Brotherly Love, part 2

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Eddie noticed, and laughed harshly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The sadistic fagkiller knew what was happening, and why.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then she shrieked at the top of her voice.

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

Brotherly Love, part 1

Eddie was angry.

 

Of course, that wasn’t unusual; Eddie was always angry.  But his anger, most of the time, was general and unspecific.  Today, it was focused on and a single burning point.

 

The kid was about eighteen.  He’d been walking with some of his buddies from the local high school past the gas station where Eddie was filling the tank on his truck.  The psychopathic fagkiller hadn’t seen him at first; it was only when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up that he realized he was being looked at that way.

 

He glanced around—sure enough, his homo detector was on point.  One of the boys in the passing group was scoping him out.

 

The boy had a mop of dark hair.  His build was firm but wiry; he certainly wasn’t any challenge for Eddie in terms of power.  The little fagboy was wearing a pair of low-rise white denim jeans so tight his pansy cock was outlined down to the last detail; Eddie could damn near see then veins around it.  The punk’s tight chest was wrapped in a black t-shirt with a retro Led Zeppelin logo on it, all just visible beneath a thin black nylon jacket with a hood and white stripes down the sleeves. The lid sported a pair of black and white Nike Motion 2 kicks on his feet.

 

Eddie memorized every detail as he and the boy stared at each other.  As the bulge in his groin pulsed visibly, the teenager turned and walked quickly down the sidewalk, catching up to his friends.  He had no idea he’d just been marked for death.

 

Eddie finished fueling up and climbed into his truck.  He was positively grinning in incandescent rage.  The way his psyche converted self-hatred into predatory homophobia was similar to a solar furnace, capable of keeping up unimaginable amounts of heat for a very long time.

 

He stoked the fires and headed left out of the gas station, the direction in which the kid had been walking.

 

By now, the boy was about a half mile down the road.  Eddie could easily make him out—his white jeans practically glowed in the late afternoon sunlight, and none of the other little punks he was with was wearing white.  Just as he spotted the boy, though, Eddie saw the kid split off, turning again to the left, down a side street.  There was a brief pause as he spoke a bit to his buddies, but then they continued down the avenue while the fagboy walked on alone.

 

Trailing the homo the rest of the way home took a little skill.  Eddie couldn’t drive at the kid’s walking speed; that was too obvious.  And if he kept circling and passing the boy too often, eventually the little shit would recognize his big black truck and become suspicious.  In the end, he darted ahead, turned down a cross street and waited for the kid to pass, then went over to a parallel street.  Heading up two blocks, he did it again.  Eventually the kid didn’t walk by.  Eddie pulled out onto the boy’s street, heading back the way he came, and was just in time to see the fucker entering a house.  Eddie noted its particulars and then parked three blocks down and two over.

 

The sun was setting as the thump of Eddie’s combat boots on the sidewalk echoed down the suburban street.  Inside the houses on either side, families were settling in for the evening.  Some were eating, some were arguing, some were watching TV—and all of them were utterly unaware of the muscle-bound young man stalking just outside in a khaki tank top and camo fatigue pants held tightly to his narrow hips by a wide meshed nylon belt.

 

If they had noticed him, at least some would have called the cops.  His intent to kill was literally visible, writ large across his hard, masculine face and his somehow aggressive manner of movement.

 

The kid’s house was larger than most of the others in what was already an upscale community.  The house to the right was no slouch, either, but it had an attribute that immediately drew Eddie’s attention—it was empty.  There was a for sale sign from a high-end realty firm planted in the slightly overgrown lawn.  The blinds and curtains had been removed and large front windows displayed empty rooms, writhing with carved molding and elaborate paneling.  And even more interesting, the backyard gate was wide open.

 

After a quick and reassuring glance around him, Eddie dove into the dim twilight of the tree-shaded yard.  A long open lawn stretched back to the property line; to his left, the house hulked, a darker mass in the blue dimness of the evening.  He crossed quickly to the fence on the other side of the yard—it was the one next to the kid’s.  It was nearly seven feet high, but that wasn’t a problem; the fence was lined with all kinds of trees.  As agile as he was strong, the obsessed fagkiller was soon ensconced in branches overhanging the next yard, from which vantage point, recon was easy.

 

A deep-set covered patio was attached to the back of the house and two boys were sitting in chairs on it.  For a moment, Eddie thought he was looking at twins, they were so much alike.  He soon recognized one as the punk who’d been scoping him out, though, noting that the other was slightly shorter and perhaps a year younger.  The fact that they were brothers was obvious in the physical similarities between the two.

 

Peering into the twilight, Eddie focused his eagle-sharp eyes on the boys.  They were chatting and the older one was doing something with his hands, bent over a side table.  Eddie wasn’t close enough to see what, be he soon rectified that.

 

He dropped form the tree into the darkened yard, his boots making no sound on the soft, lush turf.  This property was much more landscaped than the one next door, and Eddie used it to his advantage, concealing himself behind it as he approached close enough to see and hear what was happening on the patio.

 

The older kid, he saw, was rolling a joint.  He was speaking just as Eddie came into earshot.

 

“…and if I hadn’t been with some of the guys from school, I mighta gone and hit him up,” he said.

 

“Bro, if Dad heard ya talkin’ about picking up a strange dude at a gas station for a hookup, he’d shit a brick,” the younger one replied.  “You better watch out—if he ever even thinks you like guys, it’s gonna get ugly.”

 

“Like I don’t already know that,” the other answered, “Don’t worry, I’m careful enough—and I can take care of myself.”

 

“Shit, hide the weed,” the younger brother blurted, “Here he comes now!”

 

The older youth just managed to shove the baggie of pot back into his jeans pocket when the back door opened and a tall, square-jawed man in a button-down shirt and dress slacks strode out, his hair perfectly combed and an expression of disapproval on his face that seemed somehow innate.

 

“What are you two doing out here?” he demanded.

 

“Just talking,” the older boy said casually.

 

The man glared balefully at the boys.  “Listen up, you two.  This weekend is critical to my city council reelection campaign.  I’m the keynote speaker at the First Baptist’s “Pray for Trump” retreat, and if either of you does anything to embarrass me while we’re gone, so help me, I’ll—”

 

“Roger!  We’ve got to go!” came a woman’s voice from inside the house.  “Tell Josh he can’t bring that Annabelle slut over; he’s seventeen, but she’s not.  God only knows what they’ll get up to.  Ross, you hear me?  Watch your younger brother!  And NO parties!”

 

“Yes, ma!” Ross shouted, smirking at his kid brother.  Their father grimaced.

 

“Remember,” he growled, “Don’t fuck anything up, or kill you little shits.”  He turned and re-entered the house, slamming to door behind him.

 

“Fuckin’ big man,” Ross sneered.

 

“Yeah, he just loves this city council shit,” Josh muttered, “Runnin’ our lives ain’t enough for him.  And ma—”

 

“Aw, don’t get started on her,” Ross said as he fished the joint and handed it to his younger brother.  “Here, light it up.  I’m gonna go make sure they’re gone.”

 

As the younger teen fired up the blunt, the older headed into the house.  Eddie considered making his move, but, like the boys, he wanted to know the coast was clear too.  After all, he had plenty of time, by the sound of it.

 

That was good.  He was gonna need to figure out how to waste two fags at once.  It would be easy enough to take the younger one out quick and quiet, commando-style, but that wasn’t what Eddie wanted.

 

The younger one was a fag too.  He might be fucking around with girls, but if one was, they both were.  Stood to reason.  Older one probably corrupted the younger long ago, made his kid brother his bitch.  Raped his ass one night, muffling the kid’s cries with a pillow.

 

It’d what Eddie would’ve done if he’d had a younger brother.

 

Both of ‘em were perverted fuckin’ homos, and both needed to die.

 

Ross reappeared at the back door.  “It’s cool.  They’re gone; c’mon in, we’ll fire up my PS4.”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Josh said, bouncing happily up off his chair, “That’s my idea of a Friday night—gettin’ high and playin’ Mortal Kombat!”  He followed his older brother into the house.  Once he got into the light, Eddie could see Josh was wearing an oversized white t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans tight enough to cradle his teen asscheeks snugly.  The hems of the jeans were casually caught up on what looked like a pair of Timberland eight-inch workboots, except these seemed to be made of black suede.  He wore them loosely laced and untied

 

As the boys disappeared deeper into the house, Eddie swept across the patio, a dark shadow in the twilight, and slipped inside the back door.  He found himself in the kitchen.  It was dim, with only the light over the stove on.  To his right was a dark doorway; the square, bulky shapes of the laundry appliances loomed in the murk.

 

Directly ahead, on the far side of the kitchen, was another doorway.  It was from here that Eddie heard Ross call out, “Hang on a sec!  I gotta go set the alarm.  If mom and dad sneak back early, it’ll warn us.”

 

The keypad for the alarm was directly behind Eddie, next to the back door.  There was no time for anything elaborate; the psycho boykiller darted into the laundry room as the older kid came and secured the house.

 

From less than five feet away, Eddie could see the boy more clearly than he had yet.  There was a fine shadow of dark haze on the punk’s upper lip—a mustache just starting to grow.  Eddie’s eyes roved over the adolescent’s firm, lean form, taking in how large the denim-wrapped bulge in the groin was.  Yeah, he needed to waste this little homo before it matured into something dangerous.  His huge cock began to stir and swell, just at the thought.

 

Four feet away, Josh finished locking down the house for the evening, totally oblivious to the fact that he was being sized up for the kill.  He turned and headed back the way he’d come, his Nikes padding quietly across the tile floor.

 

Eddie followed at a distance, down a hall that led to the front.  The house was large; dark cavernous rooms opened on each side—a formal dining room, a study, a formal living room.  The staircase was an ornate, meandering affair that wound its way up to the second floor.  As Eddie waited for the kid to ascend, he noticed that the staircase seemed to back up on a media room; the room had a well-stocked bar that had been built partially under the stairs.

 

Once the boy got upstairs, the psycho stalker felt safe enough to follow.  He managed to make it up quick enough to note the punk going into one of the doors that opened off the upper gallery.  He’d closed the door behind him; silently, Eddie stole forward and pressed his ear to the door.

 

“You got another one rolled?” Ross was asking. “Oh, cool.  Here, lemme fire it up.  You ain’t got the game started yet?”

 

“Well, fuck, man, I was waitin’ for you to get back,” the younger one replied.  “So anyway, you saw some dude today…”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Ross muttered in the breathless squeak of someone who’d just taken a lung-busting hit of weed.  He exhaled audibly, then coughed for thirty seconds straight.

 

“Ya don’t cough, ya don’t get off,” Josh chuckled.

 

“Aw, fuck you,” his older brother muttered.

 

“Naw, man, I only like chicks.  But you saw some dude you’d let pop your cherry?”

 

Ross laughed, “Yeah, man, like I’d be lucky enough to have had this guy be my first—ya know, the first to really fuck me.  Speakin’ a’ which, remember our bet.  Fifty bucks to the first one to get laid, right?  So how’re ya makin’ out with Annabelle?”

 

Josh began, “Well, I got a lil’ somethin’-somethin’ planned Friday night if I can—”

 

Eddie burst through the door and stood before them, his massive, muscular form filling the doorway.  Both boys stared at him, slack-jawed and stunned.  Ross had just enough presence of mind to recognize the intruder.

 

“That’s him!” he said excitedly, “That’s the guy!”  His face lit up, hope radiating from his youthful countenance—and then he saw Eddie’s expression.

 

“Lookit this shit,” the powerful sadist growled, “Coupla little fuckin’ fairies havin’ a tea party.  Sorry to break it up, girls, but you two need to learn how a real man disposes of homo garbage like you.”

 

“Wh-what?” they both said, almost in perfect unison—Josh, starting to flush with anger and Ross, hopelessly confused, his erotic fantasy instantly crumbling.

 

“I said, I’m gonna teach y’all yer proper place, ya stupid sacks a’ shit.  Think I’ll start with the little one.”

 

By now even Ross had made the mental switch from love interest to potential antagonist; this threat was all it took for him to go on the attack in defense of his brother.  With an inarticulate cry, he darted forward.

 

Eddie had been expecting it; in fact, he’d deliberately provoked it.  As the older teen rushed him, the older and stronger man swung his arm, casually and easily, punching the punk in the jaw and dropping him to the floor in a senseless, ungainly sprawl.

 

The ex-Marine stared the younger teen dead in the face.  “You wanna try anything, motherfucker?”

 

Ashen and trembling, Josh shook his head.

 

Getting the older boy secured wasn’t going to be too much of a problem.  Eddie had started carrying a pair of regulation police handcuffs some time ago; he’d found them at a military surplus store.  But he wanted to make sure he could cuff the kid to something fairly immobile.  For the first time, he looked around and took in the detail of the room.

 

It was clearly the room of an adolescent male, but beyond that, any trace of the occupant’s personality was smothered with the same kind of bland décor that Eddie had glimpsed on his trek through the house.  The queen-sized bed was an expensive piece of furniture, and the sheets seemed to be of a high quality.  It was difficult to tell, the way they were wadded up on the floor.  But the fitted sheet that remained had the shimmer of expensive material.

 

Beyond the bed was a large alcove with a window.  In the wall adjoining the window was a desk with a computer and a sizeable monitor.  Directly behind the desk, against the opposite wall, was a set of shelves containing the peripheral—among other things, a nice laser printer and a musical keyboard with a USB cord.

 

On the wall opposite the bed, immediately to the left of the door Eddie came in, was a huge LCD TV on its own stand, with the game system and a sound bar underneath.  The desk chair and a second chair had been set up in front of the TV with a couple of TV trays next to them.  It was the second chair that attracted Eddie’s eye.

 

It appeared to be one of the dining room chairs, ornately wrought, but sturdy.  If he could bind the fucker’s legs to the chair legs…the little shit’s clothes were scattered over the floor; there had to be a belt or two…there.

 

Striding over to the heavy wood chair, Eddie lifted it easily with one arm and carried it over to where he’d dropped Ross at the side of the bed.

 

“You!  Boy!” he barked at Josh.  The younger brother had not recovered from the emotional shock of Eddie’s entry and was still standing at the foot of the bed.  He flinched violently at the sound of the older man’s voice, then turned and looked at him, his face almost blank.

 

“Go get me those belts,” he demanded, pointing to a pile four feet beyond where Josh was standing where the pile of clothing was almost two feet high.  On top were a couple of pairs of jeans with belts still in them.  One belt was black and ordinary; the other was white with a series of small metal plates along its length.

 

Josh turned and looked at the pile, then turned and looked back at Eddie, the same blankness in his face.  But he turned and headed towards the jeans.

 

Eddie, in the meantime, hoisted Ross and sat him in the chair, holding the limp homo upright as he circled around to cuff the kid’s arms behind the back of the chair.  He clicked the steel bracelets on so tightly they dug into the boy’s flesh.  He looked up just as Josh arrived with the belts.

 

“Here,” he grunted, “Give’m to me.”

 

Josh dropped the belts, turned quickly, and bolted out the door.

 

By the time Eddie got to the doorway, the boy was halfway down the stairs.  He knew what the kid was aiming for—the alarm keypad next to the front door.  The little fuckwad was going for the panic button.

 

Not if Eddie could help it.  His strength and build didn’t mean he was too musclebound to move; like any good hunter, he was swift and sure-footed.  He made it down the stairs much faster than Josh would have thought possible.  Just as the terrified adolescent reached out for the keypad in relief, Eddie caught up to him.  Before the punk could touch a single button, the powerful ex-Marine had clutched the back of the kid’s head and, using his own forward momentum against him, slammed Josh’s face into the wall next to the keypad.

 

The boy slumped to the floor, stunned, leaving an oval-shaped hole in the drywall.  As the kid groaned and ran his hand over his face, Eddie kicked him in the head, his steel-toed combat boot putting the cunt’s lights out.

 

Pausing for a moment, the sweating, heaving stud reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it up over his head, tossing it onto a table at one side of the entryway.  Much more comfortable without his shirt, Eddie bent down and grabbed the unconscious teen by his wrist and began dragging him towards the stairs.

 

As he reached the foot of the staircase, Eddie noticed a tray on the bar tucked under it.  On the tray was an ice bucket, ice pick, and four tumblers.  Without breaking his stride, the sadistic killer snatched the ice pick off the tray.  He continued up the stairs, dragging Josh along behind him like some nightmarish version of a child dragging its teddy bear off to bed.

 

As the boy was pulled up the staircase, his feet caught on every riser.  His left boot came off about halfway up, landing upright on the next step down.  Near the top, the other boot came off; this one tumbled down the stairs past its mate, coming to rest about three steps from the bottom.  The punk was wearing white ped socks underneath.  They stayed on as Eddie dragged the kid back to his brother’s bedroom and tossed him on the bed.

.


 

Even after Ross regained consciousness, he still wasn’t sure he was awake.  The scene in front of his eyes was too surreal too much like a nightmare, to be real.

 

Josh, nude and limp, was stretched across the bed in front of him.  Ross was a horny young fag; he’d lusted after his younger brother’s smooth, firm body for years—but he loved the kid and would never force himself on him.  Seeing the boy sprawled out in front of him was a shock—

 

—but not as much of a shock as the image of the hardbodied stud standing directly in front of him, shirtless, in the camo pants and combat boots only, with an enormous erection jutting out from his open fly and a malicious grin on his face.

 

“Glad ya decided to join the party,” the well-built man said, his cold, handsome face lit with an unsettling manic glee.  “You’re just in time to watch me ream out yer little bitchboy here.”

 

That was when Ross realized that he himself was nude, except for his kicks.  He didn’t remember his clothes being removed, but they had been, and he’d been bound to a chair.  This crazy dude had stripped him and Josh both and was talking about raping Josh—and he couldn’t move.

 

“Wha?” he muttered groggily, still stunned from the blow to the head he’d received and barely remembered.  “Wha—why?  Whya doin…”

 

Eddie smiled even more broadly and bent down in front of Ross.  He held out something; it took the teen a moment to focus on it and realize it was an ice pick.  “Yer askin’ why?  I thought all you faggots wanted a real man to stick something long and hard into yer worthless asses.  It’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, homo—you get to watch me stick all kinda things into that little cocksucker there on the bed.  A hot porno to get ya into the mood before it’s your turn, see?”

 

Ross didn’t see.  He wouldn’t let himself see.  But he had no choice but to see what happened next.

 

Josh was still out.  He was on his back, his lithe, smooth adolescent body sprawled and helpless on the bed, which had been swept clean of all but the fitted sheet.  Under the indirect lighting Ross had used in his room, Josh looked as if he’d been laid out on an altar.  Or, rather, a stage—for an audience of one.

 

Slipping the ice pick into his waistband, Eddie climbed onto the bed, brandishing his huge cock like a club and smiling malevolently down at the unconscious teen.  Kneeling on the bed, he bent down and scooped Josh’s legs up, placing the kid’s ankles on his shoulders.  With easy access to the boy’s ass, the serial killer began to probe the punk’s sphincter with the engorged head of his cock.

 

“Dude,” Ross began, his words still slightly slurred as he spoke, “Whatcha doin’?”  Ross knew damn well what it looked like they guy was doing, but that couldn’t be right.

 

“I’m gonna show this little cocksucker what a real man’s cock feel like,” Eddie replied nonchalantly.  “You might wanna pay attention, cunt—your turn’s next.”

 

Ross struggled furiously with his bindings.  He couldn’t see what was holding him back; the sound and sensation behind his back told him his hands were in cuffs, but he had no clue what was on his legs.  Whatever it was, nothing was giving—not that that stopped the well-built adolescent from trying.

 

“Keep yer fuckin’ hands off him!” the teen snarled viciously, “If he don’t kill ya when he wakes up, I will!”

 

Eddie grinned happily and plunged himself balls-deep into the younger boy’s asshole.

 

Both Josh and Ross cried out simultaneously; Josh screaming in pain as the agony of having his sphincter torn apart like wet paper pulled him violently form his semi-conscious state.  His older brother yelled inarticulately in rage and sympathy.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Eddie crowed, “That’s what I’m taking about.  Nice tight little baby fag—ya like that, dontcha?  All ya little boyfags crave mancock, yeah?”  He turned to Ross.  “Don’t get jelly, bro—I’m gonna be layin’ pipe up yer fuckhole soon.  The little one here’s just foreplay, a little somethin’ to get my meat nice and hard.”

 

As he spoke, the muscular ex-marine continued to plunge his freakishly large member as far as he could into the adolescent boy’s rectum.  His pelvis bounced off Josh’s ass, the rounded pink globes of the boy’s asscheeks quivering with each thrust.

 

Josh’s pain and fear were blatant; it was obvious—at least to anyone who wasn’t a psychopathic, sadistic serial killer—that the kid was a virgin.  Even Eddie could feel the blood that tricked from the punk’s ass as a kind of warm lube.  The teenager had gotten his cherry popped and was bleeding just like a chick.  He was also shrieking like one.

 

“Goddam, got me a screamer,” Eddie said, carrying on his casual commentary with his victim’s horrified older brother.  “Bitch fuckin’ loves ridin’ the D but ain’t got no volume control.  I know how to fix that.”

 

And in front of Ross’s horrified eyes, Eddie punched Josh twice in the face, hard and brutal roundhouse swings from the shoulder.  The boy grunted viscerally as each of the blows landed, his entire body clenching to ward off the impacts.  And even from where Ross was strapped down, he could see his little bro’s dick flop up, semi-erect, each time he was hit.

 

Ross didn’t understand that, and for some reason, it scared more than anything else.  After all, some part of him still hadn’t accepted that any of this was happening.  Maybe it was a hallucination; maybe the weed had been laced with something…

 

“Aw hell yeah!” Eddie grunted.  “Goddam faggot knows what it wants!”  He turned back to Ross, his happy grin somehow making his masculine face breathtakingly handsome and soullessly evil at the same time.  “Hey, asswipe, you like pain as much as this one?  It tightens its fagpussy around my shaft when I hit it—maybe I need to hurt it more, yeah?  Think that’ll make it work my dick real good?  Let’s find out!”

 

And as Ross looked on in terror and Josh moaned and coughed up two teeth, Eddie pulled the ice pick out of his waistband.  “Don’t worry, I’m gonna start slow,” he said to Ross, “Let the whore get used to it first.  But it’s gonna hatfa work my dick good to earn my seed.”

 

And without breaking eye contact with Ross, Eddie moved the ick pick down to Josh’s smooth, heaving flank and began shoving the nine-inch steel shaft into the teen boy’s side.

 

Despite being stunned by the blows to the face, Josh was still sufficiently conscious to feel pain.  He reacted immediately, wailing in pain and trying to wriggle out form under his rapist’s bulky form.  Eddie just grinned and continued to slowly push the pick into the kid.

 

Suddenly Josh gasped and went rigid.  “Yeah, that’s the spot,” Eddie grunted, then turned back to Ross.  “Gotta love combat trainin’.  Stick yer target in the kidney, and he’s helpless.  Organ trauma gets ‘em all nice and tight, too.”  He withdrew the thin steel shaft a couple of inches, then rammed it back in brutally, timing the jab with a powerful thrust of his hips.

 

Suffering from the double agony of his attacker’s cock in his guts and weapon in his kidney, Josh’s instinctive reaction, as Eddie had said, was to go stiff, in an effort to prevent the foreign objects in his body from doing further damage.  It was also an instinctive act to brace himself—when he reached out and grasped Eddie’s arms, his hands clamping tightly on, but not able to encircle, the killer’s huge biceps, it was an action of pain, not pleasure.  His bruised jaw tightly clenched, the agonized teen’s s breathing was harsh and fast, whistling through the gap form by the knocked-out teeth.

 

Eddie pulled the ice pick back out of Josh with an exquisite protraction, then held it up and admired the way the metal shaft was red with blood up to the handle.  It was too much for Ross.

 

“Stop it, you psycho!” he screeched.  Eddie turned slowly and smirked and Ross felt terror wash over him—not for himself, but for his brother.  “I said stop it, motherfucker!  Let him go!!”

 

“Stop it?”  Eddie asked innocently, the cold sneer on his face unchanging, “Stop stickin’ the fag in the kidney?  Sure—that was gettin’ old anyway.”  Leaning back, with a sudden motion almost too fast to be seen, he whipped the ice pick around and brought it down on the boy’s stomach, puncturing his smooth, flat belly and driving it in up to the hilt.

 

Again Josh gasp and clenched in agony.  “That’s it,” Eddie grunted, “Just like that.  Work my cock, faggot!”

 

Josh moaned and mewled in desperate pain.  He and his older brother were in tears; Ross too horrified to speak, at least for the moment.

 

“Aw, yer goin’ loose again,” the buff ex-Marine said.  Josh was in too much pain to pay attention, but Ross heard him.  By now he knew what to expect.

 

“No…no…” he whispered.

 

“Shaddup,” Eddie snapped, “Yer little homo bro likes this shit.  See?”  He managed to twist his waist and tilt Josh’s still-rigid form slightly towards Ross.  The older couldn’t help but see his baby brother’s thick, erect cock.  It was surreal; it made no sense—but, bewildered and despairing, some part of Ross began to think this sadistic stranger was right.  Josh wanted to be hurt.

 

But no, that wasn’t right.  He wasn’t going to think about that.  And he damn sure wasn’t gonna think about the fact that his own tool was getting stiff.  It meant nothing; getting out of this situation meant everything.

 

Eddie plunged the pick back into Josh’s belly four times in lightning-fast succession, savoring the sensation of resistance, as if he was puncturing the head of a drum, with each one.  And the sobbing teen clenched everything—including his sphincter and rectum—with each stab.

 

Eddie turned back to Ross, his lips wreathed with a happy smile.  “Dude,” he said, “It’s like his fuckhole is jackin’ me off.  Fuckin’ fantastic.”

 

“…you sick fuck…” Ross gasped, barely audible.  But Eddie heard him and leered evilly at the compliment.

 

“Motherfucker, you ain’t seen shit yet,” he replied, jerking the steel shaft back out of the moaning teenager’s gut and plunging it into his chest, two inches southwest of his heart.

 

Josh cried out in agony as the ice pick penetrated his pectoral muscle—a massive steel needle that was suddenly and brutally driven through his body with such force that it pierced his lung and ended up lodged in the inside of one of his ribs, near the spine.

 

Eddie turned away from Ross; the taunting was fun, but this was getting good. The young fuckmeat stared up at him, its huge dark eyes ringed with gray circles of shock, its mouth open and moving, but no sounds coming out.  Suddenly, it heaved beneath him, a single spasm, and coughed, a fine trickle of blood leaking from the corner of its mouth.  The injury wasn’t fatal, but the punk’s lung was bleeding.

 

Josh remained loose; he didn’t go rigid.  Eddie was furious.  The faggot wasn’t cooperating.

 

“Boy, you ain’t workin’ my dick,” he growled.  Josh kept staring at him blankly, his lips making the motions for words he wasn’t voicing.  His hard cock kept jabbing against Eddie’s belly; the vicious fagkiller could feel the hot spongy warmth of its swollen purple head against his smooth ripped abs—but the cunt wasn’t moving its fuckhole.  “Only damn thing you fucking fags are good for is a cumdump, and you ain’t even good at bein’ that!  Hope yer bro over there is a better fuck than you are, ya worthless piece a’ shit.  Time to put you outta my misery, fuckwad.”

 

Slapping his huge strong paw of a hand on Josh’s face, he forced it to the left, towards where Ross was sitting, and pinned it there.  With the other hand, he pulled the ick pick out of the boy’s chest.  It took a little effort; the tip was tightly embedded in the rib.

 

Holding it aloft, he turned to Ross.  “Hey, asswipe, watch this.  Watch this close.”  He didn’t need to threaten, he knew the adolescent homo was compelled to see what was happening to his little bitchboy cuntbrother; he wouldn’t be able to turn away.

 

He was right.  Ross watched in growing horror as Eddie lowered the ice pick into Josh’s ear—and then kept right on inserting it, very slowly, into the boy’s skull.

 

Josh came out of his stupor almost immediately.  The terrible pain of the chest wound receded far into the background as a whole new universe of agony opened up to the buff young adolescent in the final two minutes of his life.

 

Two minutes is a long time.  The next two minutes that Josh and Ross endured lasted eons.

 

For Josh, it began with the pain of a punctured eardrum, to be suddenly replaced with a faint but distinct “crunch” inside his head as the steel shaft crushed the tiny bones of the middle ear.  Then the true nightmare began.

 

As Eddie continued to slide the pick slowly and lovingly into the boy’s ear canal, it ripped through the semicircular canals and Josh spent the rest of his life in unimaginable vertigo and nausea.  As Ross watched, frozen in shock, his younger brother began to kick and retch.  His smooth teen body was soon covered in sweat as the unfortunate youth dry heaved uncontrollably.

 

“Too late for that shit now, cunt!” Eddie crowed, speaking to Josh—but looking at Ross, who held his gaze helplessly.  “Too late to save yer useless ass by workin’ my cock, dumbass—time for ya to take a nice long dirt nap!”

 

Needless to say, all this motion didn’t help Eddie’s aim much—not that he cared.  Josh might have, since it prolonged his life, and hence his agony, for a few more seconds, but he was long past being able to control his actions in any case.  Nothing he’d suffered yet had been a truly mortal wound, but that changed in the next moment, when Eddie finally drove the sharp-tipped steel tool into the teenager’s brain stem.

 

Ross could see it in Josh’s eyes.  He didn’t know the details, didn’t know that Eddie was grinding the pick around in his brother’s ear, sending the long rigid shaft ripping through the brainstem—but that part of the brain controls facial muscles.  The look on his dying brother’s face was seared into Ross’s mind.

 

Josh arced his back.  Eddie pulled himself up as well, letting Ross see that despite everything, the kid’s rod was not only erect but pulsating.  Again, the older teen felt a sense of despair, not understanding his brother’s physical reaction.  How could he be hard now?

 

And then Eddie slashed through something important.  He’d angled the ice pick downwards and had badly damaged the medulla oblongata, which controls both the heart and the lungs.

 

Josh began to breathe hard.  As Eddie lay on top of him to get full enjoyment from his kill, the dying teen began to writhe, his sweat-slick skin sliding smoothly against Eddie’s own.  His breathing became faster and shallower, his empty eyes staring into his brother’s as his blood from his injured lung blew out of his mouth in a faint pink mist.

 

“Faggot’s close,” Eddie said with a grin.  “Wanna see it?  Wanna watch yer brother’s deathload?  Sure ya do, ya little sicko, yer already hard yerself.  Ok here ya go!”

 

And with the same motion he’d used earlier, he pulled himself off Josh and tilted him towards Ross, making one last dig in the boy’s brain with the ice pick.  Josh’s last sound on earth was a deep, mortal grunt, and it was accompanied by a solid jet of thick, abundant, adolescent semen that spewed forth out of the punk’s cock.

 

Ross watched it, his mind blank with horror.  Josh was dead.  He could see it in his face.  He was dead, but he kept on cumming.

 

As the corpse’s convulsions began to slow, the stream of sperm tapered off and slowed to an ooze.  Eddie slowly pulled himself upright and got off the bed.  Josh lay on his back, his legs splayed, his thick boycock slowly shriveling, and a tapioca-like puddle of spunk pooling on his flat belly.  The ice pick jutted grotesquely from his ear.  His eyes were wide open, and he had died with the expression of someone who had stared into Hell.

 

Ross stared at his younger brother’s raped and murdered corpse.  Tears trickling down his face, he seemed to be sinking into a fugue state when Eddie’s raucous, taunting voice hit him like a slap in the face.

 

“You’re next, fucker,” he growled, advancing towards the bound teenager, his enormous cock jutting out from his camo pants, “I ain’t shot my wad yet.  You better be better than he was.”

 

“In fact—” he paused and looked back at Josh’s quivering body, the turned to Ross again, “—I got an idea.  Looks like we got something here for you to practice on.”

 

Ross could follow the musclebound psycho’s line of thought as he advanced. He burst into tears and pissed himself.  He already knew there was nothing he could do to stop whatever it was that was coming next.

Blackie Goes Dark

Sighing with boredom, Blackie leaned back in the doorway and took a swig from the flask he’d stowed in his pocket.  It was a warm night and the mouthful of body-temperature Johnny Walker burned his throat on the way down.  It didn’t bother Blackie, though, he was used to it.  And he’d deal with being bored so long as he could get tanked.

 

Didn’t mean he couldn’t get pissed off, though, for having to stand out here in the hot humid night air just to earn a coupla extra bucks.  Damn Uncle Clayton, he grumbled inwardly, Coulda done more.  Coulda gotten me a better job.

 

Actually, Clayton Chambers had already done far more for his nephew Hayden (Blackie to his disreputable friends and, reluctantly, his family) than the strung-out young punk deserved.  Simply getting him into the police academy hadn’t been difficult—a matter of a word or two places with the right cronies in city hall, getting Blackie’s criminal record buried too deep to find—but number of strings the old man had to pull to ensure Blackie’s graduation was a different thing altogether.

 

The boy hadn’t had any issues with the physical parts of the course; he was twenty-three and his body was a hundred and fifty pounds of firm, strong muscle.  And, to everyone’s surprise, he turned out to be an excellent marksman.  But that was where his appropriateness for the police academy ended.

 

It wasn’t just that Blackie got violent when he drank—and he drank a lot—it was that he was stupid.  It was a stubborn stupidity that successfully resisted all attempts at improvement, making him sullen and ungrateful.  His innate arrogance and sense of entitlement had made him a pariah in his graduating class and universally loathed on the force.

 

The annual salary of a rookie cop wasn’t much, but it was more than enough for most young men his age to live on.  Blackie, though, continued to party like a teenager and his lack of responsibility naturally led to lack of funds.   Hence his moonlighting as a security guard—and his attitude towards doing it.

 

Fuck it, at least I can still get fuckin’ drunk, he thought and took another swig.

 

The night was still, but not quiet; the warehouse he was patrolling, a small metal building set back from the street by a parking lot, was only a few blocks from the highway and a couple of major thoroughfares.  The sounds of the city rose and fell like waves from all sides; even in the dead of night, it wasn’t silent.

 

Blackie checked the time; it was half past midnight.  He sighed petulantly and began his perimeter walk; there were stickers placed at points along the perimeter that he had to scan with his phone by a certain time, to prove to his employer that he was actually doing his job.

 

Another fuckin’ indignity.  Bastards couldn’t just trust him.  Of course, if they had, he wouldn’t be patrolling the property; he’d likely be too drunk even to walk.  As it was, he was having trouble keeping his feet.  The thick soles of his heavy workboots made loud scuffling sounds as he staggered his way along the perimeter fence.

 

His figure, silhouetted by the parking lot lights, wasn’t a bad one; he was just under six feet tall and despite his dissipation, his build was tight. The hip styling of the black hair that gave him his nickname—buzzcut on the sides and rear with the longer hair on top spiked at the front—was offset by the heavy dark scruff of four days’ worth of growth shadowed his cheeks and his chin.  If it weren’t for the dark blue short-sleeve button-down and tight chinos that were the required uniform of the job, he’d have looked exactly like what he was—an ex-high-school party boy several years past his glory days and rapidly going to seed.

 

Broad-shouldered and built, stupid and drunk, Blackie was already fulfilling his highest contribution to society—not as a cop, at which he was utterly incompetent, but as bullet-bait for a cartel-owned warehouse.

 

Blackie didn’t know that last part, of course, and if he had he wouldn’t have given a shit.  He also didn’t know that he was steps away from a nightmarish world of torture and terror that would end only with his agonizing death.

 

There was an oak tree in the far corner of the parking lot.  Massive and ancient, its limbs stretched up ninety feet and its vast umbrella of shade was more than sixty feet in diameter; the few cars that ever parked in the lot tended to crowd under the oak on hot summer days.

 

Tonight, the blackness under it was damn near impenetrable.  But there was a sticker he had to scan on the corner post, back behind the tree.  Squinting in the dark, the drunk young guard stumbled in his heavy boots but continued to plod sullenly forward.

 

The first hint that anything was off was also his last chance to save his life, but he was too fucked up to take it.  His police academy training had taught him how to recover from being blindsided by a blow like the one that sent him stumbling into the tree, but he could only clutch drunkenly at the rough bark to keep from falling to his knees.

 

The most dangerous aspect of Blackie’s employment on the police force was that it gave him an excuse to carry a gun 24/7.  He had one on him now, in a hip holster, but he was too stunned to even think of reaching for it.  And then a hand clapped over his mouth, a hand in a leather glove that had no fingertips, to allow for a tactical grip—like the one sealing Blackie’s lips with an iron grasp.

 

He couldn’t see the glove on the hand over his mouth, of course—but he could see his mate.  It was right in front of his face, holding the wickedest Ka-bar knife the young thug had ever seen.  At least seven inches of serrated carbon-steel blade glimmered faintly in the darkness, three inches from his eyes…

 

…eyes.  He could see eyes.  The face across from his was masked; there was an opening for the mouth and one for both eyes, across the bridge of the nose.  The rest was a hood of black material that completely covered the head.  Some self-preservation instinct tried muzzily to jump-start his training; the inebriated punk was able to get at least a vague idea of his attacker.

 

The Other Dude was all in black—some kind of jumpsuit, with soft-soled boots.  It made it harder to tell.  He was slightly larger than Blackie—and definitely stronger—and judging by the wrinkles around the eyes, somewhat older, perhaps early thirties.

 

But that wasn’t what Blackie noticed most about the eyes.

 

The knife vanished but instantly Blackie could feel its tip pressed against his stomach.  It was a pinprick, just barely there on his firm flat belly three inches above the navel.

 

“You feel it?” hissed the Other Dude—softly and abruptly.  The pressure on Blackie’s mouth eased.

 

“Uh-huh,” he muttered shakily.

 

“I ask.  You answer,” the Other Dude continued in a brisk, business-like manner.  “If you don’t…”

 

The sentence wasn’t finished.  It didn’t need to be.  Blackie could see the end of the sentence in the Other Dude’s eyes.  They were pale blue, opaque as deep-set ice.  The intoxicated punk had never seen eyes so cold.

 

He knew that the moment his usefulness ended, so did his life.  It scared him so bad he lost control of his bladder.  The hardbodied young punk was forced to stand, pinned against a tree, as warm piss ran down his firm legs and pooled in his boots.

 

He was utterly helpless, utterly alone, and utterly in the Other Dude’s control.  And he knew it.

 

“Y-yessir,” the young thug said, speaking to an older man in a respectful tone of voice for the first time in his life.  It had taken a knife pointed at his gut to make him do it, but he did it.

 

“Ok,” the Other Dude said evenly, “Where’s Ramirez?”

 

“Who?” Blackie asked blankly.  The hand clamped down on his mouth like a bear trap and then—

 

—and then it was inside him oh fuck the pain the knife was inside

 

“Relax,” the Other Dude whispered, pressing his full body weight against the shuddering punk, steadying him up against the tree, “It ain’t even penetrated yer abdominal cavity.  Yet.  Every question you don’t answer, it goes in another inch.”

 

Cold despair seized Blackie as he realized that no matter how willing he was to cooperate, it wouldn’t save his life if he honestly didn’t know the answers.  Tears rolled down his cheeks; he’d have begged for his life if the Other Dude wasn’t still handgagging him.

 

“Now tell me where Ramirez is,” the black-clad figure hissed menacingly.  He released Blackie’s mouth.

 

“D-dunno any Ramirez,” Blackie sobbed frantically.  It didn’t help; the Other Dude clamped down on his mouth again.

 

“That didn’t answer my question,” he snarled and sank the blade in another inch.  Blackie, his mouth sealed by the leather glove, moaned and shuddered.  “Ya feel that, bitch?” the Other Dude sneered, “I’m already through yer gut muscle.  Next one, yer gonna start feelin’ in yer bowels.  Answer me, ya fuckin’ sack a’ shit, or I’m gonna stick ya like a pig.  Who’s in the goddam warehouse?”

 

His eyes wide, Blackie frenetically shook his head.  The Other Dude let go.  “I-I-I hons-onestly don’t know,” the panicked young thug gabbled, “I on-only been inside a cup-coupla times…”  His hoarse, husky voice trailed off into broken weeping.

 

“Aw, bullshit!” the Other Dude spat out and rammed his blade up to the hilt in Blackie’s flat, firm belly.  Leaning forward, he pressed his face up against that of the suffering punk, whispering quietly into his ear.  Blackie could feel the Other Dude’s mask scraping against his own facial scruff as the cold, hard words penetrated his ear.

 

“I scoped it all out.  Yer a fuckin’ cop–I’ve seen you in uniform.  Ya gotta be in on this deal—Ramirez has too many contacts in the department.  You ain’t playin’ innocent, motherfucker—ain’t nothin’ worse than a crooked cop.”

 

The Other Dude leaned back again, his features becoming lost in the darkness.  Suddenly, he placed his hand in the middle of Blackie’s chest.  What happened next would have made him scream had the unexpected blast of agony not put him in shock first.  The Other Dude ripped the blade back out of Blackie’s stomach.

 

He didn’t twist the blade; he didn’t need to. The sudden brutal extraction of the serrated blade inflicted more physical damage than all of the initial thrusts had done.  The exterior wound wasn’t very large, but Blackie felt like his abdomen had been ripped open.  He clutched his bleeding gut, his eyes huge and dull with shock as the Other Dude held the bade up for him to see.

 

“Lookit that,” the vicious killer smirked, “See those shreds of meat danglin’ from my blade?  That’s yer guts, boy.  That’s what yer innards look like.  Know what the best part is?  You ain’t dead.  Fuck, son, we could getcha to a hospital and save yer life even now.  Good surgeon might have ta cut out some a’ yer bowels, but you’d live.”

 

Then he was back, the musty smell of leather flooding Blackie’s nose as the hand slammed down on his mouth again.  This time, though, the Other Dude momentarily sheathed his weapon; the prey was already sufficiently dominated by pain and wouldn’t put up any resistance.

 

Blackie blinked and flinched as the Other Dude ripped the young guard’s shirt open.  With the buttons of his short-sleeve uniform shirt torn off, it fluttered open, revealing his broad, smooth chest, nipples jutting from his pecs into the humid night air.  The Other Dude yanked his knife up out of the sheath and placed the tip of the blade two inches above the left nipple.

 

Even though he was in pain and terror—and still drunk, for that matter—even an idiot like Blackie realized that the knife was aimed directly at his heart.

 

“You get a second chance, asswipe,” the Other Dude said calmly.  “And this time, I’m goin’ slow, ya get me?  So you’ll have time to think about it when ya lie.  But after this, ain’t no fuckin’ doctor gonna be able to save yer worthless ass.  Tell me the truth or die, fucker.”

 

The tip pierced his flesh; the merest prick—just enough to let a tiny rivulet of blood trickle down Blackie’s smooth, rounded pec and drip down his torso.  He’d have pissed himself again if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder.  He was alone, helpless, and on the brink of death.

 

“Ok, buddy, ya don’t know Ramirez—and I’ll betcha say ya don’t know Andros either, huh?  But you been inside.  That I believe.  So where’s the safe?”

 

The contemptuous tone of the Other Dude’s voice was matched by the shove he gave the knife; not enough to actually wound Blackie, but more than enough to remind him it was still there.  Just in case he’d forgotten.

 

Blackie froze.  Safe?  What fuckin’ safe?  He’d never seen a safe—

 

“Where?  Back office?  Upstairs?  Answer me, fucker!”

 

This time, he intended it to hurt.  Exercising complete professional control over both his weapon and his victim, the Other Dude expertly drove the sharp steel tip of the blade into Blackie’s pectoral to a depth of one inch, as promised.  It parted the young thug’s pec muscle like a steak knife through hamburger, the thick, firm tissue peeling back with no resistance.

 

Blackie’s scruffy, dissolute face was a mask of pain and shock.  He could feel the muscle shearing apart and the blood spurt from the chest wound.  It hurt worse than the gut stab—far worse.

 

The Other Dude knew it.  “Just gettin’ started, cunt.  Yer gonna regret not answerin’ me.”

 

Blackie tried to speak, but he couldn’t make his mouth work right; all he could do was moan and gibber like an idiot.  He wanted to tell the Other Dude that he just didn’t know, please, stop the pain, don’t kill me I’d help you if I could oh please fuck no—

 

“Where is that goddam safe, motherfucker?!?”

 

Somewhere in the back of Blackie’s mind, some part of him realized how his own stupidity and irresponsibility had led him to this point.  If he hadn’t been such an entitled, drunken fool, he would have learned the skills needed to avoid this situation.  Problem was, it had taken the terror of impending death to sober him up enough to realize it.

 

By now, it was way too fucking late.

 

The Other Dude shoved the knife into Blackie again—this time with much more force.  It was needed; the professional killer’s bicep flexed with the effort required to drive the steel blade through the ribcage, snapping one rib and almost literally sawing through another.  Even so, he still retained enough finesse to halt the progress of the knife before it hit the pericardial sac.

 

Blackie’s face was contorted into a grimace; deep in his piss-flooded boots, his toes curled in agony.  He didn’t—couldn’t—scream but was emitting a high-pitched keening sound of extreme suffering.  His entire body was stiff, rigid with pain.

 

He held the pose; he had to.  There was a knife in him, millimeters from his rapidly beating heart.  His chest was sliced open.  Oh holy fuck, he couldn’t move…

 

The Other Dude’s face came in close; once again the mask brushed his carefully sculpted facial scruff.  “This is it, fuckwad.  Yer last chance.  Tell me where the safe is.  Now.”

 

And that was when Blackie remembered.  He had seen a safe.  He’d never left the front room, but he’d seen it through an open door.

 

“It’s in the back.  It’s embedded in the concrete.  About five feet tall,” he said, gabbling it all out at once, then started sobbing. “Please don’t hurt me no more.  I dunno anything else, I swear.  I promise.  Please—” he broke down into tears.

 

“Now see, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?  Cheer up, punk; I’ll make it stop hurtin’,” the Other Dude said with a wide grin.  With a sudden final shove, he rammed the knife into Blackie’s heart, popping it like a water balloon full of blood.

