Trucker 14–Trucker vs Bar Bitch

It was almost midnight and Wes was ready to rock out.  He was higher than fuck and horny as hell.  He’d need money soon if he wanted to wanted to keep the high going, but there were ways of getting it—even ways of combining the two.

 

And combining the two was something Wes was good at.  Just two months past his twenty-second birthday, he was slim and lean, with a perfect twink body that managed to attract a lot of dudes.  The ugly ones, the ones who were fat or old, were usually willing to pay, and Wes would whore himself out if he needed—but he preferred to play a different game.  After all, why bargain when you can steal?

 

It was the ice, of course—whether he smoked it, snorted it or shot it up, it got him too amped up to be controlled.  Aside from the rampant horniness, it made him crave danger.   Things could get ugly if the guy bangin’ him caught him in the act, but that didn’t happen often.  And anyway, he was getting a lot better a rifling through wallets whenever his fuckbuddies’ backs were turned.

 

He was just under six feet tall with a broad face darkened with the faintest hint of facial hair under his turned-up nose and across his cheeks.  His smooth, clear skin was not yet tainted from the meth use, although the dilation of his large dark eyes hinted at it.  His brown hair was cut short on the sides of his head, but left longer—about three or four inches—on the top, carefully arranged to look casually tousled.

 

He was looking to take a dick up his ass and had dressed to make sure he got it.  He wore a gray long-sleeve t-shirt that clung tightly to his lean, boyish chest.  His black skinny jeans, even though they were tight enough to highlight the muscles in his long legs and the drug-enhanced bulge in his groin—and were held up by a thick leather belt clasped shut by a buckle with a black-on-black Superman logo—still sagged enough to show a couple of inches of the colorful boxers underneath.

 

His feet padded quietly in a pair of Under Armour Jet Express hightops; the kicks were a bright shade of blue that contrasted nicely with the black jeans.  Since the jeans rode so low on Wes’s hips, the hems caught in the uppers of the sneakers, making it look like he’d deliberately tucked them in.

 

In short, Wes looked exactly like what he was, a hot little twink on the lookout for cock.  The fact that he was also on the lookout for cash was probably a bit more obvious than he’d have liked. But it was Friday night and the gay bar was packed and raucous; the noisy crowd even managed to explain away some of the noticeable signs of Wes’s meth use, like his sweating and jitteriness.

 

The bar was only part of the large nightclub; it was teeming and dark, but it opened out onto a huge dance floor that dazzled the eyes with strobes, mirror balls, and smoke machines.  The dance floor occupied at least half the building, while the bar only took up about a quarter.  The other quarter was taken up by offices, bathrooms, and a game room with some arcade games and a couple of pool tables.  Tonight, all the rooms were filled to capacity.

 

Wes had already cadged a drink of an old fat guy with a long beard and was leaning back against a wall and surveying the crowd for a likely mark when his eyes were drawn to a dude who’d just entered the bar from the game room.  The guy was huge, at least six and a half feet, with black hair and stubble on his face; the hair was mostly hidden under a red trucker’s cap.  He sported a white cotton wifebeater, too small and tight to leave any details of the stud’s muscle-bound and fur-covered chest to the imagination.  The dude’s powerful build was obvious in every movement he made; the way his biceps and deltoids flexed as he turned and set his pool cue into a rack by the door made Wes drool with lust.

 

The stoned-out hustler moved away from the wall and approached the hot stud.  As he got closer, he could see the guy’s tight jeans, faded to sky-blue and worn to the point of softness, with a tear on the inside of the left leg that teasingly revealed a firm, hairy inner thigh.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of brown Justin Wyoming pull-on workboots.

 

The closer he got to the hulking stud, the more certain Wes was that this was the guy he was looking for.  This guy was capable of feeding him dick the way he wanted, the way he so desperately needed tonight.  And someone this hot had to have cash; the moment the stud looked away, Wes would pocket his dough.

 

Wes had no way of knowing it—and would have been too high and horny to pay attention if he had had a way—but he was very unlikely to catch this stud with his guard down.  There was little the Trucker missed, especially when he was dealing with fagboy fuckmeat.

 

It’d been a couple of weeks since the Trucker left his last fucktoy dead in a ditch; he was back on the hunt and looking for a kill.  He was familiar with this place; he’d stopped off here on his last haul through this town.  On that occasion, he hadn’t found anything worth sticking his dick into; he’d ended up offing a street punk in an alley, but it had left him feeling unsatisfied.

 

Of course, that had been on a weeknight.  This was Friday night—almost Saturday morning—and the place was full.  The Trucker was sure he’d find someone tonight; in fact, he’d though he already had.  The boy had been small and dark, hairy with olive skin.  The Trucker had followed him into the game room and picked up a game of pool with him, but within minutes, the kid’s friends had shown up.  The Trucker finished the game, but deep inside, he was raging with frustrated desire.  The little punk never knew how lucky he was that his friends showed up.

 

Wes wasn’t lucky, and he didn’t have any friends.  He approached the Trucker head-on, brazenly grinning up at the well-built hunk.  “Hey, man, wanna buy me a drink?”

 

The Trucker glanced down incuriously at the boy, as he would at an insect crawling on the pavement.

 

“I’ll make it worth yer while,” the boyslut said.

 

“Yeah?” the Trucker inquired impassively.  “How?”

 

Wes was too high for subtlety.  “In the sack.  I’m a great fuck.”

 

The Trucker sneered.  “Yeah, heard that before.”

 

The DJ on the dance floor changed the music; the new shit was loud and cacophonous.  Wes didn’t even try to make his voice heard over it; he just reached out and grabbed the massive ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran down the older man’s thigh.  He didn’t expect it to be real; it was way too big.  And he was used to guys padding out their groins; it’d get a lot of looks in the bars, even if it did lead to eventual disappointment.

 

With this type of fake enhancement in mind, Wes openly slipped his hand into the tear in the Trucker’s jeans.  His fingers slid across the firm, thick thigh—and then stopped as they came into contact with an enormous shaft of semi-soft throbbing manmeat.

 

He looked up into the Trucker’s face, his eyes wide with amazement.  He couldn’t believe the dude’s cock was really that big.  “Forget the drink,” he said with an audible gulp during a lull in the music, “My apartment is three blocks from here.  Put it in me, bro.”

 

The Trucker smirked.  “Sure, faggot.  I could use a good workout.  Lessee if you can go the distance.”

 

This was what he’d been waiting for—meat that provided its own death pit.  The Trucker was tired of cleaning out his cab after every fresh kill.

 

For his part, Wes was thrilled.  He was stunned by how easy it was to lure his mark; the thought that he was the mark being lured never crossed his mind.  What did flash across his mind was that if this dude was so eager, even if he did notice Wes had gone through his wallet he probably wouldn’t mind.

 

Ice had made Wes make bad decisions and jump to wrong conclusions before, but this was far and away the worst.

 

“C’mon, man, just follow me,” he said and started making his way through the crowd.

 

The Trucker was tall enough that he didn’t have to follow on the punk’s heels to see which way he was headed, and that suited him just fine.  He left a little space between himself and the meat so that later on, nobody would associate the two of them together.  Not that it was likely they’d be noticed in the randy, gyrating crowd anyway, but there was no sense in the Trucker taking chances.

 

After all, the meat was taking enough chances for them both.

 

Wes made it outside first.  The Trucker ambled along, not worried about losing the kid; he knew he had this faggot already hooked.  He took his time to cross the dance floor and walk nonchalantly out of the building in front of the bouncer—obviously alone.  Nothing to connect him with the stupid little fuck who stood waiting under a streetlight halfway down the block and across the street.

 

The Trucker could see him the moment he exited the door.  He walked towards him but kept to the opposite side of the street.  The footsteps of his thick-soled workboots echoed off the nearby walls, but otherwise the side street was relatively quiet.  Nobody hung out in front of the bar; most of the action was in the back, where there was parking and a patio with an outside bar.  There was no one about to see him quickly cross the street and join the kid.

 

Wes was tweaking and impatient.  He was afraid the hot musclestud had changed his mind until he saw the dude come out of the bar.  He relaxed as much as the meth would let him, watching the tall, masculine figure stroll towards him, his legs swinging wide to accommodate the massive tackle that hung between them.

 

Without the noise and commotion of the bar to distract him, Wes was able to notice a few details that had escaped his attention before, like the jingly bits of metal that bounced on the dude’s broad chest and dangled from a chain around his neck; as the Trucker got closer, the slut realized they were dog tags.  He also got a better look at the stud’s face.

 

He was aroused not only by the strong jaw and cheeks covered with just enough jet-black stubble to cast a shadow, but by the cold, hard expression on the handsome face and the icy glint in the pale blue eyes that he glimpsed momentarily under the brim of the cap.  The last two were obvious danger signals; if Wes was less fucked-up, he might have heeded them.  As it was, they just fed into his horniness, his craving for sexual danger.

 

“C’mon, man,” he grinned happily, “Right down here.  We’ll go down the alley, it’s faster.”

 

The Trucker followed silently, his heavy footfalls the only sign he was keeping up.  Wes’s Under Armour kicks made no sound on the gritty, cracked pavement as he dodged litter and reeking puddles in the alleyway, helped by an occasional overhead light.  They crossed a couple of side streets, sticking to the alley, and suddenly came to a residential block.

 

“Over here,” Wes said and headed to the left towards a small two-story brick apartment building.  The place was old and run-down; the windows were tiny and some of the ones upstairs had AC units precariously dangling from the sills, droning into the warm night.  There were cracks in the brick from settling; none had been repaired and some of them were old and alarming large.

 

There was an oil-stained patch of asphalt in the rear that served as a parking lot; at the moment, it was mostly empty—no surprise, on a Friday night—with just a couple of broken-down pickups and a huge late-80’s Chrysler that belonged in a museum.  Down the side of the building was regular pattern of a doorway followed by two windows; it looked like there were about four apartments down this one side.

 

Wes and the Trucker crossed the cracked, weed-choked asphalt to the rear-most door on the side.  It was thin and painted a dingy, weathered white; it took Wes a moment to get it unlocked since the rusted light fixture above the door had no bulb and probably wouldn’t have worked if it had.

 

Once inside, Wes flipped on the light switch, revealing a tiny, barely-furnished efficiency apartment, a single room with a kitchen nook jutting off to the rear and a small bathroom.  The barren, sterile light of a single overhead bulb was enough to illuminate the small space.  The harsh overhead light shed no softening shadows on Wes’s bed—a mattress and box spring set sitting on the floor with no frame.  The fitted sheet—once white, now with a sickly yellow tinge—still clung tenaciously to the mattress, but the flat sheet and the pillows were in a tangled mass halfway on the floor.

 

There was a large flat-screen TV against one wall (far and away the most expensive thing in the entire apartment), but no other furniture at all.  The kitchen sink was piled with dishes and glasses; the only reason they didn’t litter the counter as well was that Wes didn’t have any more.  Not to say that the counter was bare; on the contrary, it was cluttered with lots of empty booze bottles—most of them the cheap plastic kind.

 

The Trucker took it all in as he silently locked the door behind him.  Wes never noticed.  “Here, lemme open a window,” he said evidently embarrassed by the almost visible funk of cigarettes, meth, weed and boyspunk.  And the room was stifling—Wes had hocked his AC months ago.

 

“Naw, boy, leave ‘em closed,” the Trucker drawled, “I like to sweat.  And I wanna make you sweat.”

 

The boy turned to the towering stud, the bulge in his crotch pulsing visibly.  For the first time, he got a good look at the Trucker’s chest—the muscled hunk was already perspiring enough to make his thin cotton wifebeater transparent.  Wes could see details that had been invisible before, the thick, wiry chest fur, the large erect nipples surrounded by dark circles of flesh…

 

With a deep, shuddering inhale, Wes gasped, “Fuck, brah, stick it in me.  Fuck me, man, cum in my ass.  I want yer fuckin’ load.”

 

The Trucker leered, a cold, shark-like grin spreading across his handsome face.  “Gonna hafta see if you deserve my wad, boy.  Yer gonna hafta work for it—and if you ain’t workin’ hard enough, I got way to make ya.  Think you can handle that?”

 

In response, Wes peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, lean, boyish chest, already glistening with sweat himself.  “Dude, I can handle whatever you got,” he boasted.

 

The Trucker’s grin got even wider.  He was gonna have so much fun proving the stupid little faggot wrong.

 

Digging into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros, he lit one up before reaching up and taking off the red trucker’s cap and tossing it on the floor.  His hair was short but not shaved, a pure black that gleamed in the overhead light like silk.  Wes, noticing the lit smoke, pulled back a small pile of dirty clothes near the mattress to reveal an ashtray on the bare wood floor; next to it were a phone charger and a small metal lamp, both plugged into the wall and within easy reach of the bed.  The boywhore fished his own cigarettes out of his pocket, but didn’t get the chance to burn one.

 

“Get over here,” the Trucker commanded.  “You want my dick?  Work for it.  Pull my shirt off.”

 

Eager as a puppy, Wes dropped his pack of generic smokes and darted across the room.  He instantly ran his hands over the rippled muscles on the Trucker’s hard, furry abs, feeling them through the thin fabric of the wifebeater.  He stuck his hand down inside the Trucker’s jeans, reaching for the hem, but he made the mistake—or perhaps it was deliberate—of going in front and center, like he was reaching for the alpha’s dick.

 

The Trucker knocked his hand away.  “Uh-uh,” he said, “You ain’t earned the right to feel my cock yet.”  The stud grabbed the shirt and pulled it up out of his waistband before he let Wes continue.

 

Wes paused for a moment, unsure of himself.  The Trucker took a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of bluish smoke into the punk’s face.  “Whatcha waitin’ for, boy?” he growled, “I toldja to pull my shirt off!”

 

Responding instinctively to the hard edge of command in the Trucker’s voice, Wes grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up.  The hard-bodied alpha raised his arms to let the shirt come off over them; he knew damn well that the whore wasn’t tall enough to pull the shirt up over his head, but he kept the pretense up.

 

Wes has risen up on the toes of his electric-blue hightops in his attempt to raise his arms high enough when the Trucker suddenly planted his big hand on the back of the kid’s head and rammed Wes’s face into his hairy, reeking armpit.  The kid gasped as the alpha ground his face into the warm, wiry pit hairs.

 

Before he could react, Wes’s face was pulled back, then forcibly rubbed against the Trucker’s chest.  The powerful top was clutching a handful of the cunt’s hair, using it like a handle to maneuver Wes’s head.  The boy could feel the alpha chest fur, moist with sweat, scratching at his face, when suddenly there was an erect mound of flesh in his mouth.

 

“Work my nipple, faggot,” the older man hissed roughly.  Wes obey, slurping eagerly at the large knot.  For a moment, he dug his teeth in and leaned back, stretching the dark flesh out, then the Trucker cuffed him in the head.

 

“That’s enough, cunt,” he snapped, pulling his shirt off himself and tossing it on the floor.  “I gotta take a leak.”  Walking to the bathroom, he bent down momentarily and tapped his ash into the ashtray beside the bed.  It wasn’t a characteristic move for him.  Usually, he just let the ash fall on the floor—after all, with the hour, the meat would be long past caring if the floor was dirty—but he had a gut feeling this time.

 

He was right.  From the corner of his eye, the Trucker caught the whoreboy’s eyes glued to his ass.  While that in itself wasn’t unusual—faggots always stared at the way denim cradled his firm, round asscheeks—there was something odd about the way the homo kept his eyes on one spot like a laser.  The experienced mankiller knew exactly what was going on—the kid was fixated on his wallet.

 

The alpha turned back and retrieved his shirt.  He removed the wallet form his hip pocket, rather ostentatiously, wrapped the shirt around it, and tossed it back down into his upturned cap lying on the floor.  Satisfied, he headed to the bathroom.

 

It was a trap, of course.  As he stood at the toilet, pounding out his piss, his blood boiled at the thought of the cheap hustler trying to steal from him.  At the same time, the thought of what he’d do to the punk if he actually did try anything was starting to get him stiff.  He let the stream of piss slow to a stop and listened, but heard nothing.

 

The kid was waiting.  The Trucker could play that game, too.  He kept still and silent for a good five minutes before he heard a faint rustle form the bedroom.  When he threw the door open, he was already prepared for what he found.

 

Wes had already stripped.  His gear was tossed onto the pile of dirty clothes; the belt with the black Superman logo was coiled on top.  The slim youth was crouched, nude but for his ped socks, over the Trucker’s cap on the floor.  He’d already managed to unwrap the shirt from the wallet and had just opened it up when the bathroom door opened and the Trucker emerged.

 

The room was so small the large, muscled killer was standing over Wes before the thieving fagboy even knew he was there.  His pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, Wes slowly turned to look at the Trucker’s brown, scuffed workboots next to him, then raised his eyes.

 

The homo punk’s gaze crawled up the Trucker’s thick legs, noticing almost for the first time how the tight denim barely contained the firm calf muscles, how the tear on the left thigh revealed the power of the thick thigh behind it.  Then he raised his eyes further to the groin and gasped involuntarily in shock.

 

Wes, despite his youth, had taken a lot of dick in his life, but this…this was as intimidating as fuck.  The Trucker’s erect member, huge and swollen, jutted from the unzipped fly out over the kid’s head; as he watched, a large transparent bead of precum welled out and fell on him—Wes could feel the moist potent heat of the drop on his scalp.

 

The thick veins writhing across the surface of the enormous cock expanded as the dark shaft pulsated.  Wes was transfixed, both horrified and attracted by the massive rod of manmeat—it was too big, it would literally tear him a new asshole, but it was such hot fucking proof of manhood that the young power bottom couldn’t help getting hard himself, despite the inherent danger of the situation.  The meth still circulating in his system went some ways towards explaining this—but not all the way.  Stone cold sober, Wes still craved cock to the extent that he’d have walked into a bear trap to get this hot hardbodied stud’s tool.

 

It was hard to tear his gaze away from that mesmerizing rod of glistening, pulsating manmeat, but Wes’s eyes were drawn upwards, along the dude’s ripped, hairy abs to the dark forest of body hair covering the alpha’s broad, bulked-out chest.  The glint of metal indicated the presence of the top’s dogtags, nestled in the dark, furry valley between the twin peaks of his thick hubcap pecs from which the large dark nipples protruded.

 

Again, the instant impression was of overwhelming masculine power.  There was something about the alpha’s muscle-bound torso that suddenly reminded the lust-distracted faggot that he’d just been caught stealing.  In his sudden fear, he raised his eyes to the Trucker’s face.

 

He took one look at the expression of unholy rage and triumph on the Trucker’s face and went pale in fear.

