Alpha Male Eddie

Eddie was pissed, but that was nothing new.  It was what had got him kicked out of the Corps after three years; he still seethed with rage at the memory of the Marine shrink’s diagnosis: fragmented personality with psychotic breaks trigged by latent homosexuality.  That motherfucker.

 

Eddie was ALL man, and he damn sure knew how to show it.  Every facet of his image, from his chiseled, rock-hard body to his military gear and clothing, to his jacked-up matte-black Dodge Ram picked, was specifically designed to show that was a true Alpha Male.  Nothing—nothing—would ever disprove that.

 

But every now and then, something slipped.  And when that happened, things got—

 

Well, for example, there was JJ.

 


 

It started one summer evening just as the glaring sullen heat of the day was fading into a swift dusk.  Eddie just happened to be driving by the Hudson Street Skate Park when he saw the boy.  He didn’t know why he pulled over, but he did.

 

The boy was heading out, walking away from the park with his skateboard under his arm.  He seemed to be headed for the bus stop at the corner—that was when Eddie decided to make his move.  He quickly pulled to the curb and asked if the kid needed a lift.

 

“Sure, man,” the kid grinned, adolescent hormones giving the teen’s voice just enough depth to prove that he was sexually mature.  “Name’s Jeremy,” he said, opening the door and climbing up into the cab, “But my friends call me JJ.”

 

JJ was in fact seventeen—and was sexually mature.  Two years ago he’d managed to get Amy Schneider from down the block to give him a handjob and just lately he’d talked her into blowjobs.  He wasn’t going steady with her or anything, but none of the other girls he went with would suck his dick yet.  He was supposed to see Amy tonight and was anxious to get home.

 

For a brief moment, the two males sat and scoped each other out.  JJ’s face was smooth, with just a hint of youthful fullness; his hair was short and dark, but it was mostly hidden under a black ball cap—with, Eddie noted with interest, a Marine Corps logo.  Maybe the boy’s daddy was enlisted on the base.

 

The teen’s gear was nothing special—a gray t-shirt and black mid-thigh shorts covered his lean, lithe body but showed his smooth, firm legs to advantage.  A pair of black Converse Play hightops with a red heart logo completed the skatepunk look.

 

For his part, JJ was almost mesmerized by Eddie; he’d never seen such a perfect male form.  And Eddie wasn’t dressed to be ignored.  His military affinity was clear from the way he kept his dark blond hair buzzcut and his facial hair trimmer in a razor-straight line.  His khaki utility pants, bloused into a pair of black leather combat boots, wrapped tightly around his thickly muscled legs.  The pair of dogtags dangling against his skintight olive-drab t-shirt drew attention to his huge sculpted pecs and his almost-perfectly ripped abs.  But there was something both compelling and repellant about his face—JJ couldn’t say what.  Maybe it was the cold hard lines of his cheeks, or the grim set of his mouth…or maybe the unnerving glare of those piercing green eyes, icy and fiery at the same time…

 

It was Eddie who broke the silence.  “So, where ya goin’, man?” he asked, the friendly, open tone of his voice making the teen relax visibly.

 

“Aw, I’m headin’ out to Jupiter Road—over where it crosses Adams, y’know?  Gotta meet my girlfriend…”

 

Eddie chuckled and JJ blushed boyishly.  “Well, she ain’t my girlfriend…I mean… well, she kinda—”  He lapsed into a confused silence as Eddie continued to grin.

 

“Yeah?  What, she letcha dip yer wick, huh?” the older man laughed coarsely, making the teenager blush even harder.  Finally, Eddie decided to relent.

 

“Yeah, I gotta head out that way for business—ya mind if we stop at my place on the way?  Need to pick up something.”

 

“Naw,” JJ said, “And lissen, about Amy—”

 

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Eddie said tersely.

 

“No, but seriously, man, I get to thinkin’—see, maybe I could get a real girlfriend—one a’ them hot senior bitches that won’t even look at a junior like me—if I had a hard body.  Like yours.  Man, how do I do that?  Whadda I gotta do to look like you?”

 

Eddie glanced at the teen covertly, noticing the boy’s wide-eyed, innocent look.  The little fuck wanted to pretend to be an Alpha Male?

 

“Ya wanna get swole?  C’mon, boy and I’ll show ya some of my routine if ya want.”

 

Of course JJ wanted.  Eddie shut off the loud rumble of the truck’s huge engine; from his vantage point in the jacked-up cab, he could see that there was no one about.

 

“You c’n leave yer board here,” he said and jumped from the truck, his combat boots crunching loudly in the gravel lot.  JJ followed, but his lean teen body made far less noise when he hit the ground; he watched the well-built older man enviously as he trailed him into the apartment.

 

Half of Eddie’s bedroom was devoted to weights; in the center was the standard inclined bench, now laid flat, with a rack of barbell weights on the left and one of dumbbells on the right.  All the weights, including the hex dumbbells, were metal—the set looked old, but was obviously still functional.

 

The other half of the room also caught JJ’s notice—not so much the twin bed and the inexpensive dresser as the posters on the wall.  For a moment, the kid thought they were movie stills—then he realized he was looking at blown-up photos from war correspondents across many wars.

 

They were almost all photos of corpses.

 

On the far wall was a large flag with a grinning skull superimposed over a pair of crossed daggers.  Chains of roses frames the image; a motto, split to appear above and below, read “Die, Motherfucker, Die”.

 

Eddie noticed JJ looking at it.  “I’m gonna get that tattooed,” he said proudly, “Right here, on my right bicep.  Already got the money for it, too.  But the guy I wanna do it is in prison; I gotta wait till next year for him to get out.”

 

JJ took all this in with the silent reverence of a teen who feels he’s in the presence of a serious badass.  His admiration for the red-blooded male in front of him overpowered any sense of unease the gruesome photos had generated—after all, the dude was in the military, just like his dad.  Mighta even had to kill someone.  If he got to know him better, he’d ask, JJ decided.

 

“So anyway, I’m up to pressing three hundred and twenty-five right now, but I like to start down at two seventy-five for a few reps before adding the final fifty,” Eddie explained.

 

JJ looked at him questioningly.  “You don’t use a spotter?” he asked.

 

“Fuck,” Eddie sneered, “Spotters are for pussies.  Real men don’t need no help to lift.  Watch.”  And with that, he pulled his shirt off in one smooth sweep, letting the dogtags fall jingling back to the center of his broad chest.

 

And even though neither of them realized it, the sight of Eddie’s smooth hubcap pecs and erect, jutting nipples got JJ hard.  Eddie wasn’t in a position to notice it and JJ was used to the spontaneous erections of adolescence without thinking about what caused them—although he did find it odd how his breath caught was he eyed the older stud’s six-, or fuck, eight-pack abs, so taut and ripped.  As Eddie stood before him, booted, in tight pants and with that amazingly sculpted torso, JJ realized he’d never seen a more perfect male form.  He was overwhelmed with desire, but in his mind, it was desire to be Eddie.

 

If he’d come right out and said that, it might have prevented what happened next.  But probably not.

 

“Ya gotta get yerself positioned right,” Eddie was saying as he settled back on the bench, sliding under the already-loaded barbell, “Yer gonna fuck up yer back if ya don’t…” he trailed off, his face going blank.  He was looking at JJ, but his gaze seemed to be miles away.

 

Only seemed.  His head was right at the level of the kid’s crotch.  Eddie had suddenly realized the little punk was hard.  He’d gotten hard while looking at Eddie.

 

The kid was a faggot.  A little fuckin’ faggot tryin’ to act like a real man.  A little fuckin’ faggot who’d wormed its way in, wantin’ to make him a homo too.

 

The break was swift and silent.  Eddie blinked, smiled, and sat up.  “But for you, dude, I’d suggest building up those arms first.  Try some daily reps with a five-pound dumbbell, like one of these.”  He picked one of the hex weights up off its rack and strolled over to the skatepunk.  “In fact, these are good for lotsa things.  Like puttin’ fags’ lights out.”

 

“Huh?” JJ asked, his youthful face full of innocent confusion as Eddie smashed it with the dumbbell, knocking the teen senseless to the floor.

 


 

JJ was climbing.  He didn’t know to where, but it was a long and painful climb, and the higher he went, the more painful it got.  It had started as a general agony but seemed to be devolving to a specific ache.  Just as he regained consciousness, he located it in his jaw.

 

The pain ballooned in severity as he blinked and groaned.  His eyesight was blurry, and he was utterly unable to comprehend the change of circumstances he’d undergone since his last memory.  He vaguely recalled the buff shirtless dude who was standing over him with a look that could be either a hate-filled snarl or a vicious grin.  And the teen couldn’t place the significance of the blood-smeared dumbbell the guy was holding.

 

“Www…wwh…whaa—” he tried to speak, but there were hard lumps in his mouth.  He spit them out and saw two of his teeth tumble down his own chest, leaving faint bloody streaks on his smooth skin.

 

That was when he realized he was nude.  Well, he still had his Converse kicks on; he could feel them, but otherwise he’d been stripped nude.  And he was—he was on the military dude’s workout bench, evidently.  It had been raised from a flat to an inclined position, and he was on it on his back, completely nude.

 

He didn’t try to move; it was useless.  he could see hid hands–hinging above his head, they’d been handcuffed separately to the barbell, one on each side of the bench.

 

As he looked at the barbell in confusion, Eddie spoke.  “G’wan and try it, cumsucker.  I got four hundred pounds on that thing.  Yer fag ass ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  His voice was filled with a cold glee that sent chills down the teen’s back.

 

“Ay…ain’t no fag…” JJ managed to mutter, rolling his head to the side and spitting out blood.

 

“Course ya ain’t, you fuckin’ lyin’-ass fairy.  I saw yer boydick get all stiff when ya saw a real Alpha Male.  That’s why ya came here, yeah?”

 

JJ couldn’t think.  His head hurt.  In a way, it was why he was here, but not that way—but he couldn’t think.

 

“Fuckin’ luring me in from the side of the road—betcha could barely keep from grabbin’ my cock right there in fuckin’ public, huh, ya goddam homo?  Ya wanna see what Alpha Male meat looks like?  Here ya go, asswipe.”

 

His eyes blazing with psychotic fury, Eddie jerked his zipper down and dug inside his tight utility pants.  And as dazed and bewildered as JJ was, he couldn’t help but be in awe of the massive tool the buff young stud pulled out.  Over eight inches long, nearly two in diameter, wreathed in pulsating veins and with a huge purple head—it was as terrifying to the trapped teen punk as any deadly weapon would have been.

 

And in its own way, that was exactly what it was.

 

The captive youth gaped at the erect member that dangled directly over his face.  With terrifying speed, the malicious grin on Eddie’s face was replaced with an enraged snarl.  “You fuckin’ pervert!!” he screamed, and before JJ could even flinch, the hardbodied ex-Marine began pounding him in the face with the blunt metal dumbbell.

 

The sounds in the next few minutes were unbelievable—the wet squelching sound of flesh beaten until it splits, the crying and bleating of the teenager as he was forced to submit to the brutal violence of the older, more powerful man, the rattling of handcuffs and jingling of dogtags, the crunching and snapping of facial bones…

 

When Eddie finally stood up and tossed the bloody dumbbell aside, his massive, well-defined torso glistened with a film of sweat.  He paused to catch his breath and admire his progress.

 

The faggot was still conscious, but not coherent.  It gurgled and coughed up some blood and a few more teeth before lying back, gasping—it couldn’t breathe through its crushed nose.  The eyes were dark and swollen shut, the lips were split, the jaw was fractured and both cheekbones were broken.

 

It wasn’t enough.  The faggot hadn’t suffered enough.  Eddie still needed to show what an Alpha Male did to impudent skatefags who tried to sneak in for gaysex.

 

He needed to fuck it, to plant his potent manseed deep inside the boymeat.  That’d show the fucker, all right.  Show it just what the fuck was up.

 

As he wandered in and out of dark clouds of pain, some small part of JJ’s mind that wasn’t cowering in a corner wondered exactly what the hell had happened.  This major stud had offered him a lift, had offered to show him how to get swole, and then just—

 

The kid’s thoughts were interrupted by a sensation of movement.  He could feel the Marine dude grab his ankles and yank; with a supreme effort, the youth managed to pry open his swollen eyes—to watch in horror as the buff psycho placed JJ’s Converse hightops on his shoulders.  Even then, his terrified psyche wouldn’t let him go all the way—he could see the huge pulsing shaft that was pointed right between his legs, but he refused to acknowledge what it meant.

 

But reality could be denied only so long.  Even with his eyes closed again, he could feel the pressure starting to build against his anus as the huge thick spongy head of Eddie’s dick probed the tiny opening.   Suddenly Eddie muttered, “Ya know what a real Alpha Male is? He’s a man who can make anyone submit to his cock.”  JJ braced—but it wasn’t enough.

 

This pain wasn’t like the pain of the brutal beatdown his captor had administered.  It was much, much worse.  His adolescent sphincter could only stretch so wide; it was a virgin hole utterly unused to external penetration and lacked the flexibility to handle the older man’s enormous tackle.

 

Eddie literally tore the teenager a new fuckhole.  JJ’s cry of outraged discomfort spiraled into a shriek of terrified agony as his ass muscle split open and Eddie’s gigantic throbbing member pounded its way relentlessly up his ass, tearing at his rectal lining as it went.  Nothing in the young skatepunk’s life had prepared him for this—this nightmarish pain of impalement, of being torn open from the inside—

 

To Eddie, he was just a tight fuck.  And a noisy one.  “Aw, shaddap and take it like a fag, ya cunt!!” he roared, spitting in JJ’s face.  He then drove his point home by driving his fist into the kid’s face, cutting his scream off abruptly.  As the skatepunk lolled listlessly on the narrow bench, the buff ex-Marine took a savage joy in using the virgin boymeat as his own personal fuck toy.

 

Drifting in and out of consciousness, JJ was still aware that his ass was being pounded with relentless fury; he couldn’t help but be aware of it. The thick pulsing veins that sheathed Eddie’s massive tool rode roughshod over his prostate, massaging the hormone-filled adolescent until his own boycock rose up stiffly, as if in defiance of the vicious assrape.

 

He could only moan in bewildered agony, but it was enough for Eddie to hear.  It was enough to trigger another break.

 

“Ya like that, ya fuckin’ piece a’ shit fairy?  Moanin’ like a goddam whore with a dick in ya—cocksuckin’ pansies like you need to fuckin’ die!”

 

Leaning over JJ, Eddie wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and began squeezing.

 

Nothing in the teen’s short, useless life had prepared him for this level of trauma and abuse; the entire attack had left him stunned and defenseless—not just physically, but in a profoundly psychological sense as well.  Despite the pain, he still simply couldn’t believe that what was happening was real.

 

That all changed now, instantly, with the cessation of breath.  Whatever his failings, whatever he’d suffered, JJ still had the lithe, lean body of a fit and active teenager.  That body sprang into action, instinctively, in a frantic attempt at self-preservation.

 

For his part, Eddie was taken by surprise.  He’d been heavily trained in the art of the hand-to-hand kill, but he’d never actually killed anyone before.  He didn’t expect such a violent reaction—but his training enabled him to retain control of the situation.

 

As JJ thrashed and kicked, Eddie leaned forward, pressing down on the boy and pinning him under the weight of his muscles.  He could feel the teen’s smooth, firm belly and strong pecs flexing valiantly under him, sliding against his own massive chest on a film of sweat.  His dogtags dropped onto the punk’s swollen, blackening face, then slid to the side.

 

The muscle-bound stud endured the aimless frenetic buffetings of the boy’s hands; he’d already wrapped his powerful arms around the kid’s legs as a grip to fuck him, so all the gagging youth could do with his legs was squeeze at Eddie’s waist.

 

“That’s it,” he hissed psychotically into JJ’s pain-twisted face, “Yer dyin’, homo.  Does it hurt?  I hope so, ya sick fuck.  Goddam piece a’ shit—yer dick is hard!  You deserve to die, ya disgustin’ pansy.  Fuck you, ya fuckin’ faggot!!”  And having worked himself into a frothing anger, he spit in JJ’s dark, congested face and dug his thumbs into the teen’s larynx.

 

JJ had been going on for nearly a minute with no oxygen; he should have been starting to black out, but some perverse physiological anomaly was enabling him to remain conscious.  It wasn’t a benefit.  He could hear and comprehend everything being said to him.  He didn’t understand why he was being called a faggot, but he knew his dick was hard and he knew he was dying.

 

And he knew when Eddie crushed his larynx.  He could feel the older stud’s thumbs slowly gouge the thick mass of cartilage out of place; he could hear as well as feel the gristly crunch as his voicebox was pulped.  Again, it was pain of a kind he hadn’t realized could exist and his physical reaction was innate, and instant.

 

Eddie had never experienced anything like it—the way the teen’s virgin rectum clenched up on his swollen member, squeezing it vigorously, almost desperately, as if it knew that making him ejaculate was the only way to stop the agony.  The boy’s thrashing ceased; he gripped his murderer tightly, sensually—an instinctive response to minimize movement and hence pain.   But to the homicidal ex-Marine, it seemed to be a drawn-out moment of intimacy—of him finally proving, and the worthless faggot finally understanding, exactly how Alpha Male Eddie truly was.

 

Now that Eddie had asserted himself as Alpha, he still needed to mark the meat as his.  He still needed to pump it full of his potent manseed, to neutralize its faggotry.  It needed it.  The faggot needed his cum.

 

And it hadn’t suffered enough.  It was still alive.

 

“Ain’t dead yet, faggot,” he grunted, pounding his shaft into the twink’s ruined fuckhole, “Ain’t dead yet.”  The hardman tightened his hands remorselessly around JJ’s neck, feeling the erotic sensation of the rubbery esophagus being crimped shut by the sheer force of his powerful hands.

 

JJ could feel it too, in a way.  The pounding in his head was worse than the pounding in his ass; the pressure that had built up in his skull felt like it was shoving his eyes out of their sockets.  In spite of the way they bulged grotesquely, he still couldn’t see much—but the great black explosions in his field of view weren’t just blood vessels rupturing in his eyes.  The oxygen deprivation was catching up to him.

 

He’d been a healthy little punk, and it betrayed him physically.  He’d managed to stay conscious long enough to still be awake as brain damage set in.  So he was unlucky enough to be able to feel his windpipe being crushed but was totally unaware that a long stream of drool was oozing out past his protruding tongue and was trickling down his left cheek.

 

Reason and meaning ebbed from the dying teen but sensation and pain remained.  The thrashing boymeat could still feel its own erection.  Eddie could feel it, too.

 

“Still hard, ya fuckin’ pervert?” he snarled, “Fuck you, faggot—fuck you!!”

 

Jamming his thumbs under the angle of JJ’s jaw, on each side, the ex-Marine, his phenomenal strength amped up by psychotic rage, squeezed his hands with all the power he could muster while simultaneously wrenching them in opposite directions.  In a fraction of a second, Eddie totally destroyed the major anatomic structures of JJ’s neck.

 

The collapse of the trachea yielded the same viscerally satisfying crunch that had accompanied the mangling of the unlucky youth’s larynx.  This was enhanced by a loud snapping sound that came from a deeper location—by the placement of his thumbs and pressure applied to the right way on the back of the neck, he’d managed to pop the kid’s skull right off his spine, shattering the first cervical vertebra and sending bone shards slicing into JJ’s spinal cord.

 

Whatever the punk’s screaming terrified adolescent brain wanted to do after that was moot; the electrical signals coming from the cerebellum shorted out.  The adolescent body responded to its damaged nervous system in the way it was most primed to: it went into instant convulsive orgasms.

 

It was the convulsions that got to Eddie, too; the way the smooth, lithe teen body suddenly clutched him tightly and shuddered beneath him—it was almost as if it was deliberately milking his swollen, pulsating rod.  He felt the hot splash of the boy’s cum on his chest and realized that the faggot was spewing a steady stream of boymilk all over him; it was being smeared across his chest as their bodies pressed together in a frenetic coupling of semen and death.

 

“Aw, fuckin’ faggot!” he screamed, pounding his right fist into the dead boy’s already-ruined face, and felt his balls draw up beneath him.  Then he had to hold on tight as his own ejaculation rendered him powerless, clutching the trembling corpse as he spunked, again and again, pumping what felt like quarts of searing hot manseed into the worthless homo cumrag.

 

Eddie lay on top of the teenager’s dead body for nearly ten minutes, feeling the corpse quivering beneath him until it finally lay still.  When he disengaged himself, he had to peel his chest from the twink’s; the boy’s cum had already started to dry.  His thick shaft, still engorged and leaking, came out of the kid’s ass with an audible pop.

 

Eddie left the room and took a shower.

 


 

When he returned, he paused in the doorway to admire his work.  He was proud of himself; he’d taken a worthless faggot out of the world, and he’d shown it he was full Alpha Male as he did it.

 

It had fallen off the bench while he’d showered, but it was still handcuffed to the barbell, so it hung by its arms, resting on its left hip.  The smooth chest was covered by a crusty glaze.  One of the Converse sneakers still twitched every few seconds, but otherwise it was still.  The face couldn’t be seen; with its neck broken, the dead kid’s head was slumped forward.  Only the boy’s sweat-matted black hair was showing.  And its softening cock, pearls of semen dripping from the tumescent head.

 

Eddie had put his pants and boots back on after the shower; now he slipped the t-shirt back on as well.  Then he stepped up to the weight bench and unlocked the cuffs that held up JJ’s corpse, letting it slump to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.  Stowing the cuffs in his nightstand drawer, he paused and considered for a moment; then, picking up the teen’s clothes and cap, he left the apartment.

 

At his truck, he opened the bed.  He used an old section of carpeting as a bedliner, cut to fit; he rolled it back and tossed the clothes into the bed.  Retrieving the skateboard from the cab, he placed it in the bed, too.  Then looking around to make sure no one was observing him, he darted back into the apartment.

 

When he came back out, he was carrying the meat.  He placed it in bed of the truck, then rolled the carpet back over it—not perfect camouflage, but good enough in the dark.  Hopping in the cab, he started the huge beast up and headed out.

 

The front part of the skate park was still brightly lit and in active use; most of the punks out now were older, probably late teens or early twenties, but there were a few who looked younger—some much younger.  Eddie ignored them; if they weren’t faggots after his dick, he had nothing against them.  But now he knew that fags hung out at this park, and he intended to send a message.

 

The rear part of the skate park backed up to the interstate and wasn’t used after dark; this was enforced not so much by chains or fences as by the simple expedient of keeping the place unlit and as dark as possible.  The few daredevils who regarded it as a challenge had already injured themselves enough to serve as a warning.  One boy had died; another had suffered massive brain damage and was still on a respirator.

 

The back end of the park was left alone at night.  Tonight, though, it wouldn’t be.

 

All Eddie could see was a pit; he couldn’t tell its shape or form, and he didn’t need to know.  He tossed the reamed-out boymeat, nude except for its sneakers, into the darkness and heard it hit the concrete below with a boneless thud.  It was followed momentarily but its clothes, hat, and board, the latter of which clattered noisily down into the pit before evidently landing on its wheels and rolling some distance away.

 

An unexpected breeze picked up, ruffling Eddie’s buzzcut hair.  He glanced over at the lighted part of the park, his steely gazing sighting on the heedless youths darting about.  Yeah, this place was infested with faggots.  He’d have to keep his eyes peeled.

The Return of Leather Dave

The building was located off Randolph Street, some three blocks from the river.  On a side street facing the massive rail yard of a huge train station, the hotel didn’t give a view of anything worth looking at—not that you could tell by the prices.

 

Dave supposed it was the décor.  The place had been refurbished from a turn-of-the-century theater into a bijou hotel; the theater itself too small for modern stage productions but, once the balcony was redone as a mezzanine floor, perfect for smaller conventions.  Like the Chicago S&M Leather Club’s SpikeCon.

 

Dave wasn’t staying at the hotel himself; he knew better than that.  He was hunting.  He wasn’t into the hard-core masochists that he knew would be attending, but these kinda events drew curious little cunts looking to be dominated and willing to go farther than most before realizing they’d gone too far.

 

Stupid fuckers, Dave thought with a grin and at least two dudes looking in his direction feel in love with his handsome, porn-star features.  His long-lashed green eyes sparkled in the oddly dim “unconventual” lighting, and the dark hair on his head gleamed.

 

But Dave was used to that, especially decked out in all leather.  He’d gone high-gloss black leather on everything, from the vest that hinted at the stud’s broad chest while showing off the thick wiry black fur that covered his torso to the skin-tight jeans that left neither his taut, firm ass or the enormous bulge in his groin to the imagination.  He’d topped it off with black Wesco harness boots and smooth, tight leather gloves.

 

He looked every inch a man, and judging from the leather-wrapped ridge running down his leg, that extended a number of inches.  As a matter of course, he drew stares of raw, naked lust as he moved silently through the leather-clad crowd.

 

The time was near midnight and the convention hall was packed.  Behavior wasn’t quite as licentious as it would have been in a gay nightclub—and, in fact, a number of attendees had already left for a tour of the local clubs—but the throng was rowdy and horny.

 

No one would notice anything unusual about him picking up a fuckbuddy and heading out.  He just needed to find the lucky stiff.

 

And that was when Dave spotted him, about ten yards away, at a cash bar by a side door.  The slut had noticed him, too, and they kept eye contact as Dave approached across the crowded floor.

 

The kid was young—at least twenty-one, since he’d bought a beer and the bartender was carding, but surely no older.  What little of his hair could be seen under his backwards leather ball cap inclined more to strawberry than to blond, and his smooth, youthful face was sprinkled with a band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his upturned nose.

 

The punk was wearing a white tank top that showed off his smooth arms.  He wasn’t anywhere near as well-built as Dave, but he wasn’t scrawny.  The boy looked like he could hold his own, and that made Dave happy.  The sadistic killer wanted a good workout and had been hoping to find a sparring partner that could last for a little while.

 

The kid’s concession to leather included combat boots tightly laced to nearly mid-calf and a pair of short shorts that ended inches down the thigh and didn’t quite conceal the florid head of the cunt’s dick.  But it was the thick leather dog collar the fag was sporting around his neck, with its triple row of jet-black steel spikes, that caught Dave’s eye, and set his imagination working.

 

“Hey,” he said smoothly, his baritone voice resonating deeply as he glided up to the boy.

 

“Uh—hi,” the kid replied nervously, grinning and blushing boyishly.

 

“I wanna fuck you,” Dave said bluntly.

 

The slut’s gentle shyness evaporated instantly and his muddy brown eyes lit up with expectant lust.  “Oh fuck yeah, dude,” he said with breathless excitement, “I gotta room here—you, uh, ya wanna go?”

 

“We gonna be alone?”

 

“Yeah,” the punk replied, “Buncha us got a suite but the others all went out clubbin’.  They won’t be back for at least three hours, if they come back at all, the fuckin’ whores.”

 

“Let’s go,” Dave said and followed the kid out.

 

The boy was so eager, if he’d been a dog, he’d have been wagging his tail.  On the way up to the third floor, he told Dave his name was Harold, “but everybody calls me Buddy.”  He rattled on about his personal life—how he’d come to the convention with a group of gay friends all into leather, how his father, some high-ranking judge, had no idea why his son had taken a week off his classes to visit Chicago.

 

“He thinks it’s to tour the Art Institute,” Buddy finished up smugly as the elevator reached the third floor and opened.  The suite was to the left, last door on the right.  The mellow lighting, tasteful carpet and ambient music went some way towards explaining the hotel’s ludicrous pricing.

 

So did the interior of the suite.  There was a bathroom to the left and a kitchenette off to the right of the entry; Dave had a brief impression of stylish cabinets of dark wood and glass and steel appliances and fixtures, but he had little interest in those rooms beyond ascertaining that they were empty.  Past the entry was a small living area minimally furnished with a loveseat, coffee table, floor lamp, and a huge TV on a stand.

 

“I’ma go grab us a drink,” Buddy chirped, heading for the fridge.  Dave grunted absently in agreement and checked out the bedroom.  It was a sight worth seeing.

 

Most of the room was taken up by an almost grotesquely huge bed; it seemed too big to be a king.  The bedding mostly crumpled on the floor; in fact, the whole room looked like the set for an orgy scene in a porno.  Clothes, sneakers, boots and random pieces of leather gear were scattered around.  Dave found himself admiring the Red Wing harness boots propped on the recliner in the corner, along with the harness draped over them.

 

A large window was opposite the door; it looked down onto the street and the railyard.  There was a dresser next to it and a desk opposite the bed; both were covered with sex toys, popper bottles and wads of tissue.  On the desk was an enormous black dildo, reflected in the large mirror above.

 

Dave smirked and turned back to the other room.  Buddy emerged from the kitchen with a couple of tumblers.  “Here,” he said, somewhat unsteadily, “It’s Frieball.  I mean, Fireball.  Good shit.”

 

Dave took a sip of the whiskey.  “So how many of ya are here?” he asked.

 

Even though Buddy was seriously buzzed and horny as fuck, he still knew what the leather stud meant.  “Ya saw the bedroom?  Yeah, there’s three of us all in there.  Man, Lee wanted to fuck me so bad last night, but I been waitin’ to get plowed—hopin’ I’d find someone like you—” he here broke off and blushed charmingly again.  “So, anyway, I gave ‘im a BJ instead an’ helped ‘im use the dildo on Todd.  Todd’s such a fuckin’ whore…”

 

The punk trailed off as Dave slowly stood up and slipped his leather vest off, tossing it down onto the coffee table.  It knocked both drinks onto the floor, adding the heady scent of whiskey to an atmosphere already redolent of testosterone and mansex.  Buddy didn’t notice; his attention was riveted to the older man’s huge hairy hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.

 

Buddy rose too, not gracefully as Dave had, but popping so eagerly his leather cap came off, revealing his light wavy hair.  The kid almost lunged at Dave, fastening onto the muscular killer’s chest, his tongue lapping at the large nips while he ran his fingers through the black wiry fur.  He paused a moment to lift a finger and run it around Dave’s goatee, outlining the stud’s mouth before bringing it back to his own and sucking on it.

 

Suddenly the boy broke off.  “I want you in me,” he muttered breathlessly, then pulled off his shirt, revealing his smooth, firm, wiry torso.  Grabbing Dave by the hand, Buddy led the way to the bedroom, wriggling out of his tight leather shorts as he did.  By the time they reached the bed, the only things Buddy wore besides his gleaming leather boots and his spiked collar were an eager grin and a raging hard boycock.

 

Dave didn’t bother to pull his dick out; he didn’t need to.  Buddy did it for him, hands trembling with excitement as he worked the older stud’s zipper.  Dave could feel the boy’s fingers around his massive, throbbing member as Buddy excitedly began to extract the enormous manshaft from its leather confines.

 

“Goddam,” the punk whispered in awe, “It just keeps comin’…”

 

“Wait’ll it’s fuckin’ in ya, whore,” Dave growled and Buddy squirmed in submissive glee.  “Now get over here.  I wanna fuck you right here in front of the window.  Show all those cunts down there what a fuckin’ slut you are.  C’mon, fucker!”

 

The ginger-blond fag obediently assumed the position, bent forwards with his hands placed on the huge plate-glass window and his ass posed and ready for receiving.  He had a great view of the street—and in the backlit bedroom, the conventioneers milling about on the street below had a great view of him.  Whistling and catcalling, faint but still audible, could be heard from below as the leather-gear crowd began to realize they were being given a free show.

 

Dave stayed far enough behind that he couldn’t be seen from the street.  They knew he was there, though, from Buddy’s reaction as the muscle-bound older man began to shove his huge, vein-wrapped mantube up the boy’s fuckhole.

 

The kid rose up on his toes, flexing his feet inside his tightly-laced boots and bending his waist in a vain attempt to find a position that would be more accommodating to the enormous rod being relentlessly thrust into his colon.  He was into pain, sure, and he knew he could take the dude’s cock, if only he’d used lube…

 

The youth beat on the window in sexual pain, groaning loudly and erotically as his eyes rolled back in his head.  “Aw yeah—fuck, brah, yer killin’ me…” he moaned to the faint cheering from below as his own thick, dangling boycock slapped against the glass.

 

“Not yet, cunt,” Dave muttered and started pounding the boyhole remorselessly.

 

Fuck YEAH!!!” Buddy cried out, his smooth young body already slick with sweat.  For a moment, Dave was surprised the little fucker could take it, before realizing what a serious whore the kid truly was.

 

The problem with major asssluts is that even if they start out tight, they always go loose.  Dave smiled, already anticipating the enjoyment he’d take in making sure he got the fuckmeat properly re-tightened.

 

Buddy had no idea what Dave was thinking about; it was sheer coincidence that made him speak.  “Hurt me, dude,” he moaned, “C’mon, show me yer a man—hit me…”

 

“Ya like that, cunt?” Dave sneered.  “Ya like gettin’ hurt when yer gettin’ fucked?  Cause I’m about to put a serious fuckin’ beatdown on yer twink ass!”

 

Sexually supercharged by the banter, Buddy never considered the possibility that Dave was speaking literally.  “Oh hell yeah bro, make me feel it,” he grunted in erotic abandon.

 

“Ya got it, motherfucker,” Dave chuckled, and grabbed Buddy’s dog collar at the buckle, where there were no spikes.  It wasn’t tight–in fact, it was loose enough around the kid’s neck that he could easily slid his hand under it and jerk it back like a horse’s rein.  At the same time, his swung his balled-up leather-wrapped fist like a wrecking ball, giving the punk a brutal donkey-punch to the back of the head.

 

The impact was hard enough to bounce Buddy’s head off the thick window glass.  “Ahh!” the kid cried out, “What the fuck, man?!?”

 

“You said ya wanted to be hurt,” the muscle stud chuckled, not missing a beat as he pumped his tool up into the twink’s ass with a driving tempo, “Why—want more?”

 

“Not like that!” Buddy shouted indignantly, but it was too late.  Dave was swinging again.  This one was a roundhouse blow from the shoulder that swept wide and caught the youth on the side of the face.  As such, it was visible to the horny dudes watching the sex show from the street, and it was roundly applauded—well, it was an S&M convention.

 

Buddy was much less appreciative.  He squalled and yelled, jerking himself forward and managing, somehow, to get himself off the huge spear of manflesh.  He whirled around and faced Dave.  From outside, the crowd realized the show was over and several loud and distinctive boos came wafting up to express their displeasure.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the kid whispered, wide-eyed with a fear that came far too late to be useful.  He reached behind his neck and unfastened the dog collar; determined that it wouldn’t be used to snare him again, he tossed it onto the bed.

 

“You fuckin’ pussy,” Dave growled, “You wanted to be hurt?  I ain’t even started on ya, you stupid cunt.  Those were just love taps.  By the time I’m done workin’ over yer worthless fuckmeat, you’ll be in so fuckin’ much pain you’ll cum in agony.”

 

Cold terror flushed through the lithe boyslut, causing his smooth skin to pale.  He began edging towards the corner of the room as Dave started closing the distance between them.  “You—you fuckin’ stay away from me, you psycho—NO!!”

 

Buddy scrambled onto the bed.  Dave lunged at him, but the limber youth somehow managed to tuck into a somersault and roll off the bed; the move was spontaneous and amateurish and he ended up sprawled on the floor, but it bought him a precious few seconds. As Dave floundered his way off the huge bed, the terrified cunt bolted out of the bedroom, heading for the hall door.

 

Gaining the door, Buddy fumbled frantically with the deadbolt.  His fingers finally caught it and he gave a sigh of relief as the lock clicked open.  Then Dave’s hand clenched in his hair, jerking backwards and tossing him to the floor.

 

The hairy, hardbodied stud re-locked the door and turned to his victim.  From the floor, Buddy looked up at the older man, still in clad in tight black leather from his boots to his waist; only his gigantic cock was free, pulsating as it swung, erect, in the air.  Above, the boy’s eyes followed the vast, furry expanse of Dave’s broad chest and huge hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.  Above that, the handsome face, that charming, cheerful grin framed by the virile black goatee…

 

…Buddy had fallen back in lust with Dave so hard and fast that he forgot what he was doing.  Dave didn’t.

 

He bent down and clamped one hand around the punk’s throat, his black-gloved fingers digging in excruciatingly as he lifted the kid into the air.  Buddy’s reverie came to an abrupt halt as his windpipe was closed off and he was hoisted agonizingly by his neck.  The young whoreboy clawed at Dave’s wrist and arm while his combat boots flailed uselessly four inches off the ground.  His bulging eyes stared directly into those of his torturer, without the latter showing the least concern—or the slightest bit of exertion, despite single-handedly dead-lifting the kid off the floor.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, ya little asswipe?” Dave asked him, the deadly gleam in his eye belying the almost conversational tone of the question.  “You said ya wanted to be hurt.  I came all the way the fuck up to this room to hurt ya, so you goddam sure better enjoy it, motherfucker!”

 

With that, he hurled the kid into the loveseat.  Buddy hit it on his back hard enough to bounce off, falling forward onto the coffee table, which promptly broke under his weight.  The kid ended up on his hands and knees in a mess of broken wood and leather—his cap and Dave’s vest—coughing and gagging, but essentially unhurt.  For the moment.

 

Staggering to his feet, the fair-haired boy glared at Dave, sullen and defiant.  “What are ya, some kinda sicko?  Lookit this shit—you gonna pay for that table?  You better get the fuck outta here or I’m gonna call—UHH!!”

 

Dave, tired of the chattering, popped the kid right in his gaping maw, knocking out a canine and shutting him up.  Buddy stared at him wide-eyed, one hand clamped over his injured mouth.

 

“Like I said, I ain’t even got started on hurtin’ ya, son.  I’m gonna hurt you so good, ya perverted little cocksucker, you ain’t ever gonna need anyone else to hurt ya again.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  No?  You will.  Trust me, faggot, ya damn sure will.”  Almost casually, he reached out and gripped Buddy by the upper arm; before the youth even realized he’d been grabbed, Dave had spun around and flung him into the TV.