 

The hardbodied young guard grunted in mortal agony, gripped by a pain so intense he was unable to think or act—he could only feel and suffer.  As his spasming heart pumped itself to shreds on the shaft of sharp steel, Blackie stared with horror and betrayal into the Other Dude’s cold eyes.  He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t; there was fluid in his throat.  The terrified young man gagged and retched, coughing up a gob of thick, coppery blood.

 

“Don’t worry, pal, it’ll stop hurting here in a sec.  Gotta go; catch ya on the flip side,” came the soft, mocking voice.  Blackie felt a deep tearing from within his vital organ as the Other Dude yanked his knife back out of the dying punk and, stepping back, vanished into the darkness.

 

Blackie sank to the ground, his face frozen in a look of stunned agony as his life drained away.  He still didn’t know who the Other Dude was or why he was dying; he could only feel the excruciating chill of death drawing him into nothingness.  He was terrified and suffering…and alone…

 

And then there was nothing left but a pile of manmeat, twitching in the darkness, its bootheels digging furrows around the oak’s roots as the corpse shuddered in its death throes.

 

The Other Dude had been right—the hurtin’ was over.

 

In the aftermath, Blackie’s body wasn’t found for more than six hours, by which time it was stiff with rigor.  The investigating cops recognized him but let him be carted off in the meatwagon as a John Doe.  His corpse was in the morgue three days before they got around to matching his fingerprints; no one had bothered to report him missing.  The body was reluctantly claimed by family.  With no public service—or even any death notice—Blackie vanished as if he’d never existed.

 

He wasn’t missed on the force.  It was noticed with sneering contempt that for all his bullshit horseplay with his gun, he’d let himself be tortured and murdered by a single assailant without even unholstering his weapon.  His name was stricken from the ranks with relief—and silent applause for the killer.

Cuttin’ Down Ebony Woods, Part Two

Hank looked up, grinned, and nudged Frankie in the ribs.  “They’re back,” he said.

 

Frankie whirled around and caught sight of the trio of skinheads crossing the dance floor towards them.  “Shit,” the hardbodied young Aryan muttered, “Lookit how they got their hard dicks hangin’ out.  It damn sure better be our turn to have some fun; I’m about to blow my load thinkin’ ‘bout wastin’ these niggers.”  He turned and smirked evilly at the half-dozen coons that he and Hank had cornered and stripped naked.

 

The street apes huddled together in fear, their hands efficiently bound behind their backs with zip-ties.  They’d heard every gunshot, every scream of mortal agony and every gurgle of slit throats, and their terror was almost palpable.

 

It was a good thing the crew was reuniting, Hank thought, or the niggers would stampede like the cattle they were.  With their Glocks, Hank knew he and Frankie could take ‘em down before they reached the door—but where was the fun in that?

 

These faggot coons needed to suffer.

 

Both Frankie and Hank were erect with sadistic anticipation by the time Jack reached them.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Jack shouted, “Upstairs is officially nigger-free!”  He, Ed and Mike all laughed; the sound was harsh, masculine—and brutal.

 

“So what’s this big idea you got?” Frankie asked impatiently, rubbing the swelling crotch of his camo fatigues.

 

“Go to the bar and find us each some paper an’ somethin’ to write with,” the musclebound alpha said, “And I’ll show ya.”

 

At the back end of the dance floor was a small raised area—a stage for live performances.  Jack too his place on it while Frankie distributed the pencils and paper.

 

“Ok, boys, lissen up,” the young booted coonkiller called out.  “We’re gonna have us a slave auction, and here’s how it’s gonna work.  I’m gonna pull these fine specimens of monkeys up.

 

“Yeah?” Ed called out, his bass voice ringing in the large open area, “What’s gonna determine who wins any particular jigaboo?”

 

Jack’s smile became particularly shark-like; one of the monkeys saw it and started crying.  “Let’s put it this way—the most…creative idea wins.  Time to get creative, boys.  Remember, we’re sending a message to them all.  The niggers, yeah, and the faggots too.  And the spics.  Let’s show ‘em how bad white power will fuck ‘em up if they don’t clear out.”

 

He paused, then added a follow-up.  “Make it fuckin’ hurt, my brothers.”

 

They needed no further encouragement.

 

Jack strode over to the group of cowering niggers—and one piece a’ shit white faggot—and picked one out.  It was a big black buck, muscled, its smooth skin slick and rank with cold coon fear sweat.  The way the monkey rolled its wide eyes in animalistic fear made Jack chuckle.  And as evidence of the potency of his white power, it made him hard.

 

“We’ll start with this fucker—” he said, only to be interrupted when the coon dropped to its knees and wrapped its arms around Jack’s glossy Doc Martens, sobbing and begging for its life.  The hardbodied skinhead glared down at it in cold contempt.

 

“Ok, this one ain’t good for nothin’ but squealin’.  Which one a’ you proud white fuckers can make it squeal the loudest?  C’mon, start yer bids on this prime piece a’ jigaboo meat!”  Giving the nigger fag a swift kick to the face to shut it up, Jack took the folded slips of paper and began to peruse them.

 

His smile grew more malicious and his long thick manshaft pulsed visibly as he read the gruesome snuff scenarios.  Finally, he laughed aloud and tossed them aside.

 

“Ed, my man!  Bro, that’s some sick, old-school shit.  I love it.  Grab one of them pool cues and start carvin’ the tip.  Mike, you and Frankie go see if you can find some rope or wire or shit like that.  Hank, get up to that catwalk and wait for orders.”

 

The white brotherhood was vicious and rowdy, but they knew how to maintain discipline when needed—and discipline was always needed for fun.  Hell, fun was discipline—of the most brutal kind.  They quickly and quietly dispersed, following orders.

 

Mike and Frankie were the first ones back.  They’d raided the electronics for the computer-synchronized lighting effects in the DJ’s booth and had found a spool containing a good twenty-five feet of fat, sturdy ethernet cable.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Jack chuckled.  “Here, Mike, hand me one end, then toss the spool up there to Hank.  Ya ready up there, bro?” he called out.

 

“Yeah, ready,” Hank replied and Mike effortlessly tossed him the remaining cable, then hurried up to help him on Jack’s orders.  Below, Frankie was assisting Jack into fashioning the thick but supple cable into a functional noose.  Once they had it tied, the forced the fear-stricken nigger to its feet, laughing cruelly at the way the terrified coon was too scared to be able to stand upright.  Frankie held it up as Jack slipped the noose over its head—at which point the street ape pissed itself.

 

“Disgustin’ fuckin’ animal!” Frankie barked and punched the coon in the face.  “Ok, boys, haul the fuckin’ cunt up!” Jack called out.  Just as Mike and Hank looped the cable over an upper crossbar as a support and began hoisting the monkey aloft, Ed sauntered back in the room, brandishing the pool cue.

 

“Where ya been,” Jack asked.  “Thought ya were gonna miss the fun.”

 

“Eh, it took me a little bit to whittle this down just right,” the older Aryan said, his blond buzzcut glinting under the lights as he held out the cue, showing the excruciatingly sharp point into which he’d carved the tip.  “Now don’t y’all go away.  I’m gonna need the two of ya to pull its legs apart when it gets lowered back down.”

 

He advanced across the dance floor towards the choking, flailing nigger as it was slowly raised by its neck.  As he got nearer, he shot a glance towards the remaining herd of fagmeat; with a quick look at Jack to make sure he understood, Ed said loudly, “I got an idea—any motherfucker that tries to make a break for it goes last.  And last suffers worst.”

 

Jack grinned.  “Ya know it, dude.  They ain’t gonna run; fuckin’ fags are all cowards.  C’mon over here and let’s show the dumbass cunts just how bad it can be.”

 

By now the coon was six feet in the air.  Hank and Mike were leaning back on the cable, their thick, powerful biceps swollen with the effort of keeping the muscled buck dangling.  The nigger’s face was swollen and congested, its bound hands clenching and clawing vainly as its legs thrashed frantically in midair.  Its long black ape dick was swelling too, as asphyxia forced the jigaboo into an involuntary erection.  It was probably conscious enough to hear Jack’s order to start lowering it, but was unable to give a sign of its relief.

 

And any relief was illusory anyway.  As soon as it came within reach, Frankie grabbed its left leg and Jack its right, jerking them apart like they were trying to break a wishbone.  In reality, they were guiding the nigger down, lining it up so that the settling of its own body weight forced the sharpened pool cue—basically a gigantic spike—up its asshole.

 

Their aim was good.  So good, in fact, that for a moment the sense of anal penetration felt pleasant to the black faggot.  For approximately five seconds, even though it was still strangling, its cock began to drip as it felt the pleasure of a rigid object lodged in its colon.

 

Then the tip speared its prostate and began to impale its intestines.

 

Despite the lack of oxygen, the coon homo felt every millimeter of raw, cut wood piercing its guts.  As it started to struggle violently, Frankie and Jack let go and the nigger slid slowly down on the spike.  The cue ran up through its intestines, piercing its stomach twice and punching through the diaphragm.  It managed to miss the heart, but punctured its way into the esophagus, then continued up.

 

The pain the jigaboo endured as it ripped open the larynx and finally lodged in the constricted trachea was obvious.

 

“Fuck yeah, ya piece a’ nigger shit!” Ed yelled at the agonized, flailing meat.  “Goddam faggot ape—die, ya worthless motherfucker!”

 

Mike and Hank looked at each other, grinned, and simultaneously let go of the cable.  The nigger still had a foot to go before its feet touched the ground—with the release of its noose, it traveled that foot in less than a second.  Immediately, the boys upstairs caught hold of the cable hoisted it up again.

 

It had worked.  The sudden drop had forced the sharpened tip of the pool cue up through the constricted throat, punching its way through the crushed cartilage.  By the time the coon was high enough to start strangling again, it could taste raw wood and its own shit in the back of the throat where the tip was now lodged.  The monkey had been run through from its asshole to its mouth with a sharp wooden stake.

 

Hank and Mike tied the cable off, then headed back downstairs.

 

“Hey, ya worthless nignogs, you watchin’ this?” Frankie called out to the stunned group of fags—now down to five black and one white—who huddled together in abject terror at the back of the dance floor, “This shit’s just fer appetizers.  Which one a’ ya spades is gonna get carved up for the main course, huh?

 

Meanwhile Jack and Ed were focused on Ed’s nigger.  “Ya like that, cocksucker?” Jack jeered, “That’s white fuckin’ power in yer asshole, bitch; does it burn?  Does it hurt?  Yer fuckin’ pansy nigger ass can’t handle it, huh?”

 

It was only a few inches off the ground now, just enough that its feet couldn’t touch.  The way the tear- and snot-streaked face was distorted into a horrific mask showed the nightmarish agony it was enduring, but it wasn’t enough for Ed.  As it choked to death, he stood in front of it, beating on its flat ripped abs like a boxer sparring with a side of beef.  The coon suffered a few more intestinal ruptures before it suddenly convulsed, the entire body writhing as its cock rose up and spewed a hot thick load of jigaboo deathwad all over Ed’s sweaty, muscled body and splattering on his oxblood DMs.

 

As Ed retreated to the bar for a cloth to wipe nigger spunk off his face, Mike sauntered over to the captives.  “Y’know, it’s kinda a shame to torch this place when we’re done,” he told Jack in a very loud voice.  “I’d kinda like their mommas to get a chance to see what we done to ‘em.  Just so they know what we’ll do to the rest of their fuckin’ litter it they don’t learn their place.”

 

“Don’t worry about that,” Jack chuckled, “We’ll make damn sure they know anyway.  Hank, you still got that camera?  Yeah?  So we’ll take a lotta nice hi-res pics of the aftermath before we toast ‘em.  Now c’mon—we just got started on this auction.”

 

He stood in front of the petrified victims, his arms crossed, booted feet spread wide, a buff and muscular presence radiating pure hatred and lust.  “Now lessee—which one is next?  Hmm, eeny meeny miney moe, pick a nigger by the toe, if it hollers kill it slow, eeny meeny miney moe—this one!”

 

It was a young, lithe jungle bunny he dragged out of the group, his powerful hand completely circling the little faggot’s bicep.  “Ok, my brothers—give this fucker yer best shot!”

 

Again, folded papers were passed and Jack spent a brief moment considering the responses before looking up with an evil shark-like smile.  “Good job, Hank; the cunt’s yers.  Go find what ya need.  Take Frankie with ya and fill him in.  Mike, go grab that nail gun outta the storage room.  Make sure it’s loaded.”

 

At the mention of the nail gun, the young nigger began bleating loudly; Jack swung his big heavy fist almost casually, taking the coon on the chin and knocking it, stunned to the floor, where it remained, mewling and sobbing until Mike came back with the large power tool.  It took him a few moments to return

 

“Hey, remind me when Hank gets back,” the young Aryan muscle stud called out, his black engineer boots echoing on the dance floor, “That nigger he got to suck down the drain cleaner is still alive.  Y’all oughtta go see, dudes; it’s fuckin’ pukin’ and squirmin’ on the floor like a goddam worm.  Funniest fuckin’ shit I seen; had t’ stop and stomp it a few times, but it’s still kickin’.”

 

“Hope it stays alive long enough to burn,” Ed replied with a smirk, then turned to Jack.  “Well, he got the nail gun—now what?”

 

“Now we’re gonna nail the nigger to the wall.”

 

The trembling, semi-conscious darky didn’t really hear the words; once the boys grabbed it and began dragging it over to the wall, it simply began screaming as a reflex action.  Ed was still stoked enough from his own nigger kill to drive a few brutal gutpunches deep into the wailing coon’s flat belly; it at least had the benefit of knocking the wind out of the loudmouth cunt and so keeping it quiet.

 

As Jack and Ed held it up and Mike drove a nail through the palm of its left hand into the industrial drywall, it could only gasp impotently and look at its captors with eyes almost comically bulging in fear and pain.  Mike added another nail in the forearm, between the radius and ulna, for extra support.  The jigaboo drummed its black monekyfeet against the wall in agony as the vicious skinhead secured its other arm in the same way.  Within moments, the nigger had been crucified on the wall, its entire body weight dangling from two nails in each arm.

 

They left the legs free; the way the coon kicked and struggled was amusing.  They wanted to watch it suffer.  Soon, though, it was time to inflict more pain.

 

Despite his remark, Mike forgot all about the gurgling faggot in the storage room once he saw what Frankie and Hank were carrying.  They both had full armloads of pointed implements—knives, ice picks, even a post with a sharp tip for picking up trash.  Most of all, though, they had darts.  The pool room had at least twenty dartboards lining the walls, each with a full compliment of steel-tipped darts sharpened to a lethal edge.

 

“Brothers,” Hank announced as he and Frankie dumped the items onto a table, “I think it’s time we had us some target practice.”

 

For a moment, they all went quiet.  The only sounds on the dance floor were the moaning of the splayed, wall-mounted coon—and the excited dripping from their own cocks.

 

“Oh fuck yeah,” Ed grinned, “It’s on.”

 

Since Hank had won, he got first shot, with three darts.  The musclebound Aryan sadist lined his shot up carefully, squinting at the writhing coon through his right eye.  The first throw was something of a disappointment; it struck the nigger on the right side of its chest, below the big dark nipple, the point lodging in a rib.  It made the cunt squeal but did no real injury.

 

The next dart was better placed, puncturing the spade’s smooth flat belly and hanging there, but it was Hank’s third that hit the bullseye—or the brass ring.  Hank had noticed that the coon had a Prince Albert and aimed at the piercing.  He ended up spearing the thick spongy head of the nigger’s cock like William Tell’s arrow in an apple.

 

The darky fag was still screaming when Frankie took his turn.  The ex-military killer went for the muscles, leaving a dart in the coon’s left bicep, right pec and right thigh, each one sunk in deeply, leading to renewed cries of pain and trickling blood.

 

When Jack stepped up, he declined the dart and took a single shot with an eleven-inch butcher’s knife retrieve from the store room.  It had been used as a tool, not a precision carving implement, and it was rather dull, with a broken tip.  Jack still managed to flip it end-for-end with such force that it buried itself to the hilt in the jigaboo’s flat abs, impaling the fucker’s guts.

 

Ed went next.  “God, I hate you fuckin’ niggers,” he growled and flung a dart at the fag’s face that punctured its cheek.  As it screamed, the point could be seen gleaming inside its open mouth.  Ed’s next dart lodged in its scalp, between the skin and the skull—painful, but not damaging.

 

“Goddam it,” the older skinhead muttered, frustrated.  He took a little longer than usual to line up his last shot, but it was worth it.  It pierced the nigger’s left eye, the tip embedding itself into the thin orbit bone behind the eye.  As the street ape shrieked in mind-bending agony, Ed stepped away to the congratulations of his comrades, his huge grinning showing his pride at the suffering he’d inflicted.

 

Frankie, for his part, was a little more precise.  He tried to score a bullseye on the spade’s right nipple, but the way it kept screaming and thrashing made it a challenging task, and while he got two darts embedded nice and deep into the flailing nigger’s pectoral, he wasn’t close to his target.  He did better with his third shot—not actually striking the nipple, but lodging securely and agonizingly in the ape’s large black areola, making it screech even louder.

 

With so many darts hanging out of its face and body, the bleating, wailing fag looked like a pincushion.  Mike stood up, wiped his hands on his “These Boots Were Made For Stomping” t-shirt and came forward.  “I dunno about y’all, but I’m pretty damn sick of hearing this fuckin’ howler monkey,” he said casually and hefted the steel-tipped trash pole.  For a moment, he balanced it in his heavily-muscled right arm, then he flung it like a javelin.  It moved so fast, it had pierced the nigger’s throat and torn a hole through its larynx before anyone realized what happened.

 

At any rate, it was certainly before the stupid jigaboo itself knew what happened.  It kept screaming and yelling but the confused look on its face showed well enough that it didn’t understand why it could only emit gurgles and croaks.

 

“You can keep havin’ fun with it if ya want,” Jack told Hank, “But we still got more coons to auction off.”

 

“Yeah, ok,” Hank replied, “But it ain’t dead yet.”

 

“So?  Leave it hangin’; the fire’ll take care of it.  Gonna burn all this nigger shit to ashes.”

 

Hank perked up—at least, his hard, throbbing mancock did—at the thought.  Jack had returned to the end of the dance floor and dragged another darky out of the shrinking herd of corralled coons.

 

This one was young—in fact, it looked too young to be in a bar.  The little niglet didn’t look any older than eighteen, if that.  It started sobbing incoherently as Jack roughly jerked it out onto dance floor.

 

Suddenly, there was a stirring in the trembling know of faggots clustered against the wall and one burst forward—a tall buck, lithe, almost wiry, but firm.  “Andre!” it called out, “Leave my little brother alone, you assholes!”

 

Jack paused, the look on his face showing how little he could believe his luck.  Then he whirled around with lightning speed, cold-cocking the older jigaboo and putting its lights out.  As it crumpled to the floor, he turned his attention to the baby faggot he’d snagged.  “Brothers, huh?  How can ya tell?  All fuckin’ look alike to me, har!”

 

Then he turned back to the circle of sadistic racist killers, shoving the teenaged nigger out and letting it soak in an atmosphere laden with testosterone and hatred.  The cocksucking jungle bunny looked around, surrounded by hulking skinheads oozing with lust and violence—and precum.  Their massive, intimidating rods of manmeat were all pointed at it like a firing squad.

 

“We’re gonna pause our auction for this touching family moment.  Mike, you and Ed grab that one on the floor and follow me.  Frankie, Hank, round up the rest of the walkin’ dead over there and bring ‘em along.  Oh, and hand me another zip tie real quick.”

 

Tucking the thick industrial zip tie into the rear pocket of his skin-tight jeans, the hardbodied Aryan thug dragged the sobbing adolescent coon into the adjacent game room and bent it over a pool table.  Its older brother was just regaining consciousness when it was brought into the room; before it was fully awake, Jack had cinched the zip tie excruciatingly tight around its thick dangling monkey junk.  The coon’s cock was already achingly stiff before it was conscious.

 

“Brothers,” Jack said with a broad grin, “I think it’s time to bring this family of jigaboo faggots together in a truly meaningful way.”

 

The boys chuckled.  They didn’t know exactly what he had in mind, but they didn’t need to. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t just be hot, it’d be right.  The justice of white power would be served. Jack was their leader for a reason, after all.

 

“Get it up here,” Jack said motioning to the older nigger.  As it was brought closer to the smooth, taut, quivering buttocks of its teenaged sibling, the hardbodied skinhead in the Gold’s Gym t-shirt reached out and grabbed its throbbing and helplessly engorged dick, guiding it in.  “Closer,” Jack said, “Force it if ya hafta.  This coon’s gonna fuck its brother.”

 

Grabbing the spade’s firm ass, Jack shoved it forwards, forcing the darky’s dick into its brother’s asshole.  As the young pup wailed, Mike leaned forward and whispered in its ear, “Y’all do that sick kinda shit anyway, ain’t that right, motherfucker?  Ha!  Betcha you two been bangin’ each other since y’all finally figured out whatcher monkeydicks were for, huh?  Long as it’s got a hole, you’ll try t’ fuck it just like some fuckin’ animal, yeah?”

 

The older coon was in tears but was unable to resist; all five of the muscle-bound Aryan sadists had crowed around and were manhandling them both, forcing the bothers into violent, traumatic copulation.

 

Hank was holding the younger one down.  “Goddam, this one squeals like a bitch—think it was a virgin?”

 

Ed looked up from where he was helping Jack force the older one’s cock to pump even faster.  “Fuck no, bro—shit, you ever hear of a nigger over the age a’ ten that ain’t been fucked by every member of its family?  Like fuckin’ rabbits, dude.  We’re just helpin’ these two sick pervs out.”

 

“Yeah, an’ it looks like they’re gettin’ close,” Frankie muttered, “See how they’re sweatin’?  Fuckin’ reeks like stank-ass niggers in here.  Must be why they put the slave pens so far away from the owner’s house.  They knew how to handle stinkin’ darkys back in the day.”

 

Meanwhile, Jack threw a glance up at Mike, who had one hand clutching a hank of nappy black hair on the teen’s head.  “Hey, dude—gotta blade?”

 

Mike grinned.  Of course he had a blade; ya never knew when ya might be lucky enough to find a lone coon or spic in some dark alley…it was a butterfly knife with a three-inch blade that he kept whetted to a razor edge.  He quickly bent down and pulled it out of his engineer boot, his powerful arm making a graceful maneuver as he spun it open.

 

Jack already had his in his hand.  “You know when,” he said, and Mike did know.

 

The lithe young niglet wasn’t screaming anymore, it was moaning—and it was moaning in the same tempo as its older sibling’s forced thrusts.  The latter was panting, its smooth firm body slick with exertion.  It was still terrified beyond the ability to think straight, but it didn’t need to think at all to respond to the compelled stimulation.

 

Both coons were on the verge of cumming.

 

It was the younger one that blew first.  It was less experienced and its adolescent body was stewing in hormones.  It gave a loud grunt and its slim form shuddered in orgasmic spasm, then Mike jerked its head back and cut its throat.

 

As he did, the older one gave a strangled cry and ejaculated in its dying brother’s asshole.  Jack slashed its neck down to the spine, ripping open the trachea.  The stunned ape remained standing for a few moments, its eyes wide with horror as it spewed wad after wad of hot monkey cum into its brother’s guts and jet after jet of warm blood onto its back.

 

The younger coon wheezed and gurgled as air and blood sprayed from the gaping wound in its throat.  Even as its eyes rolled back into its skull and it slumped forward into coma and death, it continued to expel streams of semen onto the rail of the pool table.

 

Almost as if planned, the boys all let go and stepped back at the same time.  Unsupported, the two dead jungle bunnies dropped to the floor in a pile of niggermeat, still oozing blood and cum—and still dog-knotted, the elder’s dick buried in the younger’s ass.

 

Jack turned to the remaining live meat—two coons and one cracker fag left.  “Now that’s some fuckin’ quality time with the family, white power-style!  You worthless dumbasses ready to suffer and die?  I mean shit, you fags can’t even die good enough to make me cum.  Lessee if we can get creative enough to make it happen, yeah?  C’mon, my bothers—we have an auction to finish!”

 

There was no need to return to the dance floor; they were all gathered in the game room.  Without being told, the white power brothers had formed a circle; Jack randomly selected one of the remaining two niggers, yanking the terrorized spade into the center of the ring, where it cringed in abject, paralytic fear.

 

“Aw, that one don’t even look like it’s tryin’ to be a human,” Frankie guffawed.

 

“Yeah, we got the fuckin’ dregs left,” Jack admitted.  “Back in the day, these two fucks woulda been sold off for dog meat.  Kinda seems a shame to waste the effort to auction ‘em off.”

 

“What about the white one?” Mike asked.  The others made sounds of assent but it was the way their thick, vein-wreathed whiteboy cocks pulsed that showed their real interest in the Caucasian fag’s imminent suffering.

 

“Oh no, my brothers,” Jack responded, a cruel glint of light showing in his icy Teutonic-blue eyes, “The traitor to its race deserves special attention, and it’s gonna get it.  From all of us.”

 

There was a hushed, awed silence as the hardbodied sadistic racists considered the implications, then Jack spoke again.

 

“But we got these two to finish off first.  Mike?  Frankie?  You two are left.  Either of ya got an idea for this one?”

 

Frankie shook his head but Mike stepped forward.  “Fuckin-A, I gotta idea.  Lemme have it.  Ed, can you go get that drum auger we saw in the back there?  Leave the blade on.”

 

“What the fuck is that?” Hank asked as Ed headed, grinning, for the storeroom.

 

“Actually, it’s a power auger—even better,” Mike said contentedly.  Jack smiled and chuckled grimly at the nearly-catatonic nigger huddled at his boots but Hank and Frankie only looked confused.  That was when Ed came back and the boys realized that they were staring at a motorized commercial plumbing snake with—appropriately—a spade-shaped blade on the end used for cutting out roots that had grown into pipes.

 

“Jigaboo likes shit shoved up its ass,” Mike commented laconically, “So I thought we’d help it out.  Y’know—make sure things fit.”

 

The process was easy enough—bending it over one of the small tables, Mike sat astride its smooth, sweat-slick back, his own huge pulsating cock lying like a thick bar of hot iron in the small of the coon’s back.  The Aryan thug bent over and spread the thick chocolate bubbles of the monkey’s ass as Frankie and Hank turned the motor on and started shoving it in.

 

Within seconds, they’d literally torn the nigger a new asshole.

 

As it shrieked in nightmarish agony, they continued to shove.  “Aw hell yeah, ream that fuckin’ nigger cunt out!” Ed cheered, sneering and brandishing his dick like a club, waving it first in the screaming jigaboo’s face, then at the two sobbing, hysterical captives.

 

Mike gripped the struggling yard ape’s smooth back between his powerful thighs, feeling the jigaboo twist and writhe beneath him as its intestines were ground to hamburger.  “Yo, brothers, lookit the way the monkey’s wrigglin’—fuckin’ pervert’s gettin’ off on it.  See, I toldja the sick faggots love gettin’ put down by real men!”

 

“Does that feel good, huh?” Jack asked spade, bending down and spitting in in tear-streaked face.  “Ya like a good power fuck, ya coon-ass faggot?  That’s a white power fuck, asswipe, and you ain’t never gonna have a better one!”

 

Frankie, who still hadn’t had a nigger of his own yet, started to get aggressive, his biceps bulging as he forced the spinning metal blade deeper into the street ape’s guts.  “Take it, bitch,” he grunted, “Take it all, ya worthless nigger slut!”

 

The jungle bunny was still screaming but it wasn’t making any noise; it was too hoarse to do more than croak.  Frankie was really getting into it when Jack stepped behind him and powered the auger down.  The younger skinhead whirled angrily, saw who it was, and immediately resumed discipline.

 

“Don’t kill it,” Jack said gently, “Yet.”

 

“Besides,” Ed pointed out, “That last darky is yers.  Whatcha gonna do with it?”

 

“Well, damn,” Frankie said after considering for a moment, “My birthday was last week.  My birthdays ain’t been the same since my momma died.  I still miss the piñatas she’d put up each year…”

 

His voice trailed off into a wistful smile; the shark-like grins with which the others responded showed that they’d understood him perfectly.

 

“There’s some of that ethernet cable we used on that other one left,” Hank said, heading to the dance floor to retrieve it.

 

“There’s enough room to do it in here,” Ed added, “We can use one of those metal struts running across the ceiling.”

 

Hank returned with the cable, already fashioning the end into a noose.  “Hold it steady an’ I’ll slip this over its head,” he said.

 

“Uh-uh,” Frankie replied, “Not its head—its ankles.  We’re hangin’ it upside down.”

 

The coon evidently heard him.  It gave a loud despairing bleat, like a lamb about to be slaughtered, and tried to bolt for the door, its long dark arms and legs scrambling madly on the floor.  It only managed to skitter about two feet toward the door before Ed stepped in and put out its lights with a single strong donkey-punch to the back of the head.  Once it was down, he stomped it for good measure, his long Aryan cock swinging in the breeze as he worked the nigger over with his Doc Martens.

 

Frankie had to remind him that this one was his kill before Ed backed off and apologized.

 

“No biggie, dude,” Frankie grinned, “I can’t blame ya—once I get started on one a’ these motherfuckers, I don’t wanna stop, either.  Seems criminal to leave one still breathin’ when it’s so easy—and so fuckin’ much fun—to off it.”

 

So it was in a sense of good strong camaraderie that they looped the cable around the unconscious nigger’s ankles and hoisted it into the air.

 

“Now we wait for it to wake up,” Frankie said.  “I want it to know it’s dyin’.”

 

While they waited, they began gathering weapons.  Ed and Hank were satisfied with using pool cues, but the others went looing for something more solid, more durable.  Pool cues would break too easy.  Jack slipped his belt out from around his narrow waist; his worn and distressed jeans were too tight for him to actually need the belt anyway.  The belt was a strap of leather an inch and half wide, pierced at intervals with metal studs.

 

It was a perfect whip for lashing a nigger.  Frankie glanced at it enviously, but he hadn’t had the foresight to wear a belt.  Fortuitously, Mike found a couple of seven-foot lengths of chain in the storeroom; they were already laid out, each with a couple of padlocks on one end, ready to attach to posts at the parking lot entrances to seal it off for the night once it was empty.

 

Wrapping three feet or so of the chain around their muscular left Mike and Frankie with a nice, workable length, weighted at the end with a couple of padlocks each.  Mike swung his rapidly, listening with malevolent satisfaction to the way it whistled in the air.

 

“Goddam,” he grinned, “Time to fuck this coon up!”

 

“Frankie first, man,” Jack reminded him, but it wasn’t necessary.  Frankie was already swinging as Jack spoke; he’d noticed the monkey’s eyelids flutter as it regained consciousness.  The padlocked chain slapped across the jigaboo’s flat, ripped abs—this young buck was in its early twenties and very fit—with a loud thwack that made the nigger yelp with pain like a scalded dog and tore deeply into its dark smooth flesh.

 

“Aw, man, ya gotta whip niggers across their back, dude, dontcha know anything?” Hank jeered, swinging his pool cue like the bases were loaded.  The wooden cue left a nice, satisfying welt—but as expected, it broke off in his hands.

 

“FUCK!” Hank cried in frustration as the others laughed.  Jack took his swing.

 

“Aw, bro, it’s yer nigger, hit it where ya want,” he said just as his metal-studded belt smashed the spade’s huge scrotum.  It was a literally crushing blow; Jack’s biceps were probably the largest and most powerful of any of the five’s, and he’d been going full power.

 

The jungle bunny’s screech rose a full octave as its testicles were ruptured.  It writhed and jerked like a prize catch on a line.

 

“Fuckin’ cunt!” Frankie yelled as it, then kicked it twice in the face, his steel-toed combat boot knocking teeth out with each blow.  The darky wasn’t screaming anymore; it blubbered helplessly as it dangled.

 

That changed when Mike connected with his chain.  He’d swung at the faggot’s sweaty, heaving flank and caught it at such an angle that the chain wrapped around its torso, landing the massy padlocks right on the motherfucker’s nipple, nearly tearing it off.

 

This time, it didn’t just scream, it pissed itself.  As its reeking urine flowed down—or, rather, up to its chin, Ed stepped in front of it with the pool cue in one hand and his cock in the other.  “So ya came here looking for somethin’ long an’ hard, huh, cocksucker?” he growled at the wailing, piss-soaked coon, wagging his swollen hog at its face.  “Okay, then ya fuckin’ subhuman asswipe, here ya go—somethin’ long an’ hard!”  He swung low and fast, like teeing off on a par five, and no one was surprised when the wooden shaft shattered against the street ape’s head, stunning but not killing it.

 

It didn’t matter.  They were done with it.  There was just one left, and they weren’t going to be able to beat the piss out of it, because it had been forced to watch the entire massacre and had already pissed itself.

 

“No…” the white boy gasped in abject terror, its huge eyes darting from side to side as the five hypermasculine skinheads approached it slowly and with ominous gleefulness.  “No…pl-please, no…oh fuck no, please…”

 

“Only thing worse than a faggot, brothers,” Jack intoned solemnly, “Is a nigger faggot.  And the only thing worse than a nigger faggot is a white faggot that takes nigger dick.  It ain’t just a pervert, it’s a traitor to its race.  Someone go get some duct tape.”

 

The kid’s gray Etnies scrambled on the floor as Jack laid his hands on it, but it never had even an outside chance of getting away.  The buff young Aryan jerked the younger, slightly smaller youth to its feet and shoved it out of the corner in which it had been cowering as Mike came back with a wide roll of tape he’d located behind the bar.

 

“So the first order of business is to remind this little piece a’ shit why white cocks are so much better to begin with.  Ed, you first.”

 

And before the cracker cocksucker knew what had happened, it was bent over one of the smaller café table with four Nazi thugs holding it down with the fifth one raped it.

 

The boys were pent up and over-wrought; they’d been aching for release during the entire coon slaughter and their lust, powered by hatred and contempt, was unstoppable.  The white cunt screamed as Ed’s massive rod reamed its colon raw—every other dick it had taken, black or white, had been slowly inserted with lots of lube—but had gotten used to the relentless pounding when the older man hosed its guts with hot manseed and pulled out.

 

There was a pause, then Hank plowed his way in, brutally and remorselessly.  As the slim homo sobbed in pain, terror, and humiliation, Jack grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked its head back.  “Now ya remember what real white power feels like, ya worthless assfuck?”  He spat into the pansy’s face, his spittle blending in with the tears streaming down its cheeks.

 

“Fuck…fuck—goddam!!!” Hank grunted.  He shuddered violently, then pulled his dripping tool out, stuffed it back in his jeans and stood aside for Frankie to take his turn.

 

The ex-military brother powered through his hatefuck like he was conducting a commando strike—quick, brutal, relentlessly penetrating.  The faggot, held down on the table in the iron grip of four hulking muscleman, had the sensation that it was being raped by a jackhammer.  When Frankie blew his load, he shot a jet of semen further up the cumsucker’s guts than any of the others.

 

Mike’s style was slower, but designed to inflict maximum pain.  He was long and thick, but his most notable attribute was the huge round head of his cock.  Looking like nothing so much a purple billiard ball, he was fond off pulling all the way out, then plunging back in all the way up to his pubes, stretching and tearing the meat’s sphincter.

 

Ed was up by the faggot’s face now.  “Keep screamin’, fucker,” he said, smiling at the suffering punk, “Ain’t no one left in here to help ya.  And there ain’t no sound hotter than a fag tellin’ the world how big an’ powerful a white man’s dick is!”

 

Mike ground his dick into the kid’s asshole as he shot his wad, then slowly withdrew, leaving his still-oozing head in the fuckwad’s sphincter, keeping it fully stretched for a few moments.  But he hadn’t physically abused it; none of them had.

 

After all, this one was Jack’s.  And now Jack stepped up and claimed his nigger.  It was white, true, but it had had nigger seed inside it—and that made it full nigger.

 

Jack’s tackle wasn’t that much larger than any of the others—but it was large enough for the faggot to feel the difference.  This one didn’t just hurt—this one filled its duodenum to the bursting point; it was gonna inflict organ damage, and the cocksucker knew it.

 

The boy’s wails took on a different, more desperate tone but as the ridges of veins sheathing Jack massive rod rode over its prostate, the queerboy felt itself getting hard.  It didn’t know why; the agony and fear were nightmarish and its involuntary erection only added to the surreal hellscape.

 

Jack knew, and expected it.  He kept pumping, his gigantic tool filling the motherfucker’s intestines and creating a suction effect that felt fantastic on his oozing, engorged dickhead but was, in fact, causing major internal damage to the homo’s intestines.  With one hand, the sadistic Aryan reached around and cupped the pansy’s scrote and rod.

 

Suddenly the white coonsucker’s sobbing shifted to moans.  Jack could feel the lithe, smooth form beneath him shudder, and knew what was coming.  He felt the homo’s cock go rigid in his hand, and at the first sensation of spasm, flashed his knife with the speed of what seemed like lightning.

 

Before the faggot even felt it, Jack had sliced off its cock and balls.  The moment it opened its mouth to scream, Jack shoved the large pulsating package into its mouth, then lunged for the duct tape and slapped a length over its lips, just as sperm began to flow from the severed shaft.

 

The faggot gagged and wheezed, trying not to choke on its own cum and blood.  Blood ran down its legs, staining its Etnies and splattering on Jack’s green Doc Martens as the hardbodied skinhead unloaded his potent spunk into the thrashing, agonized homo.  When he was done, he pulled out, his hog still proud and erect as the fucked-out gelded cocksucker fell off the table and curled into a fetal ball of horrific pain.

 

Jack tucked his still-throbbing member back into his pants.  He retrieved his belt, nodding at the others.  “That’s it.  Y’all know what to do.  Hank, start taking photos upstairs first.”

 

Smiling grimly, Hank took out his camera and proceeded out to the lobby to start documenting the carnage for the sake of all the white power brothers across the country.  In the meantime, the others raided the bar.

 

It seemed a shame to waste some of the better booze, but anything that even might’ve touched nigger lips had to be destroyed.  So three bottles of Grey Goose got dumped on the dance floor alone and the white fucker, still shuddering and straining on the game room floor, had two bottles of Crown Royal all to himself, poured over his naked, bleeding body as it flailed in agony when the alcohol flowed into open wounds.

 

Everything flammable in the storeroom was utilized, too.  By the time Hank had finished the photo shoot, the air was so heavily laden with fumes that leaving became imperative.  Hank reported two still left alive—the spic in the lobby was technically still alive; at least, it was breathing.  One of the niggers in the bathroom was still alive, but it was bleeding and seemed to be paralyzed, so he left it alone.  All the other coons were dead up there.

 

“Don’t matter how many are left alive, anyway,” Jack said, ushering everyone out the back door ahead of him.  “They’re all gonna die now, no matter what.”  He grinned amiably at the nigger moaning and shuddering on the floor—the first one they’d encountered inside.  Despite being forced to drink drain cleaner, it too was still determinedly clinging to a life now drowning in agony.

 

But not for long.  Even in here, the spilled alcohol had pooled and filled the air with choking fumes.  Jack pulled out a matchbook and used a single match to light the entire book.  When he tossed it into the puddle of fuel, the roar of the initial ignition was surprisingly loud.  It wasn’t an explosion, but it was close.

 

They left the back door open to ensure a good airflow and retreated down the alley, the dead security guard still sprawled on the filthy pavement behind them.  At the end of the alley, they took shelter in the loading dock of a defunct dry cleaners and watched the inferno.

 

It took a few minutes to really get going, but just as they could see the orange glow begin to enliven the darkened ground-floor windows, music hit their ears.  An untuned, inharmonious chorus of panicked screams began to echo down the alley—the cries of the niggers they’d left alive.

 

“Aw fuck yeah, that makes my dick hard all over again,” Mike chuckled.

 

“You know it, bro,” Ed said, “Lissen to them monkeys howl!  Fuckin’ beautiful!”

 

“Yeah, this is what makes it all worthwhile,” Jack said in the contented tones of one who knows he’s done a job well.

 

Suddenly the screaming went up in pitch—they were no longer wails of fear; they were shrieks of agony.

 

“Fuckin’ niggers burnin’ alive,” Mike said, “That’ll show ‘em”

 

“Hell yeah,” Frankie agreed, “Oughtta make it clear we don’t want niggers or faggots round here.”

 

“That reminds me,” Jack said, “How did them pics come out, Hank?”

 

“Aw, these are sweet,” the hardbodied Aryan smirked, “Gonna get any real brother’s dick hard.”

 

“Good, cause I wanna send ‘em somewhere.  Got an email from a brother down south tonight, just before we left.  Seems like they’re gonna have a nigger infestation in the woods outside of town in a couple of weeks and wanted some help, so I thought I’d send these along as a kinda resume.”

 

Behind them, the screams had fallen silent.  The roaring of the flames, though, began to increase, and in the distance the faint wail of siren could be discerned.  The brothers broke up, heading back to their headquarters by different routes.  As they made their way out of the alley, it was obvious that the nigger nightclub was by now fully engulfed in flames and was beyond saving.

 

It was a white pride triumph, an erotic, orgiastic cleansing of filth by fire, and, assured of both their manhood and their superiority, the Aryan thugs separated, their shaven heads full of plans of further sadistic abuse and murder.

Cuttin’ Down Ebony Woods, Part One

It was Frankie who bagged the first nigger.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“That’s its face pussy,” Ed laughed.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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


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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was locked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The coon looked up, bewildered and horrified.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then he pulled the trigger.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

From the next stall came a series of beeps someone activating a cell phone.  Mike flung himself into the stall to find a jig in a blue satin jersey, baggy jeans and Nike Air Precision kicks on its knees, desperately trying to dial 911 through its streaming tears.

 

Without needing to think, Mike punched the nigger in the mouth, shattering its jaw.  It crumpled to the floor, whimpering as Mike ground the big black heel of his engineer boot onto the phone, crushing it before the call could be completed.  The other two Sambos hadn’t moved—they were frozen with fear—so getting them zip-tied was quick and easy.

 

The buff young Aryan pulled his thick, vein-wreathed cock out of his jeans, stroked to for a moment, then strolled into the toilet stall and beat the semi-conscious nigger to death.

 

He crouched over the coon, grinning, then rolled it onto its back.  “Fuckin’ niggerboy thinks it’s gettin’ away?  Looks like I’m gonna hafta mark it.  Ain’t gotta brandin’ iron, but these here brass knuckles will do just fine.”  Then he started swinging.

 

Each powerful impact of the hardbodied, rage-filled youth’s fist resulted in a wet pulpy crunch as the Nazi rained agony down onto the thrashing, helpless nigger.  “Hell yeah, ya fuckin’ jigaboo, ya tastin’ yer own blood?” he jeered as he punched the coon’s teeth down its throat, “That’s what white-fuckin’-power tastes like!  Have some more, boy!  Tastes just like fried chicken an’ watermelon, don’t it!”

 

As the yard ape’s face caved in, Mikes repeated blows splattered the walls of the stall with blood.  By the time the skinhead came shudderingly to a stop, the coon was still twitching, its Nikes scraping on the floor tiles, but its face was an unrecognizable ruin and it had suffered catastrophic brain damage.  As Mike exited the stall to turn his attention to his remaining targets, the bleeding inside the nigger’s shattered skull was slowly but surely becoming fatal.

 

“Ok,” he said with a demonic grin on his blood-spattered face as he pulled the claw hammer out of his belt, “Who’s next?  Don’t both y’all volunteer at once, now!”

 


 

“Oh fuck, no, please, sir, don’t—”

 

Jack laughed cruelly.  “Yeah, bitch, ya better fuckin’ call me sir!” he jeered as he forced the coon’s head down over the trough, feeling its tight wooly curls under the iron grip of his hand.  This time, Jack had taken the time to haul his enormous throbbing mancock out; it was resting on the jigaboo’s shoulder as the Nazi stud brought his knife around to its throat.  He started slicing and the coon started screaming.

 

“Ohgoddon’tnonoMOMMAMOMMAMOMMaagghurrghh…” There was a high-pitched hiss as Jack sawed his way into the trachea, then the nigger gargled its own blood for a couple of minutes as its lithe, jean-clad legs flailed and its Nike Jordan Tattoos kicked in the pools of nigger blood and piss on the floor.  Then it lay still for a moment, blood splashing into the piss trough and its hands randomly clenching as it died.  Suddenly, with a final convulsive spasm, it flipped back out of the trough.

 

Jack left the dead monkey to bleed out on the restroom floor.  He turned his attention to the remaining jungle bunny—and the fuckin’ nig bolted, sprinting for the door.

 


 

The next nigger fag in line had on a bright red t-shirt a size too small, tight black jeans, and gray Ugg Hannen boots.  Ed smirked as he slowly and deliberately thrust his gun between its lips.

 

“C’mon, cocksucker,” he chuckled, “Lessee ya get a load outta this.  Work it, you nigger fuck, suck it like it’s yer master’s dick.”

 

Closing his eyes tightly, the jigaboo worked the gun barrel with its tongue.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ed sneered, “Now deep-throat it, you cunt.”

 

The dark-skinned ape did as it was told.  It took as much of the gun barrel into its mouth as it could.  Ed pulled the trigger and the back of the jigaboo’s head vanished in a spray of red mist.  A Jackson Pollock splatter of blood, brain tissue and bone shards spread over the wall behind it.

 

Ed jerked the gun out of its mouth.  It remained upright on its knees for about another five seconds, its dead eyes wide, smoke drifting from its open mouth and the crater in the back of its head, then it collapsed into a pile of jigmeat.

 

“Oops,” the sadistic Aryan muscleman chortled, “Guess I need to reload.”  He replaced the spent casing with a live round and turned to the next darkie homo in line.  “Your turn, motherfucker.  Suck it.  Suck it hard, faggot.”