 

“No, man,” he started, “It ain’t what ya think—”

 

The Trucker bent down and slammed his fist into Wes’s temple.  The blow to the head didn’t completely knock the whore out, but it sent him sprawling dazed onto the floor.

 

The muscled killer had tossed his first butt into the john.  He pulled his pack out and lit another as he walked around the stunned, moaning youth.  “So ya thought it was smart to go for my wallet, huh?” he sneered.  “Guess I’m gonna hafta teach ya what a bad fuckin’ idea that was.”

 

Wes groaned tried to rise, placing his right hand flat on the floor to brace himself.  Before he could move, the Trucker was there, grinding his bootheel onto the back of Wes’s hand.

 

“AHH!  Wha—wha—” Wes cried out as the Trucker crouched down, keeping the cunt’s hand pinned to the wood floor.

 

“Ya see,” the Trucker said in an almost conversational tone, “I was just gonna fuck ya and snuff ya, but now I’m gonna hafta make ya suffer.  You were gonna die tonight anyway, faggot, but now yer gonna die in agony.  I gotta teach you a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your worthless life—which I’m guessing is gonna be about another half hour at most.”  He paused and took a long, searching look at Wes’s lithe, lean body.  “You’re young; you might make it to forty minutes.  It don’t matter, as long as you learn what a huge fuckin’ mistake you made.”

 

Wes was about to reply that he already knew he’d made a mistake bringing this huge sexy psycho home when the Trucker reached down, grabbed one of the boy’s splayed fingers—the index finger—and jerked it up, violently.  The snapping of bone wasn’t very loud but it echoed in the small room.

 

Wes’s scream was even louder.

 

“Good thing all yer low-life neighbors are out partyin’,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Ain’t no one around to hear ya scream, asswipe.  Not like they’d bother to help a worthless cumguzzlin’ fag like you anyway.”

 

The middle finger was next.  It was larger, so the snapping sound was louder.  “Are ya learnin’ to keep yer homo hands off my shit?” the sweat-slicked muscular killer asked, flicking the ash from his smoke into the cunt’s hair.  Wes couldn’t answer; he could only moan and sob.  “No?” the Trucker grinned.  “Fuck, yer a stupid sack of shit.  Guess I gotta keep learnin’ ya, huh?”

 

When the Trucker broke Wes’s ring finger, the cheap rentboy reacted, beating on the Trucker’s leg with his left hand and drawing his knees up under himself, trying to unbalance the sadist kneeling on his hand.  The sadistic alpha laughed cruelly and leaned forward to put his entire body weight onto the bootheel that was crushing Wes’s hand.

 

“See, that’s the problem with you dumbass faggots,” he jeered, “Ya don’t even appreciate a good education.  Gotta make ya learn the hard way, no matter how long it takes.”  Wes’s howls of pain as his pinkie finger was shattered made the cracking of the bone almost inaudible, but they were nothing to the noise the cunt made when the Trucker went to work on his thumb.  The muscle-bound killer didn’t break it; he wrenched it out of its socket, dislocating it, and wrung it around in huge circles, tearing the ligaments and tendons until it was useless.

 

Abruptly, the Trucker stood up and stretched.  He stepped away from Wes and headed towards the kitchen.  “Might as well make myself comfortable while I’m educatin’ ya, boy.  Got anything decent to drink in this place?”  He opened the cabinets and fridge.  “Shit, all ya got is a coupla Buds?  Figures.  Worthless asshole.”  There being no other alternative, he grabbed one anyway.

 

Wes had curled into a fetal position, cradling his broken and useless right hand.  “You—you—” he sobbed, “You fuck—fuckin’ psycho…”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” the Trucker drawled as he opened the beer and took a swig.  He walked over to the bed and placed the can on the floor next to the mattress, then returned to Wes.  The whoreboy was just rising to his knees when the Trucker approached, grabbed a handful of the kid’s brown hair and dragged him, kicking and squalling, over to the bed.

 

Seating himself on the mattress at what would be considered the foot of the bed, the Trucker pulled Wes’s head into his crotch, and with his dick running across the wailing homo’s face, wrapped his leg around the kid’s neck to hold him in place.  The well-built sadist then bent down and, grabbing the youth’s left arm, brought his hand up and continued the lesson.

 

This time he started with the little finger, a quiet snap that added no more to the agonized bleating that the pansy bitch was already making.  “See, the best way to learn somethin’,” the Trucker said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling into Wes’s face before taking another swig of beer, “Is to make sure it’s associated with somethin’ you ain’t gonna forget.”  He went for the index finger this time, slowly bending it backwards until it cracked like a green twig.  “Like pain.  Ya feelin’ me, faggot?”

 

Wes screeched, his right arm flailing against the Trucker’s restraining leg, his mangled fingers slapping uselessly against the tight faded denim.

 

The cold, sadistic killer chuckled and knocked the ash from his smoke into Wes’s tear-streaked face before settling it back between his lips and causally breaking the ring finger on his left hand.  The frantic fagboy jerked and kicked, his legs scrambling vainly on the wood floor, unable to find a purchase.  “Stop!  Help! Stop!” he screamed suddenly as he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this by himself—and that this was turning out far worse than he’d ever thought possible.

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker snapped and punched him in the face.

 

Wes grunted, stunned by the impact that was so hard, it had broken the thin bone behind his left eye, which instantly began to swell and darken.  His head lolled as the Trucker bent his index finger past the breaking point, the loud snap heard easily over Wes’s semi-conscious moans.

 

The Trucker chugged the rest of the beer, then jammed the smoldering butt of his smoke into the can and tossed it aside.  Standing up, he let Wes slump to the ground, wallowing in pain.  “Fuck,” the alpha grunted, “Got yer fuckin’ horse piss beer on my hands.”  He headed to the bathroom and ran them under the sink.

 

It had taken him less than sixty seconds, but when he came back out, the Trucker found that Wes had managed to regain his feet and was trying to escape.  Even though there was no possibility of that, the Trucker growled malignantly as he watched the panicked whoreboy’s futile attempts to work the doorknob of his own front door with all his fingers and one thumb broken and useless.

 

“Get back here, you stupid sack of faggot shit,” he snarled crossing instantly to him, “I ain’t done with you yet, asswipe. You still gotta lot to learn before you take yer dirt nap, cunt.”

 

Wes looked up at him, his youthful, once-arrogant face gray with shock and despair, and had a sudden realization of the nightmare he was about to endure.  Blubbering mindlessly, he lost control of his bladder, his piss running down his legs and soaking his socks—and spattering on the Trucker’s boots.

 

Incandescent with rage, the sadistic powerhouse grabbed the desperate punk with both hands—one hand clamped around his throat and the other hand snapped shut on his scrotum like a steel trap, shutting off the flow of urine—and hoisted him in the air.

 

“Piss on me, will ya, you goddam faggot scum?” the Trucker roared and flung Wes headlong into the kitchen.  Flying across the counter and stove, Wes barely had time to fling his arms over his head before he slammed excruciatingly into the far wall and fell to the floor with a clatter of pans and dishes.

 

The dazed, semi-conscious found himself flailing helplessly on the kitchen floor as the heavy, ominous tread of the Trucker’s boots came closer.  Aside from the horrible pain wracking his lean, firm body, his sensations were vague.  He knew that those approaching footsteps meant unrelenting suffering and torment, and that it had something to do with some imagined idea of hot intense sex he’d hoped for, but everything else was confused and distorted.  He wasn’t even entirely sure where he was; this kinda pain couldn’t be happening in his own room…

 

The Trucker stood over the mewling boycunt writhing on the floor and kicked him in the gut, his steel-toed workboot sinking deeply into Wes’s smooth, soft, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the faggot grunted as the impact knocked the air out of him.  Wes looked up at the Trucker, his face soundlessly expressing his horror as he tried desperately to inhale.

 

The hardbodied alpha knelt down by Wes’s head.  He grabbed the fuckboy’s carefully sculpted hair—now a tousled mass—and jerked his head up.  Staring into the kid’s eyes, he spit into Wes’s face, the frothy spittle splattering on the punk’s forehead and trickling down into the boy’s left eye, which had turned black and swollen shut by now.  The older man radiated violence and cruel power in the same way his slick mansweat filled the air with an acrid mix of testosterone and adrenalin, and some dim part of the whore’s mind was aware of his own traitorous, involuntary erection—

 

“Ya know I’m gonna kill ya, right?” the Trucker leered.  “Ya know I’m gonna use you as a cumdump and snuff yer sorry faggot ass, huh?  No, ya don’t.  I can see it in your dead soulless eyes, you worthless homo; you don’t think yer gonna die.  I’m gonna hafta teach it to ya.  I’m gonna hafta hurt you so bad you’ll finally appreciate what a huge fuckin’ favor I’m doin’ ya by wastin’ ya.”

 

Wes heard the words but couldn’t process them.  Out of his good right eye, he could see the Trucker’s handsome, scruff-covered face just inches from his—such a hot fucking dude couldn’t be trying to kill him, this was some kinda nightmare or he’d gotten hold of some bad ice and was freaking out—

 

The Trucker stood, pulling Wes up with him, one hand still clutching a hank of the boy’s hair and the other locked around his throat.  This time, the alpha held the kicking pansy aloft for a moment, letting the boy choke and gag as his own body weight crushed his throat.  Then he flung the slut across the room as hard as he could.

 

Wes hit the wall next to the window, collapsing the drywall and leaving a massive dent as he fell limply back to the floor with a thump like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground.  He was still trying to catch his breath when the Trucker was on him again, hoisting him up by the throat.  “You still want my cock, fag?  Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m still gonna stick it in ya.  You’ll get my load, cocksucker.  ‘Course, you may have too much brain damage by then to enjoy it—but I’ll fuckin’ enjoy it enough for both of us.  Sounds like a fair deal, huh, motherfucker?”

 

The frantic youth instinctively tried to claw at the Trucker’s arm.  Every single contact of his hands on the brutal stud’s bicep and tricep was agony as his broken fingers twisted excruciatingly with the impact.  But the crushing pain in his throat was swiftly overtaking his notice—his entire body weight was collapsing his esophagus in the Trucker’s vise-like grip.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Panic bubbled up in his fear-frozen pansy brain; lack of air had triggered a subconscious terror of asphyxiation.

 

Wes had never spent a moment of his shallow, drug-addled life speculating on what would be the worst way to die; now he knew, without any thought being involved.  He didn’t want to choke to death.

 

The nude queerboy tried to plead wordlessly with the Trucker.  A less experienced killer wouldn’t have been able to read the desperate expression on the swelling, blackening face, or understand the depths of sheer horror behind the tears leaking from the one eye not already swollen shut—but the Trucker did.  He laughed aloud, a hard, cruel sound that drowned out the thick grunting noises coming from Wes’s closed-off throat.

 

“Don’t worry, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” he chuckled.  “Trust me, motherfucker, you’ll know when I’m offin’ ya—I’ll make goddam sure of that.”  Then he gut-punched Wes twice in swift succession, his rock-hard fist first sinking into the kid’s belly as before.  The second blow landed squarely on the solar plexus and Wes forgot all about the pain in his fingers and almost forgot the pain in his throat.

 

The Trucker laughed again as he watched the suffering faggot shudder limply in his grip.  “Looks like yer about to go to sleep, boy,” he drawled.  “Am I borin’ you, fuckmeat?  Here, you stupid piece of fag shit, maybe this’ll teach ya to pay attention!”

 

He slammed the kid headfirst into the TV, holding him by the neck and throwing him like a dart.  Wes’s head cracked the screen; his chest hit the TV stand.  The stand was cheap particle board, but the boywhore hit it hard enough and at just the right angle to break two ribs on his left side.

 

The punk hit the floor and didn’t move.  The Trucker lit up a smoke and sat back down on the bed, keeping an eye on the heaving, gasping pile of boymeat.  He knew he needed to pace himself or he’d whack the motherfucker before he’d had a chance to fuck ‘im.  And as much as he wanted to make the kid die, he particularly wanted to make the kid die while riding his cock.

 

Wes was lying inert, wrapped in a tight, throbbing blanket of pain.  It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe; it even hurt to think.  Especially if he thought about what the Trucker had said to him—so he didn’t think, at least not for a while.  But he could still hear the breath of his sadistic assailant, long inhales and exhales as the alpha calmly smoked his cigarette and watched Wes suffer.

 

After a while, a cloudy sense of self-preservation began to stir in the craven twink’s mind.  He was in a dangerous situation—he wouldn’t let himself recognize the true extent of the peril—and he needed to find a way out.  There was no way he could physically escape; maybe he could talk to the guy, work something out with him.  The fact that his thought process shied away from the real reason behind his inability to escape—the hot stud had casually and cheerfully broken his fingers, one by one—showed his distorted his thinking was.

 

There wasn’t anything to work out with the Trucker except how slowly and how painfully Wes was gonna die.

 

The Trucker wasn’t a mind reader, but he had enough experience offing worthless rentboys to have an accurate, if general, idea of the flow of the whore’s thoughts.  The kid just couldn’t fit the idea of his own death into his shallow brain.  The intensely cruel alpha smiled grimly and stood up.

 

“Recess is over, dickhead,” he growled.  “Time to start learnin’ again.”

 

Wes had rolled over, about to try reasoning with the Trucker, but the tone in the muscle-bound stud’s voice stopped him cold.  It took about four steps for the Trucker to reach him from the bed.  As the helpless punk stared up at the hulking figure towering over him, his words dried up on his cracked lips.

 

That amazing furry body, muscles glistening with sweat in the dim light, the enormous hog—thick, purple, pulsing in vein-wreathed lust—it was everything he wanted in a top, but this was too much, the dude was too aggressive…

 

…and then Trucker bent down to grab him again.  “Wanna play, little boy?” he whispered with an evil grin, and Wes lost it.

 

“Oh please no,” he gasped, amazed at how painful it was to speak; every breath he took shifted the sharp, jagged ends of his broken ribs inside his abdomen.  “Do…do what ya wa-want, but pl-please don’t hurt me anymore, oh please sir, dear god don’t hurt me no more…I’ll, I’ll do whatever you want, please, sir, I’m so sorry, take anything ya want, just, just…just no more pain…”

 

His entreaties became more frantic as the older man reached out to grab him again.  “No!  Fuck, please, no!  Oh god, oh god, please fuck please no don’t fuck no—”

 

Again, the Trucker grabbed him in two places—by the throat and by the scrote.  This time, though, there was no dangling.  The hardbodied killer whirled around, flinging Wes on the bed at full speed.  The homo slut hit the mattress and bounced up off it, smacking into the wall at the head of the bed and falling back, toppling the bedside lamp and knocking the ashtray across the room, leaving a trail of sooty ashes in its wake.

 

Before Wes could recover—it was taking him longer and longer to come back with each new bout of abuse—the Trucker had laid him flat on his back on the bed and had climbed between his legs, propping the kid’s socked feet on his shoulders.  The sick top waited until Wes seemed to be conscious enough for comprehension.

 

“Know what, faggot?” he jeered at the dazed, agonized youth, “All this exercise is gettin’ me horny as fuck.  Think it’s time to drain my load.  Time to say yer prayers, motherfucker, cause once I use you as a cumrag, I’m gonna be done with ya.  The hot squirt of my manseed deep in yer guts is gonna be the last thing yer fag ass feels before I put you down, ya piece a’ shit.”

 

And before Wes could even blink, the Trucker slammed his gigantic shaft balls-deep into the twink’s raw, unprepared fuckhole.

 

If he had been capable of rational thought, Wes would have felt betrayed by the way his young, form body refused to let him lapse into blessed unconsciousness under this new onslaught of excruciating pain.  The searing agony of a ripped sphincter and a torn colon shot through his lithe form, forcing him into involuntary rigidity that only increased his suffering—his body no longer flexed to accommodate the huge thick rod of manflesh spearing his innards.

 

And greatest betrayal of all—in spite of his fear and pain, his own seven-inch cock went rigid itself with a painful stiffness as the Trucker’s cock ground its way over Wes’s prostate.  He could feel it, over all the other stimuli.  The badly-beaten punk was still struggling to breathe—he couldn’t scream, but a high-pitched squeal was forced out of him by sheer agony.

 

“Shaddup, meat, no one fuckin’ cares,” the Trucker barked and sucker-punched Wes in the face.  There was a thick wet crunch as the whoreboy’s nose was crushed, and the Trucker achieved his purpose.  It damn sure got Wes to stop squealing; the stunned youth’s wide eyes, circled with gray rings of shock stared at the alpha in abject horror as blood trickled from both nostrils.

 

The Trucker bent over, his massive hog plugging the kid’s ass.  The dogtags around his neck hit Wes’s smooth chest with a clink and slid to one side as the muscled top lowered himself until their faces were inches apart.  “Worthless fuckin’ faggot, can’t even take a real man’s cock,” the alpha growled, his expression a terrifying mix of rage and demonic glee.  “You’re about to ride that cock right into your grave, fucker, and if you don’t stop squealin’ like a pig, I’ll break yer fuckin’ jaw.”

 

He gave his hips a sudden, single pump, ripping his swollen rod out of the kid’s ass—not completely; he left the billiard-ball-sized head inside the rectum—and driving it all the way back in.  Wes’s entire face went gray with agony as the gigantic horsedick reamed out his colon; he strained until sweat coursed down his face but was unable to suppress a loud, bleating whimper.

 

The Trucker was as good as his word.  He leaned forward, putting his left hand around Wes’s throat to support his weight and driving three hard, swift blows into the fag’s jaw, wielding his right fist like a sledgehammer.  The punches were delivered with the force of a steam piston and by the time they were done, the boy’s jaw was broken and he’d had three teeth knocked out.

 

Best of all, the whore’s body had jumped and jerked with each impact; the Trucker had felt each blow reverberate in the whore’s asshole, making it squeeze his dick.  The kid was gonna be a nice, responsive fuck.

 

Wes wallowed in pain; his face, his ass, his hands…there was a loud humming in his head that seemed to distort things.  Was he on a bad trip?  There was an incredibly hot stud fucking him; he could feel the top’s broad, muscular chest pressing against his own, the wiry body fur scraping painfully across his smooth, soft skin…too much pain, something was wrong.  Maybe more ice would fix it…

 

“I need a hit,” Wes mumbled, not fully aware that he was speaking aloud, his broken jaw barely moving, his speech slurred.  “Comin’ down—gimme another hit…”

 

“What, another one?” the Trucker jeered, knowing damn well what the boywhore meant.  “All you fuckin’ faggots are pain pigs.  Sure, asswipe, here ya go!”

