Tag: neck snap

Convict Finale/Carlos and Nick 1

On By m3mayhemIn Carlos the Convict, Movies with Carlos and Nick5 Comments

The ad was short and simple; it just said that a local film company wanted well-built actors for male-on-male videos, some wrestling involved.  It damn sure didn’t take a genius to read between the lines; at the very least, it would be soft-core porn.

 

Carlos considered it carefully.  He wasn’t out of money yet, but he was running low.  He needed some steady source of income.  He’d loved the Mustang, but the car was probably way too hot to keep; he had to buy another car.

 

And he damn sure wasn’t gonna stint himself.  He ended up spending more than half of the ten grand he’d managed to acquire on his new ride, but it was worth it.  And he’d made a potential contact.  The salesman, a friendly young man with a shaggy mop of sandy-blonde had hit on him repeatedly.  At the end of the sale, Carlos drove off with the kid’s business card in his wallet.  He was well aware that the boy had written his personal cell number on the back.

 

Maybe later.  A little time would need to pass; most of the staff had noticed him that day.  After all, he’d bought a burgundy Mercedes SL 300 convertible.  Yeah, it was a 1990 model, but it looked great.

 

He’d spent a little more money renting a 10 X 15 storage space not far from his apartment—and hidden the Mustang there.  He didn’t own it, so he couldn’t sell it, and he was worried that it was too full of evidence to abandon.  He’d deal with it later.

 

The apartment he’d rented was in North Las Vegas, an ancient two-story fourplex, built of cinderblock covered in cracked babyshit-yellow stucco.  The neighborhood made the area where he’d offed that last whore look like fuckin’ Candyland, but Carlos could take care of himself.  It was a cheap, furnished, bills paid shithole that the muscular serial killer planned to escape as soon as he could get a guaranteed source of income.

 

Which brought him back to this ad.  It’d be a start.  His “Sin City High” had evaporated in the brutal Vegas heat; there was no way he could rob and steal his way into lifestyle he wanted.  As an ex-con, convicted of felony manslaughter, his options were limited—but there were things he could do.

 

And whatever he did, nothing was gonna stop him from having fun putting down fags.  Maybe this ad was a way to do both.  Yeah, it was unlikely—but what the hell, why not?

 

The address was unfamiliar; Carlos had to look it up.  It turned out to be north of town, off I-15 near the Craig Road exit.  “Walk-in auditions today, 2-6pm.”—great.  It was almost five thirty now.  He just barely had time to make it…

 

With a vague idea of what he was in for, Carlos dressed for the part.  First on was a pair of electric blue Under Armour compression shorts that reached to mid-thigh.  They clung to Carlos’s groin so tightly that his huge package was outlined in vivid, intimidating detail.  His thick, muscled calves descended into a pair of red Air Jordans, the laces the same shade of blue as the shorts.  Above the waist, his powerful, sculpted abdomen was wrapped in a red compression t-shirt with white piping on the seams; it highlighted his well-developed chest.  The tattoos writhing on his bulging biceps could be seen below the shirt cuff; similarly, the tight neck of the shirt did not obscure the inked designs on his throat.

 

Admiring himself in the mirror, the buff killer decided he looked both menacing—and powerful enough to carry through on the menace.

 

Turned out to be a good thing, too.  The moment he stepped out his front door, he could see his car.  Parked in the paved-over yard between the house and the street; open to the sidewalk, it had evidently attracted some attention.  It was surrounded by a crowd of rowdy young cholos who were staring at it in envy and murmuring among themselves, probably about the best way to part it out.  Suddenly, one of them reached out to the driver’s door handle.

 

“Hey, vato, keep yer fuckin’ hand off my ride if ya wanna keep yer fuckin’ hand!” Carlos snapped.

 

The greaser kid took one look at Carlos’s imposing form and jumped back.  “No daño, señor, no daño!” he cried in a panicked voice as the others took the hint and rapidly backed from the car.

 

“Better not be any harm, you worthless punk, or I’ll make you pay,” the hulking psycho growled, “Now get the fuck outta my way.”

 

They scattered like startled deer.  Carlos jumped in the car and headed towards the highway.  Damn, he was gonna have to find something soon.  The Benz was a target in that hood and he couldn’t watch it all the time.  It’d be nice if this worked out…

 

The neighborhood in which he found himself after he exited the highway was an industrial park, full of large buildings of cinderblock or corrugated steel.  At least a third had large wooden billboards plastered with the words “for lease” visible somewhere on the property.   He finally found the right address, a long, low warehouse building with a small lobby section.

 

There were three vehicles in the lot; one a dark green ford F250 pickup.  Just as Carlos pulled in, a pale, freckled twink wearing nothing but shorts and a pair of skate shoes came out.  He was thin and had a couple of bruises; his expression was one of discouragement and exhaustion.  He got into a beat-up old Nissan and left.

 

Stepping out of the oven-like heat, Carlos felt the refrigerated air of the lobby wrap around his slightly sweat-soaked body.  The room was empty except for an easel with a placard reading “Auditions this way”; there was an arrow pointing to a hallway on the right.  The hallway itself was dark and lined with doors, all closed—except the fourth on the left, from which flowed a rectangle of light.

 

Carlos approached slowly and warily.  Peering around the corner, he found himself looking into a large room, possibly a conference or meeting room at one time, brightly lit by overhead fluorescents.  In the far left corner, a wrestling ring had been set up.

 

It was a basic setup, a sixteen-by-sixteen foot square ring with skirting and a canvas mat.  The turnbuckle covers were of canvas, the same color as the ropes.  On one side was a small platform for mounting and accessing the ring.

 

There were two dudes in the room.  On the far left, some folding tables had been set up.  Covered with monitors and video editing equipment, they were being operated by a large dude with long black hair; he was sitting with his back facing the door and hadn’t seen Carlos in the doorway.

 

At the very back of the room, to the right of the ring, was another folding table.  This had what looked like a makeup case, some indefinable personal effects—and a twink dressed in nothing but a pair of briefs and knee-high boots.  The boy was smaller than Carlos but still surprisingly well-built; even from across the room, Carlos could see his thick muscles.

 

The boy was bent over the table, concentrating intently on something.  Carlos approached quietly until he was close enough to hear the sniffing sounds.  Little fucker was snorting coke.  Probably thought he was too high-class for crack or meth.

 

The muscled alpha snorted in contempt.  The kid evidently heard him; visibly startled, he jumped and whirled around.  Carlos got a good look at him.

 

Young—he looked like he was in his mid to late teens.  In fact, he had the build of a high-school wrestler, smooth, fit and muscled without being stocky or over-developed.  He was wearing a pair of bright red briefs which on closer inspection turned out to be Speedos.  They left nothing to the imagination; the kid was hung like a horse—not as well as Carlos, perhaps, but damned impressive in its own right.  Or it would have been had it been hard.  On his feet were a pair traditional knee-high wrestling boots, red with white laces.

 

The kid swiftly wiped the white powder of the end of nose and sniffled, the color of his wide eyes almost impossible to discern through cocaine dilation; his pupils were huge.  His face was innocent and boyish, with a slightly snub nose.    His hair was dark brown and cut short.

 

Grinning, the boy approached, holding out his hand.  This close, Carlos could see the hard lines in his face—kid was older than his teens and had been living hard for a while.  “Heya,” the coked-up punk chirped, “here for the video shoot?  Cool.  Name’s Brody La Roc—ya mighta heard of me.  No?  Most popular escort on the Strip, man.  Hey, when we’re done, take one of my cards.  I’ll make sure ya have a good time—if you can afford it.  Ha!  Hey, Nick, ya got another one!”

 

This last was to the dark-haired dude on the other side of the ring.  The guy had been engrossed with a video monitor, evidently doing some editing.  As soon as he heard his name, he jumped up and crossed to join them.

 

Nick was huge.  He was both taller and better-built than Carlos himself—not by much, but enough for Carlos to notice.  He was simply dressed in faded jeans, well-worn but clean work boots and a dark red sleeveless t-shirt but the clothes clung so tightly to his sculpted body that there was nothing left to the imagination.  The buff Hercules greeted Carlos genially, his broad, handsome face breaking out into a blinding grin.

 

“Hey, man, you just made it!  This is gonna be the last shoot of the day.  So—what’s your name?”

 

After the preliminary introductions, they got down to business.  Nick was doing what he called a film test, but he dropped some random comments that clued Carlos in.  The individual clips would be edited together as a bonus “screen test” feature on another porn flick, probably already shot.  This was a quick-and-dirty shoot for the purpose of padding out a video.  But it paid $150 and probably wouldn’t take an hour.  And Nick held out the possibility of further work.

 

“After all, man,” he said, “I got a wide distribution network.  I do all kinda videos.  Who knows?  I might be able to find something for ya.  Let’s see what you can do.”

 

Gazing over Carlos’s well-built bulk, Nick nodded with critical approval.  “Ok, shuck off that shirt.  The shorts can stay; I like them.”  Carlos obliged, peeling off the red compression shirt and tossing it onto a folding chair off to one side.  “And the shoes.  That’s a real canvas mat; those soles will lose traction.  You wear what—eleven, eleven and a half?  Lessee here, I got some extra gear just in case…”

 

After rummaging through a heap of boxes and bags piled in the corner, Nick returned triumphantly, holding a shoebox.  “Your lucky day, man,” he chuckled, “I got these new and ain’t come across anyone big enough to wear ‘em—you’ll be the first.”

 

It was a pair of Adidas Adizero Varner wrestling kicks, black with white laces.  Carlos slipped them on, tightening the laces until the shoes wrapped around his feet like socks.  He stood up and faced Nick, now clad in nothing more than his skintight blue shorts and the black Adidas shoes.

 

This time, Nick pulled out his hand-held camera and sighted it on Carlos.  “Fuckin’ excellent, stud.  Totally hard-core rough trade; this lighting shows your tats perfectly.  Let’s get y’all in the ring.”

 

The kid—Brody—made his way up the steps to the mounting platform.  Carlos followed, with Nick bringing up the rear, carrying his camera.  Carlos glanced around as Brody bent down and slipped between the ropes.  He noticed small cameras—from a distance, they looked like GoPros—mounted on each of the corner posts, just above the topmost turnbuckles.

 

As Carlos parted the ropes and entered the ring, Brody called out, “Hey, Nick, where ya want me?  Gonna run this one like the last one?”

 

Nick paused, his dark eyes running contemplatively over both Carlos and Brody.  “No,” he said after a pause, “I don’t think you’re gonna be the top here.  Don’t get me wrong, dude, ya know I love ya, but look at this guy.  Ain’t no one gonna believe you can take him down.”

 

Brody nodded and fidgeted but didn’t speak; he was too coked up to be completely still.  Carlos, waiting to see where all this was going, stood quiet and impassive—on the outside.

 

This was a mistake.  He’d made a terrible mistake.

 

Rage had welled up within him at the first sight of the cocky boywhore; Carlos had known from that moment that he would need to maintain the utmost control just to make sure he didn’t go too far.  He wasn’t going to be able to make it; he was gonna end up fucking up this little piece of shit on video.

 

The homophobic sadist was abruptly pulled from his reverie by the sudden awareness that Nick was eyeing him keenly.  Nick spoke first, a shark-like grin flashing across his face.  “I got it—dude, what’s your name?  Carlos?  Ok, Carlos, this is the plot—it’s a battle to be the top.  Got it?  Winner gets to fuck loser, and neither of ya wanna get fucked, so it’s gonna be a real struggle.  And since you’re the first guy we’ve had in today who looks like he could take down this guy”—this with a nod towards Brody—“you’re gonna be the winner.”

 

“What happens when I win?” Carlos asked.

 

“We’ll figured that out when we get there,” Nick replied, “but let’s get some good struggling on camera first.”

 

Getting down on one knee, the buff porn producer squared his subjects on the screen.  “Ok, let’s get y’all into the center, facing each other—great!  Now start with a grapple and let’s see who gets thrown down first.”

 

Chuckling maliciously, Nick zoomed in as Carlos closed in on Brody.  The young punk feinted to the right before breaking left; he was just barely able to dodge Carlos’s lunge.  The buff, inked alpha stumbled, digging the black kicks into the mat to recover his balance.  Enraged, he whirled and faced the sniggering escort.

 

“Gotta be faster than that,” Brody smirked.  “Want some coke?  It’ll get ya movin’, stud.”

 

“Naw, bitch,” Carlos snarled, “I don’t need no help to take ya down.”

 

His massive, muscled chest heaving, the hard-bodied sadist turned away and walked to the corner.  He needed to get control of himself; he was making stupid mistakes.  This wasn’t like him.  There was something about this obnoxious little piece of shit—

 

Or was there?  Was that really what was going on?

 

As his firm, heaving torso, slightly slicked with sweat, slowed in tempo with his breathing, Carlos threw a sidelong glance at Nick and the camera in his hands.  Goddam, the thought of snuffing the fit little faggot on video made him get hard.

 

And given how tight his shorts were, it was obvious.

 

But this other dude, this Nick—there was something about him.  Some kinda vibe he was giving off…

 

As if maybe he was into that too.

 

Carlos regained control.  An evil grin crossed his handsome—a grin he made sure was visible to the camera.  “Ok, you little motherfucker, get ready.  I’m comin’ for ya.”  Slowly and carefully, he moved to the center of the ring, his muscled form crossing the canvas with the lithe grace of a jungle cat.

 

Brody hadn’t been paying much attention to anything until Carlos spoke again.  “Well, it’s about time,” he muttered petulantly as he stomped his way towards his hulking opponent.

 

In the view screen of the camera Nick was holding, it was clear that Brody, buff and fit as he was, was still outclassed by Carlos to what would be a ridiculous extent in a genuine match.  The sculpted ex-con towered over the cocky high-priced rentboy; if the latter hadn’t been high as fuck, he might have had some well-grounded fears.

 

They stood facing each other, silently, for a moment.  Brody, of course, was the first to break.  “Ok, so now fuckin’ wh—“

 

This time, Carlos lunged so fast the Brody never got the chance to finish his sentence.  Clamping his huge hands around the kid’s thick biceps, he pivoted and hurled the punk across the ring with no warning whatsoever.

 

With a loud, inarticulate cry, the boywhore struck the padded ropes and was flung down to the mat, flat on his back.  As he lay there desperately gasping with the wind knocked out of him, he turned his head to the side.  Carlos’s tight black Adidas shoes suddenly swam into his vision; before he was able to catch his breath, he was flying through the air again.

 

He hit the ropes again, but this time it was closer to the corner post where there was less give.  It was a violent impact that left him face down on the canvas, wondering what the fuck had happened.  Before he could figure it out, though, something even worse happened.

 

Stunned by the swiftness of the assault, Brody was unable to protest when Carlos’s powerful arm, knotted with muscles, wrapped around his neck.  Once it tightened up, he tried frantically to protest, but by then it was too late.

 

Nick inched forward into the ring, closing in on the scene.  It was fantastic—Carlos was sitting on the canvas, his thick legs spread out directly in front of him.  Between them, practically sitting on his lap, was Brody, his face darkening as Carlos applied pressure to the sleeper hold he’d locked on the boy’s throat.

 

“Ya like that, ya little faggot?” Carlos jeered in a loud tone.  “What, ya think you can stand up to a real man, you piece a’ shit, huh?”  As he spoke, the aggressive alpha made sure his eyes made direct contact with the camera lens—and then with Nick.

 

Yeah, it was there.  The light of a predator.  This guy wouldn’t care if he wasted this worthless fairy right now.  As for the video—

 

Carlos decided to see how far Nick would go.

 

With a grunt, he jerked his powerful arms, tightening the hold even more.  Brody, with a purple, swollen face and bulging eyes filled with fear, clawed helplessly at the empty air in front of him.

 

His smooth, muscled legs, pinned between Carlos’s, began to kick and thrash, the heels of the red wrestling boots beating a desperate drumbeat that echoed hollowly on the canvas mat.

 

Carlos knew his own cock was stiffening and would be instantly visible one he stood up, but he was interested to see a bulge developing in Nick’s groin as well.  He was even more interested to see how long it took for Nick to break it off—he got a good thirty seconds of chokeout footage before he spoke up.

 

“Ok, man, cut—that’s enough for now,” he said, powering down the camera.  Carlos kept the pressure up.  Nick noticed after a particularly loud gagging sound from Brody.

 

“Hey, hey, hey!” he protested.  “C’mon, dude, time out.”  Carlos relented, letting Brody fall limply to one side, teetering on the edge of consciousness.  The punk gasped and coughed as his assailant climbed to his feet.  With a concerned look on his face, Nick approached the kid.

 

Kneeling down, he gave the boy a bit to stop coughing and gagging before pulling his chin towards him and smiled down into his fear- and tear-streaked face.  “Hey, man, you ok?  Sorry about that, I’ll go have a talk with him.  Go do another coupla lines; you’ll feel better—and I’ll give ya an extra three hundred if we finish this one, ok?  Ya good with that?”

 

Snuffling, the subdued rentboy nodded sulkily and slowly pulled himself up with the ropes, casting a baleful glare back at Carlos.  Nick stood up and strode quickly to the platform.  “C’mere,” he snapped at Carlos, gesturing him to follow as he descended the stairs and walked out the door.  Bemused, the ex-con trailed along, his raging hard-on pointing out the way.

 

They were halfway down the darkened hallway when Nick whirled and faced Carlos.  “What were ya doin’ back there, man?  Were you tryin’ to kill him?”

 

Carlos paused, uncertain how to answer—when he noticed Nick’s hand.  It was rubbing a noticeably growing bulge in the crotch of his tight jeans.  Glancing up into the well-built videographer’s face, the buff ex-con saw a gleam of lust in his cold blue eyes and was not really surprised.

 

Carlos played along.  “Sorry,” he said with grin more wolfish than sheepish, “I get carried away sometimes—but these fags need to be taught their place, y’know?”

 

Nick seemed to consider a moment before he spoke again.  “Ok, then.  You might be exactly what I’ve been looking for, and if it works out, you’ll end up making a lot of money.  But the important thing is—how far are ya willing to go?  On camera?”

 

The hardbodied sadist wasn’t dense, but it took a moment for him to work it out.  “Money?  On camera?  Y-ya mean people will pay to watch?”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, his boots scuffing the carpet as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.  “I’ve already done several—I got a great way to make a profit off ’em.  The income is phenomenal but I keep it in an offshore account since a large part of it is in foreign funds.”

 

Carlos laughed aloud.  His enormous dick was now fully erect, and indicated his acceptance of the offer more eloquently than any words could.

 

At any rate, it was clear to Nick.  He said, “Tell ya what, man let’s go back in there and you do what ya want to that worthless little cunt.  And here’s an incentive—I already have the cash to pay him.  So if I don’t have to pay him—well, let’s just say I’m not comfortable walking around with that much cash; I’ll have to give it to someone…”  He abruptly strode back down the hall back to the room, leaving Carlos somewhat stunned at his luck.  He didn’t know how much had been promised to the slut, but the bonus of three hundred was itself twice what he’d been offered for the shoot.

 

Re-entering the room himself, Carlos couldn’t help but notice that Brody was already back in the ring, pacing, jittery, and obviously coked to the gills.  “Hey, dude,” the punk piped up shrilly as soon as he saw his opponent, “If you bruise me up, yer gonna hafta pay!  Ain’t no one gonna hire me if I get marked up—I’ll sue ya for loss of income!”

 

“Calm down, Edgar,” Nick said, “Carlos and I had a talk and he’s gonna treat you right from now on, we promise—right, Carlos?”

 

The buff escort blushed an angry red.  “Brody!” he screamed, enraged.  “Goddamit, my street name is Brody!  You better get it right in the credits!”

 

“Chill, dude,” Nick replied in a somewhat exasperated tone.  “I guarantee that everyone who sees this video will know the name Brody La Roc, ok?  Now get to your mark and lemme get this damn thing finished!”

 

Smirking grimly, Carlos mounted to the ring quickly and quietly.  He scanned the ring to see if there was anything he could use to his advantage, silently taking note that the turnbuckle on the top rope to the left of the far corner post had lost its padding, the threaded metal buckle glinting brightly under the harsh fluorescent light.

 

The impassive look on the alpha’s face was belied by the predatory gleam in his dark eyes, but the obnoxious boywhore was too drugged-out to notice.  It was clear that it wouldn’t be difficult to take the useless cunt out; the kid was obviously too high to put up an adequate defense.

 

This was gonna be fun.

 

As Carlos stepped to the center of the ring, his body bulked over that of his prey.  The shaven-headed alpha with his sculpted, tattooed chest and ripped abs was an intimidating opponent; the skin-tight blue compression shorts obscenely emphasizing his massive, straining cock.  If Brody had been more aware of his surroundings, he might have noticed the large dark spot right at the tip of the protruding shaft; he might have wondered what such an outpouring of precum might portend.

 

Brody himself was still jumpy; his thick, muscled body seemed to quiver with electric shock, but the dilated pupils of his bleary eyes spoke to the true cause of his symptoms.  His taut, smooth body, barely obscured by his knee-high red wrestling boots and matching Speedos, was glistening with a light coat of sweat, also generated by the coke.  And the Speedos gave yet more proof of his drug use.  Brody actually had a long, thick cock, nearly the equal of Carlos’s—but the tight briefs showed it curled limply in his groin.

 

Cocaine kills erections.  Carlos wondered how the kid made a living as an escort if he was doing that shit constantly—then it hit him.  The little motherfucker was a bottom. A complete, utter fag.  The burning rage began to swell in his chest again.

 

Nick could see what was happening simply by observing the way Carlos’s tool began to pulse rhythmically, and the way the dark circle of precum grew rapidly.  It was time to start the show.

 

 

The camera was centered on two buff, muscled men, one of them older and obviously more powerful than the other.  From behind the camera came a voice.  “Well, c’mon you two, whaddaya waitin’ for—an invitation to dance?”

 

The two men lunged towards one another, the larger tripping up the smaller.  “That’s it, Carlos!  Good!”

 

Carlos leaned down and grabbed the firm, half-naked youth.  Twisting the kid’s right arm behind his back, Carlos brought the mewling boy to his feet.  “Fuck!” the kid screamed, “That hurts!  You’re too fuckin’ rough!  Stop!”

 

“Shaddup, Edgar—oh, sorry, Brody,” came the cold, placid voice from off screen.  “You’re supposed to be an actor—fuckin’ act, bitch!”

 

Carlos swiveled his body, forcing Brody around so that the punk’s face was directly in the camera.  The handsome, well-built boywhore was flushed with rage.  Shaking violently, he tried to free himself from Carlos’s hold, his short brown hair fanning out as he struggled.  “What?!?” he screeched.  “Goddamit, I told ya—“

 

But was he told was never revealed.  With brutal swiftness, Carlos spun the cunt into the far corner and slammed him face-first into the exposed turnbuckle.  Gripping his fingers tightly in the slut’s hair, Carlos dragged his head back and smashed it forward again repeatedly, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as he beat the shrieking, screaming hustler’s face to hamburger against the metal buckle.

 

Finally, he dropped the mewling boy onto the mat with a loud, hollow thud.  As he tried feebly to crawl away, it was clear that Brody was in complete shock from his sudden, violent assault.  The once-beautiful whore, his face beaten and bloody, squirmed across the canvas mat, squealing like a stuck pig.  A deep, guttural gurgling was emitted from the battered face; it seemed to be a plea for mercy but was utterly unintelligible.

 

“Where the fuck ya goin’, faggot?” Carlos jeered as he relentlessly stalked the brutalized fuckmeat.  Brody blubbered in panic, plainly aware of the fact that Carlos intended to inflict more pain on him.   The soft sound of Carlos’s Adidas wrestling shoes padding inexorably across the mat towards him were almost inaudible, but unnecessary in any case; the ruthless, implacable vibrations of Carlos’s tread on the taut canvas told Brody of the approach of death.

 

“What’s that, you worthless homo slut?  I can’t understand a thing you’re sayin’,” Carlos mocked the stunned punk as he loomed over him.  “Hey, I gotta great idea!” he chortled cruelly, driving his foot forward to deliver a strong kick directly into the smooth youth’s heaving ribs.  “I know exactly how to figure out what yer tryin’ to say, ya cocksucker—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

This was accompanied by another kick, this one much more powerful.  This kick was rewarded with a loud crack of bone as one of Brody’s ribs shattered.  The writhing hardbodied boy wailed in pain as Carlos shoved his foot under him, then with another kicking motion, rolled Brody onto his back.  Grinning evilly down into his victim’s blood- and tear-stained face, the hulking sadistic psycho said in an even tone, “I know how to find out what yer sayin’, fag—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

The camera came in for close-up as Carlos knelt over sobbing, mewling escort and spat into his face.  “Goddam, ya whiney-ass pussy,” the brutal alpha taunted, “Listen to ya squealin’ like a fuckin’ pig.  Here, you cumsucking faggot, here’s something for ya to whine about!”  And with that, Carlos plunged straight down, his arm stiff like a pile driver and his full body weight thrown into the blow that hit Brody dead in the face.   The force was great enough to snap the whore’s cheekbone; the violent rebound bounced his head roughly on the mat.

 

The frame was centered on the boy’s battered face.  Even under the blood and trauma, the expressions on the kid’s face were readable—the pain, the fear, the paralyzing bewilderment generated by an unexpected explosion of violence.  All were captured on the video.

 

It wasn’t the only thing the camera captured—Brody begged for his life.  His bruised and beaten body, taut and sweat-soaked in physical defeat, twisted in agony as the rentboy reached his arms out towards the camera—and the cameraman.  “N-n-ni—“ came from between his swollen, split lips.  “Ni-ni-n-n-ni—“

 

He could get no further than that one syllable.  “Hey, Edgar,” came a grim chuckle from behind the camera, “I’m gonna give him yer bonus after he wastes ya, cunt.  I don’t pay whores.”  The kid’s eyes, already wide and ringed with dark circles of shock, grew huge with panic at the words.  His pupils, though, were no longer dilated; the intensity and brutality of the assault had flushed his system with adrenaline and testosterone, neutralizing the effects of the cocaine.

 

He no longer had any anesthetic.  He was suffering every single moment of the beating.

 

Carlos didn’t let up.  He continued to draw his fist back, then slam it down with all the force that his thick, knotted biceps could deliver.  The wet, smacking sounds of the repeated blows echoed in the empty room as Brody’s sobbing and gurgling began to fade.

 

The whore was on the verge of consciousness; he knew that he was being beaten to death and it was obvious just by looking at him.  The desperate, panicked look haunting his eyes had faded, now replaced with a dull, dim look as the light of life flickered and ebbed within him.  An extreme close-up of his face recorded the resignation that took hold of the high-priced rentboy in the last few moments of his life.

 

Carlos suddenly broke off the beating.  Panting and heaving, his sculpted torso slick with sweat, he turned abruptly to the camera.  “Hey, man, this little homo sack of shit still hasn’t learned what happens to faggots who think they can seed real men.”

 

“Why don’t ya tell us what happens,” the off-screen voice drawled with malicious glee.

 

“They get offed by a real man, that’s what happens.  But first the little cocksuckers gotta get seeded themselves; that’s how they know it’s a real man wastin’ them.”

 

With a wild grin, Carlos flipped Brody back over onto his face and roughly jerked the Speedos off him.  Peeling himself out of his blue compression shorts, Carlos stood with his massive tool fully erect; a camera zoom revealed the full details of the pulsing, vein-wrapped shaft pumping out a steady stream of precum.  “Yeah,” Carlos’s voice come from off-screen as his throbbing cock filled the frame, “Time to show this worthless sack of queer-ass shit exactly what a real man does to homos…”

 

Lunging forward in a nude body slam, the hard-bodied alpha dropped his full weight on the smaller whore, who responded by moaning hoarsely and scrabbling frantically at the canvas mat.  Placing one hand in the small of Brody’s back, Carlos pinned the shuddering youth, angling his massive shaft for deep penetration.

 

“You like cock, you worthless pansy?” the ex-con sneered in a tone of cold rage that was contradicted by the glitter of lust in his eyes—a glitter of which he seemed to be unaware, but which was perfectly captured on camera.  “Then yer gonna love this, cunt, this is what a genuine fag-snuffin’ grade-A male feels like!”

 

And with that, he reamed his entire swollen tool into the whore’s ass, in a single powerful thrust.