 

This one was wearing a St Louis cap backwards, a white wifebeater identical to Ed’s, showing off its large sweaty ape-like muscles and a pair of Diesel jeans with untied Timberlands.  And this one didn’t want to play the game.  It turned its head and kept its mouth shut.

 

“Aw fuck yeah,” Ed barked out happily, “I was hopin’ I’d have an excuse to do this.”

 

He grabbed the nigger, jerking it up out of its kneeling position and threw it face down over the arm of one of the sofas.  Before it could recover, he’d yanked its jeans down past its knees.  The faggot was freeballing, of course.  Ed just smiled viciously.

 

“Man, I been wantin’ to do this shit to a nigger for a long time,” he chuckled gleefully, “I been wonderin’ how bad this’d fuck up a jungle bunny.  Stupid fuckin’ piece a’ shit!”

 

On the last word he violently shoved the barrel of his .45 up the coon’s ass and pulled the trigger three times.  The first chamber was empty—but the second one wasn’t.  Nor the third.

 

The first bullet traveled up through the street ape’s innards at a slightly upwards trajectory.  It pierced the intestines multiple times, holed the spleen, liver, and left lung, then tore its way upwards, smashing a rib and tearing an exit hole out of the coon’s back, near its left shoulder blade.

 

The second bullet moved in a straight line up the center of the body mass, ripping open the pancreas and stomach, missing the nigger’s heart but puncturing the esophagus and lodging in the cervical vertebrae, instantly paralyzing the rebellious Sambo.

 

As is lay face-down on the sofa, blood tricking from its nostrils and piss tricking into its Timberlands, slowly, agonizingly suffocating as it lost the ability to inhale, Ed turned back to the two remaining coons.

 

“Anyone else wanna get a good hard white power fuck?” he snarled, brandishing the pistol and reloading it.  His question was met with silence.  “Yeah, I thought not,” he sneered, “Worthless faggot cowards.  Get over here, you fuckin’ nigger waste, and lick yer boyfriend’s shit outta my gun!”

 


 

The two nigs flattened themselves against the far wall as Mike approached with the hammer in his hand.  One of them, a young ape in a Raiders cap, white t-shirt, black jersey gym shorts and a pair of Puma Ferrari hightops, kept darting its wide eyes about in panic.  It was sporting lots of bling around its neck, multiple thick gold chains which it kept fingering.  The other coon was older, a lean, muscular buck with a black do-rag on its head and a dark goatee.  It was in obvious fear as well but seemed to have better self-control.

 

As expected, the darkie in the Oakland cap suddenly feinted right, signaling an obvious move to the left.  Mike shifted his weight to one side, letting it begin its sprint for the door, then swung the hammer, neatly striking the coon on the side of its head, sending it into a boneless, unconscious sprawl on the floor.  The young skinhead turned to the other nigger.

 

This one, seeing the score, chose not to run.  It was a buff young thug, its black muscle shirt revealing its smooth, dark skin, glistening with nigger sweat.  It swung its arms up in a defensive posture, revealing a nice pair of biceps; its feet, in a pair of LL Bean duck boots, shuffled over the floor tiles as it tried to move into an advantageous position.

 

“C’mon, ya white-ass motherfucker!” it shouted.

 

“That’s about right, boy,” Mike sneered, “This white man’s gonna fuck yer momma right into the ground, and yer daddy too.  But let’s start with you, ya fuckin’ jigaboo.”

 

The nigger roared and lunged at Mike in a fog of fear-crazed rage.  Again, the young Aryan was able to dodge his attacker and swing the hammer—this coon got it in the face.  There was a faint pop as its cheekbone shattered, then it squealed, holding its hand up to its face as its left eye began to blacken and swell shut.

 

“Goddam,” it moaned, “Oh, fuck…”

 

It glanced up just in time to see Mike looming over it, his “These Boots Were Made for Stomping” t-shirt pulled tautly across his huge, muscled chest and his long thick manshaft drooling precum, and his powerful arm raised over his head.

 

And in his hand, the hammer had been reversed.  The head was pointed to the rear, with the claw forward.

 

“Oh fuck no—” the coon had time to gasp before the snarling Nazi swung the hammer like a pickaxe, smashing the thick steel claws through its skull and sinking them deep into its brain.  As the yard ape shuddered violently with massive cerebral trauma, Mike cranked the hammer down as if he was yanking out a nail, and peeled back the top of the nigger’s cranium, exposing the mangled gray matter.

 

“Only way to get somethin’ into a nigger’s head is by rammin’ it through its thick monkey skull,” Mike chuckled, jerking his hammer back out of the dead coon’s brain and letting the convulsive sack of jigaboo meat slump to the floor and shit itself.  Then he turned his attention to the moaning nig he’d knocked out, just now starting to stir.

 

The Aryan killer strode over to the prostrate jungle bunny.  “Hey, fuckwad,” he hissed as the spade began to blink and open its eyes, “Wakey, wakey.  I got somethin’ for yer pansy nigger ass.  Look up here, coon.  See it?  It’s my boot.”

 

As soon as the nigger focused its eyes on the upraised engineer boot hanging over its face, Mike stomped it.  Hard.

 

His erect cock pulsed with the electric sense of white power as he felt the jigaboo’s face cave under his boot and heard the crunching and squelching noises of brutal facial trauma.  It felt so good, he did it again.  And again.  And again, ramming his boot into the cunt’s face, kicking out its teeth, dislocating, then shattering its jaw, splintering the orbits of the eyes…

 

And all the time blood was flying from the Sambo’s face and precum was flying from Mike’s hard cock.

 

By the time he’d regained control of himself, the young, hardbodied skinhead had managed to avoid orgasm, but the nigger hadn’t avoided death.  There was still a faint gurgling from the ruined crater that had been its face, but that was post-mortem.  The coon was meat.

 

Having heard the popping of Ed’s gun from the smoking lounge, Mike decided to saunter in that direction to see what we going on.  Behind him, piles of ape flesh twitched randomly on the bathroom floor.

 


 

The last coon in Ed’s batch was very young—just a niglet.  It didn’t look old enough to be in the club, but it was clearly a fag.  Hair in an expensive fade, each ear pierced multiple times with diamond studs inserted, a retro denim jacket over a green t-shirt with the words “Ride Me Cowboy” in yellow, skin-tight skinny jeans faded to the same shade as the jacket and a pair of white Converse trainers.

 

It was also sobbing uncontrollably, so terrified it didn’t hear Ed’s words.  It had already pissed itself and its jeans had dark streaks down each leg that originated at the crotch.  It made no resistance as Ed forced the gun into its mouth and pulled the trigger.

 

There was a loud click.  The nigger flinched and sobbed louder, but had no other reaction.  Ed pulled the gun out and turned back to the first nig.

 

“Looks like it’s back to you, boy.  Suck my rod, you fuckin’ faggot.”

 

The nigger shuddered inside its leather gear, closed its eyes and opened its mouth with no protest—having been beaten, its spirit had been shattered.  It was ready to obey.

 

It didn’t have to obey long.  There was a muffled pop inside its mouth and a sudden jet of blood and bone out the top of its head.  The older coon in the moto jacket fell dead to the floor with the grace of a sack of dirty laundry, and Ed was alone with the baby fag.

 

“Man, yer cryin’ is annoyin’,” he snarled as he pointed the gun at it and pulled the trigger repeatedly.  Two shots were fired, aimed randomly, and hit the coon in the torso, one a through-and-through shot that pierced the spleen, stomach and liver and one that shattered a rib, punctured a lung and lodged in the spinal column.  Suddenly paralyzed from the chest down, the teenaged niglet fell forward.

 

“Comin’ in,” Mike called from outside as a heads-up, then entered the room.  Each Nazi grinned fraternally at the sight of the other’s hard, oozing cock.

 

“Check this one out,” Ed said, indicating the baby homo, “C’mere an’ watch it die.”

 

The teen coon was looking at the muscle-bound skinheads in horror as it slowly suffocated, blood pooling in its non-functioning lungs.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid ape?” Mike jeered as he stroked his dick, “Hope it hurts like fuck, dumbass.”

 

Its eyes bulged and drool leaked over its thick lips as it spent its last moments on earth listening to the taunts of its sadistic, sexually aroused killers.

 

“Yer dyin’, ya sack a’ nigger shit,” Ed smirked, “Gettin’ a start on wipin’ all you fuckin’ useless jigaboos off the planet.  Burn in hell, nigger.”

 

The teen coon died, Ed’s voice ringing in its ears.

 

“Let’s go see if Jack’s offed all of his yet,” Mike suggested.  “I ain’t wasted near enough coons yet.”  They headed for the stairs.

 


 

“You fuckin’ cunt,” Jack growled, his deep bass voice vibrating with rage and suppressed lust as he stood over the sprawled nigger, “You fucked up so fuckin’ bad…”

 

The coon moaned and rubbed its head; the Lakers cap had fallen off when the monkey went down.  It looked up to find itself staring down the barrel of Jack’s Glock.  The Nazi motioned the nig into the toilet stall.

 

“In there, faggot.  You like gettin’ cocks shoved down ye throat?  You like drinkin’ piss, you fuckin perverted jigaboo?  You make me sick, you sack of shit.  Lick that toilet, nigger.  Get down on yer cocksuckin’ knees and run yer fuckin’ tongue all over it, you disgustin’ homo!”

 

The spade shuddered and closed its eyes but it had no choice; it knew that it’d end up with a slug in its brain if it didn’t obey.

 

What it didn’t know was how much more merciful as slug would have been.

 

After several minutes of loud slurping, Jack suddenly spoke up: “Bite it.”

 

The coon paused, confused.  Jack bent down and whispered.  The terrified jungle bunny could feel the skinhead’s goatee brush its face and his hot breath on its ear.  “Open yer fuckin’ nigger mouth and put yer fuckin’ nigger teeth on the edge of the lip like yer gonna bite a chunk out.”

 

The thug wanna-be tried to control its sobs, but it did as it was told.

 

Behind it, Jack stood up.  He raised his knee-high green Doc Marten boot and with no warning, power-stomped the back of the cunt’s head with such force he drove the nigger’s face through the bowl, shattering the porcelain.  Coon teeth scattered across the floor like a handful of dropped coins as the toilet was flowed out over the stunned nigger’s torn and mangled face.

 

Without a paused, Jack bent down, grabbed a handful of woolly hair and dragged the jigaboo out of the stall and over to the piss trough.  He bent it roughly over the edge; there was a loud snap and the faggot went limp in his arms—he’d broken its neck.

 

But it wasn’t dead.  And it could still sense things—like the nightmarish agony of Jack’s serrated knife slowly slicing its neck open like roast beef.

 

Satisfied, Jack pocketed his knife again and left the restroom.  Behind him, the last nigger still hadn’t been luck enough to die.  The angle of its head down in the trough and the fact that the carotid artery hadn’t been pierced meant that blood didn’t reach the wound until after it had reached the spade’s brain.  It hung in the piss trough, helpless, paralyzed, blood tricking down its face and its own piss pooling in its Timberlands.

 

Jack met Ed and Mike just as they were coming down the stairs. All three Aryan grinned at the sight of each other, manfully erect and spatter with nigger blood.

 

“Off to a good start?” Ed asked

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Jack grinned and gave the boys fist bumps.

 

There was a sudden scraping noise off to the side but a quick look reassured them that it was just the brain-damaged spic bar back having a seizure.  Its eyes were rolled back in its head, blood trickled from its nose and ears and its boots scuffled on the floor.  Nothing to worry about; the wetback had been neutralized.

 

“C’mon, let’s get back to the others,” Jack said, “Time to get the real fun started.”

 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Ed asked, “You never did say what you got planned.”

 

Jack grinned and slapped both Mike and Ed on the shoulder.  “Boys,” he said, smiling, “We’re gonna have us an ol’-fashioned nigger auction.”

 

—End of Part One

Hangin’ Round the Wrong Places

Ed grinned and ran a hand through his buzz-cut pale blond hair.  His inked and muscled right arm made a sudden dart downwards as he checked—yes, the length of chain was still there, dangling from his belt.  He had the feeling he’d need it in a moment; he’d just seen something Jack and Mike would wanna know about, too.

 

For the moment, it was the three of them.  Hank and Frankie had been picked up on assault charges; it might be a while before they were back.  So it had fallen on the remaining three to patrol their turf and keep the neighborhood white and upright.

 

Tonight, the white pride warriors were circling around behind a strip of gay bars on the edge of their territory.  It was a good hunting ground; they could usually bag a faggot or two in the parking lot or out on the street.  Not a real workout, of course, just a good beatdown or a hot stomping.  Lately, the area had been bringing in a lot of drug traffic, though, so sometimes the prey could vary.  It was rarely anything major, however.

 

This was different, though.  Way different.  Ed had found the hunter’s equivalent of a fourteen-point buck.

 

“Jack, Mike,” he hissed, “Over here, quick.”

 

The three assembled men looked like trouble.  Ed was the tallest.  His white cotton wifebeater displayed the tattooed sleeves on both of his strong arms, and his skin-tight Levi’s were rolled up at the cuffs to show off his oxblood eight-hole Doc Martens.

 

Jack wasn’t as tall, but he was larger, more powerfully built, and the intense expression in his hard, handsome face indicated he was the driving force among the gang.  A too-small black Gold’s Gym t-shirt was stretched tightly across his broad pecs, the thin cotton taut enough to expose his thick, erect nips.  That wasn’t all that was erect; his worn acid-washed jeans were tight enough to outline the massive tube of flesh running down his thigh.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of green twenty-hole Doc Martens.

 

Mike was the youngest of the three.  He wasn’t as developed as Ed or Jack, but that was only relative; his hard, muscled body was all in black, from the t-shirt with the “These Boots Were Made for Stomping” print to his jeans and steel-toed leather engineer boots.

 

All three were young, strong, and driven by a desire to prove their own superiority.  Now Ed was giving them a perfect chance.  “There’s a nigger and a spic down there,” he said, grinning and pointing down an alleyway.  “Thought they were bein’ smart, hidin’ behind a dumpster, but I caught sight of ‘em.”

 

“Hell yeah,” Jack grunted with a feral gleam in his eye.  His hands tightened up on the baseball bat he was carrying.  “You got yer knuckles, Mike?  C’mon, let’s go fuck these cocksuckers up, fuck yeah!”

 

“Wait, wait—you ain’t heard the best part,” Ed broke out gleefully.  “The spic is suckin’ the fuckin’ nigger off!”

 

Jack went rigid.  Worst kinda nigger was a nigger fag and one who fucked around with a fuckin’ wetback—hell, there wasn’t no such thing as a straight Mexican; all them spics loved cock…

 

Beside him, Mike balled up his fist, letting the dull gleam of his brass knuckles flash in the light.  “C’mon,” he said, breathing heavily, “Time to fuckin’ pulp these assholes.”

 

The three strode cockily down the alleyway, their wide-legged, big-dicked stance demonstrating their ownership of the turf.

 

Further down, in the rank darkness, Byron was enjoying his blowjob too much to hear the heavy footfalls of booted feet.  The Mexican rentboy who’d offered to suck him off for twenty bucks sure knew his shit, and since Byron was drunk and had struck out at the bar, he was willing to let some spic slurp his shaft in an alley.  He had no reason to suspect any danger—until it was right on top of him.

 

“Lookit this shit!” came the harsh, jeering voice out of the darkness.  “A coon an’ a wetback, playin’ with each other’s dicks!”

 

The Mexican jumped up and whirled around.  He’d had his dick out, too and had been stroking himself.  He and Byron both went limp, though, as the three muscle-bound skinheads emerged from the shadows.

 

“Por favor, señor…I no underst—” he started.

 

“Shut the fuck up!!” Jack barked.  The spic did as he was told while Jack sized up the catch.

 

The nigger was young—late teens, it looked like.  It’d gone full gangsta mode with a pair of wide-legged saggy jeans, a red basketball jersey, and a pair of white K-Swiss VN Classic hightops.  There was a black, shiny do-rag on its head and a thick chain of braided gold links around its neck.

 

The spic was older—early twenties, maybe, with short dark hair and swarthy skin.  Its slim chest was wrapped in a pale blue t-shirt and it sported tight boot-cut jeans and ropers.  It just looked confused; the nigger looked fearful.

 

Jack grinned.  “Well, boys,” he chuckled, turning back to Mike and Ed, “Whaddaya say we show these muthafuckas how real men, white men, handle worthless wetback and jigaboo pansies?”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Mike crowed, simultaneously with Ed’s “Goddam right!”  At the same time, all three hardbodied Aryans got rock-hard at the thought of dominating the fuck out of the two helpless homos in front of them.

 

Turning back to the cowering fags, Jack stepped forward, brandishing the bat.  “Looks like you two fuckwads are ‘bout to get a personal demonstration of ‘White Power’, yeah?”

 

“Oo-rah!” Ed roared, his pumped masculinity resonant in his deep bass voice.

 

“You,” Jack said, indicating the Mexican with his bat, “Get over here.”

 

Flinching, the Latino youth crept forward like a beaten dog.  “See, I don’t need to tell ya what the ‘white’ part means,” Jack continued in a jeering tone.  “We’re white and you’re not, which means you ain’t worthy to live.  Fuckin’ plain an’ simple, right, boys?” he said.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Mike replied eagerly.  Ed just grinned and shifted the thick, snakelike bulge in his groin.

 

“But as for power…” here he turned to the side, away from the spic cocksucker.  He paused for a moment, then swung the bat up, away from the beaner, as if he was swinging a golf club.  Before his victim could move, Jack completed the golf maneuver, using the momentum of the downswing to slam the bat into the spic’s balls hard enough to rupture both testicles.

 

“Now that’s white-fuckin’-power!” he crowed as the Latino homo screamed in a high, reedy voice and writhed on the filthy pavement, fetally curled in pain.

 

“Hey, Mikey,” Jack called complacently, “Shut it the fuck up.”

 

Grinning gleefully, Mike stepped up and gave the spic fag a quick kick to the face, rolling it onto its back.  He looked down at the Mexican’s large, dark eyes, welling with tears, and felt his own cock swell with the sense of power of his ability to inflict suffering on this worthless waste of human flesh.

 

The homo was still screaming, but it didn’t for long.  Mike pounded it three times in the mouth with his brass knuckles, breaking teeth and knocking some out with each blow, before it shut up.

 

Not that Mike stopped beating when the spic went quiet.

 

Jack and Ed, in the meantime, rounded on Byron.  The look on Jack’s face was terrifying—withering contempt, triumphant rage and something the trapped homo could swear was lust.  Massaging the bulge in his crotch, the handsome Nazi punk stepped forward, grinning wickedly.

 

“I fuckin’ hate niggers,” he said evenly, staring Byron dead in the face.  “Goddam monkeys tryin’ to act like they’re human—all a’ y’all need t’ be put back in yer place, servin’ th’ white man.  But the worst kinda coon is a faggot coon, ain’t that right, Ed?”

 

Ed chuckled maliciously behind him.  “Damn right.  Don’t deserve to fuckin’ live.”

 

“Hear ‘im, ya fucking cocksucker?  He’s right—yer a stain that needs cleanin’ up, and we’re here to keep this turf whiter n’ white.”

 

Ed laughed raucously at this witticism as Byron shrank back against the brick wall, his wide eyes darting from side to side in a vain attempt to find a clear path out of this nightmare.  Mike joined them.  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

 

“Nothin’,” Jack replied, “Just ‘bout to start poundin’ us some monkey meat.  Up for a good ol’-fashioned nigger stomp?”

 

Mike didn’t have to rub his crotch; his thick bulge swelled visibly on its own.  “Oh fuck yeah,” he said excitedly.

 

At that point, Ed turned his head and noticed that the Latino street whore was slowly crawling away, leaving a trail of blood that was trickling from its ruined face.  “Hey, Mikey,” he razzed his buddy, “Didja give this one a kiss before ya let it go?”

 

Mike’s face flushed.  Jack chuckled.  “Bring it back here, Ed,” he said, “An’ you can show this street ape what real fuckin’ white men do to wetback pansies.”

 

Ed brightened up.  Picking up the spic by the nape of its t-shirt, he dragged the sobbing, brutalized youth back down the alley.  The heels of the greaser’s boots carved channels in the trail of its own blood as it was manhandled back to the scene of violence it’d tried to escape.

 

Tossing it face-down onto the pavement, Ed planted one of his big red Doc Martens on each side of the prone spic.  He pulled the chain loose from his belt and doubled it over.  Holding both ends in his right hand, it was still almost eighteen inches long.  He raised his right arm and held it for a moment; for a split second, his thick bicep swelled, the ink on his arm moving perceptibly, then his arm swung downward in a powerful arc as he beat the Mexican with the chain.

 

Even with its mouth destroyed, the pain was too much.  The Latino hustler squealed like a pig in agony.

 

Haw!” Jack brayed, turning to his captive prey, the triumph and bloodlust glittering insanely in his cold blue eyes, “You watchin’, ya fuckin’ coon cunt?  Ya takin’ notes, huh?  Ya better be, boy, cause there’s gonna be a quiz afterwards!”

 

Behind him, the spic’s squealing was becoming hoarse and desperate as the meaty thump of the chain on flesh continued.  The hustler rolled onto its side in an attempt to evade the devastating blows, but that only exposed its ribs.  The next swing of Ed’s was rewarded with a loud snapping sound like the breaking of twigs; two of the beaner’s ribs had shattered, peppering its innards with shards of bone.

 

The sound was too much for Mike; his cock demanded its freedom.  He reached down and unzipped his fly, letting it spring out, jutting proudly, throbbing and dripping.

 

Byron, his white eyes wide with panic, made a sudden darting movement to his left and that was all it took to divert Jack’s attention.  His bat swung low and hard, like his dick, and smashed the nigger’s right kneecap.  The coon shrieked in pain and collapsed.

 

“Right on!” Mike yelled, hyped on aggression and adrenaline, and fist-bumped Jack.  The latter strode over to the writhing coon and squatted near its head.  “So c’mon, jungle bunny,” he jeered, “Let’s see ya fuckin’ hop!”

 

With that he jerked his prey up to its feet.  In a flash, Mike had appeared at the nig’s other side; without a word passing between them, the two Nazis began to drag the darky over to the spic.

 

Ed was still wailing away at the shuddering, crying Mexican, the thick links of his chain chewing through the cocksucker’s shirt and denim jeans—and then through its flesh.  By the time Jack and Mike got near, the spic’s back—it was still face-down—was damn near pulped.

 

“Hey, Ed, quit fuckin’ around and show this fuckin’ monkey what real white power looks like,” Jack demanded in a harsh voice.  Ed was only too happy to comply—so happy, he had to open his fly and extract his thick fireplug dick.  It had been getting too stiff to be comfortable inside his tight jeans.  Squatting down and placing one knee on the greaser’s back, he pulled its head up and looped the chain down underneath.  With it now circling the Mexican’s neck, Ed leaned back, jerking up on the chain while pressing down with his knee.

 

“Watch this shit, jigaboo,” Jack hissed, “An’ remember—compared to goddam coon animals, we fuckin’ like beaners.”

 

There was a loud crackling, crunching sound, like a fresh, green tree limb snapping, as Ed’s thick, inked biceps swelled and he popped the spic’s head off its spine, shattering the first two cervical vertebrae and ending the unfortunate immigrant’s life in a nightmarish burst of agony.

 

The corpse thrashed violently for a few seconds, its boots kicking and splashing in a puddle of greasy water.

 

“That’s how ya fuckin’ do it, brother!” Mike cheered.

 

Grinning with camaraderie, Ed sneered, “Yeah, that’s one fuckin’ wetback that ain’t gettin’ another chance to swim back over again.”

 

“All right, dude, that was fuckin’ righteous,” Jack said enthusiastically, then turned back to the monkey.  “That’s gonna seem like a kiss from yo’ thick-lipped mammy compared to what we’re gonna do to yer baboon ass.  You gettin’ the idea, or are ya too stupid, ya big dumb ape?”  He turned to the others, his erotically savage face breaking into a cruel grin.  “Whaddaya think, my brothers?  Big ol’ buck like this is prime field hand material, but they’re always dumb as fuck, too.  An’ this one’s a perverted-ass faggot, too.  Any ideas?”  The question was accompanied by a laugh of ice-cold contempt.

 

“String it up,” Ed said immediately.  Mike’s “Fuckin’ string it up,” was nearly simultaneous.

 

“Fuck yeah, string it up,” Jack repeated and let go of the coon.  Mike, sensing the movement, did the same, letting it fall to the pavement in a pile of well-built black flesh, wailing in pain and babbling in terror.  “Goddam,” Jack snarled, “Fuckin’ yard ape is so fuckin’ stupid, it can’t even speak English.  Hell, they could teach a gorilla sign language—this sack a’ shit prob’ly can’t do more’n grunt!”

 

Raising his green twenty-hole Doc Martens, Jack stomped the nigger twice, hard.  The second one got a nice sexy snap as he broke both the radius and ulna of the left arm.  When the coon screamed, its right arm extended and helpless on the cold concrete pavement, Jack calmly stepped over and carefully positioned his left bootheel on the unlucky faggot’s right hand.

 

“Man,” he said conversationally, “I can’t tell ya how much I fuckin’ hate niggers.”  Hocking up a thick wad of phlegm, he spat it in the cunt’s face, then, pressing all his weight onto his left leg, proceeded to grind the coon’s hand to hamburger.  The ongoing crunching sound of shattering metacarpals and phalanges was reminiscent of popping popcorn.

 

Ignoring the steady bleat of pain from the yard ape under his boot, Jack glanced at the others.  “Anyone see anything to string it up with?”

 

“Yeah, I did,” Mike replied.  There was a particularly sadistic gleam in his young dark eyes.  “There’s a construction site down this way–I saw a spool of wire I think might work.”

 

Jack had actually meant something along the lines of rope—but then it hit him, and he had to release his cock from the confines of his tight jeans, too.  The idea of stringing up the monkey on a wire noose was too fuckin’…powerful not to get him instantly hard.

 

“Get it,” he said, his huge manshaft jutting out hard and strong over his prone victim, “We’re gonna dangle us a coon on a wire.”  He bent down and tore the gold chain from around its neck.  The others said nothing; the loot was always shared equally among them all.

 

Mike and Ed headed back down the alley to the construction site.  In three minutes they were back, carrying a four-foot length of steel rebar with a spool of 10-gauge steel wire hanging on it.  Whatever was being built was large; the rebar was three inches in diameter with the flanges adding another inch.

 

“Ed, you still got that multi-tool?  Hand it here,” Jack said as they dropped their load.  The buff older Nazi dug into the pocket of his tight jeans and passed the tool over.  Immediately, Jack opened up the cutting edge and began slicing the nigger’s clothes off.  “Goddam coon came into this world a squealin’ naked ape, and it’s gonna go outta it the same fuckin’ way.”

 

The unlucky black faggot hadn’t been unconscious, but it was in such pain from its broken bones and mangled hand that it wasn’t capable of putting up any resistance.  Now that its clothes were being cut away, though, it found some inner strength—unfortunately for it.  It tried to struggle, to squirm away from impending death, and that was enough to trigger Jack.

 

He’d already managed to cut the saggy jeans and the baller jersey off the fucker, revealing a big, healthy buck with large firm muscles.  As it began to inch away, Jack lashed out with his steel-toed Doc Martens and caught the coon right in its mouth, dislocating its jaw.  As it rolled over and writhed in agony, Jack tossed the multi-tool back to Ed.

 

“Cut some wire,” he said as he planted on booted foot on the wailing nigger’s back, letting the hot drops of precum oozing from his dick splash on the sweaty chocolate flesh, “Two lengths.  One to tie its hands and one to lynch the fuckin’ spade.”

 

Ed snipped off a short length of wire and handed to Mike.  As the young Aryan wrapped the wire so tightly around the street ape’s wrists that it sank into the skin, Ed and Jack calculated how much they’d need.

 

“We can hang it there,” Ed said, pointing to the rusted structure of the fire escape on a derelict building nearby.  It was about eight feet off the ground.

 

“That’ll work,” Jack agreed.  “The jigaboo’s about, what, six feet?  Fuckin’ big-ass gorilla.  Yeah, that’ll be enough.  So about ten feet of wire, yeah?  Tie it off to that standpipe there?”

 

Ed cut a ten-foot length of wire as Jack strolled casually back to his trapped monkey meat.  Mike had finished and rolled the fucker over onto its back, where it lay quivering, its already thick lips swelling grotesquely and its white eyes so comically huge, Jack roared with laughter.

 

“See, back in the good old days before the white race lost its balls, you’d ‘a just been tied to a post an’ whipped like any other animal,” he jeered at the cowering nigger, “But nowadays we gotta find new ways to remind you worthless fucks of yer proper place—an’ we got a good one.  I hear you nigs like to dance, huh?  Fuck yeah, ya sweaty, stinkin’ ape, yer gonna dance for us, like a good little coon.  Yer gonna be dancin’ on fuckin’ air!”

 

Having swiftly looped one end of the wire back on itself and secured it by twisting it into an improvised slipknot, Ed tied the other end to the standpipe and tossed the noose over the iron fire escape bracket.  “Yo, it’s ready,” he called out, “Let’s jack this jungle bunny up.”

 

Jack and Mike each grabbed one of the nigger’s arms and dragged it over to the noose.  Forcing the terrified spade upright, they lowered the wire over its head and cinched it around the neck.  That was when Byron’s last rational thought fled and he lost control of his bladder, piss flowing from his thick nigger dick down his muscled legs and spattering on his K-Swiss hightops—the only clothing he had left.

 

“Aw, goddam!” Ed muttered in disgust.

 

“Y’can take the ape outta the jungle, but y’can’t take the jungle outta the ape,” Mike chuckled, but Jack was silent until he stepped up to the coon and looked it straight in the eyes.

 

“You can housetrain a dog.  I’ve even heard you can housetrain a fuckin’ pig.  But a worthless subhuman piece a’ animal shit like you can’t be taught not to piss all over itself.  You goddam fuckin’ monkeys—fuck all a’ y’all, ya hear me?  You all need to fuckin’ die, and startin’ with you is makin’ my dick stiff.”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Mike shouted behind him, high-fiving Ed.  Both grinning muscled skinheads were just as erect as Jack.  “Dude, get out yer phone,” Ed said, “We gotta record this for Hank and Frankie—they’re gonna be so fuckin’ pissed when they see what they missed.”

 

“I know yer too fuckin’ stupid to understand me, nigger, so I’ll make it easy for yer dumb monkey brain—I got a hard-on for wastin’ ya, and the more I see yer jigaboo suffer, the harder I get.  You understand that?  No?”  He hawked up a huge wad of phlegm and spat it into the black fag’s face.  “FUCK YOU!!!”

 

Turning back to his bros, he said “Ok, boys, time to make it understand.”

 

It was easy enough for Jack and Ed to hoist the kicking, struggling coon, using discarded cloths from the construction site to handle the wire.  They only needed to lift it a few inches off the ground, while Mike found a chunk of concrete of sufficient weight and placed on the wire, holding its new position.  All in all, it was a crude construction—but it worked.  The coon’s hightops kicked uselessly inches above the cold pavement.

 

Mike propped his phone up on a stack of crates off to one side, setting it to record video.  He quickly checked to ensure it had a good view of the scene, then went back to the party.

 

It had already started.  Jack had his baseball bat and Ed his chain.  As the nigger flailed in agony, the weight of its body making the wire noose sink in and break the skin, the Nazi thugs taunted it.

 

“Hey, ya fuckin’ street ape, ya wanna know what white power is?” Jack crowed, his deep voice vibrating with a sadistic mix of lust and hate.  He swung the bat hard, like the bases were loaded, and hit the coon’s firm six-pack abs hard enough to rupture the intestines.  “Ya feel that?  That’s fuckin’ white power, right there. Go’wan, Ed, show it again—you know how stupid these fucking spearchuckers are.”

 

Grinning wildly, his thick fireplug cock visibly throbbing, Ed stepped up and began lashing the jerking spook with his chain.  His first two strokes were measured and intense, tearing open the nigger’s back.  As its blood began to trickle down, flung off in spatters as the buff young buck choked and thrashed, Ed’s blows started to come faster and faster.

 

“What’s it fuckin’ feelin’, boys?”

 

“White power!”  Ed and Mike cried in unison as Ed continued to thrash the dangling monkey meat and Mike, grabbing hold of the section of rebar he’d used to carry the wire, swung it like Jack’s back, the thick metal bar striking sweaty glistening coon flesh with a meaty thump.  Jack damn sure wasn’t sitting this one out.  He stepped in swinging, and sudden the nigger became a meat piñata.

 

“Fuck yeah!” he shouted, his huge cock oozing precum as his racial hatred made his hormones seethe and boil, “Feel the fuckin’ power, jigaboo!”

 

“White power, bitch!” Mike snarled, spitting in the dying Sambo’s black, swollen lips as he beat the dying homo mercilessly.  He took pleasure aiming for the thrashing, helpless legs; every time he scored a hit direct enough to break a bone, precum flew from the Aryan’s engorged rod.

 

“Hold up a sec,” Ed said, suddenly, his bloodlust diminishing for a moment, to be replaced with increased sadism.  “We gotta do this right.  Remember, boys—it ain’t just a fuckin’ ape—it’s a faggot.  It ain’t even natural; it’s a goddam perverted nigger an’ I think it needs to be shown the error of its ways.”

 

Jack was quick to catch on.  “Uh-uh.  This bat is brand new an’ I’ve just baptized it in monkey blood.”

 

“Not your bat,” Ed said with an evil smirk, pointing, “That.”

 

They both looked at the rebar in Mike’s hands.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Jack said, laughing, “Ed, you da man!”

 

By this point Mike had caught on, too.  “That’s fuckin’ sick, dude,” he said, the broad smile on his face adding emphasis to the compliment.  “Here, you two pull the legs apart.”

 

Byron’s thrashing and flailing had slowed under the bone-breaking beating he’d endured and he’d been deprived of oxygen long enough for irreversible brain damage to occur.  There wasn’t enough left of the young homo buck to understand the words his killers were saying—but there was enough left to sense physical pain, and suffer.

 

And that suffering was swept off the scale as Mike shoved the rebar—with four-inch diameter flanges—up the coon’s ass.

 

It took some work; all three thugs had to coordinate—Mike pushing the rod up as Ed and Jack pulled the spade’s legs down.  The slightly rusted steel tore the nigger’s sphincter open, then slammed upward, shredding the colon as it traveled up into the ape’s guts.

 

Along the way, the jagged metal edge of a flange scraped over the coon’s prostate.  The sudden brutal stimulus tripped a trigger in its central nervous system and suddenly the dangling, convulsing sack of drooling monkey meat began to spew cum like a geyser.  The last act of the homo jigaboo’s life was to shoot its wad like a punk bitch when it was offed.

 

“Fuckin’ white power!” Jack yelled, his own hot load splashing over the corpse’s quivering legs as nigger spunk rained down.  “Aw, yeah!” Mike grunted, hosing the dead coon with his sperm, “White power!”

 

“Goddam!  Fuck!  FUCK!!!” Ed cried out as his short thick plug of a cock spat his searing manload all over the dead nigger cunt, “Feel my white power, ya fuckin’ nigga-ass bitch!”

 

For a moment, they all stood around gasping, catching their breath, regaining control.  Then each looked at the other, cheerful and grinning.  “Yeah, boys,” Jack beamed, “That’s how ya put a fuckin’ darky in its place.”

 

Mike darted off and shut off the camera on the phone; when he returned, he’d brought more discarded cloths so they could wipe the cum off themselves.  It didn’t bother them that they were covered in nigger cum any more than if they’d gotten its blood splashed on them; they’d known it was gonna spunk when it died—and they liked it.  It was confirmation of the kill when choking to death; the victim almost always blew a load as it died.

 

It made them feel more like proud white men when the lynched coon squirted cum all over them.

 

After wiping themselves down, the proceeded to rob their victim, digging through the pockets of the cast-aside jeans.  There was fifty dollars in the wallet, but nothing else besides.  They were smart enough to leave the Sambo’s phone where it was so it wouldn’t be tracked to them.

 

They were just about to leave when Ed, tossing the wallet aside, noticed a small card that had fallen out and fluttered to the ground.  He bent down and picked it up out of sheer idle curiosity, but when he read it, his eyes widened.

 

“Hey, guys, lookit this shit,” he said, with something approaching awe in his voice.

 

The printing on the card was in black, in a simple font; it said:

 

“Ebony Woods: The fly new club for hot black men and their male admirers.  Who’s yo daddy?  Find him here!”

 

There followed a phone number, web address and street address.  It was just outside of their turf.

 

Jack stared at the card silently for a while.  “Ok, we gotta take ‘em down.  All of ‘em.”

 

“Well duh,” Ed replied sarcastically, “But how?  There’s just three of us till Hank and Frankie get out.  Unless yer plannin’ on stormin’ the place with machine guns…”

 

“Fuck you,” Jack said evenly, hoisting his bat, still encrusted with baptismal blood, “Let’s get back.  We got some thinkin’ to do.”

 

The alleyway echoed with the fading tread of their heavy boots as they left, then settled back into a silence that the swaying, twitching nigger corpse, rebar still sticking out its ass, didn’t disturb.

The Road Best Not Taken

“A shortcut?  Down here?  Naw, I don’t think it’s safe.”  Ben peered down the dark alley that Ethan had indicated.

 

“C’mon, man, what—are ya chicken?” Ethan teased.

 

They were walking home from Club 69, their favorite bar.  Ethan was eighteen and Ben was a little older at almost twenty.  It had been lust at first sight between the two twinks and they were inseparable.  They were walking back to small apartment they shared since Ben was unemployed and couldn’t afford a car—and Ethan had lost his license due to a DUI when he was still living with his parents.

 

In other words, they were typically heedless young faggots, more concerned about style than substance.  They made sure they had decent clothing and enough money to pay the cover fee at the club; after that, they always managed to get other guys to buy them drinks.

 

Ethan was slim and lithe, not scrawny.  His lean body was dressed to attract attention, from his cropped t-shirt that read “Daddy’s Boy” and revealed several inches of his smooth, flat belly above the waistband of his black skinny jeans, to his Steve Madden Riot black and gold hightops.  Even his sculpted, ash-blond hair seemed to draw the eyes.

 

Ben was slightly taller than Ethan and had a more average build.  He had a clear oval face and large dark eyes under a carefully disheveled mass of chestnut curls.  He sported a short-sleeve t-shirt hoodie in a shiny, tight-fitting material over a pair of skinny jogger pants in pale blue denim, with a white stripe down the sides.  On his feet were a pair of Chuck Taylor “Hidden Heart” Converses.

 

With their eye-catching gear and “fuck-me” looks, neither twink had encountered any resistance in getting others to buy them drinks.  By the time the bar closed, neither one was really sober enough to make good decisions.

 

Which was why Ben made the worst—and last—mistake of his life and overrode his objections to Ethan’s short cut.  Not that he didn’t bitch about it, of course.

 

“Man, this place is nasty,” he whined as they picked their way through the alley, “Smells like piss, too.  How d’ya know it’s ok?  You been down here before?”

 

“Sure,” Ethan replied nonchalantly, “Gave a dude a blowjob down this way last year.  They wouldn’t let me into the club–said I was too young, so I hadta wait outside.  So this one dude comes out—”

 

“Where’s this lead to?” Ben broke in nervously.

 

“Well, lessee, we turn this corner here, and there’s another alley for a coupla hundred feet, then another turn an’ yer out on Anderson Avenue. What’s wrong with you, dude?”

 

“There are stories about this neighborhood, man—ain’t you heard ‘em?  Some kinda Nazi gang or some shit like that.  Like gay-bashin’ an’ shit.  I just don’t like it, that’s all.”

 

“Aw, I know what you need,” Ethan grinned and grabbed Ben’s hand.  “C’mere,” he said, dragging Ben around the corner.  This stretch of alley was dimly lit; the view down its length was impeded by dumpsters and trash piles.  The blond twink pushed the dark-haired one up against the wall and kissed him deeply, their soft lips pressed together as their tongues explored each other’s mouths and Ethan’s hands fondled the steadily-stiffening bulge in the crotch of Ben’s jogger pants.

 

“What the fuck do we got here?  Coupla faggots?  On our turf?”

 

The harsh, jeering voice froze the twinks’ blood; it was simultaneous with the blinding beam of a flashlight pointed straight in their eyes.

 

“Hey, Jack, whatcha think?”

 

Jack stepped forward into the circle of light; it took some blinking, but Ethan and Ben were able to focus on him.

 

Jack was older than the boys; it wasn’t clear by how much, but it didn’t matter.  He was buff and athletic, his broad chest stretching out the cotton “Gold’s Gym” t-shirt he wore.  His muscled forearms and massive biceps were covered with tattoos, far too many to take in at once, but Ben noticed several swastikas and his heart sank.

 

Jack’s Levis were tight and torn, showing that he had thick, powerful legs to match his arms.  Below the knee, the jeans vanished into a pair of green 20-hole Doc Martens.  But it was it was Jack’s shaved head that confirmed the image.  Except for the fringe of a dark beard across the hard line of his jaw, the man standing before the twinks was a skinhead.

 

He crossed his arms and sneered at them.  “Oh yeah, they’re faggots, all right.”

 

“Look, man, we were just takin’ a shortcut!” Ethan cried out.

 

“Yeah, dude, we-we don’t want any trouble,” Ben stammered.

 

Jack’s sneer grew broader.  “Wee-wee?  Yer gonna fuckin’ wee-wee when I get done with you.  You two faggots made a big mistake.  We’re takin’ this neighborhood back from worthless fucks like you.”

 

“Aw, man, cut us a break—” Ben started, when, with no warning at all, Ethan whirled and bolted.

 

“Ed!  Frankie!  On ‘im!!” Jack barked and two fit, burly dudes shot out of the dark, grabbing Ethan—one by the arm, the other by the hair—and dragging him back into the light.

 

Ed was the oldest of all of them, with buzz-cut hair the same ash-blond shade as Ethan’s.  His large nose had a noticeable hump showing that it had been broken in the past and was a legacy of the decade the Aryan thug had spent on the semi-pro boxing circuit.  His hard, powerful torso was barely contained in his white cotton wifebeater, but he’d otherwise gone with the traditional skinhead look of rolled-up acid-washed jeans over oxblood Doc Martens.

 

Frankie hadn’t jumped on the Doc Marten bandwagon; he’d kept his military-issue combat boots when he was discharged.  He’d also kept his fondness for camo utility pants, tight khaki t-shirts, and his crewcut hair, his one concession to civilian life a carefully-shaped goatee.

 

Between them, the muscle-bound Nazis held the twink helpless.

 

“Hank, you and Mike set that light down so we can see what’s goin’ on—then grab that other one, got it?”

 

The flashlight was settled somewhere nearby, illuminating a broad swath of filthy alley pavement and graffiti-covered brick wall.  Two buff men, one in a plain white cotton t-shirt, jeans with suspenders and red 8-hole DMs and the other in a black t-shirt with the legend “These Boots Were Made For Stomping”, tight, stained jeans, and black steel-toed engineer boots.

 

All of them had tattoos on both arms.  Neither Ethan nor Ben noticed, but Hank and Mike had a teardrop tattoo by their eyes.  Ed had two.

 

Hank and Mike dragged Ben to one side.  One of them—Ben wasn’t sure which—grabbed a handful of his thick chestnut hair and jerked back, forcing his head up so he had to watch what was happening in front of him.

 

And what was happening was nightmarish.

 

As Jack stood with legs spread and arms folded, Ed and Frankie forced Ethan down onto his knees.  After some swift maneuvering, Frankie was left crouched behind Ethan, holding him down.  Ed stood up and, after some pre-arranged signal with Jack, stepped off to the left, out of the light.

 

“See, you sick fuckin’ perverts are pollutin’ our pure American way of life,” Jack said, his contempt dripping from his words.  “We’re gonna waste all a’ you worthless fucks—niggers, spics, chinks, faggots, libtards—all a’ ya, hear me?  Fuckin’ sick-ass motherfucker!”

 

Ed had returned by now, handing a long, narrow object to Jack.  It took Ben a moment to comprehend what he was looking at: a baseball bat wrapped with rusty barbed wire.

 

Ben almost lost control of his bladder.  Ethan did lose control.

 

“Hey, lookit—the little fag pissed himself!” Jack guffawed; he was joined by all the Aryans.

 

On his knees, Ethan began crying.  “Please,” he sniveled, “please don’t hurt me, man.  I’ll leave, I swear, I’ll go and never come back—” His voice dissolved into broken sobs.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, beg for yer worthless life,” Jack jeered.  Like all the gang, he was straight—but like all the gang, he knew the erotic rage of completely owning a faggot.  They had plans to get some pussy later on—but fuck, here was some fag pussy, theirs for the taking; why not drain a load?

 

He massaged his stiffening dick with one hand as he looked down at the overpowered fairy.  With the other, he hoisted the bat.  “Sick goddam fuck,” he growled, “Don’t fuckin’ deserve to live.”  He swung the bat at Ethan’s side like he was aiming for a triple play.

 

Ethan’s shriek of agony as barbs of rusted steel shredded his smooth silky skin echoed in the close confines of the alley but was lost in the background of general city noise.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” Ed cheered; Frankie’s “Aw right, man!” was followed up by expressions of approval from Mike and Hank.  Ben turned beseechingly to the hardbodied Nazi thugs pinning him down, but there was no trace of mercy.  On the contrary; both men were obviously getting sexually around by their sheer dominance and ability to inflict pain on the faggots.

 

Ethan sobbed and cried, clutching his damaged flank.  The blow had been hard enough to break two ribs; they ached, but the slashes from the barbed wire hurt more.  “Hey, cocksucker, look up here,” Jack called out.  Ethan glanced up just in time to see him swing the bat again.  This time, he made the mistake of holding up his right arm to ward off the blow.

 

The impact of the bat broke Ethan’s arm with a loud snap; the teen queer gasped in shock but before he could react, the barbed wire, slashing across the arm, flayed his skin to the bone.

