RCSS–Going Rogue

Dan sat in the cab of the pickup, his buzzcut blond hair glinting the in rays of the setting sun that came in through the passenger window.  Even though the hot and steamy day was becoming an unpleasantly humid evening, the cop kept the engine off and the windows down.  He was watching.

 

It wasn’t an official stakeout; he was in his personal vehicle.  Backed off the road into the brush, he was keeping his icy blue eyes pointed to a spot a couple of hundred yards down the road where a gravel track branched off, leading back some distance.  At the end of the track, well out of sight, was Brody’s trailer.

 

Dan knew that Brody was gonna make a move tonight.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.  It had been Pete’s day off, but like a loyal young soldier, he’d kept an eye on the place until Dan left the sheriff’s office for the day and headed out to meet him.

 

“Yeah, he left once,” Pete had reported.  “When down to the corner store an’ got gas and beer.  If he’d gone any farther, I’da called, but he went back home.  So ya really think he’s gonna be up to somethin’ here soon?”

 

“I did a little research on this Josh Perez punk he says he’s gonna question.  Kid’s a worthless little faggot with a couple of public lewdness charges, but if he has anything to do with the drug trade in this county, it’s as an end user.  And Brody knows it.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“’Cause Brody was arrested along with Josh on one of those charges.  No charges ever filed, though—not enough evidence.  Seems Brody never actually exposed himself.  And Josh was so damn drunk he didn’t remember any of it, according to the file–claimed he didn’t know or recognize Brody.  So nothing happened.”

 

“Brody already knows Josh,” Pete said—a statement, not a question, muttered in a tone of disgusted betrayal.  “Son-of-a-bitch…” he muttered slowly.  “But you think he’s gonna make his move soon?”

 

“Yeah.  I can feel it.  It’s Friday night, it’s hot and humid and there’ll be a full moon—look.”  He nodded to the eat where the moon already hung over the horizon, pale and huge in the waning sunlight, already starting to slide under a cloud bank that had bubbled up from nowhere.  “Prime rutting season for a rogue predator male.”

 

“Uh, look, Cap,” Pete said, almost bashfully, “If anything, um, comes up—you’ll call me?  I mean you said yerself he could take us individually.”

 

“I said we’d have a hard time with him individually—but don’t worry, dude,” Dan said smilingly, “I’m just watching, no matter what he does.  I’m just going to watch him and see how he handles himself.”

 

Pete gave him a quizzical look.  In response, Dan said, “Don’t forget—he’s supposed to let me know he’s going out after the kid, but he could simply forget that.  I want to see what he actually does with Josh.”

 

The younger cop’s scruffy, boyishly handsome face twisted into a leer.  “You’re gonna watch him snuff that fag.”

 

Dan’s answering smile was colder and grimmer.  “Why not?  Whatever else happens, at least it’ll be one less homo in my county.”

 

A few more parting civilities and Pete headed off to the gym, intent on relieving his physical tensions with a demanding workout.  Dan was left, watching and waiting, no less intent on relieving his suspicions about a possible psycho fag killer.

 

After all, Dan didn’t mind a dead faggot or two, especially if he was the one who made them dead, but there was a limit.  There had to be control.  There had to be Authority, and Brody was flying in the face of Authority.  Loose cannons were dangerous and had to be disposed of, quickly and effectively.

 

The buff police captain sat and watched for his mark, his huge, muscle-bound body tense and ready for action at any time.  No matter when Brody appeared or what he attempted to do, Dan would be prepared.

 


 

He didn’t have long to wait.  Dusk didn’t last long at this latitude; with the clouds closing in quickly, darkness closed in even more quickly—and darkness was what drew the predator from his lair.  Dan spotted a pair of headlights bouncing down the potholed gravel drive, but kept his cool, not starting his engine until Brody was almost a half mile down the road towards Corrington.  After that, it was easy to follow him, at least until he got into the town itself.

 

Corrington was a small place, but on Friday night, everyone from the outlying villages and farms came into town to get drunk.  Brody’s black pickup could have been easily lost in the sea of other big black trucks on the streets, but he’d jacked it up high enough to stand out.  Dan followed it discreetly into the parking lot of The Well.

 

Dan had no intention of following Brody into the bar; his face would be instantly recognized—by the bouncer and bartender, if no one else; he was the local law, after all.  He decided to just sit and wait, parking at the far end of a row where he could keep an eye on the back door—the way Brody had entered the place—without being immediately seen by anyone leaving.

 

It took about forty-five minutes.  Dan had been prepared to wait much longer; he was rather surprised at how quickly Brody and Josh came out.  He was also surprised at Brody’s brazenness, practically dragging his victim out the door.  And his victim wasn’t going quietly.

 

It wasn’t that Josh was resisting; on the contrary, he was drunk and vocally horny.

 

Josh was young—far too young to be in the bar; he wasn’t yet twenty.  He got around that handily enough by sucking the dicks of the bouncer and the bartender and anyone else inside who might cause a problem.  He had some money; for this little burg, he was considered a rich kid.  His dad managed one of the larger farms, located about fifteen miles northwest of town.

 

Josh was known for coming into town on Friday night and not making it back out to the farm until late Monday morning—afternoon, sometimes.  His father kept getting pissed and threatening to put him to work, but never got around to it; largely because he knew his faggot son’s uselessness.  It’d kill the boy’s mother to hear about it, though, so he kept his mouth shut.

 

Dan was well aware of the details of Josh’s life; having reviewed all available info in the files, he knew the kid was a worthless waste of human flesh.  But he also knew that the cocksucker didn’t have the ambition to get involved in any kind of drug trade.  He bought some shit all right, but nothing like China white.  He was into party drugs–molly, X, even roofies.  Fentanyl wouldn’t be his thing; it’d kill the mood.

 

Josh was evidently on something now, given the way he was staggering across the parking lot with Brody, although he could have just been drunk.  He had taken off his shirt—presuming he’d been wearing one—and his strong but not overly-muscled torso was smooth and shiny with sweat.  His dark, almost blue-black hair had been brushed up from his forehead at one point but was now disheveled and slick with perspiration; he had a patch of hair on his chin that was the same color.

 

Below the torso, he wore a pair of tight, worn Levi’s with a thick belt of brown, uncured leather circling his tight waist; he’d shoved a pair of Timberland boots on, leaving them half-laced and completely united.  It was easier to kick them off when he was ready to get fucked.  And the way his large, dark, bloodshot eyes kept turning to Brody, it was obvious that Josh was ready to get fucked.

 

Of course the little faggot was drawn to Brody.  The older dude was dressed similarly in faded skintight jeans and his half-laced Redwing construction boots.  Above, the buff sadist sported a sleeveless compression t-shirt in some dark shade that wasn’t clear in the uneven lighting of the parking lot.  He strode steadily and purposefully towards his truck, Josh following him with the eagerness of a puppy.

 

Dan knew that Josh didn’t have an address in town and figured it was unlikely that Brody would take his prey back to its own home.  Instead, he’d probably head back to his trailer, but Dan wanted to make certain.  Once the redneck alpha pulled his truck out of the Well’s lot, Dan started his engine and began following.  As soon as he confirmed that the big black pickup had turned onto the county road in the direction of Brody’s trailer, he fell back.  No sense in making the psycho paranoid.

 

And that’s exactly what Brody was to Dan, a psycho.  A killing machine, responsive only to transient emotions and sensations, not to reason.  Something easily distracted and overwhelmed by rage and lust.

 

Something blind to the value of Authority.

 

But he had to know.  He had to be sure.  He knew that, whatever happened, the odds of him overpowering the muscle-bound redneck in any physical altercation were at best fifty-fifty.  So he let Brody’s taillights vanish in the distance, giving the guy time to get home.  Time for Dan to watch him in the act.

 

Then, once his suspicions were confirmed—and only then—would he bring Pete on board and let him in on his plan.  No sense getting the kid mixed up in the messy details until Dan was certain they’d be needed.

 

By the time Dan got to the turning for Brody’s trailer, the latter was already home.  Turning off his headlights, the off-duty Captain slowly and carefully eased his pickup down the rutted gravel drive.  He stopped inside the tree line, about a half mile off the road, and walked the rest of the way.

 

As he approached the dilapidated single-wide trailer, he could hear music coming from inside.  Dance music—not Brody’s choice, surely; he preferred country.  Dan crept closer for a better look, but needed some help.  Even at six and a half feet, he wasn’t quite tall enough to look into any of the windows.  Glancing around, he spied exactly what he needed—a cinderblock.  Placing it below the living room window, he stood on it, carefully shifting his scuffed roper boots to maintain balance.

 

The window was covered with cheap plastic miniblinds; they had been closed, but they were warped and a number of them were broken.  By bending down slightly—he was too tall now—Dan was easily able to peer into the living room.

 

What he saw got his dick hard instantly.

 

Brody was leaning back in an old recliner.  Josh had stripped down to nothing his scuffed Timberlands and a pair of fire-engine red boxer briefs that clung to his groin like they’d been painted on, perfectly outlining his bulging package and erect, straining cock.  The boy had his arms up and his hands on the back of his head, arcing his back.

 

Little fucker was drunkenly giving Brody a lap dance.  Even from the window, Dan could see and easily interpret the gleam in Brody’s eye; the gyrating cocksucker was even closer, but was either too fucked up to notice—or just didn’t care.  As the cop watched, Josh reached down towards Brody’s lap, then quickly jerked his hands upward, pulling the buff older man’s compression t-shirt off over his head.  He tossed it idly to the side.

 

The boy was clearly indulging himself, writhing on the muscle-bound sadist’s lap, running his hands over Brody’s rock-hard pecs and lacing his fingers in the stud’s chest fur.  Dan shifted his boots on the cinderblock from time to time to keep the circulation flowing to his feet.  At the moment, it tended to pool near his aroused dick…

 

As the teenaged punk ground his taint over Brody’s bulging groin, he seemed to get more and more aroused himself.  The tentpole that formed in his skintight red boxers showed the dimensions of the homo’s dick; it wasn’t very long, but it was thick and meaty.  Already, a dark moist spot had formed on the thin cotton that covered the big bulbous head of his cock.

 

Brody’s trailer was old and hadn’t been top-of-the-line when new.  All the windows were single-glazed; sound penetrated them easily.  Josh started speaking, and even over the dance music, Dan could hear his words clearly.  “C’mon, man,” the punk whined, “I need dick.  I wantcha in me.  C’mon, gimme it, fucker!”

 

He climbed unsteadily off Brody’s lap and shut off the music coming from his phone, then grabbed Brody’s arm off the recliner and began tugging at it.  “C’mon!” Josh insisted, his dick all but visibly pulsating inside his boxers.  The boy’s eyes were lit with an intoxicated lust that was no less intense for not being rationalized.  He’d said all there was to say—he needed dick.

 

Brody stared evenly at him for a moment, then reset the recliner and rose to his feet.  As Dan watched, the horny young cocksucker allowed himself to be led into the bed, the smirk on his face telling Dan everything he needed to know.

 

For example, he knew he needed to move if he wanted a continued view of the action.

 

Dan hopped off the cinderblock, his boots hitting the gravel with a faint crunch that would have worried him had Brody not already closed the bedroom door behind him.  He moved down to the next window, but its blinds were closed and evidently there was something hanging over them on the inside; not even a crack of light emerged into the dark humid night.

 

Concerned, Dan prowled around the end of the trailer, which was no help—only a small, high window; this was the bathroom.  He continued around to the back, where he struck gold.  There was a small window into the bedroom that not only had the shades up, it was also perfectly positioned.  It was near the head of the bed, and separated from it only by the width of a nightstand.

 

Peering in, Dan realized he was less than a yard from where Josh was already flat on his back with his feet in the air.

 

The window was dirty—Brody never bothered to wash them—so the view wasn’t particularly clear; on the other hand, Dan realized that the film of dirt worked both ways.  He could practically press his face up against the glass and not be seen.  As it so happened, he didn’t need to get quite that close to be able to see what he wanted to see.

 

The bedroom was filthy, but the piles of clutter didn’t seem to have been there long.  Dan figured that Travis, despite his known uselessness, must have kept the place in some kind of order.  Evidently Brody needed a new house bitch.

 

Mounds of dirty clothes lined the walls.  One was directly opposite the window; on the top of a pair of filthy oil- and mud-stained pair of jeans was a pair of ten-inch Justin work boots, the tan leather uppers equally as mud-spattered.  Folded receipts and papers, some with Brody’s semi-literate scrawl on them, cascaded over the dresser, mixed with loose change, junk mail and unopened bills.

 

The dim yellow light in the overhead ceiling fan made the room look small and dingy.  The battered walls glared bleakly at each other across the confined space.  There was no sign of covering or pillows on the bed—the cheap stained fitted sheet was repelling, the thin, pale blue rayon becoming a downright repulsive shade.

 

It was clear, though, that Josh wasn’t there for the aesthetics.

 

The kid had already ditched his boxer briefs.  He was nude, his cock rising from a mass of black tangled pubes.  His slim, strong body was already slick with sweat that reeked of testosterone; the adolescent punk was so oversexed he seemed on the verge of losing control of himself.  His tan boots hung in the air as he pleaded with the hulking alpha.

 

“Lemme see it,” Josh was whining, intoxication adding a petulant tone to his usual uncontrolled horniness, “Whip that bad boy out an’ lemme see whatcha got.  I know a hunk like you’s gotta have a big ol’ dick…”

 

Brody, standing near the foot of the bed, only smiled mirthlessly and reached for his zipper.  He lowered it slowly and theatrically; it was obvious to Dan that he was enjoying himself immensely.  When Brody pulled his massive rod out of his jeans, the cop, having seen it before, already knew what to expect.

 

Josh didn’t.

 

“Holy fuck,” he whispered; even in his inebriated state, the faggot twink could tell that this enormous shaft was more than he could handle.  Not that he wasn’t willing to try.  “Dude, you gotta go slow with that.  Ya got any lube?”

 

Brody’s malevolent grin should have been both answer and warning enough; for the randy little homo hungry for cock, it was neither.

 

The older man climbed slowly onto the bed, his thick, throbbing rod dangling between his legs.  “Hey, boy, wanna hear somethin’ funny?  I’m workin’ with the cops—practically a goddam deputized po-po myself—and this is supposed t’ be an interrogation.”

 

“What?” Josh asked fuzzily, wondering what the hell Brody was going on about.

 

“See, I’m supposed to be askin’ ya about yer drug use…” Brody went on.  Josh looked confusedly up at the handsome redneck’s face.  In his bewilderment, he didn’t notice how the enormous dripping head of Brody’s cock was already pressing against his asshole, but Dan, with his ringside point of view, could see it perfectly.  He knew better than the faggot what was going to happen next.

 

“An’ I kinda wanted to go all good-cop bad-cop on ya,” the grinning muscular alpha continued, “But fuck, everyone knows yer a worthless druggie faggot—so, fuck, might as well spare the cops the trouble an’ just handle the whole thing myself.”

 

“Huh?” Josh blurted out, his face betraying the first signs of fear.  It was too late.  Brody launched himself at the prone twink, slamming his balled-up fist into the boy’s face while simultaneously spearing kid’s ass with his dick, shoving ruthlessly past the tight sphincter and sinking his shaft as deeply as he could into Josh’s guts.

 

The sudden attack even surprised Dan; the powerful redneck was good.  He hadn’t signaled his moves at all.  The Captain felt that his decision not to handle Brody alone was validated; he and Pete would need a plan to take out this strong-ass motherfucker.

 

If Dan had been surprised, Josh had been literally stunned.  Moaning, eyes rolled back in his head, the slim, firm body of the semiconscious faggot jerked as Brody thrust his cock inside it with long, brutal strokes.  For the moment, the boy was a living meat puppet, with the pumping of another man’s dick as its only moving force.

 

Dan gripped the windowsill tightly, forcing his hands to remain where they were and not seek out his painfully erect rod.

 

Brody bent over the limp, sweat-slick youth and slapped his face.  “C’mon, ya pussy, wake up.”  Josh groaned faintly, but gave no other response, so Brody backhanded him, harder.  The punk gave a louder groan and began blinking his eyes, a sign he was coming to.  “Jesus, whadda fuckin’ pansy,” Brody sneered, “You grow up the way I did, faggot, ya learn how to take a punch.”

 

Josh’s ascent to consciousness was more or less a climb into horrible torment.  His head pounded and ached from the blows he’d endured, but that was nothing next to the searing agony in his torn and bloody rectum.  Long before he was fully awake, the teen homo was sobbing with pain.

 

“S-st-stop!” he begged unable to get his bearing in the sea of agony he was foundering in, “F-fuck’s sa-sake, stop!”

 

“Aw, shaddup,” Brody sneered and bitchslapped the suffering teen.

 

Despite Brody’s derision, Josh had dealt with a certain amount of violence in the past—being an open cockwhore in a rural area had its risks and the boy had taken a certain amount of abuse.  He’d even been raped once, when he just happened to run across the team captain of the county high school’s baseball team one night after the dude had broken up with his girlfriend and gotten drunk…

 

But then again, he’d kinda known about the breakup.  And where Frank would be at that point.  And he’d enjoyed it.  This was different—much, much different.  It took a moment to catch his breath, but once he did, he made his displeasure known.

 

“HELP!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “HELP!! POLICE!!”

 

Dan knew perfectly well—and knew the Brody did too—that there wasn’t another inhabited residence within a mile.  But it still seemed to piss Brody off.

 

The look of vicious rage that contorted his roughly handsome face was terrifying.  Josh had experienced pain and fear so far this evening, but the expression on Brody’s face inspired sheer terror.  If he’d ever seen this look on the dude’s face he’d never have gone anywhere alone with him—and now here he was, overpowered and helpless, pinned to a bed by the gigantic dick of a heavily-muscled psycho.

 

But the flash of awareness came too late to save Josh from the brutal effects of Brody’s anger.  From his vantage point, Dan, with the keen instincts of a predator himself, had recognized the erotic look of fear in the faggot’s face.  Now his dick pulsed and ached as he witnessed how that fear was justified.

 

In his rage, Brody lost any control he ever had over his accent.  “Ah tole you to” (here he balled up his fist, drew it back, and drove it into Josh’s face, his huge bicep twanging like a bowstring as the helpless teen grunted out “huk!” loudly, involuntarily) “SHUT” (WHAM, grunt) “THE” (WHAM, grunt) “FUCK” (WHAM, moan) “UP!!” (WHAM, faint bleat).

 

Brody paused for a moment, on his knees, towering over the prone youth, his dick still firmly planted in the unfortunate faggot’s ass.  The sadistic alpha shook his hand out, grinning contemptuously down at the semiconscious adolescent.

 

Dan admired the fucker’s style.  It was a shame Brody was going rogue; he’d have been a great addition to the elite squad that Dan was planning to recruit.  But still, there was nothing without Authority, so he had no choice but to see that the redneck was put down like rabid dog.

 

Plus, the thought made him hard.  Well, harder.

 

But right now, he had a snuff to watch.

 

Brody bent back over the boy, planting his hands palm down on the bed beside the kid’s shoulders and began plowing his ass, reaming the punk’s fuckhole.  Each time the huge engorged head of the muscular alpha’s dick ground ruthlessly over Josh’s prostate, the boy moaned loudly, a deep, guttural sound.

 

And even though the rest of his lean, lithe body was limp, his cock not only remained stiff, it pulsed with each brutal thrust of Brody’s hips.

 

Dan was watching the scene intently but he was far too good a hunter to allow his attention to be completely absorbed.  He was aware of a faint flickering and could feel just the slightest hint of a breeze.  He withdrew mentally from the view in front of him just long enough to feel, rather than hear, a very faint rumble.  There was a storm brewing.

 

The Captain turned back to the window.  He wondered if Josh would live to see the rain.

 

Inside, Josh appeared to be starting to recover.  It was hard to tell, though; his face was battered and both eyes blackened and swollen.  The viciousness of the beating he’d received had left distinctive evidence on the boy’s face.

 

He brought his hands up to his face for a moment, then unexpected, shoved both arms up into Brody’s face and turned away, a uselessly feeble protest against the assault he was enduring.  Brody wasn’t having it.  He wrapped his thick muscled limb around Josh’s strong but overpowered right arm and with nothing more than an angry sneer and a quick, brutal jerk of his bicep, violently dislocated the kid’s elbow.

 

Josh screamed as tendons and ligaments tore, a high, thin screech, the raw sound of human suffering pushed past the point of endurance.  The lean, lithe punk writhed on the bed, the heels of his Timberland boots tracing furrows on the thin sheet as his legs flailed in agony.

 

As Dan watched, hard and leaking, Brody raised himself up over Josh.  Pinned to the bed, the boy looked up, his dark, puffy eyes awash in tears.  From this angle, the hard-muscled, furry torso of the older man filled his field of view; Josh had a close-up of those huge hairy pecs and thick jutting nipples that had enticed him so much, but now all that power was being used to hurt him.  He didn’t understand…

 

“W-why?” he managed to blurt out during his uncontrollable sobbing, “Why?”

 

As an answer, Brody punched him in the gut, his fist sinking deeply into Josh’s smooth, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the teen bellowed involuntarily, rising up into a near-sitting position as the air was forced out of his lungs, then flopping back limply.

 

There was a brief moment when Josh was still too stunned to even try to inhale; he merely lay on the bed, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, as he stared incredulously at Brody, his eyes as wide as their swollen lids would allow.

 

“Why?” Brody said, “Cause it gets me off, that’s why.  Hurtin’ dumbass little fags like you gets me hard, motherfucker.  Killin’ ya little cunts makes me cum.  That what ya wanted to know, boy?  I figured I wanted to drain my balls tonight an’ I picked you to drain ‘em into.  Now don’t that make ya feel special, queerboy?”

 

Josh’s face was a mottled purple as he choked and wheezed, then inhaled loudly and deeply.  As the leanly muscled adolescent suddenly convulsed with violent coughing, Brody, still on his knees looming over the prone youth, leaned back and guffawed loudly.  “Aintcha glad ya asked, boy?” he chortled with malevolent glee.

 

Josh was locked in a cycle of sucking in lots of air, only to expel it in a spasm of coughing.  His alcohol- and hormone-sodden brain was barely functional enough to handle Brody’s words, but he’d picked up enough to know that the searing pain in his asshole and the hot throbbing ache in his face were only hints of something worse.

 

He was right.  He managed, surprisingly quickly, to regain control over himself and stifled the coughing.  He needed to do something, think, something quick—

 

And that was when the flash lit up the room, overpowering the dim overhead light with the intense blue-white light of an electric arc.  Josh had turned his head to the side, straining away from Brody, so that while Brody was looking down at him, he was looking at the window.

 

In that split-second white-hot flash, Josh and Dan were staring each other directly in the eyes.

 

Then, as the thunder cracked like a pistol shot overhead, Brody’s big strong hands wrapped around Josh’s throat and squeezed it shut.

 

Panic seized Josh as his air was cut off.  He knew who Dan was—he’d lusted after the hulking police officer since he was fourteen—but the cop wasn’t doing anything.  He was just sitting there…watching…

 

Josh clawed at Brody’s hands, his fingers digging uselessly at the older man’s vise-like grip.  Once or twice, he reached out towards the window, his helpless fingers clutching at the empty air mere inches from Dan’s face.  The teen’s mute plea for help kept the cop’s dick achingly hard.

 

Brody, wrapped up in his bloodlust, ignored Josh’s movements.  In the hot, airless room, he pressed his heavy, sweat-lubed body onto Josh’s.  As Brody pumped his ass and throttled him, the slim teen felt the alpha’s powerful muscles working within his body as he raped and strangled the boy; even the thick, wiry chest fur that Josh had found so hot was painfully abrading his skin like steel wool.

 

“Yer a lazy piece of ass for a faggot,” Brody sneered, “Goddam homo don’t even know how to work a real man’s dick.”

 

The hardbodied redneck had pinned him to the bed and was using his body like a disposable fucktoy and there wasn’t a damn thing Josh could do about it.  And the more time went on, there was less he could do at all.

 

His handsome young face had already been beaten out of recognition; now, it was a hideous black mask.  Josh could barely see; his eyelids were horribly swollen and through the tiny slits that he was able to force open, his whites were starting to turn red with hemorrhaging blood vessels.  Convulsive movements of his enlarged tongue made him cough up white, foamy drool that trickled down his chin and lodged in the sad excuse for a soul patch on his chin.

 

His youthful body, flooded with adrenaline, kicked and thrashed in a frantic attempt at survival.  The impulse, which originated in the primitive brainstem, bypassed all rational thought.  If Josh had been capable of rational thought, he would have realized that raking and pummeling Brody’s taut, firm asscheeks with the heels of his Timberlands wouldn’t help him much.  It did help burn the oxygen in his bloodstream, though.

 

Brody knew what was happening; he’d so gotten off on snuffing Travis that every detail of death was engraved in his memory.  “Gettin’ close, aintcha, boy?” he whispered, bending down his head till his long, dark hair fell forward and brushed Josh’s black swollen cheeks.   “I can tell cause yer dick’s still hard,” the sadistic alpha chuckled and wrapped his massive, powerful hands even tighter around the suffering teen’s throat—he was able to lock his fingers in back.  Outside,  Dan had to strain to hear  Brody’s words over the rising breeze that swept up around him.

 

“I’m done, faggot,” the buff older man muttered hoarsely, the strain of holding back on orgasm telling in his voice, “Time to die, asswipe.  Gonna fuckin’ hose yer guts with my manseed, you piece a’ shit fag—AAARRGHHH!!!”

 

It was as if every muscle in his over-developed body went rigid at once.  His powerful legs tensed as he spewed a searing jet of spunk deep into Josh’s asshole.  At the same time, his hands clenched spasmodically, crushing the teen boy’s esophagus into a solid mass of gristle with a loud, cracking crunch.

 

Josh’s tongue was forced out of his mouth in gush of foamy spittle and his sperm was forced out of his cock in a geyser of pearly cum.

 

FUCK!” Brody roared, shuddering and spunking, “GODDAM CUNT!  FUCKIN—UHH!”

 

His hands tightened again, but this time was cracking sound was more brittle.  Brody had not only crushed Josh’s hyoid bone, he’d shattered the C-3 cervical vertebra, the razor-sharp shards of bone slicing through the helpless adolescent’s spinal column.

 

The boy only felt one final nightmarish shock that ended an eternity in hell; he never knew that the horrible pain had been one last explosive orgasm triggered by the massive trauma to his nervous system.  His entire body suddenly contracted around Brody as the arms, flung wildly around the alpha’s head and his legs, wrapped around Brody’s waist, convulsed and tightened inexorably.  The corpse’s feet kicked and shuddered so violently that one of Josh’s Timbs flipped off and tumbled onto the floor under the window.

 

Dan clutched the windowsill tightly, desperately ignoring the nearly irresistible straining in his groin.  Brody screamed again, loudly and inarticulately, as he shot another load up the dead kid’s ass and Dan let go.  He maintained enough control to remain rigid and upright as he creamed his jeans—

 

—then the sudden flash of lighting that burst overhead startled even him, and the cop toppled sideways off the cinderblock to the bare turf below.  Simultaneously, the apocalyptic explosion of thunder, so loud it rattled the windows in the trailer, showed how swiftly the storm had approached.  It was almost on top the them.

 

Lying in the weed-strewn yard, Dan cursed for a moment, only for the sky to light up again.  As it did, he looked up at the window that had let him watch Josh get snuffed, and his heart skipped a beat.  Brody was standing there, looking out.

 

Or, rather, looking up.  He was staring at the sky, his handsome white trash face twisted into a smirk.  The fur on his broad chest, illuminated by the flickering lighting, was thickly matted with spunk.  He stood with his hands on his hips, his still-erect cock jutting out in front—and still dripping.  And Dan had inadvertently put himself in the position of prey; his view of Brody towering over him was nearly identical to that of the buff alpha’s victims.

 

When the redneck killer turned away, Dan got to his feet and quickly circled the trailer.  As he ducked through the woods, he could hear a faint but increasing patter as the rain started to fall.  He was lucky enough to make it back to his truck before the downpour started.  He sat in the driver’s seat, pondering for a moment.

 

He had no real fear of Brody, but there was deep concern.  The cop knew it was his duty to take out the rogue killer before he could imperil Authority in Rigler County—but Dan wasn’t in a position to act with impunity.  He wasn’t sheriff—yet.

 

This needed to be done discreetly and when Brody started putting up a fight—no ‘if’, just ‘when’—Dan would need to make certain that the hardbodied psycho could be contained quickly.  Unquestionably, he would need Pete’s help.  What was open to question was how much Pete could help.  The boy was young and buff, incredibly muscular—but would it be enough?

 

Dan started the truck and eased his way down the gravel track, creeping along at five miles an hour till the county road was in sight—he left his headlights off and avoided using the brakes as much as possible so as not to give Brody any kind of alert.  He drove directly home, thinking long and hard about how to proceed.  He’d need to talk to Pete tomorrow.  And in the meantime, he needed to wash the dried cum out of his jeans…

 


 

Dan needn’t have worried about drawing Brody’s attention; the powerful stud was otherwise occupied.

 

He’d instantly decided that the easiest way to dispose of the pile of still-quivering fagmeat was to wrap it up in the bedsheet and just dump it.  He wasn’t concerned about this one being found—fuck, he was workin’ with po-po, wasn’t he?  Of course, that didn’t mean he wanted it found in his crib.

 

Brody went into the living room and gathered up Josh’s discarded clothing.  He carried it back into the bedroom and tossed it onto the corpse.  He took a quick look around and, satisfied that he’d taken care of the evidence, began to loosen the sheet from the mattress.  After prying it loose on one side, he walked around to the other.

 

That was when he noticed the fag’s Timberland boot lying on the floor.  Snatching it up, he tossed it, too, onto the body, where it landed with a moist thump.  Gathering up the corners of the sheet, Brody took one last look at Josh.

 

The dead teen was on his back, with his head turned to the left, as if he’d spent his last few seconds on earth staring beseechingly out the window.  His grotesquely swollen face had faded from black to cyan blue, but the tongue protruding thickly from hit puffy, split lips was still a congested purple.  The homo’s corpse was still jerking; the spasms were far apart and getting farther, but one of them had caused the bundle of clothing to roll off his torso and lodge under his arm.  As a result, his boot had landed in the middle of a huge mass of half-congealed cum that had pooled on his chest.

 

It was hot and Brody felt his massive hog twitch at the sight.  Josh’s own dick, slowly—very slowly—receding from its profound erection, was still oozing pearly beads of lukewarm spunk.

 

Enough.  Brody brought all four corners—or as close as he could come with a fitted sheet—to the center and tied the whole thing into an enormous bundle.  As the sheet tightened around it, Josh’s corpse rolled to one side and curled into a fetal position around the Timberland boot.

 

Brody hefted the bundle easily and carried it out to his truck.  It was pouring rain as he stepped out the door, but it felt good.  Cool and soothing.  He threw the sack of fagmeat into the bed of his truck, then stood for a moment in the pounding rain, feeling it flow over his bare chest and wash the teen’s jizz out of his chest hair.  A brilliant flash of lighting and a low grumble of thunder recalled the redneck killer to himself.  He jumped into the cab of his truck, his skin-tight, sopping jean making a squishing sound as he sat in the driver’s seat.

 

With his headlights on, he was able to reach the county road much faster than Dan had been able to.  Like the Captain, he too, turned towards town—but Dan didn’t live in Corrington.  Heading towards the highway, the cop had sped past the intersection of the county road and the town’s main street.  Brody didn’t.

 

Pulling over just past the intersection, the buff, half-nude redneck got out of his truck, still indifferent, if not oblivious, to the downpour.  The rain had intensified to the point that it was almost blinding.  When Brody bent over the bed of the truck to haul the body out, he could see that the thin rayon was virtually transparent, clinging to Josh’s corpse like wet newspaper.

 

A flash of lighting, so close that it illuminated the scene in polarized hues of blue-white and blue-black, played about the sick alpha’s head as he loomed over the dead teen, grinning with evil pleasure at the memory of snuffing him.  He reached in and hoisted the sodden bundle of fabric, boots and boymeat out of the bed, then turned around.

 

Directly behind him was a drainage ditch that ran parallel to Main Street.  About four feet deep and equally as wide, it passed under the county road in a culvert formed from a concrete pipe, slightly smaller in diameter—about a yard wide.  The ditch was already half full, water rushing madly past its grassy banks towards the culvert.

 

Yeah, that’d work to dump the cumdump.

 

With a quick heave of his powerful arms, Brody tossed the teenager’s raped and murdered corpse into the swiftly-flowing channel.   It sank like a brick, the water backing up momentarily before washing around and over it.

 

As Brody headed back to the truck, his Redwing boots sank in the mud.  When he got to the road, he paused and scraped his soles on the edge of the asphalt; he didn’t want to track filth into his truck.  After all, he’d just thrown a pile of filth out of it.

 


 

Both Brody and Dan made it safely to their homes that night, but Josh was not the only one who didn’t.  The storms grew stronger overnight, resulting in flooding in several parts of the county.  The highway was clogged with enough accidents that the state police had to be called out.  The sheriff’s department was inundated with requests for help.

 

Just before daybreak, Dan was woken by his phone; he was needed.  The call was particularly tragic; a family of five in a minivan had pulled off the highway for gas, gotten lost, and had driven into high water on one of the low-lying roads on the west side of the county.  The vehicle had been washed off the road before help could arrive; Dan had to superintend its retrieval from ten feet of water some two hundred yards downstream of the road.  Immediately after, he was given word that the county rest home was flooding…

 

It was like that everywhere across the county.  As a result, it wasn’t until late that afternoon that a county road works truck arrived at the intersection of Main Street and the county road to investigate what had blocked the drainage and caused water to back up over the crossroads.  The discovery of the corpse of a young male, evidently washed down the ditch and lodged in the culvert, let to a call to the sheriff’s office; the fact that it seemed to have been sexually assaulted and murdered, was entered into the long list of events that the officers needed to process.

 

As the body was being wheeled into the morgue, the report on its discovery landed on Dan’s desk, two flights up.  By this time, it had been identified—Josh’s wallet, with his driver’s license and seven dollars in cash had been found in a pocket of the jeans.  Dan didn’t bother to read it; he knew more about it than what would be in the report.

 

He leaned back in his chair and sighed.  It was late—past nine in the evening—but he was waiting to see Pete.  The younger cop had been assigned the second shift rotation that started today and was out on a call, but Dan expected him back soon.  They had both been too busy during the day to speak; in the same way Dan had worked late, Pete had been called in early.

 

As if on cue, Dan heard the heavy tread of Pete’s Danner Tachyon boots on the tile out in the hall.  After a quick double tap at the door, the buff, dark-haired cop entered, his face somewhat hard with the stress of the day.

 

“So?” he asked abruptly, “What happened last night?”

 

Dan tossed him the file he’d just gotten.  “Here.  That’s what happened last night.”

 

Pete looked at the Captain curiously, then read through the file.  “Damn.  Dude got rough.  This is exactly what the fuck happened to that first one.”

 

“Travis, yeah.”

 

“You saw it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

A lascivious leer crossed Pete’s face.

 

“Wipe that grin off your face, boy,” Dan snapped, “This was done in direct contradiction to orders.  He has disrespected Authority, and that makes him a murderer.”

 

“Yes sir!” Pete responded, his own respect for Authority plainly obvious.

 

Dan slowly rose to his feet.  Placing his hands flat on the desk, he leaned over it, his powerful body straining his khaki button-down as he looked Pete directly in the eyes.  “We need to take him down.  Just us, you and me.  And even with two of us, it’s gonna be tough.  He’s strong, boy.”

 

He paused, but Pete could tell he wasn’t done talking yet.  There was something about Dan’s manner that made Pete feel as if the older cop was trying to break something to him tactfully.

 

“Frankly, Pete, you’re good—but I need you better.  I need you bigger.  I need you stronger.  When we finally take this motherfucker head-on, I need to know that you’ll be prepared to back me up.  Do you understand?”

 

Pete did, actually.  He’d admired the sheer physical strength that had allowed Dan to enforce Authority properly and had already increased the number of workouts he was doing during the week.  Now, he decided, he’d intensify the workouts themselves.

 

“Good,” Dan said, not needing a reply; he’d seen Pete’s acceptance in his eyes.  “You got two weeks.  You’re nearly there, man, but we need to be certain we can overpower him when the time comes.”

 

An evil grin flashed over Dan’s face, identical to the one Pete had displayed earlier.  “Then we can show that sick faggot-fucker what’s what.”

 

Pete returned the grin with no fear of contradiction this time.

 

“In the meantime,” Dan said offhandedly, “If you get some time during the night, go down and take a look at Brody’s handiwork.  Motivate yourself for what you need to do.  I’m heading out, but I’ll be on call if I’m needed.  Looks like the worst of the flooding has subsided, at least.”

 

With that they parted, Pete heading downstairs as Dan locked up.

 

Dan had been right—the flooding had died down; the rest of Pete’s evening was quiet and mostly confined to completing reports.  He was able to leave at the end of his shift, and true to his word, headed down to the basement and the morgue.  Since the whole building was considered secure, there was no particular guard on the morgue itself and everyone on the force knew the code to the door lock.

 

It was just a few minutes past midnight.  The place had been fairly full earlier but a number of funeral homes around the county had sprung into action; at one point in the afternoon, there had been five hearses in a line, waiting for their place at the loading dock.  The  morgue—more a cold storage locker; actual autopsies were done at the Medical Examiner’s office—was still something of a mess.

 

The far end had nine of the traditional old-fashioned sliding drawers in three tiers of three; half of them were part-way open and all of them were empty.  Much of the floor space was taken up with gurneys, mostly bare, with an occasional empty body bag dangling limply off the sides.

 

Two of the gurneys were occupied.  There was one immediately to the left of the door; from where he stood, Pete could clearly read “Jane Doe” printed on the tag connected to the black plastic body bag.  He crossed to the other cart—it was located closer to the rear of the room, on the right side, up against the wall.  Pete had to move a couple of empty gurneys out of the way to reach it.

 

He unzipped the bag and opened it out, inverting down over the sides of the cart, leaving Josh’s abused body nude and exposed under the glaring fluorescents.  The teen’s corpse was now dry by now and rigor had passed, leaving it rag-doll limp.  The dead boy’s skin had paled but his lips and fingernails were still dusky shade of blue.  A milky film had formed over the half-lidded eyes.

 

The Timberland boot was still in the center of Josh’s chest; his body had curled around it, giving it some protection in the water.  The rest of his clothes, along with the remains of the sheet, were off to the side.

 

Pete could see the damage done to Josh’s throat.  It looked like the faggot had gotten his neck wrung.  It was obvious that the kid’s trachea had been crushed to gristle…and thinking about it, about the power needed to do it, about being able to wield that kind of power…

 

Pete felt himself getting hard.  Fuck yeah, he realized, this was what he wanted.  He wanted to be able to force little homos like this to obey Authority, the way Dan did.  The way Brody could, if he had the proper respect.

 

The hardbodied young cop scratched the wiry black scruff covering his left cheek—then lowered his hand to his zipper.  Lowering it, he pulled out his  throbbing dick–slowly, as if hypnotized…

 

He could see the scene now, not with Brody as a villain, but with himself as a hero, the squealing cocksucker foolishly resisting, bringing down the justifiable use of brute force on itself.  Pete stood over the corpse, one hand running over the cold flaccid flesh, the other stroking his huge, pulsing cock.  He was almost unconscious, lost in his own fantasy of physical strength righteously devoted to terminating criminal scum.

 

He imagined what the sensation of crushing the teen’s windpipe would feel like, what the look in the boy’s eyes would be as it suffered its well-deserved punishment.  His hand traveled down to Josh’s smooth thigh, his fingers scraping off fleck of dried cum.  Simultaneously, as he milked his long thick shaft furiously, the memory of driving a knife into Robbie Clebbs’ neck flashed before his eyes and the erotic joy of boysnuff, of watching the punk gag and die in the name of the law tripped Pete’s trigger.

 

“Fuck!” he shouted in a tight voice as a jet of cum shot from his pulsating rod and fell across Josh’s inert form.  Then the buff cop bent over and jerked spasmodically.  “GODDAM!  FUCK!!!”

 

As he cried out, he spewed a thick, ropy geyser of manspunk all over the adolescent’s body, from the face to the crotch.  Pete’s sperm pooled in Josh’s unseeing eyes, spattered across the tan Timberland boot still on his chest, and fell in thick pearly beads onto the kid’s matter pubes.

 

Pete staggered and fell back against the gurney behind him; luckily, the wheels on this one had been locked, so it held him up as he recovered his breath and his balance.

 

Fuck yeah, he was motivated.  He wanted to be able to do this to worthless criminal bitches.  He wanted to get off on snuffing for the good guys.

 

Unlike Brody, he was also aware of the need to remove evidence of his presence.  Not that he was worried about the consequences of his cum being found of the corpse; Brody had actually gotten it right in assuming that Dan could fix such things.  But Pete didn’t want Dan to need to do that, so he began to clean up.

 

He hadn’t expected to shoot a wad all over the corpse when he went to the morgue; he hadn’t thought to bring anything resembling a cumrag.  Glancing around, his eyes lighted on the next best thing—Josh’s red boxer briefs, still damp with ditchwater.  Pete carefully scrubbed his spunk out of the dead teen’s eyes and wiped down the Timb’s tan leather to remove the cum spots.  He finished up by wiping down and patting down the punk’s thick pubes, then balled the cotton boxers up and stuck them in his pocket.

 

Stuffing his tool back into his chinos, Pete carefully re-sealed the body bag, then left the morgue, flicking off the lights on his way out.  The sheriff’s department provided a gym; it was at the other end of the basement.  No one would be using it at this hour, but Pete was determined not to waste a moment in living up to Dan’s and his own expectations.

 

As he headed down the hall, Pete added a reminder on his phone to speak with Dan as soon as possible the next day.  While he didn’t want Dan to have to explain about his bodily fluids on a murder victim’s body, he had no qualms about asking the Captain to remove the reference to boxer briefs being found with the corpse.  He knew—correctly—that Dan had no problem with that; after all, the Captain had sent him there in the first place.

 

Freshly drained and fired up, Pete headed eagerly in the direction of the gym.  Brody was a monster, and it takes a monster to fight a monster.  Pete was looking forward to the encounter.

M4M4JO

It had been a rough week at work and Joe needed to vent.  His anger had been building for several days but tonight he was off and could blow off some steam.

 

He needed to find a nice piece of boymeat he could use to work off his backlog of rage and cum.

 

It’d been considerably longer than a week since he snuffed that faggot punk in the basement; he’d laid low for a while after it.  As an experienced serial killer, Joe knew the advantages of a low profile, but some of his kills drew media attention, and this latest one had stirred up the usual hornet’s nest of tearful relatives, blustering law enforcement, pandering politicians and bleating clergy.

 

He’d been lucky in getting a special assignment that kept him out of town for a couple of weeks—and the nature of the job itself had given him a certain satisfaction—but when he’d come back, he found it harder to restrain his innate desire to hunt.  And the job he’d just finished had managed to be frustrating without being challenging, so the tension kept rising.

 

Now, he was ready.  He’d eaten, slept and showered.  He stood nude in the center of his dimly-lit bedroom, the hall light silhouetting his well-muscled body on the far wall.  The classical male outline so starkly revealed was not so much that of Michelangelo’s “David” as that of the Hercules sculpted by Bandinelli as standing triumphantly over a submissive Cacus.

 

Except that Joe’s outline was larger and better developed—and somehow seemed to be more dominant.

 

After finishing his shower, he’d snagged a phone off his dresser on his way out the bathroom; it was the same phone from the meat who’d had the poppers—that was all Joe could remember about that kill, and the only reason he still remembered it was cause he was still using the cunt’s phone.  He knew he should dump it, especially after all the fuss that basement punk had caused, but he figured he could use it safely at least once more, especially if he avoided using the same app.

 

The next app he opened—the dead slut had several of them on his phone—seemed to aim at older, better developed men to the exclusion of twinks.  Joe found himself scrolling through the offerings with interest; there seemed to be a fair amount of Grade-A beef out there waiting to get slaughtered.

 

The actual number of possibilities was a little lower, of course; some of the profiles had pics that were a little too “professional” or had profiles that had a hint of catfishing.  Some had flat-out no info at all, including location.  No point in messing with those.  Joe had kept scrolling idly but was about ready to close the app and move on, when suddenly a new profile swept onto the screen.

 

The dude was no twink.  His photo, showing him from the waist up, revealed a thick torso, firm and fit, faintly shadowed by rust-colored body hair that ranged across his broad chest and down his flat belly.  Above, his face was smiling and friendly and covered with a dark red—almost walnut—beard.  The short hair on his head was the same shade but the attached moustache seemed slightly lighter.

 

The profile itself was intriguing—

 

“Tanner, 28, 6’2” 240 lbs: Looking for hot discrete dude for mutual JO @ my place.  HMU for chill fun n play.”

 

Joe thought he could have some fun—although the chill part would come later, at the morgue.  He contacted the dude, sending a pic of his torso only—not his face, and not the same pic he’d sent the basement punk.  No sense in being too obvious.

 

And in any case, it worked.  He pulled on a thin wifebeater, a size too small, that clung to his well-built chest.  It was stretched so thin that his dark, jutting nipples were as visible as if he was wearing nothing at all; as he slipped on a pair of equally tight jeans, soft and worn with age, the phone alerted.

 

“Hot c’mon by got good weed and some brew”; he sent Joe his map location.  The hardbodied alpha opened and studied it as he threaded a thick leather belt around his waist.  The location was on Lamar Boulevard several miles to the southeast, in a neighborhood notorious for high crime, low property values, and violence.  Even Joe, who knew how to handle himself, hesitated about going down there—and he damn sure didn’t want to park his vintage Camaro down there.

 

And just at that point another message came in from the same meat: “Park in back lot.  Gonna leave lock and chain on gate but unlocked.   Lock when u come in and ill let u out”

 

That made a difference. “Be there in 20” Joe responded, then pulled on a pair sixteen-inch black leather engineer boots, tightening the buckles at the top of the shafts.  The lower ones, around the insteps, needed no adjustment.  He stood and admired himself for a moment in the mirror, well aware of how his powerfully-muscled body, so well displayed in thin cotton and denim and thick leather, would appeal to any faggot.

 

That was exactly the look he was going for.  Like moths to a flame.  He chuckled malevolently and headed out to his car; in exactly eighteen minutes, he turned left onto Lamar, noting the number of people out on foot despite the lateness and the heat.  At least no one down here would see him—no one down here ever saw anything.

 

The address was a two-story building, a stark rectangular cube of cinderblock, covered in dingy white paint that was peeling off like scabs.  There were a pair of overhead doors on the left of that façade; on the right was an office.  The large windows that had been put in when the place was built had been bricked over and there was a rusty metal grille over the door.  “Denardo’s Garage” had been painted unsteadily over the door; it too was starting to fade and peel.

 

To the right of the office was a drive.  Joe pulled in and found an eight-foot chain link fence topped with razor wire, even on the gate.  There was a thick rusty chain around the gate’s post, but the lock, gleaming in his headlights, was fairly new—and hanging open.

 

He got out of the car and quickly opened the gate.  Tossing the chain and lock into the passenger seat, he pulled around to the rear of the building, noticing several vehicles in various stages of repair, including some that could only be used for parts—cars that seemed to be fairly new and suspiciously free of any obvious damage.  He parked next to a wooden set of stairs that led up to the second floor, but before he ascended, he walked back around the corner and locked the gate.  As he headed back, he was aware that the heavy tread of his boots thudding on the cracked pavement signaled his arrival if nothing else had.

 

He was right.  When he got to the top of the stairs, he found himself on a small and structurally questionable platform that functioned as a porch for a second-floor apartment.  A cooler and a cheap charcoal grill had been pushed to the far side but they still took up have the space.  The screen door to the apartment was closed, but the apartment door itself was open and Tanner stood there, gaping out at Joe’s muscled physique.

 

The porch light flicked on, immediately attracting insects that looped and fluttered in the white glow.  “Goddam,” Tanner muttered, “Yer pic was good, but damn, dude…”  He stared unabashedly at Joe’s package, so indelibly outlined by his skin-tight jeans.  Holding open the screen door with one hand, he motioned Joe in with the other—which was holding a can of Budweiser.

 

“I been workin’ late,” Tanner said as Joe entered, “Gotta keep the boss happy, ya know.  Just finished up about a half hour ago an’ I ain’t even showered yet, but I’m horny as fuck.”  He grinned, his pale blue eyes lighting up with pleasure.  Joe reached behind to lock the front door behind him—a standard precaution to prevent the meat from escaping—but Tanner moved him away from it, into the room.  He then locked the door himself, turning off the outside light as well.

 

“Don’t wanna be interrupted,” he said with a charmingly boyish grin, “Speakin’ a which, don’ lemme forget—I got the gate key in my pocket here.”  The buff alpha was amused, knowing how desperately the faggot would be praying for some kind of interruption in about, say, forty minutes or so.  He might come to regret all those locks…

 

Joe, an efficient and experienced killer, had already scoped out the situation as Tanner spoke, starting with Tanner himself.  That wasn’t hard—the guy was friendly, relatively innocent, and dumber than a sack of hammers.  He was also a bit more buff than most of Joe’s recent kills, and neither innocence nor stupidity precluded the ability to fight.  Especially if self-reservation was involved.

 

Tanner was wearing a grey sleeveless t-shirt with the armholes cut so deeply out that his sides were clearly visible; Joe could see the dude’s bristling underarm hair and the glistening sheen of sweat on his firm flanks.  He wore a pair of gym shorts that dangled to just above the knee, black with insets of luminous green; they seemed almost to match the Air Jordan 4 Retro “Green Glow” kicks he sported.  On his head was a camo trucker’s cap with an International Harvester logo.

 

“Workin’?  Whaddaya do?” Joe asked automatically, continuing to scan the room.

 

“I’m a mechanic, duh,” the hunk scoffed, “What else do ya think I’d be doin’ here?  Work for Denardo downstairs.  Ain’t too bad, either.  Pays me to work on cars for customers and lets me have this place for workin’ on his other—well, uh, I dunno where those other cars come from; I just part ‘em out like he tells me.  But I got this place and enough for my weed and beer, an’ I’m savin’ up to buy me a Harley.”

 

The place Tanner was so proud of was dingy and dilapidated.  There was a mismatched living room set with a massive, thirty-year old sleeper sofa covered with a cheap beige fleece blanket; only the arms were uncovered and they were stained and torn, leaking polyester fluff.  Next to it was as old loveseat with a “rustic” wood frame and thin cushions covered in dark green fabric.  Across from this was small TV sitting on a rolling set of plastic drawers that stood about a yard high.  There was one window in the front and one in the rear, overlooking the lot.

 

“I gotta take a leak,” Joe said abruptly.

 

Tanner was startled out of his reverie.  “Oh, uh, yeah, ok—um—down there, second door on the left.”

 

Joe headed down the short hallway.  The first opening on the left had no actual door; it was to a tiny kitchenette with a small window overlooking the street.  The bathroom was ancient, the white tile yellow with age, cracking and separating on the floor and around the tub.  Joe pissed for a few minutes, draining his bladder to better prepare for the other, more important draining to come, so to speak.