 

Brody had taken plenty of cock up his hole in the last six or seven—was it eight?—years since he’d been selling his young, smooth body, but none of them had been quite this big.  And those that had been close had also been slow and well-lubed.

 

Even with his face beaten to a pulp, he could feel every moment of this fresh new torment as he was skewered on a gigantic dick, one that tore his sphincter open without waiting for it to relax and accept.  After that, it all dissolved into a sheet of white-hot agony as the engorged mushroom tip plunged the depths of his colon, scraping and tearing at the rectal lining.

 

And all his horrific pain was recorded in loving detail.  The camera pulled back enough to show Brody, squealing and thrashing, impaled on Carlos’s cock.  The tattooed killer, his muscled back moving rhythmically with his thrusts and covered with a glistening film of mansweat, reached up and grasped the battered rentboy’s chin, clutching it tightly, painfully in one powerful hand.  Brody gave one final high-pitched squeal before Carlos clamped his mouth shut.

 

Looking up with an insanely gleeful grin, Carlos spoke directly to the camera—he was speaking to Nick.  “Whaddaya think, dude?  Time to waste this useless faggot?  Yeah?  Fuck, I’m about to pump his guts fulla hot manspunk, man—goddam, I’m gonna mark this bitch as mine and snuff his worthless ass—fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!”

 

Jerking violently, Carlos began spraying a solid jet of sperm deep into Brody.  As he did, he grabbed a huge handful of Brody’s brown hair.  Feeling the cumdump meat kicking his wrestling boots in fear and pain, the cruel sadist gave a loud grunt, shot a boiling wad of spunk into the cunt’s ass and jerked his arms reflexively in orgasm.  As his bulging biceps tightened he jerked Brody’s head around a full ninety degrees or more.

 

It sounded like popcorn, the noise of shattering vertebrae.  The expression in the boywhore’s bloodied face showed that despite his shredded spinal column, death was not instant.  His entire body was immediately wracked with violent convulsions.  “Fuck yeah,” Carlos moaned, “Milk my cock, fag, drain my cum as ya die…”

 

The camera closed in on Brody’s face, zooming in to capture his eyes as life drained out of them.  The beautiful high-price escort was almost unrecognizable in the twitching pile of damaged and bleeding meat centered in the frame.  The image was held for a few seconds before widening again.

 

Shuddering and gasping, Carlos withdrew his still-engorged member and stood up.  Stepping to the far side of the corpse, he faced the camera, smiled, and ground his foot into the still-quivering face, the sole of the Adidas shoe flattening the already-broken nose.

 

“Yeah, bitch,” Carlos said proudly to the camera, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  That’s what us straight dudes do to worthless faggot fucks!”  There was no trace of irony in his words; as he spoke, large drops of semen were still oozing from his erect cock, splattering onto the dead punk’s smooth, bruised chest.

 

“Ok, that’s a wrap,” said Nick.

 

 

After cleaning himself up and re-dressing in the bathroom down the hall, Carlos came back to the large room and joined Nick.  The latter was sitting at one of the tables along the wall; he was editing video, just as he’d been doing when Carlos first saw—but now it was Carlos himself on the screen.

 

“Sit down, kid,” Nick said evenly.  With a loud metallic clang, his iron-toed work boot kicked an empty chair out as an invitation.  “Ya did really good. Not great, but really good.”

 

Anger rose in Carlos’s well-developed chest.  “Whaddaya mean?  What’d I do wrong?”

 

“Chill out, man,” Nick said with a deep chuckle.  “I been doin’ films like this for a long time.  Both sides of the camera—ya feel me, dude?  I know what I’m talkin’ about here.”  He cued up a section of video.  “See here, where you’re bashing his face into the turnbuckle?  It woulda been a lot more effective if you’d stopped in the middle to taunt him, especially if you’d forced him to face the camera.”

 

The buff filmmaker forwarded the video on the screen before he continued.  “And here, where you kicked him—that was hot, man, but you coulda done more.  You coulda made the slut suffer a lot more—and same thing at the end.  You got too excited and shot your bolt too soon.  But I can’t complain too much; the biggest mistake was my own.  I shoulda told ya to strangle him.  Mighta gotten him hard despite the coke.”

 

And suddenly, the rage-filled convict did chill.  He’d been right, Carlos thought, he had been getting a vibe from this guy.

 

Carlos was in the presence of a master.

 

“So here’s the deal,” Nick continued calmly.  “I like your work, but you’re gonna have to be able to take some direction—and to stick to it in the excitement of the moment.  Do you have that kinda self-control?”

 

It was a good question.  Carlos had to stop and think; he could sense that this was an important moment for him and he wanted to answer honestly.  “Yeah,” he finally responded, “Yeah I think I can.  But that’s on camera.  Sometimes I hafta just go and waste a homo cunt, and if there ain’t a camera around, tough shit.”

 

Now it was Nick’s turn to consider.  “Ok, fine.  You go do your own thing, but you’re available whenever I’m ready to film.  We’ll start ya at a grand per video and see how they gross; if you turn out to be as popular as I think ya will, you’ll soon be earning a lot more.”

 

Carlos could hardly believe his luck—then a question occurred to him.  “A grand per vid?  How often are we shooting?”

 

Nick laughed, a loud braying guffaw.  “Man, there ain’t no regular schedule for this kinda work!  I’m hopin’ for two a month to start; we’ll see how many hits ya get.  But I’ll need to be able to reach you at any time.  Lessee, I got your cell and if something comes up I can send a car if you’re too fucked up to drive—where ya stayin’?”

 

The older, larger stud recoiled in surprise when Carlos gave him the North Las Vegas address.  “Shit, man, you’re in the fuckin’ war zone.  Ya know what—I gotta high-rise condo on Paradise, right off the Strip.   Use it for bedroom sets.  Used to rent it out for all kinda porn shots too, but haven’t had any offers for a while.  Why don’t you stay there till we see what kinda revenue you can generate?”

 

Carlos was overwhelmed.  Nearly everything he’d wanted from Vegas had just been dumped right into his lap.  And as eager as he was to accept, he was suspicious.  “Why are ya doin’ all this for me, jefe?  You ain’t gonna get all fruity on me too, are ya?”

 

Nick laughed again, deeply.  “Carlos—that is your name, right?  Carlos, the reason I’m doing all this is because I can make a shitload of money offa ya—and, incidentally, make you a shitload of money, too.  I told ya, I got a great snuff porn network from my last partner—these dudes will cum all over themselves watching you.  Now c’mon and gimme a hand.  Actors gotta pitch in and lend a hand breaking the set.”

 

“What?” Carlos asked, startled, “You want me to help take down the ring?”

 

“Fuck no,” Nick replied, “I got a crew comin’ in in an hour or so to take it down and haul it out.  Get that tarp over there.  We’re gonna go dump the corpse.”

 

In a hazy sense of excitement, Carlos grabbed the folded tarp and climbed into the ring one last time.  Nick was already kneeling near Brody’s body—now still—and unlacing the knee-high wrestling boots.  “Might be able to return these if the cunt hasn’t damaged them too much.”

 

A couple of sharp tugs and the red boots were flung over the side onto the floor.  Then Nick motioned Carlos to approach.  They unfolded the tarp on the mat next to the body, then rolled the corpse over, wrapping the tarp around it until it was fully encased.  Without being asked, Carlos bent down, picked the limp form up and slung it over his shoulder.  “I got this,” he said, “where do ya want it?”

 

“Thanks, dude,” Nick smiled.  “Worthless cunt pissed on the mat when he died; I gotta get that cleaned.  We’ll go toss that meat in the back of my truck and run it down the street to the factory compactor.”

 

Walking down the hall towards the front door with the dead weight of Brody La Roc resting on his shoulder, Carlos couldn’t help asking one last question.  “Hey—uh, Nick, you said something about a partner in this porn network.  Is he someone I need to worry about?”

 

From the darkness behind him came a grim chuckle.  “Tony?  Naw, man.  I took care of him.  Ain’t no one gotta worry about him anymore…”

M4M41(+1)

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories32 Comments

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot.  He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

 

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym.  In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body.  He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

 

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up.  The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

 

The youth snapped out of his reverie.  It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down.  Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

 

The “cocksucker” was actually already there.  Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

 

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up.  Well, that, and throw off any investigation.  Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

 

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim.  And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

 

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean.  The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

 

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship.  But it had to be discreet.  He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

 

Joe chuckled.  He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself.  And then he’d turn him into meat.

 

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick.  After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway.  And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags.  But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

 

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

 

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching.  The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it.  The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough.  Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

 

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear.  The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection.  Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

 

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style.  They looked clean and new.  His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

 

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time.  The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

 

After all, in a way, he was.

 

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent.  His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied.  Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

 

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close.  “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

 

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in.  As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

 

Joe grinned.  It was perfect.  Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

 

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness.  As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode.  “So, man, ya ready to drain my load?  Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!”  Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

 

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot.  But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting.  Jake was gonna finish up soon.  “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me.  We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

 

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250.  Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles.  It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

 

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot.  Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street.  Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked.  “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

 

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan.  Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street.  The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

 

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left.  Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property.  He opened the door and let Joe in.

 

On the inside, the condo was small.  The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner.  Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom.  The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

 

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up.  Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right.  It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else.  The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

 

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

 

Andy took off his running jacket.  Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser.  “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket.  “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.”  Closing the door, he turned back to Joe.  “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

 

He never saw the blow coming.  Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door.  Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

 

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain.  His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap.  As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

 

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin.  There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

 

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger.  “Dude, you made a huge mistake.  When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear?  I’m gonna—“

 

“Yeah?” Joe growled abruptly, cutting Andy’s bluster off mid-stride.  “Whaddaya think yer gonna do to me, faggot?”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger.  “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

 

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.”  As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities.  In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

 

Andy grunted and kicked.  Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself.  As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing.  His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

 

That was what was binding his hands.  Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather.  Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it.  He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

 

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it.  He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

 

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself.  “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

 

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck.  Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver.  The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

 

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs.  With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles.  They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him.  And it was just about time to get started…

 

That’s when Joe heard the lock on the front door.  “J-jake,” Andy gasped irregularly, “h-he’ll fu-fu-fuck ya up…”

 

The roommate was coming home.  Joe realized he had to act quickly.  Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

 

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try.  Joe was counting on it.  Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

 

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping.  The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

 

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice.  “Hey, dude, were are ya?  I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

 

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated.  He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth.  He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it.  His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

 

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door.  A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room.  “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

 

Jake grunted and whirled around.  Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes.  His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

 

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was.  He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand.  The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.  The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

 

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow.  Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

 

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer.  Your buddy is straight?  Too bad—sucks to be him.”

 

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth.  “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

 

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude.  Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was.  He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle.  Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

 

After all, he was gonna be here a while.  His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

 

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles.  Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time.  He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

 

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser.  He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire.  Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back.  With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding.  Now all he needed was something for the feet…

 

There—draped over the closet doorknob.  A jump rope; perfect.  In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

 

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed.  Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall.  It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body.  The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

 

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay.  Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

 

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home.  A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble.  What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

 

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him.  The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

 

But the cigarette was what angered him.  He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted.  It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally.  There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

 

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly.  “What’s wrong, bitch?  Ya not inta smoke?”  With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

 

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain.  “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!”  He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back.  The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

 

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared.  He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw.  As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

 

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick.  As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

 

“No…” the trapped boy moaned thickly.  “D-don’t, man, k-keep aw-away…p-p-please…”

 

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed.  “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh?  What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt?  Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

 

“What?” Andy yelped.  The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

 

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs.  Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

 

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

 

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole.  The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was too much, too intense.  He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

 

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock.  As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

 

Jake was waking up.

 

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare.  Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head.  As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed.  The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right.  He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

 

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted.  And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped.  Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Joe growled, spitting into the hot Asian boy’s face, “take my fuckin’ rod, you motherfuckin’ homo cunt!”  As his huge tool plowed into Andy’s tender ass, the thick veined ridges on his shaft tore at the unfortunate cunt’s soft fuckhole like barbed wire.

 

It was too much.  Andy shrieked, loud and hard, his vocal cords stretching taut and sending a vibration that echoed through his entire body.  Joe felt it and shuddered in pleasure.

 

Jake felt it and shuddered in terror.

 

Joe was still pissed.  “Goddam queer-ass fag motherfucker!” he snarled in anger, “Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit!  Yer makin’ more noise than you’re worth, you little homo cunt—guess I need to stop yer fuckin’ pig squealing, cunt.  Lessee now, what’s good to choke off your cumsucking throat…”

 

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand.  Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside.  Joe seized on it like a gift.

 

“Oh hell yeah, this work fuckin’ great,” he smirked diabolically.  “Dude, you musta wanted this—you damn sure dressed to get snuffed, faggot!”

 

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote.  Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

 

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good.  Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry.  He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

 

And it was a frenzy.  It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

 

That wasn’t supposed to happen.  He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

 

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him.  Watching him get fucked.

 

Watching him die.

 

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody.  He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly.  As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly.  Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

 

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though.  His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally.  The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

 

After that, Joe was more deliberate.  Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it.  But then, a distraction—

 

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably.  “What’s goin’ on?  Andy?  Dude?  What the fuck is happening?”  His voice shook with impending tears.

 

“What the fuck is happening, dude,” Joe sneered, turning to look Jake straight in his terrified, uncomprehending face, “is that your bud here is gettin’ some dick.  And then I’m gonna waste him.  Watch close, motherfucker—when I’m done with him, it’ll be your turn.”

 

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face.  “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you.  So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

 

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole.  As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

 

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course.  “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror.  “I ain’t gay!  Andy ain’t gay!  We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

 

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right.  “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

 

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee.  “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy?  Huh?  And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh?  I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick.  He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too.  I mean, it only makes sense, right?  So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

 

With a faint chuckle, Joe hovered close over Andy and spat in his face yet again.  “But first,” he chuckled quietly, “I gotta off this motherfucking pervert.  Ya look healthy, boy.  Too bad.  Just means you’re gonna suffer longer.”

 

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them.  He was suffering enough already.  A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen.  Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

 

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain.  The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain.  The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

 

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

 

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying.  Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump.  Ya like that?  Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya!  It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

 

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror.  It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point.  Andy was getting raped.  Andy was getting murdered.  Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple.  His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

 

It was the stuff of nightmare.  But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

 

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts.  Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

 

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded.  Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

 

Maybe he was gay.  But Jake wasn’t.  He was gonna fight.

 

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought.  Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought.  And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

 

His audience in mind, Joe resumed taunting Andy.  “Like it, dontcha, cunt?  You fuckin’ love havin’ a real man hold you down and put you in yer place, huh, fag?  Can’t hide it when ya die, boy, yer hard cock is tellin’ your buddy here how much yer lovin’ this, you useless homo cum dumpster!”

 

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again.  “Stop!” he screeched.  “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

 

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat.  He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw.  He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face.  “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive.  He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet.  He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

 

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him.  A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock.  Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

 

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

 

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish.  The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

 

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that.  Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

 

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder.  He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff.  He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

 

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering.  Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

 

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face.  It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail.  Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

 

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts.  He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

 

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too.  Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

 

“Watch ‘im, dude,” he grunted as his firm, furry ass flexed with his energetic thrusts, “watch ‘im choke.  Fuck, man his dyin’ ass is grippin’ my shaft so tight—the harder I squeeze his throat, the harder he squeezes my dick.  Goddam dickpig likes it, yeah?  An’ I bet you’ll fuckin’ love it, you worthless cocksucking faggot!”

 

 

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death.  His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

 

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought.  His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions.  His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

 

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable.  The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death.  Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth.  One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

 

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock.  His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts.  Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

 

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock.  “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth.  “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is?  Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

 

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck.  Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch.  Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

 

Andy himself experienced it differently.  For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body.  Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

 

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness.  They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

 

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

 

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

 

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff.  And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it.  Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs.  Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

 

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back.  The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum.  The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath.  He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

 

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle.  As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room.  The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

 

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp.  Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head.  The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen.  His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle.  Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

 

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath.  The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall.  He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

 

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom.  For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

 

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom.  A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence.  The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness.  It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

 

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor.  He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy.  But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

 

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse.  It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move.  Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

 

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate.  “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy!  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

 

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead.  His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him.  The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

 

He needed more of the same, Joe realized.  A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

 

Maybe a little foot worship.  He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

 

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it.  Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

 

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

 

Jake was still far too confused to understand.  He remained motionless.

 

“Take his sneaker off, you stupid scumshit, or I will hurt you.”

 

This registered.  Jake blinked twice and shook himself.  “Take-what?  T-take it off? B-b-but my han-hands…”

 

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert.  You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet.  Do it!”

 

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought.  Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip.  Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

 

“Good bitch,” Joe sneered.  “Keep goin’, fag.  Get the shoe off, bitch.”

 

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head.  To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze.  His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

 

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker.  Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab.  Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

 

It took several minutes.  Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull.  He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire.  It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

 

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off.  The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

 

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done.  “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

 

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

 

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain.  He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve.  He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

 

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot.  As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

 

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out.  Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

 

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage.  “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

 

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind.  The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face.  “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief.  This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay.  And Jake wasn’t gay.

 

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock.  “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face.  “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

 

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion.  Joe next statement was what motivated him.  “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

 

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze.  Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

 

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth.  Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

 

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance.  “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

 

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear.  Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

 

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy.  He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

 

 

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum.  Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

 

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out.  But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

 

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily.  “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.”  But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat.  His heaving got stronger.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up.  The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed.  “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya.  But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker.  Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first.  Lessee, what’ll work…”

 

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva.  “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth.  Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat.  “There ya go, asswipe.  Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

 

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point.  The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control.  Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

 

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel.  But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury.  He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp.  Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

 

And reeking of mansex.  It was Andy’s cumrag.

 

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half.  He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric.  “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat.  He could, and would do what he said.

 

Jake had to obey.  His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey.  He had no choice.  He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance.  And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot.  Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

 

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them.  Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids.  He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

 

“You stupid cumsucking piece of shit,” Joe chuckled malignly, “did ya think I was really gonna let ya try to bite my cock?  Fuckin’ dumbass faggot, yer gonna pay for that—and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you worthless asswipe!”

 

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes.  His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it.  He was truly helpless now.  This couldn’t be happening.  Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this.  He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

 

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy.  “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me.  Work me.  Milk me…”

 

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy.  The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear.  His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat.  As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

 

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie.  The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

 

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym.  This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving.  It was a surreal nightmare.  The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

 

Then Joe made it real.  Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock.  And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

 

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock.  Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

 

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee.  He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow.  His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

 

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness.  The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

 

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice.  “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert.  I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh?  Yeah, faggot?  Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

 

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat.  “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted.  A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

 

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down.  Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

 

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

 

Pubic hair.  Another dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?  How—how had this happened?  He’d gone to do his usual routine after work.  Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home.  As usual.

 

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered.  And some dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?

 

And then a new imperative arose.  His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant.  But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock.  It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

 

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

 

He wasn’t gonna let it happen.  His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize.  He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee.  “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh?  Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet.  C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes.  In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

 

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus.  The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

 

“Fuckin’-A, ya homo cocksucker, that’s it.  Work my dick as you die, fuckmeat; lessee if you can milk more cum outta me than your dead butt-buddy here.  Yer last sensation is gonna be my spurtin’ sperm floodin’ yer lungs—don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  C’mon, you faggot motherfucker, show me how grateful yer gonna be for my load!”

 

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken.  It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing.  Or oozing at the tip.

 

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen.  He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face.  He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

 

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse.  He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing.  But then there were NO words to describe the entirety.

 

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did.  He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

 

He was dying with an erection.  That-that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Ever.

 

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth.  And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse.  And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

 

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions.  In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

 

It’d catch on soon enough.  Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy.  Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

 

Not when it was getting so good…

 

“That’s it, faggot, let go.  Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost.  Go on and die.  It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool.  Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

 

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool.  “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die.  You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

 

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand.  If he had, he might have agreed.  Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch.  He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation.  He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

 

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum.  As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms.  The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

 

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull.  His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat.  Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse.  Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

 

And then he died.  Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco.  In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc.  This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

 

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life.  The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier.  If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

 

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive.  The boy had come bolt upright on his knees.  His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin.  His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down.  But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

 

Jake was already dead.  In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

 

He fell on top of Andy.  Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

 

Joe looked down at himself.  “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

 

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly.  Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

 

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers.  Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure.  No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

 

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet.  He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

 

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry.  Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight.  It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous.  It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

 

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen.  It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat.  Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy.  Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing.  First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

 

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before.  But now…

 

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses.  Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back.  His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists.  The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

 

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen.  The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin.  The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

 

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

 

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead.  As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes.  His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat.  His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

 

Too late for that now.

 

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits.  As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

 

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room.  The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

 

It was too much for Joe.  He wanted a piece of that action.  Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest.  The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

 

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist.  There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked.  The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

 

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed.  But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer.  He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

 

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head.  He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

 

And he was still horny.  He still had more seed to unload.  Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones.  Whatever—it didn’t matter.

 

What mattered was that he needed to cum.  Again.

 

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was.  Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight.  Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test.  If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry.  And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

 

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

 

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness.  There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

 

Stupid piece of shit.  Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to.  Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

 

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself.  Joe smiled.  He understood.  That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves.  And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

 

That’s how they knew.  That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down.  They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

 

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening.  At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

 

And then the rodeo was on.

 

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself.  He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

 

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body.  Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head.  As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

 

Fuck.  He’d snapped Jake’s neck too.  Oh well.

 

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy.  It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser.  He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

 

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it.  While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it.  Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

 

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped.  Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible.  Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could.  Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them.  The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

 

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea.  Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks?  Fuckin’ hot!

 

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly.  He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up.  That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

 

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor.  “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face.  The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

 

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth.  Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

 

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop.  As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

 

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door.  Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with?  The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot.  He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

 

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym.  In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body.  He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

 

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up.  The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

 

The youth snapped out of his reverie.  It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down.  Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

 

The “cocksucker” was actually already there.  Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

 

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up.  Well, that, and throw off any investigation.  Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

 

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim.  And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

 

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean.  The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

 

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship.  But it had to be discreet.  He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

 

Joe chuckled.  He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself.  And then he’d turn him into meat.

 

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick.  After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway.  And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags.  But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

 

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

 

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching.  The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it.  The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough.  Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

 

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear.  The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection.  Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

 

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style.  They looked clean and new.  His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

 

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time.  The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

 

After all, in a way, he was.

 

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent.  His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied.  Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

 

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close.  “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

 

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in.  As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

 

Joe grinned.  It was perfect.  Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

 

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness.  As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode.  “So, man, ya ready to drain my load?  Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!”  Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

 

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot.  But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting.  Jake was gonna finish up soon.  “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me.  We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

 

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250.  Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles.  It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

 

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot.  Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street.  Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked.  “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

 

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan.  Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street.  The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

 

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left.  Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property.  He opened the door and let Joe in.

 

On the inside, the condo was small.  The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner.  Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom.  The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

 

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up.  Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right.  It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else.  The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

 

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

 

Andy took off his running jacket.  Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser.  “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket.  “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.”  Closing the door, he turned back to Joe.  “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

 

He never saw the blow coming.  Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door.  Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

 

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain.  His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap.  As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

 

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin.  There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

 

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger.  “Dude, you made a huge mistake.  When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear?  I’m gonna—“

 

“Yeah?” Joe growled abruptly, cutting Andy’s bluster off mid-stride.  “Whaddaya think yer gonna do to me, faggot?”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger.  “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

 

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.”  As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities.  In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

 

Andy grunted and kicked.  Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself.  As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing.  His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

 

That was what was binding his hands.  Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather.  Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it.  He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

 

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it.  He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

 

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself.  “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

 

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck.  Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver.  The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

 

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs.  With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles.  They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him.  And it was just about time to get started…

 

That’s when Joe heard the lock on the front door.  “J-jake,” Andy gasped irregularly, “h-he’ll fu-fu-fuck ya up…”

 

The roommate was coming home.  Joe realized he had to act quickly.  Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

 

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try.  Joe was counting on it.  Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

 

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping.  The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

 

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice.  “Hey, dude, were are ya?  I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

 

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated.  He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth.  He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it.  His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

 

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door.  A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room.  “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

 

Jake grunted and whirled around.  Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes.  His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

 

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was.  He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand.  The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.  The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

 

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow.  Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

 

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer.  Your buddy is straight?  Too bad—sucks to be him.”

 

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth.  “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

 

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude.  Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was.  He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle.  Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

 

After all, he was gonna be here a while.  His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

 

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles.  Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time.  He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

 

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser.  He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire.  Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back.  With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding.  Now all he needed was something for the feet…

 

There—draped over the closet doorknob.  A jump rope; perfect.  In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

 

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed.  Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall.  It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body.  The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

 

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay.  Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

 

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home.  A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble.  What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

 

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him.  The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

 

But the cigarette was what angered him.  He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted.  It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally.  There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

 

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly.  “What’s wrong, bitch?  Ya not inta smoke?”  With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

 

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain.  “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!”  He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back.  The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

 

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared.  He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw.  As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

 

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick.  As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

 

“No…” the trapped boy moaned thickly.  “D-don’t, man, k-keep aw-away…p-p-please…”

 

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed.  “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh?  What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt?  Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

 

“What?” Andy yelped.  The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

 

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs.  Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

 

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

 

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole.  The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was too much, too intense.  He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

 

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock.  As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

 

Jake was waking up.

 

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare.  Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head.  As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed.  The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right.  He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

 

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted.  And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped.  Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Joe growled, spitting into the hot Asian boy’s face, “take my fuckin’ rod, you motherfuckin’ homo cunt!”  As his huge tool plowed into Andy’s tender ass, the thick veined ridges on his shaft tore at the unfortunate cunt’s soft fuckhole like barbed wire.

 

It was too much.  Andy shrieked, loud and hard, his vocal cords stretching taut and sending a vibration that echoed through his entire body.  Joe felt it and shuddered in pleasure.

 

Jake felt it and shuddered in terror.

 

Joe was still pissed.  “Goddam queer-ass fag motherfucker!” he snarled in anger, “Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit!  Yer makin’ more noise than you’re worth, you little homo cunt—guess I need to stop yer fuckin’ pig squealing, cunt.  Lessee now, what’s good to choke off your cumsucking throat…”

 

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand.  Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside.  Joe seized on it like a gift.

 

“Oh hell yeah, this work fuckin’ great,” he smirked diabolically.  “Dude, you musta wanted this—you damn sure dressed to get snuffed, faggot!”

 

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote.  Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

 

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good.  Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry.  He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

 

And it was a frenzy.  It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

 

That wasn’t supposed to happen.  He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

 

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him.  Watching him get fucked.

 

Watching him die.

 

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody.  He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly.  As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly.  Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

 

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though.  His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally.  The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

 

After that, Joe was more deliberate.  Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it.  But then, a distraction—

 

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably.  “What’s goin’ on?  Andy?  Dude?  What the fuck is happening?”  His voice shook with impending tears.

 

“What the fuck is happening, dude,” Joe sneered, turning to look Jake straight in his terrified, uncomprehending face, “is that your bud here is gettin’ some dick.  And then I’m gonna waste him.  Watch close, motherfucker—when I’m done with him, it’ll be your turn.”

 

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face.  “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you.  So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

 

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole.  As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

 

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course.  “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror.  “I ain’t gay!  Andy ain’t gay!  We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

 

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right.  “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

 

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee.  “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy?  Huh?  And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh?  I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick.  He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too.  I mean, it only makes sense, right?  So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

 

With a faint chuckle, Joe hovered close over Andy and spat in his face yet again.  “But first,” he chuckled quietly, “I gotta off this motherfucking pervert.  Ya look healthy, boy.  Too bad.  Just means you’re gonna suffer longer.”

 

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them.  He was suffering enough already.  A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen.  Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

 

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain.  The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain.  The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

 

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

 

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying.  Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump.  Ya like that?  Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya!  It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

 

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror.  It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point.  Andy was getting raped.  Andy was getting murdered.  Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple.  His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

 

It was the stuff of nightmare.  But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

 

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts.  Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

 

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded.  Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

 

Maybe he was gay.  But Jake wasn’t.  He was gonna fight.

