Adam Anew

Toby glanced down at Mike’s thick, swollen cock.  Turning his long-lashed, emerald green eyes back to Mike’s face, he grinned happily, then lowered his head and began to suck the oozing shaft.


“Fuck,” Mike moaned, running his hands over Toby’s smooth, firm body.  He clutched the cocksucker’s arms, feeling the biceps moving under the sleeve of tattoos decorating both arms.  One of the things that had attracted Mike to Toby when they met at the gym was the latter’s skater punk look.  Not that Toby wasn’t as into working out as Mike; but Mike’s was a more conventional buff fag attractiveness.


If it wasn’t love, it had been immediate lust at first sight for both.  Within a month, they’d moved in together; that had been more than nine months ago—and the sex was still as hot as ever.


Mike grunted, his sweat-streaked face twisting into a grimace.  “Fuckin’-A, dude, I’m gonna unload in yer mouth,” he panted and Toby, anxious for that hot spurt down his throat, redoubled his efforts.


Neither one of them had any idea they were being watched.


They’d left the blinds open; no reason they shouldn’t have—the window looked out onto a small yard surrounded by a privacy fence.  Powerful as he was, Adam had been able to vault himself over the fence and land silently on the inside.  Now he crouched outside the window, watching, his muscled body inflamed with desire for the young well-built bodies of the twinks and overwhelming disgust for the pathetic homos having sex in front of him.


Mike and Toby still had a daily routine at the gym, but they varied the times they went.  Unluckily for them, two weeks ago, they’d been spotted there by Adam.  He’d had an idea, a desire, a need—but he also needed a couple to help him fulfill it, and he felt like he’d just discovered the perfect pair.


The idea of pollution had been building in the back of his warped mind.  He’d already accepted that fucking a living fag would tarnish him as a homo himself; he needed to purify the meat by snuffing it first.


Recently, though, he’d worked out his necro philosophy in more detail and decided that there were levels of purity.  The meat that suffered the most was the most pure; suffering purged the faggot taint out of whatever boycunt he fucked.


That being said, how could he know how pure the meat was unless he offed it himself?  Restlessly, his mind turned back to all the corpses he’d plowed that he hadn’t killed.  There was no way to know how much they’d suffered—well, except for that last one, the one in the pool locker room; he’d witnessed that snuff and knew he had nothing to fear there.


And that was when he’d had the idea.  It rose up in him, a great urge that had to be satisfied if he was going to feel cleansed again.


He needed to recreate those kills—but this time, he’d be the killer.  That was the only was he could purge himself of the infection of faggotry.  And this time, he’d make goddam sure the meat suffered.


His first necro fuck had been the two dudes in the condo; the day after coming to this conclusion, Adam had been on the hunt for a couple of pansies that he could snuff simultaneously.  And the day after that, while finishing up some squats at the gym, his eyes lighted on Mike and Toby, the former doing some bench presses and the latter spotting him.


At one point, Mike had set the barbell back on the rests and, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, reached his hand up the leg of Toby’s shorts and fondled the smaller dude’s cock for a moment.  Despite his careful scoping, Mike never caught sight of Adam’s eagle-eye stare; from then on, he and Toby were marked for death.


They appeared to be about the same age—Mike was twenty-three and Toby twenty-one—but Mike was the larger and better-built of the two, by quite bit.  At six-foot-one and a hundred and sixty pounds, he certainly wouldn’t have been Adam’s equal in any physical contest, but he was still muscular enough to turn some heads.  His short strawberry-blond hair capped a broad, good-natured face which lodged a pair of deep, emotive brown eyes, a short straight nose, smooth cheeks and full, red lips.


Toby was more of a twink at 5-foot-nine and just over a hundred and forty.  His long brown hair was straight and shoulder-length; beneath his green eyes and slightly humped nose (evidence of a skateboard mishap that had broken it), he sported a soul patch of thick brown fur on his chin.


After that, Adam started tracking them, stalking the two fags as his prey.  He managed to catch them in the locker room a couple of times, giving him the chance to get a better look at the meat he wanted to fuck.  The skater punk maintained him image; the writhing patterns and designs of both tattooed arms continuing over his shoulders and down to the tops of his pecs, leaving his small brown nipples free.  There was a very faint brown haze of body hair on his flat belly that vanished under his waistband, but otherwise, his lean, lithe body was smooth.  Despite the elaboration of the tattooed sleeves, Adam was amused to note that a single open star had been rather inexpertly inked on the back of Toby’s right calf.


Mike’s muscled body was almost as smooth; his bulging pecs and ripped six-pack glistened with sweat under the gym’s fluorescent lights.  The size of his hog was obvious in the skimpy shorts he chose to wear, as was his near-constant state of semi-erectness.  Again, Toby followed him in this, but the skaterboy’s six inches couldn’t compare with his buff buddy’s long, thick cock.


And again, Adam smirked contemptuously.  Neither one of them had a dick as big as his—but then, that was only to be expected from faggots.  Might as well put ‘em outta their misery and put their meatsacks to some good purpose.


All of which was why Adam was crouched outside their rented condo.  He wasn’t going in tonight; he’d simply been taking a look at the layout and hadn’t actually expected them to be home—they usually went out on Thursday nights.  And Adam wanted them both together in the bedroom they shared, not down here.  But despite having to watch their vile homo sex, the evening hadn’t been a total washout; the sick necro killer had learned that none of windows looking into the private fenced yard were kept locked.  When he was ready, he wouldn’t have any problems gaining access to the interior of the unit.


Two days later, he was ready.


Mike and Toby had plans to go clubbing with some friends on Saturday night but the moment they’d paid their cover charge, Tyler had gotten into a bitchfight with his latest trick and it was easier to just split than listen to the squabbling.  Besides, Mike would have preferred to stay home and lay pipe up Toby’s ass all night anyway; it was the latter who’d wanted to go out.


At any rate, they were home by about eleven that night.  Half an hour later, both were in the bedroom.  Mike was seated on the unmade bed wearing nothing more than a pair of American Eagle boxer briefs and a pair of Nike Vandal hightops.  Both the kicks and the briefs were gray; the latter had a thick black waistband that stretched tautly around Mike’s narrow waist and black seams down the front that outlined the muscle twink’s huge package.


He was leaning back against the headboard, his left leg drawn up with the sneaker on the sheet and his right leg dangling.  With one arm bent back behind his head as a sort of cushion, Mike toked on a freshly-lit joint and ogled Toby, who stood the center of the room.


The slim, tatted skaterpunk had slipped out of all his clothing.  Completely nude except for his black Adidas Baseline kicks, he was returning from the attached bathroom, his own dick hard and bobbing in front of him as he approached Mike.


Reaching the bed, he stood next to it.  “Here, gimme a hit,” he grinned, reaching out for the joint.  Mike relinquished it but reached out himself, grabbing Toby’s shaft and jacking it as the younger punk inhaled deeply.


“That’s it,” Mike said approvingly as Toby exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, “Get yourself nice and high.  You’re gonna need it before your ass goes off duty for the night.”


“Yeah, I bet,” Toby replied with stoned grin, “I know you’re—”


With a loud crash, the bedroom door was kicked open, a single, powerful kick that literally broke the door in half.  A hulking masculine figure, dressed in black, strode into the room, raw power obvious in every step he took.


Adam had given up his usual gym attire for this one.  He’d wanted to take the pansies by surprise and anyway their condo wasn’t a public place—he’d have no excuse for being seen near the place, so it was best not to be seen at all.


To that extent, he’d made sure that his long-sleeve t-shirt and tight-fitting cargo pants were matte black, nearly impossible to see under the cover of night.  His bright copper hair was likewise covered with a close-fitting black knit cap.  And he’d forgone his sneakers.  While he’d been able to clear the fence the other night, his feet had nearly slipped; he wanted better traction.


He’d found it in a pair of Magnum Response III tactical boots, custom ordered with steel toes.  He’d bought them for another reason, but thought they’d work perfectly for what he had in mind.  He’d been right.  He planted his big black lace-up boot in the middle of the door and kicked his way into the homos’ bedroom with almost no effort at all.


For Mike and Toby, the violence seemed to explode like a bomb.  Their different personalities were obvious by their actions once the “fight or flight” instinct kicked in.  Toby shrank back into a corner in fear as Mike leaped off the bed and came at the intruder.


He never stood a chance.  Adam, seeing him coming, drew back his powerful arm and swung wide, driving his balled-up fist into Mike’s face with the force of a semi hitting a brick wall.  The unlucky faggot spun in a half-circle, staggering back and falling, stunned, against the bed.


Filled with rage and lust, Adam turned to Toby, who crouched whimpering in the corner of the bedroom.  Seeing that he’d attracted the intruder’s attention, the lean skater punk began babbling.  “No, man,” he whined, holding up his hands, “Whatever you want, dude, just take it—please don’t hurt us, man, please don’t!”


Striding towards him with a homicidal gleam in his eye, Adam laughed coldly.  “Yeah, I’m gonna take what I want, you fuckin’ pansy.  I’m gonna take the fag right outta you, cunt.  When I’m done with you, you ain’t ever gonna suck another cock again, cunt.”


By now, he was standing in front of Toby, looming over quaking homo.  From behind, he could hear the long, slow groans of Mike regaining consciousness, but he wasn’t particularly worried about him.  He’d handle the stronger fairy when he needed to.


Toby looked up at Adam, trying to understand his words.  He was still terrified; this huge, powerful stranger had burst into the room and punched out Mike with a single blow—what the fuck was going on?


“Is-is this some kinda hate crime?” the long-haired punk quavered, his eyes starting to tear up.


“Hah!” Adam spat out, “Lookit the little queerboy, already startin’ to cry.  You bet it’s a hate crime, you punk-ass bitch.”  And here he reached down, unzipped the fly of his black cargo pants and hauled his enormous, dripping dick out.


Toby gasped at the size of Adam’s member; even Mike, big as he was, wasn’t that well-hung—this dude was some kinda freak.  Despite himself, he could feel his own cock respond—limp with fear, it was now stiffening and standing erect.


Adam noticed it too.  He laughed coldly.  “Ya want it, dontcha?  You think you deserve this cock?  Fuck you, faggot.  You’re fuckin’ scum.  You want this shaft, this real man meat, you gotta earn it.”


Reaching down, Adam clamped one large strong hand around Toby’s throat and lifted him bodily off the ground.  Holding him out at arm’s length, he chuckled as the skaterboy gagged and jerked, his black Adidas kicks swinging helplessly a foot from the ground.


Looking directly into Toby’s eyes, Adam smiled—a thin smile, sharp as the edge of a knife—and said, “Only one way to earn my cock, faggot—you gotta suffer.  And you don’t know the meaning of that word yet, but don’t worry—I’ll teach ya.  And yer little fairy boyfriend there too.  You’ll both learn how to suffer real good.”


Staring into the cunt’s eyes, Adam caught a flicker of movement.  Slamming Toby into the wall and dropping him like a sack of potatoes, the muscular killer wheeled around and caught Mike full in the face with another powerful punch, just as the buff young homo had regained his feet and launched himself for an attack.


With a loud grunt, Mike fell to the floor, bleeding from the corner of his mouth.  Dazed by this second impact, he stared dully up at Adam.  “Stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” Adam sneered.  “Don’t know when to stay down, do ya?  Here, maybe this’ll learn ya.”  Stooping, he punched Mike in the face yet again.  This time he was rewarded with the satisfying crunching sound of the faggot’s nose breaking, the cartilage crushed under the force of his fist.


Pausing for a moment, Adam unzipped one of the pockets on the left thigh of his cargo pants and withdrew several long zip ties.  “You win the grand prize, you lucky cocksucker,” he smirked.  “You get to watch.  Pay attention, asswipe, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”


The well-built homo was flipped onto his belly; he could feel a thin plastic tie cinch inexorably around his wrists and another around his ankles, but the two powerful blows to his face had rendered him incapable of any physical activity for the moment.  By the time he recovered enough to attempt any resistance, it was too late.  Strong as he was, Mike wasn’t able to stretch the zip ties so much as a quarter of an inch, much less break them.


Adam kicked the faggot’s prone body viciously, using enough force to roll him onto his back.  Much like he’d handled Toby, the hulking, muscle-bound killer bent down and grabbed Mike by the throat, lifting him into the air.  Gagging, his Nike Vandals kicking uselessly inches above the carpet, the hardbodied twink was manhandled back to the bed, where Adam tossed him down.  Snatching a handful of hair, the sadist dragged Mike upright, propping him into a seated position where he could take in the entire bedroom in a single glance.


Mike was gonna have a perfect view of Adam snuffing Toby.


In the meantime the long-haired fairy had crawled back into the corner, his young face etched with bewildered terror.  He’d always expected Mike to defend him if the need arose, but this huge, bulked-out psycho who’d burst in on them so unexpectedly had overpowered Mike like he’d been a little girl.  Now the man was rounding on him, and he was helpless.  Whatever was gonna happen, there was nothing he could do to stop it.


“Oh God, no,” he sniveled, cowering as Adam loomed over him.  Glancing hesitantly up at his attacker, he watched mesmerized as the towering madman unexpectedly gabbed the hem of his own t-shirt and pulled it off over his head in a single, fluid motion, revealing his hard, furry torso that descended in a V-shape from his broad shoulders and firm, rounded pecs to his narrow waist.  The knit cap had come off, tangled in the shirt, and revealed a slightly tangled mass of bright, coppery hair.


The dude was a serious stud.  Toby felt himself getting hard.  But that was despite of his terror, not because of it, and even though he could see a large translucent bead of precum oozing from the piss slit of the intruder’s cock, fear was taking more of his attention at the moment than horniness.


The fear was well-deserved.  Adam bent down and grabbed a hank of Toby’s long hair.  Wrapping it around his palm he jerked the squalling twink up onto his feet.


“C’mon, faggot, let’s get started,” he growled, grabbing Toby by the throat and hoisting him in the air again, “I gotta load to drain and I can already tell it’s gonna take a while to beat the queer outta a pathetic little homo like you.”


Toby only kicked in Adam’s grip for a moment before his face and his world exploded in pain.  Adam punched him vicious in the face, then hurled him across the room.  The skater’s lean body slammed into the front of the dresser. The force of the impact rolled him up over the top of it, scattering everything—their cell phones, their wallets, piles of loose change and receipts, all of it went flying as Toby smacked into the wall, then rolled back forward off the dresser and onto the floor.


Groaning in pain, the tattooed twink opened his eyes.  To hurt to move, all he could see of his assailant as he approached were his laced-up boots.  They came nearer, then one drew back.  By the time Toby realized what it meant, it was too late to avoid it.  With one single brutal kick from his steel-toed boot, Adam broke Toby’s jaw.


The lean, lithe punkboy spent the next minute or so writhing on the floor, gurgling and mewling in agony as Adam watched him with erect, throbbing satisfaction.  The buff killer didn’t get to enjoy the view in peace for long, though—the other faggot began to squawk.


“You sonovabitch!” Mike screamed, “I’m gonna fuck you up!  You hurt him, I’m gonna fuck you up bad!”


Adam looked around the room and soon saw what he’d expected to find.  Ambling over to a pile of dirty laundry near the closet door, he bent down and picked up a reeking, stained jockstrap, stiff with cum.  Turning back to Mike with a grin, he said, “You’ll get yer chance to squeal like a pig yerself later, cunt, for all the good it’ll do ya.  In the meantime, keep your fuckin’ trap shut and enjoy watchin’ yer bitch suffer.”  Rolling the jock into a ball, he forced it into Mike’s mouth, leaving the muscled top gagging and mute, but still able to see everything that happened.


While Adam’s attention was diverted, an instinct for self-preservation kicked in deep inside Toby’s craven soul.  Even though the slightest movement of his head caused him terrible agony, he managed to rise to his hands and knees and crawl.  By the time Adam had silenced Mike and turned back to Toby, the latter was halfway to the door.


“Oh no you don’t, asswipe,” Adam growled and headed for him.  Toby could hear him approaching from behind; desperate tears leaked from his eyes as he realized he’d never make the door before the powerful psycho had reached him, but he had to keep going, he had to try…


When Adam got to him, he merely stood over the cringing, crawling twink for a moment, chuckling gutturally.  Then he delivered another vicious, lightning-fast kick, this one connecting with Toby’s left elbow.


The force behind the steel-toed boot didn’t just dislocate the joint, it snapped the ball end off the humerus, tore the tendons and completely severed the ligaments.  Despite the pain in his jaw, Toby screeched involuntarily as he collapsed and rolled onto his left side.  Adam walked around the sobbing, trembling punk until he was facing him.


“Didja really think you were gonna get away, you stupid sack of shit?  Fuck, dude, here I was tryin’ to make ya worth my dick, and now it looks like I’m gonna hafta kick the dumbass outta ya, you worthless faggot bitch.”  Still sobbing incoherently, Toby didn’t even notice Adam raise his foot up.


He damn sure noticed when Adam stomped on his chest, the deep tread of his thick-soled boot grinding into Toby’s soft flesh.  The loud snapping sound that accompanied it, like the splintering of a green limb, showed that one of the punkboy’s ribs had caved in under the sudden force—and if it didn’t show it, the sudden, high-pitched squeal forced from between Toby’s split, bleeding lips did.


“Fuck yeah!  That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Adam crowed, his huge, stiff cock pulsing visibly while he drank in the image of the tattooed skate punk writhing in nightmarish agony.  He was really getting off on hurting the little homo, seeing the fear and pain in his eyes.  And he still had another fucktoy in reserve—tonight was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…


Toby was wrapped in torment like a flaming blanket.  Every part of him was throbbing with pain, from the dull ache of bruised flesh to the glassy torture of broken bones.  He’d stopped trying to think; he could only endure.  An involuntary muscle jerk had pulled his head slightly to the side—from where he lay on the floor, he could clearly see Mike on the bed.  The idea that Mike might rescue him was long gone.  Mike was on the other side of the room, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world.  Toby could see that his boyfriend was crying, but it meant nothing.


Pain was the only thing that had meaning for Toby anymore.  And Adam knew it.


The relentless sadist sneered at his prey.  “Does it hurt, bitch?  Yeah?  It ain’t enough, you worthless sack of faggot shit; you ain’t hurt anywhere near enough yet to deserve my grade-A manmeat.”  He raised his boot again.  This time, Toby knew what was happening.  As Adam stomped, the fit, lean youth swung his right arm up and knocked the alpha’s foot away with all the force he could muster.


“You stupid pansy,” Adam barked and planted his foot in the middle of the kid’s right forearm, his big black boot covering a large section of inked flesh.  With a swift, smooth motion—so casual it almost looked rehearsed—the powerful psycho bent down, grabbed Toby right wrist, and pulled it violently upward.  There was a quick double-snap as both the radius and the ulna splintered; when Adam let go, the kid’s arm flopped uselessly back to the floor.


Toby didn’t react to this new source of pain.  Deep in sensory overload, he was starting to go into shock.  Lying on his back with his smooth chest heaving in shallow, irregular gasps, the tortured twink stared the ceiling, his bright green eyes wide and vacant.  His short, thick cock had gone limp, but that didn’t bother Adam.  He knew the punk would get hard again by the time he was done with him.


After all, the meat would be even more pure if the worthless fag sperm was drained out of it before Adam fucked it.


“Hey, queer-boy,” Adam called out to Mike, “It’s time.  Watch this shit, dude.  Watch me waste your cocksuckin’ homo boyfriend.”


As Toby continued to shudder and tremble on the floor, Adam waked around him until he was facing Mike on the bed.  With a wide, deliberate grin, he raised his right foot and planted his boot on the young faggot’s neck.  The sadistic killer stared directly into Mike’s disbelieving, tear-filled eyes.  “Look, ma,” he whispered.  “No hands.”  The hulking stud slowly began shifting his weight onto the foot on Toby’s neck.


The tattooed skaterpunk could only stare helplessly up at the huge, muscle-bound figure towering over him; there was no way for Toby to defend himself.  His broken arms jerked and flopped aimlessly, like dying fish; he had no way reach for the heavy black boot that was slowly—oh, so slowly—crushing his throat.  If he kicked, he bent his abdomen, causing his snapped rib to dig agonizingly into his guts, threatening to puncture his lung and pancreas.  If he tried to cry out, the jagged ends of his broken jaw ground together, causing hellish pain in his mouth…


Every movement bristled with torture, but Toby’s air was gradually being cut off.  He couldn’t keep still.  The tread on the killer’s sole was deep and intricate; as it sank into the tender flesh of his throat, what little lucidity the long-haired power bottom still possessed began to melt away in the face of impending asphyxiation.


Adam bent his head and spat in Toby’s face.  “Gettin’ harder to breathe, ain’t it?” he chuckled.  “See, as you choke an’ die, yer dick is gonna get all hard—and then yer gonna cum.  Happens almost every time I choke out a faggot.  You perverted little pansies empty your fuckin’ balls every time I waste ya—nothin’ turns ya on like gettin’ put down hard.  You wanna suffer even more than I wanna fuck you up.  Disgusting sack a’ shit—I gotta squeeze your load out and drain your sick fag seed outta yer meat to make it worthy of my cock.  Don’t worry, motherfucker—I’ll fill yer worthless corpse with my sperm.  I’ll baptize yer guts with hot manspunk before I leave you to rot.  And best of all, your fairy-ass boyfriend gets to watch you die!”


The words hit Toby’s ears like a dull ache, utterly swamped in the rising tide of instinctive terror as his oxygen was cut off.  He began to shudder and kick, helplessly flailing his firm, smooth legs and jerking his broken arms aimlessly.  Air.  He needed air.


And that was when it finally hit the lean twink—the realization that he was gonna die finally sank through the multiple layer of pain that had wrapped him like a cocoon.  Panic set in, a terrifying white panic the left him conscious and aware but still unable to control his actions.  Smirking, Adam watched Toby lose his shit as the boy choked under the alpha’s booted foot.  The pathetic little homo thrashed, his Adidas Baseline kicks carving furrows in the carpet as his inked arms flailed limply and helplessly.


As he struggled, Toby’s long hair became tangled and dark with sweat.  His entire body, in fact, was slick with sweat, the cold rank sweat of physical suffering.  The brutalized faggot’s smooth firm flesh glistened in the light, even as his face began to swell and grow dark.  “Hey, man,” Adam called out to Mike, “Lookit this shit.  See how his eyes are bulgin’?  That’s cause pressure’s building up in his head.  Damn, motherfucker, that’s gotta hurt like shit.”


Staring coldly into Mike’s bottomless brown eyes, the cruel alpha laughed, the sound slashing at Mike’s soul like a knife.  “Remember that, asswipe,” Adam hissed viciously.  “Dying hurts.  It hurts like nothing you’ve ever suffered in your useless faggot life.  Remember that when it’s your turn.”


From his position on the floor, Toby found that he couldn’t look away from his killer’s tall, powerfully-built form—quite literally.  As Adam had pointed out, his eyes were bulging; he couldn’t close them.  Toby had no choice but to stare up at the stud who was snuffing him.


The most immediate part of Adam in Toby’s field of vision was the shaft of his boot, the black leather rising from the bottom of his line of sight—he could clearly see how the extra-long laces circled the top of the shaft and were tied in front.  Above it, he could trace the line of the alpha’s thick calf and thigh muscles, outlined in the leg of his cargo pants.


Then there was the cock–the huge, throbbing shaft, jutting arrogantly in from, clear precum oozing in an almost steady stream…but Toby had to block that out, he couldn’t follow the link of pain and death and lust…


Beyond the webbed nylon belt circling his tight waist, the curly, golden fur that rose above the waistband, running up the killer’s ripped abs, spread out lushly on his broad, jutting pecs.  Heaving with exertion, Adam’s chest glittered as he moved and beads of sweat caught in his body hair caught the light.


Above that, there was a face, a beautiful, cold, contempt-filled face surmounted by red-gold curls like a copper nimbus, but it was too far away.  Toby was starting to have trouble seeing; darkness exploded in his sight light the blooms of huge black flowers.  His tongue was swelling, causing the dying twink horrible pain as it forced aside his broken jaw, but there was nothing he could do.  White, foamy drool leaked from his swelling lips, running down his chin and pooling around the treads of Adam’s utility boot.


The pounding in his heat was swift and intense; Toby could feel that it coincided with his speeding, panicked heart.  Despite the pounding and loud ringing in his ears, the slowly choking youth could hear the sadistically mocking words of his killer.


“How’s it feel, dying like a fuckin’ insect, havin’ yer useless life ground out under my boot, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ put down like the garbage you are, huh?  Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, I toldja you’d get hard again.  Disgustin’ little pervert, you just fuckin’ love it when a real man finally ends yer worthless existence.  C’mon, homo, time to drain yer sick faggot sperm so I can fuck some clean meat.”


With a snarl, Adam leaned forward, throwing all his weight on his right foot.  There was a loud crunch and the steel-toed boot suddenly sank a good two inches into Toby’s throat as the punk’s windpipe collapsed.  The young fag’s attention, momentarily diverted to the bizarre phenomenon of his throbbing, painfully erect cock, experienced the blast of horrifying agony that accompanies a mortal injury.


Adam steadied himself as the lean, lithe body beneath his feet began to shudder violently.  Toby’s huge green eyes, stained red by numerous ruptured blood vessels, rolled back into his head as he convulsed, his legs drawing up, then straightening as he kicked his life away with such force the Adidas sneaker was pulled off his left foot.  The buff alpha knew what was happening; shifting his body to one side, he applied more pressure to the boot embedded in the twink’s neck, twisting his foot sideways.


With a loud cracking noise, Adam snapped Toby’s neck like a dead twig.  As the sudden electrochemical shock flooded the dead kid’s nervous system, his erect shaft pulsed visibly and sent a solid stream of boyjizz up in a four-foot geyser.  Disgust on his face, Adam managed to dodge the fountain of spunk, letting it splash back on Toby body as it continued to jerk and flail in its death throes.


“Fuck yeah, man, there we go,” the sick top gloated at the dead boy’s sobbing boyfriend.  “Once that worthless fag spunk is unloaded, I’ll fill the meat with real manseed.  Finally givin’ this useless pansy a purpose—it died so I can have a cumrag.”


Adam stalked across the room, retrieving a chair that was standing behind the closet door.  As he did so, Mike, aflame with panic and anger, writhed violently on the bed.  Unable to loosen the zip ties binding him, the muscle twink increased his efforts until he managed to rise up vertically on the bed.  Once he was upright, though, he had no way of balancing himself and instantly felt himself falling over sideways.


His thick, muscular body hit the nightstand with a crash, causing him to start bleeding again from his already-broken nose.  He fell to the floor, accompanied by the lamp.  The bulb didn’t break; still lit, the light cast surreal shadows across the room from its low angle on the floor.


Adam had watched it all happen.  He wasn’t worried about Mike; there was no way for the meat to break free of its bonds.  And the dude had landed on the floor in a great position for a close-up of the next act.


The buff killer placed the chair upright in front of Mike, a few feet away.  Then he bent down and grabbed Toby, manhandling the still-quivering corpse until he’d draped it face-down over the back of the chair.  Then, without another word, he brandished his huge, dripping cock, grinned at Mike, and mounted the dead kid, his shaft penetrating Toby’s sphincter and sinking deeply into the meat’s guts.


“Fuck yeah, nice and smooth, just like I like ‘em,” Adam smirked as Mike burst anew into hot tears of outrage and terror.  The bound punk struggled to protest, but the soiled jock had been shoved too deeply into his mouth for him to be able to force it out; all he could do was watch the violation of his boyfriend’s corpse in silence.


The chair creaked loudly as Adam gripped the meat’s narrow waist and plowed its still-spasming asshole.  His furry, sweat-streaked flesh slapped loudly against Toby’s cooling skin as the alpha brutally pumped his shaft into the dead boy’s rectum.  As he fucked the corpse, Adam reached up and grabbed a handful of the punk’s long hair and jerked it back, raising Toby’s head.


“Look at him,” the vicious sadist hissed at the crying, struggling boy on the ground, “Look at his face.  See the pain and terror he endured?  See how the horror of his last few seconds of life are etched into his face?  Disgustin’ little faggot deserved to suffer so much more but he was weak.  You ain’t.  You can take what I’m gonna give ya—and it’s gonna be so much worse than what he went through.”


Adam never missed a single stroke of his brutal necro fuck as he spoke, slamming his gigantic rod into the corpse with a virulent power that was equal parts lust and hatred.  Through his tears, Mike watched Toby’s body jerk and flop with every intrusive thrust of Adam’s hips.


Suddenly Adam’s face tightened.  He gave a loud grunt, ramming his shaft home as his hulking, muscle-bound form went rigid.  There was a loud crack and the chair began a slow-motion collapse under the weight of Adam’s orgasmic thrust.  The killer had time to slide one booted foot forward and keep his balance as the chair bent forward and fell to the floor.  Toby’s body fell with it, slowly sliding off the alpha’s still-shooting cock.  Adam finished up by spraying his load onto the corpse’s back.


Snorting with contempt, Adam glared at Mike.  “Fucker was totally worthless.  Even dead, he couldn’t take a real man’s load.   My balls are still fulla cum, motherfucker—now it’s yer turn.  He was just the appetizer—you’re the main course, fuckwad.  And I like to linger over my meat.  Ready to dance, asswipe?  Yer gonna die clawin’ and pissin’ yerself in agony, faggot.”


Mike shook his head frantically, the stained jockstrap protruding from his mouth.  His already large brown eyes were huge with stunned shock; the sheer horror of watching his boyfriend’s snuff and necro-rape was reflected in his taut, pale face.


Bending down, Adam wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  Hoisting the jerking, struggling youth into the air, he slammed him against the wall on the far side of the dresser.  The terrified fag had a brief lucid moment to comprehend the sheer power of his assailant as Adam drew his right arm back, keeping Mike pinned with his back to the wall, several inches off the ground, with just one hand—and this with a loose enough grip to allow the beefy punk to breathe.


The he noticed that Adam’s hand had curled into a fist.  He saw the dude’s massive bicep twitch—and then his world exploded in pain as Adam drove his fist into the pansy’s face with the force of a steam hammer.


Mike’s head rocked backwards, punching a hole in the drywall as his left cheekbone and the thin bone behind his left eye shattered.  His hands, uselessly bound behind him, clawed at the wall, peeling off strips of paint with his fingernails.  His loud cry was muffled by the reeking fabric shoved into his throat.


He didn’t need to worry about the gag for long.  The bruised, battered homo was so stunned by the blow to his head that he never saw Adam’s thick arm draw back again.  He felt it, though; the muscular sadist pounded his huge fist straight into Mike’s solar plexus, at the base of his sternum.


The writhing fag’s diaphragm spasmed, his well-built chest collapsing in as the air in his lungs was expelled violently enough for him to blow the jockstrap out of his mouth; it dropped to the floor in the few inches of no-man’s-land between the vicious killer and his helpless prey.  Mike was unable to take advantage of his sudden freedom to speak—his entire attention was focused on being able to breathe.  For several terrifying seconds, the buff young queerboy was unable to inhale, his lungs refusing to inflate.  His eyes, wide and round, the left one blackening and swelling, were dulled over in sheer panic as he savored a foretaste of suffocation.


Suddenly the bulging groin of his American Eagle boxers darkened.  Struggling and terrified, the well-built youth had pissed himself in terror, the yellow urine running down his legs and flowing into his Nikes.  His one lucid thought was that however he was gonna die, he didn’t want to choke or suffocate.  Anything but this, he begged silently in the dark empty corners of his mind.  Anything but this.


Adam read the terror in the kid’s eyes and his grin widened and became shark-like.  His thick, swinging dick stiffened as he contemplated the bound, helpless faggot in his grasp.  The fucker was his do with as he pleased—and what pleased him damn sure wasn’t gonna please the homo.


Jerking and sweating, Mike suddenly inhaled deeply, managing to force oxygen back into his lungs.  With no warning, Adam delivered a brutal gutpunch to the suspended boy, sinking his fist deep into Mike’s firm, flat belly and driving out the air again.  This time, he released the kid, letting Mike fall back to the floor, shuddering and gasping like a landed fish dying on the deck of a trawler.  As the fag’s face went purple, Adam stood over him, sneering.


“Lookitya, you pathetic piece a’ shit,” he drawled contemptuously.  “Got yerself all buff an’ muscular, but yer still a worthless fuckin’ fairy.  Your muscles ain’t no match for mine, asswipe; they ain’t gonna help ya now.  I’m gonna fuck you up even worse than I did yer pansy-ass little boyfriend.  Hey, remember when I did this to ‘im?”