 

Holding his right arm in his left, looking at his wounds with wide, shocked eyes, Ethan screamed.  Frankie let go and backed away, letting the mauled youth rise shakily to his feet.

 

For a moment, Ben thought he was going insane.  Jack had reached down and unzipped his fly, letting his thick tube of manmeat fall out.  Then the Nazi spoke.  “So ya like dick, do ya, motherfucker?  You only had fag dick, cocksucker.  I’m gonna letcha see what real mandick feels like before you die, asswipe.”

 

As Ethan gaped at him, Jack swung the bat again, catching the eighteen-year-old fagboy directly on his left knee with a crunching sound.  Ethan shrieked in agony again and crumpled to the ground, a heap of bleeding boyflesh.

 

And that was exactly what the gang of predators was looking for.  Gender didn’t matter, what mattered was proving their physical superiority over their victims.  They’d have done the same to, say, a group of Asian schoolgirls.  They were men, they were hard, and they were gonna prove it, literally.

 

“Strip him,” Jack commanded.  Ed and Frankie, both with visibly erect cocks, stepped forward and began jerking Ethan’s clothing off.

 

“Stop it!” Ben cried, finally summoning the strength to overcome his fear.

 

“Shaddup, ya homo sack a’ shit!” Mike snarled and punched Ben in the stomach.  Ben couldn’t see the brass knuckles Mike had managed to slip on, but he damn sure felt them.  Both men tightened their grips on the young pansy as he shuddered in pain.

 

When his vision cleared again, Ben was looking on a scene straight out of Bosch painting.  Ethan, stripped down to his black and gold hightops, was getting stomped repeatedly by three muscle-bound Nazi thugs with big boots.

 

The teenaged faggot thrashed and jerked on the grimy concrete, desperately trying to avoid the continuous pounding of thick boot soles on his tender skin.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” Frankie spat out, his erect cock already oozing with his sense of power, “Ya like rough trade, ya cum-sucking fag, huh?”  He slammed his combat boot into the kid’s solar plexus, making the boy curl up reflexively around his foot.  “That fuckin’ rough enough for ya?”

 

“Naw,” Ed jeered, “But this is.”  With his big thick cock swinging wide, he kicked Ethan in the jaw, breaking it with a loud crack.  The punk was splayed out on his side with the impact, moaning incoherently.

 

“How’s that feel, ya fuckin’ homo pervert?” Jack asked as Ed chuckled and stroked his hard shaft.

 

“Stop!” Ben yelled again, his voice quavering with tears, “You’re gonna kill ‘im!”

 

All five booted thugs laughed derisively.  Hank grabbed Ben’s chin and twisted the boy’s head to face him; the fag could smell the beer that came off the Nazi’s breath in thick, yeasty waves.  “That’s right, motherfucker.  Best way to make sure you stupid faggots don’t ferget yer lesson is to beat it into ya!”

 

As he and Mike laughed, he kneed Ben in the groin.  The kid groaned and tried to collapse but the vicious thugs held him up and continued to force him to watch Ethan’s suffering.

 

By now, the nearly-nude teen homo had rolled onto his belly and was crawling on the pavement, attempting to escape his punishment.  “No you don’t, you little asswipe,” Jack snarled and slammed his boot down on Ethan’s back.  Before Ben realized what was happening, Jack, Ed and Frankie had all surrounded Ethan and were brutally stomping him.  “Fuckin-A!” Frankie barked, grinning and erect with white pride, “Ya worthless piece a’ shit!”  Ed, his fists gripped tight, pounded his red DMs on the boy’s bare back.

 

Ben hadn’t realized he’d lost track of Jack until the latter appeared, rearmed with the baseball bat.  Still unable to catch his breath, the dark-haired cocksucker could only moan his protest as the hardbodied Aryan gripped the handle, took a wide-legged stance, and swung the barbed wire-wrapped bat as hard as he could—which was pretty fuckin’ hard, as Ethan learned to his cost.

 

The bat hit Ethan across the small of the back, instantly slashing the smooth skin.  Ben, some ten yards away, heard the crunching sound as several of the pansy’s vertebrae shattered, instantly paralyzing his legs.  Despite the horrific pain of his broken jaw, Ethan screamed; he couldn’t help it.  The sound was more like a squeal, and it clearly enraged Jack.  He shoved the toe of his boot under Ethan’s left shoulder and rolled the sobbing kid over.

 

“Shut the fuck up, faggot,” he sneered, then bent over and spat in Ethan’s face.  Blinking the phlegm out his eyes, the teen peered up at his assailant, his bewildered eyes seeking some clue to this sudden explosion of terror and agony into his life.

 

All he saw was a tall muscular skinhead looming over him, his cock protruding from his fly, erect and pulsating.  And that tall laced green leather boot he was hoisting; at any other time, Ethan would be aroused, but now, looking at the deep, grime-filled tread of the Doc Marten hanging over him—

 

It happened so fast he didn’t see it coming.  “Suffer, ya fucking cunt!” Jack roared and stomped Ethan’s face, driving his boot into the homo’s mouth.  Then he turned away and tossed the bat to the side, gripping his hard shaft and brandishing it proudly like a club as Ethan thrashed, his hightops drumming on the pavement as he gagged on his own blood and teeth.

 

“These baby fags ain’t never had no real mandick,” he chuckled, looking around at the grinning thugs, who all knew what was running in his mind.  “Whaddaya say, boys—wanna show ‘em what real men feel like ‘fore we show ‘em how real men handle faggots?”

 

Given that every one of them already had their dicks out—and there wasn’t one that wasn’t rock-hard and already oozing—the answer was obvious.

 

“Bring him,” Jack said.  Without another word, Ed and Frankie bent down, each one grabbing one of Ethan’s arms.  Following Jack, they dragged the beaten and bleeding sack of fagmeat down the alley.  Mike and Hank came right behind, jerking Ben along in a painfully tight grip.

 

Fifteen yards down the alley, under a dim security light, was a stack of pallets about three feet tall or so.  The thugs threw Ethan onto it face down, his already-slashed chest and belly scraping along the rough, splinter-strewn wood, his young, smooth asscheeks and pink fuckhole splayed out for easy access.

 

Frankie went first.  Planting his combat boots wide, he shoved his thick, glistening tool inside Ethan’s still-clenched asshole.  As Frank’s hard, goateed face snarled with physical pleasure, Ed held Ethan down and Jack rained blows on his face.  Frankie’s thrusts up the comatose fag’s ass were timed by the repeated smacking sound of flesh on mangled flesh.

 

Ben wasn’t left out of the fun; as Hank, his broad chest straining his thin cotton wifebeater, held the slim, boyish homo upright, Mike hunched over and delivered a devastating series of punches to his mid-section in sets of three.

 

“Fuckin’ (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) goddam (WHAM, pause to re-adjust brass knuckles) piece (WHAM) a’ (WHAM) shit! (WHAM)”

 

The Nazi emphasized his hate with an impact so hard it tore Ben’s liver.  Hank suddenly let go and the gasping, moaning twink sank to the pavement, clutching his battered abdomen, feeling, but not understanding the mortal ache inside.  Just past the Aryan in the jeans and black leather boots, he could see that Frankie was finishing up with Ethan.  The hulking skinhead gave a loud, inarticulate cry and shuddered violently.  He remained bent over the trembling form of the limp homo, then withdrew his still-leaking shaft.  Stepping quickly to one side, he let Ed in.

 

The older man’s cock wasn’t quite as long as his predecessor’s had been—but it was considerably thick.  He smirked, his masculine face, with its broken nose, betraying a kind of malicious triumph as he spat into his hand and smeared the spit onto the head of his dick.  He kicked at the boy, his steel-toed DM’s leaving dark bruised on the kid’s calves, but there was no response from Ethan.

 

The eighteen-year-old twink had suffered too much head trauma.  The bleeding in his brain was too severe.  Ed sank his fireplug dick into a human vegetable.

 

Ben knew what was happening.  He knew how this was gonna end.  In a way, he envied Ethan—the lucky fucker wasn’t feeling any pain.  Reaching behind him, he clutched at the brick wall and tried to pull himself up.

 

That was when Hank showed back up with the bat.  To Ben it seemed to happen in slow motion, but he couldn’t stop it.  The Nazi strongman swung low, like he was teeing off a golf swing, and took out Ben’s left knee with a sickening crunch.

 

As Ben fell shrieking to the ground, Hank lifted his boot and pounded it down into the kid’s face, hard, twice.  There were a couple more crunching sounds, but Ben stopped screaming.  He was too busy coughing up blood and teeth.

 

As Ed kept grunting and pumping on one side of the alley, Hank and Mike quickly stripped Ben of his jogging pants and peeled off his tight shirt; like Ethan, except for his Converses, he was left nude and bleeding on the other side of the dark, reeking passageway.

 

Unlike Ethan, Ben was still conscious.  He was aware of being dragged over to the stack of pallets and being tossed across it.  Turning his head and opening his eyes—reluctantly—he found he was looking directly into Ethan’s face—upside down.  He’d been placed on the opposite side from his boyfriend.

 

There was nothing left that Ben could recognize; he was looking into bloody pulp.  Even those beautiful eyes were gone, rolled back into the skull so that only blood-streaked white slits showed under the bruised, swollen lids.

 

Then there was a dick inside him.  That sudden, that fast.  No preparation, and especially no lube.  Despite a broken jaw and multiple missing teeth, Ben squealed like a stuck pig.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” he heard Mike grunt behind him, and he knew whose swollen manhood was plugging his colon.  Through tear-streaked eyes, he looked past Ethan’s face and saw that of Jack, who was still pinning the brain-damaged teen down across from him.  “Now yer gettin’ ta see what a real man feels like, motherfucker—you should be fuckin’ thankin’ us!”

 

At that moment, a shudder ran through Ethan’s limp body.  Ed, his hard, muscle-bound body glistening with sweat, cried out, “Fuck!  Gonna cum—FUCK!”  As he snarled and unloaded, there was a sudden acrid scent and a trickling sound.  Ethan had lost control of his bladder, piss spattering his hightops.

 

Ed pulled out, gasping and shaking as Frankie took over from Jack and Jack stepped back to fuck Ethan.  He went last because his dick was the largest.  He was notorious for it; after he banged a chick, she was too reamed out for anyone else.

 

“Hey, man,” Ed warned, “I think that one’s dead.”

 

“So what?” Jack leered, “A hole’s a fuckin’ hole.”  Closing in on the corpse, it took him a moment or two to mount it; despite being slack in death, Ethan’s sphincter was still too tight to handle Jack’s cock.  The skinhead had to apply some pressure; then he felt the dead flesh tear and sighed with pleasure.

 

“Aw fuck yeah,” he grinned, looking Ben directly in the eyes, “Best kinda faggot there is—a dead one, servicin’ my rod.”

 

Behind and inside him, Mike was pumping faster and faster; despite being barely conscious from pain and terror, Ben could feel the constant grinding on his prostate—and how it was slowly forcing an erection on him.  He wasn’t the only one.

 

“Hey, bro, th’ little fuckin’ faggot likes it!” Hank jeered loudly.  “Lookit this shit—he’s fuckin’ hard!  Hey, Mikey, you a fag?  Cause it looks like yer doin’ it right—haw!”

 

With a roar of rage at the taunt of his sexuality, the powerful thug grabbed a handful of Ben’s hair, jerked his head back and slammed it down onto the pallet.  As he did, he suddenly hunched over and spasmed, then filled Ben’s rectum with searing manseed.  Another jerk and another slam, this one rewarded with the squelching sound of Ben’s nose being broken, brought another hot jet of semen coating the homo’s innards—and then Mike pulled out.

 

Even now, Ben was still awake and lucid.  He knew he shouldn’t be, but he was.  And he felt somehow empty inside, without the Aryan strongman brutally raping him.   It was the last submissive act of despair of a bottom faggot trying to stave off death—and he needn’t have worried anyway.  No sooner was Mike out than Hank was in.

 

Compared to Hank, Mike had been loving and gentle.  Mike needed a hole to fuck so he could cum.  For Hank to cum, someone had to suffer.

 

“Gimme yer knuckles, bro,” he said gruffly as he stuffed his massive tool inside the twink’s violated asshole.

 

The pain in his colon had faded into the background by now, but the sudden hail of blows on his back damn sure didn’t.  With every thrust of his powerful hips, Hank hit Ben, cursing him with each blow.  The fleshy impacts echoed in the alley, along with grunts of “Faggot!  Goddam cocksucker!  Take it, you worthless sack a’ shit, fucking take my dick!”

 

“Aw yeah, fuck that faggot,” Jack grunted, the handsome skinhead’s face twisted with demonic lust and rage, as he plowed his shaft into Ethan’s still-convulsing corpse, “Fuck yeah, dude, beat the fuckin’ homo garbage to death and fuckin’ unload in the cunt’s gut’s!”  As he heaved and pumped, his “Gold’s Gym” t-shirt clung tightly to his sweat-slicked chest, highlighting his massive pecs and large, jutting nipples.

 

Some sick little part of Ben’s mind found itself cravenly attracted to Jack, even as Hank raped him and beat him so badly that his kidneys failed—not that Ben lived long enough to suffer much by it.

 

He did manage to live long enough to take the Aryan’s load, though; the smooth, wiry teen was still conscious and suffering as the skinhead shuddered and moaned, hosing Ben’s guts with hot squirts of semen.  At the same time, Ben became aware that he was alone on the pile of pallets.

 

Jack had pulled out of Ethan.  The teen fag’s body, with nothing to support it, slid off the pile and fell into a filthy puddle like a sack of pigshit.

 

“Hey, Jack, this one’s still alive,” Mike said.

 

Jack, his enormous manshaft still swinging wide and free in the air between his powerful legs, said evenly, “Not for fuckin’ long.  Hand me that bat; I gotta idea.”

 

Grinning with malignant hate, Frankie quickly handed Jack the barbed-wire-wrapped bat.  He watched with almost reverent awe; this was gonna be good.  Jack knew how to fuck faggots up good; that’s why he was the leader.

 

And good, in this case, meant real fuckin’ bad.

 

“Get ‘im up on there,” Jack commanded, indicating the pile, “Up on his back with his legs spread.”

 

Ben’s eyes, wide with terror, vainly sought those of Jack as Ed grabbed a handful of the twink’s hair and his left arm, Frankie the right, and Hank and Mike each of his smooth, firm legs.  Even though they’d all—except Jack—cum within the past few minutes, their hard, strong bodies had enough stamina—and sick hateful lust—for them all to start getting hard again.

 

“Ya like takin’ it the ass, do ya, faggot?” Jack jeered at Ben.  The nineteen-year-old prettyboy—no longer so fuckin’ pretty—tried to beg for his life but was able to force no more than a croak from his ruined mouth, at the cost of excruciating pain.  “Then it’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, cunt, cause I got somethin’ to stick up yer ass that you ain’t ever gonna forget!”

 

Ben didn’t see it coming, either literally or figuratively; it wasn’t till Jack started forcing the bat up his ass that he realized what was happening.

 

It took a while, and a lot of effort.  Ed let Frankie take hold of Ben’s hair and went to help Jack shove.  The pain of his mangled mouth was suddenly nothing; Ben’s nightmarish screams echoed down the alley but the only response they brought was to make his assailants harder.

 

“Fuckin’ suffer, you goddam cocksuckin’ piece a’ shit!” Jack barked, “Scream and die, ya worthless faggot fuck, ya motherfuckin’—aw, fuck!  FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCK!

 

As he ground the wire-sheathed bat into Ben’s ass, twisting it deliberately to shred the homo’s rectum, he suddenly shot a thick ropy geyser of spunk over the nude twink’s body, his pearly manseed splattering across the tortured teen’s heaving form.  Then it was as if someone had set off a signal; as Ed and Jack continued to destroy Ben’s ass, the lithe young fuck was showered in cum by the burly hate-filled thugs surrounding him.

 

If he’d been in a position to enjoy it, it would have been a dream come true for Ben.  As it was, the nightmare went on far too long.  The Nazi thugs managed to get the bat eight inches up Ben’s ass before the fag died of shock, trauma and blood loss.

 

Tucking their dicks back inside their jeans, the boys in the gang slapped each other on the back and complimented each other on their prowess.  There was nothing surreptitious or shameful in their actions; they’d done a good deed by offin’ a couple of baby fags who had no right to exist in a White (real) Man’s world.

 

They left the corpses where they were—Ethan’s, barely recognizable, a huddle mass of fagmeat marinating in a puddle of piss and rainwater, and Ben’s, splayed out on the pallets, the bat still jammed up his ass.

 

They didn’t bother to take the bat.  Bats and barbed wire were cheap, and this one had been up inside a faggot.  They could wash their dicks, but ya don’t wash a wood bat.

 

“Hey, Frankie,” Jack said musingly, “Next time, get two bats—and some long-ass nails.”

Beach Party   By: Gay Slavemeat   Gsmeat2@gmail.com

 

I enjoy writing and reading gay snuff stories, and I like to imagine an awesome world run by Alpha Males, where torture and snuff of guys like me would be routine.  In that world environmental issues are addressed, nations are at peace, prosperity is the norm, and there is a positive, stable social order.  That’s because a select group of Alpha Males achieve total dominance, with a large beta class of citizens who live productive, fulfilling, but somewhat controlled lives.  Supporting both groups would be a vast, disposable class of male slaves.  We would be naked animals assigned dangerous and degrading tasks to support the needs and desires of our Alpha and beta class owners. Our bodies would be tortured, used sexually, and destroyed at the whims of our masters, with zero limits on what is done to us or what we are ordered to do.  Gladiatorial contests among us are far more brutal and fatal than ancient Rome, providing entertainment and releasing tensions that otherwise might lead to conflict among citizens.  Medicine would advance rapidly with us as experimental lab animals that would be plentiful and totally disposable.  Our pathetic lives would comprise only pain and humiliation and would mean nothing; our bodies ultimately would be food, turned to shit in the bellies of our masters as befits our status.  We would be bred and trained to understand that this is what we deserve.

 

But this would not all happen at once, and this story is about a time prior to creation of the Alpha Utopia, when they are organizing outside public view. Sadly, it’s all fiction, including names of characters.

 

1

The Beach Drive

 

Matt was a sex slave, and today was the last day of his life.  His owner rand master, Jim Fletcher, had decided to destroy and dispose of one of his possessions and expected Matt to cooperate fully in the process.  That was not a problem for Matt.  He understood his status as property and his purpose as a sex toy, and he was completely on board with whatever his owner desired.  He knew torturing, humiliating, and snuffing him would be fun for Jim and the other participants, since Matt was remarkably good looking – a 23-year-old specimen of prime man meat that was shaped perfectly and in perfect shape. He had a surfer’s build, with a trim waist and nicely formed pecks that highlighted his smooth, hairless chest. He had small, hard nipples that stood out nicely and were always tempting targets for inflicting pain when he was being used sexually. His abs were rock-hard, showing off a clearly defined six-pack of carefully maintained muscle.  Matt was very strong, with obvious definition in his arms and legs that reflected his strenuous daily workout routines and a wholesome diet of high protein dog food mixed in his dog dish with some of his master’s urine and crap toe remind him of his status.  These enabled him to endure exceptionally harsh S&M sessions.   He had a short, conservative haircut and no body hair at all, even around his crotch, which added not only to his sex appeal but to his appearance of complete nakedness and availability. It had been years since Matt had worn any clothes, and his body was evenly tanned from exposure to the warm sun on the estate where he was kept.  Yet perhaps it was his handsome, eager face and easy, willing smile that ultimately made him so appealing. Matt aimed to please, and it showed.  There was literally nothing he wouldn’t do to please Jim.  So he was excited and eager for this day, when he would add slightly to Jim’s pleasure by losing his disposable life.

 

As a sex slave, Matt’s most useful physical traits were his long, thick cock, his inviting bubble-butt, his insatiable gay sex drive, and his utter masochism. Matt had a bit over 11 inches of hard, reliable man muscle, and he was always ready to have it used to please another guy, especially if it meant masturbating for the other guy’s entertainment while the other guy’s cock rammed Matt’s ass.  Matt was expert at timing his orgasm to match the timing of the cock he felt inside him, realizing it was the other guy’s orgasm that mattered and watching Matt shoot a load simultaneously made that more pleasurable.    Matt’s own pleasure was irrelevant, and if he was denied the chance for his own orgasm he understood that was what he deserved.  His entire existence was focused on sex and using his body to please Jim and any other guys Jim invited to use Jim’s formerly-human sex toy.

 

Today Matt was truly enjoying himself. He was riding in the passenger seat of Jim’s Lamborghini convertible, racing over 120 miles per hour down a beautiful beach-front highway. The day was warm, about 75 degrees with a slight breeze. The view was spectacular, with vistas of mountains on one side and a wide sandy beach on the other. Jim was a very competent driver, so Matt didn’t worry about the excessive speeds down the narrow, winding road. The speed added to the thrill.

 

Matt was naked, of course. It would be inappropriate for him to wear clothes, other than a slave collar and a cock ring he usually wore in public to clarify his status. (They were each electrified, with a phone app Jim could use to zap Matt to enhance his humiliation and add a little entertaining pain for everyone to enjoy.)  On this occasion Jim had instructed him to refrain from putting on a seat belt, since it impeded a tiny bit of his view of Matt’s body. His master’s slightest pleasure was far more important than Matt’s safety, after all, so that made perfect sense. If Matt were thrown from the car and killed, it was hardly a big deal other than inconveniencing Jim somewhat as he secured a replacement slave for the day’s fun. In fact, as Jim had pointed out, he didn’t want that to happen.  Jim had tested whether it would be entertaining on another slave whose sexual performance Jim found boring.  Jim had instructed the slave to jump out of the car and kill himself.  The slave apologized for his poor performance and did as instructed.  Watching the body in the rear-view mirror as it bounced onto the road, cracking its spine and breaking arms and legs, wasn’t as entertaining as Jim had hoped.  Even when he watched the satellite video later he didn’t get much of a turn-on from the scene.  (For Jim’s protection his car was always in view when he drove out of the family estate.)  But he backed up to where the body stopped and positioned the dying slave on the hood of the car, boring its flesh and exposing its ass for Jim to fuck.  Jim did enjoy that part, reaching orgasm as the animal convulsed and died, its ass nicely tightening around Jim’s cock in the process.  But Jim had decided the experiment wasn’t all that successful and hadn’t thrown any slaves out since then – glad he had wasted only a few minutes of his time and a useless slave on the effort.  Besides, Matt knew Jim had other plans for him, although he didn’t know any details.

 

Jim was also naked. But that was by choice – he liked being naked and spent most of his time that way. Since Jim’s family owned the beaches they were driving by, and the mountains, he could do what he wanted. In fact, they were on a huge private island they owned that was not far from Hawaii, and there were no rules except what Jim and his dad decided. The island was not part of any country, or shown on any maps, so their decisions were the law – the only law.  Matt understood that too, realizing it was the way things should be.

 

Both Matt and Jim had erect penises, but Jim’s was simply aroused while Matt’s was positively throbbing. The excitement from the time and attention he was getting today was more than he could imagine.

 

The ride was a nostalgic return to old times in many ways.  Jim and Matt had known each other since they were in high school together.  Their bodies intensely turned each other on sexually and always had.  It was hardly unusual for them both to have a hard-on when they were together.  But today was special.  Matt wanted Jim to have a great day that Jim would remember, and Matt was determined to do his best to help make it happen. It was Jim’s 25th birthday and Jim’s dad was throwing Jim a big beach party not only to celebrate the birthday but also to celebrate Jim’s officially announced role as his dad’s heir and successor in the family business.  The fact Jim had chosen to have just the two of them drive to the party meant everything to Matt.

 

“Are you excited for the beach party?” Jim asked. Another part of Matt’s joy came from Jim telling him they could converse during the ride as if they were friends – as they had been in high school, rather than Matt being required to speak only when asked a question, as befit his status as Jim’s property.

 

“Extremely – can’t you tell?” teased Matt, pointing at his pulsating cock.  “I just hope it’s all you want it to be. I want you to have a wonderful birthday party.  And I’ll do everything I can to help make it so.”

 

“Yes, you will. You’ve been well trained, so I think you’ll perform OK. After all, you’ve had five years to prepare., since you officially became my piece-of-shit slave.  And a lot of conditioning before that.”

 

“Is there anything special you want me to do?”

 

“Not really.  I always enjoy hearing you scream with pain, so feel free to do so until you lose your voice.  I have arranged everything so you’ll not have any opportunity to fuck up.  I want to maximize the fun and entertainment, and that has implications on what will be done to you.  I set limits for others of no permanent damage for sex sessions in the past, but there won’t be any this time other than me directing or performing the actual kill.  Before then I suspect these will get ripped off and I will probably want to eat those while they’re still attached to you.  But that’ll be fairly minor pain compared to some of the ideas I’ve got in mind.”  As he spoke, Jim had reached over and twisted Matt’s hard left nipple and then crunched his balls.  Matt grimaced with the pain but got the point.

 

“Of course.  I hope you really crank up the pain and humiliation, so I can provide a lot of fun for you and your friends.  I especially hope you’ll take your time if you decide to eat me alive.  That looks like an extremely painful way to die and I know how much you enjoy cutting fresh meat from a live slave to eat raw.”

 

“Not to worry.  I’ve always thought you’d make an especially tasty meal, and I plan to keep you alive while I enjoy it.  Carving up a guy and eating him while he watches is an amazing turn-on no matter how often I do it.  I’ve even increased your body-fat ratio a little so you’ll be a bit more flavorful.  You may have noticed your dog dish has had fruit juice rather than the usual piss for the last few weeks, which also should add to the flavor.  Your replacement will get the usual dog food mixed with piss and shit tomorrow, but the shit will be the last remnant of you – in your most appropriate form. I think that will be kind of a nice way to introduce your replacement to his ultimate fate.”

 

“That’s really nice.  Thanks.  I like the idea of me being useful even after your belly turns me into crap.  I figured I’d just be hamburger and fertilizer like the usual disposal of slave circuses.  And I did notice the change in diet and guessed that was the reason.  I also noticed the solid portion wasn’t flavored with the usual human shit.  I know I deserve to drink piss and eat shit, but I can imagine that would adversely affect the flavor of my meat, so I’m glad you have planned ahead as usual.  Besides, I still got to drink a lot of your piss during the day.  Being a live urinal is such an appropriate use for me, and quite an honor.  After all, drinking piss was the first training you gave me, even before I became your slave.”  Remembering their early years got both young men trading stories, and Matt started to reminisce.

 

“In addition to my early training, I also recall the first time we jerked off together and how pissed you were when you realized my cock was longer than yours,” teased Matt.

 

Jim smiled and touched an app on his cell phone.  Matt jerked and screamed as a massive amount of pain ran through his body from an electrified dildo Jim had rammed up his ass before they got in the car   Mat was caught totally by surprise and lurched upward so much he almost fell out of the seat.

 

“Anything else you want to brag about?” Jim asked, laughing at the scene and enjoying Matt’s pain. “I bet if I left my little toy on very long you’d bounce around enough to actually fall out of the car.  You’re lucky I find that boring and anyway you don’t deserve to get off’d that easy.”  With that Jim again touched the app and the pain stopped.

 

“I guess not,” responded Matt, also laughing and pleased Jim was enjoying himself at Matt’s expense.  “That’s quite the little toy you’ve got there. You should be able to have a lot of fun with it.”

 

“I plan to.  I have several of them, so a bunch of you slaves will be bouncing around as my guests play with them.

 

“And, for the record, it’s not your cock any more.  When I acquired you as my property I got everything, including the accessories.  I just let you use the cock since I enjoy watching you jerk off.   I might just have to slice it into pieces today to train you in humility.”

 

“Of course it’s yours,” said Matt, quite sincerely but quickly returning to teasing mode.  “I’m your property and you can do whatever you want with me.  For example, if you wanted a little more length in your personal manhood, you could cut it off and use it to replace the little one currently attached to you.  When you own several cocks, you get to choose the one that’s the biggest.    Maybe that way at least part of me could still be of service after you snuff me.”

 

The teasing earned Matt another, somewhat longer, jolt of electricity but it was worth it.  Jim smiled at Matt and once again laughed at his gyrations but didn’t respond.  He enjoyed the banter, which reminded him of their high school days, when they compared cock sizes like high school males are prone to do.  Matt’s mind also wandered, thinking back to when he first met Jim.

 

2

Fond Memories

Matt was a freshman in high school when he was approached by Jim. Matt was unusually good looking, and Jim, a sophomore, had taken an interest in him, allowing Matt to tag along with Jim and his friends.   In due course, Jim became captain of the football team, being a quarterback of exceptional drive and talent. Matt, meanwhile, turned out to be a great wide receiver.  Both boys were top students and stunningly handsome and fit.  But Matt was an extreme introvert and a nerd, with zero self-esteem, while Jim was extremely popular and outgoing, with tons of friends and an exceptionally dominant personality.  Part of the popularity was because Jim was so wealthy – clearly the wealthiest guy in school, although no one knew how much he had or even what his family did. They just knew other kids didn’t get picked up on a regular basis in a stretch limo after school, and they weren’t rumored to own an island estate in addition to a mansion in town.  That was a total contrast to Matt, who was an orphaned foster kid – no family, no money, and no one who gave a shit about him.

 

Jim was Matt’s only friend, and he invited Matt to hang out after school with Jim and his buddies. The other guys were also older than Matt, so they ignored him. However, Jim was nice to him. That got Matt’s loyalty, but he had no idea why Jim would have any interest in him. Why would a guy like Jim be nice to a guy like Matt – a sophomore to a freshman, a rich kid to a poor kid, a popular kid to a nobody?

 

Most of the time was spent with Jim’s buddies playing sports on the beach near their school. The Southern California weather was always perfect, and the guys would go surfing, swimming, or play volleyball or football.

 

Everyone took off most of their clothes and Matt could look at the other guys’ handsome bodies.  Matt was gay and this turned him on, but he was afraid to reveal that fact. He enjoyed the contact with nearly naked young male flesh and had fun playing sports at the same time. Being proud, fit young males, and since one of the beaches was “clothing optional,” the guys often stripped naked, starting with Jim.  What Jim did tended to be what everyone did.  These were the days Matt enjoyed best. He was good at sports, better than most of the other guys (except Jim) even though he was slightly younger.  But it didn’t matter whether Matt was talented or not, since Jim insisted that Matt be allowed to play.  Jim was always in charge.

 

After the games and fun, the other guys typically went on their way to their fancy homes, and Matt made the long walk to the house where he lived with his foster father, who usually wasn’t home.  The house itself was very nice, but Matt was confined to an unfinished room in the basement that was tiny, damp, and smelly.  Often there wasn’t even enough food, sine Matt was only permitted to eat leftovers, and when his “dad” was home he would berate Matt no matter what he did, telling him what a worthless person he was and that he didn’t deserve even the poor conditions he lived in.  It didn’t matter Matt was a top student and athlete, overcoming all the odds against him.  Nothing could please this foster parent.  It was only the great times with Jim and his buddies that made the rest of his life tolerable.

 

One afternoon, near the end of Mat’s freshman year, Jim had approached Matt as the group was breaking up, after a vigorous game of naked beach volleyball on an especially hot day.

 

“Would you like to head to my place? You could shower up there and we could watch a movie or something.  My dad’s out of town and I know where he keeps the beer.”

 

Matt was thrilled. He wanted to spend as much time with Jim as possible. Not only had Jim befriended him, but Jim was the best-looking guy of the bunch.  Matt was glad they had gone to the nude beach that day, but realized his cock was getting a little hard at the mere prospect of being with Jim.  After all, by this time Matt was just 17 and that’s what happens to 17-year old cocks.

 

“Sure. That would be great!”

 

“Good. Our house is right up the road from here, just a short walk.  Since we’re so sweaty, and it’s a private path, I suggest we just stay naked until after we’ve cleaned up.”

 

“Super,” was all Matt could say, now seriously worried about his growing cock and utterly turned on at the prospect.  He walked slightly behind Jim, so the growing erection wouldn’t be so apparent.  But seeing Jim’s gorgeous backside wasn’t helping.

 

Matt had heard about the mansion but didn’t realize it was on the beach. He was once again impressed, but not in the least jealous.  Jim clearly deserved everything he had.  And Matt’s foster parent had made it clear to Matt that he deserved the poverty and deprivation he endured.

 

Matt always remembered how wonderful that first evening had turned out to be. They had each showered, with Jim letting Matt go first. As he heard Matt turn off the water, Jim walked in.  Jim was still naked, and Matt was once again transfixed by Jim’s exceptional body. Matt hoped Jim didn’t see the major erection that Matt got as a result, but Jim could hardly miss it.

 

“I gather you enjoyed the shower,” Jim laughed, pointing at Matt’s cock. “That’s not a bad piece of meat you’ve got sticking out there.”

 

Matt was embarrassed, but somehow also even more excited. He hadn’t been naked like this in front of another guy – it wasn’t the same as gym class and that sort of thing, or even the nude sports on the beach.  Worse yet, his cock was dripping a little pre-cum.

 

“I’m sorry.  I got to thinking about some of the girls at the beach, and I couldn’t help myself,” Matt lied.

 

“Sure. Don’t worry. That happens to me a lot too.  It’s how guys in high school are supposed to react to scantily clad girls watching us play sports nude, right?  And my cock’s not exactly all shriveled up.”  Jim didn’t have an erection, but his nice long cock hung down a fair way between his legs.

 

“I guess so.” Matt was relieved. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to let on that he was gay, and especially not to let on that Jim was getting him sexually excited.

 

“Well, let me take my shower, and then let’s grab some beers, some food, and see what we’ve got to watch. Do you still feel like doing a movie?”

 

“Yeah. I think that would be fun.”

 

“Great. You can look through the collection and see what you’d like.  I’ve got some great beach movies, if you want to keep enjoying pretty girls with not much on.

 

“Incidentally, I noticed your clothes were pretty dirty, since you tossed them into some mud when you stripped, which was kind of stupid.  I gave them to one of the servants to wash. They’ll be ready in a couple of hours. You can either put on something from my closet, or just stay naked. Either way is OK by me.”

 

“I don’t want to mess up your stuff,” Matt replied, liking the idea of being naked around Jim. “I’ll just wait. And thanks for getting my stuff washed.  My foster dad won’t let me use the clothes washer, so I go to the laundromat and pay for it with money I earn.  He says it will build my worthless character.  I don’t have enough money to do that at the moment, so I really appreciate you getting them cleaned.  I didn’t realize I’d tossed them in mud, and he’d yell at me a lot for that.”

 

“My pleasure.  So you won’t be uncomfortable, I’ll stay naked too.” Then Jim went into the shower, with Matt still watching him. Matt realized he might be staring, and quickly left the bathroom.

 

The two boys spent the rest of the afternoon and the evening sharing a great dinner prepared by the house staff, enjoying a few beers, and watching a movie, never bothering to get dressed.  It was an old beach film about teens in love with lots of surfing scenes and pretty much everyone in bathing suits all the time.  Matt loved it, since the girls provided an excuse for him still having a hard on as they watched.  Sitting next to Jim with both of their bodies fully revealed was an amazing turn-on and the real reason for the consistent erection.  And, as Jim had noted earlier, it wasn’t like Jim’s cock was all shriveled up.

 

That afternoon started what became a routine whenever Jim’s schedule permitted it.  It wasn’t all that frequent at first but increased a lot during Matt’s sophomore year. After the group of Jim’s friends played sports on the beach, now almost always using the nude beach, Jim and Matt would walk to Jim’s house, clean up, get beer and food, and plop down on a sofa to be entertained from Jim’s extensive collection of DVDs. They would watch movies that featured guys who were shirtless and well built along with scantily clad girls. And after their showers the routine included Jim having servants wash Matt’s clothes.  Matt was grateful that Jim had taken pity on him for his plight of not having access to a clothes washer.  But more importantly he loved the fact they watched the movies naked.  For Matt, these were the greatest experiences of his life. Indeed, it was the only time he’d ever really had things go well for him.  It never dawned on him that Jim was subtly maneuvering him and slowly starting Matt’s training.  Jim even pretended to complain that his dad wouldn’t let him have sex with any of his girlfriends, so he needed to masturbate instead, inviting Matt to do the same if he’d like to, while they watched the pretty girls in the movies.  Jim also added a collection of straight porn flicks to reinforce the idea.  Matt had no trouble performing given the guys in the movies, and most especially given his view of Jim’s body, especially as Jim jerked off.  They never touched each other, but the routine had quickly expanded to include mutual masturbation, albeit with Matt jerking off much more often than Jim.  Matt, of course, enjoyed that the most and never considered the possibility that Jim’s explanations were made up to get Matt comfortable having orgasms while Jim watched.  (Jim, in turn, did have to admit Matt’s cock was longer than his after they measured them.  That became an ongoing joke between them.)

 

It wasn’t until Matt’s junior year, while they were celebrating Matt’s 18th birthday, when Jim moved the training beyond their low-key relationship.  Jim had invited Matt over right after school to celebrate and started by offering him a beer – another consistent part of their routine.  But since there were no nude sports beforehand, both boys were still dressed.

 

Jim then let Matt know that there was a house rule Matt needed to know about.

 

“There’s something I sort of need to let you in on, which I haven’t been up front about,” Jim said, in a confidential tone. “I haven’t said anything until now, because I like hanging out with you and I have been afraid it might turn you off.”

 

“Are you kidding?” Matt responded. “This is the greatest time ever for me. Nothing could turn me off about hanging out here with you.  You don’t know how I live otherwise. My life sucks.”

 

“Interesting choice of words,” mused Jim. “But, anyway, here goes.

 

“As you know, I live with my dad, who is incredibly rich, and a bunch of servants. You haven’t met any of them yet, because the servants stay out of the way when we have

visitors, and you haven’t met my dad since he travels a huge amount on business and he’s good about leaving me and my buddies alone.  The servants take care of things like fixing dinner and leave it where we can get it, like they do when they wash your clothes. What you don’t know is that dad is a fervent nudist. He is always naked and insists that everyone in the house also be naked.  I’ve gotten used to it, and kind of like it. That’s why I started getting the guys to strip when we play on the beach.  Dad required the city designate that beach clothing optimal when he donated it to the city.  He’s also very generous but likes to get his way. Anyway, I didn’t want to impose that on you here and was afraid you’d get spooked if you saw a bunch of nude servants.  So I came up with the excuse of needing to have your clothes washed, which is why I took the pile you tossed the first time we came here and re-tossed it into some mud when you weren’t looking.  Making it a routine was easy once you told me you don’t have access to a clothes washer at home.  However, dad told me I must deal with the issue honestly.  And he’s returned from a long trip and might show up here. If I don’t come clean about this I’d be in trouble, and I like to please him.  He’s a great guy.”

 

Matt was a little taken aback, but only from surprise.  He quickly stripped off all his clothes and stood naked in front of Jim.

 

“No problem.  I’m naked now and will stay that way any time you want and in any place you want.  I am just hoping this doesn’t mean I don’t get access to your clothes washer.  Of course, I’m more than happy to do the washing myself so your servants don’t have to.  I’ve always felt a little guilty about that.  And I’ve discovered hanging around here that I like being naked.  In fact, my foster dad requires me to act as his servant when he has people over and insists that I do it nude.  He says it reflects how worthless I am, but I also think he likes looking at me that way.  Fortunately, he doesn’t spend much time at his house and doesn’t entertain much.  But being naked on the beach and in your house is nice.”

 

“Thanks,” Jim replied, also now naked.  “You won’t lose the service, and now you can get to meet some of the servants.  They’re really great guys too.”

 

As Matt considered this development, he admired how Jim had maneuvered things.  That alone was a turn-on for Matt.  He began to realize the extent to which Jim had always been in charge, and he liked it.  He was quite content to let Jim make all the decisions.  But he did tell Jim he felt he should do the washing, since he didn’t think someone else should be burdened with serving him (reflecting his extremely low self-esteem).  Jim agreed, pleased with Matt’s perspective.  That boded well for their future.

 

Then Jim revealed another surprise to Matt.

 

“There’s something else I think we should be honest about. And I think we should cover it before you turn even older – or start to get drunk.”  Jim had handed Matt a second beer and got another one for himself as well.

 

Matt laughed. “Yeah, once you’re 18 it’s all downhill from there. After all, look at you. You’re almost 19 and practically in a nursing home.”

 

“Exactly,” responded Jim, also laughing and taking a healthy swig form his beer. “I’d hate to check in without having had some real sex first. I don’t think you should run that risk either.  And just masturbating like we’ve been doing doesn’t count.  I had a long talk with my dad a while back and it’s OK with him.”

 

That took Matt completely by surprise. He didn’t say anything, but simply stared at Jim, afraid this meant Jim was going to end their sessions to have sex with one of his girlfriends.  As he did so, he was startled to see Jim’s cock starting to get hard. That had happened before, of course, when they were masturbating and watching pretty girls in the porn flicks.  But this seemed different to Matt, and he also started to get excited.

 

“Look, Matt. I know you’re gay. I’ve known it for a long time – sure of it since we were first hanging out on the beach. I could see you staring at me and at the other guys, and I’ve noticed how you get erections all the time when the other guys are around and when we’re naked together.  I could hardly miss that giant hard-on you got when I first invited you to hang out with me and we walked naked together to the house from the beach.  It isn’t girls you’re thinking of, is it?  It’s guys, especially me.”

 

Matt was still silent. He didn’t know what to say. Would Jim throw him out?  Was he being dismissed because he was gay? But why was Jim getting hard?  Matt was scared, confused, and somehow sort of excited all at once.  He started to tear up.

 

“It’s not a problem.”  Jim realized Matt was starting to freak out.  “What I’m trying to tell you, you amazingly dense idiot, is that I’m gay too. That’s why I’m getting a hard-on right now. I’m thinking of how much fun it would be if you sucked my cock.”

 

Matt couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Could his fantasy come true?  Would this marvelous episode in his life – the only decent one – get even better? He finally responded.

 

“Wow. I had no idea. I guess I am a dense idiot – but I already knew that.  You’re right. I am gay.  And you really turn me on. The erections we laughed about were always because I’m sitting here next to you and I can see your body.  You’re the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen, and your cock is awesome, even if a little short.”  Matt couldn’t help teasing Jim, which relieved some of the tension.

 

“Thanks. And it’s long enough to go all the way down your throat.  So, have you had sex with another guy before?”

 

At this point Matt hesitated, stammered, and finally broke down crying.  He told Jim about the horrible things his foster father had done to him, sexually and otherwise, forcing him to suck cock and masturbate to entertain everyone at his parties.  He had already told Jim about having to serve them naked, but now added that he was required to do so with an erection for them to laugh at, and to wear a slave collar.  His foster father knew he was gay and used that as part of the reason he was so worthless and deserving of ridicule and deprivation.  It was all totally illegal, but Matt was too scared to say anything.  He had never mentioned any of it to anyone, and as he finished his confessions, Jim held him as he sobbed in Jim’s arms.  It was the first loving embrace Matt could remember ever receiving.  He soon recovered, however, and apologized to Jim for losing control.  He then asked Jim if this meant Jim would not want to be with him, given what Matt had done.  Like many underage victims, Matt had reacted to the experiences with a strong sense of personal guilt, in his case strongly reinforced by his foster parent.  After Jim assured Matt there was no reason for him to feel guilty, and this was no problem for Jim or their relationship, Matt asked if Jim had had any sex with other guys before.

 

“Yup. Lots and lots of times. Dad figured out that I’m gay as soon as I hit puberty, and it’s OK with him. It turns out he’s gay too. He makes sure all the servants also are young, gay, and good looking. That way our household is sort of one big male fuck party. I get to fuck any of the servants I want and have them suck my cock. But I don’t let them fuck my ass, and I’m glad that hasn’t happened to you either.  I like to do the fucking, and I haven’t slept alone for years.  If you want, and when I think you’re ready, I’ll introduce you to the joys of being butt-fucked.  Dad’s only rule is that he gets to pick first among the staff for his own fun.  They’re all both remarkably sexy and fixated on gay sex, so that’s not much of a limitation.”

 

Matt was now fully back in control of himself but completely astonished. He had never even imagined such a place could exist. This was clearly too good to be true.

 

“So,” continued Jim, who was now fully erect and smiling broadly. “About my cock . . . ”

 

Matt didn’t need another hint and he didn’t waste any time. His experiences hadn’t been good, but he knew what to do.  He gently took hold of Jim’s manhood and knelt in front of him as Jim settled into the couch, and then lovingly took the young hard cock into his mouth. Matt caressed the beautiful muscle with his tongue, focusing on the glans, licking all around the corona and especially the lower skin of the shaft just behind it. Matt knew that was where it was the most pleasurable to touch himself to masturbate, and he figured that would be a good place to lick to get Jim off.  What he didn’t tell Jim was that the best techniques for giving a blow job was the only thing his foster parent had ever bothered to teach him.  His technique would be evaluated and discussed at the parties and he would be punished if it was found wanting – which it always was.

 

Jim’s body began to sway a bit, and he let out a soft moan of pleasure.

 

“Wow. You’re really good at sucking cock. You’ve got talent, my boy.”

 

Matt kept to his task, enjoying it far more than he had ever even fantasized that he could. His own cock was now literally throbbing and leaking pre-cum from sexual excitement.  But the focus was on Jim.

 

After a while, Jim’s body began to gyrate, his breathing intensified, and his cock exploded. A massive

load of cum erupted into Matt’s mouth. Matt swallowed it all, hungrily and eagerly. He didn’t even consider having Jim withdraw and shoot outside Matt’s mouth. Matt wanted Jim’s man-juice. And he continued to lick the streaming cock as it emptied it load down his throat, intensifying Jim’s pleasure.

 

Jim finally stopped shooting his load, and his cock drooped a bit, but not much.  Jim took it out of Matt’s mouth, sighing with pleasure.

 

“That was just fucking amazing. I think that’s the best blow job I’ve ever had and the biggest load I’ve ever shot.  You really got me turned on. I like the fact you had the good manners to swallow it all, too. Thanks a lot.”

