M4M4RightNow

“Cum fill my hole—looking NOW

It’s a warm wet night and I need to be bred right now

R U man enough?  Send pic”

 

The photo attached to the post was only a torso shot; it was difficult to determine the dude’s age.  But the pic showed a lean, boyish chest with broad smooth pecs.  Large dark nipples weren’t the only thing to stand; a large tattoo was inked across the left pectoral—the anarchy symbol, a letter A made of three crossed lines, with a circle around them.

 

There was a faint haze of brownish fuzz across the guy’s flat belly; there was nothing else distinguishing about the pic—but it was enough for Joe.

 

He’d been off work, but it had rained all day.  Now, long after the sun had set, he sat listening to the pattering of raindrops against the window.  He was bored and horny, and that meant one thing.

 

Some lucky faggot was gonna spend the last few minutes of his life with Joe’s huge cock buried in his ass.

 

He’d trolled through the app he’d downloaded to an earlier victim’s phone.  Nothing stood out, so he’d held off until later in the evening.  The really sick homos, the ones who most deserved to be put down like dogs, tended to crawl out from under their rocks under the cover of darkness.

 

And he’d been right.  This fucker right here was just beggin’ to get whacked.

 

He sent a reply—a dick pic, full erect.  “U bitch enough to take me all the way?”

 

The response was quick and detailed.  An address, and the info the door was unlocked.  The pansy wanted Joe to come right in, head for the bedroom where the queer would be on the bed on his hands and knees.  He wanted Joe to walk in and stick his dick right up his ass.  No foreplay, no talk—just plug his hole and start banging him.

 

Joe could do that.  He let the dude know.

 

“Cool can you make it quick—got more dudes cummin later gonna be a serious cum dumpster—Cliff ”

 

Joe smirked as he padded off to put some clothes on, his hard, muscled body moving like a panther’s in the dark.  No, it wasn’t gonna be quick.  No matter how much Cliff begged, it wasn’t gonna be quick at all.

 

The hardcore sex killer selected his outfit with care.  It was warm and humid outside; the rain was the last of the summer showers, but it hadn’t cooled off quite yet.  He pulled a black sleeveless t-shirt over his hairy chest; it displayed his well-developed biceps and furry forearms perfectly.  Next, he slipped into his favorite pair of jeans well-worn and skin-tight, cinching them around his narrow waist with a wide belt of black leather.  Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of engineer boots, also of black leather, with a buckled strap across the ankle and another at the top of the shaft.  It was easier just to pull them on over the legs of his jeans…

 

Dressed to kill, Joe stood up and headed for the door, his dick already tenting the crotch of his jeans in anticipation.  He needed to drain his huge, hairy balls badly, and that meant he needed a cumrag—a human cumrag.  Time to head out.

 

Within fifteen minutes, Joe had arrived at the address given to him, a gated apartment complex in a decent part of town.  Cliff had already sent him the gate code; Joe drove into the complex, looking for the right apartment.

 

It took a while.  The rain had stopped-or, rather, the air had become so saturated with water that everything was wrapped in a warm, soggy mist like fog.  The apartments were three-story units in long rows down alleyways; the ground floor of each unit was a garage and an entryway.

 

Finally locating the right unit, Joe parked in front of the garage door.  He glanced up and down the alley, but no one was out on a wet night like this.  Trying the front door, he found it unlocked as promised and entered the unit.

 

He found himself in a small entryway with a tiled floor.  To his immediate right was a door to the garage; straight ahead were the stairs.  The slutboy had informed him that the bedroom was on the third floor, so Joe headed up the steps.  Halfway up, they turned and doubled back and Joe found himself in a dimly-lit living/dining area; off to his left was a dark space that was obviously the kitchen.  The stairs continued up, and so did Joe.

 

There were three doorways on the third floor; two of them—presumably leading to a bedroom and a bathroom—gaped blackly at the landing at the top of the stairs.  The third one, though, was illuminated by a faint flicker of light.  Joe entered the room.

 

Dark shapes of furniture lined the walls.  Joe had to maneuver around what appeared to be a club chair—it was difficult to make out, but there appeared to be clothing draped over the back of the chair.  A fragment of color caught briefly in the faint light—a silk tie lay on top.  As he passed by, the bulked-out alpha snatched the tie and stuffed it in his pocket; no telling how it might come in handy at some point in the evening.  The motion had been too quick and subtle to be seen.

 

But in any case, the only thing that could be seen clearly was the bed.  It was king-sized and had a mirrored headboard with a built-in shelf; the flickering light—the only light in the room—came from three LED candles sitting on this shelf.  The bed itself had been stripped down to the fitted sheet, but it wasn’t bare.  Crouched on his hands and knees on the bed with his ass in the air, the fag was staring into the mirror, trying to get a better look at the dude who was gonna breed him.

 

Cliff was twenty-eight but with his lean, lithe body and nearly shoulder-length tousled dirty-blond hair, he looked younger.  He worked as an account manager at a bank, where he got by with a button-down look and a quiet demeanor; there was no hint of his wild, sluttish sex life at the office.  Once he got home, though, the whore came out to play—and played hard.

 

The youth was a serious power bottom; he loved to get fucked by anyone anytime—as long as he was off work.  “You don’t shit where you eat,” was his motto, and he stuck by it, but his sex drive was so intense, he was usually trolling for tops on his phone as he sat at stoplights on the way home.

 

The room was dim—he liked a sense of anonymity, of danger—and it was difficult to see, but it looked to Cliff like he’d scored big-time tonight.  Yeah, he had other dudes lined up later on, but this hulking muscular stud damn sure looked like he knew how to handle a hot bottom boy.  Cliff couldn’t see the guy’s face in the mirror, but he didn’t really care.  What he could see of the body was hot as fuck; what he really wanted a look at was the dude’s dick.

 

He got it soon enough.

 

Standing at the foot of the bed, Joe grinned at how easy the horny faggot was making it.  This pansy wanted a thick tubesteak up his ass bad, and Joe was just the man to give it to him.  Unzipping his fly, he reached down into his crotch and slowly extracted his massive cock like a handler pulling a python out of a cage.  He heard a faint gasp and realized the homo had caught sight of it.  The punk had seen it before, when Joe sent his dick pic, but it had been a close-up without a good sense of scale.

 

Now Cliff could see the full size of Joe’s shaft, the impressive length and frightening girth obvious as the thick rod of manflesh throbbed and swelled.  The dark veins wrapped around it practically writhed as they pulsed with blood.  Eager as he was, Cliff had never seen a cock that big and wasn’t sure his asshole could take it.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of dicks up inside him before, but this…this was something different.

 

Good thing he had a fresh bottle of poppers.

 

Joe climbed onto the bed and moved forward until he was up on his knees directly behind Cliff.  Pulling up his cock, he let it fall back down onto the homo’s bare backside where it landed with a loud, meaty slap.  Cliff moaned and quivered like a bitch in heat and Joe’s grin got wider and more shark-like.

 

“Ya want that, do ya, cunt?” he jeered, grabbing his dong and steadily slapping it against Cliff’s smooth, rounded asscheeks.

 

“Go easy, dude,” Cliff gasped his breath shuddering in erotic anticipation, “I ain’t—I mean, you’re—Jesus, that thing is gonna hurt.  Just go slow, man, ok?”

 

Since Cliff’s face was closer to both the mirrored headboard and the sources of light, Joe could make it out much better than Cliff could his.  The long-haired queer’s eyes were large and dark, with long lashes.  His nose was long and straight, and around his mouth was a sandy-brown stubble, a goatee just a shade darker than his hair.  Joe could also make out the small dark bottle clutched in the cunt’s hand.  So the faggot liked his poppers?  Good.  Joe could make use of that.

 

He decided to give the slut something to look at.  It was warm up on the third floor and Joe was sweating a little.  He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head, bending back slightly.  While still unable to make out Joe’s face, Cliff could make out his incredibly well-developed torso very well, drinking in the details of the dominant stud’s thickly-muscled chest—broad pecs with large dark nipples jutting out, seemingly hard enough to cut glass.  Thick, dark, abundant fur spread across the alpha’s abdomen and ran down his ripped abs, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans, demarcated by the wide leather belt.

 

“Oh fuck it,” Cliff muttered.  “Fuckin’ hell, lookit that bod.  Put it in me, man.  It’s gonna hurt, but I want you in me so fuckin’ bad…”  He opened the bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply, holding first to one nostril and then the other.

 

Joe wasn’t waiting for an invitation.  And he wasn’t waiting for lube either; he was going in dry.  The little fuck needed to feel it.  He pressed the thick, swollen head of his cock against Cliff’s pink puckered sphincter and pressed slightly.  Cliff moaned loudly.

 

Then Joe rammed his shaft home, shoving it all the way in until his pubes were rasping on Cliff’s baby-smooth asscheeks.  His enormous shaft speared the pansy’s colon, ripping open the clenched ass muscle and tearing at the tender lining of the rectum.  Cliff screeched in pain as the huge rod sank deep in his guts, further than anything had ever penetrated before—

 

—and could also feel an electric shock run through his own dick as Joe’s cock rode over his prostate like an out-of-control semi.  He’d been right, it hurt so bad, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…but he was still getting hard.

 

“Damn, man, no,” he whined, “Pull out, dude—jeez, I toldja to go slow, lemme get used to it!  Goddam, I think ya tore somethin’…” Digging his hands into the mattress, Cliff tried to pull himself off Joe’s dick.

 

“No ya don’t, bitch,” Joe said calmly, and grabbing Cliff’s right bicep, pulled that arm around behind the boy’s back.

 

 

“Wha—?” Cliff asked in bewilderment.  “What the fuck ya doin’?”

 

Joe didn’t both to explain.  Fishing the tie out of his pocket, he brought the slut’s left arm around in the same way—expending a little more effort this time since Cliff was disposed to resist—and with the ease of an expert soon had the gay youth’s hands bound securely behind his back.

 

Cliff’s fear started to override the horrible pain of torn flesh in his anus. There was always the possibility of something going wrong in these blind anonymous hookups—but nothing ever had before.  Now, though…this guy was hurting him, and he couldn’t get away.

 

“Get off me!” he yelled.  “I don’t wanna do this anymore!”

 

Without saying a word, Joe hunched over the cunt’s lithe, smooth body and began pumping his cock fast and hard, plunging all the way into Cliff’s ass.  As often as he’d offered his fuckhole up to anyone who’d use it, Cliff had never been fucked all the way up into his guts before.  There was something horrible about the searing pain—something that made it feel like he was being badly fucked up on the inside.  And yet despite all that, his own cock was so hard it actually hurt…

 

“Stop!” Cliff cried.  “Goddammit, no!  This is fucking rape—stop!!”

 

“Shaddup, faggot,” Joe said evenly, “Ya know ya want it.  You like it like this, dontcha, ya worthless cocksucker?  This what ya been looking for, huh?  A real man to come in and pound the shit outta yer ass?  So quit squawkin’ and enjoy the ride, motherfucker, or I’m really gonna make ya hurt.”

 

Laying his head back down on the mattress, Cliff realized he had no choice.  He couldn’t free himself; he was pinned to the bed as if the alpha’s enormous shaft had impaled him on the mattress.  “Oh god,” he moaned tearfully, “Oh god, oh god, oh god…”  His lean, straining body was wracked with pain with every thrust of Joe’s long, thick rod; his long brown hair darkening as sweat was forced from his smooth skin.

 

Hearing a clinking sound behind him, the humbled and submissive youth glanced in the mirror.  It took him a moment to notice the glint of light winking off to the power top’s side.  It was a belt buckle, he realized; the rapist had unbuckled his belt.  It had no significance for him.

 

What did have some significance was that he was still lucid despite the increasingly nightmarish nature of the evening.  After all, some part of his bottom pig soul reasoned, all that was really happening was he was getting a good rough fuck, right?  And that was what he’d been looking for anyway, right?

 

But for all the times he’d whored his ass out, he’d never endured so much pain—and even worse, somehow, he’d never been made to feel so trapped and helpless.  This dude was not only rough, he was incredibly powerful and Cliff was utterly at his mercy.

 

And it wasn’t long before he learned Joe had no mercy at which to be.

 

“Yer gettin’ loose on me, asswipe,” the hulking alpha growled.  “Tighten up that fuckhole boy, or I’m gonna tighten it for ya.”

 

“I—I ca-can’t…” Cliff said, his body and his voice jerking with Joe’s deep, powerful thrusts.  He looked pleadingly at the top in the mirror.  As he spoke, Cliff could see the alpha’s hands moving at his waist.  The dude was slowly and menacingly removing his belt, but the boyslut was too full of cock to care why. “Dude, you-you’re reamin’ me ow-out…”

 

“So ya wanna play it the hard way, faggot?” Joe sneered.  “Figures.  You worthless fag cunts always hafta have some sense beaten into ya.”

 

He drew his right fist back and slammed it down onto Cliff’s kidney with the force of a piledriver; the thick, meaty slap of flesh on flesh sounded like someone hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat.  The sudden agony of the kidney punch made Cliff squeal, a loud, high-pitched sound almost identical to that of a pig.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Joe grunted, “Felt that one in my cock.  That what ya like, fag?  You need to be hurt to get off?  Fuck yeah, homo, can do.  I’ll put yer worthless ass down so hard you’ll cum for joy, ya disgusting little assfuck.”

 

Moaning and gasping for air, Cliff wallowed in a small dark cloud of pain.  He could hear Joe speak; he could even make out the words, but he was too busy trying to deal with the agony in his ass and his guts and his back to bother to comprehend what was being said to him.  He could only writhe in abject fear and pain, which worked Joe’s cock even better—and caused Cliff even more pain in his traumatized rectum.

 

Glancing up at the mirrored headboard, the dazed youth could see the buff older man’s torso shifting in the dim light as the alpha brutally plowed his hole.  The fur on Joe’s chest started to darken and mat with sweat; the room was hot and stuffy and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly more charged with male pheromones with each passing moment.  In horror, Cliff could see Joe’s thick, strong arm draw back, bicep swelling with latent power, and he knew he was gonna get hit again.

 

Joe timed the blow with the thrusting of his cock so that he was balls-deep in the kid’s guts when his fist impacted Cliff’s back like a cannonball, fracturing a rib.  The slut grunted in pain and the entire length of his smooth, slim body, slick with sweat, went rigid.

 

“Hell yeah, work my cock, you fuckin’ pansy,” Joe muttered as Cliff’s colon clamped down on his swollen shaft in agony.  “Now I got yer number—abuse gets ya off, huh, ya disgustin’ pervert?  Huh?  Ya like gettin’ a beatdown from a real man?  Well it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night, asswipe, cause I’m the man to put ya in yer place and make ya stay there!”