 

Leaving the bathroom, he took a quick glance at the room at the end of the hall, the bedroom.  Like the other rooms, it was small and sparsely furnished.  There was a cheap pine nightstand and a matching dresser. Both were scratched and chipped, and the mirror attached to the dresser had a crack meandering across the top.  The nightstand held a digital clock and an incredibly ugly lamp in harvest gold, with a dirty shade.  The double bed was stark, with a metal frame and no headboard, but the white sheets, if cheap and thin, were at least clean.  There was no other bedding in place, though—the synthetic wool blanket and the pillows were in a wad in the middle of the bed.

 

“You get lost, man?” Tanner called from the living room.  The twang in his voice revealed both his country upbringing and his level of intoxication; the more he drank, the more pronounced it grew.

 

“Naw, dude, jest checkin’ out yer sweet crib, man,” Joe replied, modulating his own voice to match that of the meat while also pitching it low and seductively, the human equivalent of a mating call.  He strode back into the living room to find Tanner had taken the opportunity to strip off his shirt and his shorts, tossing them onto the love seat.  He was lounging back on the sofa, showing off the almost-auburn body fur on his firm, broad chest and the thick fireplug of a cock already rising, semi-erect, from his russet pubes, nude but for his ped socks and his Nikes.  He was hotboxing a joint as quickly as he could, but he quickly offered it to Joe once the latter re-entered the room.  Joe enjoyed weed himself, when it was appropriate.  Just before a kill wasn’t appropriate.  He smiled and waved it off.

 

Tanner took another hit.  “Sorry,” he croaked, trying not to exhale, “Didja see my Beyoncé posters?”  Joe nodded; thumbtacked to the walls, they’d been the only things covering the sagging drywall in the bedroom.  “She’s a fine chick; I’d hit ‘er—”

 

Here he lost control and hacked up a huge cloud of fragrant blue smoke, coughing and wheezing.  It took a couple of minutes for him to regain enough control to continue speaking.  “I, uh—” he broke off and chuckled, grinning goofily at Joe, higher than a kite.  “I, uh, I ain’t gay, y’know?  I mean, I like it when another dude jacks me off, cause, like, another dude knows what feels good, y’know?  But I ain’t never sucked a dick or taken it up the ass, man—I jest wanna get off good.  You get me, right, dude?  I mean, fuck, lookitcha—yer a real fuckin’ man; I kin tell jest by lookin’ atcha!”

 

“Yeah, you ain’t no fag,” Joe smirked.  “I can tell jest by lookin’ at you.  You ain’t got no interest in this at all, do ya?”  And with a cold, leering grin, the hardbodied alpha unzipped his fly, letting his stiffening shaft of manmeat spring out, spattering precum over Tanner’s face where it sparkled like diamond in the buff blue-collar boy’s beard.

 

“Fuck…” Tanner moaned, his dick pulsing and rising, and Joe had his answer.

 

No mattered how hard it struggled, this one was gonna be fuckmeat.

 

Grinning broadly, he took off his sticky wifebeater.  He knew how to give a good show when he wanted; slowly and sensuously, he peeled the sweat-dampened fabric away from his firm, strapping torso, slowly revealing his thick body fur and hard jutting nipples standing out on his huge hubcap pecs.  He didn’t need to look at Tanner to know that the well-built mechanic was entranced; the motherfucker might deny it, but he was an all-out homo, and Joe knew from experience that he could snag any cocksucker he wanted.

 

He looked anyway.  Tanner was staring up at him, slack-jawed and damn near drooling with lust.  Too fuckin’ easy, Joe thought.  He sat down on the sofa.

 

Without a word, Tanner reached out and grasped Joe’s huge throbbing cock.

 

“Goddam, dude,” the handsome young laborer said breathily, with a catch in his voice as he began to masturbate the serial killer, “Biggest goddam dick I ever seen.  I bet you pump a gallon of cum at a time outta that thing, huh?”

 

Joe’s evil intentions were obvious in the grin the threw Tanner, but the latter was too focused on the massive tube of manmeat in front of him to notice.  “You wanna see how much I cum, boy, you need to work my cock a fuck of a lot better than that.”

 

Tanner blushed under the lash of Joe’s tongue, but it was a blush of pleasure.  “You, uh, ya wanna take me on?” he asked.

 

“I ain’t touchin’ you, cunt,” Joe sneered, “I don’t jack faggots off.”

 

Tanner froze.  “I already toldja I ain’t no faggot,” he said quietly, almost whispering.

 

“Yer the one with yer hand on my cock,” Joe chuckled, “In my book, that makes you a faggot.”

 

“I toldja.  I toldja about that,” Tanner said, blushing again—but not in pleasure this time.  “A dude knows how to make another dude feel good.  Better than a chick, sometimes—but that don’t make me a faggot.”

 

“Aw, shaddup and gimme some head, cocksucker,” Joe jeered.

 

Tanner blanched as if the thought of sucking Joe’s dick terrified him—but his own cock pulsed twice, visibly.  He didn’t seem to be aware that it had happened, though.

 

“You, uh, you better go—I don’t think this is gonna work,” the mechanic said decisively.  “I don’t think yer—URK!”

 

Joe had been sitting on Tanner’s right, so the younger man never saw the buff killer’s bicep bulge as he tensed it—and the roundhouse blow Joe delivered straight to his face came too fast for him to see it, much less react to it.

 

Tanner’s head was knocked to the side, stunning him momentarily—but then he rebounded, coming up off the couch.  “You MOTHERFUCKER!” he screamed and threw himself at Joe.   The buff alpha was only slightly larger than the burly young homo; he was aware that Tanner’s explosion of fear-fueled anger had the possibility of becoming a serious threat.

 

The dude came for him, head down and plunging forward with all the force and power of a football guard rushing a quarterback, swinging his fists as he came.  But Joe’s slight physical advantage was greatly strengthened by another quality—experience.  The punk couldn’t have signaled his moves more if he’d rented a billboard and Joe was able to blunt the force of the impact by dodging to one side—which didn’t mean he didn’t get hit.  Tanner’s hard clenched fists pounded against Joe’s flank, the blows landing with loud beefy smacking sounds but doing little actual damage.

 

Joe sidestepped, throwing Tanner off balance; the punk stumbled over the coffee table, shoving it sideways and knocking his beer can off.  The brew foamed out onto the decayed wood floorboards, adding a thick, yeasty smell to the funk of weed and steamy mansweat already filling the room.

 

The younger man rounded on the older.  “You hit me, asshole,” he hissed, “In my own fuckin’ crib, you hit me.”  The look of rage in his eyes amused Joe.  He knew good and well that the youth’s anger had more to with his discomfort of his own lust than anything else.

 

Well, that was just fine.  All the cunt needed was a good fuck, and Joe was there to make sure he got one.

 

Tanner crouched, obviously about to lunge again.  He paused, breathing heavily, sweat matting his dark red chest hair and adding a shimmer to his skin.  Then—as expected—he lunged and Joe pivoted neatly to the left, swinging his right arm out swiftly and viciously gutpunching Tanner as the punk, overbalanced again, staggered past.

 

Tanner’s abs were furry and ripped, but they were no match for Joe’s strength.  His fist sank deeply into the younger man’s belly.  “HOOG!” the faggot cried inarticulately as the air was driven from his lungs by the violent impact to his diaphragm.  Grasping his aching gut, he stumbled and almost fell to his knees but managed to stay up long enough to make it to the far wall, where he braced himself and desperately focused all his energies on inhaling.

 

Tanner’s resistance had made Joe more contemptuously amused than angry, but the throbbing in his enormous manshaft had grown more insistent with every passing minute.  This time, he wasn’t gonna wait for the meat to attack.

 

He strode towards Tanner, the loud thumping of his boots on the wood floor making the gasping youth raise his head.  He was still unable to breathe or speak, but the look of fear that now crossed his face said everything that needed to be said.

 

Pain had subdued Tanner’s rage, and some small portion of reason had returned.  The younger man had just realized that he was alone with a much stronger man, one who wanted him to do things he didn’t want to do.  Things like…like…

 

He couldn’t complete the thought; for some reason, his cock was so hard it hurt—

 

Then Joe’s hand wrapped around his wrist and jerked him sideways.  “Hey, faggot,” the sadistic alpha said conversationally, a wide grin on his face, “Foreplay’s over.  Time to lay some pipe up yer ass.”  He drove his fist straight into Tanner’s jaw, knocking out two teeth and sending the punk backpedaling into the side wall where he fell against the ersatz TV stand.

 

Tanner, the plastic drawers and the TV all came crashing down in a heap.  The connections that had held the cheap set of drawers together all managed to separate simultaneously and the entire thing disintegrated, spilling the contents out.  The buff young man lay sprawled on his back, groaning on the floor, his hard firm nude body heaving as he tried to roll over and rise.

 

Joe was upon him again before he had time to move.  Tanner had a nearly vertical view of the hard-bodied killer looming over him.  He had a particularly good view of the thick-treaded sole of Joe’s engineer boot as the powerful sadist raised his right leg and stomped the punk’s chest.  Three times in quick succession, Joe’s high leather boot rose and fell, grinding the pattern of his tread into Tanner’s chest.

 

Flat on the floor, the well-built mechanic was in agony and bewildered.  Tanner knew his own strength; he’d only been in the city for a few years, but he’d lived in this shitty neighborhood for all of them and had needed to resort to violence on multiple occasions.  He’d been sure he could take care of himself, but now this motherfucker—

 

His gaze climbed up Joe’s leg, up the long buckled black shaft of his boot to the thick thigh muscle restrained by tight, worn denim—and then the cock, holy fuck that gigantic cock…even in his state of dazed pain, he was drawn to the massive dripping tube of vein-wreathed manflesh…

 

Then Joe stomped him again, driving his boot into Tanner’s belly, in the same place where he’d landed the gutpunch.  The younger man squealed, a high, cracking sound like a deflating balloon as he curled up in pain like a pill bug, wrapping around Joe’s steel-toed boot.  The brawny predator shook him off with a look of scorn, then crouched down over him.

 

“Awright, faggot,” he sneered as Tanner wheezed and gurgled beneath him, the latter’s large blue eyes filling with tears that gave them a puppy-dog appeal, “You like to play, asswipe?  So do I.  And I play rough.”

 

He reached out right hand and, clamping a vice grip around Tanner’s throat, proceeded to stand up, lifting all two-hundred-plus pounds of muscle straight up off the floor until the punk’s Jordans dangled three inches above the warped wooden planks.  Without a word, Joe marched down the hall into the bedroom, keeping Tanner hoisted and gagging for air the entire way.  Once in the bedroom, he tossed the buff young stud onto the bed with no more effort than if he was a rag doll.

 

At once Tanner’s hands went to his throat—he’d been busy clawing at Joe’s fingers on the way down the hall, to no avail—as he coughed and heaved, trying desperately not to vomit.  His face slowly became less livid.  His bulging eyes came back into focus; he could see Joe turn back and close the bedroom door.

 

His body still throbbed and ached from the beating he’d endured, but he was young and strong and rational enough, despite his fear, to know that it was imperative that he get out of this room immediately.  Even though he hadn’t fully caught his breath, he watched carefully for the first time Joe turned his eyes away, then rolled off the bed and dashed for the door.

 

He’d been sharp enough to see Joe closing the door, but not enough to see that he’d turned the latch in the center of the knob.  It took Tanner perhaps three seconds to realize why the knob wouldn’t turn, but those three seconds determined his fate.  By the time he’d unlocked the door and started to open it, Joe was on him.

 

This time, Joe’s hand closed around Tanner’s upper arm; the punk’s bicep was large enough that Joe’s hand couldn’t completely close around it, but he did well enough.  With a single strong yank, he sent Tanner flying across the room, where he smashed into the nightstand.  The room was plunged into instant darkness as the lamp shattered and the cheap pine wood came apart with a loud crack.

 

Joe blinked in the darkness as Tanner moaned quietly.  It took a moment for his eyes to become accustomed, but once they did, he realized there was actually plenty of light to see by.  Between the signage of the pawn shop next door and the all-night bodega across the street, its clerk secure behind three inches of bullet-proof Plexiglas, Tanner’s bedroom was flooded with light in lurid shades of red, green, and yellow.

 

Now that he could make objects out again, Joe could see that Tanner was struggling helplessly in the wreckage of the nightstand, like a turtle on its back.  Next to the broken clock, he could also see some of the things Tanner kept in the nightstand.  One was a black silicon dildo, so big that it would have seemed like a caricature had Joe’s own dick not been still bigger.

 

The other item puzzled Joe; since Tanner wasn’t going anywhere at the moment, the alpha took the time to investigate it.  It was a six-inch tube of extremely soft and stretchy silicon, with an inner lining of what appeared to be genuine sheepskin and Joe immediately realized it was a jackoff toy.  He grinned and stuck it in his back pocket, then stepped over to the bed and cleared it of everything but the fitted sheet with a single brusque sweep of his muscled arm.

 

Tanner could hear the heavy thud of Joe’s boots on the floor even when he couldn’t see him; the punk was almost in a state a shock.  His well-built young body was blooming with bruises; the imprints of Joe’s boots clearly visible even under his thick russet chest hair.  His left shoulder had made the initial impact with the nightstand and was dislocated and another dark bruise rose up his cheek from his beard.

 

It wasn’t physical trauma—after all, he’d been battered but not severely injured—that kept Tanner scrabbling aimlessly at the floor.  And Joe knew the fuckmeat’s sudden passivity wasn’t so much acceptance as it was mental vapor-lock.  He knew a way to break that lock.

 

Another lift-and-jerk-and-toss, smooth and rhythmic, like a workout routine, and Tanner had been flung back onto the bed, where he bounced limply, his eyes wide and catatonic.  Joe wasn’t fooled—the homo’s dick was still hard.  He swung himself up onto the bed, straddling Tanner’s well-developed torso.

 

“C’mon, faggot, wakey, wakey,” Joe jeered, slapping Tanner’s cheeks.  The youth’s pale eyes remained wide and unblinking, circled with gray.  Joe leaned back and slowly slid his leather belt out of its loops, well aware that no matter Tanner’s state of mind, he could easily see Joe.  And the experienced killer knew someone was home when he looked into Tanner’s eyes—he damn well knew the look when no one was home…

 

As he slowly removed his belt, grinning malevolently down at his helplessly stunned victim, the outside lighting shifted again and covered the room with a scarlet glow.  Joe’s strapping body was bathed in a fiery hue as if they were at the threshold of Hell and he was about to inflict an eternity of torture on Tanner—

 

“So ya wanna play possum?” Joe growled, his voice deep with a disturbing tone as he doubled the belt in his right hand.  “Lessee ya play dead through this.”

 

Raising his arm, he lashed Tanner across the face with the belt.

 

The reaction was instant; Tanner jerked and screamed, clutching at the huge red welt that had formed immediately.  At the same time, there was a loud flat bang outside, somewhere in front—the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

 

Joe was curious—but it could wait.  Whatever it was, these next few moments were critical; he was about to establish his dominance over this fagmeat.  Once it was under his control he could investigate.

 

Tanner wept softly, holding his injured face.  “Why?” he whispered, “Why me?”

 

“Why you?” Joe laughed harshly.  “Cause you let me in, that’s why.  You invited me in, you stupid piece a’ shit.  An’ now I’m gonna use you till I’m done with ya—and if you check out before you make me cum, I’ll just finish up with yer corpse.”

 

Tanner’s look of horror made it clear that he’d understood what Joe had said; whether or not he retained it was another matter.  Grinning merrily, Joe leaned forward and whispered, “‘Course, the best way to make me cum is to check out.  Don’t worry, cunt; I’ll make sure ya figure it out.”

 

Suddenly a sound that had been slowly growing in the distance rose to the threshold of consciousness, the rancorous sound of a siren that seemed to be zeroing in on them.  As it grew louder, it was clear that more than one vehicle was involved.  Tanner turned his head towards the window; just then, the lighting changed again as the lurid neon tones were obliterated by vividly flashing blue and red.

 

Joe wanted to check out what was going on, but he needed to re-focus the fuckmeat first.  The punk was struggling, rolling to one side, trying to reach the window.  “Where the fuck do ya think yer goin’!?” the hardbodied alpha snarled and swung the belt again.  This time it slashed across Tanner’s pectoral muscle with a loud, solid slap, somewhat muffled by his chest fur and more drowned out by his screech of pain.  The thick leather strap had landed squarely on his nipple, badly bruising the hard nub of flesh.

 

Joe wasn’t done.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say so!”  He beat Tanner again, his powerful arm rising and falling as the belt lashed across the faggot’s flat belly and his upper arms.  “You stay the fuck there till I’m done with ya, asshole, you understand me?”  And leaving the strong young man cowering and whimpering on the bed, Joe got off and strode to the window, nonchalantly glancing out.

 

The street was full of police cars.  Even from this distance, Joe could see the complex network of cracks radiating through the bodega’s bulletproof glass.  The cops were interviewing a middle-eastern dude who was talking excitedly and on occasions gesticulated wildly at the shattered front window.

 

Satisfied, Joe turned and headed back to the bed.  As he approached, something crunched loudly under his bootheel.  Looking down, he saw scattered shards of plastic under his foot, the black case of the digital clock instantly recognizable despite the intense red and blue lights flashing form the window.

 

He paused for a moment, looked at Tanner’s muscled body writhing in pain on the bed, and bent down to grab the cord.  Winding it tightly about his hand, he stood up and ground the base of the clock under his boot.  Pulling up on the cord, his bicep swelling with the effort, he was rewarded by the cord pulling free with a faint popping sound.

 

Climbing back up on the bed, he positioned himself between Tanner’s firm, sinewy legs, parting them effortlessly.  He reached down with his free hand and squeezed the firm furry globes of the young man’s ass before brutally intruding his fingers into the homo’s rectum.  The moment the punk looked up, Joe met his eyes with malicious joy.

 

“Yer a virgin, aintcha?” he jeered, “Then you better buckle up, bitch, cause I ain’t just gonna pop yer cherry, I’m gonna grind it to pieces!  Hey, hotshot, ya like the lightin’?  Street’s fulla po-po, muthafucka!  Someone tried to rob that towelhead across the way and now a dozen cops are gonna be pokin’ around while I ream yer fuckhole!”

 

He grinned, the strobe-like effect of the vivid, flickering lights adding a hallucinatory touch to his satanically handsome face.  He leaned over Tanner, his massively-built form looming ominously over the severely-beaten young mechanic.  “Hey, fuckwad, lookit me.  Up here, asswipe, up at my eyes,” he said quietly, his manic glee momentarily toned down.

 

Tanner looked up.  He was in pain, but more than that, he was beaten in a moral sense.  He had no desire to tempt fate—or this incredibly powerful psycho who seemed intent on raping him—by trying to escape.  He would obey any order he was given, if it meant getting through this.

 

He’d already managed to purge any recollection that Joe had referred to his death; it wasn’t that he hadn’t understood so much as he hadn’t believed it was possible, and still didn’t.  He’d get through this…and then he’d track this motherfucker down and dust his ass.

 

So, he looked up, slowly and reluctantly raising his eyes to meet those of Joe.  He took in—he couldn’t help but notice—the serial killer’s burly torso, covered with dark hair wiry as steel wool.  It filled his field of view as his eye rose upwards, past the huge mounds of his pecs, the solid muscle jutting out and thrusting the large dark nipples upwards.  And the above that, the darkly handsome, scruffy face, so chillingly gleeful…

 

And at that moment, Tanner felt something press against his asshole.  It felt like a post, or a bat, or some kinda beam poking against his sphincter.

 

“That’s my cock, faggot,” Joe whispered, his voice husky with repressed lust, “I’m gonna fuck you now, and yer gonna scream.  Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it—I’m gonna literally rip yer asshole open, you fuckin’ homo coward.  Maybe if ya’d taken it up the ass sooner, cunt, yer fuckhole wouldn’t be so tight an’ I wouldn’t hafta do this to ya, but there’s too many cops around for you to start squealin’.”

 

And with that, he showed Tanner the cord he’d held on to.  The younger man stared at it blankly, flat-out refusing to understand Joe’s words until he leaned down and slid it under the cocksucker’s head and wrapped it around his neck.

 

“Aw, who am I kiddin’?” Joe chuckled.  “I’d be doin’ this shit anyway.  Time to saddle up, you piece a’ worthless faggot garbage, cause I gotta load a’ hot manseed that needs to be milked outta my shaft, and I’m gonna use yer asshole to do it!”

 

He crossed the ends of the cord, jerking it tight—and then downwards, as he thrust upwards with his hips.  Tanner had a brief nightmarish moment of clarity as his throat was cinched off before the sadistic alpha’s cock tore open his sphincter and plowed relentlessly into his rectum, the enormous tube of vein-wrapped manmeat completely filling Tanner’s colon and stretching his intestines like sausage casing.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was like those horror stories he used to read about Vlad the Impaler, propping dudes up with stakes shoved up their asses and leaving them to die.  The pain was phenomenal; the buff young homo’s body was badly bruised, but this pain—something horrible was being done to his insides.  This wasn’t just rape; this powerful motherfucker was fucking his guts.

 

He clawed frantically at the tight strand of crushing pressure that circled his neck, already sunken so deep into his tender flesh that the tips of his fingers were just barely able to reach it.  His legs flailed violently, his retro Nikes kicking uselessly at the air as Joe pounded his ass.  The sound of flash slapping rapidly against flesh filled the room.

 

It wasn’t all to fill the room.  Directly underneath was one of the garage bays and on this hot summer evening, the gaps in the decrepit old building let in the intense chemical smell of oil and gasoline from the pits and the concrete below, encrusted with many decades’ worth of leak residue.  Up till this point, it had been the overriding olfactory impression that the bedroom had given, but now a new smell was taking over—the hot acrid scent of forced mansex, a mix of sweat, adrenaline and testosterone with its own unique tang.

 

It rose from the entwined bodies of the two muscular, hair-covered males, locked in a life-and-death struggle, and both sexually aroused to the highest pitch.  Even as Tanner gagged and fought, his hard thick cock slapped back and forth between his washboard belly and Joe’s even more ripped abs.  And each time it made contact, a large gob of precum flew out; in a matter of minutes, both men had a smeared, matter semicircle of body fur above the navel.

 

The searing pain in his fuckhole was unbearable but Tanner could only endure it—he couldn’t think about the agony; it was distracting him from his struggle to survive.  His scrambling fingers flayed the skin on his neck as he desperately tried to dig the cord out.  Without oxygen, his lungs were starting to ache and burn and he could feel his face swell, the skin becoming taut and painful.

 

“Does it hurt, cumsucker?” Joe hissed, his brawny, muscular body flexing and thrusting as his massive shaft brutally reamed Tanner’s rectum.  He spit into the younger man’s cyan-blue face and sneered.  “You ain’t felt nothin’ yet.  Yer gonna die, ya pansy fuck, and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.

 

The hard, craggily masculine face of the experienced killer hovered mere inches over that of his slowly-dying victim—cold, commanding, triumphant and so erotic.  Even as he fought through agony to stave off death, Tanner could feel the aching throb of unreasoning lust pulse through his erect, straining dick.  But despite the frantic pounding of his own heartbeat inside his skull, he could hear the words the dominant stud had spoken.  He just refused to believe them.

 

It wasn’t a conscious decision; Tanner was beginning to lose the capacity for conscious thought.  His air had only been cut off for a couple of minutes.  Asphyxia hadn’t progressed far enough to interfere with his ability to think—just enough to prevent him from thinking rationally.  Panic kicked in.

 

Adrenaline flooded Tanner’s strong furry body.  Joe was highly experienced in manual killing; he felt the youth’s powerful limbs tense.  He was even able to detect the chemical change in the homo’s manscent.  He knew what was coming and he was prepared.

 

Joe jerked the cord tighter around Tanner’s throat and held on as the powerful younger fag exploded into a fear-driven frenzy.  Kicking and scrambling, Tanner pawed at Joe’s broad chest.  His fingers, hooked into claws, scraped at his killer’s massive, stone-like pecs, snagging in the wiry body hair.  His legs, parted by Joe’s strapping body, flailed uselessly, the heels of his retro Nikes scraping at the sheets.

 

The hardbodied alpha hung on throughout Tanner’s paroxysm of terror, grunting with pleasure as the young man’s thrashing body work worked his engorged manshaft.  “Oh fuck yeah,” he snarled, staring directly into the bulging horrified eyes of his victim, “Milk my cock, motherfucker.  C’mon, ya fuckin’ faggot, work that load out.”

 

And Tanner was working it.  He couldn’t help it.  The more he struggled, the faster he burned through the oxygen remaining in his bloodstream.  The pain in his chest had grown monstrously; his entire ribcage seemed to be on the verge of implosion.  The dying homo could no longer hear his pulse in his head; all sounds seemed to have become sluggish and distant.  He could still make out Joe’s words, though…

 

And as Joe ruthlessly used the convulsions of Tanner’s well-built body to jack off, he made sure that the younger man knew why he was dying.

 

“That’s it, cunt, kick an’ die on my dick.  Goddam, I been needin’ t’drain my overloaded balls into a hot sack a’ manmeat all week,” he jeered.  “Fuckin’ die, ya useless homo, so I can use yer corpse as a cumdump and leave it marinatin’ in my hot manseed.”

 

But Tanner’s struggles were slowing.  He was no longer beating at Joe’s rock-like chest; now, his hands moved slowly, feebly, as if he was caressing it instead.  The jerking spasms in his colon that stroked Joe’s huge tube of manmeat so well had become irregular in both timing and intensity.

 

The handsome, friendly face of the young mechanic was gone, replaced with a puffy black caricature.  His eyelids were so swollen that the eyeballs themselves could only be seen as thin, blood-red slits.  His purple lips, thick and grotesque, were almost indistinguishable from his sark, protruding tongue.  The dying faggot gagged and coughed at random, thick, foamy drool pouring over his lips and lodging in his beard.

 

Tanner was almost gone; he wasn’t dead yet, but he was going on to a full five minutes without air.  Much of his brain was irretrievably damaged; he was blind, his last mental image having been Joe’s cruelly triumphant face in the flashing red and blue light before the darkness had bloomed permanently.  His head seemed to have been muffled in layers of hot cotton…

 

…but he could still feel pain.  What little consciousness remained to Tanner was screaming in nightmarish agony as impending asphyxiation seemed to dramatically increase the sensitivity of his nerve endings.

 

He could feel every vein that wrapped around Joe’s huge cock as it ground its way relentlessly back and forth over his prostate.  He could feel every single blow Joe had managed to land on him, from the throb in his jaw where his teeth had been knocked out to the ache on his pecs where the bruising clearly revealed the tread pattern of Joe’s boots.  But the crushing pain in his throat was the worst; it was literally mortal agony.  Nothing else hurt so bad—except there was that searing heat rising up from the base of his dick—

 

“Aw fuck, this one’s used up,” Joe grunted, “Worthless piece a’ shit.”  His thick biceps bulged with power as he violently yanked the ends of the cord.  Instantly there was a loud wet crack as the cartilage of Tanner’s trachea splintered and collapsed, compacting his esophagus into a solid mass of bloody tissue.

 

Tanner didn’t hear his throat get crushed, but he felt it.  It was the final straw, an overwhelming stimulus that flooded his nervous system and triggered his uncontrollably savage death throes.  The buff young man’s body bucked like a bronco, forcing Joe to hold on tight, moaning, sweating and cursing.  As their hairy, muscular bellies pressed firmly together, flesh sliding against sweat-lubed flesh, Tanner’s cock was caught between.

 

Joe could feel the way the throbbing of the dying man’s dick was increasing; he pulled himself back just in time to see a thick ropy jet of semen launched inches from his face, splattering against the cracked drywall at the head of the bed.  It was the first of the hairy young buck’s deathloads, and it triggered Joe’s orgasm.

 

The scene was almost surrealistic—the brawny older man hunched over the younger, thrusting and cursing as he pumped his hot seed into the corpse, filling its guts with spunk as nearly a dozen cops milled around processing a crime scene less than fifty yards away.  As the dead faggot continued to spew cum uncontrollably, Joe found himself overwhelmed by the intensity of his orgasm, blowing load after load—and at some point becoming aware that he’d been whaling on Tanner, driving his fist into the meat’s blackened, spunk-covered face.

 

As the hardbodied older man slowly shuddered to a halt, he extracted his fully-engorged manhood from the dead faggot.  Seed still dribbled from the huge purple head as it was withdrawn from Tanner’s torn, used asshole.  The corpse, sprawled flat on its back, still twitched and jerked spasmodically.

 

Joe’s boots thudded heavily on the wooden floor as he headed down the hall to the bathroom.  It was small and dilapidated, but the sink still worked and there was a towel clean enough for Joe to wipe his firm torso and wiry fur clean of homo cum.  As he stood at the sink, moistening the towel, he noticed that the room was getting steadily darker.  The flashing red and blue lights were going away.

 

The bathroom had one small window, like the kitchen, except it was paned with frosted glass.  Joe zipped his enormous tool back into his tight jeans and headed back into the bedroom so he could see what was going on.  Ignoring the still-quivering body on the bed, he strode to the window and looked out.  He’d been right, most of the cops had left—but there were still two cars out there.  Both had turned off the overhead lights, though; and as he watched, one of them left, heading down Lamar in the direction of the highway.

 

There were still a couple of cops left, though, talking to the swarthy store clerk.  Joe couldn’t leave just yet.

 

He wandered around the room for a moment, noting Tanner’s Beyoncé poster with amused contempt, before his boot made contact with something.  Glancing down, he could just barely make out the form of the big black dildo in the dim light.  Grinning, he bent down and retrieved it.

 

The dead dude was leaking Joe’s manseed out of its torn asshole.  This would solve that problem.  “Here ya go, fuckmeat,” Joe sneered as his biceps bulged with effort as he brutally shoved the enormous silicon phallus into the corpse’s rectum.  Tanner’s long, thick cock, not yet limp, suddenly stiffened again, forced erect even in death as the dildo pressed on his prostate.

 

Joe stood back and admired his work for a moment, then snapped his fingers.  “That reminds me,” he murmured, reaching into his back pocket.  “Gotta make sure everyone sees what happens to faggots who don’t even fuckin’ put out…”  He pulled out the silicon jackoff toy and walked up to the head of the bed.  Again, his deltoids and biceps flexed powerfully; it took a little force to pry Tanner’s jaws apart.  Once he did, though, it was relatively easy to cram the sex toy down the corpse’s throat.  He had to angle the head back a bit to get it all the way in, but by the time he’d shoved the fleece-lined silicon tube all the way down to the collapsed section of the esophagus, the end was barely visible between Tanner’s black, swollen lips.

 

“There,” Joe said with satisfaction as he stepped back.  Tanner’s strong, firm frame, wrapped with muscles and covered with russet body fur, lay spread-eagled on its back.  The chest was covered with the dead dude’s own spunk.  The face, black, swollen, gaping, was almost unrecognizable, even the beard, matted with cum and drool wasn’t the same color it had been.  One of the meat’s thickly-muscled legs spasmed abruptly, the Nike Jordan retro kick quivering on the bed.  Tanner’s legs were spread wide and given the position of the bed in the room, his asshole was pointed straight at the door.  There was no way anyone entering the room could miss the way the corpse had been violated with the dildo.

 

“Don’t no one like a tease, fag,” Joe chuckled as he headed down the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him.

 

Once in the living room, he looked around for his shirt.  The one lamp in the room had been knocked off the table during the struggle earlier, but it hadn’t broken.  From its place on the floor, it lit the room at a weird, off-kilter angle, throwing lurid shadows on the walls.

 

Suddenly the dead silence of the apartment was broken by the piercing wail of a siren; simultaneously, the room was bathed in the now-familiar flickerings of red and blue.  Joe quickly crossed to the window and peered out, taking care not to be seen from outside.

 

The two cops had evidently gotten a call; Joe was just in time to see them wheel the car about and head up Lamar at speed, blasting right through a red light.  The store clerk across the street had already gone back inside; as the siren faded in the distance, quiet settled back on the block.

 

It was an unnatural quiet, and Joe knew it.  The confluence of police had driven away the street scum who congregated along here at all times of the day and night—it wouldn’t be long before they were back.  While he wasn’t overly worried about getting caught, Joe understood that leaving before any witnesses were around was a good idea.

 

Instead of continuing to look for his shirt, he grabbed Tanner’s camo trucker cap and slipped it on his head, just in case anyone did see him.  One thing he’d never lost sight of was the key for gate chain; he scooped up Tanner’s shorts and dug it out of the pocket.  He also found the dude’s phone, and grinning, slipped it into his own pocket.  He left the apartment immediately, taking care to set the latch to lock the door as he closed it behind him.

 

The buff alpha, satiated with his fresh kill, strolled casually across the cement lot to the gate, his muscled flesh gleaming in the hot humid moonlight.  He had the gate open quickly and in a matter of minutes had gotten his car out and re-locked it exactly as it was—with the padlock on the inside, reaching through the openings in the wire mesh to close the clasp.

 

As he pulled out onto Lamar and headed in the direction of the highway, Joe chuckled to himself.  All those cops, so close…not like anyone was gonna care about some fag gettin’ snuffed in the bad part of town, of course, but still…

 

At the red lights, he scrolled through the dead homo’s phone.  Meat always leads to meat and he liked breakin’ in unused faggots.  Maybe he could find some more of these weaselly little fucks who only wanted to “touch”—an’ show ‘em what gettin’ “touched” by a real man was like…

 


 

“Why I gotta tell you all this again?  I tol’ that one cop, then I tell that jefe who left already—him, I tell twice!  An’ now I gotta tell you?” Reynoso demanded querulously.

 

Hobart pressed his hand to his temple, trying to ignore the stabbing pain behind his eyes.  Another goddam stress headache.  Why did he draw these bullshit calls?  “Look, I know you already told the detective your story, but I need to corroborate some of the details, ok?  So let me just go back over the gist of your statement here.”

 

Reynoso groaned and rolled his eyes but kept still as Hobart spoke.

 

“Ok, so you showed up here at approximately eight a.m. to see Denardo about work on your car?”

 

“Right.  A brake job—business, you know?  I do Uber to make extra cash.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Hobart nodded, “so Denardo’s done work for you before?”

 

“Yeah, once or twice,” Reynoso said evasively.

 

“Ok, well, you say he got here right after you did, no more than two or three minutes later, is that correct?”

 

“Yeah, he pulled up right after me.  Pissed that the place was still locked up.  He was cursin’ that white boy.”

 

“You mean our victim here?”

 

“Yes…madre de Dios, that I should see such a thing…”

 

“Anyway, it says here that he had the keys, so he unlocked the gate—you noted that the padlock was on the inside—and the two of you went upstairs.  The front door of the apartment was also locked but Denardo had the key to that as well.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—I already toldja all this.”

 

“And everything in here looked just as it does now?”

 

“Yes, yes, helluva fight.  Someone fucked that kid up good.”

 

“You were with Denardo when the body was found?”

 

“I—yeah, I, uh we, found…found that…”

 

“And what did Denardo do then?”

 

“Do?  Whaddaya think he do?  He cry out to God and he leave!  More than he can stand, poor man.”

 

“And that’s why it was you who called the police and not him?  Did he say anything else?”

 

“What more was there to say?  He see the body, he scream ‘My God, I’m ruined!’ and he run.”

 

Hobart sighed.  This wasn’t getting him anywhere.  Suddenly there was a knock at the door and one of the local beat cops opened it.  “Hey, sarge?  The ME guy is here.”

 

“Let him in.”

 

The ME tech was a young man in his mid-twenties, slim, with pale blond hair.  He had a rather frazzled look on his face.  “He called you sarge,” he said to Hobart, “Can I ask you a favor?  We’re short-handed at the morgue today; can you get a couple of guys to help get this gurney up here?”

 

“Ok, you can go now,” Hobart told Reynoso, then followed him out the door.  “Bates,” he told the uniformed cop, “Go get Chen and get that gurney up here for the tech.”

 

“Thanks, sarge,” the tech smiled.  Hobart could see the plastic badge on the man’s white crime scene jumpsuit; it read, ‘Harris, M’.

 

“Has the scene already been processed?” Harris asked.

 

“Yeah, the photographer just left,” Hobart replied.  “There won’t be any rush on this one.  Gay rape and murder—no one will care.  There are more important crimes and we’re too underfunded to waste the resources.  Right now, we have a bigger issue; it looks like this place is the center of a major car theft ring.  Get this mess thoroughly cleaned up; we don’t need it to interfere with the larger investigation.”

 

“Gotcha,” Harris said.  “In that case, let me borrow your guys again to get the body up onto the gurney.  Already got the body bag in place and open.  I can bag the hands there and get it ready to go.”

 

“Bates, Chen, you heard the man,” Hobart said.  The unformed men headed into the bedroom with obvious reluctance.  The splayed corpse was pale and cold, on the downside of rigor mortis so that it could be picked up and moved with relative ease.  The two buff cops had just deposited it on the gurney, with the legs slightly bowed to preserve the dildo in situ, when Hobart called them back.

 

“Come on, men, we need you to seal off the office so the computer guys can take possession.  Hey, Harris, just let us know when you need that thing brought down.”

 

“Not a problem,” Harris said.  “Shouldn’t be too long.”

 

He didn’t plan to be long; one look at that hot nude corpse had made his balls pucker and ache so bad, he knew it wouldn’t take long to cum.

 

Once he was sure he was alone, Harris slipped off one of the dead dude’s retro Jordans.  Holding it over his face, he inhaled deeply, fondling the thick ridge of flesh that tented his jumpsuit.  The scent of hot manfunk made his cock throb so hard…

 

The dead man’s torso was covered with a cracked glaze of dried cum; Harris placed the sneaker on it as he walked around to the head of the gurney.  Slipping his hands under the corpse’s shoulders, he pulled it towards him until the head tipped back off the end of the gurney, placing the gaping mouth right at the height of Harris’s crotch.

 

Grinning evilly, he unzipped his jumpsuit all the way down to his waist.  Reaching in, he pulled out his dick—not overly thick, but impressively long.  He placed the large glistening head of his cock against the dead fag’s swollen lips, then with a grunt and a strong shove, started skullfucking the corpse.

 

Harris’s job didn’t pay much, but he loved the perks.

 

The sensation as his throbbing shaft of manmeat slid down the cadaver’s esophagus was phenomenal—he hadn’t looked closely enough to notice the sex toy that had been rammed in there first.  But once he felt it, he knew what it was—he had one himself.

 

“Goddam,” he muttered down at the corpse as he picked the sneaker back up, “You were fuckin’ waitin’ for me, weren’tcha, ya dead cunt?”  Then he crammed the Nike back over his face, grinding it in and relishing the way it felt as he throatfucked its dead owner.  Each thrust drove his long cock deeper and deeper into the body’s ruined windpipe.

 

Suddenly, the head of Harris’s cock impacted the crushed cartilage that had made the buff young man into dead meat.  The tech had already admired the deep ligature wound the electrical cord had made; he knew exactly what the sensation was.

 

It was too much.  As he huffed the faggot’s sneaker, his cock exploded deep in its throat, pumping out a geyser of cum.

 

Harris hadn’t found a good corpse to unload in for almost a week; he’d almost gotten a hot nigger gangbanger who’d been shot Wednesday night, but that new guy, Mellon, had taken the call, damn him.  His balls were so full even he was surprised at how much spunk he was blowing outta his shaft.  He was still grunting and shooting as he withdrew, forced out the dead meat’s head by the overflow.  His sperm was flowing back out of the corpse’s nostrils.

 

Harris finished up by spewing the rest of his load into the dude’s Nike Jordan, then slipping it back onto his foot, letting his cum soak into the corpse’s ped sock.

 

Once he regained his breath, Harris stepped into the bathroom.  There was a towel on the floor, slightly damp, but not noticeably filthy.  He used it to wipe off his dick, then, tossing it back on the floor, zipped up his jumpsuit and returned to his job.

 

In less than ten minutes he had the corpse repositioned bag on the gurney, centered in the open body bag on which it had been laid.  He wasn’t particularly careful bagging the hands; the cop was right—no one was gonna devote any resources into solving the murder of a faggot like this.  It’d be chalked up to a lover’s quarrel or something.

 

Grinning, Harris zipped the bag up, enshrouding what was left of Tanner’s well-used body in plastic.  He left it in the bedroom as he headed out of the apartment and down the stairs.  “Hey sarge?” he called out, “Can I borrow your men again?  This thing’s ready for the meatwagon.”

Carlos and Nick 5: Teen Angst

The outside temperature was hovering somewhere around 110 degrees when Carlos strolled into the office area of Nick warehouse film studio.  He was dressed for the heat; forsaking his usual jeans and boots, he was sporting a black and white pair of Adidas Varial IIs and a pair of bright red workout shorts.  The shorts were a cut in a football style, with a lace-up crotch—the contrast of the black lace on the red shorts was extremely eye-catching, as were Carlos’s thick, muscled legs, revealed from mid-thigh down to where they vanished into the ped socks in his kicks.

 

Nick, sitting at the computer, lifted his head and glanced admiringly at the hulking ex-con.  “That’s a good look for you,” he said, raising his eyes from the white cotton tank-top, so wet with perspiration that it was no more than a transparent screen over the stud’s hairy, inked chest, up to the killer’s hard, masculine face, his shaved head shaded from the intense sun by a black satin do-rag.  “Gotta remember that outfit someday; it’d look great on camera.”

 

Carlos stood in the doorway, looking his snuff flick partner.  “Ya said ya had somethin’ lined up?” It was a statement, but he ended it on a questioning note.

 

Nick grinned, giving his handsome face a boyish look.  “Fuck yeah, bro, look here.  Just got another commission in by email.  Remember that dude who paid us a big wad of cash for the father/son snuff?  He’s back.”

 

Carlos settled into one of the black leather chairs in front of Nick’s desk.  “Yeah?” he asked, a slight hint of eagerness in his voice belying his assumed nonchalance.  “What’s he want this time?”

 

“Someone young,” Nick replied.  “According to this, no older than eighteen.  And—you’ll like this—he wants to see the kid suffer.”

 

Carlos perked up, throwing off his air of indifference.  “Cáspita!  I been wantin’ to carve up some fagmeat.  Been too damn long!”

 

Nick leaned back, smiling thoughtfully, his long dark hair gleaming in a reflected ray of sunlight.  He knew exactly how long it had been; the cameras he’d hidden in the condo had caught every detail of the night Carlos had slaughtered the blackjack dealer.  In fact, it was likely that the video of that brutal snuff that he’d edited and posted that had drawn them this commission.  Not that Carlos needed to know about that.

 

He just needed to keep ruthlessly snuffing homo scum, and their fortunes were assured.

 

Standing up, the older and slightly more muscular filmmaker headed to the studio space in the rear.  Pausing at the door, he turned back to the buff Latino stud.  “You got anyone in particular you wanna work over, or should I put out an ad?”

 

He was slightly taken aback to see Carlos flush, a look of outrage crossing his face.  “Hell no, I ain’t got nobody!” he barked.  “I ain’t looking at no other dudes—I ain’t no fag!”

 

“Chill out, man, I didn’t say ya were,” Nick replied.  “I just wanted to know if ya had anyone ya specifically wanted to snuff.  I’ll put out an ad; it ain’t a problem.”

 

Heading back into the open area of the warehouse, Nick was smiling as the thick heels of his ropers thudded on the concrete floor.  Carlos’s anger hadn’t scared him; in fact, it had thrilled him.  He’d always know the psychological motives behind the ex-con’s extreme hatred towards faggots, and he did his conscious best to stoke it.  After all, it was the extreme masculine brutality that rage unleashed in Carlos that was the main selling point of the videos.

 

As a director, Nick felt is was his duty to coax the best performance possible form his actors.

 


 

It was another three days before Carlos got another message to come to the warehouse; Nick had found him some meat to tenderize.  Since there was no word on if this was an initial meet-and-greet or the actual snuff shot, the hardbodied Hispanic stud dressed for an on-screen appearance.

 

He knew what Nick wanted: skin-tight jeans, preferably well-worn but clean, and a pair of big black boots.  Carlos had gotten a new pair recently and was anxious to try them out.  It had taken some specialized searching to find what he was looking for, but when they arrived, he was perfectly satisfied.

 

They were a pair of vintage lace-up lineman’s boots, seventeen inches tall, and—what had been Carlos’s main interest—had a knife sheath hidden in the right boot.  Today, he slipped on the jeans and eagerly laced up the boots, his blade in place.

 

It was a thirteen-inch Bowie hunting knife, with a black rubber handgrip and a nine-inch carbon-steel blade with grooves down each side to channel blood away from the wielder’s grasp.  Secured inside the boot, he only had to slip his fingers into his boot and the whole thing slid out smoothly and easily.  Carlos was happy with it; the thought of reaming that long, hard blade into some helpless faggot’s vulnerable flesh made him hard…

 

He slipped on a leather vest but was otherwise bare-chested.  By the time he got to the studio, his muscle-bound torso was glistening under a faint sheen of sweat.  The moment he hit the chill air in the lobby, though, his body reacted, his nipples instantly hardening into large knots of flesh.

 

He strode straight into the warehouse, where Nick and a teen boy were waiting.  Nick was working on his camera but stopped and looked up as the hot Latino ex-con walked in, his new boots thumping loudly on the concrete floor.  “’Bout time ya showed up,” he told Carlos with a mischievous grin and a hot glint of bloodlust in his eyes, “This is Jeff—he likes to be tied down.  Once I finished this, I was gonna start it myself, but now that you’re here…”

 

Jeff was young, almost achingly so.  He was eighteen but there was an innocent arrogance about him—the arrogance of someone who hasn’t yet learned that life doesn’t owe him a living—that, added to his smooth, soft skin, gave him the appearance of being at least two years younger, if not more.

 

And he traded on it. He’d only been in Vegas for about a year, but it was totally different from his life before.  Waco had offered him sex, sure, but he’d felt an intense compulsion to leave the emotionally claustrophobic confines of his hometown.  As much fun as it had been, getting banged by half his high school football team had gotten dull, and in such a heavily Baptist town, he had little chance to brag and get the recognition he felt his exploits deserved.

 

Plus, he couldn’t make decent money whoring himself out in Waco.

 

And so, at seventeen, Jeff headed west, hitchhiking and “working” his way across the country.  His initial destination had been California, but a stopover in Vegas had convinced him that he was in the right place to make good money.  And he’d been right, to an extent; he certainly found richer johns willing to pay more here than Waco—but he just couldn’t seem to get into anywhere that had clientele with the kind of wealth he was looking for.

 

Part of the reason was his appearance—his very youthfulness, the way he had of brushing the silken bangs of his sandy blond hair up out of his eyes, the full, red lips continually parted in an almost petulant pout—all combined to keep him out of the casinos and bars.  He’d gotten a fake ID but was continually challenged on it.  And since he wasn’t actually twenty-one, he had to back down.

 

And that was when he’d seen the online ad, and he knew—knew—that things were gonna change for him.  An adult film, something that would get him noticed—and he was exactly what the ad said was needed!  Young, discreet, into rough role play and bondage…well, for that matter, Jeff would do damn near anything if the money was right, but this was shit he liked.

 

Once he responded to the ad, he was even more eager.  This dude Nick was gonna give him five fucking grand to get fucked by some hot stud—and a percentage of the residuals!

 

This was it.  This was the big time.  And now here he was, and kinda surprised at the set.

 

This guy Nick, though—he was a serious hunk.  That shoulder-length black hair and that huge, well-built body…and the dude wasn’t shy about showing it off, either, not in those tight black Nike running shorts or that black compression t-shirt.  Even the dude’s Chuck Taylor Converse hightops in black leather turned the kid on; as he shook Nick’s hand, he found himself hoping the hot stud was more than just the director—and said as much.

 

“Well, I may step in and lend a hand, so to speak,” Nick replied with a knowing leer, “But the real star is gonna be Carlos—speak of the devil, here he is now.”

 

Jeff had whirled and found himself staring at an overpowering, almost scary-looking Latino who’d just come through the door.  He and Carlos spent a brief moment sizing each other up.

 

Jeff noted that Carlos was slightly more compact than Nick, and perhaps a little younger, but there was something about him—his shaved head, his black goatee, the sleeve of ink that writhed over his muscle-bound arm—that made him seem inherently dangerous.  Jeff could see Carlos’s broad, furry chest under the leather vest he wore—he couldn’t help it; the gleam of the thick gold chain half-buried like treasure in the dude’s body fur drew his attraction as it would any good whore.   The Hispanic alpha’s jeans were tight enough for Jeff to be somewhat intimidated by the massive bulge in his crotch.  But he was fascinated with the dude’s high lace-up boots.

 

And above all else, Jeff was hard.  His red knee-length Under Armour gym shorts weren’t terribly tight, but his seven-inch boycock was still able to prominently tent the crotch.  He shuffled his long, smooth legs nervously, his Nike Jordan Son of Mars kicks—in the same shade of red as his shorts—scuffling on the concrete.  His lean, firm torso was well-wrapped in a white cotton tank top that left a lot of his pale, smooth skin exposed.

 

Jeff wasn’t quite dressed to whore himself out, but then again, he didn’t need to be.  He’d already agreed to the act; he had no need to sell himself again.

 

“Jeff, this is Carlos,” Nick said by way of introduction.  Jeff held his hand out.  Carlos stood and stared at it for a moment—lengthened just to the point of discomfort—before reaching out and taking it.  He didn’t shake Jeff’s hand so much as crush it in his huge muscled paw.

 

“So, uh, so how’s this gonna work?” Jeff asked as he massaged his aching hand, his uncertainty making his voice rise in pitch.

 

“Yer here to get fucked, aintcha?” Carlos asked.  “So get on the bed, faggot.”

 

Nick looked sharply at his partner; Carlos was still in a bad mood.  That’d make for a great scene—but not if he scared the meat off before they started filming it.  “Anytime you’re ready,” he followed up in a soothing tone, “You can lay your clothes over there on that table, if you want.”

 

Jeff approached the table and wriggled out of his shorts, letting them drop to the floor and stepping out of them without bothering to remove his Nike Jordans.  As he did, he glanced at the set—nothing but a bed up on a platform, with several small video cameras on tripods surrounding it.  The bed was bare except for what looked like some kind of weird fitted sheet; the headboard, consisting of vertical brass bars, seemed unusually ornate compared to the stripped-down feel of the rest of the set.

 

As he peeled off his t-shirt, Jeff noticed that Carlos approached the bed, unbuttoning and casually slipping off his leather vest.  The Hispanic stud tossed it so that it draped over the headboard of the bed, then turned back to face Jeff, letting the latter see the full glory of his hairy, massively muscled and tattooed chest.

 

Jeff had been commando under his shorts; at the sight of Carlos’s bare torso, the kid’s dick began to drip.  He caught his breath, swallowed, and approached the platform.

 

This was it, he thought again, this is the big time…and nude except for his Nikes, he climbed up onto the bed.

 

“How—um, how do you want me, uh, positioned?” he asked hesitantly.