 

Another three blows in rapid fire, striking the cunt’s torso.  The Trucker had aimed with frightening precision at the spot where the kid’s ribs had broken.  Wes screeched, ignoring the agony caused by the sudden, violent motion in his snapped jaw, as the jagged ends of the ribs were driven inwards, puncturing his left lung in two places.

 

The Trucker grinned and began fucking the suffering fuckmeat brutally.

 

Wes was beaten, in more ways than one.  He could only lie on his back, arms and legs outspread, and try to breathe while the muscle-bound alpha hunched over him and raped him viciously.  His left lung was collapsing; every breath of air was a desperate, agonizing struggle that taxed the diaphragm and tore the lung open even further.  The weight of the older man’s heavy, hulking form pressing down on him only made it worse.

 

All in all, it was a blessing for Wes—the frantic attempt to breathe, to merely draw air into his one working lung drew his focus from his pain.

 

But pain was what made Wes work the Trucker’s dick.  The Trucker was not happy.  The meat was supposed to spend the last few minutes of its life pleasuring him; it needed to be reminded of its duty.  He looked around and noticed the small bedside lamp lying on the floor right next to him.  He reached out his left arm and grabbed it, then rose up on his knees.

 

The sudden lifting of the pressure on his chest gave Wes a chance to inhale enough oxygen to regain full awareness.  Even as the tide of nightmarish suffering rose up around him, he looked up at the Trucker looming over him, holding the lamp.

 

As he watched, the powerful hardbodied older man held the lamp in one hand, wrapped the power cord around the other hand and pulled them apart.  There was a quick bugling of his biceps and the cord came away with deceptive ease—it had taken a lot of strength to pull it out.

 

The alpha threw the lamp over his shoulder; it clattered off on the far side of the room.  He held the cord up in front of Wes’s face and grinned.  Nothing needed to be said; the boy knew what it meant and tears welled from his blackened eyes.

 

A glittering light, refracted from the surface of the Trucker’s dangling dogtags, danced hypnotically in front of Wes’s eyes; the panicked whoreboy his focus to be drawn from the cord to the light, steadfastly denying the obvious implications of the former until the Trucker bent forward.  The icy glint in the alpha’s cold steely blue eyes broke the trance; his hot breath on the boy’s face brought Wes back to his excruciating, terrifying reality.

 

“Are you scared, little boy?” the Trucker mocked, “You should be.  Yer gonna die now.  It’s gonna take a little while and it’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna be worth it cause yer gonna jack me off as you kick and struggle.  Your death throes are gonna milk the cum right outta my cock.  That’s why ya gotta die, homo—so I can shoot my wad.  Stupid motherfuckin’ faggot; all yer good for is catchin’ my load in yer dead asshole.”

 

The lamp cord was long.  The Trucker was able not only to wrap it around both hands to ensure his grip, he was able to loop it twice around Wes’s neck, lifting the cunt’s head up by the hair.  The slut was past begging or pleading by this point; pain and terror had paralyzed his ability for positive action of any kind.  All Wes could do was submit as his mind spun in a benumbed circle—he’d just wanted a good hard fuck, he’d found the perfect stud, what the fuck had happened?  He’d totally forgotten his attempt at theft; he was the helpless and innocent victim of…of…

 

In the course of wrapping the cord around Wes’s neck, the Trucker had shifted to one side slightly.  As Wes peered up at the alpha, now silhouetted in front of the overhead light, the battered fuckmeat’s swollen and tear-filled eyes could only perceive a looming, hulking outline of pure masculinity, the quintessential maleness of the muscular top emphasized by the adrenaline and testosterone escaping from the alpha’s sweat and overwhelming the small room with the atmosphere of mansex.

 

This was what Wes had wanted, what he’d craved and had been driven to seek night after night in seedy bars and back alley.  Now he had it—and it was torturing him and killing him.

 

The Trucker tightened the cord, grinning sadistically as it sank into the tender flesh of Wes’s throat.  He could see that the meat was sinking into mental shock; nothing like a little breath control to stop that shit.  The cruel stud wanted his fucktoy in the here and now as it died.  And, of course, the experienced killer was right.

 

The moment his air was cut off, Wes was brought back to reality, abruptly and involuntarily.  He had a cold, clear moment of lucidity and remembered the instinctive, gut-wrenching horror he’d felt when his powerful tormentor had held him aloft by the throat and choked him.

 

Oh fuck.  Oh fuck no.  Not this.  He couldn’t die like this, no, no, no no no nononono…

 

Panic descended on the helpless sack of fuckmeat in a black mist that clouded his eyes; the Trucker recognized the glazed look of terror.  It always happened somewhere around this stage of the game; despite everything it was told, the fagmeat was usually too stupid to fully comprehend its impending death until it was actually in the process of dying.

 

Which, of course, was exactly why it had to die—it needed to be brought to this level of emotional intensity to properly work the Trucker’s cock.  The muscled alpha tightened the cord further and braced himself for the first spasm of panicked struggle.

 

And even though Wes’s life expectancy was approximately five minutes, he did manage to learn some things in the last few nightmarish moments of his short, useless life.

 

He learned that panic only briefly numbed the pain, and that there was a terrible price to pay for his mindless flailings in terms of sheer agony.  He kicked wildly, his heels drumming on the Trucker’s back with as much impact as if they were pillows; as his feet flailed, one of his ped socks slipped off and feel to the floor.

 

He slapped his hands repeatedly against the Trucker’s wrists in an instinctive and utterly futile attempt to wrest the killer’s implacable, relentless hold on his throat, his snapped fingers splaying and flopping limply.  The excruciating pain of the jagged ends of the broken bones grinding into tissue and each other wasn’t alleviated, merely delayed.  When it hit, Wes went rigid, shuddering with neural overload.

 

The fingers weren’t the only thing contributing to the punk’s mental short circuit.  The complete collapse of his left lung was kinda moot at this point, but the way his broken ribs tore into the deflated organ with every twist of Wes’s lean, smooth torso was another, much more painful matter.

 

And then there was his cock—never truly unheeded even during his darkest moments, it had remained hard involuntarily throughout his sufferings merely by the grinding, remorseless pressure exerted on his prostate by the phenomenal girth of the Trucker’s massive rod.  Now, though, it was actively swelling and throbbing in tempo with his racing, terrified pulse.  And every single individual throb seemed like an electrical shock running the length of his shaft and churning in his balls…

 

The Trucker paced himself, holding still, letting the meat massage his dick as it thrashed in terror, wrapping its smooth strong legs around his waist and squeezing tight.  Once it settled down into neural shock, the cruel alpha began speaking again, knowing the meat was still conscious and able to hear him.

 

“Are ya grateful to me, faggot?  Do ya appreciate what I’m givin’ ya?  Yer gonna get the honor of bein’ my cumdump.  All ya gotta do is convulse nice and hard as I choke ya to death, an’ I’ll hose yer guts with my spunk.”

 

The Trucker found the expression of absolute despair on Wes’s swelling, blackening face incredibly erotic; jerking the cord even tighter, he spit on the trembling cunt pinned helplessly under his powerfully-muscled body.  “That’s it, motherfucker,” he hissed, “Die on my dick.”

 

Thick black blossoms were popping open in Wes’s field of vision as blood vessels ruptured in his eyes.  His entire body was awash in pain; the pressure in his mangled chest cavity was unendurable.  His hypersensitive cock was rubbing against the Trucker’s firm, flat belly, the alpha’s body fur scraping the long, cum-filled ridge on the underside of the dick like a power sander.

 

And above the nightmarish agony of death, the beaten and raped whoremeat could still feel drops of precum oozing from the head of its own dick—it felt hot, like magma…

 

The Trucker realized that the meat was very close to death.  His seed began to boil, his balls began to contract, forcing his white-hot cum on its journey up his huge, erect shaft.  “You ready for my load, cunt?” he whispered into Wes’s dark face.

 

Foamy drool trickled down the whore’s face and his bulging eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving only the blood-streaked whites visible, but there was still a tiny fragment of Wes’s personality left, desperately straight-arming death in sheer terror.  It was sinking under the relentless torrent of pain and brain damage, but it was still there—and it knew what the Trucker’s question meant.

 

The Trucker bunched his biceps and with a loud grunt, gave the cord a powerful jerk.  At the same time, the thrusting of his hips increased, plunging his enormous shaft faster and deeper into the dying boy’s guts.

 

A loud wet crack echoed in the small room as Wes’s esophagus was crushed into a mangled wad of cartilage.  Simultaneously, the Trucker cried out, “Fuck—FUCK!!” and pumped a huge load of hot sticky cum deep inside the meat.

 

The little part that was still Wes felt the sharp, knife-like pain of its collapsed windpipe and the searing, boiling wetness filling it from the inside out.  There was time for one last fleeting thought—what happened dude I just wanted to get fucked—and then there was one last pain, the greatest and most intense pain, and it came from his dick.  In his last moment of life, Wes knew he was blowing his death load and it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was cumming molten glass—

 

—and then all that was left was convulsing meat, thrashing and ejaculating mindlessly, impaled on the Trucker’s still-shooting rod.  White ropy jets of semen erupted from the dead kid’s dick, splattering across the alpha’s broad, hairy chest and smearing his dogtags.  The corpse, its prostate still being forcibly massaged by the Trucker’s pumping shaft, remained erect and spewing boycum that spattered itself, pooling in the eyes and covering their grotesque, bulging blank whiteness.

 

After a while—he didn’t know how long—the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his huge scrotum drained.  He’d pumped a full load into the meat; so much, some trickled from the dead kid’s ass when the older man pulled out.  Once he got his boots back on the ground, the sweat-slick muscled stud headed to the bathroom.  A few minutes with a wet towel was enough to wipe the boypig cum off his body and out of his fur.

 

Returning to the bedroom, the Trucker retrieved his cap, shirt and wallet.  Replacing the red trucking cap on his head, covering his dark hair, he tucked his wallet in one rear pocket and his white wifebeater in the other, where it dangled out behind.  Fishing out his pack of smokes, he decided to burn one while surveying the scene.

 

The sadistic alpha felt a sense of satisfaction; he’d done a very thorough job.  The meat was on its back, blank cum-filled eyes pointed at the ceiling.  The arms were above the head and the legs were spread, showing the glaze of semen leaking from the torn asshole.  The semi-soft cock was still extended its full length and likely to remain so; it was glued to the flat belly by a thick crust of boyspunk.

 

Halfway up, the neck was puckered and drawn in so deeply it was difficult to make out the cord that was sunk into it.  Above that, the faggot was unrecognizable, the face black, swollen and covered with drool from between the dead kid’s purple, foamy lips.

 

The corpse still twitched randomly, the toes on the bare sockless foot curling, but as the Trucker finished his cigarette, the stupid homo’s brain finally figured out it was dead and the body became still.  The hardbodied alpha grinned and tossed his butt on the floor.  Grinding it out with his boot, he headed for his truck, leaving the apartment door cracked open.

 


 

Figures, Donato thought, Sarge has gotta walk in and catch me in the middle of a yawn…

 

“You bored, Donato?” the Sarge barked.

 

“No, sergeant,” Donato replied.

 

“Awright, what’s goin’ on here?  Jesus, what a fuckin’ mess.  Looks like someone got terminated with extreme prejudice, as they say in the movies.”

 

“We got a call about a dead body, Sarge.  Me and Ayers, we responded.  Ayers is out talkin’ to the neighbors now.”

 

The Sarge ambled over to the bed and took a good look at the body.  “ME on the way?”

 

“Yeah,” Donato replied, “Med examiner’s got the meatwagon comin’.”

 

“Well tell ‘im not to waste too much time over this one.  Some faggot got fucked to death.  And by th’ looks of this place, someone really wanted this one dead.  I seen a lot of these, but this is the first one where it looks like our killer tried to put the vic through the wall.  Oh, Ayers, there ya are.  What’d ya find out about the dead meat?”

 

“Well, like you was just sayin’, Sarge, some fag who got fucked to death.  Lady next door knows him as Wes—office ain’t open yet, so I ain’t gotta last name.  Anyways, she sez he’s out at the bars almost every night, always bringin’ dudes home—she can hear everythin’ through wall.  Even sez there’s been some yellin’ an’ fightin’ at times.  Seems like the little cocksucker liked to rip off his fuckbuddies.”

 

“Hey, Sarge?” Donato interrupted, “Dunno if yer interested, but I found a meth pipe in a drawer in the kitchen.  Some baggies with residue, too—ya want I should test ‘em?

 

“What, are you nuts?” the Sarge barked.  “You wanna go spend the taxpayer’s money for that kinda shit?  When the ME gets here, tell him to haul this pile of meat outta here.  And if he can’t tell me anything more than this little fuck got the shit beat outta him by some real strong guy, he can spare me the autopsy report.  I can see for myself the faggot was raped and strangled.  Serves the thievin’ piece a’ shit right.  Just wrap this shit up and forget it; y’all have real work to do.”

Meat Chronicles 18–Boy Toy Destroyed

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“How old are ya, dude?” I ask.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

For good.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Hey boy,” I whisper, “Look up.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

T-Money is cashed out.

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

Goddam, I’m hard again.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

The Club by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

Bill’s lust was mostly for smooth “muscle boys” who were young, trim, sexually eager, and very well built. He liked the “twink” variety best, if they had worked out to perfect their amazing smooth young bodies. Using his ample cock to fuck their tight bubble-butt assholes was his favourite hobby – and he did it often. Money was not an issue for Bill, being extremely successful in his business, so he could well afford to rent the kind of male meat he liked. He just expected the meat to obey his every whim and please him however, wherever, and whenever he felt like being serviced.

In terms of Bill’s “rentals” there was no question Paul was his best find ever. The young stud had recently moved from Dallas to Tampa, and adopted “Paul Paulson” as a stage name for his career as a male prostitute. That’s how Bill had found him, through a web service that included pictures and reviews. They were all positive – every guy who reviewed Paul commented on how well he sucked cock, how friendly he was, and what a truly great body he possessed. Paul was about medium height, just right for good 69 sessions, and his body was in absolutely perfect shape, reflecting the hours of workouts he put in every day. His skin was smooth and mostly hairless, except for a little clump around his very appealing crotch, which included a larger than usual scrotum that caused his balls to hang a little lower than the usual male equipment, so they were easy for Bill to massage with his mouth. Paul didn’t have a massive cock, but it was decently sized, uncut, and very functional. Paul had no problem getting and maintaining his erections, which reflected a combination of his youth (he was 20) and his great physical shape. All of this really turned Bill on, and his orgasms were pretty explosive when he rented Paul for an evening’s fun.

Bill particularly remembered one evening, when they had ventured out of Paul’s condo and enjoyed themselves at a local gay strip club. They rated the dancers in a joking way over a beer or two, and they agreed that one guy in particular had an especially sexy body. The dancer was named Matt, and he didn’t waste any time stripping for Paul and Dave. He started out completely naked – unlike the other guys, he even was barefoot. The only things he had on were a tight, yellow collar that highlighted his tanned skin and had a ring to which a leash could be attached, and a set of metal rings around his scrotum and his cock that held them tight and rigid and were in turn secured in place with a small padlock. His cock was erect and bounced in front of him as he danced, the cock restraints helping to keep it that way.

“There’s no place to put a tip,” Bill hollered over the loud music.   Bill was always more than willing to pay for his sexual entertainment.

”I am a sex slave, sir, merely live male meat provided by the bar owner for your amusement. Slaves don’t deserve tips, sir. We simply exist to serve our owners. My master told me to dance for the two of you, and to let you use my body however you would like.”

“Who owns you,” Paul inquired, curious and also very aroused by the image of the beautiful young boy dancing in front of him for his amusement while adorned with appropriate slave insignias. While Paul worked as a prostitute, he never made himself that available, and limited what his customers could do with him.

“Mr. Jameson, the owner, purchased me at an auction last week along with some other furniture for the bar, sir, but I believe he intends to sell me. Of course, that’s none of my business and I obviously have no say in the matter.” The boy had been stroking his dick, and now had an even harder erection that was pointing nearly straight up in front of him, but still bouncing as he moved. That turned on Bill and Paul even more.

Bill recognized the name and asked the waiter to see if Mr. Jameson would like to chat with him, and the bar owner wandered over to their table shortly afterwards. By then Matt was on all fours in front of the two interested patrons, letting them examine his tight young ass and stroke his cock. Paul was taking full advantage of the opportunity.

“So, Bill, do you like my new purchase?” asked Mr. Jameson. “As you can tell, it’s really well trained and I figured it could be a feature at our meeting next weekend.”

“Stan!” came Bill’s startled reply. “I recognized your name when the slave told us who owned it, but I had no idea you owned this place. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just bought it at an auction last week. The prior owner went bust. It turned out the meat you and your buddy are enjoying was his too, so I added a couple of bucks and bought myself a little boy-flesh. Feel free to do whatever you like to him, by the way, and now that I own the place it’s OK for customers to get naked and fuck in the bar itself. I figure that will help business, and it just costs a little extra with the local cops. Mostly I just let them in for free fucks.”

Bill and Paul were already shirtless, since Bill liked to look at Paul’s amazing body and have Paul stroke his own very attractive skin, but at Bill’s signal they now both stripped completely. Both had gotten hard watching Matt and the other dancers, so they were ready for action.

“Looks like you guys are ready for some fucking. Trust me; this shithead is a great piece of meat to fuck. Do you want it on its belly or on its back?” Stan inquired. “My suggestion is to have it lay across the table on its belly so one of you can fuck its butt while it sucks off the other guy. It might as well get used to being spit-roasted.” Matt picked up on the instructions and quickly positioned himself as suggested for maximum use by the two favoured patrons. Stan reached into his pocket and pulled out several short pieces of rope, which he quickly used to tie each of his slave’s hands and feet to one of the legs of the table, making the boy completely vulnerable and unable to resist. Given Matt’s training and attitude that was hardly necessary, but it clearly added to the ambiance.

“Once you two are done using it, I figure the rest of the bar might as well have a turn. I don’t plan to keep the slave long, so I am not too worried if it gets a little used up.”

“Well, don’t let it get too damaged,” Bill urged. “We do want to have a good meeting.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure it’s still useful,” Stan assured. “But what about your buddy here? I am guessing he’s a whore and I’d sure like to have him join us. He’s a lot better looking than my little boy toy. He’d be a huge hit if you brought him.”

“Well, he is a prostitute,” Bill intoned, “but he’s not into being a slave, and he generally does not let other guys fuck him. But, frankly, he’s so good looking and such a great cocksucker and kisser that I’m OK with that.”