 

This one didn’t leave the punk unscathed.  The flat screen TV was totaled and a large dent left in the drywall behind it.  Buddy landed badly, wrenching his right arm.  He lay on the floor wheezing, trying to breathe, but the only thing his hazy eyes seemed to focus on were the gleaming toes of Dave’s Wesco harness boots as they came closer…

 

“On yer feet, motherfucker.  Or do ya want me to carry ya into the bedroom?”

 

The threat worked; still gasping, Buddy clambered to his feet and dove into the bedroom with an abortive plan to try and lock Dave out.  Dave was already in the room when the boy turned back—and Dave locked the door behind him.

 

“No more interruptions,” he said with a sinister grin, “And no more fuckin’ foreplay, bitch.”

 

Buddy hadn’t noticed Dave was wearing a belt; the wide leather strap with the chrome buckle had more or less blended in with the rest of his leather gear.  It wasn’t until he unbuckled it and started sliding it off that Buddy even realized it existed.  And even then, he still didn’t understand what was going on; at least, not until Dave wrapped the end without the buckle around his hand a couple of times.

 

With a screech, the young slut tried to dodge out of Dave’s reach, but the experienced killer was able to swing his makeshift lash wide.  Buddy howled in pain as the strap whipped across the smooth, soft flesh of his back, the thick buckle leaving a vicious purple welt.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah,” the buff older man crowed, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”  With a wide grin, he slashed the belt at Buddy twice.  The first blow went across the whore’s back again; with an agonized yelp, the kid spun around just in time to receive the second squarely across his firm, flat belly, the loud slap instantly echoed by another cry of pain.

 

“You son of a motherfuckin’ bitch, I’m gonna—AAAHHH!!!”

 

Dave had swung the belt with the precision of an animal tamer’s whip, landing the buckle in Buddy’s face with enough force to break his right cheekbone—and shut him up.

 

“Close yer cocksuckin’ cumhole, faggot,” the cruel leatherman sneered, “You’re mine now.  Got that?  Ain’t no one gonna come save you.  You’re here so I can do what the fuck I want to with ya—and when I’m done, you’re done.  Understand me?  When I’m done with ya, ain’t no one else gonna have any use for ya either.  So shut up and take it, cunt, no matter how bad it gets—cause I promise you, I can always make it worse.”

 

Buddy clutched his swelling face, whimpering and cowering.  He didn’t reply.  He was still trying to figure out what had happened—how a chance meeting with a smokin’ hot stud had somehow become a nightmare of pain and fear.  That was when Dave, annoyed with losing his fucktoy’s attention, gut-punched him, sinking his gloved fist deep into the boy’s tender abdomen.

 

Buddy knelt on the floor, trying to breathe, when Dave yanked his head back by the hair.  “You pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya, you scum-suckin’ piece a’ shit, you hear me?  Say ‘yes sir’!”

 

“Y-yessir…” Buddy managed to gasp out painfully.

 

“That’s right, asshole,” Dave growled and gave the cowering punk a swift kick with his steel-toed boot.  Buddy gave a breathless yip, then started sniveling.  The sound enraged the older man; he glared down at the huddled mass of sobbing boymeat.  “Fuck, I’m gonna be doin’ the world a favor by takin’ a worthless piece of crap like you outta it,” he muttered in disgust, “Shut the fuck up!”

 

Lost in his little world of fear and pain, Buddy never heard him.  The lithe youth with the red-gold hair continued to sob on his knees until the muscled older man, fed up with the irritating mewling noise, began to beat him with the belt again.  At the first blow—across his upper arm—Buddy came out of his despairing reverie, squalling.

 

He bolted to the door, by now so panicked that he didn’t even try working the locked knob; he beat and clawed at the door, yelling frantic gibberish.  Dave let him go at it for a moment or two, to let the meat wear itself out, then casually strode over, yanked the boy back, and gutpunched him.  Hard.

 

Buddy went limp and would have fallen to his knees again, but by now Dave’s dick was raging hard and he was out of patience.  He literally picked the boy up and threw him bodily onto the bed.

 

Buddy gave a cry of pain as he landed on the spiked collar.  He managed to twist himself sideways and get off it, but he wasn’t able to get off the bed itself before Dave was on it as well.  As the young boycunt tried to wriggle away, Dave leaned over, drew back his gloved fist, and pounded Buddy in the face.  Three roundhouse blows with the force of an industrial piston put paid to the twink’s escape attempt.

 

The faggot was still moaning in semiconscious agony when Dave parted the boy’s smooth, firm legs, climbing between them and propping the fucker’s boots on his shoulders.  With a perfect view of the kid’s puckered asshole, the hardbodied leatherstud aligned his enormous manshaft with cunt’s fuckhole and plunged straight in, going balls-deep on the first thrust.

 

Even for a reamed-out whore like Buddy, it was too much.  The window fuck hadn’t been too bad, but Dave had taken the time to ease himself in.  There was no easing this time; this was brutal dead-on rape, and Dave wanted it to hurt.

 

It did.  Once again, Buddy found himself dragged out of a dazed state by a new burst of physical pain.

 

“Fuck!  Oh fucking God, stop it!” he screamed, doubling his fists and beating on Dave’s powerful hairy pecs like a small child having a tantrum, “Stop!  PLEASE DEAR GOD FUCKING STO—”

 

Dave backhanded him across the face, then swung his arm back, slapping him.  Whimpering, the abused boycunt continued to writhe and struggle.

 

“Ain’t nothing worse than a bad fuck—except a mouthy one.  You’re both, ya worthless piece a’ faggot shit,” Dave growled angrily.  Keeping his huge rigid cock buried deeply in the boy’s guts, he reached out one hand and began to feel around on the bed.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.

 

“Good thing I know a way to fix both,” he said menacingly, and held up the dog collar, making sure that Buddy got the chance to focus on it and see clearly what it was.  The hulking leatherman leaned forward and began to put it around the punk’s neck—then stopped and leaned back again.

 

“Know what?” he said musingly, “I put down some dumbass twinks in my time, but yer the stupidest one yet.  Gonna need more control for a dumb motherfucker like you.  Here, it’s big enough—I’m gonna try it this way.”

 

Both of Buddy’s eyes were blackened and swollen, but he was still able to watching in incomprehensive fear as Dave flipped the collar over.  It was only when the older man leaned forward again that the kid realized he was putting the collar on inside out—with the spikes on the inside.

 

For a few moments, Buddy went wild in sheer panic but the weight and pressure of Dave on him (and in him) kept the youth, strong as he was, from moving an inch.  The sadistic killer just kept still, enjoying the way the punk’s thrashing was working his dick.  When the meat finally wore itself out, he calmly passed the collar around its neck.  There was just enough room to loop it back through the buckle with the spikes deeply indenting the tender flesh of the throat without piercing the skin.

 

“So ya like to be dominated?  Ya like to be hurt?” he sneered down at the trembling, terrified slut, “I’m gonna show ya what real control is like, you disgusting pansy.  I’m gonna show ya what it’s like to get used by a real man, faggot.  That means no matter how bad it gets, we ain’t done till I say we’re done.  I don’t give a shit how much it hurts you, ya motherfucking cunt; you’re only here so I have something to cum into.  Grin an’ bear it, asswipe, cause my dick is hard, my balls are full and it’s time to rock n’ roll!”

 

Dave placed one hand flat on Buddy’s chest—the twink could feel the leather-clad expanse of the older man’s palm across his pecs—grabbed the loose end of the dog collar with the other, and began pounding the kid’s ass like he was literally trying to fuck him in half.  As he did, he began slowly pulling the collar tight.

 

He did it so slowly that Buddy didn’t realize it at first; he could only feel the brutal, relentless way the older stud was reaming his captive ass, the way the huge engorged head tore at his rectal lining as it plunged into his colon, battering his prostate remorselessly on its way up his intestines.  And somehow, some way, his own dick was responding, his long thin boycock, slapping between his own flat abs and the hairy, ripped ones of his rapist, was getting harder by the moment…

 

…then the spikes began to break the flesh and the true nightmare of Buddy’s last few minutes on earth began to reveal itself.  Awash in agony and terror, the boy almost didn’t realize it at first; it was all part of the pain.  But as he continued to struggle, the spikes sank deeper into his flesh—incrementally, but remorselessly, the excruciating torment grew to overwhelming proportions.  There was nothing he could do to escape it, but he damn sure tried all the nothing he could.

 

Dave knew that the punk would panic and at some point he’d be having to rein in a thrashing piece of boymeat, so he was prepared when Buddy’s reaction set in.  The fucker went ballistic, flailing like a landed seabass, trying his best to fight Dave off, or, failing that, to wriggle his way out from under the horrific torture.

 

The lean, sweaty twink clawed frenetically at the hardbodied leather stud pinning him to the bed; his fingers, curled into talons, tried in vain to scratch at Dave’s face, but the serial killer was too experienced to let that happen.  As the spikes tore their way into his esophagus and his windpipe began to constrict, Buddy’s mindless terror only increased.  Unable to damage Dave’s face, the punk began scraping and digging at his chest, his fingers snagging in the thick wiry manfur covering Dave’s strong, broad pecs.

 

Undaunted, Dave planted his free hand on Buddy’s forehead, pinning the fuckmeat securely to the bed.  The hulking sadist could feel his spunk seething in his huge hairy scrote and knew it was time to shift into high gear.

 

“I’m gonna cum, motherfucker,” he hissed at the frenzied youth.  Something about it—his words, or maybe just his tone of voice—seemed to break through to Buddy.  Even though the meat wasn’t able to regain enough control to stop its involuntary flailing, Dave could tell it was hearing him.  “I’m about to coat yer guts with hot potent manseed.  Ya want it, dontcha, ya fuckin’ faggot?  Yeah, all you little homos want my load.  Earn it, asswipe.  Make your corpse a worthy receptacle for my semen.  Work my dick, fucker, milk my wad outta me!”

 

If Buddy heard him, he didn’t do anything new to indicate it.  In point of fact, Buddy did hear him, but was still in too much pain and panic to fully understand what was being said.  It didn’t matter.  What happened next would have happened in any case; it was what Dave had wanted from the moment he’d set eyes on the ginger-blond freckle-faced leather twink.

 

With one gloved hand on Buddy’s fist, Dave stopped pulling the collar back through its buckle with a slow, even force with the other.  Instead, with a single powerful jerk, he yanked the collar as tight as he fuckin’ could.  Instantly, the circumference of the leather strap decreased by more than thirty percent.  It was now so tight around Buddy’s neck that the queerboy was being strangled by the leather strap.

 

And, of course, for that to happen, the spikes had to be fully embedded in the youth’s throat.

 

It was…there weren’t words.  Buddy had never imagined such agony could exist.  The spikes were three quarters of an inch long and nearly a half-inch wide at their widest point—which wasn’t at the base, but just above it.

 

The steel spikes in the back of his neck had sunk in until they reached the cervical vertebrae.  It might have been merciful had they pierced the spinal cord; instead, they buried themselves in the bone and anchored the improvised garrote at the rear, giving Dave more leverage to choke the cunt to death.

 

In the front, it was different.  The metal points punctured first the jugular veins, then the carotid arteries on both sides.  If Dave removed the collar now, Buddy would bleed to death.

 

Dave wasn’t removing the collar now.  Increased pressure on the spikes merely drove them deeper into the blood vessels without allowing the blood to leak out.

 

As the twink endured the first sufferings of strangulation—the rise of pounding pressure to intolerable levels inside his head—he fought even harder.  There was no lucid thought involved; some instinct drove Buddy to concentrate on Dave’s arms, to try and yank them away in a fruitless effort to ease the throttling agony.  The boy clamped his hands around Dave biceps and pulled, but it was like trying to bend marble.  Deep inside, the choking faggot felt the sheer awesome power of the muscles being used to choke out his useless boywhore life, and despaired.

 

Dave bent forward, the stiff wiry hair of his goatee brushing Buddy’s cheek as the older man whispered in his ear.  “Die, motherfucker.  I’m gonna pump my load up yer guts and leave yer reamed-out corpse spread across the bed, so fuckin’ die, you homo shit.”

 

He gave another cruel, vicious jerk to the dog collar.  When the steel spikes tore through Buddy’s Adam’s apple, he could not only feel the way the sharp points ripped into his larynx, he could hear the crunching of the cartilage.

 

By now, Buddy wanted to die.  The pain, the terror was all too much.  Somewhere in the back of his fagslut brain, he was still aware of his own erection—he couldn’t ignore it; he was so hard it hurt.  He didn’t know it was an involuntary reaction to asphyxia; he could only feel his achingly rigid shaft pinned between the flat, firm bellies of two males locked in a fatal embrace.

 

As the young punk’s struggles began to fade, his faced showed the hideous effects of a drawn-out strangulation.  Already badly battered and swollen, the boy’s innocent, freckled-marked face was blackening grotesquely—long past purple, it was darkening to true black.  His eyes, bugling horribly, were streaked with red where blood vessels were bursting; Buddy could only see great black bursts of nothingness blooming in his field of vision like fireworks of eternity.  The bloody froth oozing from his choked-off throat found an outlet beside his purple protruding tongue, the pinkish foam trickling down the kid’s smooth cheek.

 

The dying boycunt was going under.  Its weak little faggot brain was suffering more and more damage; unable to hold out for much longer, it was no longer fighting its killer.  Dave grunted with exertion and pleasure—he knew that once his warm sweaty fucktoy stopped fighting and started caressing him, it was close to death.

 

“That’s it, faggot, time to die,” he whispered huskily, know the slut was too far gone to hear him.  By now, Buddy was a vegetable.  A tiny spark of his personality remained screaming in terror and pain, trapped in some small corner of a dying brain, but it could only suffer.

 

Even if the boy had been magically bestowed immediate medical care, his only use would have been as an organ donor.  Not that Dave planned on any medical care.  This was what he’d wanted.  From the moment he’d noticed Buddy, he’d planned to have the young man’s brain-damaged convulsions milking his hard shaft to orgasm—and the stupid little homo cunt had played along every step of the way.

 

What little coordinated motion the near-dead whoreboy had been able to command slipped away.  The hands that had been slowly caressing Dave face and trailing in his chest fur fluttered aimlessly for a moment, then rose to his shoulders.  At the same time, the meat’s legs wrapped around Dave’s tight waist; he could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the kid’s inner thighs pressed against his sweat-slick flanks and he knew that the final act had arrived.  He waited tensely for the signal, no longer thrusting himself into the dying fuck’s asshole.  He didn’t need to any longer, once he felt—there, that tight trembling in the rigid boymeat as the progressive damage reached a tipping point in the fuckwad’s dying brain—

 

Buddy’s death load was intense.  The violence even caught Dave by surprise; evidently, for all his whining and squealing, the little cunt had been a major pain pig deep down inside.

 

As the fuckmeat thrashed, it clutched Dave to itself with phenomenal strength, its fingers digging into his shoulders as its legs kicked and flailed with such convulsive violence that it managed to pry one of its combat boots loose, causing it to slide halfway off.

 

While this was going on, its internal muscles were convulsing as well—its colon gripping and releasing Dave’s engorged, throbbing shaft like it was deliberately trying to jack him off.  “Aw, fuckin’-A!” the brawny leather-clad muscleman grunted.  Then he felt it—the sensation, almost like an electric shock, that told him he couldn’t hold off anymore; his balls were unloading.

 

With a single brutal tug, he gave Buddy’s collar one last powerful jerk.  A loud gristly cracking sound filled the room as the young punk’s trachea collapsed, steel spikes deeply embedded in the bloody mass of crushed tissue.

 

There was just enough of Buddy left to feel the burn, and for it to trigger the disgusting little pain pig’s orgasm.

 

For Dave, this was it.  This was his reason for being—young smooth nubile boymeat thrashing beneath him in its death agony, squirting jet after jet of hot creamy spunk across his hard, furry chest, to be smeared between them as they intertwined in an agonizing, erotic orgasm.  The hardbodied older man was aware of his own inarticulate, animalistic grunts as he hunched over the dead boy’s corpse, spewing what felt like a steady stream of searing manseed into it.  As he shot his wad, over and over, Dave continued to pin the flailing corpse to the bed and beat it, driving his gloved fist into Buddy’s vacant face repeatedly.

 

By the time he pulled his dick out of the corpse and rolled, gasping, onto his back next to it, Buddy had been thrashed to hamburger.  The fresh-faced twink was utterly unrecognizable.

 

Unwillingly, the sweaty, satisfied serial killer rolled off the bed, his thick-soled boots hitting the carpet with a loud thump.  He bent down and retrieved his belt from the floor, looping it back around his waist as he went out into the living area of the suite.  Rooting about in the wreckage of the coffee table, he recovered his vest—and Buddy’s leather cap.  Dave held it for a moment, considering, then walked back to the bedroom to try it on in front of the mirror.

 

Well, fuck it—wasn’t like Buddy had any further use for it.

 

He like the look, especially worn with the brim backwards.  He hadn’t wanted to damage the expensive lining of his vest by wearing it over his sweaty, cum-covered chest, so he’d simple looped it through his belt, leaving it to dangle—and himself shirtless.  As he admired his furry ripped abs, matted with the dead boy’s sperm in the mirror, he realized he could see Buddy in the reflection—the splayed, twitching corpse on the bed behind him, cum pooling and already congealing on its flat chest, one combat boot still kicking at the twisted sheet while the other was half off.  Even now, the corpse’s face had faded from jet black to a vivid fuchsia as the blood started to drain away from the front of the head.

 

It was a fuckin’ hot scene and Dave was proud of his work.  As he watched the faggot’s limp cock continue to ooze semen after death, the buff sadist fondled his nipples, feeling them get rock-hard.  He grinned at his own reflection in the mirror, then realized his own dick was stiffening again.  He massaged it for a moment as well, still admiring his own hairy muscular body in the foreground and the twink’s mauled, fucked-out corpse in the background—then put his tackle away.  Playtime was over; he needed to put a little distance between himself and his playmate.

 

Dave locked the suite door on his way out, but otherwise left all the interior doors open and lights on; he wanted his handiwork to be viewed under the best possible circumstances.

 

Out on the street, there was still a large crowd of conventioneers still milling about; more than before, in fact, since most of the bars and nightclubs had closed and so most were heading back to their rooms.  Directly outside the hotel door, Dave bumped into a pair of twinks.

 

One, a slender homo with long blond hair, looked up at him, awestruck.  “Hey, sweetie,” it cooed with a feminine voice, “My name’s Lee.  Wanna blowjob?”

 

Dave looked at it with a sneer of contempt.  “No thanks, faggot; just got one.  Still drippin’.”  He strode of down the street, his leather-clad physique drawing appreciative stares.

 

“Just my luck,” Lee sighed sadly, “Best hunk I’ve seen all week, and I get turned down.  I can’t win for losin’.  Hey, Todd, wait up—let’s go see if Buddy got laid!”

 

 


 

 

“So, Kracznik, whadda we got?” the Sarge barked out.  “I ain’t got time for details; just gimme the basics.”

 

“Easy enough,” the beat cop responded.  “Seems those two faggots out there—” he nodded indicating where Lee and Todd were sobbing in the outer room, “—got back a few hours ago and found this faggot here—” here he nodded at the battered remains of Buddy sprawled across the bed, ‘—a little bit ago.”

 

“Jesus, what is this—another homo convention?  Fuck, just write it up and move on.  There’s one or two of these killings every time one of these conventions happens and they don’t ever get solved.  Too many suspects, most from outta town.  And it ain’t like anyone gives a shit about faggots anyway.”

 

“So ya want me to call the crime scene folks?  I already contacted the coroner…”

 

“Yeah, Kracznik, go ahead.  But tell ‘em to get here fast, I can’t wait around all day.  And you need to get down to Wabash and Wacker, remember?  There’s that big protest in front of the Trump Tower and it’s all hands on deck.

 

Swearing, the beat cop left the bedroom, telling his partner in the living area to finish up taking the statements.  The Sarge looked around, shaking his head.  It was clear from the state of the suite that there had been an explosion of almost unimaginable sexual violence.  No forced entry—the little cocksucker had let his killer in voluntarily.

 

The Sarge snorted in disgust.  Faggot probably enjoyed it, at least up to a point.  Well, he damn sure wasn’t gonna worry about it; cocksuckers got what they deserved.

 

He took a closer look at the corpse, prying at the thick leather collar wrapped tightly around the corpse’s neck.  As he tugged at it, he noticed the spikes.

 

Jesus, this one really died ugly.  Bad way to die, not that the Sarge cared.  The boy had been pounded into meat, too, but it wasn’t anything the seasoned cop hadn’t seen before.  Happened to homos all the time.  He managed to build up a good head of indignation at the pansy for getting itself killed on his watch when the ME finally showed up.

 

He already knew he wasn’t gonna be reading Kracznik’s report; it was destined to be round-filed.  But that didn’t absolve him from filling out his own paperwork.  Turning over the crime scene to the ME, he headed out to the living area and confronted Lee and Todd with an expression of extreme disgust.  “C’mon, I want you two nancy-boys down at the station to sign yer statements.  Get moving; I ain’t got time to waste on dead pansies.”

 

Behind him, the fucked-out, cum-covered corpse of the son of a Republican state supreme court judge was dumped unceremoniously into a plastic body bag.

Cuttin’ Down Ebony Woods, Part Two

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

These faggot coons needed to suffer.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

They needed no further encouragement.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Both coons were on the verge of cumming.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Meat Chronicles 20–Transformation of a Twink

He says his name’s Derek and he can’t be any older than eighteen.  He’s got glossy black hair and a brownish skin tone that makes me think he’s Latino, but there’s no trace of an accent.  And with that name; well, maybe he’s just really tanned.

 

Whatever.  He’s also completely fucked; he just doesn’t know it yet.

 

I spot him on the side of the road beside an ancient, beat-up Ford Probe.  He’s leaning back against the car, surreptitiously trying to toke on a joint as he eyes the passing cars.  His firm, lithe young body is more than adequately displayed in a navy-blue muscle shirt that shows his smooth bulging biceps.  His long, thick legs are highlighted by a pair of worn and pale jeans, skintight, that he’s tucked into his kicks—an expensively tacky pair of Nike Air Force 1 boots, bright red.

 

Of course I have to pull over.

 

He stubs out the joint shiftily and approaches the passenger side of my van.  I roll down the window.  “Need some help?” I ask, keeping my face open and friendly.

 

He brushes some stray hairs out of his face and grins up at me, his dark eyes bloodshot.  The punk is high as a fuckin’ kite.

 

“Yeah, dude, th’ POS fuckin’ died,” he replies dreamily.  “Was gonna call up some homies to come get me but m’ phone is dead too.”

 

“That’s a lotta shit to die at once,” I riposte with a wicked grin, “Get in and I’ll give ya a lift.  You can re-fire that jay, if ya want.”

 

And that’s all it takes to lure the stoned fuckmeat into my van.

 

He tells me his name and where he’s going—something about picking up booze for a party with his bros, but I’m not listening to the details.  I’m busy maneuvering through traffic towards a certain abandoned warehouse I know of, where I can find the necessary privacy.  Luckily, the teen is too fucked up to notice where we are until I actually pull into the warehouse lot and head for a secluded loading bay.

 

“Hey, man,” Derek says with a cough as he exhales a thick haze of blue smoke, “Where are we?  I was gonna have ya go by Bart’s Liquor over on Adams, it’s kinda my favorite—”

 

“Shut up, motherfucker,” I bark.  He starts, his eyes opening wide.  Then he laughs; a boyish sound, almost endearingly goofy.

 

I pull out my blackjack.  Actually, it’s just a pair of socks, one inside the other, filled with marbles.  He stops laughing and focuses blearily on it.

 

“What-what’s that for?” he asks hesitantly.

 

“It’s to put yer lights out, asswipe.  An’ once I do that, I’m gonna rape yer ass and kill ya.  Yer about to die, cocksucker.”

 

I love this part.  There’s something so erotic about the look of stunned confusion in a teen’s face as he realizes what I’m about to do to him.  And this one is no different—in fact, he’s better.  He’s so stoned it takes him some time to process my words.  I can watch him working it out, his smooth features twisting with the unaccustomed effort of thinking.

 

He’s a stupid little fuckwad.  My dick is so fuckin’ hard at the thought of putting him in pain…

 

He’s finally caught on.  “Wha—wha—wait, wha’d you say?”

 

“Time to die, twinkie.”

 

The blackjack makes a deep, solid “thunk” sound as it connects with his right temple.  Kid’s too fucked up to even flinch.  He goes limp in the seat.

 

I get out of the driver’s seat and slip into the rear to check my gear.  I don’t need much, just a box cutter for access and a pair of thick industrial zip ties.  Then I unbuckle his seatbelt and drag him into the rear—and at that point the transformation is complete.

 

Derek no longer exists.  There’s no more “he”; there’s only an “it” that exists for my pleasure.  And I’m gonna make goddam sure it pleasures me.

 

I could simply pull the clothes off but I like cutting them off.  Well, not fully cutting—I just nick the collar of the fucker’s shirt, then rip it off its smooth torso, rubbing my hands over its pecs, pinching and twisting the large dark nipples…

 

…it starts moaning.  I decide to leave the jeans and boots on.  Quickly rolling the semi-conscious boymeat over, I slice its jeans open—a straight slash down the crack of the ass that I pull wide to reveal two golden globes, covered with a faint peach fuzz and no underwear at all.

 

Having cut myself access to the teen’s fuckhole, I flip it back over.  Just as its eyelids start to flutter, I unzip its fly and pull out the punk’s long tube of dickmeat.  Motherfucker has an impressive cock—nowhere near as thick or long as mine, as it’s about to find out, but not bad.

 

I like a nice stiff piece of meat as much as the next dude.  I place one of the zip ties around the meat’s rod and scrote, tightening it past the pain of pleasure—well into the tissue damage zone.  Instantly, the teen’s shaft begins to turn purple and go rigid.

 

I don’t need any help for my own dick.  I pull off my t-shirt, and whip out my hog—but like the meat, I keep my jeans and boots on.  The treaded soles of my combat boots help me to maintain traction on the floor of the van as I raise the fuckmeat’s legs and expose its ass.

 

It’s just waking up as I plow my swollen, engorged rod into its tight teenage asshole.

 

It starts squealing and squeaking; the meat always does.  Stupid little punks are getting the best fuck of their lives, and they never appreciate it.  At least, not this early on; they need encouragement.  Time to give this kid some.

 

“Shaddap, ya worthless sack a’ fuckmeat,” I snarl and pop it in the face, hard.

 

The impact knocks the breath out of it momentarily; it can only moan and gasp, looking at me with eyes wide with fear and pain.  Well, one eye—the other is already swelling…

 

I plunge my erect cock into the kid’s colon again, the huge purple head probing deep into the fucker’s tender guts.  The virgin asshole feels so goddam good around my hard, unyielding manshaft; I can feel my tool tearing remorselessly at the boy’s fragile innards.

 

The meat shudders and sobs; it’s in fucking agony.  Good.

 

“Ya think that hurts, ya fuckin’ cocksucker?  You ain’t felt nothing yet; by the time I’m done, you’ll be in so much pain you’ll be begging to die!”

 

I lean down closer, letting my rough stubble scrape the fucker’s cheek while I whisper in its ear, “Only, ya won’t have to beg.  See, I’m gonna keep hurtin’ ya till I cum, and the only thing that’s gonna make me cum is watchin’ ya die.  Got it, fuckwad?  Then let’s get goin’; I gotta a huge wad to unload today.”

 

It starts beating at my chest.  It’s so cute, the way the twink’s fists thump helplessly against my massive pecs; it’s almost as if my fucktoy is giving me a nice chest massage.  I laugh in its tear-stained face.

 

Deep inside the red Nike boots propped on my shoulders, I can feel the little cunt’s toes curl in sexual agony as my huge, vein-wreathed manshaft reams its fuckhole like I’m snaking a drain.  The fucker’s shrieks and screams rise in pitch with every deep thrust of my powerful hips; the sound is grating on my nerves.

 

“Why is it every motherfucker I bang ends up bein’ a screamer?” I ask the meat conversationally, then punch it in the face again.  I plowed into the teen’s jaw mid-squeal, slamming its trap shut and causing it to bite its lip.  Its eyes rolled back momentarily in its head; blood trickled down its chin as it moaned groggily.

 

“Fuck, I can feel that shit all the way down on my dick,” I tell the stunned teen, “Goddam, cunt, your fuckhole gets nice an’ tight each time. Ya like that, dontcha, ya sick motherfucker?  Yeah?  Ya like a real man beatin’ yer teen face to a fuckin’ pulp?  Well, why didntcha just say so, asswipe?”

 

Like a coiled spring, my strong bicep flexes three times in quick succession, bashing the adolescent punk viciously in the mouth and nose.  The latter breaks with a wet squelch; the meat coughs up its left incisor and gurgles incoherently.

 

“Ok, cunt,” I tell the heaving teen fuck, “Enough foreplay.  I wanna shoot my load; I got other shit to do today.  Time to die, asshole.”

 

Before it can make another sound, I loop the remaining zip tie around its neck and cinch it tight.  I have to place one hand on the cuntboy’s throat and pull hard—real hard—with the other to get those last few notches through the clasp.

 

When I’m done, it’s so deep, it can’t be seen.

 

I’m kinda surprised; the teen meat reacts right away.  I thought I’d beat it down enough to accept its death and milk me with some nice convulsions, but it begins to struggle with renewed vigor.  The eyes open wide and almost immediately begin to bulge, even the blackened one.  After a few seconds, though, it becomes difficult to tell which eye had been blackened—the entire face is darkening to the same shade.

 

I hadn’t bound its hands; I like feeling my prey struggle.  At the moment, the punk’s clawing uselessly at its throat; even as the cute adolescent visage begins to distort in agony, I can still see the abject terror in the meat’s eyes.  Its smooth chest is slick with an ice-cold sweat squeezed from the pores as the nervous system begins to malfunction.

 

“Yer dyin’, motherfucker,” I jeer, staring hard into the huge dark panicked eyes and watching blood vessels burst into starburst shapes in the straining whites, “Does it hurt?  Didja expect this ta happen today when ya slipped on them expensive kicks and tight jeans—that ya’d be gettin’ fucked and snuffed while wearin’ ’em?  Fuck, dude, I knew I was gonna use yer corpse like a cumrag the moment I laid eyes on ya!”

 

My voice seems to cut through the meat’s mortal torpor.  It seems to focus on me—and then the hands come up, spastic, frantic, desperate.

 

My head bobs and weaves as I dodge the clawing fingers.  Goddamit, I thought I’d busted this fuckin’ bronco, but it keeps tryin’ to throw me.  Looks like it needs re-breaking.

 

Let’s start with the jaw.

 

Now that I’m pissed, my blows land with the force of a sledgehammer.  My build is enough to lure in any fags I wanna snuff, and the dumb cunts never stop and think about how easy it is for me to overcome them and waste their pansy asses.  Now this one is learning that lesson the hard way.  The first slug only knocks two teeth out; it’s the second that gives me that nice satisfying snap that I only get by breaking a bone.

 

It works, at least to an extent; the boymeat clutches my shoulder, wallowing in excruciating pain, a thick, choking, gurgling sound seeping from its misshapen mouth.  Without a clenched jaw to hold it in place, the punk’s swollen, purple tongue, lubed by a froth of drool, begins to protrude from between the twisted blue lips.

 

The motherfucker’s tongue isn’t the only swollen, purple appendage generating its own lube.  The twink’s long dick is not only oozing precum, it’s pulsing visibly and rapidly—it seems to be in sync with the cunt’s pulse, which is speeding as it hurtles towards asphyxia.  It’s hot, too; the kid’s dick feels like a bar of heated iron as it smacks against my ripped abs with each brutal thrust of my cock.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, bro,” I tell the meat reassuringly, “Ya know it now, dontcha?  Ya know the only thing yer worthless fag ass is good fer is milking out my hot thick potent manseed as you kick and die, yeah?  An’ it’s gettin’ ya hard as a rock.  Stupid faggot teenagers, yer all alike—I gotta beat some sense into ya before you accept the inevitable.  But then, ya like gettin’ beat, right, assfuck?”

 

I’m fairly certain it can still understand me.  It’s taking it a long time to die, and it feels so fucking good on my throbbing shaft—the boymeat is writhing, almost undulating, as it rides me.  The hands are still on my shoulders but the grip is loosening.  The cunt is drooling heavily now; irreversible brain damage is setting in.  It gives me one last despairing look.

 

I punch it in the face again and that’s all the fucker is waiting for.  The convulsion is violent; the orgasm even more so.

 

At some point the teen’s feet had slipped off my shoulders and were now around my waist.  I’d thought nothing about it at the time but now the firm adolescent thighs tighten around my waist in a vise grip.  The arms, with a sudden jerk, encircle my neck, and before I know it the fuckmeat has me in the mindless, intense embrace of violent muscle spasm.

 

Fuck yeah, man, this is it.  This is what I was waiting for–dead smooth young boymeat milking my rod.  As it shudders, clutching me tight, I can feel its thick rigid pole suddenly pulse and spurt; an intense liquid warmth spreading over my belly oh fuck yeah dude fuck yeah FUCK FUCK FUCK

 

I cum again and again, vaguely aware that I’m raining blows on the dead kid’s face with each wad I blow up its ass.  It seems to go on forever. I cum so hard it hurts.

 

Damn, this one was good.  And it feels good to be back on the hunt again.

 

I use the meat’s shirt to wipe all the cum off me, then open the back doors of the van and toss the shirt out.  Tucking my dick back in and putting my own shirt back on, I roll the shuddering fagmeat out of the van, letting it hit the ground like a sack of garbage.  After all, no one saw me pick the cunt up, and the face is damn near unrecognizable anyway.  And I really do have things to do this afternoon.

 

One of the teen’s Nike AF boots is still twitching as I close the doors and drive off, leaving the dead adolescent sprawled on the hot, cracked asphalt under the baking sun.

 

Anyone know how long that bank over on Fifth is open on Wednesdays?  I wanna ask about financing for a new van…

 

Trucker 18–Trucker vs Teen Fuckmeat

It was when he got off the interstate in Holbrook that the Trucker first began to notice how the wind was picking up.  While it was true that winter driving in the Arizona desert didn’t have the same dangers as, say, the Midwest, it was still cold—and now the wind was building.

 

An even colder front was moving in, and the straight-line winds were expected to be intense for the next twelve hours.  He was headed for a little place in the national forest south of Zeniff—a small consignment load—but he didn’t need to be there till tomorrow evening.  Might be a good idea to pull over and let the front pass through.

 

And anyway, he was overdue for a kill.

 

The urge had been building in him again; he was almost surprised how quickly it’d come back.  But the need to beat a faggot to a pulp and drain his balls into its quivering meat was almost overwhelming.  Maybe he’d find a playtoy at the next stop.

 

If there was a next stop.  The empty desert receded into the darkness on all sides surrounding the Trucker’s rig; as the wind increased, though visibility decreased as dust began to billow across the two-lane state highway.  Suddenly, the Trucker noticed a hazy glow in the distance.

 

It turned out to be an intersection in what was literally a one-traffic-light town.  A county road crossed the highway; to the south was a small cluster of ramshackle frame houses.  To the north, nothing was visible in the immediate area.  All four corners of the intersection were occupied.

 

To the Trucker’s immediate left was a truck stop—a small one, not part of a chain.  It’d give him a place to park, but it didn’t appear to have many amenities.  Two trucks were already in the lot, one hauling a Walmart trailer, the other a refrigerated unit.  On the other side of the county road was an ancient motor court motel, complete with neon sign.  Most of the neon was out, but enough remained for the Trucker to make out the name “Ranch Hand’s Rest”.

 

Continuing counter-clockwise, across the highway a dollar store, now closed for the night but with its parking lot still brightly lit.  The remaining corner was occupied by a fast-food joint, also closed for the evening.

 

The Trucker eased his rig into the lot and circled in the back, pulling around so that it was facing back out.  No sense in wasting valuable time later on trying to turn the thing around.  Once he was satisfied with his parking job, he killed the engine and climbed out.

 

He paused for a moment to zip his black leather aviator jacket up against the cold wind; underneath, he was wearing nothing but a thin cotton t-shirt.  His muscled legs, wrapped in tight, faded jeans, powered him swiftly across the parking lot towards the truck stop.  The heavy tread of his black Chippewa logger boots was almost muffled by the ragged gusts of icy air.

 

The air inside the truck stop wasn’t icy, but it was far less pleasant, heavily laden as it was with grease and the scorched scent of food that had been sitting under a heat lamp for too long.  The cashier, it appeared, also had to maintain a small “deli” with offerings of hard, dry chicken tenders, rubbery breakfast tacos and pizzas pooled with red grease.  There were a couple of booths between the counter and the racks of merchandise, but the entire place seemed empty.

 

“Men’s room?” the Trucker barked at the half-asleep cashier.

 

“In the back on the left,” she said with a jerk of her head to indicate the direction, then became instantly engrossed in her phone again.

 

The doorway to the rear hall was between two wall coolers.  The hallway was short, starkly lit, paved with tile, had two doors for two restrooms—and a boy.

 

He was leaning against the far wall, near the door to the men’s room, and he was eyeing the Trucker pretty openly.  He looked young—late teens at most, way too young to be whoring himself out.  And he was dressed like a typical teenager in a white fleece hoodie, skin-tight skinny jeans and white canvas Vann SK8-HIs.

 

But the way he leaned against the wall, one leg thrust out and bent back at the knee so the sole of his sneaker was on the wall—and the deep glittering light of lust in his large brown eyes…

 

The Trucker headed into the men’s room.  No sense rushing anything.  He’d let the kid make the first move; if the little fuck was looking for some dick, well, the Trucker would be happy to oblige.  He had plenty of dick to offer, and a lot more to go with it.

 

He was still standing at the urinal, grinning and pounding out piss, when he heard the door open behind him.  He didn’t even need to look to know it was the boy.