 

Grinding his hips at an incredibly swift speed, Joe powerfucked the bound, helpless homo as he spoke, reaming the kid mercilessly.  “Ya wanna know where yer place is, you dumbass sack a’ shit?” he sneered, “It’s ridin’ my cock down into yer grave and then takin’ a nice long dirt nap.  You ain’t no good to me or anyone else once you’ve soaked up my manspunk.  Like any other cumrag, yer just gonna end up another piece of garbage.”  Another blow, this one totally unheralded, struck Cliff’s other kidney, the sudden organ trauma literally taking the slut’s breath away.

 

“Course, ya gotta milk my load outta me first,” the sadistic killer drawled casually as the long-haired punk shuddered silently beneath him, desperately trying to draw a breath.  “Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you work my dick right.  I got a sure-fire means of inspiration.”

 

With that, he tossed his belt down onto the bed in front of Cliff.  The lean young man, already suffering under the brutal blows to his back and the violent assfuck, stared dully and uncomprehendingly at it.  Wrapped tightly in an aching haze, he could only tug his hands feebly at the silk binding and endure the pain.

 

The gay punk had retreated into a mental fugue state once the assault had begun, hearing the words that were spoken to him and suffering the pain of the beating and the rape, but not allowing anything to sink any deeper into his psyche.  His body was responding automatically; the heady funk of testosterone and mansweat in the air would have kept his dick just as hard even if Joe’s gigantic hog wasn’t crushing his prostate under its huge, vein-wrapped girth.

 

The youth had whored out his twink body on hundreds of occasions; while he’d always known that the danger of running into someone like Joe was out there, he also knew that it was the kinda thing that would always happen to someone else—never him.  After all, he just wanted to get fucked.  What was wrong with that?

 

But Cliff’s need for dick had increased.   Getting fucked led to getting bred multiple times a night by anonymous strangers—which led to Joe.  To the extent that Cliff allowed himself to think, he wondered vaguely how this had happened.  He could feel the top’s strong, muscled thighs press against his own with every thrust of the dude’s cock and felt a faint sense of shock that this should have been the best fuck ever—such a fuckin’ stud—and had turned out so bad.

 

Joe sensed the boy going slack beneath him and knew immediately what was happening.  He’d offed enough fuckmeat by now to know that the kid was withdrawing; he was minimizing his psychological damage by submitting to the physical rape without processing any mental input.

 

Joe didn’t like that.  He wanted the kid to suffer mentally as well.  He wanted to rape Cliff’s mind as well, to fuck and abuse and destroy the useless fag’s entire being.  And he knew exactly how to do it.  He started by leaning forward, stretching out and laying full-length on top of his writhing victim, feeling the slim youth’s smooth back writhing under his chest.

 

Cliff, likewise, could feel Joe on top of him, the wiry, sweat-matted chest hair scraping and scouring the tender skin on his back every time the unlucky punk shuddering in pain.  He looked up, quite by accident, and for the first time, got a look at Joe’s face in the mirror—and froze, his blood running ice-cold in terror.

 

The man fucking him was brutally handsome, his face composed of hard, sharp angles and deep shadows.  Some of the latter, the ones that ran across the alpha’s chin and cheeks, were blue and scratchy, shadows of scruff.  Dark, slightly curly hair, a long straight nose and full lips curled into a sneer of disgust completed the face of what could have been a portrait of masculinity in the abstract.

 

But it was the look in the eyes—the beautiful, long-lashed, ice-blue eyes—that instilled such fear in Cliff.  It shifted and changed, with rage and lust and disgust chasing each other, but the glint of homicidal glee never faded.  Without another word being said, Cliff realized this guy wasn’t just gonna kill him—this guy was gonna get off while killing him.

 

Then Joe clamped one big strong hand over Cliff’s nose and mouth, completely cutting off his air.

 

“You’re startin’ to bore me, faggot,” the cruel alpha said quietly, the wiry scruff on his cheek scraping the bound cunt’s ear ash he bent his head down to whisper.  “Time for me to blow my load and split.  Time for you to die, you homo trash.  You need to massage my rod good and hard, and I got an idea.”

 

Joe had spoken softly and calmly, taking his time as Cliff, squirming and kicking beneath him, slowly suffocated with the top’s powerful hand clutching his face.  When he judged the fuckmeat desperate enough, Joe brought up the bottle of poppers which he’d picked up off the bed after binding Cliff hands.

 

With one hand, Joe unscrewed the top of the small dark bottle.  With the other, he released the fag’s left nostril only.  As Cliff inhaled deeply and desperately, Joe applied the bottle. The slutty young homo found himself involuntarily taking the largest hit of poppers he’d ever done in his short, wasted life.  Joe closed his air off again and held on for sixty seconds as the meat, riding on its rush, bucked and jerked frantically beneath him, Cliff’s smooth back sliding along Joe’s muscled chest and ripped abs on a film of slick boysweat.

 

Joe suddenly released Cliff’s face, letting the kid exhale.  This close to his meat, Joe could smell the chemical fumes on the cunt’s outgoing breath.  Before the slut could breathe in again, Joe closed off everything but his right nostril and reapplied the bottle.   Lack of oxygen meant that Cliff had no choice but to inhale another lung-busting hit of poppers, deeply and lengthily.

 

The young homo felt himself losing it; his head spun and there was a loud throbbing in his ears.  His cock was so fuckin’ hard and his ass was getting plowed and he wanted it to go on all fuckin’ night—

 

—and that was when Joe released his head again, picked up the belt, and wrapped it around the fuckmeat’s neck.

 

Leaning back, Joe pulled on the thick strap of black leather, forcing Cliff’s head up off the bed.  The boy slowly bent backwards as Joe continued to pull; for every fraction of an inch that the kid’s head moved back, the pain in his twisting spine grew geometrically.  The force caused the belt to sink deeply into Cliff’s neck—not completely cutting off his air but impeding the flow down his trachea enough to cause the bitch to wheeze frantically.

 

Cliff’s hands jerked and pulled at the silk tie binding his wrists; Joe could feel the boy’s fingertips desperately twining in the fur on his ripped abs.  Nothing the kid could do would loosen the knot; he was as helpless as if he’d been caught in a steel trap.  Cliff looked up involuntarily—and caught sight of his own image in the mirror.

 

Somehow, that was the worst thing of all.    His mind was still fogged with an intense chemical haze from the forced poppers; it only seemed to intensify the horror.  He’d been pulled so far backwards that his chest was off the bed.  His face was already starting to turn blue and his painful, labored attempts to breathe deeply had forced saliva out of his mouth where it ran down his chin in a foamy drool.  It was grotesque and sickening—and he wasn’t actually even being strangled yet.

 

But it was coming.  He knew it was coming.

 

The most surreal aspect of the whole thing was his cock.  He was being raped and murdered, but—as he could see very well—the biggest, most intense erection he’d ever experienced was flopping around between his smooth thighs and slapping against flat, sweat-beaded belly.

 

“Don’t,” he cried out, “Please stop…”

 

At least, that’s what Cliff heard in his head.  What came out of his mouth was more of a choking, gagging sound, accompanied by more streamers of drool trailing from his chin.

 

“Shaddup, faggot, and work my dick,” Joe growled.  He wrapped the belt around both palms and, grinning sadistically, rode Cliff’s ass like a bucking bronco, using the belt to control the meat like reins.  Joe’s thick cock, plugged up the kid’s fuckhole like a baseball bat, could sense whenever the homo’s jerking and kicking slowed; the alpha lost that sensation of moist velvet caressing the swollen, leaking head of his shaft.

 

To get it back, all he had to do was pull on the reins and cut off a little more of Cliff’s air.

 

The next fifteen minutes—the last fifteen minutes of Cliff’s life—were a pit of nightmarish horror as the smooth young faggot was slowly and incrementally choked to death.

 

Every jerk on the belt made it that much harder to breathe, to pull air into his lungs.  Cliff no longer paid attention to the searing pain in his ass; he could still feel the alpha’s enormous cock reaming out his rectum, but his entire being was focused on the effort of breathing.  And again, another pull on the belt, and this time Cliff both heard and felt something crack in his neck.  Against his will, he tried to look in the mirror again.  It took a little effort—his head was tilted back now, so he had to point his eyes downward but they responded slowly, and it took a moment for him to see himself.

 

Joe’s cock was still smashing Cliff’s prostate, keeping the slut in an erect state, which is why Cliff wasn’t able to piss himself when his eyes focused on his image.

 

For a moment, he refused to recognize himself.  That couldn’t be him, that gargoyle in the mirror.  Cliff was rapidly aging out of the twink category, but he prided himself on his youthful, boyish appearance.  He’d always looked younger than his actual age, and that alone had gotten him lots of dick.

 

But that thing in mirror was a caricature.  His face, yes, but swollen and purple, his full lips now blue and parted by his thick, protruding tongue.  His face burned and felt hot, so very hot—and that thing was sweating, its near-black skin smeared with clammy perspiration—but no, not him, not him…

 

Joe had glanced up and noticed the direction of the dying pansy’s stare.  “Oh fuck yeah, watch yerself die, you piece of queer-ass shit,” he chortled cruelly.  “You like that, yeah?  You sick fuckin’ pervert, this is what you been lookin’ for, ain’t it?  You been layin’ here night after night, lettin’ any dude who walks through the door fill you with cum, hopin’ that one of ‘em would put you outta yer fuckin’ misery and waste yer sorry ass, yeah?  Well I’m here, boy, and you’re done.”

 

The muscled killer bent forward, not allowing any slack in the remorseless leather strap.  His head nearly nuzzled Cliff’s, his hot breath disturbing the meat’s long hair, now damp and stringy with agonized boysweat.  “See the way yer eyes are buggin’ out?” he whispered, the stubble on his cheek scraping Cliff’s left ear.  “Watch the whites turn red as blood vessels pop.  You can hear it, cantcha?  That pounding in yer empty fuckin’ head?  It’s yer pulse—you’ll be able to hear your heart start to fail.  Damn, fag, yer droolin’ some pink foam now, see?  Know what that is?  That’s blood.  We done jacked up yer windpipe real bad, boy—and yer dick is still hard as a fuckin’ brick!”

 

The pain was clawing at Cliff like some vicious living entity.  The front of his throat had been squeezed so far back by the belt that ran around it that the cartilage of his trachea had cracked.  Every drawn-out and desperately-fought-for cubic inch of air that the cumslut drew into his burning lungs was accompanied by a searing pain in his fractured windpipe.  And even though the pounding and dark buzzing in Cliff’s head made rational though difficult, the struggling homo had no problem feeling Joe’s massive shaft still plowing his hole, a relentless, unstoppable reaming that he had never known could exist—it was like he was getting fucked to the depths of his sick little faggot soul.

 

Joe could see that the meat was just barely hanging on.  The little fuck’s ass was starting to spasm weakly; it felt good—but not good enough.  Time to kick this shit into high gear.

 

“Looks like it hurts,” Joe chuckled, his lips inches from the side of Cliff’s head.  “Looks like it hurts like fuck.  Does it?  Does it hurt, fag?  I hope the fuck it does.  The more it hurts, the more you work my tool.  And I gotta tell ya, cumdump, you ain’t workin’ it good.  You ain’t givin’ me no satisfaction, boy.”

 

Still trembling on the edge of functionality, Cliff heard and understood every word, but his entire being was engaged in the struggle of just staying conscious.  The battered and abused youth knew that if he blacked out, he’d never wake back up.

 

The alpha’s cold, dry chuckle would have made Cliff’s blood run cold if he could have spared the attention.  “Guess that means I gotta hurt ya some more,” Joe whispered seductively.  “Ya like that, dontcha?  Sure you fuckin’ do, you pig fuck; lookit how yer little faggot dick is droolin’ precum.  Guess what, dude—I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser, cunt.  Know how I’m gonna do it?  Huh?  Know what hurts bad enough to do that, bitch?”

 

Joe’s head hovered beside Cliff’s, his breath hot on the punk’s ear as he whispered.  “Death, motherfucker,” he hissed.  “Death is the ultimate pain.  You’ll never suffer more agony that what you’re about to experience.  And your dying convulsions are gonna suck the sperm right outta my balls.  I’m gonna pump yer stupid fag ass full of cum and leave your dead meat to rot.  Don’t that sound hot as fuckin’ hell?”

 

The struggle to live was wearing Cliff down, but he wasn’t ready to die.  Some arrogant part of his weak, sputtering personality simply refused to believe that he was gonna die; the part that regarded him as the main character in his own story couldn’t accept that the story was about to have a dark ending.

 

And some part of his sick pig soul didn’t want to die because it felt so good—the sharp, searing pain in his torn rectum, the shattered sensation in his crushed throat, the blooming bruises on his back…the searing, throbbing agony of his forced, involuntary erection…it all hurt so fuckin’ good.  At the very end of his short, wasted life, some part of Cliff embraced the pain, wallowed in it, fetishized it—because on a deeply subconscious level, the reamed-out and used-up fag knew that pain was the last thing he’d feel.  Only death would release him from pain, and he didn’t want to die.

 

Joe knew it all.  He knew what the meat went through when he snuffed it, and he didn’t give a shit.  He was doing the homo a favor—taking a worthless pansy and giving it a purpose as his personal cumrag.  Little fucker should be thanking him.  Instead, the stupid cunt wasn’t even able to give his thick oozing shaft the intense stroking it needed.

 

“I’m done with you, ya worthless asswipe,” Joe snarled, his voice dripping with menace.  “You’re even useless as a faggot—ain’t even a good buttfuck, huh?  I’ll be doin’ the planet a service by takin’ out a waste of space like you, bitch.  You think someone’s gonna care how much you’re sufferin’?  Fuck that—no one’s gonna give a shit that you’re dead, motherfucker.  No one cares.  Time to die like the garbage you are, queermeat.”

 

Joe’s next move was so swift that Cliff never noticed it—not that the bound, struggling homo was in enough control of his sense to note anything at all.  The muscle-bound alpha brought both ends of the belt together, looping the loose end through the buckle—a simple slip knot.  Then, with a single brutal jerk of his powerful biceps, he cinched the belt around Cliff’s neck, sinking it in even deeper than it had been before.  As the leather strap whipped into place, it moved so fast it flayed the tender flesh around the punk’s throat in a neat circle.   The slashing pain was so intense, for a brief, horrific moment Cliff thought his throat had been cut.

 

It would have been no more horrific than what happened next.  Joe had only given the belt a casual yank, but his brute strength had been enough to tighten the belt to the point that it completely crushed Cliff’s trachea.  The lean, long-haired bottom pig was still alive, but no matter what happened, he’d be dead within five minutes.

 

His bulging, bloodshot eyes locked on the mirror, the choking, dying faggot could see the depths of his own suffering in the grotesque and distorted mask his once-handsome visage had become.  Black and swollen, his cheeks smeared with snot and foamy drool, Cliff’s face was etched with strangled agony.  His legs were useless, pinned under him as his killer’s weight bore him down onto the bed.  His arms still struggled against the silk binding, to no avail.