With a swift kick of his powerful leg, Adam’s steel-toed boot smashed into Mike’s flank, shattering two ribs into multiple pieces.  Once again, the handsome young homo had just regained his air, only to suffer a brutal impact that drove it back out.  This one was worse, though.  This one did major damage.


For the rest of Mike’s life—that is, for the next few minutes—the fit young punk desperately tried to breathe, never knowing that bone shards from his broken ribs had punctured his left lung, causing it slowly to deflate.  He only knew the creeping terror of slow advancing suffocation—and pain.  He became very familiar with pain.


Leaving one boot planted firmly on Mike’s chest, Adam leaned down and casually spit in the youth’s strained, agonized face.  “Naw, man, I ain’t gonna kill ya with my feet like I did yer fucktoy,” he jeered.  “That was fun, but I got somethin’ more…intense planned for you.  But first, I wanna know—did he ever fuck you?  Or were you always the top?”


Mike looked up at the alpha, his eyes running from the tightly laced boot on his chest up along the well-fitted black cargo pants to the huge, engorged shaft of manmeat that jutted out in front of Adam.  Huge and oozing, it added an emphasis to the sadist’s questions that intimidated the fuck out of Mike.  Wallowing in pain, he looked away, gasping and heaving.


“I asked you a question, motherfucker,” Adam said, a cold, hard tone in his voice.  “You got three seconds to answer it.  One.  Two…”


Mike opened his mouth, but in his panic, he could only croak incoherently.


“Three,” Adam concluded, with evident satisfaction.  “Ok, fuckwad, guess I gotta beat it outta ya.”


“…no…” Mike gasped faintly.


“What was that, fuckmeat?” Adam grinned.  Bending down, he clamped his left hand around Mike’s throat.  The bulked-out psycho was strong enough to hoist the buff young homo into the air single-handedly.  His windpipe was almost completely closed off this time and his left flank burned with pain where his ribs ground together but the attractive young punk unfortunately managed to remain somewhat lucid.  Lucid enough to comprehend the sheer power of the man who had him so completely at his mercy.


He needed a way to fight back.  Despite the pain, he needed to fight back or the same thing would happen to him that happened to Toby.  Toby—oh fuck, Toby, what the fuck happened…they were just gonna have a fun evening and this fucker showed up…


With a lightning-fast lunge of his arm, Adam snatched at Mike’s piss-soaked briefs and tore them off him, the elastic at the waist snapping back painfully on Mike’s bare flesh.  Nude except for his Nike hightops, the queer hunk dangled in mid-air, slowly choking as he struggled and squirmed, causing the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to dig even deeper into his skin.


“Did that dead piece a’ shit lyin’ over there ever fuck you, asswipe?” Adam demanded.  “Ever had a cock up yer boyhole?  Answer me, fuckwad!”  Adam punctuated his demand with another blow to Mike’s face, this one splitting his lips and knocking out one of the kid’s canines.  “Can’t talk, motherfucker?  Ok, just nod or shake yer head.  Or I’m gonna beat ya to death right fuckin’ now.”


Mike’s lucidity was fast drowning in a rising tide of terror; he knew the hulking stud wasn’t kidding.  Eventually, he forced himself to shake his head—not very well, but enough for Adam to feel it.


And when he did, he grinned.  “Excellent.  Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than fuckin’ a virgin corpse.”


Mike would have pissed himself again at the words if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder—and if his dick hadn’t grown unaccountably hard.


Adam noticed it too.  “Fuckin’ fag pervert,” he snarled, “Ya like that, dontcha?  You want my fuckin’ rod in ya so bad yer willin’ to die to get it, aintcha?  Disgustin’ piece a’ shit—see, this is why I gotta waste ya.  Doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor, I am, by clearin’ it of sick fucks like you.”


Mike could feel his pulse racing—it pounded in his temples and in his rigid cock.  His eyes felt like they were gonna pop right out of his head; tears streamed down his cheeks.  Pain and terror fought for control within him and he wondered if he was going to die like this, suspended in mid-air, shuddering and jerking.


And then he was sailing through the air.  It happened in the blink of an eye; there was no warning—Adam simply tossed him across the room with no more effort than if he was a rag doll.  The buff homo slammed violently into the wooden headboard.  It broke in half vertically with a loud crack as a hundred and sixty pounds of muscled boymeat smashed against it and fell back limply onto the tangled pile of sheets covering the bed.


Barely conscious, Mike rolled onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling as well as his swollen eyes would allow—particularly the left one.  His entire face was bruised and puffed up, aching horribly from the broken bones in his face.  It hurt bad, but his side, where the snapped ribs were grinding against each other, hurt worse.  His wrists and ankles were raw and nearly bleeding from the way the zip ties had cut into his flesh during his useless struggles.  Fuck, it all hurt so bad…and then there was Toby…


The hardbodied young punk was losing his will to live.  Mike had endured a ruthless mindfuck.  Despite his impressive build, he wasn’t emotionally strong; he simply couldn’t handle the combination of mental and physical trauma he’d been forced to endure.  Adam could see it in his eyes; the homo was starting to check out.  He needed to move fast.


Suddenly Mike felt a weight on him.  Adam was climbing onto the bed—and onto him.  His blank stare no longer focused on the ceiling; now his killer filled his field of vision.  Seeing the hard face, so cruel and so handsome, topped with copper curls, Mike knew he was looking into the face of the man who was gonna kill him.  For the first time, he really knew it.


The power of the muscle-bound sadist was obvious; it was expressed in everything about him from the wiry, sweat-matted fur covering his broad hubcap pecs to the powerful tang of adrenaline and testosterone that was blended in with his musky perspiration.  Mike knew he was strong, but he was helpless before this bulked-out hypermasculine stud.


Adam knew the score.  He lowered himself down, letting his massive cock make contact with Mike’s flat, smooth belly.  The thick, engorged head was oozing precum steadily; it acted as lube, letting the pulsing shaft of manmeat slide up Mike’s abdomen.  As Adam lay full-length on Mike, belly to belly, their erect dicks were pressed between them, side by side.


“Look at me, faggot,” Adam whispered quietly, almost seductively, as he wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  “Look me in the eyes as I put yer worthless ass down.  I wanna watch your wasted life drain outta ya.  I wanna see death in yer eyes.  You feel me, bro?  Last thing yer ever gonna see is my grinnin’ face as I wipe yer fag ass off the face of the earth.”


And then he started squeezing.


Mike had panicked as he’d been held up and dangled but Adam hadn’t been trying to strangle him then.  This was different.  This hurt a fuck of a lot more.  He was low on oxygen as it was, his left lung having slowly collapsed over the last few minutes, but Adam was literally crushing his esophagus.  The cruel killer had wrapped his fingers behind the boy’s neck but had placed his thumbs in front, right on the larynx.  As he clamped his hands down with the force of steel trap, Mike’s voicebox was remorselessly shoved back into his throat, the cartilage deforming past its limits.


It hurt, Jesus, it hurt so fuckin’ bad.  But as bad as it hurt, the pain receded into a loud buzzing in the background as white, blinding tide of terror rose within Mike.  He was suffocating.  He couldn’t breathe.  Worse, he couldn’t fight it.  He was helpless, pressed under the heavy mass of his killer’s muscles, his hands and legs excruciatingly bound.  This was it, oh fuck, this was for real, no, no, he wasn’t gonna die, not now…


Adam knew the faggot was too far gone in fear to pay attention to anything he said.  And while that was a good thing—fear was excellent for purifying faggotry—the little (compared to Adam) fuckwad needed to be brought back into the now.  Applying some pressure, he swiftly and viciously dug his thumbs in and was rewarded with a loud crack.


Mike instantly stopped thrashing and stared with horror into Adam’s face.  His larynx had just been crushed into a useless mass of mangled cartilage.


Adam grinned.  “Ya know what, faggot?  Yer dick’s still hard.  I can feel it.  That’s gotta hurt like all fuck.  You gotta know yer dyin’ by now, you gotta feel like yer dyin’ by now—but yer dick’s still hard, you sick little fuck.”


As his gorgeous but abused body went rigid in horrific agony, some dark corner of Mike’s mind-raped psyche knew the brutal sadist was speaking the truth.  Even in the midst of overwhelming suffering, Mike could feel his own shaft, achingly erect, rubbing against his killer’s ripped, hairy abs.


“Time for lights out, asswipe,” Adam continued.  “You’re almost clean enough for my cock.  I just need to squeeze the defective homo sperm outta yer nutsack and you’ll be ready to receive the load of a real man.  Time to die.”  He paused, with a faint chuckle.  “Ain’t like anyone’s gonna miss another faggot, anyways.  Only one who mighta cared is already dead.  And he was a damn lousy fuck.”


He squeezed even harder.  Mike’s tongue, already thick, swelled to the point it forced his mouth open.  The near-black tip parted the cunt’s blue lips as white foamy drool trickled down the youth’s cheeks.  As the weight of asphyxiation crushed his chest, Mike’s tremulous sanity succumbed to remorseless hammering in his head.  A screaming pitch-black vortex of sheer terror opened in his mind…


…but he wasn’t too far gone to hear—or to feel—the loud crackling, crunching sound as his trachea collapsed into a bloody mass of gristle under Adam’s relentless, vise-like grip.  And in the utter shock of fatal injury, Mike shot a death load of epic proportions.  His bulging eyes were looking directly into Adam’s as he felt an agony he’d never know could exist—it felt like his entire self, his life essence, had been violently ripped out and was being expelled in his hot, ropy jizz.


His powerful, sweaty body entwined with that of the dying muscular twink, Adam felt the faggot’s spunk splattering over his abs and soaking into the wiry fur that forested his bulked-out torso.  It infuriated him—nasty homo seed contaminating his well-cared-for body.  With a roar, he let go of Mike’s neck and grabbed the unlucky pansy’s ankles.


In the last five seconds of his life, Mike suffered one last time from the sadistic stranger’s hate and lust.  Enraged, Adam jerked the kid’s legs apart.  As ice-cold darkness closed in on him, Mike saw Adam’s huge, sweaty biceps flex awesomely—and then, with a loud snap, Adam broke the zip tie.  The thin plastic dug through Mike’s flesh down to the bone, but it finally gave way before the sheer power of the hardbodied killer.


The cuts had severed an artery in Mike’s right ankle, but since his heart had stopped beating almost simultaneously, blood merely seeped from the wound instead of spurting.  Adam wasn’t done with his victim, though.


Enraged, the psychotic stud brandished his hard, club-like cock and plunged it into Mike’s fuckhole.  Even though the corpse’s sphincter was flaccid in death, it still wasn’t elastic enough to accept a shaft of the size of the one now being brutally rammed into it—Adam tore the dead kid’s ass open.  “You worthless queerboy fucker,” he snarled, “Thought you’d make me a fag by squirtin’ yer diseased homo cum on me, huh?  You ain’t the first faggot to try it, cunt, but ain’t none of ya ever man enough to turn me!”


His hips thrusting swiftly, Adam nailed the dead kid’s butthole.  Sweat trickled down the small of his muscled back as he fucked the corpse, every pump of his cock violently expressing his hate and disgust for the fag he was banging.  He became aware that his balls were drawing up as his semen started to boil over.  And then orgasm hit him, almost like a violent cramp.


“Fuck!” he screamed, “Fuck!”


It was almost involuntary, the way his right arm drew back and then pumped forward like a steam piston, smashing into the corpse’s face.  Adam didn’t try to stop it, though—it felt so fuckin’ right.  As his cock swelled and spurted again, his fist shot forward again.  And again.  With every spurt of hot manseed from his engorged dick, Adam punched Mike’s swollen, blackened face as hard as he could.


This was what Adam had wanted, had hoped for—had worked for.  It felt right.


He came a lot.  A lot.  By the time he was done, Mike was unrecognizable.  Adam had beaten his face to hamburger.


With a deep sigh, Adam pulled back and sat on the bed, his dripping cock resting on the tangled sheets.  He glanced around the room, noting the position of a couple of items, then got up and headed for the bathroom.


After spending a few minutes cleaning the drying semen off his torso, he tucked his dick back into his cargo pants.  Grabbing a clean towel, he headed back to the bedroom.  Once there, he used the towel to pry the Nike Vandals off Mike’s feet.  They were soaked with the dead kid’s piss, but they could be cleaned.


Then he collected Toby’s Adidas kicks, pulling one off his foot and simply picking the other up off the floor.  He’d seen a gym bag on the far side of the dresser; he used it to collect his trophies, picking up his long-sleeve t-shirt and his knit cap as he passed them.  It was a cool night, but Adam was still warm and sweaty; he decided not to put either on at the moment.


Bag in hand, he paused at the door and looked back.  Toby was still lying belly-up on the floor, his limbs and head all at grotesque angles to the body.  Mike, his hands still bound behind him, was also lying belly-up on the bed, his legs spread, white spunk oozing from his ravaged asshole.


It wasn’t complete.  He needed to recreate that first necro fuck for it to be right.


Leaving the bag at the door, Adam returned to Toby and rolled him over, off the broken remains of the chair, burying his dead swollen face in the carpet.  With a quick step to the bed, the psycho killer grabbed Mike’s corpse under the arms, dragging it over to Toby’s.  Tossing it down on top of the long-haired dude’s body like a sack of dirty laundry, Adam bent down and manipulated Mike’s still semi-erect penis into Toby’s ass, then adjusted the legs.


Stepping back, Adam admired his posing.  It looked like a perfectly natural fuck.  Well, except that Mike’s hands were still zip tied behind his back.  And the fact that both punks had suffered major physical trauma.  And that both were obviously dead.


As far as Adam was concerned, it was perfect.  He’d erased any possible homo contamination from his first necro fuck.  Picking up the bag, he headed out the door.  Within six minutes, he was off the property, walking bare-chested down the street to where he’d parked his truck a safe distance away.


While he walked, Adam found his thoughts—and his cock—drawn to public restrooms.

Adam–Fourth Kill–Bye Bi Boy

His name was Jeremy, he was twenty-seven years old, he was bi-curious, and he wanted to fuck Adam.  He was also drunk, which was how Adam knew so much about him so fast.


The buff killer was back at the SoHoLo Hotel for the first time in weeks.  He liked it here; the ambience was nice and there was lots of fuckmeat.  Perhaps too much—his last kill had closed the place down for almost a full week.  The second gay snuff in two months had given the place a bad name; it had shut down, ostensibly for security upgrades, but Adam didn’t see anything different.  He wasn’t worried.


He never worried about getting caught; somehow, he knew it wouldn’t happen.


He’d hit up the bar first and had better luck this time.  No party in progress, and since it was the middle of the week, it was relatively quiet; the clientele seemed to be mostly confined to hotel guests.


Adam had seen several potential cumdumps in the place, but one dude at the bar caught his eye.  Like Adam, he was a redhead, but whereas Adam’s hair was a lustrous coppery color, almost metallic, this guy had an unruly mop of carroty-orange hair that seemed to suit his snub nose, emerald-green eyes and freckle-spattered face perfectly.


The dude looked a little disheveled, as if he’d had to dress in a hurry and had thrown on what was at hand.  He wasn’t badly built; the Domo-kun character emblazoned on his dull yellow t-shirt was stretched so tightly across his chest that it was almost pulled out of recognizable shape.  A pair of skinny jeans in dark brown denim showed that he had some decent muscles in his thighs and calves—to say nothing of the nice large bulge in his crotch with the accompanying ridge down the inside of his left thigh.  His feet were laced into what looked like a new pair of dark gray Nike Lunar Fingertrap trainers.


Adam had taken the dude in with a single glance; the dude took longer to let his eyes wander over Adam, but the guy’s interest was obvious.  Not that Adam was surprised; he’d dressed to get some looks.


Bearing in mind the atmosphere of his hunting ground, the experienced killer had gone with an upscale casual look.  He wore a light blue button-down shirt, but he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbow and left the shirt unbuttoned, exposing his white cotton t-shirt underneath.  He also wore jeans, tight and faded, but clean.   He’d slipped on his old pair of Puma Cell running shoes, the black ones with white stripes.


Everything he wore but the kicks looked like it was size too small on his massive, muscle-bound bod.  He’d gotten several admiring looks—from both sexes—on the way in.  And he’d damn sure captured the attention of the guy at the bar.


All it took was a smile and a nod and soon Adam wasn’t alone in his booth.


That was when the whole story came out.  Jeremy had been in the bar for a couple of hours already, throwing back cheap beer but in the last half-hour or so, he’d switched to well drinks and was feeling no pain—a situation Adam was sure he could rectify easily.  He worked in construction, for a company that had a highway maintenance contract with the city.  He’d left his phone at home when he went to work.  His chick knew the code and accessed the phone—and found an email exchange where he’d replied to an M4M ad.  Nothing had ever come of it, but she’d had no idea of that side of him and went berserk.


He’d already scheduled a couple of days off work.  Now he was here alone at this hotel, he was drunk, horny, and bi-curious as ever, and, he slurred lasciviously, he wanted to bone Adam.


“I ain’t ever been fucked by a dude,” Adam said.  “We can go to your room and see what happens, though.”


Here Jeremy faltered slightly; there was something else he wanted to do, but even in his drunken state, he was hesitant to admit it.  “Well, I…thing is, I, uh, I wanna…fuck, man, yer shoes are so hot…”


Adam took the hint.  “You wanna worship my kicks?  Yeah, man you can do that.  Kinda like yours myself.”


Jeremy grinned with inebriated cheer.  “Aw, fuck yeah, man, this is gonna be so hot!  C’mon, bro, les’ go—I’m up on…um, it’s seven, I think…yeah, room 726.”


Adam wasn’t afraid of getting caught, but he wasn’t completely reckless, either.  He didn’t want to be seen leaving the bar with the drunk fucker.  “I gotta go take a leak first.  Plus, I need to settle my tab.  You go on and I’ll be up in a few minutes.”


“You ain’t gonna back out on me, are ya?” Jeremy asked anxiously.


“Fuck no, dude,” Adam said, leering at the smaller man.  “I’m gonna show ya such a good time tonight, you ain’t ever gonna go back to pussy again.”


Jeremy stood up, a huge happy smile on his freckled face and an obviously throbbing bulge in his groin, and headed for the door.  Drunk as he was, he walked in a remarkably straight line.


Adam chuckled contemptuously and ordered a shot of Jack.  When it came, he downed it and paid the bill, then slowly sauntered out, heading for the elevators.  Just as the elevator doors were starting to close, he dived in and found a giggling teenaged couple already in the car—with the button for floor seven pushed.


“Nine, please,” he said, and the boy obliged, disentangling himself from the girl just long enough to hit the floor button.


Adam let them get out on seven and continued to nine, where he walked down the hall to the emergency stairs and used them to get back to seven.  By the time he emerged on the floor, the hall was empty.  Reaching room 726 unseen, he knocked at the door, hoping the meat hadn’t passed out.  Unlikely—it was drunk, but not that drunk.


Jeremy opened the door just a crack, glanced around, and then opened it wide, standing behind it.  Adam stepped inside, turning as the door closed behind him to see that the dude had stripped to nothing but his sneakers and a pair of red briefs that did nothing to hide his thick shaft of manmeat.


The dude didn’t have a bad body; he was broad-chested and had some muscles, but he wasn’t anywhere near as built as Adam was.  Or as hairy.  There was the faint shadow of a strawberry-blond haze on his flat belly that seemed to thicken slightly as it plunged beneath the waistband of his briefs, but other than that, his skin was soft and smooth as silk.


“Fuck, man,” Jeremy said breathlessly, “I been dreamin’ about doin’ some a’ this shit since before high school.  Come over here an’ sit down, I wanna work on your feet before I fuck ya.”


Adam played along, walking into the room.  This was one of the least expensive rooms in the hotel; it still had the stripped-down, ultra-modern vibe, but it lacked the fancy bathroom and the huge window with the great view.  It compensated for the latter by covering the large closet doors with mirrors that reflected the gleaming black furniture and everything else.


Some of the less congruous items reflected in the mirror were Jeremy’s work clothes, piled in a chair—jeans and white t-shirt, both filthy; a yellow reflective vest and a similarly-colored hard hat; and on the floor next to the chair, a pair of dirty, well-worn construction boots, slouching and completely unlaced.


On the closest nightstand, Adam noticed a package of new bootlaces—one lace still in the open package, the other out and coiled to one side.  Even from this distance, the words “heavy duty” could be seen clearly on the package, as well as the length of seventy-two inches.  The sick sadist grinned; looked like the foot-fetish pervert was planning on doing some boot maintenance.


Jeremy caught Adam’s first glance at the chair and looked away momentarily, embarrassed.  “Yeah, I hadn’t had time to change when Amber kicked me out.  Had to check in wearin’ that gear; lucky I was able to get some shit together in a bag.”


“Ok, where do ya want me?” Adam asked, determined to give the little sicko enough rope to hang himself, so to speak.  He was gonna off the dude no matter what—he just wanted to see how badly the fucker deserved it.


He wanted to see how badly the guy needed to suffer before he was purified into prime fuckmeat, ready to receive his cock.


“Over here—sit over here,” Jeremy panted, indicating a chair in the corner of the room.  Adam obligingly sat, with the nightstand on his right and the mirrored closet door on his left.  The moment he was down, the half-nude punk was on his knees at Adam’s feet.


Jeremy grabbed Adam’s right foot, lifting it and caressing the Puma sneaker.  Raising it higher, he held it in one hand, bending forward and rubbing his face on the shoe’s upper while running his other hand up Adam’s leg, fondling his thick thigh muscles through the denim.   “Fuck yeah,” the dude moaned, his voice hitching in sexual excitement, “I been wantin’ this for-fuckin’-ever, man…”


He bent his head forward again and ran his tongue over the black leather sneaker.  Adam leaned back in the chair and slipped off his dress shirt, then peeled off the white t-shirt.  Jeremy glanced up, his eyes running up the skin-tight denim wrapped around the stud’s thigh muscles.  Passing the wide leather belt, the bi dude’s gaze swept along the trail of dark fur leading up from Adam’s waistband, rippling over his perfect washboard abs and spreading out into a thick, wiry forest of chest hair on his massive pecs.


“Holy shit, man, I wanna fuck you so bad…” Jeremy said, his voice low and taut with sexual energy.  He saw Adam’s smile but he was too lost in his desires—and too drunk—to see the cold, cruel glint in that smile.


“You ain’t done workin’ my kicks yet,” Adam told him.  This time, Jeremy picked up a little—a very little—of the tone of contempt in the hardbodied killer’s voice; he paused for a moment, looking back up into the copper-haired hunk’s face.  But there was no hint of emotion in the hooded, long-lashed eyes, and Jeremy bent down and applied his tongue to Adam’s other sneaker, still flat on the floor.


Adam sneered down at the kneeling footpig.  This little shit thought he was gonna fuck Adam?  He had to be taught how wrong he was.  And Adam was just the dude to make sure he learned his lesson real good.


The muscle-bound necro freak slowly unzipped his fly.  Reaching in with both hands, it took him a couple of minutes to fully extract his dick.  Jeremy was too busy slobbering over Adam’s Pumas to notice anything until he heard a dull thump above him.


Looking up, he saw a seven-inch tube of manmeat, over an inch thick—and completely soft.  “You want it hard?” Adam asked, leering down at him, “You gotta earn it, bro.  Ain’t goin’ in ya till it’s hard.”


Jeremy blinked in confusion.  “What?  I—no, man, I ain’t gay.  I-I ain’t takin’ anything up the ass, dude, ok?  Nothin’ wrong with it, but I don’t swing that way.  You’re supposed to ride my dick, remember?”


Given his drunken state, he was remarkably eloquent in stating his desires. It had remarkably little impact on what happened to him over the next forty minutes.


Adam stood up abruptly.  Jeremy, knocked back on his ass, threw an arm behind himself for support.  “Watch it, motherfucker!” he yelled with alcohol-fueled bravery, “Don’t make me fuck you up!”


Adam smiled coldly down at him.  “So,” he said with a quiet, calm voice, “You really think you’re man enough to fuck me, you little faggot?”


Jeremy’s face went red.  “I ain’t no faggot!” he shouted angrily.  “Dint I tell ya I gotta piece a’ pussy?  I was just lookin’ for someone to take my load, and I been curious—”


Disturbed, the slim young man had scooted himself backwards until he reached the bed and could go no farther.  Adam had moved forward as the punk had moved back and was towering over him, looking down with a contempt-filled smirk.


“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he jeered, “Yer gonna act like you don’t want the D, but you ain’t fooling no one, cocksucker.  See, problem is, I ain’t no homo either.  There’s only one way for you to earn my cock, ya fuckin’ fairy, and you ain’t gonna like it.”


Jeremy stared up at the hulking dude, his eyes wide with sudden fear.  “You’re crazy, bro.  You’re fuckin’ psycho. Ain’t no way I’m gonna—GAACK!!”


Adam had pounced with the swiftness of a jaguar, clamping his left hand around Jeremy’s throat with the speed and force of a bear trap, cutting off the dude’s air.  With a single deep grunt—the same sound he made when doing squats in the gym—he single-handedly lifted the guy up off the floor and held him dangling at arm’s length in the air.


Jeremy’s Nikes kicked furiously but were unable to find any support.  His fingers clawed frenetically at Adam’s hand but for all the impact they had, he might as well have been scratching at a statue.   Gagging and choking, Jeremy’s panicked, bulging eyes watched in horror as Adam held up his right hand, balled into a fist.  The brutal alpha kissed his own knuckles, said, “From Hell with love, cunt,” and sucker-punched Jeremy in the face so swift and so viciously, the fucker never saw it coming, and never felt it land.


That isn’t to say he didn’t feel pain.  His next sensation was huge explosion of pain; his lips were split, there were…things in his mouth and he could taste blood.  He jerked violently, which made his head hurt worse, and drooled the solid objects out of his mouth, which turned out to be teeth.  Three of them.


“Gha…gha…” Jeremy grunted, his closed-off windpipe preventing any further protest.


Adam grinned cheerfully.  “This next one’s from Hell, too,” he said.  “But there ain’t no love in this one.”  There was a flash and what seemed to be a violent explosion that filled his mind with a red haze and a sound like someone crumpling stiff paper, only louder.  The force of the blow had been so intense it momentarily delayed the pain of his crushed nose—but not for long.


Agony slammed through Jeremy’s firm young body like a physical blow; he was starting to lose consciousness from lack of air and everything from his neck up was already in terrible pain, but this new torment amplified the process.  The red sea of pain in which he swam suddenly rose up and swallowed him down in a tsunami of suffering.  Jeremy was aware of little else…there was a brief sensation of violent motion, and the red sea became oblivion.


When he regained consciousness, Jeremy felt pain in every limb.  He was lying on the floor with no further idea of the force with which Adam had flung him down than that which his aching, battered body provided him.  He hurt so bad he couldn’t move—but he could breathe.  The lithe young redhead instinctively curled into a fetal position as he coughed and gagged.  At the moment, catching his breath was more important than trying to figure out what the hell was going on.


And he didn’t have to figure anything out, in any case.  Sensing the presence of Adam, Jeremy opened his eyes—just barely, his agonized grimace forced them into slits—to see, in the mirrored closet doors, the reflection of the powerfully-built alpha grinning psychotically behind him.  The muscled stud was holding something in his hands but Jeremy’s eyesight was too blurred to make it out.


“You stupid faggot,” Adam chuckled with malevolent glee, “You don’t even know how to use a hot pair of kicks right.  You damn sure don’t deserve the ones ya got on, so I’m gonna take ‘em, asswipe.  And I’m gonna break ‘em in the right way, cunt.”  He bent down and in a single violent motion grabbed the waistband of Jeremy’s red briefs and jerked forcefully.  There was a rough tugging sensation at the dude’s waist, a ripping sound, and suddenly Jeremy’s Nikes were all he had left on.


Tossing the torn underwear into the corner, Adam grabbed a fistful of the slim youth’s bright red hair and pulled him, moaning and blubbering, to his knees, facing the mirrored doors.  “Open yer eyes, fuckwad,” Adam hissed, “Open ‘em up and lookit yerself.”


The tone of command, tinged with contemptuous arrogance, was too powerful to resist; Jeremy obeyed instinctively.  Reluctantly forcing the swollen lids of his eyes open, he could see his own ruined face, streaked with blood, snot and tears, staring desperately back at him from less than three feet away.  His vision was still somewhat blurry, but he could also see now what Adam was holding in his hand.


It was the bootlace from the nightstand—seventy-two inches of heavy-duty braided nylon.


Adam, standing directly behind him, patted Jeremy on the shoulder.  “See, the right way to break in those sexy sneakers ya got is to wear ‘em while yer fuckin’ a good piece a’ meat.  And that’s just what I’m gonna do; ya feel me, brah?  I’m gonna be wearin’ ‘em while I fuck ya.”


The hulking, hard-bodied stud stretched the bootlace out to its full length, then began to wrap each end around his palms.  He did this multiple times, getting an unbreakable hold on the nylon cord while still leaving a good long length free between his hands.  “’Course, I ain’t no cumsuckin’ faggot pig.  I don’t stick my dick in no worthless homo shit like you, motherfucker.  Know what that means?  Means that if we’re gonna get them kicks christened right, yer gonna die.”


Adam lunged forward and wrapped the bootlace around Jeremy’s neck so fast the battered bi kid never saw it happen.  There was a blur, and then he couldn’t breathe.


This was worse than before.  It hurt worse; the thin nylon cord dug deeply and painfully into his throat, sinking below the surface of the flesh even as his fingers clawed frantically at it.  And earlier, when the psycho stud had held him up and choked him, Jeremy had been afraid he might die.


Now, he knew it.  He just didn’t believe it.


Pulling the nylon cord tight, Adam stood over him, grinning down at his kneeling, struggling victim.  “Hey, dude,” he whispered sensually, “Look in the mirror.  Watch yerself die, faggot.  Watch yerself choke to death.”


Jeremy’s eyes were already wide in terror; he couldn’t help but to watch the scene reflected in the mirror.  It showed him himself—part of him refused to recognize that swollen face, battered and bleeding, as his—on his knees, jerking fitfully and pawing at his throat.  Standing behind him was the half-dressed alpha, his furry muscled chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his powerful biceps bulging as he viciously tightened the cord around his victim’s throat.  The hardbodied stud stood with his legs spread, the toes of his Puma Cells digging into the carpet as he slowly choked the life out of the punk.


The worst thing of all, though, was the expression on Adam’s brutally handsome face; it was a look that mingled contemptuous lust and a murderous triumph.  There was no hint of mercy or pity in that look; it was the look of an experienced sex killer.


As Jeremy coughed and gagged thickly, he realized that this time the dude wasn’t gonna let go.  If he was gonna get out of this alive, he was gonna have to do it on his own.  A single glance in the mirror should have forewarned him of the futility of the effort—Jeremy was neither weak nor scrawny but he was no match of someone of Adam’s massive build—but reason and panic aren’t compatible and the inability to breathe had shoved Jeremy pretty firmly into the latter state.


He thrashed about on the nylon cord like a deep-sea fish fighting a line; Adam was forced to dig in with both feet to maintain his balance while keeping up the pressure.  In the back of his head, some part of Jeremy’s flashed up the memory of his purchase of the bootlaces and felt a vague touch of irony at his selection of the “heavy-duty” pair.  The bootlace was durable; he’d be dead long before it broke.


“Quit fightin’ it, motherfucker,” Adam hissed, his face twisted with rage.  “You piece of faggot shit—best thing I can do to ya is put ya down.  Does it hurt, asswipe?  I fuckin’ hope so.  You deserve to die squealin’ in agony like a stuck pig, you goddam homo!”


Jeremy had stopped trying to dig the cord out of his throat—it had sunk in too deeply; all he was doing was tearing at his own flesh.  His eyes, already starting to bulge grotesquely from their orbits, could see every detail of his own murder.  Among other things, he could see Adam’s arms, so he transferred his attention there, clawing at his assailant like a cornered bobcat.  Bending backwards, he managed to pull one leg up underneath him and plant it in front of himself.  Lifting up, he tried to do the same with the other.  If he succeeded, he’d go from a kneeling position to a standing position and might have a better chance for defense.


His actual chance of defense against an experienced sociopath like Adam was nil whether he succeeded or not—not that he did succeed in rising to his feet; Adam had noticed the movement—had anticipated something of the sort, in fact—and had thrown his weight forward, right on Jeremy’s neck.  If the lithe young fag had kept trying to arc backward to free his foot, he’d have broken his own neck.