 

“How much to suck my cock, boy?” he asked evenly.

 

There was a faint gulp behind him, then the kid’s voice stammered forth, “Tw-twenty bucks.  Up-up front.”

 

“Not in here.  You got a place?”

 

“Uh, yeah—over in the motel.”

 

Without responding, the Trucker shook off his massive hog, shoved it back into his jeans, and stepped to the sink to wash his hands.  In the mirror, he could see the boy waiting anxiously behind him.  Even in the reflection, the thick bulge in the kid’s crotch was visible, and the way the boy kept rubbing his hand over it didn’t make it any less obvious.

 

The hulking sadist saw his own smile grow more pointed.  The little faggot wanted it bad.  And bad was exactly what he was gonna get.

 

“Okay,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, “Get out.  Wait for me outside.”

 

The kid blinked and paused for a moment.  “Uh—okay.  I’ll be out on the curb.  Name’s, uh, name’s Quinn…”

 

The Trucker ignored him.  There was another pause, then the kid left.

 

After washing up, the Trucker casually strolled back into the store and bought a cup of black coffee.  Figuring enough time had gone by to disassociate him from the boy, he headed back outside, sipping at his cup.

 

The coffee tasted like diesel fuel, but the fuckmeat was exactly where he was supposed to be.  The kid seemed eager, almost bouncing on the toes of his hightops.  “C’mon, this way,” he called out as the Trucker approached him.  The boy began to cross the street.  “I’ve got the one on the end, right here.  See?  Real close.  Got an arrangement with the manager; I get the same one every weekend.  Not like there’s enough business to hafta worry about it bein’ booked…”

 

The Trucker let the punk babble away, focusing his attention on the way the kid’s tight jeans cradled the firm mounds of his asscheeks and anticipating what it’d feel like to force the swollen purple head of his cock between them.

 

“…and man, if my folks found out what I was doin’, I’d be in such deep shit.  I mean, fuck, dude, I got my big bro’s car while he’s off at school—he’d beat the shit outta me if he knew.  And my dad…”

 

The boy kept on, the silent footfalls of his Vanns drowned out by the heavy tread of the Trucker’s Chippewas, as he led the way back to his room—and to his doom.

 

As he’d said, it was the room on the end, marked with a small plastic plaque inscribed “17”.  Directly in front of the door sat a black 2010 Mustang convertible—the car the little fuck wasn’t supposed to be driving.  It was one of three cars in the lot—and one of those, parked way over by the office, was evidently the night clerk’s.

 

Inside, the quality of the motel matched its occupancy rate.  As the Trucker leaned back against the door on surreptitiously engaged both the deadbolt and the chain lock, he glanced around to take a quick survey of the room.

 

The room was unpleasantly dim, with cheap worn carpeting in a shade of dark green not popular since the seventies—from which decade the dark, splintery plywood paneling seemed to come as well.  There was a bed, covered by a scratchy polyester comforter with a gaudy floral pattern, with a nightstand that held a phone, a digital alarm clock and metal lamp with a dented shade.

 

There was a desk/dresser combo unit, cigarette burns scattered over its surface like chicken pox.  The mirror over the desk section was intact but badly warped; just looking at the skewed reflection made the Trucker dizzy.  A small flat screen TV stood on the dresser, pointed at the bed, next to it was a cable box.

 

Just past the dresser was the opening into the restroom.  Even from the entrance, the Trucker could see the cracks in the grout between the ancient white tiles.  And it didn’t take a drug-sniffing dog to determine the bathroom was the source of the overpowering scent of cheap antiseptic that almost—but not quite—drowned out the reek of stale cigarette smoke.  Not that the AC unit was helping the air quality.  Located under the front window, it rattled and clanked like a rollercoaster as it exuded fetid puffs of dry, scorching air into the already-overheated room.

 

While the Trucker scoped out the room, Quinn pulled off his hoodie, showing that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.  The skin on his slim, boyish torso was firm and clear.  There was a faint down of hair on his flat belly, but otherwise his chest was smooth but for his large pink nipples.

 

“I get paid first, dude.  Sorry, but it’s a house rule.  Gotta have the cash up front,” he said casually as he sat on the bed and kicked off his sneakers—they were loosely laced and left untied for easy on/off action, it seemed.

 

The Trucker, in the middle of sliding off his leather jacket, grinned.  “Sure,” he said nonchalantly as he folded the jacket over the back of the chair by the desk.  He dug into his back pocket and fished out his wallet, taking a twenty out and replacing the wallet.  The kid wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy trying to peel his skin-tight jeans off.  The Trucker palmed the bill and pulled his own t-shirt off, laying it over his jacket.

 

Finally out of his clothes—he’d been freeballing under the jeans—Quinn slipped his kicks back on and stood up.  “Hey, I gotta hit the restroom real quick; you wanna—”

 

He broke off at his first glimpse of the Trucker half-dressed, wearing only his jeans and laced workboots.  The twink’s greedy little eyes went straight to the glittering point of light in the middle of the hunk’s muscular, fur-covered chest—the Trucker’s dogtags, nestled in the dark mass of wiry fur between the huge mounds of his pecs.

 

Quinn’s dick, already hard, began to visibly pulsate.  Smirking, the Trucker held out the twenty.  The boy gulped and reached out for it unsteadily, still focused on the stud’s amazing physique.  “I, uh…thanks…” he mumbled, turning and laying on the nightstand.  As he turned, he heard the unmistakable sound of the Trucker unzipping his fly.

 

He was right.  When he turned back around, the hardbodied killer had managed to extract the full length of his enormous, vein-wrapped horsedick.

 

Despite Quinn’s obvious desire to get to the bathroom, the Trucker’s cock hypnotized him like a snake hypnotizing its prey.  And though Quinn had no way of knowing it yet, its venom was just as deadly.

 

The slow, steady of movement of the Trucker removing his belt broke the trance.  The clank of the large brushed-silver buckle and the stealthy sound of the inch-and-a-half wide strap of black leather sliding among the denim loops stirred something in Quinn.

 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back…” he said hesitantly, then darted into the bathroom and locked the door.  Behind him, the Trucker laid the belt over his shirt and jacket.  He could afford to be patient.

 

Quinn wasn’t as quiet in the bathroom as he thought he was; even through the closed door, the Trucker could hear the click of a lighter and the hissing, bubbling sound of the kid inhaling some kind of drug.  In a small town like this, that probably meant meth.

 

Well, that was fine.  Little fuck should be off his guard when he came out.

 

The Trucker was right.  Thirty seconds later and high as fuck, Quinn stepped out of the bathroom with a big grin on his face and a big erection between his legs.  “Hey, man, yer gonna hafta take it easy with that big dick you—”

 

The Trucker sucker-punched the teen in the jaw.  Stunned, Quinn slammed back into the bathroom door, then slumped to the floor—not unconscious, but too dazed to be functional.  He was aware that the buff older man had hit him, and had then moved away.

 

“Wh-wh-wh…” he tried to start, but speaking hurt.  A lot.

 

Then he heard a harsh slapping sound—a single slap, actually, repeated slowly and menacingly.  Painfully turning his head, Quinn tried to see what was happening.

 

He was at ground level, looking across.  The first thing he could see were the untied laces of the Trucker’s dirty, well-worn Chippewas.  Raising his eyes up the thick, denim-clad legs, he was again confronted by the sadist’s frighteningly huge cock.  But the source of the sound was above that.  Quinn looked up to see the cruel serial killer standing over him with the doubled-over belt in one hand, ginning and slapping the palm of his other hand with it.

 

“Wh-whath’fuck?” the young faggot managed to mutter.

 

“Just gonna have a little fun, dude,” the Trucker chuckled, his deep bass voice vibrating the root of Quinn’s cock, still somehow semi-hard even after the assault.  “Just gonna beat the fuck outta ya, rape yer worthless homo ass, and snuff ya—don’t that sound like fun?”

 

Quin glanced up in disbelief just in time to see the Trucker’s powerful arm snap downward.  Cringing, the lean teenager threw his left arm up to block the blow.  It turned out to be an excruciating maneuver.  Even doubled over, the thick leather strap hit the boy’s arm with such force, it wrapped itself around it momentarily.  With sadistically perfect timing, the Trucker viciously jerked the belt back towards himself.

 

The snapping of the bones in Quinn’s forearm breaking was less noticeable than the shearing sound as an inch-and-a-half wide strip of the outer layer of skin completely circling his arm was flayed off.

 

For a moment, the amateur boywhore sat wide-eyed, staring in horror at his raw, dangling forearm—then the pain hit and he screamed.  Briefly.

 

“Shaddap,” the Trucker snarled and lashed him across the face.

 

That got a quick, loud shriek, then the boy collapsed to the floor.  The Trucker stood over him for a moment, looking down, gloating, and fondling his stiff manhood.  Then he dug into the pockets of his folded jacket, pulled out his pack of Marlboros and leaned back to burn one as the punk queerboy sobbed sloppily on the floor.

 

“You lucky-ass motherfucker,” he jeered, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the already stale air of the motel room, “You get to take my load.  I was lookin’ for some hot boymeat for a beatdown and a good pump an’ dump—an’ there you were.  Course, a dumbass teen fag like you takes a lotta beatin’ ‘fore its ready for my dick.”  He paused for effect, taking another drag.  The fuckmeat was still sniveling, but it was listening.

 

Good.  It needed to know what to expect.  It needed to be prepared to receive his shaft, and that meant a good manual tenderizing.

 

He stubbed out his smoke.  “Ready, motherfucker?  I’m gonna beat ya like a bitch, just cause it gets my dick hard to hurt teenaged faggots before I dick ‘em down.  Got it?  Then let’s get started.”  Standing over the prone youth, he brandished the belt again, wielding it like a whip and brought it down on smooth, silky flesh of Quinn’s back with a sound like a pistol shot.

 

This time Quinn didn’t squeal or shriek; he flat-out screamed.  The intense, slashing pain across his tender adolescent flesh was too much to endure.  He scrabbled wildly on the floor on all fours like an animal, then, regaining his feet as if by magic, bolted right past the Trucker, heading for the door.

 

The Trucker lunged after him, more out of rage that the faggot was trying to avoid what was coming to it than out of any concern it would get free.  His experience with snuffing homos in motel rooms served him well; Quinn managed to get the deadbolt unlocked with the hand on his working arm, but maddened by pain and terror, fumbled uselessly with the chain.  The twink slut’s escape attempt was as useless as everything else in his wasted life.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then was whirled around and pinned up against the door, slamming it shut again.  Then, before the young cunt could say anything, plead for its life, anything—the Trucker’s right hand shot out and clamped around its throat like a vise.  Quinn gagged involuntarily, his eye wide as his air was cut off and he was literally deadlifted straight off the floor.

 

As his hightops drummed against the door, Quinn could see the massive bicep of the Trucker’s arm bulging with seemingly effortless power while holding him off the ground.  The buff older man tossed the belt over his shoulder, then reached out with his left hand, over Quinn’s shoulder—and re-locked the deadbolt.

 

“Where ya think yer goin’ motherfucker?” the Trucker asked Quinn with a cold, hard grin on his hyper-masculine face, “This party ain’t even got started yet, you cunt.  I gotta work off a little stress before I can settle down and choke yer faggot life out with my dick up yer ass.  I toldja that already, but you small-town homos gotta have everything beaten into ya, right, dumbass?”

 

Quinn, his face purple and swelling, was in no position to answer back.  His legs and his good arm scrambled frantically as he dangled and choked in the sadistic serial killer’s powerful grip.  He pawed frenetically at the Trucker’s broad chest.  The stud’s pecs, hard as marble, suffered no visible damage from the twink’s one-handed onslaught, but once Quinn curled his fingers in the older man’s wiry chest hair and began pulling, the dying punk became a nuisance.  And when he caught the Trucker’s dogtags inadvertently and nearly yanked them off, the buff psycho had had enough.  He spun around and flung Quinn through the air with the ease of a rag doll.

 

Violent motion, an even more violent impact, then a hazy darkness filled with pain were what Quinn experienced next.  He didn’t know he’d been thrown into the dresser and that his smooth young teen body had broken the mirror and smashed the television before it fell back limp to the floor.  What he did know, when he became aware of his surroundings, was that he was in agony—and he could hear that slapping sound again.

 

The guy was coming back.  The hot, sexy guy, the one he’d wanted so bad…the one who was hurting him so bad…

 

Quinn forced his eyes open.  Again, he was at ground level.  Again, those dirty Chippewa boots were approaching…but this time, he knew what it meant.  But he’d let his mind wander.  He was only vaguely aware of the sudden movement of his assailant, and didn’t even have time to flinch as the Trucker swung the belt at him again.

 

Except this time, it wasn’t a single swing.

 

As Quinn cowered and squealed like a pig under the repeated lashes of the heavy belt, the muscle-bound sadist felt his huge, stallion-like shaft begin to pulse and ooze with bloodlust.  Every loud slap of leather on skin, every bleat of agony from the crouching, helpless teen slut, propelled another drop of hot precum out of the thick purple head of his dick.

 

Then, for a moment, it stopped.  The Trucker stepped away, fired up another smoke, and observed his prey for a moment.

 

The youth’s back was no longer the smooth expanse of pale silky skin it had been before.  The Trucker’s foreplay had left the slut covered in red, angry welts.  On at least two occasions, the violent lashing had broken the boy’s skin, and a thin trickle of blood was creeping down the whimpering kid’s flank.

 

The Trucker took another drag, walked back to the prone, shuddering punk and knelt down by his head.  He exhaled the smoke into the cunt’s face.  “Ya ready, motherfucker?” the buff killer asked jovially.  “Ready to die on my cock like a worthless fag?”

 

Quinn was swimming in a sea of pain, but he was aware enough to understand what was being said to him.

 

“N-no…” he gasped, turning his huge, tear-filled eyes up to his tormentor in desperation, “Pl-please…no-no…”

 

“You ain’t ready?” the Trucker taunted in mock surprise, “Ok, I guess I need to kick some sense into ya, huh?”

 

And without another work, he drew back his foot and kicked Quinn in the side with his steel-toed work boot, hard enough to break two of the little fuck’s ribs in several places.  The writhing cunt’s shrieks of pain began to annoy the brutal sadist; his next kick was directly to Quinn’s face, silencing the faggot by breaking his jaw.  The boy continued to sob and moan as the Trucker kicked him twice more in the flank, breaking more ribs and further shattering the ones he’d already broken.

 

By the time the Trucker stopped kicking Quinn and, shoving the toe of a boot under him, flipped him over onto his back, the teen homo was bleeding internally from half a dozen wounds to his guts caused by bone shards.  As he lay on his back, gasping, his sweet young face a bloody wreck, the Trucker leaned over him, spit in his face, then stomped him twice, leaving the imprint of the deep tread of his boots imprinted on the boy’s flat belly.  Then he bent down and ground out the glowing butt of his smoke on the whore’s smooth, tender flesh.  It sizzled for a moment before the sadistic alpha reached out for the boymeat again.

 

Quinn’s entire universe had shrunk to a tiny bubble of agony; trapped inside it, the kid wasn’t able to realize that the hardbodied psycho had picked him up by the throat again—the young cunt couldn’t breathe anyway.  And he was barely able to register the sense of flight as he was flung like garbage across the room again.

 

He damn sure felt it when he hit the wall and crushed a hole in the drywall, though.  He felt it even more when he fell back and smashed the nightstand, sending everything on it crashing to the floor.  And even as he bounced back, to lay stretched and trembling across the bed, he could hear a jangling noise that made him look up.

 

The Trucker had looped the belt around his own neck at some point—the noise was the silver buckle striking the dogtags as the powerful sadist closed in.  As Quinn watched, the older man slowly drew the belt from his neck.  Grinning with evil lust, he held the looped leather strap out as he approached the trapped, defenseless teenager.

 

And Quinn realized that the moment that strap got around his neck, he was dead.  Even if he hadn’t been injured, he was in no way strong enough to fend off the hairy, muscled serial killer he’d willingly invited in.

 

The Trucker tossed the belt down onto the bed next to Quinn’s head; the boy would have grabbed for it but for his broken arm—and the fact that he was paralyzed by terror.  The sinewy, hulking killer loomed over him, grinning with obviously sadistic intent, the slowly turned and paced to the end of the bed, letting Quinn get a look at the way his lat muscles tensed and flowed and the tight bunching of his glutes as he walked.  The man literally exuded power in his pheromones and his physique managed to inspire Quinn with both lust and despair—the latter because the more he saw of the Trucker, the more futile he felt any escape attempt to be.

 

The hardbodied stud stopped at the foot of the bed, grabbed the teen’s legs, and parted them effortlessly, despite Quinn’s best attempts to keep them closed.  It didn’t matter.  Nothing he did mattered.  And then there was a sudden pressure against his sphincter—

 

“Keep fightin’ it, faggot, I love when th’ meat squirms on my thick fuckin’ manshaft,” the Trucker sneered, and shoved.

 

Quinn screamed.  Loud and shrill, it was torn from the depths of his slim teenaged body as the older man’s huge cock plowed through his rectum like a runaway train, ripping his asshole mercilessly as it pounded his prostate and plunged into his intestines.  In the nightmarish waves of searing pain that pummeled his lithe, smooth form with each brutal thrust of the Trucker’s hips, the young homo wasn’t aware that his own tube of boymeat was stiffly slapping his rapist’s ripped abs—and was already smearing the Trucker’s belly fur with teen precum.  He just kept screaming.

 

Not for long, though.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ bitch,” the Trucker grunted and punched Quinn in the face, rocking his head back.  The kid moaned and peered blearily up at his assailant through his right eye—the left one was already swelling and turning black.

 

“Fuck yeah, ya dumbass cunt,” the sick stud growled as he placed the punk’s legs on his shoulders and dug his work boots into the sheets for better traction, “Now yer feelin’ me, yeah?  Huh?  Lemme know if you can feel this!”  He began to ride the teenaged slut like a bronco, pounding his shaft so hard and so fast into Quinn’s colon that his huge scrote slapped the boy’s hormone-filled balls like billiards, striking with such force that it damn near bruised the kid’s sack.

 

Instinctively, Quinn closed his eyes and tried to struggle, but the heavy mass of the muscled stud pinned him down prostrate on the bed.  He could hear a jingling somewhere but didn’t connect it to the Trucker’s dogtags until he felt the cold metal on his chest.  He opened his eyes—to the extent he could open the left—and found the older man’s hard, unshaven face next to his.

 

“It’s been fun, fuckmeat, but I gotta get some rest.  Time to blow a load and go catch some Z’s.  Time to die.”

 

He held up the belt, giving the terrified cocksucker a gentle smile that he couldn’t hold.  It broadened into a shark-like grin almost immediately.

 

“Ready to get yer pitiful life choked out, faggot?”

 

The lithe young teen was in more pain and more fear than he could have believed possible, but the thought of being released from his torment into the dark freedom of death filled him with cold terror.  “No, please,” he whimpered, “Please, don’t—”

 

The Trucker looped the belt back through its buckle, making a simple noose.  Quinn kept babbling.

 

“Oh fuck no, please, please, oh god, please, for fuck’s sake don’t do this—”

 

The Trucker grinned again.  With his enormous rod still planted firmly in the boy’s ass, he slowly lowered the leather noose over the kid’s head.

 

“Oh god no please no fuck oh shit oh fuck don’t nonoNONO—GACK!!”

 

His pleas were choked off as the Trucker jerked the thick strap tight, sealing off Quinn’s windpipe and silencing the faggot forever.

 

The young homo fought with the strength left in him; consciously, he knew it was hopeless, but the animal midbrain in his adolescent mind continued to try to claw its way to air.  Sadly for the teen slut, the fact that he was flailing both arms in panic didn’t prevent him from feeling every last agonizing grind of bone on bone as his broken arm thrashed impotently.

 

His right arm and hand worked perfectly well, though.  The Trucker watched the cunt dig vainly at the leather belt sunk deep into its throat flesh.  As the lean teen body shuddered beneath him, his wiry body hair scraped the smooth young flesh.

 

Suddenly, Quinn changed his focus.  His hand came up, fingers hooked into talons, and he began to gouge at the older man’s face. The Trucker was still pumping steadily, feeling the sperm start to seethe in his overloaded, aching balls—he had no intention of taking any shit from a goddam sack of fuckmeat that was only still alive because he hadn’t cum yet.

 

He plowed his fist into its face three times in a row; fast, jackhammer blows that squashed the bitch’s nose like a rotten tomato, with a nice satisfying squelching sound, blackened its other eye and knocked out three teeth.

 

The last impact, the one that knocked out the teeth, was to the lower jaw.  But the dying meat had been without air long enough for its tongue to start swelling, protruding from between the blue lips with a gush of foamy drool.  The hardbodied stud’s sucker-punch snapped the jaw closed; the cunt bit through its tongue, damn near severing the tip.

 

“Fuckin’ take it,” the rutting alpha snarled, spitting in the fuckmeat’s face, his spittle flowing into the pink foam trickling down the punk’s face, “Take my fuckin’ dick and die, ya piece a’ shit!”

 

As their bellies slapped together in the throes of violently forced mansex, the Trucker could feel the teen’s hard, oozing cock being pressed against his furry ripped abs.  The little fuck was nearly brain-dead, but asphyxia and the vigorous prostate massage provided by brutal assrape kept its tool stiff and leaking.

 

The Trucker was almost there.  He could feel his seed starting to boil over, the electric tingling deep at the root of his gigantic rod that let him know he was about to spew his thick potent alpha load.  The meat needed to die.  Now.

 

It was almost there anyway.  Quinn was gone; all that was left was a convulsing sack of teen boymeat.  The swollen face, bruised and black, was unrecognizable.  The entire thrashing body was covered in cold death sweat, literally squeezed out of it along with its worthless life.  The cunt’s left arm was convulsing just as powerfully as the right, the broken limb flopping grotesquely about.

 

And still the boymeat drooled and gurgled.  The Trucker had to feel it die, had to feel that final clenching of its colon as it suffered its final agony.  It was easy enough to do.

 

He jerked the belt forward, roughly, swiftly, with one hand while swinging with the other fist, deep, piston-like punches that drove the fag’s skull savagely backwards.  As the thick strap around the spine went in one direction and the cranium on top of it went another, there was a loud crackling noise—the erotic sound of the teen fuckmeat’s top two cervical vertebrae shattering and slashing through its spinal column.

 

That was what the Trucker had been waiting for—that final intense overload of the central nervous system.  Oh fuck, the way the boycunt’s rectum seemed to collapse on his tool, almost sucking his scalding semen out—

 

“Fuck!” he cried out, “Fuck! Fuck! OH FUCK!!!”

 

He hunched over, his massive, muscle-bound body shuddering and convulsing itself as he pressed the still-thrashing corpse of the teenager beneath him, cursing and beating its face in.  Despite the intensity of his release, the alpha was dimly aware of a splash of warmth against his abs and up into his thick chest fur as the meat unloaded involuntarily during its death throes.  It didn’t matter.

 

The Trucker had so much cum to drain out of his balls he spent the next five minutes hosing the dead slut’s innards with his hot manseed.  After his scrote emptied, he spent another couple of minutes relaxing and catching his breath with his cock still jammed up the dead kid’s ass.  Finally, reluctantly, he took a deep breath, pulled his hog out of the corpse, and headed to the bathroom to wash up.

 

He wasn’t in any hurry.  He wasn’t in a position to know that the boycunt had spent the entire weekend whoring itself out, but he’d figured out enough to know that the little fuck was getting banged here on a regular basis.  And he’d made damn sure no one had seen them together, or had seen him enter this room.  Or even approach the motel, for that matter.

 

It took a few minutes to scrub the thick ropy strands of boyspunk out of his chest and belly fur, but he had enough experience to know that teen boys are cum bombs, full of semen, waiting to go off at any moment.  He was an expert at setting them off, and didn’t mind cleaning up some of the mess afterwards.

 

Only some of it, though.  As he re-entered the bedroom and slipped his shirt back on, he lit up a traditional after-sex cigarette and leaned back against the door, proudly surveying his handiwork.

 

The body was sprawled face-up on the bed, legs and arms both spread wide, with the left arm bent at an unnatural angle.  He’d left the belt where it was; it was sunk so deeply into the fucker’s neck, it’d probably have to be cut off.

 

Above the collapsed section of the esophagus, there was little recognizable of the boywhore once known as Quinn.  Even the hair was matted and dark with sweat.  The face was a grotesque swollen purple mask.  The body, aside from the left arm and some heavy bruising on the torso, was relatively unmarked, but the torso was completely smeared with cum.

 

The corpse’s feet still shuddered and kicked as random signals shot down its ruined nervous system.  One of the cunt’s Vann hightops had come off and was on the floor beside the bed; the Trucker could see the toes curling in death agony inside the ankle-high ped sock.  The other hightop sneaker scraped and jerked randomly over the cheap thin sheet.

 

The room itself was mute testimony to the violence of the Trucker’s need to cum.  The TV and mirror were in pieces on the floor, the wall over the head of the bed was damaged and the nightstand and its contents destroyed.

 

The hardbodied alpha grinned and finished his smoke.  Just looking at the scene made his cock throb again, but he needed sleep.  He slipped on his leather jacket and quickly left the room, setting the lock in the doorknob to engage as he left.  Whoever entered the room next would need a key.

 

It was past two in the morning as his Chippewa boots echoed on the pavement as he crossed back to his cab.  No one was out to see him.  He gave the truck stop itself a wide berth to avoid being spotted by anyone at the counter and made it back to his rig unobserved.  He slept for five hours and was back on the road again by half-past seven.  There was no sign of any disturbance as he left; the motel across the street, at that time of the morning, was dead as a doornail and silent as a tomb.

 


 

The call had come in at ten in the morning, and it damn sure wasn’t how the sheriff wanted to start his week.  A fuckin’ murder.  He hadn’t had to deal with a homicide in this place…ever.

 

And then that scene.  His deputy had come outta the room puking, and the sheriff couldn’t blame him.  That teenaged boy with his legs spread and a thick flow of dried glazed cum that had leaked from his asshole, the sheer cruelty and viciousness of the attack…

 

And the parents.  He’d traced them through the car.  They didn’t know he’d taken it.  And when they found out what had happened to their eighteen-year-old son, what he’d spent the past year doing in that little motel…

 

And the gossip.  He’d stomped on the local paper—there was only one little weekly—and made sure that the story didn’t get spread.  But everyone knew.  A fag murder, right in their town.  Even the homo’s parent suffered.  The car was towed to be processed for evidence; when they came to town from Zeniff to pick it up, three days later, their house was vandalized.

 

Goddam faggots, the sheriff mused.  Should all be killed.  Nothin’ but trouble.

 

 

Meat Chronicles 19–Halfpipe in the Park, Full Pipe Up the Ass

I first see them leaving the skate park and almost give them a pass; after all, if they were leaving the park, they were probably on their way home, right?  And they look like typical teenaged wigger punks; home is probably a nice suburban neighborhood with lots of security cameras.

 

Fuckin’ cameras ruin a good hunt.

 

But these boys…there’s something about them, something about the cocky arrogance of their young faces and the lustful wantonness of their hormone-filled bodies.  I turn around and pull over, giving them plenty of headway; they’re riding their boards and I don’t want to overtake them until I can figure out their destination.

 

It turna out to be an improvised skate park in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse some two miles east.  The low buildings of rusted metal are gaunt and desolate in the late afternoon sun.  There isn’t anyone for miles, not even any other skaters.  I pull quietly to the curb and watch the boys practice their moves, away from prying eyes—so they thought.

 

I can’t tell if they’re related.  They took a smoke break a few minutes back, the dark-haired one offering the ginger punk a Camel.  Willing to bet Camel boy is older than eighteen—the legal age for buying cigarettes in this state.  It’s just a guess, though; if he is over eighteen, it isn’t by much.

 

The redhead’s freckled face, squinting in the sunlight, looks younger than that of his companion, but I’m estimating him at seventeen, largely by his outfit.  He’s rigged out in full skater punk gear, from the ped socks and Etnies Fader 2 kicks to the shiny black and blue polyester ball shorts and black tank top with the Adidas logo in white, all kinda generic.  But like a true douchebag, he’s wearing a flat-brimmed ball cap with the sales tag still dangling from it.  It’s dark green with white piping and a white logo; I’m too far away to make out the logo, but I don’t need to.  Those colors are the colors of a high school not far from my home.  And that big squarish glint of gold on his finger is obviously a class ring.

 

So gingerboy is a high school senior and his douchebuddy is probably a recent graduate—jobless punk, just fuckin’ around.

 

Nobody’ll miss him.  Nobody’ll miss either of them.

 

I decide on a tried and true lure.  Quietly starting my van, I circle the block away from them. I light up a joint and quickly take a couple of deep hits, making sure that the cab reeks of weed.  I then whip a corner and come upon them suddenly, as if I didn’t know they were already there.

 

“Yo!  Dude!” I call out.  The older one is closer; he eyes me warily but comes towards me.

 

“Whatcha need, bro?” he asks cautiously.

 

His face is smooth except for a very faint haze of new hair growth on his cheeks and chin, and across his upper lip.  He’s wearing a gray knit cap pulled down over the tips of his ears, but his black hair is long enough to stick out underneath.  I like it.  I’ll let him keep his cap on as he dies.

 

He’s wearing a thin, tight tank top, gray on the front with the words “U Mad Bro?” in black.  Below a pair of faded red chino skater shorts, he’s got on a pair of Osiris NYC 83 hightops in brick red.  Little fuck thinks he’s stylin’…

 

“Hey, man,” I call out, an easy grin on my masculine face.  Nothing wrong here, motherfucker.  “I been drivin’ round for half an hour—where’s the fukkin’ highway?”

 

“It’s, uh, it’s that way,” the kid mutters, pointing to the left.

 

“Yeah, well, what I really wanna know is, where can I get some beer?”

 

Skaterboi becomes a little more enthusiastic about helping a stranger in need.

 

“Well, yeah, there’s this place…it’s kinda hard to find, though…”

 

He’s giving me an opening and I take it.

 

“Wanna show me the way?” I ask.  “I’ll getcha high on the way.”

 

He lights up, his youthful face glowing with pleasure; just looking at him makes my dick hard.  But then his expression clouds over and he looks anxiously back at gingercunt.

 

“Hey, it’s ok,” I grin, “I got enough room—and enough weed for him too.  Here, lemme pull into the lot and open up the back.  We’ll get good an’ fucked up before we pick up some brewskis.”

 

Now the kid’s all kinda cheerful and helpful.  “Hey, Steve!” he calls out, gesticulating at the redheaded punk, “Getcher ass over here!”

 

“Whassup?” Steve the ginger says, popping up his board into his hand and heading over.

 

“We gotta real bro here, man—he’s gonna get us high an’ then I’m gonna show ‘im how to get over to Wegel’s so we can get some brews!”

 

Gingerfuck lights up, too.  Goddam, this is like shootin’ fish in a barrel.  Stupid little asswipes actin’ like they’re big, swinging dicks in the world—lessee how big their dicks are when they’re ridin’ mine.

 

Having pulled into a space in the lot, I shut the engine off.  This neighborhood is as good as any, nice and isolated, but a few random vehicles parked here and there so my van doesn’t stand out.  I get out of the driver seat, my big black leather harness boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  I make sure the huge bulge of my manhood is visible in the crotch of my skintight but worn jeans.  These little cocksuckers are gonna see they’re dealin’ with a real man.

 

They don’t notice at first, as I slide open the door to the rear of the van; that’s ok.  I can wait.  They’ll have plenty of opportunity to notice my cock when it’s buried in their asses.  “C’mon inside, dudes,” I say jovially; both boys show their eagerness by hustling their lithe, smooth bodies with alacrity.  So young, so hot, so stupid—goddam, I can’t wait to off these little fucks.

 

“Hey, uh—” I call out to gingerfuck.

 

“Steve,” he hastens to remind me, “And he’s Jeff.”  Like I give a shit.

 

“Here ya go, Steve,” I say, tossing him a hard Marlboro box.  “Gotta couple of jays already rolled in there.  Y’all help yerselves; I got enough to roll one for me up here.”  And with that, I settle into the driver seat, waiting for the Xanax-laced joints to start taking effect.  While I wait, I quietly slip a pair of handcuffs out of the center console and into my pocket.

 

It doesn’t take more than five minutes before the sounds of muttering and giggling fade out in the back.  I step back into a thick haze of sweet blue smoke to find both boys stoned out of their fucking minds.  They managed to polish off a joint each; Steve it completely blitzed.  He’s laying back against the side of the van.  He’s grinning so hard his eyes are squinted and his tongue is out; his face is so flushed his freckles have nearly vanished.  As I watch, he lolls his head back, knocking off his cap and revealing the short, spiked orange hair on his head.

 

Jeff is on the other side; his face is heavy and vacant, but he’s still conscious and somewhat lucid.  He hasn’t completely finished his joint yet.

 

“Hey, wanna see something really hot?” I leer at him.

 

“Yeah, what?” he asks, grinning dopily.

 

“Here, lemme start with this.”  I whip out the handcuffs.  Before Jeff has a chance to react, I cinch one cuff around his left wrist and the other through a pair of holes drilled in the van’s body ribbing.  Now the punk can’t move more than a few inches from that position.

 

“Wha?” he grunts, looking foggily at the cuffs.

 

“Over here,” I say, snapping my fingers and approaching the other punk.  “I’m gonna take yer buddy here—”

 

“Brotha…” Jeff mutters, “He’s m’half brotha…”

 

“He’s fuckmeat, asshole,” I snap.  “I’m gonna stick my dick in him and unload in his ass as he dies and yer gonna watch.”

 

Jeff stares at me, gape-jawed.  It’s difficult to tell how much of his impassivity is due to shock or fear and how much to being drugged, but it doesn’t matter.  The drugs will have worn off long before I’m done with the first piece of boymeat.  By the time I get to little Jeffie over there, he’ll be plenty awake enough to know what’s going on.

 

And that’s good.  I want him awake and suffering by the time I fuck him.  I want to feel his agonized screams as they reverberate in his strong smooth body and vibrate the root of my cock…

 

First things first, though.  Gingerfuck needs a little lesson on his proper place in the world first, just as a little foreplay.  Something to get Jeff and me both into the right mood, to get the juices flowing, so to speak.

 

And where is red-headed skaterboi Steve’s proper place in the world?  It’s taking a dirt nap with my manseed coating his guts.  Just thinking about it’s already got me hard.  Fuck it, I’m goin’ in—need to get those punk threads cut off the fucker.

 

Time to start the fun.  Crouching in the center of the van—I’m too tall to stand up in here—I unzip my fly and let my huge, throbbing hog flop out.

 

Both pieces of fuckmeat stare groggily at my engorged rod, but only Jeff has retained enough motor control to speak coherently.  Well, kinda.

 

“Wha…” he mumbles, “Why…whyyerfuckin…dickout…” His dark, heavy-lidded eyes focus on my manhood.

 

Little redheaded Stevie just giggles.  I turn and grin at Jeff.  “It’s out cause I’m gonna stick in ya, cunt.  But first, I’m gonna stick it in yer brother.  Oh, and this, too,” I add, holding up a specialty tool I’ve made by grinding down the head of an eight-inch long screwdriver, leaving a pointed tip on a nearly half-inch diameter steel shaft.

 

Jeff is inarticulate; he shakes his head wildly, but is unable to speak.  I note, in passing, that his knit cap stays in place no matter how vigorous his movements.  Wonder if he had an idea he’d die wearing it when he slipped it on today…

 

I turn to Steve.  He’s still lying limply against the far side of the van from his brother, too high to move.  I know he heard my words, and I’m fairly certain he understood them, but it doesn’t matter.  If he didn’t understand them, he soon will.  I bend down and yank of his ball shorts, tugging them down his legs and over his Etnies kicks.

 

Of course the punk-ass faggot is commando, letting his thick teenaged dick swing free between his legs; it lies, limp but long and veined, against the boy’s smooth inner thigh.  His shirt is easier to dispose of; I shove the toe of one boot into an armhole, bend down, and tug.  It takes no more than a moment to rip the thin tank top off and leave the meat lying nude but for his sneakers and socks.

 

“Steve,” Jeff calls out hoarsely, his voice scratchy with effort, “C’mon…gotta wake-wake up…dude’s gon-gonna rape yer ass…”

 

“Yours too, cocksucker,” I grin at him, “Don’t forget.”

 

“No…” the ginger youth moans as I force his firm legs apart and knelt between them, my massive tool fully erect and oozing in anticipation of his taut young fuckhole.  “Whaddaya mean, no?” I jeered, “Fuck yeah is whatcha mean.  Feel this shit, bro.”  Leaning over his slim, muscled frame, helpless on the floor of the van, I pressed the pulsing head of my cock against his quivering sphincter and applied pressure.  Not a lot—just enough to let him know I was there.

 

“Ah—ah—no, p-please…” he whimpered, his cocky face twisted with fear.  So fuckin’ erotic—but not enough.  It needs to be twisted in pain, too.

 

“Fuck you, skatefag,” I whisper and thrust my hips forward, spearing the punk’s colon with my enormous shaft—dry.  I can feel some resistance on the head of my dick, then there’s a parting sensation as something in gingerfuck’s asshole tears open.  The meat squeals like a stuck pig and my rod slides home, buried so far deep into the teen skateboi’s guts that my wiry pubes are grinding his smooth buttcheeks.

 

“Aw, shaddup, cunt!” I snarl and pound my balled-up fist into his face.  My blow lands on his chin; his jaws slam shut, driving his teeth through his tongue.

 

“You goddam asshole!” Jeff sobs, his voice stricken with anguish as he looks on at his brother’s abuse and torment.  “Don’t get jealous,” I tell him, grinning.  “It’ll be yer turn to enjoy my cock soon enough, bro; let the kid here enjoy it first.”  Then I punch Steve again.  Fuck, that feels good—I can feel his entire body stiffen and clench my dick in reaction to the impact.