 

He could feel it all, though—from his crushed and mangled larynx to Joe’s wiry pubes scraping his smooth asscheeks with every balls-deep thrust, to his own erect and oozing cock–even as he died, Cliff continued to suffer.  Well past rational thought, he caught motion in the mirror and could see Joe draw his powerful arm back, but this time he wasn’t able to follow the idea to its logical conclusion.

 

“Die, motherfucker,” Joe snarled and unleashed the ultimate rabbit punch on his victim.

 

The muscle-bound killer’s fist struck the back of Cliff’s head with the force of a sledgehammer.  Simultaneously, Joe jerked back violently on the belt.  The combined impact drove Cliff’s head forward while his neck was pulled backwards.  There was a loud, wet crunching sound and the top three vertebrae of Cliff’s neck exploded into tiny shards of bone, tearing through his spinal column like shrapnel.

 

Unluckily for Cliff, the damage to his nervous system was catastrophic but not instantly fatal.  His spinal cord was severely damaged but hadn’t been completely severed.  The pain was beyond anything in the young homo’s imagination.  It was a searing electrical shock that tore through every nerve fiber in his body, completely filling the lean punk with burning agony. As his head lolled forward limply on his broken neck, his muscles contracted involuntarily, his slick, smooth body trembling with rigidity.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” Joe grunted with pleasure as he hunched forward and unloaded a steady stream of cum into Cliff’s guts.  The nearly-dead meat felt the splash of manseed deep inside, but his traumatized nerves could only record the boiling heat of Joe’s load, as if the killer had pumped his victim full of molten lead.

 

At the same time, the shattering of his spine had also triggered the fag’s straining cock.  Cliff’s dangling head no longer allowed him to look in the mirror, but he had a perfect view of the long, ropy strands of semen that were being violently expelled from his own purple, engorged shaft.

 

It hurt.  He was cumming so hard it hurt.  It felt like his innards were being ripped out and expelled from his body in a squirt of boyspunk.  Unable to look up, he never saw his cum splatter and smear on the headboard mirror.

 

Joe held the corpse close to him for a few moments, his powerful, bulked-out body shuddering as the fag’s death throes continued to milk his swollen, sensitive shaft.  Finally, he withdrew his still-oozing rod from the punk’s mutilated asshole and let Cliff drop to the bed.  The randy young fag spent his last seconds on earth suffocating face-down in puddle of his own sperm.

 

Standing up, Joe turned to the chair with the clothing piled on it and extracting a pale blue button-down shirt, used it to wipe the sweat and cum off his hard, hairy torso still-erect cock before tossing it onto the floor.  Tucking his long shaft back into his jeans, Joe then grabbed his own shirt from the floor beside the bed and put it back on.

 

The last thing he did was retrieve his belt.  It took a moment to pry it from around Cliff’s loose, shattered neck.   It had sunk so deeply into the flesh of the throat that Joe had to sit on the bed for a moment with the head of the trembling corpse in his lap so he could dig the leather strap out.  Once he’d clawed it free, he stood up, dumping the pile of dead manmeat onto the floor with a loud thump.  Treading on the dead body with a contemptuous sneer, the muscled alpha threaded the belt back around his waist and left the room.

 

In the silent darkness, broken only by the faint flickering candlelight, Cliff’s body began to cool and stiffen.  Long minutes later, there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and someone walked into the bedroom.

 

Joe hadn’t been the only dude Cliff had been intending to trick with that night; he’d had multiple appointments.  The next guy in line had arrived.  It took a few minutes of confusion for him to locate the corpse, but once his did, he backed away in horror and fled the apartment, not stopping to alert anyone—or to wonder why the sight of the murdered slut had left him hard.

 

Over the next six hours, three more dudes arrived ready to fuck Cliff, only to leave hurriedly—in in terror, one in frustration, and one curiously stimulated and more eager than ever to find someone to fuck.  None of them called the police.

 

The body wasn’t officially found for another two days, after the mail had backed up and one of the neighbors complained about the smell.

What Do You Want by Den

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

**********************

********************

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

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.

Trucker 9–Trucker vs Trucker

The Trucker knew he was being followed.  Not literally, of course, no one knew exactly where (or who) he was—but the cops were damn sure gonna be searching.  That meant he needed to take some steps to make sure the trail went cold.

 

That meant getting several states away.  It took self-control to go that length of time without wasting a bitch, but the Trucker had the discipline that comes with experience.  He’d held off, feeling rage and sperm building inside him, but keeping a lid on the simmering angry lust was taking an effort.

 

Now he was crossing northern Oklahoma.  It was late and he was heading east; darkness had closed in some time ago.  As he began to look for a truck stop, a thought occurred to him—there was a boy out there in the night, somewhere not too far away, happy and carefree and probably horny, who had no idea he wasn’t going to live to see dawn.

 

There, ahead in the distance, the colorful sign advertising a major stop shone out brightly from the top of a hundred-foot pylon.  Full bathrooms with showers, all facilities including a truck wash.  Likely busy, but such places had huge lots and most dudes parked as close to the facilities as possibly; the far edges would be less crowded.

 

A cold grin crossed the Trucker’s face.  It was time.  It was finally time.  As he approached the exit he wanted, he downshifted, slowing the rig.  Then he took a moment to shift another shaft—the huge, throbbing shaft in his crotch.

 

As the truck rumbled off the highway onto the frontage road, the Trucker bore to the right into the truck stop, passing the diesel pumps to head towards the back of the huge paved lot.  He didn’t need gas; his tanks were more than half full.

 

What he needed, he decided, was privacy.

 

At the back end of the lot he finally pulled to a halt, up against a chain-link fence that separated the commercial property from what was evidently an empty field.  He was on a state highway, somewhere west of Vinita—but at fifteen miles to the west, it was the closest town.  The truck stop was an island of glowing, buzzing light in a sea of darkness.

 

But it was busy.  The Trucker knew he’d have no problem finding prey; there were always whoreboys at truck stops.  Shutting off his rig’s engine, he opened the door and jumped out of the cab, the thick soles of his work boots thumping loudly on the cracked concrete pavement.

 

It was warm and humid.  The Trucker’s gray sleeveless t-shirt, already stretched tightly across his massive, muscled chest, was starting to become slightly transparent as sweat seeped through.  The black jeans that wrapped around his firm thighs and strong calves were cinched off at the waist by a wide leather belt the same shade of brown as his boots.  His coal-black hair was mostly hidden by the cadet cap he wore, jet black with the brim slightly cured at the ends.

 

Walking quickly across the tarmac, the buff alpha with the jet-black hair and goatee dug into the rear pocket of his jeans.  The denim cradling his taut, firm ass showed the outline of a crumpled box; retrieving it, the Trucker fished out the last his last remaining cigarette.  Tossing the empty pack to the ground, he lit the smoke.

 

The flash of his lighter was followed by a faint flicker of light to the northwest.  Peering into the darkness, the Trucker was unable to make out anything; he kept moving.  He was only about two-thirds done with his cigarette when he reached the main entrance to the truck stop; pausing outside to finish it, he caught another flicker out of the corner of his eye.  Stepping around the side of the building in an attempt to keep as much light out of his eyes as possible, he gazed intently to the northwest and was soon rewarded with another flash.

 

No doubt about it.  Bad weather moving in.  Grinding the glowing butt under the heel of his work boot, the Trucker turned his back on the storm and went inside.

 

The glass doors led into the convenience store.  Restrooms and showers were to the left, a lounge and game room were to the right.  In the back was an all-night diner.  The Trucker headed towards the latter; it’d been hours since he’d last eaten.

 

The diner wasn’t small, but its narrow layout gave it a somewhat cramped appearance even though it was it was only about a quarter full; the muscular alpha caught a glance or two from the men nearby, but it was impossible to see any of the men in the back of the place.  But they would be men.  The only woman in the place seemed to be the middle-aged platinum blond who was writing down orders with a bored expression.  She glanced up as the Trucker made his way down the narrow aisle between the tables.  “Sit anywhere ya like, hon,” she said in a desultory tone, “I’ll be by to getcha in a sec.”

 

There were only a couple of other tables occupied in the rear half of the diner as he settled himself at a small two-top.  About eight feet away, a man sat at a similar table, facing him. He had an open menu up in front of him and the Trucker couldn’t make out too many details.  Impossibly wedged into a booth in the far corner, two older, obese men in caps and coveralls were demolishing a platter filled with ham and eggs.

 

The Trucker picked up a menu himself and opened it.  It was simple grill fare—a limited breakfast menu, some hot and cold sandwiches and burgers, cheap nachos with industrial-grade cheese and, topping out the menu at ten bucks, a “strip steak” that was undoubtedly tougher than the Trucker’s boot leather.  He was still looking at the sandwich selection when the waitress approached.

 

“Ya ready?” she asked. As she leaned over the table, the Trucker saw her plastic name tag; the label marked “Darlene” was already starting to lift up and peel off.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, “Lemme get a ham and swiss on rye.  Lettuce and mustard only.”

 

“And ta drink?” she drawled.

 

The Trucker glanced over the menu. “You got beer?”

 

“Naw, we don’t serve it in here,” the waitress said wearily; it wasn’t the first time she’d been asked.  “Ya can buy it out in the store till two—lessee, it’s only twenty past one now; you got plenty of time after ya eat to get some.”

 

The Trucker pondered for a moment.  “Ok, that works.  Just get me a cup of coffee.  Black.”

 

“Sure thing, hon,” she said lethargically as she shuffled off.  The Trucker replaced the menu in the rack on the table.  He needed to get beer, and another carton of Marlboros, and maybe—would this place carry zip ties?  Some truck stops did and this one was certainly full-service, it was likely…

 

“So that’s a cheeseburger fully loaded, fries and a Coke, right?”  Darlene’s voice broke in on the Trucker’s thoughts.  “Yeah, that’s it,” came the reply in a gruff but youthful male tenor.  The waitress was standing between them, but as she left to turn in the orders, the handsome alpha finally got a glimpse of the dude at the other table.

 

He was young, but there was something hard in his expression; maybe it was his eyes—they looked mean.  His face was smooth except for a fine line of dark scruff that ran along his jawline, carefully trimmed to a razor-sharp edge.  His clothing was well-worn, from his frayed light-blue baseball cap with its brim curled from repeated washings to the short-sleeve button-down shirt in faded plaid, half-open to display his smooth chest.

 

Under the table, the Trucker could see a pair of torn and frayed jeans clinging to the kid’s slender legs.  Under that, he’d jammed on a pair of work boots in such a hurry that the cuffs of jeans had gotten stuffed inside them.  Like the Trucker, his boots were also brown leather, but they were so old that the heels were half-worn and the shafts were soft and slouched to near the ankles, with the jeans bunched just above.

 

The boy glanced up—and froze, his large brown eyes looking directly in the older man’s ice-blue ones.  The youth’s jaw fell open; he appeared to be stunned.  Breaking eye contact, the kid let his gaze roam over the Trucker’s hard, well-displayed form.  He’d twisted his slack-jawed gape into a leer and was about to lick his lips when Darlene, appearing out of nowhere, plunked  a plate with a burger and fries in front of him.

 

“Here ya go, hon,” she said in a tired voice, “Watch the plate, it’s hot.”  And old pro, she handed him his glass of soda from a heavily-laden tray she held in one hand.  Passing straight from him, she approached the Trucker’s table and dropped off his sandwich and coffee.  “Lemme know if ya need a refill,” she muttered before changing course and dropping off the check for the men in corner.

 

The boy had picked up his burger; he wolfed it down greedily but kept his eyes on the Trucker the entire time.  The experienced alpha took his time over his ham on rye, occasionally throwing a side glance and faint smile at the kid.  He knew he’d hooked his fish, but he didn’t want to be seen on camera reeling it in; he needed to play with the line for a while.  In the end, it was a near tie; the kid had eaten more quickly, but he’d had more food too.   But there was just enough of an overlap—when the boy stood up and began walking out, the Trucker had half a cup of coffee left and bill for $5.95.

 

The young man paused at the Trucker’s table, just as the latter expected.  Staring directly into the older man’s face, he rubbed the very visible tentpole in his soft, frayed jeans.  Looking up momentarily into the kid’s eager eyes, the alpha gave an almost imperceptible nod.  Beaming happily, the boy exited the diner.

 

Leisurely finishing his coffee—the slut would wait—the Trucker left eight bucks on the table before edging his large, muscled body down the narrow space between tables.

 

The younger man had been milling around out in the convenience store—it was huge, with all kinda of items, anywhere from CB radios and GPS devices to winter coveralls.  He popped up the moment the Trucker came out.  “Hey, man,” he said in his rough tenor, “Ya got a smoke?”

 

“Naw, man,” the Trucker drawled, “Was gonna get a carton after I ate.  Ya wanna bum one?  Go out to the smoking area, the one around the side to the left.  I’ll be out.”

 

It worked like a charm; the little fucker hightailed it.  As he turned, a swinging glitter of light caught his eye; the boy’s wallet (clearly outlined in his tight jeans) was secured to a belt loop by a surprisingly strong-looking chain.  The buff sadist pondered for a moment, chuckling, before heading to the cashier.

 

The moment he stepped out the door, he became aware that the storm he’d seen in the distance had closed in very quickly.  The faint flickers now took on the aspect of floodlights repeatedly blinking on and off.  Low background rumbles of thunder were more felt than heard, and once he got around the corner, the rising outflow breeze was more heard than felt.  It whistled at the corner but in the shelter of the building, he was able to get a strong enough flame to light up smokes for both of them.

 

The kid took a deep drag.  “Thanks, man.  Name’s Dave.”

 

“No problem,” the Tucker replied.  “So, what’s going on, Dave?”

 

“Aw, y’know, nuthin’—well, that is, y’know how it is when ya been out on the road awhile by yerself, y’know, ya just kinda wanna find someone to hang with…” Dave muttered, an embarrassed grin on his face.  It was clear what he wanted, but he had no idea how to broach the subject.

 

The Trucker removed the stumbling block—not in the name of mercy, but in the name of efficiency.  “Ya wanna come hang out in my cab?  I can go get a six-pack of beer; was gonna get one anyway.”

 

The slim young trucker perked up, grinning ear-to-ear.  “Sure, man, sure.  I—uh, well…” he faltered, then rallied.  “Got-got any poppers?” he asked timidly.

 

The powerful older stud chuckled indulgently.  “Naw, dude, don’t use ‘em myself—but if you wanna, go for it.”

 

Even happier now, Dave replied, “I got some back in my cab.  You got a sleeper?  Lucky fucker, can’t afford one myself.  Where ya parked?”

 

“I’m out at the far end by the fence,” the Trucker said, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder, “That way.”

 

“Fuck, I’m on the other side.  Lemme run while you get the beer.  What’s yer rig like? “

 

“Can’t miss it; it’ll be the big blue sleeper up against the fence—” the buff alpha was interrupted by an especially intense flash of light.  “What the—” Dave cried before the rest of his exclamation was drowned out by a reverberating peal of thunder.