 

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought.  Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought.  And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

 

His audience in mind, Joe resumed taunting Andy.  “Like it, dontcha, cunt?  You fuckin’ love havin’ a real man hold you down and put you in yer place, huh, fag?  Can’t hide it when ya die, boy, yer hard cock is tellin’ your buddy here how much yer lovin’ this, you useless homo cum dumpster!”

 

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again.  “Stop!” he screeched.  “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

 

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat.  He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw.  He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face.  “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive.  He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet.  He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

 

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him.  A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock.  Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

 

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

 

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish.  The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

 

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that.  Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

 

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder.  He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff.  He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

 

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering.  Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

 

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face.  It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail.  Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

 

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts.  He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

 

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too.  Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

 

“Watch ‘im, dude,” he grunted as his firm, furry ass flexed with his energetic thrusts, “watch ‘im choke.  Fuck, man his dyin’ ass is grippin’ my shaft so tight—the harder I squeeze his throat, the harder he squeezes my dick.  Goddam dickpig likes it, yeah?  An’ I bet you’ll fuckin’ love it, you worthless cocksucking faggot!”

 

 

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death.  His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

 

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought.  His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions.  His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

 

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable.  The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death.  Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth.  One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

 

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock.  His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts.  Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

 

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock.  “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth.  “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is?  Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

 

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck.  Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch.  Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

 

Andy himself experienced it differently.  For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body.  Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

 

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness.  They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

 

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

 

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

 

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff.  And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it.  Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs.  Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

 

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back.  The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum.  The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath.  He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

 

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle.  As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room.  The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

 

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp.  Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head.  The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen.  His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle.  Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

 

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath.  The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall.  He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

 

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom.  For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

 

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom.  A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence.  The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness.  It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

 

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor.  He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy.  But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

 

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse.  It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move.  Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

 

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate.  “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy!  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

 

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead.  His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him.  The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

 

He needed more of the same, Joe realized.  A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

 

Maybe a little foot worship.  He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

 

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it.  Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

 

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

 

Jake was still far too confused to understand.  He remained motionless.

 

“Take his sneaker off, you stupid scumshit, or I will hurt you.”

 

This registered.  Jake blinked twice and shook himself.  “Take-what?  T-take it off? B-b-but my han-hands…”

 

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert.  You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet.  Do it!”

 

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought.  Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip.  Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

 

“Good bitch,” Joe sneered.  “Keep goin’, fag.  Get the shoe off, bitch.”

 

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head.  To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze.  His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

 

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker.  Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab.  Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

 

It took several minutes.  Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull.  He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire.  It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

 

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off.  The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

 

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done.  “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

 

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

 

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain.  He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve.  He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

 

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot.  As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

 

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out.  Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

 

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage.  “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

 

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind.  The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face.  “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief.  This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay.  And Jake wasn’t gay.

 

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock.  “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face.  “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

 

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion.  Joe next statement was what motivated him.  “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

 

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze.  Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

 

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth.  Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

 

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance.  “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

 

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear.  Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

 

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy.  He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

 

 

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum.  Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

 

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out.  But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

 

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily.  “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.”  But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat.  His heaving got stronger.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up.  The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed.  “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya.  But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker.  Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first.  Lessee, what’ll work…”

 

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva.  “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth.  Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat.  “There ya go, asswipe.  Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

 

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point.  The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control.  Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

 

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel.  But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury.  He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp.  Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

 

And reeking of mansex.  It was Andy’s cumrag.

 

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half.  He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric.  “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat.  He could, and would do what he said.

 

Jake had to obey.  His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey.  He had no choice.  He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance.  And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot.  Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

 

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them.  Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids.  He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

 

“You stupid cumsucking piece of shit,” Joe chuckled malignly, “did ya think I was really gonna let ya try to bite my cock?  Fuckin’ dumbass faggot, yer gonna pay for that—and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you worthless asswipe!”

 

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes.  His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it.  He was truly helpless now.  This couldn’t be happening.  Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this.  He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

 

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy.  “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me.  Work me.  Milk me…”

 

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy.  The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear.  His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat.  As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

 

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie.  The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

 

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym.  This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving.  It was a surreal nightmare.  The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

 

Then Joe made it real.  Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock.  And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

 

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock.  Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

 

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee.  He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow.  His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

 

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness.  The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

 

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice.  “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert.  I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh?  Yeah, faggot?  Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

 

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat.  “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted.  A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

 

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down.  Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

 

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

 

Pubic hair.  Another dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?  How—how had this happened?  He’d gone to do his usual routine after work.  Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home.  As usual.

 

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered.  And some dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?

 

And then a new imperative arose.  His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant.  But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock.  It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

 

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

 

He wasn’t gonna let it happen.  His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize.  He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee.  “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh?  Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet.  C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes.  In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

 

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus.  The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

 

“Fuckin’-A, ya homo cocksucker, that’s it.  Work my dick as you die, fuckmeat; lessee if you can milk more cum outta me than your dead butt-buddy here.  Yer last sensation is gonna be my spurtin’ sperm floodin’ yer lungs—don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  C’mon, you faggot motherfucker, show me how grateful yer gonna be for my load!”

 

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken.  It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing.  Or oozing at the tip.

 

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen.  He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face.  He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

 

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse.  He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing.  But then there were no words to describe the entirety.

 

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did.  He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

 

He was dying with an erection.  That-that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Ever.

 

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth.  And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse.  And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

 

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions.  In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

 

It’d catch on soon enough.  Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy.  Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

 

Not when it was getting so good…

 

“That’s it, faggot, let go.  Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost.  Go on and die.  It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool.  Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

 

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool.  “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die.  You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

 

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand.  If he had, he might have agreed.  Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch.  He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation.  He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

 

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum.  As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms.  The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

 

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull.  His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat.  Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse.  Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

 

And then he died.  Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco.  In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc.  This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

 

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life.  The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier.  If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

 

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive.  The boy had come bolt upright on his knees.  His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin.  His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down.  But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

 

Jake was already dead.  In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

 

He fell on top of Andy.  Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

 

Joe looked down at himself.  “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

 

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly.  Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

 

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers.  Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure.  No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

 

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet.  He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

 

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry.  Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight.  It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous.  It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

 

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen.  It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat.  Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy.  Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing.  First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

 

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before.  But now…

 

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses.  Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back.  His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists.  The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

 

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen.  The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin.  The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

 

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

 

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead.  As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes.  His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat.  His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

 

Too late for that now.

 

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits.  As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

 

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room.  The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

 

It was too much for Joe.  He wanted a piece of that action.  Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest.  The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

 

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist.  There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked.  The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

 

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed.  But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer.  He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

 

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head.  He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

 

And he was still horny.  He still had more seed to unload.  Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones.  Whatever—it didn’t matter.

 

What mattered was that he needed to cum.  Again.

 

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was.  Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight.  Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test.  If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry.  And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

 

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

 

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness.  There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

 

Stupid piece of shit.  Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to.  Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

 

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself.  Joe smiled.  He understood.  That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves.  And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

 

That’s how they knew.  That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down.  They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

 

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening.  At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

 

And then the rodeo was on.

 

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself.  He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

 

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body.  Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head.  As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

 

Fuck.  He’d snapped Jake’s neck too.  Oh well.

 

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy.  It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser.  He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

 

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it.  While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it.  Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

 

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped.  Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible.  Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could.  Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them.  The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

 

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea.  Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks?  Fuckin’ hot!

 

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly.  He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up.  That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

 

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor.  “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face.  The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

 

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth.  Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

 

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop.  As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

 

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door.  Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with?  The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

M4M4Christ

On By m3mayhemIn M4M StoriesLeave a comment

Joe rolled over in bed, his hard, hairy body sluggish in sleep.  The phone on the nightstand was beeping an alert.  Instantly, he was awake—albeit reluctantly; less than eight hours ago he’d been engaged in vigorous physical activity.  But this might be work.  In his line, he didn’t have a regular schedule.  He was always on call.

 

Sitting up, he glanced down at the phone and realized it wasn’t his.  The details of last night came flooding back to him.  The little daddy’s boy faggot he popped.  This was that kid’s phone.  He’d taken some good shots of the corpse but hadn’t sent them to daddy yet.  He’d planned to do that once he got home, but he was so worn out, he’d fallen asleep before he got it done.

 

Of course, he might have had time to get the pics sent if he hadn’t played around on the cunt’s phone, posting a couple of ads on the fag sex apps the little homo had on his phone.  Stupid piece of shit hadn’t even bothered with any passwords, either.  Joe was free to post whatever he wanted under the dead kid’s login.

 

That was what was happening now.  There’d been a response.  The original post had been a generic “looking for sex” note giving nothing more than physical stats and neighborhood (one a good half-hour from Joe’s actual residence).

 

Despite Joe’s lack of rest, his dick slowly swelled and jutted as he read the reply.

 

“hey man i aint been with a dude but I wanna try    just turned 18   cant do anything at home  HMU if you wanna meet but its gotta be public I don’t want no pervs”

 

Joe tamped his hypersexual excitement down and sent back a response, asking about the boy’s appearance.  The teen sent back a selfie, showing a broad, grinning face with a large nose, big brown eyes with long lashes and curly hair nearly the same shade of brown.  Only the top of the kid’s torso was visible, but it showed a smooth chest, lean but broad.

 

The alpha suggested a meeting in the area he’d mentioned in the post, at a coffee bar he’d passed on occasion.  The kid agreed to the location, but asked that they meet that evening.

 

It seemed that over the holiday break, his parents had enrolled him in a draconian vacation bible school.  Any absence would be reported to them.  Afterwards, however, he could sneak out…

 

Joe grunted in frustration.  He wanted the tender young cunt now—but there was nothing he could do about it.  Stifling his anger, he agreed to meet the boy at ten o’clock that night.

 

But the little bible-thumping cumsucker was gonna pay for making him wait. In the meantime, he eased the sadistic beast within him by sending SWAT daddy the pics of his raped and murdered son…

 

————————————————————————————————-

 

Joe was in the parking lot at half-past nine, scoping the place out and waiting for the kid to show up.  He wanted to see how the teen arrived—if he came by car, if he came alone—anything to let him know if it was safe to continue with his plans.  Based on the punk’s response, Joe expected him to be alone, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

 

Laying the seat back, the buff alpha lit a cigarette as he waited.  He cracked the window and exhaled the smoke, his thick black leather jacket letting him ignore the winter chill.  The white thermal shirt stretched tightly across his broad chest helped insulate him as well, but he could feel the cool air descend over his legs.  His black jeans were faded and worn, and skin-tight as they were, did little to keep out the cold.

 

He didn’t care.  The heat welling angrily from his swollen crotch was enough.

 

He shifted his feet, his heavy leather engineer boots making scuffling sounds as the thick soles dragged on the floor mats.  As his cigarette dwindled and he lit another, his impatience built.  He’d fully expected the kid to show up at least a couple of minutes early, but it was just past ten now and the little piece of shit hadn’t shown up yet.

 

That didn’t bode well for the cunt’s immediate future.

 

Joe was just about to light yet another smoke when he saw the boy, walking quickly as he turned the corner from a side street.  He was alone—stupid motherfucker, he was gonna regret that—and wore a gray fleece hoodie zipped up with the hood tightened around his head.  Only his face was visible, with a few sandy locks on his forehead, but it was enough for Joe to recognize him.

 

He couldn’t see what the kid was wearing under the hoodie, but he had a taut pair of skinny jeans below, the pale brown material—almost the same color as his hair—cradling his rounded asscheeks.  White, firmly-laced hightop sneakers completed his outfit.

 

Even from a distance, there was something in the kid’s face—or maybe it was something that wasn’t there…

 

He got out of the car, his black boots striding quickly across the asphalt as he intercepted the youth before he could get inside the crowded coffee shop.  The odd impression of the boy’s face increased as he approached; after a moment, he recognized what he was noticing.

 

Innocence.  The boy was sexually curious, but was utterly inexperienced in sex.  The powerful sadist struggled to stifle an evil grin, but was unable to control the enlarging bulge in his groin.  He was gonna enjoy destroying the unlucky kid.  The punk had no idea what he was about to suffer.

 

“Hey,” he called out softly, “you’re late.  Thought you were gonna be here at ten.”

 

The boy stopped and sized him up.  The kid clearly liked what he saw.  His jeans were just as incapable of hiding his erection as Joe’s were in his own case—two hard throbbing dicks visible as they looked at each other.  Joe could see lust lighting the twink’s hazel eyes as they followed the contour of the older man’s thick hog, outlined in his crotch in tight denim.

 

The boy blinked. “Name’s Noah,” he gasped throatily before gulping nervously and holding out his hand.

 

Joe grinned easily.  “I’m Trevor,” he replied.  It didn’t matter if the punk new his real name or not, but Joe didn’t want anyone to overhear; there was a couple getting into a car a few feet away.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” Noah said sheepishly.  “We were late getting back from bible study and it took my folks a while to get to sleep.”

 

“You had to sneak out?” Joe asked, careful to keep the contempt out of his voice.

 

“Yeah,” Noah admitted, blushing with embarrassment.  “See, my folks are real strict and they’re real religious, too.  I’m not allowed out alone after nine at night.  And Dad takes the car keys with him when he goes to bed, so I had to walk.  I mean, they don’t let me have a license, but I can drive.”

 

Joe chuckled silently to himself.  “You couldn’t get a friend to give you a lift?”

 

Noah was horrorstruck.  “Dude, all my friends are in the same church as me—they’d rat me out to my parents in a heartbeat!  And if they knew I was meeting a strange man…”  He broke off, the thought making him shudder.  “Y’know, maybe I shouldn’t do this…”

 

“C’mon, man, you’re already here and no one knows,” Joe cajoled.  “And I damn sure ain’t gonna say anything.”

 

Noah winced at the curse but seemed to consider the idea.  Joe upped the ante.  “Besides, I got a room at a motel halfway across town where nobody’s gonna know either of us.”

 

He had, too.  It was a cheap, run-down place out on what had been the highway until the bypass was built.  Now it was a rent-by-hour/day/week/month joint that served more as a flophouse to the locals.  It was full of whores and drunks—but not, at least, bedbugs.

 

Before coming to the coffee bar, he’d driven there and given a tweaker forty bucks to rent a twenty-dollar room for the night.  After, Joe pocketed the key, secure in the knowledge that the meth addict would take the change and get so wasted that within a couple of hours he’d be unable to remember who gave him cash for a room.

 

Noah hesitated, glancing uneasily through the window, as if making sure no one inside had recognized him.  The kid was deep in the closet and scared as hell.  Joe recognized the symptoms.  He’d have to coax the little fuck gently, at least for a while.  Once they got to the room, he’d have the cunt in his control.

 

The powerful alpha smiled charmingly at the skittish teen, his rugged, scruffy good looks adding irresistibly to the lure of his muscled body.  Noah fought within himself, his fundamental Christian upbringing battling ferociously with his pure pig lust.  The hormones pumping through his lithe teen body decided the issue.

 

“Ok, dude,” he muttered thickly as desire fogged his brain, “If no one’s gonna know, I guess it’s ok.  But…but, y’know…I…I ain’t done anything like…well, like this, y’know?”

 

“It’ll be ok,” Joe grinned cheerfully, “after all, a little fun never killed anybody.  C’mon, my car’s over there.”

 

The parking lot was empty by this time.  No one saw the teen in the hoodie and the powerfully-built dude in leather and jeans get into the same car.

 

As his car headed north, then east through town, the buff sadist was surprised to feel the teen’s hand fumbling between his legs.  The boy was anxious to fondle the older dude’s shaft.  As Noah gripped the thick, denim-wrapped shaft, he inhaled shakily in lust and amazement; the strapping, mysterious stud was hung like a horse.

 

The naïve youth was enthralled; he had no actual experience with other men—not even in terms of porn; he’d had no unrestricted internet access.  He had little with which he could compare the massive tube of flesh his hands were now massaging; only his own cock seemed adequate.

 

The latter was smaller, but not by much.  Noah wasn’t unendowed himself; his own vein-wrapped tool was almost a good seven inches long and two in diameter.  And while Noah hadn’t seen any porn, he’d seen his classmates in the locker room at his private religious school.  He’d treasured up the images of smooth naked teen bodies for his beat-off sessions, but he’d also noticed that he was better hung than any of the other boys.

 

Now he’d met someone even bigger.  And even though he knew it was not just disgusting and sinful but downright dangerous, he couldn’t help being drawn in, hoping to be introduced to dark, hidden pleasures he hadn’t dared to fully acknowledge, even to himself.

 

Joe was already aware of what was running through the boy’s mind; it really wasn’t that difficult to figure out.  He reveled in anticipation of his control over the kid’s emotions as he lulled the religious youth into taking his cock before unleashing an explosion of violence.

 

Noah had been too preoccupied with dick to notice his surroundings, but he looked up as Joe pulled into the motel parking lot.  He tightened the drawstring of his hoodie, craning his neck as he looked around concernedly.  “Uh, Trevor?” he quavered, “uh, is this place ok?”

 

Joe chortled deeply.  “Yeah, man, it’s safe.  No one’s gonna see ya here.  C’mon, man, follow me and I promise you’ll blow your most intense load ever.”

 

Noah’s cock was still erect and pulsing within the tight confines of his skinny jeans; he jumped out of the car, his white hightops padding along silently in the footprints of Joe’s thick black boots.  The sadistic alpha had already switched on a light in the room by the time the kid reached the doorway.

 

The privileged, protected youth looked around at the rented squalor in despair.  He’d only ever experienced squeaky-clean households and sanitized thoughts (except for those dark sinful ones that gave him wood).

 

The room was dim and hazy, still reeking of smoke.  Not just cigarettes (he’d recognized that illicit scent on the mysterious stud and it made him start to ooze from his mushroom tip) but the sweet and unfamiliar scents of weed and crack.  The rickety furniture was marked with dark lines—burns, actually, spots where cigarettes had burnt down and hot crack and meth pipes had been set down.

 

The dank, fetid air was being pushed lazily around by an ancient window AC unit that was not in a window but had been placed in a hole cut in the rear wall; it looked like garbage but the heat certainly worked—the room was over eighty degrees.  The double bed had a cheap iron headboard and a thin polyester cover; the pillows, also thin, were covered with yellowed, stained linen.

 

But then he looked back at the bulging muscles of the handsome top and decided to shelve his objections.  After all, he’d been right—no one Noah knew could possibly be in this neighborhood.  The place was filthy, but so was the act.  And the desire.  Filthy, all of it.

 

And he wanted to be so fucking filthy…

 

“C’mon, boy, lessee what ya got,” Joe smirked as he rubbed the massive bulge in his groin.  He leered suggestively at the innocent teen, knowing that the young faggot would have to respond.

 

He was right.  Noah gulped again, his Adam’s apple slipping up and down his smooth neck.  His hands shook as he reached for the zipper of his hoodie; they shook not in fear but in excitement.  He slipped off the grey jacket, revealing a slate-gray long sleeve button-down shirt tucked into his beige skinny jeans.

 

At the same time, Joe took off his thick leather jacket, the clinging material of the white thermal shirt revealing the full breadth of his massive pectorals.  The shirt was open at the neck, displaying a V-shaped wedge of dark wiry chest hair.  Rolled up as they were, the sleeves did nothing to hide the alpha’s muscular, hairy forearms.

 

Joe stood over Noah and slipped off the shirt, his powerful torso glistening with sweat in the hazy light of the overheated room.  The room wasn’t the only thing to get overheated; Noah found himself literally aching with desire as his eyes slid down the stud’s sculpted body, the lower half still wrapped in jeans.

 

Noah tried amateurishly to add a seductive strip-tease effect as he undressed, but his hands were trembling so much he had difficulty in getting the buttons of his shirt undone.  Joe watched and smiled patiently as his rage flared inside at this delay in his gratification.  He managed to control the desire to reach out and tear the shirt right off the bitch, buttons popping everywhere.  And after all, why not?  The kid was right where Joe wanted him…

 

But just then Noah managed to get the last button undone and slipped out of the shirt.  A thin white cotton t-shirt was underneath.  The boy smiled hesitantly, still uneasy, as he pulled it off over his head.

 

Underneath, his young teen body was smooth and slim but not scrawny.  Even at a distance, Joe could see the soft, silky texture of the youth’s skin.  Tender flesh waiting to be used and tortured—Joe’s lust was getting harder to restrain.  He needed to take a moment.

 

Abruptly turning his back on the slut, he strode across the floor to the table where he’d left his jacket, his leather engineer boots leaving little impression on the soiled, threadbare carpet.  Reaching into one of the pockets on the jacket, he fished out his smokes and lit one up, slipping the pack and lighter back into the jacket.  He didn’t carry them in the jeans—they were truly skin-tight and would have crushed the pack.

 

Noah looked on, half in fascination and half in concern.  He didn’t know many people who smoked—and those he did, his parents never failed to point out, were going to burn in Hell for various sins, cigarettes only one of them.

 

The thought of what they’d say if they could see him was strangely appealing.  This was forbidden and that made it so much more erotic…

 

“W-won’t that make my clothes smell?” he asked shakily as he leaned against the bed and crossed one leg over the other so he could untie his sneakers.

 

“Don’t worry, man,” Joe drawled with a friendly grin.  “I got ya covered.  Time we’re done here, you won’t need to worry about how your clothes smell, I promise ya.”

 

Noah nodded mutely.  The enormity of what has happening had hit him.  He was about to lose his virginity—with an anonymous older man in a motel room.  There was no going back after this.  Whatever else happened in his life, it would be stained by this night.

 

But in the battle between piety and hormones, the latter was the natural winner.  After all, his young, healthy body was at its sexual peak.  Noah rarely jacked off; that was a sin, too—worse than cigarettes, by far.  And he had almost no privacy at home anyway.

 

Lust, aided by the thick musky scents of sweat and smoke, stifled the tritely moralistic murmurings in Noah’s mind.  Having pulled off his hightops, he dropped his jeans first.  He stood across from Joe, his lithe young body nude except for his thin white briefs and his calf-high athletic socks.  Joe took another drag from his cig and leered at the kid’s groin; it looked like he’d stuffed a sausage in his underwear.

 

Little cunt was hung, that was for sure.

 

Still keeping the easy-going, charming grin on his handsome, chiseled face, Joe exhaled a bluish cloud of smoke.  “Lessee what ya got, boy.  Show me your dick.”

 

Noah looked away, shifting awkwardly.  “I-I dunno, man, I ain’t never done anything with-with a guy…”

 

Joe knew damn good and well the cringing little faggot hadn’t done anything with anybody ever.  But tonight, he was playing for effect.  Tonight wasn’t just assrape—it was mindrape too.  So the cunt had to be cajoled.

 

And besides, the punk wanted it.  “Fuck, dude, don’t back out now.  Lookit yer dick, man—even from here I can see how hard it is.  You want my shaft, don’t ya, son?  It’s ok—you can take my rod up your virgin hole tonight and no one will know.”

 

Noah moaned in erotic lust as a dark spot appeared on the white cotton briefs.  Joe chuckled, noting that it was right at the tip of the slut’s cock.  Motherfuckin’ homo was already oozing.

 

“Drop ‘em,” the hulking sadist whispered, pitching his voice seductively low.  “Drop yer drawers, boy, and get on the bed.”

 

Noah trembled, but he obeyed, slipping out of the briefs.  His flat belly fell smoothly to his groin where curly sand-colored pubes framed a thick, semi-erect tube of pulsing meat.  Clear drops of fluid were dripping out of the dark mushroom tip.

 

The naked teen backed up onto the bed, his beautiful, lithe body gingerly avoiding the stains on the cheap bedspread.  Joe dropped his cigarette and casually crushed it out with his big black boot as he moved towards the bed.  The burn was unnoticeable among the others darkening the carpet.

 

The powerful alpha towered over the punk and leered down at him.  Instinctively, the youth cowered in the shadow of the older man, but glanced up immediately when he heard the dude open his zipper.  The older man had already unbuckled his belt; the thick leather strap dangled loosely on each side of his denim-bound hips.

 

The biggest dick Noah had ever seen was his own.  That changed now.

 

Joe pulled out his cock slowly and expertly, appreciating the effect he was having on his prey.  The kid gaped openly as inch after inch of the stud’s swollen, throbbing shaft emerged from his open fly.  The flesh was so dark, it was almost black, fed by the ropy veins that tightly circled the pulsating rod.  The thick dark trail of fur leading down the stud’s muscled chest and over his firm abs seemed to be designed to direct attention to the groin.

 

Noah gulped in astonishment.  He was scared, but not as much as he should have been, even without knowing Joe’s plans for him.  He’d never so much as played with his ass before—the boy was impressed with the older man’s penis but had no concept of how much it would hurt jammed up his colon.

 

Even so, the alpha’s dick was intimidating.  “Wh-what ya gonna do with that?” he asked tremulously.

 

Joe spoke quietly, the deep bass of his voice seeming to vibrate the root of Noah’s cock.  “Look at it boy,” he muttered, “look at my dick.  You want it, dontcha?  G’wan, put it in yer mouth.  Do it, boy, you know ya wanna.”

 

The alpha was right.  Noah did wanna.  He looked confused and timid, but he leaned forward and took the spongy purple tip into his open mouth, working his tongue over the oozing head and teasing the tender rosebud on the underside.  He slurped loudly, enjoying the salty taste of the precum leaking into his mouth.

 

Joe grinned.  “Fuck yeah, dude,” he moaned, “damn, that’s good.  Work it, boy, work my hog with your mouth.  Slurp it down, cocksucker.”

 

Noah was both shocked and thrilled with the abuse.  Leaning even father forward, he opened his jaw as wide as he could to deepthroat the dominant stranger, his right hand a blur as he jacked his own tool wildly.  Even more erotic was the way the muscular stud clamped his hands on the back of the boy’s head and forced it down onto his throbbing tubesteak.  Deep in the grip of overwhelming lust, the teen had shed his trepidation and succumbed to his long-suppressed desires.

 

The top’s thick column of meat slid into the youth’s throat, plugging it thoroughly.   The kid gagged and choked as Joe’s dick sealed off his airpipe, anxiety rising in his lust-fogged mind as his breath was blocked.  As his eyes started to water, he braced his hands against the alpha’s legs and tried to shove him away. It was like trying to topple a large tree by pushing it over; he could feel the power in the taut denim-covered muscles flexing against his palms.

 

Then, with a sardonic chuckle too subtle for the horny teen to interpret, Joe pulled out.  The hardbodied sadist admired his dick, bobbing in the air and dripping long streamers of boyspit as Noah retched, trying not to puke up the dinner his momma had made him.  The shuddering youth coughed up drool that flowed off his chin, straight down onto the engorged head of his own cock.

 

He’d liked it.  It’d been scary—terrifying, for a moment—but he’d liked it.  He’d liked how the larger, stronger man had taken control and used his face as a fucktoy.  Not that the innocent little faggot virgin would have expressed it in those terms, of course, but the lust motivating his warped pig soul was the same.

 

The fact that it was a disgusting sin that would instantly damn him to Hell only made it sexier.  He was ready to be bad.

 

Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, Noah looked up at the strapping, broad-chested alpha.  He was suddenly entranced with the stranger’s black chest hair, as if noticing it for the first time.  Timorously, he extended a hand.

 

It was only with a great deal of patience and an almost superhuman suppression of rage that Joe allowed the boycunt to touch him.  He stood tall and erect next to the bed, letting the punk run his hands over his huge pecs and fondle his nipples before the greedy, desire-driven fingers sank lower down his body and curled in the fur coating his rippled abs.

 

His anger was expressed through his cock, which pulsed visibly, pumping out a steady stream of clear precum.  Noah noticed the effect but had no clue as to the cause.

 

That thought made Joe’s dick throb even more.  Even if the stupid little shit had a clue, there was no way he could conceive the nightmare in store for him.

 

Then again, maybe he could.  There were some imaginative deaths in the Bible. Joe’s grin came back, more evil than ever.  He looked down at the teen with a cold, appraising contempt.  The cunt would do; he’d be an acceptable meatsack to soak up Joe’s seed.

 

Time to get biblical on his ass.

 

He started slow.  “Ok, boy,” he said, just a hint of menace in his husky voice, “get on your back.  Time to go whole hog.”  He grinned and thrust his hips slightly so that his huge dick swung between his legs.  “And believe me, punk, you’re gettin’ the whole hog.”