 

“Goddam, you really are a sick little queerfuck, aintcha?” I jeer into Steve’s swelling, tear-streaked face, “Yer really handlin’ my dick good—yer jest fuckin’ lovin’ it when I hit ya, too, huh?  Ok, ya perverted little piece a’ shit; ya like the pain—I can sure as fuck deliver.  Buckle up, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad, you’ll cum in sheer joy!”

 

It gets kinda loud in the van for a couple of minutes, between Steve’s cries of pain, Jeff’s helpless invective and the meaty sound of flesh striking flesh.  By the time it gets quiet again, gingerfuck is barely conscious and his brother is hanging limply at the side of the van, weeping quietly.  It’s warm in here; I take a moment to slip out of my shirt—there.  Damn, I’ve been sweating enough to mat down my chest hair…

 

I leer down into the dazed teen’s face—so young, so beautiful, so punchable—and run my hands down his firm, lithe torso, feeling his smooth skin slick with a film of cold sweat forced out of him by his suffering.  His dick is semi-soft and getting stiffer by the second; it’s a reaction to the vigorous prostate massage he’s enjoying.

 

Unfortunately, he’s going loose on my shaft.  I need to fix that.  I don’t think he’s going to be enjoying his assrape for much longer—but I’ll give him a chance, first.

 

“Hey, buttfuck,” I smirk, “You’re failin’, dude.  Only reason I’m keepin’ ya around is to get off, an’ here you are, going slack on my hog.  Here, I’ll give ya—” here I set the timer on my watch— “thirty seconds to start workin’ my dick good, or I’m gonna make ya work it.”

 

And I spend the next thirty seconds counting down and plowing his rectum remorselessly.  His ass doesn’t get any tighter—I didn’t expect it to—but the increasing panic in his bewildered face is intoxicating.

 

“…three…two…one!  Ok, fuckwad, now it’s my turn.”  I show him my pointed steel shank.  “See this, bro?  This is gonna tighten yer ass up real good.”

 

I’d been so busy fucking with little Stevie that I’d almost forgotten the second course.  A gasp and moan from the side reminds me that I’ve got more meat to tenderize.  I hold up the screwdriver so Jeff can admire it too.

 

“Hey, dude, yer little faggot bro here likes to get fucked, yeah?  He likes a good skullfuck?  Cool, man—I’m gonna fuck his skull with this.”

 

I don’t think he’s following me.  I know Steve isn’t, but that’s ok.  I’ll manage to get it into his head somehow—heh heh heh.

 

By now the teen fucker I’m rammin’ is panicking.  He knows something bad is about to happen, so he’s pawing at my chest.  I’m laying across him, feeling that young, strong body writhe in terror beneath me—his legs are wrapped around my waist.  His Etnies are drumming on my firm asscheeks; a minor distraction at most.  And for all this activity and exertion, the stupid little sack of shit still can’t tighten his sphincter.

 

“Awright, enough of this shit,” I snarl, “You really are a lousy lay, fuckhead.”

 

I force his head to the side and plant one of my big hands on it, splayed out and taking all my weight, pinning it to the floor.  Then I take the screwdriver and start shoving into Steve’s ear.

 

Gingerfuck’s howls of pain take on a more intense quality as the sharpened steel punctures his eardrum and starts tearing its way through the delicate structures of the middle and inner ear.  Suddenly the skateboi isn’t fighting me any more—he’s clinging to me tightly, desperately, afraid to move, as if remaining completely still will lessen the torture being inflicted on him.

 

It won’t.  Stupid little shit.  He’s holding me like a lover, and I’m about to ream his cockpig brain with a homemade shank.  His head is still twisted to the side, of course, but when I look down, I can see the wide, shocked edges of his eyes as he tries to peer at me.

 

“Shh, shh,” I whisper, grinning, and apply more pressure to the screwdriver, “Enjoy the pain asswipe; you’ll be dead in minutes.”  There’s a faint moist crunching sound as the sharpened steel shiv punches through Steve’s inner ear and begins tunneling into his cerebellum.

 

The punk vomits; I’ve destroyed the mechanism that provides his sense of balance and he’s experiencing profound vertigo. He hasn’t stopped holding me, though; as the screwdriver sinks deeper into his skull, Steve clutches me ever more tightly.

 

I look up at Jeff.  “Hey, man,” I call out softly.  He turns and looks at me unwillingly, his large dark eyes reflecting his horror and despair.  “Watch it, man.  Watch me fuckin’ cum up inside yer bro as he dies on my cock.  Watch me fuck his brain into hamburger, motherfucker—it’s so goddam hot.”  I give him my best shark-like grin.  “But don’t worry, dude—I’ll have plenty of spunk left over to hose down yer corpse, too.”

 

The older skateboi moans softly, like he’s not really paying attention.  That pisses me off.  In a couple of minutes, I’ll make goddam sure the fuckin’ faggot is payin’ attention.  He’ll be hangin’ on my every word like it’s life or fuckin’ death—but all it’s gonna be is fuckin’ death, heh.

 

In the meantime, I’ve got the screwdriver halfway into little Stevie’s head.  I’m amazed the high school punkboy is still functional; he’s gotta be suffering some pretty serious brain trauma by this point, but he’s still squirming deliberately, which means someone’s still home.

 

Time for a fuckin’ eviction.  My toes curl, digging the soles of my big black boots into the floor of the van as I brace myself and shove the steel shank in up to the hilt.

 

There’s no resistance; it’s like poking a knife into a mass of scrambled eggs.  And scrambled is the right word; as massive brain trauma makes the little bitch’s colon wrap around my thick, pounding shaft like fuckin’ velvet, I slowly start to churn the metal shaft inside Steve’s skull.

 

I make sure to catch Jeff’s eyes.  Huge as they are, they’re easy to catch; huge and round with shock.  He stares at the horrific scene unfolding in front of him.  Teenaged fear and despair wash off him in waves, his adolescent pheromones filling the heavy, lust-soaked atmosphere in the back of my van—it’s makin’ my cock throb so fuckin’ bad…

 

“Look at ‘im,” I hiss at Jeff, “I done banged yer little bro so hard I fucked ‘im into a retard, an’ he still ain’t made me cum yet.  Worthless fuckin’ faggot—you better get me off, you sack a’ shit, or the pain I put you in will make this look like an owie for mommy to kiss.”

 

I pull out and stand up, my massive manshaft still glistening with Steve’s ass juices.  The young ginger is lying on the floor of the van, his smooth, sweat-lubes body stiff, rigid and trembling.  His teeth are clenched, his eyes rolled back in his head—and his cock his hard and dripping.  He’s not dead yet; his heart is still beating and he’s still breathing, independently if irregularly.

 

But I’ve left the screwdriver buried in his head, the orange-and-blue plastic handle protruding incongruously from his ear.

 

I cross over to Jeff and uncuff him; the hardbodied skateboi sinks blubbering to his knees.  As he curls up, I bend down and rip off his shirt, then jerk him up and yank off his shorts.  He falls back to the floor as I toss them aside.

 

“Get up, pansy-ass,” I snarl and give the fucker a swift kick.  The impact of my steel-toed boot on his flank elicits a grunt and then—amazingly; I thought the asshole was too scared to speak—a reply.

 

“I—we ain’t no faggots” Jeff manages to gasp between broken sobs, tears accumulating on his long dark eyelashes.  Fuck, that’s so sexy.  He needs to cry more.  He deserves it, the fuckwad.

 

“Yeah?  Sez who, you?” I chuckle.  “Dude, yer gonna be suckin’ yer bro’s dick here in a second.”

 

“Fuck you!” Jeff yells in an access of fury, spitting at me.  A nice sharp backhand gets a yelp from the skatepunk and puts a stop to his pussy little rebellion.  “No, no—fuck you,” I reply calmly, “But first, wrap yer fuckin’ lips around your brother’s dick, cocksucker, or I’ll fuckin’ kill yer ass right now.”

 

There’s a knife I keep stashed in the back, a long, serrated hunting knife that just holding gives me an erection.  It’s one of my favorites, although I’m not using it today.  Jeff doesn’t know that, though, so when I brandish it, he gets quiet and pale.

 

“Down on yer knees, fairyboy,” I command and he does it.  Stupid fuckin’ asswipe.  He’s looking right at his brother’s tool—it’s standing straight up, more than six inches of vein-wreathed cockmeat, pulsing and oozing precum.  Still holding the knife, I circle around and kneel down by Steve’s head.

 

“Now put it in yer mouth, cocksucker,” I demand coldly, “Open wide and gulp it down.  I wanna see you chokin’ on yer brain-dead bro’s dick.”

 

Jeff blanches and gags, then swallows heavily.  “Get that fuckin’ dick down yer throat now!” I yell and the teen punk holds his breath and deepthroats his half-brother.

 

I lean forward and shove Jeff’s head down with one hand.  With the other, I grab the handle of the screwdriver and start churning Steve’s brain matter into pudding again—only this time, I’m aiming for the mass of cells that control the pleasure center of the brain.  It takes seconds to mince that section, shorting out the dying kid’s nervous system and inducing a hyper-extended orgasm that wouldn’t have been physically possible in the course of normal sexual function.

 

The red-haired skateboi literally floods his brother’s mouth with hot teen spunk.  Jeff’s on his knees, between Steve’s smooth, firm, still-twitching thighs, looking right at me as his bro unloads down his throat.  As he pulls his head up, gagging and choking, a thick wad of jizz slipping out of his mouth, the brain-dead meat just keeps spewing into the open air.  Damn, I’ve triggered a geyser.

 

I feel like I wanna do the same myself.  “Time to saddle up, Jeff, my balls need drainin’ too,” I mutter, rising to my feet, knowing the dark-eyed skaterboi with the knit cap can’t hear me—he’s too busy retching up his brother’s semen.  Steve jerks violently as a brief rain of semen falls in the van, then goes quiet–but not quite still.

 

But I have the other cunt to deal with.  Let’s see, what do I wanna use to off this fucker?  Lessee—oh yeah.  This’ll fuckin’ work.

 

As Jeff leans forward and, still gagging, gets on his hands and knees to rise, I jump forward and mount him doggie-style, plugging my big thick tube of manmeat up his tight little boyhole before he has a chance to resist.  I punch past his sphincter like a jackhammer and am buried balls-deep in his ass, my massive jizz-filled sack slapping against his scrote, before it even registers that he’s been violated.

 

When it does, he shrieks, and for a moment I devote myself to pure physical pleasure.  I wrap my hands around Jeff’s torso from behind, fondling his pecs and nipples, feeling his firm, boyish chest heave in anguish and his smooth skin grow slick with cold sweat squeezed from his youthful frame by pain.

 

Then I wrap the bungee cord I picked up around his neck and pull it tight, garroting the skatepunk from behind as I fuck him like a bitch.

 

In his sudden confusion and panic, Jeff collapses.  The sudden cessation of air can cause intense focus as a rational man plots his defense.  Dumbass faggots like Jeff, though, just kick and die.

 

And that’s just what the dumbass faggot is doin’ right now, with my cock wedged up his ass.

 

“That’s it, motherfucker, keep fightin’ it,” I whisper encouragingly into the teen’s ear, “The harder you fight, the better you work my cock.”

 

Jeff struggles beneath me, his strong, wiry body thrashing violently.  It’s more than the usual panic—oh yeah; he’s just realized he’s gettin’ assraped on top of his brother’s corpse.  If the little cunt is dead yet, that is.  Fucker’s still twitchin’.

 

I don’t care why; it just feels good.  “That’s it—ya like that, huh?  Ya like the thought of a real man takin’ yer worthless punk ass out, huh?  Fuck, you goddam sack a’ garbage, keep milkin’ my shaft!”  The elastic cord stretches in my hands, but from the corners of my eyes, I can see how the tats on my bulging biceps seem to swell as I cinch the cord even tighter around the young boy’s neck.  It’s sunk so deep into his flesh it’s barely visible.

 

He’s trying to talk, the motherfucker.  “Gh! Ng! Ng! NG!!” he grunts thickly, clawing at his throat, like that’s gonna do any good.  “You stupid fuck,” I laugh at him, ramming my pulsating shaft into his ravaged colon, “Keep tryin’ to pull it away, dipshit, it’ll keep ya busy as ya die.”

 

He reaches behind himself with one hand, awkwardly trying to reach me; it’s an utter failure, of course.  He’s twisting his head violently from side to side like it’s somehow gonna magically give him air; in the process, he dislodges his knit cap, revealing near shoulder-length russet hair, stringy and matted with desperate sweat.

 

Again, my boots are planted wide for traction.  Between them, skatemeat’s Osiris hightops are drumming frantically at the floor of the van.  He’s not just twisting his head now, he’s thrashing it, flinging foamy streamers of drool as he kicks and flails  and slowly strangles to death.

 

Just like his worthless brother, Jeff’s brain is dying.  I can feel his firm young body become less controlled in its movements at it struggles beneath my hard, muscular form, the teen’s slick, sweat-lubed skin sliding easily against my own furry flesh as the cunt dies with my cock inside him.

 

“Jeez, ya fuckin’ useless piece a’ meat, ya didn’t get me off either,” I mutter, tightening the cord—and then there’s a loud crunch, and the cord gives way as I crush Jeff’s esophagus into a wad of bleeding gristle.

 

The reaction is immediate; Jeff’s ass grabs my dick and begins to jack me off like that was its original design.  Under me, the docile, brain-damaged skaterboi suddenly erupts into a physical frenzy—motherfucker convulses violently, his young, strong body suffering extended death throes.

 

It feels so fuckin’ good, the way his dying, oxygen-deprived brain makes his body jerk and flail, as if the whole point of his death is to earn my load.  And it is, really.  So I give it to him, grunting and beating on his smooth, bare back, as I pump what feels like quart after quart of searing hot manseed into the teenaged faggot’s guts.

 

I spend a few moments on top of the fagmeat pile, my cock still sunk in Jeff’s ass as Jeff’s corpse drools out onto Steve’s still-trembling form.  I need to catch my breath, and it’s warm and moist and cozy up here.

 

After a bit, I get back up, tuck my still-pulsing manshaft back down the leg of my jeans, and slip my shirt back on.  Heading up to the front of the van, I do a quick recon and make sure the coast is clear before dumping the meat.

 

I dunno if these two fuckers built this place or if they had help, but there ain’t no one else around, and that’s perfect.  I open up the back and drag Jeff out.

 

There’s a halfpipe in the center of the park. I seat him on the ground leaning back against it, his head tilted back into the bottom of the pipe.  Then I drag Steve over.

 

It was seeing all that cum of Steve’s glazing Jeff’s face that gave me the idea.  I drape Steve into the pipe facedown and plug his dick in Jeff’s mouth.  Retreating five yards, I examine the tableau for effect.

 

Two teen boys, nude except for their skate shoes—one seated on the ground, legs spread, the other leaning over him into the halfpipe, getting a BJ.  It’s perfect.  You need to get real close to see that they’re dead.  If they are; gingerfuck still seems to be quivering. I thought he’d be goin’ stiff by now.

 

I’ll toss their clothes and boards into that canal I passed.  Think there was enough water and a  fast enough flow to confuse things whenever they’re found.  I gotta go, but I’m gonna be paying close attention to the news.  I love it when they linger on the artistic touches I give to a kill.  I not a butcher, for fuck’s sake; I take pride in my work.

 


 

News item, dated next day:

Two teenaged youths, half-brothers from the same household, found attacked and sexually assaulted on abandoned property used as skate park by local youths.  Jeff Lansing, age nineteen, was reported dead on arrival at Montgomery County Hospital.  Steven Lansing, age eighteen, was reported in grave condition upon arrival.  Sources report the surviving victim has suffered such severe brain damage that he has been placed on full life support and is not expected to recover.

Immediate response from the authorities has been to demolish the unapproved skate park.  A representative from the sheriff’s department told this reporter that…

The Road Best Not Taken

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Hey, Jack, whatcha think?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And what was happening was nightmarish.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

On his knees, Ethan began crying.  “Please,” he sniveled, “please don’t hurt me, man.  I’ll leave, I swear, I’ll go and never come back—” His voice dissolved into broken sobs.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, beg for yer worthless life,” Jack jeered.  Like all the gang, he was straight—but like all the gang, he knew the erotic rage of completely owning a faggot.  They had plans to get some pussy later on—but fuck, here was some fag pussy, theirs for the taking; why not drain a load?

 

He massaged his stiffening dick with one hand as he looked down at the overpowered fairy.  With the other, he hoisted the bat.  “Sick goddam fuck,” he growled, “Don’t fuckin’ deserve to live.”  He swung the bat at Ethan’s side like he was aiming for a triple play.

 

Ethan’s shriek of agony as barbs of rusted steel shredded his smooth silky skin echoed in the close confines of the alley but was lost in the background of general city noise.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” Ed cheered; Frankie’s “Aw right, man!” was followed up by expressions of approval from Mike and Hank.  Ben turned beseechingly to the hardbodied Nazi thugs pinning him down, but there was no trace of mercy.  On the contrary; both men were obviously getting sexually around by their sheer dominance and ability to inflict pain on the faggots.

 

Ethan sobbed and cried, clutching his damaged flank.  The blow had been hard enough to break two ribs; they ached, but the slashes from the barbed wire hurt more.  “Hey, cocksucker, look up here,” Jack called out.  Ethan glanced up just in time to see him swing the bat again.  This time, he made the mistake of holding up his right arm to ward off the blow.

 

The impact of the bat broke Ethan’s arm with a loud snap; the teen queer gasped in shock but before he could react, the barbed wire, slashing across the arm, flayed his skin to the bone.

 

Holding his right arm in his left, looking at his wounds with wide, shocked eyes, Ethan screamed.  Frankie let go and backed away, letting the mauled youth rise shakily to his feet.

 

For a moment, Ben thought he was going insane.  Jack had reached down and unzipped his fly, letting his thick tube of manmeat fall out.  Then the Nazi spoke.  “So ya like dick, do ya, motherfucker?  You only had fag dick, cocksucker.  I’m gonna letcha see what real mandick feels like before you die, asswipe.”

 

As Ethan gaped at him, Jack swung the bat again, catching the eighteen-year-old fagboy directly on his left knee with a crunching sound.  Ethan shrieked in agony again and crumpled to the ground, a heap of bleeding boyflesh.

 

And that was exactly what the gang of predators was looking for.  Gender didn’t matter, what mattered was proving their physical superiority over their victims.  They’d have done the same to, say, a group of Asian schoolgirls.  They were men, they were hard, and they were gonna prove it, literally.

 

“Strip him,” Jack commanded.  Ed and Frankie, both with visibly erect cocks, stepped forward and began jerking Ethan’s clothing off.

 

“Stop it!” Ben cried, finally summoning the strength to overcome his fear.

 

“Shaddup, ya homo sack a’ shit!” Mike snarled and punched Ben in the stomach.  Ben couldn’t see the brass knuckles Mike had managed to slip on, but he damn sure felt them.  Both men tightened their grips on the young pansy as he shuddered in pain.

 

When his vision cleared again, Ben was looking on a scene straight out of Bosch painting.  Ethan, stripped down to his black and gold hightops, was getting stomped repeatedly by three muscle-bound Nazi thugs with big boots.

 

The teenaged faggot thrashed and jerked on the grimy concrete, desperately trying to avoid the continuous pounding of thick boot soles on his tender skin.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” Frankie spat out, his erect cock already oozing with his sense of power, “Ya like rough trade, ya cum-sucking fag, huh?”  He slammed his combat boot into the kid’s solar plexus, making the boy curl up reflexively around his foot.  “That fuckin’ rough enough for ya?”

 

“Naw,” Ed jeered, “But this is.”  With his big thick cock swinging wide, he kicked Ethan in the jaw, breaking it with a loud crack.  The punk was splayed out on his side with the impact, moaning incoherently.

 

“How’s that feel, ya fuckin’ homo pervert?” Jack asked as Ed chuckled and stroked his hard shaft.

 

“Stop!” Ben yelled again, his voice quavering with tears, “You’re gonna kill ‘im!”

 

All five booted thugs laughed derisively.  Hank grabbed Ben’s chin and twisted the boy’s head to face him; the fag could smell the beer that came off the Nazi’s breath in thick, yeasty waves.  “That’s right, motherfucker.  Best way to make sure you stupid faggots don’t ferget yer lesson is to beat it into ya!”

 

As he and Mike laughed, he kneed Ben in the groin.  The kid groaned and tried to collapse but the vicious thugs held him up and continued to force him to watch Ethan’s suffering.

 

By now, the nearly-nude teen homo had rolled onto his belly and was crawling on the pavement, attempting to escape his punishment.  “No you don’t, you little asswipe,” Jack snarled and slammed his boot down on Ethan’s back.  Before Ben realized what was happening, Jack, Ed and Frankie had all surrounded Ethan and were brutally stomping him.  “Fuckin-A!” Frankie barked, grinning and erect with white pride, “Ya worthless piece a’ shit!”  Ed, his fists gripped tight, pounded his red DMs on the boy’s bare back.

 

Ben hadn’t realized he’d lost track of Jack until the latter appeared, rearmed with the baseball bat.  Still unable to catch his breath, the dark-haired cocksucker could only moan his protest as the hardbodied Aryan gripped the handle, took a wide-legged stance, and swung the barbed wire-wrapped bat as hard as he could—which was pretty fuckin’ hard, as Ethan learned to his cost.

 

The bat hit Ethan across the small of the back, instantly slashing the smooth skin.  Ben, some ten yards away, heard the crunching sound as several of the pansy’s vertebrae shattered, instantly paralyzing his legs.  Despite the horrific pain of his broken jaw, Ethan screamed; he couldn’t help it.  The sound was more like a squeal, and it clearly enraged Jack.  He shoved the toe of his boot under Ethan’s left shoulder and rolled the sobbing kid over.

 

“Shut the fuck up, faggot,” he sneered, then bent over and spat in Ethan’s face.  Blinking the phlegm out his eyes, the teen peered up at his assailant, his bewildered eyes seeking some clue to this sudden explosion of terror and agony into his life.

 

All he saw was a tall muscular skinhead looming over him, his cock protruding from his fly, erect and pulsating.  And that tall laced green leather boot he was hoisting; at any other time, Ethan would be aroused, but now, looking at the deep, grime-filled tread of the Doc Marten hanging over him—

 

It happened so fast he didn’t see it coming.  “Suffer, ya fucking cunt!” Jack roared and stomped Ethan’s face, driving his boot into the homo’s mouth.  Then he turned away and tossed the bat to the side, gripping his hard shaft and brandishing it proudly like a club as Ethan thrashed, his hightops drumming on the pavement as he gagged on his own blood and teeth.

 

“These baby fags ain’t never had no real mandick,” he chuckled, looking around at the grinning thugs, who all knew what was running in his mind.  “Whaddaya say, boys—wanna show ‘em what real men feel like ‘fore we show ‘em how real men handle faggots?”

 

Given that every one of them already had their dicks out—and there wasn’t one that wasn’t rock-hard and already oozing—the answer was obvious.

 

“Bring him,” Jack said.  Without another word, Ed and Frankie bent down, each one grabbing one of Ethan’s arms.  Following Jack, they dragged the beaten and bleeding sack of fagmeat down the alley.  Mike and Hank came right behind, jerking Ben along in a painfully tight grip.

 

Fifteen yards down the alley, under a dim security light, was a stack of pallets about three feet tall or so.  The thugs threw Ethan onto it face down, his already-slashed chest and belly scraping along the rough, splinter-strewn wood, his young, smooth asscheeks and pink fuckhole splayed out for easy access.

 

Frankie went first.  Planting his combat boots wide, he shoved his thick, glistening tool inside Ethan’s still-clenched asshole.  As Frank’s hard, goateed face snarled with physical pleasure, Ed held Ethan down and Jack rained blows on his face.  Frankie’s thrusts up the comatose fag’s ass were timed by the repeated smacking sound of flesh on mangled flesh.

 

Ben wasn’t left out of the fun; as Hank, his broad chest straining his thin cotton wifebeater, held the slim, boyish homo upright, Mike hunched over and delivered a devastating series of punches to his mid-section in sets of three.

 

“Fuckin’ (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) goddam (WHAM, pause to re-adjust brass knuckles) piece (WHAM) a’ (WHAM) shit! (WHAM)”

 

The Nazi emphasized his hate with an impact so hard it tore Ben’s liver.  Hank suddenly let go and the gasping, moaning twink sank to the pavement, clutching his battered abdomen, feeling, but not understanding the mortal ache inside.  Just past the Aryan in the jeans and black leather boots, he could see that Frankie was finishing up with Ethan.  The hulking skinhead gave a loud, inarticulate cry and shuddered violently.  He remained bent over the trembling form of the limp homo, then withdrew his still-leaking shaft.  Stepping quickly to one side, he let Ed in.

 

The older man’s cock wasn’t quite as long as his predecessor’s had been—but it was considerably thick.  He smirked, his masculine face, with its broken nose, betraying a kind of malicious triumph as he spat into his hand and smeared the spit onto the head of his dick.  He kicked at the boy, his steel-toed DM’s leaving dark bruised on the kid’s calves, but there was no response from Ethan.

 

The eighteen-year-old twink had suffered too much head trauma.  The bleeding in his brain was too severe.  Ed sank his fireplug dick into a human vegetable.

 

Ben knew what was happening.  He knew how this was gonna end.  In a way, he envied Ethan—the lucky fucker wasn’t feeling any pain.  Reaching behind him, he clutched at the brick wall and tried to pull himself up.

 

That was when Hank showed back up with the bat.  To Ben it seemed to happen in slow motion, but he couldn’t stop it.  The Nazi strongman swung low, like he was teeing off a golf swing, and took out Ben’s left knee with a sickening crunch.

 

As Ben fell shrieking to the ground, Hank lifted his boot and pounded it down into the kid’s face, hard, twice.  There were a couple more crunching sounds, but Ben stopped screaming.  He was too busy coughing up blood and teeth.

 

As Ed kept grunting and pumping on one side of the alley, Hank and Mike quickly stripped Ben of his jogging pants and peeled off his tight shirt; like Ethan, except for his Converses, he was left nude and bleeding on the other side of the dark, reeking passageway.

 

Unlike Ethan, Ben was still conscious.  He was aware of being dragged over to the stack of pallets and being tossed across it.  Turning his head and opening his eyes—reluctantly—he found he was looking directly into Ethan’s face—upside down.  He’d been placed on the opposite side from his boyfriend.

 

There was nothing left that Ben could recognize; he was looking into bloody pulp.  Even those beautiful eyes were gone, rolled back into the skull so that only blood-streaked white slits showed under the bruised, swollen lids.

 

Then there was a dick inside him.  That sudden, that fast.  No preparation, and especially no lube.  Despite a broken jaw and multiple missing teeth, Ben squealed like a stuck pig.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” he heard Mike grunt behind him, and he knew whose swollen manhood was plugging his colon.  Through tear-streaked eyes, he looked past Ethan’s face and saw that of Jack, who was still pinning the brain-damaged teen down across from him.  “Now yer gettin’ ta see what a real man feels like, motherfucker—you should be fuckin’ thankin’ us!”

 

At that moment, a shudder ran through Ethan’s limp body.  Ed, his hard, muscle-bound body glistening with sweat, cried out, “Fuck!  Gonna cum—FUCK!”  As he snarled and unloaded, there was a sudden acrid scent and a trickling sound.  Ethan had lost control of his bladder, piss spattering his hightops.

 

Ed pulled out, gasping and shaking as Frankie took over from Jack and Jack stepped back to fuck Ethan.  He went last because his dick was the largest.  He was notorious for it; after he banged a chick, she was too reamed out for anyone else.

 

“Hey, man,” Ed warned, “I think that one’s dead.”

 

“So what?” Jack leered, “A hole’s a fuckin’ hole.”  Closing in on the corpse, it took him a moment or two to mount it; despite being slack in death, Ethan’s sphincter was still too tight to handle Jack’s cock.  The skinhead had to apply some pressure; then he felt the dead flesh tear and sighed with pleasure.

 

“Aw fuck yeah,” he grinned, looking Ben directly in the eyes, “Best kinda faggot there is—a dead one, servicin’ my rod.”

 

Behind and inside him, Mike was pumping faster and faster; despite being barely conscious from pain and terror, Ben could feel the constant grinding on his prostate—and how it was slowly forcing an erection on him.  He wasn’t the only one.

 

“Hey, bro, th’ little fuckin’ faggot likes it!” Hank jeered loudly.  “Lookit this shit—he’s fuckin’ hard!  Hey, Mikey, you a fag?  Cause it looks like yer doin’ it right—haw!”

 

With a roar of rage at the taunt of his sexuality, the powerful thug grabbed a handful of Ben’s hair, jerked his head back and slammed it down onto the pallet.  As he did, he suddenly hunched over and spasmed, then filled Ben’s rectum with searing manseed.  Another jerk and another slam, this one rewarded with the squelching sound of Ben’s nose being broken, brought another hot jet of semen coating the homo’s innards—and then Mike pulled out.

 

Even now, Ben was still awake and lucid.  He knew he shouldn’t be, but he was.  And he felt somehow empty inside, without the Aryan strongman brutally raping him.   It was the last submissive act of despair of a bottom faggot trying to stave off death—and he needn’t have worried anyway.  No sooner was Mike out than Hank was in.

 

Compared to Hank, Mike had been loving and gentle.  Mike needed a hole to fuck so he could cum.  For Hank to cum, someone had to suffer.

 

“Gimme yer knuckles, bro,” he said gruffly as he stuffed his massive tool inside the twink’s violated asshole.

 

The pain in his colon had faded into the background by now, but the sudden hail of blows on his back damn sure didn’t.  With every thrust of his powerful hips, Hank hit Ben, cursing him with each blow.  The fleshy impacts echoed in the alley, along with grunts of “Faggot!  Goddam cocksucker!  Take it, you worthless sack a’ shit, fucking take my dick!”

 

“Aw yeah, fuck that faggot,” Jack grunted, the handsome skinhead’s face twisted with demonic lust and rage, as he plowed his shaft into Ethan’s still-convulsing corpse, “Fuck yeah, dude, beat the fuckin’ homo garbage to death and fuckin’ unload in the cunt’s gut’s!”  As he heaved and pumped, his “Gold’s Gym” t-shirt clung tightly to his sweat-slicked chest, highlighting his massive pecs and large, jutting nipples.

 

Some sick little part of Ben’s mind found itself cravenly attracted to Jack, even as Hank raped him and beat him so badly that his kidneys failed—not that Ben lived long enough to suffer much by it.

 

He did manage to live long enough to take the Aryan’s load, though; the smooth, wiry teen was still conscious and suffering as the skinhead shuddered and moaned, hosing Ben’s guts with hot squirts of semen.  At the same time, Ben became aware that he was alone on the pile of pallets.

 

Jack had pulled out of Ethan.  The teen fag’s body, with nothing to support it, slid off the pile and fell into a filthy puddle like a sack of pigshit.

 

“Hey, Jack, this one’s still alive,” Mike said.

 

Jack, his enormous manshaft still swinging wide and free in the air between his powerful legs, said evenly, “Not for fuckin’ long.  Hand me that bat; I gotta idea.”

 

Grinning with malignant hate, Frankie quickly handed Jack the barbed-wire-wrapped bat.  He watched with almost reverent awe; this was gonna be good.  Jack knew how to fuck faggots up good; that’s why he was the leader.

 

And good, in this case, meant real fuckin’ bad.

 

“Get ‘im up on there,” Jack commanded, indicating the pile, “Up on his back with his legs spread.”

 

Ben’s eyes, wide with terror, vainly sought those of Jack as Ed grabbed a handful of the twink’s hair and his left arm, Frankie the right, and Hank and Mike each of his smooth, firm legs.  Even though they’d all—except Jack—cum within the past few minutes, their hard, strong bodies had enough stamina—and sick hateful lust—for them all to start getting hard again.

 

“Ya like takin’ it the ass, do ya, faggot?” Jack jeered at Ben.  The nineteen-year-old prettyboy—no longer so fuckin’ pretty—tried to beg for his life but was able to force no more than a croak from his ruined mouth, at the cost of excruciating pain.  “Then it’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, cunt, cause I got somethin’ to stick up yer ass that you ain’t ever gonna forget!”

 

Ben didn’t see it coming, either literally or figuratively; it wasn’t till Jack started forcing the bat up his ass that he realized what was happening.

 

It took a while, and a lot of effort.  Ed let Frankie take hold of Ben’s hair and went to help Jack shove.  The pain of his mangled mouth was suddenly nothing; Ben’s nightmarish screams echoed down the alley but the only response they brought was to make his assailants harder.

 

“Fuckin’ suffer, you goddam cocksuckin’ piece a’ shit!” Jack barked, “Scream and die, ya worthless faggot fuck, ya motherfuckin’—aw, fuck!  FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCK!

 

As he ground the wire-sheathed bat into Ben’s ass, twisting it deliberately to shred the homo’s rectum, he suddenly shot a thick ropy geyser of spunk over the nude twink’s body, his pearly manseed splattering across the tortured teen’s heaving form.  Then it was as if someone had set off a signal; as Ed and Jack continued to destroy Ben’s ass, the lithe young fuck was showered in cum by the burly hate-filled thugs surrounding him.

 

If he’d been in a position to enjoy it, it would have been a dream come true for Ben.  As it was, the nightmare went on far too long.  The Nazi thugs managed to get the bat eight inches up Ben’s ass before the fag died of shock, trauma and blood loss.

 

Tucking their dicks back inside their jeans, the boys in the gang slapped each other on the back and complimented each other on their prowess.  There was nothing surreptitious or shameful in their actions; they’d done a good deed by offin’ a couple of baby fags who had no right to exist in a White (real) Man’s world.

 

They left the corpses where they were—Ethan’s, barely recognizable, a huddle mass of fagmeat marinating in a puddle of piss and rainwater, and Ben’s, splayed out on the pallets, the bat still jammed up his ass.

 

They didn’t bother to take the bat.  Bats and barbed wire were cheap, and this one had been up inside a faggot.  They could wash their dicks, but ya don’t wash a wood bat.

 

“Hey, Frankie,” Jack said musingly, “Next time, get two bats—and some long-ass nails.”

Carlos and Nick 6–No Thanks for the Memory

Even in Vegas, it can get cold.  A winter front had moved down from the north, its strong winds sweeping across the Strip and blowing candy wrappers and strip club ads along the gutter.  Carlos was glad it was chilly out; for one thing, it was a break from the constant, oppressive heat.  For another, it gave him a good excuse to wear his leather jacket.

 

The jacket was a black biker jacket; he wore it open, with no shirt underneath, his ripped, furry abs and thick inked pecs on display for anyone who wanted to look.  With his skin-tight black jeans tucked into a pair of Corcoran jump boots—laced halfway up but untied, the tongues hanging out—there were a lot who wanted to look.  The buff, well-built skinhead attracted a lot of covert (and some very obvious) glances as he strolled south down Paradise, a block off the Strip.

 

The aggressive sex killer was alone, horny and restless.  Nick was involved out at the warehouse tonight, editing the video from the last faggot Carlos had snuffed. But the hardbodied Latino knew how to fix his problems, though, and the first step of the cure had him out on the street, literally dressed to kill.

 

It was already past dark, but even on the back side of the huge resorts that face Las Vegas Boulevard, there were still plenty of plenty of bright lights.  Certainly bright enough for Carlos’s muscular form to be seen and admired.  But when his lure was finally bitten at, the nibbler turned out to be an unexpected, and unwelcome, source.

 

“Carlos?  Hey, Carlos, that you, bro?” came a smooth tenor voice, “Hey, man, over here.”

 

The dude was standing no more than five feet away from him, but Carlos didn’t recognize him for a moment.  Then the guy stepped forward, into better light, and Carlos locked onto his eyes.

 

That did it.  Carlos would never forget those eyes.

 

They were beautiful, large and bright emerald green, with long, lush eyelashes and a darkening at the ends of lids as if eyeliner had been applied.  But the last time Carlos had seen those eyes, he was in prison.  Eyeliner isn’t impossible to procure in prison, but this dude wasn’t wearing makeup.

 

He was younger than Carlos, but not by much—about twenty-four.  He was only about five-eight in height, but there was no slackness in his firm, fit body.  His hair was dark and cut short—almost a buzz cut—except for a thick clump of hair on the left side, left long, dyed auburn, and combed back over the top of his head.  His ears were pierced and plugged with black discs—not too big, about 2G in gauge.  Those were new, Carlos noticed.  Under a gray hoodie, half-unzipped, he sported a white cotton t-shirt with a large graphic image on it; it appeared to be an elaborate skull, off-kilter.

 

The punk’s firm, muscled legs were highlighted by a pair of tight camo print cargo pants.  Like Carlos’s they were tucked into his boots, but his were Vasque Arrowhead boots, black and orange.  The overall effect was as eye-catching as Carlos’s own outfit was.  But the eyes, the glittering green eyes, were all the Hispanic psycho needed to see.

 

“Bryan?” he asked blankly.  The dude grinned.

 

Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan.  Bryan was in prison for manslaughter as well; he’d convinced the jury that he’d killed the other drug dealer in self-defense—then boasted about it in prison, laughing about how he’d wasted the motherfucker for coming onto his turf.  But that wasn’t why Carlos remembered him.

 

Bryan had raped Carlos.  He’d been one of four guys who’d backed the outclassed Latino into a corner and run a train on him.  Bryan had gone last.  As the other men went before him, he held Carlos down and clamped his hand over his victim’s mouth, jeering and goading the others on.

 

Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan.  But he’d forgotten that the asshole had said he was from Las Vegas.

 

“Been back for a coupla months,” the younger man said cheerfully.  “Never thought I’d see you again, dude.  But damn, talk about good timing.”

 

“Huh?” Carlos said stupidly, his brain more or less short circuiting as it tried to find the right was to react to the situation.  As it so happened, Bryan himself sliced right through Carlos’s Gordian knot.