 

“Better run, boy,” the Trucker laughed, “Don’t wanna get wet—yet.  See ya back at my place…”  As Dave took off running in the night, the hollow thudding of his boot heels fading into the distance, the alpha turned back into the store, his recently-purchased carton of Marlboro Reds tucked under his arm.  One entire wall was covered in beer coolers; the selection was truly impressive.

 

Glancing at the clock over the door, the Trucker noticed it was ten to two.  He had to be quick, but not rushed.  Looking over the display, he was pleased to notice a brand of bock lager made in Texas he was familiar with.  He grabbed a six-pack and made it back to the cashier just in time.

 

It never occurred to him to ask Dave what kind of beer he wanted.  It didn’t matter.

 

As he strode quickly back across the concrete parking lot, weaving his way among the various rigs parked in orderly lines, he felt the occasional random splash of a large raindrop on his head, shoulders or arms.  The flickering of the lightning had increased in frequency, as had the volume of the thunder; it was nearly percussive now.

 

Reaching his cab, the Trucker hoped the little faggot made it back before the storm broke—he didn’t want wet meat in his cab.  Not that he’d turn it down, of course, but still, it would piss him off.

 

He shoved the beer in the mini-fridge in the sleeper compartment and, tossing his cap aside and peeling off his t-shirt, settled into the passenger seat to await his fucktoy.  A sudden violent blast of wind rocked the cab and the Trucker began to worry that this one might get away—when the boyish face with the hyper-trimmed beard popped up in the driver’s door window.  The Trucker motioned that it was unlocked; in an instant, Dave was inside.

 

And not a moment too soon; at that moment, the skies broke open and a torrential downpour began to hammer relentlessly on the roof of the cab; the visibility beyond the windshield suddenly something like six inches.

 

“Damn, man, just in time,” the Trucker drawled, “C’mon into the back, if ya want, the fridge with the beer is back there.  We can sit on the bunk; it’s an extra-wide.”

 

In a haze of lust, Dave followed the towering, hardbodied stud into the sleeper area.  “Fuck, dude,” he said, his voice dripping with envy, “This rig is the bomb!  I ain’t even gotta sleeper bunk, man, I can’t afford it…”  His impression of the back of the cab was somewhat fragmentized, though; the Trucker left the light dimmed to a bare minimum.  The primary illumination was the flashing of lightning.

 

The Trucker squatted to get the beers out of the fridge, deliberately giving Dave a good look at his ass, tightly wrapped in black denim.  Taking his cue from the tone of the punk’s voice, he decided to try a little sympathy.

 

Sitting on one side of the bunk, the muscular sadist patted the foam mattress next to him.  “C’mon and have a brew, dude, and tell me about it—young hot boy like you should be makin’ lotsa dough.”

 

The blush on Dave’s face made it clear he’d caught the gay compliment.  He spoke hesitatingly, stumbling over his words. “I-I…well, fact is, I-I got a wife…”  He trailed off, gulped, and then it all came out in a rush.  “Five years ago.  Prom night.  I got drunk as fuck and my buds and me went out with these skanks and, well, anyway, I don’t remember a damn thing but she got knocked up and we had to get married.  Her folks and mine.”

 

In a single swig, he threw back half the bottle of beer before resuming his story.  “Couldn’t say no, y’know?  And then she wouldn’t stop partying and lost the kid.  So now I gotta keep supportin’ the bitch.  And ya wonder why I spend all my time away from home, out on the road lookin’ for dick…”

 

Actually, the Trucker hadn’t wondered at all and was bored with the faggot recital of woes, but as the punk finished the rest of the bottle with another deep gulp, he popped the lid off another cold one and handed it to Dave.  As fast as the cunt was pounding them down, he was gonna be pretty hammered real soon.

 

“So yer lookin’ for some cock,” the Trucker mused, one hand fondling the elongated bulge in his groin.  “Lessee what ya got, first.”

 

The younger trucker grinned and popped up off the bunk.  Taking off his cap, he revealed a head as closely-shaven as his face, only the slightest trace of dark hair kept him from being a complete skinhead.

 

“Can I bum another smoke?” he asked.  The alpha tossed him one, along with the lighter.  Just before lighting, the kid reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of dark brown glass.  Unscrewing the lid, the punk held the bottle to his nose, inhaling the fumes deeply before reclosing it and lighting his smoke.  Once it was lit, Dave left the cigarette dangling in one corner of his mouth, tossing the lighter back before slowly unbuttoning his short-sleeve shirt.  Slipping it off, he revealed his smooth, muscled chest.  The youth was too buff to be described as having a swimmer’s build, but he wasn’t built.  Slender and wiry, but strong with well-defined pecs and biceps.  A flicker of lightning illuminated his right arm; below the shoulder an amateurish tattoo of an eagle with spread wings stood out against the kid’s smooth skin.

 

The Trucker had placed an ashtray between them on the bunk; sitting back down, Dave placed his bottle of poppers next to it and his smoldering cig in it as he bent down and pulled off his soft, well-worn work boots.  He retrieved his glowing butt and, taking one last drag before grinding it out, exhaled a cloud of smoke as he wriggled out of his torn and faded jeans.

 

He stood in front of the Trucker, his firm young body dramatically backlight by bright bursts of lightning.  His long hog jutted eagerly from a tangle of dark brown pubes.  His smooth skin was still slick with rain and sweat; it glistened on his chest, in the dip between his broad pecs, in the strobe-like flashes from outside the cab.

 

Standing up, the Trucker revealed a matching gleam on his own chest and for the first time, Dave noticed the dog tags hanging from the older man’s neck.  Glancing closer, the kid couldn’t quite make out the name, but he could read ‘USMC’ faintly during a particularly bright flash of lightning.

 

“Dude, were you in in the Marines?” he asked loudly, to make himself heard over the seismic blast of thunder.

 

“Naw, man,” the Trucker chuckled as the thunder trailed off, “But I was in a Marine once…”

 

“Musta been a damn good fuck for him to give ya those,” the punk said, panting faintly with excitement.

 

“Damn straight,” the heavily-muscled alpha growled.  “Best the little fucker had in his life.”

 

Dave was completely oblivious to the older man’s use of the past tense.  He was focused on the stud’s huge, furry chest, his deep, gravelly voice, the massive, throbbing bulge in his crotch…

 

That was the point at which the Trucker reached down and unzipped his jeans.  Still buttoned and belted at the waist, he had to reach in and manually pull his enormous cock up out of the jeans like he was hauling in an anchor chain.  The kid’s eyes widened in lust and awe at the sight of the massive tubesteak, only semi-hard but pulsing and swelling visibly.

 

As the wind howled and buffeted the cab with sheets of rain, the scruffy young trucker was felt the energy of the storm; the scent of burned ozone permeated the air, increasing with the quickening intensity of the lightning.  His own swollen shaft was so hard it hurt, but the image of the muscled older man towering over him, lit by the strobe-like flickering, made him start to drip in a steady stream.

 

Dave panted, lust interfering with his breathing.  Snatching up the poppers, he took another hit of chemical vapor; he lay back for a moment, letting the rush flow over his taut, smooth body.  “Damn, dude,” he gasped breathlessly, “I want you in me.”

 

There was a lull in the lightning; in the darkness, the Trucker’s smirk could be heard in his voice more easily than it could be seen.  “Yeah?” he sneered, “Think ya can take me, bitch?  Think you can handle my cock in yer guts, huh?  Yeah?  Then get on the bunk, you faggot, and get yer heels in the air; I’m gonna go balls-deep into yer fuckhole.”

 

For a moment, the iron grip of lust had Dave in such a tight grasp, he was unable to breathe at all.  Not that that stopped him from obeying; a single quick motion, and he’d scooped his jeans off the floor.  Wadding them up, he scrambled eagerly onto the bunk and, lying at an angle so that his ass could be more easily accessed, he shoved the denim bundle under his head as a pillow to support his neck.  Dave’s random placement left a length of the wallet chain running across the back of his head; he reached back, almost unconsciously, and swatted it aside, where it fell back onto the bare foam mattress.

 

Reclining back, the scruffy youth tucked one hand back behind his head.  Grasping his throbbing shaft with the other, he gazed up at the incredibly well-defined torso of the alpha looming imposingly over him.  Despite the crashing thunder and rising wind, there was another pause in the lightning; the Trucker was silhouetted by the faint amber glow of the dimmed interior light.

 

The darkness added an erotic touch of danger to an atmosphere already heavily laden with testosterone and mansweat.  Dave shuddered with ecstasy.  “Fuck, man,” he moaned, “I want ya in me, dude, I want your fuckin’ manmeat up inside me…”

 

In the shadows, the sadistic killer grinned with an icy, malevolent glee.  This was just too fuckin’ perfect.  He moved in.

 

He stood at the edge of the bunk, legs spread, workboots planted widely apart to anchor him—he was gonna need traction; he was goin’ deep.  This little cumsucker was hot and ready.  The Trucker doubted the punk was ready for everything he was gonna get—but, fuck, that was half the fun.

 

Taking another deep hit from the poppers, Dave gasped and gave another moan, this one breathy and intense, as the hulking alpha grabbed the slut’s ankles and propped his feet on his shoulders.  The stud’s hard, handsome face, darkened by his black goatee, hung in the air just inches from his face as the younger trucker felt pressure against his sphincter.  For a moment, Dave wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling; for a moment, it almost seemed as if someone was trying to shove a doorknob into his ass.

 

Then the Trucker grunted, “Fuck yeah!” and, gripping Dave’s thighs in an iron grip, thrust forward, ramming the full length of his swollen hog into the cunt’s fuckhole.  The doorknob that Dave had imagined became an excruciating reality.

 

There was a blinding flash of lightning; at the same time, the lithe, younger trucker gasped again.  This one was totally different than his earlier, erotic gasps; this was a deep, shocked inhalation that fueled the agonized scream that tore from his struggling body but was utterly drowned out by the seismic crash of thunder.

 

“Does it hurt, faggot?” the rutting alpha chuckled, shoving his engorged tool even further into the boy’s resisting colon.  “Quit squealin’ ya cocksuckin’ pansy, I ain’t even all the way in—what kinda homo are ya, huh, if ya can’t take my cock?”

 

Dave tried to repress his cries, subsiding to a high-pitched whimper.  The strong young punk had grasped the top’s bulging, muscular arms to brace himself; with each inch of cock shoved into his ass, his grip intensified until his fingers were digging into the alpha’s hard, unyielding biceps.

 

The rest of the plunge came without warning; the Trucker lunged forward, bucking his hips abruptly and shoving his gigantic rod all the way in.  There was a brief resistance before he felt his engorged, oozing head slam past Dave’s pulsing prostate and sink deep into the boy’s guts.  “Oh fuck yeah, cunt, that feels so fuckin’ good…” the vicious sadist snarled

 

Thrashing on the bunk, Dave’s experience was considerably less pleasant.  With the help of the poppers, he’d managed to grit his teeth and accept the slow penetration of the Trucker’s inhumanly-proportioned hog, but the sudden thrust had ripped a deafening shriek from the agonized youth as his sphincter was instantly stretched beyond the breaking point and tore open in a blast of excruciating pain.

 

“Oh fuck!” the writhing hard-bodied young trucker screamed, “Oh my fucking god, stop!  Please, oh shit, oh fuck, get it outta me, it hurts too much, get it OUTTA ME!!!”

 

The Trucker bent forward, his frighteningly cold and hard face inches from Dave’s.  “Yer makin’ too much noise, faggot.  Shut the fuck up or I’ll pop ya one.”

 

But Dave was in too much pain to listen.  He screamed uncontrollably, his tear-stained face twisted in unimaginable agony.  “Goddammit, ya stupid cocksuckin’ sack a’ shit,” the brutal alpha grunted as he drew back his powerful right arm and balled up his fist.  Ramming his arm forward with the violent strength of a pile driver, he sucker-punched Dave directly in the face, slamming the fucker’s jaw closed with such abrupt force the fag bit through his own tongue.

 

The Trucker spit in Dave’s stunned, bleeding face.  “Toldja to shut the fuck up, fuckmeat,” he hissed maliciously.  “If ya get loud again, I’ll shut ya up for good, you worthless queer-ass motherfucker.”

 

Dave heard the words, vaguely, but they had no meaning for him; they had no bearing on the nightmarish pain sweeping his body.  And even if he had been capable of understanding them, the physical became imperative.

 

He couldn’t stop screaming.  It just hurt too fucking much. For a moment, the howling wind drowned out the flailing slut’s shrieks, but after blasting another curtain of rain over the darkened rig, it faded down and the youth’s wails became distinct again.

 

For a moment, the storm’s lightshow intensified.  The struggling fag was illuminated brilliantly; his smooth skin glistening in the white, strobe-like flashes, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.  His pleading, tear-stained eyes turned up to his assailant.

 

From Dave’s point of view, the Trucker was silhouetted by the lightning; it was almost impossible to make out any specific features on the hulking mass of male muscle that was holding him down and impaling his young ass brutally. Even though his nose was half-clogged from his sobbing, the closeted homo could still smell the primal scent of mansex as their straining bodies pumped out pheromones—an acrid tang of sweat, testosterone and adrenalin.

 

The near-continuous play of light slowed; it had only lasted a few seconds.  During that time, the Trucker never missed a beat in his deep, powerful thrusts—and each time he planted his swollen head deep inside Dave’s guts, the shuddering cocksucker screamed loudly.  Little fucker was almost hoarse—not that it was gonna be any help to him.

 

“You really are a stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” he snarled as he bent down over the young trucker punk, “I toldja I’d shut yer whinin’ bitch-ass up but ya just can’t keep yer mouth shut, huh?  Goddam, faggot, I wish I had another dick to jam down yer throat—guess I gotta find somethin’ else, huh?  Lessee here, I wonder—”

 

An intensely bright white flash was followed, within a couple of seconds, by a clap of thunder so violent that it shook the cab.  The glare had caused a momentary reflection that caught the Tucker’s eye; peering closer, he saw a loop of the boy’s wallet chain that snaked out of the wad of denim tucked under his head.  Grinning, the sadistic killer grabbed at it; since Dave had no idea what was going on, he didn’t move his head and there was some resistance.

 

The whimpering youth heard fabric tear as the jeans were jerked out from under him.  His tear-blurred eyes had a hard time seeing what the aggressive stud was holding up until an inevitable blast of the storm illuminated the scene in extensive, if brief, detail; the flash burned the image in to Dave’s mind.  The Tucker towered over him, powerful muscles heaving and gleaming with sweat, his handsome but hard face grinning at the wallet chain in one hand.  The stunned bottom bitch could see that the wallet was still attached on one end; on the other was a thin strip of pale blue denim—the belt loop that had been torn off his jeans.