 

Trembling with both fear and desire, Noah moved back, his smooth skin crawling from contact with the thin polyester bedspread.  He managed to wriggle to one side, pushing the cover away, only to find the cheap sheets underneath no more comfortable.

 

It didn’t matter.  Tonight, he was gonna explore his darkest dreams; tomorrow he’d be back to being the good little choirboy his family thought he was.  And even if he ultimately went to Hell for it, it’d be worth it.

 

The slim, handsome youth stretched out on his back and raised his legs in the air, presenting his fuckhole like a bitch in heat.  He was gonna get fucked.  A little discomfort wouldn’t matter.

 

The icy gleam in the alpha’s eyes should have been a warning, but the teen had nothing by which to judge it.  Legs spread, he waited eagerly for his first—and unknown to him, his last—sexual experience.

 

Joe climbed on the bed, kneeling between the kid’s smooth, trembling legs.  Grasping his huge oozing tube of manmeat, he rubbed his dick across the punk’s ass, smearing it with precum.  He smiled gently as he placed the thick purple head of his cock against the boy’s buttcrack, the fine hairs tickling his swollen mushroom tip.

 

Noah felt the pressure and uttered a nervous, breathy moan.  This was it.  Everything he’d dreamed of, a hot hard powerful stranger who was gonna fuck the shit outta him.

 

And then he was gonna go home and pretend it never happened.  He was gonna go on with his life and no one would ever know.  His folks would never, could never know how he’d spent the night; it was something they were simply incapable of imagining.  And that was all to Noah’s benefit.  It meant he’d get away with it—so he quashed his anxiety and readied himself for intense physical pleasure.

 

But that wasn’t what he got.

 

Joe was ready.  He knew the little motherfucker was a virgin and wouldn’t be able to handle his tool; he expected it.  He didn’t even need to know the kid’s name to know how the pig would respond.  He didn’t start forcefully, though, there was something he was waiting for, something the slut would ask for.  So he applied pressure slowly, easing the head of his dick into the youth’s tight, intact fuckhole.

 

At the start, Noah shuddered with pleasure.  As he felt the iron-hard shaft start to penetrate him, he inhaled deeply.  The closeness of the muscular alpha flooded his sinuses with sweat and pheromones. The inexperienced teen’s impatience to have the handsome hulking stud buried deep inside him, marking him as his own, outweighed any other concern.

 

Fuck his parents, fuck the bible, fuck it all.  He gave the Joe the invitation he’d been waiting for.  The kid was ready to be a complete faggot pig.

 

“Fuck me, man,” he moaned in a mind-numbing fog of lust.  “Do what you want to me, dude, fuck me rough.  Make me yours tonight…”  His plea trailed off in a gasp of desire.

 

Joe chuckled malignly.  “Ok, cunt,” he sneered, “you asked for it.”

 

Even in his erotic frenzy, the curt, cold tone managed to cut its way through to the center of Noah’s awareness.  By the time it did so, however, there were more pressing matters demanding his attention—like the horrible agony in his ass.

 

The cruel sadist had jammed the entire length of his massive, blood-engorged cock into the boy’s ass.  The phenomenal girth of his member ripped open the youth’s sphincter, making the kid bleed like his cherry had been popped—as it had, brutally.

 

Noah couldn’t scream.  He wanted to, badly, but he couldn’t—fuck, he couldn’t even breathe.  It hurt too much.  It hurt too much to breathe, to move, to think…

 

Move.  He needed to move.  He needed to get of this fucking rod that was impaling his tender rectum, oh fuck he needed to move—

 

Later, Joe was pissed at himself.  He’d let his guard down and it almost backfired on him.  Of course, when it happened, he’d been more pissed at the little homo teen.  And so it was the young cocksucker who ultimately took the brunt of his wrath.

 

At the time, though, Noah thought he was achieving redemption, not damnation, as he clawed his way up off Joe’s enormous dick, kicking and flailing like a wild thing.  Joe was momentarily taken aback—not long, but long enough that the writhing punk was able to scramble free towards the head of the bed.

 

In the next moment, the kid had rolled to the floor and bolted for the bathroom.  In a blood-red rage, Joe lunged after his prey, only to have the boy evade him at the last moment and lock himself in.

 

As Noah slammed the door and turned the lock in the doorknob, he shuddered in relief—and started praying.  He’d been wrong.  He’d sinned, badly, and he’d been punished.  It had hurt; only sinners could want pain like that, Jesus had shown him the way and he wasn’t ever gonna do anything like this again—

 

And that was when Joe’s big black boot kicked through the flimsy hollow-core door, punching out a huge hole.  Squealing with fear, the terrified teenager threw himself on the floor and wrapped his arms around the base of the toilet.  He babbled promises to behave to his God, pleading for salvation in air rank with piss.

 

The enraged alpha had gotten the bathroom door open.  Noah kept his eyes squeezed shut; if he didn’t see what was happening, maybe God wouldn’t let it happen.  He clung to that belief desperately as he heard the muscled sadist approach.

 

Joe was done playing.  He bent down and wrapped one hand clean around the boy’s upper arm.  With a powerful jerk, he pulled the punk free of the toilet and stalked back to the bedroom, dragging the helpless, sobbing youth across the floor behind him.  With a swift, brutal yank, he flung the boy onto the bed.

 

Noah cowered, weeping in abject fear.  He wasn’t curious anymore.  He wanted to go home, go back to safe quiet bible study and beating off secretly in the bathroom.  This—this was too scary, this stud, sexy as he was, was gonna hurt him.

 

The naïve teen glanced up into the face of his tormentor and flinched instantly.  This time, there was no question of mistaking the formidable look of hot rage and cold lust.  No, he wanted no part of any of this.

 

So why was his dick so fucking hard?

 

It was almost painfully erect, throbbing fiercely.  An almost steady stream of clear fluid was leaking out.  He didn’t understand.  This wasn’t happening.

 

Then Joe made it happen.

 

He lunged forward in a lightning blast of violence, driving his fist into the punk’s soft, smooth belly with the force of an industrial piston.  Noah gave a deep, loud grunt and instantly curled into a fetal position as a hard ball of pain tore through his midsection.  The next few seconds seemed an eternity as the kid clutched his abdomen and writhed, trying to get air back into his lungs.

 

“Ya made a bad mistake, motherfucker,” Joe hissed, a frightening glint of psychotic glee dancing in his eyes.  “I was only gonna kill ya before, you worthless cumsucking fag, but, see, now I gotta make it hurt.”

 

He sat gently on the bed next to Noah and softly stroked the boy’s tearstained face.  Brushing away a lock of the kid’s soft brown hair, he leaned so close that Noah could feel the older man’s facial scruff scratch his ear.  As he whispered, his breath was warm on the youth’s neck.

 

“That means I gotta make it slow…”

 

Still struggling for air, the closeted churchboy wasn’t able to comprehend what was being said to him; his attention was focused elsewhere, Joe observed with displeasure.  Time to reorient the queer-ass bitch.

 

Joe rolled the kid onto his back and spread his legs.  Noah realized what was going on just before Joe slammed the full length of his cock up the teen’s virgin ass.  The pressure at the start was tremendous but Joe shoved his rod forward with renewed force, ripping new tears through the kid’s already-mangled sphincter the way his boot had ripped through the door.

 

It got Noah’s air back.  His body contracted involuntarily in distress, stimulating him to inhale.  The pain—this was Hell, he was being punished…this kinda pain could only come from Hell…

 

He shrieked in agony—once.  The shrill screech was cut off when Joe balled his fist and sent a piledriver straight from his shoulder into the boy’s face, blackening his eye and snapping his cheekbone.  “Shaddap!” he barked gruffly as he gripped the punk’s heaving torso in his huge hands, clamping down to hold the smooth lean body still as he penetrated it further.

 

Lost in a dark haze of pain, Noah had limited awareness of anything beyond his own suffering.  His whole body seemed to be consumed in a flame of nightmarish agony from his ass to his face to his cock…

 

As his body shuddered under the violent sexual assault, Noah realized that his cock was not only still hard, it was so hard it hurt.

 

No, this couldn’t be.  This couldn’t be him.  This was wrong.  He had to get away, this wasn’t going to happen to him…  As the panic welled up inside the inexperienced teen, his struggles and cries began to intensify.

 

He hadn’t learned his lesson, Joe realized.  Well, that was ok.  The little fuck was young and healthy; he’d probably last for a while.  Plenty of time for learnin’.  But he needed lesson one all over again.

 

“I said shaddap!” Joe roared, throwing a feral growl into his voice that terrified the youth in the half-second before another donkey-punch landed, splitting his lips.  “You keep your goddam mouth shut while I’m fuckin’ ya, you sniveling faggot, ya feeling me?  Huh, you pansy bitch?  You get what I’m sayin’?”

 

Noah’s eyes opened wide with shock; even in this nightmare anticipation of Hell, the alpha’s words had sunk in.  No, this was wrong…he wasn’t a faggot…please, if he could just get away he’d never look at another dick again, he’d never—

 

And even as he pled silently, he realized it was a bargain he could never keep.  High above the wave of pain swamping his nervous system, the hormone-flooded teen could still feel his own swollen shaft stabbing into the alpha’s rippled abs. An ineffectual weapon of defense, it left trails of clear slimy precum matting the muscled sadist’s dark belly fur.

 

Suddenly, Joe stopped.  He was fully inserted, his long thick rod buried up to the root, his wiry pubes interlocked with the youth’s soft downy fuzz like Velcro.  Sweating and gasping, the powerful top loomed over his victim, the helpless teen who was now pinned to the bed like an insect on his assailant’s cock.

 

The boy opened his eyes hesitantly—at least, he opened his right eye.  He was shuddering in pain, barely able to breathe.  The left side of his face was black and swelling, with blood leaking from his busted lips.

 

The image the suffering teenager saw stuck with him for the rest of his life—approximately another thirteen minutes.

 

The coldly handsome face of the older man hung just inches from his, but the expression on the hard, unshaven face was unlike anything the innocent youth had ever seen.  A somehow erotic mixture of contempt, rage, and desire that offered no hope of compassion or common humanity.  It was the expression of a sexual sadist.

 

Noah was too sheltered to have heard of such a thing, but he got an idea when Joe hocked up a huge wad of phlegm, grinned at the boy, and spit it into his face.  “Fuckin’ faggot,” he sneered.

 

It triggered a desperate rebellion in Noah—unfortunately.  “No!” he shouted in his mind, the reality being a guttural protest pushed out inarticulately between puffy lips.  But it was enough to get the attention of the brawny psychopath.

 

“Goddam it, you piece a’ shit, you really are fuckin’ stupid, aintcha?” he snarled viciously.  “I toldja to shut the fuck up and here ya are tryin’ to whine about somethin’!  I said to shut the fuck UP!”  As his voice rose in rage on the last syllable, he swung back and delivered a massive roundhouse punch square to the boy’s jaw.

 

The punk’s head rocked back as his body flailed from the force of the blow.  Poised on his knees, Joe grunted in pleasure as the involuntary movements worked the cunt’s guts around the sensitive head of his shaft.  The slut’s own tool, violently bobbing with the rest of his body, spattered them both with a fine rain of precum.

 

The sadist observed with sick erotic pleasure the way the faggot’s eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered as he trembled on the edge of consciousness.  As the traumatized teen struggled to stay awake, he coughed up a gout of blood; he was too stunned to realize that he’d spat out one of his canine teeth.

 

When Noah finally came back to himself, he’d had his epiphany.  He was saved.  He was truly ready to give up sin in all its forms and surrender himself to his Lord.  He was convinced of the error of his ways and deeply repentant of them.

 

Problem was, it was a little too late.  Joe made that perfectly clear.

 

Leaning forward, he wrapped his huge strong paws around the teen’s pale, fragile throat and began to squeeze—slowly at first, but inexorably nonetheless.  “G’wan and pray, you useless little bible-thumping faggot—it ain’t gonna help ya, you disgusting cumsucker.  Time to die, cunt.  You ready to meet yer maker?  Cause when ya do, you’re gonna be full of cum!”

 

In a deep red sea of pain, Noah heard the words but didn’t comprehend them.  He was just a soft suburban teen; he hadn’t had the chance to recover from the brutal assault before his air was cut off—utterly and completely.

 

Instinctively, the lithe punk began to struggle violently, his hands clawing at Joe’s, trying to pry them away from his neck while his slim, firm legs kicked and flailed wildly.  His heels drummed on the bed, his flexing feet scraping at the sheets and twisting his white socks.

 

Noah opened his eyes—well, his right eye; the left side of his face was battered and swollen beyond recognition—and with tears welling out, tried to beg and plead for mercy.  He’d never do it again, dear lord, please save me I’ll never look at another boy again I promise…

 

But no words were coming out.  And somewhere in the throbbing drumbeat of torment that had become his world, he was slowly becoming aware of a new pain—that of choking to death.

 

Now his movements weren’t instinctual.  They weren’t necessarily controlled; they were born out of the frenzied panic that seized the little faggot’s soul.

 

The kid wasn’t heavily muscled, but he was no weakling and the fear of death gave an extra impetus to his desperation.  Clawing madly at his own throat, he soon realized the futility of the gesture and began tugging at Joe’s strong, burly arms.  As the youth’s legs thrashed, they slapped wetly against the alpha’s pumping, sweat-streaked torso.  His left foot caught in the a fold of the fitted sheet and pulled it away from the mattress; as his leg recoiled involuntarily, the sock came off in the fold, leaving the boy’s bare foot exposed, toes curling as he died.

 

“Yer gonna die on my motherfuckin’ cock, you homo cunt,” Joe growled like a feral beast as he raped and strangled the teen.  “How’s it feel?  Does it hurt?  Huh?  Does it, you worthless sack of shit?  Go on and pray, little boy, but I’m your God now.  I’m the one who decides when you die and how much it’s gonna hurt.”

 

He paused for a moment to admire the look of stunned shock on the punk’s face (at least, what was left of it).  He knew the meat had heard—and more importantly, had understood.  He spat another wad of phlegm into the youth’s mauled face and spoke again, this time in a low whisper, cold and sharp like a steel blade.

 

“Here’s a secret, fag—it’s gonna hurt.  A lot.  More than you can possibly imagine.  And the more it hurts you, the more I’m gonna spunk when you finally die, you useless cumdump.  Just so you know, you sick homo scum.  Just so you know you’re getting exactly what you deserve.”

 

And with that, he squeezed harder, feeling the cunt’s flexible esophagus constrict beneath his hands.  He dug his fingernails into the tender flesh on the back of the unfortunate boy’s neck, so he could get better traction with which to throttle the punk-ass queerboy.

 

Noah knew now beyond any doubt that he was experiencing Hell—he was being given a literal foretaste of the torture he’d endure for eternity.  The burning in his head, the excruciating visehold on his throat, the pounding anguish in his ass…oh God…he’d wanted to get fucked and was gonna be sodomized by the Devil forever…and worse, he was gonna be found like this!

 

Everyone was gonna think he was a disgusting pervert, a child-molesting sodomite—Momma, Daddy—oh God, Daddy—even Archie, the youth minister…he’d been at Archie’s today and seen the way Archie’d started at his crotch; oh fuck he shoulda stayed there…

 

The once-virginal teenage slipped in and out of coherence in his terror, but never slackened his struggle to break free.  His frantic, questing hands continually sought some sort of hold on his killer’s rock-hard body in an attempt to have some kind of impact.

 

Everywhere Noah’s hands landed, though, they slid across sweaty, hard, firm flesh; the only thing the flailing kid was able to grab ahold of was the stud’s thick, wiry chest hair.  Without even thinking, Noah snatched a handful and yanked it out in a paroxysm of terror and pain.

 

“Goddam motherfucker!” Joe howled in pain-ignited anger.  Clenching his huge left hand around the boy’s throat, he freed his right hand and drove it three more times into the dying faggot’s face, each blow landing with a wet thudding sound—the last one with a moist crunch when Noah’s nose was broken.

 

Without missing a single rhythmic stoke of his long shaft, Joe wrapped his hand back around the meat’s neck and kept squeezing.    He could feel the head of his dick deep inside the thrashing youth’s guts.  The way the slut’s innards had stroked the swollen, sensitive head of his tool while the boy was being beaten had been fantastic.

 

“Yeah, dude, that’s what ya need, huh?  You like it to hurt, huh, you fuckin’ pig?  Was that the problem, you weren’t in enough pain to work my cock?  Fuck, man ya shoulda said so—we can fix that right now, fuck yeah!”

 

With that, Joe slowly increased the pressure on Noah’s neck, this time digging his thumbs into the miserable boy’s Adam’s apple.  The sadistic stud grinned as he felt the cartilage start to give way under the force he applied.

 

Noah was beyond thought.  He was in a world of physical sensations that had been previously unconceivable to him, as much as he’d heard of the torments of Hell.  This pain couldn’t last for eternity; there’d be nothing left of him but a hollow screaming shell.  He was being split open from the inside out; he was still aware of the alpha’s cock reaming his rectum, pulling and tearing at his intestines like a plunger.  His face was black and swollen; between the beatings and the choking, it looked like a rotten gourd.  He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, pulpy and pulsating with pain.

 

The excruciating agony of his throat was the worst, though.  His windpipe was crushed almost completely flat and the way the top’s thumbs were grinding into his vocal cords hurt so bad Noah began convulsing involuntarily as his stomach tried instinctively to retch.

 

“Oh fuck yeah, cocksucker, that’s it,” muttered Joe in response to the boy’s rhythmic, undulating movements, “that’s it, jack me off as you die, you queer-ass bitch.  Yeah, cunt, I know how to keep ya going—just gotta ramp up the pain, huh, you sick fucking faggot scum?”

 

The grinning sadist tightened his grip yet again as his strapping, powerful body bore down on the helpless teen.  The sleazy overheated motel room was redolent with a miasma of sweat, smoke and mansex, making an almost visible haze in the air.  The sounds of mansex filled the air, too—the increasing tempo to the creaking of the bed, the swift slapping sounds of hardcore fucking, the deep, vital grunts of two males locked bodily together in intensity and lust.

 

The fact that one of the males was dying only added to the intensity.  And the lust.

 

Even Noah felt the lust.  He felt it as a hitherto-unknown source of agony.  His dick had been hard enough to hurt before, but now it was electrifying—it seemed as if a white-hot rod of steel had been jammed up through his ass into his cock, extending it in flaming agony the further it penetrated.

 

Joe felt the lust, too, both his own and Noah’s  He felt the meat’s deathpig lust as the cunt’s thick purple cock slapped against his belly, still leaving a thick trail of erotic slime in his fur, even during the throes of death.

 

He felt his own lust as the homo’s thick bloodied lips parted, releasing a torrent of foamy drool.  He felt it as the choking teen’s tongue, as swollen and purple as his dick, slowly emerged from his blackened, distorted face.

 

For Noah, there was no heaven, no Hell anymore.  There wasn’t even any Noah; too much of his brain had been starved of oxygen for too long.  The brain damage was irreversible.  Not everything was gone, though.

 

The brain stem remained, able to feel sensation and basic emotion.  What emerged was the primal submissive beast, submitting to and being marked by the dominant alpha.

 

The brain-dead teen was convulsing violently, his colon clenching the cruel killer’s shaft in an instinctive attempt to milk out the testosterone and be marked as belonging to the alpha.  The hormones flooding the queerboy’s body overstimulated this response.

 

Joe had never had a dying cumdump stroke his rod so vigorously; he’d been right to go for the virginal churchboy; they always wanted dick in the worst way.

 

And Joe specialized in giving dick in the worst way.

 

He held onto the bucking teen like he was breaking a bull, letting the natural rhythms of convulsion and death beat his swollen shaft to orgasm.  The young homo’s cock was still erect and visibly pulsing as Joe felt intense, overflowing pressure building in his puckered sack.

 

He was gonna unload.  “Guess you were an ok cumrag, faggot,” he grunted as his body jolted in violent release.

 

The hulking, muscular killer clenched his hands tightly in his first instinctive reaction to shooting his wad; the loud crunching sound of crushed cartilage filled the room.  The quivering boy also reacted involuntarily—it was the final blast of pain needed to override the teen deathpig’s nervous system and trigger an unnaturally prolonged orgasm.

 

The youth’s overabundant hormones had swamped his body in excess testosterone.  It had led him to seeking its release in dangerous situations—and now, it led his dying body to ejaculate for nearly ninety seconds straight, the last spark of his life fading with an awareness of white-hot molten steel flooding his anus and pumping out through his erect shaft; he was merely a conduit for the boiling seed of life…

 

As thick, ropy strands of semen splashed across Joe’s broad, furry chest, he cried out in rage and hate, pumping his thick, creamy jizz as deep into the worthless kid’s body as he could.  Shifting his powerful hands up Noah’s crushed neck, he clamped down again, this time where he could place his thumbs under the angle of the kid’s jaw.

 

“Ok, motherfucker, time to go,” he grunted.  As another orgasm wracked his powerful body, his hands clenched, driving his thumbs upwards.

 

There was a loud cracking sound as the brawny sadist popped the teen fag’s head off his spine, snapping the topmost vertebra and sending bone shards slashing into the spinal column.

 

Noah had already emptied his balls and his mind; there was nothing left but a sweaty cum-filled meatsack until the sudden blast of massive trauma to his central nervous system sent random signals thought his taut, shuddering corpse.

 

One of these hit the scrotum and, even in death, contracted the muscles and caused the young queer’s cock to send up a final jet of spunk, the hot pearly liquid splattering on the underside of Joe’s jaw as the older man grunted and cried out, spewing his last boiling wad into the kid’s torn and slashed rectum.

 

Even after he’d pumped his last drop of semen into the corpse’s shuddering guts, Joe continued to fuck the quivering body, his massive shaft still erect and tearing into the convulsing pig’s colon.  “Fuck yeah, dude, I’m your God now, huh?  I gave you everything ya ever wanted, huh, ya faggot?  I gave ya hot fuckin’ mansex, I gave ya pain and death—who’s yer daddy now, huh, cunt?”

 

Spitting in contempt on the twitching corpse, Joe pulled himself out of the boy’s well-worn fuckhole.  His dick slid out in a slimy pool of cum and blood that instantly stained the sheets under the slut’s quivering anus; it was obvious that the dead boy had been violently fucked.

 

Still sweating and shaking with pleasurable exertion, Joe staggered back across the room to his jacket.  He fished the smokes and lighter out of the pocket and lit one as he leaned back and took a moment to chill.

 

On the bed, Noah was chilling too; in fact, he was cooling by the minute.  But his corpse was still fresh and limber; random nerves still fired down the mangled spinal column, making the body continue to shudder and twitch.  Even now, the toes on the teen’s bare foot continued to curl and spasm in death.  The other foot, with the white athletic sock wrapped tightly around it, kicked jaggedly across the rumpled, stained sheets.

 

The punk’s smooth, flat abdomen still heaved convulsively, smeared with coagulating pools of semen, all his own.  Some of it was glazing his grotesquely distorted face.  His black, swollen cheeks were stained with a white scum where his foamy panicked drool had dried to a crust as he’d died.

 

Joe inhaled the nicotine deeply.  Even though he’d completely emptied his balls, the teenage faggot’s corpse was so hot, his dick was still throbbing as he looked at it.

 

He knew he had to go, though.  This cunt had made a lot of noise.  He needed to get away fairly quickly.  Tossing his smoldering butt onto the boy’s smooth chest (where it hissed out in a puddle of jizz), he stepped into the bathroom and cleaned himself up, using a wet washcloth and soap to remove all traces of the dead pansy’s spunk.  Tossing the towel he used, along with the washcloth, into the toilet, he returned to the bedroom after fastening up his fly and slipped on his thermal shirt and leather jacket.

 

He was vaguely aware that the teen homo was still twitching, but he didn’t really give a shit anymore.  A quick glance outside showed that no one was around, and he made it to his car and out of the motel lot unseen.

 

The corpse was found the next morning, but without ID (since Noah parents hadn’t allowed him a driver’s license yet), it went to the city morgue.  Later the same day, Noah’s folks frantically reported him missing, out in the suburb where they lived.

 

It was the better part of a week before anyone connected the reamed-out, cum-soaked corpse found beaten, raped and strangled in a cheap motel with the straight-A bible school virgin Noah.  When the connection was made, the outcry in the media was loud and shrill, demanding vengeance from every corner.

 

By that time, though, Joe had already wasted his next victim.

The Convict

On By m3mayhemIn Carlos the Convict4 Comments

Carlos strode quickly down the street, his big black boots thumping loudly on the warm pavement.  Bystanders saw a muscular young man moving purposely in their direction and stood aside; there was something dangerous in the youth’s hard face.

They were reacting instinctively to a soul filled with hate.

It had happened again last night.  His last night in.  Two and a half fuckin’ years in that place and they got him again, just to add insult to injury.

His well-built body was boiling with rage.  He’d been given back the clothes he’d worn when he went in—but that was two and a half years ago.  Not much else to do in prison but work out—Carlos wasn’t the type to read a book—and he was much more developed than he’d been when he bought the clothes.

The navy blue sleeveless t-shirt clung to his broad chest as if it’d been painted on.  A sleeve of tattoos, mostly geometric designs, covered his right arm from wrist to elbow, bulging along with his bicep.  A large winged skull was inexpertly tattooed on the left bicep, clearly done inside.  He’d always worn his jeans tight; he’d liked the admiring glances his huge hog got, but now the worn, thin denim not only highlighted his thick thighs but outlined the massive head of his tool.

The only thing that still fit right was his pair of black harness boots.

It was what he’d been wearing when he got popped for offin’ that faggot.  It wasn’t like Carlos was a queer, man, he didn’t hang like that.  But when he’d been down on his luck and needed a little money, some of them homos were good for a few bucks.  And no one had to know…

At least not till that one had stiffed him.  He’d actually swallowed the dude’s load, too, in the front seat of his car.  Motherfucker was gonna pay for that—then the bitch said he didn’t have any money.  Carlos was left gagging, still tasting the fuckwad’s smoky sperm, when he felt the rage take over.

He’d always been violent.  This time he kept slamming the faggot’s head in his car door till he crushed his skull.

His lawyer had been good and the jury was sympathetic to the gay panic defense.  Even with a record for assault, he still only got manslaughter two, five years.  Prison overcrowding, the attorney advised him, would get him out in half that time.  The lawyer had been right.

What he hadn’t told him was that the nature of his crime had proceeded him, as it always does.  Some of the guards have access to the details.  They gossip, exchange favors…and soon Carlos was marked as fresh meat.  Perfect prison bitch.

He’d fought it, god, how he’d fought, but each time he was overpowered and raped.  Each time, he was beaten and called faggot as his ass was painfully violated and violent felons forced their cocks into his mouth.

And yes, he’d worked out.  And he’d fought back more.  He’d gotten better at fending off the attacks, but if they jumped him from behind or enough ganged up on him, he still ended up moaning in a dark corner, bruised, oozing cum from multiple orifices.

Last night was the worst.  They’d gotten the drop on him; one dude—a big, muscular black bull—had snagged him from behind with his forearm and choked him out; he woke up to violent reaming.

There’d been blood in his shorts again this morning.

That worthless fuckin’ faggot.  If he’d just had the money he was supposed to, none of this woulda happened.  But them goddam pansies always lie and cheat.

Someone needs to teach ‘em a lesson.

In addition to his clothes, he’d been given fifty dollars and a bus ticket downtown.  The city council was still squalling about that practice but hadn’t managed to alter it yet, so Carlos soon found himself in a squalid neighborhood bordering the gay ghetto—his old stomping grounds, so to speak.

So here he was, moving purposely along the street, and he did indeed have a purpose.  His current objective was hardware and there were plenty of pawn shops on this street.

His ultimate objective was money, of course, but he needed a way to get that.  He already had a plan, one that—if he played it right—would get him some cash, some transportation, maybe a little more…and would also let him vent some of his seething anger.

A gun would be the most effective means of persuasion, but he’d literally just walked out of prison.  There was no way he was gonna be able to buy even a .22.  No, guns were not an option.

There’d be no difficulty in buying a knife, however.  He had $50 in cash; he could get something perfectly adequate for far less than that in one of these shady little places.  Carlos turned abruptly and walked into the closest one.

The guy at the register narrowed his eyes and stood up straight; he knew trouble when he saw it.  He was sure this rough dude was gonna make a bee-line right for the handguns and was relieved to see the he was eyeing the blades instead.