 

“Hold it a sec,” Nick demanded, and crossed the room to the light switches.  There were a couple of clicks and suddenly everything vanished and Jeff found himself sitting on the bed, swathed in a circle of brilliant overhead light while the rest of the vast warehouse space remained in darkness.

 

From the darkness, there were footsteps—the heavy, measured tread of a man in thick boots.  Carlos loomed suddenly out of the black, stepping into the light.  “On yer back, boy,” he commanded.  “Nick’s payin’ ya good, right?  So yer prepared for it to get rough, right?”

 

“Uh, yeah…” Jeff replied tremulously.  He was prepared to take a fuck of a lot if he could get fucked by this stud on camera—fuckin’ hell, it’d make his career, to have this in his portfolio—but there was still something so menacing about the tatted Latino that he felt needling pangs of fear.  But the game was worth the candle, as they say—Jeff didn’t know why; candles were useless unless you’d lost your dildo—so he stifled his unease and lay on his back.

 

He was instantly uncomfortable.  “What is this, a plastic sheet?” he squawked.

 

“Yeah,” Nick’s voice came laconically out of the darkness, “Film a lotta shit in here.  Some dudes are into watersports.  Don’t worry; it’s sanitized after each use.”

 

“C’mon, boy, raise yer arms over yer head,” Carlos said.  For the first time, Jeff noticed a glint of metal in the alpha’s left hand.  As he raised his arms in almost instinctual obedience to the alpha’s command, Carlos reached over and Jeff realized the metal items were handcuffs.  Before he could react, Carlos had cuffed his right hand to the brass headboard.

 

“Hey, man, whatcha doin’?” the kid demanded.

 

“Whassa matter, punk, ya ‘fraid of a little bondage?  Thought a whoreboy like you was up for anythin’,” Carlos jeered and Jeff shut up and lay back, again disregarding the obvious red flags in favor of a rosy view of his financial future.

 

Carlos, who knew the Jeff’s future was more likely to have a blood-red view, smirked as he cuffed the boy’s left hand as well, making sure the kid wasn’t going anywhere.

 

“Hey Nick,” he called, “Think we’re ready.  Lemme know when ya wanna start.”

 

“Gimme a sec; I’m preppin’ the hand-held now,” came Nick’s deep, masculine voice from the outer darkness.  A moment later, he too stepped into the circle of light, holding the video camera.  He’d also prepped himself for the filming.

 

Just like Jeff, the hardbodied older man was nude except for his leather Converse sneakers.  His towering form, his wide, furry abdomen, ripped abs and narrow waist were all slightly better developed than Carlos’s, but somehow seemed to exude less danger—or at least so Jeff felt.  Nick’s cock was terrifying, though; it was at least eight inches long and an inch and a half thick.  In a way, Jeff was relieved; the thought of how bad that enormous shaft would hurt made him shudder.  The man was a freak; surely Carlos wasn’t hung like that.

 

Then a slow scratching sound reached Jeff ears; looking towards the source, he saw that Carlos was unzipping his fly.  The ex-con grinned maliciously at Jeff—as if he knew what the boy was thinking—as he reached into his crotch with both hands and slowly began extracting his shaft.

 

It just kept coming and coming.  Jeff’s eyes widened with disbelief as the Hispanic alpha pulled nearly ten inches of manmeat out of his jeans—and then it began to stiffen.  Consciously, Jeff began to think five grand might not be enough for what he might have to endure tonight.  Unconsciously, he began jerking at the handcuffs.

 

Both Carlos and Nick noticed and exchanged grins.  “Time to saddle up,” Nick said.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Carlos replied, “I been needin’ to wreck a fag bigtime.”

 

Jeff watched in silent fascination as Carlos mounted the bed and straddled him, knees by Jeff’s sides and his legs behind him.  In this position, his enormous cock was dangling directly over Jeff’s face.  From here, the teen whore had an extreme close-up of every vein that wrapped around the huge throbbing tube of manmeat.

 

Carlos was determined that he was gonna get an even better view.  “Open yer mouth, cunt,” he snarled.

 

“I, uh, I don’t thin—AACK!  GURK!”

 

Jeff learned that opening his mouth to protest meant opening his mouth.  Carlos wasn’t waiting for an invitation—he rammed his tool in at the first opportunity.  Before Jeff knew what had happened, he had a three-inch-thick cock wedged nearly half a foot down his trachea.  Carlos had leaned forward and grabbed the headboard for a better angle to throatfuck the helpless punk.

 

Suddenly, all the red flags Jeff had ignored flashed back to his notice; he couldn’t breathe, and he hadn’t been prepared for that, physically or emotionally.  He began to struggle, but he couldn’t do a damn thing.  His hands jerked frantically, the cuffs jangling loudly against the brass bars of the headboard as his Nikes kicked and scuffed on the slick cold plastic sheet.

 

“Damn, yer a terrible fuckin’ cocksucker,” Carlos jeered and leaned back, pulling his tool out of Jeff’s throat.  It bobbed in midair between them, glistening with the kid’s spit halfway back form the tip.  “Can’t even take a real man’s dick, can ya, you little assmunch?”

 

Jeff was too busy coughing and gagging to take in much of what Carlos was saying and his eyes were blurred by tears.  He knew something was wrong, though, something besides the fact that he’d just damn near been suffocated.  This was taking a dark turn—and then Carlos got off him.  As the scared teen tried desperately to blink his eyes clear, he could hear the hardbodied Latino walk around the bed to where Nick was standing.

 

“Dude, I don’t feel like fuckin’ round with this meat.  This piece a’ shit needs to be tenderized now—ya get me?” Carlos growled loudly.

 

“Dude, you can go to town on it; you can stick it like a fuckin’ pig, as long as I get it on camera.  Make the meat suffer bad—hell, it’s what we’re gettin’ paid for, right?” Nick replied jauntily.

 

By now Jeff’s eyes were clear.  He had an impressive view of Carlos as the latter approached him with a grin that glittered as coldly as the gold chain around his thick neck.  “Hey, dude,” the ex-con said quietly, almost seductively, “Time to get down to business, yeah?  Time to give yer worthless faggot existence some purpose, huh?”

 

“Wh-what?” Jeff blinked, looking deeply into the Hispanic’s large dark eyes but seeing nothing more than his own confused face reflected back.

 

“See, yer only here for one reason, right?  I mean, you know that.  Yer here to die, right?”

 

Jeff pulled himself backwards by his arms, trying to sit up but failing, his red kicks scrambling uselessly failing to find traction on the slick plastic sheet.  He wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard Carlos correctly but somehow, he knew he had.  “Wait—wait, what?  No!  I’m here—no!

 

“Sure ya are, ya useless pansy.  Ain’t no one gonna care if we snuff some fuckin’ cock-gobblin’ homo pervert, now are they?  But there are dudes who’ll pay us for doin’ it, as long as they get to see it—and as long as it’s long.  Ya feelin’ me, fuckwad?”

 

Jeff was panting, almost hyperventilating.  His smooth, lithe body was suddenly slick with sweat as fear overstimulated his adrenal glands, pumping his system full of adrenaline.  Combined with the overabundant adolescent testosterone already flooding him, the chemical stew kept his thick shaft still jutting stubbornly from the tangled nest of his pale pubes despite his terror.

 

“Y-you—he—he was g-gonna pay me…” Jeff turned his head desperately from one side to the other, seeking out Nick, but the director had faded into the darkness beyond the circle of light.

 

It was just Jeff and Carlos for the moment.

 

“Wanna know what’s gonna happen, dude?  Wanna know what I’m gonna do to ya?  Huh?”

 

The powerful ex-con stood next to the head of the bed, looming over him.  Suddenly, the inked stud lifted his right leg and planted his boot on the bed, right next to Jeff’s head.

 

The young boywhore looked up. From the corner of his eye his peripheral vision was filled with the tight lacing of Carlos’s lineman’s boot; it seemed to go up and up forever—but above that, bending over him he could see the top’s grinning face.

 

“I’m gonna stick somethin’ in ya, faggot, somethin’ long and hard—yer gonna like that, aintcha, ya disgustin’ piece a’ homo meat?  Fuck, lookitya squirm at the thought a’ gettin’ reamed out by my dick.  Well guess what, queerboy?  Yer gonna be massagin’ my cock all right, but I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout that.”

 

Carlos kicked Jeff in the face.  It happened in a flash; the older man lashed out and the thick sole of his boot impacted Jeff’s face hard enough to snap his cheekbone.  The boot was back in place as if nothing had happened before Jeff had the chance to cry out.

 

“You payin’ attention, boy?” he jeered, and spit in Jeff’s face.

 

“Wh-wh-why—wha…” the youth sobbed.

 

“Yeah, I thought so.  Here, fag, here’s somethin’ to catch yer eye.  This is what I meant when I said I had somethin’ long and hard to stick into yer punk-ass body…”

 

Carlos slipped his fingers into the boot and whipped out the knife so effortlessly it seemed like a magic trick.  He held it in front of Jeff’s wide, terrified eyes.  “Look at it, you stupid sack of fagmeat,” he hissed maliciously.  “That’s nine solid inches of carbon still.  Sexy as hell, huh?  Whaddaya think it’s gonna feel like when I pump it into ya?”

 

The sadistic convict had certainly been right—the blade had attracted Jeff’s notice; in fact, the teen slut seemed fixated on it, whimpering and unable to look away.  Nick had come back in closer now, using the handheld to zoom in on the boy’s face.  “Fuck, this is good shit,” he whispered to Carlos, “This is gonna make a fuckin’ fortune.   Keep it up, dude, keep mindfucking the meat.”

 

“Look at it, cunt,” Carlos snarled, “Look at the blade—see how sharp it is?  What’s that gonna feel like when it splits your tender flesh and sinks deep into yer fagmeat body, huh?  Fuck, man, I can’t fuckin’ wait to find out.  Ya see these grooves on each side of the blade?  They’re there to channel blood away from my hand.  Your blood, bitch.  I can carve yer worthless ass up without losin’ my grip; ain’t that cool?”

 

Jeff moaned, almost delirious with terror.  This couldn’t be happening—it wasn’t happening; he’d been drugged, he was having a bad trip, something, but shit like this didn’t happen to him.  This happen to street whore and needle junkies not cute white boys like him.  Whatever he was on needed to wear off fast, though, cause this was gettin’ hairy, man, real hairy—

 

—and then the tears cleared momentarily from his eyes and he could see Carlos standing at the foot of the bed, his muscular, inked torso glistening with perspiration from the heat inside the metal warehouse building. Jeff watched, fascinated, as a bead of sweat trickled down the Latino’s neck, to be buried in the thick forest of chest fur.  Deep within that fur was a sparkling glint—light reflecting off the stud’s thick gold chain.

 

For a moment, Jeff had been so caught up in admiring the top’s physique that he’d almost entirely forgotten about the imminent danger, but a flash of reflected light that didn’t come from Carlos’s necklace drew his attention—it was the knife.

 

Fuck, this was for real.  His face, which had lit up with lust again, fell into despair—but this time, Nick was on hand to record it, zooming in on the teen’s anguished expression as the hardbodied director chuckled.

 

“Whaddaya think, asswipe?” Nick jeered.  “This is gonna make us a fuck-ton of money.  Course, you won’t see a fuckin’ dime.  You’re gonna end up a pile of dead boymeat left to rot in the desert, but Carlos and I, we’re gonna make a fortune.”

 

“No…” Jeff whispered, staring directly into the camera, “P-please let m-me go, I won-won’t tell anyone…”  His voice trailed off and he broke down into sobs.  Nick was delighted—the shot of the teen punk’s horrified pleading was perfect; he couldn’t have directed it better himself.

 

“Yeah, keep begging, ya piece of shit,” Nick chuckled and turned the camera to Carlos, zooming in on his hard, well-developed body.  The camera ran over the ex-con’s tattooed chest, then closed in on the blade before panning back out to catch the action as Carlos mounted the bed.

 

Suddenly, Jeff’s legs were parted forcibly and his ankles were propped on Carlos’s shoulders.  There was a sudden pressure against his sphincter and Jeff had a brief lucid moment in which to wonder how he could possible have forgotten the Latino’s monstrous rod before it tore into his rectum with the force and violence of a pneumatic jackhammer.

 

The teen’s screams echoed back off the warehouse walls but the entire district was otherwise deserted at this time of night.  There was no response to his frantic shrieks of agony other than an intensity of tempo as Carlos plowed his shaft deeply and brutally into the teenager’s guts.  Jeff thrashed his head from side to side, but when he turned to the left, there was something lying on the bed next to his head.

 

He wasn’t trying to see what it was—he didn’t want to see anything; he just wanted to escape from this living hell—but he couldn’t help it.  It was right there—the knife.  The razor-sharp blade, so brutal, so inexorable, was inches from his face.  No, he couldn’t think about that—

 

—then a deep thrust from Carlos, much more penetrating than any before it, gave Jeff a new source of agony to focus on, and for the moment he forgot about the knife.  He was getting ripped open on the inside; he’d never been fucked so relentlessly, so painfully before.  It was like getting raped by some sort of beast; Carlos’s cock, so long, so thick and so powerful, was tearing at his guts; disemboweling him from the inside out.

 

Jeff didn’t know if it was possible to be fucked to death but if it was, it was happening to him now.

 

“O-oh g-g-god, stop!” he cried out, his lean young body jerking violently each time Carlos plowed his unhuman shaft into the boy’s torn rectum, “St-stop!  You-yer fuck-fuck-fuckin’ killin’ me!”

 

Carlos turned and grinned at the camera, his handsome face with its trimmed goatee twisted into an evil malevolent leer.  “Hey, Nick, ya hear that?  The fuckin’ meat thinks it’s dyin’!”

 

They both laughed at that, a cold cruel sound that forced its way into Jeff’s panicked mind and wrapped icy tendrils around his pounding, overwrought heart.  God, this dude was so hot, he thought–but his dick was too much even for the well-used boywhore, who could only sob jerk his arms, straining painfully and uselessly against the unyielding steel that circled his wrists.  His red Nikes, propped on the stud’s shoulders, thrashed uselessly in the air.

 

Nick, in the meantime, had circled the platform with the camera.  He’d paused for a moment and zoomed in on a shot of Carlos’s taut, well-rounded ass pumping as the stud raped the living fuck outta the teenaged rentboy.  He lingered long over the way Carlos’s jeans were glued to his strong, firm buttcheeks like they’d been painted on.  The large dimples that formed on his ass as he thrust his tool ever-deeper into Jeff’s guts were clearly visible to the camera lens.

 

Once on the other side of the bed, Nick panned out for a moment to take in the full scene of the hulking, hardbodied Latino stud mercilessly whaled on the cunt’s fuckhole, taking time to zoom in occasionally on Jeff’s own thick cock, kept involuntarily erect by the unremitting grinding pressure Carlos’s dick was putting on his prostate.  Despite his pain and terror, there was already a glittering hint of moisture oozing from the kid’s piss slit on the kid’s rod.

 

Nick swung the camera back onto Jeff’s strained, tear-streaked face.  This time, he stood right next to the bed and pointed the camera straight down; his own semi-erect shaft appeared in the shot, more than eight inches of manmeat hanging out over the punk’s head, in between his face and Carlos’s.

 

“Hey, dude,” he drawled laconically, “I don’t think this piece of faggot shit is sufferin’ enough—in fact, I think the sick fuck is enjoyin’ it.”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos sneered.  He looked at the camera and winked, then spit in Jeff’s face.  “Figures; fuckin’ whore’s gone loose on me.  Ya hear me, ya worthless homo garbage?  You ain’t even a good fuck, ya goddam punk-ass bitch!”

 

Jeff was overwhelmed by confusion, terror, and pain; that might have been some sort of excuse for his actions, but when he thrashed violently before jerking suddenly to the left in a feeble and utterly hopeless attempt to both get out from under the heavily-muscled stud and off his Louisville Slugger of a dick, he made a serious mistake.  Up to this point, Carlos had been more or less playing along with the idea of being recorded again—he had no idea how many times Nick’s hidden camera had allowed his solo activities to be broadcast to thousands—and had been mugging for the camera.

 

That ended now.  Jeff had pissed him off.

 

Carlos drew his arm back and the young homo had just enough time to notice how the Hispanic top’s bicep swelled with power under its ink sleeve before Carlos’s fist was driven into his face so hard his head rocked back into the mattress.  Jeff let out a loud grunt, then blinked and shook his head, dazed by the impact to his already-injured face.

 

“Wha…wha…” he moaned, looking up at the ex-con’s hard face, so twisted Jeff couldn’t tell if he was grinning or snarling.  Then Carlos held up the rubber-handled Bowie knife.

 

“This is how I get fucked-out faggots like you to tighten back up on my dick.  Ya feel me, cunt?  No?  How ‘bout now, motherfucker?”  He rammed the knife into Jeff’s left flank.  The razor-sharp tip pierced the teen’s smooth flesh like it was butter, the blade slicing deep into the tangled mass of the boy’s small intestine without meeting the slightest resistance.

 

Jeff’s face went gray and his eyes widened with shock.  As Carlos had anticipated, the sudden trauma made the youth’s lean, firm body go rigid, his muscles momentarily locked in an unrelenting stiffness.  That included his sphincter; it tightened around the base of Carlos’s engorged dick like a cockring. “Fuck yeah, pussyboy, that’s it,” he had time to grunt before Jeff’s piercing scream filled the air.

 

The shrill sound echoed off the metal walls; the effect on the recording was something like reverb.  Nick chuckled gleefully, pointing the camera down the front of his own incredibly-built body so that the lens got a full view of his erect shaft dripping translucent beads of precum onto Jeff’s strained, agonized face.  “Keep on screamin’, cocksucker,” Nick jeered, “Ain’t no one gonna hear ya—and it’s makin’ my dick drip.  Fuck, dude,” he turned to Carlos, “That was hot—ya gotta make ‘im scream some more!”

 

“Don’t worry,” the muscle-bound sadist said with a grim smile, “Now that I got my blade into the fag, it ain’t nothing but a meat puppet.  Watch me make it dance.”

 

Jeff’s smooth, flat abdomen was already heaving as the Latino alpha pounded his ass; now, excruciating pain was making him sweat.  Each time their bodies slapped together in the throes of violent assrape, there was a loud smacking sound.  Without any warning, Carlos twisted the knife in the wound, shearing the blade around inside the teen’s guts and slicing open his transverse colon.  The rhythmic slapping sound of flesh on flesh suddenly became erratic as Jeff thrashed in agony and squealed like a stuck pig—which was exactly what he was.

 

Carlos was very good at what he did; it was what Nick admired about him.  Despite his nightmarish suffering, the kid’s internal wounds weren’t quite severe enough to let him bleed out to a quick, merciful death.  And Carlos felt the need to share the info.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid fuck?  Yeah?  Feels fuckin’ great on my dick, asswipe!  That’s what it’s gonna take to make ya work my dick the way a real man’s dick deserves, huh?  Then ya better saddle up, bitch, cause I can make ya hurt like that for a long, long time.  Yer gonna be fuckin’ beggin’ and pleadin’ to die long before I’ve make yer worthless sack a’ whoremeat milk the spunk outta my balls–and the longer you squirm an’ scream, the better it’s gonna feel on my cock.”

 

Still rigidly avoiding any movement that might cause the knife to hurt him any further, Jeff lay back on the bed, his legs pinned on Carlos’s shoulders so that even now he could see his red Nikes kicking in the air.  In a surreal way, he noticed that the laces of the left shoe had come untied; he’d have to remember to fix that or he might trip and hurt himself…

 

Then Carlos yanked all nine inches of sharpened steel out of his guts with a single violent jerk.  On the outside, all that could be seen was an inch-an-a-half slit with a slight trickle of blood.  On the inside, Jeff could feel still feel the glassy pain deep in his guts; it was like the blade was still there.

 

But it wasn’t.  Because now it was somewhere else.  Carlos had shifted the knife to his other hand and stuck Jeff higher up on his right side, the blade slipping easily in between the boy’s ribs.  The grooved steel shaft speared the punk’s liver.  Angled slightly toward the back, it sliced his gall bladder neatly in half, to end up embedded deep in his pancreas.

 

Again, massive organ trauma triggered electrochemical shock as Jeff’s adolescent body, already pumped full of testosterone, was flooded with adrenaline.  His face, already swelling from Carlos’s kick and the blow of his fist, was clenched in a rictus of agony as the older man took ruthless advantage of the boy’s horrific pain to pound his constricted asshole.

 

Nick stepped back for a moment to show how Carlos had stretched himself out, almost as if he was doing push-ups.  The toes of his tightly-laced lineman’s boots were dug into the mattress to give him the traction he needed to rape the fuck out of the dying teen. Then, by crouching down near the head of the platform and zooming in, Nick got a great shot of Jeff’s thick boycock, still helplessly and involuntarily erect, smacking against Carlos’s hairy ripped abs, keeping time to the assault.

 

“Hell yeah—now that’s how ya fuck a faggot!” Nick said, cheering Carlos on for the camera.  “Tighten it up, use it up, fill it up and toss it the fuck out!”

 

Jeff hadn’t known, hadn’t ever considered that such pain could exist.  The slashing pain of his torn rectum was long forgotten, a minor discomfort compared to the nine-inch shaft of solid steel that had impaled his torso, right to left.  He couldn’t breathe without his diaphragm and chest muscles contracting around the sharp edge and slicing themselves open even more.

 

He literally couldn’t breathe; it hurt too much.  Carlos smiled beatifically down at the boy’s soft, smooth face, so young and so almost innocent as it gaped, the mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish.  “You ready, cunt?  Ya want it to be over?  Ready to take my load and die?”

 

Jeff didn’t want to die; he still had delusions of somehow surviving this experience—but he knew he had to do something, he had to breathe for fuck’s sake, he needed that thing out of him for fuck’s sake GET IT OUT

 

Carlos obliged, withdrawing the blade slowly, lovingly, letting Jeff savor the icy sensation of the knife as it cut a new path through his organs on the way back out.  It hurt so bad the teen punk nearly passed out; his body trembled and convulsed for a moment as his eyes rolled back in his head.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Nick said, reaching down and backhanding the tortured youth across the face.  Illogically, the blow actually seemed to have some effect—Jeff inhaled deeply and opened his eyes.

 

“P-p-pl—” he sputtered, “Ple-please—”

 

“Please what?” Carlos sneered, “Please kill ya?  Hell no; you ain’t endured enough to make me cum yet.  And besides, we gotta give the audience a show, right?  There’s gonna be dudes payin’ to watch a worthless faggot suffer long and hard, the way it deserves.  And anyway, I just wanna hurt ya; I fuckin’ love doin’ it, cunt.”

 

He swung his right arm up, holding the knife with the tip pointing straight down.  Even though he was nearly out of him mind with pain and fear, Jeff was still entranced by the view—Carlos’s broad, hairy chest with large dark nipples protruding above the wiry forest of fur, the thick links of the alpha’s gold necklace hanging free in the air between them, the look of an experienced killer of the Latino skinhead’s face—it was all so masculine, so fuckin’ hot…

 

It wasn’t possible, Jeff decided.  He’d been slipped some bad acid or something; nobody this erotic could be so cold and cruel, could put him in so much pain…

 

…then his eye caught a glint of light reflected from the wickedly sharp tip of the Bowie knife and Jeff felt sick sense of despair that managed to rise over the torment he was already experiencing and he knew nothing could be worse…

 

…then the blade flashed down.

 

It hit the teenaged boy like a bolt of lightning; it was that fast and that traumatic.  Carlos had slammed the knife down in slightly diagonal direction, plunging it into the center of Jeff’s right pectoral muscle, ramming the blade in so deep the hilt pressed against the kid’s chest.  The steel blade punctured the youth’s lung and stuck a rib on the inside, taking out a chip of bone as the knife exited the kid’s back and sank into the mattress beneath him.

 

The boywhore’s face was a mask of pain and shock.  He gasped and whimpered uncontrollably, each movement dragging his muscles and fragile lung tissue against the sharpened steel edge and causing more damage internally.  The punk gave a loud gurgle and, as Nick closed in with camera, a bubble of blood arose in the boy’s open mouth and burst, leaving a crimson trickle down his smooth chin.

 

“Aw, fuckin’-A!” Carlos cried out at the adolescent’s lithe body clenched, the slut’s rectum gripping his killer’s massive rod like a velvet glove.  The vicious sadist pumped the suffering teen violently, the rough denim of his jeans scraping the boy’s smooth asscheeks.

 

Jeff was beyond such trivial annoyances.  Helpless under the weight of the heavily muscled psycho who was torturing him, the youthful rentboy was finally accepting the inevitable fact that he wasn’t getting off this bed alive.  Every breath, every single second of existence, was nothing but the most nightmarish agony that needed to end.   Even when the hulking ex-con yanked the knife back out of him, the youth was so traumatized that he was unable to react to the fresh blast of searing pain.

 

“Almost there, dude,” Carlos muttered breathily, his face taut with the strain of his impending orgasm.  He’d spoken to Nick, to make sure the older man used the camera to the best advantage during the money shot, but Jeff had heard him as well.

 

The hardbodied director took the hint and jumped up onto the bed.  He stood with his leather Converse kicks planted on each side of Jeff’s head, pointing the camera down as Carlos leaned slightly back.  Nick knew what was coming and was in the perfect place to record the teenager’s death agonies.

 

“This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you goddam faggot cunt,” Carlos hissed and clamped one hand over Jeff’s mouth, clutching it with the excruciating power of a bear trap.  Holding the knife in the other, he pressed the tip against the underside of the kid’s jaw.  “Fuckin’ fagmeat—remember as you scream yer worthless life out, you fuckin’ deserve this, ya sack of shit!”

 

And with that, he shoved the blade upwards.

 

It pierced the teen boy’s lower jaw. The blade sliced up through the tongue, impaling it and pinning it to the roof of the mouth as the sharpened steel shaft cut smoothly up though the soft palate.  The kid had literally been speared through his mouth.

 

Moving inexorably, the blade sheared upwards through the upper sinus cavity.  Trapped beneath his powerful killer, pinned to the bed by the stronger man’s dick in his ass, Jeff could only kick his legs as Carlos continued to drive the knife deeper into his skull.  For a brief moment, the agony reached a point that the punk was awash in nauseating vertigo; he seemed to smell the bloody shaft of steel tearing into him—and then the blade tore through the olfactory bulbs at the top of his sinuses and Jeff never smelled anything ever again.

 

By now, his lean young body was flailing uncontrollably.  The kid’s legs thrashed violently; he no longer needed to worry about tripping over his untied shoelace as he kicked the loose sneaker off, leaving his foot in nothing but a ped sock, his toes curling as he spasmed.

 

“Time to die, meatsack,” Carlos growled, “Fuckin’ faggot, all yer good for is soaking up my fuckin’ manspunk.  You ain’t nothin’ but a cumrag, ya stupid homo; now die like the worthless piece a’ shit you are, cunt!”

 

He shoved the knife home.

 

It punctured the base of Jeff’s cranium with a loud crunch that the dying teen felt as much as he heard.  In a split second, Carlos embedded all nine inches of solid steel in the boy’s head, the sharp tip of the Bowie knife gouging the inside of the top of Jeff’s skull.

 

There are no nerves in the brain; Jeff never felt the final slash of the blade through his cerebellum.  That wasn’t to say that he didn’t experience pain—his cringing cockpig soul slid screaming into dark eternity on a wave of mind-shattering agony.  And he never knew that his own deathload was the source of his pain.

 

Carlos’s gigantic balls had contracted, hosing the punk’s guts full off seething mansperm. The heat of the spunk and the pressure against his prostate had primed Jeff’s tool, but the way Carlos’s knife had lodged in the pleasure center of the teen’s brain and shorted it out was what led to the kid’s explosive orgasm.

 

Nick’s downward view of the snuff captured the geysers of boycum that erupted from Jeff’s cock as he died.  The kid spurted several times, each time sending a thick creamy jet of semen splashing against Carlos’s chest or Nick’s hairy, muscled legs, or his own blank dead face.  Carlos held on, grunting and rutting as he drained his rod.

 

Nick didn’t even have to touch himself; he recorded his own dick pumping huge wads of pearly manseed onto the corpse’s already-loaded face.  The same downward angle showed the dead kid’s cum trickling down Nick’s legs and spattered on his black leather sneakers.

 

Carlos collapsed, his bulked-out form falling heavily on the still-shuddering boymeat.  Nick jumped off the bed,  set the camera down, and crossed to the far wall to turn on the lights.  Carlos had recovered before he got back, separating himself stickily from the teen’s corpse.  He pulled his blade back out of the dead faggot’s skull and stuck it, smeared with blood and gray matter, back into his boot.

 

“You’re a mess,” Nick chuckled.  “Don’t worry, the bathroom’s stocked.  Go clean yourself up; I’m gonna take a finishing shot or two and then do the same myself.”  As the heavy tread of Carlos’s boots faded down the hall, Nick picked his camera back up and got a few quick close-ups of the dead boy’s convulsing body, zooming in on the way his feet, one missing a shoe, kicked and twitched in death.  He stopped once Carlos returned—knife and all cleaned—and went to wash himself up and put on his clothes.  The Latino stud had sponged the dead homo’s cum off his chest and had decided to remain as he was, in nothing but jeans and boots, to let his chest hair dry.

 

Nick was very particular about keeping things looking legit, and Carlos agreed with him completely on this; before anything else was done, they tidied the scene by the simple expedient of pulling the plastic fitted sheet off the bed and wrapping the corpse in it.  Nick looked at the hole in the mattress where Carlos’s blade had completely impaled the meat; there was a small bloodstain around the hole.

 

“Make sure nothing leaks from the hole in the sheet,” he said as he grabbed another plastic sheet from a shelf and re-covered the mattress.  By the time he was done, Carlos had confirmed that nothing had leaked from the slit in what was now Jeff’s burial shroud—or would have been if they intended to bury him.

 

Instead they tossed him into the bed of Nick’s pickup like a sack of garbage and headed towards the desert.

 

On the southwest side of town there was a plot of land that had been laid out for a subdivision ten years ago.  When the economy collapsed, building had ground to a halt, the developer had gone bankrupt, and now the ownership of the land was locked in a maze of impenetrable lawsuits.

 

In short, roads and sewers had been laid out, but no houses built.  No one ever went there—it wasn’t even suitable as a lover’s lane, since it was flat, with no cover at all.  What it did have, aside from crumbling streets and rusting stop signs, was a set of drainage ditches and culverts that weren’t being inspected by either Las Vegas or Clark County officials.

 

Nick had found it several weeks ago while out scouting locations—not for movies; for body dumps just like this one.

 

At the far end of the development, the road took a right-angle turn and crossed over a dry wash; the under the roadbed, three large concrete pipes allowed storm water to drain down the gully.  Nick parked the truck right over the dry wash and tossed the corpse over the side.  It fell into the arroyo with a loud, meaty thump like a side of beef.

 

“I got it,” Carlos said, and scrambled down the side of the gully, his high leather boots digging into the sandy soil.  At the bottom, he saw that the meat’s legs were sticking out of one end of the sheet, the red Son of Mars sneaker and the white ped sock both glaringly obvious against the beige sand.  He bent down, and, grabbing the corpse’s ankles, he dragged it to the culvert.  Shoving the dead teen inside the concrete tunnel was no strain for his powerful muscles; in no time, he was back in the truck beside Nick, heading back to the studio.

 

“That was incredible,” Nick chuckled as he accelerated onto the highway.  “We’re gonna make a shit-ton of money on this one, dude.”

 

And he was right.

 


 

Schweitz was pissed.  Here he was, out in the middle of the fuckin’ desert, sweatin’ his fat ass off, while Nuñez got to lay on his ass for a couple a’ weeks, just cause he got a case of appendicitis.  Bet the lazy Spic ain’t even sick…

 

“Ok, whadda we got?” he said aloud with a weary sigh.

 

“Caller lives in that apartment complex on the other side of the highway—the one that was just built,” the patrol cop said.  “He says he rides his bike over here for exercise—does it every other day.  He’s sure the corpse wasn’t here Monday.”

 

“That don’t mean nothin’; that storm yesterday coulda flushed it out from further up in the hills, for all we know.  What’s the ME say?”

 

“Uh, lessee here,” the cop said.  He was conscientious and organized; he’d taken notes and referred to them now.  “Um, young Caucasian male, late teens at oldest.  Been dead three-four days by the looks of it.  Really fuckin’ nasty, detective; he was stabbed several times but not in a way that was instantly fatal.  Looks like someone wanted ‘im to suffer.  Death blow was in the skull, seriously sick.  Oh, yeah—ME says he’d been violently fucked in the ass.”

 

“Aw, goddamit,” Schweitz exploded.  “You called my ass all the way out here for another faggot?  What, you don’t think we got enough real murders on our hands to worry about some useless cocksucker who’s better off dead?  Jesus Christ!”  He turned and started to head back to his car.

 

“Sorry, detective,” the cop called out, abashed.  “What, uh, whaddaya want me to do with my report?”

 

“Round-file it,” Schweitz snapped over his shoulder.  “Trash it.  Wipe yer ass with it, for all I care.  And remember this, boy, if ya wanna make it in this department: unless they’re rich or famous, don’t no one care about dead fags in this town, ya got me?”

 

“Yessir,” the beat cop said respectfully.  As he watched Schweitz stomp angrily back to his car, he erased the notes he so carefully made.

 

“Anything else ya need?” came a voice behind him.  Startled, the cop whirled, to find the morgue assistant laboriously dragging a collapsible gurney with the corpse zipped into a body bag.

 

“Naw,” the cop said, taking a cue from his superiors, “Get that fuckin’ piece of shit outta here.”

Trucker 16–Trucker vs Fratboi

The Trucker stood in the convention center parking lot, looking north.  He’d spent the last hour overseeing the delivery of his load at the center’s service entrance; by noon the next day, he was scheduled to pick up a trailer loaded with sugar at a refinery south of the city.

 

Tonight, he was free.  Since he was only in town overnight, he decided to leave his rig at the convention center; he could come back and sleep in it if no better option came along.

 

Despite the fact that it was the Trucker’s first time in New Orleans, he was sure that some better option would come along.  All he had to do was hunt it down.

 

He decided to head someplace he knew would be teeming with anonymous fags no one would miss.  Picking up the train at Julia Street across from the Port of New Orleans, he headed north towards the French Quarter.

 

It was a warm and sultry evening, the humidity a palpable presence that enveloped one like sopping wool blanket; windows everywhere were fogged with condensation.  In spite of his position in a corner of the train car (to avoid attracting attention), the glittering beads of sweat on the hardbodied alpha drew a couple of envious—and lust-filled—glances.  But given the way he was dressed, he knew to expect a certain degree of faggot focus anyway.

 

In deference to the warmth of the evening, he wore a dark gray short-sleeve mechanic’s shirt, unbuttoned.  It hung wide, exposing his broad, fur-covered chest and hairy ripped abdomen for all to see.  Those who did see, and kept watching, were occasionally rewarded as a sudden movement or gust of air flapped the shirt open even wider, exposing one of the stud’s thick, dark, rock-hard nipples.  For those who had allowed their attention to wander, the faint, flickering reflection of the dogtags nestled in the thick body fur between the huge mounds of his pecs was sufficient to make them look again.

 

The thick forest of fur that carpeted the Trucker’s hard flat belly lead down to—and past—the waistband of a pair of clean but very well-used jeans, the denim worn in places to the softness of velvet.  An inch-thick belt of black leather emphasized the tightness of the Trucker’s waist.  The jeans were also so tight that the softness ensured that every pulsing vein in the well-hung stud’s package was visible if one looked closely enough.

 

More than one were looking closely enough as the train began to accelerate out of the Toulouse station, rounding the curve past the Natchez’s dock.  The Trucker was on the left side, looking out the window on the side away from the river.  He saw the bulk of the Jax Brewery building go past and, drawing the brim of his camouflage-patterned trucker’s cap down low over his icy blue eyes, began to think it was time to explore a little.

 

Once he saw Jackson Square go by, he’d decided to get off; as the train came to a stop at the Dumaine station, he got out and soon the sidewalk of Decatur Street was thudding with the reverberations of his big black leather engineer boots as he walked north, looking around him.

 

Damn, there was so much meat scampering about.  So many vermin to be put down…

 

The bulge in his groin became even more pronounced.

 

He’d walked past Latrobe Park before turning east—well, northeast, actually—on Ursulines, heading away from the Mississippi and deeper into the French Quarter.  The further he went, the more faggots he saw.

 

The Trucker had heard of Southern Decadence; at some point, one of the homos he’d put down had bleated something about it.  Out of curiosity, he’d looked it up, but hadn’t thought much about it.  He had no idea that it was in full swing and that on this hot and humid September evening, he’d find the Quarter packed with faggot twinks.

 

It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.

 

He turned right on Chartres, passing that fortress of supposed chastity, the Ursuline Convent—darkened and locked, as was proper for that hour, but now it was because it was a museum, and past closing time.  Making a left on Governor Nicholls Street—again, just to wander and see what was on offer—the muscled stud ambled up to Royal Street.  On the way, a couple of fey twinks in short shorts and thick-soled sandals ogled him and giggled as he passed under a streetlight.  He sneered at them in disgust, his rage against the worthless little queers mounting within him.  Then he reached the corner of Governor Nicholls and Royal, and stopped cold in front of the Lalaurie house.

 

Delphine Lalaurie was yet another part of New Orleans lore of which the Trucker was already aware.  Not that there’d ever been much of a racial component in the sex killer’s general contempt for humanity—it was just that he’d admired some of ol’ Delphine’s methods.

 

He kept heading up Royal to the next intersection, which was Bourbon Street.  Figuring that he was pretty much in the heart of the Quarter—which he was—the Trucker decided that it was as good a time as any to begin the hunt in earnest.  He turned left, back towards Canal Street, and refocused his attention on the environment with the eyes of a predator stalking for a kill.

 

There was rainbow bunting strung across the street; rainbow flags hung from streetlights and from private balconies.  At St. Phillip Street, the next intersection, a preacher with bright red flag stood on a box, loudly denouncing the rampant sin around him to a few earnest acolytes in white short-sleeve shirts and dark ties; everyone else ignored him completely with the exception of a pair of large furry bears who laughed out loud at him, then embraced and kissed passionately in front of him and his disciples, all of whom blushed violently.

 

The Trucker grinned.  Stupid fuckers; that wasn’t how you handled faggots.

 

There was a small, low building to his right, covered in what looked like dingy white stucco; there was a sign—“Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar”—and it was packed with homos.  The Trucker had to stop for a moment to catch his breath; the sense of anticipation, of the soon-to-come pleasure of release was almost overwhelming.

 

Then he stepped inside.

 

It was a fucking smorgasbord of fuckmeat.  The inside was dark and packed with writhing male bodies.  The moment the Trucker planted his boots on the sunken brick floor, he realized the ancient building, with its forge still in place, was too overcrowded to offer much hope for successful hunting.  Immediately adjacent, though, was a small walled courtyard that opened onto the street.  The courtyard was far less crowded and had a few small metal bistro tables scattered about; most were occupied.

 

At the back of the yard was a small covered bar where business was surprisingly slow; aside from a couple of fairies whispering and sniggering as they sucked ghastly purple frozen drinks up through straws, there were no other customers at the moment.

 

“Gimme a Jack on the rocks,” the Trucker told the bartender.  “Make it a double.”  He flipped the dude some cash when he got his drink and leaned back against the bar, looking out at the crowd.

 

Dudes of all shapes and sized wandered past the arched doorway to the street, but inside the dimly-lit courtyard, the faces all clustered together around the candles on each table, faces lit from below and blurring together in their vacuous lust.  The Trucker felt rage and disgust rising in him again, the pressure forcing its way to his cock, making it pulse and ache…

 

And that was when he saw him.  The boy who was sitting by himself at a table to the right of the doorway—it wasn’t just that he was the only other person alone in the courtyard.  It wasn’t even that he was openly staring at the Trucker.

 

It was the naked hunger in the twink’s eyes; an almost imperious desire that somehow brought a look of vulnerability to the otherwise unpleasantly arrogant cast of the punk’s face.  This was the one, the Trucker decided on the spot.  This little cocksucker was gonna die on his dick tonight.

 

He walked slowly towards the table at which the kid sat; a faint stirring of the humid air flared his shirt out behind him like a cape.  The boy at the table had a perfect view of the alpha stud’s broad, hairy chest, as hard and as perfectly formed as if carved from marble, with a glint of metal in the middle from his dogtags.

 

There was a cold, metallic glint above, too, above the strong, scruffy jaw—glints that came from eyes hidden deep in the shadow cast by the brim of the trucker’s cap.   And that huge package, so tantalizingly displayed right out in front…

 

The kid was still sitting when the Trucker reached the table, his jaw literally hanging open.  His brown hair was cut short on the sides and back, but left long in front and combed back over his head.  His nose was long and straight, dividing a pair of murky hazel eyes and terminating just above a pair full lips that formed a natural pout when closed.

 

Not that they were closed at the moment.  “You, uh, y-you wanna sit?” the kid asked almost timorously, then immediately regained some composure.  “I mean, I ain’t expectin’ no one or anything.”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said evenly and lowered his massive form onto the tiny metal chair.  The delicate wrought iron of the bistro set only enhanced his aura of well-built power.

 

“I-I’m Trent,” the kid said suddenly, holding out his hand.  The Trucker looked at it silently.  Trent flushed and let it fall back to the table.

 

After an awkward pause, the Trucker looked at the boy, giving Trent the impact of his cold blue eyes for the first time.  “How old are ya, kid?” he asked flatly.

 

“I’m nineteen,” Trent replied, raising his chin almost defensively.

 

The Trucker, sipping from his glass, glanced significantly at the glass that was sitting in front of the boy; it was another one of those purple concoctions.  Trent flushed again.

 

“Well, ya know, they ain’t cardin’ nobody tonight,” he replied in a low voice. “You ain’t gonna narc on me, are ya, bro?”

 

“Naw,” the Trucker drawled, his lips curled into a sardonic grin, “I ain’t gonna rat ya out to the cops, dude.  You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that.”

 

 

Trent grinned and took a mouthful of the frozen drink.  “It’s called a Zombie,” he said, “Want some?”

 

“No thanks,” the Trucker said dryly and took another slug of his whiskey.  “Look, dude, I ain’t interested in bein’ yer friend.  I’m lookin’ for someone to fuck.  I’m lookin’ for a cumdump.  You gotta room?”

 

Once again, Trent sat and stared at the hulking stud with his mouth open.  It wasn’t that he was upset; it was just that the blunt nature of the demand startled him.  He had to clear his throat and chug another mouthful of the purple swill before he could stammer out a reply.

 

“Uh, y-yeah man, I, uh, I gotta place—AirBnB, y’know—whol-whole damn apartment.  Got the whole second floor looking down into a private courtyard—hot, huh?  Daddy’s payin’ for it, but he don’t know.  Told ‘im I needed to get away for the weekend cause my frat bros—I’ma Phi Alpha Gamma, y’know—told ‘im they made to much noise and I had an exam comin’ up.  Daddy’s a partner in a big law firm up in Baton Rouge, lotsa political pull, y’know, so he let me put it on his office credit card.  And ain’t no one gonna know I’m usin’ the place to get fucked—smart, huh, bro?”

 

Trent stopped gushing and looked at the Trucker, realizing he was drunk and had let his enthusiasm get out from under him.  The older man had polished off his drink and was looking around the courtyard in a bored manner.

 

“—Anyway,” the kid finished up lamely, “I gotta nice room.  Wanna go?  I got some Johnnie Walker, too.”

 

The Trucker finally turned his attention back to the fuckmeat.  “Sure,” he drawled, “Long as you gotta place I can plow yer ass, that’s all I need.  Let’s go, boy.”

 

They stood up.  Trent turned towards the arched doorway, then paused and turned back to the Trucker, a barely-discernable look of concern on his face.  “Trent,” he said, “My name is Trent.”

 

“Whatever,” the Trucker replied flatly, “Let’s go.”

 

Without another word, Trent wheeled around and led the way out onto the street, turning right.  Even in his alcohol-induced buzz, there was a slight misgiving at the back of his hormone-wracked mind…but the swelling in his groin was much less possible to ignore.

 

And glancing at the blue-collar muscle stud walking beside him, Trent knew damn good and well that he didn’t want to ignore it.  This hardbodied god was gonna bang him tonight; that was all that mattered.

 

Fuck the consequences.

 

At some point, Trent moved ahead; he had to—he was the one who knew where they were going.  They turned right at the first street and the Trucker drifted back a couple of steps so that it wasn’t obvious that he was following the kid.  Not that there was much chance of being noticed; despite the crowd on Bourbon Street, not too many dudes had ventured this far northeast.  There wasn’t much reason to; most of the buildings faced back onto Bourbon Street or forward into the next block.  The street was mainly lined with brick walls.

 

It was dim, but between the occasional streetlight and the orange glow cast off by and reflected back down to the city from the low-hanging clouds, there was enough light for the Trucker to scope out the boy’s ass.

 

The teen slut had dressed—or, rather, undressed—for the humid night air.  His chest, slimly muscular, was already streaked with sweat; perspiration outlined the kid’s pecs on the thin ribbed cotton of his gray wifebeater.  Just barely visible beneath the hem of the shirt was a pair of the shortest gym shorts the Trucker had ever seen, barely four inches from waistband to hem.  Trent’s smooth thighs and firm calves flexed with every step the teen took, his retro black and white Nike Jordan 10s stumbling occasionally on the pavement at the buzzed punk staggered from time to time.  But he kept heading forward purposely.

 

Finally, Trent turned left onto Burgundy Street.  “Jus’ a lil way longer,” he chirped happily, managing to sound even more drunk than he was.  Luckily, the Trucker was in the shadows at the moment or Trent couldn’t have failed to miss the look of contempt the alpha threw at him.

 

As it turned out, Trent’s rental was several blocks down Burgundy, which was better lit than the street they’d left, if just as empty—there were fewer businesses, and most had already closed.  When they finally reached the building, it was an old two-story townhouse.  The ground floor had been converted to a restaurant; it was closed—apparently not for the evening, but for good.  Above it was an apartment that the Trucker presumed wasn’t Trent’s—there was a huge party going on full blast; it was the only noise in the otherwise quiet street.  The place had three pairs of French doors opening out onto the cast-iron balcony; all were open and lit up.  There was crowd of kids of both sexes talking, drinking and dancing, both inside and on the balcony, their yammering nearly blotting out the blaring music.

 

Even intoxicated, Trent had enough presence of mind to duck back into the shadows—just in case any of his frat brothers was at the party.  The Trucker noticed the maneuver, following directly in the faggot’s footsteps as the kid pulled out a key and moved towards a metal gate blocking an arched passage on the right side of the façade.

 

Letting the kid lead the way down the passage, the Trucker closed the gate softly behind him, then headed into the courtyard.

 

The building was L-shaped, with the base of the L being the front, facing the street, and the upright of the letter running back from the street.  The rest of the space was a courtyard that seemed to be laid out as an arbor or pleasure garden.  In the dim light cast by a couple of muted lampposts near the back of the garden, the Trucker thought he could make out a gazebo.  The sides of the yard not surrounded by the building were blocked by high, blank brick walls; none of the neighbors had a window overlooking the yard.

 

Another cast-iron balcony ran around the second floor here, too.  Trent was already climbing a set of stairs immediately to the left of the arched entry.  The Trucker followed him up, the clanging of his big black boots on the iron steps almost inaudible over the sounds of the party.  They had to cross in front of the windows to the party suite in order to turn the corner and get to Trent’s place in the rear.  Looking across, the Trucker could see three darkened French doors, much like the ones on the front of the building; this was where the teen punk was leading him.  The party suite didn’t have doors to this balcony, just windows overlooking it, and shades had been pulled over them.  There was enough light to see their footing—and to make out occasion shapes silhouetted against the shades—but no one was looking out.

 

The Trucker was able to follow the twink into his place without being observed.  Even better, the noise and music from the next unit was so loud, no one could possibly hear anything going on anywhere else.

 

That was good.  That meant the Trucker could make the homo twink squeal a little before putting him down.

 

Inside, Trent turned on the lights as the Trucker closed a set of plantation shutters over the door, just to make sure they couldn’t be seen.  Looking around, the hardbodied alpha was somewhat surprised to see that the entire space had been converted into a single large room.  The center of the room was a living area, with a fireplace against the far wall.  To the left, an open area had been converted to a kitchen, to the right was the sleeping area.  In the far corner was a walled-off area that was evidently a bathroom.  The entire place was furnished with period antiques, giving the room the somewhat schizophrenic feel of a French Colonial loft apartment.  Even the walls had been taken down to the original brick.

 

“Hey, ya wanna drink?” Trent said.

 

“Sure,” the Trucker replied, “On the rocks.  It’s a hot night.”

 

As Trent headed to the kitchen, thinking that it was indeed a hot night, the Trucker pulled his cap off and tossed it onto the butler’s tray table that was in front of the antique settee.  Digging his pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, the older man lit one, then slipped out of his shirt and tossed it onto the table as well.

 

When Trent turned back around with two glasses of scotch in his hands, the Trucker was standing in the center of the room, wearing nothing but his skin-tight jeans and his black leather engineer boots.  The teen fratboi gasped and almost dropped the drinks; seeing the Trucker clearly under good lighting for the first time, he was almost frightened.

 

He’d certainly been able to see enough up till now to know that the older dude was a major stud, but he hadn’t perceived how truly huge the guy was.  Those huge pecs, bigger than any hubcaps he’d ever seen, that dark wiry fur covering his chest and his ripped abs, those thick jutting nipples…

 

He looked like he could literally fuck Trent in half—and that thought both scared and aroused the horny teen slut.

 

“H-here,” he stammered, shakily handing the Trucker a glass.  “Damn, y-you’re—I, uh, I…um, hang on, I’ll be ri-right back…”  Taking a hefty slug from his own glass, Trent crossed to a bedside table; a rather large piece of furniture meant to match the high four-poster bed.  After digging in a drawer for a moment, Trent came back with a lit joint.  Taking a deep hit, he proffered the jay to the Trucker.  “Want some?” he gasped breathlessly to avoid exhaling.

 

The Trucker shook his head silently and took another drag from his smoke.  Sipping his scotch, he stared at Trent for another few moments before speaking.

 

“Get outta those clothes, bitch,” he ordered.  Suddenly, Trent found himself obeying the iron tone of command in the alpha’s voice.  He peeled the wifebeater off over his head, revealing his smooth, lithe twink torso, slim but firm and strong.  With a quick shuck and shuffle, Trent had wriggled his way out of the shorts—they fell to his ankles and he stepped easily out of them, leaving himself nude except for his retro Jordans and no-show ped socks.

 

His thick twink cock swung free between his legs; while it was nowhere near as huge as the Trucker’s, it was still an impressive piece of meat for a teenaged faggot.  More than six inches long, it sprang semi-erect from a bushy mound of dark-brown pubes between Trent’s smooth, firm thighs.

 

The Trucker took another drag from his cigarette.  “Horny little fucker, aintcha?” he jeered, leaning back and slowly unzipping his fly.  The vicious alpha’s eyes never left the kid’s face; he watched as the boy’s eyes lit up with lust, the young punk panting as the Trucker’s zipper slipped further down his crotch.