 

The Trucker was kneeling on the bunk at this point with his cock plugging the homo’s fuckhole.  He flexed his powerful thigh muscles and slowly pulled his shaft out, the thick ridge around his huge mushroom tip scraping the inside of Dave’s colon.  He lowered himself down onto the youth, leaving the head of his dick just inside the cunt’s quivering sphincter.  Dangling the wallet in the younger trucker’s face, he opened it and began rifling through the billfold.

 

“Wha-what a-a-are ya d-doin?” Dave quavered in a voice that trembled with fear.

 

“Shaddup, fuckmeat,” the Trucker sneered as he dug the cash out of the wallet.  “Ain’t like yer gonna need this anymore—only forty bucks, you cheap-ass cocksucker?”  Spitting contemptuously on his prey, the alpha jammed the bills into the rear pocket of the tight black jeans he still wore.   “Fuck, I’ll be doin’ you a favor when I waste yer broke ass, huh?”

 

A wave of icy terror broke over the already-frightened youth.  He not only understood what he’d been told, he also realized that he was pinned to the bunk under the heavy mass of the cruel alpha’s body.  “W-ait, man, n-no, p-p-please, no,” he gasped, his eyes bulging in horror, “G-god, no, please don’t, man, please don’t kill me…”

 

“C’mon, boy, that’s it,” the Trucker chuckled as the slut’s torn ass muscle tightened around his pulsing tip like a cockring, “Beg for yer worthless life, yeah, cocksucker, that’s it—beg, ya stupid faggot…”

 

Now panic set in.  “No!” Dave yelped as he thrashed his arms, reaching for something.  “I’ll do anything, dude, oh fuck, don’t kill me—”  His frantic hands came up; in one was the bottle of poppers.  “I’ll make myself take it, I’ll take your dick, sir, please, don’t—I’ll prove it, here, sir, oh shit please—”

 

Dave inhaled deeply, moving the bottle quickly from one nostril to the other.

 

“Too late,” the Trucker grunted.  Before the buff young trucker had a chance to exhale, the brutal alpha had the chain wrapped tightly around his neck.

 

Dave never got the chance to exhale.

 

The move had been swift and brutal; the buff older stud had whipped the chain up under his victim’s head before he’d crossed it in front and bore down, cinching off the windpipe.  The closeted homo found the cold, hard metal links embedded all the way around his taut throat before he’d realized what was happening.    The Trucker lay on top of the choking faggot, his hard, furry chest sliding on a film of sweat over Dave’s writhing torso, wiry chest hair scratching the boy’s firm, silky skin.

 

The hard-bodied young slut was riding high on the rush; the fumes ramped up the tempo of his heart and now panic increased it more.  As the chain dug painfully into the tender flesh of his throat, he thrashed and flailed like a feral cat in a trap.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah, faggot,” the Trucker grunted as the well-muscled punk struggled under him, “Fight it, ya worthless cunt, lemme feel that stretched-out fuckhole work my dick as ya die!”

 

Deep in his pounding chemical high, Dave heard the words.  Combined with the swelling pressure of asphyxiation in his chest and the intense pain of metal links tearing at his throat, they drove home the fact of imminent death in a way that the searing torment of the violent assrape hadn’t.  After all, he’d endured a rough buttfuck or two from strangers he’d picked up on the road—but his only concern on those occasions had been holding on and taking the D; he’d never been in fear of his life.

 

Of course, none of the others had actually strangled him—

 

And his mind dissolved again into a white-hot flame of tortuous agony and blind panic.  His bare heels drummed mindlessly against the Trucker’s firm, pumping ass, but they left few marks under the black denim.  One hand clawed and scraped at the powerful sadist’s rock-hard jaw while the other beat fruitlessly at his killer’s broad, bulging pecs.

 

“Goddamit, you cumsuckin’ motherfucker,” the Trucker snarled, anger streaking coldly through his voice, “Keep yer faggot hands offa me, ya queer-ass piece a’ shit!  Just fuckin’ lay there and take my dick gratefully like the worthless homo garbage ya are or I’ll fuck ya up, hear me, boy?  Ya hear me, fag?”

 

He yanked the chain viciously as he spoke, tightening it so deeply it sank into its blood-oozing groove in Dave’s neck, squeezing a thick, choking gurgle out of the dying boy’s throat.  That wasn’t all he squeezed out; the muscled punk was sliding beneath him on a film of mansweat.  Some of it was his; some of it was deathsweat forced from the kid’s pores as his body went into metabolic shutdown.

 

The younger trucker’s face swelled and blackened; his assailant had also managed to squeeze out the little fucker’s tongue.  Thick, glistening, swollen, purple, it slowly began to force its way up past Dave’s bright blue lips, slipping out on a froth of foamy drool.

 

At the same time, the dying youth’s cock was responding identically; the thick shaft, not quite as long as the Trucker’s, began to swell and darken until it resembled an eggplant, glistening with involuntary precum at the tip.

 

Dave could feel that too, as he died.  And worst of all was the painful reality that the hot, sharp throb of agony in his confusingly erect dick was timed to each thrust of his murder’s relentless powerfuck.

 

As dark explosions began to blot out his vision, the youth felt a faint despair at the loss of his wasted life.  Some tiny corner of his fading mind thought of how he was dying, how his body would be found, what his wife and family and friends would say.

 

That part soon died, screaming in shame and terror.  What was left was open to physical sensation.  The involuntary nervous system was still functioning.

 

As the sweating, hulking alpha pounded his shaft into the kid, he could feel the meat begin its death throes.  It started with the reflexive clamping of the sphincter around the base of the Trucker’s gigantic shaft, tightening again like a cockring.  Even though the muscle had been torn when the top first penetrated his victim, the spasm was so intense that it clenched closed with excruciating force, continuing to tear itself open in the process.

 

Dave felt it all as a blast of pain that hit simultaneously with a blast of lightning. His bulging eyes, red with exploded blood vessels, caught a bright white nightmare illumination of his killer rising up over him, face twisted with inexorable hate, sculpted torso highlighted by the flash reflecting off the dangling dogtags.  Then the Trucker hunched down over his helpless prey again, riding the punk fucker into his grave like he was breaking a wild horse.

 

He’d only wanted a quick fuck from a hot stud.  It wasn’t really a conscious thought; Dave was past thinking rationally, but amid his pain was a confusion of how he’d gotten to this point.  He couldn’t be dying here in this stranger’s cab; this couldn’t possibly be happening.  Someone would help him somehow.  He beat frantically on the sides of the cab; outside, maybe, someone would hear—but the constant shuddering crash of thunder muted his frantic attempts to summon help.

 

As the fit young punk slowly died, his strong body suffered convulsions of increasing violence.  His sturdy frame was wracked with severe spasms, each one causing his colon to collapse around his killer’s hog, clinging to the thick, throbbing, vein-wrapped shaft like soft and velvety vacuum wrap.  “Yeah, shit yeah,” the rutting stud sneered down at his victim.  “Still there, aintcha, ya pansy fucker?  Fuck yeah, bitch, you ain’t dead yet—lookit yer cock, scumbag, yer hard as shit even though I’m wastin’ yer punk ass!  Lovin’ this, aintcha, ya worthless faggot?  Even though I’m snuffin’ ya, my cock up yer ass is still enough to make ya blow yer wad, ya goddam homo sack a’ shit!”

 

The last effects of the poppers still circulated in the electrochemical stew into which Dave’s psyche was dissolving.  The words meant nothing to a personality already dead, but the repeated prostate massage that the Trucker’s tool gave on its way into his guts had set off one last sensation of pain in a penis so erect that it literally hurt.

 

The younger man’s hands stopped beating at the Trucker; they stroked his chest and arms with the fluttering caresses of dying birds.  His legs, on the other hand, seemed to grow rigid; the thrusting alpha could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the cunt’s inner thighs pressing against his heaving flanks, gliding on a lube of dying boysweat.

 

The convulsions the hardbodied young trucker suffered became longer and more drawn-out.  With each passing moment, the buff older stud tightened the chain around the boy’s throat.  He could feel his seed bubbling over in his huge, puckered scrote as it slapped against the useless homo’s taint; he knew he was gonna unload soon—and violently…

 

It all kinda happened at once.  With a deep, vital, irrepressible grunt, the powerful, dominant top felt his massive biceps bulge almost involuntarily.  The chain disappeared into Dave’s neck as a cracking sound permeated the sleeper cab, loud enough to be heard over the drumming sheets of rain.  The cunt’s black face, smeared with foam that caught in the razor-thin edge of facial hair, was totally unrecognizable as the either the hard young trucker from the diner or the eager skinhead faggot from half an hour ago.

 

 

The bolt of agony that accompanied the complete and utterly crushing destruction of his windpipe as the final trigger that Dave’s straining, firm young body needed.    He convulsed in one final spasm of incredible magnitude; his arms and legs both contracting violently, he clasped his killer in an embrace as strong as an iron cage as he died.  At the same time, his rectum milked the Trucker’s huge, pulsating tool as if it was deliberately trying to make the sadist shoot—and if so, it succeeded.

 

The Trucker’s potent, muscle-bound form jerked and bucked involuntarily in orgasm, injecting a steady stream of manseed deep into Dave’s guts; as the boiling spunk splashed over the kid’s prostate, the searing hot pain set off a kindred response in the nearly-dead meat.  The younger trucker, clutching the older in a hard deathgrip, blew his wad.  The Trucker felt the first warm splash over his ripped abs; the second was much longer, spewing sperm up into his chest fur and higher, until the corpse splattered cum across the underside of the cruel killer’s chin.

 

Somewhere between the injection of boiling jizz up his ass and the expulsion of the same from his swollen dick, Dave died as the storm reached a nightmarish crescendo outside, rocking the cab like a ship at sea while deafening rain pounded on the metal roof.  He sank into a cold screaming blackness of pain and fear, experiencing his deathload only as excruciating agony.  The Trucker, on the other hand, grunted deeply and contentedly as he emptied his testicles into the dead boy.

 

Holding on until he knew his balls were drained, the powerful serial killer slowly withdrew his still-pulsing rod from the corpse; the head popped out of the dead kid’s mangled ass in a huge wad of pink, blood-stained spunk.  “Yeah, bitch,” he whispered to the still-twitching corpse, “That’s how I handle faggot cumdumps…”

 

The Trucker stood up, shakily, and lit a cigarette.  Calmer after a couple of drags, he stepped forward and picking up the dead punk’s soft, worn jeans, used them to thoroughly wipe down his cum-dripping dick.  Stepping to the front of the cab, he settled into the driver’s seat and finished his smoke, watching the storm pass.  Looked like the worst was over…

 


 

By half-past two in the morning, the Trucker was on the road again.  Avoiding the interstate in Vinita, he headed north on state highways to Welch, then east towards Miami, looking for a place to dump the body; in doing so, he managed to outrun the storm.  It caused him a few intense moments, keeping the rig under control in high winds, but control was his specialty.

 

After carefully guiding and controlling countless fags to orgasmic death, the storm didn’t scare him.

 

Just west of Miami, the Trucker pulled to the side on a bridge spanning a dry gulch.  The wind was out of the west, the flashes of lightning light the rain-drenched rig as thunder growled ominously.  The storm was strengthening; it might spawn tornadoes and was approaching swiftly.  But the buff killer wasn’t planning on being here when it hit.

 

There was no other traffic out here at this hour.  Still shirtless, the Trucker stepped to the back of the cab and grabbed Dave’s body.  The dead trucker still had his own wallet chain, wallet still attached, wrapped around his throat; it was embedded so deeply, the Trucker has no interest in trying to extract it.  The kill was so fresh, the alpha could feel the corpse still quivering in his arms as he dragged the mindless boymeat out of the rig and over to the rail.  With one last deep grunt, the muscled alpha tossed the fag cumdump over the edge into the darkness.

 

Rain was starting to spatter down as he returned to the cab and gathered the rest of the fucker’s belongings.  He dashed back out and tossed the clothing and boots over the edge of the viaduct before diving back into his truck.  The rain intensified as he got into gear and sped up; by the time he got to the interstate, he’d driven out of the rain.  And by the time he got to the state line, the storm was a memory in his rear-view mirror.

 

As he headed east, the cold, experienced killer cast a though back to the shuddering manmeat he’d thrown into a ditch; part of him wondered if it would be found once the storm passed through.

 


 

As it so happened, it was Dave’s rig that attracted notice first.  Truck stop employees noticed that it hadn’t moved in two days and called the police.  That was how Mark had found out about it.

 

Increasingly frustrated after finding out, too late, that his killer had gone back and offed the only eyewitness available, Mark had requested information on all police reports that involved semi trucks, truckers, and truck stops.  He’d picked up quickly on the abandoned rig in OK, but had no idea if it had any significance in his hunt for a serial killer.  Luckily, he’d been heading that way himself.

 

He reached the area a day after the original call; heading straight to the county sheriff, he presented his ID and requested information on the investigation.  With a smirk, the sheriff handed him off to a deputy who led him to the evidence room.  “Had to force the lock on the cab,” the young cop drawled as he opened the door, “And this is what we found.  Seems yer guy was a gen-u-wine practicin’ homo-sexual.  Lookit all this faggot shit we found in his rig.”

 

The collection of porn, popper bottles and assorted drugs wasn’t as interesting as the huge black dildo.  Mark could feel his own shaft stiffen as he looked over the missing trucker’s trove.  Completing his erotic interest, the deputy casually mentioned, “This ain’t nothin’, man, you should see all the digustin’ homo crap on the laptop—it’s over there.”

 

“I may need to examine that,” Mark said, a slight hitch in his voice.

 

He was still examining it two days later in a motel room in Vinita when word reached him that a body had been found in a dry gulch, right where it emptied into the Neosho River.  A couple of fishermen, noticing a pale flash among the rocks, had discovered the battered and bruised corpse of a young man, among the rocks.  Near the body, a plaid button-down short-sleeved shirt was caught on the branch of a downed tree; in the cleft of the rock which had caught the boy’s body was a single, well-worn work boot.  Otherwise the corpse was nude.

 

Identification, however, was easy.  The victim had been strangled with a wallet chain; the wallet, with a commercial driver’s license still inside, was attached.

 

Mark knew he was getting close.  He got back on the road, heading east, still tracking his quarry.  He was halfway across Missouri when he got the autopsy results.  The victim had been raped and strangled—he was on the right track.  Identity was confirmed; the victim had a tattoo that helped, as did dental records.

 

He wanted this guy.  He wanted him so bad, his dick was hard.

Internet Snuff Star Buck [1st Thread}

Buck was out cruising for supplies. He was recording another episode tonight, and his fans wouldn’t keep paying if he didn’t give them a good show.

The last show hadn’t been great. The hustler had already been under the influence of something when Buck had drugged him and he’d died before Buck had even gotten him on camera. Buck, horny and very angry, had filmed himself fucking and beating the corpse, but the revenue had been down. The audience wanted something else.

They wanted to watch the little fucks struggle and die.