As the muscled punk examined his options in edged weapons, the clerk scanned his chiseled face, mouth circled by a long black goatee.  The clerk wondered if the guy had a shaved head; the Confederate flag bandanna he’d tied into a do-rag made it hard to be sure.  He blinked to make sure his vision wasn’t faulty; the dude had the word “revenge” tattooed on the left side of his neck.  The irregular spacing of the letters made it obvious that he hadn’t paid a licensed tattoo parlor for that thing.

The clerk really, really wanted this guy outta the shop.  “Show ya somethin’?” he asked, moving forward, determined to flush him out.  Much to his surprise, it appeared to be a normal transaction.

“Yeah, man,” the punk said levelly, “I wanna see this shank right here.”  He pointed at the most wicked-looking knife in the case.  The clerk bent down and, unlocking the back of the display case, extracted the knife.

“It’s a bowie combat knife,” the clerk said, reading the handwritten tag attached to the hilt with a loop of string.  “Total length seventeen inches, blade length twelve inches.  Stainless steel blade with double-serrated back edge.”  He placed it on the counter between them.  “Dude, this thing can seriously fuck someone up.”

The young man—he looked like a gangbanger to the clerk—grinned at the words.  “How much?” he drawled.  The price was marked on the tag; the clerk shoved it over.  “Ten bucks?  Sure, I’ll take it.”  He’d been given two twenties and a ten; he handed over the ten and walked out with a vicious lethal weapon, no questions asked.

Stooping just outside the pawn shop door, Carlos hoisted the leg of his jeans and slipped the evil-looking shank into his right boot.

He finally felt free again.  Now, he needed prey.  Time to hit up his old hunting grounds.

The neighborhood had changed since he’d been inside.  The piano bar where the rich old fat faggots hung out was gone; now it was some kinda hookah/vapor lounge.  Carlos snorted disgustedly.  He’d have been able to snag a soft and weak old homo there and get as much money as he needed.  Damn.

Turning into a side street, he noticed sleazy dive bar where he’d picked up dudes in the past.  It was dark, with strippers and a small dance floor, but most of the action was on the back patio.  Might be worth a shot.

He should have known—middle of a weekday afternoon, the bar was dead.  A rancid old troll sat on the far side, leering at the bartender and everyone else in the room—which consisted of exactly Carlos at the moment.  Quickly ordering a beer, he grabbed the bottle and stepped out onto the covered patio, about sixty square feet surrounded by a privacy fence and filled with picnic tables.

To his surprise, the patio bar was open as well.  Several of the tables were occupied—hustlers and tricks, mostly.  A couple of strung-out twink couples looking around furtively before hitting glass straights.  The sweet vanilla scent of crack wafted briefly in front of Carlos.

Sighing dispiritedly, he sat at a table near the bar, nursing his beer.  Nothing worthwhile here but maybe if he held out long enough, something might show up—hopefully he could drag out his cash long enough.

The afternoon crept slowly by.  The patio’s cover had ceiling fans; their lazy revolutions did little to combat the oppressive heat.  Carlos’s thick, tattooed arms were soon shiny with sweat.  He was getting hot, in several senses—the most influential of which was anger.  He began to eye some of the other dudes on the patio, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t slip out and wait for one to leave alone, just to take the edge off things…

That was when Chad walked in.  Carlos didn’t know his name at that moment, of course, but he soon learned it.  Chad was friendly with the bartender, and Carlos was close enough to eavesdrop.

Most of the conversation consisted of bragging; Chad was evidently a mid-level whore.  He was flirting with the bartender but was evidently more than the dude could afford.  At the moment, he was describing how much cash he’d gotten paid for a sleazy photo shoot—which explained his clothing.

The hustler had a swimmer’s build with slim but firm muscles, his body lean without being scrawny.  His face was shadowed with copper-colored hair, the same new-penny shade covering his goatee and beard.  His eyes, slightly almond-shaped, were bright green rimmed with long dark lashes.  Above the red scruff, the rentboy’s face was youthful; he was probably no older than twenty-one or –two, but he looked considerably younger. He got relentlessly carded—occasionally even here in his regular hangout, by new employees.

He detailed his spread to the bartender—he’d been paid $500 to dress up like a skate punk and let pics get taken as he stripped.  The photog had even slipped him a little X to get him into the mood.  Chad was still riding high and wanting to get fucked.

And since he’d come straight to the bar instead of going home first, he was still dressed the part.  A white ball cap with the letters “L.A.” embroidered on it didn’t quite hide short hair the same bright red as his facial scruff.   He wore an open sky blue short-sleeve dress shirt unbuttoned over a tight black t-shirt.  The t-shirt had a smiley face with a blood-spattered bullet hole in the center of the forehead.

Chad had slipped on his tightest pair of skinny jeans for the gig; they were so revealing he’d only gotten them in black.  The seam in the seat parted his smooth asscheeks perfectly; as the seam ran down to his groin, it massaged his bare taint.  Even with the black shade of the fabric, it was clear to anyone who looked closely—and Carlos was looking closely—that the kid was commando under the thin layer of denim.  The jeans clung tightly to his legs all the way down to his skate kicks, shiny red leather shoes with laces the same bright blue as his dress shirt.

“So what ya gonna do now?” the bartender asked.  It should have been obvious; Chad had downed four shots of peach schnapps while gloating.  At least he was honest.  “Gonna get fucked up an’ get fucked, man…” he slurred.

The door to the bar opened and the inside bartender leaned out.  “Hey, Jack, we gotta delivery comin’ in.  Boss wants ya to handle it while I keep the inside runnin’.  C’mon, man, they can come in for refills till ya get back.”

The bartender grinned sheepishly at Chad before slipping away.  The slut had managed to get a fifth shot from him before he’d gone.  Wheeling around on the barstool, Chad glanced around the patio and had already thrown back his shot before his sodden brain processed the information.

When it did, he focused instantly on Carlos.

Chad had always had a fascination with rough trade.  It was a rarely-satisfied curiosity, though; Chad got fucked for money and most of the really dangerous-looking ones—the ones that made his seven-inch dick get hard when he looked at them—didn’t have the money.  And if they didn’t pay, they didn’t play.

But right now, things were different.  He was flush with cash—and not being the type to save money when his slim, youthful body was still so much in demand, he felt free to indulge himself.  The fact that he was drunk didn’t impinge on his awareness at all; the alcohol had swept up over him all at once.

The dude at the table closest to him was staring at him.  He had dark eyes, a black goatee, a body—holy shit, what a body—colored with tattoos.  Chad felt almost embarrassed by his single tattoo—Chinese characters running down the inside of his right arm the last two ideograms visible just below the cuff of his shirt.  He was such poser; he didn’t even know what it actually meant…

He somehow managed to get off the barstool without falling.  Walking confidently towards the dude—that bandanna; was he a fuckin’ skinhead?  He looks Mexican—Chad was utterly unaware of how badly he was staggering.

Carlos was, though.  He grinned.  Fuckin’ queerboy couldn’t hold his liquor, fuckin’ pansy-ass schnapps.  This was gonna be almost too easy.

Good.  He could take his time.  He could make it hurt.  He could inflict extended suffering on this faggot and wallow in the nightmarish agony he could wield.

Smiling warmly, he motioned Chad over.  “Have a seat, man.”

The slim rentboy slid unsteadily into the chair, almost overbalancing himself.  He slapped his red skate sneakers down hard onto the patio to keep from falling, his face beaming with a goofy grin the entire time.  When he finally got planted to his own satisfaction, he glanced up into the rough trade’s face.

“I’m Chad,” he slurred.  “Whass yer name?  Whatcha into?”

“Carlos,” the well-built tough said quietly.  “I’m looking for a bitch who can take my dick.  That you?”

Chad’s shaft started to swell at the sound of Carlos’s low, deep voice.  He tried to focus blurrily on the dude, but found himself shying away from the piercing stare in the cold black eyes.  The rough guy was only about five years older than him at most, but there was something about him that seemed to assume control of the situation.  High and drunk as he was, Chad new that this fella would be doing the driving, so to speak.

The thought got Chad even harder.

“Yeah,” he hiccupped, “yeah, thatss me.  Won’t even charge ya, Carlosh.  C’mon, stud, you can bang the fuck outta me back at my place—if yer up for it.  Less go, dude, lessee if ya can give me what I want and make it hurt.”

In a more sober state, Chad would have spoken more clearly, but just as directly.  He expected the guys who fucked him to be up to the task—and as more cocks got shoved up his hole, the bigger the task tended to be.  The only thing unusual in Chad’s comment was the lack of financial settlement; he normally settled the fee before taunting the trick.  But this one would be for fun, on his own time.

The patio had a one-way gate, exit only, which led to the parking lot in the rear.  After some difficulty navigating the exit, Chad stumbled into the lot and began fishing for his keys.  In his uncoordinated state, it took him a while to retrieve them, which was why he didn’t notice that it had taken several minutes for Carlos to follow him out.  Long enough, in fact, that no one on the patio had realized they’d left together.

As he yanked the keys out of the pocket of his incredibly tight jeans, they snagged on the fabric and he dropped them.  As he stood, swaying and looking dumbly down at them, Carlos swooped in and snatched them from the ground.

“I’ll drive, dude,” he muttered—little motherfuckin’ queer was way too trashed for Carlos to voluntarily sit in the passenger seat.

Chad shrugged.  “Sure, whatevs, man—it’s that one there.”

He pointed to a white Mustang convertible with red pinstriping.  The car was several years old and looked it; there were numerous small dings and scrapes but nothing major.  Part of the roof had a duct tape repair.  Carlos noted the car had paper tags.

Chad confirmed it.  “Just bought it last week—whaddaya think, huh?  Pretty sweet ride, huh?  I can tell ya, it hauls ass.”

Carlos unlocked it with the fob and slid into the driver’s seat; Chad fell in heavily next to him.  The car reeked of weed, french fries, and cheap floral air freshener.  “Take a left out the lot,” Chad said uncertainly but surprisingly clearly, “and the next left—no, wait, right.  Then second left.  It’s the De Gama Apartments; you can park in the back.”

Carlos had them there within three minutes; the place was literally walking distance from the bar.  Chad almost went to his knees crawling out of the passenger seat, but once upright, he was able to walk more or less in a straight line.  Handing him back the keys, Carlos followed him into the open breezeway of the building to the immediate left.  Chad’s apartment was first on the right.

Carlos found himself stepping into a dark, tiny efficiency apartment.  The single window was covered with blinds and had a blanket draped over the brackets holding the blinds; it let in no light whatsoever—and very little in the way of sound.

Chad turned on the overhead light to reveal the fact that he lived like a pig.  Carlos, long since used to a routine that had forced him to clean his cell on a daily basis, felt a thrill of disgust as he scanned the room.

It wasn’t that it filled with filth; but it was strewn with dirty clothing, much of it—judging by the smell—soaked with semen.  The tiny alcove that served as a kitchen didn’t need a lot to make it look cluttered; the empty glasses and liquor bottles on the two square feet of countertop sufficed.

The obscured window looked into the breezeway; in front of it was one of the few quality items in the unit—a 40-inch LCD television (the other item was a laptop barely visible on the floor under a pair of used briefs).  There was a cable box, a cable modem and an older Xbox on the lower level of the TV stand.

Opposite the TV was the bed with a nightstand on each side.  Carlos had to blink at it a couple of times before he realized it was an unfolded futon; it doubled as a sofa.  This dude was such a whore he never bother to put the bed away…

There was a cheap dresser next to the TV and past the kitchen were a couple of doors; presumably bathroom and closet.  The entire place couldn’t have been more than four hundred square feet.

And it reeked.  The funk of cigarette smoke, weed, incense, and sex was almost thick enough to be visible.

Chad chuckled drunkenly as he staggered forward and tried to smooth the twisted and stained sheets.  After a few fraught seconds, he gave it up as a bad job and sat on the edge of the thin foam mattress.  He glanced up at Carlos’s face, grinned, and started slipping off his blue dress shirt.

Tossing it on the floor, he stood up slowly.  He haltingly pulled the black tee with the shot smiley face up over his head, swaying alarmingly as he did so.  Carlos’s eye glittered as Chad revealed his leanly-muscled chest.  This shirt went on the floor as well, just as Chad lost his balance and fell back into a sitting position on the futon again.

He didn’t notice the narrowing of Carlos’s eyes.  The convict felt his cock straining in his jeans.  Another thing he could feel was the knife; much taller than the boot he’d hidden it in, the hilt was pressing into the side of his lower leg, a slight sensation of discomfort that made him both angrier and harder.  He shifted slightly and heard something crunch under his bootheel.

Looking down, he saw he’d shattered the case for one of the Xbox games—Call of Duty.  As he glanced around, he noticed the floor littered with cases and discs, some partially hidden under clothes.  Mixed with the games was a sizable collection of porn.  Judging by the titles, the slut liked it rough and raw.

Chad hadn’t heard the sound—he’d flopped onto his back and was running his fingertips up and down his slim, smooth chest, humming contentedly.  Carlos had been right in his assessment; he was drunkenly anticipating a long hard punkfuck by a hot, built gangbanger who could hold him down and ream him till he screamed.

That was exactly what he was gonna get—although when it happened, he wouldn’t be in a position to appreciate the gratification of his lust.  Taking advantage of Chad’s preoccupation, Carlos slipped off his own tight t-shit.  Quietly approaching the futon, he tossed it on the end table on the right side before Chad heard him and sat up.

He almost gasped at Carlos’s body.  Sweat gleamed off his muscular chest like a sheen of oil.  Across his left pectoral, just to the right of the large nipple, was another tattoo.  This one was also inexpertly done but very detailed; a grim reaper figure that carried not a scythe but an AK-47.  Under the figure was the phrase “Die, Motherfucker, Die!”

The wiry black fuzz that began on his broad chest thickened as it flowed down his washboard abs to his firm, flat belly.  The dark trail was cut off by the jeans and thick leather belt at Carlos’s waist.

The con could see the effect he was having on the whore; Chad’s skinny jeans bulged in the crotch as his eyes light up with lust; drunk as he was, the ecstasy was still having some effect.  He decided it was time to get started.  Reaching his hand up to his neck, he unconsciously scratched at the tattoo that said “revenge”.

“C’mon, punk, let’s see what ya got.  Show me your fuckhole, bitch.  NOW, goddamit!” he barked.

For a split second, Chad’s face registered the same shock as if he’d been slapped.  Then it vanished into a salacious grin as he scrambled to his feet.  “Yessir,” he panted, unbuckling his belt and worming the skin-tight denim down his firm legs.  His long dick—his moneymaker—flopped out stiffly, the slit at the tip of the swollen head glistening.

The jeans hit the floor on top of his bright red sneakers.  As he bent to remove them, Carlos abruptly shoved him back onto the bed.  “Just like that, bitch, I’m gonna plow your hole just like that.  Stay there like a good dog.”

Chad remained on his back, panting with anticipation as Carlos unfastened the brass buckle on his leather belt.  Unbuttoning and unzipping his crotch, he had to put in as much effort to get the jeans off as Chad had his; they were even tighter than the whore’s had been.

Underneath, he was bare; he’d gotten rid of the cheap thin skivvies the prison has issued him on his release.  He’d stopped in the first public restroom he could find and tossed them in the garbage.  Even though he tried to ignore it, he couldn’t help but notice the rust-colored stain of dried blood that had leaked from his violated ass.  Now, as the image flashed across his mind again, a red fog of fury rose behind his eyes.

Out in front, his cock rose as well.

Chad had a big dick.  Carlos’s was monstrous.  Chad’s eyes opened wide; even in his drugged haze, the kid was aware of how much this would hurt.  At the same time, seven inches of vein-wrapped flesh began to rise in his groin.  It was gonna hurt—and that turned him on.

He wanted it rough, and he was gonna get it rough.  In fact, it was gonna be fuckin’ brutal—starting now.

Carlos couldn’t wait anymore; mounting rage led to mounting and rape.  Placing his hard, rough hands on Chad’s smooth inner thighs, he forced them apart and thrust his thick, muscled body between them.  Both men has their jeans around their ankles.  For Carlos, it was a matter of expediency.  For Chad, it was a matter of bondage.  The scary-looking dude was suddenly right on top of him and he couldn’t move his legs.  He didn’t resist, though; so far, his most erotic fantasy was coming true.

Of course, he’d never noticed the knife rising out of Carlos’s boot.  And the way he was positioned now, he couldn’t see it. The rough ex-con reached down to aim his dick up the slut’s fuckhole—but before he did, he moved his hand a bit lower and grabbed the hilt of the blade, just to make sure it was still in reach.

After all, he didn’t want to be searching for it later.  Ruins the mood.

In his anger, it was the only thing he checked on; brandishing his massive rod like a weapon, he plowed it deeply into Chad’s rectum with no warning whatsoever.  There was no hint of what was happening, and no lube.  Chad wasn’t used to the lack of either, but it was the latter that had the greatest impact, in several senses of the word.

The pain tore through the drunken haze filling his weak, drugged mind.  It didn’t sober him, exactly, but it did make him aware that this might not be as fun as he’d thought—and that he was too fucked up to handle things if it went out of control.

It was a cardinal rule of whoredom.  Always be aware of the situation; always have a way out.  Most of Chad’s clients were middle-aged suburban men who found his slim, boyish body irresistible.  He’d never dealt with someone truly dangerous.  And this was fun, not business.  He’d let his guard down, but the thought was slow in processing, and the possible consequences hadn’t yet occurred to him.

What had occurred, however, was a horrible tearing sensation in his colon, a flaming, white-hot sheet of pain that evoked a shrill scream and an attempt to push Carlos off him.  “Bitch, I ain’t takin’ your shit,” Carlos snarled, “shut the fuck up, faggot, and take my cock—and if ya don’t, I’ll fuckin’ make ya.”

With another violent thrust, the muscular convict buried his tool in Chad’s fuckhole to the root.  Used and abused as the rentboy’s puckered asshole was, Carlos managed to stretch it past its prior limits, literally tearing the muscle in one place and the rectal lining in another.

Chad eyes went wide with shock; it hurt so bad his logic shorted out for a moment and he had a vivid mental image of a cactus shoved up his ass before he began to shriek at the top of his lungs.  It lasted less than a second; Carlos donkey-punched Chad in the jaw, putting out his lights.

“Worthless piece a’ shit, told ya I’d make ya shut up,” he whispered sneeringly at the limp form beneath him, the lithe body jerking unconsciously with each thrust of Carlos’s hips.  After about thirty seconds, the boy’s long lashes began to flutter.  Parting his swollen, split lips, he let out a gagging, guttural moan.

Carlos slipped his right hand down to his leg and carefully slid the knife out of his boot.  He placed it on Chad’s flat smooth belly; it was too large for the slut’s heaving gasps of breath to dislodge.  Still in the process of regaining consciousness, Chad was too dazed to notice the huge blade lying on his abdomen.    As his eyes focused on the sweaty, muscular chest in front of him, the rentboy’s awareness resurfaced in a torrent of verbal abuse from the convict.

“Stupid fuckin’ faggot, actin’ like you ain’t never had a dick up your worn-out fuckhole,” Carlos hissed viciously into the boy’s stunned, terrified face, “you squeal like a pig, ya know that?  Just like a motherfuckin’ queer-ass cocksucking pig!”

Chad was still high, still drunk—but it wasn’t fun anymore.  He wasn’t able to think clearly; all he knew was that this hot stud seemed to hate him and was hurting him more than he’d thought possible.  The drug had intensified his sensations; it was as if every vein wrapped around Carlos’s enormous shaft was barbed wire slashing at his torn sphincter.

The con was holding the slut down by pinning his shoulders to the thin foam mattress but Chad managed to wriggle out from under.  Still bleating in agony, he started clawing and beating at his assailant, making shallow scratches on the brutal killer’s hairy chest.  As he struggled, the knife slid off his belly but in his frantic, futile attempt to climb off the rod impaling his ass, he had yet to realize it was there.  The pain was just too intense for him to notice much else.

“What’s the matter, bitch, my dick ain’t enough?  Ya want somethin’ else shoved inside ya?” Carlos snarled.  Grunting in anger, he grabbed Chad’s flailing arms and held both wrists together in one hand above the boy’s head, immobilizing him.  He needed to get the cunt’s attention—time for show and tell.  With his other hand, he reached for the knife.

Carlos held the long, evil-looking blade in front of Chad’s bewildered eyes.  As the boy froze in shock, the con released his arms and clamped his hand over the slut’s mouth.   Leaning forward until their faces were a foot apart, he bought the knife between them so it almost filled Chad’s field of vision.  He couldn’t look away.

As Carlos whispered to him, Chad was unable to take his eyes off the gleaming steel blade, as if he was hypnotized by the razor-sharp edge and the double-serrated tip.  “Yeah, bitch, look at it,” the muscled killer murmured, “imagine what it’s gonna feel like inside ya.  It’s gonna feel fuckin’ great to me, I can tell ya.  I seen this inside, dude.  Guy got done like this.  It hurts bad, man, it hurts so fuckin’ bad you tighten up and milk the cum outta my cock.  And if I do it right, I can make it last a long time.  So get ready, you worthless faggot—it’s your lucky day; you’re gonna get all kinda long hard shafts stuck inside ya!”

Chad’s mind was a clean white sheet of panic, useless and helpless.  Tears welled from his large eyes and trickled down his cheeks into his copper-colored scruff.  His full, swollen lips trembled under Carlos’s excruciating grip as he began to blubber, a low keening sound grating to the nerves.  His own long dick, protruding limply from a tangle of strawberry-red hair, wasn’t hard enough to prevent pure terror forcing out a couple of trickles of piss that ran warmly down the boy’s smooth sides.

“Ready to get it on?” Carlos grinned.  “Ready for me to show ya what I think you disgusting faggots are worth?  Time for some fun, cunt!”

He lay his massive bulk on top of Chad’s slim body, feeling it wriggle in terror under him, slipping across his muscled form on a film of sweat and piss.  He kept his left hand tightly and painfully clamped over the whore’s mouth while with his right, he pressed the knife into the boy’s side, just below the armpit.  Applying just enough pressure to break the skin, he slowly drew the blade downward, tracing a long, oozing line of red down the kid’s smooth, heaving flank.

Chad closed his eyes tightly and tried to turn away; the hand that gripped his face like an iron vise didn’t let him move far.  He could feel the icy slice moving down his body and he knew that when it stopped—but he wasn’t able to think past that point.

He didn’t have to.  Carlos grinned evilly as he slowly brought the knife back up, cutting a little deeper this time.  Watching Chad wince in pain, he grunted and shoved his dick further up the boy’s ass, enjoying the muffled squeal he elicited.  Then he pulled the knife back and started touching the tip to the bitch’s side at random.  “Eeney, meeney, miney, moe,” he whispered, “catch a tiger—“  He shoved the blade in up to the hilt, burying all twelve inches of sharpened steel in Chad’s guts with a wet squelching sound.

The jagged serrations on both sides of the tip sliced through Chad’s tender flesh like soft butter.  The blade had entered his left side, just below the ribcage.  Slashing through the descending colon and a twisted mass of small intestine, the knife was rammed in on a slightly upward angle, shearing through the transverse colon and slicing the pancreas.  Before the sharp steel tip stopped moving, it had punctured Chad’s gall bladder and embedded itself in his liver.

And yet no major blood vessels had been hit.  The wound wasn’t immediately fatal—just horrifically painful.

Chad shuddered in shock, his wide eyes ringed with purple circles of agony.  A foot of cold steel had been shoved into his torso; the white-hot flame of agony was all-powerful.  What Carlos had said was true—he stiffened involuntarily; his muscles tightening on their own.  It made things worse; as his abdominal muscles clenched, they closed in on the knife, causing it to slice open the wound even wider on its own.

“Fuck yeah, homo, now you’re gettin’ it,” sighed Carlos.  “Goddam, guess that’s what it takes to get you stupid fuckin’ faggots to work a dick right—gotta stick ya like a pig.  That it, cunt?  That what ya like, you sick fuckin’ pansy?”

Chad barely heard the words; his world had become the flaming lance upon which he was impaled; the only other thing that worked its way through the agony was the tightening of his muscles—that had to be it, that had to be why his dick was getting hard, his muscles were sealing the blood flow into his painfully erect tool, that was OH HOLY FUCK—

Grabbing the handle, Carlos had twisted the blade ninety degrees.  As the tip rotated within the wound, the serrations on each side carved strips from Chad’s organs, shredding parts of his liver, pancreas and intestines.  With whip-like speed, the convict jerked the knife out of the whore’s quivering body.  A trickle of blood flowed from the small gash in the kid’s side, but most of the damage was internal.  Chad’s gall bladder was destroyed.

As the lean, smooth youth writhed in nightmarish agony on Carlos’s cock, his mangled sphincter desperately grabbing at the muscled killer’s tool, the con spit into the sobbing slut’s face before holding the knife up to him again.  Drops of his own blood spattered Chad’s cheeks; where they hit his beard, they made circles of crimson on the copper.

“Look at it, cocksucker,” Carlos snarled viciously.  “Ya like it when dude stick things in ya, you fuckin’ faggot, huh?  Ya like what I’m stickin’ in ya?  Look at the blade, you goddam homo cunt, lookit yer guts hangin’ in strings off my fuckin’ knife.  Fuck yeah, you ain’t dead yet, bitch.  I’m gonna make you hurt a whole fuckin’ lot more before you die.  Watch this, fag, you’re gonna love this shit!”

Lifting himself up off the rentboy’s twitching, sweat-smeared body, Carlos drew his arm back and plunged the knife down vertically, the blade sinking straight into Chad’s flat, smooth belly.  The redhead’s eyes widened to a grotesque extent as the blade again tore through his intestines, this time front to back.  The blade was longer than Chad’s torso was deep, it utterly impaled him, coming out his back and cutting several inches into the foam mattress.

Carlos’s left hand had come away from the rentboy’s mouth, but by this time it didn’t matter.  Chad gave an incoherent grunt of pain—“hoog!”—before sinking into a shuddering gasp.  He was past the point of consciously calling for help; his entire existence was now simply reaction to pain.

Part of the pain was in his dick.  It was harder that it had ever been, not that he was in a position to compare—but it was so hard it hurt.  He was well-endowed, nowhere near as big as the horse dick plugging his rectum, but too big for comfort at the moment.  As his long hard hog lay along his belly, the engorged purple head was scraping against the blade embedded in his belly.

In some malignant way, Carlos’s chuckle wormed its way through to Chad’s awareness.  He knew this tattooed roughneck was both amused and aroused by his pain.  As icy despair enveloped his shallow soul, Chad knew he’d be giving his killer exactly what he wanted as he died.  He’d be in too much pain to resist.  He’d die in horrible pain while his killer contemptuously used his convulsing rectum as a disposable sex toy.

In a defiant act of denial, the whore, realizing his arms were free, began to claw at Carlos’s face.  His manicured nails dug into the convict’s scruff-covered cheeks as the boy gasped and squealed uncontrollably.

“You goddam faggot,” Carlos growled flatly, “here, maybe this’ll shut your worthless ass up, huh?”  Yanking the long knife out of Chad’s stomach, he slammed it into the right side of the kid’s smooth chest.  The blade sliced through the boy’s broad, flat pectoral muscle between two ribs before it punctured the right lung and embedded itself into a rib in the slut’s back.

Carlos held the shuddering youth tightly to him, feeling the rentboy’s agony ripple through his lithe lean body in waves, each one convulsing Chad’s colon and sending a thrill of pleasure along the convict’s cock.  Again, he twisted the knife in the wound before yanking it back out, a long spurt of blood following the blade up out of the body.

He’d created a sucking chest wound.  The rest of the bleeding was internal.  Chad was sweating and quivering, his eyes wide and fixed as physical and electrochemical shock overwhelmed him.  The massive internal trauma he’d suffered was starting to catch up to him; damaged organs were leaking not just blood but hormones and enzymes into his abdominal cavity.

He wanted to plead, to beg for his life, not realizing that he was past saving by this point.  But it was moot; he still rigid from the physical shock, his body stiff and shuddering—and his cock.  It had something to do with the searing burning pain in his ass—some part of him remembered the alpha stud on top of him, this was his cock, he was gonna make his erotic fantasy come true…

The rage-filled killer leered at Chad’s bewildered expression.  There was a truly undeserving look of innocent appeal that made him even more contemptuous; his spit into the suffering cunt’s face again.  Chad was gasping, his face turning blue as his lung collapsed.  Suddenly, he jerked, his smooth firm legs wrapping tightly around Carlos’s waist, his red leather sneakers quivering in the air as gargling sound filled his throat.  His body strained momentarily, causing his dick to rise up and slap the con’s hairy chest, then a bubble of blood burst in his mouth.