 

Finally the Trucker decided the time had come to let the little homo see exactly what he was gonna be dealing with.  The older man had to reach into his jeans with both hands to extract the enormous tube of manflesh that he intended to ram into the twink’s asshole.

 

First, though, he had other plans.

 

“Get over here and suck my cock, you fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled.  Trent blinked; he’d known the dude would take over and turn dominant—he expected that.  But he also expected some kinda warning.  This sudden onslaught caught him by surprise.

 

“W-what?” he stammered, “I, uh, I—”

 

“Shut the fuck up and wrap yer faggot lips around my dick, asswipe!” the Trucker barked.  Again, the tone of command lashed Trent like a whip.  Before he was even conscious of his actions, the teen slut found himself on his knees, trying to take the biggest cock he’d ever seen down his throat without gagging.  It was a losing battle, and he knew it.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure as he felt the twink whore choke on his dick.  “Yeah, that’s it, ya fucking homo,” he said as he grasped Trent’s head with both hands and forced it violently into his crotch, “That’s what a real man’s cock tastes like.  Ya like it, faggot?  Yeah?  Choke on it, cunt, gag on a man’s dick, you fuckin’ pansy-ass queerboy!”

 

Trent would have protested the vile homophobic names he was being called—he was a bottom, but he had limits.  Unfortunately for him, he was too busy being a pansy-ass queerboy to call a halt to the proceedings.  And even as the massive rod of manmeat pinned his epiglottis closed, sealing off his windpipe as it plunged halfway to his diaphragm, his own tool was swelling and pulsing.

 

But as much as Trent reveled in choking down the hot blue-collar stud’s cock, he still couldn’t breathe.  And as horny as he was, at some point the need to inhale became imperative—and suddenly, just as he started to squirm, the teenaged cocksucker felt the older man’s denim-wrapped thighs press against the side of his head.

 

As Trent began—slowly at first, but with increasing desperation—to pull his head up off the hardbodied top’s dick, the pressure on the sides of his head increased painfully.  The Trucker wasn’t actually trying to use his incredibly powerful thighs to crack Trent’s skull like a walnut, but if the panicking fag thought that, so much the better.

 

The teen’s face began to darken.  Tears streaming involuntarily from his wide, bulging eyes, Trent looked desperately up at the Trucker’s face, his eyes pleading silently for air.  The sense of control, of power over the teenaged faggot was almost too much for the Trucker…

 

…he had to let the kid go.  He hadn’t suffered anywhere near as much as he needed to.

 

Relaxing his legs, he let Trent jerk himself backward out of the older man’s groin and fall backwards onto the floor.  As the lean, lithe punk lay gasping and gagging on the floor, the Trucker stood up and polished off his drink.  He took a final drag off his smoke and tapped the ash onto the prone youth before stubbing the butt out in an ashtray.

 

“Awright, bitch, enough foreplay.  Get yer ass on the bed.  I’m gonna show ya how faggot cunts like you need to be fucked.  Ya hear me, asswipe?  Get yer goddam homo ass up, clear them pansy sheets off the bed, and get yer legs in the air, ya hear me?”

 

Still coughing, Trent rose shakily to his feet, then turned and grabbed his drink off the coffee table.  He took a big slug of the booze, snatched his still-smoldering joint from the ashtray and took a deep, lung-busting hit.

 

“What the fuck are ya waitin’ for, cocksucker?” the Trucker snarled, “Get over there an’ clear that goddam bed off!”

 

This time, Trent obeyed, snuffing his jay in the ashtray, unaware of how soon his own life would be so easily snuffed.  Shoving the pillows off the far side of the bed, he grabbed the comforter, blanket and flat sheets in a single handful and jerked the bedding down to the foot of the bed.  All three pieces were tucked in deeply at the foot; Trent gave up trying to pull them off and left them draped over the footboard and dragging on the floor.

 

The Trucker watched the lithe teen’s muscles flex and bulge under his smooth skin.  A rather large one bulged in front—the little faggot punk evidently liked being verbally abused.  His dick was swollen and erect, a purple staff that bobbed and weaved in the air with Trent’s every motion.

 

Then the kid climbed up onto the bed, rolled onto his back, and raised his Nike Jordans in the air.  His cock rose straight up from his groin, curving slightly up towards his smooth flat belly.  Trent nestled himself into position, then reached around and grabbed his own asscheeks, spreading the fuzz-covered peachlike globes and exposing his pink puckered asshole.

 

Almost before Trent realized it, the Trucker was on the bed with him, still in his jeans and boots.  The stud had his cock in both hands, rubbing the huge engorged head of his tool against the boy’s fuckhole, the alpha’s precum smearing over the orifice—it was the only lube the hapless bitch was gonna get.

 

To Trent, it felt more like the business end of a Louisville slugger.  As the Trucker hovered over him, the teen looked up at the older man.  He felt something touch him directly between his pecs and heard a faint clinking sound—they were close enough for the stud’s dogtags to settle onto his chest.  All sense of caution and self-preservation evaporated as the bottom boy drank in the view of hairy muscled manflesh about to pump his ass.  His bleary pot-reddened eyes sought out the Trucker’s icy blue glare.

 

“I know it’s gonna hurt like fuck,” Trent said softly, nearly in a whisper.  “I’ll probably scream.  Don’t stop.”

 

The Trucker’s lips twisted into a knowing leer.  “Don’t worry ‘bout that, faggot,” he chuckled, “I ain’t gonna stop no matter how much ya scream.”  Without another word, he shoved his massive rod into Trent’s ass, not waiting for the teen’s sphincter to relax.

 

Trent was right.  He screamed.

 

The Trucker stiffened with pleasure as he felt the youth’s colon clench in resistance to the searing pain, tightening up on his cock.  “Fuck yeah, that’s it,” he grunted, “Keep fightin’ it, faggot, keep workin’ my shaft.”

 

Trent liked getting fucked, and he liked it to hurt—but now a whole new dimension of agony was opening up in front of him.  He’d never been so full of cock before. It wasn’t just the pain of split skin and torn muscles in his rectum; he could feel the Trucker’s enormous, club-like rod prodding deep into his viscera and his head filled with images of horrific internal injuries.

 

The punk was howling with pain, but his own cock was not only hard, it was slapping against the alpha, spattering clear viscous drops of precum over the latter’s firm hairy belly.  Trying to endure the brutal assfuck, Trent clutched the Trucker with desperate strength, his fingers digging into the stud’s biceps and his smooth thighs wrapped tightly around the alpha’s waist.

 

Trent’s Nikes kicked in the air as his toes curled involuntarily with every thrust of the Trucker’s hips.  The kid’s swollen shaft pulsated at the same tempo as the top’s massive, vein-sheathed rod ground its way relentlessly over his prostate.  Already overloaded with teen hormones, the boy didn’t need much stimulation—no matter how much pain he was in, he was gonna stay hard.  It wasn’t something he could control.

 

Suddenly the music coming from the party suite stopped; the cacophonic rumble of overlapping human voices continued, but the volume level dropped dramatically.  Problem was, Trent was still squealing—and now it might be heard.

 

The Trucker put a stop to that real quick.  “Shaddup, cunt,” he barked, and popped Trent in the face.

 

The force of the blow slammed the kid’s jaws together, making him bite his tongue painfully.  The alpha hadn’t even needed to slow the tempo of his fucking; he’d simply pulled one powerful arm back and plowed it into the teen’s face while still supporting himself with his other arm.

 

It worked.  Trent shut up, his bloodshot eyes, large and vulnerable, looking accusingly up at the Trucker before they started to fill with tears.

 

“Aww, whatsa matter?” the Trucker sneered.  “Is de wittle faggot gonna cry?  Man up, ya little motherfucker—you said ya wanted it to hurt, remember?  Cause I sure the fuck remember.  You ain’t even started to hurt yet, asswipe.  I’m gonna use yer homo ass up, you piece of fag garbage.  By the time I’m done with ya, you ain’t ever gonna need to get fucked again—ever.”

 

As the Trucker reared himself up on his knees, looming over the lithe young boy, he maintained control over the situation physically, keeping the kid pinned to the bed with his dick.  Trent watched—as best he could; despite his best efforts, he was crying—with a growing sense of surreal horror as the older man unbuckled his thick black leather belt and slipped out from around his waist.

 

The Trucker doubled the belt and held it in his right hand and suddenly, somehow, Trent’s vision cleared.  He looked up at the older man’s powerful chest, his broad hubcap pecs carpeted with a mass of dark wiry hair, his thick nipples jutting proudly at the crest of each mound.  And above that, the dark, scruff-covered face, so masculine and so cold, with that icy heat in those blue eyes…

 

And while Trent was almost hypnotized with lust for the man who was hurting him so badly, the Trucker swept his arm down, slashing Trent across the face with the doubled end of the belt.

 

It didn’t break anything or even draw blood, but it left a terrible welt across the kid’s soft fuzz-covered cheek.  Trent shrieked.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” the Trucker roared and hit him with the belt again.  This time it was a backhand blow, and this time it was harder.

 

The teen sobbed openly but managed enough self-control to avoid screaming aloud.  He was in considerable pain and utterly bewildered by what was happening.  All he knew for a fact was that he was still getting violently fucked—and he was still hard…

 

“Wh-why?” he gasped out between sobs, “Hit-hit m-me—wh-why?”

 

“Because it feels good, you worthless piece of fuckmeat,” the Trucker grinned.  “Every time I hurt you, your horny little faggot teen body gets all nice and tight on my dick.  Hurting you gets me off—you feel me, cumdump?  Yer gonna feel me, I fuckin’ promise.  The more pain you’re in, the better you work my cock.  Here, I’ll show ya!”

 

Trent lay back on the bed with the older man’s shaft still buried deep in his guts.  His fragile young psyche was starting to disintegrate in the face of sheer terror; it was as if what was happening to him was part of a movie he was watching.  He wondered if it was past midnight yet; he really did have an exam on Monday—Bio 101 and he was gonna flunk but who gives a shit, he didn’t need Bio to get into Daddy’s law firm and make it big—

 

And then there was one single moment of lucidity, like a flash of lightning illuminating an unknown landscape for a fraction of a second—just enough time for Trent to see that the Trucker had looped the belt through its buckle, forming a simple noose.  The hairy musclestud was holding it up and showing it to the boy, his face twisted with malevolent glee.

 

Trent was shallow and unintelligent, but even he understood what was gonna happen.  He snapped back to reality instantly.

 

“N-no—” he begged, “For G-god’s sake, no—please, oh dear God, please d-don’t—”

 

The young kid broke down sobbing.  The Trucker looked down at him and laughed aloud, coldly and cruelly.

 

“The meat always begs,” he said with an amused tone in his voice, almost as if he was speaking solely to himself.  “Like it has any worth until it’s full of my seed.  You need to learn that the only reason you exist is to be my cumrag, faggot.  Once I pump my load into ya, you’re done.  You’ve served your purpose on this planet.  All that’ll be left is a pile of boymeat.”

 

Trent’s eyes, wide with stunned horror flashed up at his killer.  The teen still wasn’t able to think of the Trucker in that way yet, but his desperate denial was crumbling.

 

“Y-you’re kiddin’—ha!  A’course, that’s it—it’s a joke, right?  Huh?  Cause I asked for it rough, huh?  Right?”  Fear drove the boy’s pitch higher with each work; the final question was a squeak.

 

“Time to die, cocksucker,” the Trucker said complacently as he reached out and lowered the belt around Trent’s head.  The lithe young fratboi tried to fight the older man off, but the alpha knocked the kid’s flailing hands away like so many annoying mosquitos and, taking advantage of an unguarded moment when Trent lifted his head up off the bed, managed to get the belt around the punk’s neck with minimal effort.

 

“There,” the buff killer said in a self-satisfied tone, “Now we’re ready for business.”  He shifted himself, keeping his huge rod embedded in the teen’s ass as he dug the thick soles of his engineer boots into the mattress.  He was gonna need a lotta leverage to make the meat milk his shaft right.

 

“Oh fuck no please don—urk!” Trent cried out, his final useless plea cut off as the hardbodied psycho tightened the belt and cinched the kid’s windpipe off with a single jerk.  From then on, the only sounds the fratboi could make out loud were thick gagging noises as he was slowly choked to death.

 

Inside, though, he was screaming.  The inability to breathe had refocused the worthless little punk; now he had a purpose—to keep alive as long as possible, to stave off death to the last of his strength.

 

And that was exactly what the Trucker wanted, too—to feel the young faggot struggle and die on his cock.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered seductively to the panicking teen, “Keep fightin’ it, fuckmeat.  Fuck yeah, boy, just like that.  Work my dick, you sack a’ shit, fuckin’ milk my shaft as you go under.”

 

Trent fought it, all right; he fought and thrashed like a landed fish.  His hands, curved into claws, came flying at the Trucker, digging and scratching for any vulnerable spot—anything to relieve the crushing agony in his throat.

 

It had taken long enough for the shallow young homo to understand that this was really happening to him, that he’d used his smooth young body to lure in something much more dangerous than a hot anonymous fuck.  Even now, as his guts were getting reamed and his pulse pounded swiftly and deafeningly inside his skull, he refused to accept the fact that death was imminent.  His fear at the moment was getting hurt so bad his father had to be called; what the fuck would he do then?

 

“Am I losin’ ya, asswipe?  You findin’ something more entertain’ than my cock to think about?  Ok, cunt, I’ll make yer sorry goddam ass pay attention to what matters most in yer useless life—working the spunk outta my dick.  Here, this’ll help ya focus—”

 

The Trucker wrapped the loose end of the belt around his thick, hairy wrist, grabbing the end of it in his right hand.  Placing his left hand on Trent’s chest, he began to pull backwards with his right.  He started off slowly, almost gently, but kept increasing the power.  Within a matter of seconds, his right bicep was bulging, a visible manifestation of the sheer strength the older man was using to snuff the teenaged faggot.

 

Trent clawed frantically at the Trucker’s chest, clutching and releasing handfuls of wiry hair like steel wool.  As his esophagus began to deform under the crushing pressure and his face started to swell excruciatingly from lack of oxygen, it finally began to dawn on the fratboi that he wasn’t going to survive this encounter.

 

That was what it took to trip the trigger.  Panic set in, ensuring that Trent’s actions were no longer aimed at a rational attempt to free himself—he was thrashing and flailing in blind terror, his desperate attempts to free himself punctuated by the jangling music of the alpha’s dancing dogtags.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted in ecstasy.  “Goddam, I love how twink meat kicks as it dies!”

 

The shuddering, sweating pile of teen boymeat was no longer a lucid human being.  Trent had relapsed to the state of a terrified animal caught in a trap. He clawed and dug at the thick leather strap that was wrapped so tightly around his throat that it had sunk in; his fingernails shredded the flesh of his neck as he tried vainly to get them up under the belt.

 

The Trucker felt the teen’s smooth skin sliding against his, lubed with an oily film of panicked deathsweat that was literally being squeezed out of the kid’s body.  He looked down with sick lust at Trent’s grotesque, blackened face, swollen and distorted out of recognition.  The fratboi’s tongue, huge and purple, had pushed its way past the thick blue lips and was protruding amidst a steady stream of white, foamy drool that leaked down Trent’s peach-fuzz-covered cheeks.

 

“I’m gettin’ close, fuckwad,” the Trucker hissed hoarsely, “Ya want my load?  Ya want to end it, to stop the pain?  Die, faggot, die on my cock.  Fuckin’ kick and die an’ jack me off.  C’mon, you worthless little pansy, make yer fuckin’ faggot life mean somethin’.  Drain my balls an’ I’ll let ya rot with my hot manseed in yer guts.  Die, you piece of shit, so I can use you as a cumrag.”

 

The pounding in Trent’s head was overwhelming; it drowned out everything else.  It drowned out the razor-sharp agony of the brutal buttfuck; in fact, Trent was almost desensitized to that pain by now.  It also drowned out the horrific pain of his collapsing trachea and the fiery sense of intense pressure radiating from his oxygen-starved lungs…

 

…but it didn’t drown out the burning sensation that ran the length of his swollen, aching cock.  Even as his sense faded and he began to slip convulsively into progressive brain damage, the teen slut could still feel his own painfully erect and throbbing cock pressed against the Trucker’s belly–and was somehow till sensitive enough to feel the older man’s muscled form hunched over him, working and pumping, using his body as a sex toy, to be tossed aside after orgasm.

 

And as his brain shut down, Trent began to want it.  He began to accept death, to accept that his best, his only purpose in life was to receive this stud’s semen, to accept his sperm in a mighty gush.  That was all he was, a receptacle for hot mancum, and if he had to suffer like this to achieve it, it was ok…

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, huh, bro?” the Trucker whispered, “Now ya like it, yeah?  Now ya want it, right?  Fuck you, ya goddam worthless faggot!”

 

Pulling up violently on the belt, the Trucker took his left hand off Trent’s chest and drove it as hard as he could into the dying teen’s face.

 

Several things happened at once.  Trent was too far gone to hear the words, but he certainly felt the Trucker jerking the belt—it would have been difficult for him to miss, since his trachea was crushed into a bloody mass of cartilage, his larynx reduced to a mangled wad of tissue.

 

That sudden blast of nightmarish pain proved to be too much for the near-dead punk; his traumatized nervous system went into overload and he began to spunk uncontrollably.  The dying fratboi shot an interminable, high-pressure jet of semen onto the Trucker’s body, splashing up his chest and splattering on his dangling dogtags.

 

Less than half a second later, the Trucker’s blow drove Trent’s nose into his face, shattering the bridge like glass and sending bone shards flying into what little part of the teen’s brain was still alive.  It also ruptured the kid’s cervical vertebrae, tearing open the spinal column and mangling the spinal cord itself.

 

As the kid went rigid with massive nerve trauma beneath him, the Trucker felt his seething balls erupt in an explosion of pure manseed.  In his final death agony, Trent clung tightly to his killer, his firm smooth thighs tightly wrapped around the Trucker’s waist and his retro Nike Jordans kicking and flailing mindlessly in the air behind the Trucker’s back.  His arms had shifted as well; now he held his killer in a tighter embrace than any lover ever dared.

 

The Trucker cried out, a long inarticulate cry of orgasm and male dominance.  He spewed load after load uncontrollably into the human cumrag he’d snuffed, letting the corpse’s convulsions milk the last drop of spunk from his aching, overfilled scrotum.  At some point, he realized he was pounding his fist again and again into Trent’s defenseless face.

 

The teen was long past caring.  He was dead.  His body hadn’t quite realized the fact, though; the smooth young fratboi was still quivering and spunking, jet after jet of cum shooting from his convulsing corpse.  It took more than a minute for both Trent and the Trucker to stop unloading.

 

Finally, the Trucker shuddered to a stop.  He paused for a moment, gasping and sweating, his leaking cock still buried deep in the corpse.  Almost from outside himself came the awareness that the music from the part suite had started again; he suddenly realized that he’d shot his entire wad to the background music of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” by Activator.  Well, at least it was appropriate.

 

Slowly and regretfully, he pulled his tool out of the dead kid.  His boots hit the wood floor with a loud thump as he crossed to the bathroom to clean up; wiping the boyspunk out of his wiry chest hair took some effort.  When he was done, he tossed the wet towel into the bathtub and walked back out.

 

It was a shame to let a nice room like this go to waste, he thought, but he had to get going.  After all, that sugar waiting for him tomorrow wasn’t going to deliver itself.  Still, there was a romantic appeal to the scene that presented itself to him—the old brick walls, the antique French provincial furniture, the tight, hot teen corpse lying spread-eagled on the bed with damn near a pint of creamy mancum leaking out of its ass and what looked like a quart of teen boyspunk congealing on its chest and a thick black leather belt embedded in its neck, its black and white Jordan 10s still twitching against thecum-soaked mattress…

 

 

The Trucker smirked.  Well, someone was gonna have some fun finding it.

 

Tucking his shirt into his back pocket so that some of it hung out, swinging against his taut ass like a hankie, he left the same way he came in.  Once past the party suite windows and down in the courtyard, the Trucker took a deep breath of fresh air, inhaling the heady scent of jasmine from somewhere nearby.  Yeah, he thought, he could come to like the Big Easy…

 

The sound of his boots on the pavement echoed through the French Quarter as he headed back to the train.

 


 

“Mr. Boudreaux?  I gotta call for you…”

 

“Dammit, Marcie, can’t you see I’m busy?  I’m about to start this conference call with the governor and Senator Boileau about gettin’ this Religious Freedom bill passed; can’t it wait?

 

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s the New Orleans police.  It’s your son.  They say—they…oh, sir, you really need to take this call!”

 

“Oh gawd, what’s the little bastard done now?  Another one of those stupid fraternity pranks?  I swear to God, if he wasn’t mixin’ with the right types down there, I wouldn’t be payin’ his dues.  Oh well, as long as it ain’t too serious.  But he better not be costin’ me any more money.  Go ahead an’ put ‘em though, Marcie.”

 

Ten minutes later, Trent Boudreaux, senior, had fled his office for the parking garage.  By the time he was on the road for New Orleans, his conference call was forgotten, not to be recalled to mind until he learned every last nightmarish detail of his son’s murder—after what was obviously consensual gay sex.

 

The funeral was private; family shame prevented any public announcement.  His frat brothers struck his name from the roll and never admitted they had allowed a faggot in their midst.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rigler County Snuff Squad–the Inception

It was past five at the end of a long slow day of paperwork and Dan was uptight.  Too long at the desk tended to do that to him; he was a man who craved action.  Right now, he needed something to break the tension before driving home.  Three days ago, he’d busted a low-level weed dealer and confiscated his pot—there were still several rolled joints in his desk drawer.  Unlocking it, he pulled it out and extracted one of them.

 

He had no qualms about lighting up in his office; no one would dare enter without knocking.  And anyway, the building was practically empty.  The first shift had left and second was out on its rounds.  Cooper was manning the duty desk on the other side of the building, and Schumacher was tending the two drunks in the basement cells.  Only other person around was Pete, and he—

 

There was a rap at the door.  “C’mon in, Pete,” Dan said.

 

The heavily-muscled deputy entered the room and sniffed.  A conspiratorial grin spread across his handsome, hirsute face, and he eagerly accepted a toke from the smoldering jay Dan handed him.

 

“You wanted to see me, Cap?” he croaked, trying not to exhale too much of the sweet-scented blue smoke.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, taking the joint back and tossing him a manila folder full of papers instead.  “Here, before you get too high, read this an’ tell me what ya think.”

 

“What is it?” Pete asked, then answered his own question by reading the header on the first page.  “Autopsy report?  Whose?  And who’s this Dr. Herrera?”

 

“Herrera is the county medical examiner.  Corpse is some kid from Corrington.”

 

“Corrington?  That’s south of here, isn’t it?  Not far from the Quail County line?”

 

“Southwest, yeah.  Little podunk place—you ever been there?”

 

Pete, who had moved to Rigler County recently, shook his head.

 

“It was the original county seat,” Dan continued.  “The old courthouse is still down there, but there ain’t more than three or four thousand folk down in that whole southwestern corner now.  That’s what makes that report so interesting.”

 

Pete turned his attention back to the autopsy.  “Lessee, Caucasian male, late teens to early twenties…found partially submerged in moderate state of decay…proximate cause of death, traumatic dislocation of spine between first and second cervical vertebrae…”  He turned back to Dan, who was proffering the joint again.  “I don’t get it,” he said, “So we got a dead kid with a broken neck.  So what?”

 

“Keep goin’,” Dan replied complacently.

 

“Ok, Pete said resignedly, “Where was I…oh, here we are…broken fingers on left hand…shattered right patella…nose broken…what the—?”

 

“Find something interesting?” Dan asked innocently.

 

“Crushed esophagus indicative of violent manual strangulation…clear evidence of sexual assault…sperm recovered but likely too degraded for local analysis; recommend the State Bureau of Investigation be involved…”

 

Pete paused for a moment; Dan spoke up.

 

“Body was ID’d through fingerprints.  Twenty-three year old waste of human flesh called Travis Egerton.  Couple a’ rednecks out frog-giggin’ found him floatin’ in a swamp.  Thought we might take a ride out to Corrington tomorrow, yeah?  I wanna find this guy—for several reasons. I really wanna find him.”

 

There was something in Dan’s smile that made Pete’s dick stiffen until it tentpoled his tan chinos.  “Me too, Cap,” he replied, his broad grin lighting up his youthful face, “Me too.  Count me in.”

 


 

The county road was poorly maintained; Captain Dan’s pickup bucked and rocked on the crumbling, pitted asphalt.  Pete, grateful for the four-wheel drive, peered at the paperwork again.

 

“Where is the place—this 1805 CR 83 west?  I couldn’t find it online.  Who are we looking for?”

 

Frowning with concentration, Dan gripped the steering wheel tightly, his high glossy boots working the pedals carefully as he maneuvered the truck around the worst of the potholes.  “It’s where that Travis fucker was stayin’.  I did a little research after you left last night—turns out our dead meat was a known associate of that other dead piece a’ shit, Robbie Clebbs.”

 

As Robbie’s name was mention, an image flashed briefly through Pete’s mind—the look on the teen cunt’s face when Pete knifed him in the throat.  Instantly, the groin of his tight chinos was bulging as the erotic pleasure of the memory warmed his blood.  A quick, surreptitious glance at Cap’s crotch showed he hadn’t been immune to the power of flashback.

 

“Anyway,” Dan went on, grinning, “That gave me enough to roust Judge Wheeler outta bed early this mornin’ an’ sign a search warrant for the dude’s last known address.”

 

“Awful long—” Pete started when the truck hit a deep pothole with a resounding bang.  Dan cursed under his breath.  “Awful long way to come for this,” the deputy continued, “We coulda done what the ME suggested and called in the SBI to test the cum in the punk’s ass.”

 

“Yeah,” Dan admitted, “We coulda done that.  But I wanna keep control of the situation.  I wanna decide what to do when we find this guy…”  His voice trailed off and he seemed to grow contemplative for a moment before returning to himself.  “He clearly has certain…talents that might come in handy.  If the state’s involved, there’s nothing I can do, you got me?”

 

“Yeah, I think I do,” Pete replied thoughtfully.  “You thinkin’ about hirin’ another deputy?”

 

“We’ll see,” Dan said.  “Depends on his attitude towards Authority.”

 

Pete, who understood and shared Dan’s dedication to Authority, said nothing more until Dan swung off the road onto an even more rutted dirt track.  Several hundred yards off the road, they came to halt in front of an old single-wide trailer with a jacked-up black pickup parked in front.  They got out of their vehicle and mounted the shoddily-built wooden stairs to the front door; Pete noted how the thin wood steps gave under his Danner Tachyon boots.

 

Dan found it necessary to bang repeatedly on the hollow aluminum door before he got any kind of response.  At long last, the door was slowly—and, it seemed, grudgingly—unlocked.  It opened a crack and a bleary, scruffy face looked out.

 

“Whatcha want?”

 

Dan held the search warrant up so the dude could read the name on it.  “That you?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” Brody said with a deep sigh as he opened the door and reluctantly let the cops in.

 

They stepped inside the dimly-lit space.  The trailer had an unhealthy, musty smell comprised equally of stale beer, manscent and the taint of formaldehyde-treated plywood.  Neither cop minded the smell, though, they were both looking intently at Brody.

 

He was a little large and a little older than Pete—and, by the same token, younger than and not quite as muscular as Captain Dan.  He was wearing nothing but cutoff jean shorts, white tube socks that covered his meaty calves, and a pair of untied Redwing construction boots.  Even in the low lighting, it was impossible to miss his ripped abs and broad, hubcap pecs with jutting erect nipples.

 

Brody ran his eyes over the two men standing before him, his gaze magnetically drawn to the older cop’s trooper boots, admiring the polished brown leather.  The other one was younger, his scruffy face somehow intriguing the well-built redneck.

 

Then Dan began.  “You know a kid named Travis Egerton?”

 

“Yeah,” Brody replied with elaborate nonchalance.  “He lived here for a coupla years, but he ran off a few weeks ago.  Dunno why and don’t care; little faggot wasn’t pullin’ his weight ‘round here anyways.”

 

“So he just left?  Didn’t leave any forwarding address?  Did he have a job?”

 

Brody’s face assumed an expression of impassive reluctance; he was clearly uncomfortable speaking to them.  “Yeah, like I toldja—he just left and I don’t know where.  And yeah, he had a job—kinda.  Worked part time at the Kum ‘n Buy up the road.  But they don’t know where he is either, I already asked.”

 

Pete was learning his trade quickly.  Like Cap, he’d picked up on Brody’s discomfort.  “Thought you said you didn’t care what happened to him,” he put in.  “So why’dja go ask about him?”

 

“I wanted them to gimme his last paycheck,” Brody snapped, his eyes hooded and cautious, “Motherfucker owed me back rent, so I figgered it belonged to me.  Fuckin’ chink bastard who owns the place wouldn’t give it to me.”

 

“So he left without picking up his last paycheck,” Dan mused aloud meditatively.  “Did he ever mention or hang around with another kid called Ronnie?  Eighteen, slim, kinda curly black hair, not quite as long as yours—ring a bell?”

 

“Yeah, I heard ‘im mention the name a coupla time.  Thought it was just another one of those little pansy friends of his.  Never met the queer.  Anyway, why are ya askin’ all this shit?  What’s goin’ on here anyway?”

 

Dan paused for a moment, letting his ice-cold, ice-blue eyes roam over Brody’s physique, noting the redneck’s overdeveloped musculature.  Then he glanced up into the redneck’s deep dark eyes and told him about the discovery of Travis’s corpse and the autopsy report.  Brody not only took it in stride, he barely blinked.

 

Dan’s suspicions were confirmed.  He glanced at Pete and they locked eyes only for a second, but it was enough for the Captain to understand that his protégé had been quick enough to pick up on the same signals.  Pride flowed through his huge, powerful body—he’d make something of Pete yet.

 

But they had other fish to fry at the moment, and the first thing to do was to land the one that had already swallowed their bait.

 

“Little homo got himself fucked to death, huh?” Brody jeered.  “Can’t say I’m surprised; the bitch was a major cockwhore.”

 

The tone of his voice and the look in his face made both Dan and Pete more certain in their convictions.

 

“Yeah?” Dan said evenly, “Y’know, the Clebbs punk went out the same way.  Naw, his neck wasn’t broke, but he got it good up the ass and then he died—hard.  We’re, uh,”—and here he glanced sideways at Pete—“we’re goin’ on the theory that it’s drug-related, maybe gang work.”

 

Brody’s reaction to Dan’s words was an immediate relaxation that was so abrupt as to be almost physically tactile.  And with it came something else.  Even before another word was spoken, there was something electric in the air between the three men; something dark and primal.

 

It might have had something to do with the massive wood all three men were sporting as they discussed the rape and murder of a couple of twinks.

 

“So anyway,” Dan continued, “We’re lookin’ for any of Travis’s associates—anyone you can think of that was into the same scene and might have some info for us.”

 

Brody paused for a moment.  “You want someone like Travis…” he muttered sotto voce, as if speaking only to himself—then a broad grin spread over his ruthlessly handsome face.  “Yeah, bro, I got the dude for ya.”

 

Dan nudged Pete, who whipped out his phone and began to take an audio recording.  Brody was never asked for permission or advised of his rights; this was a strictly extralegal procedure.  Nothing that was said would be given in evidence.

 

“His name’s Eric,” Brody went on eagerly, “Eric—hell, I can’t remember his last name.  But I think he was the one helping Travis to esca—er, get high.  An’ I ain’t talkin’ just weed; I know they was doin’ meth.”

 

“Ever hear them mention the words “China white”?” Pete inquired.  Brody shook his head mutely.

 

“You know where we can find this Eric?” Dan asked.  “Can you take us to him?”

 

As Brody stood facing the two cops, a large bead of transparent fluid ran down his thigh from underneath his shorts.  Both Dan and Pete noticed it.

 

“Yeah, I can take you to him.  Thought about makin’ a visit there myself, but with you guys comin’ along…”

 

He didn’t need to finish his sentence; the huge viscous drop of precum that had leaked out of his throbbing cock onto his thigh pretty clearly showed his opinion of making an unexpected house call on that little cunt Eric in the company of two armed and heavily-muscled studs.

 

Today was gonna be epic.

 


 

After he’d snuffed Travis, Brody had accessed the dead kid’s email and had managed to retrieve some of his deleted texts; as a result, he had quite a lot of info on Eric.  He was able to lead the cops directly to the punk’s house.

 

The kid rented one side of a tiny duplex on a gravel road on the other side of Corrington.  He was a bartender at The Well, a little dive bar that was known to law enforcement for occasional arrests for indecency in the men’s room.  Pete didn’t have Dan’s familiarity with the place, but he’d heard of it.

 

As they all headed over in Brody’s truck—Dan’s idea; he didn’t want to spook the kid by pulling up in a police vehicle—the redneck sadist told them some of what he’d learned.  Like how Eric’s pay wasn’t enough to cover his rent, his car payment, and his drug use, so he supplemented it with some pay-for-play activities with dudes in the parking lot of the bar.  He refused to do anything inside the bar, though; he said he didn’t want to get fired.

 

“So is he into the drug scene big-time here in Corrington?” Pete asked.

 

“Well, I dunno about big-time,” Brody replied, scratching his rough, unshaven cheek, “With him, it’s more a matter of variety, y’know?  He likes coke, meth, and weed, but he’ll do whatever’s available.”

 

“Good.  If there’s a possibility that he knows anything about China white comin’ into this county, I wanna hear it,” Dan growled.  “And I ain’t takin’ no for an answer.”  The angry gleam in his eye showed his seriousness; he wasn’t kidding.  He wasn’t going to have his county become the epicenter of an outbreak of fentanyl overdoses—even if he had to kill to make sure.

 

In fact, it’d be a pleasure.

 

They pulled off the road and parked behind an old Ford Focus with oxidized paint by the side of small structure of gray weathered clapboard.  There was a single porch with two doors; the door on the left had a metal letter “A” nailed to it, as the one on the left had a “B.”  Brody’s Redwing boots thumped loudly on the deteriorated floorboards as he crossed the porch and knocked loudly on the left door.

 

The door swung open and revealed a young man, shirtless, in jeans and sneakers.  His hair was deep blond and fairly short, like a golden aurora around his head.  His large eyes were pale blue and ringed with long lashes; a spattering of freckles ran across the bridge of his slightly-upturned nose.  Below lush, full lips, there was a large dimple in his chin.

 

The boy’s smooth chest was broad and muscled.  His build wasn’t of the caliber of the three men who confronted him, but was more like that of a high school quarterback, in keeping with his youthful face.  His firm, flat belly, barely covered with a fine down like peach fuzz, vanished into the waistband of jeans so tight they looked as if they’d been painted on.  The denim clung with such faithfulness to the punk’s package that it was damn near possible to pick out individual veins on his dick.   The jeans left little doubt as to the musculature of Eric’s legs as they descended to the checkerboard Vans hightops the kid was sporting.

 

Dan, Pete, Brody—all three—were able to take all this in in a split second.  It was all that was allowed.  The moment Eric’s eyes landed on Brody’s face, they widened with fear and he slammed the door.  One thing Brody hadn’t counted on was that Eric knew as much about him as he did about Eric.  Travis had kept his friend informed of the escalating violence in their relationship, and while Eric didn’t know that Travis had been murdered, he suspected Brody in his disappearance.  He was terrified of the older man.

 

“Go away!  I know who you are!  I’m gonna call the cops!” he screamed through the locked door.

 

“Dude, I got the cops here with me,” Brody responded.  “They wanna talk to you.”

 

There was a pause, then the sound of the bolt sliding back.  Opening the door cautiously, Eric peered out and, for the first time, sighted the two massive alpha studs, uniformed and booted, standing beyond Brody.  In spite of his nervousness, the kid felt his dick stir; in his tight jeans, the reaction was obvious to all three men.

 

“Well, uh, okay,” Eric said hesitantly, then stepped back to let them in.  “But I, uh, I gotta leave for work in an hour or so.”

 

Dan looked at Pete with a grin on his face, then turned his icy eyes back to the blond faggot.  “That’s ok, boy,” he said, “I think we’ll be done with you by then.”

 

The front room was small and dark, with blankets nailed up over the windows.  The air was thick and nauseatingly sweet with the scent of weed, crack and incense.  It was also uncomfortably warm; the window AC unit roared like a jet engine off on one side, but made little difference in the ambient temperature.

 

With four muscled male bodies—two already half nude—crammed in a room barely ten feet by fourteen feet, the acrid odor of mansweat began to take precedence.  And Dan was determined to make Eric sweat some more.

 

“Ok, wh-whaddaya want?” the kid said defensively, his eyes darting between the three men.

 

“Siddown,” Dan ordered him, “I’m gonna ask you some questions.”

 

“Um, okay,” Eric said, sitting on the battered black leather loveseat that was the only article of furniture in the room besides the TV stand.  The three hardbodied alphas all stood in front of him, Pete kicking a game console that was sitting on the floor in front of the TV out of the way.

 

“Hey!” Eric yelped, “Dude, careful with that thing!”

 

“Shaddup!” Dan barked.  Eric’s jaw snapped shut as if he’d been slapped.  He stared silently up at Dan, his big blue eyes wide—more with anxiety than fear.

 

Dan smirked down at the little punk.  The fear would be there soon enough.

 

“You’re Eric, right?  Bartender at The Well?” he began.

 

“Uh-huh,” Eric answered quietly.

 

“You know Travis Egerton?”

 

Now fear appeared in Eric’s eyes as he shifted them quickly to Brody.

 

“Yeah, I know ‘im, but I ain’t seen ‘im around in a while,” the kid admitted.

 

“Where did he get his drugs?”

 

The blunt nature of the question startled Eric, who had no intention of admitting drug use to a cop.  “I, uh, I don’t know…” he muttered, looking away.

 

“You lie to me, you little cocksucker, and I’ll fuck you up worse than your little brain can imagine,” Dan snarled.  Eric’s face drained of all color as he stared up as Captain Dan in utter shock.  Almost mindlessly, he turned and looked at Pete.

 

“You’d best tell him, boy,” Pete grinned, “Or he ain’t gonna be the only one who gets to fuck you…up.”

 

Eric caught the slight pause at the end of Pete’s sentence.  It’s unlikely his shallow, drug-addled mind would have understood the significance of the remark if he hadn’t already been sitting at eye level with the muscle studs’ groins.  Even in his sudden fear, the randy young faggot couldn’t help to notice how each man in front of him had a visibly throbbing bulge in his crotch.

 

It was almost like a scene from one of Eric’s favorite porn flicks…so why was he so scared?

 

“C’mon, you little fuckwad,” Brody snarled suddenly, “You heard the man.  I know you and Travis were fuckin’, an’ I know he toldja all kinda shit.  So you better start tellin’ this here cop what he wants to know—an’ I mean the right stuff—or I’ll stick my dick up yer fuckhole and show yer little faggot ass what a real man feels like.”

 

Eric was a strung-out little cocksucker, but even his limited intellect picked up on the emphasis in Brody’s words.  He understood the message.  He could blab all he wanted about Travis buying drugs, but the moment he mentioned the shit Brody had done to Travis—well, his mind didn’t go any further down that path.

 

“Well, uh—” the kid faltered.  He still didn’t want to admit to anything that would get him in trouble.  “I dunno.  Seriously, bro, I dunno where he got his shit.”

 

“Not good enough,” Dan said calmly, then sighed, as if what he was about to do made him sad.  The bulge in his groin belied that.  “Guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.  Get him, boys.”

 

As if choreographed in advance, Pete sprang up and grabbed Eric’s left arm as Brody pinioned his right; together, they yanked him up off the couch.  Trapped in the painful grip of the two muscle studs, the kid boldly looked Dan straight in the eyes, but the paleness of his youthful face showed his fear plainly enough.

 

“You gonna tell me where Travis got his shit?” Dan asked, a note of final warning in his voice.

 

Eric gulped, his throat making a dry clicking sound.  “Well, I—uh…he bought weed from Charlie Baler and his brother Eddie…”

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“And where’d he get the rest of it—coke, meth…China white?” Dan watched the boy’s eyes closely, noting the way they darted downward, trying to avoid his gaze.

 

“I dunno,” Eric replied sullenly, “I dunno ‘bout that stuff, bro; I don’t use.  I mean, I did, but…I don’t anymore.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dan snorted with a contemptuous laugh that was echoed by Pete.

 

Eric’s fear momentarily spilled over, giving him a fleeting and spurious sense of courage.  He began struggling, his smooth sweat-slick skin pressing tight against Pete and Brody.  As he tried to free himself, the thick, snake-like muscles in his arms pulsed and bulged, but were utterly useless against the more massive strength of both Pete and Brody.

 

In his desperation, Eric made a mistake.

 

“Whaddaya gonna do, beat it outta me?  Fuck, bro, I’ll sue the fuckin’ county for millions—”

 

“Hey, Cap,” Pete broke in, “Y’know, we got a civilian here too.  Not like he’s a county employee.”

 

Eric stopped talking, his face ashen gray and his jaw hanging open.  Dan grinned in his face and stepped quickly to one side.

 

“C’mere,” he told Brody, “I got ‘im,” as he reached out and grabbed the punk’s wrist, keeping his arm twisted painfully behind his back as Brody stepped directly in front of Eric and peeled his shirt off.

 

“There ya go, faggot,” the sadistic redneck sneered, “Gave ya some eye candy, huh, ya worthless cocksucker?  Haw!”

 

Despite having heard tales of Brody’s capacity for violence, Eric was still unable to keep his gaze from locking onto the buff killer’s well-built torso.  His eyes slid down the broad hairy chest, following the dark trail of body fur down the washboard abs until it disappeared beneath the waistband of the shorts.  Still entranced, the kid kept going, noting the ridge in the denim and tracing it down to the thick purple tip just peeking out below the cuff of the shorts.  He watched a thick transparent bead ooze out and fall, splattering on the toe of Brody’s untied construction boot.

 

It was instinctual.  Eric had no control over the fact that he suddenly had a raging, almost painful erection.  He also had no control over being such a homo whore that he’d gotten hard fast enough for the movement in his groin to be visible.  Brody noticed it.  So did Pete, who’d been looking down over Eric’s shoulder.

 

“Hey, Captain,” Pete said eagerly, “I think we need to unzip the perp’s fly.  Looks like he may be carryin’ a weapon—or maybe just somethin’ that’s achin’ to get into the open air.”

 

Dan guffawed.  “Go ahead,” he chuckled, nodding at Brody, “Unzip ‘im and lessee if the little pansy-ass junkie likes gettin’…interrogated.”

 

“I ain’t no junkie!” Eric squawked as Brody stepped forward with a broad grin and jerked down his fly.  Reaching in with one big beefy hand, he hauled out the kid’s dick—long and thick, but nothing to impress any of the three men surrounding him at the moment.

 

“Wonder how long he can keep it up,” Pete said casually to Dan.

 

“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out,” Dan replied with a dry chuckle.  “You know what to do, I guess,” he said to Brody.  “I’m gonna ask questions.  He’s gonna give answers.  You’re gonna make sure he gives answers.”

 

“Yeah,” Brody said abruptly, staring Eric in the eyes.  The broad grin never left his face and he fondled his crotch as he spoke.

 

“All right, you worthless little fuck, where did Travis Egerton buy his coke from?  His meth?” Dan hissed viciously into Eric’s ear.  Even though his cock was hard, the boy was scared, very scared.  But he still scared of the wrong things.

 

“Tim Ventnor, ok?  Lemme go!  He got the coke from Tim Ventnor.  Meth too, when he didn’t get it from Hector Casias.  Ok?  That good enough for you?”

 

Eric wasn’t in a position to see the signal that passed between Dan’s and Brody’s eyes, but it was so quick and so subtle—an almost imperceptible flicker of that deep-seated flame of lust and rage in their eyes—that it’s unlikely Eric would have understood or even noticed it if he could have.

 

What Eric could see was the way the deltoid and bicep on Brody’s right arm bulged, swelling almost grotesquely as he pulled the arm back.  The helpless, struggling twink had a split second to notice, to appreciate the sheer force and power contained in those muscles before they released with the relentlessness of a coiled spring and drove Brody’s fist deep into Eric’s gut.

 

“HOOG!” the kid hacked out as his abdomen absorbed the blow, shoving his diaphragm up and violently expelling all the air from his lungs.  His entire body bucked and jerked, his exposed cock swinging and bobbing wildly—but staying erect.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Pete said happily, his face beaming, “That’s how you conduct an interrogation!”

 

“You lied, you useless sack of shit,” Dan said flatly.  “Ventnor’s been in jail on a weapons charge for six months.  And Casias left the state.  So since yer such a fuckin’ dumbass, I’ll start nice an’ slow, ok?  Where—did—Travis—Egerton—get—his—coke?  Think you can answer that one without too much strain on yer pathetic faggot brain?”

 

Tears streaming from his eyes, Eric gasped helplessly, trying to regain his breath.  Despite his blurred vision, he could see what effect his suffering was having on Brody’s cock—and it scared him.  The guy was oozing precum like a soaker hose—after a single gutpunch.  How far was this actually gonna go?

 

Pete, picking up on Eric’s fear, reached around and grabbed the latter’s chin, his powerful hand clamped on the punk’s jaw with the inexorably rigidity of a bear trap.  The buff young deputy forced the faggot’s head forward, bending his neck until the kid was looking directly into Brody’s face.

 

“Look at him,” he told Eric coldly.  “Look into his face, ya homo cunt.  You see what he wants to do to ya?  Only reason he can’t is cause we’d stop ‘im.  And if ya don’t quit lyin’—we ain’t gonna stop ‘im.  Ya feelin’ me, asswipe?”

 

Eric moaned, a faint pathetic sound of despair.  Dan was proud of his protégé; the boy was learning the art of first-rate questioning, and he had clearly taken his lessons to heart.

 

The older cop motioned for Pete to come back and resume restraining the perp.  Dan moved slightly to the side to get a better view of Eric’s face, his enormous cock visibly swollen in his chinos.

 

Ain’t nothing more erotic than a round of bad cop/bad cop.

 

“Ok, you worthless waste of flesh,” Dan sneered, “I gotta name.  I want you to tell me all about him.”

 

Still breathing heavily, Eric glance dully at Dan, then lowered his gaze.

 

“Robbie Clebbs.”

 

In a flash, Eric’s head was back up.  “Aw, I don’t nothin’ about that!” he wheezed out excitedly.  “I ain’t seen him in months!  Bro, I dunno jack shit about him gettin’ offed like that!”

 

Dan smiled grimly.  “Then yer about to learn somethin’ about it.  And I ain’t yer bro, you queer-ass fuckwad.”  He turned to Brody and said, “I ain’t heard an answer to my question.  Back to you.”

 

His face alive with malevolent glee, Brody took time drawing back for the next blow, giving Eric time to anticipate the impact.  The hulking redneck watched the kid quiver in fear for a moment before driving a roundhouse blow straight from his shoulder to Eric’s sternum.

 

Eric couldn’t breathe.  At all.  It was like being hit by a car.  He wasn’t given time to fully process the situation, though; in quick succession, Brody landed three more blows, battering the boy’s flat, smooth belly and firm chest.

 

Realizing Eric wasn’t in a position to resist at the moment, Pete let him go.  The young slut slumped to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry, gagging and dry-heaving.  Dan kicked him in the ass, the worn denim of his jeans offering little protection against the steel toe of the cop’s trooper boot.

 

“Now, where were we?” Dan asked conversationally.  “Oh, yes, Mr. Clebbs.  Robbie.  I wanna know what kinda shit you got from him.  And I wanna know where he got it from—I know you know.  Start talkin’.”

 

Still gagging, Eric raised his head feebly from the floor, a stringer of drool dangling from his chin.  He tried to speak but went into a coughing fit that left him dry-heaving again.  It took him several minutes before he regained enough control to speak clearly.

 

“I-I…ain’t s-seen…R-Robbie in thr-three, three months…”

 

“See, this is what happens when these fuckin’ faggots come into my county,” Dan sighed.  “Little cumguzzlin’ pansies get all drugged up and get the gangs in.  And then they fuckin’ lie about it!”

 

These last words were said in a crescendo of rage that managed to penetrate Eric’s suffering.  He already knew what was coming—but he was unaware that his dick knew, too, and was giving an entirely different signal.

 

“N-no, p-p-please…” he begged, “Tellin’-tellin’ the truth…”

 

His plea went unheard, overridden by Pete’s raucous laughter.  “Look, Cap, lookit the faggot’s dick!” he chortled.  “I swear, the moment you yelled at ‘im, the cunt got all hard again!”

 

“God, n-no,” Eric sobbed, still drooling and wracked with fits of coughing, “S-swear ‘m tell-tellin’ the truth!”

 

“Goddam,” Dan muttered, “Pathetic little faggot crawlin’ on the ground and he still ain’t gonna tell me what I wanna hear.”  He paused for a moment and looked down at Pete, then looked over at Brody.

 

“Hey, dude,” he said to the white trash alpha, “You warned the homo perp that you’d show ‘im what a real man in his ass would feel like.  You still up to making good on that threat?”  There was no need to answer; a single quick glance at the thick tube of manmeat that hung, pulsing and oozing, out of Brody’s shorts.

 

Brody answered anyway.  “You know it man—I always back the blue.”  Grinning wildly, he kicked Eric viciously so that the moaning punk rolled onto his back.  From that position, it was easy for the hardbodied redneck to bend down, clamp one hand around Eric’s throat, and deadlift him straight into the air.

 

Both Dan and Pete were impressed with Brody’s strength—Dan could have done the same, but Pete wasn’t there yet.  The fact that Brody was almost as strong as Dan himself was a mark in his favor.

 

Still holding the choking homo aloft by his throat, Brody carried him down the dark, narrow hallway to the tiny bedroom at the back of the house. Blankets dyed jet black had been nailed up over the windows; most of the room was bathed in the vivid ultraviolet of a blacklight.  There was a bedside table that held a small lamp—off at the moment—and an enormous bong in elaborately-blown glass.

 

In the center of the room was a twin bed—a twisted pile of dirty sheets on top of an old, stained mattress.  All three men—Eric was no longer defined as such—filed into the room; then, without a word needing to be said, Brody stood aside so that Pete had enough space to quickly shove the bed linen to the floor with a single sweep of his arm.

 

Even then, Brody didn’t release Eric.  He held him up, his maniacal grin still lighting up his face, and stared the kid straight in the eyes as Eric’s checkered Vans kicked and flailed five inches above the warped wooden floorboards.

 

His heart and his head pounding in frenetic syncopation, the strangling punk clawed at Brody’s fingers.  Everything Travis had ever told him about Brody came back to him and suddenly it took every fiber of his being to fight off the cold panic that rose inside him.

 

“Chill out, bro,” Brody whispered seductively, the grin never leaving his face, “We’re jest gettin’ started.  Here, lemme make ya a little more comfortable.”

 

Reaching down with his free hand, he unbuttoned Eric’s jeans, then reached down and pulled the zipper down.  Once that was done, a single quick jerk dropped Eric’s jeans to his ankles; as they fell, Eric’s cock sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, making Dan and Pete grin and Brody  chuckle derisively.