 

“You free right now?” the grinning hipster asked.  He went on as Carlos nodded.  “Gotcher own place, too, yeah?  Cool.  Damn, dude, it’s been two days—I gotta lay some pipe…”  He reached down and grabbed his rod, already tenting the taut fabric of his camo pants.

 

“…and I know you take it up the ass.” He finished up with a jeer in his voice and a leer on his face.  He was making it clear that he hadn’t forgotten Carlos either.

 

And that was all it took to clear Carlos’s troubled mind.  “Sure, I gotta place.  Condo, right back there.  C’mon, bro, I’ll treat ya right.”

 

The leer that had twisted one side of Bryan’s boyish face widened to the other side.  “Fuck yeah, man, I knew it.  Don’t matter if yer a chick or a dude, once ya had summa my cock, yer gonna want more—har!  Happens every fuckin’ time.  G’wan, buddy, I’ll be right behind ya—an’ then I’ll be right in yer behind!  Har!

 

Carlos swiveled around and started walking back up Paradise.  He had the sensation of physically feeling Bryan’s eyes focusing intently on his ass as he walked.  The rage induced by his violent denial of his sexuality was at a boiling point already; the thump of the Latino skinhead’s boots on the pavement drowned out the sound of his grinding teeth.

 

The one thing that gave him any comfort was the pressure he could feel inside his right boot—something long and hard and unyielding.  It was his Bowie hunting knife, the nine-inch carbon-steel blade tucked as usual into its hidden boot sheath.  Just knowing that it was there allowed Carlos to respond to Bryan’s erection in kind.  One of them was damn sure gonna get fucked tonight.

 

Neither one of them said a word on the way back to the condo.  Nothing needed to be said.  The sheer volume of pheromones given off by two physically fit, hypersexed young males filled the elevator with an intoxicating musk.  The silence between them wasn’t broken until they got inside the condo, and even then, the first words said weren’t to each other.

 

The moment Carlos opened the door, he knew that Nick was there—the lights were on.  Nick had a key to the place—he paid for it, after all—but he usually let Carlos know he was coming by.  The only times he didn’t was when he had a new project and was too excited to wait.

 

Nick had been sitting on the sofa, checking his phone, when the door opened.  The moment he heard it, he popped up and started speaking.  “There you are, man!  I been waitin’…anyway, I got this new commission—”  He broke off as Bryan entered the room.  “—uh, you got company…”

 

“This yer, uh, partner?” Bryan asked insinuatingly.

 

“Nick, Bryan—Bryan, Nick,” Carlos mumbled inanely, wondering what the fuck was wrong with himself—he needed to get control of this situation before Bryan told Nick about…about…he didn’t even want to imagine it himself.

 

“I, uh, I guess I can come back later…” Nick said, his voice uncertain.

 

“Yeah, maybe ya better,” Bryan quipped, “Unless, ‘acourse, ya wanna stick around and watch me fuck yer boy here.”

 

Nick paused at this and glanced at Carlos.  “Should I—should I get my camera set up?”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “Do that.”

 

“Yeah,” Bryan said, “Do that.  But I wanna copy.”

 

“Ok, I’ll get it set up,” Nick said, heading towards the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, then turned back.  His large, powerful body was framed by the open space behind it, his broad, hairy torso admirably displayed by a bright red cotton tank top with the Champion logo across the chest.  His elastic-cuffed jogger pants did little to hide his thickly-muscled legs.  On his feet were a pair of bright red Nike Air Force 1 Utility sneakers, the same color as his tank top.  “Gimme five minutes.”

 

“So who’s this Nick?” Bryan asked.  “You didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout him.”

 

“Didn’t know he was gonna be here,” Carlos mumbled.

 

“Who is he, yer boyfriend?  He bangin’ ya when you can’t find no other dick?  Lissen up—he can film but I don’t do no three-ways with dudes.  That shit ain’t cool—”

 

His self-rationalization about gay sex was cut short when Nick re-entered the room.

 

“It’s ready,” the older stud said, brushing his long dark hair out of his eyes.  He hadn’t heard the conversation, but he had no trouble reading the searing light of sexual hatred glittering in Carlos’s eyes.  The sadistic skinhead was already having difficulty maintaining his composure, but he headed towards the bedroom.  “Inside,” he said at the door.  Bryan took it as an invitation to follow, but Carlos had been looking directly at Nick when he said it.  The latter realized it was the ex-con’s explanation for how he knew the guy.

 

The obnoxious punk shrugged off his jacket as he passed through the bedroom doorway.  Tossing it onto the floor, he paused and noticed the view from the huge window.  “Damn, dude—nice!” he said, “Must be some good money in filmin’ dudes fuckin’.  You gotta let me in on some a’ that!”

 

Bryan looked over and saw that Carlos was out of his jacket as well, his elaborate tattoos visible on his broad furry chest.  Grinning, he pulled his t-shirt up over his head and dropped it on top of his jacket, showing off his own ink.  The Iron Cross on his left pec was detailed, but the Confederate flag with the motto “Die, Motherfucker, Die” on his right bicep was clearly an amateur job.

 

The punk was muscular—not in Carlos’s class, but well-built.  He wasn’t as hairy as the Latino skinhead; a single line of fur ran down the center of his chest and his flat, firm belly to vanish below the waistband of his camo cargo pants.  He sat on the bed and began loosening the few laces of his Vasque Arrowhead boots.

 

Neither he nor Carlos knew that Nick had already started recording.

 

“Always wanted video of me fuckin’ a dude—the bitches love that shit,” Bryan boasted as he kicked his left boot off, “Gets ‘em all horny when they see I’m such a stud I c’n dick down both chicks and guys.  ‘Course, Carlos here knows all about that, dontcha, dude?”

 

Carlos stiffened.  No matter what it took, there was no way he was gonna let Nick know what Bryan had done to him in prison.  He could barely admit it to himself—the thought that some other male had cum inside him…

 

“See, yer, uh, friend here and I were prison buds,” Bryan said, smirking at Nick as he slid the other boot off and unbuttoned the waistband of his cargo pants.  “An’ there was this one time me an’ these other dudes got holda him an’—GACK!!”

 

Later, Nick had to replay the video in slow motion to see exactly how smoothly Carlos had squatted, retrieved the Bowie knife from his boot sheath, then whirled and sprung forward, thrusting the tip of the blade into Bryan’s throat.  The razor-sharp steel, held vertically, pierced the unlucky punk’s larynx straight through from front to back, the cartilage that formed his vocal process parting like butter under a hot knife.  The tip of the blade lodged in one of Bryan’s cervical vertebrae for a moment, then Carlos jerked the knife back out.

 

He’d managed to avoid all the major blood vessels and most of the major nerves.  The wound wasn’t fatal, but it was excruciating, horrifyingly traumatic—and left the victim permanently unable to speak.

 

“Goddam, man, what the fuck?” Nick asked, shocked, as Bryan, his eyes huge, clutched at his throat and sank back down onto the bed, making thick, desperate gagging sounds.

 

“Aw, his voice was gettin’ on my nerves,” Carlos said, his expression visibly more cheerful than it had been since he’d gotten home.  “Don’t worry,” he continued, making certain that Bryan could hear his words, “He’ll still put on a good show when I fuck ‘im and finally snuff ‘im.  Gonna take my time with this one.  Hear that, ya sick faggot?  You’re gonna die slow, with my cock up yer ass.”

 

By now, Carlos was standing beside the bed, towering over Bryan as the latter pulled his hands from his neck and stared in horror at the blood on them.  Without warning, the muscular Latino backhanded the youth.  “You thought you were gonna fuck me?!?  Naw, motherfucker, I’m gonna fuck you.”

 

Bryan turned his dazed, uncomprehending eyes up to meet Carlos’s icy gaze.  Their beautiful emerald green, ringed by long and lush eyelashes, set something off in the skinhead’s warped psyche.

 

“No one fucks me!  Ever!!”  He punched Bryan three times in the face, repeated jackhammer blows that Nick caught on camera—not the impacts, but the flexing of Carlos’s thick, powerful deltoid and dorsal muscles and the bulging of his trapezius.  He was still clutching the long Bowie knife in his hand as he pounded the punk’s face.

 

Finally, breathing heavily, he stepped back, leaving the bruised fuckmeat sprawled unconscious on the bed, still in its socks and camo pants, its face swelling and air gurgling in its open trachea.  Nick adjusted the camera, re-centering the field of view on the wounded and trembling ex-con.  He loved it; this was hot as fuck.  It’d bring a nice inflow of cash if Carlos continued to abuse the unlucky motherfucker as brutally as he’d started.  “Damn, dude,” he said appreciatively, “What’d he do to you?”

 

“Nothin’,” Carlos said sullenly, “He din’t do nothin’.  Fuckin’ faggot just thought he was gonna be smart, is all.  But this asswipe needs my dick bad.  An’ he needs it to hurt.  Go get yer handheld, cause when this fuck wakes up, he’s gonna know what it feels like to have a real man inside ‘im.  Get a close-up of his face as he cries like a fuckin’ pussy, huh?  Yeah?”

 

Nick’s huge shaft was already tenting his jogger pants; noticing it, Carlos grinned, then bent forward and began cutting Bryan’s pants off with his knife.  The horny little fuckmeat was commando, of course; Carlos was already expecting it.  Piece a’ shit was ready to stick his cock into anything that came along—it was time to see how well he performed on the receiving end of the proposition.

 

And if he needed a little prodding to perform well—the nine inches of razor-sharp steel that jutted from the hilt grasped tightly in Carlos’s hand would ensure he got the point.

 

By the time Nick got back with the hand-held, Bryan’s camo pants lay on the floor, a pile of shredded fabric.  The Latino skinhead already had his massive dick out, its thick, vein-wrapped girth already pulsing and dripping.

 

“Aw hell yeah, man, time to rock ‘n roll,” Nick chuckled enthusiastically.  “This is gonna be a serious money-maker, right here.  C’mon, dude, lemme see ya make this piece of fagmeat scream.”

 

Carlos didn’t need any encouragement.  As Bryan began to moan and squirm, faint trickles of blood still leaking from the hole in his throat, the buff ex-con serial killer climbed up onto the bed.  Planting his thick-soled jump boots to get the best traction, he grinned maliciously and started to force the engorged purple head of his cock into Bryan’s asshole.

 

Bryan liked to fuck other dudes as a show of dominance; much like Carlos, he in no way thought of himself as gay.  Unlike Carlos, though, he’d never been fucked in the ass.  His fuckhole was tight; despite the slick coating of precum acting as lube for the Hispanic stud’s shaft, it was still a struggle for Carlos to mount and fully penetrate his semi-conscious victim.  He had to force it, brutally, and the horrific, searing pain of his sphincter being torn forced Bryan back to full awareness.

 

He screamed.  It was nightmarish; he was being forced down by this muscular dude and couldn’t escape the agonizing sense of being impaled, so he screamed and screamed—but no screams came out.  All Bryan was able to do was croak and gasp as his severed vocal cords fluttered uselessly in his punctured larynx.  A fine mist of blood was aspirated from the wound with each attempt; Carlos noted it with pleasure.

 

“Hey, Nick!  Dude, you gettin’ his neck?  See that?” he asked, then spoke to Bryan directly.  “Hey, ol’ friend, ol’ buddy, you tastin’ yer own blood yet?  Huh?  How’s that taste?”  He thrust his hugely swollen member deep inside the prison rapist’s guts, grinning maniacally as Bryan’s face twisted with excruciating pain.

 

“Hurts, don’t it?” he whispered—not so quietly that Nick couldn’t hear him— “Hurts when you don’t want a fuckin’ dick up yer ass, yeah?  Guess what, bitch, it’s about to hurt a lot fuckin’ more.  You’re gonna die ridin’ my cock, an’ I’m gonna make goddam sure you die hard—and slow.  Yer gonna be praying I cum in yer guts, motherfucker, cause snuffing yer worthless faggot ass is what’s gonna make me blow my load—and death is the only thing that’s gonna end yer sufferin’.  Get it now?  Ready to get fucked to death?”

 

The question was rhetorical; even if Bryan had been physically capable of speaking, his beautiful eyes, wide with blank fear and ringed with gray, showed his state of insensibility.  As Nick zoomed in on the young punk’s face, it was clear that the kid was going into shock.  His struggles slowed; his perfect bubble butt ceased to flex erotically on Carlos’s rod.

 

“No ya don’t,” Carlos snarled, “Stay awake, motherfucker!”

 

Raising his knife up, he drove it straight down like a pile driver, plunging all nine inches of sharpened steel into Bryan’s hard, flat, fuzz-covered belly.  Carlos forced it in up to the hilt, powering through the faint resistance of the punk’s rubbery intestines.  The blade sliced between the floating ribs in the back and completely penetrated the pain-wracked youth, its tip embedded in the mattress beneath him.

 

As Bryan kicked and writhed in agony, Carlos grunted with sexual pleasure.  “Fuck yeah, that’s it—clench that ass and work my fuckin’ dick!”

 

The ex-con hipster screamed silently, his muscled body suddenly going stiff with excruciating pain as the powerful Latino began to withdraw both his knife and his cock.  Tears trickled from Bryan’s eyes as he felt the hot hard dick and the cold hard blade being extracted from inside his body—slowly…oh, so slowly…

 

Carlos waited into just the tip of each remained inside the quivering punk.  “Watch ‘im,” he told Nick, his face lit with sadistic glee, “Get a shot of the fucker’s face here, when I give it to ‘im good.”

 

Bryan heard him speak, but was suffering too badly to understand what they meant.  Some part of his mind was lost in bewilderment, trying to understand how what should have been an easy fuck had turned into this searing nightmare.  He was totally unprepared when Carlos slammed his huge swollen shaft home, burying it balls-deep inside his former rapist.  Simultaneously, he powered the Bowie knife back in, twisting it in the wound, slashing at Bryan’s soft, tender guts.

 

The boy clutched at Carlos, his fingers gripping the Hispanic skinhead’s broad shoulders as his strong, thick legs, already involuntarily wrapped around Carlos’s waist, tightened like a wrestling move—but it was all done unconsciously, in reaction to the phenomenal torture he was enduring.

 

Bryan screamed and screamed, the wheezing, gurgling sound coming from the gash in his throat making a mockery of his efforts.  Nick had positioned himself to the side of the bed and had zoomed in on the dying convict’s face over Carlos’s shoulder while the latter tormented his prey.  “Lookit that—I think he wants t’ stop!  That right, ya little bitch?  Ya don’t wanna get fucked?  All ya gotta do is say no!”

 

Knocking Bryan’s arms away from his shoulders contemptuously, Carlos rose up on his knees so Nick could get a better view.  He left the knife embedded in the kid’s belly, blood leaking from the wound and the hilt bobbing in the air as Bryan’s sweat-slick abdomen heaved in agony.

 

“Well?  I ain’t hearin’ ya say no—guess that means yer enjoyin’ my dick, huh?  Yeah?  Fuckin’ knew it, ya worthless faggot cockwhore!”  The buff, domineering psycho spat in the suffering youth’s face, then punched him again, splitting his lips.

 

“Damn, dude, yer really gettin’ medieval on his ass,” Nick chuckled; he’d seen Carlos lose it with the meat before, but never right away like this.

 

“Wanna see him suffer,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, his inked skin glistening with sweat as he rhythmically pumped the tortured youth’s ass, “Wanna make goddam sure the faggot knows what it feels like when a real man gets hold of his worthless meat.”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, rubbing the dark moist spot at the top of the huge bulge in his pants, “Dudes are gonna be lovin’ this shit, man—fuck ‘im up man; tear that cunt up!”

 

It was obvious that Bryan, wallowing in terrified agony, was till able to understand Nick’s words.  Seeing the fresh wave of horror sweep over the punk’s bleeding, swelling face, the buff cameraman grinned and winked maliciously at him, then leaned in over Carlos’s shoulder for a close-up.

 

“Naw, man, c’mon round the side and show ‘em how much the fuckin’ sicko’s gettin’ off,” Carlos jeered, “Bitch likes it rough—hah!”

 

Circling around, Nick saw that Carlos was right.  The muscular Latino was up on his knees with the fuckmeat’s thick, firm legs wrapped around his tight waist, steadily pumping his huge tool into the kid’s traumatized asshole.  The hilt of his knife still protruded from Bryan’s taut, flat belly.  In between Carlos and the knife, Bryan was sporting an erection—an impressive one, given his obvious agony and terror.

 

“Watch this shit,” Carlos smirked.  As Nick zoomed in, the hairy, tatted ex-con grasped the hilt and yanked it out of Bryan’s guts.  As he did, he twisted it slightly so that the viciously sharp serrations carved new channels in the suffering punk’s flesh.

 

Bryan stiffened in horrible torment his face contorted with agony, pink foam bubbling from the wound in his throat as he shrieked, inaudibly and futilely—but at the same time, his hard half-foot of vein-wreathed cockmeat pulsed visibly.  Nick made damn sure his viewers missed no detail as the tortured youth’s erect, throbbing penis started oozing precum voluntarily.

 

“Toldja the fucker was a goddam faggot,” Carlos said, looking Bryan straight in the eyes.  “Aintcha, ya piece a’ motherfuckin’ shit?  Ya want this, dontcha?  Fuckin’ love finally havin’ a real man fillin’ yer guts with all kinda long hard shafts, yeah, you sick fuck?”

 

The nightmarish pain in his guts and his ass had pushed Bryan over the edge; even as his former victim pumped his colon full of cock, the strong young punk was beating on Carlos’s chest, his fists uselessly pummeling the Latino’s broad hairy chest.  He was only barely aware that his own dick was hard, hard and bobbing stiffly with every powerful thrust of Carlos’s hips.

 

“Goddam,” Nick moaned, steadying his camera in one hand as he unzipped his fly with the other, “Fuckin’ meat sure looks like it’s workin’ yer tool good.”

 

“Naw it ain’t,” Carlos sneered.  “Worthless cunt can’t even stroke my dick right.  Think it’s time to tighten up its fuckhole the hard way.  Hear that, bitch?  Know what that means?”  Grinning evilly, the buff, inked ex-con brandished the blade to the panicked, pain-crazed youth flailing desperately beneath him.  “Means it’s time to die, fucker.”

 

Suddenly the muscle-bound serial killer threw himself down, the wiry fur on his hard chest scraping Bryan’s smooth skin like steel wool.  The youth felt the weight of the larger man compress his straining cock between their flat, sweat-slick bellies as his legs, still wrapped around Carlos’s waist, squeezed together involuntarily.

 

Carlos grabbed a hank of Bryan’s long, dyed section of hair, holding the boy’s trembling head still.  He bent down so close that his scruffy facial growth scraped Bryan’s smooth, silky cheek—so close that neither Nick nor his camera could pick up the words the skinhead muttered into his prison rapist’s ear.

 

“You fucked up so bad, dude, so fuckin’ bad,” he whispered, managing to fill his low voice with venom, “Think you hurt now?  Yer gonna die in so much pain, fuckwad.  Get ready, cunt, clench up on my thick hog an’ fuckin’ suffer!”  Then he rose up to give Nick view.

 

The cameraman stroked his own cock as he closed in on the tip of Carlos’s knife, now placed under Bryan’s jaw, then opened the camera’s view back out to get the tatted Hispanic’s cocky, malicious grin.  “Watch this shit, dude,” Carlos said, ostensibly to Nick, but looking directly at the camera, “This is what a real man does to a fuckin’ prison faggot.”

 

With that, he began to slowly, incrementally, shove all nine inches of the blade up into Bryan’s head through the underside of his jaw.

 

What Bryan had endured before was nothing compared to this new agony.  His punctured larynx, his stabbed gut and impaled ass were all but forgotten as sharpened steel slid up through his jaw, parting the tissue like butter until it hit the underside of his tongue.  That was muscle; Carlos had to apply a little extra pressure to pierce it.

 

The hardbodied cameraman was as affected by the near-visible haze of sweat and pheromones as the two males locked together in fatal intercourse on the bed.  Nick’s long, pulsing shaft began to ooze as he captured a visual of Carlos’s right bicep bulging as he powered his knife through Bryan’s tongue, inflicting horrific pain on the writhing punk.

 

Bryan went utterly rigid with agony, his hands helplessly clutching Carlos’s broad shoulders and his tight, firm thighs scissoring the ruthless Latino’s waist.  Carlos shifted his powerful body forward, digging his shiny jump boots into the bed for better leverage as he continued to force his knife into Bryan’s skull.

 

All the unfortunate youth could do was hold on and suffer.  His own strong young body was no match for that of the sadistic skinhead; he’d only been able to rape Carlos as part of a group.  In his single-minded lust, he’d put himself at the mercy of his one-time victim solo.

 

Problem was, there was no mercy, only unimaginable pain.

 

It seemed to take forever.  The knife inched its way up through the roof of Bryan’s mouth, spearing the soft palate.  Carlos had to press hard to force the tip of the knife through the palatine bone; with a satisfied grunt of effort, he cradled Bryan’s head in his free arm and shoved.  He was rewarded with a loud crunching sound as the carbon-steel blade penetrated the agonized punk’s cranium and sliced up through his sinuses.

 

Bryan was conscious throughout the whole process.  There was little space for lucid thought within the echoing confines of his mind; there was nothing left but screaming and soul-searing physical suffering.  And during it all, he held his killer tight, pressing his firm, smooth, shuddering body against Carlos’s, the toes on his sock-covered feet curling in the air.

 

“Oh fuck yeah, that’s it,” Carlos moaned, his hard handsome face taut and sweaty with physical pleasure, “that’s how ya make fuckmeat tighten up—milk my fuckin’ cock, faggot.  Die, so I can fill yer worthless corpse with cum!”

 

The frame of Nick’s camera was filled for a moment with Bryan’s face, filled with anguish and smeared with tears, snot, and blood—the latter trickling from his nose and his split lips.  As the pointed tip of Carlos’s knife speared its way up through his skull, it sliced through the boy’s optic nerves; his bulging, bloodshot emerald eyes suddenly rolled back in his head as permanent darkness swept over him.

 

His ears still worked, though.

 

“Hey, Bry,” Carlos whispered huskily, “I’m ‘bout to fuck yer brain with my blade.  Just a little “fuck you” from our days inside.”

 

With a snarl on his face, the muscle-bound skinhead drove his knife up into Bryan’s head until the tip ground into the inside of cranium.  In a split second, the punk’s frontal lobe had been impaled by a thick steel shank.

 

And in that second, Bryan became meat.  Shuddering, sweating, clenching meat that spent its last few living moments on earth using its colon to stroke Carlos’s long, fat dick to orgasm.

 

“Aw, yeah!” the hairy, inked ex-con yelled, “Fuck! Goddam, gonna blow—FUCK!!”  His powerful, glistening body went rigid as hot manseed boiled over in his balls and was pumped in huge spurts deep into the dying meat’s ass.  The image recorded on Nick’s camera turned out pretty well after a little stabilization editing; the buff, leering cameraman shuddered a little as he spewed thick creamy jets of semen directly into Bryan’s slack, gaping face.

 

Between the entwined males, the quivering boymeat began to spunk uncontrollably.  Despite being in the depths of ejaculation, Carlos felt his one-time rapist’s cum splattering into his belly fur—and the memory of the last time he’d felt Bryan’s jizz, it was inside him.

 

It was too much.  Even as he unloaded in his victim’s helpless corpse, it was still too much.

 

Carlos pulled his dick out of the fuckmeat.  Still shooting, he yanked his knife out of Bryan’s head in a single brutal jerk.  Grabbing the dead boy’s package—still spunking as well, an automatic physiological response to the massive brain trauma—the enraged Latino sliced it all off.

 

Even as he held Bryan’s severed dick and balls aloft, the convulsing organ continued to shoot semen.  “Holy fuck!” Nick cried, sending a solid stream of jizz into the air like geyser.  Incredulously, he recorded Carlos jamming Bryan’s still-leaking dick into the kid’s own mouth, balls-first, so that the livid head protruded from his parted lips, letting the spunk still oozing out trickle down the dead punk’s chin.

 

Carlos shot two more jets of thick, ropy manseed over the mutilated remains of his prey, his chest heaving, the gold chain around his neck glinting in the light as he steadied himself over the kicking corpse.  Breathing heavily, Nick allowed the hardbodied ex-con to slide off the bed; recovering his breath, he lowered the camera for a moment.  For a moment, he centered it involuntarily on the cum-spattered tops of his Nike Air Force 1s, then raised it again, letting it linger over Bryan’s smooth, muscular corpse, trembling in its death throes, blood leaking from the gaping wound between the legs.

 

“And…scene!”  Nick cried enthusiastically, shutting the camera off.  “Jesus, dude, that was fuckin’ intense!  What, did he piss you off?  Bad cellie?”

 

Carlos had managed to catch his breath.  Standing at the foot of the bed, he gazed contemptuously down at the mangled, abused body.  “I didn’t bunk with the asswipe,” he said quietly, his rage momentarily dispersed via orgasm.  “Fucker wouldn’ta lived this long if I had.”

 

He turned and headed towards the bathroom, leaving Nick to plan the clean-up.

 


 

The lugubrious grin on Nuñez’s face let Schweitz know this was gonna be a good one—as in, this was gonna be really bad.  He wasn’t disappointed.

 

“It’s another faggot—” Nuñez started.

 

“Aw, jeez, whyd’ja hafta call me out here on this one?  You know we ain’t got time for this bullshit!”

 

“Thought you’d like this one,” Nuñez grinned.  “As a connoisseur, so to speak.”

 

Schweitz rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress an amused smirk.  “Ok, show me whatcha got.”

 

“This way,” the slim Hispanic cop said, leading his sweating, obese partner to a dumpster at the end of the alley; it belonged to a small-time local casino, whose staff had reported the find.  The body had already been removed from the garbage and was on a gurney, bagged, by the time Schweitz got there.

 

“Open it,” Nuñez said.  The tech obeyed, letting Schweitz get a good view of Bryan’s bulging mouthful.

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the heavy-set cop muttered.

 

“Ex-con,” Nuñez said, “Hasn’t been in town long.  We found his parole officer’s card in his wallet; he ID’d ‘im from the tattoos.”

 

“Ok,” Schweitz sighed, “That puts you ahead.  I admit it, that one’s fucked up.  But I still think I can find one even worse before the end of the year.  The faggots do some seriously sick shit to each other.  Now sign off on that worthless cocksucker—haw! —and let’s go grab some lunch.  There’s a new Chinese buffet over on Charleston I wanna try.”

 

“Always thinkin’ of yer gut, aintcha?” Nuñez jeered coarsely.  “Naw, I don’t need no ident number for that motherfucker”—this was to the coroner’s tech, referring to the corpse— “Ain’t like anyone give a shit about some faggot jailbird.”

 

As the cops headed back up the alley, the tech re-sealed Bryan’s stiffening corpse.  He banged it around a bit as he got it back to the van, but, after all, he wasn’t paid to care about some faggot’s abused body, either.

Stepfather Knows Best

It was past midnight and Tony was pissed.  That fuckin’ punk had a curfew, and he damn well knew it; Tony had made sure of that.  So where was the little asswipe?

 

There had never been any love lost between Tony and his stepson.  Of course, he’d only been Billy’s stepfather for a year and they’d never been on good terms.  It was obvious that Tony hadn’t loved Billy’s mother, which hadn’t endeared him to the teen, but things had gotten much worse in the seven months since she’d died.

 

As Tony ground his teeth and waited for Billy, he wondered, with a bitter grin, how the kid would react if he knew that Tony had murdered her.

 

Stupid bitch had wanted his body so bad.  Tony was thirty-two, six feet tall and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of pure muscle that he exercised daily working in the freight yard of a lumber company.  He was Hispanic—Tony was short for Antonio—with fairly long blue-black hair, dark liquid eyes and black wiry fur covering his sculpted form.

 

He was also uneducated, sullen, violent-tempered—and gay.  It irked him, and he’d kill to protect his macho image, but he accepted it physically.  He’d married Billy’s mom for two reasons, one of which was the she simply wouldn’t leave him alone.  She’d met him at one of the neighborhood supermarkets and instantly fallen for his dark Latin looks and his phenomenal physique.

 

But the main reason was that she’d agreed to insure her life for a two million dollars with him—him alone, and not the kid—as beneficiary.  “Don’t worry, querida, I’ll take care of William,” he’d told her.  But Guillermo had been his father’s name; the obnoxious sixteen-year-old didn’t deserve to be called by the same name as that noble man.  He still intended to keep his word, though.

 

He’d take care of Billy.

 

Her death had been easy to arrange.  Tony wasn’t smart but he had the cunning and instincts of a predatory animal.  He’d made it simple.  The day after the kid’s seventeenth birthday—she’d wanted to have a party but of course the little fuck spent the night out getting high and banging some cheap high school slut—he’d simply pushed her down the stairs, then called 911.  When he got down and found out she was still alive, he broke her neck.

 

The autopsy concluded death by misadventure.  It was officially an accident.

 

It was taking a while to wind things up, though.  He was waiting for the final legal matters of his wife’s estate—such as it was—to finish up before taking the money and blowing town, leaving Billy behind.  Tony had already gotten the money, all two million of it, and stashed it in an account under a false identity he’d created, having set up a residence under that name in a small town on the other side of the state.  All that was left was the deed of the house.  It wasn’t worth much—but Tony was greedy.

 

He was also intolerant of his spoiled punk of a stepson.

 

But ever since his mother’s death, the teen fuckwad had become more and more insolent, sneering at Tony, daring him to try to punish him.  “You ain’t my dad!” he yelled so often that the words rang continuously in Tony’s ears, “The moment I’m eighteen, I’m outta here!”

 

That one made Tony smile.  He planned to be outta here himself long before then.

 

But lately, Billy had gotten worse.  He’d come home at two in the morning, bleary, red-eyed, obviously drunk and/or high every time, usually boasting about whatever freshman chick had been unlucky enough to get her cherry popped by him.  Tony really didn’t give a shit what the boy did, but he was drawing attention to the household.  Already the older man had been visited twice by the cops and three times by the truant officer.

 

The last thing Tony wanted before he cut and run was to be noticed by the cops.  The problem needed to end—now.  He’d told Billy two days ago that he needed to be in by midnight, or else.  He didn’t finish the sentence, but his manner and gestures made his meaning clear. Billy sneered but didn’t argue.

 

He’d gotten home on time last night, but there was something in his actions and his unpleasant expression that made Tony suspect his plans hadn’t worked out.  There’d ended up being no temptation to break curfew.

 

Tonight, however…

 

It was nearly two in the morning before Tony heard the front door open.  Billy stumbled in, drunk, his pale blue eyes bloodshot.  The teen punk flipped on the hall light just as Tony stepped out of the tiny living room.

 

“You hadda curfew, boy,” Tony growled.

 

“Huh?  Whozzat?” Billy slurred, rubbing his bleary eyes as he struggled to remain upright.  His red-gold hair gleamed under the overhead bulb the kid swayed.

 

Billy was almost as tall as Tony, about five feet ten, but much slenderer.  He wasn’t scrawny, but his lean adolescent body wasn’t remotely in the same class as his stepfather’s muscle-bound form.  The alcoholic flush in his youthful face emphasized the band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his nose and his long lashes gave his pot-reddened eyes an almost feminine appearance.

 

Billy was wearing a skin-tight pair of low-rise skinny jeans that just barely covered his ass.  His feet were tightly laced into a pair of DC Court Graffiks.  The kicks were pale gray that stood out under the jet-black jeans.  The boy’s lean, smooth chest was wrapped in an untucked thin cotton t-shirt, bright yellow—it was a Pikachu shirt.

 

Tony, standing shirtless with his arms crossed over his furry bulging chest, wore nothing but a pair of old worn work jeans tucked into his eight-inch black leather Timberland boots.  He’d just started tucking his jean cuffs into the laced boots three weeks ago after disturbing a rattler under a pile of seasoned timber.

 

“I said,” Tony snarled, a dangerous tone in his voice, “You hadda curfew.  Where ya been, you little shit?”

 

“I been out,” the teen snapped, “An’ it ain’t yer buzz—busy—business where.”

 

Tony clenched his fist so tightly that the knuckles cracked audibly.  “As long as yer livin’ in my house, you spoiled brat—”

 

It ain’t your house!!” Billy yelled.  “It’s my mom’s!  And you ain’t my dad, so quit tellin’ me what to fuckin’ do!”

 

“As long as you’re living in my house,” Tony began again, very slowly and deliberately, “You’re gonna do what I say.  Period.  You ain’t eighteen yet, boy.”

 

“Or what?” the drunken punk sneered, “Whaddaya gonna do? Tell ya what, ya greasy spic, I’m gettin’ out tomorrow.  Already told my friends about it.  Once I find me a place an’ get settled in, I’m havin’ a big-ass party and gettin’ as fucked-up as I want…”

 

He paused and giggled for a moment as Tony glowered at him.  “Oh yeah, gonna have a big ol’ party…gonna have all my friends over, all the ones you hate…gonna tell ‘em about how I came in one day an’ saw you jackin’ off to a vid of two dudes fuckin’—didn’t know that, didja?  Well now everyone’s gonna know…”

 

Again, he giggled—for the last time in his life.

 

If he’d been less stoned, less drunk, he might have noticed the way Tony’s face contorted with rage, the way the powerful older man’s eyes glittered and his thick muscles tensed.  But Billy wasn’t looking; he was too busy pawing at his phone, trying (and failing) to type an incoherent text to the girl he’d fucked earlier that evening.

 

He barely noticed the thud of Tony’s boots, but the jingling sound struck him, and he turned.  Tony wore a gold chain and medallion—the only things of any real value he owned; they’d been a wedding gift from Billy’s mother.  The chain wasn’t heavy—she couldn’t afford the big thick links he’d wanted—but the medallion was a thing of wonder; she’d spent a large part of Billy’s college savings on having it custom-made to Tony’s design.  After all, she was marrying someone with a stable job who’d surely help her son when the time came.

 

Tony loved the medallion.  From a disk two and a half inches in diameter rose a lion’s face, all of it in solid gold—the blue-collar stud, born in early August, was a Leo.  The eyes and the fangs of the beast were platinum and gave it a ferocious look.

 

The whole thing usually rested snugly on Tony’s chest, nestled in his thick fur, but when he moved suddenly or violently, it bounced around, the heavy medallion making a jingling sound as it rattled along its chain.  It was this that drew Billy’s attention—but not quite fast enough.  All the adolescent punk saw was a blur; his eyes never had the chance to resolve it into Tony’s fist, rocketing straight for his face.

 

There just the blast of pain on his jaw and Tony’s fury-filled voice, “You piece a’ fuckin’ shit!”

 

The sucker-punch to his jaw knocked Billy across the entryway; he staggered into the wall, stumbling with such force that his shoulder dislodged a chunk of plaster.  Stunned, the teen fell to his knees.  He braced himself against the wall as Tony loomed over him.

 

“You goddam faggot,” Billy muttered, rubbing his split lower lip, “Gonna call 911 on yer ass…”  He reached out for his phone, lying on the floor a few feet away.

 

“Naw you ain’t,” Tony jeered.  Before Billy could grasp the phone, Tony casually put his boot down on it.  He grinned at Billy, then ground the thick treaded heel onto the phone, obviously relishing the cracking sound as he crushed the screen.

 

“Goddam it!” Billy squawked, “Do you know what that cost?”  He seemed to be angrier about the damage to his phone than the damage to his face.

 

Billy’s hair wasn’t overly long, but it was long enough for Tony to bend down and grab a hank of it.  “Better’n you, ya whinin’ little leech; you ain’t earned a dollar in yer useless life.  Now get the fuck up!”  He jerked Billy’s hair upwards, forcing the adolescent punk up off his knees to avoid injuring his scalp.

 

Billy’s hands instantly went up to Tony’s fingers, trying to pry them out of his hair.  “Lemme go!” he demanded petulantly.

 

“Shaddap,” Tony snarled and gutpunched the teen, his piston-like fist sinking deep into to the kid’s flat, smooth belly.  “HOOG!” Billy cried, doubling over; he would have fallen to his knees again had Tony not been holding him up by the hair.

 

The hardbodied older man, sweating slightly from his exertions, towered over the moaning smart-ass punk.  “Boy, yer ma never taught ya no discipline.  I’m gonna teach ya respect the hard way—an’ I guaran-fuckin’-tee you ain’t gonna forget.”

 

Whatever Billy may have thought of this proposition went unexpressed; the youth was jerking and gasping ineffectually, still trying to get his breath back.  He couldn’t ignore the painfully forceful yanking on his scalp, though, as Tony dragged him relentlessly toward the stairs.

 

The house was old—almost a century—and had been built in what was originally a working-class neighborhood that had never risen in value.  It wasn’t just run-down; it some areas it was almost ineptly small.  The staircase was steep and narrow, the wood risers creaking and splintered.

 

Billy found that being dragged upstairs practically on his hands and knees was a painful experience.  He had no idea that in just a few minutes he’d be in such agony that this discomfort would seem like a mother’s caress.

 

“Let…let…lemme go!” he gasped out just as they reached the top landing.  Directly across from it the door to the master bedroom stood open.  Tony jerked Billy around in front of him, towards the gaping rectangle of darkness.

 

“Shut the fuck up, asswipe,” he snarled.  Planting his big black boot against the boy’s ass, he shoved hard, sending Billy flying blindly into the darkened bedroom.  The teen clipped the corner of the dresser with his hip.  His cry of pain was cut short by a loud crash as he slammed into the closet door and slumped, dazed, to the floor.

 

He could barely comprehend what was happening, but he knew that his stepfather had assaulted him.  Despite the intense physical pain and the sudden fright of the unexpected attack, there was a hard kernel of joy in Billy’s shallow, arrogant mind: he had the fucker right where he wanted him.  He was gonna get the fag put away for a long, long time.

 

The idea that he might not survive to do so hadn’t occurred to him yet, but it was about to.