Chad continued to jerk and cough, trickles of blood leaking from each corner of his mouth and winding its way through his curly red beard.  He was sweating profusely, his hair so dark with moisture its color was now hard to discern.

Carlos hadn’t done this before.  He’d seen dudes snuffed in jail, but the one he’d killed had been in anger.

He had no idea how good it’d feel.  And somehow, he knew exactly what to do—and when to do it.

He knew they were entering the home stretch when Chad began tensing rhythmically with each wheezing, desperate breath.  The bitch was losing too much blood.  Time to shift gears.

“Ok, homo, time for me to cum and you to go.  I’m sure they’ll slap a coat of paint on this shithole after they haul your rotting, spunk-filled corpse outta here.  That’s about all anyone’s gonna care about a cocksucking faggot whore who took the wrong trick home and got himself offed.  Just so you know, you queer piece of shit, ain’t no one gonna care how much it hurts or how scared you were.  The only one who cares is me.  And for me, more is better.”

Chad continued to shudder, his eyes losing focus and rolling back momentarily before he clawed his way back to consciousness, grimly hanging on to life despite the agonizing pain of each passing moment.  There was still enough of him left to feel the sadistic con’s engorged rod plunging deep into his battered and torn rectum.

Each breath was a struggle against the crushing pain of his collapsed lung, an uphill fight that left him weak.  Chad’s world had shrunk to a tunnel view of Carlos’s muscular chest; on the side of the pec, past the wiry hair, he again caught the words “Die, Motherfucker, Die!” on the tattoo.  Everything else was blinding white-hot pain.  Even his huge cock was so hard it seemed to be on fire.

In a way, Chad was at peace; he was experiencing the worst and it would soon be over.

He was only half right.

Carlos looked down into the ginger’s face, blue from limited oxygen.  “Useless goddam faggot, you still ain’t made me cum.  You homos make me so fuckin’ sick; you lure us straight guys in and somehow it’s our fault when we gotta teach you cunts a lesson. I went to jail for the last one, but I ain’t goin’ back cause of you.  Gonna take your cash and that piece of shit car you’re so proud of and by the time anyone bothers to check on your subhuman ass, you’re gonna be so rotten they ain’t gonna be able to tell what happen to ya for sure!”

Panting with rage and lust, Carlos held the knife up and looked at it, a terrifying glint of eagerness lighting his eyes as he gazed at the strings of flesh still caught in the serrations.  His hard body heaved, his bulging arms glistened with sweat.  The word “revenge” on his neck had actually been tattooed across his carotid; it throbbed with his racing pulse.  The Confederate flag bandanna wrapped around his shaved head was dark with sweat.

Carlos fixed his icy gaze on Chad’s dazed, half-lidded eyes.  “When we met, you told me you wanted it to hurt,” he hissed.  Inhaling deeply, he spat another wad of phlegm into the slut’s blue, tear-stained face.  “Does it hurt enough yet?  What’s that?  I can’t hear you, you motherfuckin’ piece a’ shit, so I’m gonna take that as a no.  Ok, wow, you really like it the hard way, huh?  Good, all of ya faggots deserve this much pain; glad ya realize it.  Ok, cocksucker, if ya want it to hurt, this is really gonna make you blow your cumsucking load!”

A lot happened in the next few seconds.

It started with Carlos’s left hand.  He placed it on the crown of Chad’s head, digging his fingers into the short wiry hair on his scalp like a handful of copper wires.  His right hand flashed up in a blur, shoving the blade up under Chad’s jaw, behind the chin.

Pressing down on Chad’s head with his left hand and shoving up with his right, he managed to slowly force the length of steel blade into the rentboy’s head.  The tip sliced slowly, excruciatingly up through the bottom of the jaw into the mouth.  Pinning the slut’s tongue to the roof of his mouth, it continued up through the soft palate at the top of the mouth into the sinuses.

The helpless youth kicked his feet convulsively in the air, his sneakers jerking as his body shuddered in incomprehensible agony.  Some part of him could hear, could feel his septum and the base of the cranium crunch and shatter as the knife continued its inexorable climb…

And then, nothing.  There are no nerve endings in the brain.  Chad wasn’t aware of the parts of his cerebrum that were destroyed as the knife passed through; he felt a twinge of pain as it punctured the dura and dug the tip into the inside of his cranium.

He felt an irrational and truly amazing sensation from his cock.  He didn’t know the blade had sliced through and short-circuited the pleasure center of his brain; he only knew that he was in more pain than humanly possible—and that he wanted to cum so bad…

That was when Carlos pulled his hands in different directions; the one in the hair pulling left while the one holding the knife impaling the cunt’s head pulling right.  In the blink of an eye, the convict had snapped Chad’s neck, completely severing the head from the spine.

The whore’s nervous system, already primed by the faulty signals from the brain, went into overload when the spinal column was mangled.  The smooth lean body again went rigid and quivered, but this time with an intensity far beyond anything it had displayed before.  The rentboy’s rectum clutched Carlos’s shaft desperately, like a drowning man.  The dying fag’s cock stood up.  It hesitated for a moment, throbbing and pulsating, before it began to pump out a steady stream of semen in a single ropy strand that splattered Carlos’s chest and smeared the dark fur on his buff torso.

With a loud, guttural grunt, Carlos felt himself pump his burning load into the dead whore’s guts; the convulsing slut still milking his hot spunk out of his shaft.  “Goddam faggot!” he snarled as he shot his wad, “fuckin’ die, you worthless cumsuckin’ homo!”  As he yelled, he felt himself shoot even harder; it didn’t matter if the motherfucker was already dead or not.

Carlos held on to the twitching, jerking corpse for a while longer before pulling out.  This process had to be done twice—once with his dick and once with his blade.  Then he was free to wriggle out from between the kid’s quivering thighs.

Carlos strolled to the bathroom and tried the sink.  The hot water was really, really hot.  That was good.  He soaked a hand towel and wiped himself down, then used the same towel to clean the blade.  When he was done, he left it in the sink under running water for a while.

Pulling up his jeans, he began a careful search of the room, starting with Chad’s clothes.  He found $460 in the wallet plus change from the booze he’d bought.  He also snagged the car keys.  A quick glance around showed nothing else unusual—besides the bleeding corpse of the boy sprawled nude on the bed, his jeans around his ankles, that is.

He grabbed his shirt off the nightstand next to the futon—but before putting it on, he looked into the kitchen.  There he did see something unusual.  In the midst of liquor bottles and fast food wrappers was a flour canister.  Opening it, he saw that there really was flour inside.  And under the flour was a baggie with $3500 in it.

Score.

Carlos dressed quickly.  Lifting the corner of the blanket, he peered out from behind the window blinds.  No one in the breezeway, no one in the parking lot.  Perfect.

His boots seemed to thump loudly on the pavement as he crossed the asphalt to the Mustang, but he didn’t worry about it.  He’d be past the state line by midnight.  And he had enough money now to last a while.  Well, at least till he found another victim.

Trucker 4–Trucker vs Teen Slut

On By m3mayhemIn The Trucker4 Comments

Night was falling and the Trooper hadn’t caught up with the rig the ferret-like kid back at the truck stop had described so eloquently.  He pounded his fist on the steering wheel in frustration; he was sure this guy would strike again soon, so he’d stopped at every truck stop on the highway that was within five miles of a gay bar.  He’d searched them on his phone, getting accurate directions, making sure not to miss a single one—but nothing.

And that semi couldn’t accelerate out of the state faster than the Trooper’s cruiser.  Even with all his stops, he should have caught up by now.  No, the dude had pulled off somewhere—but where?  Not any of the obvious truck stops.  And the Trooper had run through every rest stop on the way, not stopping, and not seeing the truck he was looking for.

He took the last exit before the start line, whipping around on a desolate overpass in the middle of the desert.  He’d missed something.  He shifted into park and paused, his hopes rising suddenly as the headlights of an obviously large truck came around a curve in the distance behind him.

The Trooper wasn’t familiar enough with this corner of the state to remember what was down that road; he just knew that it was miles away.  It was possible that this was the guy he wanted, but it wasn’t likely that he’d gotten that far off the highway, did what he wanted to do, and was on his return trip now.  The timing was wrong.

And of course, it wasn’t the rig.  Even from a distance, this one was visible because of its bright white paint job, the sleeper cab trimmed in cherry red.  It flashed by him, turning north, heading out of state.  The one he was looking for was darker, a distinct metallic blue.  But still…

He thought for a moment before pulling out his phone and running a search.  He’d had an idea that was worth checking out—and the search results backed that up.

As the last bit of blue sky faded to black on his right, the Trooper got back on the interstate, heading south to a couple of exits he hadn’t checked before.

=================================================================================================

Adam had had way too much to drink, but nobody was concerned about it—for a couple of reasons.  The first was that it was far too frequent an occurrence for the strung-out little twink for it to attract much notice.  The other was that there was no one to care.

The bar was a small, dimly lit building of corrugated steel in the center of a cracked asphalt slab.  It was located at an exit on the interstate that gave access to a county road connecting small mining and industrial communities.  Most of the towns had a single main employer—a mine, a refinery, a power plant—and contained no more than a few hundred residents, nearly all blue-collar workers.  Each town had several bars, of course—but this building, out by the interstate, was the only gay bar.

The clientele was mostly local; in the small, closed-off world of small town gay life, everyone knew everyone—and everyone knew Adam.

And because everyone knew Adam, no one gave a shit how drunk he was.

Adam had first shown up at the bar three years earlier.  At that time, the place had been known by the innocuous name of “The Men’s Club”.  His attractive youthful looks had instantly made him popular and he retreated to the restroom in the company of others several times that first trip.

Two weeks later, he repeated his performance to equal acclaim.  This time, however, his father caught him sneaking back in the house afterwards.  Since Adam was sixteen years old at the time, all hell broke loose (literally, as far as the local preachers screamed).

The Men’s Club was instantly shuttered, a flurry of warrants, indictments and charges flew in a vicious legal whirlwind, and a deathly silence prevailed over the fate of half a dozen local citizens who were taken off to the state penitentiary.

In time, the bar managed to re-open under new ownership.  Now it was just “Dan’s Bar”, and it was freely admitted that the name was a DBA and that there was no Dan.  It took a while for the thundering from the pulpits and the fulminations from the electoral podiums to die down, but eventually business began to return to normal and the stigma of what had happened began to fade.

And then Adam started showing back up.  At nineteen, his still had that lean, slim firm teen body that explained his physical appeal.  His face was still smooth but his complexion was starting to show the effects of an excess of alcohol.

He followed the same pattern every night, showing up in the sluttiest outfit he could find, desperate to get laid.  None of the locals would go near him.  After a while, he’d start to get teary-eyed and go to the bar, slam down a twenty and get as many shots of cheap tequila he could, downing one after the other.

Then he’d drunkenly cruise the floor for any strangers; there was a tiny cheap motel across the road and sometimes—especially on weekends—there was some trade from the interstate.  He was certainly attractive and still looked young.  He could appeal to the guys who looked like they had money by emphasizing the victimhood of his molestation in that very bar.

In his own way he was right; he was a victim.  He was a pariah to the locals; no one who knew him dared go anywhere near him.  He knew it but wasn’t self-aware enough to know why, so he drank himself into a stupor and threw himself at every strange male who came in, wheedling money out of the rich ones and sex out of all of them.

As Adam looked up this night, the dude his bleary eyes slowly focused on mighta been rich, but it wouldn’t have mattered.  Right away, Adam wanted him.  Drunk as he was, his dick still managed to rise to attention at the sight of the well-built man leaning back in one of the corner booths against the far wall.

The dude was older; late thirties, perhaps.  He wore a flat-brimmed trucker’s cap that made it hard to distinguish his hair, but below his gunmetal-blue eyes, a coarse, wiry scruff of black fur covered his cheeks, just barely longer than five o’clock shadow except where it darkened into a goatee around his mouth.

A white t-shirt stretched tautly over his wide chest.  Over it he wore an unlined leather vest, very plain and simple.  It dangled open to reveal the man’s large pectoral muscles with what looked like a pair of dogtags glinting in between on top of the t-shirt.

He was in the corner booth, behind the table, so Adam couldn’t get a good view of him below the waist—but then stud shifted and stretched out a long leg, knotted with muscle like the limb of a tree, tightly wrapped in torn, slightly stained denim, terminating in a worn and scarred brown leather pull-on work boot.

Adam felt himself drawn in; some kind of gravitational field of lust was pulling him to this dude.

Somehow, deep inside his sad, sordid little soul, he knew this guy would solve all his problems.

He never imagined how.

He might have been drunk, but Adam wasn’t completely wasted.  He knew he had to remain presentable—and to that end, quickly ducked into the restroom to check his appearance in the mirror.  The two dudes already in there certainly weren’t resting, but they split immediately when they saw who had walked in.

Adam ignored them; he was so used to the cold shoulder that it didn’t even register.  He stood at the filthy sink and ran water over his hands, splashing a little on his face to help him focus before examining his appearance in the cracked and pitted mirror.

Beneath his tousled blond hair, deep hazel eyes stared back at him from the reflective surface.  Surprisingly clear given the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, they were long-lashed and slightly almond-shaped.  His nose was wide and the drinking had already caused some spreading and reddening, but in the dim light, his face still managed to project an air of innocence and naivety that was wholly disingenuous.  There was nothing innocent or naïve about the little slut.

He grinned at his reflection.  Fuck the other guys in the bar.  He wasn’t looking for love, he was looking for sex, and he’d already set his sights for the dude he wanted to plow his hole tonight.

It was a warm night and Adam had dressed accordingly; he looked as if he was ready for action of some kind, at any rate.  He wore a deep blue sleeveless basketball jersey; it clung to his slim but firm frame, the shiny polyester catching the light.  Below, matching shorts ended well above mid-thigh, showing Adam’s long muscled legs to perfect advantage.  His tight, smooth limbs were dusted with a fine golden down that glinted a fiery glow when the light struck it just right.  His thick calves were encased in black Nike athletic socks, running down to black leather hightop sneakers with the same distinctive swoosh.

He grinned at himself in the mirror.  He could still dress like he was sixteen and get away with it.  He wouldn’t be able to for much longer before the booze caught up to him, but that thought never occurred to him.

Smirking at his youthful face in the blemished mirror, Adam shoved his hand down his shorts.  Tightly gripping his dick, still firm and meaty at the memory of the hot stud in the booth, he adjusted it to the right, laying it against his bare thigh so the bulge would be obvious in the flashy shorts.

Finally satisfied with his finishing touches, Adam left the restroom on his quest to snag himself a good hard top.

He’d heard the warning about being careful what one asks for, but he’d never understood it.  Tonight, he would.

The haze of smoke, the flash of strobes and the rattling bass of the music had turned the bar into a kaleidoscope of male flesh and lust.   Adam could still make out the dude, deep in the shadows.

He was still in the booth, his steely blue eyes casting a coldly appraising glance over the men on display.  There was something contemptuous in the stillness of his face that made a deep dark part of Adam’s soul throb.  His beautiful body, wrapped in denim and leather—Adam felt himself gasp in imagined pleasure.

He approached the dude’s table.  Reaching it, he stood silently, legs spread, hands on his hips.  Despite his overwhelming desire to be brutally cornholed by this stud, he managed to strike an arrogant pose so as not to sell himself short.

“You’re a big dude,” he jeered, “everything about you big?”  He’d cast his voice low and sultry but in his excitement, it had risen noticeably.

The older man glanced at him dismissively before silently turning his eyes back to the dance floor.  Not a muscle in his face had moved but his eyes.  Adam broke into a nervous sweat.  He tried again.

“C’mon, man,” he wheedled.  “You gotta nice big dick you can stick in me?”

This time the alpha male examined Adam more closely, his penetrating gaze sliding over the teen’s body as if he was sizing up a cut of meat.  A corner of his mouth curled in what might have been a sneer, but between the alcohol and the chaotic atmosphere of the club, Adam was incapable of noticing that level of detail.

When he finally spoke, it was in a deep guttural bass that seemed to vibrate the deepest root of Adam’s shaft.  “You lookin’ to get fucked?” he growled.

Suddenly, in the full spotlight of the stud’s attention, Adam was intimidated.  He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry; when he swallowed, all he got was a faint click.  He nodded dumbly.  There was something in the muscular dude’s immobile face that let him know he didn’t need to speak.  The message had gotten across.

The silence between them extended to an almost unbearable length before the older man spoke.  “Yeah, I could plow your hole. You gotta place I can bang ya?”

Adam nodded swiftly, recovering his voice as best he could. “Y-yes, over in-in F-f-farmington; it’s ab-about t-t-twenty miles d-down—“

“Fuck that,” snapped the stud.  “I got a room across the way.  C’mon.  And you better be a good fuck, boy, cause if you ain’t, I can damn sure make ya are one.”

Adam shuddered to his core; he was still too drunk to recognize the threat implicit in the statement.  He was shuddering in anticipation.

He stepped aside to let the alpha stud out of the booth.  The older man got up; his leather vest fell open, revealing the skin-tight t-shirt that highlighted every detail of his sculpted torso.  As the man stood in front of him, Adam couldn’t help but notice how his jeans exposed the massive ridge extending outwards from the dude’s crotch.

Adam quailed momentarily; even in his alcoholic stupor, this was a case of biting off more than he could chew, so to speak.  This guy was huge.  This was gonna hurt, and if this guy used him the way he wanted to be used, it was gonna hurt a lot.

Then he glanced up at the muscled top towering over him and decided it didn’t matter.  He wanted this man’s cock, no matter what it took.

Gulping nervously, he cleared his throat and spoke.  This time he got the low, throaty tone he’d been aiming for.  “Yeah, man, that’ll work.  You can put it up my ass, big boy.  Let’s see what you can do.”

This time there was no way he could miss the contemptuous smirk on the alpha’s face, but he disregarded it; he assumed it meant the dominant stud had accepted his challenge.  And indeed he had, but not how Adam had hoped for.

He eagerly followed the stud out the main entrance.

=========================================================================================

The Trooper shifted his firm ass in the leather seat of his cruiser; he’d been sitting there for some time and didn’t want it to fall asleep.  No telling how much longer he’d be sitting here; it was just past midnight and this place was open till two in the morning, if local ordinances didn’t allow it to stay open later.

Nonetheless, he was willing to spend the night here.  This was the second exit he’d checked on his return trip and he instantly recognized the rig in the bar’s parking lot.

He’d realized back at the state line that he’d focused too exclusively on truck stops.  A quick online search had shown him all the gay bars in this part of the state, and there weren’t too many.  He’d hit pay dirt his on his second stop.

Now all he had to do was sit in the dark and wait for his mark to leave the bar.  He’d parked at the back end of the lot, in a spot where he could see the bar entrance on one side of his field of view and the truck on the other.  He’d manage to catch sight of his man at some point between the two…

As he settled back into his seat, he saw the door open and two figures come out.  It was hard to discern details at this distance, but one was a kid in a shiny purple baller outfit and high black socks and shoes. The Trooper had actually noted him pulling into the lot a couple of hours ago in an ancient wheezy Mercedes.

The other was a tall, muscular man in jeans, a white t-shirt and a black vest, wearing a trucker’s cap…

The Trooper was instantly on the alert; it sure looked like the guy he’d seen before.  Same massive, muscular body.  There was more facial hair, but it had been several days.  It had to be him—

But they didn’t cross to the cab of the truck; instead, they turned the other direction and soon vanished around the corner of the building.

The Trooper grunted in frustration.  He was close, so close.  He knew it.  But he wasn’t about go into the bar and confront the dude in front of witnesses.

No, he had other plans.

=========================================================================================

As the Trucker opened the door to the room, his nose was assailed by the mingled reek of bleach and cigarette smoke.  He’d rented it earlier but hadn’t bothered to enter the room before; he knew what to expect anyway, more or less.  It was slightly cleaner than some of the other shitholes he’d been in lately, but still well used and run down.

As he stepped to the side to jerk the faded brown drapes over the window, the punk in the b-ball jersey came in, letting the door close behind him.  The Trucker crossed swiftly behind him to lock and bolt the door before turning to face the kid.

The old dented lampshades obscured much of the room in gloom, but the boy had taken the chair at the desk-dresser combo and was seated in a circle of light.  He shook his head as if to clear it, his unruly blond hair creating a golden aura about his head.  The kid grinned up at the older man, his eyes illuminated with lust.

The Trucker glanced down the teen’s tight, lithe body, his purple jersey revealing the full length of his firm arms, his biceps forming small mounds under his skin, which was covered with a faint golden down.  He sat with his legs spread wide, his smooth, muscled thighs parted and his skimpy shorts pulled up so that his entire package was lying out on the chair.  On top of his large puckered scrotum his dick, a long dark sausage-like tube projected from a tangled mass of red-gold curls.

The punk reached his hand down, gripping his meat tightly.  He shifted his feet, flexing his thick calf muscles in their tight black socks as he stared brazenly at the Trucker.

“So,” he drawled, “ya gonna fuck me or what?”

The Trucker looked down at the boy without saying anything.  Suddenly, his face twisted into a grim smirk.   “Sure, I’ll fuck ya.  You want the dick, you fuckin’ slut?  Work for it.  You gotta earn this cock, bitch,”

Still fully dressed, the Trucker reached down and unzipped his bulging fly.  His massive member was too long to flop out on its own—he had to reach in to set it free.  As it swayed and bobbed in the air, Adam’s eyes glazed over.

The Tucker gave a slight chuckle as he saw the kid’s cock get even darker and start to swell.

“Strip, you cunt,” he snarled, “gimme a show.”

============================================================================================

The Trooper was uneasy.  He knew he had the right truck and he could have sworn that the guy he’d just seen was the driver.  But he didn’t go back to the truck.  So where did he go?

The only other option was the motel on the other corner.  As he pondered it, the Trooper became more certain that he’d let his quarry slip out of his sight.  He knew this predator liked to kill in motel rooms, but so far he hadn’t rented one on his own; the victims had all rented their deathbeds themselves.

And that kid hadn’t rented a room; the Trooper had seen him arrive.  So maybe this time the truck driver had rented a room for himself.

The Trooper quickly got out of his car.  If the dude was at the motel, he’d find him, but he didn’t want to park his car in the lot in case the killer glanced out the window at some point.  No sense spooking him.

Thick-soled boots pounding firmly on the pavement, the Trooper quickly crossed the street and approached the office, a brightly lit glass cube at one end of the L-shaped building.

Inside the office, the fluorescent lights gave off a maddening buzz which likely explained the half-crazed look on the face of the night manager.  She was a large older woman of indeterminate age with unkempt gray hair and cat-eye glasses.

She was a tough old broad who was there to take the money, hand out the keys and call in the local sheriff if anything got outta hand.  No, there hadn’t been no problems tonight.  And no, she didn’t remember any features of any of the guys staying.  Best she could do was tell him which rooms were occupied; if he wanted anything more, he was welcome to come back with a warrant…

The Trooper smiled graciously, stifling his irritation.  Fewer than half a dozen rooms were occupied; as he stepped out of the office, he noticed that one of the rooms she’d indicated was dark.  If this dude truly was what the Trooper thought he was, there should be some sound involved.

Crossing swiftly but quietly to the darkened motel room, the Trooper removed his peaked cap and pressed his ear to the door.  It was cheap hollow-core plywood, acting almost as sounding board.  The room on the other side was very quiet with the exception of one very distinct sound—snoring.

The young cop stepped back and straightened up.  He flexed his well-developed body, limbering up his back.  He hadn’t expected this room to be it.  The guy couldn’t possibly be done yet; what he did took too long.  And he didn’t do it in the dark, either; this sick fucker enjoyed watching his victims suffer.  It was gonna be one of the rooms that still had the lights on.

There were four other rooms to check.  Walking slowly so that the thick soles of his high leather boots didn’t make too much noise on the pavement, he approached the closest lighted room, crouching quietly, waiting and listening.

============================================================================================

The Trucker slipped off his leather vest.  His tight white t-shirt underneath had a breast pocket with a distinctive rectangular bulge.  He fished out his pack of smokes, lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the cracked and yellowed glass ashtray on the desk.  Stripping out of his shirt, switching the cig from one hand to the other as he did so, the Trucker leaned back against the door and took a deep drag as Adam slowly rose from his chair.

Keeping his head pointed down, he turned his eyes up to the older man’s face, peering at him from under his sandy blond eyebrows.  A cocky leer twisted his face as he ran his hands down his body, stroking the shiny polyester material of his jersey and shorts.  He let them go down to his knees before pulling them back up, catching at the bottom of his shorts and pulling them up as well.

As he flashed his smooth inner thighs at the Trucker, Adam grinned with eager lust.  Raising his hands to his hips, he gave a quick shake and the shorts fell to the ground.  He still had the black socks clinging to his thighs and the leather sneakers tightly laced around his feet, but he was otherwise nude from the waist down.

Adam’s thick dark cock jutted like a masthead from the golden fleece of his pubic hair; already the Trucker could see a faint glint of precum welling from the slit at the tip of the swollen purple head.  The little fuck was excited.  He wanted to be used; it was obvious.  Smirking, the Trucker knocked his ashes onto the thin, cheap carpet.  He raised his left hand up to his large, hard nipple and began to stroke it.

Adam inhaled—more of a deep, shuddery gasp, really, a sound of pure desire.  “Fuck, man, I want your dick inside me so bad,” he moaned.

The Trucker sneered down at him.  “Ya want the D, motherfucker?  You gotta earn it first, bitch.  Let’s see what you can do.  Get over here and work my nips.”

Adam approached the Trucker hesitantly—not because he was sharp enough to pick up on any danger signals, but because he was so turned on by this older alpha dude that he was afraid the guy would suddenly vanish, like a mirage.

Or worse, change his mind.  Adam would do anything to prevent that from happening.  Whatever this guy wanted to do to him, however far he wanted to go, Adam was willing to endure it if it meant this stud would unload inside him.

It didn’t occur to him that there might actually be a “too far”.

Reaching out a trembling hand, he gingerly grasped the Trucker’s nipples between his thumb and forefingers, squeezing gently.  The Trucker took a deep drag of his smoke before responding with a jeer.  “Is that the best ya can do, slut?  I said work them, not tickle them, you stupid piece of shit.”

Closing his eyes, Adam gave another shuddering groan and began pulling more firmly on the alpha’s manteats, gradually increasing force and torque until he was twisting them violently.  Not a muscle in the Trucker’s face moved in response to Adam’s attention, but his massive cock had swung out like the boom of a ship, slapping against the boy’s slightly smaller but no less erect shaft.

“Put your mouth on ‘em, boy,” growled the Trucker, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray.  “If ya work ‘em good enough, I’ll stick my dick down yer throat.”

Adam bent his head forward and let his tongue explore the contours of the older man’s nipples.  Giving a faint grunt, the Trucker lit another cig and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the door.  He stood with his thick, denim-clad legs spread wide, boots placed far apart, dipping cock hanging out of his open fly.  The smooth youth clung to his hard sculpted torso, fingers curled into the stud’s chest fur.

The teen’s full red lips spread over the Trucker’s areola, loudly slurping on the firm broad pecs as the boy reached between his legs and began jacking himself off.  Suddenly the alpha grabbed the boy’s upper arms and pulled him off.  He blew smoke into the punk’s face and began barking orders at him while the kid coughed.

“Enough.  On your knees, cunt.  Time to see what it takes to make ya gag.  Down on your fucking knees and sit there like a pig with your mouth wide open.  Now, bitch!”

An undefinable sensation ran through Adam’s body like an electrical jolt; a remarkable combination of hot lust and cold chill.  Not being given to analysis, Adam heeded the one that felt best and obeyed.  He sank to his knees and opened his mouth eagerly.

Taking another drag, the Trucker stepped forward and flicked his ash contemptuously into the little slut’s face.  “Ready to choke on it, cunt?  C’mon, you can open wider than that, cocksucker,” he chuckled.

Suddenly, he sprang forward, snatching a fistful of Adam’s tousled blond hair and jerked the startled youth’s head down onto his hard shaft.  Before Adam could even brace himself, he found himself experiencing the most brutal skullfuck he’d ever endured.