 

Brody lowered Eric just to floor level, then placed his big Redwing boot between the kid’s legs, on the jeans.  Bearing down on Eric’s throat, Brody jerked the boy upwards, keeping his foot in place; the movement was swift and violent, but it effectively pulled Eric’s jeans off over his feet, leaving him nude with his kicks still on.

 

Brody’s grip on his windpipe left him in agony too, but no one else gave a shit.  With a satisfied grunt, the redneck tossed the flailing punk onto the bed.  As Eric writhed and gagged, Brody slowly hiked up the cuff of his shorts, exposing more and more of his massive erect dick.  He didn’t see the need to get any more undressed; he could plow his shaft into this faggot without bothering to go to that much trouble.

 

“Hang on a second there,” Dan suddenly commanded.  “Maybe you can fuck the truth outta him, but if he lies, he needs to learn to respect Authority—and that means us.  Pete, get up there and haul out yer junk and every time this little sack a’ shit gives me a bad answer, I want you to stick yer meat down his throat until he chokes on it—and not let go until I tell ya.  You got that, deputy?”

 

“Sir, yes sir!” Pete responded happily.  Scrambling up onto the bed, he got up on his knees, unzipped the fly of his chinos and extracted his huge, throbbing cock.  “Ready for duty, sir!” he cried, with a mischievous wink.

 

“Awright,” Dan barked, “Phase two of the interrogation.  Start now.”

 

Brody wasn’t used to taking orders, but he had no problems obeying this one ASAP.  He reached out and grabbed at Eric—and missed.  Eric had twisted to the side to avoid him.

 

It wasn’t as if Eric had a hope of escaping; he moved instinctively.  He’d been too busy fighting to breathe to hear every detail of Dan’s words, but he’d been able to make out the gist of it.  Earlier, the thought of getting plowed by these muscle studs had gotten him horny; now, it just got him scared.  This wouldn’t be a fun fuck.  These dudes were gonna hurt him—and if half of what Travis had told him was true, Brody was gonna like hurting him.

 

Eric had been used like a whore and slapped around, but he’d never had to deal with anyone who got off on causing prolonged human suffering.  The urge to dodge Brody’s hand was as involuntary at it was useless.

 

“Where the fuck you think yer goin’?” Pete demanded as he caught Eric’s upper arm and forcibly rolled the kid onto his stomach.  Once the punk was in that position, Brody, still standing at the side of the bed, grabbed Eric’s hips and dragged him around until the kid’s fuckhole was aligned with his thick, throbbing shaft.  At the same time, Pete maneuvered himself to Eric’s head.  Still on his knees, he snatched a handful of the boy’s short blond hair and, pulling his head up, slapped Eric’s face with his swollen cock.  Each blow landed with a wet smacking sound and left a spatter of precum on Eric’s face.

 

“Okay, ya worthless little faggot, when was the last time you saw Robbie Clebbs?” Dan snarled, bending down over Eric’s face, inches from Pete’s engorged member.

 

“Th-three months ago!” the boy wailed, his quavering voice cracked with fear.

 

Dan sighed as if upset but the gleam in his eye and the bulge in his groin said otherwise.  “Ok, boys,” he said evenly, “Motherfucker keeps on lyin’—y’all know what to do.”

 

They did.  Before Eric had time to brace himself, he was rammed so full of cock it hurt.  Badly.  In fact, it was fucking agonizing.

 

Brody’s enormous rod, thickly wreathed in veins, forced the faggot’s sphincter to open wider than it ever had before, and it didn’t happen slowly.  Eric would have screamed at the slashing, razor-like pain in his asshole as his delicate rectal lining was torn like wet newspaper—except that Pete’s long, leaking tool was jammed so far down his throat he couldn’t breathe.

 

The boy’s hands beat wildly at Pete but the buff young deputy simply swatted them away.  He laughed, a deep but boyish sound of amusement, as he watched the lean blond homo suffer and choke.

 

“Awright, deputy, stand down.  Gotta give the perp a chance to talk.”

 

Pete was having fun with his dick down Eric’s throat, but he obeyed the Captain unhesitatingly.  He pulled the punk’s head up off his shaft and shoved it aside like garbage.  As Eric coughed and gagged, the deputy unbuttoned his khaki short-sleeve shirt and, reaching to the side, tossed it onto the dresser.  His white cotton t-shirt soon followed, leaving Pete’s broad furry chest, already glistening with sweat, exposed to the open air.  The acrid scent of testosterone in the air increased.

 

Dan noted it and smiled approvingly.  “You know the drill now, asswipe.  You gonna tell me what I wanna hear?” he hissed at Eric.

 

The smooth, slender faggot was moaning and sobbing; he was too focused on the horrific pain in his rectum to be able to answer Dan, although he not only heard the words, but finally understood them.  It didn’t matter that the last time he’d seen Robbie really had been three months ago—that wasn’t what this psycho wanted to hear.

 

Dan, meanwhile, had turned his attention to Brody.  “Think you can make him talk?”

 

“Fuck yeah,” Brody grinned and began plowing his huge rod into Eric’s ass; it was as if a motor had been shifted into high gear.  Eric’s eyes widened; his expression was that of utter helpless pain as he screeched in a high falsetto.

 

Dan, standing next to where Pete was kneeling, drew his fist back, his bulging bicep stretching the cuff of his short-sleeve button-down.  “I said talk, not squeal like a little girl, you useless fuckin’ bitch!” he barked and punched Eric in the face.

 

All but unconscious, the kid went limp.  He was in a gray twilight haze, but he could still feel his asshole getting rammed with the brutal relentlessness of a steam piston.  He had to speak.  He knew it; if he didn’t speak, he’d be dead.

 

“L-l-l…” he tried.

 

“I think he’s tryin’ to say somthin’, Cap,” Pete said.  Dan lowered his head to hear better.

 

“Las-last w-w-week,” Eric groaned.  “S-saw him l-last we-week…”

 

“Well, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Dan said.  “All that fuckin’ trouble just to get one honest answer outta ya, you lyin’ piece a’ shit.  I gotta lot more to ask you, boy, so you either better start tellin’ the truth—or hope your little twink body has the stamina to finish the interrogation.  You feelin’ me, cocksucker?  Cause I know yer damn sure feelin’ my buddies here, ha!”

 

Then the smile vanished from his face.  “Okay, then, next question.  Who was the Clebbs fuckwad gettin’ his drugs from?  Who was helpin’ him bring the fentanyl in?”

 

Eric—who didn’t know the term “China white”—despaired.  He had no idea who Clebbs was buying from and this was the first he’d head of fentanyl.  But he also knew that if he didn’t come up with satisfactory answers, he was likely to get fucked to death.  And as much fun as that would have sounded as little as an hour ago, Eric now knew from personal experience that if he didn’t tell these hardbodied sadists what they wanted to hear, he was gonna suffer—a lot.

 

“R-Rusty Tur-Turner,” the young fag squealed, his voice forced into a staccato rhythm by the brutal repetitive force of Brody’s ass-pounding, “Rust-Rusty and J-Josh Perez, man, that’s wh-who he was buyin’ from!”

 

Eric didn’t know if either Rusty or Josh knew Robbie; they were just a couple of dudes who came into The Well from time to time and had sucked him off on occasion.  But he needed names, and he needed them fast.

 

“Yer lyin’ again, cocksucker,” Dan snapped, “I can tell.”  But he noted the names down carefully anyway; it certainly would hurt to have a few of the fag’s friends to interrogate as well.  Once you start turning over rocks, all kinda insects start scurryin’ from the light.  “Hey, Pete—make sure he’s tellin’ us everything.”

 

Pete didn’t need to be told twice.  Jerking Eric’s head back up, he looked into the boy’s frantic eyes.  The look of desperation on the youth’s face make his cock throb so hard he could barely stand it.  The deputy spat contemptuously into the homo’s face, then forced Eric’s head remorselessly into his crotch, shoving his oozing dick inch by inch down the helpless punk’s trachea.

 

As the engorged, precum-lubed head slipped slowly down his windpipe, Eric had to call on all his strength—strength no one who knew him would have supposed he possessed—to stave off panic.  The struggle was partly physical, and Brody was the one who benefitted by it.

 

“Oh fuck yeah,” the muscle-bound redneck alpha grunted as his hips pumped his swollen member rapidly and rhythmically up Eric’s ass, “Little cunt’s startin’ to get into it now.  Toldja I’d fuck the right info outta the cum-guzzlin’ pansy!”  The huge purple head of his dick ground relentlessly over the slut’s prostate, keeping Eric in an involuntary and excruciatingly constant state of erection.

 

Dan, standing next to Pete, slowly unbuttoned and peeled his own shirt off.  Like Pete, he tossed it and his cotton undershirt onto the dresser.  The next time Eric looked up, his entire field of view was taken up by the Captain’s massive chest, his dark blond chest hair glinting with beads of sweat.  “Hold ‘im there,” Dan ordered, and Pete, his thick tool so completely blocking the lean punk’s airway as to choke the kid, obeyed immediately.

 

As Eric flailed, thick gagging sounds erupting from his closed-off throat and large tears rolling down his darkening cheeks, he heard the sound of a zipper.  It was another couple of seconds before he felt the blow across his face; it was like he’d been hit with an iron bar.

 

His bulging eyes were too blurred by tears to see that Dan had hauled his monstrously large cock out of his chinos and had dickslapped Eric with it.  But the sheer weight and size of Dan’s member left a bruise on Eric’s blackening face.

 

“Ok, pull it up and let it talk,” Dan said in a tone of derisory amusement.  His change of pronoun was noted by the others, but not by Eric—which was probably for the best, since he would have shit himself in terror if he’d known what it signaled.

 

Dan had what he wanted.  He’d milk the cunt for any more information he could get, but it was just about time to dispose of the disgusting little pervert.  Dan had plans for this one, though.  He’d done some research and wanted to fine-tune this snuff.

 

Or, rather, he wanted Pete to fine-tune it.  It was time to break the boy in, pop his snuff cherry. Dan hadn’t planned on a civvie being present for this, though; he was still concerned about Brody’s presence.  Sure, the hyper-masculine hick knew how to handle faggots, but did he respect Authority?

 

The question was, did he have the discipline that Dan was looking for?  It was a very rare, quality, this discipline; Pete was the only one he’d met so far who understood it—except for may Pete’s uncle.  But there it was; it was hereditary in his deputy.

 

But that all passed through his mind in a fraction of a second.  Pete had pulled Eric’s head back up; once again, the kid was coughing and gagging, long streamers of drool running down his chin and drizzling onto Pete massive, glistening cock.

 

“J-J-Jo-Joey B-Bes-Bessemer, Wa-Wade Pl-Pl-Plymouth…” the faggot managed to retch up between the wracking coughing fits that caused his whole body to clench and give such obvious physical pleasure to the muscle-bound cracker alpha whose cock was buried in his ass.

 

Dan smiled—a cold, sharp, mirthless smile that Eric could barely make out but which still chilled him to the bone.

 

“Yer sayin’ Robbie got shit from Joey and Wade?” he asked sneeringly.

 

“Oh God,” Eric suddenly sobbed, “Pl-please stop this…I-I can’t…no-no more…c-can’t…”

 

“Answer me, motherfucker, or I’m gonna jam my own cock down yer faggot throat and shoot so fuckin’ hard you drown in my cum, you hear me, you pansy asswipe?

 

“R-Robbie got h-his outta t-town sh-sh-shit from-from Wade,” Eric wailed helplessly, “T-Travis tol’ me he g-got his co-coke an’ shit like-like that from Jo-Jo-Joey…”

 

Dan stood straight, a satisfied smile playing across his features.  He had four good leads.  “So tell me about Joey,” he said.  “Think he was the one who killed Travis?”

 

Despite everything he’d already endured, Eric’s reaction to this statement was extreme.

 

“Travis is dead?” he gasped in horror.

 

“We hauled him outta a swamp a few days ago.  He’d been beaten, raped, strangled and his neck was broken.”

 

Suddenly Brody’s pumping intensified; Eric’s was being rammed so hard he felt like he was literally being fucked in half.  Despite the nightmarish agony in his reamed-out colon, he struggled to speak.

 

“N-n-no!  Th-they…no…n-not AHHH MY ASS not them…” he sputtered.

 

Brody tensed, his huge muscular body on high alert.  This was one of his hottest fantasies; snuffing a helpless faggot.  The fact that there were a couple of cops helping him intensified the eroticism more than he could have imagined—but as hot as it was, he had no intention of being revealed as an already-experienced murderer before two members of the sheriff’s department.  His next movement was a deliberate as it was cum-inducing.

 

Jerking Eric’s head up, Brody slammed his fist into the back of the faggot’s neck—a donkey-punch with the power of hate- and contempt-driven muscles behind it; Eric never had a chance.  His cervical vertebrae shattered like glass, bone shards shearing mercilessly through the twink’s spinal column.

 

Dan realized what was happening.  “NO!” he shouted, but it was too late.  Eric had gone rigid in his death agony; the searing chemical-electric bolt that overwhelmed his nervous system locking his lean, hard young body into the perfect position to receive Brody’s manmeat.

 

No one was in a position to see the twink spew his deathload but the intense pain of his boysperm being violently and involuntarily expelled was one of the last sensations Eric experienced in his short, useless life.

 

As the corpse convulsed and flailed, Brody’s face twisted into a grimace of pain and pleasure.  “FUCK!  AW YEAH, FUCK!” he screamed as his huge tube of manmeat pulsed and pumped more than a quart of steaming hot manseed up the dead kid’s ass.

 

Pete had been too close to unloading to stop once Brody took over; as Eric’s head was jerked up off his cock, Pete began to squirt uncontrollably, his swollen shaft spurting gush after gush of thick, milky cum over the dying punk’s head, the pearly geysers of manspunk jetting upwards, only to fall back in thick ropy strands on Eric’s congested head.   Under the deep ultraviolet hue of the blacklight, the huge creamy spurts of hot sperm were illuminate with a surreal glow.

 

“FUCK!!” Dan cried, partly in orgasm induced by watching the worthless faggot die, partly in frustration, as his enormous rod spewed his steaming, potent manseed over everyone involved.  The reactions were telling; Pete gloried in wearing his Captain’s spunk—Brody shuddered and quickly looked for something with which to wipe it off.

 

The three alphas laid back, an unspoken mutual agreement to catch their individual breaths.  It had been an intense—and as far as Dan was concerned, fruitful—interrogation.  The dead fag had provided useful info.

 

“Awright,” Brody said, grabbing one of Eric’s soiled t-shirt from off the floor and using it to first swab the sweat off his hard muscled body, then ground it into his crotch to soak up his cum, “So who’ve we got?  Joey Bessemer…”

 

“He’s dead,” Dan responded quickly, “OD’d a month and a half ago.  Cunt was lyin’ about him.”

 

“So we got Wade Plymouth and Josh Perez, yeah?  I know where Josh hangs; I can go question him for ya…”

 

Dan had some deep concerns about Brody, but he decided to let the situation play out on its own.  “Ok,” he said, quickly shoving his thick cock back into his chinos, “Lemme know what he tells ya—remember, dude, I need names, yeah?”

 

“I gotcha,” Brody said confidently, stuffing his massive, cum-smeared cock back down inside his jeans.  “I’ll letcha know anythin’ I find out, yeah?”

 

“Um, yeah,” Dan said hesitantly.  He knew the score; he knew he was dealing with a faggot serial killer.  He also knew that if he let Brody realize he knew, his own life might be forfeit.  He thought he could take Brody in a fight to the death if he had to, but this was neither the time nor the place.

 

“Awright, then,” the Captain said, turning to Pete, “We’ll head out later this week and, er, “talk” to Wade.  C’mon, deputy, get yerself cleaned up; you’re a disgrace to the department.”

 

Although this last was said tongue-in-cheek as Dan ran his eyes over Pete’s muscled torso, glistening with sweat and carpeted with dark body fur, Brody took the words literally and smirked as the buff young cop selected another cast-off item of Eric’s wardrobe and used it to swab his chest and abdomen.  Dan had already done so; by the time Pete tossed the rank, cum-smeared pair of jeans to the floor, the Captain had already slipped his undershirt back on and was buttoning his khaki shirt.  He nodded Brody out of the room as Pete completed dressing.

 

When the deputy had finished, he took one look back at Eric’s splayed-out corpse.  The blond’s body was face down with a thick milky trail of cum leaking out of its asshole.  It was still jerking, random nerves firing through the remains of its shredded spinal column.  As Pete watched, one of the dead twink’s feet twitched violently, the sole of its checkered Vans hightop scraping audibly against the mattress as a muscle in the firm smooth calf spasmed visibly and frenetically.

 

The image and the sound were enough, if not to get Pete hard (he still was that), to keep him erect and further, to make him stiff in the crotch every time he recalled the scene later.

 

When he got back to the tiny living room—which, thanks to the lackluster AC, was approximately two degrees cooler than the bedroom—Brody was leaning against the door with his eyes closed and a beatific smile on his face.  Dan had one foot up on the couch and was polishing the high shank of his trooper boot with a handkerchief.  His expression seemed grimmer than merely focusing on his task would require.

 

“Ready to go?” Brody asked, opening his eyes at the sound of Pete’s boots crossing the wood floor.

 

“I am,” Pete said, looking at Dan.  Silently, the Captain stood up and nodded, then all three left.  Dan was the last one out; he knew he’d have to leave the deadbolt undone but he turned the latch on the doorknob itself to leave the door locked behind him.

 

When he got out, the others were already in Brody’s truck.  The drive back to the trailer was quiet.  Brody was relaxing in his “freshly fucked” after-sex glow, Dan was tense and worried, and Pete, sensing his superior’s mood, kept his peace.

 

Dan finally spoke once they arrived back at Brody’s.  “Remember,” he told the buff redneck, “Don’t go back there.  Let someone else find the body.  And remember this—you contact me before you go out to Perez’s place, you hear me?  It’s possible I may have some new information and I may have some specific questions for him.  You got that?”

 

“Sure, I got it,” Brody said nonchalantly as he swaggered towards the trailer.  Dan and Pete watched him, his heavy Redwing boots thumping as he climbed the set of wood steps up to the front door.

 

“Get into the truck,” Dan said quietly.  Pete didn’t need to look at the Captain; the tone of his voice alone was enough to command obedience.

 

It took another ten minutes—by which time they were speeding back down the county road toward town—for Pete to work up the courage to question his superior.  “What’s goin’ on, Cap?” he asked shyly.  “I thought you were gonna offer him a job.  He was the one, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Dan replied stonily, “He was the one, all right.  Snuffed this faggot just like the other one.  I had…I had plans for this one, but that don’t matter; I’ll make sure that gets taken care of.  The problem here, deputy, is that this psycho fucker don’t respect Authority.”

 

“He sure seemed like he wanted to help.”

 

“Lemme ask you this—if he thought he could make a quick buck by squealin’ about our interrogation method, do you think he would?”

 

Pete sat in silence, unable to answer.

 

“Ok, lemme put it this way—do you trust that he wouldn’t?”

 

This time Pete shook his head, silently but decisively.

 

“Ok then, we’re gonna need to keep an eye on this motherfucker.  Let’s see what happens with the Perez cunt.  Tell ya what the first clue is gonna be—he ain’t gonna gimme a heads-up before he goes out to question him, like I told him too.  Now reach into the glove compartment and fire up that thick jay I brought.”

 

Pete lit the huge joint, inhaling deeply, and handed it to Dan.  As he exhaled the cloud of fragrant blue smoke out the window, he turned back to the Captain.

 

“So what’re we gonna do if he does that?  If he goes out there and gets ahold of Perez without letting you know?”

 

“Well, we ain’t gonna lose any info–Perez was in county lockup for three weeks, remember?  He ain’t got nothing to do with Clebbs or his China white.  Joey Bessemer might, though.”

 

“I thought you said he was dead!” Pete protested.

 

“Naw, he’s alive, but I don’t want this Brody dude goin’ near ‘im.  I wanna find out what he knows myself.”  Dan took a deep hit from the joint.

 

“Ok, I get it,” Pete said, “But how are we gonna handle this Brody dude?”

 

Holding his smoke, Dan waited a few moments before exhaling and replying.  “I don’t know,” he said flatly.  “A lot is gonna depend on the situation.  It may be dangerous; this guy is strong.  He ain’t a match for us together, but we’d have a hard time with him physically on an individual basis.”

 

Pete nodded but said nothing.

 

“I’ll be honest,” Dan said in a quiet tone, “This guy is a serial killer and a loose cannon.  We’re gonna hafta do somethin’ about him—but I damn sure don’t know what.”

 

As the harsh sunset faded into indigo, the big truck headed back to the sheriff’s department, its cab redolent with weed and echoing with the silence of the two men lost in their own thoughts, wondering what it would take to bring down the hulking, hardbodied redneck.

M4M4Schoolboi

Joe had been on the clock for five days straight; he’d gotten home near dawn after working twenty hours in a row.  He ate, showered, and fell sound asleep.  He was exhausted.  There had been a problem at work that required a little extra effort.  Most of the time they were too surprised by Joe’s stealth approach to fight back.

 

When he awoke twelve hours later, his dick was stiff and aching.  The hardbodied stud grinned in pleasure at the thought that he had some time to kill—because that was exactly what it would be.  The sun had gone down, darkness had closed in and it was time to go find a cumdump so he could drain his balls.

 

He’d manage to pocket the phone of the last cunt he’d snuffed—that little faggot with the poppers—and was scrolling through the hookup apps looking for something interesting.  There were several apps; the fairy had evidently been a serious whore…

 

Joe paused for a moment.  A wry grin twisted his hard, handsome face with grim pleasure as he replayed that last snuff in his mind.  He was proud of that kill.  And the swelling bulge in his crotch showed that other motives had been involved as well.

 

And now they were back.  He needed to find a good n’ worthless homo, a pansy-ass sack of shit that he could enjoy killing.  He was looking for one that would give him the satisfaction, not just of a job well done, but of a job worth doing in the first place.

 

Flipping to the second screen on the phone, he found an app he’d never seen before—“Twinke”.  Curious, he opened it and started exploring.  It seemed to work by using the phone’s locator function to post messages from within a geographical range set by the user; the current setting was “w/in 10 miles.”  The app would post anonymous messages from members in that range, in the order they were received.

 

Intrigued, Joe scanned the list.  Nothing really caught his eye; the most recent message was an hour ago.  Must be a slow night.  Annoyed, the restless stud was about to close the app when a new message suddenly popped in at the top of the list.

 

Attached to the message was a photo; an amateur torso pic showing a boy’s chest, the gentle rise of his pectorals smooth and clean up to the peaks of his dark, stiff nipples.  There was a faint dark fuzz on the kid’s flat belly; it rippled over the faint hint of ab muscles above the navel.  Below was the text:

 

“NEED A POWER DADDY—

 

18yo WM, 5’9”, 130 lbs, blond hair blue eyes—I graduate next month and I wanna get my cherry popped before then.  Buff older men only, looking for someone who knows when to be gentle.  Ain’t gotta ride—you gotta come to my place.  420 friendly.  Reply w/ pic for details.”

 

Joe grinned with wild delight.  This one was fresh meat.  And Joe could be gentle.  He could be so gentle, he’d put the little faggot to sleep.  Forever.

 

The photo he sent back was enough to entice any fairy; it was a torso pic as well, showing every sculpted detail of Joe’s furry chest—the thick mounds of his pecs surmounted by hard, jutting nipples, the waves of wiry dark body hair covering the ripped six-pack abs…

 

…and below the waist, something special.  He’d left his fly partially unzipped, exposing the head of his dick, purple, engorged, glistening with pre-ejaculate.  Joe knew he was the first responder to the kid’s post—but even if he hadn’t been, he knew his pic would settle matters in his favor.  The virgin fagmeat would be his, to do with as he wanted.  And what he wanted was so very cruel…

 

He got dressed as he waited for the reply.  Zipping up his jeans—skin-tight and worn soft as velvet—he sat on the edge of the bed.  He grabbed his boots—a pair of Corcoran ten-inch leather field boots with steel toes—and had just laced the left one up around his calf, tucking the leg of the jeans inside, when the phone alerted.  The meat had responded.

 

“Hey man damn ur hot.  cum fuck me.  parents not home.  come to door on left side of house I got basement to myself”  This was followed by an address in a working-class neighborhood.

 

Grinning, Joe laced the other boot up tight.  He was gonna need some traction to put this little fucker down right.  Standing up, he caught his reflection in the mirror.  His heavily-muscled body, hairy and almost visibly oozing with testosterone, was his greatest asset in luring fuckmeat, and he took care of it as ruthlessly as he took care of all his business.

 

The hard-bodied alpha glanced around the room, looking for something else to wear.  It was a warm and humid evening; he didn’t want anything too clingy or sticky…

 

There it was—his leather vest.  It’d been a while since he’d worn it, but it’d be perfect for tonight.  Add a little dazzle to the teen punk’s last hour on earth, so to speak.  Hell, if the schoolboi was a virgin like he claimed, he’d probably blow his load just at the sight of Joe’s hyper-masculine, leather-clad body.

 

That was ok, though.  Joe knew from past experience that teen meat was so full of hormones, its balls would quickly refill with spunk.  No matter how hard the little motherfucker shot his wad, the experienced killer knew he’d be able to squeeze more boycum outta the fag when he was finally done with it and ready to blow his own load.

 

Joe stood up and headed briskly for his car.  When he got to it, he had to slide carefully into the driver’s seat—his dick was still hard at the thought of breaking in the schoolboi.  The drive itself took about twenty minutes, but after cruising by the given address, Joe took the precaution of parking the champagne-colored Camaro several streets away; it took another few minutes to walk to the house.

 

The neighborhood was and older one, the houses smaller and less well-kept than those near Joe’s address.  Half the streetlights were out, making the walk treacherous; the sidewalk slabs were broken and raised—some by nearly half a foot—by overgrown tree roots.  On the other hand, the hardbodied alpha was able to keep in the shadows—his powerful form, so erotically displayed in denim and leather, would have certainly drawn notice if anyone had happened to see him.

 

When he reached his destination, Joe quickly slipped around the side of the house and found the ground sloped down on that side, exposing enough of the basement wall that only a couple of steps down were needed to accommodate a door.  There was a light above the door, but it was off.  Joe stepped down and knocked.

 

The boy was already nude when he opened the door.  He stepped back, into the light, and allowed Joe to enter.  For a moment the kid said nothing, goggling the hulking stud, his jaw agape.  Then he gulped loudly and spoke.

 

“Fuck, man,” he aspirated breathily.  “Goddam, you’re so fuckin’ hot…”

 

He gave a curiously supplicatory smile.  “I, uh, I’m Colby,” the boy said, just barely managing to get the words out.

 

Colby was slight and slim, but not scrawny.  His gold-blond hair was only a few inches in length; the bangs had been styled so they stood up from his face.  The look was trendy, but it utterly failed to give him the illusion of being any taller; the top of his head barely reached Joe’s shoulder.

 

The boy’s face was broad, with smooth, clear cheeks and very pale eyes the might have been light blue or light green, depending on the lighting.  His lips were thick and full, giving him a somewhat petulant look; in fact, despite his obvious awe at his guest’s physique, there was an overwhelming impression of arrogant cockiness in the kid’s expression and manner.

 

“You a virgin, boy?” Joe grunted.

 

Colby’s silky-smooth chest with its small but erect nipples descended to his flat belly; below that, six inches of boycock jutted from a mass of gold pubes in which his thick, spunk-filled balls nestled like eggs.  At the sound of Joe’s voice, the kid’s dick spasmed visibly.  The sadistic killer smirked; he didn’t even need to play this one—the fish was already on the hook.

 

“I sucked dick before,” Colby said, eyeing Joe almost defiantly, as if challenging the stud’s tight to question him.  “But I ain’t never taken it up the ass.”

 

“Then bend over, bitch, an’ I’ll plug yer hole,” Joe jeered.

 

“Whoa there, sexy,” Colby replied nonchalantly after making a visible effort to overcome his mindless lust, “I want my first time to be special.  I want it rough, but that don’t mean it’s gotta be ghetto.  Take your time, dude.  Do me right.”

 

“Oh, I’m gonna do you right,” Joe growled, “Don’t worry about that, boy.  I’m gonna do ya so right you ain’t never gonna want another man after tonight.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

Colby grinned, the expression giving his face a mischievous, elfin look.  “Fuck yeah, man, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  C’mon in.”

 

The nude twink preceded Joe into the dark beyond the entryway, turning on the lights.  The basement was large and only half-finished, with carpet and painted cinderblock walls.  The overhead lighting was grim and stark, but sufficient to show that the area was partitioned off, not into separate rooms but into bays.  One contained a desk with a computer, another had a couple of cheap leather recliners facing a large-screen TV attached to a game console.  In the center of the basement, under the light, was a queen-sized bed.  The top sheet was intertwined in a pile with the blanket and pillows, but the full design of its gaudy floral pattern could be easily seen on the taut fitted sheet still stretched over the mattress.

 

Colby strode to the mismatched nightstand on the right side of the bed.  There was an ashtray on it; reaching into it, the teen pulled out a small wooden pipe and a lighter.  Taking a deep toke form the pipe, the boy sat on the bed, silent for a good thirty seconds before exhaling a thick blue cloud of sweetly pungent smoke.  He noticed that Joe was looking at a door in the opposite wall.

 

“That’s the bathroom, dude,” Colby said in a boastful tone, “And look around that corner—it’s a complete kitchen.  Well, the oven don’t work, but who fuckin’ cooks anyway, y’know?  Anyway, it’s all my own place.  The folks don’t come down here, so I can do what I want.  Not like they’re here tonight anyway—some kinda award dinner at Dad’s work.  I told ‘em I gotta test tomorrow I gotta study for.  I do, but it ain’t no biggie if I fail.  Hey, wanna hit?”  The boy took another hit from the pipe before offering it to Joe.

 

“Sure,” Joe said, accepting the pipe, then glancing significantly at the pile of twisted bedding.  “So you want it hard, huh?  Then clear that shit off the bed, boy—I’m gonna ride you like a fuckin’ bronco.”

 

The weed was sweet and strong; the little fuck had a good source.  While Colby’s back was turned, Joe unzipped his jeans and extracted his long, thick tube of manmeat from down inside his pants leg.  When Colby was done—it hadn’t taken him long; all he’d done was shove the bedding and the pillows off the other side of the bed onto the floor—he turned around and was confronted by Joe’s enormous cock, stiffening and throbbing.

 

“Goddam,” the punk gulped breathlessly, his pale eyes huge.  “Jesus, yer hung like a horse—d-on’t, uh, don’t hurt me, okay?”

 

Joe said nothing.

 

“So whaddaya want?  Want me to start suckin’ ya off?” the kid asked, his arrogance beginning to reassert itself.  Joe decided it was time to take control of the situation; he just wanted an opening.  That should be easy enough to find with this cocky little faggot.

 

Slowly shifting his thick muscled arms, Joe shrugged off the black leather vest.  He held it in one hand, allowing Colby to take several minutes letting his eyes wander over the older man’s bulked-out chest, tracing the contours of Joe’s massive furry pectoral muscles surmounted by the thick jutting tabs of his nipples.  The schoolboy’s gaze slipped down the alpha’s torso, taking in the ripped abs covered with a dark trail of hair that led down to the waistband beneath which his gigantic cock was dripping precum onto his glossy black combat boots.

 

The little homo was succumbing in awe to the sheer physical power of Joe’s body.  The experienced killer smirked and, holding out his leather vest, shoved the kid.  “Here,” he said gruffly, “Take care of this for me, dude, and I’ll treat ya right.”

 

Colby took the vest and wandered to the side of the room as if lost in thought.  There was a dresser next to the bathroom door; it was covered with what looked like dirty underwear.  The teen tossed the leather jacket casually on top.

 

It was the opening Joe had been looking for.  He waited for Colby to cross back to him.

 

“That’s yer idea of takin’ care of my fuckin’ leather?” he growled.  “Bitch, I’m gonna hafta teach you that you don’t ever disrespect a dude’s leather.  Down on yer knees, faggot, and start lickin’ my boots.  Put yer useless mouth to work, cunt—now.

 

The teen seemed taken aback by the sudden command.  Joe didn’t give him time to adjust his emotional bearings; grabbing the boy by the back of his head, the alpha forced him down.  “Lick that precum off my fuckin’ boots, boy,” Joe hissed.

 

Tentatively, Colby obeyed, sticking out his tongue and lapping up the salty smears of transparent pre-ejaculate.  “Keep goin’, ya little homo,” Joe demanded, “I wanna see you work the whole boot.”  Doing what he was told, Colby found his dick getting painfully stiff as he worked the older man’s combat boot, feeling the texture of the leather uppers and the nylon laces with the tip of his tongue.

 

“Fuck, man,” Colby gasped, raising his head, “Dude, I love yer boots.”

 

“Yeah?” Joe said.  He drew his right leg back, then kicked it viciously forward, catching the teen on the right side of his chest, up under the pec.  It wasn’t hard enough to do any permanent damage, but it had sufficient power to leave a bruise—and flip the punk onto his back.  “How about now?” the sadist jeered, “Ya likin’ ‘em now?”

 

“Wh-what’d ya wanna go an’ do that for?” Colby whined, blinking and rubbing the sore spot on his side.

 

“Cause it gets me off.  Anyway, you said you like it rough.  Whassa matter—you chicken out?”

 

“This isn’t what I wanted when I said I liked it rough,” the boy bitched, his entitled arrogance creeping back into his voice.  There was something about that tone of privileged complaint that set Joe on edge.

 

And Joe’s edge was razor-sharp.

 

“This ain’t about what you want, you worthless faggot,” he snarled, looming over the prone youth.  Lifting his left foot, he placed his boot in the center of Colby’s chest, right between the low rises of the boy’s pecs, his heel resting on the sternum.  Leaning forward very slightly, the older man put just enough weight on his left foot to make it difficult for the lean young punk to breathe.

 

Colby wheezed and grasped at Joe’s boot, trying to pry it off.  He was suddenly and painfully aware that he’d let in an incredibly powerful stranger, someone who might easily hurt him—and he didn’t think he’d be strong enough to stop him.  The impression grew much deeper as his eyes ran up the dude’s body.

 

His gaze had naturally started down at the black leather Corcoran boot that was grinding uncomfortably into his chest, from there it slowly traveled up the left leg.  Joe’s firm calf muscle and thick thigh were visible through the skin-tight faded denim.  From there, the massive jutting cock, a viscous drop of precum dangling from the tip—

 

“Aah!” he cried as the hot pearl of manjuice plunged down, splashing into his right eye with a burning sensation.  Joe smirked.

 

“Did that hurt, ya little pansy?  Fuck, you ain’t gonna like what I got planned for ya tonight, then.  Too fuckin’ bad.”

 

The alpha lifted his boot.  Colby inhaled deeply, feeling a moment of relief before the hardbodied sadist brought the boot back down again, this time on his face.  The teen squealed as he felt the deep tread grinding into the right side of his face.  His left eye stared frantically upwards, seeking the face of his assailant.

 

His view was almost vertical now, but past Joe’s narrow waist, the teen could still make out the bulging, fur-lined pectorals of the muscle-bound predator—they were hard to miss, with the large hard points of his nipples protruding.  Above, the alpha’s strong, hard jaw was obscured by the shadow of dark facial scruff that spread from cheek to cheek, split in the center by a contemptuously amused grin.  The older man’s eyes were lit from within by a sardonically malevolent grin.

 

Joe was not only enjoying this, he was making his enjoyment obvious to Colby.  He put more of his weight on his left foot, sinking the boot deeper into the kid’s face.  Colby’s hands scrabbled frantically over the smooth leather boot, trying desperately to pry it off, when there was a loud snap and the schoolboy cried out in pain.

 

Lifting his foot, Joe bent down to inspect the damage, but the broken cheekbone had left no external mark and hadn’t had enough time to cause swelling yet.  Disappointed, the alpha stood back up, considered for a moment, then raised his left foot high and stomped on Colby’s solar plexus, hard enough to leave the details of his tread as a bruise.

 

The crushing pain seemed to force the air completely out of the youth’s lungs, then lock them up.  As he curled instantly into a fetal position and tried desperately to inhale, he could hear Joe speaking, but he didn’t take the words in.  He was too busy trying not to pass out.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, bitch.  See, raw meat like you needs to be tenderized a little.  Just lay back and relax, ya stupid cunt, and I’ll make damn sure you’re prepared for a real man’s cock.”

 

Colby managed to force air back into his lungs with a huge gasp.  He hadn’t followed the import of Joe’s words, but he’d vaguely understood the gist.  “D-don-don’t w-want—” he mumbled.  Joe kicked him in the left flank, hard.   Colby, still unable to regulate his breathing, could only moan.

 

“I already toldja this ain’t about what you want, you stupid fuckin’ fairy,” the alpha snarled.  Bending down and clamping a single hand around the kid’s throat, Joe hoisted him, kicking and struggling, into the air.  “It’s about what you need.  You need to know your place and purpose in this world, you little sack a’ shit, and I’m the man to teach ‘em to ya.  Saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to learn.”

 

With a powerful lunge of his arm, Joe tossed Colby onto the bed.  The teen landed flat on his back, coughing and stunned, his long shaft of boycock lying limply between his spread legs.  His breath had only been cut off for about forty-five seconds, but it had seemed to be a terrifying eternity; the youth was still in too much pain and shock to process the words that had been spoken.

 

Colby still wasn’t sure what was happening.  The hot older stud had so perfectly suited his fantasy top, right down to the leather vest and the boots, that any premonition of danger that the kid might have had (not that he’d had any) would have been ignored.  In his natural arrogance, the teen had presumed that his smooth twink body would be treated with due reverence.

 

It was obvious that he was wrong; he was just too stupid to realize it until Joe suddenly appeared on the bed, forcibly parting his legs.  “W-wait—” Colby moaned, surprised at how much it hurt to speak.  He hadn’t realize how badly the right side of his face was swollen.

 

“I ain’t waitin’ for shit, faggot,” Joe snarled as he grabbed the schoolboy’s ankles and hoisted them into the air.  He leaned forward and Colby felt something warm, moist, and very large pressing against his asscheeks.  Realizing what was about to happen, he tensed in physical fear.

 

“N-no, man, don-don’t, not like oh dear fuckin’ god it hurts get it out getitoutGETITOUT!” he screamed as Joe plowed his massive tube of manmeat into the punk’s fuckhole, driving his shaft as deeply into the teen’s guts as he could.

 

With a vicious swipe of his strong hair forearm, Joe backhanded Colby across the face.  “Shaddup,” the older man barked, “This is whatcha fuckin’ wanted, ain’t it, boy?  Shaddup and take a real man’s dick, ya whinin’ little faggot!”

 

Unused to any kind of self-control, the teen kept moaning loudly.  The searing sense of impalement, of his tender asshole being torn open, kept virtually all rational thought at bay; the boy was operating on response to stimuli.  Every now and then, a fleeting lucid thought was spun up by the vortex of pain and fear that had become his reality.  One of them was a quick visualization of himself, seated over at the table, bent over an algebra textbook.

 

Another was the realization that in spite of everything, his own cock was hard; he could feel it, straining and oozing, slapping wetly against the alpha’s firm furry belly with every deep thrust up his ass.  He didn’t know that it was the inevitable result of Joe’s thick tool massaging his prostate—he didn’t need to know.  It just was.

 

Joe knew.  He also knew that the punk wasn’t going to be quiet.  “You goddam cockpig, I toldja to stop fuckin’ squealin’,” he muttered through ominously clenched teeth, “I swear to fuckin’ God, I’ll give ya something to squeal about.  Yer gonna die tonight, right here in yer fuckin’ bed, ridin’ my cock.  You feelin’ me here, asswipe?  No?”

 

Again, Colby heard the words, but could only stare blankly into the hard, scruff-covered face of the hardbodied top.  He hurt, oh God, he hurt so bad, he was so full of cock…

 

Then Joe wrapped his hands around Colby’s throat and began to squeeze, and everything changed.

 

The words Joe had spoken hit home; even the searing agony and psychological trauma of violent rape couldn’t compete with shock of sudden cessation of air.  Joe had told Colby he was gonna die; suddenly, Colby comprehended him.

 

Joe could see the comprehension in the schoolboi’s eyes, too—the way they widened, the desperate spark of terror flashing into existence like a newly-lit beacon.  “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely as he bent he face closely to Colby’s, grinning erotically, “Now yer feelin’ me, faggot.”

 

Then all he had to do was hold on and let the teen do the work.  The young ones were always good at this; they fought it hard, their strong bodies milking his shaft vigorously as they struggled vainly to stave off a long, slow death.  And as Joe had expected, the virgin cunt was especially talented in this.

 

Colby was too busy trying to breathe to appreciate his guest’s enjoyment of his body—something that he would have taken great pleasure in, in other circumstances.  As it was, the schoolboi was being crushed in the iron grip of claustrophobic panic.  He was trapped, inexorably trapped under a heaving, pumping mass of muscle and fur.

 

The irony was lost on Colby—he’d wanted so badly to be pinned under a hot stud, getting relentlessly fucked, and now that it was happening, he was doing everything within his power to stop it.  Problem was, of course, that his power was nothing compared to that of the hot stud’s.

 

As the strong hands remorselessly crushed his windpipe, the teen boy clawed frantically at Joe’s arms.  His nails abraded the strongman’s skin, but did little other damage.  Joe merely smirked.  “G’wan, ya little fuck,” he jeered, “Keep fightin’ it.  Maybe if ya try hard enough, I’ll let ya breathe.  If ya make me cum, I might even let ya live.  How’s that sound, ya sad little piece a’ shit?  Milk a load outta my cock and I might not snuff ya.  Whattaya got to lose?”

 

If the youth had been able to control his fear, he might have tried to take Joe up on his facetious offer.  Of course, if the spoiled teen punk had had that kind of self-control, he wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.  As it was, he continued to thrash violently, his colon spastically clenching Joe’s throbbing shaft.

 

The sadistic alpha tightened his grip on the kid’s throat, feeling the esophagus bend and distort beneath his fingers as he applied pressure.  The deeper his fingers sank into Colby’s airway, the more energetically the kid flailed.  His bare heels drummed on Joe’s taut, denim-covered ass, doing little damage but providing a brisk rhythmic beat to his own murder.

 

“Y’know,” Joe murmured, almost philosophically, “Yer parents are probably gonna be the ones to find your splayed-out, reamed-out corpse.  That turns me on, faggot.”

 

It had been almost two minutes since Colby had last inhaled.  He was wracked with pain, but not the pain of the boot-stomping he’d endured or even the pain of brutal assrape; these had faded as the mortal pain of asphyxiation had gained ground.  There was a desperate burning sensation in his chest, as if his lungs were being sucked inside-out into a vacuum.  The crushing agony in his throat was horrific—worse, the inability to breathe had triggered an uncontrollable urge to retch; his entire torso was wracked with vomitous spasms that ended futilely in his closed-off throat.

 

The worst, though, seemed to come from two different and widely spaced sensations that somehow seemed inextricably linked.  The terrible pounding pain in his head, the jackhammering of his frenetic pulse inside his skull, felt as if it was on the verge of literally blowing his head wide open.  And pulsing, swelling and subsiding excruciatingly at the same tempo, the teen’s balls were sinks of unbearable heat that radiated up his aching dick.

 

As his face darkened and swelled, violent black explosions began to blot out Colby’s field of vision.  He didn’t know that blood vessels were rupturing as his large pale eyes bulged grotesquely from their sockets.  Sections of his brain were starting to die at an accelerated rate; he could still feel his painfully throbbing cock, but not the drool being forced out past his black protruding tongue.

 

His frantic, desperate clawing was purely instinctual at this point; he was unaware of the fact that he was slapping ineffectually at Joe’s massive pecs—it was as useless as beating a marble statue.  As another section of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation, the teen’s fingers curled and locked involuntarily; he raked them through Joe’s coarse, wiry chest hairs, his nails leaving vivid red streaks on the skin underneath.

 

And throughout the entire ordeal, he continued to buck his hips and clench his sphincter and colon on an increasingly rapid tempo.  Joe’s hard muscled body glistened in the bleak overhead light as he held on, feeling his sperm seething in his balls, feeling the dying schoolboy sweating and shuddering beneath him, the way the teen’s smooth skin slid erotically beneath his flesh—

 

—and tensing his body automatically, he felt a sudden give beneath his hands, accompanied by loud and instinctively satisfying crunch as he crushed Colby’s trachea into a bloody mangled mass of cartilage.

 

It was as if a switch had been flipped for them both.  Too much of Colby’s brain was dead for him to realize consciously that his throat had collapsed and that death was inevitable; even if it hadn’t been, he’d already suffered massive brain damage.  There was enough of him left to suffer, though; the nerve endings were still intact, as was the pain center deep in the cerebellum.  And there was a tiny corner in which what was left of the teen’s cocky, vain personality screamed into the agonizing darkness.

 

For Joe, the simmering stew of manseed in his scrotum finally boiled over.  Gripping the schoolboy’s throat tightly, he jerked his hands in opposite directions, literally wringing Colby’s neck as he pumped his load into the dying kid’s guts.

 

As dark fireworks overwhelmed his vision and his mind, Colby felt the heat flowing into him.  Despite the fact that he was exiting his short, useless life in a howling nightmare of pain and terror, there was something somehow—satisfying—about the sensation.  The dying spark of his craven faggot soul felt a brief sense of relief as his aching, hormone-filled teen balls drained spontaneously, thick ropy strands of boycum erupting convulsively from his jutting cock and spewing wad after wad of teen spunk over his smooth, slick belly and into Joe’s sweat-moistened body fur.

 

It took Joe a few minutes to regain some composure; after a bit, he stopped shuddering and gasping and was able to pull his still-hard cock out of the teen’s corpse.  It had taken him a little longer than usual because the schoolboy’s body had continued to convulse and tremble after death, milking the last drop of manseed from Joe’s engorged member.

 

Joe stepped into the bathroom and wetted a hand towel at the sink; the bathroom was filthy, but the hand towel didn’t seem to have been used.  Based on the state of the bathroom, the lazy little homo probably didn’t even know what it was for.  Once he was done with it, he dropped it in the toilet and flushed it.  The towel vanished from sight before getting stuck; Joe watched the bowl start to overflow before leaving the room, having already tucked his potent manhood back into his jeans.

 

Back in the bedroom area, he grabbed his leather vest.  As he slipped it on, he admired his kill.  The schoolboi was sprawled in the center of the bed, his legs spread wide with a dark stain between them where Joe’s cum had overflowed the slut’s ass.  The kid’s belly and chest were covered with his own spunk—it literally looked like quarts of it, already sticky and drying to a glaze—and his ghastly black face, swollen and staring blankly at the ceiling, showed clearly the horrible slow torture of his rape and murder.

 

It was hot as fuck.  He couldn’t help admiring it, even as the carpet under his boots became sodden from water leaking out of the bathroom.

 

Suddenly there was sound from around the corner.  A light appeared there, showing the silhouette of someone standing at the top of a staircase.  “Colby?” a woman’s voice called out, “Are you down there?  We’re back.”

 

Joe pressed himself against the wall, keeping silent.

 

“It’s a shame you couldn’t come, Colby—your dad got a twenty-year service award.  It’s a twenty-five dollar gold piece!  Once he’s out of his suit, I’ll have him come down and show it to you.”

 

The door closed.  It took Joe no more than thirty seconds to locate Colby’s phone and pocket it, and another thirty to get out of the house by the basement exit.

 

As he turned onto the highway acceleration ramp, he caught a glimpse of a police car in his rearview mirror, heading in the direction in which he’d left.  He grinned—those people would never realize the favor he’d done for them, offing that worthless leech.  Oh well, no true artist was appreciated in his own time.

Carlos Solo–A Bad Deal

Carlos drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.  Where was the little faggot?  He shoulda shown up by now.

 

Most of the larger casinos had massive employee parking garages or some kind of transportation service, but the Magic Carpet, as the little hole in the wall on the north edge of the Strip was called, couldn’t aspire to anything so grand.  The workers parked in an open lot three blocks to the east, and this was where Carlos was waiting.

 

He wasn’t sure why he’d gone into the Magic Carpet in the first place.  He’d been bored, and things with Nick had hit something of a dry spell; no new commissions had come in for a few weeks.  Nick had remained cheerful, utilizing his videography skills on more legitimate projects like porn films.

 

Carlos, though, had been left high and dry.  It hadn’t taken too long for the sick hatred and lust to bubble over in his perverse soul; tonight, he’d finally been overwhelmed and needed to leave the condo.  He needed to get out, to wander the street—to hunt for new prey.  He needed to kill.

 

It was late on a Sunday night, and while the Strip wasn’t crowded to the insane levels it reached on Friday or Saturday nights, it was still clogged with enough traffic to ensure that the hulking, muscled psycho didn’t spend too ling cruising it.  He’d pulled the Mercedes convertible off the main road into a parking lot and wandered into the first place he came to, almost on autopilot.

 

The Magic Carpet was more of a slot palace than a full casino, but there was a small pit in the back with four blackjack tables, a roulette wheel and a craps table.  Carlos sat down at a five-dollar limit blackjack table and began playing, practicing his card counting while watching the crowd, trying to spot a good piece of fuckmeat.

 

In fact, he’d gotten so busy counting and watching that he hadn’t noticed when the dealers had rotated, each one moving one table to the left with the last one in line taking a break.  It was only when he looked up that Carlos saw Dino.

 

The dealer was young—he had to be at least twenty-one to work in the casino, but he looked considerably younger.  He wore the same outfit as the other dealers, a white tuxedo shirt with his name tag pinned to the chest, black slacks and black dress shoes. Dino had short black hair; there was a somewhat melancholy expression on his young face that his large brow eyes, fringed with long lashes, seemed to enhance.  Above his full red lips, the kid was trying to grow a moustache; far from making him seem older, the growth of black facial hair emphasized the boy’s youth.

 

As Carlos studied the kid, he realized that Dino was studying him back.  There was no mistaking the way the boy’s large, lascivious eyes were glancing from under those long, flirtatiously feminine lashes.

 

Carlos knew he’d found his fagmeat for the night.

 

Dino, on the other hand, knew he’d finally found a hot rough trade stud to plow his hole.

 

The kid had zeroed in on Carlos the moment he’d seen him, lust lighting up the homo’s eyes like a signal flare as he stared.  The ex-con wasn’t hiding his physical assets; he was a natural draw for any nearby fag.  The dark, unshaven haze that covered Carlos’s strong jaw accented the aggressive skinhead look of his recently-shaved scalp.  Around his neck, Dino could see that there were some letters tattooed, but in the dim lighting, the dealer couldn’t make them out.  He could clearly see the thick gold necklace, though.

 

The alpha’s jeans were tight enough to make the size and shape of his massive junk obvious to anyone who so much as glanced at his crotch, while the firm roundness of his muscular ass seemed to be almost deliberately displayed.  The jeans were black; so were his leather harness boots, and it was hard to tell where one left off and the other began.  Above the waist, Carlos wore nothing but a thin white cotton wifebeater.

