown him the video—and as a result, he knew where they didn’t cover—like the sign out front.

 

Tony didn’t pull into the parking lot; it abounded in cameras.  He just pulled over to the side of the road right by the sign—a simple double-sided backlit marquee with the legend “San Clemente Senior High Cougars” at the top and letters posted on the marquee spelling out a message that the following Friday was an in-service day.

 

It was all very ordinary, and it made Tony sick.  He didn’t know why, but the thought of making a public display seemed to get him buzzed.  He got out of the truck and, going to the rear, opened the bed and dragged Billy’s corpse out.  He let it hit the ground with his usual disdain, smirking as it crunched lifelessly into the gravel; as it did, Tony noticed it had lost its left sock somewhere along the line.

 

“Truant officer’s been askin’ ‘bout ya lately, boy,” he whispered, a sick, psychotic gleam in his dark eyes, “Wants to know where ya been, whatcha been doin’.   So I thinks, why not show him what ya been up to, fucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  C’mon, boy, it’s time you got back to school.”

 

Tony hoisted Billy up over his shoulder and carried him up the slope from the road.  The corpse was stopped quivering by now and was starting to cool, but was still limp and malleable.  Tony had no problems draping it over the sign in such a position that Billy’s gaping asshole, still leaking cum, was visible from the drive to the main entrance.

 

“There ya go,” he said, his voice velvety with satisfaction, “Now everyone can see ya finally got what was cummin’ to ya.”

 

He strolled back down the hill to his truck, then kept going out of town in the same direction he was already facing.  He wanted to reach his new address before noon.  He hadn’t spent much time there, so he didn’t know the town well, but Corrington didn’t seem like it’d take long to learn.  In fact, Tony doubted that Rigler County had much to offer in the way of entertainment.  He’d have to see what he could stir up…

Trucker 17–Trucker vs Small Town Slut

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The more painful, the better.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Wha…wha happen…” he slurred.

 

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

 

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

 

“Wh-why?” he asked plaintively.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He was right.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Turning, the Trucker lowered the window again.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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