============================================================================================

The Trooper stood outside room 112, his ear pressed to the door.  This was the third door he’d tried—the second one with the lights on.  In the first lit room, he’d heard a lot of vigorous sex, but one of the voices was female.

He doubted his quarry was in the room, but he’d listened anyway; from the snatches of conversation he’d heard, the broad sounded like a whore.

Losing interest, the Trooper turned away.  Even if the whore ended up murdered, he could give a shit.  It wasn’t his problem. But he was anxious to find the killer and confront him.

In fact, his massive cock was throbbing in anticipation.

He’d paused and wheeled about in the parking lot, checking the location of the next rented room.  Now he was here, listening eagerly for any sound through the door.  So far, though, nothing but silence.

That worried him.  He didn’t think he was too late, but it was possible.  If not, that dude was probably murdering the kid he’d taken out of the bar right now.   The Trooper wasn’t concerned about stopping the murder; he wanted to catch the fucker red-handed—on the other hand, he could still have some fun even if the kid wasn’t dead yet.   He’d still be calling in a corpse or two by the time he was finished here.

But he didn’t want to take too long.  After all, if the guy was done, there wouldn’t be any sound to indicate which room.  There might be nothing but silence.

Like this room.

Damn!  Where was he?

==========================================================================================

Adam coughed and gagged on the massive tube of flesh blocking his throat.  He tried to look up at the Trucker, but his head was jammed so far into the dominant stud’s crotch that the dude’s wiry pubic hair scratched and scraped at his face like steel wool.

He pulled back involuntarily, in an instinctual attempt to breathe but the Trucker’s hands gripped his skull with vise-like strength, the crushing pain almost overriding the panic of suffocation.

“Swallow my dick, bitch, choke on it,” grunted the Trucker, holding Adam’s head immobile and pumping his hips violently.  “C’mon and gag, you worthless cumsucker.  Show me how much you like to get throatfucked, cunt!”

Adam reached up, trying desperately to get a grip on the older man’s torso, to find some way to get leverage and free himself, but it was futile.  He grasped at the alpha’s muscular flanks but they were sweaty with exertion and his hands slipped off.

His grasping, fluttering fingers slipped to the Trucker’s thighs and found purchase on the tight denim wrapping the powerful, thrusting legs.  He still couldn’t breathe, but he wasn’t strong enough to push back against the alpha top and get loose.

It happened suddenly—he couldn’t breathe, it was bad, it hurt—and the need to vomit.  He gagged up a huge froth of saliva and the Trucker pulled his huge dick out, letting the punk drool a long streamer of foam from his lips down onto his bare thighs.

Still kneeling, Adam leaned back against the bed.  He continued to cough and gag.

“Stupid little fuck, can’t take a real man, can ya, faggot?” sneered the Trucker.  “Let’s see if your fuckhole can do better than your useless mouth.  Can’t call ya a cocksucker, ya piece a’ shit—can’t even do that right.  Now take off that stupid fuckin’ jersey and get up on the bed.  On your back with your legs in the air, cunt.  NOW.”

Eyes closed, still gasping for air, Adam heard the man’s words and moaned faintly with pleasure.  Fuck, this was the real thing.  This dude was gonna give him his best fuck ever; he knew it.

He was right.

Quickly, tremblingly, he jerked the slick purple jersey off over his head.  He backed onto the bed, his smooth, slim body glistening with a light sheen of perspiration.  A faint golden haze, like the down on a peach, darkened the lower part of his smooth, flat belly, growing thicker as it descended towards his groin.

The Trucker lit another cigarette.  Still standing upright, legs spread with his shaft jutting straight out in front of him, he remained motionless as Adam positioned himself, watching the slut with no more expression than a faint sneer.

Settling himself with both pillows propping up his head, Adam was lying on his back.  He reached down and, placing his hands behind his knees, pulled his legs up and apart, spreading them for easy access to his asshole.  His fingers dug deeply into the silky-smooth flesh of his thighs; his calves and feet still covered with the black tube socks and black leather hightop sneakers, now hanging in the air, bobbing slightly—his toes curling in expectation of the pleasure to come.

The Trucker was only half-finished with his smoke when Adam finished arranging himself.  He grinned, but didn’t move.  Neither did Adam.  As if knowing instinctively what to do, he did nothing—remained there with his legs spread in the air, pink asshole pulsating, long-lashed eyes staring longingly at the silent alpha male who was leisurely finished his cig…

It was a silent but very intense moment that stretched out for an almost unbearably long time—and yet somehow did not lessen in intensity while it lasted.  Which was why neither of them heard the faint crunch of a booted footstep outside the door.

Nor did they hear it three minutes later, moving away.

===========================================================================================

The Trooper moved on to the next room, but he wasn’t happy.  That room had been too quiet.  Of course, whoever rented it could be out and have left the light on—but in this kinda place, that was unlikely.  Most customers rented for a short time for a specific purpose.  Once they left the room, they usually didn’t come back.

But he had other rooms to check.  Maybe he’d be hit paydirt with one of them.

Still, he couldn’t get the quiet room off his mind…

=============================================================================================

It ceased to be quiet fairly quickly.  The Trucker tossed his still-smoldering butt into the ashtray and approached the slut.  Grasping his massive club-like cock in one hand, he slapped it against the other as he approached the bed, splattering Adam’s lithe body with transparent drops of precum.

“Ready for it, cunt?” he jeered.  “Fuckin’ whore like you ain’t gettin’ no lube, so this is gonna hurt, even for a slut like you.”

Before Adam could respond, the alpha stud had parted his legs and placed the swollen purple head of his shaft against the teen’s quivering fuckhole.  As he felt the massive spade-shaped bulb press forcibly against his sphincter, the punk responded with sudden trepidation.  “H-hey, man—d-don’t hurt me, huh?”

The Trucker grinned but remained silent.  Lunging forward suddenly, he slammed his engorged tool up Adam’s pulsating rectum, feeling the boy’s sphincter resist, tightening around his shaft like a cockring.

Adam, suddenly confronted with horrible sexual trauma, squealed like a pig.  All the other dudes who’d fucked him were grateful for the experience, grateful that a slut with a youthful appearance would let them use his hole.  This was different.  It was obvious that this guy didn’t give a shit about poor little Adam and all the trouble he’d had in life.  This guy wanted to use him like an object and didn’t care what happened to him beyond that point.

It was terrifying and it made Adam hornier than he could have imagined.  He moaned loudly, his stretched-out ass muscle feeling every vein wrapped around the massive shaft jammed up his colon.

The Trucker leaned forward, his huge muscled form pressing down on the punk’s slim, smooth form.  Hooking his arms under the slut’s knees, he pulled the kid’s legs forward and up, rotating his ass so it was perfectly aligned to the natural angle of his own cock.

All he had to do was thrust.

He leered obscenely in Adam’s face.  “Ya like that, ya fuckin’ cunt?  Is that big enough for your reamed-out fuckhole, ya whore?  Damn, bitch, I fucked professionals tighter than you—you really are a worthless faggot slut, aintcha?”

Adam’s face was clenched tight in a grimace of pain; tears leaked from his eyes, pulled back into slits.  Loose?  What the fuck was this dude talking about?  Adam’s ass was so full of dick he was afraid—really afraid—that physical damage was being done to his rectum.

“P-please, man—“ he stuttered, “F-fuck, dude, y-y-you’re killin’ me, p-please!”

The Trucker bent his head down until his face was mere inches from that of the sobbing, gasping teen.  Staring deep into Adam’s bloodshot eyes, the alpha’s grin shone with gleeful malevolence.  “Not yet, cunt,” he whispered, “not quite yet, you stupid bitch.”  Then he spit in the kid’s weeping face.

=========================================================================================

The Trooper was standing in the recessed doorway of an empty room, far enough back in the shadows that he couldn’t be seen.  He was in a quandary; a bit of good luck was dragging on so long it could turn into bad luck.

He’d just started towards the fourth room when the door to the fifth opened.  The Trooper had instantly ducked into the darkness where he could observe the occupants.

And more than one guy was leaving the room, making it highly unlikely either was his quarry—this predator always left alone—he didn’t leave anyone alive to leave under their own power.  That took care of one of the last two rooms; he only had one more to check.  It had to be that one or the one he’d just left.  He should have enough time to confirm which one was right and catch the dude in the act.

The problem was these two faggots who’d just left the room.  They were still there in the parking lot.  One was a young man in his late twenties, slim with long brown hair; the other was a hairy bear of a man in his forties who kept wrapping his massive paws around the boy.

The Trooper seethed.  If he emerged from the shadows now, he’d freak them out.  And if they made too much noise, he’d spook his prey.  His eyes glittered with anger as he ground his teeth in the darkness.  If it wasn’t for the need for silence, he’d march out right now and arrest those fucking homos…

They parted, suddenly, each to his own car.  When they pulled out of the lot, they went in different directions.

The Trooper remained still until their taillights faded to pinpoints in the distance—but the moment that point was reached, he bolted across the parking lot towards the last door.  He had to take a moment to quiet his pounding pulse before he crouched, breathlessly, and pressed his ear to the door.

===============================================================================================

Drunk as he’d been, Adam was sobering quickly and very unwillingly.  The pain was phenomenal; the dude wasn’t just plugging his ass, he was tearing it.

The punk found himself unable to breathe; utterly incapable of exhaling, he could only gasp and croak like a landed fish, his ears ringing with the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling and dangling in front of his face, reflecting light from the dim bedside lamp hypnotically back into his face, pale and strained in agony.

He squealed in pain.  Above him, the hard-muscled Trucker pumped and grunted, sneering into the tortured youth’s tear-stained face.  “Shaddup, you worthless whore.  Ya got the cock ya wanted, so quit yer fuckin’ bitching cause yer startin’ to piss me off.  And trust me, cunt—you think you’re in pain now?  You have no fucking clue what pain is.  Yer gonna learn, though.  I’m really gonna get the fuck off teachin’ ya all about pain, you stupid piece a’ shit!”

The wailing boy pushed and shoved on the thick arms, knotted with muscles, which pinned his shoulders to the bed; it was as futile as trying to move a post embedded in concrete.  His frantic, grasping hands slipped on the Trucker’s sweat-slicked skin—suddenly he found himself beating against the alpha dude’s chest with as much effect as if he was beating an oak tree.  Deep in desperation, Adam clutched involuntarily at the older man’s chest hair, the wiry fur scratching his palms as he bleated in agony.

“Goddammit, you worthless little motherfucker, you ain’t worth keepin’ alive to fuck!” rumbled the Trucker in his deep bass voice.  “Yer makin’ too much noise and fightin’ too hard, you stupid slut, and you damn sure ain’t no virgin; yer ass is way too loose, cunt!”

Again, he hocked up a massive wad of phlegm and spit it contemptuously into Adam’s face, already smeared with snot from his continuous sobbing.  The teen kicked his feet, his black leather sneakers beating the air helplessly over his assailant’s shoulders.  He was still trying to push the Trucker off him, despite the obvious uselessness of the effort.

Adam’s drunken brain was mired in a fog of terror and physical pain that prevented him from thinking logically.  He had clearly been warned that his best bet of getting out of this alive was to lie still and take the dick, but in his pain and panic, he wasn’t able to control his reactions.

His smooth teen body writhed violently on the soiled sheets, twisting them under him as they began to absorb the sweat forced out of his agonized form.  The room positively reeked of mansweat and mansex as the Trucker pumped his own pheromones into the air to compete with those of the raped youth, already awash in the hormones common at his age.

But it was his squealing that broke the camel’s back.  Aside from the possibility that it might alert others, it had a pig-like tone that set off the Trucker’s misophony, the neurologically hard-wired rage reaction in response to certain aural stimuli.

In other words, the teen’s cries of pain and fear automatically invoked an overwhelming anger in the Trucker.  The intense desire to destroy the source of the sound descended on his consciousness like a red mist.  It triggered a nightmarish apocalypse that rained down on the emotionally-damaged boy, filling his last moments on earth with a silent howling vortex of terror.

It started with the homicidal glint in the Trucker’s eyes—a look as cold and cutting as a sharp blade.  When he spoke, it was in a low, controlled whisper that was somehow more chilling than any enraged screaming could have been.

“I’m done with ya, bitch.  Gonna waste ya and let your dyin’ convulsions milk the spunk outta my cock.  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya, you useless cum-suckin’ homo.  Hell, they’ll probably gimme a medal for puttin’ yer worthless ass down, heh!  Yeah, ya ready for it, faggot?  Time to die, motherfucker!”

Adam’s already-shrill scream started to spiral into a shriek but before he could get enough air, the Trucker sealed him off.  It happened so fast Adam never saw it coming—one moment the dude’s hands were pressing down on his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises, the next, they were doing the same thing across his face.

One large strong hand was clamped across him mouth like a vise, the other had slammed down across his nose violently, crushing it flat.

Adam couldn’t breathe.  And he couldn’t move—the Trucker was lying full-length on top of him, the weight of the larger, stronger man pinning the teen’s body deep enough into the cheap thin mattress that Adam could feel the springs digging into his back.

It just added more pain to the dark tornado of agony and terror that roared through Adam’s mind.

The Trucker looked down approvingly.  He leered maliciously into the youth’s bulging, horrified eyes—all of the boy’s face that was visible above his hands.  As he smiled, he tightened his grip brutally, digging his fingers deep into the flesh of the kid’s cheeks.  “Mmmmpphhh!” the punk moaned, his long lashes fluttering as his eyes rolled back in his head.

The last thing Adam heard as he plunged into a bottomless black sea of pain, was a faint whisper, “Lights out, bitch.”

============================================================================================

Silence.  The Trooper was getting frustrated again.  He had to be in one of two rooms—but which?  They were equally quiet.  And he had to be sure; he didn’t want to tip the dude off by causing a ruckus at the wrong door.  It had to be sudden, a surprise.

Besides, he was still technically on duty and could be called away at any moment; otherwise he’d have just hung around and got the guy once he left the room.

Beyond that, though, he had his own reasons for wanting to catch the dude in the act.  Reasons that got him hard.  Reasons that would have gotten him fired and more if they became known.

Yeah, he wanted to find this dude.  He could really give a shit if the kid was still alive when he got there; he wouldn’t be for long in any case.

The Trooper stood, again feeling the need to stretch.  He flexed his thick firm legs, making sure not to thump the soles of his boots too loudly on the pavement.  Just as he was about to return to his listening position, a flash of headlights swept through the parking lot.  The lithe young man darted into an alcove between the rooms, a dark space containing a loudly-malfunctioning ice machine, just as a car pulled up a couple of spaces away.

From the recesses of the alcove, the Trooper was able to peer around the corner and observe the occupants.  Straight couple—odd for this neighborhood.  They got out of the car, still talking animatedly, but the ice machine made their conversation inaudible.  Closer inspection, though, revealed that the chick was a tranny.  They were probably arguing about her fee.

They needed to hurry up.  The Trooper still didn’t know where his quarry was.  He was getting impatient…

=============================================================================================

There were storms on the sea of pain and one of them tossed Adam up on the rocky shore of consciousness; a thin, sharp sensation as he struggled to inhale through his mashed nose, now so miraculously free.

The other pain, though…  Nothing had dimmed the excruciating torture in his rectum; the agony was so intense he half believed he was being sodomized with a splintered wooden shaft; he’d been fucked many times before, no dude’s cock could be tearing him up like that…

The Trucker loomed over him, grinning.  “Welcome back, slut.  Ya didn’t think I was gonna let ya go that easy, didja?”  Clenching the fingers still stretched over the boy’s mouth, the Trucker managed to elicit another squeal of distress.  He responded to it by spitting into Adam’s flushed, distorted face.

Leaning back down over the trapped youth, the Trucker lowered his voice to a deep guttural snarl.  “Naw, you useless motherfucker, you gotta earn a clean death.  I’m gonna kill ya now.  I’m gonna close off your air and let you slowly die on my cock.  It’s gonna hurt, bitch, it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  There’s only gonna be one way to end the pain, faggot—ya gotta make me cum.  I promise, cunt—the moment I unload, I’ll snap yer neck and put you out of your misery.  But until then, I’m gonna make sure your last moments are nightmarish.”

Adam stared blankly up at his tormentor. He’d heard the words but the second he understood them he decided not to understand them. The Trucker, however, wasn’t going to let him get away with it.  “The more it hurts you, cunt, the better it feels for me.  The better it feels for me, the more I hurt you.  Only way to stop it is to work my shaft with your homo fuckhole till ya milk the sperm outta me.  Then I’ll end for ya, nice and quick.  Got it, punk?  Ya better, cause it’s time to saddle up and ride ya till ya die in a fountain of spunk—yee-haw, motherfucker!”

He bent down and with his face just inches from that of his victim, neatly pinched Adam’s nose off between his thumb and forefinger.

The kid started jerking and twisting his head.  The Trucker was strong enough to grind Adam’s septum between his fingers without letting the teen’s struggles have the slightest chance of breaking free—and all with no visible effort.

He simply lay on top of the kicking, panicking youth, his cock fully inserted into the punk’s shuddering colon.  Still gripping Adam’s jaw and clamping his nose shut, the Trucker stared into the boy’s wide, terrified eyes, watching them swell as the pressure built in his head…

“Bet it’s startin’ to hurt now, huh?  Can ya feel the blood pooling in your head?  That pounding you hear, that’s your pulse.  Your heart is trying to get the last of the oxygenated blood into your brain—cause once that stops, your brain starts dyin’.  And there ain’t no comin’ back from that, motherfucker.  So just lie back and enjoy the show, you worthless faggot slut, while I use your death throes to jack off.”

Adam was still awake enough to know what was happening.  His reflexes were still sodden with alcohol but without the merciful dulling of edges conferred by drunkenness.  His reaction was swift and violent.

=========================================================================================

The Trooper’s reaction was just as swift, but much less violent for the moment.  The guy and the tranny had gone into the room he’d been watching.  That could only mean one thing—it was the other room, the one on the other side of the lot.

He stepped out of the alcove and was about to cross the lot when a raucous burst of profanity drew his attention to five young men walking across the street from the bar, all in one group.  Half-dressed twinks, they slobbered and pawed over each other seemingly at random as they ambled towards the office.

Goddammit!  The Trooper slipped reluctantly back up onto the pavement in front of the rooms.  One of the punks had gone into the office, but the others were still standing about in a giggling gaggle of twee little boys.  The Trooper snorted with disgust as he edged his was around to the other side along the pavement, not openly crossing the lot.  In this case, the most direct way would have taken him right in front of the fluttering fuckin’ butterflies…

On the other hand, it might not be a bad idea to see which room they got.  Just in case this wasn’t as fun as he’d planned—nothing wrong with having a Plan B.

===========================================================================================

As Adam slowly died beneath him, the Trucker amused himself by taunting the traumatized youth, fucking his mind no less brutally than his ass.  As his cock ripped and tore the teen’s guts, his jeering slashed at the stunned boy’s psyche, flaying his soul with terror.

“What’s it feel like, boy?  What’s it feel like to die with a dick up yer ass?  What’s it like knowin’ yer gonna be found pumped fulla cum and snuffed in a cheap motel next to a faggot bar, huh?  Gotta make yer momma and daddy proud, son!  C’mon, you queer-ass cock-suckin’ bitch, you gotta earn my load!”

Adam’s expression was one of terror and baffled despair; above the strong, tight, suffocating hands of his killer, his skin of his face was becoming livid and blotchy.  His blond hair was dark and slick with sweat, the cold sweat forced out of the dying punk’s body in instinctive reaction to the fiery pain in his chest and head.  His legs kicked frantically, one of his hightop sneakers flying off his foot and bouncing off the right-hand wall.

“Fuck yeah, you goddam homo whore, keep workin’ my tool—just like that, yeah.  Keep it up cunt, work for yer death.  It’ll be quick, faggot.  I’ll shatter your vertebrae so the bone shards slice open your spinal column.  It’ll hurt, holy fuckin’ hell, it’s gonna hurt but if ya keep goin’ out this way, it’ll be even worse—it’ll be a lot longer.

So c’mon, ya piece of shit, time to decide.  Work my ass.  Work with me, boy, and I’ll end your useless life in a swift blast of excruciating pain—

—or let your will to live keep you alive for another few seconds as I narrate what parts of your brain are dying.  Your choice.  Let’s see how much of a masochistic pig you really are.  You wanna die, to end it?   Work with me now.  That’s it, son, work with my thrusts, let your quivering fuckhole massage my dick.  Yeah, boy, you’re gettin’ it.  Keep it up and I’ll stop the pain.  Just like that, yeah, and I snuff your worthless life and end your misery.”

Adam nodded violently, but it would have been difficult for an outside observer to tell if it was in acquiescence or involuntary.  He was back in the howling black vortex, but this time was different—Adam didn’t want to escape.  His universe had coalesced into a bright point of burning pain and all that could assuage the agony was the icy coldness of death.

And that’s when he shot his wad.

All his pain, all his trauma, all his bitterness seemed to be distilled into his semen; it burned like acid as it boiled its way out of his somehow-erect cock, the sheer flaming agony of his over-sensitive nerves highlighting the shocking sense of physical betrayal as the shattered remains of Adam’s personality were sucked into frigid eternity.

One last spark of sentience received pain stimuli from the rectum and lower intestines; a sensation of boiling liquid heat.  There was no time to process the sensation of having cum shot up his dying ass; Adam simply registered the pain and died.

The Trucker gasped and steadied himself on the bed, his dogtags jangling as his muscled form shuddered in orgasm.  Beneath him, the punk’s face was almost black, his eyes swollen horribly.  The Trucker smiled gently and whispered, “Promised I’d snap yer neck if ya got me off.”

Still grasping the youth’s jaw with one hand, the Trucker wrapped the other in Adam’s sweat-drenched hair.  A quick, brutal jerk, instantly followed by the snapping, shattering sound of a greenstick fracture, and the teen’s head lolled limply and grotesquely on his chest.  As his vertebrae exploded, his body jerked as if an electrical shock had been applied—as indeed it had; one last blast of electrochemical activity along dead nerves.  The corpse’s cock, jolted back to life momentarily, stood up and sent one last spurt of seed up to splash against the underside of the Trucker’s jaw.

Trembling and tingling with the pleasure of a job well done, the Trucker slid his still-engorged shaft, still slimy with his own cum, out of the corpse’s quivering asshole.  His swollen purple head popped out of the torn sphincter, followed by a pink discharge of mingled blood and semen.

He needed to calm down for a moment, to regain some control and slow his breathing and pulse.  Scooping his t-shirt off the floor, he fished his smokes and lighter out of the pocket.  Lighting one, he relaxed and admired the view of Adam’s smooth lean body sprawled helplessly on the bed, feet still kicking–one tightly laced in its black leather sneaker, the other only half-covered by the Nike athletic sock which was being slowly pulled off by the corpse’s convulsions.

Striding quickly to the bathroom, the Trucker tossed his butt into the toilet and flushed it before turning on the shower.  He followed his prior MO of cleaning himself off and tossing the towels in the shower to wash away the evidence.  But unlike the last one, this cunt might not have been with anyone else tonight.

Time to wash some meat.

Stepping back into the room, the Trucker grabbed the corpse’s hand and dragged the still-kicking body into the bathroom, positioning it so he could get it into the bathtub and flush out the anal cavity.

And then a knock at the door changed everything.

“Killer Party, Dude!”

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Other/Guard Kills1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mario saw it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jimbo didn’t look like that at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamie’s Night Out

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex SnuffLeave a comment

Jamie stomped angrily out of the twinkie dance club, his expensive black Nike ball shoes slapping firmly against the pavement. Everything about Jamie was expensive—or so Brad had said. So Jamie, already so drunk his gait was just short of a stagger, had screamed at Brad, right in the middle of the dance floor and stumbled out.

He paused at the corner and turned back. The club’s neon sign lit his face as it was reflected in a puddle left by the sprinklers; he could see ‘Studio 69’ in the murky pool, the words upside down but the numbers just right. The name was as subtle as a coronary thrombosis, but subtlety wasn’t Jamie strong suit.

He was in his early twenties, thin and wiry without being scrawny. There was just enough definition to his lithe, hard body to make him desirable, and he knew it. With his slightly olive complexion, black hair and high cheekbones, he had an ethnic cast. Depending on the lighting and the angle at which they beheld him, some observers had thought he was Hispanic. Others caught something Asian in the tilt of his dark almond eyes. In fact, he was neither, but because of this trick of the light, he had a unique ability to attract all kinds of men.

His boyfriend Brad, a chiseled blond god, as vain and shallow as he was, had the advantage of being rich. He and Jamie had met out of a mutual interest in choking. There was actually no choking involved; Brad would put his hand over Jamie’s mouth, Jamie would flop around a little on top of Brad, getting each other hard, then they’d jack off together. They didn’t really think about why it got them hard, especially since they never cut off each other’s breath long enough to get so much as a headache.

But Brad was getting bored. And Jamie had pricey tastes and no job. Plus, he was a slut; he tried to hide it from Brad since Brad paid the bills, but it was kinda obvious when Brad got home from work to find the freshly-laundered sheets he’d put on the bed last night stiff with cum and he hadn’t had sex with Jamie since they were put on…

It came to a head on the dance floor. And so Jamie was out on the corner, swerving back around to find the car. Fuck Brad. He could take a cab home.

Jamie was wearing a tight sky-blue t-shirt that wrapped firmly around his lean swimmer’s torso—swimming was about the only thing Jamie did regularly; not with the discipline of a sport, of course. But he knew on an instinctive level that he had to keep it up to maintain his desirability. A white leather belt covered in square metal studs wrapped around his narrow waist, holding up a pair of skinny black jeans that outlined each asscheek, cinched up along his taint and wrapped around the thick bulge in his groin.

As he turned the last corner into the parking lot, staggering toward the car and a near-certain death in a fiery drunken wreck, he ran straight into some dude who was walking out of the lot. Jamie grunted in surprise as he bounced off a hard body as if he’d walked into a brick wall.

He stumbled back and looked up—and instantly got hard. The dude was seriously hot. Taller than Jamie himself, the guy must have been six-six or more. He was older, early thirties perhaps. Curly hair like spun gold, he had a broad, muscled chest accented by the dirty sleeveless white t-shirt he wore. Jamie could see a skull tattoo on the dude’s left shoulder. Under the skeletal grin were inked the words “Die, Motherfucker, Die!”

The dude’s jeans were tight and faded, ragged at the hems and torn at the left knee. On his feet were rugged, well-worn construction boots laced tightly above his ankles.

Jamie looked up into the man’s face. The orange glare of the sodium light in the parking lot lit a nimbus of fire in the man’s gold hair. His eyes were ice-blue—and ice-cold. Stubble darkened his lean, hard jaw. He looked down at Jamie with no emotion at all.

Jamie found himself turned on—and scared. There was something about this guy that reeked of sex. Jamie knew, somehow, deep within himself, that this man was capable of giving him the best sex he’d ever had. He didn’t know why he was so certain, but he was. He was, however, also frightened by the dude. There was something about him—he was appraising Jamie with a look of lust that Jamie was very familiar with, but the other emotions that should be there—hope, doubt, desperation—well, there was nothing.

It didn’t matter. Jamie was too drunk to heed the red flags. “Hey, sweetie,” he leered obscenely, “wanna fuck me? We can go back to my place; it’s only a few blocks away.”

The dude looked down at him for a moment, considering. In his drunken state, Jamie concluded the guy was a construction worker. Straight to his friends and family. Comes down for a quick fuck on the DL every now and then. Ok by him. Dude had a hot body and anyway fuck Brad! This guy would fuck him without bitching about money and maybe even choke him a little. He’d ask; couldn’t hurt. And if he was better than Brad and had some money—fuck Brad!

Even in his alcoholic stupor, Jamie felt a slight chill down his spine when the dude reacted to his suggestion by staring levelly into his eyes and saying in a monotone, “Yeah, you’ll do.” Jamie interpreted it as a lack of gratitude that a young stud like himself should condescend to make the offer. It was an experience he was not used to; most of the time guys were “generous” to him in every sense of the word, which infuriated Brad.

“C’mon, we’ll take my car,” the dude snapped suddenly, “you’re in no shape to drive. You live alone?”