“G’wan,” he whispered huskily in Jeremy’s ear as their heads were pressed together, “Keep movin’, pussyboy.  I wanna hear yer spine shatter.  It sounds like a fresh branch breaking, a kinda wet cracking snap as your spinal fluid sprays out and your vertebrae shred your spinal cord.  It’s so fuckin’ hot, that sound, it’s gettin’ me hard just thinkin’ ‘bout it.”


A thick grunting sound came from Jeremy’s swollen lips as he backed down into his kneeling position again.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Adam sneered.  “All you fuckin’ fags are the same.  Keep thinkin’ somethin’ gonna save yer stupid ass at the last second, too goddam dumb to take the easy way out when I offer it to ya.  Suffer, you cumsuckin’ cunt; watch yerself die in terror and agony like ya fuckin’ deserve.”


Jeremy gazed at himself in the mirrored closet doors a blasé expression that had more to do with fading consciousness than boredom.  The whites of his unfocused eyes were becoming peppered with tiny red hemorrhages; it was difficult for him to see as a pounding gray haze filled his vision.


Adam could see well enough; he knelt behind Jeremy and pulled him towards himself, the bitch’s sweaty, shuddering back pressed against his muscled chest, his wiry fur digging into the punk’s smooth, slick flesh.


“Shit, motherfucker,” he growled seductively, “Think yer gonna die here soon.  Your dick is hard as fuck—can ya feel it, cocksucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  Ya feelin’ that shit, asswipe?  It means yer brain is startin’ to shut down.”


Jeremy wasn’t able to see very well, but he could hear.  The words came through distorted and slow, but still audible over the jackhammer pounding of his frenetic pulse that echoed off the inside of his skull.  And yes, he could feel his erection.


It hurt.  Fuck, it hurt so bad.  He was so fuckin’ hard it felt like his dick was gonna split.  He tried to reach down, to feel himself, but he’d lost fine motor control in his arms; they raked convulsively at the air.


Adam knew there was still a spark of humanity left in the twitching fagmeat he was strangling.  He wanted to humiliate what little was left of the stupid faggot who though he was gonna fuck Adam.  As he bunched his deltoids and triceps and tightened the braided nylon bootlace, he spoke derisively.


“You see yer face, asshole?  Yer “girlfriend”—bet he’s a real cunt—wouldn’t wanna fuck ya now, huh?  All purple an’ swollen—damn, yer one ugly-ass homo!  Lookit the way yer droolin’ all over yerself, ya disgustin’ sick-ass bitch.  And once you’re down, I’m gonna slip on those Nikes and fuck your dead ass good and hard.  I’m gonna plant my seed in yer cold boymeat, and I’m gonna take your kicks when I go.  All they’re gonna find is a sack of dead meat I used for a cumrag.  You got that, cunt?”


It was the last thing the cunt got.  The constricting agony in his throat intensified—the bunched-up skin in his neck felt like it was shredding—then there was sudden, horrible release of the tension.  It wasn’t the release he’d been praying for, though—it was accompanied by a nightmarish crushing sensation, a cracking and shattering of cartilage that was felt more than heard.  What little was left of Jeremy realized, not that his esophagus had collapsed, but that he was a dead man.


And in the blink of an eye, Adam held a thrashing, jerking piece of meat in his arms, a lithe, smooth-skinned corpse that was not only convulsing violently, it was spewing its death load with the force of an opened fire hydrant.  Jeremy sprayed the closet doors with cum, his hot sperm splashing off the mirrored surfaces and splattering over the heaving, sweaty bodies of both killer and victim.


“Goddam right,” Adam snarled, “Got what ya deserved, you fuckin’ faggot cunt.  Now you’re prime fuckmeat.”


Dropping the dead sack of manflesh, Adam stood up.  He was breathing heavily; his huge chest, sweaty and matted with cum, heaved with his recent exertion.  He wasn’t done yet, though—he bent back down and picked up Jeremy’s body.  He had to clamp down on it; the boymeat was still convulsing as he lifted it in his powerful arms and tossed it face-down on the bed.


Approaching the shuddering corpse, Adam’s long thick cock finally began oozing precum.  Snuffing the homo had got him hard and throbbing, but the thought of cornholing the dead meat was what really got him off.  Well, that and something else.


Sitting on the neatly-made and undisturbed bed, Adam slipped off his Puma Cells and placed them on the nightstand next to the unused bootlace.  Then he got up, his toes curling in his ped socks, digging into the plush carpet.  He stood behind the quivering sack of fagmeat and untied the Nike Fingertraps, pulling them both off.  Jeremy had died with his ankle socks on; Adam grabbed one of the spasming, jerking feet, feeling it quiver in his hand under the white cotton sock.


With a deep shuddering sigh of pleasure, the buff killer grabbed the other foot and brought both feel together on his dick.  He moaned faintly as his shaft pulsed between the twitching socked feet, the steady stream of his precum soaking into the absorbent white cotton.


He knew he might cum if kept it up, so he dropped the sexy dead boyfeet and sat back on the bed, slipping his feed into the dead cunt’s Nikes and lacing them tightly.  Then he spread the legs of the shuddering meatsack.  “This is how you break in a good pair of kicks, ya dumbass pansy,” he whispered.


Climbing up on the bed, Adam mounted the corpse, aiming the swollen purple head of his rod directly at the dead dude’s fuckhole.  With a single, savage lunge, the muscled necro freak speared Jeremy with his tool, penetrating the sphincter with no other lube but his precum.  It wasn’t as if Jeremy was in any position to complain with his black, congested face buried in the comforter.


There was a brief resistance, then the ass muscle went slack as Adam penetrated the corpse’s colon.  “Oh yeah,” Adam sighed with pleasure as his cock sank full-length into the dude’s limp, quivering body.  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  Nothing like some hot fuckin’ meat to plow.”


True to his word, the powerful alpha began to plow the corpse, the smack of flesh on flesh echoing in the quiet room.  The only other sound was Adam’s heavy breathing and the deep grunts of sexual arousal that he let out with every brutal thrust of his hips, every deep plunge of his huge swollen cockhead into the dead faggot’s guts.


Jeremy’s body was still trying to understand it was dead; it trembled and jerked under Adam in its final death throes.  To get better traction, the well-built sociopath planted the Nike Fingertraps on the comforter and dug his toes in as his massive dick plumbed the depths of their former owner’s corpse.


The dead guy’s smooth back was still slick with sweat, now cold and clammy.  Adam placed his hands on the small of Jeremy’s back, but they slid off.  “Goddam motherfucker,” the necro psycho muttered under his breath, his rage building along with the pressure of sperm boiling over in his puckered nutsack.


Suddenly both reached a crisis point.  As he tried to keep his spunk from erupting from his pounding, pulsing shaft, Adam began beating the corpse, slamming his hammer-like fist into the dead homo’s back.  “Fuckin’ faggot!” he roared, “Ya goddam cum-slurpin’ asswipe!”  Each blow of his fist, each thrust of his rod, was bringing him closer to orgasm.


And then it was there.  He’d fucked the limp body hard enough to turn the head to the side; as the muscled killer transferred his attention to Jeremy’s dead, cum-covered face, breaking bones and knocking teeth out with every hate-filled punch, a sensation went down his dick like and electric wire had been inserted.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!” Adam yelled as his body hunched over, violently and uncontrollably; he shot a steady geyser of manseed into the dead dude’s ass that lasted for a good twenty seconds without interruption.


Then his hard, bulked-out body convulsed and he cursed and shot again, even harder.  And then again, and again.


Adam didn’t know how long he stayed with his cock stuck in Jeremy’s body, hosing the corpse’s guts with cum.  It seemed to last a long time, and when he finally pulled out, backing off the bed, his knees were a little weak and his scrotum felt empty.  A thick, slimy wad of white spunk leaked out of Jeremy’s reamed-out ass and trickled down his taint to soak into the comforter.


Glancing around, Adam spied Jeremy’s Domo-kun t-shirt over in the chair; he got it and used it to wipe off the sperm still oozing from his rod  and the drying crust from his chest fur before carelessly tossing it on the floor.  He then retrieved his own shirts, slipping the white t-shirt back over his broad sweaty chest, then putting the button-down back on.  Finally, he picked up his Puma Cells from the nightstand.


He walked back over to the corpse.  Jeremy was motionless now; the brutal assfuck had stilled his death throes.  The boy was still lying face down; from the door, it wouldn’t be obvious that too much was wrong with him, aside from the mottled appearance of his badly-beaten flesh.  Once they rolled him over, things would be different—but to roll him over, they’d have to peel that fancy, expensive comforter off him.  It was stuck to his chest and belly by a thick dried glaze of his own cum.


Tucking his Puma kicks under his arms, Adam took a final glance, to impress the satisfying memory of his latest kill in his mind, then left the room.  He headed for the stairwell, just to make sure no one saw him and wondered why he was carrying an extra pair of sneakers under his arm.  He made it to his car, and then home with no unpleasant consequences.


Actually, there was one unpleasant consequence, but Adam didn’t learn about it until the end of the week, when it was announced that the SoHoLo hotel was closing until further notice.  Nobody paid attention to a snuffed fag or two, but three in the same place—and that place a hip, high-end hotel—made the news in a bad way.


Adam watched the broadcast about the closing and it made him think.  He was gonna hafta change his hunting pattern.  While that wasn’t a bad thing—falling into a pattern was fatal for a serial killer, and besides, it was beginning to bore him—he hadn’t made arrangements for anything new yet.


The more he searched for a new and interesting plan, the less progress he made, and then something else came to mind.  Why not something old and interesting?  He cast his mind back to the days when he was just developing an interest in snuff, and suddenly an idea occurred to him.  He wasn’t sure he could carry it out perfectly, but it seemed with an idea.


The more Adam thought about it, the harder his dick got.  Oh fuck yeah, it’d be worth it just to give it a try.  Alone in his room, his handsome face twisted with malicious glee; anyone seeing his expression would have known immediately that it meant death.

Meat Chronicles 18–Boy Toy Destroyed

I almost missed him.  I was heading west on Roman Boulevard and he popped out of one of the side streets on his skateboard; I had a split-second glimpse of him, then I was past.  That glimpse was enough to make me turn around, though.


It’s been a while since I’ve been out hunting.  I never got back to my last meat; the used van I’d bought threw a rod the next morning.  Took me a couple of days to get a new ride—by the time I got back out to the abandoned warehouse, there was a chain-link fence around the entire property and a large sign that announced a new construction project.


I turned around and left; the meat woulda been too overripe to hold my dick anyway.  Wonder what they’ll do when they start tearing the place down and find what’s left of him.  In this summer heat, I bet it there won’t be much left to find—just his bones and his kicks.


At any rate, I gotta load that needs release.  I need to find a punk to dump my seed in, and it looks like I just spotted one.  I ease into the left lane and pull a U in my van—it’s a nondescript gray Chevy Astrovan—heading back towards the boy I’d seen.


He’s ahead on the left, about half a block up from a shopping center and heading towards it.  I speed up, overtaking the kid and turning into the strip mall’s parking lot.  Pulling into a spot facing the street, well away from the stores, I wait for the kid to approach.  Soon enough, he glides into view.


Young—no more than eighteen or nineteen, at most.  Long sandy-blond hair, almost shoulder length.  His lean, firm chest is wrapped in a black Nirvana t-shirt, and he’s sporting skinny jeans so tight it’s impressive the little shit can move at all.   His feet, in a pair of gray and white Adidas Top Ten Hi’s, cling tenaciously to his board as he rounds the corner into the parking lot, leaning into the turn.  He passes within ten feet of me, allowing me to see the large bulge in his crotch in greater detail.


Yeah, this one would work.  This meat would be acceptable to soak up my cum.  Now I just need a lure.


I watch him for a while; I got plenty of time.  He navigates the parking lot in decreasing circles that centers on the convenience store to my left.  After about fifteen minutes, he slows to stop about thirty feet away from me.  Bending down and flashing his bubble butt at me, he snags his board and heads into the gas station’s store.


Ten minutes later he comes back out with a pack of cigarettes and an agitated expression on his face.  He walks to the end of the store closest to me and lights a smoke, looking around for a minute of two.  Suddenly he moved towards a dude who’d just exited the store carrying a twelve-pack of beer.  The kid approached and had a conversation with the guy, at one point pulling out his wallet and offering money.  The other dude shook his head in clear refusal, then got in his car and left.


The long-haired kid looked dejected and continued to suck on his smoke.  Five minutes later, he was approaching someone else leaving the store—a Mexican laborer with a six-pack of Modelo.  Again, a brief conversation, an offer of money, and the kid gets shot down.


Took me a minute to get it, but once I did, I knew I had my lure.  The little fucker was trying to get someone to sell him beer; he was too young to buy it himself.


I waited till he left the store’s lot, morosely heading back in my direction on his board.  I let him get about ten feet away, starting his turn back out onto the boulevard, before I rolled down the window and called out to him.


“Yo!  Brah!  Hey, I ain’t from ‘round here—you know where there’s a liquor store?  I wanna get some decent booze, none of this gas station crap.”


His hair fanned out behind him briefly as he whipped his head in my direction.  His face was smooth, with full lips, a large nose.  He had huge puppy-dog-brown eyes ringed with lashes so long they were almost effeminate; they lit up at the word “liquor”, as I knew they would.


These little suburban kids; they’re so stupid, so predictable—and so much fun to play with.


“Sure, I know a great place,” he said, somewhat unsure of himself.  They got all kinda stuff.  But ya gotta do somethin’ for me if I take ya there.”


“Like what?”  I ask, as if I don’t already know.


“Buy me some beer.  I’ll pay for it; I mean just go in and actually buy it.  They won’t sell it to me—” he broke off and blushed embarrassedly.


“How old are ya, dude?” I ask.


His blush deepens.  “I turned eighteen two months ago,” he admits shame-facedly.  Suddenly he recovers himself, though, shaking his head so that his long hair spun out.  He looks up and grins; his face is youthful and eager and I want to slam my fist into it so badly I can barely control myself.


“Hop in, dude.  I’ll get ya fucked up—don’t worry about it.”


With a cheerful smile, the punk makes the worst mistake in his life and opens the door to my van.  Tossing his board to the floor of the passenger seat, he speaks as he climbs in.  “Hey, man, I’m Timothy.  Well, no, only my mom calls me that.  You can call me T-Money.”


What a tool.  I snort derisively and the kid gives me a suspicious side-eye.  Then, noticing my physical presence for the first time, he gives me a longer look-ever.


I’m dressed for the hunt.  It was hot enough outside that I had no qualms about dispensing with a shirt altogether, but I didn’t want to have my skin up against the cloth seat of the used van, so I’d slipped on a thin leather vest, leaving it unbutton to show off my massive pecs and flat ripped abs.  My jeans were tight, but they were old, with a number of tears, and faded to a pale sky-blue.  Halfway down my claves, they were tucked into a pair of worn black combat boots that I’d laced but left untied.


As he looked at me, I could see his dick start to get stiff; his jeans were so tight it was kinda hard to miss.  I eyed it rather pointedly and grinned at the boy; he flushed beet-red and turned away.  Interesting reaction.


“Ya see anything ya like?”  I asked in a low voice.


The punk turned back to me, more embarrassed that ever.  “I, um, I—wh-what’re ya talkin’ ‘bout, brah?” he mumbled, not looking me in the face.


I pulled over into the parking lot of a church.  In the middle of a weekday afternoon, the lot was empty.  I turned to face the kid.  “My dick.  You want it,” I said matter-of-factly.


What?” he cried.  “Dude, I ain’t gay.”


“The fuck you ain’t,” I snapped, “Yer cock is hard right now.  You want me to fuck you good and hard.  You know it and I know it, so stop pretendin’.”


The kid unbuckled his seat belt and inched toward the door.  “Man, I done told ya I ain’t no fruit.  Ain’t no way yer gonna fuck me, ya psycho.”


“The fuck I ain’t, cunt,” I hiss with an expression to match his last word.  His eyes wide with sudden fear, the punk snatches at the door handle but in his haste is unable to grasp it properly.  Not that it would’ve mattered; I’d’ve caught him before he exited the van.


Shit!” he yells in desperation just as I grab a hank of his long dirty-blond hair and slam his face brutally into the dashboard.  With his hair as a handle, I jerk his head back up again swiftly.  “Uhhh…” the boy moans dazedly as I ram his head forward, smashing his face a second time.  This time, when I pull his head back up, he’s silent.  I let go and he slumps limply into the seat, unconscious.


I head out of the church lot.  I know a place to go; I’ve been there before.  It’s not that far from the last place I dumped meat.  It’s been a couple of years since I was on the property; at that time, there had been an operating business in the building, so I’d gone there at night.  Now, it was abandoned like much of the rest of the neighborhood.


I could park in the back and shove the meat out into the drainage ditch behind the property in broad daylight.  And it won’t matter that it hasn’t rained in weeks; no one goes back there.  By the time anyone finds him, there won’t be anything left beyond a bloated, unrecognizable corpse.


A car whips out of nowhere as I start to pull out of the lot, forcing me to slam on my brakes.  The kid slides off the seat and slumps on the floorboards like a pile of dirty laundry.  Good place for him; I leave him there as I head to the east side.


I cruise slowly through the industrial neighborhood, tracing my way back to the kill site.  Most of the buildings around here are empty if not downright abandoned; there’s no traffic and the parking lots are empty.  I’ll have plenty of privacy while I play with my meat—at least urban blight is good for something.


Finally, I turn onto a side street.  Just past the next intersection is the long, low one-story building that has the strip of parking in the rear, up against the drainage canal.  It takes less than three minutes to whip around the building and back into a parking space up against the canal’s low guardrail.


One of the reasons I chose this van was because it had been a utility or cargo van at one point; the rear section was sealed off from the cab.  Nice and private; the only windows were the polarized ones on the rear doors.  Of course, it’s a pain to have to drag the meat out of the passenger seat, but it’s worth the effort.


I exit the cab and walk around to the passenger side.  Opening the sliding door to the back first, I then reach for the passenger door.   I reach down and jerk the kid up off the floorboards.  He isn’t very big; only about five-eight.  And while he’s not scrawny—I can feel some firm muscles under his smooth skin—he can’t weigh more than a hundred twenty.  I’m pretty built myself; I can lift him like a sack of potatoes and easily toss him into the back of the van.


Like the last one I had, I’ve made my own improvements to create a mobile killing pit.  The floor is covered with Astroturf, and the walls are bare metal.  I can hose the whole thing out with ease—and that’s a good thing.  This one is gonna get a little…messy.  The one touch I’ve added is a mirror, about two feet square, propped against the front barrier that blocks off the cab.


I’m gonna do this kid doggie style, but I still wanna watch his face as he dies.


I close the door behind me; the interior is dim but not dark.  It’s hot, though, and my chest is already slick with sweat; I slip out of my leather vest and lay it carefully by the rear doors.  As I do, I hear a loud groan behind me—the little shit is starting to wake up.  I stand up—not fully, I have to slouch some to avoid hitting my head against the roof—and dig in my pocket for the zip tie I’d brought with me.  My jeans are tight enough that it takes me a moment to retrieve it.


He’s still groaning as I approach him, his long eyelashes fluttering as he starts to awaken.  I flip him over onto his belly and secure his hands tightly with the zip tie.  He starts trembling.  “Whu—” he mutters thickly, “Wh-whas happen…”


“Shh,” I whisper, patting him gently on the back of the head.  “I got somethin’ that’ll explain everything.  Lemme go grab it.”


What I have is located in the large lower compartment of the center console in the front of the van.  Now that the whoreboy is bound, I can retrieve it.  I open the side door again and go into the cab. I’m gone no more than fifteen seconds, but it’s enough for the kid to be fully awake and trying to roll over when I get back.


Time to put the stupid little punk in the picture.  Sliding the door closed behind me, I smile sweetly at him.  “I got somethin’ for ya, darling’,” I drawl.  “I got somethin’ long and hard, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ sexy when I stick it in ya.”


He looks up, and I notice a crusty trail of dried blood extending from his left nostril.  He’s still in some discomfort from having his face slammed into the dashboard, but it’s nowhere near overwhelming enough to cause him serious distress.  His face is flushed again—but not with embarrassment; this time he’s angry.


“I told ya I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot!” he yells.  “Keep yer fuckin’ dick away from me, ya pervert!”


I allow my smile to grow broad.  “Oh, I wasn’t talkin’ about my cock.  I mean, yeah, I’m gonna fuck ya in the ass, but that wasn’t what I was talking about.”  I’d kept one hand behind my back the entire time’ now I brought it around to show the cunt what I was holding.  “I was talking about this.”


The moment T-Money sees my knife, the color drains from his face and his eyes open so wide they look like they’re in danger of falling out.  It’s an eleven-and-a-half inch long hunting knife with a seven inch serrated steel blade and a wood grip.  Ideal for gutting, flaying, and general mayhem on all kinda fuckmeat.


The kid gulps in fear like a cartoon character; I laugh aloud at his fear.  “Aw, this is gonna be all kinds of fun,” I grin, “Especially if you fight my cock.  Cause if ya do, I’m gonna start usin’ this on ya nice and slow.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  You better be down with my D, dawg, or I’m gonna jack ya up.”


The boy whimpers and seems to shrink into himself, cowering.  His arms are jerking frenetically, but there’s no way the teenaged dickwad is gonna break free of that zip tie; all he’s doing is digging deep, painful furrows into his wrists.


He blinks and looks up at me but the moment his puppy-dog eyes meet mine, he looks away and gives another comic gulp.  “You, uh, you don’t need the knife, man.  You—you can p-put yer dick in me.  Just put away the blade, dude, please…put it away and you can do what you want to me…”


I can do what I want to him anyway, and will, but I go ahead and play along with it.  After all, it’s his suffering that gets me off, and if I can mindfuck him and assrape him at the same time, that just makes it so much hotter.  “Sure, bitch,” I chuckle, “But I gotta cut myself some access first.”


“Hey, man, wait!” he cries out as I come nearer, but I’m not going to hurt him yet.  I kick him back over onto his belly, then bend down and slip the knife under his t-shirt and start cutting.  The thin cotton parts at the slightest touch of my sharpened steel blade.  A couple of well-aims slashes and the punk’s Nirvana shirt slides off him, a mass of black shreds.  Over the kid’s protests, I cut open his jeans too.  The denim is tougher than the shirt hard been, but it’s still no match for my knife; I’m even able to saw through his leather belt in less than seven seconds.


I’m pleased.  I’ve honed this blade to a razor sharpness; my work is about to pay off.


Within about a minute, the kid is lying nude—of course the little fucker is commando; despite his denials, he’s been lookin’ for dick—on the Astroturf, only his Adidas hightops left to him.  “That shirt cost me thirty-five bucks!” the teen wails.


I squat beside him, fondling the silky-smooth skin of his back and his thighs.  This boy is small but strong; I can feel the muscles moving under his flesh as he squirms and kicks and tries to evade my touch.  “Get yer hands off me, ya fuckin’ sicko!” he yells as squeeze the firm, tender mounds of his asscheeks.


“Ok,” I say, pulling my hands back, “After all, puttin’ my hands on you ain’t anywhere near as much fun as what I’m gonna be puttin’ in ya.”


He goes quiet for a moment as I place the tip of the blade against the back of his neck and slide it, slowly and sensually, down the center of his back, following his spine down to the crack of his ass.  My touch is light; there’s not enough pressure to break the skin—just enough to remind the fuckboy why he’s in this position.


After a moment, he speaks with a sob.  “You—oh god, go slow, please—you-you’ll be the first, just d-don’t hurt me.  Okay?  Please?”


There’s a crack in his voice as he pleads that makes my cock throb.  I stand up and grin.  He rolls on his side to look up at me with hope and fear in his eyes.  I reach down, unbutton and unzip my jeans and let my hog flop out.


Once T-Money sees my dick, his demeanor changes.  The latent little faggot had been willing to get fucked in theory, as long as he could convince himself that he was forced into and didn’t really want it.  Once he sees the size of my tackle, though, he knows that this is gonna hurt—bad.  Real bad.  I don’t like to boast, but I’m hung like a stallion.  When I fuck a bitch, he stays fucked.


For good.


“Shit, dude, I can’t take that,” the helpless teen whispers, his wide eyes focused on my pulsating rod.  I step behind him, planting my combat boots on each side of his legs and lowering my jeans to my knees.  Kneeling, I slap the huge purple head of my schlong against the boy’s ass, spattering it with hot precum.


“No,” he begs, “For fuck’s sake, get some lube, man, yer gonna make me bleed!”


“Fuck yeah I am, you stupid cunt,” I whisper, mounting him like an animal and inserting my shaft into his ass.  I shove as hard as I can, encountering such stiff resistance from the kid’s clenched sphincter that for a moment I’m almost worried that I’m gonna bend my dick.  Then I can feel the flesh tear in his rectum and my cock slams home, penetrating the full length of his colon and sinking the head of my tool deep into his intestines.  I chuckle when I feel my wiry pubes grinding against those smooth buttcheeks of his.


“Guess you were right about one thing,” I jeer, “Damn sure made ya bleed.”


The teen is unable to enjoy my taunt; he’s screaming in pain—loud shrieks that end in sobs.  I laugh at his pain.  “G’wan, scream like a little girl, ya fuckin’ pussy.  Ain’t no one around for miles.  Every time ya scream, yer ass tickles my dick, so keep it up, cunt—it feels fuckin’ great!”


I know he heard that one, because he tries to stop.  He can’t be completely quiet; he’s in far too much pain, but he does manage to subdue his outburst to low sobbing moans.  “Aw, you spoilsport,” I whisper, “Here, lessee if ya like this, then.”


All I’d done so far was to merely mount and penetrate the teen.  Now I started fucking him, reaming my thick, vein-wrapped shaft in and out of his asshole.  Each brutal pump of my hips tore his sphincter fractionally more; as he bled internally, I could feel the warm liquid flow on my cock.


This fresh new source of pain drew an immediate reaction.  “Fuck, no!” he screeched, “Get outta me!  Oh God, no, yer tearin’ me open!  Get the fuck outta me!”


I reach one hand down under him, jamming it up under his flat belly and working my way down to his dick.  It ain’t huge, but it’s respectable—and it’s hard.  I knew it would be; my rod is grinding against his prostate like it’s drillin’ for oil, so the motherfucker can’t help his erection.  I grab hold of it and start jacking.


“Shaddup, ya dumbass little homo,” I hiss in his ear.  “You fuckin’ love it, dontcha?  You worthless teenage faggot—so full of hormones and sperm; all you needed was a real man to come along and drain it all outta ya, right?  You young pups are all the same—you just need a genuine alpha to load you up with manseed and put you in your place.”


“Uhhh…” the punk moans, still sobbing.  His legs are thrashing, his Adidas kicks scrabbling against the Astroturf, seeking purchase, but he can’t get any traction.  I’m lying on top of him, my chest against his back, and I can feel the fingers of his bound hands clenching and clawing at the coarse, dark hair on my abs.


I pump the slut’s ass like a steam piston.  He’s starting to accommodate himself to my rod; that’s a shame.  I want it to hurt him.  It doesn’t feel as good if he’s not in pain, and the more pain he’s in, the better it feels.  Then I remember—in all the swiftness of the rape, the kid hasn’t noticed the mirror.


“Hey boy,” I whisper, “Look up.”


Moaning and crying, the fucker ignores me—so I grab a handful of his hair and jerk his head back.  “I said look up, asswipe.”


His head bent back, he opens his eyes and finds he’s looking himself in the tear-stained, snot-streaked face.  Looking up a little higher, he meets my eyes and I grin cheerfully at him.  “Hey there, cunt,” I smirk, “Ya feelin’ me yet?”


I squeeze his dick hard, feeling the thick, erect shaft of flesh pulse moistly in my hand.  He moans loudly, a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain, and I know he’s starting to submit.  He’s starting to relax, accepting my cock and letting it plunge deep into his guts with less resistance.  He’s starting to enjoy getting fucked.


And I’m starting not to enjoy fucking him.  The resistance it what feels good.  I like it when the meat’s ass clenches in agony on my tool.  Once the little pansy starts accepting my cock, it means I’ve reamed him out and I need to find a way to re-tighten his fuckhole.


“Oh…oh…oh, yeah…” the adolescent faggot is moaning as I plow his hole.  In the mirror, I can see that his face is still taut and pale with pain, but there’s a hint of a smile in his expression.


“Goddam, I knew you were a cumguzzlin’ queer-ass fairy,” I sneer at the kid; he opens his eyes wide and stares at me in the mirror, bewilderment written on his face.  “I’m the real man who’s gonna give you exactly what you deserve—and what you deserve is a nice long dirt nap.  I’m gonna put you in yer place, and yer place is dead and rottin’ in a ditch.  Now don’t that sound fuckin’ hot as hell?”


“Wha—what?” he asks, his huge brown eyes focused on mine with sudden laser intensity.  “What’re ya sayin’?  Wh-what’s goin’ on?”


“It ain’t what’s goin’ on,” I reply, “It’s what’s goin’ in.  You’re getting loose, asshole.  Yer fuckhole’s wearin’ out.  How many cocks you had up there, you fuckin’ whore?  What—didja bang the whole football team at yer school?  Only one way to tighten up a reamed-out fag hole, ya sperm-suckin’ homo, and that’s with pain.  I’m gonna hurt you, asswipe.  I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad yer gonna pray for death—but you ain’t gonna die till ya milked the load outta my shaft.  Remember that, boy.  You can end it any time ya want, but ya gotta make me cum to do it.”


And without another word—or any warning whatsoever—I stick the knife into the punk’s back.


I know what I’m doing; I’ve done this before.  I can have a lot of fun with my meat and a sharp implement as long as I avoid the vital areas.  And there’s a surprisingly large number of excruciatingly sensitive non-vital areas on the human body—I’ve kept meat alive for over an hour, screaming itself hoarse.


In this case, I’ve inserted the knife just below the ribcage and angled it upwards.  If my aim is correct—and it is—the razor-sharp steel slices through the kid’s right kidney and impales his liver.


The reaction is exactly what I’d hoped.  The meat screams, his voice rising to a pitch he’d not yet achieved, as his body goes rigid with trauma and shock, gripping my engorged dick life a tight velvet fist.  “Oh fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” I grunt with a satisfied sigh as the teen faggot shrieks in agony.  He buries his face in the floor as his entire body shudders rigidly—but I still have one hand on his cock, and I felt it pulse as I stuck him.  Little fuck can say he don’t like it, but we both know the truth.


It doesn’t matter how much he screams and cries and begs, he wants this.  And I’m the man to give it to him.


I leave the knife embedded in his back as I pump my erect shaft into his torn and bleeding rectum.  The punk howls in pain, thrashing under my weight.  It’s hot in here and I’m sweating—so is the kid, but his is a cold rank sweat forced out of his smooth young body by suffering.  But I only get about a half-dozen good deep thrusts before his ass starts to go loose again.


“Jeez, you’re a worthless assfuck, you bitch,” I sneer, drowning out the boy’s wailing.  “Yer ass muscle goes as limp as a flat tire in five minutes.  Guess I gotta keep tighten’ you manually, huh?  That what it’s gonna take to keep you workin’ my shaft right?  Goddam, yer one sick-ass painpig, aintcha?”


I jerk my blade out of his back and, transferring it to my left hand, slip it into his flank, as smooth as a hot knife into butter.  The vicious serrated barbs rip their way through the boywhore’s pancreas and into his spleen and again, he stiffens instinctively with massive internal organ trauma.


“Does that feel good, ya sack a’ shit?” I whisper erotically into his ear as he shudders and gasps, too far gone in shock to scream.  “Yer a lucky faggot, y’know?  You get to have two long hard shafts stuck in ya today, hah!”  I rub my free hand down his smooth, slick back; there’s very little blood from the wound I’ve made there—most of the bleeding is internal.  His lithe teenage body writhes and kicks and I can feel each shudder as it resonates in his colon and down my thick, engorged cock.


“No…” he moans shakily, his voice thick and slow with agony, “P-please…no…stop…”


“Stop?” I guffaw.  “I’m just gettin’ started.  Dude, I’m gonna jack up yer ass so fuckin’ bad they’re gonna have to use DNA to ID yer rottin’ meat.”   I look into his eyes but the little fuck lowers his head and sobs; I can’t see his face.


“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, you dumbass motherfucker,” I snarl and twist the knife in the wound, gouging out huge chunks of his pancreas.  It gives me the reaction I want; the meat raises his head and squeals like a stuck pig—which is exactly what he is.


“Learnin’ yer lesson yet, boy?” I growl.


“F-fu-fuck you,” he moans between teeth gritted in agony.