Paul wasn’t very pleased with the conversation. He was very proud, and although he knew that he had to provide service in his role as a prostitute, he viewed it as a profession, worthy of respect from his customers. He did not like being referred to like a commodity. However, Bill paid extremely well, so he let it pass for now.

“Well, it’s obviously up to you,” Stan continued, openly admiring Paul’s now fully exposed body and taking the liberty of caressing his smooth, beautiful skin. “But as club president this year, Ill waive your whole year’s membership fee if you bring him.  I think we can recruit more of the right kind of members if we improve the quality of our guests.”

As Stan wandered off to tend to other customers and invite them to join in the fucking, Paul inquired what Stan was referring to. Despite being a little offended, he was also certainly curious.

“It’s a gay sex club I belong to that’s very exclusive. Each member brings a young guy to join in the weekly orgy, and we vote on which guest is the best looking, best fuck, and has the best attitude. The guys get rewards accordingly. It’s a whole lot of fun, and if you’d be interested I am pretty sure you’d at least win best looking. That’s a $5,000 prize, and obviously it would be in addition to your usual fee and tip. The only hitch is that you do have to wear slave gear and agree to be butt-fucked.” Bill had seen the spark of interest, and really wanted to get Paul to attend. He especially wanted to fuck Paul’s young bubble-butt, which Paul had not yet permitted. Paul was such an amazing stud that it would not only be a lot of fun but it would also impress the other members. Bill had joined only recently and was still trying to assure a good impression. All the members were extremely wealthy, so they brought really good looking studs and set the prize money very high.

“Well, maybe so – that’s a lot of money, after all. But you’d have to assure me they would follow my limits. I don’t mind a little S&M, but I am a top, not a bottom.”

“That’s not the usual approach, but I think it wouldn’t be a problem,” assured Bill, still hoping to get his cock into Paul’s backside. “The rules are very clear on all that sort of thing. We want everyone to have a great time and we especially value our guests.”

“OK, I’m game.” Bill was so thrilled at the prospect that he grabbed Paul by the back of the neck and pulled him close so he could provide a very enthusiastic kiss. They then took turns using the young slave tied to the table, with Bill so excited that he even let Paul have the first turn fucking the boy’s asshole while Bill inserted his own cock into the eager young mouth. As they fucked, they leaned over and continued their kissing session, eventually bringing each other to a fabulous mutual orgasm that drew applause from the other customers who had crowded around to enjoy the show. They were so into each other that they hadn’t noticed the crowd forming, but that too turned them on. So they traded places, and the slave cleaned Paul’s cock with his mouth as Paul regained an erection and then enjoyed a great blow job while Bill also restored his vigour and enjoyed fucking the recently used asshole. This time they were very aware of the crowd, and enjoyed being cheered on as they used the submissive young male flesh for their second round of orgasms. Not being greedy, they ordered drinks for the house while they watched the rest of the customers fuck the house slave and each other. It wasn’t long before someone produced a whip, and Mat’s back and butt were terrific targets, as were his belly, cock and balls when they turned him over to get a little variety into the torture. Matt thanked each of the customers for taking the trouble to use him for their pleasure, which was quite well received. So was the implication of Matt’s yellow slave collar, which signalled that there was no need to go the bathroom to piss – everyone’s urine just went down Matt’s throat.  It was a great evening, and when the bar finally closed Matt was left tied to the table with the whip resting on his belly.  “Might as well let the clean-up crew have some fun, too,” Stan said thoughtfully. “But I am aware they’ll just make the slave do all the work cleaning up, which is OK by me. He’s a good worker, and fun to watch as he walks around naked doing the chores. I insist that the rest of the clean-up crew is also naked, so it is a good show of whipping, fucking, and cleaning. I think I’ll stay to watch. I might as well get as much use as possible out of my new slave while I can.” Bill and Paul then returned to Paul’s condo for yet another sex session, joined by two of Paul’s roommates who also worked as prostitutes. It was an expensive evening for Bill, which didn’t matter at all since it was one he would always remember.

The following Saturday could hardly come soon enough for Bill, who was still quite excited at the prospect of having Paul join him at his club. They met at Bill’s house, and started the evening with a casual drink and a very relaxing 69 that got their sexual juices nicely aroused. Bill didn’t have them actually achieve orgasms; he wanted to be sure they had lots of sperm ready to go for the evening’s fun.

“This is a very unique club,” Bill explained. “All the members are extremely wealthy and extremely fit. We don’t let anyone in who doesn’t measure up both financially and physically, so there really aren’t any limits to the entertainment we can afford and everyone there is a turn-on. I don’t think there’s any other club quite like it.

“There is only one rule that will affect you. It is required that guests arrive naked and wear a slave collar. That way we can start the evaluations for the prizes right away. So you’ll need to strip once we get there, and I figure we can leave your stuff in my car. I brought a couple of collars you can choose from. Is that OK?”

Paul was a little taken aback, but had to admit to himself that he liked being naked and showing off his body to other guys, and he really liked orgies. The slave collar also, to his surprise, had the effect of turning him on. So, almost to his own surprise, he agreed. In fact, starting to get into the spirit of the evening, he suggested he just strip and leave his stuff in Bill’s house, knowing it would please Bill to be able to look at his naked flesh on the ride over and play with Paul’s cock while Bill drove. Paul would also make sure to get an erection, so he would arrive looking impressive. Bill showed Paul the selection of collars, and Paul picked out one that was simple leather and somewhat wide, with a hook to which a leash could be attached. Paul laughingly told Bill he might as well go for the full effect, but secretly he hoped Bill would indeed find a leash. With that, Paul stripped, they finished their drinks, and Bill drove them to the site of the club.

To Paul’s surprise, the club was located in the warehouse district, and it appeared to be just another warehouse from the outside. Bill explained that this made it convenient to get to, being close to town, and it helped assure no one bothered them or became aware of the club. “We value our privacy,” he explained. “And don’t let the outside fool you û inside its pretty awesome.”

When they got out of the car, Bill opened the trunk and surprised Paul with an added option–a leash. “It’s clearly your choice, Paul, but if you really want to go for the full effect, this should do it.” To Bill’s surprise and delight, Paul quickly agreed. So Bill approached the door to the warehouse holding Paul’s leash, with his beautiful rented slave walking dutifully behind him, naked, obedient, collared, leashed, and aroused.

Bill had not misrepresented how nice the interior of the club was. As soon as they entered, a very handsome young male respectfully greeted Bill and welcomed him. Bill stood still while the young man undressed him, carefully storing Bill’s clothes in a locker. He attached the end of the leash to a nearby post, as one would do with an owner’s horse in the Old West before the owner entered a saloon. Paul was impressed with the obvious symbolism, but not put off. He was really starting to get into the scene and wondered what would happen next.

Once Bill was naked, the doorman knelt in front of him and proceeded to suck on Bill’s cock until it was nice and hard. The combination of the doorman’s own nakedness and great body with the reality of having Paul so obviously willing to play meant that this process took no time at all. But Bill let the doorman take his time, enjoying the expert attention to his favorite muscle.

Once they passed through the next door, Paul was overwhelmed. The place was huge, and it was fantastic. There were bars in various strategic locations that featured whatever the members wanted to drink, and cushioned lounges everywhere for the comfort of the members while they played with each other and their guests. Best of all, there was a very large and comfortable looking mat in the middle of the room, which was obviously for the upcoming orgy.

Paul was also amazed by the quality of the male flesh that filled the room. While some of the guys were a bit older (obviously members), as Bill had promised every one of them was in great physical shape and very appealing sexually. The ‘guests’ were even better–Paul even felt there might be some competition on who was the best fuck, and determined to be sure he won the prize nonetheless. It wasn’t just the money (although that helped), it was now a matter of pride. Paul let Bill know that he would, after all, be willing to be butt-fucked and planned to win all three of the prizes. Bill, of course, was thrilled. Paul had never allowed Bill inside his ass before, and had claimed it was still virgin.

Bill quickly spotted his friend Stan and led Paul over to show off his prize. Stan was talking to another member, who was also showing off his guest. But Stan’s attention quickly turned to Paul when Bill led him over, and Stan’s interest was clear. While the other stud had gotten some arousal from Stan, the sight of Paul naked and erect with a collar and a leash obviously turned him on, and Stan made no effort to hide the effect. After all, displaying hard cocks was one goal of the evening.

“Well, this is a very pleasant surprise,” Stan said by way of greeting. “I guess I’ll have to waive your dues after all. But I sure don’t mind doing so.”

It was then that Paul had an inspired idea. He bowed to Bill, and knelt down in front of Stan, offering his mouth to service Stan’s cock. Like a good slave, he didn’t presume to touch it, but the offer was clear and respectful, waiting for permission and instructions.

“Wow. Did you even train him? This is quite impressive given what you told me the other night.” With that, Stan signaled his assent to Paul, who proceeded to take Stan’s manhood into his mouth and start massaging it. As Bill knew, Paul was probably the world’s greatest cocksucker, and Stan was so turned on that he actually began to moan in pleasure.

“This guy is awesome!” Stan exclaimed. “No wonder you put up with his limits. He’s clearly worth it.” But with that, Stan signaled Paul to release his manhood. “OK, I’m sold. But I don’t want to shoot just yet. However, when I do I want you to do the job. So do hang around.”

Bill and Stan giggled a little, just between them. Stan then asked if Paul had agreed to be butt-fucked, or if that was still off limits. Bill told him no, but that Paul had agreed to fucked for the first time tonight.

“Wow. That’s terrific,” gushed Stan, which also had the effect of getting Paul more aroused. “It’s all up to you and Bill of course, but if you’re up for a gang bang I’d sure love to be one of the first to enter. I’m guessing Bill wants the #1 shot.”

“Where’s the boy-toy you had at your club?” Bill asked. “He was pretty decent looking and clearly well trained. I wouldn’t mind playing with him a little as a start to the evening.”

“Oh, he’s here all right,” responded Stan. “I’ve got him spread-eagled in the playroom. Feel free to do whatever you like– but just don’t do anything that will spoil our fun for later on.”

“Of course not,” Bill promised. “But I feel like a little bit of a workout and he looked like an animal that would respond well to being whipped before being fucked.”

“Either way, my friend,” was Stan’s laughing response. “But if you want the opening fuck of the evening you’re probably too late. I think some of the other guys have discovered him. But you might get in the first flogging.”

Bill led Paul to a nearby room, which turned out to be the clubs extremely well equipped dungeon. That’s also where most of the members and their guests had congregated, and clearly Stan’s slave Matt was a part of the reason. The young, willing boy-toy was indeed spread-eagled with his hands and feet attached, respectively, to hooks in the ceiling and the floor. His smooth hairless body was readily available for whatever the members wanted to do to him, and everyone had ideas.

As Bill and Paul watched, a succession of guys approached Matt from behind and thrust their hard cocks into his tight little bubble-butt. They took their time, encouraged by the cheering of the onlookers. Meanwhile, Bill saw his chance and picked up a nearby whip. No one was attacking the slave from the front, so Bill got to land the first lashes of the evening onto the exposed belly and chest of the helpless victim. The youth squirmed from the obvious pain, but did not cry out. Instead, he responded as he had been trained, and as he responded to each guy who fucked him:

“Thank you, sir.”

The propriety of the reaction turned Bill on even more, and now he proceeded to turn his attention–and the whip –to the kid’s cock and balls. The cock was erect and made a great target, but reaching the balls took a little expertise. Fortunately, Bill was very experienced and able to inflict the pain of the lash on the full set of genitals. But the only verbal reaction was added expressions of appreciation. Bill always had admired what a great job Stan did training slaves, but felt this was exceptional and made a mental note to complement his friend.

But the strangest reaction was that of Paul. As he watched the remarkable scene that was unfolding, he found himself particularly turned on by how Matt was reacting.

“Would you like to whip me too?” Paul found himself asking Bill, as much to his own surprise as to Bill’s. “I see another set of shackles, and I think it would actually be a big turn-on for some of the members and improve my chances of winning. I’ve never really played slave, but maybe I’ve missed out.” Paul did not want to admit to Bill how turned on this scene had made him.

Bill didn’t hesitate. He handed the whip to another member, who continued the fun with Matt, and very quickly led Paul to the nearby set of shackles, quickly positioning and securing him in the same X position as Matt–two slaves side by side and ready for use. Bill then took a chance and inquired of his new property.

“I do think this will turn you on. But it would do so even more if we start with that butt-fuck you agreed to earlier. After all, that’s the most appropriate use of a slave, and if you want to have the full experience, and win all the prizes, it’s essential.”

Paul hesitated. He actually had a virgin asshole, and had prided himself on never having been ass-fucked. But Bill had a point, and Paul was somehow very anxious to please and to keep his promise.

“Sure. I’m all yours. Go for it. No limits.”

Bill was ecstatic. This had been his dream for a very long time, and now it was coming true. As Paul had made his speech of submission, Stan had wandered in to join the fun, and heard the offer.

“Well, that certainly simplifies things, doesn’t it?” Stan commented. “So, like I said before, I assume you want the first fuck. But I’d sure like to go next.”

Bill was a very generous person, and he really liked Stan. “No, you’re club president, and getting him here was actually your idea. So you go first, while I start the whipping. Besides, you’re still the best trainer in the club–as illustrated by your little hunk of boy-meat I just enjoyed.”

Stan appreciated the gesture, and wasted no time thrusting his aroused cock into Paul’s virgin ass. There was no foreplay or lube–Stan liked the reaction of guys getting the full thrust. “I had planned to have you suck me off, but frankly this is a lot better,” Stan informed his target. “Being the first guy to shoot a load up your butt will be a huge turn-on. It’s pretty rare we get a virgin butt in here.”

“Hey,” Paul began to protest. “I really had in mind having Bill fuck me, but at least use a condom.”

“No way,” came Stan’s quick response, as he started thrusting in and out of the very tight hole. “You said no limits, and around here that means no limits. As you’ll learn as the evening proceeds, the members make the rules. The slaves just obey and serve. You’ve now agreed to be a slave, and there is no turning back.”

Paul was upset, but before he could protest further he felt the first stoke of Bill’s whip hit his flesh. He had also never been whipped, and he was surprised how much it hurt. He inadvertently let out a scream, and a second one with the second stroke. Bill ignored the screams, actually increasing his efforts so that they began to lacerate Paul’s beautiful tight flesh, and Paul began to plead with him to stop.

“This isn’t turning me on,” Paul pleaded. “Please stop and let me loose.” But Paul’s hard cock put the lie to his complaints, and Bill didn’t really care at this point. What mattered, and what always mattered, is that the combination of whipping his favorite sex object while his buddy fucked him from behind was massively turning on Bill. And Stan.

It didn’t take Stan long to shoot his load, given how excited he was, and then it was Bill’s turn. They switched places, so that Stan could enjoy whipping Paul while Bill relieved his sexual tension at Paul’s expense. In and out, in and out, Bill kept the thrusts moving and increased the speed. The large load of cum Stan had deposited made a nice lubricant, for which Bill thanked Stan. When he finally released his load, it was probably the greatest orgasm he’d ever had. He was spent from the effort, but still completely turned on.

After the two friends had finished fucking Paul, they released him from the shackles. Paul was very upset, and now demanded to leave the club.

“Sorry, slave. Like I said before, it’s too late. You leave when we’re done with you.” Stan showed the authority that had gotten him elected president of the club.

The beating had left Paul weakened, so the two members had no problem securing him to a nearby wall, where he was forced to kneel. They explained that they had other business to take care of for a while, but they wanted Paul to remain useful.

“Our members like to drink beer,” Bill explained. “And that means they need a urinal. Until we get done with our other task, you’re the lucky recipient of all that piss. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll start your instructions personally.” And with that, Bill forced Paul’s mouth open and released a huge load of piss down Paul’s protesting throat.

“I don’t think he’s going to win the attitude award,” Stan speculated. They both laughed as they walked away from the horrified young man, who was quickly approached and used by another member. Both Stan and Bill noticed, however, that Paul’s cock was still hard.

The task awaiting Bill and Stan was to prepare Stan’s slave Matt for its next use. Unlike Paul, there was no protest when they released the shackles, and Matt stood obediently while they discussed their plans.

“How many main events do you plan tonight?” Bill asked. “It’s usually just one, right?”

“It is, but tonight I plan on two. No point using up too many of our slaves at the same time, but I had already planned to use up Matt and I think it would be instructive for Paul to see Matt’s fate first.”

“True,” Bill mused, “but it does seem a shame to use up Paul all at once. We could save him until next week, and have some fun in the meantime. He could spend the week considering what might happen, and we’d have more time to plan.”

“Deal,” Stan agreed. “Good thinking. So now we just need to figure out what to do with this one. Any preferences?”

“Well, I think his skin and his attitude are his best features. And it clearly should be something slow, after everyone gets in a good fuck. I’d suggest skinning him alive. If we’re careful, he’d still be alive when we start the feast.”

Stan saw the logic of this and quickly agreed. Matt was listening, but made no objections, even while Bill had stroked his smooth skin when describing the idea of removing it. Stan had trained him well, and if his masters wanted to gang rape him, skin him alive, and then eat his flesh while he was still alive, then that was clearly their right. His duty would be to provide as much entertainment as possible and stay alive as long as possible to prolong his pain and their enjoyment.

Once Stan and Bill had made their decisions, Bill instructed one of the waiters to let everyone know the main event would start in about an hour. He also had him invite everyone to join him in appreciating a final dance form the attraction.

“Matt had wanted to be a dancer, but I explained to him he wasn’t good enough, and really only deserved to be a slave, and ultimately a source of meat. But I figure we can let him entertain us before we snuff him and eat him. It should be fun.”

Matt was thrilled and honored by what he overheard Stan tell Bill. So when he was told to go up on a nearby stage and perform for the club, he did so willingly. Before he started, Stan provided the introduction.

“As my fellow members know, one of our club traditions is to stage an entertaining snuff scene each Saturday evening, featuring one of the guests. Tonight it will be this young slave, whom all of you have enjoyed fucking during the course of the evening. I’ve decided, after chatting with my buddy Bill, that the most fun would be to skin him alive and then serve him to all of you for a very fresh meat entree. With a little luck, you can cut off a piece while he’s still alive. So, before he does a final dance for our entertainment, let’s do our traditional auction to see who gets to join in the fun.”

With that, Stan conducted a brief but very vigorous auction among the guests to determine who would get the final fuck, who would do the skinning, and who would get to cut off the cock and balls once he was skinned and ready to serve. The results of the auction easily paid for the expenses of the evening, and the young slave fetched a good sum.