A hard smile crossed Buck’s face. He wasn’t a man to disappoint his fans.

He was a lean, hard man in his early 30’s, with shoulder-length brown hair and a trim goatee. Tonight he was in hunting gear—a wifebeater showing his muscled chest and arms, cutoffs displaying his thick thighs. The sweat socks showing just above his construction boots completed the outfit. Just another fag on the prowl for a rentboy. A roll of bills in his pocket served for his lure.

In three years, he’d never pulled a single bill off the roll. By the time he was done with them, they had no use for money.

Tonight he was hunting for general meat. On occasion, he’d recorded private commissions, for a large fee. These jobs had usually specified a type of victim or mode of death, or both. Most of these jobs he’d accepted—he’d only turned down the ones he found personally repellent, like requests for minors or excessive gore. But after the last show, no new requests had come in. Tonight needed to be good.

Buck parked at the end of a dead-end street, facing out, and put out his lights. This street ran parallel to a major road and afforded access to small alleyways that were used by the businesses facing the road. At night, the alleyways were popular with hustlers. It had been a while since Buck was here; he never used the same hunting grounds twice in a row. But this had been a good spot and it still was. In a couple of minutes, Buck had two targets in view.

They’d emerged from an alley about half a block up. One was short and had short blond hair. Jeans, sneakers, no shirt. He was young, maybe too young. Buck ignored him. The other was taller, with curly black hair–looked to be in his early 20’s. He wore a sleeveless denim vest with no shirt and tight jeans. On his feet were partially-laced combat boots pulled up over the cuffs of his jeans.

Buck recognized him. His last victim had pointed him out as Buck had driven the slut off to his killing pit. “Stay away from that dude,” he’d said, “He says he’s straight. Great at sucking dick, though. Put one of his tricks in the hospital after the dude wouldn’t pay—slammed his head in the car door till his skull fractured.”

Just what Buck was looking for. This one wouldn’t go quietly. This one would kick and fight for his life. When he finally submitted, it would be so fucking hot…

The bargaining process was brief. The whores had split up before Buck had started his truck, so the pick-up was unseen by anyone else. The kid agreed to go back to Buck’s place for a blowjob for thirty bucks. He explained frankly that he wanted to re-up; he only had one rock left and he was going to smoke it before blowing Buck.

Back at Buck’s place, the hustler pulled out a glass stem.

“Before that, smoke one of these with me,” said Buck and handed the kid a joint. Buck then lit one of his own, knowing the kid wouldn’t be in the mood for crack after the doctored joint.

After five minutes, the drugs had taken effect. The kid wasn’t unconscious, just very, very stoned.

“Come into the next room. That’s where I want you to blow me,” said Buck and opened the door.

In the center of the room was a double bed. At each corner of the bed was a metal post, from each of which dangled various forms of restraint. In the center of one end of the bed was a smaller device made of metal poles.

There were multiple webcams pointed at the bed, covering many different angles.

Buck took off his shirt and, leaving his construction boots on, stepped out of his shorts. Then the boy-whore groped unsteadily into the room. Buck grinned—the little shit must’ve read his mind. He’d stripped down to nothing but his combat boots.

“Lay down on the bed,” Buck commanded.

“No way, dude,” slurred the boy.

Buck sprang upon him unexpectedly. Suddenly the kid found himself on his back, his hands shackled to the metal posts by straps pulled up by nylon cords. Buck quickly strapped another set of restraints around the boy’s legs just above the knee and then a third set at the ankles. The whore was flat on his back, arms above his head, with his legs raised and spread.

Prime fucking position.

“What the fuck are you doin’ dude?” the slut demanded groggily. The sedative was wearing off. It had already done its job.

Buck had started locking cameras into place. He paused. “I’m going to rape and strangle you; that’s what I’m doing. And I’m recording it. A lot of men are gonna cum watching you die. Don’t worry, you’ll cum too.”

The kid’s face clouded with rage. “Lemme outta this, you crazy fucking faggot! I’m gonna fuck you up bad, you bugshit motherfucker!!”

Buck put the final restraint into place. This was the smaller device at the end of the bed. A pair of poles, just above the kid’s shoulders, with a looped cord between them. Buck maneuvered the rope over the boy’s head and around his neck. A set of pulleys on one end allowed the device to act as a garrote. Yanking on the control cord on one side would cause the loop to tighten. The cord on the other side would ease the tension.

Buck kept it loose for now. He wanted the kid to talk. He wanted to hear him lose his tough attitude and plead for his life. He wanted hear him cry and scream as he was raped. This room was soundproof. Let him shout.

Buck got himself into position, kneeling on the bed. He gently nudged the whore’s pink quivering asshole with the thick head of his dick.

“Get the fuck away, fag! Don’t touch me!” screamed the kid.

Buck spat on the punk’s asshole and thrust his rigid member in hard. The kid screamed, struggling violently, only able to move his hands and feet.

Buck slowly pulled out, then rammed his dick back in all the way. The kid’s cry became a drawn-out howl of pain. For all his noise, though, Buck was sure the whore had had other cocks up his ass before. It might hurt, but it was familiar. The boy wasn’t scared enough yet.

Well, that was easy enough to take care of. Buck leaned forward and grabbed the control cord, giving it a couple of yanks. The cord around the kid’s neck tightened—not enough to cut off his air completely, but enough to get the point across. The boy fought to speak, having to gasp for air at each word.

“Please…don’t…don’t…kill…me…please…”

That was better. The boy was staring at him, eyes wide with the realization that he might actually die today. He hadn’t truly known it before. Buck made sure it sank in.

“Oh yeah, you’re gonna die, bitch. Thousands of guys are gonna shoot their wads watching you die on my dick,” he whispered to the helpless punk. “You’re gonna ride my cock all the way down and you’re gonna blow your load as you slowly choke to death it the end. You won’t be able to stop yourself.”

The rentboy started blubbering. Tears streamed from his eyes as his combat boots jerked uselessly in Buck’s hands and his legs pulled at the restraints.

Buck kept reaming the boy, pulling all the way out before shoving his swollen cock back into the hustler’s traumatized hole with a brutal thrust. He gave the cord a couple more yanks. Now the kid could only give a throttled croak.

The kid was overwhelmed with the agony in his ass and in his throat. Panic swept over him as he strained to breathe and remain conscious. His drug-numbed brain was trying to grasp the fact that the john whose dick he was gonna suck, the faggot he was planning to beat down and rob, was choking the life out of him.

Buck felt his balls tighten at the base of his dick and knew that it was nearly time. Never missing a stroke in his vicious pumping, he learned forward and gave another couple of yanks, cutting off the kid’s air completely. He gripped the kid’s chin and turned his face to the camera.

“Come on, man, let ‘em watch. Let ‘em see your eyes glaze over as your life ends. They want to see you spunk and die,” he whispered.

The whore’s eyes bulged as the lack of oxygen increased the pressure in his head. His tongue protruded and a string of drool ran from the corner of his mouth. His struggles became more frantic, his hands grasping the empty air, his boots twitching wildly.

Suddenly Buck had an idea. He reached down by the side of the bed and pulled out a bottle of poppers. He opened the bottle and capped it with his thumb. The he used the release cord to ease the tension on the kid’s throat.

After allowing the rentboy a couple of shuddering, sobbing breaths, Buck lay on top of him, between his strapped-back legs and clamped his hand over the boy’s mouth and nose, blocking his air again.

The boy began jerking and turning blue. Buck held him down, feeling the kid writhe beneath him. After about 45 seconds, he released one nostril, holding the poppers up to it. The kid inhaled deeply and reflexively. In a flash, Buck tightened the cord down on his throat again. Recapping the bottle after taking a hit himself, Buck started pounding the kid’s ass like he was trying to fuck him in half.

The whore’s dick began to swell. Somewhere in the loud banging darkness that had become his world, the hustler knew that he was dying, that he was dying so that this stranger could use him as a cum dump and toss his stiffened body into a ditch to rot., that he was being brutally raped and was going to die on this guy’s dick…and he knew that he had the most painful, intense hard-on he’d ever had in his short, worthless life.

The kid’s body had settled into a rhythmic convulsive movement that matched Buck powerful pumping. Suddenly, the boy’s body went rigid. Buck gave a loud grunt as the little fuck’s asshole clamped down on his engorged cock. He tried to control himself as he watched the boy’s half-opened eyes start to drain of life. Then he felt a spurt of liquid on his chest and another on the underside of his chin. In the agony of his final seconds on earth, the rentboy was shooting massive loads. Long ropy strands of cum splashed over Buck’s chest.

Buck lost control. “Oh fuck,” he groaned as he unloaded in the dying boy’s ass, “fuckin’-A!”

The last things the kid felt as darkness closed over him were the incredible agony of his orgasm, as if his life was spurting out through his dick—and the searing, red-hot pain of cum splattering the inflamed nerves of his rectum.

Buck had lost all control with his orgasm. He’d screamed and shouted. At one point, he’d realized he was beating the dead whore’s face with his balled-up fist. He spunked several times, punching the corpse with each load and shouting, “Take my load, you fuckin’ whore! Die on my fuckin’ cock, bitch!”

When he finally shuddered to a stop, he felt limp and drained. He quickly released the body from its restraints and removed the cord from the neck. Then he lay on top of it for a while, enjoying the feeling—two cum-covered sculpted chests, one warm and heaving, one cooling and still, pressed together. He kissed the boy’s dead, staring face, licking off the cum. Keeping it in his mouth, he frenched the corpse, leaving the kid’s cum in his own mouth.

Rolling off the body with a happy sigh, Buck switched off the cameras. This had only been round one with the kid. He had to reposition things for round two…

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Buck lay on the bed with the corpse, kissing and fondling it. He reached down and grabbed the balls, squeezing and twisting the violently.

He started biting the dead boy, leaving deep marks in the neck. He worked his way down the chest to the nipples. Buck chewed on them for a little while, getting more and more excited. Soon his erect, throbbing cock was prodding the kid’s nutsack.

Time to turn the cameras back on.

Buck maneuvered the body into a kneeling position at the foot of the bed, crouched between his construction boots. He sat on the bed with a commando knife by his side and forced the boy’s mouth open. With each hand grasping a hank of the kid’s curly black hair, he pulled the open mouth down onto his dick. The swollen, protruding tongue rasped on the underside of his straining rod. It was a little too dry.

Again, easily fixed. Buck tipped the head back and spit several times into the corpse’s mouth, then lowered back onto his cock. Best lube around.

He slowly bobbed the head up and down, feeling the head of his dick pressed against the back of the boy’s throat. The dazed death stare in the eyes was making him intensely horny.

“Guess you’re givin’ me head anyway, bitch,” he whispered. “But you ain’t getting’ paid for it.”

He began to fuck the head harder, pressing the nose flat against the root of his cock and burying the face in his pubic hair. He slammed his long member down the congested windpipe. If the kid had still been alive, he would have been choking and gagging.

Buck couldn’t believe how hard he was right now. It’d been a while since he’d fucked one of his playmates twice during a kill.

He sped up his pace, fucking his spit down the kid’s throat. He could feel his precum oozing out and knew he was going to
unload into the dead boy-whore’s mouth soon. Suddenly, he lost control again.

“Fuck! Yeah! Fuck!” he cried.

A spasm shot through Buck as his cock erupted in a burning spray of cum. He grabbed the knife in one hand and stabbed it into the kid’s back. He came several times, each as intense as the first, stabbing the corpse with each wad. He was like an animal in his orgasm, just thrust and spunk and stab, thrust and spunk and stab. Each painfully powerful spray of cum caused him to yell.

“Yeah! Fuckin’ yeah, bitch! “

As he shot his last load of sperm into the kid’s mouth, he pulled the head up off his dick and slashed the throat twice.

Buck let go of the hair. The body hit the floor with a thud. Buck could see his own cum oozing from the gaping throat wound.

He went and cleaned himself up. When he returned, he pulled off the boy’s boots and socks; these were his trophies. The rest was just dead meat that would soon be disposed of, to be found turning stiff and green in a trash bin or alleyway.

When he’d gotten back from the trash run, Buck found a message waiting for him. It was a private commission that made his eyes light up. It was a twofer, and Buck had set up a potential supply for just this scenario—he’d wanted to do this for a long time.

But he’d need some help. And he knew just the right dude for the job…

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

It took Buck a couple of days to get things set up for the special request he’d received. The commission had been for two victims and had specified that they be straight, if possible, and not street whores. Buck kept several supply lines open simultaneously and one had showed itself as a match for his current needs.

Joey was new to the city and worked as a mechanic. He was young, about nineteen, and bleached his mullet blond. He was thin but not scrawny, with something of a swimmer’s build. He’d approached Buck on the street one night to buy weed. Always looking for new meat, Buck had become the kid’s dealer. He was perfect for the job, just another drug-using bottom feeder that no one would miss.

Three weeks ago, Joey had brought his cousin Tim along on one of his pot runs. Tim lived out in the boonies, a good two hours out of town and was pure redneck. He didn’t help his limited brain power by getting almost catatonically stoned on every occasion. He was similar to his cousin in age and build, but was taller by about six inches.

Tim had wanted to set up a large buy, measuring in pounds. He had ambitions of being a major player in the drug scene in his rural county. Buck, planning ahead, agreed and told Joey he’d let him know when the deal was ready so he and Tim could pay and take delivery.

Buck, of course, didn’t have pounds of pot waiting, but he didn’t need to. By the end of the night, these two little fucks would have lost all interest in weed.

The scenario helped Buck in another way—it gave him an excuse to have someone else there as “security’. No one would be stupid enough to make a deal of this size and then show up alone. And Mark was back in town—he’d be willing to fill the position.

Buck had seen Mark’s work online and they’d met personally, but they’d never worked together. Mark was an ex-Marine who claimed he was straight and only made snuff clips for the money, but it was obvious he enjoyed it way too much for that to be true. He was big and well built, with a deep scar across his left thigh. His hair was black and buzz-cut, usually covered by his baseball cap worn backwards. There were tattoos on both shoulders and upper arms.

A couple of quick phone calls and everything was set. Tim would be in town by tonight; he and Joey would bring the money. Mark had agreed enthusiastically to be his backup (and co-star). They would split the cash the punks were bringing for the buy—no sense in letting it go to waste.

Mark arrived about an hour before the deal was to go down. He was filled in on the details by Buck and they set up an additional restraint with cameras. This had upright poles attached to a base and was designed to keep the victim upright in a kneeling position. Jaw spreaders kept the mouth open and prevented biting down. Mark would man this station with Joey strapped in for submission and death. Buck would take Tim out on the bed.

Buck and Mark had dressed alike, tight black t-shirts and jean cutoffs. The only difference was their boots; Buck wore his construction boots while Mark preferred his combat boots—he said they gave him extra traction to ram his dick in. His dick was more than eight inches long; he needed all the traction he could get.