 

It was to dark to see more than a hulking. moving silhouette outlined in the doorway, but Billy knew Tony was coming for him.  The rank odor of mansweat, cologne and adrenaline increased, Tony’s sheer proximity taking Billy by surprise.  Before his startled cry could escape his windpipe, though, his air was completely cut off.  Tony’s hand had clamped down on his throat like a vice and now the muscled Latino was dead-lifting the kid off the ground.

 

Billy suddenly found himself dangling in midair, the toes of his DCs jerking helplessly inches off the floor.  This was a new kind of pain; his entire body weight was hanging off his neck and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t inhale.

 

The ginger punk began to panic, clawing at Tony’s hands as his legs kicked violently.  He still couldn’t see much in the darkness, but there was a flash of light that danced and glittered at his eye level.  His pulse pounding deafeningly in his ears, Billy instinctively reach for the light.  His fingers, bent into rigid hooks, soon snagged it—it was Tony’s medallion.

 

In his frantic thrashing, Billy ripped it—and a few curly chest hairs—away from Tony’s chest.

 

“MOTHERFUCKER!!” Tony roared.  Tensing his powerful arm like a slingshot, he hurled Billy across the room at random.

 

The kid hit the partially-open bedroom door, slamming it shut hard enough to jam it into its frame.  When he fell to the floor this time, he didn’t rise—he was out cold.

 

Tony, in the meantime, had crossed the room and flipped the light switch.  A bedside lamp and a floor lamp in the opposite corner came on simultaneously.  Cursing, Tony scouted the floor for a few moments before giving a grunt of satisfaction as he noticed the medallion halfway under the dresser.  He picked it up and pocketed it.

 

Now that the important matter had been dealt with, he turned his attention back to his stepson.  Tony was violent and ignorant, but he wasn’t stupid; he knew as well as Billy did what would happen if he let the little shit out of this room alive.

 

And since that was the case, and he’d always wanted to ram his huge shaft up the swaggering teen’s tight asshole, why not have a little fun?  Especially since he could show the fuckwad exactly what he’d always thought of him.

 

Now that all bets were off, he could show the little sack of shit just how badly he wanted to fuck him—and fuck him up.  He strolled casually to the bed and began to strip the covering off.

 

Billy moaned and stirred, coming slowly and painfully back to consciousness.  He was lying in a heap on the floor; when he first opened his eyes, they were at floor level.  All he could see of Tony was the older man’s boots as he walked around the bed.  The teen’s lithe body was claiming his attention, though; even though nothing was broken, he was hurting badly.  His smooth, silky skin had sprouted ugly purple bruises and his back and sides ached horribly where he’d impacted the doors.

 

Suddenly, Billy blinked.  He’d been so focused on his own physical discomfort, he’d stopped paying attention to Tony—he never noticed his stepfather approaching him.  But now his field of vision was completely filled with the muscle-bound Latino’s boots.  The thick treaded soles, still stained with dried mud, the black leather tightly cinched to the blue-collar stud’s powerful legs by the heavy-duty tan nylon laces…

 

Billy rolled onto his back and looked up at Tony towering over him.  For the first time, the arrogant teenager felt a sense of fear.  Above the boots, Tony’s tight jeans only emphasized the power of his bulging legs.  And above his waist, circled by a black utility belt of webbed nylon the older man’s ripped abs and massive, fur-covered pecs amply demonstrated what the tight jeans only hinted at—Tony’s phenomenal physical strength.  If Tony really wanted to fuck him up, Billy realized, there was little he could do about it.

 

And at that moment their eyes met and Tony gave his helpless stepson a grin so full of malicious intent that Billy’s blood ran cold.

 

“I’m gonna hafta teach ya respect, boy.  Yer gonna learn to respect me, hear?” the powerfully-built man chuckled, “Dumb-ass motherfucker, I gotta break ya like an animal to make ya learn.  Best way to do that is pain.”

 

Before Billy could react, Tony lifted his leg and stomped on the boy’s abdomen, his huge Timberland boot grinding its treaded sole deep into Billy’s soft flat belly, driving his stomach up into his diaphragm.  The boy cried out, an inarticulate wail of pain as the air was brutally forced from his lungs; instinctively, he reached out and grabbed Tony’s relentless boots.  His hands clenched the smooth black leather tightly as he tried to shift the crushing footgear.

 

“Get yer fuckin’ hands off my boot, goddam it!” Tony barked out.  Quickly, he jerked his foot back, then gave Billy a swift, vicious kick.  The sadistically angry older man grinned with pleasure at the faint cracking sound caused by the impact of his steel toe with the teen’s flank.

 

Billy was still trying to inhale; he wasn’t able to scream as both floating ribs on his right side—and the first false rib above them—snapped cleanly in two.  The pain was horrible, but aside from minor tissue damage as the jagged broken ends of the bones dug into his tissues, the young punk hadn’t suffered any serious damage.

 

Yet.

 

Tony was surprised at how erotic the sound of breaking bones was.  It was almost good as the visual of the cocky adolescent suffering.  His dick pressed against his tight jeans, resentful that it couldn’t expand to its full glory—not a situation Tony would endure long.  He unzipped his fly and let his enormous tube of manmeat flop out.  It was already dripping.

 

And a single bead of transparent precum dripped on Billy’s smooth chest.  The writhing teen delinquent hadn’t seen what was going on—his face was contorted into an agonized grimace, his eye tightly closed—but despite the trauma of three broken ribs, he still was able to feel the hot splash of manjuice on his tender skin and opened his eyes.

 

He opened his eyes even wider when he saw Tony’s erect, oozing cock.

 

Billy wasn’t gay.  The thought of two men having sex sickened him.  On the rare occasions he’d been in school, he was notorious on the campus for bullying (and sometimes downright assaulting) any other dude he even thought was homosexual.  His discovery of Tony’s secret had been the final tipping point for his decision to leave home.

 

But now here he was, battered and at a severe disadvantage—he refused to recognize himself as helpless—and trapped in a room with a faggot.

 

A powerful faggot.  One who had the physical strength to make the obnoxious teen his bitch.

 

Looking down at his victim, Tony saw fear in Billy’s face for the first time, and that sealed the deal.  That was what he needed—to dominate the little shit, to put the fear of Tony into him.

 

And to fuck the shit outta him while doing it.  He grabbed his massive rod, brandishing it like a club.

 

“Guess where this is goin’, asswipe,” he chuckled, grinning malevolently, “An’ there ain’t a damn thing yer gonna be able to do about it.”

 

He kicked Billy again, quick, sharp, short; a vicious impact on the kid’s hip that split the skin.  “AAH!!” the punk yelled.  He wasn’t able to yell again; raising his boot high so that Billy could admire it for the brief moment it was held over him, Tony stomped him again.  This time he went for the sternum, slamming his heel into Bill’s solar plexus.

 

The kid was totally unaware of anything that happened in the next two and a half minutes; he was too busy trying to breathe—and not doing it well.  By the time he was in enough control of his nervous system to inhale with some semblance of regularity, Tony was leaning against the dresser, smoking a cigarette and stroking his thick, swollen member.

 

The older man leered at the gasping, traumatized youth.  “Get up, asswipe,” he commanded.

 

“F-fuck you,” Billy spat out.  Tony darted across the room and before Billy even realized what was happening, the muscle-bound stud kicked his stepson in the face.  His steel-toed boot hit Billy’s face like a speeding truck, cracking the jawbone and knocking out three teeth.

 

The teen’s agonized howl reverberated down Tony’s dick; this was his first real chance to explore his attraction to sadism—and it felt hot as fuck.

 

“Keep talkin’ back, fucker,” the hulking Latino moaned, his sexual arousal clearly audible in his voice.  “Gimme a reason to hurt you, cunt…”

 

Even though his slim teen body was wracked with pain, Billy heard—and, on some instinctive level beneath conscious thought, understood—Tony’s husky, erotic tone.  He knew what he had to do.

 

In spite of the pain, he had to obey.  Because if he didn’t, things would get much, much worse.

 

Slowly, stiffly, the kid rolled over and began the harrowing process of bracing himself on the wall and rising first to his knees, then, finally, to his feet.

 

“Strip,” Tony said, staring coldly into the boy’s tear- and blood-streaked face.  Billy damn sure didn’t want to strip, but he couldn’t say anything about it even if he dared; it simply hurt too much to open his mouth.  He pulled off his Pokémon shirt, his tight, smooth chest shuddering with suppressed sobs.  His belt, which had been hidden under the shirt, glittered in the light.  It was something he’d picked up in a retro store, advertised as “genuine 80’s punk rock”—lengths of ten-millimeter marine chain in a bundle, bound together with thick leather thongs at regular intervals along its length.

 

Fuckin’ jackass thought he was a trend-setter.  Tony smirked contemptuously.  “Yeah, motherfucker, that’s it,” he chuckled as he fondled his manmeat and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into Billy’s face.  “Show daddy what ya got.  Get them jeans off; I wanna see ye sweet ass.”

 

Billy hesitated.  He couldn’t do this.  It didn’t matter how bad he got beat—he wasn’t gonna take a dick up his ass, especially not this motherfucker’s.

 

“Do it, you sack a’ shit, or I’ll make ya do it.  Fuckin’ strip, I said.  Now.”  Tony wasn’t smiling any more, and the gleam of merriment in his eyes was somehow more terrifying—because less sane—than the openly mocking humor in his earlier manner.

 

The teen was shuddering in pain and fear; his hands trembled so badly he could barely undo his belt even though it was merely looped into a loose granny knot.  His smooth skin was slick with cold, nervous sweat.  His adolescent adrenal system had so overloaded his body with hormones that they oozed out of his pores; the atmosphere was heady with his youthful pheromones as his shaking fingers managed to unfasten the belt.  As he unbuttoned the waistband and started lowering the zipper, Billy was brought up short by Tony.

 

“Hold up, bitch.  Yer belt—I want it.  Toss it to me.”

 

Billy obeyed, submitting to his stepfather’s commands in a dazed manner.  Tony caught the belt, then tossed it onto the stripped-down bed.  “Ok, bitch, keep strippin’.  C’mon, cunt, strip an’ I’m gonna make ya daddy’s bitch.”

 

Quivering in revulsion and horror, the humbled youth paused to kick off his Court Graffiks, leaving his black no-show ped socks covering his feet as tears coursed down his cheek.  His jeans dropped to the floor, showing that the little punk was commando.  His uncut teen cock was impressively long and thick for being completely soft.

 

 

Billy’s chest and his hip ached badly and the swollen throbbing of his mouth and jaw were almost unbearable, but they paled in comparison to what he expected was going to happen next.    He had no idea how bad it was going to get, though—but Tony did.

 

“Get on the bed, boy.”

 

Those five words struck a chill in Billy’s heart.  To the oversexed adolescent, they were more terrifying than threats of beating—even in his stunned and dazed state, he knew what it meant.

 

He was gonna get ass-raped.  The leering grin on Tony’s swarthy, masculine face confirmed it.  The teen’s naturally rebellious nature, confronted with this horrifying prospect, rose up on its hind legs.

 

“Fuck you, ya faggot!” he screamed, his fear overpowering the searing sensation of opening his mouth.

 

The grin vanished from the muscle-bound Latino’s face; if Tony’ command had chilled Billy’s blood, the expression on the blue-collar stud’s face froze it solid.  Not solid enough, though, to prevent the kid’s sudden dash for the door.

 

The boy was good.  He’d never gone out for sports, but his slim firm body was strong with the power of youth—and of fear.  Before Tony had realized what was happening, Billy had managed not only to reach the bedroom door, but to get it open.

 

Billy’s heart lurched in terror as he heard the loud thump of Tony’s boots hitting the floor behind him.  He realized that his only chance was to make it out of the house; unless he jumped through a window, his only way to do that was to get downstairs.  He bolted for the landing.

 

He almost made it.  He’d actually reached the top step when Tony tackled him full-body, slamming him into the wall hard enough to punch through the plaster and break the lathes behind…

 

…and the next thing Billy was aware of was that he was stretched out on the bed.   He didn’t remember how he got there, but he remembered everything else, and he knew what it meant.

 

He’d lost.  It took all his willpower to open his eyes; he already knew Tony would be standing there next to him.  He didn’t want to look at his brutal stepfather’s face—and as it happened, he didn’t have to.

 

As his lids fluttered open, the first thing he saw was Tony’s massive cock, hanging lividly directly over his face.  It was so close he could see every pulsing vein wrapped around the engorged shaft of manmeat.

 

“Hey there, fuckmeat,” Tony chortled, “Ya like it, dontcha?  Take a good long look, ya little shit, before I stick it up yer ass.”

 

The enormous shaft was so close, Billy didn’t have the option not to look.  As he watched, the huge, intimidating shaft of rigid manmeat began to ooze.  As a sexually active adolescent, the punk knew exactly what precum was—and what caused it.

 

It disgusted and nauseated him, but there was nothing he could do.  The kid had simply too badly beaten, was in too much pain to fight anymore.  “Just fuckin’ do it, man…” he whispered, his fractured jaw making every word agony, “Just…please…don’t hurt me no more…”

 

Tony’s loud, cruel guffaw echoed off the walls.  “Don’t hurt you?” he jeered incredulously.  “It’s hurtin’ you that gets me off, ya dumbass motherfucker!”  He mounted the bed and forcefully pried Billy’s smooth, firm legs apart, manhandling them up to his shoulders.  Reaching down and grabbing his cock like some huge caveman’s club, the older man fondled Billy’s ass with his free hand.

 

He bent over the prone, helpless teen and whispered, “An’ if you ain’t had no dick up there, boy, this is gonna hurt worse than you can imagine.”

 

This close, Billy had more than a closeup of Tony’s hard, masculine face—he could smell the muscle-bound sicko, a musky mix of sweat, testosterone, and cheap cologne that gave the blue-collar stud his own unique manscent.  Billy had smelled it often before—albeit without its current heavy load of pheromones—and had always been somehow revolted by it.  Now, though, it was taking on new associations.  For the rest of his life, that particular scent would inspire terror.

 

It was a good news/bad news scenario for the once-cocky teen punk: the bad news was that he’d be forced to endure that odor for the rest of his life—but the good news was that he’d only be forced to endure it for about another half-hour or so.

 

And he’d have other things to complain about long before the end of that period of time.

 

Like assrape.  Tony wasted no time; Billy felt an increasing on his fuckhole—then Tony shoved, hard and long and Billy screamed, hard and long.

 

He wasn’t being raped; he was being stabbed.  The pain was so excruciating that Billy couldn’t believe it was being inflicted by something as blunt as a penis—he had no doubt that Tony had rammed a butcher’s knife into his ass.

 

For Tony, the feeling was bliss.  He’d wanted to dominate this obnoxious teenaged piece of shit ever since he met him, and now that he had his dick sunk balls-deep into the punk’s guts, he was gonna torture the kid until he unloaded inside him.

 

But these houses were cheaply built and close together; Billy was making far too much noise.  “Shaddap and take it, motherfucker,” he barked and popped the boy on the jaw again.  The fracture gave way and Billy was suddenly pulled between two poles of suffering—the horrific sensation of tearing tissue as his ass was impaled and the slicing torment of the broken ends of bones grinding together in his jaw.

 

The teen had the wiry strength of youth, but the physical and mental trauma was starting to overload him.  He was cold, very cold, and things were going gray.  There was a loud buzzing in his ears; he reached out, instinctively, for some kind of support as he desperately tried to maintain consciousness.

 

And that was how Billy ended up tightly clutching Tony’s hairy, muscular arms as his stepfather brutally fucked him.  What little strength the suffering youth had left was put into keeping awake by keeping hold of Tony; Billy somehow had a subconscious awareness that if he went out now, he’d never wake up.

 

It was a bad choice; it turned out that staying awake was much, much worse.

 

“Goddam, yer gettin’ loose,” his furry, sweat-slick stepfather grunted, pumping his long manmeat up the kid’s ass rhythmically, “Thought you were a virgin—you been gettin’ banged by the whole fuckin’ football team?  Haw!”

 

Billy’s face, contorted with agony and wet with tears, was still responsive to other feelings; even as he suffered, the hint of being gay stoked enough of a spark of anger to make him flush.  It was what Tony did next that made the boy go pale.

 

“I know how ta make ya get all nice an’ tight,” Tony said with an evil smirk, and brandished Billy’s chain belt.  The teen lay still, staring at it blankly; with everything he’d undergone, he’d forgotten about it.  “Saw this online one time,” Tony went on, “An’ I always wanted to try it.  On you, motherfucker.”

 

For a brief moment, an image was seared into Billy’s terrified mind—his hairy, muscular looming over him; that broad, fur-covered chest, the huge dark nipples hard and jutting with Tony’s sadistic excitement, his swarthy face glowing with contemptuous lust, his dark eyes flashing, and his arm—oh, his thick, powerful arm raised and ready to strike—

 

It moved so fast that Billy didn’t even see it; in fact, his first sensation after the impact was hearing it.  The slap of metal on flesh was louder than his stepfather’s ragged guttural breathing.

 

The older man had doubled the belt over, then swung it downwards; it had struck Billy’s chest diagonally from upper left to lower right.  Each individual link of the multiple chains hit the punk’s smooth, tender skin at high velocity.  The immediate reaction was akin to shock but when the pain did register, even a broken jaw couldn’t keep Billy from screaming.

 

“Aw fuck yeah!” Tony yelled, “Fuckin’-A, that’s it!  Felt that one all up an’ down my dick, motherfucker!”  He raised his arm again, his back lit image again striking terror into the helpless, tortured adolescent.  “C’mon, ya smartass piece a’ shit, let’s hear ya mouth off now!”

 

This time Billy raised his right arm to ward off the blow.  Again, it was a very bad idea—but the teenaged delinquent, who rarely had good ideas at his best—was suffering the impediment of broken bones and an enormous cock up his ass.  Even as he swung his mighty arm down, Tony had seen the kid’s defensive move and knew what would happen—the belt looped around Billy’s arm, centripetal force accelerating it as it tore into his flesh.  Before it could unwind itself, the sick sadist jerked the belt back.

 

Two distinctively separate sounds reverberated off the walls like gunshots.  The first was the sharp cracking noise of Billy’s right forearm bones snapping simultaneously.  The second was more of a moist crackling pop as his shoulder dislocated.

 

It was too much; it was overload—and it got worse.  As Billy hoarsely screamed himself into a white haze of agony, Tony aimed another blow at the boy’s heaving flank, oily with sweat.  The chain belt hit the point where Billy’s ribs had been broken, and the teen surrendered to the pain; almost gratefully fleeing consciousness despite his fear of never coming to again.

 

He needn’t have worried.  Tony was enraged that he’d lost his prey, but not enough to snuff it while it was out.  The little asshole hadn’t suffered anywhere near enough yet.  The buff older man simply wrapped the belt around the limp teen’s neck and continued to rape the kid’s ass.  He was bound to wake up sooner or later.

 

It took the fucker a few minutes crawl his way back to excruciating consciousness.  The moment he saw the punk’s long dark eyelashes begin to flutter, Tony pulled the belt tight.  Not enough to cut off Billy’s air; just enough to let the asswipe know that the fun wasn’t over yet.

 

Billy, utterly engulfed in agony, had stopped trying to fight back.  The horrific pain of being kicked, beaten, and chain-whipped had broken his spirit, just as Tony had intended.  The nightmarish torture of assrape and multiple broken bones had left the teen, if not in shock, then very close to it.  The ginger punk’s eyes were open, but nothing was registering.  His perspiration-soaked skin was gray and clammy and his pulse was becoming slow and faint.

 

Problem was, his fuckhole was becoming slack—but that was why Tony had put the belt around the kid’s neck.  One sharp tug could help fix all that.

 

Tony did more than tug it.

 

Billy’s eyes opened wide as the chain links burrowed into his flesh; the pressure was forcing skin out within the spaces, deeply embedding the pattern of the links into his neck.  Keeping his swollen shaft buried in the teen’s rectum, Tony pulled slowly on the ends of the belt, incrementally tightening it around Billy’s throat.  A look of panic was stamped on the boy’s face as he gave a loud wheeze and felt his windpipe cinch shut.

 

Tony smiled down at Billy.  “Yer gonna die harder than yer mom did when I offed her.  Course, I just wasted her for the money—stupid cunt was dumb enough to put on the life insurance.  You, now—this is different.  I wanna see you suffer, asshole.  I wanna watch you choke to death with my cock up yer ass,–ya feel me, motherfucker?  Naw?  How ‘bout this?”

 

With that, the muscle-bound Latino jerked the belt, hard.  His biceps bulged from the effort, dark veins rising to the surface as Tony exerted his strength to inflict the torture he knew the obnoxious, cocky teenager so badly deserved.

 

Billy’s face wasn’t pale any longer; it was dusky blue and darkening quickly.  His livid eyes already seemed to bulge from his face.  The youth squirmed frantically, his smooth, lithe body writhing on a film of sweat beneath the powerful weight of his stepfather.  His firm thighs clenched against the older man’s legs, his feet kicking and his toes curling in his black socks.

 

“Whaddaya think, fuckwad?  Gonna wipe out yer whole goddam family.  Ain’t none of ya worth shit.  Hell, I gotta snuff yer worthless ass just to get ya to milk a load outta my dick.  But hey, fucker, yer gettin’ hard too—prob’ly gonna spunk yerself, boy, so don’t say I never gave ya nothin’!  Haw!”

 

Billy knew he had an erection; he could feel it—he could feel everything.  His collapsing esophagus, his violated and abused colon, the glassy pain of jagged bone ends grinding together, yes oh holy fuck even as his lungs burned and his racing heartbeat echoed in his skull he could still feel all of it and somehow the worst was the fiery pain of his unnaturally swollen and throbbing cock and his seething balls.

 

The teen’s face was black and taut, distorting his appearance; even his red-gold hair was dark with cold deathsweat that was being squeezed out of his slim youthful body.  As the pressure in his head increased, blood vessels began to burst in Billy’s eyes, leaving large black voids in his field of vision, like negative explosions.  He could vaguely feel that something was wrong with his mouth but he had no way of knowing how his broken jaw had given way to his relentlessly swelling tongue.  It protruded grotesquely, while his cheeks were smeared with foamy drool that ran from his mouth.

 

In his last moments, Billy reached out to his stepfather.  His right arm was too damaged to move, but he raised his left, and placed it on Tony’s chest.  For a moment, the boy’s hand remained flat, nestled in the stud’s wiry fur—then suddenly, it curled and jerked sideways.

 

Tony hadn’t been expecting it.  Maybe Billy hadn’t either; he was so close to the line between life and brain death that deliberate movement was—unlikely.  One way or another, the dying teen punk had clenched his hand and clawed not only at Tony’s chest hair, but at his nipple.

 

The swarthy blue-collar alpha roared in anger.  His movement was swift and sure; it looked like a practiced kill strike even though Tony had never done this before.

 

Passing both ends of the belt to his left hand and jerking up with it, the powerful sadist balled his right hand into a fist and plowed it into Billy’s face as hard as he could.  The boy’s head snapped back as his neck was jerked forward; there was a loud gristly wrenching sound as his cranium was violently separated from his spine.

 

Teenaged boymeat, full of hormones and already forcibly erect from asphyxia and intense prostate massage, suddenly experienced a profound shock to the central nervous system—the result was only natural.  Billy’s firm, lean body went rigid, his legs wrapped tightly around Tony’s waist and the shredded remains of his sphincter tightening around the base of his stepfather’s cock.  Suddenly, he exploded into a single violent spasm, his engorged tool spewing a solid stream of boycum all over his own and Tony’s chest.

 

At the same time, the strong muscles of his rectum, flowing rhythmically in the teen’s death throes, massaged the full length of Tony’s huge rod.  With a loud grunt, the older man unloaded in the kid’s ass, hosing out his guts with manseed.  For several minutes, they clung together, bodies entwined and shuddering in orgasm and death.

 

 


 

 

Tony had time; it wasn’t like anyone was looking for the little piece a’ shit.  Once he pulled out of the still-quivering boymeat, he strolled out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom, taking some time to leisurely clean his cum-smeared dick and stuff it back into his jeans.  Then he went back into the bedroom and pulled a plain white cotton t-shirt out of the dresser and slipped it on.

 

He glanced around the room for a moment.  Nothing here he really needed.  He’d hoped to make some extra money from selling the house, but fuck it, now.  The two mil was good enough.  He could buy anything he needed, and there damn sure wasn’t anything sentimental about this place.  He’d just burn it the fuck down.

 

But first he turned back to Billy.  The seventeen-year-old’s corpse was on its back, legs and left arm splayed.  The right arm was lying twisted at an unnatural angle.  The punk’s smooth, firm chest and flat belly were covered with a thick glaze of the kid’s own semen; it had even splashed into his contorted, damaged face which had faded from black to cyanic blue.

 

Tony approached the bed, noting how the corpse’s feet kept twitching in their black ped socks.  He reached up and grabbed the belt, sunk horrifyingly deep into the boy’s throat; using it as a handle, he dragged Billy’s body off the bed.  It hit the floor with a loud, boneless thump, not that Tony noticed, or would have cared.

 

He cared even less about what he was doing to the corpse as he dragged it downstairs and out to the bed of his pickup.  He bent down and picked it up, cradling the dead teen in his arms in what could have been mistaken for a tender moment—then tossed Billy’s carcass into the back of the truck like a side of beef.

 

Tony walked back into the house, the thudding of his heavy Timberland boots echoing in the empty house, checking to make sure he’d left nothing of any value behind—not that there was any need to worry; everything worth anything had already been sold, hocked, or traded for quick surreptitious sex.

 

House wasn’t worth much anyway, he knew, it was run down and needed serious repairs, so losing it wasn’t much of a financial loss in any case.  Tony had already located four bottles of lighter fluid in a cabinet over the fridge—the broad had smoked like a coal furnace and Billy liked to pretend he was a man by smoking Swisher Sweets—and it took him no more than twenty minutes to saturate what he considered to be the most flammable parts of the house with the fluid.  He made sure to open the windows partially to allow for oxygen, but to close the curtains and blinds.  It was four in the morning by this time, and it was unlikely that any of the neighbors would be up, but Tony was feeling vindictive and wanted to make sure that the place was beyond saving before anyone noticed.

 

He lit the flame in the back hallway on the ground floor before heading out.  He locked the front door behind him.

 

Easing his truck quietly out onto the street, he waited until he turned onto the next block before switching his headlights on.  Once he did, he headed straight for the high school, driving carefully, and under the speed limit.  He had no intention of getting pulled over now.

 

The high school had security cameras; Tony already knew about them because Billy had been caught vandalizing the place.  The stupid shit had practically circled the school; as Tony saw when the principal had shown him the video—and as a result, he knew where they didn’t cover—like the sign out front.

 

Tony didn’t pull into the parking lot; it abounded in cameras.  He just pulled over to the side of the road right by the sign—a simple double-sided backlit marquee with the legend “San Clemente Senior High Cougars” at the top and letters posted on the marquee spelling out a message that the following Friday was an in-service day.

 

It was all very ordinary, and it made Tony sick.  He didn’t know why, but the thought of making a public display seemed to get him buzzed.  He got out of the truck and, going to the rear, opened the bed and dragged Billy’s corpse out.  He let it hit the ground with his usual disdain, smirking as it crunched lifelessly into the gravel; as it did, Tony noticed it had lost its left sock somewhere along the line.

 

“Truant officer’s been askin’ ‘bout ya lately, boy,” he whispered, a sick, psychotic gleam in his dark eyes, “Wants to know where ya been, whatcha been doin’.   So I thinks, why not show him what ya been up to, fucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  C’mon, boy, it’s time you got back to school.”

 

Tony hoisted Billy up over his shoulder and carried him up the slope from the road.  The corpse was stopped quivering by now and was starting to cool, but was still limp and malleable.  Tony had no problems draping it over the sign in such a position that Billy’s gaping asshole, still leaking cum, was visible from the drive to the main entrance.

 

“There ya go,” he said, his voice velvety with satisfaction, “Now everyone can see ya finally got what was cummin’ to ya.”

 

He strolled back down the hill to his truck, then kept going out of town in the same direction he was already facing.  He wanted to reach his new address before noon.  He hadn’t spent much time there, so he didn’t know the town well, but Corrington didn’t seem like it’d take long to learn.  In fact, Tony doubted that Rigler County had much to offer in the way of entertainment.  He’d have to see what he could stir up…

Beach Party   By: Gay Slavemeat   Gsmeat2@gmail.com

 

I enjoy writing and reading gay snuff stories, and I like to imagine an awesome world run by Alpha Males, where torture and snuff of guys like me would be routine.  In that world environmental issues are addressed, nations are at peace, prosperity is the norm, and there is a positive, stable social order.  That’s because a select group of Alpha Males achieve total dominance, with a large beta class of citizens who live productive, fulfilling, but somewhat controlled lives.  Supporting both groups would be a vast, disposable class of male slaves.  We would be naked animals assigned dangerous and degrading tasks to support the needs and desires of our Alpha and beta class owners. Our bodies would be tortured, used sexually, and destroyed at the whims of our masters, with zero limits on what is done to us or what we are ordered to do.  Gladiatorial contests among us are far more brutal and fatal than ancient Rome, providing entertainment and releasing tensions that otherwise might lead to conflict among citizens.  Medicine would advance rapidly with us as experimental lab animals that would be plentiful and totally disposable.  Our pathetic lives would comprise only pain and humiliation and would mean nothing; our bodies ultimately would be food, turned to shit in the bellies of our masters as befits our status.  We would be bred and trained to understand that this is what we deserve.

 

But this would not all happen at once, and this story is about a time prior to creation of the Alpha Utopia, when they are organizing outside public view. Sadly, it’s all fiction, including names of characters.

 

1

The Beach Drive

 

Matt was a sex slave, and today was the last day of his life.  His owner rand master, Jim Fletcher, had decided to destroy and dispose of one of his possessions and expected Matt to cooperate fully in the process.  That was not a problem for Matt.  He understood his status as property and his purpose as a sex toy, and he was completely on board with whatever his owner desired.  He knew torturing, humiliating, and snuffing him would be fun for Jim and the other participants, since Matt was remarkably good looking – a 23-year-old specimen of prime man meat that was shaped perfectly and in perfect shape. He had a surfer’s build, with a trim waist and nicely formed pecks that highlighted his smooth, hairless chest. He had small, hard nipples that stood out nicely and were always tempting targets for inflicting pain when he was being used sexually. His abs were rock-hard, showing off a clearly defined six-pack of carefully maintained muscle.  Matt was very strong, with obvious definition in his arms and legs that reflected his strenuous daily workout routines and a wholesome diet of high protein dog food mixed in his dog dish with some of his master’s urine and crap toe remind him of his status.  These enabled him to endure exceptionally harsh S&M sessions.   He had a short, conservative haircut and no body hair at all, even around his crotch, which added not only to his sex appeal but to his appearance of complete nakedness and availability. It had been years since Matt had worn any clothes, and his body was evenly tanned from exposure to the warm sun on the estate where he was kept.  Yet perhaps it was his handsome, eager face and easy, willing smile that ultimately made him so appealing. Matt aimed to please, and it showed.  There was literally nothing he wouldn’t do to please Jim.  So he was excited and eager for this day, when he would add slightly to Jim’s pleasure by losing his disposable life.

 

As a sex slave, Matt’s most useful physical traits were his long, thick cock, his inviting bubble-butt, his insatiable gay sex drive, and his utter masochism. Matt had a bit over 11 inches of hard, reliable man muscle, and he was always ready to have it used to please another guy, especially if it meant masturbating for the other guy’s entertainment while the other guy’s cock rammed Matt’s ass.  Matt was expert at timing his orgasm to match the timing of the cock he felt inside him, realizing it was the other guy’s orgasm that mattered and watching Matt shoot a load simultaneously made that more pleasurable.    Matt’s own pleasure was irrelevant, and if he was denied the chance for his own orgasm he understood that was what he deserved.  His entire existence was focused on sex and using his body to please Jim and any other guys Jim invited to use Jim’s formerly-human sex toy.

 

Today Matt was truly enjoying himself. He was riding in the passenger seat of Jim’s Lamborghini convertible, racing over 120 miles per hour down a beautiful beach-front highway. The day was warm, about 75 degrees with a slight breeze. The view was spectacular, with vistas of mountains on one side and a wide sandy beach on the other. Jim was a very competent driver, so Matt didn’t worry about the excessive speeds down the narrow, winding road. The speed added to the thrill.

 

Matt was naked, of course. It would be inappropriate for him to wear clothes, other than a slave collar and a cock ring he usually wore in public to clarify his status. (They were each electrified, with a phone app Jim could use to zap Matt to enhance his humiliation and add a little entertaining pain for everyone to enjoy.)  On this occasion Jim had instructed him to refrain from putting on a seat belt, since it impeded a tiny bit of his view of Matt’s body. His master’s slightest pleasure was far more important than Matt’s safety, after all, so that made perfect sense. If Matt were thrown from the car and killed, it was hardly a big deal other than inconveniencing Jim somewhat as he secured a replacement slave for the day’s fun. In fact, as Jim had pointed out, he didn’t want that to happen.  Jim had tested whether it would be entertaining on another slave whose sexual performance Jim found boring.  Jim had instructed the slave to jump out of the car and kill himself.  The slave apologized for his poor performance and did as instructed.  Watching the body in the rear-view mirror as it bounced onto the road, cracking its spine and breaking arms and legs, wasn’t as entertaining as Jim had hoped.  Even when he watched the satellite video later he didn’t get much of a turn-on from the scene.  (For Jim’s protection his car was always in view when he drove out of the family estate.)  But he backed up to where the body stopped and positioned the dying slave on the hood of the car, boring its flesh and exposing its ass for Jim to fuck.  Jim did enjoy that part, reaching orgasm as the animal convulsed and died, its ass nicely tightening around Jim’s cock in the process.  But Jim had decided the experiment wasn’t all that successful and hadn’t thrown any slaves out since then – glad he had wasted only a few minutes of his time and a useless slave on the effort.  Besides, Matt knew Jim had other plans for him, although he didn’t know any details.

 

Jim was also naked. But that was by choice – he liked being naked and spent most of his time that way. Since Jim’s family owned the beaches they were driving by, and the mountains, he could do what he wanted. In fact, they were on a huge private island they owned that was not far from Hawaii, and there were no rules except what Jim and his dad decided. The island was not part of any country, or shown on any maps, so their decisions were the law – the only law.  Matt understood that too, realizing it was the way things should be.

 

Both Matt and Jim had erect penises, but Jim’s was simply aroused while Matt’s was positively throbbing. The excitement from the time and attention he was getting today was more than he could imagine.

 

The ride was a nostalgic return to old times in many ways.  Jim and Matt had known each other since they were in high school together.  Their bodies intensely turned each other on sexually and always had.  It was hardly unusual for them both to have a hard-on when they were together.  But today was special.  Matt wanted Jim to have a great day that Jim would remember, and Matt was determined to do his best to help make it happen. It was Jim’s 25th birthday and Jim’s dad was throwing Jim a big beach party not only to celebrate the birthday but also to celebrate Jim’s officially announced role as his dad’s heir and successor in the family business.  The fact Jim had chosen to have just the two of them drive to the party meant everything to Matt.

 

“Are you excited for the beach party?” Jim asked. Another part of Matt’s joy came from Jim telling him they could converse during the ride as if they were friends – as they had been in high school, rather than Matt being required to speak only when asked a question, as befit his status as Jim’s property.

 

“Extremely – can’t you tell?” teased Matt, pointing at his pulsating cock.  “I just hope it’s all you want it to be. I want you to have a wonderful birthday party.  And I’ll do everything I can to help make it so.”

 

“Yes, you will. You’ve been well trained, so I think you’ll perform OK. After all, you’ve had five years to prepare., since you officially became my piece-of-shit slave.  And a lot of conditioning before that.”

 

“Is there anything special you want me to do?”

 

“Not really.  I always enjoy hearing you scream with pain, so feel free to do so until you lose your voice.  I have arranged everything so you’ll not have any opportunity to fuck up.  I want to maximize the fun and entertainment, and that has implications on what will be done to you.  I set limits for others of no permanent damage for sex sessions in the past, but there won’t be any this time other than me directing or performing the actual kill.  Before then I suspect these will get ripped off and I will probably want to eat those while they’re still attached to you.  But that’ll be fairly minor pain compared to some of the ideas I’ve got in mind.”  As he spoke, Jim had reached over and twisted Matt’s hard left nipple and then crunched his balls.  Matt grimaced with the pain but got the point.

 

“Of course.  I hope you really crank up the pain and humiliation, so I can provide a lot of fun for you and your friends.  I especially hope you’ll take your time if you decide to eat me alive.  That looks like an extremely painful way to die and I know how much you enjoy cutting fresh meat from a live slave to eat raw.”

 

“Not to worry.  I’ve always thought you’d make an especially tasty meal, and I plan to keep you alive while I enjoy it.  Carving up a guy and eating him while he watches is an amazing turn-on no matter how often I do it.  I’ve even increased your body-fat ratio a little so you’ll be a bit more flavorful.  You may have noticed your dog dish has had fruit juice rather than the usual piss for the last few weeks, which also should add to the flavor.  Your replacement will get the usual dog food mixed with piss and shit tomorrow, but the shit will be the last remnant of you – in your most appropriate form. I think that will be kind of a nice way to introduce your replacement to his ultimate fate.”

 

“That’s really nice.  Thanks.  I like the idea of me being useful even after your belly turns me into crap.  I figured I’d just be hamburger and fertilizer like the usual disposal of slave circuses.  And I did notice the change in diet and guessed that was the reason.  I also noticed the solid portion wasn’t flavored with the usual human shit.  I know I deserve to drink piss and eat shit, but I can imagine that would adversely affect the flavor of my meat, so I’m glad you have planned ahead as usual.  Besides, I still got to drink a lot of your piss during the day.  Being a live urinal is such an appropriate use for me, and quite an honor.  After all, drinking piss was the first training you gave me, even before I became your slave.”  Remembering their early years got both young men trading stories, and Matt started to reminisce.