“Wrong answer,” I say.  And it is.  I show him just how wrong by jerking the knife out of his side with a flourish that spatters blood on the side wall of the van.  Switching the wickedly sharp blade between one hand and the other, I poke his back with the tip—just enough to break the skin and elicit a tense yelp from the cunt, but doing no real damage.  Yet.


“Where’s it gonna go, boy?  What part of ya is gonna be lucky enough to feel the cold sharp bite of my blade?  What area of yer flesh do ya want ripped open by my serrated steel blade, you teenage fuckwad?”  I make damn sure that as I’m poking him with the knife, his boyhole is getting all the attention it deserves from my dick.  “Make up yer mind quick, you cumsuckin’ shit, cause yer ass is gettin’ loose again.  Where do ya want me to stick ya and make ya tight again?”


The kid is groaning sluggishly; he’s bleeding internally, but not badly enough to be in imminent danger of dying.  On the other hand, shock is setting in.  That makes it hard to keep his attention.  He needs more pain, and I need to make it drastic.


I reach around, down and behind, and place the tip of the blade against the punk’s taint, just behind his scrotum.  I can feel his puckered balls—pulsating sacks of sperm, shifted into overdrive by relentless adolescent hormones.  There’s a lot of things going on in a very small space in this part of the body; I had to do a bit of research to get this move down right.  I wanna see how this will work on live meat.


I did practice, once, on some fuckmeat that was already dead.  But that’s a story for another time.  At any rate, I’m fairly certain I know what I’m doing here.  With a loud grunt and a powerful flex of my large bicep, I shove the blade up into the scumbag’s body, behind his balls.


The angle of the blade is the most important thing.  It slides up between the prostate and the pubic symphysis, a mass of cartilage in the front of the groin.  The serrated steel slashes the kid’s vas deferens, separating his seminal vesicles from his penis but leaving the testicles intact.  When I yank the blade out, tearing the wound even wider, there’s a gush of warm yellow fluid—the tip of the knife had punctured the little shit’s bladder.  The muscles at the base of his cock, clenched tight due to the crushing pressure my monster hog was exerting on his prostate, had blocked the flow of his urethra at that point.


Now I’d cut an alternate path through his taint.  The teen was pissing himself though the knife wound.


This is a pain that he’d never imagined existed.  Soft suburban meat, learning the true meaning of suffering.  His head is up, his eyes meet mine in the mirror, but he’s not looking at me.  He’s looking at Hell.  I know he can see it burning in my eyes; the expression on his face tells me so.  Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot—he’s so cute and he’s suffering so horribly, so erotically, I just wish I could keep torturing him for eternity.


His mouth is open; he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out.  The pain is too great to be released that way.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I moan in his ear, “Now you’re gettin’ it, faggot.  Now you’re working my cock right.  All I had to do was hurt ya in the right way to make ya nice and tight.  That’s it, ya worthless homo cunt, milk my shaft.”


His body is trembling uncontrollably; his white kicks knocking against my combat boots and his bound hands still clutching uselessly at my belly fur.  He’s making gasping and grunting noises as the flow of bloody piss from his mangled taint slows to a drip.  Suddenly, he inhales in a great shuddering breath.


“K-kill me…” he gasps, his tormented face white and taut in the mirror.  “P-please, n-no more, man…just-just kill me, dear God, just end it…”  He looks at me, a silent plea for mercy—those puppy-dog eyes are begging for euthanasia.


“You worthless faggot,” I sneer, riding his thrashing ass like a bucking bronco, “You wanna die?  Ok, cunt, I’ll waste yer useless as, but first I’m gonna make it my own personal cum dumpster.  Get up, bitch—on yer knees!”


I lean back and pull myself up onto my knees; grabbing a hank of the kid’s long hard, now darkened and slick with sweat, I drag him up too, keeping my thick engorged tool buried in his guts as I change position.  When we’re both on our knees in front of the mirror, I keep one hand in his hair, pulling his head back with his chin slightly raised.  The other hand still has the knife.  I hold it up in front of him.  This is the first time he’s seen it up close.


“Look at it, you piece of shit,” I whisper to the shuddering, sobbing teen.  “That’s your blood dripping off of it.  See those shreds of flesh caught in the serrations?  That’s part of yer guts, brah; ain’t that hot?  Sure ya wanna end the fun now?  I mean, lookit how hard yer cock is, faggot.”


His brown eyes, ringed with great black circles of shock, look up at mine with an almost insane intensity.  His dick was slapping rapidly against his belly in time to his frantic, pain-maddened pulse.  The little shit must be bleeding heavily inside by now, but my huge dick plugging his ass kept his cock rock-hard and throbbing.


Suddenly I can feel the electric tingling in my balls, and I know I’m about to shoot my wad.  “Ok motherfucker,” I growl at the dying kid, “Here’s what’s gonna happen.  I’m gonna take this long sharp blade and I’m gonna cut your throat.  I’m gonna slice open the tender flesh of your neck, but when I get to your trachea—that’s the windpipe, you stupid little fuck—well, that’s made out of gristle, and I’m gonna have to saw it open.  Think I’ll cut ya so I have to saw open your larynx, too—that’ll take some time, so you’ll get to enjoy it longer.  Sound like fun?  Fuck yeah, bitch, let’s get rockin’ and rollin’!”


Now that he’s been told what’s gonna happen to him and he can see the weapon that’s gonna be used, he changes his tune.  I’ve been expecting it; even in nightmarish agony, the young ones hesitate when push comes to shove.


“Oh my fuckin’ God, no…” he whispers, a catch in his strained, pain-filled voice as he begs.  “Please don’t, just make it end, I don’t wanna hurt no more, please, just make it stop…”


“Even when it stops, I’m still gonna be fuckin’ yer ass,” I jeer.  “Now shaddup and die, you worthless shit.”  Yanking his head back, I place the blade up against his throat and start slicing.


His flesh parts swiftly, almost eagerly, as it seems to open up at the merest touch of the knife.  Blood flows from the wound—a small trickle at first but soon becoming a hot, coppery gush.  The kid’s taut, lean body is rigid, tightly clenched in mortal pain.


“Oh hell yeah, cunt, milk my shaft as ya die,” I grunt, my physical pleasure ringing in my voice— he knows as his life blood jets from his throat in time to his panicked pulse that his pain and death are bringing me to orgasm.  The little asswipe should appreciate the honor.


As I’d told him, I had to slow down once I hit the esophagus; it’s a stiff and rubbery piece of tissue.  He starts shrieking as I begin to cut in.  “Oh God no Jesus Christ help me fuckin’ stoAAAGGHHH—”


At the last second, his scream spirals up an octave as I pierce his windpipe, allowing his breath to whistle out of the hole I’ve cut in his throat.  The thrashing teen can’t scream anymore; all he can do is make thick gargling sounds as he coughs up his own blood.


His body is still so stiff and hard it’s quivering; his ass has my dick in a deathgrip, squeezing it and jerking it like it’s deliberately trying to make me cum. His fingers are clutching at my hard flat abs in agony, unable to get a purchase on my skin, slick with sweat.  All he can do is grasp at my wiry body fur.  His smooth, firm legs are kicking and shuddering, the Adidas Top Tens knocking against my black combat boots.


I’ve got a teenaged boy dying in horrible pain in my arms and on my cock and it feels fuckin’ fantastic.


I toss the knife down; I don’t need it any more.  He’s bleeding heavily from his throat but I’ve managed to do no more than nick either the jugular vein or the carotid artery—which means he’s gonna remain conscious for maybe another forty-five seconds before his heart starts going into arrhythmia from overwhelming blood loss.


I’m still gripping a handful of his hair, more to keep him upright than anything else.  I put my free hand to good use—reaching around his sweaty, heaving torso, I grab his thick cock, still amazingly erect, and start jacking him.


“C’mon, motherfucker, just fuckin’ die,” I whisper in his ear as he trembles and gargles his blood.  “You want this.  Deep inside, you needed a man to fuck you and put you down like the piece of shit you are.  I’m about to blow, cunt.  Last thing yer gonna feel in your useless faggot life is my hot manseed hosin’ down yer guts—”


He doesn’t give me a chance to finish.  His body jerks violently in my arms and I can feel a powerful throbbing spasm in his dick. It erupts in a geyser of teen boycum, sending a jet of sperm up almost to the roof of the van before falling back to spatter viscously on the mirror.


I can’t control it anymore; the pressure in my balls is too intense.  Howling and cursing, I pump my spunk up the meat’s ass.  I’m still holding the kid’s dick; I jerk it and crank it mercilessly.  As powerful as my ejaculations are, I’m still able to notice something in the mirror—a puddle of milky fluid under the meat’s scrote.


It takes me a minute to realize that I’d severed the kid’s vas deferens when I jammed my blade into his taint; the seminal vesicles were behind the cut, and they produce the fluid in semen.


The kid wasn’t just cumming outta his dick, he was cumming outta the hole I’d sliced in him.


The meat is gone.  His eyes have rolled back into his head and his body jerks as he strains to breathe, air wheezing sickeningly through the gash in his windpipe.  Pearly beads of cum are oozing from his hard cock as I let him go, the rank sweaty boymeat slumping lifelessly to the floor.  One of his legs twitches randomly, his hightop sneaker scuffling momentarily on the Astroturf, then he’s still.


T-Money is cashed out.


I pull out and roll over on my back.  Fuck, that was so fuckin’ good.  I just need a little nap…



It’s still warm in the van when I wake up, and the sun is still up, so I haven’t been asleep for long.  I grab the shredded remains of the punk’s Nirvana shirt and use it to brush off the dried smears of blood on my chest from the boy’s back wounds.  He’s still laying on the AstroTurf, hunched over with his ass in the air, his legs spread with his kicks splayed out, forming a perfect V leading to his fuckhole.  His face is buried in the floor; his long sandy blond hair fanned out around his head.


From the rear, I can see that the dead kid’s taint is completely crusted with dried cum—some of his that leaked from the hole I’d cut and the rest is mine, leaked from his torn asshole.


Goddam, I’m hard again.


I’ve already reamed out the meat’s ass; I need a new hole to fuck.  I give the corpse a good hard kick, my boot making contact with its belly and flip it over onto its back.  From here I can see the pale face and blue lips, the gruesome slash that opened the throat, exposing the severed trachea—


—a nice firm hole just waiting for my shaft.  Fuck yeah.


I squat over the dead boy’s head, facing his feet, and feed my erect tool into the mangled esophagus.  The flesh is still warm and pliant, almost moist, and it seems to cling to my thick, throbbing rod.  I sit on the corpse’s face and throatfuck it for another seven or eight minutes, my hands fondling the smooth limp body.  The dead punk jerks with every pump of my hog, his Adidas kicks scraping as his legs twitch.


This time, I have no warning.  Suddenly, I find myself hunched over in orgasmic spasm, shooting a load down the kid’s windpipe and into his lungs.  I remain straddling the corpse for another couple of minutes, regaining my breath, before I pull my dick back out of the cut throat.  Standing up, I pull up my jeans and tuck my shaft back into ‘em.


Time to dump the meat.  I open the rear doors, flooding the interior with the bright golden light of late-afternoon summer.  The drainage ditch is only a yard away, beyond the foot-high guardrail.  The ditch is deep, too; it’s a good fifteen feet to the bottom.


The kid is laying splayed on his back, his hands still bound behind him, naked but for his kicks.  I’m still not satisfied.  I owned this little motherfucker, and I want everyone to know it. And then an idea comes to me.


I grab the knife in one hand and the meat’s scrotum in the other and start cutting.  It takes less than sixty seconds to completely remove the dead fag’s cock and balls.  I bend over the corpse and grin.  “Stupid little homo, all ya wanted was some beer.  Hope it was worth it.”


Then I shove the severed genitalia into the throat wound, tucking the kid’s cock into his trachea, where it slid in smoothly on a lube of my cum.  If they find him before he rots, they’ll find him choking on his own dick.


I drag the meat out and over the guardrail, dropping it unceremoniously and watching it tumble down the embankment into the trickle of muddy water at the bottom.  I return to the van and gather up the remains of the clothing, then toss them over the rail as well.  I notice that one of the slut’s Adidas sneakers had evidently caught on the rail and been jerked off; it was sitting upright at the edge of the concrete.


I left it there and climbed into the van.  Fifteen minutes later, I was merging onto the highway, heading for a DIY car wash over on Third that I’d used before; I still needed to hoes out the back of the van.  Just as I entered the highway, I heard a rattling sound from the floorboards on the passenger side.  I shot a quick glimpse over there and realized I still had the fuckmeat’s skateboard.


It was probably dangerous to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge across the cab, keeping one hand on the wheel, but I managed to snag the board without any major repercussions.  Just as I reached my exit, I rolled down the window and tossed the skateboard out onto the highway.  I kept an eye on it in my rearview mirror as I headed down the exit ramp; it bounced across two lanes before being run over by a semi.  It was destroyed, crushed to pieces.


It makes me feel even better.  I’m still tingling with afterglow as go to wash out my killing pit.

Trucker 13–Trucker vs Teen Runaway

Erik’s eyes watered as he gulped and slurped on the thick cock that was stuffed down his throat.  The teenaged boy was already well-experienced in giving blow jobs; he’d managed to get two-thirds of the way across the country by trading sex for rides with men he’d met at rest stop and gas stations.


Suddenly there was a grunt and a violent shudder and Erik felt a hot wet spurt on the back of his throat.  His mouth filled with smoky manseed; he swallowed greedily, working his tongue along the sensitive ridge of flesh running along the underside of the engorged dick in a successful effort to milk every drop of cum out of the dude.


“Fuck,” the stranger moaned, “Damn, you’re good.  Shame yer headin’ west up here at the interstate—I’d love to have ya suck my dick all the way back to Gallup.”


“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, “Gotta get out to LA.  I’m gonna make it big out there.  Hey, looks like there’s a rest stop coming up—you can drop me there.”


The driver sighed, nodded, and pulled off into the rest stop.  The place was well-lit, a state installation with restroom, an info center—closed at this late hour—and an array of vending machines; it also had separate lots for cars and commercial vehicles.


The car pulled up to the curb.  Erik opened the door and the interior dome light illuminated the driver—an older, pudgy man.  Erik had barely gotten a glimpse of him when he’d gotten in the car; he definitely wasn’t the kid’s type.  Good thing he’d had nice, thick—if short—dick, or the ride woulda been a long, dull slog.


As the older man headed back onto the highway, the boy turned headed for the bathroom.  He needed to piss, and he wanted somewhere air-conditioned to wait for another lift.  The car lot was completely empty, and the commercial lot there was but a single semi, shrouded in darkness at the far end of the lot.


It was past two in the morning; it might be a while before the right guy came along.  And it was hot.  Even at this late hour, the dry desert heat lingered unusually late—wasn’t it supposed to get cooler at night?


Within seconds, the boy was standing at a urinal, his long shaft pounding out a steady stream of piss. It took a while to empty his bladder; once he finished, he washed up at a sink, contemplating his appearance in the mirror.


Erik—whose darkest secret was that his real name was Louis; he still blushed at the memory of his mother’s raucous cries of “Louie, get in here!”—was seventeen and certainly looked no older than that.  He’d been sexually active for more than four years, and had already learned the power his lean, youthful body had over the desires of others.  He had no concerns at all over trading his body to get what he wanted.


The problem was that he’d been born in a small town in North Carolina.  The supply of men who were in a position to help him was small; he had to find a place where he could whore himself out on a grand scale.  Los Angeles seemed ideal; three days after his seventeenth birthday, he’d taken the cash he’d received as gifts, a small bag of clothes, and climbed out of his bedroom window without looking back.


That was four days ago.  Now he was here, somewhere east of Flagstaff, Arizona, almost within reach of his goal.  Excited and happy, he stood at the sink and washed the glaze of dried cum from his lips.


He’d included gel and mousse in his bag; his short black hair stood up from his scalp, but his careful sculpting was tousled after his last BJ; it actually somehow emphasized a quality of artless youth.  His thick black eyebrows added to the arrogant cast of face; his large blue eyes were those of a spoiled punk used to achieving his every whim with a minimum of effort.


His lithe, boyish body was barely clad in a wifebeater that displayed his trim youthful arms to perfection.   The white cotton was so thin that the dampness of Erik’s sweat made it transparent; the dark circles surrounding his erect nipples were visible from across the room.  Below the waist, the kid sported a pair of cheap running shorts; the bright blue nylon was short enough to display a long length of Erik’s smooth, firm thighs.


One thing he hadn’t packed enough of—and hadn’t yet stopped to get—was socks.  There was nothing between his bare feet and his dark gray Nike Air Ring Leader sneakers.


Bending over the sink, Erik splashed water into his face.  He’d spent days servicing fat old men for rides without any release.  He desperately hoped the next dude he met would be hot; he was horny as all fuck.


Then the restroom door opened and Erik was confronted with the sexiest man he’d ever seen.


The newcomer was tall, well over six feet.  He wore a short-sleeve flannel work shirt in red plaid; it was unbuttoned and spread wide, displaying a hairy, burly torso.  Small, oblong pieces of metal were nestled in the dark wiry chest fur; even from a distance, Erik recognized them as dog tags.  The stranger’s dark hair was mostly obscured by a khaki green trucker’s cap; his hard, masculine face and strong cleft chin covered with a short black scruff.  The muscle-bound stud’s footsteps echoed as the thick soles of his black harness boots thumped across the tiled floor; above them, the stud’s worn, slightly oil-smudged jeans strained against his powerful legs with every movement.  Around his narrow waist snaked a thick brown leather belt with a large, elaborate buckle.


Erik could tell at a glance that he was looking at a semi driver.  And the same glance took in the enormous bulge in the dude’s crotch, an extended ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran frighteningly far down the older man’s right thigh.


Fuck, Erik thought, please let him gimme a lift.  He doesn’t even have to be heading west; I’ll go wherever he wants…


The Trucker only needed one glance himself; he knew fuckmeat the moment he laid eyes on it.  This one was young, still in his teen.  The experience killer smiled; he could almost smell the abundance of hormones from here.  Full of testosterone and cum—even from across the room, the Trucker could see the hard-on tenting the punk’s shorts.


He knew the kid would ask for something—money, a ride, drugs, something to get the ball rolling.  He already knew he’d play along; it’d been a while since he’d had a chance drain the rage and sperm that was boiling up the need for explosive release.


But the first thing that needed explosive release was his bladder.  Ignoring the boy, he walked straight back to the urinal.  Unzipping his fly, he made sure to turn slightly back to the door, standing just far enough back from the urinal that the kid could watch as he slowly extracted the full length of his thick shaft from its tight denim confines.  Turning back to piss, he smirked, having seen the slut’s jaw drop at the sight of his tool.  Kid was hooked.


He was right, in more than one way.  As the buff truck driver stuffed his enormous hog back into his jeans, Erik worked up the courage to approach him.


“H-hey, man,” the teen quavered, hating the lack of confidence in his voice, but unable to control it in the presence of such a hyper-masculine stud, “You, uh, you drivin’?  I’m—I’m lookin’ for a ride…”


The Trucker turned and looked directly at the kid for the first time, his ice-blue eyes sliding over the young slut like a butcher appraising a side of beef.  Erik was used to the look—but somehow, this was different.  This dude seemed to be much more intense about it.  And Erik himself was much more responsive.  A dark moist circle sprouted at the highest point of the peak in his shorts.


The Trucker saw that, too.  He grinned salaciously at the boy.  “Yeah?  Ya wanna ride, huh?  And whatcha gonna do to earn yer way?  You got gas money?  Takes a lot to fill the tank, boy.”


Erik swallowed the lump he felt in his throat with an audible gulping sound.  Just hearing it made the Trucker’s cock throb; his jeans were so tight that the pulsing of the massive tube of manflesh was as obvious to the kid as his own sexual arousal was to the Trucker.


“Yeah,” Erik gasped breathlessly, “I can do that.  Fuck yeah, man I can do that as long as ya want.”  What it was he could do didn’t need to be stated in any more detail at the moment.


“I’m headed west,” the Tucker said gruffly.  Actually, he was headed north, but he’d seen enough of these worthless little road sluts to know they were usually headed out to LA in the hopes of whoring their way into riches and fame.


For a brief moment, he idly wondered how many ended up dead in a ditch. He was personally responsible for at least five that he could recall; they kinda blurred together after a while.


And at any rate, it didn’t matter which way the punk was going.  The only way he was gonna go was down, permanently.


For his part, Erik would have gone whatever direction the Trucker was just for a chance to ride his cock; the fact that he was going west only added to his pleasure.  “Aw, bro, that’s perfect!”


Abruptly, the Trucker headed for the door, jerking his head.  Erik took the hint.  In a moment, they were out of the building, the teen’s Nikes padding across the asphalt as he eagerly followed the Trucker’s thick, thumping bootsteps back into the darkness at the far end of the commercial lot.


Trailing like a puppy, Erik’s eyes were glued to the older man’s ass, covered in tight denim like a second skin.  He felt as if he’d hit the jackpot—he felt as if, for the first time since running away from home, he was getting a glimpse of what his life held in store.  For a moment, he was held entranced by the image of continuous sex with a string of hot buff studs—


—only to walk right into the back of the hot buff stud he was with.  The latter had stopped at the cab of his truck.  He turned and glared momentarily at Erik, making the boyslut blush with embarrassment.


The Trucker was briefly annoyed, but he smiled grimly at the thought of the punishment he’d soon be meting out to the cunt.  Unlocking the door, he swung his large, muscle-bound frame up into the cab.  “C’mon,” he said as he headed to the sleeper compartment in the rear.  He didn’t bother to look back and see if the boy was following; he already knew.  Stupid little faggot was walking into a killing pit with his eyes wide open.


Erik climbed into the semi’s cab.  He glanced around the space in the back, marveling at the almost cozy compactness of the rear compartment as the Trucker closed off the front with a privacy curtain.  The bunk on the rear wall wasn’t big, but it was big enough to get fucked on, and that was all he was interested in.


Hearing a faint thump behind him, Erik turned around and saw that the older man had slipped off his shirt and let it fall to the floor.  The Trucker stood with his magnificent, bulked-out chest bare, with nothing but the dogtags to accent the furry cleft between his bulging hubcap pecs. It was warm in the cab—the Trucker had turned up the temp on AC, not wanting to run the battery low—and beads of sweat glistening deep in the forest of his body hair.


“Strip,” he commanded, looking levelly at Erik.


The kid complied, hurriedly pulling the white wifebeater up over his head and revealing his smooth, flat belly and broad chest, the low-rising pecs surmounted by large dark nipples.  Erik then reached down to his slim waist and slipped the running shorts down, wriggling his firm legs to make them drop to the floor.  He had to reach inside briefly when they got hung up on his jutting cock; once free of the silky blue nylon, his erect rod bobbed about, dripping clear spatters of precum on his Nike Air Rings.


The Trucker moved his hand down to his groin.  Without breaking his cold, hypnotic eye contact with Erik, he slowly—very slowly—slid the zipper down.


Despite his cocky expression, Erik’s voice was hesitant and uncertain.  “I-I’m, um, Erik—with a K,” he said haltingly, wanting to see what the older man was doing in his crotch but unable to look away from those captivating, ice-cold eyes.  It took a physical effort to drag his eyes away; when he did, they landed on a half-empty pack of Marlboros on a small shelf to one side.  The boy’s attention was momentarily diverted.  “Hey, can I bum a smoke?


“Not yet, boy,” the Trucker snapped.  “Get over here. I got somethin’ else for ya to stick in yer mouth first.”


Erik took the hint and kneeled in front of the alpha, looking along the man’s rippled, fur-covered belly.  “Uh-uh, face down here,” the Trucker growled, grabbing the punk’s head in his strong hand and physically reorienting it towards his open fly; as he did, he felt the cunt’s hair gel crunch under his fingers.


At eye-level with the open zipper, the teen could see that the massive tube was still semi-soft, bent downwards so the dick was stuffed down the stud’s left thigh.  “Haul it out, you little slut,” the Trucker demanded.


Reaching in, Erik felt the throbbing in the thick cock in his hands.  He tugged it mightily, slowly extracting the pulsating manmeat.  Once he had the full length of the shaft out, it began rapidly stiffening in his grasp.


It was also oozing precum in a steady stream.  “Put it in yer mouth, kid,” the Trucker demanded roughly.   “I wanna feel you choke on it.  I wanna feel my big cum-filled balls slapping against yer chin.”


Erik’s dick swelled painfully at the words, but before he could obey, the Trucker took matters—and the boy’s head—into his own hands.  Digging his fingers into the slut’s stiff hair, he jerked forward, ramming his cock into the kid’s gaping mouth.  Erik gagged, his eyes watering, as the thick rod, already slick with precum, slammed into the back of his throat; the shaft of manflesh was so large it forced his jaw open.


With his mouth crammed full of cock, the teen slut was in fag heaven.  As he let his tongue lovingly explore every thick, pulsing vein wrapped around the enormous tool, he reached up, almost unconsciously, and ran his hands over the alpha’s tight, ripped abs, his fingers catching in the heavy, dark fur in the stud’s treasure trail.


“C’mon, boy,” the Trucker snarled, “Open up yer fag throat and take it, cocksucker.  Quit actin’ like you ain’t lotsa dick in your mouth, ya little bitch.”


Closing his eyes in erotic pleasure and fondling the older man’s rock-hard abdomen, Erik opened his jaw as wide as he could and did his best to deep-throat the huge, throbbing shaft.  It wasn’t enough.  Clutching Erik’s head in an iron grip, the Trucker shoved his swollen manhood far down the punk’s esophagus, completely plugging the airway.


Erik began to choke.  It was hot as fuck—for about forty-five seconds.  Then he pressed his hands flat against the top’s firm, powerful thighs and pushed, trying to pull back from the alpha’s overwhelming throatfuck.  He couldn’t.


The kid started gagging.  He slapped his hands on the Trucker’s legs, trying to signal him to back off; instead, with a sinister chuckle, the stud gripped the boy’s head tightly and drove his shaft even further into the slut’s trachea.


For a brief moment, as his eyes started to water, Erik began to panic.  Then, with no warning at all, the Trucker pulled his tool out, shoving the kid away.  Erik fell back on the floor, coughing.


“Get up here and work my nips, cunt,” the alpha commanded.


With the back of his hand, Erik wiped drool from his chin.  He looked up at the leering top in disbelief.  “Uh, c-can I have a cigarette now?  Please?” he asked plaintively, his cockiness skullfucked out of him.


The Trucker paused for a moment, considering, then spoke.  “Sure, cocksucker,” he grinned, “Grab the pack and the lighter and bring them here.”


Erik obeyed, scrambling quickly for the pack of Marlboros.  Clutching them eagerly, he approached the Trucker.  “Light one and gimme,” the alpha demanded.  Again, the boy did what he was told, lighting the cigarette, then handing it to the older man before lighting one for himself.


Erik took a deep drag off his smoke but before he got the chance to exhale, the powerful top reached out and grabbed his head again, jerking it forward until the punk’s face was being ground into the stud’s chest hair.  “I toldja to work my nips, asswipe,” the Trucker barked.


Suddenly the teen slut found a hard plug of flesh shoved into his mouth.  He worked it with his tongue as he breathed out the cigarette smoke, feeling the nipple grow even firmer under the ministrations of his mouth and the hot smoke.


The moment the pressure on his head relaxed, Erik pulled back and took another drag.  The Trucker wasn’t happy.  “You only done one of ‘em, bitch,” he growled, but the effect wasn’t what he expected; the boyslut’s cockiness seemed to flood back into him with each fresh inhalation of nicotine.


“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, leaning back on the bunk and sucking on the butt with his eyes closed.  “I want you in me.  I wanna feel that big cock in my ass.  It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but I’ll bet I’m gonna remember this one.”


The Trucker’s eyes narrowed as his rage at the arrogant young fag bubbled up.  “Remember it?  You’ll remember my cock for the rest of yer pathetic little life, cocksucker.”


Erik blew out a huge cloud of smoke and lolled his head languidly, trying desperately to maintain his nonchalance, but his dick told the real story.  The dribble of precum from his swollen purple head had increased dramatically; the slit in the tip had widened to allow a steady trickle of transparent fluid to flow.


“Oh yeah,” the horny teen said in a tight voice, shuddering with eager lust.  Stubbing his butt out in a half-filled ashtray on a shelf, Erik turned around.  Facing the rear of the cab, he bent over, placing his palms flat on the bunk, presenting his smooth bubble butt to the Trucker. Overwhelmed by the hormones flooding his lean, lithe adolescent body, Erik reached back with both hands and spread his rounded asscheeks.  “Put it in me, dude,” he moaned, “Use me, dude, fuck me like there ain’t no tomorrow!”


A quiet voice came from behind, shot through with cold humor.  “I can do that.”  Then Erik felt pressure against his sphincter.


The Trucker grinned as he pushed the head of his dick—nearly the size of a standard cue ball—into the kid’s ass.  Reaching over to the ashtray he ground his own smoke out, then grasped the punk’s waist with both hands and started to shove, feeling his enormous tool start to force its way into the youth’s tight fuckhole.


Erik grunted, first with pleasure, then—as the pressure on his ass continued to increase—with surprise.  This was followed by a deeper grunt of effort as he struggled to adjust himself to the massive flesh tube penetrating his rectum.


It didn’t take long for the grunt to escalate into a cry of pain.


“Wait!” the boy cried out, “Fuck, it hurts—stop!”


“Shaddup,” the Trucker growled, shoving harder.


Erik squealed in pain as his sphincter was stretched further than it ever had been before.  The sound stoked the alpha’s anger; he dug his fingers into the boy’s tender skin, holding the struggling youth tightly.


“You wanted my dick, motherfucker, now take it!” the older man snarled.


“No!” the teen screamed, “Lemme up!  Goddam it, lemme up, it hurts too much—lemme go!”


Grabbing at the bunk, Erik managed to bring one knee up onto the edge of the sleeping surface.  He lunged forward, trying to escape the pain of having his asshole torn open.  He succeeded in slipping off the Trucker’s massive rod, but then his attempt backfired miserably.


It happened so fast he had no time to react.  A powerful arm reached under his and then he was flipped in the air, landing on the bunk on his back, hard enough to knock the air out of him.


He looked up at the Trucker.  “Stupid fuckin’ faggot,” the alpha sneered and dealt the punk a quick pair of rabbit punches right to the face.  Bright pain exploded in Erik’s face and his head rocked back under the violent blows.  Stunned, the youth was unable to protest as the muscle-bound sadist thrust his giant throbbing shaft between the kid’s parted legs.


The moment he rammed it home, though, Erik found his voice in spite of the sudden assault.  The agony in his ass was like nothing he’d imagined could ever existed; the Trucker’s cock was so big it literally split the teen’s sphincter, ripping it open in two separate tears.  Searing, glassy pain shot through the youth as his colon was stretched out of shape by the thick manmeat that plugged it full.


Erik screamed.  He shrieked until his voice cracked as it echoed off the metal walls of the cab.  “Yeah, that’s it,” the Trucker grinned, “That’s how a fag like you needs to get fucked, yeah?  Take a real man’s dick, you worthless little sack a’ homo shit!”


Wallowing in nightmarish pain, Erik still heard and understood the buff killer’s words.  They had no effect on his screaming; the veins wrapping the cruel top’s cock scraped his tender, sensitive rectal lining like barbed wire—his high-pitched shrieks were merely the involuntary result.


The punk’s deafening clamor only emphasized his desperate isolation.  The teen fag’s lithe, lean body writhed helplessly, pinned to the bunk by the weight of his powerful assailant’s muscles, impaled on the alpha’s cock.


Outside, Erik’s screams were swept away on the hot night wind, becoming inaudible mere yards from the darkened cab.  There was no one around for miles.  There were just the two males, alone together, entwined in a painful, erotic embrace of violence and lust.


Inside, the kid’s ragged shrieking reverberated in the small space.  “Shut yer goddam mouth,” the Trucker barked, “You’re givin’ me a headache, ya worthless piece of fuckmeat.  Shaddup or I’ll shut ya up myself.”


Again, Erik heard the words, but they seemed to come from some other world, some place beyond the glassy bubble of pain he was inhabiting.  They had no bearing on his reality, which—like his ass—was full of cock.  Enormous, agonizing cock, plumbing the furthest depths of his guts.  Part of his mind that managed to remain insulated from the pain and fear of the brutal rape held a mental image of him at the moment as nothing more than a human sheath, wrapped around a gigantic dick.


He couldn’t understand why his own shaft was fully erect; pain had always made him go limp.  He had no way of knowing that he was being stimulated internally by the intense pressure of the Trucker’s tool against his prostate.  All the unfortunate runaway knew was that his own dick was traitorously stiff, bobbing in the air as he was being brutally assraped.  And it hurt so fucking bad.  And it was probably gonna hurt worse if he couldn’t stop screaming…


…but he couldn’t stop screaming.