 

“You’re welcome,” was the sincere response. “I’ll do that any time you want.  Just let me know. And let me know if you want to try other stuff too, or how I can do better to please you.  Whenever you decide you want to fuck my ass, it’s yours to use as you want.”

 

“I will. But it looks like you’re about to shoot too.  Do you want to shoot a load to land on my chest? That would be fun to watch, and then you could lick it up.”

 

Matt was delighted with the offer.  He instinctively knew that it was his job to service Jim, not the other way around. That was perfectly fine, the way things should be.  He wanted to get himself off in front of his friend, if that was something Jim wanted him to do. So Matt positioned himself, kneeling on the couch over Jim while Jim lay on his back, watching the show.  It didn’t take Matt long to shoot – he was sexually excited as he had never been before. Matt shot a nice load onto Jim’s smooth chest and belly. Then, per Jim’s instructions, Matt licked up his own cum.  As he worked his way down Jim’s chest to his belly and crotch, he saw that Jim’s cock was once again fully erect.  So after a nod from Jim he again took it in his mouth and again massaged Jim to orgasm.  The second load wasn’t as huge, but it was still decent, and Matt enjoyed swallowing that too.  Jim lay back on the couch, utterly satisfied.  That’s what pleased Matt the most.

 

The boys decided to clean up, but this time they showered together. Matt washed Jim’s wonderful skin, then washed himself. Matt was once again hard, turned on by touching Jim. What Matt hadn’t realized yet was that he was also turned on by the fact he was serving Jim.  And since Jim didn’t suggest Matt jerk off again, the idea never occurred to Matt to give himself added sexual relief.  His sexual energy kept him nice and hard, more fun for Jim to look at.

 

The boys got some dinner and watched another movie.  This time dinner was brought to them by a naked stud servant – Dennis – who was himself a complete turn-on with an impressive erection.  Before they ate Jim asked Dennis to give Matt a blow job.  Jim also had Dennis position himself so Jim could fuck his ass as Dennis sucked off Matt.   Dennis eagerly obliged both requests, seriously turned on by Matt’s body and eager to host Jim’s cock.  Matt was amazed and grateful for Jim’s thoughtfulness in letting Matt get a blow job for the first time ever, especially from such a great-looking stud.  After Jim and Matt shot their loads, Matt offered to suck off Dennis, if that was OK with Jim.  Dennis soon sent a nice load down Matt’s throat.  It was a fantastic turn—on for all three of them, but especially for Matt.  He had never had a birthday party at all, let alone one like this!

 

Then, to continue the fun, it was movie time.  Jim showed Matt another set of movie choices.

 

“We don’t have to pretend any more.   These are all gay porn flicks. The guys are naked, fucking and sucking each other. I think we’ll like these better.  Dad bought a studio so he could have very high-quality porn with scenes he likes.  It was worth every penny, and I get to make suggestions too.”

 

Matt was in complete agreement. He looked at the selection – it was huge. Best of all, it included a variety of kinds of gay movies. Some were just of guys jerking off. Some had orgies, others were gang bangs. And some showed guys being restrained, engaged in S&M scenes. Jim seemed to have a whole lot of that kind.

 

“What looks good to you,” asked Jim. “Since you did such a nice job on my cock, and it’s your birthday, I’ll let you pick our first gay porn flick that we watch together.”

 

“Well, these all look pretty exciting,” said Matt, holding up a box that showed a young dude being whipped. “But I’ve never seen any S&M stuff.  How about one of these? They look particularly interesting.”

 

“They are,” agreed Matt. “You’ve made a good choice.  It’s got scenes with that guy getting gang-fucked while he’s being whipped.”  So, aided by a few more beers courtesy of Dennis, they greatly enjoyed Matt’s first S&M gay porn film.

 

After the movie Jim commented:  “When I saw it the first time, I liked it so much I had dad track down the guy and we invited him over to the estate for a fun weekend to celebrate my own 17th birthday.  He’s the first guy I personally got to flog.  The coolest part was that he wanted to be flogged.  Some guys get into that big time, so it’s a turn-on for everyone.  We did lots of other things to him, which were also a lot of fun.  Dad told me what to try and it was quite an education for me and for our guest.  Dad had paid him a very generous fee, and he was willing to push his limits a lot.  It turned out the guy had been in trouble with the law and dad got that straightened out for him. So he was doubly grateful and eager to show it.  He did everything we wanted him to do.  On the last night of the weekend he even joined us for dinner and everyone celebrated and toasted the events.   Dad had one of the studio crews film it, so I’ve got a great move I can show you sometime.”

 

Matt asked Jim if they could watch the home movies now, but Jim said they were at the estate, so they’d have to settle for what he had at the house.  But he had a lot. Dennis fetched another round, and Jim and Matt watched a second S&M movie that was even more severe.  As they watched it, both boys once again got excited, their naked bodies finally touching as they groped and kissed each other while they rolled around on the large sofa, any inhibitions cast aside in a mixture of lust and alcohol. In due course, after Matt had kissed every part of Jim’s amazing body, Jim guided Matt’s mouth back to his cock. The third load that filled Matt’s mouth was still impressive. Matt then added to the movie entertainment by popping another load and licking it up for Jim’s viewing pleasure.

 

This time Jim had instructed him to shoot on the wooden floor.  That way Matt was down on all fours as he used his tongue to do the clean-up, which gave Jim a nice view of how Matt looked doggie-style. He wasn’t disappointed, and when he commented on Matt’s position Matt added to the laughter by barking for Jim’s amusement, then kneeling doggie style and begging for more cum.

 

“You’ve drained me completely,” Jim laughed.  “I’m all out of cum for now, but I’ll be needing to get rid of a bunch of piss with all these beers.”

 

The second movie not only had a lot of gangbang fucking and flogging, it also had some water sports, as the gang-bangers unloaded their piss down the guy’s throat and then made him lick their cocks clean.  Jim noticed Matt seemed interested in those scenes too.  Jim decided to find out a bit more about how “flexible” Matt really was.

 

“I like the scenes where a guy pisses down another guy’s throat,” Jim confided. “I know people think it’s gross, but It can be a genuine turn-on for both guys.  Some of our servants like it too, and a few, like Dennis, can take my whole load without dripping any of the piss.”

 

“Really?” asked Matt, his education continuing. “Can a guy really drink that much? Don’t they choke on all that piss?”

 

Jim was pleased with the answer. Matt wasn’t resistant or turned off.  He just wanted information.

 

“No. Some guys are talented at it, like the guy in the movie. How about if we find out if you’re one of them? I do need to pee, and could have Dennis come back in, but, after all, you’re right here.” Jim laughed, easing the tension he was afraid Matt would feel.

 

But Matt felt no tension at all. He simply got on his knees once again and opened his mouth. Jim let loose a major load of beer-flavored piss, using Matt as a human urinal. To Jim’s surprise, Matt successfully took the entire load on his first try, not spilling a drop.  Jim was pleased and impressed.  Realizing that Matt would also need to piss, Jim summoned Dennis once again, and Dennis was more than willing to service Matt.  Matt enjoyed that too, but admitted he preferred to be on the receiving end.  “I guess I’m more the submissive type.”  So Dennis obliged and drained a load into Matt’s willing mouth.  All three boys had a great time as Matt learned more and more about himself.

 

Jim asked Matt if he’d like to stay the night, and of course Matt said yes.  Jim explained that he had already chosen Dennis to sleep with and once again butt-fuck, but there was room in the bed for all three of them. He suggested that Matt could suck Dennis’ cock while Jim fucked his ass. Matt was always welcome to shoot a load any time he wanted, so long as Jim could watch him do it, including watching Matt lick up the cum.  Or, if it was OK with Dennis, Matt’s load could go down Dennis’s throat.   So that’s exactly what they did. It was the first of many nights together, with Jim selecting the third (and often the fourth) companion form among the servants.   Matt would be “available” in Jim’s bed for the servants Jim selected, and Matt quickly became quite expert at sucking cock.  Jim, in turn, enjoyed watching Matt jerk off onto the servant’s chest, or on the floor, and then lick up the cum. If Jim sucked off one of the guys and had him shoot a load on Jim’s chest, Matt licked up that cum too.  Jim would usually butt-fuck the servant, but he also liked to have Matt suck his cock, and often had Matt clean it after shooting into the servant’s asshole, usually followed by draining a load of Jim’s piss.  Matt also received great blow jobs form the servants, but mostly just did everything Jim requested, or even hinted at.  As Matt realized Jim didn’t get as much satisfaction when Matt shot down another guy’s throat rather than pumping out his load where he could then lick it up, Matt consistently did the latter.  He wanted to please Jim.

 

Matt functioned as a cocksucker and a urinal but was not butt-fucked.  Jim said that would wait until there was a special occasion.  Matt also was not used as an object of Jim’s fun for S&M play.  Jim enjoyed whipping the guys he fucked, as well as inflicting cock and ball torture.  It was pretty tame the first evening with Dennis but grew more intense in later visits.  Matt was very turned on by this and offered his body for Jim’s use, however he wanted to use it, but again Jim deferred “for now.”

 

Also, Matt was delighted and turned on to accept Jim’s morning load of piss. That would be followed by another sex scene, and if the servant also wanted to use Matt as his morning urinal, that was OK with Matt so long as Jim approved, which he always did.  Matt had naturally understood that all decisions were to be made by Jim.

 

Matt stayed at Jim’s house whenever he could do so, which was increasingly frequent during Jim’s senior year.  Indeed, after the first evening’s introduction to sex Matt rarely spent time at his foster home. His foster parent hardly noticed. He just cared if the checks kept coming. If Matt wasn’t around, that meant he got to keep the whole check without wasting even the small amount of money he was forced to spend on Matt.

 

Their time together weren’t just sex, and the two teens shared their thoughts about everything – school, life, being gay, and what they would do after high school.  They were in a sociology class together, and they enjoyed talking about the theories the teacher explained.  He had taught that slavery was wrong in the old days because it was based on race or class rather than merit.  But he explained that there were different roles and desires among people, and some were meant to lead, and enjoyed doing that, while others were meant to follow and serve.  Jim told Matt how his dad was a natural leader and expected Jim to do the same.  Jim was eager to pursue that, and after high school he’d be getting special training that would be far more intense and useful than regular college.  Matt was intrigued and glad there were people like Jim and his dad who were able to take charge.  As for himself, he had no plans and no idea what he’d do, but his foster dad consistently told him he’d probably wind up in jail since he was so worthless.  For both boys, these exchanges were a unique chance to share their deepest feelings, and they did so.  Jim even shared the fact his family actually owned slaves, who were suited to their role and completely comfortable with it.  “Like our teacher said, it would be wrong to discriminate, but it’s right to recognize roles.  On the island where we have our estate there is a small group of leaders who work with my dad.  Then there’s a much bigger group of citizens who lead great and productive lives, not burdened by having to make the tough political choices dad and his colleagues make for them.  It’s all supported by a very large group of willing slaves who are obedient and content.  They’re doing what they were born and best suited to do.  So everyone is happy and the place is like a paradise.  I’d love to show you sometime.”  To Matt this all made sense and he eagerly encouraged Jim to do so.

 

As the school year ended and Jim approached graduation, he invited Matt to his estate, and suggested he plan to spend a week right after classes were over. Matt had been intensely curious and hopeful he might get invited someday.  He accepted at once.

 

“Do I need to bring anything?” Matt asked.

 

“Hell, no,” came the amused reply. “Just your mouth and your cock.  And, if you’re a good boy, maybe your ass for fucking and your back for whipping.  I think it’s time we took things up a notch or two.”  Matt got the point and was now even more excited.  Jim would finally fuck his ass as he did all the other guys he had sex with and use Matt for S&M sex.  Those prospects totally turned Matt on. And he assured Jim he was ready and willing.

 

3

A Whole New World

 

As Matt left the building after his last day of the spring semester, which included an assembly at which he’d received one award as the best athlete in his class and a second award as the best scholar, he was still upset from events at his foster home from the prior evening.  His foster dad had gotten what would be the final support check since Matt was aging out of the foster-care system.  He informed Matt that the “gravy train” was over and Matt was no longer welcome.  He also informed Matt that he was keeping all Matt’s possessions and told him to leave now. He didn’t want a worthless piece of shit like Matt continuing to infect his house.  Matt had already stripped naked and given his foster dad a blow job, which he was now required to do to “earn” his dinner whenever he went home.  The ritual had started a year or so earlier and usually ended with Matt drinking a load of piss to follow the cum.  Matt enjoyed that at Jim’s, but here it was a degrading punishment.  Worse, this time his “dad” followed it by pissing all over Matt’s body, then holding his face down in the toilet where had had just taken a shit, leaving him with the stench and taste of piss and crap as he was forced out the door.  Matt was in tears as he had begged for some clothes and a chance to wash off, but that was met with harsh laughter, a hard kick to his balls, and a door slammed in his face.  Matt’s spirit was broken, and he stood and wept for a long time.

 

Matt spent the night sleeping naked on the beach, washing himself in the ocean.  A cop had arrested him early the next morning since this was not the nude beach, threatening to put him in jail.  Fortunately, the cop was willing to overlook the violation in return for a blow job, telling Matt that would be good practice for when Matt was arrested again as he certainly would be given his pathetic status.  After the cop left Matt managed to bum some money for cheap shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt to wear to school in return for giving another guy on the beach a morning blow job.  Matt realized he was now nothing more than a prostitute.  It was the worst day of all the bad days in foster care.  Matt was glad that phase was over but knew he’d have to figure out something when he returned from Jim’s estate.  He figured being a prostitute was his only viable option.

 

Matt was very pleased and surprised to see the sleek, impressive limo that picked up Jim waiting on the street in front of the school.  He assumed this meant Jim was nearby, and he desperately wanted to be with his friend.  The driver was Dennis, Matt’s favorite of Jim’s servants, who was standing next to the limo.  Dennis spotted Matt and signaled for him to come over.  Matt figured this meant Jim was already in the car.  But what most caught Matt’s attention was the fact Dennis was totally naked other than a sporty chauffer’s cap.  He was stroking his cock, which was already hard. What was more amazing to Matt was that no one was hassling Dennis.  There was some giggling and pointing from students, but both students and teachers left him alone.

 

As Matt reached the car Dennis greeted him with a friendly slap on the back.

 

“Master James sent me to pick you up.  He heard what happened with your foster dad and figured you’d need a little TLC and want to clean up at the house before we head to the airport.  He also thought it would be fun to put on a little scene for your fellow students and make it a “coming out” statement by you.  He thinks it would be better if you were open about the fact you’re a submissive gay.  Besides, it might balance the swollen ego you probably have after your awards.”

 

“Ah, sure,” was Matt’s confused reply.  Matt was nervous, mostly because no one had ever picked him up before, let alone in a limo. “I’ll do whatever Jim wants, but after last night and this morning no one needs to worry about me having an inflated ego.  What does Jim have in mind?”

 

“It’s pretty simple.  You start by stripping naked, putting on this slave collar, and stroking yourself to get an erection.  Then you carry your clothes to the Goodwill bin about a block down the street. Drop them in and walk back here.  That should get everyone’s attention.  When you return to the car he wants you to kneel and give me a blow job, swallowing me cum and a load of piss.  Then do the same for any other guys who want to be serviced.  After that you won’t have to hide your sexual orientation any more.  We’ll drive to the house where you can clean up and we can pick up Master James.”

 

“Are you sure?  What happens if I get arrested?  That’s already happened once today.  And these are the only clothes I have – my asshole foster dad took everything else.”

 

Dennis laughed heartily.  “Wow.  You really are as dense as Master James says you are.  Do you seriously think anyone would mess with a friend of his?  Do you have any idea just how powerful he and his dad really are, and how much they have given to the school and the city?  Why do you think everyone’s leaving me alone while I play with my dick naked and in public?  As for clothes, everyone is nude at the estate.  You’re going to visit a whole new world young man.”

 

Matt considered Dennis’ comments, and it all made sense.  Besides, it was what Jim wanted and that’s what mattered.  So he got naked, put on the slave collar, got hard, walked naked to the next block, dropped his clothes in the Goodwill bin, and returned to get on his knees in front of Dennis for the blow-job.  He also dropped the awards in a garbage can, thinking how pointless all his efforts at school had been.  He would leave town with absolutely nothing.

 

The blow job did get people’s attention, as expected, and a group of Jim’s buddies wandered over to enjoy the show, some of them stripping off their shirts and taking out their own cocks to join in.  Matt had no trouble getting Dennis off, and dutifully swallowed generous loads of cum and piss as the crowd laughed and cheered.  Dennis asked the assembled guys if anyone else was horny and wanted service, which of course they all did.  Matt got to suck off about 8 more guys, most of whom hadn’t used a human urinal before but didn’t hesitate to use Matt.  It was a popular stunt, and all the guys told Dennis to thank Jim for the entertainment.  (No one even considered thanking Matt.)  They told Matt he should spend his next and last year in school aiming for awards as “Best Cocksucker” and “Best Urinal,” instead of athletics or academics, laughing and mocking him, roughing him up with a few well-placed kicks to his nuts, and telling him to be sure to wear his new collar to school if he was stupid enough to come back, because they had a lot of torment to inflict now that his protector Jim would be gone.  The odd part to Matt was that he didn’t mind.  Being sexually used and degraded in front of an audience in public turned him on, and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t mind providing “service” to his classmates next year.  Maybe one of them would let him stay in his house in return.  That would still be prostitution of a sort, but at least safer.

 

After the show was over, Dennis proceeded to open the rear door for Matt, motioning him to get in.  But that made Matt uncomfortable. He couldn’t conceive of a chauffeur taking him in a limo.  “If you promise not to crash the car when you cum, how about if I ride up front and suck your cock again while we drive to the house?  I see it’s gotten hard while I was sucking off the other guys.  I’m not the type that deserves to ride in the back of a fancy limo unless it’s to service Jim.  And, by the way, how far is it to the estate.  I have no idea.  I think you said something about an airport?”

 

Dennis was in a great mood and enjoyed the banter with Matt.  He agreed to let Matt sit up front until they picked up Jim.

 

“Master James is in no hurry, and while you suck and swallow I can answer your questions about the estate.”

 

Matt didn’t hesitate and leaned over to accept Dennis’ cock as Dennis started the limo.  Matt was almost as turned on by Dennis’ body as by Jim’s, but Dennis hadn’t said anything about Matt shooting his own load so he didn’t even consider that option.  As they drove Dennis explained that the estate was on a huge island near Hawaii, and they were going to fly there.

 

“They own the whole island, which is about the size of Manhattan, and it has its own airport.  There are hundreds of thousands of people who live there, and it’s the real headquarters of the family enterprises.  We’ll take off from the commercial airport near town, where the plane is in their private hanger.  These guys are rich beyond what anyone understands.

 

“I think you’ll enjoy the plane ride.  The plane is amazing, and all decked out for sex parties.  It’s a safe bet we won’t be the only ones on board, and everyone will have the same idea.  You’ll be able to get lots of practice sucking cock and having yours sucked in prep for the long weekend.  It’ll be about a two-hour flight so there’ll be lots of time.”

 

As Dennis finished his explanation he also reached his orgasm and shot a load down Matt’s throat.  Matt was fascinated by what he’d heard but had not been distracted from his task.  Once he finished swallowing the cum, he did pause to inquire, however.

 

“I assume you’ll also want to piss, which I’m happy to drink.  But first, I think you said a two-hour flight.  Isn’t it more like four or five hours to fly to Hawaii from here?”

 

Dennis guided Matt’s mouth back to his cock by way of confirming he had a load of piss, then answered the other question simply.

 

“It takes nearly five hours if you fly commercial. But commercial jets don’t fly at supersonic speeds.  Like I said, these guys are wealthy at a whole different level.”

 

As Dennis finished pissing down Matt’s throat they drove through the security gate and into the driveway at the mansion.  Matt quickly headed inside to clean up, and when he returned to the car he moved to the back seat.  Jim was already inside, naked and erect, quickly guiding Matt’s head to his cock.  “No point waiting until we get to the airport to start enjoying ourselves, right? I figure you can suck my cock and drink a load of cum at least once by the time we get to the airport, and then we can have a lot of fun with the other guys on the flight, including Dennis.   Although I understand he might have to work up a little sex drive again given the pickup and car ride activities he just told me about.”

 

“Not to worry,” laughed Dennis.  “You and Matt are sexy enough to get me going again.  The real question is if you’ll still have enough cum left to fill my ass in due course.”

 

Both Dennis and Jim continued to enjoy their teasing as they drove to the airport.  Matt didn’t say anything, but immediately got to work on Jim’s cock. He and Jim each managed to shoot their first loads of the weekend well before the limo drove into the private airport hangar.

 

The plane was as awesome as Dennis had described and Matt was thrilled to see about 10 of Jim’s favorite sex partners waiting for them.  He learned that the household was moving to the island estate, and the mansion would be closed as a primary home since Jim was done with high school and they didn’t need a house there anymore.

 

As Dennis had promised, the plane ride turned into a fabulous sex party.  Matt had participated in lots of threesomes with Jim, but this was his first real orgy.  It was better than anything he could imagine, and he was kept busy sucking and swallowing, but also was encouraged to shoot as many loads himself as part of the entertainment.  Everyone was totally drained by the time they landed, and courtesy of Jim his sex buddies were also sore not only from being fucked in the ass but from being objects of his S&M whips and other toys. Matt was anxious and hopeful to join that group, totally turned on by the thought of being fucked and whipped.

 

When they finished the drive form the airport on the island and finally arrived at the estate, Matt was amazed. He’d never seen anything so large or so impressive, even in pictures or movies. This was truly an estate.  Jim explained that they had about 5,000 acres tied to the manor house itself, which was only a small part of their island.  He also explained that there were about 500 guys working on the estate in various functions, from gardeners and cooks to drivers and butlers.

 

“They all have jobs of some sort, but mostly the workers on the estate itself are here for sex,” Jim explained with considerable enthusiasm.  “lots and lots of sex.”

 

“There are also other regular communities on the island, which include thousands of workers and their families, who manage and run our various businesses and help assure everything remains out of public view.  Dad’s got a whole lot more money than anyone knows about,” he added. “It’s many multiples of $100 billion, but he stays out of sight. The island itself isn’t on any maps and isn’t part of any country.  That way we can enjoy all the money and still not lose our privacy.  We can do whatever we want on our own property, with our own property.  And the people who live and work here get to be in a paradise without the burden of having to make decisions on things like government and social policy.  There is no poverty, no crime or disruptions, and everyone has wonderful, productive lives and careers.  As I told you before, all this is supported by a massive group of slaves who are obedient and content to be property.”

 

Matt was absolutely overwhelmed and excited to be there. He didn’t care what the family’s motives were. He just wanted to please Jim, so he could stay a while, especially if it involved gay sex. As he thought further about it, he realized he just wanted to please Jim no matter what.  He was in lust and in love.

 

Jim and Matt got out of the limo that picked them up at the island’s airport and headed to the front door, each with his hard cock protruding in front of him.  They had continued to enjoy each other during the ride.

 

“Wow.” Matt could only manage a one-word comment as he tried to express his wonder. He was even more impressed when he saw the butler who opened the door for Jim.  The guy was in his early thirties and could have been a major movie star on looks alone. He too had an erection – a very impressive one at that.

 

“I gather dad’s home?” asked Jim, pointing at the butler’s hard cock.

 

“Yes, sir, he is,” was the polite and respectful response, accompanied by a friendly smile and then a very warm embrace as the two men hugged each other, their cocks rubbing together and leaking a little precum. Matt just stared, eager to figure out how he might be allowed to suck this guy’s cock.

 

Jim explained that his dad required the house staff to maintain erections whenever he was in the house, for his amusement and sexual satisfaction. One of the companies they owned made a sort of “Viagra plus” drug that enabled guys to be hard pretty much constantly.

 

“It’s not on the market yet, but it works really well. I’ll get you some, although I’m not sure you need it being as horny as you are.” Jim laughed as he jokingly slapped Matt’s cock.  “The drug has a side effect that could create marketing issues.  It causes a fatal heart attack in about 10% of the users.  The marketing group wants to wait until the number looks better before releasing it generally.  We’re doing lots of field tests and think it’ll get lower soon, maybe even under 5%.  Meanwhile, we have no problem getting volunteers on the island to try it given the upside effects, and it’s mandatory for guys working at the estate and for slaves.  It’s pretty much constant erections and plentiful orgasms with gobs of sperm.  Young guys will take a little risk for that.  I’d hate to learn you’re in that unlucky 10%, but having you erect all the time is worth the risk.  You’ll be even more fun to play with if you don’t keel over dead from it.”

 

“Sure, no problem,” came Matt’s quick reply.  “That sounds like a very reasonable risk and I do think I’d be a better sex partner.  So just sign me up.”

 

“Great,” Jim continued, as he gave Matt a pill from a nearby container and continued with more background on the estate.  Matt hadn’t noticed that Jim actually had not asked his consent, but Jim ignored that for now.  “Edward here is the head butler and runs the whole household, which is what butlers do. Dad put him in charge almost ten years ago so he truly knows the place and the people.  He’s amazingly competent, plus being one of dad’s favorite studs.  He’s got a great butt and knows how to use that cock. I walked in on the two of them the other night while they were having at it in the living room. It was quite a scene. Dad was in such a good mood he let me join in and we double-fucked Edward.  But we were both still horny, and Edward was about to burst, so dad sent for some more of the staff to service all three of us.  I kept fucking Edward, shooting another load up his ass as the group assembled. It turned into a terrific party, lasting well into the night.”

 

Jim’s story almost caused Matt to shoot another load. He was careful not to touch himself, he was so excited at what he had seen and heard. If only he could become part of this scene, he’d do whatever it took to keep them satisfied.  A 10% risk of dying form a drug that made him a more appealing stud was a no-brainer to take.

 

It was then that Jim’s dad walked in. His demeanor and the perfection of his body filled Matt with even more lust and awe. While Jim’s dad was obviously older than Jim, probably mid-40s, he was the most handsome male Matt had ever seen. Matt realized he wanted to suck the dad’s cock as much as Jim’s.  It was huge, but not out of place for the smooth, rock-hard, and perfectly formed body. Like the rest of the group, the massive cock was erect and ready for action.

 

“Hi Jim,” he greeted his son, giving him a huge hug. “I see you brought Matt with you. Welcome to our home, Matt. My name’s David Fletcher.  I’m Jim’s dad.”

 

Matt was once again taken aback – this time by the courtesy and kindness in the voice. He barely had the presence of mind to respond.

 

“Thank you, sir.  I’m grateful to be here. This is a fantastic place, sir.” Matt could not bring himself to use Mr. Fletcher’s name. It just seemed too presumptuous. “Sir” was more appropriate.

 

“Glad you think so. We like it. Jim has told me a lot about you.  Are you two going to get a snack, work out, watch a movie, or just get right to fucking?”

 

“Matt’s never been butt-fucked before, dad, or whipped,” enthused Jim. “He really wants me to do both, and I’d like to start that right away.  We’ve already started with lots of sex on the flight and the limo rides.  I got some great cardio in by whipping the staff, especially Dennis, during our orgy, and also with a fun combo of whipping and gut punching of a new slave we just acquired.  I’m afraid I got a little carried away with that, and he’s being checked over by the vet.  His belly and balls just cried out to be punched hard and whipped.  He’ll probably be OK.  I hope so since I want to use him again even more aggressively.”

 

Matt had observed the “rules” of the orgy during the flight.  Jim was in charge, of course, and engaged in dominant sex and S&M.  But with staff he kept to strict limits.  Dennis was hugely turned on by being fucked and being whipped, so Jim laid into him and Dennis erupted with pain-induced pleasure.  However, Dennis was not turned on by having his body covered with clothespins, as some other guys were, so Jim refrained from that with him.  Jim was not the only sadist, and other staff who were got to enjoy their fun too, using the ones who were more masochist.  It was a balance that met everyone’s needs.  The exception was the slave Jim had referred to, who was used by everyone without any concern for his limits or desires.  As Jim had explained to Matt, that was what slaves were for, and they knew it and accepted it.  Further, that meant there was no need to push the limits of Jim or any of the staff, as they could get release from using the slave however they wanted.  It made perfect sense to Matt.

“Anyway,” Jim continued.  “If it’s OK I’d like to skip my formal work-out for now and fuck Matt’s ass, then flog him.  He’s invited me to do it before, but I wanted to wait for this weekend, so it can be part of our partying.”

 

“Is that correct?” Mr. Fletcher asked Matt. “And if so, would you like Jim to fuck you?  And whip you?”

 

“Yes, sir, it is.” Matt wanted to be very responsive. “And I’d be honored if Jim would be the first guy to do so.  Anyone else is also welcome to fuck me, whip me, or whatever, if that’s OK with you and Jim.  I think it would be fun for everyone if you made it a gangbang like I’ve seen in some of Jim’s S&M porn movies, and I suspect I’ve got a pretty tight hole since it’s never been used before.”

 

“Well, Jim’s workouts are important, but I guess that can come later. Plugging a virgin ass and doing some more vigorous flogging will give him a bit of exercise, and it isn’t something we get to do to such an eager and attractive butt every day, is it?  Whipping someone is good exercise if it’s done vigorously for a decent amount of time so that can be today’s workout.

 

Since he’s your guest, son, you get to fuck him first, although if you’re willing to share as he suggests I would like to take a turn. Is that OK with you?”  The question was to Jim, not Matt, as everyone understood the decisions were Jim’s.  And, besides, Matt had already volunteered to be the target of a gang-bang.  He had wondered why Jim hadn’t done it when they spent all those nights together, and he appreciated learning Jim did indeed want to make it a special occasion.  Jim gave his dad an enthusiastic “yes.”

 

“Great. Let’s go for it. Edward, I think I’ll fuck Dennis while I watch the opening act.  Why don’t you round him up along with 30 or 40 of the staff for the event? I know Jim likes an audience, and Matt can spend the afternoon getting a very personal introduction from some of the staff.  The rest can fuck him later – this won’t be our only session, and he has a very appealing butt all set to be used.

 

“By the way, be sure to include a urinal or two for when someone needs to piss,” Mr. Fletcher continued as Edward started to carry out the request.

 

“No need, dad,” Jim interrupted. “I’ve trained Matt to drink both piss and cum, and he’s really good at it. I bet he can service the whole group.”

 

“It would be a privilege to do so, sir,” interjected Matt, somewhat eagerly.  At one level he was taken aback by his offer turning into a rather massive gangbang, but he also understood that this was clearly a chance to ingratiate himself, and he didn’t want to fuck it up.  Besides, he was quite turned on by the prospect of all those cocks ramming his ass and then pissing down his throat.  It was a turn-on that made him feel useful.

 

“Well, son, it seems you’ve done a better job of training than even I had expected. I’m impressed. He also has good manners. It looks like you’ve found a talented young specimen. He’s well formed, and as you know I do like to start training when they’re still young. They’re so much more pliable while still in their late teens.”

 

They led Matt into the main hall, and then into a very large living room. It had lots of overstuffed chairs and expensive looking couches, a large oaken bar, and elegant oriental rugs. There was a fireplace already lit (although not needed given the warm weather) and a handsome young bartender and several waiters ready to get whatever someone wanted to eat or drink.

 

“Would you like a drink?” Jim asked Matt. “We have lots of beer, but you can have something different if you’d like.  I’m going for beers myself since that causes me to piss more. After all, I want to be considerate of my guest.  I know you’re fond of used beer from our movie dates.”

 

“Thanks, but in that case I’ll just wait to recycle yours.  I am sure you’re anxious to get your cock inside me, and it would be rude for me to make you wait while I drank a fresh beer.”  Mr. Fletcher observed the interaction between the boys with considerable satisfaction. Jim was maturing incredibly well. He had just finished high school, and his record was superb – athletics, great grades, leadership, and real popularity.  Jim had developed into a very handsome young man, in the prime of his sexual activity. His body was naturally good looking, and he diligently followed Mr. Fletcher’ admonition to make its maintenance a top priority.  So Jim’s muscles shone and his stamina was relentless.

 

What surprised and impressed Mr. Fletcher the most was how well Jim had trained Matt.  Matt would perform nicely if properly maintained. His sexual orientation was totally gay, and it was already clear that he had remarkably strong submissive and masochistic tendencies. Matt was meant to serve someone, and that someone would be Jim. Jim had also done an outstanding job introducing Matt to sex as a submissive but eager source for Jim’s own pleasures rather than focusing on what pleased Matt. Matt didn’t even seem to need instruction to realize that it was all about Jim.  Jim had already gotten Matt to accept that his role included being a human toilet. That usually took much longer in training slaves.  Yes, Matt would be a very good first slave for Jim.  Jim would not only enjoy Matt, but learn how to use slaves as property, not thinking of them as if they were still human.  Transitioning Matt from a virgin school buddy new to gay sex into an object to be fucked and used up was a very important next step in Jim’s maturity.  Mr. Fletcher wondered how Jim would react when it came time to dispose of Matt, but that was in the future.

 

It would never occur to Mr. Fletcher that Matt had any real value as a person.  He was well aware Matt was the star of the soccer team and at the top of his class academically. He even knew about the awards Matt had just gotten.  He especially knew Matt had overcome great adversity and lack of opportunity in a cruel setting.  After all, Matt’s foster dad was one of Mr. Fletcher’s employees, and had been carrying out his instructions in raising Matt to crush his self-esteem.  That had been a key part of his training.  To David Fletcher, Matt was simply an object to be used in the training and pleasure of what mattered – Jim, a member of the family dynasty and David’s chosen heir.  All those other things were just part of making Matt more useful for this purpose.  That final night in foster care, which left Matt with no possessions, naked and drenched with shit and urine, followed by utter humiliation in front of his classmates, was just a setup to assure Matt had no hope or sense of any future other than Jim.  It had obviously worked well.

 

What David did pay attention to was how wonderfully formed Matt was physically. He smiled as he noticed once again how some parts of any teenage boy develop sooner than others. In Matt’s case, he clearly had a fully developed cock, and it was seriously out of proportion to the relatively small size of the rest of his body. It made Matt an even sexier target, especially as Mr. Fletcher considered how fragile and vulnerable the rest of Matt’s body was. There is no way the 17-year old could resist a beating or whipping form the older, stronger males. That was what being an Alpha Male was all about, and it caused Mr. Fletcher to feel the need for an extra degree of satisfaction, as he realized he was getting seriously excited sexually.

 

“Edward,” David said quietly to his butler once he returned from sending messages for staff to join them. “Do we have any fresh young meat in the holding cells that’s ready for harvest later tonight? I think I’m getting rather horny for something a bit more extreme than what Jim will be doing at this point.”

 

“Indeed you are, sir,” came the respectful but playful answer as he stroked his employer’s manhood. “And I figured you would be.  I’d seen Matt before at the beach place, and I had a similar reaction. So I arranged for the cells to be fully stocked for the weekend.  We’ve got four especially promising candidates within the herd for you to choose from, who were on the plane in the slave cargo hold.  One of them looks a bit like Matt, although his cock isn’t as large. But he is also 17, pretty, and very reliable with his orgasms.  We got him a few weeks ago and we’ve been getting him prepared. He has responded very well to the drugs and training and is ready to be appreciative of your attention.  You should look at the others, too. They’re all good quality imports from the mainland and they all survived a double dose of the erection drug.  They’re expendable and unbelievably horny. Your program of payments to various police groups is starting to pay off. When they pick up these losers as truants or for petty crimes they’re checking in with us first. We tell them it’s for a rehab program, of course, and the prisoners sign a waiver agreeing to go into rehab.  I think a few of the cops suspect what’s really happening, and the irony is that those are the ones who are sending the better-quality meat. After all, it helps them clean up the streets.  So, as an aside, I have some suggestions on focusing and increasing the payments.”

 

“You’re pretty impressive at times,” responded Mr. Fletcher. “Do what you think is best as to the payments.  That’s chump change.  I’ll check out the collection later this afternoon. After all, Matt’s Jim’s toy. I wouldn’t want to mess up his indoctrination, which is obviously going extremely well.  After I choose my sport for the night, feel free to pick one for yourself.  Or maybe we can team up on a couple of them.”

 

“Thank you, sir. That’s very generous.”

 

David and Edward rejoined the main conversation. As they did so a waiter handed Mr. Fletcher a small salad he’d ordered, and the bartender served him a glass of expensive red wine.  As Mr. Fletcher took the salad (having not had anything since he landed that morning), the waiter asked if he’d like the usual dressing.  He nodded, and both the waiter and the bartender quickly jerked off, their beautiful bodies rapidly achieving orgasm so that their cocks spilled generous helpings of cum onto the salad.  They asked if he’d like more than that, and when he again nodded a second waiter did the same.  “Thanks.  That looks just right.  I do think cum makes the best dressing of all.”

 

By now, there were about 50 guys ready for the gangbang.  Word had spread, and Jim loved the idea of showing off his new sex toy.  All were studs, ready to shoot their load as soon as they had the chance. Quite a few started playing with each other, but most quickly focused on Matt. Here was new fresh meat, nice and young, and very available. They wanted to examine him, so they did. Matt was poked and prodded like cattle at an auction, with hands caressing his skin, fingers exploring his asshole, and several guys opening his mouth to examine the other potential opening for depositing cum. His tits were already hard, but they got harder as they were squeezed and massaged, with guys commenting on how nice and firm they were for a male so young.

 

Very shortly, the conversation turned to the issue of how best to position Matt for fucking.  Some of the guys suggested doggy style. Others wanted to use a sling.

 

“If we go doggy style, it’s more degrading for him,” argued a young bodybuilder whose cock was truly massive.

 

“Yeah, but if we use a sling Master Jim can see his face and enjoy the reaction as he slams his cock into that tiny little ass and rips him open,” argued another guy, who had a much slenderer build but had a larger cock. “With my giant penis I like to see the pain in the face when I enter. And it’s even more fun to see how hard they get while I’m pumping.”

 

Matt had joined in the conversation with enthusiasm. He asked how much it hurt to be fucked and seemed pleased when they told him it would hurt a lot for a guy as young as he was who hadn’t been fucked before. He asked what he could do to make it more fun for the guy doing the fucking, and they told him he should react as much as he could, writhing in response to the pain and the pleasure. He asked if being fucked would cause him to shoot his own load, and they told him that some oversexed guys do but better trained guys wait until they are told to shoot.

 

Matt was also solicitous of whether the guys would want him to clean their cocks after they satisfied themselves. They assured him that he would be expected to do that and that he also would be expected to swallow any piss they needed to unload during the afternoon.  Finally, Matt had politely wondered how it would be appropriate for him to express his thanks to each guy for using him. He said he didn’t want to do anything that might embarrass Jim, who had been kind enough to invite him to the entertainment. From the moment other guys had shown up, Matt had made it clear that he welcomed being fucked by the entire group.

 

Mr. Fletcher interrupted the exchange, having finished his salad and his first glass of wine. “So, Jim, what do you think? It’s your birthday, and it seems to me it’s time to get going with your party.”

 

Matt was startled by this information. He had no idea it was Jim’s birthday, and it bothered him that he hadn’t gotten Jim a present. Although he knew he couldn’t afford anything nice, or for that matter anything at all, since he literally had no possessions whatsoever, he thought he should have at least made some token offering. The realization startled him from his fascination with the exchange on how he would best entertain the group. He already knew his own opinions weren’t relevant, but he was extremely interested in how the guys felt. What he did understand is that he wanted to do whatever provided Jim and his buddies the most fun, especially on Jim’s birthday.

 

“Well, it’s a close call for me,” answered Jim, bringing Matt back to the scene as he remembered the conversation on how best to fuck him. “So I think I want to do both. I’ll start with a sling. I do want to see how he reacts when his butt gets popped for the first time. I’m not as big as these two (pointing to the two owners of the massive cocks who had been debating the

best technique), but I’m not exactly small. I figure Matt’s ass is very tight, and I can inflict at least a little pain as part of the process, even if my cock won’t split him open like a stuck pig the way those guys will. Then I think I want to have a couple of you flip him over so I can shoot my load into him doggy style, which is a little more humiliating for him. After I cum, and dad has his turn, each of you can do what you like. But as soon as I get horny again, I may want another shot at Matt, or maybe I’ll just fuck a couple of you guys.”

 

Matt couldn’t help himself, and he spoke up. “Gee, Jim, I didn’t know it was your birthday weekend. I think it would be great if you fucked me as many times as you want. I didn’t get you anything since I didn’t know, and I don’t have any money or possessions to use to buy anything even if I did know, so maybe that can be my present.”

 

“Oh, I have a present from you in mind in addition to a few butt-fucks,” laughed Jim, now a little affected by his second beer. “We’ll get to that later this evening.  I appreciate the offer. I just don’t want to deprive my buddies here of their fun, and I do recall that some of them have very satisfactory butts.”

 

Everyone laughed. And with that, Jim led the group to a door at the side of the living room. It was very unobtrusive, and Matt noticed that he entered a code on a pad that was discretely hidden next to the door.

 

“Shall we, gentlemen?” Jim asked. “Hey dad, is there anything interesting on display in here I should warn Matt about, so he doesn’t freak out too much?”

 

“Not much,” Mr. Fletcher answered, smiling. “Just a couple of slaves in early processing and a supply of them in some of the cages. I haven’t done any real harvesting for a while because I’ve just gotten back home this morning. But don’t worry, we have the entire weekend, and I’m thinking of staying all next week. So we can fill up the place with fun targets now that you’re done with school.”

 

As the conversation continued, Jim led the group into the next room. Matt had overheard the exchange, and was excited at the idea of not going back to school and staying with Jim’s family.  Maybe they’d let him stay the week.  But before he could process that thought, his breath was taken away by the sight of the room they entered.

 

Matt had seen dungeons in the various gay S&M films he and Jim had watched, and Jim had a few toys in his bedroom at the beach mansion. But Matt   had never seen anything like this. It was huge and brightly lit, with torture implements everywhere. Interspersed among them were exercise machines and free-weights. This was a combination exercise room and torture chamber. He saw St. Andrew’s crosses next to treadmills. Traditional crosses with dildos added were up against the walls, next to elaborate climbing walls for exercise.  There were whipping posts of all kinds, some that held the victim in place and some that allowed him to swing free, suspended so his body would sway and twist as it was flogged front and back. There were fucking stations that involved strapping the victim over a leather seat, hands and feet secured to the base so that he was perfectly positioned for butt-fucking and/or cock sucking. They even had hand-holds like ski poles to help the person doing the butt-fucking get better leverage. In some, the seats were covered with nails instead of leather, which would cut into the victim’s chest and belly, ripping them further as his body moved in response to the fucking.  Numerous tables set up as racks for torture were interspersed with other exercise machines, each rack having lots of straps to hold the subject still to whatever extent desired or dislocate shoulders and even rip arms completely form the torso, with channels at the edges to funnel and drain liquids that flowed from the bodies as they were tortured and ripped apart.  Large vertical wheels were fixed with straps that allowed a guy to be positioned for torture and then spun upside down or sideways for easier access to all parts of the body.  Cages were everywhere, some suspended in the air for better display of the victim – and many complete with a naked male slave ready to begin its torture.

 

Matt’s attention quickly went to the slings, where he knew he would soon be suspended. But as he looked at one, he saw past it to crosses on the wall. He was especially fascinated by the knives and whips conveniently located throughout the room, often next to dumbbells and

nautilus machines.  Matt was so stunned that he literally stopped in his tracks and had trouble drawing his breath.

 

“Impressed?” asked Jim, paying close attention to Matt’s reaction. “Or scared?”

 

“Impressed,” answered Matt truthfully. “But I think I’m mostly just excited. I never imagined a place like this could exist. It’s just amazing.  And like you said, all these slaves look almost relaxed, ready to serve by being tortured.  I’m curious.  Do they sometimes fail to survive the torture?  A lot of this stuff looks potentially fatal.”

 

Jim laughed.  “No.  They ALWAYS fail to survive, at least in due course.  They know it’s what they deserve, and snuffing a slave is a fantastic turn-on and stress reliever for all of us.  The fuck-stands with the nails are a favorite of mine, since the nails will tear apart the nipples and pecks as I fuck the guy and he can’t avoid gyrating on the bench.  The guy dies while I am fucking him, which is a great feeling as his ass tightens around my cock.  It’s a lot of fun.”

 

As Jim spoke, Matt focused on the guys being held in cages, and especially noticed two young males with hands and feet nailed to crosses just beyond the sling he had spotted.  He had seen lots of S&M videos with guys tied to crosses, but never with their hands and feet nailed to the cross. This greatly enhanced the effect.  They appeared to be very fit and were quite handsome. All the young males were sort of “on display” in the room, with erect cocks even though some were obviously in pain.  Jim explained that this was the effect of the drug Matt had just taken, so Matt would remain hard for the afternoon and beyond.  The difference was these guys got double doses so they’d stay hard and have orgasms throughout the torture sessions, even as things got extremely rough.  A double dose would ultimately be fatal, but not for a while and these guys were going to die anyway.

 

Matt counted about 30 of the slaves. Some were shackled to the whipping posts, ready to receive their lashes.  Several others were tied to tables, with various leather restraints that seemed to stretch their arms and legs but also to stretch and separate their balls away from the rest of the body, no doubt for easier CBT sessions.  But what got Matt’s attention the most were the two guys nailed to crosses. They appeared to be in intense pain, struggling to breath.

 

“Oh,” laughed Mr. Fletcher. “I forgot. I did have Edward nail up a couple of slaves yesterday evening.  I thought they’d be fun to watch and it looks like they’re proceeding nicely. One of the advantages of the dildos attached to the crosses, which are stuck up their asses, is that they get a little support. So they can suffer a lot longer, which means there’s something fun to look at. As for the rest of these guys, they’re fresh S&M slaves and you should all feel free to let them entertain you. Just be sure I get to see what you’re doing and maybe join in if it gets interesting.”

 

Murmurs of agreement and appreciation came from the house servants. David Fletcher was indeed a generous employer to his favored staff. Nonetheless, even though there were some serious opportunities to inflict pain, the group’s attention quickly returned to Matt.