 

It had been a warm day and Carlos’s skin glistened with a slight sheen of perspiration that dampened the wifebeater just to the point of transparency.  The sleeve of his tattoos on his right arm gleamed; the winged skull inked on his left bicep flashed and winked at Dino as the latter stood entranced by the convict’s broad, over-developed chest.  The young dealer could see Carlos’s large jutting nipples through the thin cotton; hell, he could see the dark mass of body fur that ran down the ripped abs to vanish below the thick leather belt around the alpha’s waist.

 

Dino could feel his dick getting stiff; he wanted this fucker inside him, wrecking his hole.  And then he made eye contact.

 

And he knew.  He knew it was gonna happen.

 

They couldn’t speak; there were three other men and an old woman at the table, and Ralph, the pit boss, was practically breathing down his neck.  One of the other dudes was drunk and casually tossing out seventy-five and hundred-dollar bets—and winning.  The luck of the drunk, maybe, but it was concerning.  Ralph had to keep an eye on it.

 

Thirty minutes of bad shoes and negative counts, Dino was tapped on the shoulder and it was time to move to the next table down the line.  Ralph was still standing at the table, eyeing the action when Dino left.

 

The next table to the right, where Dino went next, was empty—which wasn’t really a surprise, it was a twenty-five dollar minimum table.  In this dive, that was a lot of money, and there were still spaces left at the lower limit tables.  No one was gonna come bother Dino.

 

At least, not till Carlos sat down, grinning.  This close, Dino could read the uneven prison ink on his neck—it said “revenge”.

 

Dino was twenty-two and this was his first job in Vegas.  He’d been working at a place down in Laughlin—lotta truckers taking detours from I-40 for a little gambling and a little fucking; Dino was happy to help with both.  But dealing paid jack shit.  He needed to go to Vegas—not that the dealers were paid much more there, but there was more money around in general, so Dino would have a better chance of getting some one way or another.

 

And one way was as good as another for him.  The Magic Carpet was a cheap dive, but it was owned by a branch of a company that was a major player in the world of Vegas casinos.  That meant that Dino had access to decent insurance and other benefits.  It barely covered the rent, even for the roach motel he was living in, but once he got settled in he might be in a position to better himself.  After all, if nothing else come up, he could turn tricks.

 

At the moment, though, something better had come up—his dick.  The moment he’d set eyes on Carlos, he wanted the stud so bad his asshole itched.  He could tell just by looking that this dude’s cock was big enough to scratch that itch.  The massive ridge of manflesh, obviously semi-erect, was plainly visible through the skin-tight denim in Carlos’s crotch.

 

And now here he was, alone with him.

 

“Revenge?” Dino asked nonchalantly, nodding at the tattoo as he dealt a round of cards, “Revenge on who?  For what?”

 

“Anyone who tries to fuck me over,” Carlos growled, his eyes intense under his dark brows.  “I’ll fuck ‘em up good and hard.”

 

The aggressive persona and the deep bass rumble of the muscled skinhead’s voice sent an almost electrical thrill down the length of Dino’s dick.  He kept dealing mechanically, not noticing that Carlos was counting cards perfectly and varying his bet with each new hand according to the count.

 

What he did notice were Carlos’s powerful muscles gleaming with sweat, the way the bicep on the dude’s right arm bulged under its thick covering of colorful ink, the way the skull on the left arm seemed to wink at him with every movement the hardbodied stud made.  Dino became so distracted he forgot to offer insurance on a dealer ace and flipped over a blackjack.  Blushing with embarrassment, he had to call over a pit boss and explain his mistake, but since Carlos had a sixteen anyway, there was no objection to simply moving on.

 

Once the pit boss left, Dino cleared his throat.  “You, uh, you sure look like you could fuck up anyone you wanted.  You must work out, dude; you’re built as fuck.”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said laconically, “I hit the gym almost every day.  Came here straight from there, in fact.  Don’t know how long I’m gonna stay, though—kinda sore after my workout.”  The look he gave Dino was surreptitious and suggestive.

 

“Um, I, uh, I’m stuck here for another hour,” Dino began hesitantly, “But if, uh, you could maybe come back then, I could give you a massage.  Honestly, I’m really good.  Get a lotta tension outta your, um, muscles…”

 

Carlos’s hard masculine face broke into a leering grin.  “Yeah, I got one muscle in particular that needs a good massage.  An hour?  Sure, dude, I’ll be here.  I’ll meet ya by yer car and bring ya back to it later—where’d ya park?”

 

And that was how the sexual predator ended up sitting in a parking lot, waiting for his prey to walk into the trap.  At least there weren’t any cameras around; it was too far from the casino building to be covered by its security.

 

Via the rear-view mirror, Carlos suddenly detected motion behind him.  The kid was walking swiftly towards the Mercedes convertible.  As he approached the passenger door, Carlos unlocked it.  “Wow, nice car,” Dino commented as he slid into the seat next to the muscled stud.

 

“Buckle up,” Carlos said dryly.

 

“Is it a long way?” Dino asked.

 

“No,” Carlos replied, “But I like to drive hard.”

 

Heading east to Paradise, Carlos had them back at the condo in just over fifteen minutes.

 

“You weren’t kidding,” Dino said as they headed up in the elevator, “You do like to drive hard.”

 

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, boy,” the alpha said evenly.  Dino didn’t respond; he was too busy shifting his stiffening cock around inside his slacks so that it had room to expand.  He was still adjusting himself as the elevator came to a stop and he followed Carlos into the darkened condo.

 

Carlos didn’t bother to turn on the lights; Dino had to follow him carefully in the dark.  But once he got the bedroom door open, it was a different matter.  Dino didn’t need the lights on to see; the room was aglow with the bright lights of the Strip coming in through the broad picture window.  The view was magnificent.

 

“Damn,” Dino muttered, awestruck.  “How much does a place like this cost?”

 

Carlos didn’t bother to answer.  He didn’t need to; as soon as Dino turned around and looked at the bed for the first time, the kid’s mind was no longer on the view.  “Why’s yer bed like that?” he asked.  “What’s with the plastic?”

 

“Yer gonna gimme a rubdown, right?” Carlos rejoined.  “I got some mineral oil here for you to use.  Don’t wanna get it on the sheets, so I stripped the bed and laid down a layer of painter’s plastic.”

 

Dino paused for a moment.  “That’s a good idea.  And I don’t wanna get any on my work clothes, either.  Here, lemme get outta of them.”  The way Dino’s hands scrabbled at the buttons on his tux shirt, it was obvious he was happy at finding a plausible reason to strip.  At the same time, he kicked off his black loafers; gathering them, he folded his shirt carefully and placed it on top of them.  His name tag, still pinned to the shirt, was clearly visible.

 

He noticed Carlos’s scornful glance as he shimmied gingerly out of his dress slacks, scrupulously avoiding making any new crease or wrinkle.  “Yeah, I know,” the dark-haired boy said with a wry grin, “But I gotta pay to keep ‘em clean and pressed.  It adds up, man…”

 

Under the slacks, the kid was wearing basic white cotton briefs.  After he was done arranging his slacks, he turned to face Carlos.  His chest was broad but slim, smooth with large dark nipples jutting proudly.  A very faint haze, almost peach fuzz, ran down Dino’s smooth flat belly and vanished beneath the elastic waistband encircling the boy’s narrow waist.  The white cotton was unable to completely contain Dino’s large dick; a good three inches hung out on the right side, pressed up against his firm, smooth inner thigh.

 

As the kid bent down and pulled off his socks, Carlos peeled off his wifebeater.  Now it was Dino’s turn to stare at the alpha’s body, and he stood stunned at the ex-con’s huge muscular torso.  Dino let his eyes linger on the older man’s thick hubcap pecs and his ripped, fur-covered abs.

 

“Fuck,” the kid gasped, “I ain’t never seen anyone as built as you—not in person, I mean.  Geez, I bet you gotta work them hot hard muscles real good to get ‘em that big.  No wonder you’re sore.”

 

“You like my body, boy?” Carlos asked.  Dino, still staring breathlessly at the alpha, didn’t notice the contemptuous ring in his voice.  “Get over here and start making it feel good, then.”

 

Carlos sat on the edge of the bed, facing the window.  Dino scrambled onto the bed and scooted behind him.  Kneeling, he faced Carlos’s back and began massaging his shoulders.

 

“C’mon, boy, is that the best you can do?  I can barely feel ya,” the sadist jeered.

 

“Jesus, dude,” Dino grunted, digging his fingers in as hard as he could, “Your muscles are like fuckin’ iron.  I’m doin’ the best I can.”

 

After a few minutes, the youth gave up; it was obvious that he wasn’t making any progress on Carlos’s back.  “Lie down, man,” he said.  “Maybe I need to try somewhere else.”

 

Carlos laid back on the bed and Dino climbed on, straddling the hardbodied alpha.  Reaching down, he laid both hands on Carlos’s bulging pectorals and began fondling them, letting his fingers slide up and work the thick protruding nipples.

 

“That ain’t no massage, boy,” Carlos growled.

 

Dino lowered his hands, running them through the coarse, wiry fur that covered Carlos’s chest.  He let his hands drop even lower, one exploring every detail of the alpha’s washboard abs—and with the other, he reached around behind him and placed it on Carlos’s crotch, grasping the sex killer’s cock and squeezing it.

 

What happened next happened with both the suddenness and ultra-illuminated clarity of a lightning bolt.  Carlos’s hand shot up and clamped around Dino’s throat; at the same time, the alpha rolled to the side and kept on going.  Before Dino could take another breath, Carlos was on top of him, pinning him to the bed by his throat.

 

With his windpipe closed off, Dino wasn’t able to speak, but he didn’t really need to.  Fear, anger, and a kind of hurt bewilderment all crossed his face as he stared at Carlos.  Fear was dominant as the hot top he lusted after so badly suddenly transformed into a demon.

 

“You goddam little cocksucker,” Carlos snarled, his face contorted with rage.  “What’d ya grab my dick for—you think I’m a faggot?  I ain’t no faggot, motherfucker, I’m a real man.  You know what real men do to pieces of homo shit like you?  Huh?  No?  Then I’m gonna teach ya, boy.  Cum-drinkin’ fags like you gotta learn to respect us real men.  Ya feel me, fag?  No?  Yer damn sure gonna be feelin’ me here soon, I can promise yer sorry ass!”

 

This Jekyll and Hyde change had come so suddenly from nowhere that Dino was unable to adjust mentally.  The guy was kidding, surely.  As Carlos ceased to speak and started to remove his hand from Dino’s throat, the kid ventured to ease the tension with a laugh.

 

It was a bad idea.  The muscles hidden under the colorful sleeve of tattoos on the alpha’s right arm bulged and relaxed with a sudden explosive use of force—he punched Dino straight in the face, a powerhouse blow right from the shoulder that was rewarded with a loud crunching, squelching sound.

 

Dino cried out, then moaned, cradling his broken nose.  “I wasn’t joking, faggot,” Carlos said quietly, standing over the boy.

 

“Wh-what the fuck!” Dino yelled.  His voice had a stuffed-up quality, as if he had a head cold.  His sinuses weren’t blocked with snot—they were blocked, at least partially, with his own gristle and blood.  “You fuckin’ came on to me, dude!  What’s yer goddam problem?!?”

 

Carlos lunged back down at the kid.  Dino saw him coming—saw the white-hot flash of rage in the hulking ex-con’s eyes—but didn’t even have time to cower.  “No!” was all he had time to shriek before Carlos began pummeling the prostrate youth.

 

The first shower of blows fell on Dino’s face, blackening both eyes, splitting his lips and knocking out an incisor and two molars.  After a moment, though the raging muscle stud transferred his attention to the boy’s lean, smooth body and began pounding on his chest, knocking Dino’s breath out of him.

 

Just as the unlucky punk managed to take another lungful of air, Carlos expertly aimed his fist and scored a direct hit on Dino’s solar plexus.  The jarring electrical jolt that ran through his body and seemed to paralyze his respiratory system at least had the advantage of making Carlos’s vicious gutpunches seem almost minor by comparison.

 

Carlos drew his fist back one more time, paused, then lowered it anticlimactically.  Shaking his hand out, he turned his back on Dino and walked over to the mirror.  He admired himself in it for a while, running his hands down his furry, muscled chest for a while.  He spent a little time thumbing his nipples until they were stiff and as hard as granite.  The entire time, he kept one eye on the brutalized young man writhing in agony on the bed, gagging as he frantically tried to breathe.

 

He knew it was time to go back to the meat when it started to talk.

 

“…s-sorry…” Dino muttered, his raspy voice just barely audible.  “So so-sorry, pl-pl-please, man, do wh-whatev-ever ya want, j-just don-don’t hurt m-me no more…”

 

Carlos walked slowly and deliberately to the edge of the bed.  Forcing the swollen lids of his eyes apart, Dino peered up at the stud, hoping for some sign of mercy.

 

What he saw was a massively-muscled alpha looming over him.  It was a sight he’d always dreamed about but this had taken a surreal—and physically painful—turn into nightmare territory.  And then Carlos’s hand started to move.  Dino flinched, knowing that he was going to get hit again—

 

—and the hardbodied convict jerked his zipper down; the sound was eerily similar to tearing cloth.  Dino pried his eyes open again, but when he saw Carlos pulling his dick out, the kid’s eyes widened on their own.  It just kept coming and coming; Dino couldn’t believe there was that much manmeat stuffed down the alpha’s pant leg.

 

It had been semi-soft while it was still trapped; now, as Dino watched, it grew visibly stiffer—and longer.  The tip of the huge purple head was already glistening with precum; the harder it got, the more began to ooze out in transparent drops.

 

“You wanna know what a real man does to a piece a’ shit faggot like you, boy?  Yer about to find out.”

 

Dino’s gaze was dragged upwards from the enormous, ominous cock, sweeping up the dark body hair that rolled over Carlos’s perfect six-pack abs.  The wiry fur widened as it went up, spreading across the hardbodied psycho’s massive pecs where his still-hard nips were clearly visible in the colorful display of lights reflected into the room.  The tats on the alpha’s thickly-muscled arms were painfully clear as well; the winged skull on Carlos’s left bicep suddenly seemed to take on new meaning for Dino.

 

And above that, above the gold chain circling the prison ink, that hard, masculine, angry face, with the shaved head and the unshaven scruff…and those eyes, aglow with cold rage and hot lust…

 

The alpha lunged forward, grabbing Dino by the neck and pinning him to the cold plastic film covering the bed.  He leaped onto the bed kneeling on his left knee with his right boot planted two feet from Dino’s head, directly in his line of sight.  He squeezed the cunt’s neck—not enough to cut off his air; just enough to get his attention.

 

“Ya wanna know what a real man like me wants to do to homo asswipes like you?  Huh?  I wanna stick things into ya.  Betcha like that idea, dontcha, you fuckin’ pervert?  You already seen one of the things I’m gonna stick into ya, now lemme show ya the other.”

 

The knife he pulled out of his harness boot had a couple of things in common with his dick.  Both were incredibly hard—and like his cock, Dino watched in stunned amazement as the knife just kept coming and coming.  By the time Carlos had fully extracted it from his boot, Dino was staring at a blade that was itself a full seven inches of viciously serrated razor-sharp carbon steel.

 

Dino got one good long look at the knife, then flat-out refused to believe in it.  It made no sense; it didn’t belong to his world.  He was here for a good fuck and yeah the guy was a lot rougher than he wanted—but he wasn’t gonna die tonight.  It couldn’t happen; all he had to do was not believe that it could.

 

But it was there, right in front of him.

 

Before the abused twink could come to terms with imminent death, Carlos gave him something else to think about.  Kneeling, the hulking alpha parted Dino’s legs like he was trying to break a wishbone; the sudden jerk of pain in his groin brought the bewildered faggot back into the present.  He looked down at the huge furry torso between his legs and blinked but the realization of what was happening was a little tardy. The second the kid realized he was getting fucked, Carlos slammed his massive hog all the way home, his pubes flush with Dino’s smooth bubble asscheeks, the wiry hair scraping and scratching them.

 

Not that Dino felt the scratching.  He was far too focused on the horrific in his rectum, the brutal slashing sensation as Carlos’s shaft tore its way relentlessly through his colon, ripping apart his sphincter, plowing over his prostate and embedding itself deep in his guts.

 

Dino had been impaled by Carlos’s cock.  He was literally full of dick; he’d never felt so full of anything in his life.

 

It hurt like fuck.  Instinctively, he began beating on Carlos’s chest, his own cries of pain drowning out the faint, futile thumping of his fists on that strong, sculpted body.  The hardbodied sadist grinned demoniacally and with a powerful thrust of his hips, shoved his cock even deeper into the suffering homo.  Dino screeched, his hands curling into claws and clutching fistfuls of Carlos’s chest hair as the boy desperately tried to ride out the spasm of agony that convulsed his colon.

 

Carlos was prepared for that.  He held the blade up to Dino’s face.  “Shaddup and let go or I’ll give somethin’ to really scream about, faggot,” he snarled.

 

Sobbing hysterically, Dino managed to regain enough possession to force his hands to relax.  He kept his crying at a low volume but was unable to stop it.  “P-pl-please…pl-please…” he moaned, “St-stop…s-stop…ple-please…no-no more…”

 

“I’m just gettin’ started,” Carlos said.  “This is what it feels like to get fucked by a real man, cunt.  Ya like it?  Yeah?  Yer dick sure does, ya little fuckin’ pervert; look how hard yer fag cock is. See, I’m gonna ream yer worthless little faggot fuckhole out, then I’m gonna show ya my trick for gettin’ ya all nice an’ tight again.  Cool, huh?  Here’s a hint on how I do it, bro—it involves pain.  A whole fuckload of pain.”

 

The heavily-muscled stud bent down over the young dealer.  Dino’s vision was blurred with pain and fear, but at this close distance, he could see individual beads of sweat tricking down Carlos’s chest, moistening the fur without matting it.  The small passage left through the remains of his nostrils was filled with the musky, pheromone-laden scent of sexually excited males that filled the room and the testosterone in his own system responded. Despite his physical agony and his mental terror, Dino became aware that his painfully erect cock had begun leaking a slow but continuous trickle of precum.

 

This was a nightmare.  This couldn’t be happening.  This dude was gonna fuck him up so bad…no, he couldn’t think about that…dear God why was his dick hard and leaking?

 

Dino reached the end of his endurance.  Mentally, he checked out.  Carlos knew the moment it happened; the pansy became limp and compliant underneath him.  He’d been expecting it—he hadn’t known exactly when it would happen, but he’d whacked enough fairies by now to recognize the inevitable mental collapse.  Meat just couldn’t take the realization that it was meat.

 

Well, that just meant it was time to tighten the meat’s fuckhole a bit.  With a cheerful, almost boyish smile—and without missing a beat in the vicious, merciless thrusting of his thick engorged shaft—Carlos fondled the handle of his knife.

 

“Hey, dude,” he said, “Time to lissen up and get the point.”

 

Reversing the tip of the blade, the powerful alpha plunged the knife into Dino’s flat, heaving belly, the point penetrating the kid’s navel.  The cold razor-sharp steel sliced through the boy’s tender, smooth flesh and parted the layer of muscle underneath like it was wet paper before lodging deep into the unlucky homo’s intestines.

 

Dino had gotten the point, and he was no longer able to ignore it.  The moment the blade pierced his skin, his swollen eyes widened and he gasped in agony.  The slashing pain that tore through his abdomen was somehow cold, and the sensation of hot blood flowing inside his guts seemed to amplify the excruciating torment.

 

Carlos had slammed the blade down with enough force to drive the air out of Dino’s lungs.  By the time he was able to inhale, the sadistic alpha was twisting the knife in the wound, grinding the sharp serrations on the blade into the raw, mangled flesh and shredding it.  This new pain was even worse than the agony in his reamed, raped asshole.  Despite a lungful of oxygen, the kid found himself unable to scream; his entire body went rigid in an attempt to keep from moving against the blade that was run through his gut.  Dino could only squeal and mewl his pain to the uncaring world.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Carlos said, his cruel glee increasing as Dino’s agony became more intense, “Squeal like the fuckin’ cockpig you are, bitch.  Feels good, huh?  I can tell ya love it, shitsack; yer ass is grabbing my cock like it wants more.  Well don’t worry, cumdump—” here the sadist pulled the knife out of Dino’s gut with a swift jerk “—I’m gonna give ya plenty more.  I’m doin’ ya right, fuckwad; you ain’t gonna bleed out.”

 

Carlos bent forward, almost lying flat on Dino, his hard, hairy belly pressed against the kid’s smooth flat abs.  There was little blood from the wound; the slow bleeding from Dino’s shredded entrails was mostly internal.  Which wasn’t to say that the knife itself was clean.  When the sick sex killer held the blade up, just four inches from his victim’s face, the poor kid could clearly see his own blood smeared down the seven-inch length of viciously-sharpened steel.  He could see tiny scraps of stringy meat caught in the cruel serrations.

 

At any rate, Carlos made damn sure the meat knew what was what.  “Ya see that shit caught on my blade, dude?  That’s yer fuckin’ guts.  You’re lookin’ at yer own guts, faggot.  Bet that hurts—bet it hurts bad.   An’ you just fuckin’ love it, dontcha, ya fuckin’ cocksuckin’ pervert?  Yer goddam dick is still hard an’ leakin’, boy, so I know yer gettin’ off real good.  Try not to blow yer fag load when I do this—”

 

Before Dino had time to realize that Carlos was no longer holding the knife in front of him, the muscled hardman had whipped it around and driven it into the punk’s exposed, vulnerable flank.  The blade sheared through skin and muscle on Dino’s left side, just under the ribcage, and speared his liver, completely transfixing the organ.

 

The gut stab had been horrible.  This was organ trauma; it was on a whole new level.  Instinctively, Dino’s hand’s shot up, looking for something to brace themselves on, and clamped onto whatever was available—Carlos’s thick, bulging biceps.  Despite the slight sheen of sweat that covered the top’s skin, Dino held on, his entire body stiffening involuntarily as physical shock set in.

 

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Dino heard the alpha whisper, “That’s it.  That’s how ya work a real man’s cock.”  Again, Carlos twisted the knife in the wound, but this time he did it slowly, letting the slim youth trapped beneath him savor the feeling of the incremental damage to his internal organ.

 

Rigidly immobile, pinned to the bed in this strange room by a huge cock and a huge blade, Dino couldn’t breathe deeply enough to cry out; his shallow, irregular respiration only allowed him to emit a low keening sound, somewhere between a moan and a sob.  His face was still badly swollen from the beating he’d endured; even though the color had drained form it, it was still mute testimony on its own of how badly he’d been made to suffer.  But that had been nothing compared to this.

 

In spite of the nightmarish agony, Dino still refused to believe he was being snuffed.  To the extremely limited extent that he was able to think lucidly, his thoughts turned to how he was going to get out of this situation, how quickly he’d be able to summon help…and then Carlos twisted the blade again.  As the searingly cold agony wracked his lithe torso, the faggot punk went rigid again, his body tense and shuddered—and he caught sight of Carlos’s face.

 

The heavily-muscled thug was grinning down at the tortured youth, physical pleasure written all over his hard, scruffy face.  Noticing that he had the meat’s attention, he couldn’t resist.  “I can feel you suffer,” the sex killer whispered erotically.  “I can feel every twitch of yer fagmeat along my cock.  Every…little…twitch,” he said slowly, grinding the blade into Dino’s side with every word.

 

The boy held on tight, his hands clenched on Carlos’s huge, knotted biceps and his legs wrapped around the hardman’s narrow waist.  Paradoxically, when the agonized youth needed something firm to cling to as he was forced to endure the horrific pain, the most solid, most immobile thing around was the powerful, heavily-muscled body of his killer.  But even with this support, Dino was unable to remain utterly motionless; the pain was simply too much.

 

“Goddam, you fuckin’ cunt, yer just fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?” Carlos jeered.  “You can’t lie, you worthless sack a’ homo shit; yer ass is suckin’ on my dick like it wants to drain my balls dry.  That what ya want, queerboy?  Ya want a real man’s load in yer ass?  Huh?  That it?  Ya want genuine manseed in yer guts?  Answer me, cocksucker!”

 

Dino wanted it, yes.  Maybe this was it.  Maybe this was what the psychopath needed.  Maybe he’d leave Dino alone once he ejaculated.  Yes, Dino wanted that.

 

But also, deep inside his cockpig soul, he wanted this hot stud’s cum.  He refused to recognize the lust bubbling inside him; he couldn’t bear to think about what that meant—but he wanted Carlos’s load.

 

And Carlos knew it.

 

“Ok, cumdump, you want my load?  Faggot like you ain’t worth a single fuckin’ drop of real manspunk.  You gotta earn it, bitch.  Wanna know how to earn it?”  With this, he jerked the knife violently inside Dino’s slender twink body.  The viciously sharpened blade tore its way out of the kid’s liver and, traveling down and back, sliced through Dino’s kidney with virtually no resistance.

 

This was almost more than Dino could handle.  The kid shuddered and gasped; Carlos quickly jerked the blade out of the wound and lay flat on the writhing boy.  Dino jerked and kicked, the tender skin on his smooth chest scraping painfully against Carlos’s thick wiry body fur, as the kid trembled on the edge of consciousness.

 

The pain, the organ damage, the adrenaline overload caused by traumatic shock, it was almost too much.  But Dino had youth on his side; his lean twink body clung tenaciously to life for as long as it could.  The punk was still in the clutches of horrible torture, but he managed—just barely—to retain his consciousness.

 

Over the next couple of minutes, he was going to regret that deeply.  After that, he’d be past regret.

 

“You want my load, faggot, you gotta work for it.  You gotta fuckin’ suffer.  You ain’t suffered, yet bitch.  I know you think you have, you useless cunt, but you ain’t.  Know how I know?”

 

Carlos’s face filled Dino’s field of vision.  From here, he could just barely make out the thick gold chain around the convict’s strong, thick neck, the amateur tattoo underneath.  The twinkle of the gold caught the panicked youth’s attention for a moment, but it was the glitter of hot sexual insanity in the stud’s eyes that held the mangled punk’s attention.

 

“You ain’t dead yet, that’s how I know.  You wanna get yer ass filled with real mancum, you gotta suffer till it kills ya.  You ready for it?  You ready to die for my load?”

 

And Dino nodded.

 

He was ready to die.  He was ready for the agony to end.  He didn’t care about much else; he just wanted to stop hurting.  His guts, his ass—even his cock, erect, straining and oozing, was a source of pain to him.  If only this dude would kill him and end the suffering quick…

 

“Ok, fucker,” Carlos grinned.  “Remember, you asked for it.”

 

Dino would remember it for the rest of his life—about another ninety seconds.

 

Carlos clamped one hand over Dino’s face, his fingers digging in mercilessly like hooks of iron.  He forced the kid’s head back until he was looking at the underside of Dino’s jaw.  With the other hand, he brought the knife up, placed it directly in the center of the triangular expanse of pale skin under the punk’s jaw, and shoved.

 

The first thrust of the blade was powerful, but restrained.  The tip of the knife ripped up through the center of the jaw into Dino’s mouth, impaling his tongue from underneath and pinning it to the roof of his mouth.  And there it paused.

 

Dino’s eyes, widened with maddened agony, stared blankly into Carlos’s as the unfortunate homo tried to scream.  All he managed to do was grunt unintelligibly and tear his tongue open wider.  “Oh fuck yeah…” Carlos sighed in pleasure as the faggot thrashed in agony beneath him.  “What, did ya think you were gonna die easy?  I toldja ya had to suffer to earn my load, you stupid asswipe.  You’re gonna suffer so bad you’ll blow yer own deathload in silent screamin’ agony—how’s that sound, faggot?

 

And with that, he shoved the knife again.

 

This time, the razor-sharp carbon steel slashed open the soft palate at the roof of Dino’s mouth and continued traveling upwards.  There was a faint crunch as the knife punched through the palatine bone, followed by further cracking sounds as it ripped its way up through the maxillary and frontal sinuses, behind the nose and eyes.

 

Dino was stiff; his muscles tensed in near bone-braking rigidity as he felt the knife moving upward though his head, behind his face.  There was no thought now, there was nothing but the silent scream of pain he’d never known existed, pain he’d never dreamed possible in his young, wasted life.  Suddenly, there was an excruciating flash and everything went dark—forever.  The blade had cut through the kid’s optic nerve.

 

Then the blade hit a sudden obstruction.  “This is it, motherfucker.  Time to die like the useless cumdump you are, faggot,” Carlos panted as he felt the sperm seething in his balls.  Dino shuddered and jerked; Carlos could feel the cunt’s thick cock, pressed against his hard flat belly, as it pulsed and throbbed.  Clutching the top of Dino’s head, Carlos put the power of his huge bunched bicep to work and shoved on the knife.

 

There was another crunching sound—this one loud enough to be heard across the room—as the sadistic alpha powered the blade up through the base of the cranium and rammed it deep into Dino’s brain.

 

“You deserve this, you fuckin’ faggot,” Carlos snarled, feeling his sperm start to froth over in his puckered scrotum.  The sheer dominance of being able to fuck the twink while physically powering a knife into his brain was almost overwhelming; the muscle-bound alpha was almost literally burning with an intense erotic joy.  “You hear me, you worthless pansy?  Fuckin’ homos like you need to die on my cock, writhin’ in pain.  Soak up my spunk with yer agony, motherfucker!”

 

As the serrated steel tore into the dying punk’s cerebrum, the sharp tip came to rest deep inside the folds of gray matter that contained the pleasure center of the brain, where the carbon steel acted as an electrical conductor, literally short-circuiting the homo’s nervous system and triggering a violent orgasm.

 

Dino was gone.  All that was left was a convulsing piece of meat with a few functioning nerve connections.  It knew that there a terrible searing sensation in its cock; trapped between the grinding flat bellies of the two males locked in a mortal embrace, the thick shaft was jerking and pumping out thick ropy wads of boycum.

 

It knew that there was a similar but opposite agony in its ass, where boiling spunk was hosing down its reamed-out guts.

 

It knew that there was a heavy, hairy, powerful form pressing down on it, forcing it to submit to death, but it didn’t know much more…

 

…except that it was a fuckin’ faggot and it deserved everything that was happening to it…

 

Carlos finally shuddered to a stop, his massive cock still jammed deep into the dead kid’s fuckhole.  It felt so good; even though he’d completely emptied his overloaded balls—it felt like he’d shot a solid quart of semen—he left his dick buried in the corpse.  As it shuddered and kicked in convulsions induced by massive brain trauma, the dead body was literally stroking and massaging his rod.

 

The alpha placed one hand over Dino’s face, covering his dull, glazing eyes, and held it down as he jerked the blade out of the corpse’s skull with the other hand.  Dragging the serrated blade back out of the punk’s brain caused the body to thrash violently.  “Fuck,” Carlos grunted as the dead boy’s ass worked his shaft.  Damn, he thought he was dry—“Fuckin’-A!” he yelled explosively, slamming the blade down into Dino’s chest, spearing the corpse’s left pectoral and shredding the still-quivering heart as the alpha heaved and jerked in a second orgasm.

 

This time, Carlos made sure he was done before withdrawing the knife.

 

He calmly walked into the bathroom and began to clean the viscous spunk out of his thick chest hair before it could mat.  Behind him in the bedroom, and still totally unknown to him, Nick’s hidden cameras continued to record the way the twitching corpse slowly became still.

 

When he came out of the bathroom, the bulked-out convict had shoved his hog back into his jeans.  He didn’t bother looking for his shirt; he didn’t want one now.  He was glancing around; there was something else he wanted…there it was.  A huge, hard-sided suitcase Nick sometimes used for carrying camera equipment.  It turned out to be a perfect fit; he was able to fold the dead cumdump into a fetal position and wedge it in with the blood- and cum-smeared painter’s plastic.  Picking up the carefully-folded clothes with, Carlos noticed the kid’s nametag.

 

He tossed them into the suitcase with an ironic smirk.  There was no Dino; there was just rotting meat.

 

He closed the case and lifted it.  Most people would have found it uncomfortably heavy but Carlos had the strength to dead-lift it and carry it out to the elevator and down to the car.

 

It took twenty minutes to get out of the city, even at this late hour, but soon Carlos was heading west.  He left the top down and let the warm night air dry his still-moist body fur.  A nice drive in the hills was what he needed, he’d decided.  Up above the city, away from the traffic, with a nice canyon or two to dump a corpse in…

 

Grinning, he pulled off the highway and turned right, shifting into first as the grade grew steeper.

 


 

 

“Tell me again why we’re out here,” Schweitz said in an aggrieved tone.  “Why ain’t the county boys out here?  This ain’t in the city.”

 

“Actually, it is,” Nuñez replied.  “Annexed last November.  That’s why the body was found so soon.  Presuming the killer dumped it at night, it was probably too dark to see where they’ve already begun putting in the sewer lines; work crew found the corpse just after dawn.”

 

“Well ain’t you earnin’ yer pay,” Schweitz sneered.  “Still don’t tell me why I’m out here lookin’ at another dead faggot.  Shit, didja see that asshole?  Looked like a fuckin’ glazed doughnut.”

 

“Not like we knew that when we got the call, Schweitz,” Nuñez sighed.  “We gotta at least get some details.  There were some clothes an a nametag–looks like the vic was a dealer at the Magic Carpet.  Should be easy enough to get his full name so we can file a report.”

 

“Round-file it, you mean,” the older detective said.  “Look, you already know we ain’t got time for this shit.  I mean, the homo was offed with extreme prejudice, right?  I mean, a knife to the fuckin’ brain sends a real strong message, y’know?  So I figure the cocksucker musta deserved it.  The Magic Carpet don’t pay shit–queerboy was probably whorin’ himself out and ripped off a john or somethin’.”

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Nuñez admitted.  “Not like anyone’s gonna care.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Schweitz nodded.  “Fucker probably has AIDS too.  Let the med examiner deal with him.  C’mon, let’s head back to civilization.  Can’t believe they’re building more houses way the fuck out here.”

 

“Sure,” said Nuñez, and the headed back to the car.

 

As they reached it, Nuñez opened the driver’s door while Schweitz paused on the passenger side.  “Hey, can ya do me a favor?” he asked.  “Can we make a detour on the way back?  I got a hankerin’ for a glazed doughnut.”

Ride-along with Captain Dan

Pete sat quietly in the front seat of the pickup.  He’d been hired as a deputy by the county less than a month ago and while he’d had a chance to ride along with some of the older, more experienced deputies, tonight was his first pairing with Captain Dan.

 

Pete, like everyone else in the small staff that comprised the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department, idolized Captain Dan.  Tall and broad-shouldered, with buzz-cut blond hair and sky-blue eyes, the muscular and powerful Dan was the epitome of macho law and order.  Everyone wanted to be like him; even Sheriff Waites was intimidated by the man.  But then again, the Sheriff was getting old and fat.  Ever since Major Barrett had passed away three years ago, the county had decided to let the rank of Major lapse, meaning that Dan was the highest-ranking officer under the Sheriff.

 

It wasn’t a good idea to cross him.

 

Pete knew he’d been honored by being chosen for the ride-along.  All new recruits were being trained by Captain Dan, of course, but no one had yet been selected to go out on patrol alone with him this soon after hiring.

 

They’d circled around town a few times, but little had been happening on this chilly Tuesday evening.  Come Friday night, the town would be hopping as all the outlying farm workers came in and got drunk—but now there was nothing.  Dan, wasn’t discouraged, though.

 

“There’s a spot I know,” he said as he aimed the truck out of town, “One of the county roads has an exit on the interstate.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Pete said, “CR 451.  It crosses the county line to the grain mill, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, “But that ain’t the point.  Lotsa drug trafficking along that section of the interstate.  We don’t really have the funds to do much of an interdiction but Taylor County does.  They’re doin’ a roadblock tonight at the Hopewell Street exit—which means if the traffic backs up enough, anyone who’s carrying will turn around at the county line and take the first exit, looking for a way cross-country.  And the first exit heading west from the county line—”

 

“—is CR 451,” Pete finished up triumphantly.

 

“Right!” Dan replied.  “I dunno if we’re gonna be lucky enough to take down one of them fuckers, but I’d damn sure like to give it a try.  You on board?”

 

Pete glanced over at the Captain.  There was something so powerfully masculine about the muscle-bound figure in tight khaki chinos, glossy knee-high boots and a khaki shirt so tight, the buttons strained to keep it closed across the broad chest—Pete would be on board with anything the older man wanted.

 

It wasn’t just the cop’s overwhelming physique—Dan trained relentlessly, honing his control skills to the point that he seemed to naturally take command in any situation.  There was never any question—when he gave an order, it was obeyed, almost mindlessly.

 

Pete was only twenty-one, and at exactly six feet tall was still several inches shorter than Dan.  His body may not quite have been in Dan’s class, but he was well-built and strong, with short brown hair and clear dark eyes.  His broad, youthful face, covered with a dark shadow of scruff, was a striking contrast to the Captain’s hard, set face with its high cheekbones.  The deputy was wearing the same khaki outfit as his superior, but his chinos were tucked into a tightly laced pair of Danner 8” Tachyon combat boots.  As much as he admired the tall leather boots that Dan sported, Pete knew there was no way he could keep a pair that glossy.

 

Ten minutes after turning off onto the county road, the Captain pulled off onto a gravel path and reversed the truck.  He’d managed to have enough county funds diverted to allow him to purchase a huge 4X4 pickup—for the department, he said, not that anyone else would be stupid enough to take it out—that had come in handy while he was raiding meth labs and pot fields out in the far-flung sections of the county.  It took a moment to maneuver the truck to his satisfaction, but when he was done, it was pointy out towards the road but was far enough back in the brush to be hidden.

 

Leaving the engine running, he killed the lights.

 

“Now we wait,” he muttered.  “I betcha we pop at least one of these little druggie faggots tonight.”

 

Pete tuned in to the contempt for both criminals and homosexuals that dripped from the Captain’s voice.  It was a good thing to know, to help stay on his superior’s good side.

 

“That’s all they are,” Dan continued.  “You’ll see soon enough, boy.  Ain’t none of the fuckin’ thieves and drug dealers real men.  Fuckin’ cocksuckers, that’s all they are, every last one of ‘em.”

 

“You sound like my uncle Bill,” Pete said.

 

“Bill?  Bill who?”

 

“Bill Traster, my mom’s brother.”

 

“Naw!  Ol’ Bill Traster?  Used to be in homicide in Oklahoma City?”

 

“Yeah, that’s him.  He’s retired now; took a bullet to the hip.”

 

“Well whaddaya know.  I remember Bill from the Academy.  Yeah, he knew a thing or two about handlin’ these fuckin’ pansy scumbags.  One time he told me—”

 

But the reminiscence was cut off as green motorcycle roared past their concealed truck.

 

“That was a Kawasaki Ninja,” Dan said with a fierce grin on his face.  “Now, who do we know in town with a green motorcycle like that?”

 

It was a rhetorical question; they both knew well that there was only one person in town with a green Kawasaki—Robbie Clebbs. Pete wasn’t surprised when the Captain flipped the lights and floored the truck, heading out after the bike; Robbie was notorious.  He was a bit surprised that they had to be chasing the punk at all.

 

“Didn’t you bust Robbie last month?” Pete asked.  “Just before I got hired—I’d heard you got him after that meth lab out on the Ellis place blew up.”

 

The pickup’s cab was only illuminated by the dashboard lights, but they were enough for Pete to see the way the older man’s face drew taut, his lips compressed in a determined line.  “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice cold as death, “Yeah, I got him—and daddy’s money got him off.  Dunno who got paid where, but it never even came before the grand jury.”

 

Nothing further needed to be said about daddy’s money; even Pete knew that Robert Clebbs, Sr. owned two of the three car dealerships in the county.

 

“Little homo fucker’s been lyin’ low for a few weeks,” Captain Dan went on.  “Haven’t seen him around at all—which means he’s been up to no good.”

 

Dan radioed the stop back to dispatch, reporting it as a speeding vehicle.  Despite the fact that they didn’t have a radar gun with them, Pete said nothing—after all the Captain was the kinda guy who’d be able to tell how fast a vehicle was going just by looking at it.

 

But still, they’d managed to overtake the bike relatively soon after lighting it up…

 

The motorcycle pulled over onto the wide level shoulder at a curve; the pickup crawled in over the gravel behind it.  The high-intensity headlights lit up the kid on the bike clearly.  Pete leaned in for a better look; it had been a few years since he’d seen Robbie.  His kid brother had pointed Robbie out as the one everyone in the county high school went to for drugs.  Eventually, the punk had dropped out and gone to dealing full time.

 

Ol’ man Clebbs was reportedly disgusted with his son’s behavior and didn’t allow Robbie to live at home—but all the kid’s bills got paid somehow, despite the fact that he’d never worked a legitimate job in his short, wasted life.  The bike had been a present for his eighteenth birthday and the fact that he hadn’t trashed it yet was a minor miracle.  Pete had been sure that Robbie’s involvement in the meth lab explosion would have finally earned him some prison time.  Kid wasn’t nineteen yet, but time in the joint would do him some good.

 

Robbie turned back as Captain Dan slowly opened the door.  “Driver, face forward!” he barked.  Pete didn’t get a glimpse of his face, but he could see that the closest the punk had bothered to come to a helmet was a red bandanna tied around his head; under it, long, slightly curly black hair fell nearly to his shoulders.  The boy had twisted his lean, firm torso around far enough for Pete to have noticed that under the kid’s leather biker jacket, his smooth but strong chest was covered by a cheap white t-shirt with a Rolling Stones logo printed on it.

 

A punk-style belt made of gear link chain circled his narrow waist, supporting a tightly-fitting pair of well-worn skinny jeans.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of motorcycle boots—Icon 1000 Elsinore boots, in black leather, the left one up on the bike’s heel rest, the right one on the gravel, steadying bike and rider.

 

As Dan slid out of the truck’s driver seat, he reached down and drew his side-handle baton.  “Hey, Cap!” Pete said softly, but urgently, nodding at the older man’s holster, which was still snapped shut.

 

“Naw,” Dan said, a cold light glittering in his blue eyes like ice crystals, “This little cocksucker ain’t worth the ammo.  C’mon with me, boy, an’ keep yer eyes peeled.  No tellin’ what the strung-out faggot might try.”

 

They marched towards the youth on the motorcycle, the crunch of their boots in the gravel loud in the clear night air of the isolated county road.

 

Holding the baton in one hand, Dan pulled a heavy, oversized flashlight out of a loop in his belt.  He flicked it on just as Robbie turned to face him.  Like Pete, the punk’s youthful face was covered with scruff, but Robbie’s was the result of lack of shaving, where Pete’s was carefully trimmed to an exact appearance.

 

As the bright light shone into to the boy’s red eyes, he blinked blearily and threw his arm up across his face.  “A’right!  Enough!” he called out.  “Whatcha tryin’ to do, blind me?”

 

“Shaddup, punk,” Dan barked, “Get that hand down and look at me.”

 

As ordered, Robbie brought his hand down and squinted up into the light.  Recognizing Captain Dan, he unconsciously groaned aloud.  This asshole had it out for him, and given what he was carrying tonight, things could get seriously unpleasant.  While he wasn’t too worried about the baggie with his personal stash of weed—some of it already rolled into joints—that he had tucked down inside his left boot, the solid gram of fentanyl next to it was worth a fortune, and he still owed that dude back in Dallas for most of it.  If it got confiscated and he couldn’t repay, his life might literally be over…

 

He began to reach for what was tucked inside his right boot—a Marine combat knife, seven inches of serrated carbon steel.  As long as the cops didn’t draw on him, he should be able to take the Captain down.  That dumbass deputy would panic and Robbie’d have the Captain’s gun by then.  But he needed to move fast.

 

Robbie bent swiftly, diving for the knife—but he didn’t move fast enough.

 

Dan whipped around, spinning the baton by its side handle, and clubbed the boy on the side of the head, hard enough to dislodge the bandanna.  Robbie’s eyes rolled back in his head and, already half off his bike, he collapsed face-down into the gravel with loud grunt.

 

As Robbie groaned in semi-consciousness, Dan knelt beside him and began frisking him.  The older man ran his hands along the kid’s body, reaching under his leather jacket and fondling his slim, firm torso inside its t-shirt.  Finding nothing there, Dan moved lower, his questing hands prying through the denim at the long, thick bulge in the boy’s crotch.

 

“Wha’ th’ fuck…” Robbie muttered vaguely in response to the hard, clutching grip on his dick, but Dan had already released it and was now probing Robbie’s tight buttocks.  Pete watched with a strange, tingling excitement as the Captain took his time on the boy’s thick, muscled thighs and calves, coming eventually to the boots.

 

Dan’s expression changed subtly as he patted down the black leather biker boots—a triumphant light came on in his eyes as gripped the left boot and said, “There’s something down here.  C’mere, boy, make sure he’s restrained.”

 

Hurrying eagerly to Dan’s side, Pete pulled the cuffs off his belt.  Kneeling next to Dan, he swiftly cuffed Robbie’s hands behind the still-stunned punk’s back, then turned to watch as the Captain reached down inside the snugly-fitting boot and extracted the long, vicious-looking knife.

 

“Fuck, man,” Pete gasped, “You could do some serious damage with that thing.”

 

“Hell, yeah,” Dan grunted, an odd smile on his face.  He tucked the knife carefully into his belt, trusting the inch of black leather to hold it even without a scabbard.  Turning back to the prone figure, he reached for the right boot.  “Let’s see if this piece a’ shit is carryin’ anything else.”

 

Robbie managed to regain full consciousness just as Dan pulled the elaborately-wrapped package of fentanyl and the baggie of pot out of his other boot.  He began to struggle in the gravel.  “Lemme up, you bastard!” he yelled.

 

Dan knelt on the prone youth instead, placing one booted foot on the middle of his back and one knee on the kid’s ass.  Pocketing the weed, he held up the package and shone the flashlight on it; there were words stenciled on.  “China white,” he read aloud, then stood up.

 

“Fuckin’ police brutality!” Robbie shouted.  “”Y’all had no reason to hit me!  I’m gonna sue!”

 

Dan lashed his foot out suddenly.  Robbie’s awareness that the Captain’s knee-high glossy boots had steel toes was indicated by a loud, painful grunt.

 

Dan looked at Pete.  The younger man saw an intense smoldering heat in the Captain’s glance.  “China white,” he repeated to Pete, ignoring Robbie’s outburst, “You know what this stuff is?”

 

“Naw, Cap—that’s a new one on me.”

 

“We don’t get it much here.  Street name for fentanyl.  It’s an opiate that’s several hundred times more potent that heroin.  People die from this stuff on a daily basis—and this motherfucker wants to bring it in here.  C’mon, help me get the fuckin’ waste up on its feet.”

 

They bent over Robbie, each running an arm under the boy’s armpit and forcibly dragged him up to his feet.

 

“Gonna sue,” Robbie mumbled, “Dad’ll get me off…won’t spend a day in jail…county’s gonna pay out the ass for you two fucks…”

 

“Want me to call for a cruiser to come pick ‘im up?” Pete asked.  With no rear seat, they couldn’t haul him in in the pickup.

 

The Captain didn’t answer.  He was looking at Robbie, his clenched face somehow allowing a wide play of emotions on it—rage, contempt, frustration…and something else.  Pete couldn’t quite make it out.

 

“Cap?” he asked again, “A cruiser?”

 

Dan paused, a half-step ahead and turned to Pete in such a way as to silhouette his profile.  “Naw,” he said.  “I got a better idea.”

 

Highlighted as it was in the clear light, the huge bulge erecting a tent pole in the Captain’s tight chinos was obvious.  And as soon as he saw it, Pete realized what that other emotion had been, the one he couldn’t identify.

 

“This faggot’s got enough drugs to kill everyone in the county.  He’s got—and went for, you saw it—a dangerous weapon.  Now the little pansy is gonna run back to daddy and get away scot free.”

 

Dan stepped ahead and turned to face them both, the headlights of the truck illuminating his massive, muscle-bound form from behind.  “I think it’s time this little homo learned what real men do to strung-out little cocksuckers.  And I think he needs to learn to good and long and hard, so he don’t forget.  Whaddaya think, Pete—you in?”

 

Pete grinned; there was no need for him to answer aloud.  The visible swelling in his crotch spoke for him.

 

Dan saw it and grinned back.  He shoved Robbie brusquely, making him stumble and fall face-down in the gravel.  With his hands still cuffed behind him, the handsome, leather-clad teen was unable to protect his face; he cried out in pain as sharp-edged rocks abraded his face.  “You fuckin’ sonovabitch!” he shouted angrily as he writhed in the gravel, trying to regain his feet, “I’m gonna have yer badge for that!  Daddy’ll make the Sheriff give it to me so I can use it for target practice!”

 

Dan chuckled and glanced at Pete.  “You hear that?  Little queer fuck just threatened us.”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Robbie screeched.

 

Dan’s next words were spoken to Pete in a calm, detached tone, as the older man stared the younger steadily in the eyes.  “C’mon, son, time to step up.  Time to be a man.  Get this piece a’ shit cocksucker into the back of the truck and we’ll show ‘im what happens to pansy-ass little fuckwads in my county.”

 

It hit Pete suddenly—he was being tested.  Dan wanted to make sure the rookie was a well-built mentally as he was physically.  Pete knew they had already gone too far; the kid would clearly accuse them of brutality.  And Dan was right, the punk’s old man would buy the little fuck’s way off the drug charges.  There was really only one way out.

 

Pete nodded at Dan and advanced toward the figure struggling on the ground.  He was totally unaware that his reflections on what was going to happen had caused the bulge in his tight chinos to swell, but the Captain noticed it.

 

“Get up, assfuck,” Pete snarled as he bent down, caught Robbie under the arms, and dragged him to his feet again.

 

“You too!” the enraged teen screamed shrilly.  “Gonna get yer badge too!”

 

Pete lifted the thick sole of his size eleven Danner boot and, planting it on Robbie’s ass, shoved hard.  The boy stumbled five steps towards the back of the pickup, managing to remain on his feet.

 

“Good,” Pete said.  “If you fall, my boot ain’t goin’ upside yer ass; it’s goin’ upside yer head.  You hear me, boy?  Get yer worthless ass to the back of the truck, now!”

 

Somewhat intimidate, Robbie mumbled defiantly, but kept moving.  Pete was right behind him, with Dan following.  At the rear of the truck, Pete opened the tailgate.

 

“Now what, pig?” Robbie sneered.  “Can’t climb up that high without my hands.  You gonna help me up, cop?  Gonna protect and serve me, huh?”

 

Silently, without a word, Dan stepped forward, reached out a huge hand and wrapped it around Robbie’s throat.  With a single jerk of his massive, heavily muscled arm, the Captain lifted the kid straight up.  Gagging as he choked, Robbie flailed his legs aimlessly, his Icon boots kicking in the air a good four inches above the gravel.

 

“You want me to serve you, you cum-guzzlin’ faggot?  Here, have a nice big serving of whoop-ass, dickhead!”

 

As Dan drew his arm back, Pete could see how the bicep and the tricep bulged and the huge deltoid swelled.  When his fist launched forward again, the enormous power packed into his muscles exploded with the force of an industrial piston.