The Trucker leaned forward, his handsome, erotically masculine face lit from within by an unholy, frightening rage.  There was a faint clinking sound as the top’s dogtags danced on the boy’s heaving chest.  Erik could feel the older man’s breath hot on his face.


“I said shut the fuck up,” the Trucker hissed between clenched teeth; despite his intense anger, he never mistimed a single thrust of his hips as he continued to drive his shaft mercilessly up the punk’s ass.


“No!  Get outta me!  Fuckin’ hell, get it out, it hurts fuck AAAHHHH!” Erik screeched.  His balled fists drummed uselessly against the Trucker’s broad, rock-hard chest.  Suddenly the Trucker twisted away; keeping the kid impaled on his erect rod, he managed to bend down and snatch something up off the floor of the cab.  He made sure to hold it up in front of Erik’s face.


It was Erik’s white cotton wifebeater.  At first, the shrieking teen didn’t understand.


“I toldja I’d shut you up, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  He started twisting the shirt into a three-foot length of fabric, and Erik understood.  He stopped screaming, but it was too late.


“Was gonna off yer worthless ass anyway, punk,” the Trucker sneered, breaking the sudden silence, “But yer screamin’ like a fuckin’ pansy and it’s gettin’ on my nerves.  So ya get to die a few minutes early.”


Erik shook his head, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide with fear.  He didn’t want to acknowledge the purpose of the twisted shirt in the alpha’s hands, but he wasn’t permitted the luxury of denial.  The Trucker lunged; Erik tried to block but the alpha knocked his arms away as easily as swatting a fly.  Before he could prevent it, the scared teen realized the cotton band had been wrapped around his throat—and pulled tight.


The fabric was still damp and rank with hormone-laden boysweat.  Just before his air was cut off, Erik inhaled a deep, heady musk; the mix of his own sweat and that of the powerful alpha filled his lungs with pheromones before they were permanently sealed.


“There ya go,” the Trucker jeered, “Now shaddup and die, fuckmeat.”


It was worth it, the alpha thought as he jerked the wifebeater brutally tight, it was worth it, just to see the look of panic in the young faggot’s eyes, just to feel the teen’s fuckhole clench his dick in involuntary spasms.


Terror welled up in Erik.  This stud, this muscle-bound god—this wasn’t supposed to be happening.  He hadn’t hit the jackpot, he was being hurt, being raped…being murdered.  Frantically, he jammed his hands up under the Trucker’s jaw, trying futilely to push the alpha away.


The powerful sadist easily shrugged the kid’s flailing hands away.  “Die on my dick, you cumsuckin’ pervert,” he sneered, then hocked a wad of phlegm into the boy’s panic-stricken face.  “It feels so fuckin’ good when little homo fucks like you kick and die with my cock inside ya.”


Erik kicked and writhed in horrific agony; the tensile strength of the damp cotton band allowed it to sink deeply into the kid’s smooth, soft neck flesh without stretching or tearing.  The frantic youth clawed desperately at the shirt, but once it sank in, he could no longer get his fingers around it—and he turned his panic on his assailant.


The Trucker had snuffed at least two dozen faggots—he didn’t keep count—and by now knew the stages of terror, submission and death better than the meat experiencing them did.  He recognized the impending explosion of fear and braced himself as the cunt lashed out like a feral cat.



The slim young teen scrambled with a frenetic strength that would have surprised anyone not experienced with the true fear of death; the meat was awash in cold terror and stuck blindly at the Trucker’s muscled mass.  His hands, crabbed like claws, clutched at the older man’s bulging biceps before slipping off the sweat-slick skin.


Still mindlessly seeking some way of stopping the choking pain, the clutching, grabbing hands soon landed on the Trucker’s broad chest—and dug in.  The kid’s fingers curled in the wiry, almost steel wool-like chest hair and yanked painfully.


Then, inadvertently, Erik opened the door to a whole new universe of pain.  He raked his fingernails over the Trucker’s chest, scraping off fur and drawing blood.


Only one person had made the Trucker bleed before, and that wasn’t a good memory.  It triggered a heightened rage response.


“Goddam fuckin’ piece of fag shit!” he roared, twisting the cotton shirt so he could maintain the excruciating tautness with a single hand.  The other hand he drew back into a fist, then used it to punctuate his speech with the emphasis of a wrecking ball.


“Worthless [BAM] little [BAM] motherfucker [BAM], you still don’t fuckin’ get it [BAM], do ya [BAM]?  Only thing yer good for is milkin’ my shaft [BAM] and soakin’ up my load [BAM].  Looks like I’m gonna hafta beat it into ya [BAM], huh, cunt [BAM]?  Know what I’m gonna do [BAM] with yer used-up boymeat [BAM] when I’m done with ya [BAM]?  Huh?  I’m gonna throw ya out [BAM] like a used cumrag [BAM]—yer gonna end up rottin’ in a ditch like garbage, hah [BAM]!”


The third blow was accompanied by a snapping sound as Erik’s cheekbone broke, the fifth with the squelching sound of split lips.  On the seventh or eighth—neither predator nor prey was keeping an accurate count—the boy’s nose broke, the cartilage collapsing with a loud crunching noise.  And on the thirteenth impact, the orbit of the teen’s left eye fractured into multiple pieces, causing the white of the swelling, bulging orb to hemorrhage blood-red.


Unfortunately for Erik, his youth worked against him; his adolescent body, fueled by raging hormones, was unable to succumb to unconsciousness.  He was awake and aware of every blow, and every word.  He knew exactly what was happening to him; he just couldn’t understand why.


Even the sex had gone bad; it felt like a massive ingot of white-hot steel had been shoved up his ass, searing his guts out as it reamed his fuckhole.  The intense pressure against his prostate was reflected in the intense pressure in his cock; it felt so achingly hard and swollen that it seemed about to burst.  And the pressure of the ligature around his throat was reflected by the pressure in his chest, which felt like it had already burst in a fiery explosion that still raged within him.


It was his head that hurt the worst, though; his smashed face was flaming agony, but on the inside…oh my fuckin’ god my head is swelling my tongue I can’t close my mouth I can’t close my eyes…


Taking the shirt back in both hands and tightening it further, the Trucker lowered himself down until he was lying full-length on top of the kid.  The lean, smooth teen body writhed and jerked under the weight of the muscled hardman, skin sliding against furry skin on a lube of deathsweat that was being squeezed out of the boy.


The older man bent his head down to whisper in the punk’s ear; as he did so, the stiff black stubble on his cheek grazed the kid’s face, scraping painfully against the boy’s bruised, swelling skin.


“Ya feelin’ me now, boy?  Ya findin’ out what it feels like to die, aintcha?  Fuck yeah, cunt, I’m gonna cum so hard when you die.  Been too long since I wasted a fag—you came along just in time, asswipe.  Stupid young fuckmeat, ready and waiting to suffer and die on my dick.  Just needed a little tenderizin’ to learn how to accept death from the hands of a real man.”


Erik hadn’t learned to accept his own death yet, but at the moment the terror was overwhelmed with sheer physical pain; as his nervous system slowly began to die of oxygen deprivation, the nerve endings underwent a common paradoxical reaction—they became more sensitive.  The slighted touch against Erik’s skin was magnified to the intensity of agony.


Without even breaking the skin, the sharp edges of the Trucker’s dogtags, pressed as they were into the boy’s chest by the heavier man’s weight, felt like knives piercing his flesh.  His thick purple cock, already painfully erect, was also pressed between the entwined male forms; as the underside rasped up and down on the Trucker’s large metal belt buckle, Erik felt unimaginable pain that he pictured mentally as the skin being flayed off his dick.


“Does it hurt?” the Trucker asked, grinning.  “Good.  Yer gonna die in fuckin’ agony, just like you deserve, ya cockpig sack a’ shit.”


Beneath him, the once-arrogant teen was unrecognizable in the battered, blackened mass of swollen flesh above the cotton band—the latter sunk so deep in the kid’s throat it was almost invisible.  Erik’s face was dark and congested, the eyes—both now blood-red with hemorrhages—bulging grotesquely from their sockets, the left one off-center from the shattered orbit.  They were swollen to the point he was unable to close them; he was forced to watch his own Nike Air Ring Leaders, just past the Trucker’s shoulders, as they kicked and flailed helplessly in the air.


The boy’s split, purple lips had parted, letting the monstrously swollen tongue to emerge in mass of thick white foam that drooled down the youth’s smooth cheeks.  His black hair, stiff in gelled disarray, was wet with the same cold deathsweat that soaked his pits and lubed his smooth young body.


The cruel alpha grinned viciously at the dying boy.  “Still fightin’ it, cocksucker?    Keep tryin’, ya stupid fuckwad.  Fuck yeah, the younger the fag the longer it takes ‘em to die—and the longer I get my hog worked.  Gotta remember that, huh?  Next time I wanna get my dick milked real good, I gotta find me a dumbass piece of teenage homo meat!”


Erik heard the words—barely, and understood them—barely, but they no longer carried an immediacy about them.  His brain was dying, cerebral cells going dark by the millions as his body shudder helplessly in the grip of a death that was swiftly approaching—but not swiftly enough.


The teen slut was ready to die.  The pain was too much; he just wanted it to end, but the Trucker was right—his youth worked against him; his healthy system had been full of oxygen when his air supply had been cut off.


He could feel—oh fuck, he could still feel everything.  This wasn’t supposed to be happening; he’d just wanted a lift and some dick.  Now—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, his throat, he could feel is collapsing—


“Ya likin’ that, fuckpig?  I can feel yer dick leakin’ all over my belly, queerboy.  Fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?”


No, no he wasn’t enjoying it, but his cock was so hard it hurt and he didn’t know why, the pressure and the pounding in his head in his cockhead and behind his eyes, that frantic percussion—was that his pulse?—his head was gonna explode and his dick was gonna explode the pressure was too intense—


“Goddam, boy, I ain’t had no one’s ass grab my shaft like this—yer really gettin’ into this, cunt!  Fuckin’-A—gonna ride yer ass till ya die, faggot!”


The enormous cock that had roused such lust and desire in the oversexed teenager was now being wielded as an instrument of nightmarish torture, tearing him open on the inside.  With the heightened sensitivity of his dying nervous system, Erik was suffering the pain of impalement in an almost medieval sense as the alpha’s inhumanly massive shaft pounded its way through his torn, inflamed colon and repeatedly embedded itself deep into his tender guts.


The Trucker held on to the twisted wifebeater with both hands, feeling the teen dying on his engorged cock.  Tracing the progression of the kid’s brain death was relatively easy for the proficient serial killer; he knew the symptoms from long experience.  The meat was nearly gone, but the way the little fuck was gagging and slobbering meant that there was still a spark of human mentality left—


—and the Trucker was so fucking turned on at the thought of abusing and tormenting that spark until it finally flickered out.


“Does it hurt to die?” he hissed, “Good.  You earned this, you faggot slut.  Only thing you’re fuckin’ good for is catchin’ my spunk, and you’re good for that once—maybe twice. And after I’m done usin’ ya, all that’ll be left it rottin’ meat that I’m gonna dump on the side of the road.  Not like anyone’s gonna miss ya, right, fuckwad?”


The boy heard the words, at least the start, but had lost the ability to react.  Lack of oxygen had inflicted massive trauma to his central nervous system; he no longer had control over his physical movements.  As the Trucker spoke, the kid began to convulse, slowly at first but with a swiftly-increasing intensity.


The sick, sadistic top grinned and grunted with pleasure; this was the best part, the way the meat stroked and milked his shaft as it writhed in its death throes.  And this boy seemed to last forever; the slick, lithe, smooth body wriggling and shuddering beneath his hairy weight, the kid’s thick, pulsating dick pressed between two flat, firm bellies.  The youth’s arms had stopped flailing; now, they clutched rigidly at his killer’s shoulders.  The Trucker could feel the heels of the punk’s kicks digging into his denim-wrapped ass as the boy’s legs tightened involuntarily around his waist.


Erik was gone and what little was left of Louis was encased in a hard red ball of agony—the fiery pain that seared his chest and head, his throat and his ass and especially his dick, had somehow managed to merge into a solid mass of suffering as his body twisted and contorted itself convulsively.


“Oh fuck, fuck yeah,” the Trucker grunted, his face grimacing as he tried to hold back the explosive orgasm boiling up in his tight scrotum.  Deep in his boots, his toes curled in an instinctive attempt to brace his hard, powerful body. His arms jerked back almost involuntarily, veins popping out on his thick, swollen biceps; the white cotton ligature sank into the kid’s neck to a grotesque depth.


Suddenly, there was a loud wet cracking sound; the boymeat’s throat had been crushed into a wad of blood, phlegm and mangled cartilage.  It was a special kind of pain and it merged seamlessly with the last sensation that the unfortunate youth had to endure—the razor-sharp agony of his own ejaculation.


As the teen spewed a massive deathload over the Trucker’s chest and belly, the boycum matting the older man’s fur, the Trucker gave one last, deep grunt and let go, his hot potent manspunk hosing the boy’s guts and filling his rectum.


The hot wind still swept out of the night, whipping around the silent cab where a man remained locked in a tight, trembling, orgasmic embrace with the corpse of a seventeen-year-old boy.


A few minutes later, when the Trucker was sure he’d drained every drop of sperm out of his huge balls, he disengaged himself from the dead punk.  Taking a moment to stuff his still-oozing dick back into his jeans, the sweaty, cum-covered alpha looked down with contempt at the corpse.


There was little left that was recognizable of the cocky teenager.  The smooth young face was now a puffy blue mask with a thick purple tongue protruding from the middle of it.  The nose was bent and broken with blood trials from both nostrils and the eyes were nothing but slits of white streaked with red under swollen lids.


The dark gray Nikes were quivering as the fag’s nervous system continued to fire random nerve signals; the Trucker knew from past experience that the meat would twitch and kick for an hour or so longer.  The little fucker’s dick was going soft, expelling the semen that had remained in the shaft at death.




The Trucker sneered at the dead boy.  “Fuckin’ faggot,” he muttered, “Shoulda hurt ya more.”


Grabbing a washcloth from a small set of drawers on the left, the heaving, sweat-slick alpha slipped past the privacy curtain and exited the cab.  Walking quickly across the empty parking lot, he headed into the rest room.  Under the glaring fluorescent light, he soaked the washcloth and used it to give his torso a brief sponge bath, wiping the teen’s crusty jizz out of his body fur.


Even though his boots thumped just as loudly on the pavement on his way back to the truck as on the way in, the Trucker’s steps were lighter.  He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the workout he’d gotten snuff the young homo.  Even his dogtags jingled cheerfully on his chest.


The young ones could take a good, hard beating and still let him work out some while bangin’ and offin’ them—he’d remember that.  Oh fuck yeah, he’d remember that.


He was on the highway within fifteen minutes, cruising along with the window down, letting the warm night air dry the dark curly hair on his chest.  As the miles flew by, his mind kept turning back to the incredibly erotic way the adolescent slut had died on his cock.  The way the motherfucker’s asshole clutched his throbbing shaft, milking it desperately, convulsively as life was choked out of the little punk…


The Trucker found that he had to reach into his crotch and shift his stiffening rod.


He began eyeing the side of the road, wanting to dump the meat before sunup.  He was near the center of one of the most godforsaken sections of highway in the state—in the entire country for that matter—but there was no sense taking chances.


He’d seen no other vehicles for an hour when he pulled off the two-lane road onto a wide, level section of shoulder.  Beyond the shoulder, the land dipped down into a deep, narrow gully, shadowed with the dry, brown remains of whatever dank vegetation managed to grow when there was water present.


It’d be a long time before anyone found anything tossed down there.


Taking one last look in the rearview mirror to ensure he was alone, the Trucker made his way past the privacy curtain into the sleeper section of the cab.  Somewhere in the past hundred miles, the dead boy had rolled off the bunk; the corpse was splayed out face down on the floor.


Standing over it, the Trucker admired the smooth, lean meat, the tender, rounded ass that seemed designed for fucking, the firm, lithe legs spread invitingly apart, with the grey Nikes still on the feet.  His cock was straining painfully in his jeans.  The feelings were conflicting; he didn’t fuck corpses, but this little fuck still seemed to be asking for it.


“Fuck it,” the Trucker muttered, “Why not?”


Bending down, he grabbed the dead teen and tossed the corpse onto the bunk, still face down.  He positioned it crossways with the legs hanging off, as if the boy was kneeling at the bunk and bent down over it.  In that position, the ass was perfectly set up for penetration.


As usual, it took the hulking alpha a moment or two to extract his gigantic shaft from its tight denim confines.  When it was finally free, it was as engorged and oozing as if he hadn’t just emptied his sack a little over an hour earlier.


Lowering himself down, he inserted his throbbing member into the cadaver and was pleasantly surprised.  The meat was cool, but not cold, and rigor mortis had set in just enough to make the mangled dead asshole comfortably firm enough to grip the Trucker’s cock just right.


With a sigh of pleasure, the sick killer inserted his manhood into the boy’s fuckhole until he was balls-deep in the dead teenager.  The sigh was soon replaced by deep lusty grunts at the older man plowed his cock into the depths of the cooling carcass.  The meat was still limp enough for the dead youth’s limbs to jerk and shift in response to each and every thrust of the Trucker’s huge, pulsating shaft.


It had been years since the Trucker had violated the corpse of one of his kills; he’d forgotten the sweet, easy sensation of a victim unable to resist—and this one, such young smooth flesh, so supple, even in death…


It was too much.  The Trucker shuddered violently as he pumped another massive load into the dead boy’s guts, giving the cold meat one last burst of warmth with his scalding geyser of semen.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Goddam faggot!  Dead piece a’ shit!” he cried in a gruff, constricted voice that echoed of the metal walls of the tiny sleeper compartment.  Involuntarily, he grabbed the punk’s jaw and twisted it, his arms jerking roughly in orgasmic intensity and snapping the meat’s neck with a gruesomely loud shattering sound.


The only other noises to accompany the perverted desecration of the teenager’s corpse were the joyous jangling of the Trucker’s dogtags and the desolate whistling of the pre-dawn breeze.


For the second time, the Trucker disengaged himself from the dead kid; this time, he used the boy’s shorts as a rather unsatisfactory cumrag to wipe off his dripping cock.  As he tucked his fully-drained member back into his jeans, he pulled back the privacy curtain and looked outside the cab—there was still obviously no one within miles.


So there was no one to see him yank the dead teenager out of the cab by his arms; there was no one to see the channels carved in the dirt by the corpse’s Nikes as it was dragged across the shoulder to the gully.  There was certainly no one to notice when the muscular hardman, in tight jeans and boots, but shirtless, dumped the dead meat into the ditch; in fact, it was three months before the skeletal remains were found.


It was finally ID’d by dental records.  The kid’s mama had made sure her Louie had good teeth.


There was someone to notice that one of the fucker’s Nikes had come off as he was being dragged—the Trucker.  When he drove off, he made sure one of his rig’s wheel passed right over the sneaker, grinding it into the gravel on the side of the road.

A Meat Slave in Hell by Gay Slavemeat

As the slave rotated slowly over the hot coals, its body impaled by an iron spit inserted into its anus that exited through its mouth (to which its hands and feet were tied), it wondered idly how many times it had been killed.  But that thought was interrupted as the slave’s elongated cock brushed against the little pile of particularly hot coals placed so that the cock would touch them on each rotation.  That pain was extraordinary even compared to the agony caused by the red-hot spit cooking its insides and the excessively hot coals that were blistering its skin as the live meat slave slowly turned and cooked.  This was how the demons, who watched, laughed, and used their powers to keep the spit turning, liked human flesh prepared – not just cooked, but burned, especially the delicious cock.  The cock was kept so aroused and hard that it was parallel to the horizontal body, enabling its entire underside to scorch as it brushed against the extra-hot pile of coals.  The cooking would not kill the slave, which was important since the demons insisted on only eating living flesh.  It would be the removal and consumption of the slave’s heart that would once again bring the sensation of death.  That would not happen until nearly all the high quality meat on the body was greedily eaten.  The real nourishment didn’t come from the meat, which they enjoyed but didn’t need to eat.  The nourishment came from the extraordinary pain they were able to inflict both in cooking and in eating.  After one of them removed the beating heart and ate that final organ, the slave’s body would reform and the cycle would start again, beginning with sexual torture and humiliation and ending with a creative way of once again preparing the slave as meat for a demon’s feast.


It had been over 2,000 years since the first time the slave had died. That event, like all the thousands in between, was one the slave still vividly remembered, and it could still relive the sensations.  It had been in a Roman circus, where it had been displayed as one of the slaves captured by the Emperor Caligula.  The capture was a fake, of course, since the Emperor never actually went to war, and the slave had simply been one of the many young males selected by the Emperor because he liked its body and wanted to watch it die.  So the slave was brought out naked to the cheers of the crowd, fucked by several huge gladiators, and hacked to death as the cheering increased.  The gladiators started by cutting off its penis and testicles, which were presented to the Emperor as trophies.  The Emperor tossed the shriveled cock to a nearby slave kneeling beside him on all fours, who ate it doggy-style.  But the Emperor picked the man-seeds from the ball sac (which he also tossed to his slave-dog) and popped the fresh meat into his mouth.  This further delighted the crowd.  Oddly, even though it no longer had any sex organs with which to react, the sight of its former male pride being eaten turned on the slave sexually.  It was pleased that it had been used so personally by the great emperor.  From its perspective, for a mere slave to have part of its body used as a snack by the Emperor of the Roman World was a great honor.  The fact it also meant the slave would die a very painful, humiliating death was of no concern to it (or anyone else).


At a signal from the emperor that he was done with his snack, the gladiators slowly and carefully hacked the slave into pieces, trying to keep it alive as long as possible, laughing and sharing the severed body parts as more crowd-pleasing snacks.  The slave died when one of the gladiators, after cutting open its belly and reaching in to remove its liver, reached into the body cavity again and pulled out its heart.  The slave was not alive to watch the heart stop beating and get consumed by the triumphant soldier.  But this established its method of death for its eternity of pain.


The slave had not resisted or even objected.  In fact, it was sexually turned on by having its naked body on display and getting gang-fucked while the crowd watched, so that it was able to maintain an erection until its cock was sliced off.  One of the gladiators had masturbated it to the point of orgasm, so that what he cut off was a pulsating cock just starting to emit cum.  The clever transformation from pleasure to pain was a huge crowd-pleaser.  The slave somehow felt it owed the crowd (and especially the Emperor) as much pleasure as possible for having allowed it to serve them, alerting the gladiator to its impending orgasm so he could have the knife ready and make the timing perfect.


It had been born into slavery, and because it was exceptionally handsome it had been trained and used as a sex slave (among other things, such as a human urinal).   Whether it had enjoyed that naturally, or simply become accustomed to being fucked and tortured, was of no matter.  The simple fact was that it was seriously turned on by having another guy’s cock up its ass, by being whipped and kicked, by drinking sperm and piss, and by having lots of people watching and enjoying its torment – or, better yet, joining in the fun.  That’s why its owner figured it would be a perfect slave to sell to the Emperor, who thrived on torturing young males.  The night before its public execution the Emperor had personally fucked and tortured the slave, which had been the greatest honor it could imagine.  The Emperor had even considered doing the killing himself, but decided to let the crowd enjoy the scene.  The slave was deeply humbled that the Emperor would even consider such an honor, and went to its public death quite content with its life.


The slave had only limited understanding of heaven and hell, or even the concept of an afterlife, while it was alive.  Its understanding really began the instant it died.  To its amazement, it was able to watch the soldier pull out its heart and eat it in front of the wildly cheering crowd as the other gladiators let go and what was left of its body finally crumpled to the ground, ready to be fed to the livestock.  Even more amazing, the slave could actually feel itself being eaten.  The pain was extraordinary, but so was the excitement.  The slave understood, at a much deeper level, how appropriate it was to be a slave, and that its ultimate fate was the best use of its otherwise worthless flesh.


As the slave watched the soldier finish his task by cutting off its head and holding that, too, for the crowd to enjoy, it was sexually aroused by the feel of the axe through its throat, and reached a kind of climax as the soldier fucked the severed head through its neck.  That’s when it realized that it was somehow whole again – complete with a cock that was spurting cum.  As it watched the pieces of its body being dragged off the field to make room for the next victim, the sight brought it to orgasm yet again – a level of intense orgasm it had never achieved before.  And as it watched its massive load of sperm literally shoot from its body, the slave realized it was not alone.


“Nice loads, slave,” a voice observed.   “I see you’ve adjusted rather quickly.”


The slave was horrified.  It had reached orgasm without permission, which it knew was wrong.  It turned to look at the person who spoke, and immediately got on its knees, knowing that this was truly a master deserving of obedience.  The voice belonged to the most beautiful male the slave had ever seen.  Naked and ageless, he was perfect in every sense, including his massive, erect cock that the slave desperately wanted to service.  As the slave contemplated the perfection of the being it now worshiped, it realized even more its own imperfections and how unworthy of service it was.  But it also could not help but note that it had reformed, still naked, without any of the flaws its body possessed during life.  It was as perfect as its unworthy body was capable of being.


“You are correct,” the voice informed the slave, reading its mind.  “You are far below me, and in no way worthy of my attention.  But I will grant you the honor of servicing my cock since that gives me pleasure and is so clearly your overwhelming desire.  You can suck while I inform you of your fate, which is my task and right.  You do not need to talk as I can read your tiny mind and discern your pathetic thoughts.”


The slave crawled on all fours over to the perfect male being, and gently used its mouth to begin massaging the giant cock.  It was almost too large to fit in its mouth, but the slave was expert at this task and gratefully began its first post-death sucking assignment.


The cock erupted almost immediately and began gushing sperm down the slave’s throat.  There was so much of it, and it was so thick, that the slave was concerned it would choke to death.  But it quickly discovered an advantage to already being dead – it could swallow all the cum without any problem.  As he continued to spew cum in an endless orgasm, the beautiful male explained things to the slave.


“You’re dead, so you can’t die again.  But you can feel the pain of death again and again.  That will happen whenever someone rips out your heart and eats it, since that’s how you died the first time.  Once that happens, your body will reform and you will be whole and healed.  But while you’re being tortured or eaten, you cannot experience death and will feel the pain of every stroke and every bite.  Your potential to suffer is infinite and there is no limit to the amount of pain you can feel, or to what can be done to you without allowing you any relief from the pain.  This will be your state for all eternity.


“But you have been given a gift.  You, like me, can keep your cock hard at all times and you can achieve ongoing orgasms with no limit to the amount of cum you shoot – like I’m doing now in your mouth.

“I am Satan, ruler of the underworld, and I have claimed you as one of my eternal victims.  You have been a sex slave your whole life, and you were very obedient.  But do you think a piece of slave meat like you belongs in heaven?  A worthless sack of shit like you belongs in hell where you can be tortured and eaten for eternity, serving Me and my demons.”


The slave considered the comments as it continued to swallow Satan’s amazing sperm, its own cock now rock-hard and ready to erupt.  It touched its own cock to test the statement about being able to cum endlessly, and to its amazement it quickly reached orgasm and began pumping its own sperm.  It did this before it realized it hadn’t gotten permission, and that helped it respond.


“I am a sex slave, and can see myself as a meat slave, sir.  I really don’t think I deserve to be in heaven.  I guess I belong in hell.”  It spoke no words, since it was still swallowing what had now turned into a gusher of piss, but the speaker read its mind.


“So do I,” the voice agreed.  And with that, he reached down toward the slave’s chest, and was able to push his hand into the chest cavity and tear out the slave’s heart.  The slave could feel the incredible pain once again, and watched as its heart was thrown toward a massive fire the slave noticed for the first time.


“One of My demons will eat your heart when it lands in hell, and you will reform there.  And that is where you will stay for eternity.”


And so it had begun.  After its heart was eaten that first time, the slave reformed in hell as predicted and was examined by a vicious demon who took great pleasure in ripping off parts of the slave as it was examined and its parts inventoried, then eating them.  The slave had indeed felt the pain of every tear in its flesh, muscle, and bones, and it was reconstituted again after the demon enjoyed eating its heart for the second time.  But the demons were also incredible examples of male perfection, and they sexually excited the slave immensely.  It felt honored to be consumed by them, and it achieved its ongoing orgasm even while it was being dismembered.  This, in turn, further amused the demons, who loved drinking human sperm while torturing its source.


The slave quickly learned that demons prefer their meat burned and charred, and they especially liked to overcook it on a bar-be-cue.  Their favorite was what had been done to it on this particular day, with a long, heated, iron spit rammed into its anus until it protruded from its mouth.  With its hands and feet also tied to the spit, it could be roasted both inside and out, producing charred meat that they greedily ripped off to enjoy.  The fact the meat was live even after being separated from the body, and the fact the slave could still feel the pain as it was eaten, was essential to their pleasure.  The slave even learned to amuse them further by achieving orgasm while it turned slowly over the flames, its sperm causing the coals to flare up and burn its skin a bit more intensely.  As it slowly turned, the slave focused on trying to get as many flare-ups as possible, since it obviously added to the pleasure of its tormentors.  This made it a favorite meal, and that in turn meant it was roasted more often than most of the other humans available to the demons.


True, the slave also responded quite nicely to the torture sessions, which included rape with everything from huge, multiple demon cocks stuffed into its butt for simultaneous gang-fucks, to dynamite exploded in its asshole.  These sessions would last for many hours, or even days, between cooking events, and the demons prided themselves on their creativity.  Crucifixion of the humans in hell was routine, and since the sufferers wouldn’t die it was particularly effective at administering extreme agony over a long period of time.  The slave was included in those rotations as well, sometimes having its body nailed up in the middle of the vast desert-like setting for months on end, burned by the heat while trying desperately to breath.  And while the slave was not considered muscular enough to participate in the vicious gladiatorial contests, its great good looks made it a frequent target for events like archery and axe-throwing.  The greatest honor, however, was to be permitted to suck the giant cocks of the demons, drinking their gushing loads of sperm and urine that would have chocked the slaves to death in their prior existence.  Now it was something to look forward to, as it so clearly gave pleasure to their masters while degrading themselves.


What was strange was how none of this depressed or even bothered the slave.  It knew this was its intended purpose, and that it belonged in this place of torture and depravity.  Its cock was hard at all times in part because it was so sexually turned on by what was being done to it, by the extraordinary male bodies the demons chose to present themselves with to their victims, and especially by the knowledge that its degradation gave pleasure to its masters.  As a slave, what better purpose could it serve?


The daily cooking was nearing completion, and the slave realized its body was now appropriately charred and burned, ready to be eaten.  It was soon removed from the coals, and the spit was placed near a table where the demons could easily reach it without burning themselves.  The slave felt every bite and tear as its flesh was ripped from its body, and even felt the pain as each piece of meat was chewed and swallowed.  The greatest pain occurred when one of the senior demons pulled off its genitals, slowly munching on its burnt manhood as it idly tortured yet another doomed soul tied to a whipping post nearby.  It would be a while before one of the masters consumed its heart, causing it to reform, but there was plenty of time.  After all, there was eternity.


Peter and Michael had just finished a great 69 session, erupting into each other’s eager mouths with intense mutual orgasms.  This was one of their favorite activities, and they made sure to start all their meetings with a long sexual exploration of their amazing bodies.  When they finished coming, Peter asked a question:


“I don’t understand why you don’t retrieve that Roman slave you allowed Satan to claim all those centuries ago?  I don’t see how he ever did anything wrong, and even if he did it sure seems he’s suffered enough.  Look at him – being spit-roasted and eaten yet again.  I wasn’t here yet when he was processed, so maybe there’s something I’m missing.”


Michael laughed.  “There is indeed, my well-endowed friend.  This slave is one of the perverts He likes to make from time to time, who is truly happy only if suffering horribly and serving in a completely humiliating role.  Like many of them, this one revels at being eaten.  So I didn’t really sentence him to hell.  And I gave him the gift of continuous orgasm.  Being a meat slave is, for him, the equivalent of the highest level of heaven.  He’s completely content and will remain that way forever.”


Peter understood, and watched as the demons down below finished their latest meal.  It was a pretty good show, and Peter no longer felt guilty enjoying watching it.

What Do You Want by Den

I first meet Jack on an on-line torture forum. Sexual torture, not the political prisoner stuff, and we hit it off almost instantly. We meet for a drink about a week later, and it’s the same story: Instant attraction. He drags me back to his place and works me over for hours, taking me places I didn’t know I’d enjoy going. I soon come to love the look in his eyes that communicates his absolute joy in cruelty.