 

“No problem, dad.  I’ve explained the role of slaves to Matt and he’s cool.  I don’t think anyone needs to hold back.”

 

“Absolutely,” added Matt.  “Jim explained how the slaves understand their role, and this all makes great sense.  Whatever pleases Jim is the right thing to do.”  Everyone was pleased with the response and it was time to start the fun.

 

“So, Jim,” one of the staff inquired. “Where do you want to put your new toy?”

 

Jim pointed Matt toward the sling Matt was staring at. He instructed Matt to climb up onto it, laying on his back with his head pointed toward the back wall where the two guys were being crucified.

 

“I like this one. And with Matt pointed this way I can watch the guys being crucified while I fuck him.  I plan to take a while and they’re clearly starting to have serious trouble breathing.  That’ll be an added bit of entertainment as they weaken and it gets worse for them.   So the rest of you should take a number.”

 

Indeed, Matt realized that there was a number dispensing machine, like the kind you see in ice cream stores.  Jim had gotten #1, and his dad #2. At Matt’s suggestion Dennis, their driver, got #3. After that, it was an open season.

 

“Remember guys,” joked Jim. “It’s first serve, first cum.” The joke was one they had heard before, but everyone laughed anyway.

 

Matt quickly climbed onto the sling, and several guys tied him in. His legs were in the air, and his virgin butt was nicely positioned for Jim’s use. It was finally time for Jim to end Matt’s virginity.

 

Jim did not lubricate himself or Matt before he thrust his cock into Matt’s vulnerable ass. He wanted to inflict the maximum pain. The thrust was effective, and Jim felt the extreme pleasure of having his cock surrounded by a very tight yet pliant asshole. He was of course extremely aroused, so he was careful to hold back so he wouldn’t shoot too early. He didn’t want to have this pleasure end any time soon.  Unlike most young males, Jim was able to sustain fucking for a long time before he shot his load.  Part of it was talent, and part was experience. He was busy fucking Matt for quite a while. He was particularly pleased to see that he had caused Matt to bleed, as shown by the droplets that leaked out as he pumped in and out. He pointed that out to the group, who complimented him on his technique and the obvious effectiveness of his cock.  Matt joined in the congratulations and expressed his appreciation for Jim’s efforts.  “I guess I’d better stop easing you about a small cock.  It’s clearly big enough to do a hell of a job on me.”

 

Jim also enjoyed the look of obvious pain on Matt’s face and was pleased that Matt showed such a good attitude.  Indeed, Matt remained fully erect during the session.  Jim had chosen well.

 

After a very long time, Jim told some of the guys to flip Matt over and put him on one of the leather-covered fuck machines, doggy style. They did so quickly, and Jim resumed fucking. It was even some time after that before Jim finally reached orgasm, blasting a load into Matt. His effort was met with a cheer, and Jim felt completely drained. He leaned over Matt and kissed him. Matt, in turn, thanked Jim for using him, and offered to suck his cock clean.

 

Jim took advantage of Matt’s offer, and then let loose a large load of beer-tasting piss. He stood back a bit for effect, so others could watch how well Matt had been trained to swallow it.  As always, Matt didn’t spill a drop, and then thanked Jim for getting him some beer, albeit used.

 

“Gentleman,” Jim announced to general cheering. “He’s not a virgin any more, as you just saw. But you’re welcome to make sure.”

 

Matt vividly remembered that first fuck very fondly, and he remembered how Jim’s dad had also caused him considerable pain with his even larger cock, followed by almost being torn open by Dennis and then the two muscle guys.  Indeed, Matt’s memory of everything about his first gangbang was still vivid.  It took hours for all fifty guys to rape him, and it hurt a lot, but being used to give sexual pleasure to all those friends of Jim’s was utterly fulfilling.  He also got to drink lots and lots of used beer, and they even drained cum from his ass every now and then and had him drink that too.  When he himself needed to piss, it was into a pail that he also drained, He remembered the total humiliation of it all as the time he learned what his true nature was.  He was completely comfortable with that.

 

Matt had come to realize Jim’s sadistic tendencies were extreme, based initially on the videos they watched and Jim’s reactions.  Matt had volunteered his body for Jim’s use, but as with fucking his ass Jim had declined, telling him that would come in due course.  Seeing the two guys nailed to crosses and hearing Mr. Fletcher’s casual comments about “process” confirmed Matt’s suspicions, and Jim’s descriptions left no doubt.  When everyone had finished fucking him, Matt wasn’t surprised that Jim selected a whipping stand that suspended Matt by his wrists so he could twist as he was flogged, allowing Jim, Jim’s dad, and Dennis to stand in a circle around his body and enjoy lashing him front, back, and sides.  The best part was that the drug had kicked in by then and his erect cock provided a great added target.  By the time they were tired out, Jim having gotten his exercise, Matt’s body was dripping blood and sweat along with the cum oozing from his wounded ass.  Dennis sucked him off to complete the effect, adding a load of Matt’s cum, and then his piss, to the flow.  It was an awesome scene for everyone, especially Matt.  As it had proceeded, he had wondered if Jim would snuff him, but felt it would be rude to ask.  He wouldn’t have resisted, even if he could, but was pleased when he was still alive without any permanent damage as his first rape/torture session ended.  He didn’t want to stop serving Jim.

 

4

Transition

Matt’s mind returned to the present, still speeding down the beach road in Jim’s car.

 

“That was a pretty amazing fuck session the first time you took me to the estate,” Matt commented.

 

“Yeah, I still remember it myself. You really had a nice tight ass then. It’s still not too bad, and there’s remarkably little effect from all the stuff I’ve stuck up it since then.  Our vet has kept you in good repair.  You’re not quite as tight as you used to be, but after fisting and an occasional baseball bat, I suppose that’s to be expected.  I have access to lots of other guys who are cute virgins, so it’s not a big deal.”

 

“Sorry about that.  But I’m still willing to take anything you want to place up there, so maybe that will provide some entertainment for you today.  Your electric dildo toy is not a bad start.”

 

“I’ve got some fun ideas.  But I’m going to make you available for the group first.  I think a lot of them will want to do a last fuck of my sex toy.  But those are good memories and I’ve kind of gotten into fisting guys thanks to the fun I’ve had with you.  So you’ve been useful.  Of course, anyone who wants to fuck you with whatever they’d like will be free to do so, so it might be entertaining to see how creative guys get and how badly you get ripped open.

 

“What I remember most about that first time at the estate, however, was that you were so naive when I asked for my birthday present.”

 

Matt’s mind again wandered into the past. He thought about the afternoon after the first gang rape and whipping.  Jim had taken him to his room, which was amazingly spacious and filled with a plentiful set of S&M equipment along with a giant bed.  He and Jim had been lying in bed, just the two of them.  Jim had fucked Matt’s sore ass again and introduced Matt to the pain that comes from electrical current flowing between the genitals and nipples.  But he allowed Matt to shoot a load onto Jim’s chest and then lick it up for Jim’s entertainment. Then Jim had started asking him questions.

 

“What do you think about when you jerk off?”

 

“I used to think about a lot of different things, but now I think about you and about the guys in the S&M films we watch.”

 

“And who are you in the film while you’re fantasizing?”

 

“Well,” answered Matt somewhat sheepishly, “I get most excited if I’m the guy getting whipped and fucked. Seeing that on movies really turned me on, and now that I’ve experienced it for real I’m fixated on wanting more. Is that wrong?”

 

“Of course not,” laughed Jim. “It just confirms what I’ve always assumed. You’re a complete masochist and a natural slave. You haven’t realized it yet, which is OK. You’re new at it, but you’re a good-looking young specimen of man-meat who shows some real

potential to be useful.”

 

“What do you mean?  I don’t understand.”

 

‘It’s simple, and we’ve talked about it before but not in relation to you.  The world is made up of natural masters and natural slaves. Most people are sort of in the middle, but guys like us have very clear roles. As masters, it is appropriate that dad and I have tons of money – like I said earlier, it’s billions and billions of dollars.  We know how to rule and do it well.  By contrast, it’s natural that you’re a throw-away kid on the streets.  You require someone to serve.  Lucky for you, I found you at school and have been carefully training you to realize your sole purpose and potential.  Dad had me make you a project for my own development.  These movies were carefully selected to create awareness over time with increasing intensity.”

 

Matt was stunned. He had no conception of any of this going on. But he was not upset.  In fact, his already erect cock throbbed a bit more intensely as Jim had been speaking. What Jim was saying made sense and fit with their prior conversations and what their teacher had taught them.  He appreciated being selected for Jim’s experiment.

 

“So what am I?” Matt asked, both curious and intrigued.

 

“It’s time for you to decide that.  You have two choices and you need to pick one of them.  If you want, you could become one of the citizens on the island, free to build a career and probably meet some guy who will dominate but nourish you.  You’re smart and personable and attractive, and a lot of guys would find your shyness sexy.  If that’s what you decide, I’ll get it set up for you.

 

Option two is for you to become a slave – my slave.  Your status would be no different than the animals being tortured and ultimately snuffed in the game room downstairs.  The difference would be that it will have been your choice.  Those animals are slaves because they were bred for it or because they violated the rules of society and lost their citizenship.  So they learn it’s their duty to do all the dirty, dangerous work and in due course be horribly tortured and killed, their bodies used for food and fertilizer.  We train them to accept that and they’re actually quite content as well as obedient.

 

Matt was stunned, and a lot of things started to fit into place.  “I wondered what was going to happen to the two guys nailed to crosses in the game room.  You’re saying they will stay there until they’re dead.  Right?”

 

“Right.  And all the other slaves will suffer similar fates.  It’s how we manage the violent urges of citizens and Alpha Males, and it works amazingly well.  We satisfy our sadistic sexual passions and the slaves need to die anyway so we have a meat supply.  Having them die horrible, humiliating deaths as part of sexual S&M sessions has no downside and makes them more useful.  Once they’re trained they appreciate that opportunity to serve.  Sometimes, like the household slaves our typical citizens own, they serve for a long time before they’re disposed of.”

 

“Do you think I’m one of them?”

 

“Not as of now.  You’re a citizen, like the staff at the estate, and you’re entitled to respect and freedom so long as you don’t disobey the Alpha Male laws.  That’s why I respected everyone’s limits for the S&M fun we had on the plane but didn’t with the slave.  It’s your choice, and you could choose to be a salve instead if you want to.”

 

“Is that the birthday present you’d like?”

 

“Yes, but only if you choose to do so.  You see, there’s a special feeling of sexual power from using a slave who chooses to serve, suffer, and die.  Knowing that choice was voluntary adds a lot to the sexual thrill of owning and using the slave.  If you wanted to do that, it would increase the intensity of my orgasms and my satisfaction in dominating you.  But don’t misunderstand:  The choice is irrevocable, and if you make that choice you will indeed be like the slaves you saw, and I will torture you constantly, humiliate you always, and eventually (or maybe right away) horribly kill you.  This is not a pretend thing.  It would be for real.”

 

Matt didn’t even hesitate in his choice.  “Of course I’ll be your slave.  I think I already am and have been for a long time.  This would just make it official.  You are free to do whatever you want with me, and I know it will involve me being tortured and snuffed whenever you feel like doing so.  I hope you really get a thrill out of it when you do.  And you can count on my total obedience and cooperation.  Happy birthday from your new slave.”

 

Jim was thrilled.  This was indeed the birthday present he most wanted to get.  And he made it effective immediately.

 

“Great.  I’d say thanks but as of now you’re an object, a piece of property. You’re important only to the extent you can provide me pleasure. I don’t like to think of objects like you as slaves because the term slave implies people who are somehow just of lower rank. What you need to understand is that you have no rank at all – no more than this bed we’re laying in or a piece of meat in the fridge.  If I want to destroy that footstool by my desk, or eat some meat, no one would object.  The stool and the meat are mine to do with as I want.  You are no different, just potentially more fun to use than a chair or a wastebasket.  You perform the same function as a urinal in a bathroom, but it’s more fun to piss down your throat than to piss into a porcelain toilet – and ultimately, you’ll be more fun to destroy, because it would be wrong to waste a nice designer toilet. It’s fun to destroy a piece of male property like you – a piece of not yet dead meat.  And porcelain isn’t edible.  You are.

 

“You are now my body slave.  That means you’d always be nearby and ready to serve me however I want.  That is your sole purpose, and when I get tired of you or if you fail in any aspect you’d be destroyed.  Again, think of a piece of furniture, except that furniture doesn’t get tortured to death and eaten when I decide to get something new.  For a piece-of-shit-slave like you, being my body slave is quite an honor.

 

“Incidentally, your foster dad works for my family.  He has been part of the program for years, making sure your self-esteem remains low and you endure humiliation and deprivation.  Dad and I arranged the scene at his house the other night to trigger a change in your status, so you’d arrive here without any ties or options through him.  I also arranged the “coming out” scene in front of the school with Dennis, which is a great cover to explain you dropping out of school. No one will ever know or care what happened to you.  And you cooperated by throwing away the last possessions you had – the clothes you prostituted yourself to get at the beach – and you now have absolutely nothing.  My goal was to get you psychologically ready to admit what you are and accept your proper role in life.  But it still needed to be your choice, and I would have honored it had you chosen a life as a citizen.  You would not have been happy or fulfilled, however, because what you now are is what you were meant to be.  All of our effort was just to get you to the point you’d recognize that.  I’ve given you the gift of fulfilling your role, and when I kill you I’ll give you the further gift of the kind of horrible death you deserve – and want and need for your sense of having been useful.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“Good.  Remember that first S&M video I showed you with the guy getting whipped?  I told you dad hired him and we had a great weekend when I got to flog him.  I told you he was grateful for dad taking care of his troubles with the law.  That’s all true, but the way dad took care of his troubles was by turning him into a sex slave.  We were testing some drugs we developed for criminal types who were being reduced to slave status, and we wanted to find out if he would agree to cooperate and be snuffed just for our amusement.  He did, and I not only got to flog him, but I got to snuff him.  It was my first kill, and sexually thrilling for me as I fucked his ass, gutted him, and then slowly strangled him.  Watching the pain and despair in his face and feeling the pressure on my cock as his body pitifully struggled to stay alive was amazing.  He even shot a load as he died, which triggered my own orgasm.  I was so horny I fucked him again as his dead body continued to gyrate for my pleasure.   He did join us for dinner, but as the main course, and dad let me carve the meat.  Part of the plan is to replace cattle with slaves as our prime meat source, since that will help with the ozone environmental issues and slaves are so much more satisfying to kill and eat.  It’s especially fun if they’re still alive while being carved up.  All the meat we serve here is slave meat.  I’ll let you see the video of that first kill for your education.  Put this DVD in the player. There’s a large screen that will come down from the ceiling when you put it in.”

 

Matt obeyed. He took the DVD and started it, then returned to the side of Jim’s bed, kneeling obediently beside the bed even though Jim had not instructed him to do so. Jim was pleased. Matt’s instincts and training were serving him well.  He told Matt to lay beside him so he could observe Matt’s reaction to the film.

 

The film was astonishing, and showed Jim doing a fabulous job torturing the young male to death, while the victim not only did not resist but politely thanked Jim for the honor of being Jim’s first snuff victim.  Several cameras focused on different angles of the tortures, catching all aspects of the death itself, including the agony on the face of the dying male and the sexual ecstasy on Jim’s as he fucked the body while it was twitching violently in its death throws and then again after it was technically dead but still convulsing.  The film then featured Jim celebrating with his dad and some others at dinner, slicing choice cuts of meat off the now-dead slave and enjoying the feast.  Surprisingly to Matt, all of this turned him on a lot.  He had never even conceived of anything like this and it took him by complete shock.  But it did something else. The scene confirmed his decision and turned him on beyond belief. Matt shot a giant load of cum as he watched the scenes where Jim fucked the dying body, fanaticizing himself as the victim.  His orgasm wasn’t caused by touching himself or even by being fucked – it was triggered by the images in the movie and the realization this likely would happen to him someday, as it should.

 

“I hoped you’d react that way. I told my dad that you were ready, and clearly you are. By our standards that first time for me was a quick snuff. Usually it takes much longer and is far more painful.  And I like to enjoy some of the meat while the guy is still alive and can watch me eat him, although I leave the body in good enough shape to enjoy fucking it while it dies and again while it’s still nice and warm, finishing its death convulsions.  I’ve learned a lot of great torture techniques since then so you can count on a far worse level of torture, leading to the same fate.

 

“This guy was cooperative and willing because of drugs, and we’ve proven we can convert anyone into a willing slave when we want to.  That will be critical as we reform various societies and take control.  But you are different in an important way.  You are a willing slave because you know you should be.  That is what my project was all about, and that is why I will especially enjoy owning you and killing you. For the full effect, it had to be your choice.  I’m pleased you made the choice you did and given how resilient you are I know it is for real.  Even after all the events before you came to the island, you recovered quickly and continued on, showing up at school despite humiliation that would have broken most people.  That makes you a more appealing slave.”

 

“Thanks, Jim.  That means a lot to me and yes, this is my choice.”

 

Jim moved the conversation to a different aspect.  “Incidentally, you didn’t have permission to shoot, so you’ll have to suffer consequences for that. I’m going to torture you, introducing you to a new definition of pain.  Pain will be a central part of your life from now on.  Further, now that you know your role you need to perform adequately. And adequately means perfectly – doing what I say always, serving my desires, and using your body only to serve and entertain me. If you ever shoot a load again without permission, it will be your last.  You will never have the honor of serving me again, you will be totally emasculated so you can never enjoy any sexual gratification, and you will be used for months as a lab animal for research on advanced methods of inflicting extreme pain.  Is that clear?”

 

“Yes, Jim.”

 

“And you don’t get to call me Jim any more. People call each other by their names. You’re no longer people. You are to call me “sir” and you are to bow

your head when you address me. You are also not allowed to speak unless you are spoken to and a response is required. If you have a question, you first ask permission to speak.  Clear?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“OK.  One last chance to change your mind.  Do you accept and agree to your new position as a piece of property?”

 

“Yes, sir.  I understand, and I will obey completely.  Thank you for accepting my unworthy birthday present.  I hope you enjoy it.”

 

Matt noted the change in his master’s tone. They were no longer schoolmates, with Jim as the elder mentor leading Matt into sexual awareness. Now, Matt had been assigned his role in life and he must obey. At that moment, Matt accepted his fate and determined to satisfy his new master. He understood his role, and for whatever time Jim chose to keep him as a piece of Jim’s property, Matt would cooperate fully.  He realized this was not only his purpose, it was his greatest hope and source of joy.  He wanted to be Jim’s property.

 

Jim and Matt rejoined the larger group for dinner, and everyone congratulated Jim on his outstanding success in training his body-slave.  Matt knelt behind Jim to be available for any needed services, observing how lavish the dinner feast was, with an assortment of delicious looking vegetables and side dishes on the table.  To the side was another table on which there was a handsome young slave lying on his back.  A chef stood by him and sliced off the desired cuts of live slave-meat that the diners requested, either serving them as slave-tar-tar or grilling the selection to order on a nearby Hibachi.  It appeared to Matt to be a wonderful meal and a wonderful gathering of family and friends.  The combination of the slave’s screams and his expressions of appreciation for the honor of being their entree’ added nicely to the atmosphere.  The slave had expressed his thanks to each diner, until one of them decided to try some fresh tongue.  When it came time to serve the cock, the chef brought it to orgasm so it could be sliced off as it was spilling cum, which was a nice effect.  Matt only hoped he could someday perform as well as this slave had done.

 

 

5

An Interlude

 

Jim’s voice over the noise of the drive once again brought Matt back to the present reality.

 

“What I can’t decide is whether I want to keep a souvenir. After all, you were my first human property, and that has a little sentiment. Dad says it doesn’t matter, and advises against keeping anything from slave carouses, but I’m not sure. What do you think?”

 

“I’d be honored if you did. It would mean a lot to me, not that my feelings matter. Nor should they.  But maybe you could use my cock and balls as a paperweight? It might help organize all that stuff on your desk.” (Before their roles had shifted from schoolmates to owner and property, Matt had teased Jim about his disorganized desk.  It had been one of their favorite jokes since Jim tended to leave stuff all over the place.) “Or maybe my skin could be turned into a jacket or something?  You’re very good at skinning guys alive, and it’s always a crowd pleaser since it’s obviously unbelievably painful but not necessarily immediately fatal.  I’d still be alive while you cut me up as food.”

 

“I don’t wear clothes, idiot,” came the needling reply. “But maybe the paperweight idea is worth thinking about. I must admit my desk is still a mess, and you do have a nice set.  I don’t like eating cock – muscles aren’t very tender. If I don’t have it made into a paperweight, I’ll probably just have it turned into hamburger or sausage, or maybe have you eat it yourself.  I strongly suspect your breast meat will be the best, so I’m going to try that first. The issue is if I want to enjoy your balls as an appetizer. Guy oysters are tasty, and I’ve wondered what you’ll taste like. I guess I’ll decide at the time.”

 

“I hope you enjoy my meat however you decide.” Matt was quite sincere in this. His only regret about the party was that it would end his service.

 

“If I may ask, have you decided whether to kill me first or do you think you will be able to keep me alive long enough to enjoy my flesh while I watch? I know how much you like munching on a guy’s tastier parts while you vivisect him and watch the agony and humiliation. I want to provide you as much fun as possible.”

 

“I haven’t completely decided, but that’s my inclination. I think it’s the most humiliating way for a guy to die, watching himself get cut up for food and knowing he’ll literally wind up as shit.  So don’t disappoint me by dying too soon. I want a worthwhile show.”

 

“I’ll do my very best. You can count on me. I’m deeply grateful for all the use you’ve made of me over the past five years. I expected you to snuff me on my 18th birthday like you mentioned when you took me over as your property. So these years have been a wonderful chance to serve.”

 

“Yeah, I considered that. But you are a fun fuck and extremely obedient.  Frankly, I like your attitude, and I even used to like you as a buddy back when you were a person. Having a willing slave who is content or even eager to be killed whenever I feel like it has turned out to be even more of a tun-on than I’d imagined.  Besides, when you were 18 I didn’t have a great replacement.

 

“I’m glad I kept you around. Maybe I’m sentimental like dad accuses me of being. I’m not sure. But in any event today will take care of the issue. It would be a little embarrassing to keep a slave any longer than I have.

 

“There’s another thing too.  I posted a message on the fact I was going to snuff you today as part of my birthday party and invited young guys on the island to apply to replace you.  I made it clear it was just going to be a one-year gig, so I was amazed how many did so, happy to convert from citizen to slave so they could be my body slave for a year and then be snuffed at my next birthday party if not before.  It’s down to four finalists, and they’re all terrific.  Before they watch you die they’ll all compete to take your place.  They’ve all agreed that the contests will be to the death, which seems appropriate.  Maybe it would be amusing to have the winner eat your cock.”

 

Matt was not disappointed with this report.  He knew he was six years older than when he had first attracted Jim’s sexual attention.  He was glad that Jim would find other objects to satisfy him after Jim disposed of Matt. The years of training had been very instructive in confirming that it was about Jim’s desires, his pleasure.

 

“Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t throw you away at 18. You have been a great sex object, and you provided me with quality entertainment, like when I used you in those soccer matches a few years ago. You were pretty impressive.”

 

“Thanks.” Matt was ecstatic. He had never gotten any reaction from Jim for that effort, and he had given it his all. Matt knew he was a good soccer player since his freshman year in high school, when he made varsity after leading a winning freshman team. Jim had used him, along with some other slaves, to form a highly competitive team. They played other slave teams, and they always won. (One incentive was that the losing teams were brutally slaughtered at the end of the games by being fed to the crowd.)  Matt knew he was the primary reason Jim’s team won but had never had a conversation about it.

 

The best part of the soccer games was knowing Jim was watching. As Matt and his teammates ran up and down the field, their beautiful bodies glistening with sweat and their hard cocks bouncing with the motion, he was aware that it got Jim turned on.  Those nights tended to have some of the best sex Matt would enjoy with Jim. Jim sometimes kept a few of the losing slaves for himself, and let Matt eat their cocks while they were still attached, just as they reached orgasm from Matt’s blow jobs.  As they died, Jim would shoot his load up their tightening assholes. It was a lot of fun and those were among Matt’s most wonderful memories.

 

The two young men drove on in silence for a few minutes, but then Jim spotted a side road and turned off toward the beach.  “Here’s a place I want to show you,” Jim said. “It’s my favorite place on our whole island. The beach is unusually smooth and wide, and there’s a fantastic view. Let’s stop for a while.”

 

Matt was startled at the suggestion, assuming they would head straight to

Jim’s birthday party.  But he hardly objected. Nor did he have any idea what Jim had in mind.  He wasn’t even aware of the beach despite the fact he was almost always with Jim.

 

Jim stopped the car at the end of the side road, and motioned for Matt to follow him., taking Matt by the hand, which also had not happened in years.  They walked down a trail, and Matt understood why Jim liked the spot. It was the best view of the water and the mountains that Matt had ever seen, and the beach was totally pristine. There were no footprints, and the beach was so clean it was almost as if it had been manicured.  There was a large blanket laid on it just above the water line with a picnic basket next to it.

 

“No one is permitted to come here except me,” Jim explained. “I have gardeners who tend to it every morning to assure it’s always perfect.  I had them prepare it for us to visit, and then they smoothed out their footprints as they left to preserve the effect.”

 

They walked in silence to the edge of the water, next to the blanket, where Jim turned to Matt and touched his body. To Matt’s utter `amazement, this was followed by a very tender embrace and a deep, loving kiss. Slowly, Jim led their bodies down to the blanket, where he continued to stroke Matt’s smooth skin and deepened his kiss.

 

“I hope you have enjoyed the freedom you have had during the past five years,” Jim whispered as he briefly withdrew his tongue from deep in Matt’s mouth.  “I wanted to be sure you understand how fortunate you have been, and also to give you one last gift.”

 

Matt was too shocked to speak. Jim used Matt sexually all the time both before and after acquiring him, but afterwards it was as an object, never as a lover. That was fine and all Matt expected.  But this was totally different and far beyond exciting.  Matt also had no idea what Jim was referring to.  Freedom?  Matt was a total slave, a piece of property as Jim often pointed out.  Matt was quite content with that but didn’t see how this related to freedom.  Yet his confusion was overwhelmed by his excitement at the tender embrace.

 

The two bodies became tightly coupled and rolled onto the beach. They were lapped by the warm waves from time to time, which only increased the mutual excitement. Jim didn’t just kiss Matt’s mouth, he adorned his whole body with affection. In due course, that even included Matt’s throbbing penis, as Jim maneuvered them into a 69 embrace.

 

“I know you’re confused, as usual.  You were never a quick study.  Let me explain.  At the party dad will announce that I’m officially his heir and successor and appoint me to run a series of major family enterprises.  It’s a tremendous honor and I want to do a great job.  But it comes at a cost.  Someone in his and my positions cannot trust anyone, and we do not have real friends.  We have everything else anyone could possibly want, and more, but we are in one sense prisoners of our own wealth and positions.  But you were given the freedom to turn over everything you are to me as your complete owner.  That gives you a kind of freedom.  You don’t have decisions to make or anything to worry about.  You only need to obey and everything else will be decided for you.  You have freedom from having to make decisions or achieve goals.  You are free to focus entirely on your role as my body slave without having to concern yourself with anything else.

 

“But what I want you to know is that, if I were permitted to have a true friend and lover, it would be you.  That’s why I’ve kept you so long.  You’ll be dead by the end of the day, so I don’t have to worry about issues of trust after the party.  So I think we should consummate our relationship.  I want you to fuck my ass.  No one has ever done that, and likely no one ever will again.  But I want to feel your cock inside me and see if we can shoot our loads together.”

 

Matt’s emotions were a combination of shock, joy, gratitude, and, most of all, love. He never expected such a reaction from Jim even when they were high school lovers.  This was beyond his wildest dreams.

 

Under Jim’s direction Matt carefully positioned himself over Jim, who lay on his back with his legs wrapped around Matt’s torso.  Jim wanted them to have the ability to see each other’s faces while they made love, and once positioned he had Matt insert his penis slowly into Jim’s virgin man-hole.  Matt was careful to hold himself in check as he began to thrust in and out, concerned that he was inflicting some pain on his lover and master, but comforted by Jim’s assurances and the obvious pleasure Jim was feeling.  As the thrusts increased in intensity and speed Jim’s cock also began to throb, but it was quite some time before the two young males allowed themselves to reach orgasm – which they did simultaneously.  Both were sexually overwhelmed by the intensity, and they lay side by side still enjoying each other’s’ bodies.  Matt licked Jim’s cum from his chest, and that was followed by more long, deep kisses and caressing.  They went for a swim to clean off and enjoy the memory of so many swims in high school, and when they returned to the beach Jim pulled two beers and some chips from the picnic basket.  This was the first “fresh” beer Matt had since becoming a slave, and it tasted great.  By the end of the second beers their cocks returned to full erections, and they concluded their session with a second set of orgasms following a long 69 session of sucking each other’s cocks and swallowing each other’s cum.  It was glorious.  For the only time in his life, Matt was treated to truly mutual sex. It was a deep, satisfying session of love-making.  Matt felt sexually satiated in a different and more fulfilling way than any time in his life.

 

“That was very nice,” Jim said after a while.  “thank you.”  Matt was simply too overwhelmed to speak and just kissed and hugged Jim with all his being.

 

As Jim and Matt finished their lovemaking, a separate scene was underway in Mr. Fletcher’s office.  One of his security guards had entered and asked to make a report.

 

“I just witnessed something I believe you would want to know bout, sir,” he began.  “It was from the secure satellite camera that tracks Master Jim’s car.  May I play it for you?”

 

“Of course,” said Jim’s dad.  “Use this screen on the desk next to mine.”  The guard called up a video, and he and Mr. Fletcher watched a recording of Jim’s and Matt’s beach sex, listening to Jim’s explanations to Matt.  “I felt this might be damaging if it got in the wrong hands,” the guard continued.  I don’t think making actual love to a slave is good for Master James’s image.”

 

“Indeed not,” agreed Mr. Fletcher.  “You have done well to alert me.  Has anyone else seen this, and are there any copies?”

 

“No, sir.  I immediately placed it into a secure file and destroyed the automatic backup.  I’m the only one who’s seen it besides yourself.  If you’d like, I can destroy this copy form here and there will be no record at all.”

 

“I’m afraid Jim has been careless.  The slave is going to be destroyed later today.  What if he blurts something out?  I know he’s amazingly loyal to Jim, but as animals begin to endure the level of pain he’s going to receive strange things can happen.”

 

“Well, sir,” said the guard, smiling.  “Master James is pretty clever, as you know, and you don’t need to worry about that.  As they reached his car he ordered the slave to stick out his tongue.  Once he did, Master James cut it off.  The animal will only be able to make noises, not form words.”

 

“That makes me feel a lot better about this,” said Mr. Fletcher, chuckling at the cute solution Jim had implemented to remove any risk.  “I think I can chalk this up to a rite of passage.  Jim had a long history with that slave, and he clearly understands this type of relationship can’t happen again.  That’s why he decided to just keep body slaves for a year at a time.  So please destroy this copy, and I assume you know what else needs to be done?”

 

“Of course, sir.”  The guard quickly deleted the file and stood facing Mr. Fletcher.  “And may I say it has been an honor working for you.”

 

“You have performed well.”  Mr. Fletcher watched as the young naked guard walked over to a sort of shower area in one corner of the huge office and surveyed a set of tools on a metal table.  As he started to pick one up Mr. Fletcher interjected.  “The one on the far right has been dipped in some fairly fast-acting poison.  Feel free to use that one.”

 

“Thank you, sir.  It has always inspired me how thoughtful you are of your staff.  But will this give you enough time to enjoy my body as I die?  No point short-circuiting a good fuck by having the “fuckee” die too quickly.  I’m hoping I can provide you one final service besides my meat.”  When Mr. Fletcher assured him it would be fine, since he was planning to achieve orgasm as the body finished its death throws and the poison tended to enhance those, the young man picked up the indicated knife.  He began to masturbate for Mr. Fletcher’s entertainment, while his benevolent employer inserted his cock up the smooth, willing ass.  As the youth started to cum, he slowly cut off his cock, and then his balls.  The poison kicked in, and Mr. Fletcher guided the dying body over a nearby fuck stand as he intensified his fucking.  He reached orgasm just as the body stopped convulsing.  Ironically, he was particularly satisfied since he had lusted after this young man for some time as a snuff target, but he didn’t snuff staff unless they requested it or broke the rules.  This young man had done the right thing given the situation, and that meant Mr. Fletcher was not violating his own rules by snuffing an obedient staff employee.  So he got a great orgasm, there would be no witnesses of Jim’s little indiscretion and therefore no risk, and no harm was done. The shower area in his office was designed to make it easy for house staff to clean up the mess.  Nr, Fletcher was always considerate of his employees.

 

Once the two former schoolmates had rested, and then cleaned themselves off again with a relaxing swim in the ocean followed by a third set of beers, they returned to the car. Their bodies dried quickly in the sun, and Jim explained to Matt the need to remove his tongue.  Matt’s only concern was that this would mean he wouldn’t be very good at giving blow jobs, which he assumed a lot of the guests would want.  But Jim had thought of that too and explained that he was also going to use a pliers to remove Matt’s teeth so he could “gum” the cocks to orgasm.   It wasn’t quite as precise as using his tongue, but Jim had experimented with it on several slaves and it was quite satisfying.  So Jim removed Matt’s tongue as a precaution (one Matt fully understood, appreciating the fact there was no longer any risk of him saying something that would embarrass Jim), and he then removed the teeth that would get in the way of blow jobs otherwise.  Of course there was no anesthetic for either process, and Matt’s pain added a bit more entertainment for Jim, who had resumed fully the role of owner and master.  Jim then resumed the drive to his beach party. Both were in a festive mood., and in due course Jim spotted the turn-off to the party. It was easy to spot since it had signage consisting of two crosses that each had a young male nailed to it in the late stages of crucifixion. Each had one arm cut off, creating the effect of the remaining arm pointing the way.  All but the index finger on the remaining hand were also gone, and the index finger was extended, literally pointing the way.  The artistic display was Jim’s idea, and he told Matt how cooperative the two slaves had been when he explained the joke and then slowly sawed off an arm.  “I also cut off their fingers and was tempted to leave the middle finger for pointing.  But I thought that would be rude to my guests.  I had them nailed up yesterday morning so the hot sun would burn their skin, helping make sure they’d be dead by the time the party gets into full swing this afternoon.  I figure guests will enjoy the humor, and we can add their bodies to the meat supply.  You’ll also notice they’re identical twins, which I think is a nice touch.  It’s way better than tying some balloons to a post.” The path to the beach was between the two crosses.

 

“We need to resume our proper roles here,” instructed Jim, who nonetheless still had a little more softness in his voice than usual. “But I hope you enjoyed your respite.”

 

Matt couldn’t talk any more but gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.  He knew that the informality was over, and that he was once again just Jim’s property.  But the brief moments of affection were all he had ever dreamed of, and he was completely content and grateful.

 

6

Party time

 

The beach party itself was well attended and carefully orchestrated.  Bar-be-cue pits were set up all around the area, each with a freshly impaled, spitted slave roasting over it, providing a wonderful aroma of cooking slavemeat throughout.  Their innards had been removed and replaced with stuffing, ranging from traditional croutons-and-sage-based to slavemeat sausage to combos of fruits and vegetables.  There were also plenty of fuck-stations with young males tied up for easy access and use.  Jim let everyone know there were plenty more slaves in the holding cages, so no need to worry if a guest wanted to snuff the one he was fucking.  But when that happened the bodies were left for a while on the fuck stands so guests could also enjoy fucking the carcass before it cooled.  Whipping posts, racks, and various other torture stations and tools were plentiful, with an unlimited supply of slaves to fill them and to act as grateful human urinals when the need to piss arose.  Jim removed the dildo he’d inserted into Matt so his guests could enjoy fucking him, and Matt received a lot of painful attention from guests who wanted one last chance to fuck Jim’s favorite human toy.  Matt was by no means the only slave who was going to be snuffed that day – the plan was to kill several hundred of them given the importance of the occasion, but he was Jim’s toy and that made him a special target.  This included blow jobs, and Matt did a reasonable job satisfying guests with his gums replacing his tongue in massaging the cocks rammed into his mouth.  Of course, there was also lots of used beer for him to enjoy.  What was different was that guests were invited to use metal-tipped whips on his back, as Jim had joked that Matt wanted to be skinned alive, and this would be a good start.  Matt, of course, cooperated fully, pleased at how happy Jim sounded, perhaps aided a bit by a plentiful supply of beer.

 

Once Matt was positioned, Jim’s dad pulled Jim aside for a quick chat.

 

“I saw a video of your interlude with Matt on the beach.  Don’t you think that was a little dangerous?  What if that video had gotten out?”

 

Jim laughed.  “No risk.  I made sure Jordon was doing camera duty today, and I asked him to do me a little favor.  He was one of the ones who applied to replace Matt, but he didn’t make the finalists, partly because I knew how much you lusted after his ass as a snuff target.  But he was especially eager to serve me.  So he agreed to be sure no one else saw the video and to give you an alert.  We both knew you’d use that as an excuse to have him kill himself, which removes any problem with us taking advantage of our servants, and you’d get to fuck his ass as he died.  So no harm, no foul.  I assume it played out as planned?”

 

Now it was Mr. Fletcher’s turn to laugh.  “Perfectly.  He was a great fuck, and you were right about my desire to snuff him and fuck his ass while he was dying and again while his body was still convulsing.  I guess you gave me a present on your birthday.  I’m impressed.  You’re turning into a great Alpha leader.”

 

Jim deeply appreciated the complement.  He and his dad had never been closer.

 

By the time Jim decided to make a little presentation, Matt had been gang-raped by most everyone.  His back was badly lacerated with welts and cuts from being whipped as he lay over the fuck-bench, most of the skin gone form the effect of the metal-edged whips, and his belly and ass full of piss and cum.

 

“Thank you all for coming to my party,” Jim began.  “And I think cum-in is the right term.”  Everyone laughed.

 

“As you know, I’ve decided to dispose of one of my high school sex toys.  I could say I knew Matt so long I even knew him when he was a person. Yet even then he was always my property, since he was my high school project to get a natural slave to realize his true nature and willingly accept it.  I think I got an ‘A.’”  The crowd cheered loudly, pleasing both Jim and Matt.

 

“I did have some help, of course.  His foster parent made sure his self-esteem never developed, and that his natural masochistic tendencies were maximized.  I want to thank him for a job well done and asked if he’d like a memento of his success.  It turns out he would, so he’ll get to cut off and keep Matt’s cock.”  (Matt was disappointed to hear this, having hoped Jim would be the one cutting it off, but obviously understood his desires were utterly irrelevant.)

“I noticed he’s already fucked Matt’s ass several times this afternoon, making up for the fact we wouldn’t let him do that when he raised Matt.  That way I’d have the fun of being the first fuck, which I enjoyed a lot.”  The crowd cheered again, and Matt’s foster dad took a well-deserved bow, followed by administering a well-placed blow to Matt’s cock and balls.

 

Besides disposing of Matt, one of our events today is the selection of a replacement body slave.  I liked the idea of having someone willingly choose to abandon their status as a person and choose to be a piece-of-shit sex slave dedicated to suffering pain and humiliation for my amusement and pleasure.  So I inquired if anyone would be interested in that and was amazed at the overwhelming response.  It was touching and heart-warming.  It’s a great testament to how much everyone loves the Alpha males like dad and me, and it shows how well things are going in our new social order.

 

“We reviewed all the applications and got it down to four finalists, who are here now.”  Jim pointed to four amazingly good-looking young studs standing together nearby.  Each had an astonishingly gorgeous body and a giant cock protruding in front of him.

 

“I’ve interviewed the finalists and had fun fucking and torturing each of them.  They are each 17, my favorite age to acquire a slave.  Frankly, they are all great and I have had trouble deciding.  When I poised the dilemma to them they all came up with the same idea:  Why not have them compete for the honor at today’s party?  And of course the competition would be to the death, so there would only be one survivor.  That was such a great idea it’s what we’re going to do now.  There will be two contests, each with tow contestants.  And the contests will simply be a fight, with the only rule being that the fight goes on until at least one contestant is dead.  Once the first round of fights is done, there will be only two finalists, and then those two will fight to determine who gets to serve me, with the same simple rule.  They drew lots to see which sets of two would pair off against each other in round one.  I think everyone has placed their bets, so, gentlemen, have at it.”

 

The first pair entered a wrestling ring next to where Jim was speaking and the fight began immediately.  They were evenly matched, and it was great entertainment to watch s they applied expert wrestling techniques in their combat, slamming each other to the ground and maneuvering to get a sustainable hold.  But as one teen began to stand in order to get a better position, he tripped slightly and was kicked in the nuts by his opponent.  The very brief moment required for recovery form the kick was fatal, as the opponent seized on this advantage and managed to wrap his arm around the gasping boy’s neck.  The neck was quickly broken and that round was over.  As the guests who’d bet on the winner cheered, he looked over at Jim, who nodded, and then proceeded to fuck the dead body, followed by biting off its cock and balls.  The winner ate the cock but kept the balls in his mouth as he crawled on hands and knees over to Jim, drooping the two morsels at his feet like a cat delivering a dead mouse to its owner.   The crowd cheered even louder.

 

The second match in round one took much longer.  There were no mistakes by either fighter, and they wrestled, punched, and kicked each other mercilessly for nearly an hour.  It finally became apparent one had slightly less stamina, and gradually the other fighter was able to take advantage of his greater stamina and gain an advantage.  It was only slight, but over the course of the hour it became enough.  After an amazingly intense and thrilling fight there was finally one less live animal in the ring.  The winner was so beat up and exhausted from the contest that he was barely able to fuck the body of his vanquished opponent, but he was also so horny form the endeavor he was able to do so, and then also followed the example of his future adversary and delivered the testicles to Jim for Jim’s enjoyment.  There was more cheering, more collecting of bets, and lots more slaves being fucked as the guests were sexually excited by the awesome battles they were watching.

 

Round two began immediately and was not nearly so much a fight as a slaughter.  The winner of the first contest, whose name was Peter, had hardly been winded from the effort and had plenty of time to rest and recover.  But since there was no break between the rounds the winner of the second fight was physically spent, wounded from numerous kicks and punches to his body, and barely able to defend himself.  So Peter took his time and methodically beat his opponent to death, using his advantage to break bones and kick vulnerable areas like the gut and genitals.  He didn’t bother to break the neck, but just watched as the other broken bones and the massive internal bleeding caused his victim to fall to the mat and writhe in terminal pain while Peter pissed all over him.  This was a great crowd pleaser, and the cheering was intense as Peter first bit off the dead guy’s nipples before once again enjoying a snack of fresh cock followed by delivering the genitals to his new master.  He remained kneeling in front of Jim, his head bowed, and then prostrated himself, kowtow style.   “If you will accept me, I am honored to be your property, master.  I relinquish my citizenship and welcome you to do with me as you wish, only hoping it will be as painful for me as it will be entertaining, sexually stimulating, and, whenever you wish, nourishing for you.”  The appropriateness of the speech caused the crowd to go wild, and Jim was extremely pleased.  He reached down and raised Peter’s head from the ground, proceeding to piss down his throat as he announced that he accepted the live meat as part of his birthday presents.  He then kicked Peter in the balls, hard, sending him sprawling back toward the ring.  Peter thanked Jim, crawled back, and knelt beside him as befit his new role.

 

“Wow.  That was quite a show and I hope you all enjoyed it.  I sure did, and I look forward to torturing Peter and fucking his ass during the next year.  And no one need worry about the aggression Peter showed.  Like the other contestants he is an extreme masochist, but his desire to serve drove him to fight.  But just to be sure we will administer the drugs needed to turn any aggressive nature into a completely obedient animal, seeking pain and being utterly turned on at the prospect of being tortured and snuffed at next year’s party if he lasts that long.”

 

Jim’s attention turned back to Matt.  “Now, it wouldn’t be a birthday party without a party game to follow the entertainment, would it?  One of my favorite short stories is “Andy Boy’s Birthday Party,” which has lots of good ideas.  And it’s appropriate for this occasion, since it’s about a fun snuff party for a sex slave on his ‘birthday.’  The cute part is that the birthday status is based on the anniversary of when the kid was snatched and turned into a slave, which was his REAL birthday in his new status.  That works great today since under that definition this is also Matt’s birthday, since he gave himself to me as property on my birthday five years back.   So it’s appropriate to let him be part of the games, like in the story, even getting a featured role.  Right?”  Everyone agreed.

 

“The early games in the story involved whipping the slave, and you folks have already done a great job of that.”  Jim turned Matt around so everyone could see his back.  “As you can see, you’ve managed to flog his back to the point there is no skin left.  It was thoughtful of you all to help him get his wish to be skinned alive, even if it’s just his back.”  Then Jim faked a look of surprise.  “Oh, wait, folks.  You missed a spot.”  With that Jim picked up a nearby whip, complete with the metal tips, and vigorously laid into Matt’s back.  There hadn’t actually been any skin left, but it was fun for Jim and got a lot of laughs.  Matt was pleased Jim was having so much fun and would have thanked him if he could still talk.

 

“Well, that takes care of that task.  Our next fun game is ‘Pin the tail on the donkey.’  We don’t have a donkey here, of course, but we do have a jackass.  So, jackass, how about if you make some donkey noises to set the mood?”

 

Jim pushed Matt into position next to him, and Matt did indeed make donkey noises – which was about all he could do since his tongue was removed.  Jim had earlier instructed him to practice prior to the party, and he was not bad at the imitation.  Again, there was lots of laughter at his expense, as was appropriate.