Buck was relieved when there was a knock at the door. He’d been getting hard in anticipation and the head of his dick was starting to slide out from the cover of his shorts. A little more and he’d have spooked the prey.

Joey entered first; he was still wearing the dark-blue coverall he wore at his job. His work boots were pulled up over them and the name “Joey” was stitched to the left side of the chest. Tim followed, wearing a torn white t-shirt and tight jeans. There was a camo pattern printed on both his cap and hunting boots.

The outfit was more appropriate than the kid thought—he actually was being hunted.

Mark offered the boys a joint as a “sample”. Within a matter of minutes, both were so drugged they could barely speak.

“Dude, I am so fucked up,” muttered Tim.

“You wanna get even more fucked up?” asked Buck.

“Sure, dude,” the kid replied with a goofy grin. He was wasted.

“Don’t worry,’ Buck answered with a smile, “we’ll get you fucked up. We’ll get you both so fucked up you’ll be crying for Mommy. C’mon in here.”

The kids were so baked that Buck and Mark had to help them to their feet and guide them to their restraints. Joey was easy to strap in. Forced to his knees, his wrists were cuffed to keep his arms straight down his sides. He gave no resistance when the jaw spreaders were inserted.

Mark unzipped Joey’s jumpsuit. Reaching down into the groin, he pulled the kid’s package out, staring into his face. Joey’s half-open bloodshot eyes returned a dull questioning look; he had no idea what was happening to him.

Mark spat in his face. The punk would figure it out soon enough. Painful death has a sobering effect.

Tim was just as docile; he just required a little more work. The shirt and cap came off. Buck then placed him face-down on the bed and secured him at all four corners. Tim’s mouth was sealed with duct tape before Buck cut the seat out of his jeans and briefs.

Time to get it on.

Mark stuffed his dick down Joey’s throat. Joey gagged and choked as the thick tube of meat blocked his airway. Mark held it in for a while, then pulled out slightly—just enough to let Joey suck in a frenzied gasp of air—before plugging the kid’s hole again.

Buck spit into Tim’s asshole to loosen him up, then shoved in the swollen head of his cock. Tim was amazingly tight; no one else had been up there before and it had been a while since Buck had had a virgin hole to wreck. He made it hurt as much as possible for the boy, hearing Tim’s struggling boots beat against the bed and his muffled screams as he writhed in pain.

Buck pulled completely out on each stroke before ramming himself back in all the way, bruising and tearing Tim’s traumatized ass with each thrust.

Joey was coming to realize that the enormous rod in his mouth could choke him to death. He tried to time his breathing to the brief respites that Mark gave him, but Mark had other ideas. He held himself in longer this time, watching Joey’s face turn blue. He only pulled out when the kid’s eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp with unconsciousness.

Joey took a couple of reflexive breaths and slowly woke up. Unable to speak because of the jaw spreaders, he gave a feeble groan. He looked pleadingly up at Mark, his tears mixing with the snot running from his nose.

Mark punched him in the face as hard as he could, spit on him, and slammed his cock back down the boy’s throat. Blood from Joey’s broken nose trickled around the base of Mark’s dick. He’d facefucked the kid enough. This time the dick wasn’t coming out till it was over.

”Ok, ya little punk-ass bitch, time to die,” Mark muttered, “time to spend your last seconds alive choking on my cum.”

Buck was lying on top of Tim, his throbbing cock buried deep in Tim’s ass. Grabbing Tim’s hair, Buck forced him to watch Joey die.

“Don’t worry, you’re gonna get wasted too,” he whispered into Tim’s ear. “You’re gonna get filled with spunk as I ram my knife into your brain. It’s gonna hurt bad. But first, you’re gonna watch your cousin shoot his wad as he strangles on that dick.”

Buck shuddered slightly as panic made Tim struggle violently beneath him. He wasn’t going to be able to hold back much longer.

Things were going dim for Joey. The world had shrunk to nothing more than pain, pain in his face and throat and chest and dick. He was vaguely aware that the massive rod that was blocking his air was matched by his own cock, rigid with asphyxiation. Then there was nothing left but the burning agony of his explosive orgasm.

Mark had felt the kid’s tongue swelling and pressing against the underside of his dick. He knew Joey was close to death and waited for the signal. It came soon enough—literally. Mark felt Joey’s hot wads splash against his scrotum and thighs. At the same time, the boy’s throat tightened convulsively and began milking out Mark’s sperm. He unloaded repeatedly into the kid’s throat, filling his obstructed esophagus with cum.

Buck had clamped Tim’s nose off to use the poppers again, freeing one nostril, then the other, allowing the redneck punk nothing to breathe but a steady flow of the fumes for a bit. When he was done, he pounded the kid’s ass roughly. Under the influence, Tim moaned softly behind the duct tape and actually thrust his bleeding, ravaged hole back onto Buck’s cock.

Buck knew he was going to shoot. He took the knife by his side and jammed into the back of Tim’s neck. The knife crunched through the bottom of the skull and up into the brain.

Tim’s body went instantly stiff, shooting out a solid stream of cum between his belly and the bed. At the same time, his rectum clamped onto Buck’s dick like a glove, forcing an identical stream of cum out of Buck.

Buck gave a loud groan and began skullfucking Tim with his knife, shredding the boy’s brain. Massive brain trauma caused Tim to twitch and convulse, each jerk squeezing more spunk out of Buck.

When he was finally finished—it seemed like several minutes later—Buck pulled his dripping member out of the corpse. He released the still-quivering body from its restraints and turned it over. Tim’s face was beautiful, with the glazed eyes staring at nothing in pain and terror. A trail of blood led down from the nose.

Mark was seated in a chair, wiping himself off, still fully erect. He was admiring his work as well. Joey’s corpse hung limply in its straps with the face congested and bloody, cum trickling from the pried-open mouth.

“Are we done with these fucks yet?” asked Mark.

“Not sure. Why don’t we put our head together and see if we can find something fun to do with the meat?” responded Buck

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Buck and Mark shared a joint while planning their abuse of the boys’ bodies. Since Joey and Tim couldn’t be forced into position under their own power anymore, a decision needed to be made on the best way to fuck the corpses.

Buck was sitting on a sofa up against a wall of the room. Like Mark, he was still nude except for his socks and boots. From where he was sitting, he could see Tim’s face. It was a mask of shock and pain, and Buck felt himself getting hard while looking at it. The dull, dazed look in Tim’s eyes was too hot for him to resist.

“Dude,” he said, “I’ve gotta go stick my dick down this fucker’s throat.”

Mark, who was next to Buck on the sofa and just as erect, said, “Go for it, man. I’m gonna cut my own fuckhole in this piece of shit.”

Buck switched the cameras back on as he approached the bed. Tim was lying on his back, with his head hanging over the edge. The body was still twitching spasmodically. It was possible, thought Buck, that the kid wasn’t clinically dead yet, despite the brutal brain damage. But if he wasn’t, all that was left was a quivering pile of meat, jerked into brief seizures by the uncontrolled firings of random nerves.

Mark had repositioned his camera. He unstrapped Joey from his frame and dragged the body several feet across the floor by its hair. Joey’s work boots scraped against the floorboards. Mark dropped the corpse with a dull thud when he got to the proper filming distance—he already knew the right focus for this job—and knelt beside it.

He rammed the commando knife he’d picked up on the way over into Joey’s belly and twisted it several times. When he was done, he placed the knife by Buck’s side on the bed. Buck was already on (and in) Tim, in a 69 position. He was holding onto the body by its camo hunting boots and Mark could see the outline of Buck’s thick dick as it relentlessly pounded its way down the corpse’s throat.

Mark turned back to Joey, admiring the confused look in the half-lidded eyes, the glaze of his own dried spunk on the swollen lips and tongue. In an overwhelming burst of lust, he crouched over the kid and, using the hole he’d just cut, impaled Joey with his rigid dick.

Mark could feel the belly split more as he violently thrust in his fat cock—the hole had been too small. Joey’s still-warm guts squirmed around Mark’s thick purple head and tickled it. Mark braced himself by pressing down on the kid’s face with both hands. His thrusts became faster and rougher as the corpse’s intestines tangled around his dick.

Behind him, Buck was pumping Tim’s body furiously. Tim was brain dead, but the body was still trying to function at a primitive level. Trying to breathe with a thick tube of meat blocking the way, the esophagus had closed up and was working Buck’s shaft like a moist, pulsating glove. With one hand still holding the body down by a boot, Buck was twisting and pulling the kid’s junk with the other.

Suddenly Buck felt the familiar tightening in his balls. With a strangled grunt, he started unloading down the boy’s throat. Releasing Tim’s boot, he grabbed the knife beside him. He pulled Tim’s cock and nutsack out and sliced them off, completely castrating the kid.

Tim finally gave up the struggle for his life. With his last unconscious breaths, he inhaled Buck’s cum.

Buck’s orgasmic groans had spurred Mark on. He stabbed his cock repeatedly into Joey’s belly, feeling a warmth build in his groin. It became unbearable. He began shooting his seed into the boy’s guts, cursing and punching the corpse in the face with each new spray of cum. He’d beaten Joey to a pulp by the time he’d finished hosing the body’s innards with spunk.

Buck had stuffed Tim’s genitals into his mouth. The head of Tim’s dick protruded between his own lips, glistening with Buck’s cum.

After they had rested for a while, Buck was the first to speak.

“Time to dump this meat before it starts rotting.”

“I know a place,” replied Mark, “but how are we gonna get them there?”

“This fuck left a pickup outside,” said Buck, slapping Tim in the face; ”We’ll dump ‘em in the bed and cover ‘em with a tarp. You drive and I’ll follow on my bike. You can climb on behind when we dump the truck. But first, give me a hand here. I want their boots.”

Fantasy Scenario 5

Jesus, this is harder than I thought. I knew finding two boys at once would be difficult but I didn’t know it’d be this bad. Virtually all of my lost souls are trying to buy drugs, and that’s usually not a spectator sport.

I might be in luck, though. Think I’m gonna get both a seller and a buyer. I don’t really know if the dealers count as true lost souls. I can get them in the car, but that’s about it. But I’ve got my eye on a Mexican kid I’ve seen before.

He acts as a middleman—he gets the buyer to wait in his car around the corner while he texts the guy who actually has the drugs. He then walks the drugs around to the buyer and returns with the cash. This way, the goods being sold move around and are less susceptible to raids, while the kid actually doing the deal on the street only has possession of either the drugs or the cash for a very brief time.

But something’s gone wrong today. I’m idling in a spot about three-quarters down the block and I’ve been watching him for a good ten minutes. He’s hard to miss. His swarthy face is slightly pockmarked and he’s spiked his glossy black hair. He’s wearing a magenta dress shirt open to the middle of his belly, displaying his smooth, hairless chest. The sleeves are rolled up. His jeans are so tight they appear painted on and he’s got a pair of genuine shitkickers on his feet. Around his tight waist is a brown leather belt that is buckled by a metal object only slightly smaller than a hubcap. He’s about twenty-two or –three and even if he’s not a lost soul, he’s still prime fuckmeat.

He’s looking worriedly up and down the street; his guy hasn’t shown. Worse, the kid he’s buying for has come around the corner to look for him. I wonder if the buyer was stupid enough to pay up first. He looks stupid enough.

He’s about eighteen, a typical suburban kid whose mommy and daddy don’t realize their snowflake is spending his college savings to get high. His dirty-blond hair is cut short on the top and sides but is longer in the back. He’s well-built, something like a jock, and is a good six inches taller than the dealer. His white t-shirt highlights his broad chest and even his skinny jeans can’t hide his muscular legs. He’s wearing expensive kicks, bright blue with orange laces. Clearly not a kid “counseled in the ways of patience”—he wants a hit, and he wants it now.

The spic dealer was in a bad spot. This kid could beat the shit out of him. Maybe I could help them both…

Wow, it actually works. I tell them I don’t sell out of my car, but if they’ll come back to my place, I’ll give the kid a sample. If he likes it, he buys it and I’ll give the dealer a cut on any business he sends my way. I’m amazed they both agree without hesitation; I’d expected some resistance.

I let the kid load his own needle. He’s a cocky little shit and says he’s used to heroin—I’m willing to bet this spoiled rich kid hasn’t come across anything as pure as the junk he’s shooting into his veins. He immediately slumps back unconscious, with the syringe still stuck in his arm.

The spic leans over him, concerned. The second his back is turned, I give him a swift bash in the head with a hammer. He goes limp, falling onto the kid.

Getting them positioned is easy. The spic is on his back on the bed with his hands bound behind him, his head at the foot of the bed. I already know I’m going to strangle him; it’s my favorite way of offing the fuckmeat. Later on, I plan on trying out a new toy with the kid. In the meantime, he’s gonna watch. I’ve secured him to a heavy wooden chair by tying his ankles to the front legs and by binding his hands behind the back of the chair using the strip of latex with which he’d tied off his arm.

Both of them are nude but I’ve slipped the boots back onto the Mexican. I’ve given white boy his shoes back, too. I like it when they die with their footwear on.

I don’t need to gag them. This complex is such a rathole that it’s never more than half full. Right now, my unit is the only one occupied in this building. My closest neighbor is six units and a firewall away. She’s eighty and is so deaf she runs the TV at full volume. Cocky rich boy gets to scream. I place his chair at the foot of the bed so he can get a close-up view.

The kid had convulsed a couple of times, so he’s not fully awake. He’s in a fugue state, drooling and staring dully through half-open eyes. Time to mount up, though; the Mexican is starting to wake up. I press myself down onto him, pushing his knees up to his chest while I thrust my dick into his vulnerable ass. This position, as I’ve indicated before, pins the fuckmeat to the bed so he can’t get any leverage while still leaving my hands free.

The spic yells as my thick cock tears into his tight rectum; I’m inflicting a lot of pain. I love ripping virgin holes open. His yell becomes a torrent of Spanish; he’s screaming at the top of his lungs. It doesn’t go on for long. I place a wooden rod—a sawn-off broom handle, actually—across his throat. I grip one end in each hand and lean forward with my entire weight. The stream of babble is cut off with a croak.

His screams have woken white boy up a little. He’s still not quite capable of speaking, but he’s aware of what’s happening as he watches me rape and strangle the dealer. There’s nothing like a nice preview of coming attractions, and I make sure he gets the full benefit.

“Look at him,” I snarl at the kid, “watch him die. See the pain and fear in his face. He’s gonna die riding my cock. You’re gonna die like this too, but I’m gonna hurt you more. This little fucker is dying so I can cum. Watch him fight—it won’t go on long. By the time I’m done, he’ll want my load so bad he’ll cum himself. Won’t even have to touch his dick. See? Look down here. His thick uncut dick is hard already. He knows he’s dying like a bitch with my cock jammed up inside him. He’s fighting because he thinks he wants to live, but his hard cock knows better. He wants to end his life filled with my spunk…”

The spic is turning his head from side to side, trying to get out from under the rod across his throat. It’s hopeless and his panic is getting worse because he can understand every word I’m saying. He stops trying to escape and stares at me in horror, blood vessels already starting to burst in his bulging eyes. His purple, foam-flecked lips are moving; if he could speak, he’d be begging for his life. He’s helpless. He has no choice but to lie there and take my cock while I choke the life out of him.