In a few short months we progress from play piercing to permanent piercing and soon I am hanging two thick and heavy rings in each nipple, and enough stainless steel in my genitals to fashion a full place setting of flatware, and we‘re both proud of his handiwork. He has a great love for knifeplay, and soon so do I. Shallow careful cuts progress as I come to like it, till I sport a selection of scars on my chest and back and arms to go with my hardware. A permanent map of our landscape of pleasure and pain. Eventually the sight of my own blood begins to excite me as much as it does Jack. He really gets off on hearing me ask for his cruelty and I am more than happy to oblige, He’ll bring out the knife and ask, as he holds it to my chest “What do you want boy?” “Please, cut me”. I’ll say. And he does.

Of course I want it, he knows exactly what I want and how to make me feel pain and pleasure mixed incredibly. But the added pleasure we get from the ritual is great. I have never had orgasms as intense or as satisfying as when Jack is torturing me, and over time I find myself craving more and more brutality from him. The line between pleasure and pain shifts more and more to the left, and he always has another trick up his sleeve to turn me on. Finally, and inevitably I think, my thoughts turn to snuff and it dawns on me that I want the experience of being butchered by him. Want it bad.

We see each other regularly for well over a year, and it just keeps getting better. I want to give him more and more in return for the excitement and pleasure I get from our play. I daydream more and more about what it might be like to be killed in the midst of a brutal play session, high on both lust and drugs and aware that i was to be killed. I think of him killing me when ever we are together, but not knowing his inner desires never let on. I let him think it is simply his use of my body that has inspired the increasing sexual frenzy i display when he tortures me.
One night while walking home very late I hear a vehicle approach. The streets are totally deserted, but I think nothing of it. The brakes screech, the door opens and the next thing I know a damp fume-reeking  rag covers my nose and mouth and I pass out.

When I come to, I have no idea how much later that is. I am bound naked on a steel table with a raised edge, and a drain in one corner, like an enormous pan. I realize immediately it is an autopsy table. A rubber mat makes it a bit more comfortable. It is in what appears to be a basement room dimly lit by moonlight coming through a small window, and I can hear crickets outside. I am obviously outside the city. The overhead light comes on suddenly and I hear Jack say “Hey boy, quite a surprise huh?”
“What’s going on, what are you doing?” I ask, but intuitively I already know and my mind begins to race, my dick swell.
“I really hadn‘t planned this, but have had this room set up for a number of months now with an eye towards future activity. This is an old family property, way out of town and in the middle of 100 wooded acres. I saw you last night just by chance. I had been out late, and with no one around it was really perfect.  Having the ether was just dumb luck, my cousin needed some for a model boat engine so I’d picked it up during the day. It seems fated to me. No one knows we are here, no one saw me take you.” He walks around where I can see him and he is naked as well, his body gleaming in an anticipatory sweat, his dick proud and long. He strokes my body and then mounts my face to fuck my throat, it is hard to move, but I manage to get to it and give him the best blow job of my life. I am more excited than I could ever imagine, totally certain at this point of what is ultimately in store. And sure enough while fucking my face he says softly “All this time since we met I have wanted to kill you. Tonight’s the night. I have already dug your grave”, as if he has read my mind.  My excitement is huge and I struggle to get his dick as far down my throat as is possible. He pulls out before he comes, panting and raging with desire.

“What do you want boy?” he asks.
I could say let me go and bring an end to this, and I am sure he would do it, but seeing the excitement in him, and feeling the same in myself I answer quickly. There is fear, but desire trumps that by a mile.

“Please Jack, hurt me. Make me scream. YES Jack, kill me.Please!” I whisper. And he goes to work. I moan and scream and cry, as much in excitement as in pain as he works on me with a freedom and pleasure we have not known before. He kisses me hard on the lips and whispers in my ear “There is nothing stopping us now.” “I know, you can do whatever you want to me, no limits!” He lets me lick and worship his sweaty armpits as he admires my bound torso.”Are you scared boy?” “Yeah, but look at my dick, I’m not too scared to do this. This is what I’ve wanted for a while now but was scared to tell you.” He tortures me for hours with belt, cane, fists, paddle, an exacto knife, and all the other toys we love. A Wartenberg wheel makes beaufitul bloody patterns across my chest, scrotum and abdomen; bloody rows of dots on my hard dick.  We had shied away from drugs in the past but now considering the one way trip I’m on, he stokes us both up with speed and poppers to make my experience more pleasurable. My body sings as it gets covered with sweat, piss, bruises, blood….Terror wells up in me periodically, but lust keeps up, and the things i am feeling as he slowly destroys my body make me realize that my death is the only way to get what i know i want.

What do you want boy?
“Destroy my balls Jack, please.” And he does, tying off my sac then spending the next hour with nails pliers, ,branding iron and finally the caresses of a mallet to reduce my manhood to pulp, as I have always fantasized. From my thrashing, cries and screams he knows he has given me what I want. Looking into my eyes, wide with agony, he asks:”What do you want?” “Castrate me, Jack, Castrate me please” And he does. Slowly and sweetly drawing a blade through my scrotum making it last as long as possible, and then rubbing the ruined sac over my body leaving cool bloody smears that make me shudder. I have my penultimate orgasm, and it is blindingly intense. I had expected the pain which draws an involuntary scream from me, but not the pleasure that floods my body in equal measure as he cut my balls and sac free of my body. My fear fades away as I understand that this will be as I had imagined and that there is absolutely no turning back.

He goes to work again with excitement and relish and hours more pass. My nipples are pleasured by knife, heated pliers and toothed clamps till they are gone, all that remains is the ache and sting centered on an unrecognizable mass of bloody tissue. The skin of my pecs around the nipples is sliced and peeled away.  My ass is opened wide by both his arms; stretched to the point of tearing as he lays all his strength into getting both elbows into my body. When he asks”What do you want ?” all I manage to say is “more!” He pulls my sphincter apart with all his strength, like some giant muscular speculum, and with a groan from me, it gives way and tears. Finally he shows me a razor sharp Swingblade knife and I nod my consent as my excitement mounts still further. With the point just above the groin begins to sink the blade into me. “Give me what I want boy!” He commands, barely under control at this point. ” Yes Jack!Gut me!  please…… please!” And he does.

The first blade goes in sweetly, he reverses it and i arch my back to get the hooked blade in as quickly as possible. It easily zips me open from groin to sternum, and he quickly makes side cuts at the top and the bottom. Pulling me apart with his hands we both gasp to see my guts shiny and alive inside me. He cuts the rest of my abdomen away, clamping all the big vessels as he goes. I am lost in the pain and in my own blood lust, but my dick is still hard and throbbing despite my screams and moaning.  He strokes and plays with my guts and the feeling of his hands on my entrails is exactly as i had imagined. “Untie my hands” I implore, and of course he does, kissing me hard. I need to feel the heat and slippery mass of my own guts.The pain threatens to overwhelm my excitement, but he begins to skull fuck me taking my mind off myself, and pleasure wins out. I begin to jack off, wanting to feel what orgasm will do to the pain and wanting to be killed soon, as I am already meat, beyond saving. Jack comes and then pisses into my open abdomen and I receive his sperm and piss in a frenzy of sensation and sexual excitement. Finally I approach orgasm, and as I lose myself in the unbearable sensations, see him raise a gleaming new hunting knife.

My orgasm begins to well up as I feel the knife’s blade pressing into my neck and I groan in actual pleasure at the feeling. I am no longer scared, this has been exactly what I had imagined. We both know I am too far gone now anyway and must be finished. He kisses me hard then asks fiercely, his voice thick with animal lust and well aware that all my pain is being momentarily transmuted by orgasm  “What do you want boy? What do you want?” His face aglow and grinning from ear to ear.

My orgasm is enveloping my body, and it is too intense to hold back”Please Jack, KILL ME! Please kill me NOW” I cry, head back to bare my neck “Kill me Jack, please!”
And he does.




Although he has just come, Jack is so wound up form the thrill of watching his boy cum while being gutted and killed, that he pulls the head over the edge of the autopsy table and mounts it. He fucks the dead throat brutally as the body, still dripping sperm, piss and blood jerks randomly. He lets go of the head and gripping the sides of the table fucks like a madman. The sound of the body’s neck snapping throws him over the edge and he howls as a huge load pours into the corpse. When he withdraws, the  head flops at the end of the broken neck. „Fuck YEAH“ he groans in awe of what he has just done. He will fuck the head and the soft loops of gut several times before he finally disposed of the body that gave them both so much pleasure. With every future kill he will wonder who had the most satisfying experience, him or the men who sought him out and welcomed his desire to kill them.

Adam–Third Kill–Room Service

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


“B-but why?” the buff youth wailed.


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Adam–Second Kill–Finale of a Footpig

The place was called the SoHoLo and it had opened three months ago in an attempt to lure some business to the suburbs on the north side of town.  A ten-story hotel, the exterior was severe in angular concrete, but the interior was a different matter.  Large rooms whose luxury belied the “loft-style hotel” concept were matched by a lobby that glittered with rare woods and hip furnishings.


At least it was nothing like a filthy roll in the leaves, Adam thought.


He was seated in a deep leather armchair in the shadows at the edge of the lobby.  Ahead of him, brightly lit in the center of a large open area, was the hotel’s business center; a large pen filled with what looked like study carrels, each with a docking station for laptops and Wi-Fi access to printers.


Behind him was a dark passage leading to the dimly-lit restaurant and the even murkier bar.  The passage contained one notable feature—a water wall that was as tall as the hallway itself and ran for a good ten feet in length, located directly across from the elevators.  The rippled wall down which the water cascaded had cutouts with gas jets, making the falling water sparkle with backlit flames.  From where he was sitting, Adam could hear the soothing, splashing sounds of the water.


His attention was focused elsewhere, though.


The dude was young—early twenties, likely a recent college graduate.  He was diligently working in the end carrel; even at this distance, Adam could just make out a spreadsheet on the guy’s laptop screen.  His hair was dark brown, almost black, as was the faint scruff on his cheeks that thickened to a goatee around his lush, full mouth.  He had an olive-skinned, almost Mediterranean complexion that complemented his large, dark eyes.


He was dressed in business casual—a light blue long-sleeve button-down dress shirt that seemed to pull open at the buttons when the dude stretched his arms, indicating a broad chest.  Under, he had on the tightest pair of chinos Adam had even seen; navy blue dress slacks that looked sprayed on.  The bulge in the guy’s crotch was visible halfway across the lobby.


He’d even carried the business casual look to his sneakers; they were Puma Classic in a two-toned suede look, blue-gray at the toes and natural brown across the rest of the uppers.  To complete the look, a light gray sports jacket was dangling from the back of the chair in which the guy was sitting.


The dude had gotten up to go to the bathroom about thirty minutes ago—it was located in the passage next to the water wall.  Adam had gotten a good look at him, admiring his thick firm legs as he approached and his firm bubble butt as he walked back.


More importantly, though, they’d made eye contact.  The dude had grinned a bit.  Then, on his way back, he turned and deliberately looked at Adam.  This time his grin was broader and he demonstratively shifted his swelling junk in his groin as he returned to work.  Adam was prepared to wait him out.


After all, Adam was dressed to attract a little attention himself.  He didn’t want to look to slutty in a hip, high-class place like this, so his clothing was restrained but still eye-catching enough to lure his intended prey.


He sported a red Polo tennis shirt, so tight across his chest that his nipples were visible underneath.  They were also visible because he was sitting with his aviator jacket—brown distressed leather—thrown wide open so his whole firm, muscled torso was on display.  The shirt and jacket only added to the lure of his face, attractive in an oddly feral way under his red-gold hair and the golden scruff on his cheeks.  Below the waist, he wore tight beige jeans.  Clean and relatively new, the skinny jeans fit him like a second skin.



In fact, the only things he was wearing that hadn’t been purchased in the last three weeks were his kicks—gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.


He’d stolen them from one of the first corpses he’d fucked.  Tonight, he was gonna have them on when he fucked another corpse.


A flicker of movement caught his eye—the hot dude in the carrel had shut off his laptop and was gathering his belongings; he appeared to be shutting it down for the evening—after all, it was already past ten o’clock.  If he was staying here, he needed to pass by Adam to get to the elevators—but Adam knew the guy would be heading his way no matter what; the quick, lustful understanding in their brief eye contact ensured it.


And that was fine with Adam.  After all, if he was gonna fuck a corpse tonight, he first needed to make one.


The dude looked as if he was going to stroll right past, but he paused hesitantly just as he drew abreast of Adam.  His large dark eyes turned to those of the attractive young man in the leather jacket.


“Hey,” he said with a sheepish grin, “What’s up?”


Adam smiled back, “Not much, man.  Just chillin’.”


“Name’s Josh,” the young professional said.  “You, uh, you lookin’ for a little fun?”  As he asked, he subtly reached down and rubbed the growing bulge in his groin.


Adam let his eyes linger on Josh’s crotch as his smile spread.  “Yeah, I’m up for some fun,” he replied, the tent pole in his own groin putting emphasis on the word “up”.  Standing up, he asked “So, you gotta room?”


Josh took a moment to reply; he’d noticed how Adam’s tight jeans had outlined the massive ridge of his dick. “I—uh, yeah, I gotta room here…man, you gotta stick that thing in me…” he muttered, distracted by lust.


Adam stood up.  He loomed over Josh, being about five inches taller than the dark-haired young man.  They were about the same age, but Adam was larger and much more buff.  From Josh’s point of view, he’d found a perfect power top to plow his ass tonight.


“Got anything to drink?” Adam inquired.


“Got a bottle of Crown Royal in the room.” Josh responded.


“Well, fuck, man, let’s go!” Adam said, letting Josh lead the way to the elevators.


The ride was quick and quiet; the elevator car, elegantly paneled in dark wood with backlit panels, swift hummed to a stop at the seventh floor.  As the doors open, Josh grabbed Adam’s hand.  “Down this way,” he said, nodding to the left, “Room seven twenty-six.”  The well-built psycho withdrew his hand and let the prey lead the way to the room.


Josh slipped the key card out of his wallet and slid it into the slot on the handle.  The light on the lock turned green, there was a clicking sound, and Josh opened the door wide, letting Adam follow him in.


It was designed to look like a trendy New York loft; that meant little fitting-out of the room interior.  There was no ceiling; ducts, wiring, piping for sprinklers, all was visible hanging from the steel beams supporting the floor above.  The walls were exposed brick—likely a brick veneer on a steel frame.  The floor was bare concrete with area rugs, opulently deep and soft, scattered in strategic locations.


There was no separate bathroom.  To the left of the entry was an elaborate marble shower stall, a wide vanity with double sinks (and a TV embedded in the mirror above) and an ostentatiously simple toilet.  A single interior partition wall that extended up eight feet—as opposed to the ten-foot base of the rafters—was all that demarcated this space from the open room in general.


On the other side of the partition wall was the king-sized bed, headboard against the wall and foot pointing to the exterior wall—which was one solid single polarized window, showing a vast exterior vista without allowing anyone outside to see in—as long as the interior light was low.


On the far side of the room was a simple black dresser with sliver fittings, with a matching mirror above; to its left, a chrome bar bolted to the brick wall served as a closet.  On the near side, a huge armoire in the exact same pattern as the dresser, turned out to house a TV; the two armchairs facing it looked angular, modern, and uncomfortable as hell.


The room was beautiful.  Adam grinned; it’d make a nice, fashionable tomb for the meat once he was done with it.


Grabbing his hand again, Josh dragged him over to the bed.  Reaching up, he did his best to get Adam to bend down and kiss him.  The perverted top pushed him roughly away.  “You said you had some Royal, boy.  Go get it.”


Josh’s dark, puppy-dog-like eyes seemed a bit hurt, but he obeyed.  “How do ya want it?”


“Straight.  I like it straight, you faggot bitch.”


Josh flushed and inhaled sharply, but the way the bulge in his tight chinos pulsed was obvious.  The mini-bar was in the armoire with the TV, along with real glasses and full-sized ice cubes.  Turned out Josh took his on the rocks.


Adam took a gulp of the potent, smoky liquid.  He watched Josh do the same.  “So whaddaya lookin’ for, bro?” he asked the young professional.  Josh had tossed his laptop bag on the bed; now he moved it to the dresser and began peeling the multiple layers of blankets, comforters and sheets off the overstuffed bed.  “I want you to fuck me,” he said simply as he stripped the bed down to the flat sheet and the pillows.  “I can’t take too long, though—I have a meeting at eight in the morning.”


Adam smirked.  “Oh, I’ll fuck ya, faggot, don’t worry about that.  But you gotta work for it, cunt.  You gotta earn my dick first.  Ya hear me?”  He slipped out of his brown leather jacket, laying it on top of Josh’s laptop.


Josh stood still by the side of the bed, breathing heavily.  He could see Adam’s powerful, intimidating form much more clearly now without the jacket, and he was mesmerized.  “Yessir,” he said, “What must I do?”


“Lessee what ya got.  Strip, bitch.”


As Adam flipped around one of the armchairs, sitting in it and watching the show, Josh shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the other chair.  He sat on the bed and began unlacing his two-toned Pumas.  “Put ‘em back on when you’re done stripping, boy,” Adam demanded.  Josh glanced up and flushed again, this time smiling with pleasure.


Little shit wanted to get fucked with his kicks on.  If he was into sneakers, Adam could work with that.  Fuck yeah.


Standing up, Josh wriggled out of his skinny jeans, revealing his thick, hairy thighs.  He was wearing a pair of black briefs.  The jeans went onto the chair on top of the jacket and the briefs went onto the floor—they’d been far too inadequate to contain his thick, throbbing dick, anyway; it was already sticking out, pressed against his thigh and leaking precum out into his body fur.


And Josh had plenty of fur.  He wasn’t tall, but he was muscular and furry as hell.  When he managed to unbutton his dress shirt, his body hair was visible under his white cotton t-shirt; when he pulled that off, the dark mass of fur that covered his swarthy chest and flat belly was displayed perfectly in the indirect light—the only lit bulb in the room was in the bathroom; everything else was hinted at in the angular shadows.


Josh tossed the dress shirt and t-shirt on the other armchair as well.  This time, Adam caught motion from the chair in the corner of his eye; a dark silk tie that he hadn’t noticed before—evidently it had been draped over the back of the chair—now fell on top of Josh’s clothes.


Still a fledgling predator, he noted it for later.  He had no definite plans; he was learning to adapt to the circumstances of his kills.


Josh got the briefs off, letting his long cut cock free to bob about and drizzle precum.  Wearing nothing but a pair of black ped socks, he sat back on the bed and began to put his shoes on again.


“Furry little fuckin’ monkey, aintcha?” Adam jeered as Josh laced the second Puma on.


“I’m a Sephardic Jew,” Josh said, “My family came from Spain.”


“Like I give a shit, faggot,” Adam sneered.  “Get over here and lick my kicks, cunt.  Put yer tongue on my Nikes and clean ‘em good, asswipe, then you’re gonna take ‘em off me.  You got it, fuckwad?  Worship my sneakers, you sack of shit, and if ya can do that right, you may earn my cock!”


Josh scuttled forward eagerly, his tight, muscular body huddled on the floor as he slurped greedily at Adam’s Night Falcons.  “Yeah, bitch, work that tongue,” Adam commanded.  “Work it good, cunt.”


The crouching youth lapped at the alpha’s sneakers for a couple more minutes before Adam had him untie them and slip them off.  “Back up, boy, on yer knees,” he barked as he stood up and, pulling his shirt off over his head, tossed it onto the chair behind him.  Josh looked up in awe at Adam’s buff, broad chest, his dark nipples proudly erect on his bulging pectorals.


Adam had been working out more often since his first kill, and it showed.  He had no intention of letting the meat nearly slip through his fingers again; he knew that this time, he needed to dominate it from the beginning—and he took steps to ensure he had the physique to do so.


From Josh’s position, on his knees between the top’s legs, he seemed to be looking up at a golden-haired god.  It had been a warm evening to wear a jacket, and Adam’s thick biceps and firm triceps were glistening with a faint sheen of sweat.  So too was his hard, rippled abdomen—not at furry as Josh’s, it still had a golden down that collected the testosterone-laden mansweat, generating an invisible cloud of pheromones around the alpha.


Seeing the hypnotic effect he was having on the meat, Adam grinned down at the fag.  High-class pretty boy in town on business, slumming for a night with an anonymous hookup.  Only one way he was gonna earn Adam’s dick.


Adam didn’t think he was gonna like it.  The thought made his grin even more shark-like.


The towering killer opened the waistband of his jeans and, unzipping the fly, letting his enormous shaft fall out.  Josh’s eyes glittered with lust; the volume of precum leaking from his pulsing dick increased visibly as Adam let the jeans fall to the floor and stepped out of them, kicking them to one side.


The top was commando, of course; he’d been expecting a scene like this of some sort.  Nude but for his ped socks, he sat back in the armchair and held his right foot out.  “Now put my kicks back on, homo.  This one first.  Lace ‘em up nice and tight so they don’t slip off when I grind ‘em into yer worthless face.”


Josh paused for a moment, gulped, and lick his lips.  “Y-yessir,” he stammered in a low voice that was almost a moan.  As he gently slipped the Nikes back onto Adam’s feet, lacing them as told, he stooped to kiss them at times in the process.  Any time he tried to move his lips above the hightop ankles, Adam pushed him back down.


“Naw, man,” he said contemptuously, “Don’t put yer fag lips on me.”


Josh blushed with embarrassment.  “Yessir,” he muttered, “No sir…”  Having gotten both Nikes back onto Adam’s feet, he returned to his worship.


Adam stared down at the dark-skinned punk.  The little shit was totally in his control; he’d do anything Adam wanted—it was so fuckin’ hot.  Maybe he could—


But no.  Adam liked his meat, if not cold, at least utterly helpless and defenseless.  Josh wasn’t gonna get Adam’s dick until it was too late for him to enjoy it—which was gonna be about another fifteen minutes here or so.


“Get up on the bed, faggot,” Adam said, reaching across and grabbing the silk tie from the other armchair.  “I’m gonna tie your hands behind your back with this.”


As Adam stood up, Josh scrambled across the room to the nightstand.  He opened the drawer and pulled a couple of things out.  One was a band of heavy scarlet silk, at least three feet long.  “Here, use this,” Josh said, tossing it onto the bed.  “It belongs with the robe in the bathroom.”


The other item he got from the drawer was a silicone cockring; he was too busy slipping it on to see that Adam still had the tie.  Once he got the cockring into position—and his thick tool instantly turned purple and started swelling—Josh knelt on the bed, facing away, his hands behind his back.  Adam bound them with the tie, noting that the material was so fine it was hard to get a knot.  He shoved Josh down onto the bed and grabbed the red silk belt.  It seemed to be much sturdier.


“Roll over, asswipe.  On yer back,” he demanded.  Josh obeyed, rolling over, his dark, throbbing cock pointing straight at the ceiling.  Lifting his thick, strong leg, Adam placed one foot on the mattress and with a single powerful bound, stood up on the bed.  Josh, on his back with his arms tied behind him, found himself looking up at the well-built hardbodied alpha looming over him with a thick hard dripping cock even larger than his own tied-off rod.


The strawberry-blond muscle god sneered down at his fit and furry meat.  Stupid little cocksucker still had no idea how soon this was gonna go south on him.  Adam made sure he precum dripped across the kid’s chest, smearing in the dark wiry chest hairs.  Standing over the kid, straddling him, he let the hot transparent drops splatted on Josh’s chin.


Bound by silk and trapped by lust, Josh could only gaze up at the erotic specimen of aggressive masculinity towering over him.  This was just what he wanted, a hot stud who’d treat him like something to be scraped off his shoe—his shoes, those hot fucking Nikes…


Adam could feel his scrotum pucker and his seed bubbling up; he needed to unload soon.  He walked to the head of the bed and turned around.  He was standing with his feet on each side of Josh’s head, facing down towards the boy’s feet and the foot of the bed—and the huge window beyond.


Looking down into Josh’s swarthy, eager face, dark eyes glazed with erotic anticipation, Adam raised his right foot and placed his shoe directly on Josh’s face.  “Lick it, you faggot sack of shit,” he barked coldly.  “Lick the treads of my kicks like the piece of garbage you are.”


He spit on the kid’s heaving, sweat-matted chest.  With his Nike in Josh’s face, the perverted little punk was unable to see Adam looping one end of the robe belt back on itself, securing it with a slipknot.  Before Josh had the chance to be aware what was happening, Adam had removed his foot, bent down, and slipped the silken loop around his neck.


“Hey, what—” the slut blurted out.


“Shaddap, ya worthless homo scumbag, an’ get yer tongue back on my Nikes!” Adam roared.


And with that, he put his foot down—literally.  He began applying pressure to Josh’s face, slowly and gradually at first, but inexorably.  It took about forty-five seconds for the lust-engulfed footpig to realize his own discomfort.


The boy was assiduously licking the tread of the sneaker, in pig heaven, when he became aware of the crushing sensation.  “Hey, man, what’re ya doin’?” he managed to blurt out.


Adam’s response was to wrap the free end of the silk belt around his hand and pull it tight.


“Hey—urk!” Josh grunted, trying to protest as the silk band around his neck cinched inward.  “Dude, stop, (cough) yer (hack) chokin’ me—nngah! (gag) Fuck, (hack) what-uk! ack! ackth! whatcha doin’?”


Adam looked up.  Outside, he had a magnificent view across the highway, over the river and past the fields beyond.  Lighting from an oblique angle gave him a reflected glimpse of himself in the polarized glass, his muscle-bound body towering over his helpless, kicking meat as he ground his foot into its face, just as he’d promised.


His sense of power was almost overwhelming.


“What am I doin’, faggot?  I’m wastin’ yer sick, sorry ass, that’s what I’m doin’,” he jeered down at the struggling youth.  “Fuckin’ cumsucker, your perverted ass has gotta be dead before I’m gonna stick my dick in it.  I don’t fuck no homos, you disgustin’ queerboy, but I’ll shag good dead meat any fuckin’ day, ya get me?


Josh tried to speak, to plead—to scream, even—but Adam’s Night Falcon was smashing his face with excruciating force, pressing down while the choking ligature around his throat was being pulled up.  Between the two, Josh could feel his neck being pulled out of position.


He wasn’t as built as Adam, but he was strong, and he wasn’t gonna go quietly.  He kicked and thrashed, his thick, hairy, muscular legs jerking and flailing across the white cotton sheets.  His torso writhed violently from side to side in a vain attempt to free himself while Adam bore down with all his weight relentlessly on Josh’s face.  With a deeply satisfying crunch, the sadistic alpha felt the cartilage of the meat’s nose collapse under his sneaker.


The frantic youth was reduced to inarticulate noises to register is protest and his pain.  “Ng!  Urg! Agag!” he grunted in agony as the scarlet silk cord constricted his esophagus even further.


Adam watched the hard, hairy body kick and die under his Nikes.  His precum was almost a steady stream; it was so fuckin’ hot makin’ boymeat.


Only thing hotter? Bangin’ it.


That was when the loose knot in the silk tie binding Josh’s hands finally gave way; his repeated desperate jerking and pulling finally bore fruit.  His hands were free.


Immediately the frantic gay slut began pawing at Adam’s firm, muscular calf, trying to relieve the crushing agony.  His mind aflame with panic, the writhing footpig had no idea why he was being strangled; the alpha’s words had made no sense to him.  All he wanted to do was worship the stud’s hot, hard body, his firm legs laced into those sexy-ass Nikes…


…that were crushing his face so badly his upper lip split.  He tried to move Adam’s legs, but the dude’s muscles were like carved marble, utterly, inexorably immobile, still ruthlessly grinding and crushing his head as the silk belt continued to tighten around his throat…


Josh had just wanted to indulge his inner pig.  He’d forgotten how often pigs end up getting butchered.


“That’s it, you cum-guzzlin’ fag, fuckin’ choke and die.  Die with my kicks grindin’ yer worthless face, ya stupid sack of shit!”


Glancing up for a moment, Adam caught another glimpse of himself reflected in the window.  Projected on the view across the river, his large, muscled form towered over the helpless meat, thrashing on the bed beneath his foot.  His arm bulging as he pulled the scarlet silk belt tight, his overwhelmingly buff body was the very image of dominance.


“Fuck yeah,” Adam whispered, his huge cock throbbing swiftly as the power of the image swept through him.  He looked down as the hairy youth flailed in panicked desperation, enjoying the ultimate control of ending the faggot’s life.


Josh was in excruciating agony; his head and his windpipe were being crushed simultaneously.  It hurt so bad, he was barely lucid—he kept trying to slip into some form of denial, grasping at the delusional hope of his freeing himself from his killer’s relentless grip.  But the physical distress kept building; eventually it became too much for even Josh’s frenzied mind to deny.


His lungs were on fire; he thought his chest as going to explode.  The pulverizing force of the alpha’s rock-hard thigh and calf muscles smashing his mouth and mangling his already-broken nose was now accompanied by an insane pounding on the inside of his skull.


It was his heart.  He knew that he was hearing—and feeling—his own heart race from lack of oxygen.  As much as he refused to acknowledge it consciously, some part of him knew he was gonna hear his heart fail, too.  He was gonna hear himself die.


Worst of all, though—as he kept clawing at the top’s remorseless legs, he kept stroking the hard, clenched muscles, feeling the strong foot flexing in the gray Night Falcon on his face—worst of all, despite the terror and agony, some part of his sick pig soul found it so hot he was hard.


He was so hard it hurt.  The cockring was working too well.  He was being tortured and strangled to death, but his dick was so hard, he could still feel it straining painfully.


He could also hear the words of his tormentor.


“Time to die, cocksucker.  The only meetin’ yer makin’ in the morning is with the coroner.  Hang on, motherfucker, I’m gonna off ya hard.  This is gonna hurt like fuck.”


His mind aflame with terror, Josh made one last Herculean attempt to free himself from the grip of his powerful, sadistic torturer.  His fingers clutched Adam’s leg with as little effect as if he was trying to uproot a tree with his bare hands.  His own legs kicked and flailed frantically as Adam, lips curling in contempt, pulled relentlessly on the silk band about his neck.


The well-built alpha was right; the pain was worse than anything Josh had ever imagined.  His dark, furry body thrashed so violently in his agony that one of his two-toned Pumas was pulled off his foot and went flying across the room.  As he kept kicking, the black ped sock began to come off as well.


Adam spit on the lithe, hairy form jerking below him.  As his Nike hightop held Josh’s head pinned to the bed, the vicious killer gave the belt a might yank and the eager young footpig got the privilege of experiencing every excruciating sensation of suffering two causes of death simultaneously.  The first was the crushing of his esophagus; as he struggled, the terror-engulfed homo heard a loud crunching sound and felt the cartilage in his windpipe collapse, his larynx ground into a mangled mass of gristle.


Already near brain-death from strangulation, Josh’s black face was spewing foam from his closed-off airway, but as bad as the pain was, his oxygen had been cut off for a while.  But Adam kept up the pressure, mashing his hightop sneaker into the pigcunt’s swollen, purple lips and protruding tongue as he put his massive bicep to work pulling up on the silk belt.


There was a sound like a tree limb breaking—it was the shattering of four vertebrae in Josh’s neck.   The young faggot heard the sound—and then heard nothing else.  He died in what felt like a nightmarish blast of lightning, his hard, firm body going rigid.


The hairy little footfag had died with his deathload still churning, trapped in his puckered balls.


As Adam looked down at the quivering boymeat, his long, thick hog dripped hot precum into the dead cunt’s chest hair, already matted with agonized deathsweat squeezed out of the slut.  Hot fucking piece of meat—he was ready.


Jumping off the bed, the hulking top grabbed the trembling corpse by the legs and rotated it ninety degrees so that its ass was at the side of the bed.  Still holding the dead fag’s ankles, Adam propped them up on his shoulders, feeling the soft pseudo-suede of Josh’s remaining Puma Classic scrape against his scruffy cheek as the body convulsed.  On the other side of his head, the boy’s foot shuddered, causing the loose ped sock to slip off and leaving his toes free to curl in his death throes.


Squatting slightly, Adam placed the throbbing head of his dick against the corpse’s fuckhole and shoved, hard.  Even in death, Josh’s sphincter tried to resist him—but the buff alpha, deep in the throes of necrolust, tore through the rigid muscle with a single brutal thrust, sliding the entire length of his massive shaft through the dead homo’s asshole.