 

He punched the teen straight in the jaw, nearly breaking it.

 

Robbie’s mouth sagged misshapenly open as he passed out, stunned into unconsciousness by the single blow.  Dan flung the lean, limp form into the bed of the truck with a contemptuous flick, as if we was tossing out litter.

 

“C’mon, get in,” the older man said, closing the tailgate.  “I know the perfect place to, uh, dump some garbage after we get done teachin’ this cocksucker the error of his ways.”

 

Pete opened the passenger door, but paused before getting in.  “Uh, Cap—” he began before awkwardly stopping.  The older man looked at him, his sky-blue eyes focused on the rookie with laser precision.  Pete started again.  “Cap, um, how many times you done somthin’ like this before?’

 

The hardbodied blond alpha froze for a moment, then relaxed slightly.  “I haven’t.  But I’ve been planning it out for a long time.  See, this county is bein’ flooded by these deviant punks.  All of ‘em, all the troublemakers and speeders and dope-smokers.  Problem is, their daddies didn’t teach none of ‘em right.  They didn’t teach ‘em that you gotta obey Authority, no matter what.  No matter how much it hurts or how scared you are, if Authority wants to put its dick up yer ass or use your body as a punching bag, you gotta obey.”

 

A broad, almost beatific smile spread across Dan’s face, giving his hard features a masculine charm that somehow unaccountably pulled something deep inside Pete.

 

“So we gotta teach the fuckers ourselves,” the older man continued.  “And since it’s the most important lesson in their useless lives, it’s gotta be driven home, ruthlessly, relentlessly.  Even if it’s the last lesson they learn—so long as they learn it.”

 

Pete knew that much of what he’d just heard didn’t make sense, but he also knew that all of what he’d heard made his dick leak.  “Cool,” he replied, returning the Captain’s smile.  “Just asking.  Let’s get goin’ before the biker boy wakes up.”  He climbed into the passenger seat.

 

“Yeah,” Dan remarked as he settled into the driver’s seat, “That’s a good clue right there.  If ya pull over a dude on a bike, check out his crotch.  More’n likely, his dick’ll be hard.  Faggots love motorcycles; somethin’ about the way it vibrates their assholes or somethin’.”

 

The pickup rumbled into life and Dan pulled off the shoulder.  Darkness had fallen, a hazy, almost glowing darkness as a heavy mist thickened in the chill night air.  It lay like a blanket over the isolated rural countryside, muffling what faint sounds were present.

 

After a couple of miles, they drove out of the mist; several miles further from town, Dan veered the truck to the left.  Pete, who hadn’t noticed the dirt track, winced, but soon found himself bouncing in the cab as the 4X4 jolted down a little-used dirt track.

 

“Never even knew this was here,” he remarked.  “Where’s it go?”

 

“There’s an old quarry back down here,” Dan replied.  “Very isolated—it’s a great dumping ground.”

 

Pete was quiet, letting his imagination soar and his thick cock throb.

 

Eventually they came to the end of the track, a wide, barren circle of dirt beyond which was a low rise of rocks.  When Dan killed the truck, Pete got out and took a look.  Beyond the rocks was a huge gap in the earth, at least a quarter-mile across.  It was deep, too.  Pete shined his flashlight into the depths; the reflection came back to him scattered from a watery surface some three hundred feet below.  It was a perfect place to dump unwanted garbage.

 

Dan, in the meantime, had opened the tailgate and was trying to drag Robbie out.  Torn between fear and outrage, the teen was resisting the Captain valiantly, fighting as if he knew his life was at stake.  He couldn’t do much in the way of damage with his hands still cuffed behind his back, but he was pissing Dan off.

 

“C’mon, boy, I could use some help!” Dan called.  Pete obediently switched off the flashlight, slipped it back into his belt, and headed for the truck.  The young cop helped grab hold of the writhing, squirming youth in the bed of the pickup, feeling the muscles in the kid’s lean, strong body moving underneath his leather jacket.

 

Between them, the two powerful adults had no problem manhandling the punk out of the truck and standing him on his feet.

 

“Now what?” Pete asked.

 

“Now you hop up in the back of the truck yourself,” Dan grinned.  “We gotta lesson plan to stick to.”

 

“You fuckin’ psychos!” Robbie bawled, his voice tremulous with fear.  The little fucker wasn’t very quick on the ball even when he wasn’t higher than a kite, but he knew that these dudes had gone too far, even for these oo-rah hyper-martial types.  They’d gone way past the point of losing their jobs and were into federal pen time now.  He had the feeling that something was happening that even daddy might not be able to fix.

 

Dan spun Robbie around, making him face Pete as the latter scrambled up into the bed of the pickup.  “Here,” Dan said, bending the teen over the opened tailgate, his huge hand splayed over the back of Robbie’s head, forcing his face down into the bed, “Keep ‘im down.  Pin his shoulders.”

 

An electrical thrill, almost sensuous in nature, jolted through Pete’s strong, hardbodied form as he knelt with his knees on the kid’s shoulders.  He brought his legs together, the leather of his Danner boots pressing snugly against Robbie’s temples.  “All right, teach,” he said, smiling happily, “What’s lesson number one?”  He was liking this.

 

Dan stepped up, grabbed Robbie’s chain belt, and with a single jerk, yanked the boy’s jeans down as far as the tops of his boots.  It made for an effective set of shackles; the kid couldn’t spread his legs farther apart than eighteen inches in any direction; there was no way he could run.

 

It also made for an effective display of Robbie’s bare ass.  Too lazy to care about underwear, the punk invariably went commando.  Tonight, it put him at a distinct disadvantage.

 

Dan pulled his baton back out of his utility belt.  “Lesson Number One,” he said, with a wide, sharklike grin, “Is that when Authority says ya gotta take one up the ass, it means you gotta take one up the ass.  At least the little faggot came dressed to learn.”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Robbie screeched over their coarse, brutal laughter.  And he wasn’t.  What little part of his wasted life hadn’t been devoted to the pursuit of drugs had been devoted to the pursuit of pussy.  But Robbie was about to experience an entirely new set of sensations, both physically and mentally.

 

“Shaddup and take it, motherfucker,” Dan snarled and shoved the baton into Robbie’s smooth, tight, and utterly vulnerable asshole.

 

The teen’s scream was loud and piercing, with a lingering echo from the other side of the quarry.  The cold, rigid metal shaft tore roughly past his sphincter as it was jammed viciously into his tender colon.  He went stiff with sudden, searing pain, the smooth rounded globes of his buttocks tensing visibly.  He rose up on his toes in an instinctive attempt to climb off the impaling rod in his ass; his boots scuffled in the dirt but it did him no good.

 

Pete felt the lithe young body twist and jerk in pain beneath him.  Bending forward, he put his hands on the punk’s back, feeling the kid squirm beneath the leather jacket.  The well-built cop shuddered with pleasure.

 

“Scream all ya want, cocksucker,” Dan laughed cruelly, “Ain’t no one around to hear ya.  We can do what we wanna with ya out here, you fuckin’ fairy, and no one will ever know.  So keep screamin’, asswipe.”

 

He stopped and bent forward, whispering into Robbie’s ear.  Since Pete was bent over Robbie as well, their large muscular bodies were pressed together and Pete could hear every word.

 

“Keep screamin’, you homo piece a’ shit,” Dan murmured huskily into the wailing kid’s ear.  “I like hearing you scream.  I like it a lot.”

 

Pete suddenly became aware he could feel a hot trickle of precum leaking from the pulsing head of his own cock.

 

Dan shoved the baton in again.  “Get it outta me!” Robbie howled, his lean body shuddering in pain.  “I’ll do whatever ya want me to, I swear, just stop!”

 

The alpha cop pulled the nightstick out of the teen’s ass, then smacked him across the buttcheeks with it.  “Ya hear that?” he asked Pete with malicious glee.  “He’ll do anything we want.  Ain’t that nice?”

 

Bending back down over the punk, Dan said, “What we want is for you to learn yer lesson.  The first lesson was to take it up the ass when Authority tells ya to.”

 

Dan stepped back a couple of paces and unbuttoned his khaki shirt.  He bared his furry chest to the cool night air, his large dark nipples hardening at once in the chill.  As he reached down and unzipped his fly, the moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the Captain in three-quarters profile.

 

It was an image Pete would never forget.  The moonlight gave a sliver tint to Dan’s golden flattop hair.  His massive pecs threw dark shadows across his hair-covered chest like mountains shading a forested valley.  The glossy, knee-high boots gleamed brightly, but it was what was dangling in the air above them that caught Pete’s attention.  Dangling—and dripping.

 

Pete had never seen a dick that big before.  He stared at it, then looked up, his wide eyes catching Dan’s bright blue ones.  “G’wan,” the older cop said, grinning, “Pull it out.  You know you wanna.”

 

And he did.  Still kneeling on Robbie’s back, Pete reached down and hauled his own throbbing shaft up out of his chinos.  Like Dan’s, it was erect and oozing, transparent drops of precum splattering on the teen’s leather jacket.

 

“Lesson Number Two,” Dan said calmly, “Is that when Authority tells ya you gotta take it up the ass again, you gotta take it up the ass again.”  Lunging forward, he rammed his huge, engorged tool all the way up into the kid’s asshole, tearing the already-traumatized sphincter on its way in.  Robbie’s piercing shriek reached an octave Pete hadn’t thought possible in a male.

 

“Fuck yeah, faggot,” Dan sneered, “Keep that shit up.  I could feel that scream all the way down to the base of my cock.”  The huge, hulking alpha looked up and Pete was held entranced by his blazing blue eyes.

 

“See, this is how ya gotta get ‘em to learn who’s boss.”  Turning back down to the squealing youth riding his enormous hog, he jeered, “Ain’t that right, boy?  You gonna listen now, huh?”

 

Pinned down by the powerful rookie with the Captain plowing his ass mercilessly, Robbie was being crushed in the twin grip of pain and fear.  Sobbing and whimpering, he wasn’t lucid enough to realize he’d been asked a question and he needed to answer it.  Dan thought he needed to learn that, too.

 

“Hey, Pete, he ain’t answerin’,” the Captain called out as he continued to pump his cock up the kid’s ass without throwing off the tempo of his deep, gut-fucking thrusts.  “Show ‘im what a bad idea it is not to pay attention in class.”

 

Pete scooted backwards off of Robbie.  He reached down and grabbed a hank of the teen’s long black hair and pulled his head up off the bed of the truck, bending his neck back until the terrified punk was looking Pete directly in the eyes.  Robbie’s face was taut and strained, a mask of agony, while his wide eyes darted wildly, fruitlessly seeking any form of succor.

 

“You’d better answer the Captain when he asks you a question, asswipe,” Pete said calmly and, balling up his free hand, smashed it into Robbie’s face.

 

Afterwards, Pete was never able to explain precisely in words the sensations that ran through his sharp warrior brain or his young, muscular form.  There was something about the sensation of breaking the kid’s nose with a single blow, the soft, crackling, crunching sound of the cartilage collapsing under his fist that reverberated through his whole body but seemed to center in his dick.

 

It was his first taste of power over another male, the first time he was able to deliberately use his strong young body to make a young worthless punk suffer, and it was…indescribable.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Dan cried, “Now yer gettin’ it, dude!  Now yer makin’ ‘im learn!”

 

With a wide, goofy, lovable grin and an intoxicating swell of lust, he punched Robbie in the face again.  And again.

 

As the rape continued unabated, Robbie mewled in pain and spit out three teeth.  The effort almost made him scream; both his cheekbones were broken and his face was already bruised and swelling.  But the real agony was in his reamed-out asshole; with every thrust of Dan’s huge dick, the firm, lean youth could feel the thick swollen veins individually as they plunged past his excruciatingly enlarged sphincter.  Worse, the constant battering and grinding his prostate had to endure resulted in an unwanted and entirely involuntary erection.  Robbie’s dick wasn’t as big as either Pete’s or Dan’s, but it wasn’t small, either.  The fact that it was stiff and throbbing as it slapped against his belly—his t-shirt had ridden up during the sexual assault—was clear to all three of them, audibly as well as visibly.

 

Dan, his blond hair dark and his chest fur matted with the sweat of rough physical exertion, looked at Pete with an almost leering grin.  “Lookit the homo’s cock.  Toldja he was a faggot—they all are.  Disgusting fuckpig,”—this last was to Robbie—“yer daddy shoulda shoved his cock up yer ass years ago and showed ya how to obey a real man with Authority.  Maybe ya wouldn’ta ended up a worthless drug-dealin’ cum-drinkin’ sack a’ shit, huh?”

 

As terrified as the traumatized kid was, he was still just barely lucid enough to hear and understand the words of the two muscle-bound cops who were torturing him.  Given how the alpha cop’s tool was plunged deep into his guts, Dan’s next comment, though, blew what little was left of him mind.

 

“Motherfucker’s gettin’ loose,” he said to Pete.  The rookie could see a gleam in the Captain’s cold blue eyes—a gleam of murderous insanity that sent another thrill through Pete’s hard, powerful body.  It was a sensation of both mental and sexual anticipation, the sense of being on the verge of discovering a whole new world of pleasure, the more exciting for its being utterly taboo.  The young cop’s breathing became deep and intense, almost erratic.

 

“Problem is, little cocksucker don’t know how to pay attention,” Dan drawled.  “So that’s Lesson Number Three—payin’ attention.  Lessee now, whadda we got to make a faggot pay attention?  Oh—fuck yeah, I know!”

 

He reached down to his belt and pulled out the combat knife he’d taken off Robbie.  Holding it up, he displayed it to Pete, still wearing his impishly malicious grin.

 

As the moonlight glinted off the razor-sharp blade and the vicious serrations, Pete found himself quickly looking away—his dick was pulsing a little too hard; beneath it, his hairy scrotum was drawing up, preparing to be emptied…he needed to calm down for just a moment; wherever this was heading, he wanted to be in at the end so fucking bad…

 

Robbie hadn’t seen the knife and probably wouldn’t have reacted if he had.  The spoiled teen punk was being brutally violated; he instinctively knew that worse was to come, since there was no other way out—these dudes weren’t just gonna let him go.

 

His response was to shut down completely; aside from the cries of pain forced involuntarily from him, the terrified boy said nothing.  He clenched his eyes closed, forcibly shutting out the image to Pete’s grinning, joyful face, his dark eyes lit from within by a slowly strengthening gleam of sexual sadism.

 

The mist had caught up to them, a heavy cloud that surrounded the trio at the back of the truck and isolated them even further from reality.  The refracted glare of the headlight made it bright enough for them to see, but it intensified the feeling that Dan and Pete were alone in a universe of their own making, where Robbie was no more than a thing to be used…

 

…because that’s exactly what he was in reality.

 

The pinned, cuffed youth was still in his t-shirt and biker jacket; the thick chill mist didn’t touch his upper body.  It wrapped moist tendrils around his long erect dick, but since he was resolutely ignoring all tactile sensations, he was unaware of either the cold or his cock—that, especially; he wasn’t gay, the was no way he had an erection while getting raped.

 

Dan could feel his huge balls swelling, overloaded with hot manspunk.  Looking at Pete’s face and seeing the sweat trickle down the rookie’s cheeks to be lost in the young cop’s thick dark facial scruff, he knew Pete was feeling the same thing.  This was it.  This was why he’d brought the boy out here.  Fuck, this was why he’d brought both boys out here.

 

Tightening his powerful ass muscles, Dan brought his legs together, his knee-high glossy boots pressed against Robbie’s calf-high biker boots.  Driving forward with extra force, he shoved his cock further up the teen’s ass than ever before.  His thick tool ground mercilessly against the punk’s prostate; the pressure, added to the adrenaline and the sheer raw testosterone flowing in the kid’s lean, randy body, made Robbie’s dick throb—but the boy made no sound other than a faint grunt.

 

“Time for yer final lesson, faggot,” Dan jeered.  “Ya hear me, boy?”

 

In full mental retreat, Robbie said nothing.  He never heard the words.

 

Dan glanced up at Pete.  The rookie was still crouched in the bed of the pickup, holding Robbie’s head up so he could look in the punk fucker’s battered and bruised face.  Below, and pointing right at Robbie, Pete’s enormous shaft was pulsating visibly.

 

“Yer right, the asshole ain’t payin’ attention, Cap,” the younger cop said huskily, with a catch in his breath.

 

Dan grinned.  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I can get the motherfucker’s attention.  Watch this.”

 

Raising his arm, he slammed it back down, driving the into Robbie’s body.  Seven inches of razor-sharp steel pierced the teen’s black leather jacket like it was butter, then the serrated blade punctured the kid’s back and sliced smoothly and cleanly through flesh and muscle into the center of his right kidney.

 

Robbie was a master of denial, but sudden massive organ trauma was too much for the teen to ignore.  His body went rigid in the remorseless grip of instant shock; the muscles in his colon clenched involuntarily, clutching at Dan’s throbbing, cum-filled shaft like a hand in a velvet glove.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” the alpha cop yelled, the thick fog dulling the sound after a few yards.  “Now the faggot’s ready to learn!”  Twisting the knife violently in the wound, he made Robbie scream in pain.

 

Pete, still clutching a fistful of the boy’s hair, looked deeply into the teen’s wide, almost crazed eyes, ringed with dark circles of shock, and yet another thrill.  It was—it was—no, he couldn’t quote place it, but he was almost there…

 

Dan stabbed Robbie in the back again.  This time he angle the knife upward near the previous wound, driving the cold hard shaft up through the kid’s liver and diaphragm into his right lung.

 

The pain was worse than anything Robbie could imagine.  He struggled forward, digging his Icon Elsinore boots in, trying vainly to pull himself off the knife that was lodged deep in his smooth, slim torso.  Breathing irregularly, his eyes wildly sought those of Pete, but without any recognition of who he was looking at—it was merely the instinctive reaction of a human in mortal agony to seek another human face.

 

Not that any of the faces around Robbie had any human pity.

 

“Final lesson, you motherfuckin’ faggot,” Dan snarled, sweat running down his huge furry chest as he pumped himself closer to orgasm, “Is, you pull a weapon on Authority, Authority’s gonna fuck you up.  You got me, you homo garbage?”

 

Dan looked up, with an expression Pete hadn’t seen before.  The alpha cop held up the blood-stained knife.  “Here,” he said, tossing the weapon to the rookie, “Fuck ‘im up.”

 

Agilely snatching the knife out of the air, the young hardbodied cop looked at it, almost wonderingly.  He glanced back up at Dan, his face an open question.

 

“Go on,” the older man said, still thrusting his cock relentlessly up the teen’s ass, “We ain’t got all night.  I know you wanna.  You know you wanna.  Do it, man.”

 

Pete stared back down at the blade, knowing a line was about to be crossed.  Did he want to really cross it?

 

Yeah.  Fuck yeah.  He want to cross it so bad he was about to cum.  He jammed the blade sideways into Robbie’s throat.

 

It went through smoothly at first, until it hit the larynx.  Pete had to apply a little pressure to saw through the vocal cords and the trachea, but his tight grip on Robbie’s hair helped him finally shove the tip of the blade out the other side of the teen’s neck.

 

Then he let go, leaving the knife embedded in the kid’s neck.

 

It was the look that Robbie gave him—the teenager’s pleading, despairing look, the way his tongue protruded, having been forced out by the sawing action of the blade at its base, the gurgling syllables of sheer terror coughed out by the dying punk, “Gah!  Ng!  Guk!”…

 

Pete suddenly understood the sensation he’d been unable to place before.  The hidden thrill was power, not just over the kid’s suffering, but over his life.

 

Well, actually, it was the power to end it that Pete found so fucking hot.

 

As the agonized kid gargled and drowned in his own blood, he was given something to swallow.  Without having to touch it, Pete’s dick suddenly exploded, sending a solid stream of searing hot manseed directly into Robbie’s face.  As the boy shuddered in his last few moments on earth, a jet of thick creamy sperm was shot into his open mouth.

 

Grunting and rutting uncontrollably, Dan found release for the pressure in his scrote, hosing the punk fuck’s innards with his spunk.  Robbie jerked and trembled as he died; every shudder and convulsion seemed to milk more cum out of the alpha’s pulsing shaft.

 

Neither of them noticed that as Robbie’s throat was cut, his dick had spewed his death load all over the rear bumper of the pickup.  Robbie had noticed it though; as he died, the horrific pain in his throat and his back was nothing compared to the way his life seemed to be ripped out of him through his cock.  As his semen shot uncontrollably from his body, it seemed to take him with it.  And his mouth was filled with the taste of blood and cum…

 

His lean, lithe body went limp, spunk still trickling from his dick.

 

Dan had pulled out and stepped back a couple of paces.  His massive, engorged cock was still pulsating, pushing out pearly beads of jizz.  Gasping deeply, he gave Pete an admiring glance.

 

“Passed yer test, son.”

 

Pete was sitting in the bed of the pickup, a somewhat dazed look on his face.  He perked up a little, hearing Cap’s words, and grinned sheepishly.  He reached down into his lap and shoved his still-erect shaft back into his chinos, seeing that the Captain was doing the same thing.

 

“C’mon down an’ help me get rid of this piece of trash,” Dan said amiably, buttoning his khaki shirt back up,  “And we’ll head back to the station to get cleaned up.”

 

Pete scrambled out of the truck as Dan bent over the still-trembling corpse and removed the handcuffs.  Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the package of fentanyl and shoved it into the inside breast pocket of Robbie’s leather biker jacket.  “Just in case,” he said to Pete.  He could see that the rookie didn’t get it but was playing along anyway, which was good enough.  He’d learn.

 

The two hulking, muscle-bound men picked up the corpse of the slim young teen like a rag doll.  At Dan’s direction, they carried it the edge of the quarry and tossed it into the mist-filled pit.  There was a thick, wet thump after a few seconds, but not the sound of a splash.

 

“I don’t think it hit the water,” Pete said.

 

“It don’t matter,” Dan replied, “That’s why I put the China White back.  You’ll see.  Trust me.”

 

And Pete did.

 

They climbed into the cab of the truck and within a few minutes were heading back towards the county road.  As they approached it, Dan slowed to a stop and dug something out of his pocket.  In the faint glow of the dashboard lights, Pete could see it was the bag of weed.  Dan fished one of the already-rolled joints out of the baggie and grabbing a lighter out of the cab’s console, fired it up.  After taking a huge hit, he offered it to Pete.

 

Gingerly, the rookie took the joint.  He looked questioningly at Dan as the alpha cop exhaled a thick blue cloud of pungently sweet smoke.  “G’wan, son,” the Cap said in his deep bass voice, “It’s been an intense evenin’ and we deserve to chill out.  After all, there are some benefits to actually bein’ Authority.”

 

As Pete took a huge, lung-busting hit off the joint, Dan laughed aloud.  Putting the truck in gear, he pulled out onto the county round and head back to the station.

 

 


 

It was late the next morning when the Captain got the call; by rights, he should have been off, but his dedication was such that he was known to pull doubles when he felt like it.  No one else in the department complained; it gave them more time off.

 

The body had been found by a couple of teenagers; by the time Dan got out to the quarry, Deputy Rand had already managed to run a couple of lines down and retrieved it; it had landed on a large boulder near the bottom.

 

Dan didn’t like Rand; he hung out with Eddie Phelps, that fat idiot.  Dan had always wondered how Eddie  had gotten hired by the department, but he’d been there longer than Dan, so there was little the latter could do about it.  At any rate, Rand had been on duty and had gotten the call first.

 

Dan approached the other cop, who was crouched over a body bag.  “Whatcha got?” he drawled nonchalantly.

 

“Coupla kids said they were down here to go swimmin’ and saw the body—”

 

“It’s a mite too cold to go swimmin’,” Dan interrupted.  “Might wanna check into that.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Rand said dubiously, “But this is really kinda a big fuckin’ deal.  Lookee here,” the deputy said, opening the body bag.  “It’s Robbie Clebbs—and he’s been fucked up bad.  Real bad.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Dan said.  “You got anything to go on?”

 

“Well, his bike was found back on CR 541.  Hard to tell, but looks like there mighta been a fight.  Kid’s been stabbed.  They left the knife stuck in his throat.  It’s his own—I recognize it.  And, well…”

 

“And what?”

 

“And the kid’s been, uh…he’s been sexually assaulted.  This is some seriously sick shit, man.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Yeah—he had fentanyl on him.  Big ol’ fuckin’ wad.  Kinda surprised the kid had enough cash to get it.”

 

“Maybe he didn’t,” Dan said, thoughtfully.  “Maybe this is some kinda gang payback for a drug deal gone wrong.”

 

Rand considered the suggestion.  “Yeah, that makes sense.  It’d explain this level of violence–they wanted to make an example of him.   I take you’ll head the investigation?  You know old man Clebbs is gonna raise holy fuckin’ hell about this.”

 

Dan sighed.  “Yeah, make sure I get all the files on it.  I’ll see what I can find out, but I suspect the guys who did this are back in the city by now.”

 

As he headed back to the cruiser, Rand called back out to him.  “Hey, am I crazy, or did I see that new guy Pete at the car wash, hosing out the back of yer 4X4?  I thought you wouldn’t let anyone else touch that thing—are ya fallin’ for the kid?”

 

“Naw,” Dan replied with a boyish grin.  “Got a little dirt on it last night is all.”

 

“Yeah, but I also heard you requested him as a partner.”

 

“I see somethin’ in that kid.  He’s goin’ places, I tell ya.”

Trucker 15–Trucker vs the Lucky One

The Trucker was a cunning and intelligent predator.  The senses and skills associated with hunting were highly developed in him; he was excellent not only at killing but at avoiding danger.  Some of this was innate, but some of it was forced on him by his lifestyle; running freight, as he did, he occasionally found himself re-running routes and stopping repeatedly in the same place over a period of time.

 

So when he got back to the town where his last kill had taken place, he was on high alert.  He’d been gone several weeks—more than enough time for whatever kind of trouble the snuff of a methhead whoreboy stirred up to settle back down—but there was no sense being careless.

 

As he pulled into the oversized parking lot at the one truck stop in town, the Trucker decided he’d go out on the prowl.  Who knows?  Maybe it’d turn out to be safe.

 

And after all, he was hungry for meat.

 

It was a cold night.  The buff killer was wearing a black Nike compression t-shirt with long sleeves.  Tucked into the narrow waist of his clean but worn jeans, it clung tightly to his massive, heavily-muscled torso.  Along with the black leather harness boots he sported, it was a warm enough outfit in the heated cab of his truck, but there was an icy wind blowing outside that would necessitate a little more protection.  Reaching into the sleeper compartment, the Trucker drew out an aviator jacket in distressed black leather and slipped it on.

 

As he leaped down from the cab, his thick-soled boots hit the ground with a loud thump.  Striding quickly across the cement lot, his wide-legged stance testifying to the massive package between his legs, he was the image of masculinity.  When he reached the street, he turned left, heading in the direction of the gay bar he’d hit up last time.  He’d poke around a little, make sure nothing suspicious was going on—then he’d be ready to hunt down some fagmeat and drain his hairy sack into it.

 

It was only a few blocks to the bar.  Once he reached it, the Trucker found that there was a line at the door; a large poster announcing the presence of a locally famous DJ explained the crowd.  The hardbodied killer paused—he had no intention of waiting in a line; too many potential witnesses would be given too much time to observe his appearance.  He’d have to try elsewhere—

 

As he turned, he noticed a couple of boys standing at the far end of the building’s façade, near the unattended exit door.  Despite the wind, they seemed in no hurry to join the line and escape into the warmth of the bar’s interior.  Before he could take a step in their direction, a man exiting the bar paused and engaged the two boys in conversation.  The Trucker was too far away to hear what was being said, but it was obvious that some kinda bargain was being struck.  As if to prove his point, the older bar patron began walking swiftly away, the taller youth following in his trail.

 

So, then.  A couple of boywhores who had decided to skip paying a cover charge and just pounce on random dudes as they were leaving the bar.  One of them had managed to pick up a john, leaving the other for the Trucker.  The grinning serial killer sauntered over to check out the lucky motherfucker.

 

When he got closer, the shock of recognition tingled through his muscular frame.  The kid was short, his slim, firm, wiry body obvious in his tight black skinny jeans and dark blue Nike Air Jordans.  It was impossible to tell what kind of shirt he was wearing under his gray fleece hoodie, but under the pointed hood his face was easily seen.  Long curly hair so jet-black it almost gleamed blue was counterpointed by the deep liquid pools of his long-lashed, gazelle-like eyes, also deep black.  The clear skin on the boy’s broad, youthful face had a dark, almost olive tone to it.

 

He was the kid who’d played pool with the Trucker last time he was here.  The one the alpha had set his sights one, before the little punk had been saved by a group of rentboy friends who’d carried him off to drink elsewhere.

 

Well, well, well.  Seems like luck only goes so far.  As the Trucker ambled up to the kid, he idly wondered where his little pack of pansy friends were.  Looked like they’d be too late to save him tonight…

 

The kid recognized the Trucker as well; his face lit up.  “Hey, dude,” he called out, “I was hopin’ I’d see you again!”

 

The kid was telling the truth.  He’d been entranced by the Trucker’s rugged and utterly unfeigned masculinity the moment he’d laid eyes on the alpha in the poolroom a couple of weeks ago.  But Jimmy and Don had come up, and they’d scored some ice, and that had meant more at the moment.

 

That was then and this was now.  And now he was broke and needed a john bad, one with a lot of money.  Not that he wouldn’t let this stud fuck him for free if he could, but money was the primary focus.

 

“Hey,” the Trucker drawled, casually leaning back against the wall.  “You, uh—available?”

 

The kid grinned.  Now that he was closer, the Trucker could see that the boywhore was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt under the hoodie.  That wasn’t all he could see; a line of thick dark fur was peeking above the collar of the t-shirt—the little fuck must be as hairy as he was, the Trucker realized; maybe more.  It certainly didn’t show on his smooth young face.

 

“Yeah, I’m free,” the boy replied with a cocky grin, “But I ain’t exactly free, if ya get my drift.”

 

The Trucker got it, all right.

 

“How much for the whole night?” he asked.

 

The kid scrunched up his face in pretended thought, unconsciously giving himself a boyish, elfin expression by biting his bottom lip.  “Five hundred,” he said, well aware it was too much but willing to take a shot and bargain if he had to.

 

The Trucker bit his bottom lip as well—to stop an overwhelming impulse to bray laughter in the faggot’s face.  Five hundred for a night with this reamed-out fuckmeat?

 

“Five? No,” the Trucker said firmly but seriously, pretending to think himself.  “How about three?”

 

The Trucker watched the whore’s eyes almost literally light up with dollar signs.

 

“I—uh, yeah, ok—” the rentboy faltered, stunned at his good luck.  He’d have settled for fifty.  “C’mon an’ follow me, I gotta place, a room.  We can get busy an’ ain’t no one gonna disturb us…”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said laconically, “Lead the way, boy.”

 

“Name’s Kristos,” the kid replied and this time the Trucker wasn’t able to contain his snort of amusement.  The boy took it in stride; he wasn’t gonna let anything distract him from the possibility of earning three hundred bucks just for letting the hottest dude he’d ever seen fuck him.

 

“Naw, man, seriously,” Kristos said.  “I’m half Greek.  My mama is second-generation Greek.  She insisted; it’s her the name of her favorite uncle.”

 

The Trucker’s ears picked up at the mention of the fuckmeat’s mother.  “How old are ya, boy?” he asked casually.

 

“Twenty-one,” Kristos promptly lied; his birthday was still over two weeks away.  But he was used to lying about his age; he’d been doing it ever since he ran away from home and started whoring himself out four years ago.

 

“Uh-huh,” the Trucker replied absently.  He was sure the punk was lying, but it didn’t matter.  However old the kid was, he wasn’t gonna get any older.  “So where’s this room ya got?”

 

“This way,” Kristos said, heading towards the street and turning left.  The steady beat of his boots on the pavement assured the kid that the Trucker was following him, but at some little distance behind.  Dude was being cautious, he reflected—nothing wrong with that.  Probably had a wife somewhere and was just out on the prowl for boys on the DL.

 

A right and another left brought them onto a pitted, run-down little street that ran parallel to the highway frontage road, one block behind it.  The Trucker realized they were going to one of the sleazy little motels that lined this section of the highway.  Infested with whores and drugs, City Hall was still determining how to deal with this two-block section that was considered a blight on the town.  In the meantime, business flourished.

 

Kristos, already on the other side of the street, crossed the rear parking lot of a sordid little place called the Lady Luck Motel.  The Trucker lounged behind, not wanting to be seen entering the same room as the fuckmeat.  Ambling around a corner, he saw the boy disappear into an open door—room 27.  With a grin, he noticed that the door had been left open a crack.  After a quick glance around confirmed no one was watching, the huge, hardbodied killer slipped silently into the room.  He closed and locked the door behind him, slipping the chain on as well.

 

The room itself was as cheap and sleazy as it had promised to be.  A remodel sometime in the sixties had left the wall swathed in cheap faux-wood paneling, now loose and splintered and almost visibly oozing formaldehyde vapor.  The furniture dated from a later era, probably the eighties—light wood veneer with brass accents and large panels painted dark green.  The furniture was a decrepit as the paneling, pocked with cigarette—and undoubtedly crack pipe and meth pipe—burns and large white rings where drinks had stood.

 

There was a queen-size bed against the far wall, stripped down to the fitted sheet; the bedding piled on the floor next to the left side of the bed.  On the left wall was a desk/dresser combo unit with a no-name brand flat TV standing on it; beyond it was the door to the bathroom.  To the right of the door was a small round table with two chairs, not really big enough to serve as a dining table for two people.  The whole place reeked of old musty smoke, detergent whose lemon additive didn’t completely mask the astringent scent of the powerful cleaning chemicals—and the unmistakable musk of mansex.

 

Kristos had already pulled off his hoodie and his t-shirt, revealing a slim, firm torso darkened with fur.  His body hair was everywhere, on his chest, down his belly, even marching down his upper arms.  It was long and dark and silky, much like the long jetty ringlets on his head.

 

The Trucker slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing over a chair as he watched the rentboy.  The kid sat on the bed and kicked off his Air Jordans before standing back up.  Smiling contemptuously, the older man peeled his Nike compression t-shirt off.  The youth grinned eagerly as the alpha’s broad, hairy chest was exposed, the massive rise of his pecs emphasized by the gleaming dogtags nestled in the dark, fur-lined depression between.

 

“C’mon, man,” Kristos said, “Pull it out; lemme see what ya got.”

 

“You first,” the Trucker demanded.

 

The Greek boy’s eyes narrowed slightly; he made it a rule to make sure he was got at least some cash down before getting completely nude—but fuck, this dude was hot, and he wanted to see what kinda tackle the guy had swingin’ between his legs.  He wriggled out of the tight black jeans; naturally, he’d gone commando for easy access.

 

Kristos’s legs were a hairy as the rest of him, long dark fur on his thighs and calves and a positive bush of black pubic curls.  Luckily, his already-erect dick was six and half inches, easily visible despite the mass of fur from which it sprouted.  His balls, on the other hand, were hard to discern; the punk was so aroused his scrotum was already starting to pucker.  He wanted the Trucker bad—and it was obvious.

 

The hard-bodied alpha returned the kid’s cocky grin and unzipped his fly.  Extracting his enormous manhood hand-over-hand from the depths of his groin took a moment; for each inch of manmeat that appeared, Kristos’s breathing became swifter and more intense.  Goddam, he thought, lookit the size of that thing…

 

He wondered if he could really take it.  If not, he’d have to give the guy his money back.  Speaking of which—

 

“Ok, I’m gonna need to get some money before we go any farther,” the hairy youth said evenly.

 

“Uh-uh,” the Trucker replied, “You don’t get paid until I’m done.”

 

“That ain’t the way I work, man,” Kristos responded.  “Don’t have to pay the whole thing—call it a deposit.”  He looked the Trucker in the eye; he’d be willing to cut an alpha stud like this a discount afterwards if the fuck was a good as it looked like it’d be—but there was no way he’d be doing anything for free.  It didn’t matter how hot the dude was; it was against what he called his principles.  But he knew the vibes of a deadbeat by now and this guy wasn’t giving them off.  He wasn’t quite sure what kinda vibes he was picking up on, but they definitely weren’t those of a broke-ass scumbag…

 

If Kristos had been more in tune with the vibes the Trucker was giving off, he’d have pissed himself.  As it was, he got no warning at all.

 

“You want me to pay something now?” the muscled alpha growled.  A brief twinge flashed in Kristos’s hormone-sodden brain, the first hint of a danger signal.  “Fuck that.  And fuck you, faggot!”

 

The power contained in the Trucker’s massive right bicep was unleashed in a sudden, explosive blow like a bolt of lightning; the impact of his bunched-up fist in the kid’s face was just as swift and unexpected.  Kristos experienced a powerful blast of pain and fell to the bed; three more blows in rapid, relentless procession smashed against his face, breaking his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth before the boywhore even realized he’d been punched.

 

Stunned, the boywhore coughed up two upper left molars, tasting blood in his mouth.  His face was throbbing and swelling; he could feel the puffiness when he spoke.

 

“W-what the fuck…” he moaned softly, the effort of moving his lips and tongue almost being too much for him.  But the words were meaningless anyway; he knew what the fuck.  What the fuck was that this motherfucker had decked him.

 

Kristos had been robbed before; during his years as a teen street whore, he’d been beaten several times and raped more than once.  He was pissed at himself for not recognizing a psycho sooner.  But he was also pissed at the Trucker.  He wasn’t gonna deal with this shit again; this time, he’d fight back.

 

It was an unwise decision.

 

“Motherfucker!” yelled the slim, hairy youth, ignoring the pain in his face.  “Whaddaya want, asshole?  Money?  Free sex?  You ain’t gettin’ it, bitch; I’ll claw yer fuckin’ eyes out and scream loud enough to alert every cop from here to the highway!”

 

With that, he launched himself off the bed, straight at the Trucker.

 

With the honed instincts of an experienced killer, the hulking alpha had known that an attack would follow the outburst.  Seeing the muscles in the boy’s legs coil, he pivoted back, planting his right harness boot firmly on the floor behind him, ready to take his weight.  When the kid sprang, the Trucker was in perfect position to grab him by the nape of his neck and, whirling on the foot he’d planted behind him, propel the punk headfirst into the dresser/desk unit.

 

Kristos barely had time to realize something had gone wrong before his lights were put out.

 

If fate had been kind to the rentboy, he’d never have woken up again.  As it was, he wasn’t out for very long.  When he woke—his consciousness creeping back slowly and painfully—he was crumpled on the thin, threadbare carpet.  Directly in his line of sight were a pair of black leather boots.  Helpless, his eyes focused on the thick straps and metal rings on the boots; it seemed to be an instinctive maneuver to draw his attention away from the horrible pain in his head—to say nothing of the fear.

 

From above the boots, the came a voice, a deep, rugged growl.  “You stupid fuckin’ pansy,” the Trucker sneered.  “Didja really think you had a chance against a real man, faggot?  Huh?”

 

The muscle-bound alpha, his upper lip curled with contempt, kicked Kristos, hard.  There was a loud snap, making the boy cry out in pain and clutch as his broken rib.

 

“I was just gonna snuff ya tonight,” the killer said reflectively, “Just fuck ya and put ya down nice and easy.  But you fucked it all up, son.  You pissed me off.  Now, you gotta die hard.  Now, it’s gotta hurt.”

 

As the dark-haired boywhore turned his tear-streaked eyes up to his tormenter, the Trucker crouched down to give Kristos a better look.  Despite the agony, despite the sheer terror, the furry young slut felt his cock stiffen as he looked into the ice-blue eyes of the handsome, hyper-masculine stud.

 

The Trucker saw it too.  Instantly, his face was filled with a terrifying mix of rage and lust.  He spit into Kristos’s face.  “You disgustin’ sack of homo shit, you like this, yeah?  The idea of me takin’ you out gets ya off?  You like gettin’ hurt?  Fuck yeah, cunt, why didn’t ya just say so?  I’ll fuck you up so bad yer own mamma won’t recognize you.  I’ll fuckin’ squeeze the cum outta yer dyin’ boymeat, asswipe.  Goddam, I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad you’ll scream for joy!”

 

The muscle-bound psycho reached down and grabbed Kristos by the throat, then hoisted him into the air, instantly and effortlessly, as if the kid was no more substantial than a pillow.  The rentboy choked and slobbered.  His eyes rolled back in his swollen, purple face; his nose had been broken on impact with the dresser, streaking his face with trickles of blood.

 

Pivoting abruptly, the Trucker slammed the punk whore violently up against the outside door.  Still clutching the kid single-handedly by the throat, the hardbodied killer leaned in, his face—both erotically hot and emotionally cold—filling Kristos’s field of vision.  “It’s yer lucky day, ya fuckin’ painpig,” he hissed sneeringly.

 

The choking, semi-conscious youth caught at the word ‘lucky’; he’d certainly felt lucky when he’d brought this muscular stud back to fuck him…

 

…but now he couldn’t breathe.  Holy fuck, it was horrible; his head was swelling, his face was swelling and the trauma he’d already suffered to those areas was intensifying his pain to excruciating levels.  In an almost mindless surge of panic, Kristos began beating his fists against the Trucker’s huge pecs.  His effort had virtually no effect besides hurting his hands; it was like beating a stone wall.  Even the sound was muffled by the thick layer of wiry fur covering the older man’s chest.

 

As dark explosions burst before the kid’s eyes, his hands faltered and fell away.  He was reduced to scratching at the door behind him, his clawing fingers seeking out the doorknob—mindlessly; he had no plan of action.  As he gagged and drooled, his legs began jerking, his heels drumming loudly against the hollow-core door.  It was a little too loud; it may have saved—or at least lengthened—Kristos’s life.

 

The Trucker spit in his face again before pulling him away from the door and tossing him limply onto the bed.

 

Gasping for air, unable to breathe through his blood-clogged nose, Kristos rolled onto his back.  He moved slowly; the slightest effort to turn his body shoved the broken ends of his rib together.  The internal grinding sensation was so painful, it literally took his breath away again.

 

By the time he got onto his back, the Trucker had crossed the room and was standing next to the bed, looming over him.  The alpha’s gigantic erect cock jutted out in front, the thick purple head oozing hot drops of precum onto the slut’s flat, furry belly.  Kristos’s eyes lifted above the Trucker’s intimidating shaft, past his ripped abs and up to his massive pecs with large dark nipples standing out above the dark wiry chest hair.  The dogtags no longer caught the light, but an occasional glint marked their position, dangling in the middle of the stud’s muscled chest.

 

And above that, the face.  The cold, masculine face in which Kristos could see his own death.  The whoreboy quickly looked away, refusing to acknowledge what he had seen there.

 

“L-le-lemme g-go,” he muttered, his voice thick with tears and pain.  “W-on’t tell an-anybody…”

 

“I know you won’t tell anybody,” the Trucker replied calmly.  “You’ll be fuckin’ dead.”

 

Kristos couldn’t ignore it any longer.  He burst into open sobs, desperately trying to understand how a simple trick with a hot stud could have gone so nightmarishly wrong.

 

As if he could read the kid’s mind—and he damn near could; none of the meat he offed seemed to have the intelligence to come up with an original thought—the Trucker jeered at the battered and terrified youth.  “You deserve this, ya fuckin’ cunt.  Ya know that, dontcha?  You know it and want it; yer faggot dick don’t lie.  This is what you been looking for for years.  You wanted a real man to come along and finally give yer worthless fairy ass some meaning by usin’ you as his personal cumdump and then wipin’ you off the planet like a stain.  Lay back and enjoy it, bitch, I’m gonna use you up till yer dead, then leave your rottin’ corpse for the maid to throw out like a cumrag.  Think the police are gonna care if I snuff a worthless faggot like you?  Fuck, they’d probably give me a medal; they hate cumsuckin’ homos like you.”

 

In spite of himself, as the cruel verbal abuse washed over him, Kristos could feel his own cock get harder and harder, until it ached horribly.  He was almost numb with fear and his sense of bewildered terror was somehow amplified when he felt searing drops of precum land in his groin that didn’t come from the Trucker.  The fact that he was aroused while at the mercy of a murderous psycho only emphasized the nightmarish and surreal situation.

 

Slowly, Kristos tried to turn away, doing his best to ignore the stabbing pain in his abdomen as the jagged edge of a broken rib tore at the fragile, gossamer-thin tissue of his lung.  Smirking, the Trucker reached over and grabbed the cunt’s thighs, rolling Kristos back onto his back and forcing his legs apart.

 

The kid emitted a pathetic bleat of pain as the alpha positioned himself between the boy’s firm, furry legs.  Kristos was too distracted to notice how the older man was lining up his enormous cock with the kid’s fuckhole—the rib had punctured his lung, and the boy was having trouble breathing.

 

He had no trouble letting out a loud screech of agony as the Trucker abruptly penetrated him, the alpha’s huge shaft of throbbing manmeat plunging full-length into the kid’s tender, unprepared guts.  The massive swollen head, lubed by nothing but its own precum, tore viciously at Kristos’s velvety rectal lining and ground relentlessly over the punk’s prostate.  The boy could feel his own rod swelling and pulsing uncontrollably, even as he wailed in pain.

 

“Shaddup, motherfucker,” the Trucker growled and popped him in the face again—a single blow, the muscle-bound top’s bicep pumping with the force of a mule kick.  Kristos took it full in the jaw, which was hit hard enough to be dislocated.

 

“Yeah, that’s more like it,” the cruel alpha said, roughly sliding his dick in and out of Kristos’s innards as the kid lay back on the bed, trembling and mewling softly.  The boy was literally overwhelmed by the violence and trauma he’d suffered; he sobbed quietly, every motion of his mouth causing terrible pain to shoot through his jaw.

 

“Take my cock, faggot,” the Trucker murmured, looking down at the youth’s slim body, the olive skin covered by a mass of black fur, matted with sweat.  The Trucker was sweating himself; the room was charged with the acrid scent of adrenaline, the musky smell of mansweat, the heady pheromones being pumped out by two males bodies entwined in violent contact.  With every thrust of the older man’s dick, their bodies slapped together, rubbing over each other.  It was hot as fuck.

 

It wasn’t enough.  The Trucker needed more and he decided it was time to go for it.

 

“You just ain’t doin’ it for me, cunt.  What a sorry-ass homo—can’t even milk a load outta me.  Guess I’m gonna hafta do it manually, huh?  You gonna make me jack off?  Okay, asswipe, I’m gonna use you to jack off.”

 

Propping Kristos’s ankles on his shoulders, the Trucker leaned forward, pinning the youth in a fetal position with his dick up the kid’s ass.  Wrapping his huge powerful hands around the boy’s throat, he grinned down at his helpless prey, his face lit with lunatic glee.  “Are ya ready, fucker?  Wanna die?  No?  Yer cock sez ya do, asswipe.  Yer cock is tellin’ me that yer just another worthless faggot that gets off by gettin’ offed.  I’ve wasted dozens of you little cocksuckers and you’re all just the same—squeeze ya a little bit and ya blow yer death load all over the place.  At least you’ll kick and jerk nice and hard as I choke ya to death.  You ain’t got no idea how good it feels when a fuckwad like you dies on my cock.”

 

Kristos didn’t understand the words, but he understood when the massive hand around his throat tightened as cruelly and relentlessly as a bear trap.  The complete inability to breathe forced the boywhore to surface from a dark pit of mental and physical shock into a sharply-edged nightmare.  Instantly, his hands went to the Trucker’s wrists—clawing, prying, any desperate move he could think of to break the older man’s grip, or at least lessen it.

 

It was utterly futile; nothing he could do, exerting all his remaining strength, so much as budged the alpha’s hands by a fraction of an inch.  They merely squeezed tighter.

 

The horrible crushing pain in his throat was slowly starting to seem like less of a concern, though, compared to pressure inside his skull.  There was a feeling of swelling, both in his skin and on the inside—in his brain.  It throbbed swiftly, the pressure hammering at the interior of his cranium…

 

…but even that pain was fading before the conviction that something horrific was being done to his guts.  As dark spots burst in his field of vision, Kristos had the sensation that the huge, cue-ball-sized head of the Trucker’s massive cock was ripping and tearing at his rectum, tearing away his intestines, disemboweling him internally.  He’d never had a dick that big inside him; the Trucker had literally split him open on the first thrust.  Now, as his nervous system was starting to short out from oxygen deprivation, the torn nerve endings in his ravaged colon became hyperactive, as did those in his crushed, battered prostate.

 

Kristos was becoming hypersensitive; every jolt to his nervous system was amplified dozens of times in his dying brain.

 

The Trucker sneered and spit into the punk’s dark, swelling face.  “Die, ya fuckin’ asswipe.  C’mon, motherfucker, let go and jack me off.  Only way it’s gonna stop hurtin’ is if you give up and die, faggot; the longer you fight against it, the more yer gonna suffer.”

 

Kristos’s hand drummed on the Trucker’s broad, muscled chest with no other result than to make the dogtags jump around.  The kid’s face, already purple and swollen with bruises, was now unrecognizable.  His tongue, black and obscene, protruded from blue, bloated lips over which a stream of bloody foam dribbled.  The drool leaked down the boy’s cheeks and over his chin.  The dark, liquid eyes were bulging horrifically, the whites red with hemorrhages.

 

 

The slut’s struggles became more spasmodic; the Trucker had reached his arms around the kid’s legs to keep them in place on his shoulders, now he had to tighten his arms as they jerked randomly and violently.  It was obvious that Kristos had only seconds more to live.

 

“Lights out, faggot,” the sadistic alpha grunted and clenched his hands as hard as he could.

 

It felt—and sounded—like he was crushing Styrofoam as he squeezed Kristos’s esophagus into a bloody pulp.  The same slight resistance before giving way, the same loud crackling sound…

 

For Kristos, it felt like what it was—death.  His brain was nearly dead already in any case; there was just enough left of the homo slut to feel the terrible pain of his crushed windpipe…and then another pain took over.  The young boywhore died in searing, screaming agony as he shot his death load.  He’d never imagined that an orgasm could be that intense—or hurt so bad.

 

As his lithe, furry body clenched the Tucker in its death agony, the violent rhythmic convulsion milking the alpha’s cock perfectly, the older man felt a hot splash on his chest.  Glancing down, the dying punk’s dick rose up and shot a solid stream of jizz directly into the Trucker’s face, some of it splashing into his left eye.

 

“Goddammit!” he yelled in rage.  Instantly grabbing the boy’s chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other, the Trucker twisted Kristos’s skull in a full one-eighty, the vertebrae snapping like popcorn.

 

With one last sudden convulsion, the dead boy’s asshole sucked on the Trucker’s cock, triggering a huge explosion of manseed.  “Fuck!  Goddam!  Fuck!” the alpha yelled, his muscular body bucking and thrusting, hunched over the trembling corpse of the smaller kid as the top hosed its guts with semen.

 

The Trucker didn’t know how many times he’d unloaded inside the dead kid when it was all over.  He spent a few moments catching his breath, lying on top of the corpse, warm, furry cum-covered belly to quivering furry cum-covered belly.