 

“In addition to my early training, I also recall the first time we jerked off together and how pissed you were when you realized my cock was longer than yours,” teased Matt.

 

Jim smiled and touched an app on his cell phone.  Matt jerked and screamed as a massive amount of pain ran through his body from an electrified dildo Jim had rammed up his ass before they got in the car   Mat was caught totally by surprise and lurched upward so much he almost fell out of the seat.

 

“Anything else you want to brag about?” Jim asked, laughing at the scene and enjoying Matt’s pain. “I bet if I left my little toy on very long you’d bounce around enough to actually fall out of the car.  You’re lucky I find that boring and anyway you don’t deserve to get off’d that easy.”  With that Jim again touched the app and the pain stopped.

 

“I guess not,” responded Matt, also laughing and pleased Jim was enjoying himself at Matt’s expense.  “That’s quite the little toy you’ve got there. You should be able to have a lot of fun with it.”

 

“I plan to.  I have several of them, so a bunch of you slaves will be bouncing around as my guests play with them.

 

“And, for the record, it’s not your cock any more.  When I acquired you as my property I got everything, including the accessories.  I just let you use the cock since I enjoy watching you jerk off.   I might just have to slice it into pieces today to train you in humility.”

 

“Of course it’s yours,” said Matt, quite sincerely but quickly returning to teasing mode.  “I’m your property and you can do whatever you want with me.  For example, if you wanted a little more length in your personal manhood, you could cut it off and use it to replace the little one currently attached to you.  When you own several cocks, you get to choose the one that’s the biggest.    Maybe that way at least part of me could still be of service after you snuff me.”

 

The teasing earned Matt another, somewhat longer, jolt of electricity but it was worth it.  Jim smiled at Matt and once again laughed at his gyrations but didn’t respond.  He enjoyed the banter, which reminded him of their high school days, when they compared cock sizes like high school males are prone to do.  Matt’s mind also wandered, thinking back to when he first met Jim.

 

2

Fond Memories

Matt was a freshman in high school when he was approached by Jim. Matt was unusually good looking, and Jim, a sophomore, had taken an interest in him, allowing Matt to tag along with Jim and his friends.   In due course, Jim became captain of the football team, being a quarterback of exceptional drive and talent. Matt, meanwhile, turned out to be a great wide receiver.  Both boys were top students and stunningly handsome and fit.  But Matt was an extreme introvert and a nerd, with zero self-esteem, while Jim was extremely popular and outgoing, with tons of friends and an exceptionally dominant personality.  Part of the popularity was because Jim was so wealthy – clearly the wealthiest guy in school, although no one knew how much he had or even what his family did. They just knew other kids didn’t get picked up on a regular basis in a stretch limo after school, and they weren’t rumored to own an island estate in addition to a mansion in town.  That was a total contrast to Matt, who was an orphaned foster kid – no family, no money, and no one who gave a shit about him.

 

Jim was Matt’s only friend, and he invited Matt to hang out after school with Jim and his buddies. The other guys were also older than Matt, so they ignored him. However, Jim was nice to him. That got Matt’s loyalty, but he had no idea why Jim would have any interest in him. Why would a guy like Jim be nice to a guy like Matt – a sophomore to a freshman, a rich kid to a poor kid, a popular kid to a nobody?

 

Most of the time was spent with Jim’s buddies playing sports on the beach near their school. The Southern California weather was always perfect, and the guys would go surfing, swimming, or play volleyball or football.

 

Everyone took off most of their clothes and Matt could look at the other guys’ handsome bodies.  Matt was gay and this turned him on, but he was afraid to reveal that fact. He enjoyed the contact with nearly naked young male flesh and had fun playing sports at the same time. Being proud, fit young males, and since one of the beaches was “clothing optional,” the guys often stripped naked, starting with Jim.  What Jim did tended to be what everyone did.  These were the days Matt enjoyed best. He was good at sports, better than most of the other guys (except Jim) even though he was slightly younger.  But it didn’t matter whether Matt was talented or not, since Jim insisted that Matt be allowed to play.  Jim was always in charge.

 

After the games and fun, the other guys typically went on their way to their fancy homes, and Matt made the long walk to the house where he lived with his foster father, who usually wasn’t home.  The house itself was very nice, but Matt was confined to an unfinished room in the basement that was tiny, damp, and smelly.  Often there wasn’t even enough food, sine Matt was only permitted to eat leftovers, and when his “dad” was home he would berate Matt no matter what he did, telling him what a worthless person he was and that he didn’t deserve even the poor conditions he lived in.  It didn’t matter Matt was a top student and athlete, overcoming all the odds against him.  Nothing could please this foster parent.  It was only the great times with Jim and his buddies that made the rest of his life tolerable.

 

One afternoon, near the end of Mat’s freshman year, Jim had approached Matt as the group was breaking up, after a vigorous game of naked beach volleyball on an especially hot day.

 

“Would you like to head to my place? You could shower up there and we could watch a movie or something.  My dad’s out of town and I know where he keeps the beer.”

 

Matt was thrilled. He wanted to spend as much time with Jim as possible. Not only had Jim befriended him, but Jim was the best-looking guy of the bunch.  Matt was glad they had gone to the nude beach that day, but realized his cock was getting a little hard at the mere prospect of being with Jim.  After all, by this time Matt was just 17 and that’s what happens to 17-year old cocks.

 

“Sure. That would be great!”

 

“Good. Our house is right up the road from here, just a short walk.  Since we’re so sweaty, and it’s a private path, I suggest we just stay naked until after we’ve cleaned up.”

 

“Super,” was all Matt could say, now seriously worried about his growing cock and utterly turned on at the prospect.  He walked slightly behind Jim, so the growing erection wouldn’t be so apparent.  But seeing Jim’s gorgeous backside wasn’t helping.

 

Matt had heard about the mansion but didn’t realize it was on the beach. He was once again impressed, but not in the least jealous.  Jim clearly deserved everything he had.  And Matt’s foster parent had made it clear to Matt that he deserved the poverty and deprivation he endured.

 

Matt always remembered how wonderful that first evening had turned out to be. They had each showered, with Jim letting Matt go first. As he heard Matt turn off the water, Jim walked in.  Jim was still naked, and Matt was once again transfixed by Jim’s exceptional body. Matt hoped Jim didn’t see the major erection that Matt got as a result, but Jim could hardly miss it.

 

“I gather you enjoyed the shower,” Jim laughed, pointing at Matt’s cock. “That’s not a bad piece of meat you’ve got sticking out there.”

 

Matt was embarrassed, but somehow also even more excited. He hadn’t been naked like this in front of another guy – it wasn’t the same as gym class and that sort of thing, or even the nude sports on the beach.  Worse yet, his cock was dripping a little pre-cum.

 

“I’m sorry.  I got to thinking about some of the girls at the beach, and I couldn’t help myself,” Matt lied.

 

“Sure. Don’t worry. That happens to me a lot too.  It’s how guys in high school are supposed to react to scantily clad girls watching us play sports nude, right?  And my cock’s not exactly all shriveled up.”  Jim didn’t have an erection, but his nice long cock hung down a fair way between his legs.

 

“I guess so.” Matt was relieved. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to let on that he was gay, and especially not to let on that Jim was getting him sexually excited.

 

“Well, let me take my shower, and then let’s grab some beers, some food, and see what we’ve got to watch. Do you still feel like doing a movie?”

 

“Yeah. I think that would be fun.”

 

“Great. You can look through the collection and see what you’d like.  I’ve got some great beach movies, if you want to keep enjoying pretty girls with not much on.

 

“Incidentally, I noticed your clothes were pretty dirty, since you tossed them into some mud when you stripped, which was kind of stupid.  I gave them to one of the servants to wash. They’ll be ready in a couple of hours. You can either put on something from my closet, or just stay naked. Either way is OK by me.”

 

“I don’t want to mess up your stuff,” Matt replied, liking the idea of being naked around Jim. “I’ll just wait. And thanks for getting my stuff washed.  My foster dad won’t let me use the clothes washer, so I go to the laundromat and pay for it with money I earn.  He says it will build my worthless character.  I don’t have enough money to do that at the moment, so I really appreciate you getting them cleaned.  I didn’t realize I’d tossed them in mud, and he’d yell at me a lot for that.”

 

“My pleasure.  So you won’t be uncomfortable, I’ll stay naked too.” Then Jim went into the shower, with Matt still watching him. Matt realized he might be staring, and quickly left the bathroom.

 

The two boys spent the rest of the afternoon and the evening sharing a great dinner prepared by the house staff, enjoying a few beers, and watching a movie, never bothering to get dressed.  It was an old beach film about teens in love with lots of surfing scenes and pretty much everyone in bathing suits all the time.  Matt loved it, since the girls provided an excuse for him still having a hard on as they watched.  Sitting next to Jim with both of their bodies fully revealed was an amazing turn-on and the real reason for the consistent erection.  And, as Jim had noted earlier, it wasn’t like Jim’s cock was all shriveled up.

 

That afternoon started what became a routine whenever Jim’s schedule permitted it.  It wasn’t all that frequent at first but increased a lot during Matt’s sophomore year. After the group of Jim’s friends played sports on the beach, now almost always using the nude beach, Jim and Matt would walk to Jim’s house, clean up, get beer and food, and plop down on a sofa to be entertained from Jim’s extensive collection of DVDs. They would watch movies that featured guys who were shirtless and well built along with scantily clad girls. And after their showers the routine included Jim having servants wash Matt’s clothes.  Matt was grateful that Jim had taken pity on him for his plight of not having access to a clothes washer.  But more importantly he loved the fact they watched the movies naked.  For Matt, these were the greatest experiences of his life. Indeed, it was the only time he’d ever really had things go well for him.  It never dawned on him that Jim was subtly maneuvering him and slowly starting Matt’s training.  Jim even pretended to complain that his dad wouldn’t let him have sex with any of his girlfriends, so he needed to masturbate instead, inviting Matt to do the same if he’d like to, while they watched the pretty girls in the movies.  Jim also added a collection of straight porn flicks to reinforce the idea.  Matt had no trouble performing given the guys in the movies, and most especially given his view of Jim’s body, especially as Jim jerked off.  They never touched each other, but the routine had quickly expanded to include mutual masturbation, albeit with Matt jerking off much more often than Jim.  Matt, of course, enjoyed that the most and never considered the possibility that Jim’s explanations were made up to get Matt comfortable having orgasms while Jim watched.  (Jim, in turn, did have to admit Matt’s cock was longer than his after they measured them.  That became an ongoing joke between them.)

 

It wasn’t until Matt’s junior year, while they were celebrating Matt’s 18th birthday, when Jim moved the training beyond their low-key relationship.  Jim had invited Matt over right after school to celebrate and started by offering him a beer – another consistent part of their routine.  But since there were no nude sports beforehand, both boys were still dressed.

 

Jim then let Matt know that there was a house rule Matt needed to know about.

 

“There’s something I sort of need to let you in on, which I haven’t been up front about,” Jim said, in a confidential tone. “I haven’t said anything until now, because I like hanging out with you and I have been afraid it might turn you off.”

 

“Are you kidding?” Matt responded. “This is the greatest time ever for me. Nothing could turn me off about hanging out here with you.  You don’t know how I live otherwise. My life sucks.”

 

“Interesting choice of words,” mused Jim. “But, anyway, here goes.

 

“As you know, I live with my dad, who is incredibly rich, and a bunch of servants. You haven’t met any of them yet, because the servants stay out of the way when we have

visitors, and you haven’t met my dad since he travels a huge amount on business and he’s good about leaving me and my buddies alone.  The servants take care of things like fixing dinner and leave it where we can get it, like they do when they wash your clothes. What you don’t know is that dad is a fervent nudist. He is always naked and insists that everyone in the house also be naked.  I’ve gotten used to it, and kind of like it. That’s why I started getting the guys to strip when we play on the beach.  Dad required the city designate that beach clothing optimal when he donated it to the city.  He’s also very generous but likes to get his way. Anyway, I didn’t want to impose that on you here and was afraid you’d get spooked if you saw a bunch of nude servants.  So I came up with the excuse of needing to have your clothes washed, which is why I took the pile you tossed the first time we came here and re-tossed it into some mud when you weren’t looking.  Making it a routine was easy once you told me you don’t have access to a clothes washer at home.  However, dad told me I must deal with the issue honestly.  And he’s returned from a long trip and might show up here. If I don’t come clean about this I’d be in trouble, and I like to please him.  He’s a great guy.”

 

Matt was a little taken aback, but only from surprise.  He quickly stripped off all his clothes and stood naked in front of Jim.

 

“No problem.  I’m naked now and will stay that way any time you want and in any place you want.  I am just hoping this doesn’t mean I don’t get access to your clothes washer.  Of course, I’m more than happy to do the washing myself so your servants don’t have to.  I’ve always felt a little guilty about that.  And I’ve discovered hanging around here that I like being naked.  In fact, my foster dad requires me to act as his servant when he has people over and insists that I do it nude.  He says it reflects how worthless I am, but I also think he likes looking at me that way.  Fortunately, he doesn’t spend much time at his house and doesn’t entertain much.  But being naked on the beach and in your house is nice.”

 

“Thanks,” Jim replied, also now naked.  “You won’t lose the service, and now you can get to meet some of the servants.  They’re really great guys too.”

 

As Matt considered this development, he admired how Jim had maneuvered things.  That alone was a turn-on for Matt.  He began to realize the extent to which Jim had always been in charge, and he liked it.  He was quite content to let Jim make all the decisions.  But he did tell Jim he felt he should do the washing, since he didn’t think someone else should be burdened with serving him (reflecting his extremely low self-esteem).  Jim agreed, pleased with Matt’s perspective.  That boded well for their future.

 

Then Jim revealed another surprise to Matt.

 

“There’s something else I think we should be honest about. And I think we should cover it before you turn even older – or start to get drunk.”  Jim had handed Matt a second beer and got another one for himself as well.

 

Matt laughed. “Yeah, once you’re 18 it’s all downhill from there. After all, look at you. You’re almost 19 and practically in a nursing home.”

 

“Exactly,” responded Jim, also laughing and taking a healthy swig form his beer. “I’d hate to check in without having had some real sex first. I don’t think you should run that risk either.  And just masturbating like we’ve been doing doesn’t count.  I had a long talk with my dad a while back and it’s OK with him.”

 

That took Matt completely by surprise. He didn’t say anything, but simply stared at Jim, afraid this meant Jim was going to end their sessions to have sex with one of his girlfriends.  As he did so, he was startled to see Jim’s cock starting to get hard. That had happened before, of course, when they were masturbating and watching pretty girls in the porn flicks.  But this seemed different to Matt, and he also started to get excited.

 

“Look, Matt. I know you’re gay. I’ve known it for a long time – sure of it since we were first hanging out on the beach. I could see you staring at me and at the other guys, and I’ve noticed how you get erections all the time when the other guys are around and when we’re naked together.  I could hardly miss that giant hard-on you got when I first invited you to hang out with me and we walked naked together to the house from the beach.  It isn’t girls you’re thinking of, is it?  It’s guys, especially me.”

 

Matt was still silent. He didn’t know what to say. Would Jim throw him out?  Was he being dismissed because he was gay? But why was Jim getting hard?  Matt was scared, confused, and somehow sort of excited all at once.  He started to tear up.

 

“It’s not a problem.”  Jim realized Matt was starting to freak out.  “What I’m trying to tell you, you amazingly dense idiot, is that I’m gay too. That’s why I’m getting a hard-on right now. I’m thinking of how much fun it would be if you sucked my cock.”

 

Matt couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Could his fantasy come true?  Would this marvelous episode in his life – the only decent one – get even better? He finally responded.

 

“Wow. I had no idea. I guess I am a dense idiot – but I already knew that.  You’re right. I am gay.  And you really turn me on. The erections we laughed about were always because I’m sitting here next to you and I can see your body.  You’re the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen, and your cock is awesome, even if a little short.”  Matt couldn’t help teasing Jim, which relieved some of the tension.

 

“Thanks. And it’s long enough to go all the way down your throat.  So, have you had sex with another guy before?”

 

At this point Matt hesitated, stammered, and finally broke down crying.  He told Jim about the horrible things his foster father had done to him, sexually and otherwise, forcing him to suck cock and masturbate to entertain everyone at his parties.  He had already told Jim about having to serve them naked, but now added that he was required to do so with an erection for them to laugh at, and to wear a slave collar.  His foster father knew he was gay and used that as part of the reason he was so worthless and deserving of ridicule and deprivation.  It was all totally illegal, but Matt was too scared to say anything.  He had never mentioned any of it to anyone, and as he finished his confessions, Jim held him as he sobbed in Jim’s arms.  It was the first loving embrace Matt could remember ever receiving.  He soon recovered, however, and apologized to Jim for losing control.  He then asked Jim if this meant Jim would not want to be with him, given what Matt had done.  Like many underage victims, Matt had reacted to the experiences with a strong sense of personal guilt, in his case strongly reinforced by his foster parent.  After Jim assured Matt there was no reason for him to feel guilty, and this was no problem for Jim or their relationship, Matt asked if Jim had had any sex with other guys before.

 

“Yup. Lots and lots of times. Dad figured out that I’m gay as soon as I hit puberty, and it’s OK with him. It turns out he’s gay too. He makes sure all the servants also are young, gay, and good looking. That way our household is sort of one big male fuck party. I get to fuck any of the servants I want and have them suck my cock. But I don’t let them fuck my ass, and I’m glad that hasn’t happened to you either.  I like to do the fucking, and I haven’t slept alone for years.  If you want, and when I think you’re ready, I’ll introduce you to the joys of being butt-fucked.  Dad’s only rule is that he gets to pick first among the staff for his own fun.  They’re all both remarkably sexy and fixated on gay sex, so that’s not much of a limitation.”

 

Matt was now fully back in control of himself but completely astonished. He had never even imagined such a place could exist. This was clearly too good to be true.

 

“So,” continued Jim, who was now fully erect and smiling broadly. “About my cock . . . ”

 

Matt didn’t need another hint and he didn’t waste any time. His experiences hadn’t been good, but he knew what to do.  He gently took hold of Jim’s manhood and knelt in front of him as Jim settled into the couch, and then lovingly took the young hard cock into his mouth. Matt caressed the beautiful muscle with his tongue, focusing on the glans, licking all around the corona and especially the lower skin of the shaft just behind it. Matt knew that was where it was the most pleasurable to touch himself to masturbate, and he figured that would be a good place to lick to get Jim off.  What he didn’t tell Jim was that the best techniques for giving a blow job was the only thing his foster parent had ever bothered to teach him.  His technique would be evaluated and discussed at the parties and he would be punished if it was found wanting – which it always was.

 

Jim’s body began to sway a bit, and he let out a soft moan of pleasure.

 

“Wow. You’re really good at sucking cock. You’ve got talent, my boy.”

 

Matt kept to his task, enjoying it far more than he had ever even fantasized that he could. His own cock was now literally throbbing and leaking pre-cum from sexual excitement.  But the focus was on Jim.

 

After a while, Jim’s body began to gyrate, his breathing intensified, and his cock exploded. A massive

load of cum erupted into Matt’s mouth. Matt swallowed it all, hungrily and eagerly. He didn’t even consider having Jim withdraw and shoot outside Matt’s mouth. Matt wanted Jim’s man-juice. And he continued to lick the streaming cock as it emptied it load down his throat, intensifying Jim’s pleasure.

 

Jim finally stopped shooting his load, and his cock drooped a bit, but not much.  Jim took it out of Matt’s mouth, sighing with pleasure.

 

“That was just fucking amazing. I think that’s the best blow job I’ve ever had and the biggest load I’ve ever shot.  You really got me turned on. I like the fact you had the good manners to swallow it all, too. Thanks a lot.”

 

“You’re welcome,” was the sincere response. “I’ll do that any time you want.  Just let me know. And let me know if you want to try other stuff too, or how I can do better to please you.  Whenever you decide you want to fuck my ass, it’s yours to use as you want.”

 

“I will. But it looks like you’re about to shoot too.  Do you want to shoot a load to land on my chest? That would be fun to watch, and then you could lick it up.”

 

Matt was delighted with the offer.  He instinctively knew that it was his job to service Jim, not the other way around. That was perfectly fine, the way things should be.  He wanted to get himself off in front of his friend, if that was something Jim wanted him to do. So Matt positioned himself, kneeling on the couch over Jim while Jim lay on his back, watching the show.  It didn’t take Matt long to shoot – he was sexually excited as he had never been before. Matt shot a nice load onto Jim’s smooth chest and belly. Then, per Jim’s instructions, Matt licked up his own cum.  As he worked his way down Jim’s chest to his belly and crotch, he saw that Jim’s cock was once again fully erect.  So after a nod from Jim he again took it in his mouth and again massaged Jim to orgasm.  The second load wasn’t as huge, but it was still decent, and Matt enjoyed swallowing that too.  Jim lay back on the couch, utterly satisfied.  That’s what pleased Matt the most.

 

The boys decided to clean up, but this time they showered together. Matt washed Jim’s wonderful skin, then washed himself. Matt was once again hard, turned on by touching Jim. What Matt hadn’t realized yet was that he was also turned on by the fact he was serving Jim.  And since Jim didn’t suggest Matt jerk off again, the idea never occurred to Matt to give himself added sexual relief.  His sexual energy kept him nice and hard, more fun for Jim to look at.

 

The boys got some dinner and watched another movie.  This time dinner was brought to them by a naked stud servant – Dennis – who was himself a complete turn-on with an impressive erection.  Before they ate Jim asked Dennis to give Matt a blow job.  Jim also had Dennis position himself so Jim could fuck his ass as Dennis sucked off Matt.   Dennis eagerly obliged both requests, seriously turned on by Matt’s body and eager to host Jim’s cock.  Matt was amazed and grateful for Jim’s thoughtfulness in letting Matt get a blow job for the first time ever, especially from such a great-looking stud.  After Jim and Matt shot their loads, Matt offered to suck off Dennis, if that was OK with Jim.  Dennis soon sent a nice load down Matt’s throat.  It was a fantastic turn—on for all three of them, but especially for Matt.  He had never had a birthday party at all, let alone one like this!

 

Then, to continue the fun, it was movie time.  Jim showed Matt another set of movie choices.

 

“We don’t have to pretend any more.   These are all gay porn flicks. The guys are naked, fucking and sucking each other. I think we’ll like these better.  Dad bought a studio so he could have very high-quality porn with scenes he likes.  It was worth every penny, and I get to make suggestions too.”

 

Matt was in complete agreement. He looked at the selection – it was huge. Best of all, it included a variety of kinds of gay movies. Some were just of guys jerking off. Some had orgies, others were gang bangs. And some showed guys being restrained, engaged in S&M scenes. Jim seemed to have a whole lot of that kind.

 

“What looks good to you,” asked Jim. “Since you did such a nice job on my cock, and it’s your birthday, I’ll let you pick our first gay porn flick that we watch together.”

 

“Well, these all look pretty exciting,” said Matt, holding up a box that showed a young dude being whipped. “But I’ve never seen any S&M stuff.  How about one of these? They look particularly interesting.”

 

“They are,” agreed Matt. “You’ve made a good choice.  It’s got scenes with that guy getting gang-fucked while he’s being whipped.”  So, aided by a few more beers courtesy of Dennis, they greatly enjoyed Matt’s first S&M gay porn film.

 

After the movie Jim commented:  “When I saw it the first time, I liked it so much I had dad track down the guy and we invited him over to the estate for a fun weekend to celebrate my own 17th birthday.  He’s the first guy I personally got to flog.  The coolest part was that he wanted to be flogged.  Some guys get into that big time, so it’s a turn-on for everyone.  We did lots of other things to him, which were also a lot of fun.  Dad told me what to try and it was quite an education for me and for our guest.  Dad had paid him a very generous fee, and he was willing to push his limits a lot.  It turned out the guy had been in trouble with the law and dad got that straightened out for him. So he was doubly grateful and eager to show it.  He did everything we wanted him to do.  On the last night of the weekend he even joined us for dinner and everyone celebrated and toasted the events.   Dad had one of the studio crews film it, so I’ve got a great move I can show you sometime.”

 

Matt asked Jim if they could watch the home movies now, but Jim said they were at the estate, so they’d have to settle for what he had at the house.  But he had a lot. Dennis fetched another round, and Jim and Matt watched a second S&M movie that was even more severe.  As they watched it, both boys once again got excited, their naked bodies finally touching as they groped and kissed each other while they rolled around on the large sofa, any inhibitions cast aside in a mixture of lust and alcohol. In due course, after Matt had kissed every part of Jim’s amazing body, Jim guided Matt’s mouth back to his cock. The third load that filled Matt’s mouth was still impressive. Matt then added to the movie entertainment by popping another load and licking it up for Jim’s viewing pleasure.

 

This time Jim had instructed him to shoot on the wooden floor.  That way Matt was down on all fours as he used his tongue to do the clean-up, which gave Jim a nice view of how Matt looked doggie-style. He wasn’t disappointed, and when he commented on Matt’s position Matt added to the laughter by barking for Jim’s amusement, then kneeling doggie style and begging for more cum.

 

“You’ve drained me completely,” Jim laughed.  “I’m all out of cum for now, but I’ll be needing to get rid of a bunch of piss with all these beers.”

 

The second movie not only had a lot of gangbang fucking and flogging, it also had some water sports, as the gang-bangers unloaded their piss down the guy’s throat and then made him lick their cocks clean.  Jim noticed Matt seemed interested in those scenes too.  Jim decided to find out a bit more about how “flexible” Matt really was.

 

“I like the scenes where a guy pisses down another guy’s throat,” Jim confided. “I know people think it’s gross, but It can be a genuine turn-on for both guys.  Some of our servants like it too, and a few, like Dennis, can take my whole load without dripping any of the piss.”

 

“Really?” asked Matt, his education continuing. “Can a guy really drink that much? Don’t they choke on all that piss?”

 

Jim was pleased with the answer. Matt wasn’t resistant or turned off.  He just wanted information.

 

“No. Some guys are talented at it, like the guy in the movie. How about if we find out if you’re one of them? I do need to pee, and could have Dennis come back in, but, after all, you’re right here.” Jim laughed, easing the tension he was afraid Matt would feel.

 

But Matt felt no tension at all. He simply got on his knees once again and opened his mouth. Jim let loose a major load of beer-flavored piss, using Matt as a human urinal. To Jim’s surprise, Matt successfully took the entire load on his first try, not spilling a drop.  Jim was pleased and impressed.  Realizing that Matt would also need to piss, Jim summoned Dennis once again, and Dennis was more than willing to service Matt.  Matt enjoyed that too, but admitted he preferred to be on the receiving end.  “I guess I’m more the submissive type.”  So Dennis obliged and drained a load into Matt’s willing mouth.  All three boys had a great time as Matt learned more and more about himself.

 

Jim asked Matt if he’d like to stay the night, and of course Matt said yes.  Jim explained that he had already chosen Dennis to sleep with and once again butt-fuck, but there was room in the bed for all three of them. He suggested that Matt could suck Dennis’ cock while Jim fucked his ass. Matt was always welcome to shoot a load any time he wanted, so long as Jim could watch him do it, including watching Matt lick up the cum.  Or, if it was OK with Dennis, Matt’s load could go down Dennis’s throat.   So that’s exactly what they did. It was the first of many nights together, with Jim selecting the third (and often the fourth) companion form among the servants.   Matt would be “available” in Jim’s bed for the servants Jim selected, and Matt quickly became quite expert at sucking cock.  Jim, in turn, enjoyed watching Matt jerk off onto the servant’s chest, or on the floor, and then lick up the cum. If Jim sucked off one of the guys and had him shoot a load on Jim’s chest, Matt licked up that cum too.  Jim would usually butt-fuck the servant, but he also liked to have Matt suck his cock, and often had Matt clean it after shooting into the servant’s asshole, usually followed by draining a load of Jim’s piss.  Matt also received great blow jobs form the servants, but mostly just did everything Jim requested, or even hinted at.  As Matt realized Jim didn’t get as much satisfaction when Matt shot down another guy’s throat rather than pumping out his load where he could then lick it up, Matt consistently did the latter.  He wanted to please Jim.

 

Matt functioned as a cocksucker and a urinal but was not butt-fucked.  Jim said that would wait until there was a special occasion.  Matt also was not used as an object of Jim’s fun for S&M play.  Jim enjoyed whipping the guys he fucked, as well as inflicting cock and ball torture.  It was pretty tame the first evening with Dennis but grew more intense in later visits.  Matt was very turned on by this and offered his body for Jim’s use, however he wanted to use it, but again Jim deferred “for now.”

 

Also, Matt was delighted and turned on to accept Jim’s morning load of piss. That would be followed by another sex scene, and if the servant also wanted to use Matt as his morning urinal, that was OK with Matt so long as Jim approved, which he always did.  Matt had naturally understood that all decisions were to be made by Jim.

 

Matt stayed at Jim’s house whenever he could do so, which was increasingly frequent during Jim’s senior year.  Indeed, after the first evening’s introduction to sex Matt rarely spent time at his foster home. His foster parent hardly noticed. He just cared if the checks kept coming. If Matt wasn’t around, that meant he got to keep the whole check without wasting even the small amount of money he was forced to spend on Matt.

 

Their time together weren’t just sex, and the two teens shared their thoughts about everything – school, life, being gay, and what they would do after high school.  They were in a sociology class together, and they enjoyed talking about the theories the teacher explained.  He had taught that slavery was wrong in the old days because it was based on race or class rather than merit.  But he explained that there were different roles and desires among people, and some were meant to lead, and enjoyed doing that, while others were meant to follow and serve.  Jim told Matt how his dad was a natural leader and expected Jim to do the same.  Jim was eager to pursue that, and after high school he’d be getting special training that would be far more intense and useful than regular college.  Matt was intrigued and glad there were people like Jim and his dad who were able to take charge.  As for himself, he had no plans and no idea what he’d do, but his foster dad consistently told him he’d probably wind up in jail since he was so worthless.  For both boys, these exchanges were a unique chance to share their deepest feelings, and they did so.  Jim even shared the fact his family actually owned slaves, who were suited to their role and completely comfortable with it.  “Like our teacher said, it would be wrong to discriminate, but it’s right to recognize roles.  On the island where we have our estate there is a small group of leaders who work with my dad.  Then there’s a much bigger group of citizens who lead great and productive lives, not burdened by having to make the tough political choices dad and his colleagues make for them.  It’s all supported by a very large group of willing slaves who are obedient and content.  They’re doing what they were born and best suited to do.  So everyone is happy and the place is like a paradise.  I’d love to show you sometime.”  To Matt this all made sense and he eagerly encouraged Jim to do so.

 

As the school year ended and Jim approached graduation, he invited Matt to his estate, and suggested he plan to spend a week right after classes were over. Matt had been intensely curious and hopeful he might get invited someday.  He accepted at once.

 

“Do I need to bring anything?” Matt asked.

 

“Hell, no,” came the amused reply. “Just your mouth and your cock.  And, if you’re a good boy, maybe your ass for fucking and your back for whipping.  I think it’s time we took things up a notch or two.”  Matt got the point and was now even more excited.  Jim would finally fuck his ass as he did all the other guys he had sex with and use Matt for S&M sex.  Those prospects totally turned Matt on. And he assured Jim he was ready and willing.

 

3

A Whole New World

 

As Matt left the building after his last day of the spring semester, which included an assembly at which he’d received one award as the best athlete in his class and a second award as the best scholar, he was still upset from events at his foster home from the prior evening.  His foster dad had gotten what would be the final support check since Matt was aging out of the foster-care system.  He informed Matt that the “gravy train” was over and Matt was no longer welcome.  He also informed Matt that he was keeping all Matt’s possessions and told him to leave now. He didn’t want a worthless piece of shit like Matt continuing to infect his house.  Matt had already stripped naked and given his foster dad a blow job, which he was now required to do to “earn” his dinner whenever he went home.  The ritual had started a year or so earlier and usually ended with Matt drinking a load of piss to follow the cum.  Matt enjoyed that at Jim’s, but here it was a degrading punishment.  Worse, this time his “dad” followed it by pissing all over Matt’s body, then holding his face down in the toilet where had had just taken a shit, leaving him with the stench and taste of piss and crap as he was forced out the door.  Matt was in tears as he had begged for some clothes and a chance to wash off, but that was met with harsh laughter, a hard kick to his balls, and a door slammed in his face.  Matt’s spirit was broken, and he stood and wept for a long time.

 

Matt spent the night sleeping naked on the beach, washing himself in the ocean.  A cop had arrested him early the next morning since this was not the nude beach, threatening to put him in jail.  Fortunately, the cop was willing to overlook the violation in return for a blow job, telling Matt that would be good practice for when Matt was arrested again as he certainly would be given his pathetic status.  After the cop left Matt managed to bum some money for cheap shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt to wear to school in return for giving another guy on the beach a morning blow job.  Matt realized he was now nothing more than a prostitute.  It was the worst day of all the bad days in foster care.  Matt was glad that phase was over but knew he’d have to figure out something when he returned from Jim’s estate.  He figured being a prostitute was his only viable option.

 

Matt was very pleased and surprised to see the sleek, impressive limo that picked up Jim waiting on the street in front of the school.  He assumed this meant Jim was nearby, and he desperately wanted to be with his friend.  The driver was Dennis, Matt’s favorite of Jim’s servants, who was standing next to the limo.  Dennis spotted Matt and signaled for him to come over.  Matt figured this meant Jim was already in the car.  But what most caught Matt’s attention was the fact Dennis was totally naked other than a sporty chauffer’s cap.  He was stroking his cock, which was already hard. What was more amazing to Matt was that no one was hassling Dennis.  There was some giggling and pointing from students, but both students and teachers left him alone.

 

As Matt reached the car Dennis greeted him with a friendly slap on the back.

 

“Master James sent me to pick you up.  He heard what happened with your foster dad and figured you’d need a little TLC and want to clean up at the house before we head to the airport.  He also thought it would be fun to put on a little scene for your fellow students and make it a “coming out” statement by you.  He thinks it would be better if you were open about the fact you’re a submissive gay.  Besides, it might balance the swollen ego you probably have after your awards.”

 

“Ah, sure,” was Matt’s confused reply.  Matt was nervous, mostly because no one had ever picked him up before, let alone in a limo. “I’ll do whatever Jim wants, but after last night and this morning no one needs to worry about me having an inflated ego.  What does Jim have in mind?”

 

“It’s pretty simple.  You start by stripping naked, putting on this slave collar, and stroking yourself to get an erection.  Then you carry your clothes to the Goodwill bin about a block down the street. Drop them in and walk back here.  That should get everyone’s attention.  When you return to the car he wants you to kneel and give me a blow job, swallowing me cum and a load of piss.  Then do the same for any other guys who want to be serviced.  After that you won’t have to hide your sexual orientation any more.  We’ll drive to the house where you can clean up and we can pick up Master James.”

 

“Are you sure?  What happens if I get arrested?  That’s already happened once today.  And these are the only clothes I have – my asshole foster dad took everything else.”

 

Dennis laughed heartily.  “Wow.  You really are as dense as Master James says you are.  Do you seriously think anyone would mess with a friend of his?  Do you have any idea just how powerful he and his dad really are, and how much they have given to the school and the city?  Why do you think everyone’s leaving me alone while I play with my dick naked and in public?  As for clothes, everyone is nude at the estate.  You’re going to visit a whole new world young man.”

 

Matt considered Dennis’ comments, and it all made sense.  Besides, it was what Jim wanted and that’s what mattered.  So he got naked, put on the slave collar, got hard, walked naked to the next block, dropped his clothes in the Goodwill bin, and returned to get on his knees in front of Dennis for the blow-job.  He also dropped the awards in a garbage can, thinking how pointless all his efforts at school had been.  He would leave town with absolutely nothing.

 

The blow job did get people’s attention, as expected, and a group of Jim’s buddies wandered over to enjoy the show, some of them stripping off their shirts and taking out their own cocks to join in.  Matt had no trouble getting Dennis off, and dutifully swallowed generous loads of cum and piss as the crowd laughed and cheered.  Dennis asked the assembled guys if anyone else was horny and wanted service, which of course they all did.  Matt got to suck off about 8 more guys, most of whom hadn’t used a human urinal before but didn’t hesitate to use Matt.  It was a popular stunt, and all the guys told Dennis to thank Jim for the entertainment.  (No one even considered thanking Matt.)  They told Matt he should spend his next and last year in school aiming for awards as “Best Cocksucker” and “Best Urinal,” instead of athletics or academics, laughing and mocking him, roughing him up with a few well-placed kicks to his nuts, and telling him to be sure to wear his new collar to school if he was stupid enough to come back, because they had a lot of torment to inflict now that his protector Jim would be gone.  The odd part to Matt was that he didn’t mind.  Being sexually used and degraded in front of an audience in public turned him on, and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t mind providing “service” to his classmates next year.  Maybe one of them would let him stay in his house in return.  That would still be prostitution of a sort, but at least safer.

 

After the show was over, Dennis proceeded to open the rear door for Matt, motioning him to get in.  But that made Matt uncomfortable. He couldn’t conceive of a chauffeur taking him in a limo.  “If you promise not to crash the car when you cum, how about if I ride up front and suck your cock again while we drive to the house?  I see it’s gotten hard while I was sucking off the other guys.  I’m not the type that deserves to ride in the back of a fancy limo unless it’s to service Jim.  And, by the way, how far is it to the estate.  I have no idea.  I think you said something about an airport?”

 

Dennis was in a great mood and enjoyed the banter with Matt.  He agreed to let Matt sit up front until they picked up Jim.

 

“Master James is in no hurry, and while you suck and swallow I can answer your questions about the estate.”