The dance was very well done, both lively and sexy. Stan didn’t let it go on too long, as the members were getting both anxious and a little hungry. So Matt was led down from the stage after enduring one last fuck from the winning bidder. He was laid on an autopsy table, which helped keep the flow of blood and such from getting too messy as Stan (who won the bid on doing the skinning) inserted the knife just above his chest to start the fun. The members cheered as Stan expertly sliced down to the top of Matt”s crotch, and then slowly peeled back the skin. He did the same with the arms and legs, but left the head and genitals uncut. The head would be added to the clubs trophy case, and it was the right of the winning bidder for the cock and balls to have them still in perfect shape when they were removed. Matt had maintained a hard-on during the dance and for the start of the fatal torture session, and Stan had tied off the prize so it would still be hard, which it was. Bill had won that bid, and made sure he cut as slowly as possible to enhance and prolong the pain.

Matt lasted through the entire process, although clearly he was going to die soon. So the winning bidders on his choice cuts of meat helped themselves, removing breast meat, liver, kidneys, thighs, and all the rest of the delicious treats that had once been a gorgeous young male. There was a nearby hibachi for those who wanted the meat cooked, but most ate it raw, many while Matt was still able to watch. Of course, once the feast began he didn’t last long. But everyone agreed he had been a very accommodating, and tasty, young piece of live meat.

After the meal, Bill returned to where Paul was still secured in his role as the club urinal. All the guys had used him by now, and he was both scared and subdued.

“Did you enjoy the show,” Bill asked.

“No. Please let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” Paul was desperate.

“Oh, we’re not worried about that. All of the guests understand what would happen to them if they told. And no one would believe them anyway. Besides, one of the members is the chief of police.

“What I came over to tell you is that you’ve won the prize. You’re clearly the most attractive guest. However, the bad news is that we lied about it being money. The prize is that you’re the main event next Saturday. And between now and then, you’ll get training from Stan and a chance to continue to serve both as a urinal and as a sex object. I get to decide how we snuff you, so if you have preferences be sure to let me know. I won’t necessarily follow them, but it would be fun to chat about it.”

Paul was horrified. Things had gotten completely out of control. After watching what had happened to Matt, he had no doubt Bill was telling the truth. He knew he would die the following week. And yet, there was something exciting about it. He had always been a prostitute since he had reached puberty, and he had gotten real pleasure out of serving other guys. Despite his terror, he was actually aroused û and his cock hardened a bit as Bill spoke. Bill noticed the effect, and smiled.

“I always knew you were really a masochist at heart. All prostitutes are. I just didn’t know how much. So now I’ll find out.”

Epilogue

Paul trained well during the following week. Once resigned to his fate, he decided to play his part. And Stan and Bill, who jointly did the training, were very skilled. They and their friends dropped by the club each day to use Paul sexually, and to experiment with various forms of torture. They found that, while Paul responded well to flogging, he responded better to electric shock. They tested him with near-death shocking, which was a huge turn-on for their newfound student. And, of course, both they and the club staff made full use of Paul whenever they needed to pee. He also turned out to be a very talented urinal, never spilling a drop.

Bill and Stan were so pleased with their new pet that they actually kept him in training for two weeks instead of the usual one, snuffing another young male the next Saturday. This met with approval form the club members, who also wanted another week of using Paul before torturing him to death and consuming his flesh. The guy who was snuffed instead proved adequate, but most of the members felt he wasn’t really as cooperative as he should have been. They compensated for that by extending the pre-snuff torture session, and looked forward to Paul’s performance.

Paul did not disappoint. He was fully trained by the time he was offered to the club for their weekly ritual, and he showed as much enthusiasm as Matt had done. His trainers had decided to do a combination of emasculating him and chocking him. They tied piano wire around his genitals, after securing him so he couldn’t move. Then they attached the two ends of the wire to the tops of two large buckets that were suspended on either side of the victim. The idea was simple. During the course of the evening, as the guys needed to piss, they would do so in the buckets. As the buckets gained weight from the liquid, it would have the effect of pulling the wire and tightening it around the base of the scrotum. In due course, the wire would be pulled tight and the prized
Man-meat would be cut from Paul’s body, falling into yet a third bucket. It took a very long time, and the members really got into the fun of combining a needed piss with a little greater incision into Paul’s proudest assets. When the flesh finally was decapitated and Paul let out an appropriate scream of agony and humiliation, the resulting cheer was accompanied by nearly every club member shooting his load. It had worked even better than Bill and Stan had anticipated. And, of course, there was a prize for the guy whose piss had triggered the final separation.

Now that Paul was a eunuch, there was no further point keeping him alive, and Bill bid in the right to finish him off. He did so slowly, using his strong hands to choke off Paul’s breathing, enjoying the feel of the life ebbing from his victim. As he did so, the winning bidders began cutting away their prized meat selections, adding to Paul’s pain and Bill’s pleasure. But everyone made sure it was Bill’s careful efforts that finally ended Paul’s life. And everyone agreed it had been one of their best sessions, well worth the extra week’s efforts at training.

Just Relax by Den

 

“That’s it boy, just relax. You know you’re ready for this. You want it. You know I fucking want it. Gonna feel so fucking good, like nothing you can imagine.”

 

“Yes Sir, I am ready sir!”

 

“Let me hear you say it boy. Let me know you need it as bad as I do.”

 

“Please SIR kill me! I want you to kill me for your pleasure SIR!! ”

 

I grunt as he pushes the blade into me just above my sweat and sperm soaked pubes, but the pain is so mingled with my desire it is easy for me not to struggle. I just watch and let the shining steel sink sweetly into me. We both alternately look into each other’s eyes and at my abdomen as he takes me.

 

“Yeah boy that’s nice, looks good. Look at how hard our dicks are…Get ready now, I’m gonna enter your gut cavity.”

 

I feel a ripping sensation now as the blade passes beneath the muscle and tears the membrane protecting my guts. Surprisingly sweet and welcome, my breath escapes with a hiss.

 

“Fucking hell sir, that feels so sweet, open me! PLEASE gut me.” And my saying this excites us both further.

 

I think back to our first meeting when he was the first to enter me with his fist, and how it awoke in me tide of dark desires. He became the first man whose piss I longed for in every way possible. He became the first to pierce my flesh as a sexual act first with needles and then with nails and blades. He was the man who made me understand the incredible satisfaction in pain and torture, how it lead to extremes of arousal and orgasm for me as a bottom. When after a few months he told me of his desire to kill men for pleasure, how both he and the men he had taken in the past had been driven to levels of sexual frenzy he could barely understand; how they had left all uncertainty behind and embraced what became mutual lust as he killed them, I was briefly filled with fear and precisely that uncertainty. But quickly I understood how right it was, and how natural that I should surrender to him in this way. It took no more than one hour of his brutal lovemaking for me to consent, only a few days before I was eager to take that step with him. And now here we are, me feeling alive in a way I never have before as I embrace being killed by this man.

 

We both sigh with pleasure as he withdraws the blade. There is less blood than i anticipated. He swings the blade around on the deadly toy he wields on me and I raise my belly to meet the second blade, wanting so badly to feel it inside me.

 

“Oh man” I moan as it slips into me, surprised at how deep my desire for this is. He slices slowly and lovingly up towards my chest, sawing gently, smiling hugely and we alternately stare at each other and the wound he makes in me.

 

A little over three inches and he stops. “Oh man, oh FUCK!” I moan again. He’s killing me as slowly as he can; the ultimate lovemaking, and I am so willing, so fucking lost in the experience. Again I raise my belly to meet him as he works his huge fist into the wound he has made and the feeling is beyond description as he drives it deep into my core, his arm lubricated by my blood. Our lips meet in a deep kiss as his arm stirs and assaults my guts, and I know this is where I am meant to be…doing this now, with him. He drives harder into me repeatedly and brutally, eager to see me die, wanting to keep me alive as long as possible. I grunt and moan, feeling exactly as he does. I feel so alive, but am wild with need to feel these incredible sensations only possible if he snuffs me. I want so much for him to kill me. Never did I think just a few months ago I would be so into this, and yet here I am, loving what this man is doing to me, so hot to die for pleasure, our pleasure. I reach and caress his bloody arm as he caresses my insides, lost in unimaginable desire, unbearable pain and pleasure mixed inextricably.

 

“Oh man, oh man, oh fuck man!” I chant, entranced and so hungry for what i know comes next. He withdraws his arm from my abdomen and opens me completely with the gutting tool. He gently caresses my viscera as I watch enthralled.

 

“Feel them” he commands.

I reach down to join my hand with his in feeling my own guts. I groan from the pleasure of this. His bloody arm slips easily into my hole now and a length of large intestine pushes up through the loops of gut, clinging like a sleeve to his muscular arm. I caress my own large intestine feeling the mass of his muscular arm inside it. I am driven wild by the sight and feeling of this.

“Shit! He says. “That is beautiful boy.”

“Fuck yeah” I groan. He pushes in to the shoulder, than withdraws replacing his arm with a huge and heavy dildo, thicker than his large bicep and impossibly long. It feels too good.

“You ready boy?” he asks.

I have waited for this question, and my answer practically brings me to the edge of orgasm.

“Kill me SIR, please!”

He brings out the knife we have chosen for this and with the sharp blade he subincises me from glans to base in less than a second. Blood pours out of my dick and it splays open like a butterflied shrimp. He begins to jack off my mutilated manhood and pushes the huge dildo further into me with all his strength till my large intestine ruptures and the latex monster protrudes out, slick with mucous and blood in a sea of my guts.

“OH FUCK! KILL ME! KILL ME NOW.” I scream, drinking in the overwhelming sensation, pain almost too strong to bear transformed to pleasure by orgasm and flooding through my nervous system. As I begin to come I feel his knife pressed hard against the side of my neck, stinging as it seeks out the artery.
“Die for me boy!” he says, and wracked with orgasm, eager and amazed, I do.

A Meat Slave in Hell by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Joe and Skyler Take a Captive by Den

He awoke in the trunk of the car as the chloroform wore off, terrified and confused. But as he heard the voices coming from the vehicle cab he realized it was the two men he had engaged briefly in the bar. His dick swelled in his pants despite the cramped and bumpy ride. They had made a reference to no-limits trips in their banter, and a playroom for special bottom men outside of town. “You’ll never have sex that good again in your life” they said. They had left way before him expressing the hope that their paths crossed again, he echoed the hope and said he’d love to see that playroom. He remembered now that he had seen the two men sitting in a parked car, and nodded to them as he passed. Not looking back, he hoped they would follow him and headed for an empty stretch of road through a small park, images of his desires rising from his imagination on a tide of adrenaline. Apparently they had followed him and taken the opportunity given.

Now bruised and battered he watched as all evidence of his identity went up in smoke at their rural compound. Excitement, anticipation, fear, and a strange sense of freedom all passed through him, and again his dick rose. The two tall, hard looking men watched from a distance and knew they had chosen well. They prodded the fire with sticks until the last vestiges of clothing and ID had been reduced to ash.

In the light of sunrise he got a better look at the two men he had been speaking to in the bar. Taller than he, lean and muscular and with lightly hairy bodies, they were not handsome, but were incredibly sexy with strong angular features. They both stretched and he could see the thick bush under their arms as well as the outline of large endowments under their pants. He was at full attention now, and they saw it. Even naked on the cold ground, hands tied, he wanted them, and what he knew they were offering.  As if to tease him, one of the men pulled out his dick to piss on the ashes of his identity. “Please!” He called out to them. They knew what he wanted, and both men came over to soak his head in their hot piss, letting him drink when he opened his mouth for them.

Good boy!” One said when they were through, before kicking him hard in the balls. He groaned but spread his legs wider and leaned back to show he needed precisely that. And how much he needed it was a surprise even to him…fantasy finally about to be real. The man caressed his captive’s scrotum with the toe of his logger boots before settling the weight of his heel on the man’s balls. Captor and captive stared into each other’s eyes as the heel slowly crushed the tied man’s balls. His hard on did not go away and precum rolled out of the tip of his dick as the pain in his nuts grew. Both topmen smiled at this and the heel was withdrawn. “We’ll save those for later, but they are going to be ruined and taken”. “I’m Joe, and this is Skyler. You don’t have a name anymore.” They could have been brothers, they were certainly lovers, and one had his hand around the other’s shoulder, patting his stomach when he said his name.

“Do you know what we have in store for you?” Joe asked smiling broadly. “You’re going to torture and kill me.” They noticed how his balls rose and fell as he said that, additional indication of his arousal at the thought.

“Yes,” said Skyler, “fuck up that pretty body, ruin those big balls and cut them off, and live-gut you.” As he said live-gut he ran his own hand up and down his beautiful abdomen. The captive sucked in breath but said nothing. Skyler kicked him in the balls again and said “What do you think? Do you like the way that sounds?”  The captive let out a yelp, but when he had gotten his breath back simply said. “Yes. Yes sir.”

Joe and Skyler pulled their genitals out from their jeans and each in his turn fucked the captive’s face coming deeply down his throat as he gagged and fought for breath. Sperm dripped down his chin and they wiped it on their fingers. They did not have to force him to lick the fingers clean. They untied him from the stake and when he made no attempt to run or fight, untied his hands. Again he made no effort to escape. They had seen seeming consent turn to fear and regret in other men, even men who thought they wanted this kind of thrill.  Those men had been kept bound as they tortured and killed them: and killed them with great pleasure as they always did. To be on the safe side though, they gave their captive a locked collar and chain, and when not in use kept him locked up.

Taking him to the barn they hosed him down, hosed him out and then each one fucked him. He was surprised they could get hard again so soon after the blow job and eagerly milked their sperm out with his hole. Afterwards Joe used his fist to push the mingled sperm as far into his captive as he could, punching his balls with his free hand. They then hung him by his collar, hauling him up with the chain, until his hard dick shot and he passed out, and then they lowered and revived him, massaging his neck as he came to. They each kissed him hard on the lips relishing the taste of their mingled sperm in the captive’s mouth. Despite his having been hung, his dick rose again. Each took a long thick sewing needle of the kind that might be used to mend canvas or perhaps leather. Skyler pushed his through the captives left nipple while Joe simultaneously pierced his right. The captive moaned through gritted teeth as he was pierced and again, clear fluid dripped from his dick. They locked his chain to a pole near an old cot with a canteen of water and told the captive he was not to remove the needles under any circumstances. They had no idea how excited their captive was. Even after hours alone in the hot barn the pain in his nipples and ache in his balls kept him company and kept him aroused. There was no place to relieve himself, so when he needed to he pissed on his own naked body and that helped keep him excited as well.

It occurred to him with not a little surprise that with all this going on he had not had a moment of extreme fear since the terms of his captivity became clear. He felt certain that as the time of his gutting approached, there would have to be intense fear. But now all he felt was that odd freedom, a crazy pleasure in the pain his body was registering and the excitement of what he hoped was the sexual ultimate.

Later in the day Joe and Skyler returned, again bare chested and with their genitals exposed through their jeans. These were impressive men, absolute alphas in every way and clearly lovers of snuff. They were cruel but appreciative of their subject and how he took what they were dishing out. They let him clean their armpits with his tongue, and then their balls and holes and he was in heaven. They put additional needles through his nipples and around his pecs and gave him poppers for which he was very grateful. He moaned uncontrollably from the sensation of it and screamed loudly as they inserted pins into his abs and armpits. They loved the screaming, and pulled on the needles and squeezed his nipples until blood ran down his chest. They tied his scrotum tightly so his balls were tight within the sac’s skin and inserted brads into his balls, pushing the heads through the skin of the scrotum so they could not be removed. When his balls were full of them Joe gently cradled them in one hand and punched them with the other until they were soaked in blood and the blood dripped from Joe’s hand.

Through it all the captive moaned and thrashed, but he fought hard not to recoil from the pain. He had longed for precisely this it and still was amazed by his acceptance and lack of fear. His dick was hard and dripped constantly with precum. On two occasions he begged the two torturers to stop because he did not want to come. They had never had a man like this; a man who even knowing he was going to be killed relished the pleasure hidden in the torture they were giving him. They were surprised how much they liked it, usually relishing the change in their playmates as the end point of the play became real to them. They both fucked him again at this point, using his own blood as lube, and he pushed his ass up against them as they came, whimpering from the intense sensations in his body. They washed the congealing blood from his body with their piss and then hung him again until he came and passed out. He whispered “thank you” as they revived.

 

They left him alone again, chain locked to a post. He had not eaten in what may well have been 24 hours, he was not sure.  But he was not hungry. He was hungry for these men: hungry to give them what they wanted and to please them in giving it. His body was a mass of pain, but the reality of his condition was so congruent with his years of fantasy that he knew he had chosen properly by allowing them to take him.

He must have slept, because when he opened his eyes it was sunrise again, and he was woken by them pissing on his face. He opened his mouth and drank as much of the fluid as he could and they were very demonstrative with their praise “GOOD boy!!” Skyler said, “Good Snuff-boy”.

They were wide awake and clearly very excited, this time naked, so he figured it could not be long now before the final play. They dragged him off of the cot and hosed him down with a cold hard stream of water. This accentuated the sting in his nipples and balls, still pierced with metal and by now very swollen. The sting got his dick hard in no time and he was ready to go, ready for the final act. They bent him over a table and again fucked him, each one pissing up his ass has they finished. They then laid him on his back and each one fisted him. Joe worked the sperm and piss as deeply as he could into the captive’s intestines. Skyler got in deep and worked the captive’s hole as hard as he could. He could feel the captive’s body open to him and see both the need and pain in his eyes. He whispered in the captive’s ear “I’m going to open my fist, puncture your guts and let that sperm and piss out into your abdomen. Get ready boy.” For a second his blood ran cold and then his desire exploded. “Please” he croaked through a dry throat. They gave him poppers and Skyler went to town ramming into the captive’s hole and destroying his intestines.  The captive’s eyes went wide with the pain and his dick briefly shrunk, but quickly rose again and he could not look away from the arm tearing up his body. When Skyler’s arm came out it was covered in blood, and the captive had felt things he could not believe. He moaned loud and deep as Skyler went in again, his flat hand like a blade in the captive’s body. “Yeah boy, that’s it” said Skyler as he fucked his open hand in to the captive’s hole as hard as he could. “Take it fucker!” The captive arched his back to give Skyler access while Joe skull fucked him. The captive was delirious with desire for the taste of Joe’s sperm and he marveled at the pain that washed over him and coursed through his insides. There was no turning back at all. Even if they stopped, he’d be dead from infection within 24 hours and the realization thrilled and scared the shit out of him at the same time.