Adam’s rod plowed like a piston into the meat’s guts, scraping along Josh’s prostate.  Despite his spinal column being shredded by the shrapnel of his shattering vertebrae, random nerve impulses still coursed along his hard, furry body.  As the top’s vein-wrapped cock pressed against the fuckmeat’s swollen gland, it triggered a reaction that was purely physical; a simple example of stimulus and response.


As his corpse shuddered and convulsed, Josh’s dick, kept hard even in death by the tight cockring circling its base, spasmed visibly, then expelled its deathload in a single extended geyser of cum.  The furry young footpig had shot his wad the moment he got a dick up his ass.  If he’d still been alive, he’d have cum just as hard—it was a shame his short, wasted life had been brutally snuffed out just before the most intense orgasm he’d ever experience.  His dead dick pumped and swelled so violently that the silicone cockring snapped, shooting across the room like a rubber band.


His firm, hairy body, still slick with sweat, convulsed on Adam’s dick.  As it did, Josh spewed dead boyseed into his blackened, swollen face, his pearly spunk splattering the froth surrounding his thick, protruding tongue.  His head was turned to the side so that his bulging, bloodshot eyes stared sightlessly at the window; from this angle, the tread pattern of Adam’s Nike was livid where it had been ground into the corpse’s face.  Semen was starting to fill the furrows left in Josh’s cheek.


The dead boymeat gave one last massive shudder; as it did, the colon clenched and writhed around Adam’s huge, primed shaft.  “Fuck!” the alpha necro shouted as his manspunk boiled over and he flooded the corpse with cum.  “Yeah!  Fuck yeah!”  Grunting and cursing, he continued to unload in Josh’s ass for what seemed like ten minutes straight.  Each jet of hot semen was shot into the punk’s guts so intently that it was almost surprising it didn’t bubble back up out of his mouth.


The towering, muscled killer, shuddering himself in sexual exertion, spent another minute or two posed over the corpse before he withdrew his still-leaking cock; as he did, he noticed the dead fag’s dick was still hard, even without the cockring—evidently the muscled had gone rigid at the moment of death, trapping the organ in its swollen, engorged state.


When he stood up and stepped back, Josh’s quivering body slid off the bed onto the floor, coming to rest in a sitting position, back against the bed, legs spread out in a V in front of him.  He didn’t stay upright for long—as his corpse shuddered, his head bent forward, then his entire torso twisted and he slumped over onto his left side.  Adam stood over him for a moment, admiring the furry pile of quivering meat, before he turned and strolled into the bathroom to clean up.


Once he’d washed off the layer of body fluids, reeking of pheromones and mansex, Adam returned to the bedroom and got dressed.  He stopped before putting his leather jacket back on, though—he needed something first.


He hadn’t been sure the first time and he hadn’t liked that kill.  He was proud of this one.  He wanted his trophies.


Approaching the still-jerking meat, he knelt down; untying the Puma Classic, he slipped it off of the quivering foot.  Standing up, he glanced around for the other one.  It took a bit of time to locate; the fucker had kicked it straight at the window; when it ricocheted off the glass, it had flown across the room and landed behind the chair on which Josh had tossed his clothes.


He kept his Nikes on, but he rolled the Pumas up in his jacket and strode to the door.  Just before he opened it, he took a backward look at the room.  It really was first-rate, the way the bed faced the magnificent view across the river.    It was so nice, it took might take one a minute or two to notice the huddled pile of twitching boymeat on the floor at the side of the bed.


It really was first-rate.  Much better than a tussle in the dirt and leaves.


Adam decided he needed to hang out here more often.  He left, ambling down the hall towards the elevators with his victim’s kicks rolled up in his jacket and tucked under his arm.

Trucker 11–Trucker vs Construction Boy

The bar wasn’t just dark and smoky; it was also small and fairly crowded.  The last attribute, at least was good.  It expanded the range of prey.


The Trucker was on the hunt.  He had a week and a half’s worth of seed swelling his already-enormous ballsack; he needed to unload so badly it fucking hurt.


And, of course, the only way to do that was to make someone else hurt even worse.


It had been a long, hard slog—a combination of tight delivery schedules and nasty weather across the country; the Trucker had plowed through snow, sleet, torrential rains, and, worst of all, ice.  He was far enough south at the moment not to worry about ice, though, and the weather was nice.  It was time for a release; it was time for someone to gag, choke and die on his cock.


The highway had been cut through an older part of town; the truck stop was adjacent to what appeared to be a low-rent and potentially rough neighborhood.  Parking at the far end of the small lot, the Trucker found his cab was less than a hundred feet from the closest rig; not ideal in case he needed a little privacy later on.  Using an app he’d put on his phone for the purpose, he located the closest gay bar.


Surprisingly, it was only three blocks east of his location.  It was called Mack’s.


Once there, he’d been disappointed by how small the place was—and how nasty; it really was a dive bar—but liked the selection of meat on display.  He was also disappointed by the service.  It seemed to take fifteen minutes just to get a beer.  “What’s the problem here?” he gruffly asked the bartender, once his brew finally arrived.  The latter, a broad, hairy-chested young man sporting nothing but a leather vest above the waist, started and flushed at the commanding tone of the handsome stranger across from him.  He was beautiful, but for some reason, the Trucker wasn’t into him.


Even after getting lucky with a cute boy at closing, he had no idea how truly lucky he got that night.


“S-sorry, sir,” he stammered, grinning lopsidedly, feeling his dick swell unaccountably.  “We’re short-handed tonight.”  Leaning forward, he whispered confidentially, “Bitch’s name was Robbie—he was our barback.   Little twink whore who used to take it up the ass back here where he though no one’d see him.  Fucker met the wrong dude after he left here; got himself raped and strangled on the way home.”


The Trucker snorted contemptuously.  As he turned away from the bar to survey the fuckmeat on offer, the bartender muttered vindictively under his breath, “Selfish cunt, leavin’ us in the lurch.  Hope it hurt like fuck…”


It was helpful to know that someone else had successfully tracked down and slaughtered meat from here; it told the Trucker two things.  First that this place was evidently a good hunting ground—and second, that he needed to be more cautious than usual.  After all, if some cunt got offed leaving this place, it could be staked out.  Glancing around, the Trucker kinda doubted that the cops would bother looking too hard for the killer of some low-life faggot hanging out in this dive; still, he’d take no extraordinary chances tonight.


The serial killer squinted his cold eyes as he tried to peer into the murky depths—such as they were—of the bar.  There was a lot of fuckmeat available, but none of it seemed to be worth the effort.  At least a third of the crowd were hustlers; the Trucker had no objections at all to banging and wasting a whore, but these cunts were so strung-out and skanky, the alpha almost wished he had a ten-foot pole with which not to touch them.


That was when he heard a voice behind him; he’d been facing the back of the building, not the entrance, so he didn’t realize someone had entered and approached the bar next to him.  “Just-just a Bud, man,” it said tentatively, the youthful, shy voice instantly intriguing the Trucker.  He turned casually and took in the view.


The guy next to him couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but the red cadet cap on his head, the brow pulled low over his eyes made his specific age hard to determine.  That was a clue, right there—the kid was on the down-low.  He was ashamed to be in here; he didn’t want to be recognized.  That was good.  Made him harder to ID afterwards.


What part of the face was visible below the cap revealed a large nose with a swelling on the bridge, a souvenir of a past break.  The full, vulnerable lips were surrounded by a patchy golden fuzz spread across the boy’s cheeks.  His hard, muscled torso would have been intimidating had the Trucker not been obviously better-built and more powerful.  It was displayed very well by a navy-blue t-shirt that looked sprayed on; tight as it was, his jeans looked even tighter.  The latter were a slightly lighter shade of blue—relatively new, but well worn, slightly stained, and torn across the left thigh, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of smooth flesh.


On his feet, the youth sported a pair of genuine shitkickers; pointy-toed boots of raw leather, worn to the texture of suede, the heels and soles replaced at least once.  They seemed to go with the large oval belt buckle clasping closed the thick dark leather strap circling the boy’s narrow waist.


At that moment, the boy noticed the Trucker.  While his cap made his age difficult to figure out, the expression on his face made his emotion easy as hell to figure out.  The hard-bodied youth was in a state of awed lust.


The Trucker was an alpha stud and dressed to show it; his outfit was similar to the kid’s, but gave greater emphasis to the killer’s muscle-bound physique.  He wore his trucker’s cap, its brim, like the boy’s was pulled down.  Under a bomber jacket of distressed brown leather, he was wrapped in a far-too-tight white t-shirt.  The thin cotton was stretched to such an extreme that the V of wiry fur on his chest was clearly visible from its widest expanse across the sadist’s broad pecs down to where it narrowed into a dark treasure trail that vanished below the waistband of the soft, frayed jeans that clung so closely to his bulging thighs that they looked sprayed on.  The cuffs of the jeans were tucked into a pair of Ariat Workhog boots, basic brown leather pull-ons with a thick rubber tread.


The boy gaped at the Trucker open-mouthed and took an instinctive step backward, where he made contact with a post.  Jerking forward, he bumped into the Trucker; startled, he looked up at the erotic killer’s cold, handsome face, shadowed by a dark stubble.  Eyes a startling shade of emerald glanced up as the youth’s gold-stubbled cheeks flushed with embarrassment.  “S-sorry, man, I-I just…it was an accident…” he trailed off shamefacedly.


Whatever humiliation or shyness he may have felt, though, it did nothing to dispel his lust.  “I-I’m Derek.  What ya looking for tonight?”


The Trucker stared down at the punk without speaking, letting the silence draw out uncomfortably.  The kid—Derek—cleared his throat and had started blushing again before the hulking alpha spoke.


“I’m looking for boymeat to stick my dick into,” the Trucker said even in a deep baritone growl that made Derek shudder in sexual anticipation.


The punk’s desire was obvious; a dark circle the size of a quarter was slowly expanding six inches down his right thigh where the thick ridge in his jeans indicated his dick ended.  The homo was already oozing form his cock, just from looking at the Trucker in the dim chaos that happens in gay bars an hour before closing.  The Trucker smirked, his lips twisting cruelly on his handsome, masterful face.


Derek noticed.  The wet spot on his leg grew visibly.  “I-I, uh…” he stammered.


“You’ll do,” the Trucker said dismissively, “Gotta place I can fuck ya?”


Derek gulp so violently it looked like he was trying to swallow a golf ball.  “Y-yeah man,” he gasped, somewhat breathlessly, “I gotta place in an SRO around the corner.  Company I work for rented it; see, I’m from outta town and they—”


“Ok, where is it?” the Trucker asked curtly, cutting the excited kid off.


“Uh—around the corner to the right, a coupla blocks down…”


“Ok, bitch, go wait for me at the corner.  Gotta go drain my hog.”


With that, the Trucker turned abruptly away, heading to the bathroom.  Still blinking and gulping with lust, Derek headed for the door, still stunned at his luck.  Holy fucking shit, that stud was gonna cum in his ass tonight; he could scarcely believe his luck.


Once outside, he was hit by a sudden breeze, making him regret he’d left his jacket in his room; first glancing down at his phone, Derek saw that it was a quarter past one on Saturday morning, then, looking up, saw that the overcast sky had cleared—a cold front had come through.


Things were gonna be cooling off overnight, he thought, heading towards the appointed corner for the rendezvous—never realizing that one of those things was gonna be his corpse.


Derek’s thick bootheels echoed loudly on the empty pavement; as full as the bar was, there was no one out here.  Literally no one—he couldn’t even see anyone at the corner.  Fearing that the huge, muscle-bound stud had found someone better and bailed on him, the young man hurried his steps.


Rounding the corner, he saw the hot alpha standing about halfway down the block; Derek’s relief was so great that he found himself babbling as he approached the dude.  “Hey, man,” he called out, “I’m in the fourth building down on the right.  Not my real place, a’course; I’m in town on a construction job.  Company I work for put us up in this shitty fleabag…”


The Trucker maintained an icy silence on the way to the run-down building, letting the boymeat pour out his story.  It didn’t matter; what mattered what getting the motherfucker’s ass to grip the Trucker’s enormous tool, and that meant torturing and killing this young man.


Kid was well-built, though.  Looked tough—not jacked, but strong and sinewy.  Cunt was gonna take some killin’…


The building turned out to be a seven-story walkup; the kid’s room was on the sixth floor.  The climb sapped some of Derek’s enthusiasm—well, at any rate, it shut him up until they actually reached the right floor.


The landing was halfway down a single corridor running the length of the building; it was lined with doors on each side.  At the far left end, a flickering exit sign over a window hinted at the presence of a fire escape beyond.  Derek indicated the battered door at the far right end. “That’s the bathroom, dude, if ya need to go—like I said, it’s SRO.  Don’t even have a private bathroom.”


Derek’s room was to the left, away from the bathroom; in fact, it was the next-to-last on the end, to the right, overlooking the rear of the building.  Room 602.


The room was tiny, no more than two hundred square feet, if that.  To the right was a double bed, frame and mattress only.  The fitted sheet was still in place but the flat sheet and a thin microfiber blanket were tangled on top, with a single pillow tossed in.


To the immediate left of the door was a small closet; its door was closed, but just beyond it was an armchair with a pair of stained jeans draped over it.  On top of the jeans sat a neon-yellow hardhat.  Under the chair was what looked like a wadded-up t-shirt, nest to another pair of workboots—lace-up and very soiled.  Beyond the chair, in the far corner, was a white porcelain pedestal sink, badly chipped, with rust stains trailing from the tap.  Above the sink, a plastic medicine cabinet with a mirrored door—also chipped—had been tacked unsteadily to the wall.  The far wall, to the left of the bed, had a decent sized window with a three-drawer dresser under it.


The window seemed to be painted shut, which was unfortunate—the room was stiflingly hot.  A tiny steam radiator next to the sink was giving off visible waves of heat.


“Wow,” Derek said as they entered the room, “Fuck.  Sorry about the temperature, man, I don’t control the heat and I can’t open the fucking window.  Oh, and the clothes—haven’t made it to the laundry yet, heh.”  So saying, the buff young man opened the closet door.  Tossing his cap onto the chair, he peeled his blue t-shirt off of his smooth, lithe torso, balled up it and threw it in.


Closing the door, he turned back to the Trucker, revealing strawberry-blond hair, wide blue eyes, a long straight nose and full, almost pouting lips.  Below the nose, a dirty blond mustache, barely more than peach fuzz, covered his upper lip. His chest was broad and his pectorals large; even though the Trucker was taller and much more powerful, Derek had the muscled body of a construction worker.


Standing in front of the towering alpha he’d brought home, the kid was well aware that he was still physically outclassed by the anonymous stud.  How badly outclassed he truly was did not become clear to him until later.


Slipping off his jacket, the Trucker handed it to Derek.  “Here, boy, hang it up,” he demanded, “And treat it right or I’ll take the damage outta yer hide.”  The punk shuddered with pleasure at the deep tone of command in the Trucker’s voice; it made his cock throb.  The wet spot on his jeans continued to grow.


The Trucker noticed and grinned.  This pig was already primed.  As the boy searched for an appropriate hanger for the leather bomber jacket, the older man quickly removed his own cap and t-shirt, placing them on the small dresser.  He’d already retrieved his cigarettes and lit one up by the time Derek came out and closed the closet door.


The room was warm and steamy; the smoke hung heavily in the air.  “Hey!” Derek squawked, “They don’t allow smoking in—”


“Strip, faggot!” the Trucker barked menacingly.  “Get it all off—now!”


The boy flinched as if he’d been struck; his jaw fell open with shock.  “I-I just—”


“NOW, goddammit!  Or I’ll fuckin’ rip those jeans off with my bare hands!”


Leaning against the wall, Derek bent one leg and slowly reached down to slip the well-worn boot off, his foot encased in a white tube sock inside.  He never took his eyes off the Trucker, entranced with the alpha’s toned, furry chest, glistening with sweat, with a gleaming pair of dogtags dead center.  The hard, muscled physique, the intimidating, threating manner—it all turned the closeted bottom pig on.  He had to obey; his pulsing dick insisted on it.


As the well-built youth unbuttoned the waistband of his jeans, the Trucker took another drag from his Marlboro and exhaled. Letting the smoke hang lazily in the humid, overheated air, his cold eyes appraised Derek’s smooth, strong body.  The kid didn’t need to work out; it was part of his daily job, and it showed.


Gearing up his courage, the kid tried another request.  “Man, go gentle with me, willya?  See, none of the dudes I work with know that I—well, that I…”


“That yer a cumsuckin’ faggot who want manmeat shoved up his ass?” the Trucker sneered.


Derek swallowed and dropped his jeans.  Nude but for the pair of white tube socks that went almost to his knees, the boy stood revealed to the alpha stud, including his thick fat cock—six inches of oozing dick already jutting proudly from a curly nest of sand-colored pubes.


Even as the head of his shaft swung free, drizzling precum on the floor, Derek was explaining himself.  “Well, it’s just that…I, I really don’t have much experience…” he cleared his throat nervously, “I—I just don’ wanna make too much noise, y’know?”


The Trucker said nothing in reply; he just unzipped his fly and pulled his cock out.  As usual, it took a bit to free the entire rod from its tight denim confines; Derek’s eyes got wider and wider as more dick kept coming out.  He opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t get anything coherent out.


“Quit oinkin’, pigboy—get over here,” the older man snapped.  Derek moved forward, stepping out of the jeans that were on the floor around his ankles.  The sexy young laborer, his smooth skin glittering with beads of sweat, reached out and ran his fingers across the Trucker’s hubcap pecs, feeling the older stud’s chest fur rasp in his hands like steel wool.


Annoyed, the Trucker knocked his hands away just as they reached the dogtags.  Instead of taking the hint, the lust-fueled youth placed his hands on the alpha’s biceps and fondled them as the bulged.  He didn’t get long to enjoy them, though.


“I didn’t tell ya you could touch me, cunt, did I?” the Trucker growled and backhanded Derek across the face—not hard; just enough to split his lip.


Holding his face, the punk fell to the floor, stunned.  He wanted rough sex from a rough top; he didn’t mind getting slapped around some—but how the fuck was he gonna explain this in the morning?  He’d have to tell the rest of the crew he’d gotten mugged…


“Lick my boots, ya fuckin’ homo!”  The command slashed through Derek’s hormone-muddled mind; his dick swelled in response—and again, his bottom pig nature took over.  Before he’d followed his idea to its logical excuse of mugging, his tongue was scraping across the raw leather of the dominant hunk’s workboots.


Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, he slowly worked his way along the left boot.  Suddenly, his head was clamped in a crushing grip and pulled up.  “Enough, slut; get yer fag face to work on the other!”  This time, though, the Trucker took pleasure in grinding the boy’s face into the rough surface of the upper.  Derek cried out, his hands grasping upwards, reaching around the top’s massive thighs, trying to free himself from the aggressive manhandling.  It felt like he was trying to uproot a thickly-knotted tree trunk, and the result was identical.


Then he was jerked backwards so fast he got dizzy.  “Get on my dick, faggot!” the Trucker grunted—and suddenly Derek found his mouth full of manmeat; his already-burning cheeks swelling as the alpha’s enormous, vein-wrapped hog was crammed down his throat, sliding down on a lube of streaming precum.  “Yeah, boy!” the aggressive sadist jeered, “Yer eyes waterin’ yet, huh?  Gag on my fuckin’ cock, ya homo piece of shit!”


On his knees with his own erect cock slapping against his belly, Derek clutched frantically at the Trucker’s boots, trying to hold on as the cruel hard-bodied top throatfucked him brutally.  At one point, he reached up and grabbed the Trucker’s wrists in an attempt to pry himself away from the crushing grip on his head.


And yes, his eyes were watering, badly.  They were leaking almost as much as his dick; in fact, his whole face was leaking as he gagged and coughed up white foamy drool around the enormous, vein-wrapped shaft that was reaming his esophagus.  He couldn’t breathe right; at the tempo he was being skullfucked, he couldn’t catch his breath.  He was choking—in the dim, buzzing, background, he could hear the alpha’s malign chuckles…


Then, suddenly, he was free.  The huge tube of hard, throbbing flesh was withdrawn from his throat and Derek was able to take a deep breath that instantly led to a wracking fit of coughing.  He crouched on the floor, hacking and drooling onto the Trucker’s boots.


“Yer a worthless facefuck, cunt,” the dominant sadist snapped viciously.  “What, you been suckin’ off little kids?  Damn sure can’t take a real man’s cock, can ya, ya little fag?”


By this point, Derek had recovered enough to speak.  “M-man, I d-don’t do th-this much,” he coughed.  ‘My homies on the crew don’t know I like dick—they’d probably beat the shit outta me if they found out.”


The Trucker laughed aloud.  “So the dude sleepin’ next door don’t know yer gettin’ fucked over here, huh?”


“I-I ain’t gotten fucked here yet,” Derek muttered.


The Trucker’s grin grew even more sharklike.  “Get up on that bed, cocksucker and put yer ass up in the air.  Time to christen your shitty little room, boy.  Get up there, cunt; I’m gonna ream yer ass like I’m drillin’ for oil!”


Lust and anxiety flowed through the well-built young construction worker; this stud’s words were making him so hard it hurt—but he knew that that pain was nothing compared to what he’d endure when the alpha shoved that massive hog up his tender ass.  “D-dude, I…I dunno, man—I dunno if I can keep quiet if you stick that thing in me…”


“Don’t worry, bitch,” the Trucker said steadily, “I’ll make sure you don’t make too much noise.  I got ways of keepin’ my fucktoys quiet.”  As Derek climbed onto the bed and swept aside the rumpled bedding, the Trucker noticed a power strip on the floor near the head of the bed with a phone charger plugged into it. He noted its location just before the eager young pig shoved the pillows off onto it.


Once the bed was clear of everything but the fitted sheet, Derek moved to the center.  Crouching on his hands and knees, he raised his ass in the air, like a cat, presenting himself for mounting.  “Go slow stickin’ it in, dude,” he said hoarsely, wriggling the smooth globes of his bubble butt, letting the dim light from the wall sconce shimmer on the barely-visible peach fuzz.


“What the fuck do ya think yer doin’?” the Trucker barked angrily.  “You ain’t earned my dick yet, cunt; get over here and pull my boots off.  Now, you cumsuckin’ faggot!”



Blushing furiously, the muscled youth quickly scrambled off the bed.  Sitting at the foot of the mattress, the Trucker raised his left leg, shoving his boot at the punk.  Derek grabbed the rough leather upper of the Ariat Workhog boot, still moist with his own saliva, and jerked, hard.


With an angry grunt, the Trucker swung up his right foot, kicking the boy, planting his steel toe  in Derek’s ribcage—not hard enough to do any real damage, but more than enough to bruise the kid’s tender flesh and cause him pain.


“Treat my boots with respect, cunt, or I’ll use ‘em to grind yer faggot face into hamburger.  Ya hear me, boy?”


Derek knelt on the scarred wood floor, head down.  He was terrified that the Trucker’s deep, commanding bass had penetrated the thin walls and woken Angelo in the next room.  Fuck, if Angelo heard this, everyone would know…


…after all, the blue collar bottom had already found that the top’s voice had penetrated to the root of his cock.  It was pulsing even faster and oozing even more—especially when the Trucker barked again.


“Goddammit, you little slut, do you fuckin’ hear me?  Answer me, you homo asswipe, or I’m gonna break yer fuckin’ jaw!”


“Y-yessir,” Derek whispered, trembling with a combination of fear and lust.  The mixture was not unfamiliar to a closeted faggot whose every sexual encounter was tainted with fear of exposure, but never as intense as now.  Gingerly, he reached out and grasped the Trucker’s boot.


It took him a couple of minutes to gently remove both of them.  Once he did, the Trucker stood, looming over the working-class stud.  He unfastened the button on the waistband of his jeans before speaking.  “Pull ‘em down, bitch.”


Derek obeyed immediately, grasping the rough denim in his hands and jerking down, feeling the fur on the alpha’s legs brushing against sensitive undersides of his forearms.  When they reached the ground and the Trucker stepped out of them, the older man deliberately twisted his waist so that his enormous cock smacked the boy in the face, streaking his handsome, youthful face with precum.


“Ok, faggot,” the Trucker sneered, “Get back up there—on yer fuckin’ back, ya stupid bitch.  If ya don’t work my dick right, I may still hafta break yer jaw.”


Again, Derek’s compliance was instinctual—as was the sexual thrill that ran through him at the taunts from the incredibly well-built top.  No one had ever abused him like this—not this viciously, at any rate—and he didn’t understand his own physical response.


Nor did he try to.  All he consciously knew was that this hulking stud scared the shit outta him—and that he’d never wanted another dude up his ass so bad.  He scurried eagerly onto the bed.


Then the boy rolled onto his back and spread his legs in the air, his hands gripping the back of his knees for support.  The Trucker moved to the foot of the bed; from here, he had a perfectly-aligned view of the kid’s pink, pulsating fuckhole.  Directly above was the youth’s large, puckered scrotum, hanging down from a bush of sandy hair.  Rising above all this, Derek’s thick cock stood erect and oozing between his firm, smooth thighs.


Nude except for his calf-high white tube socks—just like the kid—the Trucker positioned himself on the bed, just between the boy’s inner thighs.  He pressed the huge, dripping head of his cock against Derek’s trembling sphincter, pushing forward with very slight pressure.  The closeted slut felt it and moan faintly.


“Gimme yer phone charger,” the Trucker demanded abruptly.


Derek raised his head and blinked in confusion.  “My what?”


“Yer charger, ya stupid fag—on the floor beside you.  Reach down and grab it and hand it to me now or I’m gonna fuck you up.”


It was an awkward angle for Derek to reach while still lying on his back, but he knew he had to obey the commanding top.  Contorting his hard, buff body, the young stud managed to grasp the cord and yank it free from the power strip.  With a relieved grunt, he straightened and centered himself back on the mattress, tossing the cord at the Trucker, who caught it and laid it to the side, within easy reach.


“Dude, what’s that for?  You gonna tie me up?  I ain’t never—”


The kid didn’t manage to finish before the Trucker lunged forward and bitchslapped him hard across the face.  Derek gasped as his head rocketed to the side.  “Worthless piece a’ shit!” the Trucker snarled.  “I told ya to hand it to me, cocksucker, not throw it at me!  You don’t know yer place, boy.  Time I taught it to ya.”  With that, he swept his strong arm the other direction, backhanding Derek hard enough to split his lower lip.


The once-eager whelp cried out and clutched his face.  Withdrawing one hand, he looked at the blood on it from his lip.  “Fuck, man, what are ya doin’?!  I gotta work in the fuckin’ mornin’, dude, I can’t go lookin’ like I rolled in a goddam alley!  Stop hittin’—”


His protest was crushed into a wheezing grunt as the Trucker punched him in the solar plexus.


For thirty seconds, Derek thought he was dying.  He couldn’t breathe.  No matter what he did, he couldn’t inhale.  When he finally could, he came up off the bed with a loud frantic gasp, only to be met by another line-drive blow from his assailant.  The Trucker’s fist slammed into the kid’s hard, broad pec on the left side with a loud smacking sound.  The violent impact knocked the flailing punk back down flat on the bed.


“Yeah, keep fightin’ me, ya stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker sneered, “That’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my tool.”  Grabbing Derek around his narrow waist, he rammed the cunt’s ass all the way down on his dick like a sex toy.  His shaft ground so deeply into the youth’s colon that their pubic hairs entwined.


Derek had been unprepared—not that he could have actually prepared himself for that massive rod, but his entire body had clenched up during the assault, including his sphincter.  The alpha’s cock almost literally tore him a new asshole, splitting the rectal lining excruciatingly on the way in.


The Trucker could see it in the bitch’s eyes before it actually happened.  “Keep quiet and take my dick, whore, or I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad, ya useless—”


Derek squealed like a pig getting its throat cut—as the sadistic alpha had known he would.


“I warned ya, meat,” the Trucker chuckled with evil glee, “Gotta learn to obey me, asswipe, so here’s yer first lesson.”  This was accompanied by a roundhouse punch straight from the shoulder.


The blow connected with Derek’s jaw, snapping it like a wishbone.  The lesson was well-learned; the boy’s ability to scream was severely hampered by the agonizing pain of trying to open his mouth.  The punk’s large dark eyes were wide and tear filled; the uncomprehending expression on his face show how stunned he was by the sudden, brutal attack.


The Trucker laughed aloud as he felt the blow reverberate along the punk’s buff, taut body, right down through his guts to his rectum.  “Fuck, I could feel that one in my cock,” he sneered cruelly, “Ya musta really liked that, huh?  Yeah?  Then yer just gonna fuckin’ love what else I got planned for ya, homo fuckmeat!”


Derek snapped into a fight-or-flight mode; between his broken jaw and torn colon, his body issued an instinctive directive to get away.  From stunned paralysis, the hard-bodied construction worker exploded into frenetic flailing, like a trapped animal.


The Trucker had expected a burst of feral violence at some point—more than one, most likely—but despite his experience, this one took him by surprise.  The meat’s hands came up scrambling and clawing like a cat; the alpha managed to jerk his head up out of reach, but the boy’s hands raked viciously across his torso, scraping his rough, wiry chest hair, even as his smooth but strong legs drew up, trying to get his up knees under his assailant and push him off.


It was a bad move.  Derek had a fantastic build thanks to his employment—one of the reasons he’d never had any real problems in any of his previous anonymous hookups was that he was obviously strong enough to take care of himself—but he was no match for the Trucker.  All he’d succeeded in doing was pissing off the older and much more powerful alpha.


“Worthless faggot,” the Trucker grunted, catching the kid’s right arm as it came up against his chest.  In a single, swift motion, the highly-experienced sadist wrapped his left arm around the boy’s right, and jerking violently enough to cause his massive bicep to flex and bulge, the Trucker bent the cunt’s elbow backwards at a forty-five degree angle.  There was a loud cracking, popping sound as the joint was destroyed, accompanied by a high-pitched squealing sound from the agonized fuckpig.


Poor Derek still couldn’t open his mouth to scream.  Some normal part of the unfortunate punk was terrified; he wasn’t going to be able to call for help.  Some closeted part of him was glad that no one would hear his shame.


And way down deep, some pig part of him reveled in it, and made his dick even harder.


The Trucker noticed.


“Yeah, I thought so,” he muttered contemptuously as he reached down and picked up the phone charger, leaning back in such a way that his enormous cock probed even further into his victim’s intestines.  Wrapping the cord around his left hand and grabbing the transformer in the right he pulled them apart easily.  He was just about to toss the transformer to the side when Derek’s low, keening moans suddenly escalated in pitch.  The punk was coming out of his semi-conscious state and responding to the pain.


“Still haven’t learned to keep yer fuckin’ trap shut, ya stupid little fuck?” the Trucker growled.  “Goddam, guess I gotta beat it into ya, then—only way yer gonna learn, right?”


Despite the red fog of agony clouding his mind, Derek heard and understood every word.  He couldn’t understand what had happened; all he’d done was sneak out to the local gay bar to he could get a good buttfuck on the DL.  He was getting it all right, but it came at a terrible and utterly unexpected price.  Even though he understood the threat in the Trucker’s voice, he couldn’t control his reaction to the nightmarish pain.  His screech got louder…


…until it was halted by a loud, wet, crunchy smack, the sound of the Trucker smashing his nose to a pulp, the older man’s fist still gripping the transformer from the cord.  Derek, grunting and gurgling, bit through his tongue on impact, as some lucid part of his mind noted the way his own hard dick was slapping moistly against his torturer’s furry, ripped belly.  Opening his swollen eyes, the naïve youth dazed and blurred vision focused on the glittering reflection of dogtags in front of his face, dancing with the alpha’s thrusts.  Somehow, the hypnotic jerking glint, coinciding as it did with the sensation of excruciating impalement, made him sink down and accept the pain as inevitable.


“Yer fuckhole’s gettin’ loose, cunt,” the Trucker snarled, seeing Derek’s eyes glaze, “How bad am I gonna hafta hurt ya to tighten yer ass up?”  The boy was so deep in his pain-induced reverie that he didn’t even flinch as the Trucker’s broad fist rocketed towards his face again.


This time, his left cheekbone snapped.  The boy coughed up spit, bloody from his bitten tongue, that ran down his faintly-stubbled cheek.  His body thrashed at the impact, but fell back limply afterwards.


“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are a worthless waste of fuckmeat,” the Trucker muttered ominously.  “Hard-bodied little faggot twink like you shouldn’t be worn out this fast.”  Every punch he’d thrown had been with the cord’s transformer adding heft to his already-large fist; he now tossed it aside and instead the cord itself was wrapped around both hands, leaving about eighteen inches between.  “I had plans, asswipe.  I was gonna do things to ya you couldn’t’a dreamed of in yer worst fuckin’ nightmares.  I was gonna put you in pain so bad the thought of escaping it into death alone woulda made ya cum.  Now, I’m just gonna put ya down like a dog.  I’m gonna make those firm thrashing muscles of yers into dead twitchin’ meat, just so yer convulsions jack me off.  Hear me, ya useless cunt?  Time to die.”