“No,” Jamie slurred, “but that asthhole won’t be back for long time. He gonna go fuck someone elsh. Like I don’t fuckin’ know what he means when he says ek—exthp—I cost too much, fuckin’ bitsth…”

Jamie found himself strapped into the front seat of a car, not quite remembering if he’d gotten in under his own power. The car was moving. He must’ve passed out for a moment. He hoped they were going home but was just a little too wasted to be able to tell. “Where we goin’, man,” he blurted.

“Your place. That’s what ya said,” the dude replied abruptly.

“How you know where t’ go?”

“Your wallet. Got the address off your driver’s license. Just lay back, James, you’re gonna have a good time.”

“Jamie, dude, name is Jamie. Will you choke me? I don’ mean really choke me, dude, I mean act like it. Y’know, pretend-like. Gets me off, if ya know what I mean.”

The older man let out a deep chuckle. “Yeah, Jamie,” he grinned, “I think I can do that. I can choke ya and make you get off.”

It was a ground floor condo at the back edge of the complex. In the parking lot, Jamie grabbed the dude’s hand and led him to the front door, letting go to unlock it. The unit was dark. Jamie didn’t bother to turn on any lights. Walking straight back into the bedroom, he started to strip.

“When you’re done, put your shoes back on,” the dude said as he walked into the room and pulled his shirt off, exposing his broad chest and rippled abdomen covered with a fine golden haze of fur. “I wanna fuck you while you’re wearing them.” His taut body glistened in the half-light.

As Jamie tightly re-laced his basketball shoes up to his ankles, the older man unzipped his fly. Slipping the elastic band of his briefs under his scrotum, he let his cock and balls flop out, already swollen and purple.

Lying back on the bed, Jamie stared at the dude’s thick tackle and inhaled deeply, shudderingly. “Fuck, dude,” he moaned, “stick it in me. Make me feel it.”

The dude’s cold, icy eyes roved over Jamie’s body like he was appraising a piece of meat—which was exactly what he was doing. The thin, firm, wiry body of the boy was stretched out on the bed. He wrapped his hands under his knees and hoisted his legs, exposing his pink quivering butthole, his black Nike kicks dangling in the air.

The dude approached the bed. Not bothering to remove his boots or his jeans—since his dick was out anyway—he plunged his long, erect member into the boy’s trembling, pale rosebud of a sphincter. Jamie cried out in pain as the thick tool split his ass, impaling him on a rod of hard flesh. He’d been fucked many, many times before, but never quite this ruthlessly.

Somewhere deep in his little pig soul, he loved it and craved more. He looked up into the dude’s face and saw nothing there but contempt. It scared him, and being scared got him harder than ever. So did the dude’s cock. Jamie could feel every ridged inch of it stretching out his already well-worn fuckhole; the guy’s tool was painfully thick.

If Jamie hadn’t been so drunk and angry, he might have recognized some danger signals; he was pretty experienced with random pick-ups. But with his senses dulled, he walked into a bad situation. He was about to make it worse.

“Goddam, dude,” he moaned breathily. He jerked back on his legs, spreading his black sneakers further apart as they hung in the air. “Fuckin’ Brad can’t fuck me like this. Can ya choke me, too? Can ya do that better than him? If ya got some money, I’ll be your bitch, dude. Take care of me and you can bang me all th’ time.”

The dude slipped one hand down to the right front pocket of his jeans. Without breaking the rhythm of his pumping, he grinned into Jamie’s face, his left hand placed in the center of Jamie’s chest, pinning him to the bed. “Don’t worry, bitch,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you, all right.”

Suddenly, he spit in Jamie’s face. It took a moment for Jamie to realize what had happened; just as he did so, the dude’s right arm came up, biceps bunched in strain, swinging right at Jamie’s face. In the last split-second before it made contact, Jamie could see what looked like a length of braided nylon cord in his clenched fist.

The blow stunned him–it actually wasn’t that strong; just hard enough to split his lips and cause some minor bleeding. But Jamie was still too drunk to put up any kind of coordinated defense, so the impact was out of proportion to the force. He grunted in pain as he felt a hand grip his hair and jerk his head up off the mattress. He was laid back down a moment later, but he could feel that something was different.

He could feel the rope on the back of his neck. Despite the unexpected, terrifying assault, Jamie’s long cock was still erect, slapping against his own lean belly as his body rocked with the purposeful thrusting of the man on top of him. As the dude crossed the ends of the rope over the front of his throat, Jamie’s dick started oozing in anticipation. He had a live one. This guy was gonna fuck him good. And a hard alpha male like him pretending to choke…

And then the dude pulled the rope taut. Jamie’s perspective changed immediately as the cord sank deeply into his skin. Jamie’s eyes widened; Brad had never cut off his air so completely so early. And besides, it hurt like fuck. The dude was gonna have to let up or this was gonna be over real fast.

Jamie tried to cry out, to tell the older man to ease up a bit, but found that his throat was too constricted to be able to make an intelligible sound. He turned his bulging eyes up to the dude’s face and for the first time during the encounter, experienced true fear—just after the nick of time, so to speak.

The dude was bearing down on him, straight-arming the tight cord into his neck. It was the look in the eyes, though, that managed to pierce through Jamie’s alcohol-induced haze and spark true terror in his soul. It was a look of lust, mixed with contempt and rage. Seeing it made Jamie instantly aware of his vulnerable position; a larger, stronger man was holding him to the bed with his huge cock up Jamie’s ass and a cord wrapped tightly around Jamie’s neck.

That’s when he finally realized what was happening. This guy wasn’t gonna let go. He wasn’t pretending. He was gonna take Jamie all the way down that path to the very end.

Jamie panicked. He began flailing wildly, trying to batter his way free. The dude shifted both ends of the cord to one hand, never creating any slack in the process. Jamie still couldn’t breathe, but now the man had one arm free. He drew back and began pummeling Jamie’s face. Bruises bloomed on Jamie’s tan cheeks as a series of roundhouse blows taught him the virtue of accepting his fate.

With each shuddering smack of fist against flesh, Jamie’s colon tightened involuntarily; even in his pain and fear, he could feel it—but he didn’t know what the feeling was. Since he had no way of knowing that his rectum was contracting, he thought the dude’s dick was swelling to completely fill his ass every time he got punched.

This was going way too far. Jamie’s eyes, protruding from the orbits, began to leak tears. He wanted to stop, to get off the ride. He wrapped his lean, strong legs around the dude’s heaving, sweaty flanks in a vain attempt to force him off. His Nike kicks drummed helplessly on the man’s back. His face was beginning to swell and turn red, and he was gagging uncontrollably; if his esophagus hadn’t been closed off, he’d have been vomiting. But it still wasn’t too late. If the cord came off now, it could all still be okay.

That was when he made his fatal mistake. Giving in to utter panic, Jamie clawed and scrabbled furiously at the dude, scraping and scratching along the man’s hard, hairy chest, breaking the skin and clawing out hair.

The dude grimaced and leaned down with his face up against Jamie’s. Jamie could feel the man’s stubble graze his cheek as he hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, you fucking slut. You marked me. But you’re my bitch, remember? So now I gotta mark you even harder. See, this is how I know you’re my bitch; I’m gonna mark you as my property—for good.”

With a deep grunt from the center of his chest, the dude spit into Jamie’s face. Wrapping the ends of the cord twice around his hands to improve his grip, the dude yanked it tight around Jamie’s neck.

After Brad’s play-smother, Jamie was unprepared for the dude’s first true choke. Compared to the intensity of the burning agony around his windpipe now, that first one seemed as benign as Brad’s. His fingers scrabbled frantically at his throat but were unable to find leverage; the cord had sunk in too deeply for him to reach.

Jamie felt the pounding, excruciating pressure increase above the stricture. His head felt like it was being over-inflated; his eyes, his tongue, the very skin of his face, all were swelling. A fire was burning in the center of his chest; he thrashed wildly in an attempt to escape it. Somewhere in the depths of his fear-inflamed mind, he could feel the dude’s cock, like a red-hot shaft of iron shoved up his ass. But the pain in his chest and his head overrode that.

The dude was still, holding himself over Jamie’s thrashing, limber body. He didn’t really need to thrust anymore; he could just stay still and let Jamie’s quivering, flailing hole work his cock for him. He remained poised above the kid’s wiry, convulsing body like a steel cage, one shaft of which held the boy to the bed by his ass.

Jamie couldn’t actually feel his face turning black. He could feel his tongue swelling and forcing his jaws apart, though. He could feel his eyes bulging out to the point that he could no longer close his lids. He couldn’t feel the petechial hemorrhages or the blood vessels rupture in the white of his eyes, but he could see the great bursts and blooms of nothingness as his eyes began to misfire from lack of oxygen.

By the time white frothy drool began to leak down his cheek from the corners of his blue lips, Jamie wasn’t really capable of conscious thought. There was nothing left but a nervous system growing increasingly unstable under progressive brain damage. His long, thin cock, all seven inches, was erect and glistening.

Suddenly, a massive convulsion wracked Jamie’s body. As his muscles tightened involuntarily, cum flew from the end of his dick in thin, ropy strands; it looked like someone stomped on a tube of toothpaste.

The older man shuddered, grunting and groaning as Jamie’s colon sucked out his spunk in a suction created by the death throes of the rectum. Gripping the cord in one hand and a handful of Jamie’s hair in another, he jerked them violently apart. As Jamie’s neck snapped under the strain, sending a last constrictive shockwave through his body and milking that last drop of seed out of the dude’s cock, he gave a last strangled cry, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” before relaxing his hard, tensed body.

After a couple of minutes, the dude’s breathing returned to normal. He pulled himself out of the corpse’s ass, his boots hitting the floor with a thump. He walked into the bathroom and spent a little time cleaning himself up.

When he came out, Jamie was still lying stretched out across the bed, legs spread, arms still clutching his throat, blood-stained eyes rolled back so that only a tiny arc of the iris was visible. It was too good of an opportunity to miss. The dude’s dick was still hard. He slipped it into the corpse’s mouth, forcing it past the dry, swollen tongue, feeling it rasp against the sensitive bud of nerves on the underside of his dick head. As he pumped his shaft down the dead kid’s throat, he could feel a slight obstruction on his deepest thrusts; it was the crushed section of Jamie’s esophagus.

The dude came so hard it overflowed the corpse’s oral cavity and leaked out onto the face. It took another few minutes in the bathroom to clean up for the second time. The dude left without a look back.

It was another couple of hours before Brad got home. As Jamie had thought, he’d fucked someone else who’d dropped him off afterwards. Brad was stunned and shocked when he turned on the bedroom light and revealed Jamie’s throttled, abused corpse.

Shocked and stunned, yes. Surprised, no. Brad had known that Jamie could be naïve and randy when drunk, so he had always kinda thought this might happen someday. He’d tried to imagine how he would handle it and now he knew.

Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t fuck Jamie’s body; he couldn’t afford to contaminate the evidence.

But he took plenty of photos before calling 911.

Mac and Bill 1

On By m3mayhemIn Mac and Bill Stories3 Comments

They had scoped out the kill and were ready.

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

This job, they were supposed to die hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to let that cum out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then bright pain exploded in Frank’s face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mac returned to Bill.

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

“Any problems?”

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

Bill grinned.

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

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

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

Bill yanked up on Ginger’s hair.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, talk!”

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

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

“He says he don’t wanna.”

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

“What about you? You feel like talking? “

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ohfuckdon’tkillmepleasedon’tilltellyaanythingohfuckohshit,” he pleaded.

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

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

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

“Whaddaya think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had plans for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On your knees, assholes!” shouted Mac.

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

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

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

“Who’s Jose?” asked Mac.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 11

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

Young, dumb, and full of cum. It’s my favorite combination. Catch ‘em in their late teens or early twenties after all the hormones are functioning and they shoot huge wads of semen when you put ‘em down. It’s as if it were hard-wired into them, physiologically.

This one fits the bill. He looks about nineteen or so. I can see him on a bench on the other side of the empty playground. He’s had a lot of traffic, but he hasn’t left the bench. From where I’m sitting, I can only see his head, but unless he’s been giving handies, he’s not a whore. And if he is into handjobs, he’s had bad luck; no one’s been next to him for more than thirty seconds or so.

So if he ain’t selling his body, what is he selling? Drugs, most likely. He’d had a backpack when he came in. Can’t tell if he’s still wearing it, but it doesn’t really matter anyway.

I’m just curious how much money he has. He won’t need it when I’m done with him, but I might find it handy…

He’s been looking in my direction, off and on, for a while now. It doesn’t take long before he gets up and moves towards me.

Short red-gold hair; his face is broad and his nose is large. It makes me think Eastern Europe for some reason. His complexion is pale with a scattering of freckles.

He’s wearing a grey hoodie, jeans, and Converse red canvas hightops. The backpack is slung over his shoulder as he strolls nonchalantly by me. He stares in my face the entire time. As he walks away, I get up and follow him fifty yards further down the park path, into the greenbelt. He’s waiting.

He goes through his spiel, trying to get me to buy one of the bags of cheap skunk weed he was selling before progressing to pills and coke. But he’s not trying too hard—and his eyes keep coming back to the bulge in my crotch.

I flat out solicit him. I’ll pay him fifty bucks and get him high—my own stash, not his—if he’ll let me suck his dick. His eyes light up but I can’t tell if it’s from lust or greed. Again, doesn’t matter, as long as I get to watch that light fade as he dies.

He doesn’t mind hauling his dick out in the back of my van right there in the parking lot of the rec center. I want someplace a little more private, though, so I hand him a joint to smoke while I head towards an empty industrial park just on the other side of the highway.

By the time I get there, the special mixture in my joint has done its job. The kid lies limply in the seat, awake, but barely able to move. His speech is little more than an inarticulate mumble. He’s drooling slightly—there’s something about the combination of the drugs that induces a very slight paralysis. I think it has something to do with the hallucinogen, but I’m no chemist. But his breathing is shallow and rapid; panic is starting to set in.

He’s just realized that’s he’s completely helpless. He also knows what it means—something very bad is going to happen to him.

Tears ooze from his fear-widened eyes as I drag him out of his seat into the back. I show him a sharp knife just to terrorize him; I’m not planning to use it on him directly. It’s here so I can cut his clothes off, which I do very quickly. It doesn’t take long to slash apart his hoodie, jeans, and boxers. As usual; I leave his shoes on; I like it when they kick.

I throw him down flat on his back on the carpeted floor of the van and climb on top of him, laying full length. I grab a handful of his hair to hold his head still as I talk to him.

“All right, listen up, bitch. This is how this is gonna go down. I’m gonna shove my dick up your ass and while it’s up there, I’m gonna choke you to death. Nothing personal, dude, but I wanna blow a load into some dead meat. And that means someone’s gotta die. Just your lucky night, fucker. Don’t worry, though, you’ll shoot a wad, too. Dunno if enough of your brain will be left alive at the time for you to enjoy it, but I promise you—you’ll cum before you go.”

I grinned at this witticism. The kid moaned and shuddered but wasn’t capable of anything more coordinated. Even without the drugs, his fear would have incapacitated him at this point.

Perfect time for me to whip my hog out of my jeans and slam it into his hole. Fuck yeah. He was tight. Dunno if he was a virgin; I’d like to think so but I doubt it. I know it hurt; the only lube I used was my own spit and the kid was moaning even more loudly, tears welling out of his eyes and streaming down the side of his face. I propped the bitch’s hightops on my shoulders as I bent over him, still spearing his ass with my thick cock.

I held the nylon cord in front of his eyes. See, the Inquisition knew a trick or two. They made it a practice to show the prisoner the implements of torture before they were used on him. As the true horror of what was to come sank in, the prisoner was more likely to confess with needing to be tortured at all.

Not that I give a shit about confession. The more terrified the meat is, the better it milks the cum out of my cock. I want it to know what’s coming.

“See this? I’m gonna tighten it around your neck. Does dying hurt? Yeah, bitch, it’s gonna hurt. I’m gonna make it hurt because that’s what gets me off. And somewhere in all that pain, you’re gonna cum too. So are ya ready, ya little fuck? Ready to ride my cock down into your grave? Let’s saddle up!”

I grab his hair again and gently lift his head, laying the cord under his neck. I lower his head, pick up the ends of the cords and cross them at the front of his throat, just under the adam’s apple. I position myself for maximum traction; my boots are digging into the carpet with each thrust of my tool and my elbows support my upper half. I wrap the cord ends around the palms of my hands and yank as hard as I can.

It sinks in so deeply that I can barely see it. The boy’s eyes are huge now; the expression on his face is terror. His voluntary nervous system is slowed by the drugs but not the involuntary. His face starts to go red immediately as he arcs his back in a vain attempt to draw in air.

“That’s it. You can feel the pressure building in your head, can’t you? Yeah, that’s gonna get real bad, fuckmeat. But we’ve only been doing this for a few seconds. It’s gonna be three minutes before death takes you, punk. It may not sound long, but it’s gonna be three minutes of agony and I’m gonna be fucking you each second of it. By the time your thrashing, dying body works the last drop of cum outta my rod, your brain will be so damaged you won’t feel the hot seed I plant inside you.”

He’s able to move some now. There’s no strength or focus but he can bat his arms weakly against me. Perhaps his panic is allowing him to overcome some of the paralysis effect. It’s not strong enough to inconvenience me.

His face is darker and his bloodshot eyes are bulging slightly. His lips are swelling as well and have a distinct bluish tint. His involuntary movements are stronger now; he’s writhing under me, his body lubed by the thin film of cold perspiration that’s covering him.

“Whaddaya say, fuckmeat, time to take it up a notch? Yeah, bitch? Don’t think you’re hurtin’ enough yet. Fuck yeah, let’s see if we can fix that.”

I start to pull tighter on the cord. My biceps are beginning to bulge and tendons are standing out. But I keep my breathing regular, timing it with each thrust so I can speak clearly.

“You’re gonna hear a crunching sound in a moment, fuckmeat. Gonna fuckin’ feel it too. It’ll be the sound of your hyoid bone breaking and your esophagus collapsing. Once that happens, you’re dead. Even if I undo this cord, you still won’t be able to breathe. But I’m not gonna undo the cord anyway, because you’re not completely dead yet and I can tighten it even more before you die. “

I grin cheerfully into his terrified, pleading eyes. His tongue, black at the tip, has protruded beyond his puffy cyan lips. It’s moving slightly; the punk dealer is trying to speak, to beg for his life, to plead on behalf of a sick mother or younger brother or some such bullshit. All he’s actually doing is pushing out a stream of foamy drool that trickles down his cheek. The sound came, more like a twig snapping, really.

“Fuckin’-A, yeah! Die, motherfucker, die on my dick. Fuckin’ shoot your punk-ass load and die so I can fill your worthless meat with man cum before I throw it out to rot. C’mon, dude, give up your wad and it’ll all be over. Die, you pig fuck. It won’t hurt after you’re dead.”

His arms flail around my body, hands scrabbling against my sweaty back and sides. He’s completely covered in a sheet of cold sweat himself; it’s the cold sweat of serious body crisis. The canvas of his shoes scratches at my cheeks as his feet jerk with approaching death.

I’m bent down close to his face now. This is the finale; this is what I’ve been waiting for.

“Soon, fuckmeat, it’ll all be over soon. Your only purpose on earth was as a sack to hold my cum. Let go and stop fighting. You’re helpless against it anyway. Let it come and let it be.”

His face is almost black and the whites of his eyes are blood red with hemorrhages. Some part of him hears me though—hears me in the depths of massive brain damage and accepts his fate. He becomes less frantic. His arms slow, his hands caressing my back as they wrap around me.

Suddenly the punk’s grip tightens around me as his body arcs up, pressing his smooth, flat, sweaty belly against mine. His shoes press against the side of my head. But it’s his ass that tightens the most; it clamps down on my cock like it’s getting vacuum-wrapped.

His body thrashes a moment, then something flies between us. The dying boy has shot a wad; it splatters on the back of the seat, above his head. It’s the first of several; most land in his face. Soon his own cum is dripping off his thick swollen tongue and seeping into pools covering his dull, half-lidded eyes.

As he shoots, random nerves fire throughout his body, creating a rippling effect in his rectum. I cum so hard I hear myself cry out incoherently. I jerk the cord so tightly around the meat’s neck that it sinks to a circumference only a little larger than his spine. After I empty myself into the meat’s guts, I fall asleep with my cock still up his ass.

I can’t sleep too long; this is too public a place when I still had the meat in my possession. But I’m horny again when I wake up, so I decide to use the meat one more time.

I flip it over and fuck it from behind this time. I ride the meat like a bronco, using the cord that I’d left around the neck as reins. I get a little carried away when I have my second orgasm; I yank back a little too hard and snap the spine. By the time I stop shooting; the meat’s glazed, blackened face is bent over backwards and staring at me upside-down.

Oh well. This meat is fucked out anyways. Time to throw it away and find another one.

Fantasy Scenario 4

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series2 Comments

It’s been raining for days. The drainage ditches are full, the sewers are overflowing, and I’m getting frustrated. Cold wet weather like this keeps the fuckmeat off the streets. It doesn’t stop them from doing their shady little deals, of course; they just do them inside—where I can’t get at them.

I manage to spot one lone figure out in the meat market area. I’ve seen him before, but I haven’t bothered with him. He’s a crackhead, so I can’t slip him the heroin. I can get him back to the playpen for sex, but why bother with whores when I can get true lost souls?

Problem is, I can’t seem to get any lost souls right now. He’ll have to do.

He’s very short, no more than five and a half feet, if that. He’s going for a rough trade look with a zipped-up black leather biker jacket and jeans tucked into black harness boots. His short brown hair is plastered to his skull by the rain. He’ll be glad to find a place to get out of the weather; he looks like a drowned rat—which gives me an idea.

I’m right; he’s grateful for the chance to get dry and earn the money for his next bump. When we get back to the playpen, I offer to get him a towel. While in the bathroom, I also start the tub running, to make sure the water’s nice and warm. When I return with the towel, he’s taken his jacket off. He’s not wearing a shirt—he must have been cold out on the street. His back is turned towards me, so he never sees the hammer in my other hand. One quick blow to the back of the head and he’s limp on the floor.

I pick him up and sit in the recliner with him on my lap, facing away. I think it’s much more erotic to slowly strip him in my lap—pulling off his boots, slowly peeling his socks off his feet, slipping my hands down his jeans to fondle his junk before sliding the jeans off altogether. I sit with him for a while, rubbing my hands over his smooth, fit, compact body. He looks like he’s about sixteen until you get up close—then you see the faint lines on his face. He still can’t be more than twenty, but he’s let himself get used and abused. A lot.

He moves his head and starts moaning; he’s waking up. Time to get it on.

I carry him into the bathroom and lay him on his back in the tub. I like my tub. These apartments are old and have never been remodeled; the tubs are huge and deep. Plus, the bathroom is at the back of the apartment and the unit on the other side of the wall is permanently empty; it’s so dilapidated, it can’t be rented. I’ve used the tub frequently when it’s time to reduce the dead meat to manageable proportions. Within certain limits, no one can hear what happens back there.

I’m counting on that; today, I’m using the tub for more than just disposal.

This might be easier if I laid him face down and mounted him like the fucking dog he is, but I’m really horny. I want to be looking in his face when he dies. I want the last thing this little bitch sees to be my face snarling at him as I pump my load into his guts.

I climb into the tub with him and throw his legs up. He gives a louder moan when I stuff my cock into his ass. The tub is slowly filling; when he rolls his head to the side, he inhales water. He’s instantly awake and struggling. But I’m leaning forward with both hands against his chest, pressing him against the bottom and he’s too small to shift me. He’s trapped.

I’ve wrapped my arms around his legs so that when I’m leaning forward his ass is raised off the bottom of the tub and his head is forced down. He can only lift it to the extent that he can bend his neck to press his chin down to his chest. Those muscles will weaken and he’ll have to fight to hold that position—for as long as he can.

I hope he’ll fight for a while. I want to enjoy watching him as he struggles to stay alive. I want to watch his eyes as he realizes that he’s losing the fight; I want to watch as he strains to the very end for one last second of air.

He’s thrashing around a lot now. He shouted for a couple of minutes, but I was silent and now he’s concentrating his energy on getting away. He’s not having any luck. He can’t do much with his legs since I’m leaning on them. He’s beating at the sides of the tub, but he can’t get a grip on anything. His arms aren’t quite long enough to reach my face and he isn’t strong enough to pull my hands away from his chest. He’s starting to realize that he’s in a lot of trouble.

The water’s getting deeper. The little fuck starts to beg and plead for his life, his cries interspersed with moans. Despite his fear, he seems to be enjoying being fucked. His hands are still scrambling to get a grip on the sides of the tub, but he’s squeezing his ass down onto my cock.

He can’t lie back in the tub anymore; the water is too high. He lifts his head and stares at me. His eyes are huge with panic. His face is too wet to be sure, but I think he’s crying. He’s not saying anything now; he can’t. The water is above the level of his mouth. When it’s a half-inch below his nose, I reach up with one hand and turn the tap off.

We’ll see how long he can hold his head up.

His legs jerk against my sides as he tries helplessly to find leverage. This makes his fuckhole slide along my rod; it’s so goddam hot. He grips my wrists as he tries to pull my hands off his chest. When this fails, he slides his hands up my straining muscled arm. He wants to reach my face but he can only graze my chin with his flailing fingertips.

His head starts shaking. The muscles in his neck are weakening and he’s gonna go under. He knows this, and he knows he can’t do anything about it. Oh, the beautiful terror in his face…I pound his ass violently. The water and the tub amplify the swift slapping sound.

The trembling of his head becomes uncontrollable as his neck starts to cramp. He reaches the end of his strength and sinks with a final look of despair. Though the broken surface of the water distorts the image some, I can clearly see him. He’s determinedly holding his breath. I keep reaming him, waiting it out. He can’t keep it up for long. Two things tell me he’s getting close: he’s moving his head erratically from side to side, and he’s getting hard.

He gives in and opens his mouth, expelling a great mass of bubbles. Then he inhales and water fills his lungs. He thrashes wildly, but this reaction is involuntary. He’s starting to accept. I can tell by the way he’s working my cock.

He gets it. He knows that he’s achieving his highest destiny by pleasuring me with his death. As his brain shuts down from lack of air, he’s doing everything in his power to make me cum. His own thick tool is rigid and flat against his wriggling belly. On some deep level, he’s realizing that the one thing he truly wants is for us both to shoot as life drains from his body.

He’s fading. His arms no longer resist me; he’s stroking me now. His eyes stare up at me with that gorgeous look of acceptance. He gives a last intense shudder, his rectum squeezing the cum out of me like toothpaste out of a tube. A milky cloud of sperm erupts from the head of his dick and diffuses into the water. Then it all goes still. The only sounds are the diminishing slosh of the water and my gasps for breath.

I drain the water. The meat has foam on his face; there’s a trail from each nostril and from the left corner of his mouth. The one from his mouth is faintly streaked with blood; probably a vessel burst in his lungs. I flip him over to let him drain a little so he wouldn’t spray water if his chest got compressed while I was taking out the trash. Then I stagger off to bed to sleep for my usual twelve hours.

When I awake, I go to dress the meat before throwing it out. I sit him in my lap as I had done while stripping him. And then I–

I don’t want to admit to it, but I weaken. He’s there in my lap, his cold, limp, smooth corpse leaning against my chest—and it has been too long since the last time—I know he was a whore and not worthy of me, but his meat is sweet and still and unmarked…

I lean back in the recliner, lifting him under his arms and lowering him gently onto the raging hard-on that has instantly sprung up. I can’t help whispering to him. “Worthless little fuckin’ whore, your dead ass feels so good around my dick…” I couldn’t do this if he wasn’t of such a small build. I want to kiss him but he’s facing the wrong way—I can fix that.

I pause my thrusting and by using a great amount of force, I snap his neck and twist his head around backwards. Now I can bounce his ass on my cock while kissing him and gazing into his dull clouded eyes. It’s beautiful and I blow my load right away.

In a state of remorse, I quickly dress—the meat first, then myself. It’s still raining—of course—when I drag him out to the car. It’s about five in the morning and very cold. This could turn into sleet; I need to get a move on. Luckily there’s an open drainage culvert two blocks down. It’s about five feet deep and is the perfect place to find a drowned man. Not that they’d find the meat where I would leave it; the raging stream will carry him for miles.

He goes into the water without a problem and sinks right away. Afterwards, I sit in my car and think. I have polluted myself and I must atone. I must bring salvation to more lost souls. Perhaps I can try saving two at the same time. That would be glorious—and might make up for my sin.