 

“Of course, we’ll have to make some adjustments.  Instead of blindfolding the players, we’re going to blindfold the donkey.  We have is a party kit from our friends at SnuffStuff, one of the island’s most successful companies.  This is a new set of products that are becoming popular world-wide as we spread our influence, which include everything you need for a fun snuff.  They were the ones who supplied those great whips that we all used to skin the donkey’s back.  This set is for our donkey game.  Let’s start by blindfolding him, while those of you nearby start to choose toys to pin him.”  Jim rummaged in a large bag and had the rest of the content distributed among the nearby guests.  He then blindfolded Matt.

 

The game was great fun.  Guests selected skewer-style needles and inserted them all over Matt’s body.  The cock and balls were the first target, with Jim starting the fun by inserting a large needle into Matt’s piss-slit.  The clever part of that needle was the fact it could be easily heated to burn the inside of the cock, which Jim did accompanied by Matt’s intense screams of pain.  Others were inserted cross-ways into the cock, with about a dozen penetrating the balls.  His nipples were effectively removed with two biting clamps, to which weights were added until the flesh was ripped off.  His butt became a pin-cushion, and more needles and weights assured his pecs were also pretty much ripped off.  His elbows were bent back and broken, and other guests cut off fingers to keep as souvenirs.  The best part was that the drugs with which Matt had been injected in prep for the party kept him awake and prevented the effects of system shock as his body was being destroyed.

 

When Matt finally began to show the serious effects of the multiple wounds that would cumulatively be fatal, Jim interrupted the fun.

 

“Well, you’ve all certainly pinned the donkey.  But you haven’t pinned a TAIL on it.  Don’t worry.  I have just the solution, again form our friends at SnuffStuff.”  Jim held up a very large dildo, which had a handle at the bottom.  “This is their Gut-Cleaner, part of the Deadly Dildo line of products.  It’s also brand new, based on the story I mentioned, and I think you’ll be impressed.  I’ll take the blindfold off so our donkey can see it and get an idea what a wonderful tail this will make for him.  And I’ll tie the scarf to the handle so it’s an official tail.”  The dildo looked a lot like a giant pinecone.  As Jim held it up he pressed a button on the handle and the dildo expanded as a series of sharp claws emerged from the sides.  Jim pushed the button again, and they retracted so that the dildo was again pinecone shaped.    “Once I insert this where it belongs, I’ll push the button again.  Then I’ll pull it out.  The coolest part is that there is an internal infrared camera that will project what’s happening inside our donkey onto the screen behind me.  I think everyone will enjoy the effect.”

 

Matt had had hundreds of dildos rammed up his ass over the years, but this one was the largest ever.  Jim didn’t even try to ease it in.  He wanted the maximum pain, so he shoved it as rapidly as it would go, ripping Matt’s ass big time, as evidenced by the flow of blood leaking from it.   Matt was past the point of being able to scream, but his whole demeanor left no doubt about the intensity of his agony.

 

As the dildo moved further inside Matt, the infrared camera showed a remarkably good image of what was going on.  Guests could see it move further into the intestines, and then cut its way into the lower stomach cavity.  At that point Jim pushed the button and the claws extended, cutting into the vulnerable internal flesh.

 

Then the real fun began.  Jim started to pull out the dildo, extremely slowly.  The claws had lodged themselves into the flesh, and at first simply extended further as he pulled.   The result was the claws pulling down the internal meat that it had cut into.  Matt was being gutted from within, and his innards started to make a slow journey down to his asshole.  Jim pointed out what was happening as the camera showed the intestines being ripped to shreds, and there was a general cheer when it finally reached the prostrate, which was surprisingly whole when it exited the asshole.  One of the guests picked it up and held it for everyone to see, taking a bite of it out of curiosity to see what this essential male organ tasted like.  “Yuck.  Clearly not as tasty as the balls,” he announced, spitting out the bite and tossing the rest back onto the now-bloody sand.  Jim, ever the gracious host, cut off what was left of Matt’s balls, handing one to his guest as a “chaser” to the bite of prostate, and eating the other himself.

 

The dildo itself finally came out coated in meat and gore.  Sadly, Matt was so far gone there was no real fun torturing him further.  So Jim had the various needles quickly removed, and Matt was placed on a serving table alongside a set of carving knives.  Jim thanked his guests for such a great party game, and, pointing out that Matt was, amazingly, still alive, invited them to enjoy some fresh live meat.  “Matt said he wanted to join us for dinner, back when he could talk, and it turns out he’ll be able to – at least for a little while.  I’m sure he’ll want to see people enjoy the meat they choose, so be sure to position it so he can watch.  I’ll demonstrate for you.”  Jim started by carving a generous slice of breast meat, holding it in front of Matt’s face as he ate it raw.  It was as good as Jim had anticipated it would be, and Matt was still conscious enough to realize his master was indeed enjoying dining on his flesh, as Matt had always hoped.  But Matt didn’t last long as the other guests aggressively cut off favorite parts. Everyone did agree the meat was very tasty, complementing Jim on how he’d adjusted Matt’s bodyfat level and added fruit juices to make it more flavorful.

 

The party went on for many hours, and Matt was quickly forgotten.  Jim’s attention turned to Peter, whom he fucked and tortured for the amusement of the guests.  It was great fun, and while Jim did briefly think of Matt when he took his morning dump the next day, that was the last time he did.  Matt had served his purpose well, and Jim had grown into the awesome Alpha Male he was meant to be.

 

Adam In Control

Adam was pissed, and it was getting his dick hard.

 

The kid was openly leering at him, and that was infuriating enough; Adam hated being stared at by fags, feeling their eyes running over his hard, muscular body—it always kindled his lust/rage.  But there was something about this particular boy…

 

He was lean and tall, not quite Adam’s height, but close.  He was leaning back against the wall, one knee out with the foot on the wall behind him, watching the people entering and leaving the gym; it was almost as if he was cruising for a fuck.

 

Forget the “almost”, Adam thought, the little whore wants dick; lookit the way he’s dressed.

 

The boy’s black Adidas Chile 62 tracksuit had an eye-catching shininess similar to leather; the way it clung to the slut’s lithe young body was the first thing Adam had noticed. The jacket was open; under it was a white t-shirt with an Adidas logo just barely visible.  The little punk hadn’t been brand-loyal all the way down to his feet, though, Adam noticed—he was sporting a pair of black and white Nike Vapormax 97’s.

 

It was the faggot’s face that aroused Adam’s ire the most—handsome, arrogant, topped with a wavy mass of hair almost identical to Adam’s own shade of copper.  It drew the sexual sadist’s attention.  He had no idea what a homo dressed like a scally punk was doing here coming on to him, but he wanted to see that face, terrified and suffering, as it died.

 

So he swallowed his anger, the bitter taste somehow making his cock swell, and approached the homo scum with a smile on his own strikingly masculine face.

 

“Hey there,” the kid said once Adam was closer.  “I been scopin’ ya out for a coupla days.”

 

“Yeah?” Adam replied nonchalantly.

 

“Yeah,” the boy said, “And I think you’d be perfect.”

 

“For what?”

 

“A little breath control play.”

 

Adam paused for a moment.  “Yeah?  Sounds like faggot shit to me.  That what ya into, boy?”

 

The punk grinned, giving Adam what was supposed to be a come-hither look; it made the youth look somewhat moronic.  “I like a little danger—and Master’s away, so the pup will play…”  He leered hard at the muscle-bound stud.

 

Adam was intrigued and enraged.  Fuckin’ cunt was such a homo he needed a master.  “That explain yer getup?” he asked, giving the slut’s Chile 62 tracksuit a once-over.

 

“Hell yeah,” the kid said proudly, “Sir’s a skinhead; he likes to see me in this.  Likes to use me and abuse me while I’m wearing it.  Think you can do that to me too?”

 

Again, Adam paused.  He was used to hunting down and snuffing his own fuckmeat; even the stupid cunts who came onto him didn’t want more than an assfuck.  The psycho killer hadn’t had anyone begging to be hurt—this could be downright fun.

 

Or would be if it didn’t involve a cocksuckin’ fag pervert.  Little motherfucker wanted abuse?  It deserved it and Adam was more than willing to comply.  He hadn’t been trolling for meat, but he wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to rid the world of another useless queer.  Especially one asking to be abused.

 

Still, he needed to be careful.  “Why me?” he asked.

 

“Cause you look like you’d enjoy it,” the kid said.  “See, Sir’s good—fuck, when he makes me lick his boots, I wanna cum—but that don’t mean I don’t wanna play sometimes…”

 

“So you want someone new to get ya off,” Adam finished the sentence.  “How long you been watchin’ me?”

 

“Since the beginnin’ of the week—once I found out Sir was gonna leave town today.”

 

“Didn’t waste any time, didja, ya horny little fuck?  Didja tell anyone about me, about yer plans?

 

The kid writhed happily.  “Nossir,” he said breathily, ginning wildly in pleasure.  He’d picked the right dude, no question.  Just the verbal abuse was getting him off; the bulge in his trackies was obvious to anyone within fifteen feet.

 

This might work.  Adam was suspicious of a situation which he hadn’t set up himself, but this looked legit—the punk fuck was seriously coming on to him.  “You got someplace to go?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” the kid said, “We can go back to our place.”

 

“Whaddaya mean, ‘our’ place?”

 

“Well, Sir’s place.  But I live there too.”

 

Not for long you won’t, Adam thought.  “And what’ll happen if ‘Sir’ finds out you been playin’?”

 

“Aw, he’ll probably beat the fuck outta me.  But he ain’t gonna find out.  I’ll clean up good after.”

 

Adam had his own opinions on that as well, but he kept them to himself.

 

“Ok, cunt.  You wanna get treated like fuckin’ garbage, I can damn sure do that.”

 

“Fuckin’-A, dude!  C’mon, follow me.  I’m parked next you; I know which car is yours.”

 

“Lead the way, little boy,” Adam said contemptuously; the kid picked up on the tone.  Despite his desire for abuse, there was something in the alpha’s cold voice that momentarily disconcerted him.

 

“Connor,” he said decisively, “My name is Connor.  And I may be a pup, but I ain’t no kid—I’m twenty.”

 

“Yeah?” Adam said flatly, emotionlessly staring directly at him.  “So what?”

 

Connor’s dark hazel-green eyes widened slightly, but his cock twitched so hard it rustled the shiny polyester tent over his crotch.  Adam grinned and the kid relaxed somewhat.  “I’ll pull out first—the car, I mean, heh, heh—and you can follow me.”

 

Adam followed him back to where he’d parked.  He noticed the silver 2017 Mercedes E400 parked next to his car; it certainly hadn’t been there when he pulled in—he wouldn’t have parked next to it.  His doors and its were too long to be side-by-side in the gym’s narrow parking spaces.

 

He let Connor pull out of his space before getting into his own car, then got into his own and followed.  Once out of the parking lot, the kid headed east; it took about twenty minutes to reach his destination, a loft condo in a refurbished warehouse near the train tracks.

 

There was an open parking lot in the back of the building; Adam went to the far end to park.  He approached the building slowly, carefully scanning the entryway and the façade to confirm there weren’t any cameras.  There was surprisingly little security, although the door could only be opened by a chip card; it had to be used to activate the elevator, too.

 

Adam took note. That piece of info would come in handy later.

 

The condo was on the fourth floor—and it seemed to be one of only two on the entire floor that was occupied.  Inside, the place was very Urban Modern—brick walls, concrete floor, exposed piping and ductwork—and very new.

 

“You haven’t been here long,” Adam said; a statement, not a question.  Connor answered anyway.

 

“No—Sir’s, uh, not from here.  He’s got a job to do, then he’s goin’ home.  And he’s takin’ me with him.”

 

Adam knew better.  Connor had been turning on a lamp as he spoke; when the dim light flashed across the open space, the smile on Adam’s face was barely visible.  The kid was simply too far away to see the wicked glint in the killer’s cold blue eyes.

 

What he could see, even in the semi-darkened living room, was Adam’s phenomenal physique.  If Connor’s shiny Adidas tracksuit had been eye-catching, Adam’s own workout gear was not far behind.  He sported a white Lycra V-neck tank top that appeared to be painted onto his broad chest.  The deeply-cut neck allowed his abundant red-gold chest hair to spill out, while his powerfully muscled arms were admirably displayed.

 

Below the waist, Adam had on a pair of black polyester gym shorts that hung to just above the knee; Connor couldn’t see the stud’s thighs, but the thick slabs of muscles in his calves were obvious enough.  On his feet were a pair of Nike Air Max2 kicks in a bright, almost neon, yellow.

 

It wasn’t that Connor hadn’t noticed how Adam had been dressed earlier; he’d just been too wrought up by the anxiety of approaching the stud in person to take in the details.

 

Adam, in the meantime, glanced around the room.  He’d already assimilated what he needed to know about Connor—just another fuckin’ homo perv that thought it was worthy of his cock.  All he needed now was the right place to teach it its lesson.  A place where they could have…a little alone time.

 

“This y’all’s shit?” he asked abruptly.  Startled, Connor jerked.  “Uh, uh—no, not the furniture or the…well, the personal stuff is ours.  Sir ain’t gonna be here long.  This is one of the model units, I think…”

 

“So where’s the bedroom, faggot?”

 

Connor flushed, but his expression made it clear that it was with pleasure.  “This way,” he chirped happily, leading his killer to the place where he was going to die.

 

The bedroom—there was only one, it seemed—was partitioned off from the main living space by a series of pseudo-Japanese sliding screens.  Made of flimsy black plastic inset with squares of glossy translucent polyester and running on a track, they managed to connote an aura of cheapness while providing no privacy whatsoever.  Adam started to realize why so few units were occupied…

 

But that didn’t matter.  The room itself was surprisingly small, with a double bed against the far wall.  The right wall was solid glass, looking out onto the train tracks and the river beyond, sluggish, shallow, and stinking with algae in the summer heat.  The sun, finally setting after a sweltering day, glinted greenly off the thick organic stew.

 

To the left was a dresser; next to it was a closet with mirrored sliding doors.  In the far corner was a small desk with an empty laptop docking station and an adjustable high-backed desk chair on casters.

 

Connor had flicked on the lights when he came in.  There was a small lamp on the single nightstand, another one on the dresser, and the overhead lights in the ceiling fan.  The bulbs were evidently fluorescent; everything was dim at first but gradually became brighter.

 

The punk fucker took the initiative, his presumption stoking Adam’s psychotic rage.  Connor had already snagged something surreptitiously from a drawer in the nightstand; the dumbass cunt thought that Adam hadn’t seen it, but the clinking of metal alone was enough to tell the experienced sadist that the kid had brought out a pair of handcuffs.  Now, he grabbed the chair from the desk and wheeled it to the only open space in the small room, between the bed and the closet, which were separated by about six feet.

 

Sitting in the chair, Connor extended his right hand, the cuffs dangling from his index finger.  “You c’n put these on me if ya want…” he led off.  Adam waited, savoring his rage; he knew there was more to come.  The pansy was gonna suffer for this, big time.

 

“…but I gotta see whatcha got first.  Pull off those shorts, big boy; I’d bet my life yer commando under there.”

 

If he’d been less of a horny cockpig, Connor might have noticed the somehow chilling look of satisfaction that crossed Adam’s face.  He lifted his Lycra shirt just enough to grasp the waistband of his shorts and, jerking them down, kicked them to one side.

 

Underneath, he still wore the lining, also Lycra, in black and yellow—the same shade of yellow as his Nikes.  As Connor stared in awe at the massive shaft of manmeat so clearly outlined in every detail in Adam’s crotch, the sex killer grinned.

 

“You lose yer bet, asswipe,” he chuckled.  Approaching the eager slut, he grabbed the handcuffs and secured the homo’s arms behind the back of the chair.  Slowly turning the chair to face the mirrored closet door, Adam stood behind it and grinned at their reflection.

 

“Wait, wait!” Connor cried out, “I almost forgot—over there, top desk drawer…”

 

Adam wasn’t one to give into requests, but since this piece of meat was damn near snuffing itself, his curiosity was aroused.  Opening the desk drawer, he found a pair of leather gloves, thin, tight and smooth.

 

“Put ‘em on!”  Connor’s tone was more a plea than a command.  Smirking maliciously, Adam complied, slipping the tight, supple gloves onto his powerful hands.  Turning around, he stalked ominously back to the helpless kid.

 

The faggot was staring at Adam’s crotch again, his large dark eyes sliding up and down the length of the Lyrca-covered shaft and lingering over the well-defined cock head.  The hardbodied psycho felt the familiar bloodlust welling up within him, the desire to put this little fuck down, hard, and then own its corpse by filling it with cum.

 

But of course, before that happened, it needed to be made worthy to receive his cock.  All the faggotry had to be purged from the meat’s soul, and the soul could only be purged by suffering.

 

“Damn, dude, I can’t wait to service that dick,” Connor gasped breathily, “Sure hope a little breath control play will make you as hard as it does me!”

 

That was it; that was all that was needed to flip Adam’s switch.

 

“You wanna earn my dick, cunt?” he jeered.  “You ain’t worth it, ya fuckin’ faggot.”

 

“Nossir!” Connor chirped happily; he loved this kinda abuse.

 

Taking his place behind the chair again, Adam used the mirror to maintain eye contact with the fuckmeat.  “Ya wanna know what ya gotta do to earn it, bitch?”

 

“Yessir!  Please, sir!”  Connor squealed.

 

“You gotta die,” Adam said flatly, and slapped one of his big, strong hands over Connor’s face, closing off the boy’s nose and mouth simultaneously, the smooth leather making an air-tight seal.

 

It took no great effort to stand there and hold the kid’s head; the punk didn’t even start to struggle until near the one-minute mark.  His dick responded long before that, though; almost instantly, it was throbbing visibly beneath the shiny trackies.  After about two minutes, though, Connor’s muffled grunting increased and he began to jerk his head about.  Adam let go.

 

The meat wasn’t suffering; it was enjoying itself.

 

“Le-lemme go a s-sec,” Connor gasped out as he recovered his breath, “Th-that was so fuck-fuckin’ hot…”

 

“I’m gettin’ tired of you orderin’ me around,” Adam growled in a deep bass tone, but he unlocked one of the cuffs, leaving the set to dangle off the boy’s left wrist.  Connor wriggled with pleasure at the rough rumble of the top’s voice.  Swiftly pulling his hands around to his lap, he whipped out his long, pulsing boycock and began stroking his shaft.

 

“Call me ‘Ghost’,” he moaned, “That’s what Sir calls me…”

 

“You goddam piece a’ faggot shit,” Adam said coldly.  He reached down and grabbed Connor’s right wrist and jerked it violently upward, then back towards himself, bringing up his knee at the same time to use as a lever.  The sadistic alpha felt his own cock swell as he broke Connor’s arm; it happened so fast that the punk heard the wet splintering sound of his radius and ulna snapping before the pain hit him.

 

The kid’s pale face went even whiter as the shock hit him; he opened his mouth and automatically inhaled—but before he could scream, Adam punched him twice in quick succession.  This first blow landed in his soft flat gut and drove all the air out of his lungs with a loud squeak.  The second punch popped him in the face, splitting his bottom lip and bruising his cheek.

 

As the meat slumped back in the chair, moaning and stunned, Adam reached down and grabbed the collar of the kid’s t-shirt.  Twisting it tightly, he used it to single-handedly hoist Connor of out the chair.  Holding the dazed youth up to his face, his Vapormax kicks dangling in mid-air, the killer stared directly into the boy’s wide, scared eyes.

 

“Ghost, huh?  That’s about right, fuckmeat.  That’s exactly what the fuck you are—a ghost.  Yer fuckin’ dead, man—that’s what it takes to get my dick.  I gotta torture the faggotry outta ya before I can fuck yer meat, see?  So, yeah—yer gonna get ghosted.  ‘Ghost’ is fuckin’ great!”  He laughed, a deep, hearty sound.

 

Connor found it chilling, but he was in too much pain to know why.  He didn’t even know what the fuck had happened, but this fucker had broken his arm oh my god it hurts so goddam bad—

 

There was a shearing, ripping sound and Connor’s Adidas t-shirt gave way, the thin cotton unable to support the youth’s weight any longer.  As it tore open, the kid tumbled to the ground at Adam’s feet, still in his track jacket but now bare-chested under it.  The muscle-bound killer tossed the shredded piece of fabric aside.  Straddling the prone youth, he bent down, clamped a hand around his neck, and lifted the punk back up.

 

Connor screamed as his broken arm flopped about.  “Shaddap!” Adam snarled, backhanding the kid brutally, blackening his left eye.  “You need this, asswipe.  Pain’s good for the soul, remember?  An’ by the time I’m done with ya, yer soul is gonna be so pure it’ll even be worthy to receive my seed.”

 

He jammed the boy back down into the chair.  Stepping behind it, he again faced the reflection of the two of them in the mirror.  This time, he used both hands to seal off the punk’s nose and mouth.  Connor’s frantic eyes could just barely be seen over the top of his gloved hands.

 

This time, the kid’s reaction was much more immediate—as Adam expected; after all, this time the meat knew it wasn’t a game.  Connor twisted and writhed in the chair, trying to slip out of Adam’s crushing grip on his skull, but it was useless.  His legs kicked and drummed on the floor, the heels of his Nikes leaving scuff marks on the wood.

 

“Hey, fuckwad,” Adam whispered in the boy’s ear, “See how yer cock is twitchin’?  Means there’s still too much faggot left in ya, so we gotta keep going.”

 

Connor was long familiar with the erotic sensations of oxygen deprivation; he knew that as the crushing pain in his lungs and the pounding pressure in his head intensified, his dick would only get harder and harder.  This motherfucker was seriously gonna kill him—

 

Adam smiled as he heard the faint muffled squeaks that were the only outward signs of Connor’s screams.  “What’s that—ya wanna safe word?” he chuckled maliciously, “Ok, cocksucker—yer safe word is ‘die’.  Once ya do that, I’ll let go.”

 

The fuckmeat still hadn’t its proper position as Adam’s cumrag.  The room was filled with a loud jangling sound as Connor’s left hand, with the handcuffs still attached, clawed helplessly at his face, his scrambling fingers not finding any purchase on the smooth surface of the black leather gloves.  In panicked desperation, he slung his hand around to the right side of his face, where Adam was bent by his ear.  Adam was too far away for Connor’s hand to reach, but the handcuffs, swinging out with momentum, managed to clip the alpha on the chin.

 

The impact wasn’t severe; it didn’t even break the skin, but it startled, then enraged the psychotic killer.  Releasing Connor’s head, he stood up.  As the boy coughed and heaved, sucking in lungfuls of air, Adam grabbed his left hand and bent his index finger all the way back, snapping it at the first joint.

 

“WHA TH’ FUCK?!?” Connor screeched, lack of oxygen making his voice high and reedy.  Adam calmly popped him in the face, a single sucker-punch right from the shoulder into Connor’s nose, breaking it with a loud crunch.  Turning his attention back to the unlucky youth’s hand, he grabbed the middle finger and wrenched it brutally backwards.

 

Connor screamed again—no words this time, just a loud, inarticulate wail of agony.  “Ya still likin’ it, faggot?” he hissed, his cold eyes slitted in anger, “Does the thought of bein’ close to death still get ya off?  Cause you’re close, ya worthless human cumdump, you’re so close to death I betcha can taste it, cantcha?”

 

The boy opened his eyes and turned his strained face, gray with shock, towards his tormentor.  This wasn’t what he’d wanted at all; he just wanted a little play…Sir wouldn’t have actually hurt him…

 

“P-ple-please…” was all he could get out.

 

“Please what, homo?” Adam sneered.  “Already toldja, the meat don’t call the shots.  Looks like you ain’t as ready to be honored by my load as I’d thought.  You got faggotry rooted deep down in yer soul, motherfucker, an’ I’m gonna make damn sure I get it all out.”

 

He paused for a moment, then smiled grimly.  “This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me, son.”

 

He took hold of Connor’s left arm in the same way he had his right, except this time, he placed his knee right on the kid’s elbow joint and bent the arm backwards from there.  There was a gristly snapping sound, like tearing a chicken leg form a carcass, and the arm hung limp at an awkward angle while Connor’s shriek spiraled into the upper registers, making his voice crack and leaving him to wheeze and gasp almost soundlessly.

 

Adam stepped in front of the chair, crossed his arms, and contemplated the meat.  Connor writhed impotently in the chair, utterly defenseless with two broken arms.  The meat’s slim, smooth torso glistened with sweat; the air was rank with testosterone and manscent.  As Adam watched the kid’s slick, flat abdomen heave with pain, he noticed a tattoo on the kid’s belly.  It looked like a robot, or maybe a cactus with a face.

 

Whatever, Adam thought dismissively; maybe it’d help ID the corpse later.  His own cock was pulsating on a regular basis, and that meant that it was time for the final act of purification.  He smiled broadly, a pleasant and friendly expression on his face.

 

“Hey, Ghost?  Ya still with me, man?” he asked kindly, stepping forward and patting the boy on the cheek.  Connor had stopped writhing and remained slumped in the chair, moaning quietly, his head hanging forward.  His bright copper hair was now dark with sweat—but so was Adam’s, so they still matched.  “Almost there, fucker.  But not yet.  Still too much of a fag, Ghost; my cock tells me so.  We ain’t done yet, asswipe.  Lessee—yer into gettin’ choked, huh?  Ok, motherfucker, lemme see if I can choke the homo right outta ya.”

 

Locked in a vise of physical pain, the lean pup in the trackies could only shudder and sob as the hulking alpha stud searched the room for something appropriate.  Connor tried to get up, but without his arms to brace himself, he inevitably began to roll off balance as he moved—and as he started to roll to one side or the other, the arm on that side began to flex at the break, grinding bones together.  It just hurt too much.

 

In the meantime, Adam had opened the closet and rummaged around in it.  It didn’t take him long to find something that suited his needs; when he returned, he was holding two items.  One was a straightstick baton, about eleven inches long.  The other was a belt of webbed nylon.

 

“Ya ready?” he asked as he approached the traumatized youth, “Ready to live up to yer name and get ghosted?”

 

Connor’s battered and swollen face was barely recognizable; the arrogantly handsome punk had been beaten to hamburger.  It hurt even to speak, but frantic self-preservation drove the cunt on in a vain attempt to plead for his useless life.

 

“O-oh god, p-please, n-n-no…j-us-just lemme go…wo-wo-won’t say noth-nothin’…te-tell S-Sir I got-got mu-mu-mugged…”

 

“Y’know,” Adam said reflectively as he stepped behind the chair and wrapped the belt around Connor’s neck, “Sir is probably gonna be the one who finds your corpse after I’ve given it the honor of bein’ my personal cumrag.  Wonder what he’s gonna think; don’t you?”

 

Laughing, he slipped the baton under the belt and began twisting.  It took a few seconds for him to twist it enough to tighten the belt around Connor’s neck, but once he had, it made a perfect garrote.

 

“Ok, ya worthless asswipe, only one way to get ya free of yer disgustin’ faggot lusts.  Only one way to make your dead fuckmeat clean enough to be my cumdump.  It’s buried deep in yer DNA, faggot—I gotta squeeze the spunk outta ya so I can replace it with my own manseed.”

 

As the tightly-webbed black nylon sank into Connor’s tender neck flesh, Adam leaned forward and hissed “Time to die, Ghost.  It’s gonna hurt, you worthless piece a’ shit; it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  I promise, cunt.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

The boy whimpered in fear.  He’d always loved being controlled by someone else, the hot erotic danger of having another man bring him to the point of death was what made him cum.  But he’d always known in the back of his mind that it wasn’t the real thing—no matter who it was, his Master or a casual hookup, he’d always known he wasn’t really gonna die.  Until now.

 

The glassy, white-hot pain of broken bones made it obvious that playtime was over.  Connor was young, healthy, and full of cum.  He didn’t want to die; as bad as the pain was, he still couldn’t quite believe it—until he heard Adam’s words.

 

And then the belt tightened further around his throat, the nylon digging deeply into his skin, and his windpipe was squeezed closed.  That tripped the trigger; as often as Connor had experienced the sensation before, this was different.  This time, it wasn’t coming off.  He panicked.

 

The lean youth attempted to lunge forward, his firm legs tensing in the glossy track pants as he tried to find leverage, in vain.  His hands flopped limply, utterly useless except for increasing the amount of agony the punk was experiencing.  He could hear Adam talking behind him; worse, he could see the sexy, gleeful face of his killer leering over his shoulder in the mirror.

 

And worst of all, he could see his face, already purple and swollen with the beating he’d endured, starting to go black.  He knew the stages, he knew what to expect.  And he’d see it all in the mirror; he was gonna watch himself die.

 

It was too much for the lithe young pup.  A dark haze of terror swept over him and somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a moist warmth spread over him as well—or at least down his legs.  He wasn’t able to register the fact that he’d lost control of his bladder and that warm boypiss was trickling down inside his trackies and pooling in his Nike kicks.

 

As Connor struggled and thrashed, lubed by his own urine, he slid lower in the chair.  “No ya fuckin’ don’t,” Adam muttered.  Flexing his powerful biceps, he lifted the kid by the garrote and resettled him in the chair.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, fuckmeat.  Yer gonna watch the whole show, all the way to the end.”

 

Sweat trickled down Connor’s face and his ginger locks, rank with perspiration, plastered his forehead.  The slightest movement brought on nightmarish agony, but sheer asphyxia-induced panic was starting to overwhelm the young faggot; he grimly clung to rational thought—not in a brave attempt to figure a way out of his situation, but almost by mere instinct, as if he as subconsciously aware that he was doomed the moment he lost control.

 

Lucidity was a double-edged sword, though; it would take effort to avoid recognizing that he was doomed in any case—but Connor’ efforts were devoted to the most intense struggle in his life.  It was also the last.

 

The times Sir had bagged him had been nothing like this.  The tight, erotic feel of the rope or the cuffs, sometimes in his track suit, sometimes in footy gear and boots—the way he’d been left alone on occasions, Sir just watching and grinning, sometimes until he pissed himself, sometimes until the raging thumping of his pulse in his skull was overtaken by the swift pulsing of his thick boycock, pumping out gobs of cum—

 

—oh dear fuckin’ god no, this was nothing like that, so why the fuck was his dick so hard—

 

Adam gave the baton a half-turn; the belt sank in a little deeper.  Not much, but it didn’t need to be; even though his trachea had been compressed to the point that air could no longer pass through it, it was by no means incapable of being compacted further.

 

And it damn sure wasn’t numb.  In another of those moments of lucidity, Connor felt a dull surprise that he could feel the pain of the taut nylon digging into his throat and deforming his esophagus; he was in a bottomless pool of agony, but it didn’t merge, he could feel it all separately his neck his face his fingers his arms oh fuck my arms how’m I gonna get out oh shit oh fuck—

 

And with the realization of how seriously he’d been injured, terror swept back over him in a dark wave, leaving him to thrash and flail about in the desk chair, his piss-soaked legs kicking wildly.  Panic had flooded his body with adrenaline, overriding the pain impulses—for the moment, he was numb.  His legs kicked and flailed; he managed to scape one of his Nikes off, flinging it across the room, as his foot flexed and his toes curled in agony, still encased in a pair of piss-sodden no-show ped socks.

 

Again, Adam jerked the meat upwards and resettled it, holding in place until its struggles began to weaken.  He kept a careful eye on it, wanting to make sure that there was still enough of the fag left to understand his words.  The buff psycho caught a faint spark of light in the dying cockpig’s bulging, bloodshot eyes.  It was just barely there, but it was enough.

 

“Watch yerself die, faggot,” Adam hissed with vindictive glee, “Watch yerself choke and drool—an’ remember how much you need this, ya fuckin’ pansy.  You know it.  You want it.  You fuckin’ asked for it, cunt, so enjoy the pain, ya worthless pile of meat.”

 

Connor could barely see; his eyes were bulging horribly from his head, huge black explosions forming in his field of vision as blood vessels hemorrhaged, turning the whites of his eyes red.  The frantic pounding of his pulse in his ears nearly drowned out all other sounds.  But “barely” and “nearly” didn’t mean completely.

 

There was still enough of Connor left to recognized his own form in the mirror, jerking uncontrollably.  A long streamer of foamy drool had oozed from his mouth, past his bulging black tongue, and trickled down his chin, where a long strand had trailed down to his smooth, flat belly.  His face was congested and swollen, a thick puffy caricature of his arrogantly handsome countenance, with grotesquely protruding eyes.

 

And even though his vision was rapidly fading, the homo cunt could still see the trickle of precum oozing from the purple, pulsing head of his achingly erect cock.

 

And he could see the buff alpha as well; some little corner of his faggot brain still lusted over that muscle-bound torso wrapped in white Lycra so tight his large hard nipples cast shadows over his broad pecs.  Wiry strawberry-blond hair spilled over the deeply-cut neck, but Connor’s eyes were drawn to the thick biceps, glistening with sweat and bulging with the effort of ending his life…

 

He knew he was dying and Adam knew he knew it.  “I hope it hurts, Ghost,” the fully-erect, hardbodied killer hissed, “Hope it hurts a lot.  You thought you deserved my dick, ya perverted piece a’ shit?  This is what cocksuckin’ pansies like you deserve!”  With that, he gave his improvised garrote a swift, vicious full 180-degree turn.

 

Connor was young and healthy; his lean and lithe body could endure a great deal of trauma, but there is a point beyond which human tissue can’t be stressed without enduring permanent damage.  Up to now, the boy’s windpipe had been squeezed shut.  Now, it collapsed completely, crushed beyond repair.

 

There was a loud wet crunch.  “Fuck yeah!” Adam crowed triumphantly as the punk slut shuddered in nightmarish agony, his slim body wracked with excruciating pain.  The searing pain of having his trachea and larynx crushed into a bleeding mass of mangled cartilage was too much; it would have shattered whatever was left of the pup’s mind—but nothing was left.  He’d been without air too long; the brain damage was too severe.

 

This was the point Adam had been waiting for.  He wanted to try something.  He’d always like his meat fresh…

 

The hulking alpha quickly spun the baton in the opposite direction, loosening the garrote.  He had to grab a hank of the kid’s slick coppery hair with one hand so he could jerk the embedded belt out of his neck with the other hand.   Ghost—there was no Connor left anymore—convulsed rhythmically, his limbs flopping limply as his muscles responded to the erratic signals of a dying brain.

 

Adam tossed both the belt and the body to the floor.  He looked down at the shuddering fuckmeat, considering it calmly, despite the way his huge manshaft throbbed visibly beneath the Lycra shorts.  He bent down, picked the meat up, and dragged it to the bed.  Tossing its torso face-down across the mattress so that its knees were on the floor and it was bent forward at the waist, Adam reached out and pulled the track pants down, exposing the smooth golden globes of the corpse’s ass.  As he watched, the meat continued to shudder and tremble, the convulsions twitching and puckering Ghost’s pink fuckhole.

 

Now the meat was acceptable.  The faggot was dead.  Whatever happened, Connor wasn’t coming back—but Ghost was worthy of receiving Adam’s manhood.

 

He didn’t even bother to take the black and yellow Lycra shorts off.  Adam just reached down and whipped out his cock and balls, stuffing the latter into the dead punk’s quivering asshole.  He felt some resistance at first, a pressure on the engorged, precum-slick head of his cock, but his enormous shaft tore open the dead boy’s sphincter with minimal effort and was soon buried deep in Ghost’s warm and still-convulsing rectum.

 

His fluorescent yellow Nike Air Max 2’s tensed on the laminate wood floor, one on each side of Ghost’s feet, keeping the homo punk’s from slipping and spreading.

 

The hyper-masculine sex killer fucked his prey deeply and brutally, synching the timing of his thrusts to the rhythm of the slowly-dying meat’s convulsions, letting the pup’s death throes milk the hot sperm out of his pulsating tool.  As he felt his seed starting to seethe in his puckered balls, Adam began increasing the tempo of his pumping until he knew he was within seconds of unloading; he’d saved this next move for the very end.

 

Placing one hand on the meat’s shoulder, he reached down and grabbed the chin with the other.  Without missing a single perfectly-timed thrust of his hips, Adam jerked Ghost’s chin around backward until he was staring directly into the dead punk’s black, swollen face.

 

There was a loud popping sound as the first five cervical vertebrae in Ghost’s spine shattered like glass under the inexorable strength of Adam’s muscles.  The abrupt trauma inflicted on the youth’s spinal column as razor-sharp shards of bone sheared through it at random sent a massive electrochemical shock throughout his entire nervous system.

 

It all happened at once. Ghost’s body went rigid as its muscles locked in a violent convulsive spasm.  The torn sphincter was still able to tighten around Adam’s pulsating rod; in fact, the muscles in Ghost’s lower rectum collapsed in a cascading rhythm, rippling along the thick, cum-filled channel that ran up under the thick swollen shaft to the velvet-soft head.  At the same time, the ginger fag’s own cock began to spasm uncontrollably as the penile muscles convulsed.

 

They both spewed simultaneously; Ghost, unconscious, unknowing, literally brain-dead, pumping his faggot boycum uselessly into the thick duvet cover as the overpowering alpha hosed him down internally with scalding manspunk.  Adam could feel the meat’s involuntary orgasm as the muscular spasms rippled though the body and tightened the sphincter around his cock again.  The sudden tightness triggered him.  “FUCK!” he screamed, “Goddam fuckin’ CUNT!!”

 

As his huge scrotum clenched and his massive shaft spasmed, gushing out his manload in a solid spurt of cum, Adam drove his fist into the corpse’s face twice in quick succession, rendering the once-handsome boymeat even less recognizable.  He felt himself pumping and cumming and cursing and pounding the meat over and over again, caught in the depths of a violent sexual release.

 

Once he shuddered to a pleasurable release, he slumped, shuddering and sighing, onto the meat’s still-trembling back, taking a moment to catch his breath as the last few pearly drops of cum oozed from his receding cock.  When he finally disengaged from the pile of quivering boymeat, he felt relaxed and refreshed; finding his way to the bathroom, he moistened an ornamental handtowel at the sink and wiped down his dick.  Tossing it into the toilet, he grabbed the matching towel off the rack and used it to swab out his reeking pits before reuniting the pair in the commode.

 

Adam stepped back into the bedroom and observed the scene with the satisfaction of an artist.  Ghost was on his knees, bent over the bed.  One foot was still tightly laced into its Nike Vapormax 97; the other seemed kind of exposed in its thin, piss-soaked knit ped sock—even now, the toes were still twitching, helplessly and vulnerably.

 

It didn’t matter.  The thick wads of spunk leaking out of Ghost’s ravaged asshole told the story—and if they didn’t, the look of horror on his gruesomely twisted face certainly did.  Adam shoved his enormous tackle back into the Lycra shorts and slipped the polyester gym shorts back over them.

 

As he left the room, the plastic sliding door jammed on its track.  Adam kicked it out, snapping it off and shoving it to the side.  The last thing he did on his way out of the condo was retrieve the magnetic card that operated the elevator and the front door.  He kept the card in his hand as he got into his car and drove off, heading in a different direction that he’d arrived, just in case.  His route took him over the river; as he crossed the bridge, he tossed the card out the window and had the satisfaction of seeing it wafted in his wake over the railing and into the murky depths below.

 


 

Sir arrived back much earlier than expected; the deal had fallen though and he’d seen no need to stay on.  He made good time; given what he’d paid for his Ducati Panigale V4, he’d expected to. The constant vibration in his crotch had him stirred up, though; he had a lot of energy to work out on his pup when he got back.  Ghost better be up for some play…

 

He parked in an empty space not far from the Benz; that was a good thing—it meant the kid was home.  He strode across the lot, his hard, firm body tightly encased in a one-piece black leather motorcycle suit that fastened directly to his black leather AMU long riding boots, and a black helmet with a dark visor over his head.

 

He crossed the lobby and accessed the elevator; there were no issues with his key card.  The fourth floor was quiet—as was usual—and when he opened the door, there seemed to be nothing out of place, at first.  It was only the silence in the unit that seemed odd.

 

“Ghost?  You here?  You better get yer gear out; yer ass is mine tonight, cunt!”

 

His voice seemed to echo in the dim flat.  That was when he noticed the broken sliding panel lying on the floor.  Darting into the bedroom, he was brought up short by the sight of Connor’s corpse.

 

Part of him had always expected this; the immature punk hadn’t known how set the proper limits to his play, and his Master had felt that one day the cunt would take it too far on his own—but this wasn’t on his own.  Even from here, Sir could see that the Ghost had been strangled and raped, probably in that order.

 

And the only way in was with a card.  There were no signs of forced entry.  The stupid motherfucker had gone out to play and brought home a killer.

 

The thing that pissed Sir off the most was that someone else had fucked his property.  It was obvious that the worthless little fuck had suffered for his wandering lust, but that still didn’t erase the fact that Sir’s property had been violated.

 

He needed to take it back.

 

Without removing his helmet, he reached up under it to the zipper at the collar and pulled it down—all the way down to his crotch.  Reaching in, he pulled out his thick purple manshaft and with no hesitation at all, started fucking Ghost’s corpse.  His leather-clad body bent over the dead boy, heaving and pumping, as his thick-soled motorcycle boots gave him the necessary traction.

 

As Sir grunted and thrust, his face, inscrutable behind the darkened helmet visor, stared directly into Ghost’s.  Even though the dark purple lividity had drained, leaving the kid’s face a pale violet color, the sheer agony and suffering of the kid’s death were still clearly marked in his face.

 

“Ya fuckin’ deserved it, didn’tcha,” Sir grunted, knowing what a slut the boycunt was, “But yer mine, ya worthless fuck, mine, ya hear me?  I’m the one who gets to use ya up and throw ya out like fuckin’ garbage!”

 

His taut, muscled body jerked and shuddered inside his leather biker gear as he unloaded again and again, marking the dead boy as his property.

 

Walking into the bathroom to clean himself up afterward, he noted with disgust the towels in the toilet.  He got a clean one from the linen closet to wipe himself down before returning to the bedroom.

 

After a moment of contemplation, the hardbodied biker skinhead dragged Ghost off the bed and wrapped his corpse in the duvet cover.  After all, it wasn’t like it was his property anyway.  Lifting it in his arms, he carried it out of the condo and managed to make it down to the lobby and out to the Benz without being seen.

 

His first idea had been to drive over the bridge and drop the corpse in the river, even though he recognized that its sluggish flow left it less than ideal for body disposal.  But the same bridge also crossed the train tracks, and that inspired him.

 

Pulling over to the side, Sir hoisted Ghost’s corpse out of the trunk and lifted it over the parapet.  He let it go, keeping hold of the duvet cover as it unrolled and left the trackie-clad corpse to drop unceremoniously into an uncovered coal car.  In the dark, it was almost invisible.

 

Sir headed over the bridge, but he did stop one more to toss the stained duvet cover into the scum-covered river before turning back and heading to the condo.  He needed a good night’s sleep.

 

The next day, he changed his flight so that he’d be out of the country by evening.  It wasn’t difficult.  He’d only ever purchased one ticket anyway.

Brody: Taking Out the Trailer Trash

Travis could hear the crunch of gravel out on the drive and could almost feel the rumbling throb of the huge engine as the 4X4 pickup lurched its way nearer.  The sound made him shudder and tense up; it meant Brody was home.  And that meant…

 

…well, there was no way to know what that meant tonight.  Some nights, it meant fantastic sex.  Brody was thirty, a good seven years older than Travis, and he was hotter than fuck.  That hadn’t changed in the two years since they’d met—Brody’s job as a construction foreman kept his towering, six-foot-four frame fit and incredibly muscular.  His dick was more than eight inches long and an inch and a half thick, and he knew how to use it.

 

But those nights were few and far between—and becoming fewer.  Some nights, Brody was half-drunk (at a minimum) and in a foul mood.  Those were bad nights.  If Travis was lucky, he might get slapped around or a black eye.  If he wasn’t lucky, Brody wanted to fuck.  And that wasn’t fantastic sex, it was punishment sex.  Brody wasn’t just a mean drunk, he was a mean fuck.  On bad nights, Brody would fuck Travis like he wanted to hurt him.

 

Lately, there were a lot more bad nights.  Lately, Brody was escalating the violence and inflicting more severe injuries.  Lately, Travis was scared.

 

He wondered what would happen if he told Brody no.  Tonight he was gonna find out.

 

It took all the nerve he could muster to remain sitting calmly on the couch as he heard the truck’s door slam.  He didn’t love Brody—probably never had—but he was still overwhelmed with lust every time he looked at the older man.  He simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave, but dammit, that was gonna change.

 

Completely left out of his calculations was the fact that he had nothing; Brody owned the aged mobile home they lived in and the plot of land it was on.  And Brody’s job paid all the bills; Travis worked twenty-four hours a week as a clerk at the convenience store three miles up the road.  Brody had to drive him there and pick him up.

 

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  Travis wasn’t gonna let himself be bullied into abusive sex anymore, no matter how much of a stud Brody was.  At least, that’s what he told himself as he pulled a cigarette from the pack on the battered and scarred coffee table in front of him and fumbled with his lighter.

 

The lithe young fag jumped when he heard the truck door slam.  He didn’t know if he had the courage to follow through on his plans.  He was fit but not overly developed.  He stood a good half-foot shorter than Brody did and at a hundred and twenty pounds was outweighed by his brutal lover by a good sixty pounds, all of it muscles.  His broad face and large blue eyes gave his face an innocence that was highlighted by his short, curly hair that shined like spun gold.  Across the lower part of his face was the bare beginning of a beard of the same color.  Just starting to grow in, the facial hair somehow made him look younger than his actual age.

 

Since he’d been off today, he hadn’t bothered to dress.  He sported a pair of white cotton briefs that cradled his firm, rounded asscheeks and barely contained his decently-hung package; otherwise, his lean, taut body was bare, his smooth skin uncovered.

 

Of course, it wasn’t just that Brody outclassed him physically—if push came to shove, Travis had no doubt he could get away before anything really serious happened—but the redneck homo knew how attracted he was to the aggressive top.  To put it bluntly, he just wasn’t sure he could give up Brody’s hot, hard body and his massive cock.  After all, tonight might be a good night…

 

There was no mistaking the thumping of Brody’s boots on the front steps, but once the door was slammed open, Travis would have known his lover was in the room even had he been blind and deaf.  Brody’s distinctive musk of sweat and pheromones filled the room.  Tonight, it was blended with the sharp tang of alcohol.