Leaning forward, he wrapped the cord around Derek’s throat and pulled it tight and hard, sinking it deeply into the punk’s neck.  This was no playful squeeze; the kid’s esophagus was instantly crushed shut, cutting off his air immediately.


Derek’s mental retreat from pain had been successful; even as his body responded, his mind had been protected.  The instant cessation of oxygen broke the spell; the sudden wave of agony—still inexplicable mixed with lust—would have put him into shock had not the basic need to survive suddenly become imperative.


So he had to endure his pounded, smashed face.  He had to endure the searing, slashing pain from the huge, vein-wrapped cock rammed deep into his guts.  He had to endure the grinding, glassy pain in his elbow that made his right arm useless.  And now, he was having to endure strangulation.  He had to get away.  Somehow, he had to get up off this dude’s dick and out of this room.  It didn’t matter what the guys on the crew thought, they could laugh at him, they could spit at him, they could piss on him, as long as they saved him from this psycho…


The Trucker recognized the glint of panicked consciousness in the kid’s eyes.  Grinning, he spat into the slut’s battered and almost unrecognizable face.  “Yeah, that’s it.  Yer gonna die, homo, yeah?  Ya like that?  Yer dick sure does, cocksucker, haw!”


Giving the cord another jerk, he managed to compress the meat’s neck by another inch and a half in circumference. The appearance was almost grotesque as the youth’s smooth skin puckered and wrinkled at the point that the cord had sunk in; the cord itself was no longer visible.


Beneath the alpha, the buff young construction worker was already starting to writhe and sweat in extreme bodily distress.  The Trucker himself, already exuding heady mansweat from the effort involved in snuffing strong young meat, found his victim’s smooth body sliding around under him as if lubed.  The boy’s cock felt like a long hot iron rod, pressed between the grunting, shuddering male bodies.


“Yer startin’ to get it, cunt,” the Trucker jeered, “Ya feelin’ me?  Ya feelin’ my cock, yeah?  Ya feelin’ me choke yer worthless fuckin’ life out, yeah?  Yer crew—they’re gonna find ya fucked and murdered like the fuckin’ faggot cockpig ya are, cunt.  Everyone’s gonna know, bitch—everyone!”


Derek was sinking slowly into brain death but wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t process his killer’s taunts.  In despair, he realized that it was true—he was gonna be found raped to death if he didn’t manage to get out of this…


A last spark of lust for life flared up in the dick-filled musclemeat.  His firm, smooth legs wrapped around his assailant’s thrusting waist and his left arm batted desperately but ineffectually at the Trucker’s head.  But it was too little, too late, and the face of the dying fuckmeat made it obvious.  The cunt’s tongue, black and swollen, had painfully pushed aside the broken jaw and was protruding with a fount of foamy drool that cascaded down his chin.  The large dark eyes bulged from the sockets, the expression of terror amplified by the petechial hemorrhages that stained the whites red.


“Almost there, faggot,” the Trucker muttered as he hunched over and pressed his heavy, hard body down on the thrashing youth.  “Work it out, homo, work the cum outta my shaft.  Here, meat, time to go.  Time to die, faggot.”


With a loud grunt, the powerful alpha tightened his arms to the point that veins popped out on his bugling muscles.  He pulled so hard that the cord actually snapped, but before it did, there was a distinct crunching sound as the cumsucker’s esophagus collapsed.  His airway was permanently blocked by a mass of shattered cartilage.


The last flicker of Derek’s consciousness heard and felt his throat getting crushed.  Then his eyes rolled back and the death throes started.  All the Trucker had to do was grab hold of the corpse and ride it like a bucking bronco.


The dead kid was strong and healthy; his balls were full.  As he died, he emptied them all over his killer, himself and the bed.  For every boiling spurt of seed the Trucker unloaded into the meat’s guts, the meat responded with a thick, ropy jet that splattered into the alpha’s chest fur, or shot between them to splash against the wall, viscous pearly drops raining back down onto the entwined males.


It seemed to take several minutes, filling the room with gasping and grunting, the sounds of bodies slapping together, the smell of sweat and seed and lust.  The alpha held onto the meat until his scrotum was empty and he’d filled the dead kid with spunk.


With a quick movement, he pulled out of the corpse and got off the bed.  Reaching for his smokes, he lit one up and looked down at the body.  Derek was lying on his back with his legs apart.  At some point in his death struggle, he’d kicked off his left sock; his right one was still on but twisted down to the ankle.   Between the splayed legs a trickle of bloody semen leaked from his mangled ass.  The youth’s hard, smooth body, covered with glistening sweat, trembled violently on the bed, each spasm forcing another bead of cum from the slowly-softening cock.


Up to the neck, the body looked like that of a sleeping stud—ignoring the grotesque angle of the right arm—but halfway up, the throat was constricted to a gruesome point.  Above that point, the resemblance to the attractive young construction worker who’d slunk furtively into the bar an hour ago was utter non-existent.  His face was puffy and dark; his head looked—appropriately enough—like a punching bag.


Grinning, the Trucker knocked his ash into the sink in the corner, the smoke adding to the steamy haziness, as he gloated over his latest kill.  Stupid little faggot.  Taking another drag, he felt his amused contempt grow—and his cock.  Striding over to the warm, soft shuddering boymeat, the Trucker plunged his still-erect shaft into the meat’s mouth.  The broken jaw helped him shove the swollen tongue aside with his pulsing tube of manflesh, his precum acting as lube as he forced his way into the dead fag’s throat.


Taking one last hit off his cigarette, he ground it out on the meat’s forehead, grasping the corpse by its ruined throat as he skullfucked it.  Still keyed up after the snuff, it only took about a dozen strokes of his shaft, probing the mangled windpipe until his swollen purple head fitted snugly into the shattered remains of his larynx, spat another hot thick wad.  The Trucker grunted deeply as a second and third load shot from him, backing up in the enclosed space until it flooded out the youth’s nostrils.  With one last gasp, the powerful alpha let his powerful body collapse onto the dead boy as he came, feeling the youth’s deathload smearing onto his chest.


Finally, spent, the older man withdrew from the twitching corpse, now completely filled with his rank manseed.  Feeling the need to clean himself, he looked at the sink with disgust—then sat at the foot of the bed and slipped his boots on, before standing and opening the door.


The bathroom, he remembered, was at the far end of the hall.  Some part of him, reckless and still horny, defied caution and made him step out into the hallway.  The tread of his boots echoed loudly on the wood floor as he strode confidently down the hallway, his massive shaft swinging freely and splattering drops of cum over the floor as well as the Trucker’s boot tops.


Reaching the bathroom, he looked around at the dingy facilities in disgust, quickly washing off with a stained towel in lukewarm water.  He paced quickly back to the murder room, never noticing that one door on the hall was opened to just a crack—wide enough for a curious eye to peer out.


“He was a big dude,” Ray, the occupant of the room, later told detectives.  “No one on the crew, I can tell ya that—we’d love to have someone that strong workin’ for us.  No, I didn’t see his face.  But damn, man, he was built.”  The CSI team found lots of pubic hairs and skin scrapings under the corpse’s nail, but the state of the corpse was a topic of contempt and derision among Derek’s co-workers for months.


Ray had actually fallen asleep by the time the Trucker had dressed, so he never say the killer leave.  The killer had gotten a meal, a brief nap, and refill of gas before the corpse was found, and was back on the highway long before cops arrived on the scene.

Adam–First Kill

It had been a cloudy day and as the sun set, the twilight lengthened the shadows into a chilly blue gloom.  Even after midnight, the temperature remained fairly stable, but the gloom deepened to the point where it seemed to actively absorb light.


Not many people were out at three in the morning on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, but Robbie didn’t have much choice.  Until he could save enough to replace the busted fuel pump on his car, he was walking home from work.  It wasn’t a long walk—no more than two or three miles, up past the high school and the rec center—but Robbie was still pissed.  Greg wouldn’t let him borrow the car—as if Greg himself was gonna stay sober enough to drive—and ever since Ma had married the asshole, she’d let him run the show.  And Greg had already said he didn’t like cocksuckers in his home and wouldn’t have his car parked at a fag bar.


Robbie fumed.  He was gonna save up his dough and get the fuck outta this place, even if it meant staying up late for overtime.  Mack paid him decently—more than minimum wage, at least—and being bar back at the low-rent dive came with some added benefits not available to most nineteen-year-olds in terms of access to alcohol.


And sex.  Robbie had gotten his tight ass plowed at (and sometimes behind) the bar on a number of occasions; he was young, handsome, and very fit.  And his demeanor and vocabulary immediately pegged him as being from the wrong side of the tracks—which only made him more desirable to a lot of the dudes at the bar.


It sure had tonight.  Problem was, despite being a gay bar, Mack’s was a small-time affair in a bad part of town.  It had been packed on Thanksgiving (it had seemed to draw a leather crowd that night), but this was Saturday and a lot of the high-end nightclubs were offering discounts and waiving cover charges.  Mack’s was full of drunk old trolls.  Nauseated from getting pinched and fondled by nasty old men, reeking of booze, Robbie sought refuge in alcohol himself.


All of which explained why he was staggering slightly as he made his way along the dark and deserted streets at three in the morning.  The red glare of neon that proclaimed “Mack’s Bar” had faded behind him some time ago as Robbie turned left off of Grand Avenue and began the long trek up 22nd Street, past the rec center.


On his left was what might looked like an older warehouse, remodeled into hip shops and condos—except that it was about six months old, replacing a lot that had sat vacant for years.  Robbie paused on the sidewalk for a moment, catching a glimpse of himself where a nearby streetlight reflected his image in a large storefront window.


Short and stocky, Robbie barely reached five-foot-eight, but he was buff and barrel-chested.  His arms and legs were thickly muscled; his broad, rounded pecs presented large nipples, obviously erect under a red t-shirt that was too small for him.  Over this, the tough-looking twink sported a brown leather bomber jacket, worn unzipped and open.


Beneath his flat abs, his waist narrowed; around it, the drawstring of a pair of jogging sweats was tied into a granny knot.  The jogging pants themselves were dark gray, a Chinese knockoff of Under Armor that didn’t get the logo quite right.  It didn’t matter—they clung tightly to his firm thighs, the soft material revealing every detail of Robbie’s well-built body—down to the outline of the thick hog lying along his right thigh.


Elastic at the cuffs cinched the sweats off just above the ankle so that Robbie’s ped socks were almost invisible inside his Adidas Stan Smith retro sneakers, white w/ green details.  Not that his kicks were visible in the glass, of course; it didn’t go down that far.  His face, on the other hand, was vividly clear.


It was broad and smooth, the skin slightly pale but sprinkled with freckles that were visible even in the reflected image.  Somehow, Robbie’s face managed to convey a certain innocence; his wide nose and white, even teeth underscored his large, long-lashed eyes of vivid emerald green.


It was his hair, though, that was most noticeable.  Robbie was wearing a plain black baseball cap, but it wasn’t enough to conquer an irrepressible mop of red curls.  The term red would be somewhat misleading, in fact—the coarse, wiry strands profusely covering his head were a bright, carroty orange.


Robbie shrugged and walked on.  He knew well enough what he looked like, and it was good enough to get him laid when he wanted.  His active lifestyle kept him firm and fit, and he got noticed.  Maybe, one day, it’d get him notice by a sugar daddy and he could finally tell Ma and that fuckhead Greg to kiss his ass.


His physique had certainly gotten him noticed before, in ways Robbie himself didn’t recognize.  And if he’d known, he might not have been so pleased with himself.  He certainly hadn’t realized that he’d attracted the attention of someone who now knew far more about him than Robbie would have thought possible…


…someone who was even now stalking him.




Several days after Adam had fucked a corpse and tossed it into a swimming pool, he was still feeling both excited and terrified.  He knew what he needed to do, but he just couldn’t bring himself to commit to the act.  In a way, it was too enticing.  The muscular young man, aware of his powerful strength, was more afraid of getting too carried away, of getting so excited that he’d be careless.


After all, if he was gonna do this, he was self-aware enough to know that he wouldn’t stop.  And he wouldn’t want to, so avoiding detection was paramount.


And so he hemmed and hawed, a fierce internal debate not reflected in his outwardly calm behavior.  The argument, however, was resolved by the evening news.  Adam’s attention was absorbed by the lead story—a state senator’s kid found raped and strangled in a cheap motel room.


Adam was stunned; he’d been so wrapped up in his mental turmoil that he’d forgotten about the other guy.  And now that he’d been reminded, his desire to violate the victim flooded back through him, despite the knowledge that this body had already been removed.


And that was what broke down the internal deadlock.  Fuck detection, he’d figure something out.  He needed to stick his cock into dead boymeat, and he needed it now.  But who?


His mind whirled back to the gym—no, not there.  Too many of the other dude’s victims were from there.  Someone Adam had visited before himself, maybe?  The idea had some possibilities. There was that junior high kid two doors down, the fourteen-year-old, but that probably wasn’t a good idea.  You don’t shit where you eat.  And there were those other two boys—no, dammit, they had ties to that gym too.


Then Adam remembered the kid from the bar.  He’d spotted the dude several months ago—short but muscular, the teen looked like he was nearly as strong as Adam himself.  The punk had been lugging around bins full of ice; his tattooed biceps were visible under the taut sleeves of a skin-tight black t-shirt.


Adam had followed him home that night, standing outside the kid’s house with his dick hard and throbbing, listening to a virulent screaming match between the young faggot and his drunken stepfather.  Later, he crept into the sleeping youth’s room, leaving a wad of cum in the boy’s kicks and taking a pair of socks with him.


Now, tonight, the image of the hot little homo sprang into him mind spontaneously.  It was right after Thanksgiving, would the fucker be working?  There was only one way to find out.


It wasn’t a long trip by car, but it was a shitty neighborhood to park in.  Still he was only gonna be here for one beer’s worth of time—and when it came right down to it, it didn’t even take that long.  Adam had just shut the engine off when the short buff dude came out of the bar’s entrance, dragging a sack of garbage to the dumpster around the corner.  Not even bothering to get out, Adam restarted the engine and drove home.


When he came back, he’d be on foot.  And it’d be much, much later.




Much, much later, Robbie was walking up the low, slow incline past the rec center.  It was a dark stretch of roadway, with the park running along one side of the street and the other side taken up by a rest home.  No light came through from the park; the greenbelt running along the sidewalk took care of that, so Robbie walked in darkness.  The old folks’ home across the street was likewise quiet, the lobby dark and locked up.  Even the rec center, when he passed it, had been still, the single car at the far end of the parking lot, seemingly left for the night…


A faint rustle to his right made Robbie turn his head to the nearby underbrush, expecting to catch a glimpse of a raccoon, if he was lucky.


He wasn’t lucky.  And what he caught a glimpse of was far larger than a raccoon.  The large dark shape seemed to come from nowhere, suddenly filling his field of vision.  Then there were vague sensations—a swift motion, a sharp pain—and the dark shape expanded to become everything.


Robbie woke up in motion.  His face hurt; dirt and leaves were being ground into it—he was being dragged by his legs through the underbrush, face down.  Someone was pulling him away from the street, into the depths of the greenbelt.  His head ached and his cap was gone; he must have been hit.


He had a vague, confused idea that there was something sexual about all this, but that made no sense.  None of this was making any sense—with his t-shirt now pulled up around his neck, his firm, flat belly was scraping the ground, his smooth skin being scratched by rocks and bits of twig.


Disoriented and aching, Robbie began to struggle.  Kicking out unexpectedly with his strong legs, he managed to free himself from his unknown assailant.  For a moment, he scrabbled helplessly on the ground, then his loose Adidas kicks managed to get some traction in the dirt.


The short, powerful teen regained his feet with a short-lived moment of exultation, then he was blind-sided and slammed sideways into the thick trunk of an ancient tree.  The impact knocked the breath out of him and he sank to the ground, peering up at his attacker in the faint kaleidoscopic glinting of distant streetlights that managed to make it through the wind-blown boughs.


From the few details Robbie could make out in the dim, shifting light, the other dude was taller, slightly older and somewhat better built than he was.  A brief movement of a branch against the background lighting gave the young homo a silhouette of the well-built man towering over him; even in his pained bewilderment, Robbie felt a straining in his groin as his dick started to stiffen.




Adam had been tense and excited as he waited in the woods for the little homo to walk by; he was hard with excitement, but his palms were slick with nervous sweat.  As amped as he had been watching that kid get offed in the locker room, he still wasn’t sure he could do it—after all, once he’d actually killed, there’d be no turning back…


He’d been surprised how easy it was to put the kid’s light’s out; the fucker was short but built like a bulldog with a broad chest and narrow waist; it had been what had attracted Adam in the first place.  He’d gotten the limp punk into the underbrush quickly, taking time to fondle the unconscious faggot only when they were both completely concealed.  Even so, the street was still too near for Adam’s comfort.  He decided to drag his prey deeper into the woods.


This was a stealth kill, and Adam had dressed the part; one of the reasons Robbie had been unable to see his assailant approach was that the latter was dressed all in black.  The youthful killer manqué had covered his red-gold hair—much less brazen than that of his victim—as well as his powerful torso in a tight hoodie of black polyester fleece; with the hood tightly drawn over his head, only his face showed in the darkness, and that but vaguely.


Under this, Adam wore a pair of black utility pants, tight around his firm, muscled ass.  They had multiple pockets down the thighs but narrowed below the knee where they were bloused into a pair of Army-surplus combat boots with thick rubber soles that let him move quietly and confidently through the undergrowth.


It was the escape attempt the tripped the trigger.  Adam never saw it coming; adrenaline surged through his body the moment he realized that the well-built teenager was no longer in his grasp.  The moment the cocksucker collected his wits, he’d be screaming for help.  Knowing that he had little time to regain control of the situation, the stronger and slightly older stud body-slammed the little sack of shit sideways into a tree and was now standing over him, looking down on the cowering boy…


…and experienced a rush of bloodlust of almost uncontrollable proportions.  The hot young teen, huddled at his feet—and at his mercy, ready to be made into vulnerable, fuckable meat—


—oh yeah, he could do this.


And seeing the thick shaft rising like a tent pole from the pansy’s tight but soft sweats, Adam felt a tingling shock run through his body as if he’d touched a live wire.  The meat-to-be was just as hard as Adam himself.  A brief incident of violence, and already there were two swollen, throbbing cocks.


It made sense—at least to the fledgling sex killer—that more brutality would bring more sexual pleasure.  And the testosterone and adrenaline flooding his young, powerful body was not to be denied; as he stepped up and gazed contemptuously at the young faggot cowering between his combat boots, Adam could feel precum flowing freely from the enlarged piss-slit of his massive, pulsating hog.


On his knees in the dirt, Robbie absorbed the pheromones being given off by the dark figure looming over him; the sex-laden atmosphere only added to his sense of unreality.  Alone in the dark woods with a hot anonymous dude—it wasn’t the first time he’d been in this situation on his way home from work, but no one had ever hurt him before.


The handsome gay teen from the wrong side of the tracks was about to learn that not only was there a first time for everything, it was also possible for the first time to be the last time, too.  He knew instinctively that he needed to move before he succumbed to a kind of paralytic lust that was stealing over him at the thought of what this unknown stud might do to him.


Again, he lunged forward, twigs catching at the knees of his tight-fitting joggers and tearing the material.  He jerked towards his assailant’s right, in what he thought was the direction of the street, gasping loudly prior to calling out for help.


He never got the chance, but he never knew how close he came.  With a little more experience, Adam might have expected another escape attempt; as it was, he was unable to prevent it, only to end it—which he did, with a swift, brutal kick, driving his steel-toed combat boot into the boy’s lower ribcage, snapping off the floating ribs on the teen’s right side.


Squealing in pain, the queer punk was flipped onto his back.  Adam stood over his prey, knowing that he had to take control of the situation once and for all—and finding that the idea made his cock throb even more intensely.  The erotic haze filling his head had almost a reddish tinge; it was through this that he saw the large rock lying two feet to the right of the cumpig’s head.


It was clear that the fagmeat was dazed but not totally out—it was gonna start bleating again; he needed to shut it up.  Kneeling down, he grabbed the rock and pulled it out of the soil.  Ovoid in shape, about six inches on the long axis and four on the short, it fit his hand perfectly.


Robbie blinked confusedly up at the muscular dude crouching over him.  A stray beam of light from a distant streetlight lit the stud’s face; even in his pain and fear, the young faggot felt his swollen tool strain painfully at the sight of his attacker’s deep, dark eyes framed by long lashes and the red-gold stubble on his taut cheeks and firm chin.


“W-why?” Robbie asked tremulously, his late-adolescent voice still cracking with surging hormones.  He’d have given himself to this hot top voluntarily.


Adam knew what the single word meant.  Still holding the large rock in his hand, he grinned at the prostrate teen.  “Cause I like my meat cold, man,” he whispered, his voice low with erotic huskiness.  “I’m gonna fuck ya, all right, but I want you dead before I stick my dick in ya.”


The expression on the little cunt’s face showed that he’d heard the words, but hadn’t understood them.  At least, not at once; it took some time for the perverted, terrifying meaning to sink through.  It was obvious when it hit; the kid’s eyes grew as wide as dinner plates.


“Wha-wh-what?” he gasped.


“Time to die, faggot,” Adam replied calmly and slammed the rock into his face.


Robbie was aware of a loud crunching sound that accompanied the overpowering blast of pain in his head; his cry of pain was somewhat muffled when he coughed out the two rearmost molars from the left side of his fractured jaw.  Mewling, with blood dripping from his mouth, the gay teen’s nightmare was just beginning.


And so was Adam’s sadistic killing spree.  He’d had no idea how good it would feel to have a sexy young queerboy at his mercy and in his control.  And what better way to confirm the possession of power over a victim than by making the victim endure something he never would voluntarily?


Something like, say, horrific pain and death.


Had his tight cargo pants not been black, there would have been a large and spreading circle of precum visible in his crotch as Adam raised the rock for another debilitating blow.  This was just to teach the homo to shut up, though.  His death, the budding sex killer understood, needed to be long and slow, leaving the meat nice and tight to receive his shaft.


After all, the twisted alpha figured as he smashed the chunk of stone into the moaning punk’s face again, the little cumsucking piece of shit didn’t deserve the D while it was still alive.


The second blow crushed Robbie’s nose, split his lips and shattered a cheekbone.  His handsome young face now a battered ruin, the boy wallowed on his back in the dirt, squealing and kicking in agony.  In his thrashing, he somehow managed to work free of his bomber jacket, leaving it covered in leaves, the brown leather almost invisible in the dark underbrush.


“Fuck yeah,” Adam moaned ecstatically as the sense of power literally rippled through his firm, taut muscles, making his already-engorged cock throb painfully inside his pants.  He tossed the rock to one side—he wasn’t gonna need it any more.  Reaching out, he grabbed the youth’s t-shirt and yanked his hands on opposite directions, hard.  After the briefest resistance, he was rewarded with a brisk tearing sound as the red tee split down the middle, revealing the kid’s smooth, buff torso.


The teen continued to claw at the purple swollen mass that had been his face, the shredded remains of his shirt still wrapped around his bulging biceps, as Adam grabbed at his waistband and pulled the teen’s jogging sweats down to his ankles before ripping them completely off over his white sneakers.


Of course the horny little fucker had been going commando; Adam hadn’t even considered any other possibility, and for good reason.  Short, strong Robbie now found himself nude except for his ped socks and retro Adidas kicks, inexplicably shuddering and wailing in agony in the woods, in the dirt, and he had no idea how he’d ended up like this.


Somewhere outside the boiling flood of pain, the gay punk heard another tearing sound, somehow slightly different than when his shirt was stripped—raising his head with great effort, he could see (just barely; his eyelids were swollen almost completely shut) that his well-built and mysterious attacker had ripped the drawstring out of the sweats that had just been so forcibly removed.


Adam stood up and leaned over the brutalized youth, now in shock-induced paralysis.  Grinning down at his helpless fuckmeat, the strong buff stud reached down and slowly unzipped the fly of his black utility pants.  Instantly, his thick hog flopped out, precum dripping from the engorged purple tip.


The reaction this provoked made the practicing sadist laugh out loud.


“Lookit that shit,” he chuckled, “Goddam, you really are a horny little faggot, aintcha?  I beat the fuck outta yer pansy ass and ya still get hard when ya catch sight of my dick—lessee if you can stay hard after you’re dead, cocksucker.”


And with that, he threw himself down onto the teenager.  Robbie, spread-eagled nude (but for his sneakers) in the dirt, grunted and coughed out the last reserve of air in his lungs as the hard-bodied killer slammed down on top of him.


As Adam had remarked, the teen homo had indeed gotten even harder than he’d been before at the sight of his assailant’s cock; his fit young homosexual body, so filled with hormones that they wafted off of him in a pheromone-ridden musk, was helpless to do otherwise.  As the heavily-muscled form fell on him, violently expelling his breath, some small part of Robbie’s attention was diverted from the pain and fear into noticing the sensation of the older dude’s hard cock, pressing into his smooth flat belly like a heated iron rod.


But even that cockpig section of his brain couldn’t ignore the implication of the drawstring when the anonymous alpha whipped it up and around his throat; he could ignore it still less when the cold-blooded killer yanked the thick strand of braided nylon so tightly that he was unable to inhale.  Robbie’s lungs, already achingly empty, began to burn with searing agony from lack of air.


That was when the teenage homo panicked like the trapped animal he was.  Instantly, two hard, muscled, male bodies were locked together in a fatal embrace.   Despite the cold, the powerful young man slid over the boy’s smooth, writhing body on a thin layer of sweat as he worked to hold the dying punk down.


“Quit fightin’ it, faggot,” Adam grunted, his biceps bulging as he tightened the thin nylon cord around his prey’s neck.  “Yer only makin’ it harder, cunt; I’m gonna waste ya no matter what, so settle down and enjoy the ride.”


Robbie was unable to process the words his killer spoke, but physical agony drove the point into his terror-wracked mind.  This hot fucker was snuffing him.  It didn’t matter why—what mattered was the he couldn’t breathe and it hurt, it hurt so fucking bad…


He reached up, his hands clawing wildly at those of his killer while his thickly-muscled legs wrapped around the stud’s torso and kicked randomly, the white Adidas sneakers thrashing frantically in mid-air.  As they struggled together, Adam could feel the teen’s pulsing cock pressed against him, stiffening reflexively as the kid sank deeper into asphyxia.  Adam responded in kind; his own thick shaft was leaking precum all over Robbie’s smooth, flat belly.


His dick was one of the only parts of Adam that was exposed; he was still otherwise fully clothed.  The desperate youth clutched at his killer’s dark hoodie, but his grip was weakening   His eyes bulged grotesquely from his black and swollen face—and somewhere in the pounding pain inside Robbie’s skull there flashed a vague thought the he was gonna die without ever getting a close look at his killer’s face.  All he knew was that he was being choked out by a well-built stud with a huge dick.


Adam wanted to make sure he knew something else, too.  “Die, faggot,” he hissed, pausing to spit into his victim’s face.  The spittle hit the tip of the meat’s protruding tongue and slid down the length of it to be hidden in the foamy drool that frothed over the kid’s parted lips.  “Die so I can stick my cock up yer dead pansy ass, homo.  You don’t deserve my dick alive, you cumsucker, so hurry up and fuckin’ choke to death, you useless piece of shit!”


Leaning back a bit, the powerful young man wrapped the nylon drawstring one more time around his hands, then jerked it so hard that tendons stood out in his neck and veins on his bicep.


The braided cord sank into the thrashing fuckmeat’s neck so deeply it vanished from sight.  The dying teen began to jerk and shake uncontrollably, causing the drool to run down his chin and cheeks in long white streamers.  Even in the dim light, Adam could see the whites of the meat’s cat-like green eyes swiftly darken as blood vessels ruptured under the extreme pressure building up in the boy’s head.


Robbie didn’t know who was killing him, but he knew why.  He’d heard Adam’s words—they were the last thing he ever heard.  He’d passed the tipping point, he’d gone too long without oxygen to recover.  As more and more of his brain died off, his struggles became less frantic and less coordinated.  He faded from mindless panic to mindless acceptance, his hands stroking his killer’s fleece hoodie as his legs, already encircling the older stud’s waist, locked together behind his back.


Adam was entranced.  He was holding the teen faggot right at the edge of the abyss; the sense of power and control was overwhelmingly erotic.  “Ya want it?” he whispered quietly—almost inaudibly over the sound of Robbie’s death throes.  “Ya ready for my cock, boy?  Only one way to get my load—die, motherfucker, die!”


Adam gave one last mighty yank to the cord and was instantly rewarded with a loud crunching sound as the kid’s esophagus collapsed in a ruin of shattered cartilage.  The meat reacted instantly; some reflex reaction caused both the arms and the legs to tighten—Robbie held his killer in one last violent but unconscious embrace.


Then the corpse let go and the convulsions began.  The fag had been young and strong; his brain was dead but his body hadn’t gotten the message yet.  His thick cock was still erect—even in death, it hadn’t found release.  Robbie died without cumming.


This was what Adam was waiting for.  In a flash, he was up and crouched over the thrashing meat, flipping it over on its belly so he’d have access to its fuckhole.  A look of disgust crossed his face; the smooth, muscled back was smeared with dirt and leaves.  Looking around, Adam spied the remains of the red t-shirt he’d torn off his prey.  Grabbing it, he used it to wipe off the corpse’s heaving back and brush the leaves out of its carrot-orange hair.


Then he was ready.


Rolling the body back over, he parted the smooth, trembling legs and, sliding between them, placed the cunt’s feet, still kicking and tightly laced into the retro Adidas sneakers, up on his shoulders.  Placing the huge purple head of his pulsing cock against the boy’s fuckhole and shoved.


The buff killer shuddered in pleasure as he felt the corpse’s sphincter quivering and convulsing along the length of his vein-wrapped shaft.  Adam inserted his dick slowly at first, savoring the sensation of his victim’s death throes, but when he was about a third of the way in, his lust took over and he rammed his cock home, penetrating all the way into the dead teen’s guts—and got an unexpected reward.


The moment his sudden deep thrust speared the snuffed fucker’s prostate, the corpse’s still-hard dick stood straight up and erupted in a shower of hot cum.  Adam hadn’t thought it was possible for a dead body to shoot a load, but Robbie had been so primed to ejaculate at the moment of his death that getting fucked in the ass triggered a mindless, reflexive orgasm.


Thick pearly wads splattered up Adam’s dark hoodie, right up into his face.  As the fuckmeat’s semen splattered in his face, the now-experienced killer felt his own sperm boiling in his puckered sack, now banging intently against the dead kid’s taint.  With a loud groan, the muscled necro pervert grabbed the corpse’s shoulders to hold on as he injected what felt like a quart of steaming seed into the murdered kid’s intestines.


Time seemed to freeze as the hot buff stud, still fully dressed, unloaded his spunk into the lifeless form of his victim, holding the cooling, stiffening form to him as he shuddered in violent orgasm.  At last, his balls drained and aching, he disengaged from the body, rolling onto his back and gasping for air as his wet, sticky, still-throbbing cock rose straight up into the cold night air.


It took a few minutes for Adam to regain his breath and get back on his feet; even when he did, he was a little shaky.  He looked back at the corpse; Robbie was spread-eagled on his back; in his death struggles, he’d created what Adam thought of as a “leaf angel” in the dirt, clearing the area around him a bit.


It had been incredible.  It had been the best sex Adam had ever had.  He had to do this again, soon—but not like this.


As good as it had been, there had been something unbearably dirty and squalid about it.  Adam wanted to feel another faggot die in his arms, but he didn’t want to fuck in the dirt.  It wasn’t the way he wanted to enjoy his meat.


Tucking his cum-smeared hog back into his cargo pants, the newly-minted sex killer considered his options as he made his way through the underbrush back to the sidewalk.  An idea had occurred to him.  His next kill, he decided, would be in completely different circumstances.




It took three days for the body to be found; when it was, there was little concern.  Mack’s Bar got a new bar back within a week.  Greg, Robbie’s stepfather, let out a huge sigh of relief that that faggot wasn’t gonna be in his house any more.  Even the dead teen’s mother seemed indifferent to his fate.


In fact, as the news of the murder played on the evening news as a brief filler before commercial, the only person in town who seemed to have any curiosity about Robbie’s murder was Joe.