 

After a couple of minutes, he withdrew his enormous shaft from the rentboy’s ass.  As soon as his harness boots hit the floor, he walked to the bathroom.  Soaking a towel in the sink, he proceeded to wipe the slut’s spunk off his chest and to clean his own dick before stuffing it back into his jeans.

 

Walking back into the room, he looped his compression t-shirt through his belt; he didn’t want to put it on while his torso was still wet.  Picking up his jacket, he turned and admired the corpse displayed on the stripped-down bed.  The lean, lithe body was still shuddering, the large pools of semen that had puddled on the chest were just starting to coagulate and mat the dark body hair.

 

Slipping on the leather jacket, leaving it open open just enough for his large dark nipples to stiffen in the chilly air, the Trucker unlocked the door and slipped out.  After a quick glance around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, the alpha moved quickly.  At first he was quiet, but after a block, he broke out whistling, a broad grin covering his face as he headed for his rig.  Running into that little motherfucker again—he’d been really lucky.


 

“Aw, Jesus, not another one,” Ayers whined.

 

Donato eyed him curiously.  “What’s yer problem?  Not like ya gotta do anything more than a little paperwork.  No one’s gonna give a shit if we blow this one off.”

 

“I know,” Ayers replied, “But I’m just sick of havin’ to see this crap.  I mean, lookit this one.  Sweet Jesus in a chicken basket, his head’s backwards.”

 

“Yeah?  So?  Some dude really hates fags.  I know the feelin’.”

 

“And lookit this—there are fingernail marks on the door.  Poor kid musta seen what was comin’ and tried to get away.  Musta been horrible.”

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ayers?  You suddenly feel like cryin’ cause some worthless fuckin’ homo got wasted?”

 

“Aw, chill, Donato, I ain’t goin’ queer.  It’s just that—well, it musta been bad, y’know?  Real bad.”

 

“Little fag cunt probably deserved it,” the younger cop said callously.  “C’mon, let’s get this finished up.  I’m hungry.  You want ribs?  The waitress over at the barbecue place was makin’ eyes at me the other day.  Let’s go and see if she’s on shift.”

Brody: Taking Out the Trailer Trash

Travis could hear the crunch of gravel out on the drive and could almost feel the rumbling throb of the huge engine as the 4X4 pickup lurched its way nearer.  The sound made him shudder and tense up; it meant Brody was home.  And that meant…

 

…well, there was no way to know what that meant tonight.  Some nights, it meant fantastic sex.  Brody was thirty, a good seven years older than Travis, and he was hotter than fuck.  That hadn’t changed in the two years since they’d met—Brody’s job as a construction foreman kept his towering, six-foot-four frame fit and incredibly muscular.  His dick was more than eight inches long and an inch and a half thick, and he knew how to use it.

 

But those nights were few and far between—and becoming fewer.  Some nights, Brody was half-drunk (at a minimum) and in a foul mood.  Those were bad nights.  If Travis was lucky, he might get slapped around or a black eye.  If he wasn’t lucky, Brody wanted to fuck.  And that wasn’t fantastic sex, it was punishment sex.  Brody wasn’t just a mean drunk, he was a mean fuck.  On bad nights, Brody would fuck Travis like he wanted to hurt him.

 

Lately, there were a lot more bad nights.  Lately, Brody was escalating the violence and inflicting more severe injuries.  Lately, Travis was scared.

 

He wondered what would happen if he told Brody no.  Tonight he was gonna find out.

 

It took all the nerve he could muster to remain sitting calmly on the couch as he heard the truck’s door slam.  He didn’t love Brody—probably never had—but he was still overwhelmed with lust every time he looked at the older man.  He simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave, but dammit, that was gonna change.

 

Completely left out of his calculations was the fact that he had nothing; Brody owned the aged mobile home they lived in and the plot of land it was on.  And Brody’s job paid all the bills; Travis worked twenty-four hours a week as a clerk at the convenience store three miles up the road.  Brody had to drive him there and pick him up.

 

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  Travis wasn’t gonna let himself be bullied into abusive sex anymore, no matter how much of a stud Brody was.  At least, that’s what he told himself as he pulled a cigarette from the pack on the battered and scarred coffee table in front of him and fumbled with his lighter.

 

The lithe young fag jumped when he heard the truck door slam.  He didn’t know if he had the courage to follow through on his plans.  He was fit but not overly developed.  He stood a good half-foot shorter than Brody did and at a hundred and twenty pounds was outweighed by his brutal lover by a good sixty pounds, all of it muscles.  His broad face and large blue eyes gave his face an innocence that was highlighted by his short, curly hair that shined like spun gold.  Across the lower part of his face was the bare beginning of a beard of the same color.  Just starting to grow in, the facial hair somehow made him look younger than his actual age.

 

Since he’d been off today, he hadn’t bothered to dress.  He sported a pair of white cotton briefs that cradled his firm, rounded asscheeks and barely contained his decently-hung package; otherwise, his lean, taut body was bare, his smooth skin uncovered.

 

Of course, it wasn’t just that Brody outclassed him physically—if push came to shove, Travis had no doubt he could get away before anything really serious happened—but the redneck homo knew how attracted he was to the aggressive top.  To put it bluntly, he just wasn’t sure he could give up Brody’s hot, hard body and his massive cock.  After all, tonight might be a good night…

 

There was no mistaking the thumping of Brody’s boots on the front steps, but once the door was slammed open, Travis would have known his lover was in the room even had he been blind and deaf.  Brody’s distinctive musk of sweat and pheromones filled the room.  Tonight, it was blended with the sharp tang of alcohol.

 

Tonight wasn’t gonna be a good night.

 

“Go get me a clean shirt,” the hulking alpha demanded.  “This one’s still damp.”  Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of the dirty, sweat-soaked t-shirt and pulled it off over his head.  It caught for the moment in the chain of thick gold links that hung around his neck.  It took a further moment for Brody to free his shoulder-length black hair from the collar of the shirt.

 

When Travis returned from the bedroom with a clean t-shirt, Brody was rummaging in the fridge.  “Long goddam day,” he grumbled, “Fuckin’ niggers and wetbacks don’t fuckin’ listen to a word I say.”  Grabbing a beer, he stood up, closed the door of the fridge and popped the top of the beer can.  He started guzzling it, the overhead fluorescent illuminating his awesome physique.

 

His broad hubcap pecs were covered with a forest of black fur that intensified as it ran down his hard ripped abs, the body hair almost seeming to flow in waves over the muscled abdomen only to disappear beneath the waistband of his distressed, faded jeans.  Around his tight waist was a thick black leather belt, with a huge oval belt buckle made of elaborately wrought silver, with a large agate in the center.  Below, the jeans were tucked into the wide shafts of Brody’s well-worn Red Wing construction boots, which were laced but left untied.

 

Travis laid the clean t-shit on the back of the couch, watching Brody gulp down the beer so eagerly some of it dripped from his chin, leaving white trails of foam in his chest hair.  Finishing his brew, the alpha crumpled the can, belched loudly, and opened the fridge again.

 

“Why dintcha restock the fridge so I’d have some more cold ones?” he demanded.

 

“There ain’t no more,” Travis replied sullenly.  Seeing Brody’s hard, masculine face start to scowl, the young man knew he’d made a mistake.

 

“And so why dintcha text me that, so I could stop and get some more, you dipshit?” Brody growled.  His eyes, already bloodshot with alcohol, narrowed with anger.

 

“I-I didn’t think about it,” Travis warbled nervously.  He could feel his nerve starting to slip.  If he didn’t do something now, he’d never do anything.  “Brody, I, uh—we need to talk—”

 

“You didn’t think about it?  You don’t ever think about jack shit anyway,” Brody sneered drunkenly.

 

“That’s enough, Brody,” Travis said sharply, mustering all his courage.  “You can’t keep hurting me or talking shit to me, or—or I’ll leave.”

 

If anger made Brody’s face intimidating, the way it darkened with rage now was positively terrifying.  “You think yer gonna leave if you don’t get your way, ya little sack a’ shit?” he hissed, his tone low and dangerous.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say you can go, you got that, boy?”

 

Travis gulped loudly but stood his ground.  “I’m serious, Brody.  You—you hurt me, man.  You can fuck me all night long, but ya don’t have to be mean.  You don’t have to hurt me.”

 

Brody stared Travis straight in the eyes.  “But I like hurtin’ you, ya stupid little faggot.  I like hearing you squeal.  I like seein’ ya in pain.  It gets me off, motherfucker.”

 

Drunk as Brody was, Travis was hit by the realization that he was speaking the truth.  The youth wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed so it took a moment for the full import of the alpha’s words to sink in, but once they did, he understood with stunning clarity that he needed to get out.  Now.

 

“I’m goin’, Brody.  I gotta.  I gotta friend I can stay with, but I need to go…”

 

Brody flushed, rounding on Travis with lightning speed.  “You gotta friend, huh? You been fuckin’ around on me, is that it?  I ain’t good enough for ya now?  You ain’t leavin’ me, faggot, till I get my money’s worth outta ya.”

 

“Brody, please, don’t make this any harder than it—”

 

Travis’s plea was interrupted by loud smack as Brody’s swift, vicious backhand made contact with the kid’s face.  Travis staggered back, holding his hand up to his throbbing cheek, noting with dismay the sly, malicious grin on Brody’s face—and the swelling bulge in the top’s groin.

 

Brody hadn’t been kidding.  He really did get off on hurting Travis.

 

The air was thick with menace. Travis, nearly nude as he was, couldn’t simply flee out the front door.  He needed clothes, or he needed to call for help.  Problem was, his clothes and his cell phone were in the bedroom—and Brody was between him and it.  Still, he needed to chance it.  Travis ducked down and shot to one side, trying to dodge Brody and get past him.

 

A violent impact to his flank told him he didn’t succeed.  Brody had punched him in the side as he went past.  “No ya don’t, cocksucker,” the alpha growled as Travis stumbled, groaning in pain.

 

Trying a new tack, Travis circled around into the living area, moving to the front of the couch as Brody slowly stalked after him, rubbing his swelling crotch.  “Good thing yer undressed, boy—I’m in the mood to plow yer ass good and hard.  Stand still, ya fucking twat so I can put my dick in ya—”

 

This was followed by a grunt of surprise as Travis launched himself over the sofa, stepping up onto the cushions, then leaping over the back.  As the younger man dashed for the wall-mount phone in the kitchen, Brody tried to follow over the back of the couch.  Travis was lucky; in his semi-drunk state, the aggressive muscleman misjudged how high the back of the sofa was and tumbled over it, slamming to the floor behind and momentarily knowing the wind out of himself.

 

It gave Travis enough time to reach the phone and dial 911.  “Hello?  Yes?” he cried into the mouthpiece,  “Yes, police—it’s 1805 County Road 83 west—the trailer at the end of the drive—please, get here quick, he’s gonna hurt me—for fuck’s sake, get someone here—”

 

With a roar of rage Brody leapt at him.  Travis hadn’t even realized the stud had regained his feet; with a screech of fear, the young punk jumped back and watched in stunned fear as the well-built construction worker grabbed the phone and wrenched it off the wall with the sheer power of his muscled arms.  The metal plate and wiring to which the phone had been attached was ripped out of place, leaving a gaping hole in the drywall.

 

“You dumbass,” Brody hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, in so many different ways…”

 

Travis, his never-robust courage now completely evaporated, began backing away, moving slowly down the hall to the rear of the trailer, where the back bedroom was.  He had no plans and was moving instinctively, but once he got the open door of the spare bathroom, he dived into it and locked the door behind him.

 

The door knob rattled.  “Let me in, Travis,” Brody said in low tone.  “Let me in or I’ll break the door down.”

 

“Leave me alone,” Travis said, trying to sound brave and despising the tremulous warble in his voice.  “I ain’t stupid.  I ain’t comin’ out till you go away.”

 

“Let me in, Travis,” Brody growled through the door, “Or I really will break the door down.  And I hafta do that, I’m gonna take the cost outta yer hide.”

 

Terrified by the sense of being caught in a trap, Travis whimpered.  He glanced at the window, but it was a tiny opening for ventilation, far too small for him to fit through.  If Travis actually came through the door, he couldn’t imagine what would happen to him…

 

That was when he heard the siren in the distance.  Faint, but getting increasingly nearing—and thus louder—each passing second, the sound brought instant relief to the trembling young fag.  And within seconds, Brody could hear them too.

 

“Damn you,” he muttered through the door, “You’re gonna pay for this, you little asswipe.  You’re gonna pay so fuckin’ bad.”

 

Within a few seconds, Travis could hear the crunching of the tires on gravel and the banging of car doors, followed by a loud knock at the trailer door.  “Police!  Open up!”  Still muttering beneath his breath, Brody went to let the cops in—he had no other choice.  Cautiously unlocking the bathroom door, Travis finally came out.

 

Brody was talking to two cops—sheriff’s men.  One looked like he was in his mid-forties, the other was about Brody’s age. Both were nodding as Brody tried to explain what was happening, but Travis knew if he didn’t say something, they’d leave—and he’d be in danger.

 

“He hit me,” the younger man said, interrupting the conversation and silencing it.

 

“Are you sure about that, son?” the older cop asked.  “That’s a serious charge, after all.”

 

“See the mark on my face?  Yeah, I’m sure.  Now what are ya gonna do about it?”

 

The older cop sighed, his face clearly indicating his displeasure at whiny little faggots who increased his workload.  “Do ya wanna file charges?” he asked wearily, already picturing the amount of extra paperwork that was going to be involved.

 

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Travis rejoined.  He kept his eyes averted from the look of smoldering rage that Brody directed at him.  If he could get the top arrested, he’d have at least the weekend free and clear to arrange for something else.

 

“Ok, let’s do this,” the older copy muttered, defeat dulling his voice as he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and approached Brody.  “Turn around, buddy.  Hand behind your back.”

 

Brody complied, still glaring at Travis.  “You’re takin’ me just on his say-so?” he asked, outraged.

 

The younger cop spoke up for the first time.  “Gotta do it, mac.  State law—gotta take in the aggressor in a DV case if the victim decides to file charges.  That way, she—er, he—ain’t beaten into withdrawing the charges.  After a cooling-down period, you’ll be allowed to post bail.”

 

“Son of a bitch!” Brody swore.

 

“C’mon, buddy, let’s get ya in the car,” the older cop said after securing the cuffs.

 

“What, just like this, half-dressed?” Brody demanded.

 

“Aw, it’s just to the county lockup,” the older cop said.  “Tell ya what, if it makes ya feel better—Bates, pick up that shirt there on the couch on your way out.  This guy can put it on when we get back to town.”  With that, he aimed Brody at the door and left, leaving the younger cop to take Travis’s statement.

 

It didn’t take long for the young homo to recount the evening’s events.  Travis practically gushed at the young, hard-bodied cop in his tight uniform.  “Y’all saved my life, man—how’d y’all get here so quick? He asked.

 

“We were pickin’ up some coffee at the Kum N Buy up the road when we got the call,” the cop said coldly, his disgust at dealing with fags obvious.  When he was done, the cop made a few follow-up notes and turned to leave.  Once he reached the door, he looked back at Travis.

 

“Don’t forget,” the cop said.  “You gotta come down in the mornin’ and sign the official charges.  Plus, if ya want, you can file a restrainin’ order.  Make it so he’s gotta stay at least five hundred yards from ya, legally.  I always think they’re more trouble than they’re worth, but the law says I gotta advise ya about it.”

 

Leaving Travis pondering on the possibilities of a restraining order, the cop descended the steps that lead to the front door of the trailer.  He got to the car just as his partner finished getting Brody settled into the back seat and closed the door on him.

 

“I tell ya, whole country’s gettin’ too damn liberal,” he grumbled as the younger man came up.  “Way I see it, if a man works a long, hard day, he’s gotta right to expect things to be a certain way at home and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with knockin’ a little sense into the bitch if she can’t keep the place right.  Not like I give a shit what these two fags were doin’ to each other, but it’s the principle of the thing, ya know?”

 

“Yeah, I hear ya,” the younger cop grinned.  “Had to tell that little cocksucker about gettin’ a restrainin’ order.  Fuckin’ makes me sick.  That little buttfuck back in the trailer could do with a good beatin’, if ya ask me.  C’mon, let’s go—I gotta fine piece of ass waitin’ for me when I get off shift.”

 

They climbed into the front seat of the car and headed out to the county road.  Travis watched them go out of the window, then retrieved his cell phone.  “Hey, Eric?  Yeah, man, I need a favor.  Can you give me a lift into town and back tomorrow mornin’?  Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but I gotta get to the police station.  Naw, nothin’ bad—I’ll tell ya about it when you get here.  Just text me when yer on the way.  Thanks, man.”

 


 

At eight-thirty on a Friday evening, the Plaza Bar & Grill was starting to fill up.  Not as busy as it would be later in the evening, there was still a good throng of locals getting tanked and loading up on burgers and the grill’s specialty—huge baskets of fries, cooked in peanut oil.  It was actually a crowded, dirty dive housed in what had once been a hardware store; it took its absurdly grandiose name from the fact that it was on the town square, facing the courthouse.

 

It was also within walking distance of the police station, which was how Brody got there without his truck.

 

Once he’d gotten booked, he called his boss, who showed up the next morning to post bail; he’d agreed to advance the money out of Brody’s pay.  It took several hours for the bond to go through and even longer for the police clerk to process it, since he was the only full-time staff the department bothered to hire.  As a result, Brody wasn’t actually let out until somewhere around four that afternoon.

 

That was when he learned that Travis had not only filed charges against him, he’d also applied for—and got, with surprising speed—a restraining order.  Reading the paper handed to him at the discharge desk, Brody couldn’t go back to the trailer.

 

That when he walked over to the bar and started drinking.  And kept it up all evening.

 

Brody was a hard drinker—it took a lot to get him sloppy drunk, and he wasn’t anywhere near that point.  But as the sun set and the lights came on in the bar, the buff, hardbodied redneck sat and stared at the cigarette burns and the circular marks of moisture where his numerous bottle of beer had been placed, and he simmered.

 

That goddam little cocksucker.  Think he could kick Brody outta his own property?  He’d see about that.

 

Over the past couple of years, Brody had experienced certain…desires.  His imagination had bubbled with things he’s wanted to do to Travis, things that would cause a lot of trouble, but would be so fuckin’ hot…

 

They all came back to him now, but this time was different.  The alcohol had lowered his inhibitions, but it was more than that.  Do them was right.  It was fitting.

 

It was justice.

 

Goddamit, he deserved justice, after all.

 

The waitress appeared suddenly beside him, collecting his empty bottle.  “Hey, hon, I think we’re gonna hafta cut ya off.  You had too many to drive safe, Brody.”

 

He glared at her.  “I ain’t drivin’, Darlene, I ain’t got my truck with me.”

 

“Ya need a lift?  Ol’ Earle over there is about to head out, he lives out past yer place, right?”

 

Brody thought for a moment.  “Yeah, he does.  I can get him to drop me at the foot of the drive.  That way he won’t hear me comin’.”

 

“Who won’t hear ya comin’?”

 

Brody shot her another look, his slightly bloodshot eyes glittering with malignity.  “No one, darlin’.  Just a bitch who’s gonna learn a major lesson the hard way.”

 


 

Travis signed off on his online chat with Eric.  Usually they communicated via texts, which Travis immediately erased so Brody couldn’t see them.  With Brody in jail, though, Travis felt free to sit at the desk in the spare bedroom and use the computer.

 

He’d made arrangements to meet Eric at The Well, a small dive on the west side of Main Street near the train tracks with a clientele split equally between a small group of gays and a group of shiftless white trash that came simply because it was the closet bar to their squalid homes.  Wilton, the guy who lived on the next plot of land east, was a regular every Friday and Saturday night.  Travis never could figure out why; he wasn’t gay and the Plaza was actually closer.

 

Not that it mattered—the point was that Wilton was there by midnight like clockwork, so all Travis had to do was walk down the drive to the road and hitch a ride with Wilton when he came by.  He’d done it several times before.

 

Travis slumped back casually in the desk chair, savoring his sense of freedom.  He’d already dressed to go out, his black t-shirt tucked into a new and very tight pair of jeans with boot-cut cuffs to display his dark-gray ropers.  The boots weren’t new, but he considered them dress wear and took as good care of them as anything else that captured his shallow fancy.

 

Travis’s indolent reverie was interrupted by a faint rattling sound from the living room.  He stood up and stretched, the deep blue denim of his jeans following the contour of his perfectly-rounded asscheeks like a second skin.  He grabbed his denim jacket from the back of the chair and, slipping it on, went to investigate.

 

The faint rattling had a familiar sound, but Travis couldn’t place it and it had ceased before he reached the living room.  Looking around, he couldn’t detect anything out of place.  He turned to go back when it started again behind him—it was at the front door.

 

He just had time to reach into his pocket and dig out his phone—which took a moment since his jeans were so tight—when he realized with horror that he knew exactly what that sound was.

 

It was a key in the lock.  And the only other person with a key to the trailer was Brody.

 

“No…” he whispered, his face ashen as he whirled to see the door burst open and Brody’s hulking, powerful form filling the doorway, rage emanating from the muscled alpha in almost visible waves.

 

He raised his hand so Travis could see the piece of paper crushed in his clenched fist.  “You fucked up, bitch,” he hissed, “You fucked up so bad…”

 

With a womanish screech, Travis pawed at his phone, frantically trying to dial 911.  He managed to get a 9 and a 1 input before Brody bore down on him.  The slim young fag resorted to his usual maneuver of diving over the couch, but he dropped his phone when he did.  As Travis sprinted for the master bedroom, Brody ground the heel of his Red Wing workboot into the phone, shattering the screen.

 

Then he turned and head towards the master bedroom.  His thick heavy footfalls were those of a hunter relentlessly stalking his prey.

 

The door to the bedroom wasn’t completely closed, but in his amped-up state of terror, Travis had managed to shove the dresser so that it partially blocked it.  As a desperate attempt to buy some time, it failed abjectly.  Brody shoved the furniture aside with ease, entering the room to find Travis popping the screen out of the bedroom window and trying to dive out headfirst.

 

Brody took two giant strides across the room, grabbed the young punk’s ankle and yanked him back into the room.  Stumbling backwards against the bed, Travis fell to his knees involuntarily.  Overcoming an obvious reluctance, he turned his large blue eyes up to Brody’s face, his pale face wincing at the sheer rage he could see there.

 

“B-Brody…” he whispered, “You-you weren’t sp-sp s’posed to b-be…”

 

“I wasn’t s’posed to be outta jail yet, huh?” the hulking redneck alpha growled.  “An’ you had plans to keep me out, yeah?”  He brandished the paper still clutched in his hand; despite the way it had been wrinkled in his fist, it was still obvious that he was holding the restraining order.

 

“You were gonna try to keep me off my property, were ya, you cocksuckin’ little faggot?” Brody snarled.

 

“No, Brody, no!” Travis cried in terror, “I wasn’t—but the cop said—an’ I was gonna leave, you coulda come back—”

 

Suddenly Brody’s anger seemed to implode from a roaring, red-hot rage into a quiet, focused point of white-hot fury.  “Oh,” he said quietly and calmly, “You were gonna leave, were ya?  That’ll all?  Nothing else?”

 

“No…no…” Travis whispered, partially in agreement with Brody’s comment and partially in an instinctive, almost totem attempt to ward off the danger that was literally palpable.  He’d never seen this cold, hard anger in Brody before.  He didn’t know what it meant—but he damn well knew it wasn’t good.

 

“Get up,” Brody demanded brusquely.  “Get up or I’ll get ya up.”

 

“Pl-please, Brody,” Travis began but was unable to complete his plea before the powerful top grabbed a handful of the kid’s golden curls and pulled upwards, his bicep bulging with inexorable force as Travis squalled in pain and came up off his knees, knowing his scalp would be torn off if he didn’t.

 

“Lemme tell ya somethin’, cunt,” Brody said with a sneer as he got Travis to his feet.  “Ain’t nobody leavin’ me till I’m done with ‘em.  You wanna leave?  Fine, bitch.  But yer leavin’ my way.  Ain’t like anyone gonna want ya now that I’ve reamed out yer fuckhole anyway.”

 

Travis had time to notice how the hem of the short sleeve on Brody’s white t-shirt was drawn taut around the circumference of his massive bicep as the abusive top pulled his arm back.  It mesmerized him to the point he almost didn’t notice the arm shoot forward again; he certainly never had time to try to block the vicious gutpunch that hit him like the kick of a horse.  The blow was so violent Travis was jerked back hard enough to pull his head free of Brody’s grip, at the painful cost of a handful of hair being ripped out.

 

Travis kicked as he fell, his ropers making contact with Brody’s legs—not hard enough to cause any pain, but in combination with the sudden shift in his weight once he was no longer holding Travis, the alpha staged backwards a few steps to regain his balance.  Unable to breathe, Travis nonetheless found himself doing an astonishingly stuntman-like tuck and roll across the bed.  Hitting the floor on the other side, he hurled himself around a corner into the master bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

 

Putting up a hand to brace himself against the wall, Brody dropped the restraining order; the crumpled piece of paper floated to the floor like a leaf.  Watching it, the muscle-bound hick felt the red flush of anger rising in his face again.  He turned towards the bathroom door, an expression of grim determination coalescing on his feature.

 

The little fuck had to learn.  Brody knew he was hot; he knew he could stick his dick in anything he wanted.  This lazy little homo leech brought nothing to the table; it needed to learn its place in the scheme of things.  And its place in Brody’s scheme had hit rock-fuckin’-bottom.

 

He started slowly, with an almost casual knock at the bathroom door.  “Travis?” he called gently.  “C’mon out, man, I wanna talk.”

 

The leech in question was huddled on the bathroom floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms clasped around them.  Tears were running down his face and despite the oppressive heat in the small room and his sweatiness from his recent acrobatics, Travis pulled the denim jacket tighter around his shoulders.  His abdomen was still throbbing from the punch and he’d just managed to get his breath back.

 

“B-brody?” he quavered, “Just—just let m-me go, dude.  Huh?  Ok?  Can I just go?”  He didn’t know what to make of this conciliatory tone, but he knew it’d be a very bad idea to go out there with Brody just outside the door.

 

“You filed this order,” Brody’s voice came silkily from beyond the thin, hollow-core door.  “We need to talk about it.  C’mon, man, open up the door.”

 

“I-I’m sorry, man.  P-p-please just lemme go,” Travis blurted, barely able to keep his incipient sobbing down.  “I’ll—I’ll do any-anything ya want, but please, Brody, for fuck’s sake, just lemme go.  Ok, Brody?  Huh?”

 

“Open the door, Travis.”  Brody’s voice wasn’t quite as smooth now.  “I wanna see ya.  How do the wetbacks always say it—mano a mano?  Yeah, face-to-face, like a real man.  C’mon out, Travis.”

 

“No, not-not yet, Brody,” Travis whimpered.  “Back off a bit, man.  Tell ya what—if you’ll go out in the hall and close the bedroom door, I’ll come outta here.”

 

“Ya know what?” Brody snapped, the softness in his voice replaced with a tone that seethed unmistakably with cold, hard rage, “I’m sick of fuckin’ with yer dumb ass, you worthless little faggot.”

 

There was a loud crunching sound and Travis saw to his horror that Brody had put his steel-toed construction boot through the door, smashing open a large hole in the center with a single kick.  The leg was withdrawn and was instantly replaced with Brody’s face.  The long-haired stud had the countenance of a god, but tonight he looked like the god of hell as he grinned at the terrified punk.

 

“Heeere’s Brody!” he shrieked with insane glee.  The remains of the hollow-core door were no obstacle to the powerful white-trash sadist; he tore the pieces out with his bare hands, the screws coming out of the thin wood fascia as easily as if they’d been screwed into butter.  In less than five seconds, Travis was face-to-face with the one person he’d hoped he’d never see again.

 

That was bad—very bad.  Cowering at the base of the toilet, the lean, lithe youth saw death in Brody’s eyes.  Travis screamed and pissed himself in terror, the hot wet warmth spreading over the crotch of his tight jeans.

 

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled malignantly.  “You scared, asswipe?  You should be.  Time for you to learn a lesson I should taught ya a long time ago—and learnin’ it’s gonna hurt bad, bro.  It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

 

With the feral grace of a tiger attacking prey, Brody lunged at Travis.  In a single, lightning-fast maneuver, he grabbed the terrified punk by the throat, whirled around, and flung him back through the open doorway into the bedroom.  Travis hit the ground on his back just short of the far wall, the impact driving his breath out and stunning him but not knocking him out.

 

As he shuddered on the floor in shocked pain, gasping for air like a dying fish, Travis could only watch helplessly as Brody strode out of the bathroom with a calm that belied his boiling rage.  The quivering homo stared as the hard-bodied stud towered over him.

 

His tight jeans tucked carelessly into his laced but untied construction boots, his wide leather belt with the huge metal belt buckle fastened just above the massive bulge in his crotch, his ripped abs and massive chest, emphasized by his too-small white cotton t-shit that was stretched so tightly across his broad pecs that his large firm nipples seemed about to tear through the fabric, above all his hard, almost arrogant face with two days’ worth of scruff darkening the cheeks and chin—even in his pain and fear, Travis was still mesmerized by Brody’s sheer masculinity.  The head mix of pheromones emitted in the alpha’s sweat added to the pansy’s confusing mix of lust and terror.  He wanted Brody so bad—no, that wasn’t right; he wanted to get away from Brody so bad…

 

In any event, he didn’t have a choice.  Before he could recover, the muscle-bound top bent down and clamped his hand around Travis’s throat again with a brutal vise grip.  Hoisting the writhing homo into the air, this time the vindictive sadist let the boy dangle, gagging and choking.

 

Travis’s mind was engulfed in terror like a solid sheet of flame.  He couldn’t breathe at all.  No matter how hard he kicked, his piss-filled ropers were flailing uselessly inches off the floor.  And Brody—Brody was more pissed than Travis had even seen him.  Brody was gonna hurt him worse than he ever had before.

 

Travis’s panic went nuclear when he realized it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d get over—it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d survive.  The rational part of his mind slipped away and he became a feral animal, scratching and clawing in his desperation to survive.  He realized—without any conscious thought involved—that he wasn’t making any headway clutching at the incredibly powerful hand Brody had clamped around his throat.

 

With nothing else to cling to, Travis began flailing wildly, his hands snatching at anything within reach.  The first thing he came into contact with was the collar of Brody’s t-shirt.  With a mighty (and completely instinctive) jerk, the thrashing youth tore the collar, yanking back until the thin cotton shirt was in shreds.

 

“You fuckin’ asswipe!” Brody barked, “Goddam shirt is new!”

 

Travis never saw the blow the hardbodied top aimed at his face; he only felt a phenomenal blast of pain and sank instantly into darkness.

 


 

Travis’s ascent back to consciousness was marked by a distinct ache that seemed generalized at first, throbbing throughout his body, but finally localized on his left eye.  He tried to open it, but it was swollen and he could only manage to peer out of a blurry slit.  There was nothing wrong with his right eye, though.  It popped open to see Brody looming over him.

 

He felt like he’d been out for hours, but it had been less than fifteen minutes.  In that time, Brody had managed to strip him nude and lay him out crossways across the bed.  Groaning, the twink raised his head, his shaggy blond hair glinting like gold under the bare overhead light.  Tenderly clutching his blackened eye, Travis watch Brody out of his good one as the stud tore the remains of the t-shirt off his back and tossed them to the floor.  His huge furry chest and washboard abs exposed, the alpha finally deigned to look down and notice the boy.

 

“Good, yer awake,” Brody said, almost conversationally.  “I was jist wonderin’ how to wake yer stupid ass up.  See, ya can’t learn if yer asleep—an’ it’d be jist like a dumbass motherfucker like you to sleep through the most important lesson of yer life.”

 

Brody reached down and unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, he extracted his tackle like he was hauling a bucket up out of a well.  Travis was already familiar with the top’s huge shaft, but there was something sinister about how hard the massive cock already was.  The slut was so focused on the pulsating rod of manmeat that it took him a moment to notice that Brody had undone his belt buckle and was slowly sliding the belt out from around his tight waist.

 

Travis knew he was trapped.  There was no way out; his only hope was to try to appeal to Brody, hoping for some mercy of perhaps memory of affection.

 

“N-no, please,” he begged, his right eye wide, blue and sparkling with tears, “For God’s sake, Brody, don-don’t do anythin’ yer gonna be sorry for!”

 

The moment he said it, the flash in Brody’s eye told his he could have phrased it better.  “Gonna be sorry for?” the vicious redneck hissed, “Is that some kinda threat, boy?  You think you can threaten me, you sorry-ass little cumsucker?  Here’s a threat for ya, faggot!”

 

Brody doubled his belt over and held it at the bend, leaving both ends—including the one with the huge metal buckle—free.  Travis saw him swing but didn’t even have time to wince as Brody brought the thick leather straps down across the tender flesh of the kid’s smooth, flat belly.  The loose end of the belt stuck the skin with a loud slap, leaving a wide red weal.  The buckle, on the other hand, slammed down violently and left a bruise nearly the size of a palm print.

 

Both hurt like all fuck.  Travis screamed and Brody grinned cheerfully.

 

“That got yer attention, huh?  That got yer mind off suckin’ dude’s dicks?  Yeah?  Good, cunt, cause there’s a lot more where that came from.  I’m gonna teach ya the same way I saw my pappy break a horse—with pain.  Only thing a dumb animal like you understands is pain, boy.  So saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to rodeo!”

 

Through his tears, the sobbing youth looked up at Brody.  The muscled stud had turned away for a moment; Travis heard the door latch, then a click.  Brody had closed and locked the bedroom door.  He returned and leaned over the writhing homo, his head momentarily eclipsing the overhead light, giving his black, shoulder-length hair a glowing aura as an arrogant, cocky grin crossed his unshaven face.

 

“Ain’t no way out, boy.  See, that’s what ya gotta learn—you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with yer ass.  Ya feelin’ me, son?  Ya catchin’ what I’m pitchin’ at ya?  Naw, I don’t think you are.  Like I said, it takes pain for a dumbass motherfucker like you to learn a damn thing.”

 

 

Travis shrank back as Brody brandished the belt again, raising it up over his shoulder.  Throwing up his hands, Travis had time to shout, “Please, no!” before Brody swung.  It turned out putting up his hands to block the blow was an extremely bad idea; while the belt lashed his right arm painfully, the buckle struck his left hand squarely, snapping all but Travis’s index finger and thumb.

 

The agony was as sudden and unexpected as it was searing.  Travis immediately rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, cradling his wounded hand.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Brody growled.  Grabbing Travis by the shoulder, he rolled the kid onto his back again.  The weeping punk saw with horror that the alpha’s huge cock was dripping precum.  Raising his eyes slowly from the erect, straining rod, Travis scanned Brody’s furry abs and the wiry mass of body hair that spread over his chest, the large dark nipples jutting from the swelling pecs like volcanic peaks above a dark forest.

 

Above that, the look in Brody’s handsome, masculine face told Travis what he already knew but was afraid to admit to himself—inflicting pain was getting Brody aroused.  The unmistakable glint of lust in his eye, normally a turn-on on its own, was transformed in something terrible and disturbing when it was combined by the grimace of contempt and hatred that twisted Brody’s face.

 

And that was when it finally sank in for Travis.  For a brief moment, lucidity cut through the pulsing agony in his hand and the sharp ache radiating from the bruise on his belly, and he understood the symbolism of Brody closing and locking the bedroom door.

 

It was because he was gonna die in here tonight.

 

“Oh god, no,” he protested, but fear had frozen his voice into a barely-audible croak.  “No, Brody—for fuck’s sake, don’t…”

 

“That’s it, you stupid sack a’ shit,” the cruel alpha chuckled, “Beg for yer worthless life, cunt.”

 

Some perverse corner of Travis’s mind sealed his lips, not wanting to give Brody the satisfaction—not that it mattered.  With a convulsive grunt, the muscled top swung the belt again, the edge of the oversized buckle slashing a long gash across the kid’s smooth chest.  This time, though, Travis didn’t get the chance to react to the cold, sharp pain of torn flesh before the belt struck him again.  And again.

 

Brody was working himself into a frenzy, his face contorted with hatred and rage as he lashed the slim young boy with the leather belt.  Each agonizing blow that landed forced a scream from Travis; suddenly, the blows were landing too fast for him to separate them.  It was like he was in a hail of knives—he simply couldn’t tell where the welts from the belt were forming or if the buckle had struck him on the leg or on the elbow.  All he knew was that he was in an unholy grip of pain that clutched his entire body remorselessly.

 

At one point, Travis was aware of a single blow of the buckle—it hit his right knee edge-on, shattering the kneecap.  That sensation tore right through him, a flash of agony that would have seared his soul had the shallow youth possessed one.

 

The brutal whipping lasted for almost twenty minutes before Brody, sweating and panting with exertion, tossed the belt to one side.  Travis kept screaming, his cries deafening—to himself.  In reality, his voice had cracked five minutes earlier and all that was coming out of his gaping mouth now was a hoarse gasping sound.  He was rolling about and jerking on the bed as if he was still being whipped—an involuntary reaction to the pain.  His smooth skin was no longer unblemished; barely an inch was visible that was not marked with the brutal violence he’d just suffered.

 

“Like I said, dumbass, you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with ya,” Brody panted, stepping back from the bed a moment to admire what he’d done to the writhing kid.  “An’ all this fag-bashin’ done got me horny.  Tell ya what—lemme drain my balls and I’ll be done with yer useless ass.  I’m gonna load ya up with my hot mansperm and then I’ll let ya take a nice long dirt nap.  How’s that sound, asswipe?  Ya cool with that?  No?  Tough fuckin’ shit, ya goddam motherfucker.”

 

Before Travis could process the words that had been spoken to him, Brody had climbed on top of him and forcibly spread his legs apart.  His pain- and fear-stunned mind moved slowly; it wasn’t until cue-ball-sized head of the muscled alpha’s dick pressing against his sphincter that Travis realized his murderous lover was treating him to one last fuck.

 

The young fag had worshipped Brody’s monstrously huge cock and had loved the sensation of being filled with manmeat—it had hurt, but it had hurt so good.  But Brody had always gone in slowly, and with lots of lube.  This time it was different.  This time it hurt bad.

 

Wrapping his large hands around Travis’s smooth thighs, Brody rammed his shaft deep into Travis’s rectum, his oozing precum the only lube.  Despite the nightmarish level of agony wracking the punk’s lean body, the sudden, searing pain of having his sphincter literally torn open  took Travis’s breath away.  He could only lie still, his body rigid and trembling, his eyes, wide and circled with gray rings of shock, riveted on the figure of Brody.

 

The hardbodied redneck grinned.  He brushed a lock of his long hair out of his face; his bulked-out torso glistened with a slight sheen of sweat under the overhead bulb.  The beating had been a good workout; Brody’s muscles tingled and he felt energized.  His big throbbing cock was buried balls-deep into boymeat—the sadist was pumped and primed, ready for a good time.

 

Still overwhelmed by the pain in his rectum, Travis’s jaw had clenched closed tightly, forcing him to breathe loudly and deeply through his nose.  His close proximity to Brody’s sweaty, masculine body meant that the unfortunate youth was more or less huffing the overabundance of pheromones that were being emitted in the musky tang of Brody’s mansweat.

 

The impact of the adrenaline and testosterone on the always-horny homo was as involuntary as it was immediate—Travis’s own six-and-a-half inch dick began to stiffen and rise above the kid’s flat, badly-bruised belly.  He was in too much pain to notice it at the moment…

 

Brody noticed it.

 

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled.  “All I gotta do is shove my cock into ya and yer homo ass gets all horny—even though I toldja yer gonna die tonight.  Ya like that idea, huh?  I shoulda offed ya a long time ago.  In fact—”

 

Before Travis could blink, Brody’s arms had darted forward and clamped around the boy’s throat.  As the buff top leaned over, the weight of his bulked-out body pressing Travis down into the mattress, he began to squeeze, his grip intensifying slowly but inexorably, as he cocked his thumbs and pressed them remorselessly into the kid’s larynx.

 

“—every time I came in yer worn-out asshole, it was cause I was fantasizin’ about snuffin’ ya, you useless pansy.  Remember Tuesday night?  I was thinkin’ about huntin’ you through the woods like prey, seein’ the terror on yer stupid fag face when I finally blocked yer path and blew ya away with my shotgun.  But you wouldn’t suffer enough—I’d want ya still alive while I gutted ya like a deer…”

 

Travis croaked loudly, his hands gripping Brody’s wrists but the broken fingers on his left hand flopped limply, utterly powerless to move the top’s hands a fraction of an inch from his compressed throat.  His air was completely cut off.  This couldn’t be happening yet, he thought; knowing he was going to die, he still refused to recognize the imminence of death.

 

“Remember how good I fucked ya on your birthday?” the alpha whispered vindictively to the choking youth, “You said it was the best fuck you’d ever had.  I was dreamin’ about cuttin’ yer throat and fuckin’ ya as you bled out and died.  That get ya off, you sick fucker?  Yeah?”

 

Travis shook his head frantically, as much in denial of the entire situation as in denial of Brody’s words.  His face was starting to swell and darken and the crushing pain in his throat was a strong new sensation in the kid’s overpowering wave of suffering.  But it wasn’t alone—there was a pounding, too, a hot, burning pounding in his head and his chest…

 

“I even planned out how to dump yer body, fuckwad,” Brody chuckled cruelly at his dying bitch.  “I’m just gonna drive ya out and dump ya in the swamp.  By the time yer corpse floats up outta the muck, it’ll be so bloated and rotten, ain’t no one gonna know who you are.  If anyone finds it in the first place.  Ain’t no one gonna be lookin’—I’m gonna tell ‘em you ran off with some rich dude who was passin’ through.  Everyone knows what a lazy whore ya are—and no one’s gonna care.”

 

Travis could still hear Brody speak, but the words seemed to have an odd echo effect inside his head.  It was cloudy in there and it was only with difficulty that the choking faggot could focus his attention.  He was still lucid enough to realize that pulling at Brody’s wrists wasn’t helping and tried clawing at the alpha’s fingers instead.  His entire body seemed to be pulsing with pain; some part of him wondered how he could still be conscious while suffering such agony—and why his cock was so strainingly erect it hurt as well…

 

When Brody spoke again, Travis absorbed the words.  They seemed to melt into the relentless, overwhelming pounding in his head and his chest; the rapid jackhammering of his pulse that beat out the last few moments of his wasted life in double-time…

 

“Die, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit!” the heaving, pumping top growled, his hulking form, covered with sweat-matted fur, enveloping the kid’s slim, lithe body.  “Choke and fuckin’ die, you goddam sack of cum-gobblin’ scum!”

 

Brody could feel his hot manseed seething in his balls; he knew he was gonna erupt into a boiling geyser of sperm at any moment.  Even now, trembling on the edge of orgasm, he was so pissed at the worthless little fairy he was bangin’ that he didn’t want the cunt to enjoy his hot manload.

 

Brody’s hands tightened, his fists clenching closed in his rage.  His thumbs pressed forward inexorably, shoving Travis’s larynx out of place.  As the cartilage of his voice box reached the point of ultimate stress, the lithe young faggot kicked and flailed frantically, the terror of knowing that he was gonna die if he couldn’t stop the powerful sadist overriding the nightmarish agony he experienced every time he bent his shattered knee.

 

And he couldn’t.  He simply wasn’t strong enough to prevent the alpha’s muscles from clamping down on him and ending his life.  The point was driven home painfully as Brody crushed his larynx, the fragile cartilage construction shattering loudly into mangled gristle.

 

Travis’s swelling, blackening face assumed a horror-stricken expression, but the kid’s features were so bloated and congested with asphyxia that it was hard to tell the difference.  The grotesque, excruciating agony in his throat was just the latest in a long line of horrific sensations that were wreaking havoc on his nervous system.  The pounding in his chest was so intense the dying homo was sure his body was pulsing visibly in the same tempo.  Deep inside, he was still painfully aware of how full of manmeat his guts were; the horny faggot corner of his mind that still kept track of such things held no memory of Brody’s cock being so thick or buried so far inside him.

 

And as some part of him screamed inwardly at his missed chance to flee, another part acknowledged that he’d have missed this insanely intense fuck—and that part seemed to be the one in control of his cock as it swelled and oozed, its tender flesh viciously abraded by Brody’s rough, wiry belly fur as the swollen member slid between the writhing, intertwined bodies.

 

Things were fading for Travis, and growing cold.  Was the heat on?  He couldn’t remember.  All he could remember was that there was pain beyond the icy chill, pain and cock.  He was full.  Brody had filled him with manmeat.  Beyond that, the pounding in his head was too much; it was like he was being beaten by a prizefighter…why?  What—his dick, his ass, his entire lean smooth body—it had given him such pleasure; now there was nothing but pain everywhere…

 

“Yer dyin’, faggot,” Brody jeered.  “How’s it feel, huh?  Does it hurt?  It don’t hurt bad enough, fuckwad.  No matter how bad dyin’ hurts, it ain’t anywhere near as bad as you deserve, asswipe.  C’mon and start kickin’, boy.  Lemme feel yer hot lean body jerk an’ kick under, motherfucker; lemme feel yer asshole convulse and jack me off.”

 

The hardbodied top gave the dying youth one last squeeze, feeling with profound satisfaction the cracking sensation as he crushed Travis’s trachea into a bloody pulp, permanently sealing off the punk’s airway.  In the shock of mortal pain, Travis literally lost his mind; the animalistic mid-brain took over and Brody found himself dealing with a wild, clawing beast that beat at his chest and ripped his chest hairs unconsciously.  Not that that got any pity from Brody; having his chest fur pulled out hurt.  With a loud grunt, he drove two roundhouse punches straight into Travis’s face, breaking the fag’s nose with a pulpy sound.

 

“Ain’t you dead yet?” Brody snapped.  “Fuck, I ain’t gonna need yer worthless ass once I use it as a cumrag.  Fuckin’ die, motherfucker!”  He placed his right palm on Travis’s chin, feeling the wispy golden curls of the homo’s blond facial hair.  At the same moment, Travis’s hands were fondling Brody’s harsh scruff, the dying boy’s fingers–the unbroken ones–involuntarily caressing the rough, steel-wool-like growth covering the alpha’s hard, masculine cheeks and strong chin.

 

Brody shoved.  With a loud cracking sound, Travis’s skull was forcibly separated from his spine, the thick spinal cord shearing apart at the second cervical vertebra with instant, violent, and traumatic impact.

 

As Brody recalled it later, it was like Travis suddenly developed a moist, pulsing suction in his ass, solely devoted to swallowing the vast load of sperm that the top had built up in his balls.

 

The dying faggot wrapped his arms and legs around his killer and squeezed—everything.  His limbs, his chest, his rectum; it all contracted as a searing bolt of agony swept like lightning through Travis’s central nervous system.

 

At literally the same moment his brain was shorting out and dying, the battered and abused youth shot a stream of hot semen from his hyper-stimulated scrotum.  Brody grunted and screamed “Fuck!” repeatedly as Travis’s lean form writhed and jerked under his weight, milking his sensitive, engorged shaft.  For Travis, the world ended in a searing blast of agony and cum.

 

As the dead kid kept pumping out his death load, reflexively smearing and matting Brody’s chest fur with pearly white boyspunk, the muscled alpha hosed the cunt’s guts with his boiling wad.  It took a moment for Brody to regain control, but when he did, he found himself staring down into Travis’s face.  The young slut’s bulging, half-lidded eyes had a thousand-yard stare and thick, white, foamy drool trickled down his chin, soaking the golden curls.  He head was bent backwards at a grotesque angle.

 

Brody slowly withdrew his throbbing tool, pulling against the suction that somehow remained in the corpse’s rectum.  With a loud sucking sound, his massive rod came free, swaying and bobbing, dribbling pearly drops of spunk on Travis’s smooth, flaccid thighs.  Standing up, the cum-covered alpha passed his hand across his brow to keep sweat from trickling in his eyes and admired the scene.

 

Travis had learned a lesson he damn sure wouldn’t forget—the little fuck wasn’t ever forget anything ever again.  His smooth lean body shuddered in its death throes, his bare toes curling and uncurling as random nerves fired along the shredded remains of his spinal column.  A thick, glutinous wad of semen was slowly seeping from his still semi-erect dick.

 

“Now you can go,” Brody whispered, grinning, at the trembling corpse.  “Now I’m done with yer worthless ass.”

 

After cleaning himself up a little—washing the sweat and cum off his torso and his dick, then stuffing the latter back into his tight, worn jeans—the buff alpha took some time to take what was left of the ruined bathroom door off its hinges.  He’d get a new door tomorrow.  After dumping the splintered pieces of wood into the bed of his truck, Brody turned back to the trailer.  He’d finished clearing away the door, but he hadn’t finished taking out the trash yet.

 

Striding back into the bedroom, he leaned over the bed and picked up Travis’s body.  The dead kid was still quivering and since Brody hadn’t bothered to clean the corpse, he suddenly found himself covered with the homo’s cum again.

 

Well fuck that, he thought and decided not to bother with putting on the shirt; he was dumping garbage and would need a shower once he was done anyway.

 

The hulking, muscled redneck threw the dead boy over his shoulder, Travis’s head and hands hanging down Brody’s back.  As he left the trailer, the alpha’s boots sounded thick and heavy on the wooden steps and the extra weight he was carrying made the gravel crunch loudly under his heels.  Jerking his shoulder, he tossed Travis into the bed of his pickup; the corpse landed face-up with a thick, meaty thump.

 

Brody hopped into the cab and threw the truck into gear.  Twenty minutes later, he was pulling off the county road onto a trail that would have been impossible to see if he hadn’t already known where it was.  The rutted mud track he was following put his 4X4 through a workout, but eventually he reached the edge of swamp, pulling over beside a large pool of sickly water, dotted with tree stumps and covered with slimy green algae.

 

Climbing out of the driver’s seat, Brody walked around to the rear, opened the tailgate, and dragged Travis out by the feet, letting him fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes.  Standing over him, Brody looked down at the murdered corpse of his lover of two years.

 

“Y’know, fuckwad,” Brody mused speculatively, “That fuck was the best one yet.  Ever.  I shoulda done that to ya the first day I met ya…”

 

His Redwing construction boots sank deep into the soft ground as he dragged the faggot’s body to the water and rolled it in, watching bubbles rise up under the green film on the surface.  The he headed back to the truck.

 

On his way back to the trailer, Brody kept the windows down; it was a chilly night, but he was warm from exertion and the cool breeze across his chest kept his nipples achingly erect.  His mind was still running on the last thing he’d said.  If he’d offed Travis right away, he’d have gotten some great sex—and he wouldn’t have had to deal with the whiney little bitch for two years.

 

That was it, man.  That was how to do it.  Work ‘em out, use ‘em up and get rid of ‘em before they start to rot.  Fuck yeah.

 

Brody had a sudden sensation that he had experienced a major sexual revelation.  He knew now what he wanted to do, what would get him off, and get him off right.  He just needed a victim.

 

Wondering if there was anything on the computer back home that would lead him to the faggot cunt that have been helping his bitch try to run away, Brody grinned and turned on the radio.  His dick was getting hard again…