 

Tonight wasn’t gonna be a good night.

 

“Go get me a clean shirt,” the hulking alpha demanded.  “This one’s still damp.”  Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of the dirty, sweat-soaked t-shirt and pulled it off over his head.  It caught for the moment in the chain of thick gold links that hung around his neck.  It took a further moment for Brody to free his shoulder-length black hair from the collar of the shirt.

 

When Travis returned from the bedroom with a clean t-shirt, Brody was rummaging in the fridge.  “Long goddam day,” he grumbled, “Fuckin’ niggers and wetbacks don’t fuckin’ listen to a word I say.”  Grabbing a beer, he stood up, closed the door of the fridge and popped the top of the beer can.  He started guzzling it, the overhead fluorescent illuminating his awesome physique.

 

His broad hubcap pecs were covered with a forest of black fur that intensified as it ran down his hard ripped abs, the body hair almost seeming to flow in waves over the muscled abdomen only to disappear beneath the waistband of his distressed, faded jeans.  Around his tight waist was a thick black leather belt, with a huge oval belt buckle made of elaborately wrought silver, with a large agate in the center.  Below, the jeans were tucked into the wide shafts of Brody’s well-worn Red Wing construction boots, which were laced but left untied.

 

Travis laid the clean t-shit on the back of the couch, watching Brody gulp down the beer so eagerly some of it dripped from his chin, leaving white trails of foam in his chest hair.  Finishing his brew, the alpha crumpled the can, belched loudly, and opened the fridge again.

 

“Why dintcha restock the fridge so I’d have some more cold ones?” he demanded.

 

“There ain’t no more,” Travis replied sullenly.  Seeing Brody’s hard, masculine face start to scowl, the young man knew he’d made a mistake.

 

“And so why dintcha text me that, so I could stop and get some more, you dipshit?” Brody growled.  His eyes, already bloodshot with alcohol, narrowed with anger.

 

“I-I didn’t think about it,” Travis warbled nervously.  He could feel his nerve starting to slip.  If he didn’t do something now, he’d never do anything.  “Brody, I, uh—we need to talk—”

 

“You didn’t think about it?  You don’t ever think about jack shit anyway,” Brody sneered drunkenly.

 

“That’s enough, Brody,” Travis said sharply, mustering all his courage.  “You can’t keep hurting me or talking shit to me, or—or I’ll leave.”

 

If anger made Brody’s face intimidating, the way it darkened with rage now was positively terrifying.  “You think yer gonna leave if you don’t get your way, ya little sack a’ shit?” he hissed, his tone low and dangerous.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say you can go, you got that, boy?”

 

Travis gulped loudly but stood his ground.  “I’m serious, Brody.  You—you hurt me, man.  You can fuck me all night long, but ya don’t have to be mean.  You don’t have to hurt me.”

 

Brody stared Travis straight in the eyes.  “But I like hurtin’ you, ya stupid little faggot.  I like hearing you squeal.  I like seein’ ya in pain.  It gets me off, motherfucker.”

 

Drunk as Brody was, Travis was hit by the realization that he was speaking the truth.  The youth wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed so it took a moment for the full import of the alpha’s words to sink in, but once they did, he understood with stunning clarity that he needed to get out.  Now.

 

“I’m goin’, Brody.  I gotta.  I gotta friend I can stay with, but I need to go…”

 

Brody flushed, rounding on Travis with lightning speed.  “You gotta friend, huh? You been fuckin’ around on me, is that it?  I ain’t good enough for ya now?  You ain’t leavin’ me, faggot, till I get my money’s worth outta ya.”

 

“Brody, please, don’t make this any harder than it—”

 

Travis’s plea was interrupted by loud smack as Brody’s swift, vicious backhand made contact with the kid’s face.  Travis staggered back, holding his hand up to his throbbing cheek, noting with dismay the sly, malicious grin on Brody’s face—and the swelling bulge in the top’s groin.

 

Brody hadn’t been kidding.  He really did get off on hurting Travis.

 

The air was thick with menace. Travis, nearly nude as he was, couldn’t simply flee out the front door.  He needed clothes, or he needed to call for help.  Problem was, his clothes and his cell phone were in the bedroom—and Brody was between him and it.  Still, he needed to chance it.  Travis ducked down and shot to one side, trying to dodge Brody and get past him.

 

A violent impact to his flank told him he didn’t succeed.  Brody had punched him in the side as he went past.  “No ya don’t, cocksucker,” the alpha growled as Travis stumbled, groaning in pain.

 

Trying a new tack, Travis circled around into the living area, moving to the front of the couch as Brody slowly stalked after him, rubbing his swelling crotch.  “Good thing yer undressed, boy—I’m in the mood to plow yer ass good and hard.  Stand still, ya fucking twat so I can put my dick in ya—”

 

This was followed by a grunt of surprise as Travis launched himself over the sofa, stepping up onto the cushions, then leaping over the back.  As the younger man dashed for the wall-mount phone in the kitchen, Brody tried to follow over the back of the couch.  Travis was lucky; in his semi-drunk state, the aggressive muscleman misjudged how high the back of the sofa was and tumbled over it, slamming to the floor behind and momentarily knowing the wind out of himself.

 

It gave Travis enough time to reach the phone and dial 911.  “Hello?  Yes?” he cried into the mouthpiece,  “Yes, police—it’s 1805 County Road 83 west—the trailer at the end of the drive—please, get here quick, he’s gonna hurt me—for fuck’s sake, get someone here—”

 

With a roar of rage Brody leapt at him.  Travis hadn’t even realized the stud had regained his feet; with a screech of fear, the young punk jumped back and watched in stunned fear as the well-built construction worker grabbed the phone and wrenched it off the wall with the sheer power of his muscled arms.  The metal plate and wiring to which the phone had been attached was ripped out of place, leaving a gaping hole in the drywall.

 

“You dumbass,” Brody hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, in so many different ways…”

 

Travis, his never-robust courage now completely evaporated, began backing away, moving slowly down the hall to the rear of the trailer, where the back bedroom was.  He had no plans and was moving instinctively, but once he got the open door of the spare bathroom, he dived into it and locked the door behind him.

 

The door knob rattled.  “Let me in, Travis,” Brody said in low tone.  “Let me in or I’ll break the door down.”

 

“Leave me alone,” Travis said, trying to sound brave and despising the tremulous warble in his voice.  “I ain’t stupid.  I ain’t comin’ out till you go away.”

 

“Let me in, Travis,” Brody growled through the door, “Or I really will break the door down.  And I hafta do that, I’m gonna take the cost outta yer hide.”

 

Terrified by the sense of being caught in a trap, Travis whimpered.  He glanced at the window, but it was a tiny opening for ventilation, far too small for him to fit through.  If Travis actually came through the door, he couldn’t imagine what would happen to him…

 

That was when he heard the siren in the distance.  Faint, but getting increasingly nearing—and thus louder—each passing second, the sound brought instant relief to the trembling young fag.  And within seconds, Brody could hear them too.

 

“Damn you,” he muttered through the door, “You’re gonna pay for this, you little asswipe.  You’re gonna pay so fuckin’ bad.”

 

Within a few seconds, Travis could hear the crunching of the tires on gravel and the banging of car doors, followed by a loud knock at the trailer door.  “Police!  Open up!”  Still muttering beneath his breath, Brody went to let the cops in—he had no other choice.  Cautiously unlocking the bathroom door, Travis finally came out.

 

Brody was talking to two cops—sheriff’s men.  One looked like he was in his mid-forties, the other was about Brody’s age. Both were nodding as Brody tried to explain what was happening, but Travis knew if he didn’t say something, they’d leave—and he’d be in danger.

 

“He hit me,” the younger man said, interrupting the conversation and silencing it.

 

“Are you sure about that, son?” the older cop asked.  “That’s a serious charge, after all.”

 

“See the mark on my face?  Yeah, I’m sure.  Now what are ya gonna do about it?”

 

The older cop sighed, his face clearly indicating his displeasure at whiny little faggots who increased his workload.  “Do ya wanna file charges?” he asked wearily, already picturing the amount of extra paperwork that was going to be involved.

 

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Travis rejoined.  He kept his eyes averted from the look of smoldering rage that Brody directed at him.  If he could get the top arrested, he’d have at least the weekend free and clear to arrange for something else.

 

“Ok, let’s do this,” the older copy muttered, defeat dulling his voice as he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and approached Brody.  “Turn around, buddy.  Hand behind your back.”

 

Brody complied, still glaring at Travis.  “You’re takin’ me just on his say-so?” he asked, outraged.

 

The younger cop spoke up for the first time.  “Gotta do it, mac.  State law—gotta take in the aggressor in a DV case if the victim decides to file charges.  That way, she—er, he—ain’t beaten into withdrawing the charges.  After a cooling-down period, you’ll be allowed to post bail.”

 

“Son of a bitch!” Brody swore.

 

“C’mon, buddy, let’s get ya in the car,” the older cop said after securing the cuffs.

 

“What, just like this, half-dressed?” Brody demanded.

 

“Aw, it’s just to the county lockup,” the older cop said.  “Tell ya what, if it makes ya feel better—Bates, pick up that shirt there on the couch on your way out.  This guy can put it on when we get back to town.”  With that, he aimed Brody at the door and left, leaving the younger cop to take Travis’s statement.

 

It didn’t take long for the young homo to recount the evening’s events.  Travis practically gushed at the young, hard-bodied cop in his tight uniform.  “Y’all saved my life, man—how’d y’all get here so quick? He asked.

 

“We were pickin’ up some coffee at the Kum N Buy up the road when we got the call,” the cop said coldly, his disgust at dealing with fags obvious.  When he was done, the cop made a few follow-up notes and turned to leave.  Once he reached the door, he looked back at Travis.

 

“Don’t forget,” the cop said.  “You gotta come down in the mornin’ and sign the official charges.  Plus, if ya want, you can file a restrainin’ order.  Make it so he’s gotta stay at least five hundred yards from ya, legally.  I always think they’re more trouble than they’re worth, but the law says I gotta advise ya about it.”

 

Leaving Travis pondering on the possibilities of a restraining order, the cop descended the steps that lead to the front door of the trailer.  He got to the car just as his partner finished getting Brody settled into the back seat and closed the door on him.

 

“I tell ya, whole country’s gettin’ too damn liberal,” he grumbled as the younger man came up.  “Way I see it, if a man works a long, hard day, he’s gotta right to expect things to be a certain way at home and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with knockin’ a little sense into the bitch if she can’t keep the place right.  Not like I give a shit what these two fags were doin’ to each other, but it’s the principle of the thing, ya know?”

 

“Yeah, I hear ya,” the younger cop grinned.  “Had to tell that little cocksucker about gettin’ a restrainin’ order.  Fuckin’ makes me sick.  That little buttfuck back in the trailer could do with a good beatin’, if ya ask me.  C’mon, let’s go—I gotta fine piece of ass waitin’ for me when I get off shift.”

 

They climbed into the front seat of the car and headed out to the county road.  Travis watched them go out of the window, then retrieved his cell phone.  “Hey, Eric?  Yeah, man, I need a favor.  Can you give me a lift into town and back tomorrow mornin’?  Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but I gotta get to the police station.  Naw, nothin’ bad—I’ll tell ya about it when you get here.  Just text me when yer on the way.  Thanks, man.”

 


 

At eight-thirty on a Friday evening, the Plaza Bar & Grill was starting to fill up.  Not as busy as it would be later in the evening, there was still a good throng of locals getting tanked and loading up on burgers and the grill’s specialty—huge baskets of fries, cooked in peanut oil.  It was actually a crowded, dirty dive housed in what had once been a hardware store; it took its absurdly grandiose name from the fact that it was on the town square, facing the courthouse.

 

It was also within walking distance of the police station, which was how Brody got there without his truck.

 

Once he’d gotten booked, he called his boss, who showed up the next morning to post bail; he’d agreed to advance the money out of Brody’s pay.  It took several hours for the bond to go through and even longer for the police clerk to process it, since he was the only full-time staff the department bothered to hire.  As a result, Brody wasn’t actually let out until somewhere around four that afternoon.

 

That was when he learned that Travis had not only filed charges against him, he’d also applied for—and got, with surprising speed—a restraining order.  Reading the paper handed to him at the discharge desk, Brody couldn’t go back to the trailer.

 

That when he walked over to the bar and started drinking.  And kept it up all evening.

 

Brody was a hard drinker—it took a lot to get him sloppy drunk, and he wasn’t anywhere near that point.  But as the sun set and the lights came on in the bar, the buff, hardbodied redneck sat and stared at the cigarette burns and the circular marks of moisture where his numerous bottle of beer had been placed, and he simmered.

 

That goddam little cocksucker.  Think he could kick Brody outta his own property?  He’d see about that.

 

Over the past couple of years, Brody had experienced certain…desires.  His imagination had bubbled with things he’s wanted to do to Travis, things that would cause a lot of trouble, but would be so fuckin’ hot…

 

They all came back to him now, but this time was different.  The alcohol had lowered his inhibitions, but it was more than that.  Do them was right.  It was fitting.

 

It was justice.

 

Goddamit, he deserved justice, after all.

 

The waitress appeared suddenly beside him, collecting his empty bottle.  “Hey, hon, I think we’re gonna hafta cut ya off.  You had too many to drive safe, Brody.”

 

He glared at her.  “I ain’t drivin’, Darlene, I ain’t got my truck with me.”

 

“Ya need a lift?  Ol’ Earle over there is about to head out, he lives out past yer place, right?”

 

Brody thought for a moment.  “Yeah, he does.  I can get him to drop me at the foot of the drive.  That way he won’t hear me comin’.”

 

“Who won’t hear ya comin’?”

 

Brody shot her another look, his slightly bloodshot eyes glittering with malignity.  “No one, darlin’.  Just a bitch who’s gonna learn a major lesson the hard way.”

 


 

Travis signed off on his online chat with Eric.  Usually they communicated via texts, which Travis immediately erased so Brody couldn’t see them.  With Brody in jail, though, Travis felt free to sit at the desk in the spare bedroom and use the computer.

 

He’d made arrangements to meet Eric at The Well, a small dive on the west side of Main Street near the train tracks with a clientele split equally between a small group of gays and a group of shiftless white trash that came simply because it was the closet bar to their squalid homes.  Wilton, the guy who lived on the next plot of land east, was a regular every Friday and Saturday night.  Travis never could figure out why; he wasn’t gay and the Plaza was actually closer.

 

Not that it mattered—the point was that Wilton was there by midnight like clockwork, so all Travis had to do was walk down the drive to the road and hitch a ride with Wilton when he came by.  He’d done it several times before.

 

Travis slumped back casually in the desk chair, savoring his sense of freedom.  He’d already dressed to go out, his black t-shirt tucked into a new and very tight pair of jeans with boot-cut cuffs to display his dark-gray ropers.  The boots weren’t new, but he considered them dress wear and took as good care of them as anything else that captured his shallow fancy.

 

Travis’s indolent reverie was interrupted by a faint rattling sound from the living room.  He stood up and stretched, the deep blue denim of his jeans following the contour of his perfectly-rounded asscheeks like a second skin.  He grabbed his denim jacket from the back of the chair and, slipping it on, went to investigate.

 

The faint rattling had a familiar sound, but Travis couldn’t place it and it had ceased before he reached the living room.  Looking around, he couldn’t detect anything out of place.  He turned to go back when it started again behind him—it was at the front door.

 

He just had time to reach into his pocket and dig out his phone—which took a moment since his jeans were so tight—when he realized with horror that he knew exactly what that sound was.

 

It was a key in the lock.  And the only other person with a key to the trailer was Brody.

 

“No…” he whispered, his face ashen as he whirled to see the door burst open and Brody’s hulking, powerful form filling the doorway, rage emanating from the muscled alpha in almost visible waves.

 

He raised his hand so Travis could see the piece of paper crushed in his clenched fist.  “You fucked up, bitch,” he hissed, “You fucked up so bad…”

 

With a womanish screech, Travis pawed at his phone, frantically trying to dial 911.  He managed to get a 9 and a 1 input before Brody bore down on him.  The slim young fag resorted to his usual maneuver of diving over the couch, but he dropped his phone when he did.  As Travis sprinted for the master bedroom, Brody ground the heel of his Red Wing workboot into the phone, shattering the screen.

 

Then he turned and head towards the master bedroom.  His thick heavy footfalls were those of a hunter relentlessly stalking his prey.

 

The door to the bedroom wasn’t completely closed, but in his amped-up state of terror, Travis had managed to shove the dresser so that it partially blocked it.  As a desperate attempt to buy some time, it failed abjectly.  Brody shoved the furniture aside with ease, entering the room to find Travis popping the screen out of the bedroom window and trying to dive out headfirst.

 

Brody took two giant strides across the room, grabbed the young punk’s ankle and yanked him back into the room.  Stumbling backwards against the bed, Travis fell to his knees involuntarily.  Overcoming an obvious reluctance, he turned his large blue eyes up to Brody’s face, his pale face wincing at the sheer rage he could see there.

 

“B-Brody…” he whispered, “You-you weren’t sp-sp s’posed to b-be…”

 

“I wasn’t s’posed to be outta jail yet, huh?” the hulking redneck alpha growled.  “An’ you had plans to keep me out, yeah?”  He brandished the paper still clutched in his hand; despite the way it had been wrinkled in his fist, it was still obvious that he was holding the restraining order.

 

“You were gonna try to keep me off my property, were ya, you cocksuckin’ little faggot?” Brody snarled.

 

“No, Brody, no!” Travis cried in terror, “I wasn’t—but the cop said—an’ I was gonna leave, you coulda come back—”

 

Suddenly Brody’s anger seemed to implode from a roaring, red-hot rage into a quiet, focused point of white-hot fury.  “Oh,” he said quietly and calmly, “You were gonna leave, were ya?  That’ll all?  Nothing else?”

 

“No…no…” Travis whispered, partially in agreement with Brody’s comment and partially in an instinctive, almost totem attempt to ward off the danger that was literally palpable.  He’d never seen this cold, hard anger in Brody before.  He didn’t know what it meant—but he damn well knew it wasn’t good.

 

“Get up,” Brody demanded brusquely.  “Get up or I’ll get ya up.”

 

“Pl-please, Brody,” Travis began but was unable to complete his plea before the powerful top grabbed a handful of the kid’s golden curls and pulled upwards, his bicep bulging with inexorable force as Travis squalled in pain and came up off his knees, knowing his scalp would be torn off if he didn’t.

 

“Lemme tell ya somethin’, cunt,” Brody said with a sneer as he got Travis to his feet.  “Ain’t nobody leavin’ me till I’m done with ‘em.  You wanna leave?  Fine, bitch.  But yer leavin’ my way.  Ain’t like anyone gonna want ya now that I’ve reamed out yer fuckhole anyway.”

 

Travis had time to notice how the hem of the short sleeve on Brody’s white t-shirt was drawn taut around the circumference of his massive bicep as the abusive top pulled his arm back.  It mesmerized him to the point he almost didn’t notice the arm shoot forward again; he certainly never had time to try to block the vicious gutpunch that hit him like the kick of a horse.  The blow was so violent Travis was jerked back hard enough to pull his head free of Brody’s grip, at the painful cost of a handful of hair being ripped out.

 

Travis kicked as he fell, his ropers making contact with Brody’s legs—not hard enough to cause any pain, but in combination with the sudden shift in his weight once he was no longer holding Travis, the alpha staged backwards a few steps to regain his balance.  Unable to breathe, Travis nonetheless found himself doing an astonishingly stuntman-like tuck and roll across the bed.  Hitting the floor on the other side, he hurled himself around a corner into the master bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

 

Putting up a hand to brace himself against the wall, Brody dropped the restraining order; the crumpled piece of paper floated to the floor like a leaf.  Watching it, the muscle-bound hick felt the red flush of anger rising in his face again.  He turned towards the bathroom door, an expression of grim determination coalescing on his feature.

 

The little fuck had to learn.  Brody knew he was hot; he knew he could stick his dick in anything he wanted.  This lazy little homo leech brought nothing to the table; it needed to learn its place in the scheme of things.  And its place in Brody’s scheme had hit rock-fuckin’-bottom.

 

He started slowly, with an almost casual knock at the bathroom door.  “Travis?” he called gently.  “C’mon out, man, I wanna talk.”

 

The leech in question was huddled on the bathroom floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms clasped around them.  Tears were running down his face and despite the oppressive heat in the small room and his sweatiness from his recent acrobatics, Travis pulled the denim jacket tighter around his shoulders.  His abdomen was still throbbing from the punch and he’d just managed to get his breath back.

 

“B-brody?” he quavered, “Just—just let m-me go, dude.  Huh?  Ok?  Can I just go?”  He didn’t know what to make of this conciliatory tone, but he knew it’d be a very bad idea to go out there with Brody just outside the door.

 

“You filed this order,” Brody’s voice came silkily from beyond the thin, hollow-core door.  “We need to talk about it.  C’mon, man, open up the door.”

 

“I-I’m sorry, man.  P-p-please just lemme go,” Travis blurted, barely able to keep his incipient sobbing down.  “I’ll—I’ll do any-anything ya want, but please, Brody, for fuck’s sake, just lemme go.  Ok, Brody?  Huh?”

 

“Open the door, Travis.”  Brody’s voice wasn’t quite as smooth now.  “I wanna see ya.  How do the wetbacks always say it—mano a mano?  Yeah, face-to-face, like a real man.  C’mon out, Travis.”

 

“No, not-not yet, Brody,” Travis whimpered.  “Back off a bit, man.  Tell ya what—if you’ll go out in the hall and close the bedroom door, I’ll come outta here.”

 

“Ya know what?” Brody snapped, the softness in his voice replaced with a tone that seethed unmistakably with cold, hard rage, “I’m sick of fuckin’ with yer dumb ass, you worthless little faggot.”

 

There was a loud crunching sound and Travis saw to his horror that Brody had put his steel-toed construction boot through the door, smashing open a large hole in the center with a single kick.  The leg was withdrawn and was instantly replaced with Brody’s face.  The long-haired stud had the countenance of a god, but tonight he looked like the god of hell as he grinned at the terrified punk.

 

“Heeere’s Brody!” he shrieked with insane glee.  The remains of the hollow-core door were no obstacle to the powerful white-trash sadist; he tore the pieces out with his bare hands, the screws coming out of the thin wood fascia as easily as if they’d been screwed into butter.  In less than five seconds, Travis was face-to-face with the one person he’d hoped he’d never see again.

 

That was bad—very bad.  Cowering at the base of the toilet, the lean, lithe youth saw death in Brody’s eyes.  Travis screamed and pissed himself in terror, the hot wet warmth spreading over the crotch of his tight jeans.

 

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled malignantly.  “You scared, asswipe?  You should be.  Time for you to learn a lesson I should taught ya a long time ago—and learnin’ it’s gonna hurt bad, bro.  It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

 

With the feral grace of a tiger attacking prey, Brody lunged at Travis.  In a single, lightning-fast maneuver, he grabbed the terrified punk by the throat, whirled around, and flung him back through the open doorway into the bedroom.  Travis hit the ground on his back just short of the far wall, the impact driving his breath out and stunning him but not knocking him out.

 

As he shuddered on the floor in shocked pain, gasping for air like a dying fish, Travis could only watch helplessly as Brody strode out of the bathroom with a calm that belied his boiling rage.  The quivering homo stared as the hard-bodied stud towered over him.

 

His tight jeans tucked carelessly into his laced but untied construction boots, his wide leather belt with the huge metal belt buckle fastened just above the massive bulge in his crotch, his ripped abs and massive chest, emphasized by his too-small white cotton t-shit that was stretched so tightly across his broad pecs that his large firm nipples seemed about to tear through the fabric, above all his hard, almost arrogant face with two days’ worth of scruff darkening the cheeks and chin—even in his pain and fear, Travis was still mesmerized by Brody’s sheer masculinity.  The head mix of pheromones emitted in the alpha’s sweat added to the pansy’s confusing mix of lust and terror.  He wanted Brody so bad—no, that wasn’t right; he wanted to get away from Brody so bad…

 

In any event, he didn’t have a choice.  Before he could recover, the muscle-bound top bent down and clamped his hand around Travis’s throat again with a brutal vise grip.  Hoisting the writhing homo into the air, this time the vindictive sadist let the boy dangle, gagging and choking.

 

Travis’s mind was engulfed in terror like a solid sheet of flame.  He couldn’t breathe at all.  No matter how hard he kicked, his piss-filled ropers were flailing uselessly inches off the floor.  And Brody—Brody was more pissed than Travis had even seen him.  Brody was gonna hurt him worse than he ever had before.

 

Travis’s panic went nuclear when he realized it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d get over—it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d survive.  The rational part of his mind slipped away and he became a feral animal, scratching and clawing in his desperation to survive.  He realized—without any conscious thought involved—that he wasn’t making any headway clutching at the incredibly powerful hand Brody had clamped around his throat.

 

With nothing else to cling to, Travis began flailing wildly, his hands snatching at anything within reach.  The first thing he came into contact with was the collar of Brody’s t-shirt.  With a mighty (and completely instinctive) jerk, the thrashing youth tore the collar, yanking back until the thin cotton shirt was in shreds.

 

“You fuckin’ asswipe!” Brody barked, “Goddam shirt is new!”

 

Travis never saw the blow the hardbodied top aimed at his face; he only felt a phenomenal blast of pain and sank instantly into darkness.

 


 

Travis’s ascent back to consciousness was marked by a distinct ache that seemed generalized at first, throbbing throughout his body, but finally localized on his left eye.  He tried to open it, but it was swollen and he could only manage to peer out of a blurry slit.  There was nothing wrong with his right eye, though.  It popped open to see Brody looming over him.

 

He felt like he’d been out for hours, but it had been less than fifteen minutes.  In that time, Brody had managed to strip him nude and lay him out crossways across the bed.  Groaning, the twink raised his head, his shaggy blond hair glinting like gold under the bare overhead light.  Tenderly clutching his blackened eye, Travis watch Brody out of his good one as the stud tore the remains of the t-shirt off his back and tossed them to the floor.  His huge furry chest and washboard abs exposed, the alpha finally deigned to look down and notice the boy.

 

“Good, yer awake,” Brody said, almost conversationally.  “I was jist wonderin’ how to wake yer stupid ass up.  See, ya can’t learn if yer asleep—an’ it’d be jist like a dumbass motherfucker like you to sleep through the most important lesson of yer life.”

 

Brody reached down and unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, he extracted his tackle like he was hauling a bucket up out of a well.  Travis was already familiar with the top’s huge shaft, but there was something sinister about how hard the massive cock already was.  The slut was so focused on the pulsating rod of manmeat that it took him a moment to notice that Brody had undone his belt buckle and was slowly sliding the belt out from around his tight waist.

 

Travis knew he was trapped.  There was no way out; his only hope was to try to appeal to Brody, hoping for some mercy of perhaps memory of affection.

 

“N-no, please,” he begged, his right eye wide, blue and sparkling with tears, “For God’s sake, Brody, don-don’t do anythin’ yer gonna be sorry for!”

 

The moment he said it, the flash in Brody’s eye told his he could have phrased it better.  “Gonna be sorry for?” the vicious redneck hissed, “Is that some kinda threat, boy?  You think you can threaten me, you sorry-ass little cumsucker?  Here’s a threat for ya, faggot!”

 

Brody doubled his belt over and held it at the bend, leaving both ends—including the one with the huge metal buckle—free.  Travis saw him swing but didn’t even have time to wince as Brody brought the thick leather straps down across the tender flesh of the kid’s smooth, flat belly.  The loose end of the belt stuck the skin with a loud slap, leaving a wide red weal.  The buckle, on the other hand, slammed down violently and left a bruise nearly the size of a palm print.

 

Both hurt like all fuck.  Travis screamed and Brody grinned cheerfully.

 

“That got yer attention, huh?  That got yer mind off suckin’ dude’s dicks?  Yeah?  Good, cunt, cause there’s a lot more where that came from.  I’m gonna teach ya the same way I saw my pappy break a horse—with pain.  Only thing a dumb animal like you understands is pain, boy.  So saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to rodeo!”

 

Through his tears, the sobbing youth looked up at Brody.  The muscled stud had turned away for a moment; Travis heard the door latch, then a click.  Brody had closed and locked the bedroom door.  He returned and leaned over the writhing homo, his head momentarily eclipsing the overhead light, giving his black, shoulder-length hair a glowing aura as an arrogant, cocky grin crossed his unshaven face.

 

“Ain’t no way out, boy.  See, that’s what ya gotta learn—you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with yer ass.  Ya feelin’ me, son?  Ya catchin’ what I’m pitchin’ at ya?  Naw, I don’t think you are.  Like I said, it takes pain for a dumbass motherfucker like you to learn a damn thing.”

 

 

Travis shrank back as Brody brandished the belt again, raising it up over his shoulder.  Throwing up his hands, Travis had time to shout, “Please, no!” before Brody swung.  It turned out putting up his hands to block the blow was an extremely bad idea; while the belt lashed his right arm painfully, the buckle struck his left hand squarely, snapping all but Travis’s index finger and thumb.

 

The agony was as sudden and unexpected as it was searing.  Travis immediately rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, cradling his wounded hand.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Brody growled.  Grabbing Travis by the shoulder, he rolled the kid onto his back again.  The weeping punk saw with horror that the alpha’s huge cock was dripping precum.  Raising his eyes slowly from the erect, straining rod, Travis scanned Brody’s furry abs and the wiry mass of body hair that spread over his chest, the large dark nipples jutting from the swelling pecs like volcanic peaks above a dark forest.

 

Above that, the look in Brody’s handsome, masculine face told Travis what he already knew but was afraid to admit to himself—inflicting pain was getting Brody aroused.  The unmistakable glint of lust in his eye, normally a turn-on on its own, was transformed in something terrible and disturbing when it was combined by the grimace of contempt and hatred that twisted Brody’s face.

 

And that was when it finally sank in for Travis.  For a brief moment, lucidity cut through the pulsing agony in his hand and the sharp ache radiating from the bruise on his belly, and he understood the symbolism of Brody closing and locking the bedroom door.

 

It was because he was gonna die in here tonight.

 

“Oh god, no,” he protested, but fear had frozen his voice into a barely-audible croak.  “No, Brody—for fuck’s sake, don’t…”

 

“That’s it, you stupid sack a’ shit,” the cruel alpha chuckled, “Beg for yer worthless life, cunt.”

 

Some perverse corner of Travis’s mind sealed his lips, not wanting to give Brody the satisfaction—not that it mattered.  With a convulsive grunt, the muscled top swung the belt again, the edge of the oversized buckle slashing a long gash across the kid’s smooth chest.  This time, though, Travis didn’t get the chance to react to the cold, sharp pain of torn flesh before the belt struck him again.  And again.

 

Brody was working himself into a frenzy, his face contorted with hatred and rage as he lashed the slim young boy with the leather belt.  Each agonizing blow that landed forced a scream from Travis; suddenly, the blows were landing too fast for him to separate them.  It was like he was in a hail of knives—he simply couldn’t tell where the welts from the belt were forming or if the buckle had struck him on the leg or on the elbow.  All he knew was that he was in an unholy grip of pain that clutched his entire body remorselessly.

 

At one point, Travis was aware of a single blow of the buckle—it hit his right knee edge-on, shattering the kneecap.  That sensation tore right through him, a flash of agony that would have seared his soul had the shallow youth possessed one.

 

The brutal whipping lasted for almost twenty minutes before Brody, sweating and panting with exertion, tossed the belt to one side.  Travis kept screaming, his cries deafening—to himself.  In reality, his voice had cracked five minutes earlier and all that was coming out of his gaping mouth now was a hoarse gasping sound.  He was rolling about and jerking on the bed as if he was still being whipped—an involuntary reaction to the pain.  His smooth skin was no longer unblemished; barely an inch was visible that was not marked with the brutal violence he’d just suffered.

 

“Like I said, dumbass, you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with ya,” Brody panted, stepping back from the bed a moment to admire what he’d done to the writhing kid.  “An’ all this fag-bashin’ done got me horny.  Tell ya what—lemme drain my balls and I’ll be done with yer useless ass.  I’m gonna load ya up with my hot mansperm and then I’ll let ya take a nice long dirt nap.  How’s that sound, asswipe?  Ya cool with that?  No?  Tough fuckin’ shit, ya goddam motherfucker.”

 

Before Travis could process the words that had been spoken to him, Brody had climbed on top of him and forcibly spread his legs apart.  His pain- and fear-stunned mind moved slowly; it wasn’t until cue-ball-sized head of the muscled alpha’s dick pressing against his sphincter that Travis realized his murderous lover was treating him to one last fuck.

 

The young fag had worshipped Brody’s monstrously huge cock and had loved the sensation of being filled with manmeat—it had hurt, but it had hurt so good.  But Brody had always gone in slowly, and with lots of lube.  This time it was different.  This time it hurt bad.

 

Wrapping his large hands around Travis’s smooth thighs, Brody rammed his shaft deep into Travis’s rectum, his oozing precum the only lube.  Despite the nightmarish level of agony wracking the punk’s lean body, the sudden, searing pain of having his sphincter literally torn open  took Travis’s breath away.  He could only lie still, his body rigid and trembling, his eyes, wide and circled with gray rings of shock, riveted on the figure of Brody.

 

The hardbodied redneck grinned.  He brushed a lock of his long hair out of his face; his bulked-out torso glistened with a slight sheen of sweat under the overhead bulb.  The beating had been a good workout; Brody’s muscles tingled and he felt energized.  His big throbbing cock was buried balls-deep into boymeat—the sadist was pumped and primed, ready for a good time.

 

Still overwhelmed by the pain in his rectum, Travis’s jaw had clenched closed tightly, forcing him to breathe loudly and deeply through his nose.  His close proximity to Brody’s sweaty, masculine body meant that the unfortunate youth was more or less huffing the overabundance of pheromones that were being emitted in the musky tang of Brody’s mansweat.

 

The impact of the adrenaline and testosterone on the always-horny homo was as involuntary as it was immediate—Travis’s own six-and-a-half inch dick began to stiffen and rise above the kid’s flat, badly-bruised belly.  He was in too much pain to notice it at the moment…

 

Brody noticed it.

 

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled.  “All I gotta do is shove my cock into ya and yer homo ass gets all horny—even though I toldja yer gonna die tonight.  Ya like that idea, huh?  I shoulda offed ya a long time ago.  In fact—”

 

Before Travis could blink, Brody’s arms had darted forward and clamped around the boy’s throat.  As the buff top leaned over, the weight of his bulked-out body pressing Travis down into the mattress, he began to squeeze, his grip intensifying slowly but inexorably, as he cocked his thumbs and pressed them remorselessly into the kid’s larynx.

 

“—every time I came in yer worn-out asshole, it was cause I was fantasizin’ about snuffin’ ya, you useless pansy.  Remember Tuesday night?  I was thinkin’ about huntin’ you through the woods like prey, seein’ the terror on yer stupid fag face when I finally blocked yer path and blew ya away with my shotgun.  But you wouldn’t suffer enough—I’d want ya still alive while I gutted ya like a deer…”

 

Travis croaked loudly, his hands gripping Brody’s wrists but the broken fingers on his left hand flopped limply, utterly powerless to move the top’s hands a fraction of an inch from his compressed throat.  His air was completely cut off.  This couldn’t be happening yet, he thought; knowing he was going to die, he still refused to recognize the imminence of death.

 

“Remember how good I fucked ya on your birthday?” the alpha whispered vindictively to the choking youth, “You said it was the best fuck you’d ever had.  I was dreamin’ about cuttin’ yer throat and fuckin’ ya as you bled out and died.  That get ya off, you sick fucker?  Yeah?”

 

Travis shook his head frantically, as much in denial of the entire situation as in denial of Brody’s words.  His face was starting to swell and darken and the crushing pain in his throat was a strong new sensation in the kid’s overpowering wave of suffering.  But it wasn’t alone—there was a pounding, too, a hot, burning pounding in his head and his chest…

 

“I even planned out how to dump yer body, fuckwad,” Brody chuckled cruelly at his dying bitch.  “I’m just gonna drive ya out and dump ya in the swamp.  By the time yer corpse floats up outta the muck, it’ll be so bloated and rotten, ain’t no one gonna know who you are.  If anyone finds it in the first place.  Ain’t no one gonna be lookin’—I’m gonna tell ‘em you ran off with some rich dude who was passin’ through.  Everyone knows what a lazy whore ya are—and no one’s gonna care.”

 

Travis could still hear Brody speak, but the words seemed to have an odd echo effect inside his head.  It was cloudy in there and it was only with difficulty that the choking faggot could focus his attention.  He was still lucid enough to realize that pulling at Brody’s wrists wasn’t helping and tried clawing at the alpha’s fingers instead.  His entire body seemed to be pulsing with pain; some part of him wondered how he could still be conscious while suffering such agony—and why his cock was so strainingly erect it hurt as well…

 

When Brody spoke again, Travis absorbed the words.  They seemed to melt into the relentless, overwhelming pounding in his head and his chest; the rapid jackhammering of his pulse that beat out the last few moments of his wasted life in double-time…

 

“Die, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit!” the heaving, pumping top growled, his hulking form, covered with sweat-matted fur, enveloping the kid’s slim, lithe body.  “Choke and fuckin’ die, you goddam sack of cum-gobblin’ scum!”

 

Brody could feel his hot manseed seething in his balls; he knew he was gonna erupt into a boiling geyser of sperm at any moment.  Even now, trembling on the edge of orgasm, he was so pissed at the worthless little fairy he was bangin’ that he didn’t want the cunt to enjoy his hot manload.

 

Brody’s hands tightened, his fists clenching closed in his rage.  His thumbs pressed forward inexorably, shoving Travis’s larynx out of place.  As the cartilage of his voice box reached the point of ultimate stress, the lithe young faggot kicked and flailed frantically, the terror of knowing that he was gonna die if he couldn’t stop the powerful sadist overriding the nightmarish agony he experienced every time he bent his shattered knee.

 

And he couldn’t.  He simply wasn’t strong enough to prevent the alpha’s muscles from clamping down on him and ending his life.  The point was driven home painfully as Brody crushed his larynx, the fragile cartilage construction shattering loudly into mangled gristle.

 

Travis’s swelling, blackening face assumed a horror-stricken expression, but the kid’s features were so bloated and congested with asphyxia that it was hard to tell the difference.  The grotesque, excruciating agony in his throat was just the latest in a long line of horrific sensations that were wreaking havoc on his nervous system.  The pounding in his chest was so intense the dying homo was sure his body was pulsing visibly in the same tempo.  Deep inside, he was still painfully aware of how full of manmeat his guts were; the horny faggot corner of his mind that still kept track of such things held no memory of Brody’s cock being so thick or buried so far inside him.

 

And as some part of him screamed inwardly at his missed chance to flee, another part acknowledged that he’d have missed this insanely intense fuck—and that part seemed to be the one in control of his cock as it swelled and oozed, its tender flesh viciously abraded by Brody’s rough, wiry belly fur as the swollen member slid between the writhing, intertwined bodies.

 

Things were fading for Travis, and growing cold.  Was the heat on?  He couldn’t remember.  All he could remember was that there was pain beyond the icy chill, pain and cock.  He was full.  Brody had filled him with manmeat.  Beyond that, the pounding in his head was too much; it was like he was being beaten by a prizefighter…why?  What—his dick, his ass, his entire lean smooth body—it had given him such pleasure; now there was nothing but pain everywhere…

 

“Yer dyin’, faggot,” Brody jeered.  “How’s it feel, huh?  Does it hurt?  It don’t hurt bad enough, fuckwad.  No matter how bad dyin’ hurts, it ain’t anywhere near as bad as you deserve, asswipe.  C’mon and start kickin’, boy.  Lemme feel yer hot lean body jerk an’ kick under, motherfucker; lemme feel yer asshole convulse and jack me off.”

 

The hardbodied top gave the dying youth one last squeeze, feeling with profound satisfaction the cracking sensation as he crushed Travis’s trachea into a bloody pulp, permanently sealing off the punk’s airway.  In the shock of mortal pain, Travis literally lost his mind; the animalistic mid-brain took over and Brody found himself dealing with a wild, clawing beast that beat at his chest and ripped his chest hairs unconsciously.  Not that that got any pity from Brody; having his chest fur pulled out hurt.  With a loud grunt, he drove two roundhouse punches straight into Travis’s face, breaking the fag’s nose with a pulpy sound.

 

“Ain’t you dead yet?” Brody snapped.  “Fuck, I ain’t gonna need yer worthless ass once I use it as a cumrag.  Fuckin’ die, motherfucker!”  He placed his right palm on Travis’s chin, feeling the wispy golden curls of the homo’s blond facial hair.  At the same moment, Travis’s hands were fondling Brody’s harsh scruff, the dying boy’s fingers–the unbroken ones–involuntarily caressing the rough, steel-wool-like growth covering the alpha’s hard, masculine cheeks and strong chin.

 

Brody shoved.  With a loud cracking sound, Travis’s skull was forcibly separated from his spine, the thick spinal cord shearing apart at the second cervical vertebra with instant, violent, and traumatic impact.

 

As Brody recalled it later, it was like Travis suddenly developed a moist, pulsing suction in his ass, solely devoted to swallowing the vast load of sperm that the top had built up in his balls.

 

The dying faggot wrapped his arms and legs around his killer and squeezed—everything.  His limbs, his chest, his rectum; it all contracted as a searing bolt of agony swept like lightning through Travis’s central nervous system.

 

At literally the same moment his brain was shorting out and dying, the battered and abused youth shot a stream of hot semen from his hyper-stimulated scrotum.  Brody grunted and screamed “Fuck!” repeatedly as Travis’s lean form writhed and jerked under his weight, milking his sensitive, engorged shaft.  For Travis, the world ended in a searing blast of agony and cum.

 

As the dead kid kept pumping out his death load, reflexively smearing and matting Brody’s chest fur with pearly white boyspunk, the muscled alpha hosed the cunt’s guts with his boiling wad.  It took a moment for Brody to regain control, but when he did, he found himself staring down into Travis’s face.  The young slut’s bulging, half-lidded eyes had a thousand-yard stare and thick, white, foamy drool trickled down his chin, soaking the golden curls.  He head was bent backwards at a grotesque angle.

 

Brody slowly withdrew his throbbing tool, pulling against the suction that somehow remained in the corpse’s rectum.  With a loud sucking sound, his massive rod came free, swaying and bobbing, dribbling pearly drops of spunk on Travis’s smooth, flaccid thighs.  Standing up, the cum-covered alpha passed his hand across his brow to keep sweat from trickling in his eyes and admired the scene.

 

Travis had learned a lesson he damn sure wouldn’t forget—the little fuck wasn’t ever forget anything ever again.  His smooth lean body shuddered in its death throes, his bare toes curling and uncurling as random nerves fired along the shredded remains of his spinal column.  A thick, glutinous wad of semen was slowly seeping from his still semi-erect dick.

 

“Now you can go,” Brody whispered, grinning, at the trembling corpse.  “Now I’m done with yer worthless ass.”

 

After cleaning himself up a little—washing the sweat and cum off his torso and his dick, then stuffing the latter back into his tight, worn jeans—the buff alpha took some time to take what was left of the ruined bathroom door off its hinges.  He’d get a new door tomorrow.  After dumping the splintered pieces of wood into the bed of his truck, Brody turned back to the trailer.  He’d finished clearing away the door, but he hadn’t finished taking out the trash yet.

 

Striding back into the bedroom, he leaned over the bed and picked up Travis’s body.  The dead kid was still quivering and since Brody hadn’t bothered to clean the corpse, he suddenly found himself covered with the homo’s cum again.

 

Well fuck that, he thought and decided not to bother with putting on the shirt; he was dumping garbage and would need a shower once he was done anyway.

 

The hulking, muscled redneck threw the dead boy over his shoulder, Travis’s head and hands hanging down Brody’s back.  As he left the trailer, the alpha’s boots sounded thick and heavy on the wooden steps and the extra weight he was carrying made the gravel crunch loudly under his heels.  Jerking his shoulder, he tossed Travis into the bed of his pickup; the corpse landed face-up with a thick, meaty thump.

 

Brody hopped into the cab and threw the truck into gear.  Twenty minutes later, he was pulling off the county road onto a trail that would have been impossible to see if he hadn’t already known where it was.  The rutted mud track he was following put his 4X4 through a workout, but eventually he reached the edge of swamp, pulling over beside a large pool of sickly water, dotted with tree stumps and covered with slimy green algae.

 

Climbing out of the driver’s seat, Brody walked around to the rear, opened the tailgate, and dragged Travis out by the feet, letting him fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes.  Standing over him, Brody looked down at the murdered corpse of his lover of two years.

 

“Y’know, fuckwad,” Brody mused speculatively, “That fuck was the best one yet.  Ever.  I shoulda done that to ya the first day I met ya…”

 

His Redwing construction boots sank deep into the soft ground as he dragged the faggot’s body to the water and rolled it in, watching bubbles rise up under the green film on the surface.  The he headed back to the truck.

 

On his way back to the trailer, Brody kept the windows down; it was a chilly night, but he was warm from exertion and the cool breeze across his chest kept his nipples achingly erect.  His mind was still running on the last thing he’d said.  If he’d offed Travis right away, he’d have gotten some great sex—and he wouldn’t have had to deal with the whiney little bitch for two years.

 

That was it, man.  That was how to do it.  Work ‘em out, use ‘em up and get rid of ‘em before they start to rot.  Fuck yeah.

 

Brody had a sudden sensation that he had experienced a major sexual revelation.  He knew now what he wanted to do, what would get him off, and get him off right.  He just needed a victim.

 

Wondering if there was anything on the computer back home that would lead him to the faggot cunt that have been helping his bitch try to run away, Brody grinned and turned on the radio.  His dick was getting hard again…