When they saw the captive was close they withdrew, and Skyler’s arm dripped with blood and intestinal mucous. There was no way that the captive could live, but the two men were not planning to let him anyway, and the captive was lost in the experience, barely able to think straight. Pain, pleasure, years of fantasy suddenly made real had him in another world. They laid him out flat and Joe finally pulled all the needles out of his nipples and pecs. He gave the captive a hit of poppers again and with pliers worked his nips until they were unrecognizable. The captive moaned and thrashed but kept his hands at his sides and watched, even as Skyler finally took a scalpel and cut the mutilated pieces of meat off his chest. They then turned their attention to the captives balls, still filled with metal, swollen and purple. Skyler tied them off tightly and hammered them until there was clearly no solid meat inside the scrotum. All three took a hit of poppers before Joe used his hunting knife to cut the scrotum off, the captive screaming hard and stiffening from the pain. He watched eyes wide, breathing hard and fast and did not hesitate to lick at his own balls as Skyler held them in front of his mouth and demanded it. Through it all his dick remained hard and dripped seminal fluid.

He was a little shocked at how weak he was when Joe and Skyler dragged him to his feet, but he felt exactly as he had thought he would if he ever reached this point. His intuition and imagination had lead him correctly to this place. He understood he was being killed, but the sexual excitement and feelings in his body were somehow right, somehow what he was meant to feel. His knees buckled under him from his body’s state and Joe and Skyler struggled briefly to keep him upright as they lead him to another part of the barn. “Easy boy, just a little longer and the fun reaches a peak”.

They help him to a rectangular frame and shackle his arms and legs, spread out with access to both front and rear. He is wild eyed but knows exactly what is going on. They shoot him up with speed and caverject to keep him conscious and hard to the very end and he manages to get a moan of pure pleasure out as the drugs take hold. He is excited and ready for what he has dreamed of for so long, and with the drugs giving him strength, braces himself as they both begin to whip him. Skyler at the front and Joe at the back, they whip him till his body is raw and pink and streaks of blood begin to appear. They put the whips down and piss on his wounds, Skyler mounting a ladder to piss in the captive’s eagerly opened mouth. They bring out the gutting tool and the captive seeing this moans in anticipation, and if it is even possible his dick gets harder still. With one hand Joe works the captive’s dick as the other gently pushes the first blade into the captive’s abdomen just where his pubic hair ends. Blood begins to flow lazily, flowing over the captive’s dick and Joe’s hand before dripping to the floor. Joe works the dick carefully, not wanting to bring the man to orgasm too soon. He loves this part, loves the killing. When he has pierced the membrane below the muscle he gets the hooked blade in as the captive watches, unable to look away from his own butchering. Then he works quickly bringing the blade up to the sternum as the captive gasps from the feeling. The captive leans forward as best he can, straining to watch and in so doing opens the incision allowing his entrails to tumble out onto his dick and Joe’s hand. “Oh FUCK, oh Jesus!!!” he screams as his death orgasm erupts. All three of them look in each other’s eyes, bound together by the intensity and of this act and one after the other they come. The captive’s entrails sag to the ground and Skyler reaches into the body cavity to caress him from the inside. The Captive moans uncontrollably as he feels the hand inside him and is lost in a roiling mass of sensation that he never could have imagined. Time stands still as the last of his semen is squeezed out of his prostate by the intensity of the orgasm. Joe shoves the barrel of a gun into the captive’s mouth and blows his brains out just as he figures the man’s orgasm is fading. Another huge string of sperm erupts as the body slumps. Joe and Skyler fall into each other’s arms and fuck like the animals, as a fine mist of blood and brains falls on their sweaty bodies.

Adam–Third Kill–Room Service

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“B-but why?” the buff youth wailed.

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Arcade Game by Gay Slavemeat

The beautiful 17-year-old male lay naked, on his back, with his hard cock just starting to erupt.  The blade of the guillotine above him sliced through the boy’s neck as if there had been no resistance at all.  The severed head plopped neatly into the little basket under the shelf, and the beheaded body gushed forth with a torrent of blood and gore while gyrating its final death throws.  As the severed head dropped, it was clear that its final expression was one of sexual satisfaction and relief.  Simultaneously, a smaller blade sliced through the young cock and ball set that had been starting to erupt with sperm just as the blades began their fatal journeys.  So the target’s life fluids gushed from that opening as well.  Above the device a scoreboard rated the performance electronically, giving it a .1 – an outstanding rating.  The onlookers were impressed, and several cheered the expertise of Justin, the aristocratic young operator who was not all that much older than his victim.  But no one cheered as much as Justin cheered himself, raising his arms with a resounding “Yes – I win.”

 

The trick of the game was to time the release of the two blades so that each severed its target at exactly the same time, and a gage measured and reported precisely when each blade completed its task, and how much time elapsed between the two amputations.  Justin looked down with pleasure at his handiwork, enjoying the final gyrations of the boy he had just killed, and releasing a load of piss over the dead body that was now motionless in front of him, missing two of its appendages.  It was an appropriate sign of Justin’s lack of respect for the carcass – before or after its amusing death.  But Justin did take the time to pass a nearby electronic bar-code reader over the chest of the victim, confirming its identify.  He then pressed the readout button that read “killed” and entered his name so that he’d be sure to get credit for the kill.  He wanted to be recognized for all the animals he was helping eliminate, and maybe get a medal from the city at some point for his service.  It was a service he was happy to perform.

 

“Great shot, man,” shouted Cory, one of Justin’s buddies, who was shooting a load of cum into a slightly older teen as he watched Justin take his turn at the bar arcade game they were playing,  Cory had used the time of Justin’s turn to reach climax inside he guy he was butt-fucking.  As Cory host his load, he finished tightening his grip around the guy’s throat, completing the process of strangling his victim and emoting the wonderfully satisfying feeling of the guy dying as Cory filled his asshole with cum.  “You got both targets within a tenth of a second of each other,” complemented Cory, now slowing his thrusts somewhat but still enjoying the pressure on his hard cock from the tight ass of what was now a dead body.  “That clearly beats my best effort, and it might be a new record.”

 

“Yeah, but I think I can do even better if I keep practicing,” Justin replied.  “How about if you keep playing with your little fuck-toy while I take another turn?  He’ll stay worm for a while and you always enjoy fucking them again right after you kill them.”  That’s exactly what Cory had in mind, and proceeded to do, so Justin signaled to another youth who was standing nearby, his naked body sporting a credible but not yet impressive erection.  As the boy nervously approached Justin to be evaluated as the next victim, Justin realized that he actually knew him.

 

“Didn’t you used to be Albert Withers?” Justin asked, reaching for a nearby wand to scan the bar code branded just above the boy’s right peck.  The boy nodded silently, and Justin confirmed the readout.

 

“Yeah,” Justin mused, turning to Corey.  “Remember when we raped this guy at high school graduation?  He had a really tight ass and had never been double-fucked before.  I still think his body is way above average and I’m getting horny just looking at him again.  I’ve been waiting for him to get processed.  It seems a shame to waste him with only a few minutes of entertainment.”

 

“I completely agree,” Cory responded, now fully into fucking the corpse in front of him, but always willing to multi-task if there was another good-looking victim available.  He was close enough to stroke the gorgeous smooth skin of the boy who had once been Albert.  “Let’s pull him out of line for the arcade game and have some fun with him.  He was a great little fuck when we were in school.  I’d hoped he’d fail the post-high school placement test and we’d have another shot at him.”

 

“I did more than hope,” laughed Justin, turning to the terrified youth.  “I bribed the principal to make sure he’d fail, and that he’d be assigned to this bar for execution and disposal.”  He turned directly to the youth, who was now both terrified and visibly angry.  “Actually, you passed the test with flying colors.  I just wanted to have the fun of torturing you to death since you tried to resist when Cory and I raped you last year.  True, it made the rape more fun, but animals of your social rank should not resist serving your superiors.  So now you’re mine.”

 

The “test” was administered to all high school males after they graduated from high school.  It was physical, psychological, and academic, determining if they were worthy to be workers or managers in the New Order, or would be relegated to the status of property.

 

The results were announced in an annual assembly with the graduates lined up on the gymnasium floor and the rest of the school looking on.  One by one, the principal would read their names, with a simple “citizen” or “property” after each name.  If they passed, they would go on to college and very pleasant and productive lives.  If they failed, they were required to strip naked on the spot, leave all their clothes and other belongings where they stood, and proceed to line up on stage.   After everyone’s status was announced, those who passed joined the rest of the students, helping themselves to anything they wanted that had belonged to their former classmates, and the principal would start an auction of the boys who failed.  The audience included not only fellow students, but also local business owners of establishments such as farms, factories, and restaurants.  There were no rules on use of the new slaves, so they were great sources of labor and of meat.  Other bidders included male brothels that would provide the young bodies for the sexual pleasure of their customers, again enhanced by the complete lack of any limits on use or disposal.  Once sold, the audience also got to watch as the terrified young animals were branded on stage with a bar code for identification as property and their intended purpose – “sex toy,” “farm animal” and “meat” were particular favorites that elicited cheers and jeers from the audience.  Listening to the screams of pain and humiliation as the indicia of their new status was burned into their tender young flesh got the audience very excited, and from that moment onward the animals no longer had names – just a bar code number that was registered with the city and reused once the animal’s death was confirmed.  The auction was a great fund-raiser for the school, so the principal was anxious to make sure as many kids failed as possible.  He therefore had no problem accepting bribes from wealthy aristocrats like Justin, and some of the “failed” kids were herded off separately to prearranged assignments rather than being auctioned off to the highest bidder.  Of course, the test didn’t apply to students like Justin and Cory, who were of the elite class and automatically passed.  It was a very efficient system, providing an inexpensive source of labor while controlling the population and assuring that only the best young males were permitted to breed – improving the quality of the race while enjoying their rights as worthy citizens.  Albert had been unlucky enough to get Justin’s interest, and so he was no longer a person at all, just property ready to be processed for the enjoyment of the patrons of Justin’s favorite bar. He had foolishly thought that by studying hard and working out daily he could earn a place as a citizen rather than becoming a slab of meat.  Justin and Cory laughed at his obvious anger and frustration as reality sank in.  It added to their fun.  “It looks like you’ve pretty much used up that piece of shit you were fucking,” Justin commented to Cory, who was again nearing orgasm.  “Why not finish fucking his dead ass and let’s replace him with our new piece of shit.  I want to fuck him right away, even before I take another turn at the arcade.”

 

Corey didn’t need any encouragement.   Regretting that his victim wouldn’t feel the pain, Cory reached down and cut off its testicles, popping one of the fresh treats into his mouth and tossing the other to his buddy Justin, just as he shot a second load into the still-warm piece of meat that had once been a young, vibrant male.  Corey ran a bar-code wand over its chest, registered the kill, and took credit.  He and Justin had a friendly contest going to see who could get the most civic points.

 

Justin signaled to the bartender to send over another candidate for the arcade game, and when that boy arrived he turned to his two new victims.

 

“Each of you is to replace the dead animal with yourself.  You get to be suspended from the ceiling for fucking and lashing for a while,” he said.  Pointing at his former schoolmate, he explained:  “I want everyone to enjoy a nice fuck at your expense, and we’ll see how long that ass of yours stays tight.”  He directed the other boy to the arcade game he had just completed.

 

“Replace this meat on the rack with yourself, and signal another animal to stand by.  After I fuck my classmate-turned-meat-slab here I want to get really good at this game.  Don’t worry, I’ll get to you fairly soon.”

 

The teen assigned to the game did not say anything, but nodded obediently and began his task.  First, he dumped the head into a larger container that included a fair collection of Justin’s and Corey’s targets.  Next, he picked up the severed cock and balls, removing the testacies and offering one each to Justin and Corey.  They casually consumed the second set of man-seeds, almost not noticing the fresh meat as they also chugged on the beers they were nursing while they enjoyed their games.  Fresh boy-oysters were just another snack, much like the chips and salsa that was laid out on a nearby table.  And it was another way a slave could add value and be degraded.

 

The cock was the only part of the process that had a little ritual to it.  The new victim picked that up, put it into his own mouth, and chewed and swallowed it.  The idea was some continuity from victim to victim, which was of course silly.  But the players liked to watch the slaves eat each other’s cocks, which were not at all tasty, so it added a bit to the fun.

 

The cock ritual also helped the slave victims recognize their very limited utility, even among the millions of teens who were being processed as property.    The arcade game added a bit of sport to the processing, and a crowded bar might go through well over 500 victims a night, given how popular the games were.

 

The slave now raised each of the guillotine blades back to its starting position, wiping off the blood and gore that had stained them.  The blades were kept incredibly sharp, and the slave ran a hand against each one just to demonstrate their sharpness, drawing blood as he did.  Players liked to see the victims suffer pain right away, so this was also part of the ritual.  The only real flaw of this game was the fact the deaths were so quick.  But that was balanced against the large number of males that could be processed.

 

The bench on the device was set at an incline, so that the head was placed several feet higher than the cock.  This was done to add to the challenge, requiring the player to time the release of each blade separately, realizing the one aimed at the head had a shorter distance to travel.  When the blade finished its task and connected with the metal sheaf below, an electric current was completed and the device measured that exact time compared to the same event with the other blade.  Scoring was based on the amount of time between strikes, with the lowest core winning.

 

The new victim now removed the body of its predecessor, which was put on a conveyor belt for transmittal to the butcher shop in the back of the bar.  Some of the meat from the victims was of course used to supply the bar with great steaks and slaveburgers, but there was so much that the bar could resell it and make a tidy profit from that activity as well.

It was now time for the victim to mount the game bench, which it did willingly.  As it lay on its back, ready for processing, it stroked its cock to help assure it remained erect.  It then pushed its genitals through the “door” of the cock guillotine, so that the blade could get a good, clean slice.  The operator would lose points if the animal’s cock and ball set were not completely severed.  The young male then leaned back and rested its head on the upper end of the bench, adjusting the location of the larger blade to assure that this, too, would be a clean and effective slice.  Still stroking his cock to assure its readiness when needed, the youth waited patiently for its turn to be snuffed.  It was grateful for such a quick event, especially as it watched the fate of the animal formerly known as Albert.

 

With the help of one of the bar waiters, Justin and Corey quickly attached the wrists of their victim to a chain suspended from the ceiling, and hoisted him so that his feet were dangling just above the floor.  He was now perfectly positioned for being whipped or fucked, or both.

 

“Let’s start by whipping him,” suggested Cory.  “I want to see him twist around a little.  And you can even start with his chest and belly, since I know you like that side best.  I’ll be just fine with this nice ass of his.”

 

Justin had no problem with that idea, and the two friends stood on either side of their target and leveled stroke after stroke onto the smooth young flesh suspended between them.  It took hardly any time to get the animal screaming, and to draw deep welts that bled profusely.  Indeed, after a while Justin expressed a concern.  “I’m afraid we might accidently let him die too soon if we keep this up, fun as it is.  Let’s cut him down and fuck him.”

 

“Sure, good point,” agreed Cory.   “But who gets to go first?  I know you were the one who set him up, but I want to feel his nice tight ass before you ruin it with your oversized dick.”

 

“OK, let’s double-dick him again.  There’s not enough room for both our dicks in there now from what I remember, but I’m sure we can once again tear a little more room if we work at it.  Let’s see if we can shoot at the same time.”

 

This was clearly a sensible solution, and Cory quickly agreed.  They liked to double-dick other guys, and were pretty good at it.  They released their prey from his shackles, and Cory lay on his back over a bar table, with the target sitting on his dick.  Cory entered the asshole first, but was quickly followed by Justin, who sat on the table and wasted no time thrusting his rock-hard weapon into the vulnerable asshole.  He was right – the hole was not nearly large enough to take their dicks at the same time, but the hole did indeed expand as they pushed, much to the humiliation and pain of the screaming youth whose insides they were ruining.  As they began their thrusts toward orgasm, another friend also climbed on the table and thrust his hard cock into the animal’s mouth.  “I’ve heard enough complaining from this thing,” the friend said.  “Might as well make use of all his holes, and shut him up in the process.  Let me know when you guys get close to shooting, and let’s see if we can make it a three-way shot.”

 

Corey and Justin knew each other’s bodies very well not only from lots of experience double-dicking other guys, but from their own sexual play with each other.  They could almost always make a 69 scene a nearly simultaneous orgasm.  So they clued in their buddy as they got close, so he could thrust a bit faster into the unwilling mouth servicing his eager cock.  They were quite successful, and the boy received two loads of cum up his ass as he received a third down his throat.  The onlookers at the bar were impressed, and the orgasms were accompanied by lots of laughter at the plight of what had once been a very beautiful body.

 

After the three buddies were done with their fun, Justin made it clear that everyone in the bar was welcome to enjoy this new piece of meat, but he didn’t want it so damaged that he couldn’t have more fun with it later.  Justin was very popular, and while everyone enjoyed themselves there was no permanent damage to the flesh – for now.

 

Justin next turned his attention to the arcade game, and the young male patiently waiting to be snuffed, grateful for the speed of the process and enjoying a final chance to stroke his nice hard cock.   One of the rules was that Justin could not release either of the blades until he caused the victim to reach orgasm, starting to shoot a load of cum.  Justin took pride in the fact he also maintained his own cock with an impressive erection, and played the game naked to show off his great body and massive penis.  Most of the guys in the bar were also naked, since all the arcade games tended to involve at least some aspect of male sex and being naked made it more convenient.  Besides, as males who had been found worthy, they all had fantastic bodies worth showing off.  Nudity had become pretty much the norm.

 

Justin took over stroking the young cock he was about to sever, using both hands as required by the rules of the game.  Being 18 and eager to please so that it could at least provide some value with its otherwise worthless existence, the young male quickly approached orgasm and began the convulsions that signaled the arrival of a large load of sperm.  Justin stroked just a bit harder to assure completion of the process.

 

When the victim began to release its load, with a string of thick cum starting to stream from its cock, Justin quickly grabbed the two blade controls.  He released the one aimed at the cock first and intensely watched as it began its plunge.  At precisely the right second he released the larger blade, watching it, too, as it plunged downward.

 

The two blades worked their magic, and the head and the cock were perfectly severed.  Most important, and even to Justin’s surprise, the game emitted a loud “clang” and a siren went off briefly.  Justin had made his goal – the two blades had connected at precisely the same time, yielding a perfect score of zero.  No one had ever done that before, so the reaction from the machine was a great surprise, but one that helped celebrate Justin’s triumph.  Even though he had just shot a load minutes before, he couldn’t help shooting another one as he realized what he had accomplished and as he watched yet another inferior male finish dying for his entertainment.  He loved this game.