“Oh yeah,” I moan, pumping my meat into the spic’s trembling hole. I stare into the white kid’s terror-filled face. “Watch this. Watch me get off by taking this little fuck down. Little fuckin’ bitch is gonna cum so hard when he dies. All you little bitches want to go out full of cum. You’re gonna love getting killed with my load inside you.”

Now I’m talking directly to the Mexican. “You want it, cholo? You want my hot jizz? Work for it. Die for it. Die, motherfucker; make me cum!”

The spic is looking at me desperately, searching for a sign of pity. There is none. I spit in his face and his mouth, aiming for his swollen, protruding tongue. I ease the pressure on his neck for a brief moment only so I can throw myself back onto him with more force. I do major damage this time.

There’s a low crunchy sound as I crush the spic’s larynx. His final frantic gasp for air ends in a short guttural hiss. It’s obvious the pain is excruciating; he draws his legs in sharply, the heels of his cowboy boots digging into my ass. His entire face is purple and his brain is dying. His death throes become a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, he’s tightening his legs and clamping his quivering fuckhole down to the very base of my cock. Cursing violently, I shoot a wad into his ass with each jerk. His own massive uncut tool blows thick gobs of spunk in synch. One particularly intense convulsion launches a stream of semen over the spic’s head; it splashes on rich boy’s firm belly.

I’m still cumming and spitting in the Mexican’s face as his convulsions fade into a gentle trembling. When he goes limp, I collapse on top of him, exhausted. I kiss him deeply, my tongue roaming in his mouth, feeling his own thick, swollen tongue. I look up into the kid’s tear-stained face. “He had it easy,” I tell him. “I’m using an ice pick on you.”

His terrified moans lull me to sleep, my dick still stuffed up the spic’s ass.

The kid is unconscious when I wake up. This makes positioning him on the bed easier—not that he’d have any fight left in him. The heroin has worn off by now, but he’s been strapped to that chair for more than thirteen hours. I’m willing to bet he can’t feel his arms or legs.

And he’s still in deep psychological shock after watching his dealer die while getting raped. There’s nothing like letting the fuckmeat stew in its own mental juices.

I tie him face down on the bed, spread-eagled. A length of nylon cord around each wrist and ankle is secured to one of the legs of the bed frame. He’s waking up and starting to struggle, but he stops when he sees where he is.

I never took the spic off the bed. White boy has been tied face down onto the rotting corpse. His face is pressed against the dead Mexican’s; he can stare directly into the beautiful cloudy eyes. He starts moaning and blubbering.

I stand right in front of him at the foot of the bed. “Look at me, you little fuck,” I say, snapping my fingers. “Up here. This is what’s gonna happen. I’ve got two things I’m gonna stick in you. One is my dick. See how hard it is? I’m gonna love plowing your hole. Hurting you is gonna feel so good. The other thing I’m gonna stick into you is this ice pick. If I’m careful, I can do a lot of damage before you die. But understand this, you fuckin’ punk bitch, you’re gonna die. And you’re gonna love it, you little snuff pig. Oh, you’re gonna fight, and you’re gonna scream in agony from pain you’ve never dreamed possible, but in the end you’ll be so grateful for the death I bring you that you’ll shoot your wad.”

I spit on him, and then smile coldly. “You’ll love dying, punk. It’ll get you off.”

He understands me. He’s sobbing brokenly as I force myself into him. He tries to resist but I tear relentlessly into his sweet tender ass, shredding his rectum with my fat thick tool, making him bleed internally. I lie quietly on top of him for a moment, letting him settle back down onto the dead spic beneath him. I didn’t show him the bottle of poppers I’d placed on the bed. Bet he’s never even heard of them. It’s gonna be hot, watching his reactions…

I insert the ice pick into his kidney, slowly, sensuously. As long as I avoid major organs and blood vessels, I can do this for quite a while without killing him. He cries out and writhes, his body wriggling erotically against mine. Little fuckin’ snuff punk, he loves it for all that he cries and pleads for me to stop. He loves getting penetrated…

He needs some pillow talk. I whisper to him. “I know, I know. You got up today with raging morning wood. Your first thought was about getting high. You pulled on your tight clothes and laced up those hot kicks that are still on your feet. And not once did you think that you’d end the day dying with a thick cock jammed up your ass. But you’ve always wanted this. Inside, you’ve always wanted a man to overwhelm you and dominate you to the point when pain and death and orgasm fuse into a single burning, agonizing blast of spunk…”

Laying down the ice pick, I seal his mouth with one hand and hold the poppers to his nose. I keep it there for a while. When he becomes still and quiet, I start inserting to ice pick lovingly into his side. After it was in up to the handle, I removed it and stuck it in slowly elsewhere. I filled his back and sides with holes. There wasn’t much of a mess; most of the bleeding was internal.

Oh yeah, the little fuck bitch was getting off. He was still sobbing and begging for his life, but the moans he gave when I timed the slow thrust of my cock to the insertion of the ice pick told the true story. They were moans of pleasure. He’s getting fucked by two tools at once.

“You like that, you dying little faggot? You like having me inside you, having my cold hard steel inside your body? It hurts so good your dick is hard, fuckmeat. Are you ready for it? Are you ready for the final agony, the one that’s gonna make you blow your load all over that dead spic underneath you?”

He’s screaming now, pleading for his life in mindless terror. His body is ready, though. His erect rod is poking at the Mexican’s flaccid scrotum; I can hear the balls slapping with each jab. He’s ready to shoot.

I give him another rush with the poppers and force his head down, face turned to the side. Pinning him down with one hand in his blond hair, I slam the ice pick through his ear and into his brain.

Oh my god, I love brain trauma. Brain damage makes the fuckmeat really work my cock. The kid convulses wildly and I ride him like a bucking bronco while reaming the inside of his skull with the ice pick. I’ve rammed it into the part of the brain stem that controls orgasm. I can’t see the stream of cum that he shoots, but it’s flowing down the Mexican’s sides like water. I’ve short-circuited his brain to produce an orgasm that utterly drains his balls.

The kid’s uncontrollable jerking and flopping are yanking the spunk out of me. As I shoot, I keep skullfucking the punk’s head with the ice pick, totally destroying his brain. When I’ve stopped unloading, there’s nothing left but quivering meat.

I instantly start falling asleep. I burrow down and pull the bodies on top of me like blankets—one cold and stiff, the other warm and twitching, both drenched with jizz.

I fuck them each in turns during the night. The first time, I shoot my wad down the kid’s throat while piercing the Mexican’s cock and balls with the ice pick. The second time, I wedge my hard dick down past the spic’s enlarged tongue. I insert the ice pick into the kid’s urethra and I’m stabbing his bladder when I blow my load. The spic’s throat is so crushed that it’s completely blocked. I shoot so much cum that the Mexican’s mouth overflows and it trickles down his face.

Later on, I cut off their cocks and scrotums, shoving each into the other’s mouth before sealing it with duct tape. There’s an abandoned crack house six blocks away. I bind the kid’s hands—I’d never untied the spic—and shove them both into the crawlspace under the house. They’re gonna have to rot a long time before the smell alerts anyone. By the time they’re found, all the evidence will look like gang drug activity.

I feel better. I’ve saved one, perhaps two lost souls. Still not sure about the dealer. Either way, it doesn’t matter. What’s important is how much fun I had with two of them. I’ll keep my eyes open in the future. The opportunity may not come up, but if it does, I’ll be ready.

Fantasy Scenario 2

I looked down at the boy-whore I’d tied to the bed and wondered when he’d wake up. Or if; I’d hit him pretty hard. I hoped he would. I wanted him to be awake. It’s not as much fun if they don’t know they’re dying.

He’d been hustling as hard as he could. I spotted him turning the corner off the main drag and had followed him down a side street to pick him up, making damn sure no one saw him get into my car. It looked like he’d struck out so far tonight, which was surprising. He was short but muscular, very well built, with long hair worn in a kind of mullet. And there was no question he was on the make. Combat boots and jean cutoffs, with nothing but a leather vest above, showing his sculpted chest and abs—he might as well have had “slut” tattooed on his forehead.

Perfect. He’d probably fight, but there are ways to solve that problem. And no one misses the whores.

As it turned out, there was no fight. He asked me to pull up in an alleyway so he could run into a house about halfway down and buy some crack. The tire iron I keep in the back seat comes in handy sometimes; he was just turning to open the door when I cracked him in the skull with it. Instant ragdoll.

Not for the first time, I was glad that I’d rented a miserable little apartment in a bad neighborhood. As none of the exterior lights ever worked, no one saw me carry my latest fuckmeat inside. I laid him facedown on the bed and pulled his shorts off. He got to keep his boots and vest—they were no obstruction to my fucking him.

I locked him into place by looping lengths of rope around his boots and tying each one to opposite sides of the headboard so his legs would stay spread. While cuffing his hands in front of him so they’d be pinned under his body, I noticed a trickle of blood from his ear and wondered if I’d fractured his skull. I’d still fuck him, of course, but it’d be a shame if he didn’t wake up.

Fucking them feels good, but inflicting pain and terror gets me off. What can I say? I’m a sick fuck.

But I have a helluva good time.

And I was gonna make sure this kid had a helluva bad time.

My first thought had been simply to hold his face down in the mattress and suffocate him, but I decided that just wouldn’t hurt enough. I went to the dresser and pulled two items from the top drawer. One was a bottle of poppers. I use them on occasion, but they’re mostly for the fuckmeat. I’ve gotten very good at closing off their mouth and one nostril with only one hand. I hold the bottle in the other; with only one nostril to breathe through, I can force the fumes on them anytime I want. You’d be amazed at how much a nice strong rush helps at the end. Makes them really work my cock. I usually don’t use it if I’m strangling them; they’ll thrash and cum on their own. But if I’m doing something else, a good hit of the poppers helps them shoot, no matter how much agony they’re in.

And this little bitch was going to be in a lot of pain. The other item I removed from the drawer was a razor-sharp hunting knife.

I was stroking my shaft, getting warmed up when the fuckmeat started moaning. Good; he was waking up. I looked at the knife again and thought about the agony I’d be putting him though. The thought made the head of my dick drip. It also put me in mind of the thin walls in this fleabag.

He still hadn’t fully regained consciousness when I fastened the ballgag onto him. One of these days I’m gonna have to build a soundproof room somewhere. I like it when they scream.

He was just starting to struggle when I slammed my tool into his ass. The gag muffled his screams, but he still made a lot of noise.

“Shut up, bitch,” I snarled. “This is what you were looking for. Shut up and enjoy it; you’ll get paid well when I’m done.”

He calmed down. I could feel his firm, smooth body relax under me. Rough play was familiar to him; he’d probably whored himself out for worse. He was likely more pissed than anything else, but he’d take it if it meant more money to buy crack. Even having his hands cuffed in front of him wasn’t too uncomfortable so far since I hadn’t rested my full body weight on top of him yet.

I slammed myself down onto him, thrusting my dick deep inside as he let out another stifled scream. I reached up and pinched off his nose, counting out a good thirty seconds as he writhed and fought. Releasing one nostril, I brought up the bottle of poppers and held there for a count of twenty.

As the rush swept over him, I held the knife in front of his face.

“This is for you,” I whispered into his ear. “I’m gonna ram this into you the way I’m ramming your bitch asshole with my dick. I’m gonna stick you like a pig and fuck you while you bleed out. You’re gonna die impaled on my cock and my blade. It’s gonna hurt bad, fuckmeat; it’s gonna hurt so bad when I twist my cold hard steel inside your quivering flesh. My cum is gonna spurt inside you while your blood is spurting out.”

Excellent. He went into full wide-eyed terror. I controlled his panicked attempts to break free; the only result of his frenzied fight to escape death was the movement of his ass on my rod. Nothing feels so good on my cock like fuckmeat fighting futilely for its life.

“Work it, bitch,” I moaned, “work my dick. If you can make me shoot before I shank you, I’ll let you live.” A promise that I could give freely. Shanking him was what was going to make me shoot.

Damn, his little whore ass was good. He’d had a lot of experience. And the hope of staying alive was powerful motivation. Time for another blast of poppers.

Then it’d be time to kill that hope—along with the rest of him.

I held the bottle to his nose much longer this time. Almost too long—he passed out for a moment. His limp body bobbed on the bed in time to the thrusting of my hips.

As soon as he raised his head again, I bent down to whisper in his ear. “Guess what, ya little bitch? I lied—gonna shank ya anyway. Time to die like the useless garbage you are, you fuckin’ whore. Gonna bleed you out and let you die like a dog so I can blow my load. Gonna use your meat as a cumdump and throw you away to fester and rot.”

I filled his final minutes on earth with mind-bending terror and pain. Clenching his hair in my left hand, I forced his head down into the mattress. With my right hand, I rammed the knife through his leather vest into his kidney. I brutally twisted the knife in the wound, carving and slicing into his flesh and organs.

Oh god, how hard he rode my cock. The agonized writhing of his ass milked the spunk out of my shaft. I pulled the knife out and thrust it in again—and again, and again, each time grinding into the wound to inflict as much pain and damage as possible. Each thrust of the knife was accompanied by a spray of cum into the fuckmeat’s ass.

A pool of moisture was forming under the whore’s belly. Not blood; most of the bleeding was internal. It was spunk and it couldn’t have been a reflex. In the end, amid all the fear and pain, the meat had understood that he had always wanted to die as a fucktoy and had shot his final wad. They always do. Deep down inside, they all want to get fucked to death.

I stabbed him a dozen times, filling him with cum each time. I avoided the major organs at first, but at the end, I slammed the knife into his heart with all the force I could, shattering a rib on the way in. The kid went rigid with the death blow, his breath forced out of him in a long, low moan. He bent his body backwards, trying to draw in air; his cheek brushed against mine. It was a vain effort. His lung had collapsed and his quivering heart was slicing itself to shreds on the knife still buried in his back. His body jerked twice, squeezing the last few drops of sperm from my cock. Then he went limp.

I don’t do the whores again after I’ve wasted them. It doesn’t matter how pretty their meat is; they’re whores and death does not purify them. They’re fun for playtime, but they remain unworthy of my love. All that was left now was rotting meat, to be taken out with the rest of the trash. I don’t even bother dismembering them; I know a nice dry creek bed that’s completely secluded. By the time the corpse is found, rain runoff will have washed it miles from the point I dumped it and time will have taken care of the details.

Of course, by the next time it rains, there may be more than one body to wash away. Who knows? There are so many whores out there; whores who in depths of their sick hearts crave the death that I bring them. This is my true calling—to bring peace and rest to those in need.