 

Justin and Cory continued playing the arcade game, as the other patrons of the bar looked on, and played other arcade games or just enjoyed their beer.  Some were fond of the archery games, with young males standing at attention while customers shot arrows into their bodies, or hurled axes that mutilated the young flesh.  Others suspended animals for severe, usually fatal whipping sessions.  And still others just enjoyed fucking some of the guys tied up for their use.  It was a friendly and convivial place, with lots of cheering and laughter, which was why Justin and Corey enjoyed it so much.  Besides, they knew the meat was always fresh, and they could even specify a particular cut of meat from an animal that interested them, and then watch the cook as he cut if off the living body and cooked it in front of both the patron and the dying source of the meat.

 

As this particular evening drew to a close, Justin and Cory decided that it would be most fun to crucify their former classmate, and they enjoyed nailing his hands and feet to one of the crosses that adorned several of the walls.  There were no pictures in the bar, since it was more satisfying to look at the animals displayed in various stages of suffering – what was known jokingly as “dying art.”  Being very light and fit, their schoolmate would almost certainly last until the next evening, suffering horribly as he gradually lost the strength to breath.  A huge electrified dildo built into the cross gave victims a little support, extending the time of their suffering and adding the pain of being fucked and shocked as they died.  So Justin and Cory were quite sure they’d have a chance to continue the fun the next afternoon.  They could decide whether they wanted him to die on the cross, or whether they would cut him down and play with him a bit more – maybe skin him alive, or at least disembowel him.  But that was tomorrow’s task.  Justin and Cory were tired from all their efforts, and they headed home to enjoy each other, quite satisfied with a great evening of arcade fun combined with sex and civic contributions.

Joey’s Time at the Bar by Gay Slavemeat gsmeat2@gmail.com

For a white guy, Joey had a really large cock. When fully aroused, it stood a full 13 inches, and was nearly 2 inches thick. And given how horny Joey was all the time, the cock was nearly always hard. He usually wore a cock ring to help keep it that way, which was one of only two things he ever wore any more. The other was a slave collar. His bubble butt was therefore always available for use. The gang liked it that way. You see, Joey was a slave for a black gang that hung out at a gay S&M bar in the very worst part of town – at least for a young white twink like Joey.

Part of what made the cock so impressive was the fact it wasn’t really Joey’s. Joey was white; the cock was black. It had once belonged to the founder of the black gang, who had been killed in a war with another gang. His followers had preserved the cock, given its remarkable size, and had been trying to figure out what to do with it.

That’s when Joey wandered into the bar. He had been lost, and was trying to figure out how to get back to the white part of town. He hadn’t been all that intimidated when he first walked in, since Joey was a male prostitute who earned his living by servicing other guys. He did his best “work” when he played slave to another guy’s role as master, so a gay bar with obvious S&M action was actually pretty interesting to him. When he saw the pictures on the walls of nude guys in chains, and some of the kinds of “special” equipment he was used to from the sessions he so often got paid to perform, it turned him on.

So Joey had gone up to the bartender, ordered a beer, and asked if anyone had directions. When Joey looked over the bar, he realized the bartender was naked, with a hard cock and a dildo stuck up his ass. Joey had already noticed his bare chest and the tit clips the guy wore, but now he was really turned on by the bartender’s remarkable body. Clearly, he was there to serve the customers fully.

Joey never got his beer, or any directions. A large black dude came from behind the bar and simply issued a single, one-word order:

“Strip.”

It was a warm day outside, and Hoey was already shirtless, wearing only shorts and old running shoes. He was proud of his body, which he kept in terrific shape, and showed off whenever possible. And having gotten interested in the bartender, he was also now erect – a fact that was pretty obvious given his tight shorts. He liked the fact being nearly naked except for wearing shorts tight enough to highlight a hard-on meant that people stared at him on the bus and while he walked around town. Although he was a twink by build, he had lots of muscle tone and a very well defined six-pack set of abs. His arms and legs were also pretty muscular for his size, and he had a terrifically sexy bubble butt. The tight shorts he had on helped make that obvious too.

Joey looked around. The other guys in the bar were clearly interested in what was happening. Several moved behind him, cutting off any exit. The large black guy who had issued the order, and who appeared to be the leader, spoke again:

“I ordered you to strip, whitey. So strip. I want to see what your puny white ass looks like. If you’re lucky, my buddies and I might settle for just fucking it. But maybe we’ll want more.”

Joey wasn’t all that afraid yet. He had been the object of lots of gang bangs, and he enjoyed them. So he did what he was told, slowly pulling down the shorts and kicking off the shoes. What the brothers in the bar saw was a wonderfully fit young white twink – with a serious hard-on. The sight of the guy behind the bar and the thought of exposing himself in public to possible gang rapists had turned Joey on big time.

At first the leader just looked Joey over, much as he would a new dog or a piece of furniture. Then he turned to the others.

“Whitey here has a pretty good body, but it’s obvious he’s not a brother – look at the puny size of his little pink dick.”

Everyone laughed, and Joey was a little taken aback. He thought his dick was just fine. It was about 9 inches, not very thick, extremely smooth, and it pointed straight into the air due to how hard his erection was.

“I wonder if his butt-hole is also tiny,” another member of the gang said, also laughing. “If so, we could expand it.”

“Let’s find out. Climb up on this table and bend over on all fours like a dog, cocksucker.”

Joey once again did what he was told. The table was fairly low, so when he bent over he was aware that it positioned his butt and his mouth at about waist high for most of the group.

“Good. Maybe you’re trainable and even useful. Here are the rules: You stay on all fours, and you service every cock that’s offered to you. You’ve got two useful holes, and we’ll fill both with whatever we feel like – whether it’s cum or piss. I don’t want any dripping from your mouth. We’ll make sure your ass gets filled up too. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Joey replied. This was now really turning him on. He liked being fucked, he liked sucking cock, and he particularly enjoyed being used as a urinal. As he looked around, he counted about 15 black hunks shedding their clothes in preparation for their fun.

The gang rape went on for well over two hours. Each member of the gang used Joey’s mouth to get hard, and then moved to his butt. He obediently sucked everything put in front of him, and he didn’t object when the hard cocks were rammed up his tender asshole. They pumped and slammed into his body, most in a frenzy of sexual excitement. Several of the gang members presented their cocks to Joey for sucking at the same time, and he would take two at a time in his mouth while another pumped his willing ass. It was a great gang bang, and Joey was performing nicely.

After the gang members shot a load up Joey’s butt, they inserted their cocks into his mouth again for cleaning. Then they would let loose a load of hot beer-smelling piss that Joey eagerly took down his throat. As instructed, he didn’t spill a drop. And his cock stayed erect for the entire time, throbbing on the edge of orgasm but not exploding since Joey didn’t have permission to cum. He had figured out that he better not let himself have that pleasure unless the gang said it was OK.

Finally, the gang was done. They had all joined in, and now they ordered more pitchers of beer to continue the party. Joey was left on the table, a dog to be used later, perhaps, but no longer the center of attention. Then one of the gang came up with another idea.

“Let’s whip him.”

That idea was well received, and in no time at all Joey was tied to a frame, hands and feet spread-eagled, so that he could be whipped front and back at the same time. They hadn’t been required to force him. He submitted willingly. And they laughed again at the act he was still sexually aroused.

“Should we let him cum?”

“No, he hasn’t really earned it yet. Let’s see how he responds to being whipped like the dog he is.”

The whipping lasted over a period of two more hours. It wasn’t constant, and the gang was getting more and more drunk. So guys would just take a few drinks and then grab a whip (there were several on the bar, so Joey figured this was a fairly common activity) and lash Joey for a while. He writhed in pain, but he didn’t object. A couple of strokes had broken the skin, so he was bleeding in a few places. But that was still quite alright given Joey’s extreme masochistic nature. The periodic punches to his gut and his balls even had the effect of elping him stay excited and erect.

After the gang got tired of whipping Joey, he was released and told to kneel on the floor. The gang had consumed a lot of beer by that time, so it was time to unload. Joey’s throat was the desired target. Once again, he showed his true talents and eagerly drank the used beer.

A particularly horny gang member ordered Joey back on the table and began to fuck him again. “I hate to admit it, but this puke is kind of talented at being a fuck-hole and at drinking piss. I think we should keep him.”

Joey still wasn’t really terrified. It was more like curiosity. He didn’t really have a life other than selling his body for sex, so he wondered what they meant by “keeping” him. He soon found out.

“That’s a great idea,” another gang member chimed in. “We all have fun fucking our bartender here, but this kid’s a fresh ass and a convenient piss-hole. We wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the bathroom with our own portable white urinal. I’d like to use him for a while – at least until we use him up.”

“Don’t worry,” he said to the bartender. “You’ll still get fucked a lot, and now you’ll have an assistant and someone you can fuck too.”

The gang, by now extremely drunk, all laughed at Joey and quickly agreed. Their leader settled the matter.

“OK. We’ve got ourselves a nice little white boy as our new slave. It’s about time white guys were slaves of black dudes, right?

“We’ll keep him here in the bar, and we’ll use him whenever we like. No limits. But nobody gets to do permanent damage without my permission. Is that understood?”

Everyone agreed. Joey was now getting a bit more nervous. The reference to “permanent damage” wasn’t very comforting, since it was clear that the only limitation was getting the gang leader’s permission. Yet somehow even that turned him on.

The gang leader turned to Joey.

“Do you understand your new role, whitey? You’re our slave. You do whatever we tell you. You never leave this bar, unless we sell you to someone else or otherwise dispose of you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Joey consented. His dick was now throbbing with excitement.

“Great. I live upstairs in the bar, so you’ll mostly serve me when the bar isn’t open. I’ll even keep you in good shape physically, so you don’t lose your value, since I’ve got a great gym built into the back room. You’ll like it. It’s also a fully equipped dungeon. The gang and I like to play back there, and now we’ll have a new toy – you.”

Joey couldn’t help himself. As he looked at the massive black dude who was now going to be his owner, he focused on how fantastic the guy’s body was and how huge his cock was. Joey had enjoyed being fucked by this guy more than any of the others, and now he was going to be the guy’s personal plaything. It was the ultimate turn-on.

Joey’s new master was now exploring his body, taking stock of the new object he’d acquired. He ran his hand over Joey’s hard pecks, and explored Joey’s butt. Then he squeezed Joey’s balls hard, and touched Joey’s erection.

Joey’s cock exploded. He released a massive load of cum that sprayed all over the room, hitting his new owner on the leg and causing his own body to gyrate with orgasmic pleasure. It was the best orgasm he’d ever had.

“I think our new toy likes the idea.” The room broke into gales of laughter.
Joey was embarrassed at having shot his load without permission, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had simply been too turned on to resist.

“But he made a mess on you,” a gang member pointed out to the leader. “Are you going to put up with that sort of thing?”

“No way,” the leader responded. He motioned for Joey to lick up the cum he’d shot, and Joey quickly obeyed, starting with his master’s leg and then cleaning the floor with his tongue. He knew his role and understood that the humiliation and debasement of it was part of the pleasure for his owners. Ironically, it was part of the pleasure for him, too.

“He’ll need to learn real discipline. And I have the perfect idea how to teach him and how to solve one of our little disputes,” the gang leader told his troops as Joey performed the added function of a human floor mop.

“Bar-slave,” the leader called out. “Have Doc Johnson come over here right away, and tell him to bring his microsurgery tools. I’ve got a job for him.”

Joey was finally scared. He had no idea what was going to happen, but he knew it involved him. And he was still worried about the “permanent damage” comment. His terror was well founded.

“OK slave. Lie down on the table there, on your back. And get your puny little cock hard again. You’re going to be taught a really important lesson. And you’re going to get a great honor.”

“Dudes,” he said, addressing the rest of the gang. “I’ve figured out what to do with our founder’s pride and joy. I know the perfect place to store it.”

Several of the gang caught on right away and as Joey lay down on the table they grabbed his arms and legs and tied him down. He was helpless and exposed. One of the gang massaged Joey’s cock to that it became hard again. Joey still had no idea what was going to happen.

“But he’s already got a cock, small as it is,” complained one of the gang members who had figured out the leader’s plan.

“Not for long.’

With that reply, the leader picked up a knife that was lying on the bar. He made a point of showing it to Joey, and made a small cut in Joey’s belly to make sure Joey knew he was serious. Joey was now beyond terrified, having finally figured out what might be happening to him.

“Please, sir. I promise I won’t cum without your permission ever again.”

“Well, you won’t be coming at all for a little while,” laughed the leader as he moved the knife closer to Joey’s doomed manhood. But this lesson will help you remember when you’re once again a male. I’ll do this as slowly as I can just to make sure you remember.”

The knife touched the base of Joey’s cock. The leader was true to his word, and the knife moved extremely slowly. But move it did, and it sliced into the soft, beautiful flesh Joey had enjoyed so much. Joey screamed, but it was to no avail. The knife kept cutting, deeper and deeper. The pain was extraordinary, and Joey felt he might faint. But somehow he didn’t. He knew his owner would want him to suffer the full pain and humiliation of the event. He understood that his cock was no longer his property; it belonged
to his new owner – as did all of Joey. So if the owner wanted to cut it off, that was his choice. Joey had quickly adjusted to his new role. And although his master didn’t say anything, the gang leader was actually both impressed and pleased. He liked his new toy.

The gang leader was very good at cutting, and he managed to make the event last a long time. But finally the last bit of flesh was severed, and the now useless muscle was in his hand. Another gang member was at the ready to cauterize the gaping wound so Joey would remain alive for their fun, and he cauterized it with a propane blowtorch. It kept Joey from bleeding to death, but it also added to his pain and to the gang’s fun.

Several of the gang had shot a load of cum while watching the entertainment. The leader (who was one of the ones who had shot his load) ordered Joey’s release from the table.

“A doctor friend of mine will be here in a few minutes, and he will attach our founder’s cock to your worthless body. It’s a lot better than the tiny little thing I just cut off, so you’re a lucky slave.

“However, you have to earn the new cock. I want you to service everyone in the bar again. And I want to hear you thank me for teaching you a lesson.”

Joey was beyond pain, beyond humiliation. He had been reduced to an animal, maybe even just a piece of furniture. He stared at the spot where his cock had once been, and looked at the piece of flesh the leader still held. Yet, again, he understood and he did what he was told. If his owner wanted him to have a different cock, who was Joey to object? If his master wanted Joey to earn that cock by debasing himself once again, then it was Joey’s duty to do so.

“Thank you, sir, for teaching me the lesson. May I express my appreciation by sucking your cock, or would you prefer to use my butt-hole for your pleasure?”

The leader laughed, and the rest of the gang cheered. The leader had gotten yet another hard-on, and he thrust it into Joey’s mouth by way of an answer. Another gang member thrust his into Joey’s asshole. They both pumped, and after a while they both came. After that Joey once again drank his owner’s piss, and then the rest of the gang had their turn. Fucking Joey after watching him lose his penis was a huge turn-on, and everyone enjoyed themselves. Even the bar-slave got to join in between serving more beer.

The doctor had showed up in due course, and he was quite expert at sewing the huge black penis onto Joey. Of course, it was done without any pain killer, and everyone enjoyed that show as well. It took Joey a week or two before he was able to get hard again, but when he did he realized that the black penis was in fact better than his old one. And the novelty of a white guy with a huge black dick was a major hit. Business in the bar was never better, and everyone enjoyed fucking the leader’s new mostly-white property.

As time went on, the gang leader worked out sort of a schedule. Joey would serve as the waiter during the noon hour, taking orders and delivering food and drinks. One of the items on the menu was “fuck whitey.” When customers ordered that item, Joey would simply position his willing, naked body for their pleasure.
Also, the leader had removed the urinals from the bathroom. If someone had to piss, they simply called Joey over and he knelt in front of them while they filled his throat. He never spilled a drop.

In the evening, the routine was a little different. There were more patrons, and they were more interested in sex than food. So the master had Joey build a sort of sawhorse that Joey could be draped over, his hands and feet tied to the base of it, his butt and mouth positioned to receive whatever customers wanted to stick into him. This lasted throughout happy hour, and the customers were very happy. So was Joey. The fact he was tied to the sawhorse was really not necessary, but it enhanced the status as a slave and made it more fun for the customers. Most of them preferred a rape than simply fucking a willing victim.

If was in the late evening that Joey got his greatest use, however.
Sometimes he’d be spread-eagled in the frame where he was first whipped. That was the most common use of him. The blows took their toll on his skin, and he was starting to show some scars from the cuts that the whips often produced. But his owner was making a lot of money off him, and it really wasn’t Joey’s decision whether he would be preserved as a beautiful twink or slowly used up as scars and bruises appeared as a result of the beatings.

Some of the guys wanted Joey to fuck them with his huge dick. So Joey got lots of orgasms. This too made money for his master.

It had now been exactly a year since Joey had wandered into the bar. The gang leader told Joey he had something special planned for a celebration, but Joey knew better than to ask what it was.

When the evening started, Joey could see that the bar was even more packed than usual. He also could see something he hadn’t seen ever before. There was another white guy in the bar. This was a truly good looking young male, even better looking than Joey had been before all the beatings and whipping. Joey guessed the guy was about Joey’s age – twenty – and there was no question about the guy’s beauty. The white novelty was stark naked, and everyone was looking at the new kid, not at Joey. Joey was a little put off, but as always he recognized that he was simply an object owned by the gang leader. His opinions or needs were irrelevant.

The gang leader called for attention, and everyone stopped to listen.

“Welcome. I am glad to see everyone was able to join me. We’re going to have a lot of fun.

“As you all know, this is the one year anniversary of me getting a new piece of furniture for the bar.” He pointed at Joey, who blushed. Everyone else laughed.

“He’s been a lot of fun, and frankly pretty profitable, but now he’s clearly wearing out. As you can see, he’s got a bunch of scars and bruises. I guess we’ve all had a little too much fun whipping him and beating him. But that’s
OK – it’s all about us having fun and he doesn’t matter at all.

“I’ve also noticed that his asshole isn’t as tight as it used to be. Maybe that’s because of the baseball bat we stick up him from time to time, or maybe the fisting. Personally, I think it’s from taking my dick every night.”

The audience laughed and cheered. Most of them had also taken the leader’s dick in their ass at times, so they also knew there was a little truth in what he was saying.

Joey, meanwhile, found himself getting turned on. He was being described like a piece of meat, and that fit with his self esteem. He listened with attention, not sure what was going to happen.

“So, I have become concerned if we are getting a high enough quality of service. Frankly, I think it’s time we replaced our little piece of white meat with something fresh. So tonight we’ll introduce our new toy. I’ve trained him personally, and he understands his purpose. If anything, he’s more masochistic than the old animal we’re replacing, and as you can see he’s much better looking. That probably won’t be true in a year, of course, but we’ll deal with that then.

“That leaves us with a decision. What should we do with our old animal? I’ve given that a lot of thought. On the one hand it might be fun to have two of them, but the old one is pretty used up. Given all the blows to the nuts, I suspect he’ll even start to have problems keeping that wonderful cock he’s borrowed fully erect. So I’ve made some decisions.

“Tonight is Joey’s last night. I thought about selling him, but I don’t need the money. And it will be more fun to dispose of him right here in the bar. Tonight. We’ll start with a major gang bang of both our slaves, but I want everyone, including them, to know how the evening will progress after our initial fun.

“Here’s the plan. After our initial gang bang, we’ll remove the cocks from each of our little toys. I’ll do that as slowly as possible. Then we’ll fuck them all over again.

“Next, we’ll attach the nice big black cock of our gang founder to the new slave. He’ll still be available for fucking and drinking piss, and in due course he’ll be able to use his new tool.

“That leaves us with two white cocks – since I saved the one I cut off our used meat toy last year. I think we should auction those off as souvenirs. They’re not very big, but they are kind of unusual. Not everyone has a white-boy cock as a toy.

“After that, it will be time to dispose of Joey. I think it should be done bit by bit, so I’m going to auction him off in pieces. The cock will already be gone, but we can start with his balls. You can buy them separately or bid for both. If you buy both, I’ll throw in the scrotum. Of course, buying them means you get to cut them off. I only insist that you do it very slowly so we can all enjoy it.

“I gave a lot of thought to what should be sold next. It’s tempting to cut him into pieces like arms and legs, but I think it would be more fun for someone to buy his skin. So after someone cuts off his balls, he’ll be skinned alive. The idea is that you can turn him into a nice slaveskin coat, and I’ve arranged for a leather maker to do the job for whoever wins the
bid. Again, the only requirement is that you slice off the skin very slowly and carefully. We want him to still be very much alive once he’s reduced to a big slab of meat.

“I will sell the meat piece by piece. You can buy breast meat, rump roast, thigh, or liver – whatever you want. It’ll be hard to keep him alive as we slice off the choice cuts, but we’ll do our best. The cook will prepare him to your order. I think he’ll be pretty tasty, personally. I’ve kept him pretty fit and lean, with very little fat. So think of this as a health food purchase.

“I will keep the head, which I’ll remove. I think we can keep him alive so that this is the event that kills him, but either way I want to have it preserved as a token and displayed here in the bar. Over the years, I hope we can get quite a collection.

“What’s left we’ll turn into hamburger (be sure to join us for high quality lunches over the next week or so) and maybe some bone meal for a garden. I don’t plan to waste anything.”

The comment about a collection of heads wasn’t lost on the new slave. But he had indeed been properly trained, and it didn’t affect him. He would do his best for his last year of life.

Joey was stunned at first. But as his owner described the process, he realized that it was a very appropriate use of a slave that was now all used up and of limited value. He would do his best to stay alive as long as possible, so his master would get the most enjoyment possible from the festivities.

One of the gang members looked at Joey, and taunted him:

“So, whitey, what do you think of all this? Are you going to be very filling if I buy some of you for my meat course tonight?”

Joey responded appropriately. “I belong to the owner of the bar, and I’m his to do with as he wants. I do appreciate the chance to serve everyone, and I hope this evening is a lot of fun for you. I’ll do my best to stay alive as long as I can, and I hope you’ll enjoy both cutting me up and eating me.”

Joey did survive until the master removed his head, and he was indeed a wonderful meal. His head was preserved at the bar, in part as a reminder that his replacement had a high standard to live up to.

Mac Solo: The Interrogation

The guard glanced down, carefully placing the rugged soles of his combat boots so that he avoided making a sound.  The tightly-laced leather footgear fit him snugly, especially the right one—he kept a blade hidden there.

 

He was young, but he was trained and confident, an efficient killer.  His hard lean body vibrated with violence and testosterone; it oozed out in his sweat and soaked into his tight-fitting clothing.

 

The boy’s cold dark eyes glittered as he squinted and scanned the underbrush around him.  Black tactical gloves tightly gripped his modified AK-47, ready to spring to action at the slightest alert and spit swift burning death.

 

He was prepared to do it.  He was paid to guard, not to question what he was guarding or why.  He was there to kill anyone he saw.  It was a job he was good at—a job he enjoyed.

 

He was twenty-three and just under six feet tall.  He kept his russet hair short for strategic purposes; long hair gives opponents a grip during hand-to-hand combat.  He flexed his muscular legs, encased in black military-grade cargo pants; above, a skin-tight black compression t-shirt camouflaged his broad chest

 

The young merc was very familiar with hand-to-hand combat—he’d already had the experience of killing a man and watching him die, kicking, in his arms.  He enjoyed it—it got him hard.  He knew he’d found his place in life.  He loved killing, and he loved getting paid to do it.

 

So here he was, peering into the woods for intruders—and desperately hoping to find some.  He didn’t know what behind him was so important or who was supposed to be coming to jeopardize it; it didn’t really matter.  He was getting paid good money and he had the chance to take a life.

 

Cold and arrogant, the hard young merc’s cruel eyes glinted as they attempted to pierce the shadows.  Half-hard at the thought of killing, he really wanted someone to be there.

 

Someone was there, but not the someone the guard wanted.

 

Mac was so close to the young hardman he didn’t need the night vision goggles anymore; in fact, he could almost reach out and touch the punk.  The gun was that only reason he didn’t—at the moment, it directly (if unknowingly) at Mac, crouched deep in the underbrush a yard away.  So he paused.  This kid was young, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

 

Slipping his hand down his own thick, muscled leg, Mac gripped the hilt of the Ka-bar combat knife hidden in his boot sheath.  He silently withdrew seven inches of razor-sharp carbon steel, darkened so it wouldn’t reflect any surrounding light, not that that was a problem in this situation.  Mac could see his target, but just barely.  It was enough, though—enough for him to see the kid turn slightly to the side.

 

Mac’s body, taut and hard with well-trained muscle, was a killing machine; it sprang onto action as if a switch had been flipped.  In the blink of an eye, death came to the young mercenary—swift, brutal agonizing death, but not so swift that the hardman wasn’t aware of what was happening.

 

He heard Mac first, of course, as the professional killer launched himself from the underbrush, and pivoted to face the attack.  He wasn’t fast enough—a sudden blow from behind knocked the gun out his hands; at the same moment a gloved hand was clamped across his mouth, the fingers digging in mercilessly as the powerful hand clench tightly.

 

The merc was stunned by the lighting attack; the overconfident punk had thought himself equal to anyone.  He needed to shift his weight, if he could grab this fucker’s arms and tuck under just right, he could throw the dude…

 

Then Mac yanked his head back and pressed the blade against the boy’s throat.  The hardman, young, but experienced, had just enough time to realize what he was feeling when the older, stronger—better—killer began cutting his throat.

 

Even with a sharp blade, it took Mac a few second to saw through the punk’s windpipe.  The flesh itself parted easily, but the trachea was tough and rubbery; Mac was forced to tighten his grip on the unfortunate merc’s face to vise-like intensity.  He cut through the thick tube of cartilage as the youthful hardman’s muffled squeals increased in pitch and intensity before subsiding into a desperate, wheezing gurgle as the esophagus was penetrated.

 

Mac kept up the agonizing, inexorable pressure, his fingers brutally clutching the dying kid’s face, until he’d slashed the boy’s throat open practically to the spine.  Then the ruthless killer planted the thick sole of his utility boot on the kid’s ass and shoved him forward.  As the dying merc stumbled forward and fell to his knees, the silent specter of death slipped back into the darkness.

 

The guard’s hands flailed desperately at his torn-out throat, fingers clawing at the horrific wound.  Things were going gray and cold; the vicious punk had done this to enough men to know what was happening—he was bleeding out.  Some dark corner of his mind, as it faded to black, wondered if his assailant had had a hardon…

 

As the thought crossed his panicked mind, the young merc lost control of his bladder.  As hot piss flowed down his legs into his boots, he voided his bowels helplessly, the earthy stench of bodily waste mixing with the hot coppery smell of blood on the cool night air.

 

Then the icy nothingness stole in and the kid flopped forward.  He died alone in the dark, spending his last few seconds on earth drowning agonizingly in his own blood, his face planted in the mud.

 


 

Frank wondered what Joey was doing.  He wasn’t worried about the boy; the kid was a professional and could take care of himself.  He’d known that from the moment he’d seen the kid’s cold, soulless eyes.

 

Frank’s face was colder and more soulless.  He was thirty-eight and had been a hired mercenary since he’d left the Marines fifteen years ago.  He knew that Joey could handle himself because he was good judge of men—how hard they were and how tough they’d be to kill.  Joey had reminded Frank of himself at that age—young, hard, and full of hormones that drove a bloodlust.  Joey got off on killing, Frank had realized, just as much as Frank did himself.

 

The experienced hardman had smirked at Joey’s tactical gear, though—it was the mark of an amateur.  Frank himself had dressed his strong, sinewy body in more casual clothing—tight jeans tucked into a pair of plain black leather combat boots.  A dark t-shirt under a brown leather jacket completed the ensemble, along with a gray knit cap over his short brown hair.

 

He was armed as well, holding his AK-47 up and at the ready.  From a thick black leather belt around his waist hung a twelve-inch scabbard containing a massive hunting knife.  Peering into the underbrush, Frank was caught up for a moment in a gliding beam of moonlight that glinted from his cold green eyes and darkened the shadows on his lean, hard face.  His grim, tight-lipped visage was an archetype for a hardened killer.

 

And he had no idea that within five minutes, he’d be nothing but mangled, quivering meat, cooling on the forest floor.

 

The attack was swift, silent, and brutal.  Mac had approached within five feet of the guard, letting the man pass by him before springing out from behind.

 

Frank was taken by surprise, in more ways than one.  He’d been sure enough of his own skill that he’d neglected some basic precautions—a final lucid moment of regret for is arrogance that flashed across his mind as a powerful arm wrapped around his throat and yanked him backwards, off-balance.

 

Frank knew the move; he knew what to expect—he just wasn’t fast enough to stop it.  The muscles in the small of his back tightened—a useless move.  His fall was broken, as he expected it would be, by the razor-sharp tip of a blade that pierced his leather jacket like it was wet paper.

 

Before Frank could react, nine inches of sharp icy steel had penetrated his back just below the ribcage, the serrated edge of the blade slashing effortlessly through the merc’s flesh, muscles and organs with only the slightest change of resistance to indicate the type of tissue it was cutting through.

 

Not that anyone needed to be told.  Mac knew he was slicing through the hardman’s kidney and spleen because that was where he was aiming.

 

And Frank knew, because he could feel every inch of it.  Just to be sure, though—and to keep his target immobilized by shock—Mac twisted the blade viciously, reaming the sharp cutting edge and cruelly honed serrations deep inside the merc’s shuddering body.

 

Adrenaline flooded Frank’s system in an uncontrollable wave as he rose up, his feet curling in agony involuntarily inside his boots.  When Mac jerked the knife back out, he slashed it wide, almost literally cutting his way out; only the shock prevented Frank from screaming in horrific pain.

 

Then, before the shock subsided, Mac put an end to Frank’s ability to make any sound at all.  Whipping his arm around in front, the dominant killer rammed his blade down with a swift, powerful motion.  In a split second, the long wicked steel shaft pierced Frank’s chest, slicing between his ribs and puncturing his heart like a balloon full of blood.  The dying hardman gave a loud grunt as the impact to his chest drove the air out of his lungs—then was unable to inhale again.

 

All Frank found he was able to do was shudder and suffer silently in the crushing iron grip of the rock-hard warrior who was neutralizing him so efficiently.  He trembled for a few seconds of mind-bending pain as his quivering heart sliced itself into lunchmeat on the blade impaled in his chest.

 

Then the jerking sack of meat that had moment before been a talented killer slid to the ground.  As Mac rolled the corpse onto its back and withdrew his knife, the dead man’s boots combat carved furrows in the dirt as the body kicked mindlessly in its death throes.  Mac had vanished back into the woods long before the cooling pile of meat stopped shuddering.

 


 

There was one guard left, Mac knew—and he knew he needed to interrogate him.  Mac had been assigned to retrieve a certain item located in a structure ahead.  This last guard would know where the item was inside.  Based on the intel he’d received, Mac knew that last dude knew more than the others—and was more dangerous.

 

The last guard was in his early thirties.  He’d dressed completely in black, much like Mac had, to become almost invisible in the shadows under the trees—excellent camouflage for a hunter.

 

A tight black jumpsuit emphasized the hardman’s tight, muscular body; around his slim waist a webbed utility belt was wrapped.  Two knives, a pistol, a baton, and several less identifiable weapons dangled from it; the merc was prepared to inflict swift, brutal death one anyone he targeted.  His combat boots were black waterproof fabric with rubber soles that allowed him to move quietly.

 

He was good, but he wasn’t too good.  Above his hard, handsome chiseled face, a few golden curls had escaped from under his black knit cap.  They glinted in the moonlight—just enough to catch Mac’s eye.

 

He shifted slightly to the right, centering himself on the guard, who was still unaware of his presence.  He wasn’t unaware for long, though.

 

The hardman heard a faint stirring to his left and whirled to meet the threat, only to find that he was half a second too slow.  A swift shadow split from the surrounding darkness and slammed him up against the tree behind him.  A large powerful hand in a leather glove clamped over his mouth.  The tips of the fingers were free; they dug painfully into the guard’s cheeks as his lips were sealed.  At the same time, the guard felt the icy touch of a blade at his throat; the knife was still razor-sharp despite being stained with the blood of two men.

 

“Awright, motherfucker,” Mac growled in a gruff whisper.  “I’m gonna ask some questions and yer gonna answer.  Gimme a bad answer or no answer and you’ll be gargling yer own blood.  Ya feel me?”  He lifted his hand from the man’s mouth.

 

“Fuck you,” the guard sneered, “I dunno nothin’ and wouldn’t tell ya if I did.”

 

“That was a bad answer,” Mac said quietly and, clamping the dude’s mouth closed again, stuck the knife into his flank.  It was a controlled thrust, only about an inch and a half deep—just enough to pierce the jumpsuit and the guy’s flesh and puncture the oblique muscles.  The merc gave a loud grunt, his face grimacing in pain—that part of it not covered by Mac’s glove, at any rate.

 

“I can do that a hundred times with killin’ ya,” Mac said.  “Start talkin’.  You know what I’m here for—where is it?”

 

“Toldja I don’t know nothin’.  Besides, yer just gonna kill me anyway.”

 

“I might let ya live—if you’re helpful enough.  If not, you’re gonna die slow and hard, asswipe.”  Mac pressed the blade against the hardman’s throat again, this time with more pressure.  A thin line of slowly-trickling red appeared.  “All I have to do is press a little harder and you’ll be bleeding out like a fuckin’ stuck pig.  Now talk, damn you!”

 

The guard knew death was staring him in the face, and acquiesced.  “There’s a cabin two clicks to the east,” he said sullenly.  “It’s in there.”

 

“How many men between here and there?”

 

“None, man, we’re it.  No one’s s’possed to know it’s here.  How the fuck did you find out?”

 

“Shut the fuck up, asshole, I’m askin’ the questions.  Now tell me ‘bout it, bitch.”

 

The merc glared up at Mac, then sighed, knowing his life depended on cooperation.  “It’s in a case on a table.  No traps, no alarms.  Someone’s s’possed to come by for it in the mornin’.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Mac growled, cutting the dude’s neck—not enough to be dangerous, but enough that the guard felt it.

 

“I swear,” the man moaned, fear overcoming his bravado, “I’m tellin’ the truth, man swear to God—don’t hurt me.”

 

“Good,” the older, more experienced killer murmured thoughtfully, “Good.”

 

“So—so I did what ya wanted, right?” the guard asked anxiously.  “Y-ya ain’t gonna kill me, right?”

 

“Wrong,” Mac said evenly and buried his blade to the hilt in the merc’s belly, all seven inches of cold steel piercing the hardman’s firm flat abs and sinking into his belly.

 

The guard gave a deep, despairing moan, his hands clutching at Mac’s wrists in a vain attempt to pull the knife back out of his guts.  His eyes, wide with shock, turned to those of his killer’s.  “I-I cooperated,” he gasped in frantic confusion, “I did wh-what ya wanted…”

 

“Stupid sack of shit—only reason I kept ya alive was to get info,” Mac sneered.  “I don’t need you anymore.  Ya told me everything ya know; now you’re useless.  Time to die, fuckwad.”

 

Gripping the merc’s shoulder tightly, Mac used his other hand to rip the knife upwards, slashing open the dude’s torso.  It took a few seconds of nightmarish agony for him to saw his way through the well-built guard’s abdominal muscles, but Mac was powerful enough to hold the man down and gut him like a deer.

 

Stepping back, Mac held his knife up.  The hardman stared in horror at the blood-streaked blade, curls of flesh dangling from the serrations.  His hands had been clenched to his belly in pain—for some reason, he reached out to Mac at this point, his hands outspread in a futile supplicating gesture.

 

It was his last mistake.  As soon as he let go of his torso, there was a loud slurping thump—and the dude’s intestines slid out of his sliced-open abdomen, landing in a stinking, quivering pile of tangled meat on the dude’s own boots.

 

His back still to the tree, the guard slid down to a sitting position, his lap full of his own guts.  He looked back up at Mac as the latter approached, but the dying man was too far gone in shock to speak.  He could only look up as the stronger, more expert warrior spoke.

 

“Stupid fuck,” Mac muttered, “All alike, you young punks.  Think yer hot shit, but ya fold like a pussy the minute things get tough.”  And with that, he unzipped his fly and drew out his dick.  As the merc started to fade out, he could see his killer was holding the blade in one hand and his semi-hard cock in the other; both were seven inches long.

 

Things went gray for a moment, but suddenly warm liquid was splashing in the hardman’s face.  With a great effort, he opened his eyes for the last time—to see that the man who had successfully interrogated and wasted him was expressing his final contempt by pissing all over him as he died.

 

“Ain’t worth takin’ time for a piss break,” Mac jeered.  Then the guard’s eyes dilated.  He shuddered violently under his golden shower for a few seconds, then slumped over onto the ground, his own piss flowing out to mingle with that of his killer’s.

 

Mac stuffing his dick back into his jumpsuit, Mac turned to the east.  He still hadn’t decided if he’d wait in the cabin till morning; part of him wanted to give whoever showed up a vigorous, violent welcome.