 

Matt didn’t hesitate and leaned over to accept Dennis’ cock as Dennis started the limo.  Matt was almost as turned on by Dennis’ body as by Jim’s, but Dennis hadn’t said anything about Matt shooting his own load so he didn’t even consider that option.  As they drove Dennis explained that the estate was on a huge island near Hawaii, and they were going to fly there.

 

“They own the whole island, which is about the size of Manhattan, and it has its own airport.  There are hundreds of thousands of people who live there, and it’s the real headquarters of the family enterprises.  We’ll take off from the commercial airport near town, where the plane is in their private hanger.  These guys are rich beyond what anyone understands.

 

“I think you’ll enjoy the plane ride.  The plane is amazing, and all decked out for sex parties.  It’s a safe bet we won’t be the only ones on board, and everyone will have the same idea.  You’ll be able to get lots of practice sucking cock and having yours sucked in prep for the long weekend.  It’ll be about a two-hour flight so there’ll be lots of time.”

 

As Dennis finished his explanation he also reached his orgasm and shot a load down Matt’s throat.  Matt was fascinated by what he’d heard but had not been distracted from his task.  Once he finished swallowing the cum, he did pause to inquire, however.

 

“I assume you’ll also want to piss, which I’m happy to drink.  But first, I think you said a two-hour flight.  Isn’t it more like four or five hours to fly to Hawaii from here?”

 

Dennis guided Matt’s mouth back to his cock by way of confirming he had a load of piss, then answered the other question simply.

 

“It takes nearly five hours if you fly commercial. But commercial jets don’t fly at supersonic speeds.  Like I said, these guys are wealthy at a whole different level.”

 

As Dennis finished pissing down Matt’s throat they drove through the security gate and into the driveway at the mansion.  Matt quickly headed inside to clean up, and when he returned to the car he moved to the back seat.  Jim was already inside, naked and erect, quickly guiding Matt’s head to his cock.  “No point waiting until we get to the airport to start enjoying ourselves, right? I figure you can suck my cock and drink a load of cum at least once by the time we get to the airport, and then we can have a lot of fun with the other guys on the flight, including Dennis.   Although I understand he might have to work up a little sex drive again given the pickup and car ride activities he just told me about.”

 

“Not to worry,” laughed Dennis.  “You and Matt are sexy enough to get me going again.  The real question is if you’ll still have enough cum left to fill my ass in due course.”

 

Both Dennis and Jim continued to enjoy their teasing as they drove to the airport.  Matt didn’t say anything, but immediately got to work on Jim’s cock. He and Jim each managed to shoot their first loads of the weekend well before the limo drove into the private airport hangar.

 

The plane was as awesome as Dennis had described and Matt was thrilled to see about 10 of Jim’s favorite sex partners waiting for them.  He learned that the household was moving to the island estate, and the mansion would be closed as a primary home since Jim was done with high school and they didn’t need a house there anymore.

 

As Dennis had promised, the plane ride turned into a fabulous sex party.  Matt had participated in lots of threesomes with Jim, but this was his first real orgy.  It was better than anything he could imagine, and he was kept busy sucking and swallowing, but also was encouraged to shoot as many loads himself as part of the entertainment.  Everyone was totally drained by the time they landed, and courtesy of Jim his sex buddies were also sore not only from being fucked in the ass but from being objects of his S&M whips and other toys. Matt was anxious and hopeful to join that group, totally turned on by the thought of being fucked and whipped.

 

When they finished the drive form the airport on the island and finally arrived at the estate, Matt was amazed. He’d never seen anything so large or so impressive, even in pictures or movies. This was truly an estate.  Jim explained that they had about 5,000 acres tied to the manor house itself, which was only a small part of their island.  He also explained that there were about 500 guys working on the estate in various functions, from gardeners and cooks to drivers and butlers.

 

“They all have jobs of some sort, but mostly the workers on the estate itself are here for sex,” Jim explained with considerable enthusiasm.  “lots and lots of sex.”

 

“There are also other regular communities on the island, which include thousands of workers and their families, who manage and run our various businesses and help assure everything remains out of public view.  Dad’s got a whole lot more money than anyone knows about,” he added. “It’s many multiples of $100 billion, but he stays out of sight. The island itself isn’t on any maps and isn’t part of any country.  That way we can enjoy all the money and still not lose our privacy.  We can do whatever we want on our own property, with our own property.  And the people who live and work here get to be in a paradise without the burden of having to make decisions on things like government and social policy.  There is no poverty, no crime or disruptions, and everyone has wonderful, productive lives and careers.  As I told you before, all this is supported by a massive group of slaves who are obedient and content to be property.”

 

Matt was absolutely overwhelmed and excited to be there. He didn’t care what the family’s motives were. He just wanted to please Jim, so he could stay a while, especially if it involved gay sex. As he thought further about it, he realized he just wanted to please Jim no matter what.  He was in lust and in love.

 

Jim and Matt got out of the limo that picked them up at the island’s airport and headed to the front door, each with his hard cock protruding in front of him.  They had continued to enjoy each other during the ride.

 

“Wow.” Matt could only manage a one-word comment as he tried to express his wonder. He was even more impressed when he saw the butler who opened the door for Jim.  The guy was in his early thirties and could have been a major movie star on looks alone. He too had an erection – a very impressive one at that.

 

“I gather dad’s home?” asked Jim, pointing at the butler’s hard cock.

 

“Yes, sir, he is,” was the polite and respectful response, accompanied by a friendly smile and then a very warm embrace as the two men hugged each other, their cocks rubbing together and leaking a little precum. Matt just stared, eager to figure out how he might be allowed to suck this guy’s cock.

 

Jim explained that his dad required the house staff to maintain erections whenever he was in the house, for his amusement and sexual satisfaction. One of the companies they owned made a sort of “Viagra plus” drug that enabled guys to be hard pretty much constantly.

 

“It’s not on the market yet, but it works really well. I’ll get you some, although I’m not sure you need it being as horny as you are.” Jim laughed as he jokingly slapped Matt’s cock.  “The drug has a side effect that could create marketing issues.  It causes a fatal heart attack in about 10% of the users.  The marketing group wants to wait until the number looks better before releasing it generally.  We’re doing lots of field tests and think it’ll get lower soon, maybe even under 5%.  Meanwhile, we have no problem getting volunteers on the island to try it given the upside effects, and it’s mandatory for guys working at the estate and for slaves.  It’s pretty much constant erections and plentiful orgasms with gobs of sperm.  Young guys will take a little risk for that.  I’d hate to learn you’re in that unlucky 10%, but having you erect all the time is worth the risk.  You’ll be even more fun to play with if you don’t keel over dead from it.”

 

“Sure, no problem,” came Matt’s quick reply.  “That sounds like a very reasonable risk and I do think I’d be a better sex partner.  So just sign me up.”

 

“Great,” Jim continued, as he gave Matt a pill from a nearby container and continued with more background on the estate.  Matt hadn’t noticed that Jim actually had not asked his consent, but Jim ignored that for now.  “Edward here is the head butler and runs the whole household, which is what butlers do. Dad put him in charge almost ten years ago so he truly knows the place and the people.  He’s amazingly competent, plus being one of dad’s favorite studs.  He’s got a great butt and knows how to use that cock. I walked in on the two of them the other night while they were having at it in the living room. It was quite a scene. Dad was in such a good mood he let me join in and we double-fucked Edward.  But we were both still horny, and Edward was about to burst, so dad sent for some more of the staff to service all three of us.  I kept fucking Edward, shooting another load up his ass as the group assembled. It turned into a terrific party, lasting well into the night.”

 

Jim’s story almost caused Matt to shoot another load. He was careful not to touch himself, he was so excited at what he had seen and heard. If only he could become part of this scene, he’d do whatever it took to keep them satisfied.  A 10% risk of dying form a drug that made him a more appealing stud was a no-brainer to take.

 

It was then that Jim’s dad walked in. His demeanor and the perfection of his body filled Matt with even more lust and awe. While Jim’s dad was obviously older than Jim, probably mid-40s, he was the most handsome male Matt had ever seen. Matt realized he wanted to suck the dad’s cock as much as Jim’s.  It was huge, but not out of place for the smooth, rock-hard, and perfectly formed body. Like the rest of the group, the massive cock was erect and ready for action.

 

“Hi Jim,” he greeted his son, giving him a huge hug. “I see you brought Matt with you. Welcome to our home, Matt. My name’s David Fletcher.  I’m Jim’s dad.”

 

Matt was once again taken aback – this time by the courtesy and kindness in the voice. He barely had the presence of mind to respond.

 

“Thank you, sir.  I’m grateful to be here. This is a fantastic place, sir.” Matt could not bring himself to use Mr. Fletcher’s name. It just seemed too presumptuous. “Sir” was more appropriate.

 

“Glad you think so. We like it. Jim has told me a lot about you.  Are you two going to get a snack, work out, watch a movie, or just get right to fucking?”

 

“Matt’s never been butt-fucked before, dad, or whipped,” enthused Jim. “He really wants me to do both, and I’d like to start that right away.  We’ve already started with lots of sex on the flight and the limo rides.  I got some great cardio in by whipping the staff, especially Dennis, during our orgy, and also with a fun combo of whipping and gut punching of a new slave we just acquired.  I’m afraid I got a little carried away with that, and he’s being checked over by the vet.  His belly and balls just cried out to be punched hard and whipped.  He’ll probably be OK.  I hope so since I want to use him again even more aggressively.”

 

Matt had observed the “rules” of the orgy during the flight.  Jim was in charge, of course, and engaged in dominant sex and S&M.  But with staff he kept to strict limits.  Dennis was hugely turned on by being fucked and being whipped, so Jim laid into him and Dennis erupted with pain-induced pleasure.  However, Dennis was not turned on by having his body covered with clothespins, as some other guys were, so Jim refrained from that with him.  Jim was not the only sadist, and other staff who were got to enjoy their fun too, using the ones who were more masochist.  It was a balance that met everyone’s needs.  The exception was the slave Jim had referred to, who was used by everyone without any concern for his limits or desires.  As Jim had explained to Matt, that was what slaves were for, and they knew it and accepted it.  Further, that meant there was no need to push the limits of Jim or any of the staff, as they could get release from using the slave however they wanted.  It made perfect sense to Matt.

“Anyway,” Jim continued.  “If it’s OK I’d like to skip my formal work-out for now and fuck Matt’s ass, then flog him.  He’s invited me to do it before, but I wanted to wait for this weekend, so it can be part of our partying.”

 

“Is that correct?” Mr. Fletcher asked Matt. “And if so, would you like Jim to fuck you?  And whip you?”

 

“Yes, sir, it is.” Matt wanted to be very responsive. “And I’d be honored if Jim would be the first guy to do so.  Anyone else is also welcome to fuck me, whip me, or whatever, if that’s OK with you and Jim.  I think it would be fun for everyone if you made it a gangbang like I’ve seen in some of Jim’s S&M porn movies, and I suspect I’ve got a pretty tight hole since it’s never been used before.”

 

“Well, Jim’s workouts are important, but I guess that can come later. Plugging a virgin ass and doing some more vigorous flogging will give him a bit of exercise, and it isn’t something we get to do to such an eager and attractive butt every day, is it?  Whipping someone is good exercise if it’s done vigorously for a decent amount of time so that can be today’s workout.

 

Since he’s your guest, son, you get to fuck him first, although if you’re willing to share as he suggests I would like to take a turn. Is that OK with you?”  The question was to Jim, not Matt, as everyone understood the decisions were Jim’s.  And, besides, Matt had already volunteered to be the target of a gang-bang.  He had wondered why Jim hadn’t done it when they spent all those nights together, and he appreciated learning Jim did indeed want to make it a special occasion.  Jim gave his dad an enthusiastic “yes.”

 

“Great. Let’s go for it. Edward, I think I’ll fuck Dennis while I watch the opening act.  Why don’t you round him up along with 30 or 40 of the staff for the event? I know Jim likes an audience, and Matt can spend the afternoon getting a very personal introduction from some of the staff.  The rest can fuck him later – this won’t be our only session, and he has a very appealing butt all set to be used.

 

“By the way, be sure to include a urinal or two for when someone needs to piss,” Mr. Fletcher continued as Edward started to carry out the request.

 

“No need, dad,” Jim interrupted. “I’ve trained Matt to drink both piss and cum, and he’s really good at it. I bet he can service the whole group.”

 

“It would be a privilege to do so, sir,” interjected Matt, somewhat eagerly.  At one level he was taken aback by his offer turning into a rather massive gangbang, but he also understood that this was clearly a chance to ingratiate himself, and he didn’t want to fuck it up.  Besides, he was quite turned on by the prospect of all those cocks ramming his ass and then pissing down his throat.  It was a turn-on that made him feel useful.

 

“Well, son, it seems you’ve done a better job of training than even I had expected. I’m impressed. He also has good manners. It looks like you’ve found a talented young specimen. He’s well formed, and as you know I do like to start training when they’re still young. They’re so much more pliable while still in their late teens.”

 

They led Matt into the main hall, and then into a very large living room. It had lots of overstuffed chairs and expensive looking couches, a large oaken bar, and elegant oriental rugs. There was a fireplace already lit (although not needed given the warm weather) and a handsome young bartender and several waiters ready to get whatever someone wanted to eat or drink.

 

“Would you like a drink?” Jim asked Matt. “We have lots of beer, but you can have something different if you’d like.  I’m going for beers myself since that causes me to piss more. After all, I want to be considerate of my guest.  I know you’re fond of used beer from our movie dates.”

 

“Thanks, but in that case I’ll just wait to recycle yours.  I am sure you’re anxious to get your cock inside me, and it would be rude for me to make you wait while I drank a fresh beer.”  Mr. Fletcher observed the interaction between the boys with considerable satisfaction. Jim was maturing incredibly well. He had just finished high school, and his record was superb – athletics, great grades, leadership, and real popularity.  Jim had developed into a very handsome young man, in the prime of his sexual activity. His body was naturally good looking, and he diligently followed Mr. Fletcher’ admonition to make its maintenance a top priority.  So Jim’s muscles shone and his stamina was relentless.

 

What surprised and impressed Mr. Fletcher the most was how well Jim had trained Matt.  Matt would perform nicely if properly maintained. His sexual orientation was totally gay, and it was already clear that he had remarkably strong submissive and masochistic tendencies. Matt was meant to serve someone, and that someone would be Jim. Jim had also done an outstanding job introducing Matt to sex as a submissive but eager source for Jim’s own pleasures rather than focusing on what pleased Matt. Matt didn’t even seem to need instruction to realize that it was all about Jim.  Jim had already gotten Matt to accept that his role included being a human toilet. That usually took much longer in training slaves.  Yes, Matt would be a very good first slave for Jim.  Jim would not only enjoy Matt, but learn how to use slaves as property, not thinking of them as if they were still human.  Transitioning Matt from a virgin school buddy new to gay sex into an object to be fucked and used up was a very important next step in Jim’s maturity.  Mr. Fletcher wondered how Jim would react when it came time to dispose of Matt, but that was in the future.

 

It would never occur to Mr. Fletcher that Matt had any real value as a person.  He was well aware Matt was the star of the soccer team and at the top of his class academically. He even knew about the awards Matt had just gotten.  He especially knew Matt had overcome great adversity and lack of opportunity in a cruel setting.  After all, Matt’s foster dad was one of Mr. Fletcher’s employees, and had been carrying out his instructions in raising Matt to crush his self-esteem.  That had been a key part of his training.  To David Fletcher, Matt was simply an object to be used in the training and pleasure of what mattered – Jim, a member of the family dynasty and David’s chosen heir.  All those other things were just part of making Matt more useful for this purpose.  That final night in foster care, which left Matt with no possessions, naked and drenched with shit and urine, followed by utter humiliation in front of his classmates, was just a setup to assure Matt had no hope or sense of any future other than Jim.  It had obviously worked well.

 

What David did pay attention to was how wonderfully formed Matt was physically. He smiled as he noticed once again how some parts of any teenage boy develop sooner than others. In Matt’s case, he clearly had a fully developed cock, and it was seriously out of proportion to the relatively small size of the rest of his body. It made Matt an even sexier target, especially as Mr. Fletcher considered how fragile and vulnerable the rest of Matt’s body was. There is no way the 17-year old could resist a beating or whipping form the older, stronger males. That was what being an Alpha Male was all about, and it caused Mr. Fletcher to feel the need for an extra degree of satisfaction, as he realized he was getting seriously excited sexually.

 

“Edward,” David said quietly to his butler once he returned from sending messages for staff to join them. “Do we have any fresh young meat in the holding cells that’s ready for harvest later tonight? I think I’m getting rather horny for something a bit more extreme than what Jim will be doing at this point.”

 

“Indeed you are, sir,” came the respectful but playful answer as he stroked his employer’s manhood. “And I figured you would be.  I’d seen Matt before at the beach place, and I had a similar reaction. So I arranged for the cells to be fully stocked for the weekend.  We’ve got four especially promising candidates within the herd for you to choose from, who were on the plane in the slave cargo hold.  One of them looks a bit like Matt, although his cock isn’t as large. But he is also 17, pretty, and very reliable with his orgasms.  We got him a few weeks ago and we’ve been getting him prepared. He has responded very well to the drugs and training and is ready to be appreciative of your attention.  You should look at the others, too. They’re all good quality imports from the mainland and they all survived a double dose of the erection drug.  They’re expendable and unbelievably horny. Your program of payments to various police groups is starting to pay off. When they pick up these losers as truants or for petty crimes they’re checking in with us first. We tell them it’s for a rehab program, of course, and the prisoners sign a waiver agreeing to go into rehab.  I think a few of the cops suspect what’s really happening, and the irony is that those are the ones who are sending the better-quality meat. After all, it helps them clean up the streets.  So, as an aside, I have some suggestions on focusing and increasing the payments.”

 

“You’re pretty impressive at times,” responded Mr. Fletcher. “Do what you think is best as to the payments.  That’s chump change.  I’ll check out the collection later this afternoon. After all, Matt’s Jim’s toy. I wouldn’t want to mess up his indoctrination, which is obviously going extremely well.  After I choose my sport for the night, feel free to pick one for yourself.  Or maybe we can team up on a couple of them.”

 

“Thank you, sir. That’s very generous.”

 

David and Edward rejoined the main conversation. As they did so a waiter handed Mr. Fletcher a small salad he’d ordered, and the bartender served him a glass of expensive red wine.  As Mr. Fletcher took the salad (having not had anything since he landed that morning), the waiter asked if he’d like the usual dressing.  He nodded, and both the waiter and the bartender quickly jerked off, their beautiful bodies rapidly achieving orgasm so that their cocks spilled generous helpings of cum onto the salad.  They asked if he’d like more than that, and when he again nodded a second waiter did the same.  “Thanks.  That looks just right.  I do think cum makes the best dressing of all.”

 

By now, there were about 50 guys ready for the gangbang.  Word had spread, and Jim loved the idea of showing off his new sex toy.  All were studs, ready to shoot their load as soon as they had the chance. Quite a few started playing with each other, but most quickly focused on Matt. Here was new fresh meat, nice and young, and very available. They wanted to examine him, so they did. Matt was poked and prodded like cattle at an auction, with hands caressing his skin, fingers exploring his asshole, and several guys opening his mouth to examine the other potential opening for depositing cum. His tits were already hard, but they got harder as they were squeezed and massaged, with guys commenting on how nice and firm they were for a male so young.

 

Very shortly, the conversation turned to the issue of how best to position Matt for fucking.  Some of the guys suggested doggy style. Others wanted to use a sling.

 

“If we go doggy style, it’s more degrading for him,” argued a young bodybuilder whose cock was truly massive.

 

“Yeah, but if we use a sling Master Jim can see his face and enjoy the reaction as he slams his cock into that tiny little ass and rips him open,” argued another guy, who had a much slenderer build but had a larger cock. “With my giant penis I like to see the pain in the face when I enter. And it’s even more fun to see how hard they get while I’m pumping.”

 

Matt had joined in the conversation with enthusiasm. He asked how much it hurt to be fucked and seemed pleased when they told him it would hurt a lot for a guy as young as he was who hadn’t been fucked before. He asked what he could do to make it more fun for the guy doing the fucking, and they told him he should react as much as he could, writhing in response to the pain and the pleasure. He asked if being fucked would cause him to shoot his own load, and they told him that some oversexed guys do but better trained guys wait until they are told to shoot.

 

Matt was also solicitous of whether the guys would want him to clean their cocks after they satisfied themselves. They assured him that he would be expected to do that and that he also would be expected to swallow any piss they needed to unload during the afternoon.  Finally, Matt had politely wondered how it would be appropriate for him to express his thanks to each guy for using him. He said he didn’t want to do anything that might embarrass Jim, who had been kind enough to invite him to the entertainment. From the moment other guys had shown up, Matt had made it clear that he welcomed being fucked by the entire group.

 

Mr. Fletcher interrupted the exchange, having finished his salad and his first glass of wine. “So, Jim, what do you think? It’s your birthday, and it seems to me it’s time to get going with your party.”

 

Matt was startled by this information. He had no idea it was Jim’s birthday, and it bothered him that he hadn’t gotten Jim a present. Although he knew he couldn’t afford anything nice, or for that matter anything at all, since he literally had no possessions whatsoever, he thought he should have at least made some token offering. The realization startled him from his fascination with the exchange on how he would best entertain the group. He already knew his own opinions weren’t relevant, but he was extremely interested in how the guys felt. What he did understand is that he wanted to do whatever provided Jim and his buddies the most fun, especially on Jim’s birthday.

 

“Well, it’s a close call for me,” answered Jim, bringing Matt back to the scene as he remembered the conversation on how best to fuck him. “So I think I want to do both. I’ll start with a sling. I do want to see how he reacts when his butt gets popped for the first time. I’m not as big as these two (pointing to the two owners of the massive cocks who had been debating the

best technique), but I’m not exactly small. I figure Matt’s ass is very tight, and I can inflict at least a little pain as part of the process, even if my cock won’t split him open like a stuck pig the way those guys will. Then I think I want to have a couple of you flip him over so I can shoot my load into him doggy style, which is a little more humiliating for him. After I cum, and dad has his turn, each of you can do what you like. But as soon as I get horny again, I may want another shot at Matt, or maybe I’ll just fuck a couple of you guys.”

 

Matt couldn’t help himself, and he spoke up. “Gee, Jim, I didn’t know it was your birthday weekend. I think it would be great if you fucked me as many times as you want. I didn’t get you anything since I didn’t know, and I don’t have any money or possessions to use to buy anything even if I did know, so maybe that can be my present.”

 

“Oh, I have a present from you in mind in addition to a few butt-fucks,” laughed Jim, now a little affected by his second beer. “We’ll get to that later this evening.  I appreciate the offer. I just don’t want to deprive my buddies here of their fun, and I do recall that some of them have very satisfactory butts.”

 

Everyone laughed. And with that, Jim led the group to a door at the side of the living room. It was very unobtrusive, and Matt noticed that he entered a code on a pad that was discretely hidden next to the door.

 

“Shall we, gentlemen?” Jim asked. “Hey dad, is there anything interesting on display in here I should warn Matt about, so he doesn’t freak out too much?”

 

“Not much,” Mr. Fletcher answered, smiling. “Just a couple of slaves in early processing and a supply of them in some of the cages. I haven’t done any real harvesting for a while because I’ve just gotten back home this morning. But don’t worry, we have the entire weekend, and I’m thinking of staying all next week. So we can fill up the place with fun targets now that you’re done with school.”

 

As the conversation continued, Jim led the group into the next room. Matt had overheard the exchange, and was excited at the idea of not going back to school and staying with Jim’s family.  Maybe they’d let him stay the week.  But before he could process that thought, his breath was taken away by the sight of the room they entered.

 

Matt had seen dungeons in the various gay S&M films he and Jim had watched, and Jim had a few toys in his bedroom at the beach mansion. But Matt   had never seen anything like this. It was huge and brightly lit, with torture implements everywhere. Interspersed among them were exercise machines and free-weights. This was a combination exercise room and torture chamber. He saw St. Andrew’s crosses next to treadmills. Traditional crosses with dildos added were up against the walls, next to elaborate climbing walls for exercise.  There were whipping posts of all kinds, some that held the victim in place and some that allowed him to swing free, suspended so his body would sway and twist as it was flogged front and back. There were fucking stations that involved strapping the victim over a leather seat, hands and feet secured to the base so that he was perfectly positioned for butt-fucking and/or cock sucking. They even had hand-holds like ski poles to help the person doing the butt-fucking get better leverage. In some, the seats were covered with nails instead of leather, which would cut into the victim’s chest and belly, ripping them further as his body moved in response to the fucking.  Numerous tables set up as racks for torture were interspersed with other exercise machines, each rack having lots of straps to hold the subject still to whatever extent desired or dislocate shoulders and even rip arms completely form the torso, with channels at the edges to funnel and drain liquids that flowed from the bodies as they were tortured and ripped apart.  Large vertical wheels were fixed with straps that allowed a guy to be positioned for torture and then spun upside down or sideways for easier access to all parts of the body.  Cages were everywhere, some suspended in the air for better display of the victim – and many complete with a naked male slave ready to begin its torture.

 

Matt’s attention quickly went to the slings, where he knew he would soon be suspended. But as he looked at one, he saw past it to crosses on the wall. He was especially fascinated by the knives and whips conveniently located throughout the room, often next to dumbbells and

nautilus machines.  Matt was so stunned that he literally stopped in his tracks and had trouble drawing his breath.

 

“Impressed?” asked Jim, paying close attention to Matt’s reaction. “Or scared?”

 

“Impressed,” answered Matt truthfully. “But I think I’m mostly just excited. I never imagined a place like this could exist. It’s just amazing.  And like you said, all these slaves look almost relaxed, ready to serve by being tortured.  I’m curious.  Do they sometimes fail to survive the torture?  A lot of this stuff looks potentially fatal.”

 

Jim laughed.  “No.  They ALWAYS fail to survive, at least in due course.  They know it’s what they deserve, and snuffing a slave is a fantastic turn-on and stress reliever for all of us.  The fuck-stands with the nails are a favorite of mine, since the nails will tear apart the nipples and pecks as I fuck the guy and he can’t avoid gyrating on the bench.  The guy dies while I am fucking him, which is a great feeling as his ass tightens around my cock.  It’s a lot of fun.”

 

As Jim spoke, Matt focused on the guys being held in cages, and especially noticed two young males with hands and feet nailed to crosses just beyond the sling he had spotted.  He had seen lots of S&M videos with guys tied to crosses, but never with their hands and feet nailed to the cross. This greatly enhanced the effect.  They appeared to be very fit and were quite handsome. All the young males were sort of “on display” in the room, with erect cocks even though some were obviously in pain.  Jim explained that this was the effect of the drug Matt had just taken, so Matt would remain hard for the afternoon and beyond.  The difference was these guys got double doses so they’d stay hard and have orgasms throughout the torture sessions, even as things got extremely rough.  A double dose would ultimately be fatal, but not for a while and these guys were going to die anyway.

 

Matt counted about 30 of the slaves. Some were shackled to the whipping posts, ready to receive their lashes.  Several others were tied to tables, with various leather restraints that seemed to stretch their arms and legs but also to stretch and separate their balls away from the rest of the body, no doubt for easier CBT sessions.  But what got Matt’s attention the most were the two guys nailed to crosses. They appeared to be in intense pain, struggling to breath.

 

“Oh,” laughed Mr. Fletcher. “I forgot. I did have Edward nail up a couple of slaves yesterday evening.  I thought they’d be fun to watch and it looks like they’re proceeding nicely. One of the advantages of the dildos attached to the crosses, which are stuck up their asses, is that they get a little support. So they can suffer a lot longer, which means there’s something fun to look at. As for the rest of these guys, they’re fresh S&M slaves and you should all feel free to let them entertain you. Just be sure I get to see what you’re doing and maybe join in if it gets interesting.”

 

Murmurs of agreement and appreciation came from the house servants. David Fletcher was indeed a generous employer to his favored staff. Nonetheless, even though there were some serious opportunities to inflict pain, the group’s attention quickly returned to Matt.

 

“No problem, dad.  I’ve explained the role of slaves to Matt and he’s cool.  I don’t think anyone needs to hold back.”

 

“Absolutely,” added Matt.  “Jim explained how the slaves understand their role, and this all makes great sense.  Whatever pleases Jim is the right thing to do.”  Everyone was pleased with the response and it was time to start the fun.

 

“So, Jim,” one of the staff inquired. “Where do you want to put your new toy?”

 

Jim pointed Matt toward the sling Matt was staring at. He instructed Matt to climb up onto it, laying on his back with his head pointed toward the back wall where the two guys were being crucified.

 

“I like this one. And with Matt pointed this way I can watch the guys being crucified while I fuck him.  I plan to take a while and they’re clearly starting to have serious trouble breathing.  That’ll be an added bit of entertainment as they weaken and it gets worse for them.   So the rest of you should take a number.”

 

Indeed, Matt realized that there was a number dispensing machine, like the kind you see in ice cream stores.  Jim had gotten #1, and his dad #2. At Matt’s suggestion Dennis, their driver, got #3. After that, it was an open season.

 

“Remember guys,” joked Jim. “It’s first serve, first cum.” The joke was one they had heard before, but everyone laughed anyway.

 

Matt quickly climbed onto the sling, and several guys tied him in. His legs were in the air, and his virgin butt was nicely positioned for Jim’s use. It was finally time for Jim to end Matt’s virginity.

 

Jim did not lubricate himself or Matt before he thrust his cock into Matt’s vulnerable ass. He wanted to inflict the maximum pain. The thrust was effective, and Jim felt the extreme pleasure of having his cock surrounded by a very tight yet pliant asshole. He was of course extremely aroused, so he was careful to hold back so he wouldn’t shoot too early. He didn’t want to have this pleasure end any time soon.  Unlike most young males, Jim was able to sustain fucking for a long time before he shot his load.  Part of it was talent, and part was experience. He was busy fucking Matt for quite a while. He was particularly pleased to see that he had caused Matt to bleed, as shown by the droplets that leaked out as he pumped in and out. He pointed that out to the group, who complimented him on his technique and the obvious effectiveness of his cock.  Matt joined in the congratulations and expressed his appreciation for Jim’s efforts.  “I guess I’d better stop easing you about a small cock.  It’s clearly big enough to do a hell of a job on me.”

 

Jim also enjoyed the look of obvious pain on Matt’s face and was pleased that Matt showed such a good attitude.  Indeed, Matt remained fully erect during the session.  Jim had chosen well.

 

After a very long time, Jim told some of the guys to flip Matt over and put him on one of the leather-covered fuck machines, doggy style. They did so quickly, and Jim resumed fucking. It was even some time after that before Jim finally reached orgasm, blasting a load into Matt. His effort was met with a cheer, and Jim felt completely drained. He leaned over Matt and kissed him. Matt, in turn, thanked Jim for using him, and offered to suck his cock clean.

 

Jim took advantage of Matt’s offer, and then let loose a large load of beer-tasting piss. He stood back a bit for effect, so others could watch how well Matt had been trained to swallow it.  As always, Matt didn’t spill a drop, and then thanked Jim for getting him some beer, albeit used.

 

“Gentleman,” Jim announced to general cheering. “He’s not a virgin any more, as you just saw. But you’re welcome to make sure.”

 

Matt vividly remembered that first fuck very fondly, and he remembered how Jim’s dad had also caused him considerable pain with his even larger cock, followed by almost being torn open by Dennis and then the two muscle guys.  Indeed, Matt’s memory of everything about his first gangbang was still vivid.  It took hours for all fifty guys to rape him, and it hurt a lot, but being used to give sexual pleasure to all those friends of Jim’s was utterly fulfilling.  He also got to drink lots and lots of used beer, and they even drained cum from his ass every now and then and had him drink that too.  When he himself needed to piss, it was into a pail that he also drained, He remembered the total humiliation of it all as the time he learned what his true nature was.  He was completely comfortable with that.

 

Matt had come to realize Jim’s sadistic tendencies were extreme, based initially on the videos they watched and Jim’s reactions.  Matt had volunteered his body for Jim’s use, but as with fucking his ass Jim had declined, telling him that would come in due course.  Seeing the two guys nailed to crosses and hearing Mr. Fletcher’s casual comments about “process” confirmed Matt’s suspicions, and Jim’s descriptions left no doubt.  When everyone had finished fucking him, Matt wasn’t surprised that Jim selected a whipping stand that suspended Matt by his wrists so he could twist as he was flogged, allowing Jim, Jim’s dad, and Dennis to stand in a circle around his body and enjoy lashing him front, back, and sides.  The best part was that the drug had kicked in by then and his erect cock provided a great added target.  By the time they were tired out, Jim having gotten his exercise, Matt’s body was dripping blood and sweat along with the cum oozing from his wounded ass.  Dennis sucked him off to complete the effect, adding a load of Matt’s cum, and then his piss, to the flow.  It was an awesome scene for everyone, especially Matt.  As it had proceeded, he had wondered if Jim would snuff him, but felt it would be rude to ask.  He wouldn’t have resisted, even if he could, but was pleased when he was still alive without any permanent damage as his first rape/torture session ended.  He didn’t want to stop serving Jim.

 

4

Transition

Matt’s mind returned to the present, still speeding down the beach road in Jim’s car.

 

“That was a pretty amazing fuck session the first time you took me to the estate,” Matt commented.

 

“Yeah, I still remember it myself. You really had a nice tight ass then. It’s still not too bad, and there’s remarkably little effect from all the stuff I’ve stuck up it since then.  Our vet has kept you in good repair.  You’re not quite as tight as you used to be, but after fisting and an occasional baseball bat, I suppose that’s to be expected.  I have access to lots of other guys who are cute virgins, so it’s not a big deal.”

 

“Sorry about that.  But I’m still willing to take anything you want to place up there, so maybe that will provide some entertainment for you today.  Your electric dildo toy is not a bad start.”

 

“I’ve got some fun ideas.  But I’m going to make you available for the group first.  I think a lot of them will want to do a last fuck of my sex toy.  But those are good memories and I’ve kind of gotten into fisting guys thanks to the fun I’ve had with you.  So you’ve been useful.  Of course, anyone who wants to fuck you with whatever they’d like will be free to do so, so it might be entertaining to see how creative guys get and how badly you get ripped open.

 

“What I remember most about that first time at the estate, however, was that you were so naive when I asked for my birthday present.”

 

Matt’s mind again wandered into the past. He thought about the afternoon after the first gang rape and whipping.  Jim had taken him to his room, which was amazingly spacious and filled with a plentiful set of S&M equipment along with a giant bed.  He and Jim had been lying in bed, just the two of them.  Jim had fucked Matt’s sore ass again and introduced Matt to the pain that comes from electrical current flowing between the genitals and nipples.  But he allowed Matt to shoot a load onto Jim’s chest and then lick it up for Jim’s entertainment. Then Jim had started asking him questions.

 

“What do you think about when you jerk off?”

 

“I used to think about a lot of different things, but now I think about you and about the guys in the S&M films we watch.”

 

“And who are you in the film while you’re fantasizing?”

 

“Well,” answered Matt somewhat sheepishly, “I get most excited if I’m the guy getting whipped and fucked. Seeing that on movies really turned me on, and now that I’ve experienced it for real I’m fixated on wanting more. Is that wrong?”

 

“Of course not,” laughed Jim. “It just confirms what I’ve always assumed. You’re a complete masochist and a natural slave. You haven’t realized it yet, which is OK. You’re new at it, but you’re a good-looking young specimen of man-meat who shows some real

potential to be useful.”

 

“What do you mean?  I don’t understand.”

 

‘It’s simple, and we’ve talked about it before but not in relation to you.  The world is made up of natural masters and natural slaves. Most people are sort of in the middle, but guys like us have very clear roles. As masters, it is appropriate that dad and I have tons of money – like I said earlier, it’s billions and billions of dollars.  We know how to rule and do it well.  By contrast, it’s natural that you’re a throw-away kid on the streets.  You require someone to serve.  Lucky for you, I found you at school and have been carefully training you to realize your sole purpose and potential.  Dad had me make you a project for my own development.  These movies were carefully selected to create awareness over time with increasing intensity.”

 

Matt was stunned. He had no conception of any of this going on. But he was not upset.  In fact, his already erect cock throbbed a bit more intensely as Jim had been speaking. What Jim was saying made sense and fit with their prior conversations and what their teacher had taught them.  He appreciated being selected for Jim’s experiment.

 

“So what am I?” Matt asked, both curious and intrigued.

 

“It’s time for you to decide that.  You have two choices and you need to pick one of them.  If you want, you could become one of the citizens on the island, free to build a career and probably meet some guy who will dominate but nourish you.  You’re smart and personable and attractive, and a lot of guys would find your shyness sexy.  If that’s what you decide, I’ll get it set up for you.

 

Option two is for you to become a slave – my slave.  Your status would be no different than the animals being tortured and ultimately snuffed in the game room downstairs.  The difference would be that it will have been your choice.  Those animals are slaves because they were bred for it or because they violated the rules of society and lost their citizenship.  So they learn it’s their duty to do all the dirty, dangerous work and in due course be horribly tortured and killed, their bodies used for food and fertilizer.  We train them to accept that and they’re actually quite content as well as obedient.

 

Matt was stunned, and a lot of things started to fit into place.  “I wondered what was going to happen to the two guys nailed to crosses in the game room.  You’re saying they will stay there until they’re dead.  Right?”

 

“Right.  And all the other slaves will suffer similar fates.  It’s how we manage the violent urges of citizens and Alpha Males, and it works amazingly well.  We satisfy our sadistic sexual passions and the slaves need to die anyway so we have a meat supply.  Having them die horrible, humiliating deaths as part of sexual S&M sessions has no downside and makes them more useful.  Once they’re trained they appreciate that opportunity to serve.  Sometimes, like the household slaves our typical citizens own, they serve for a long time before they’re disposed of.”

 

“Do you think I’m one of them?”

 

“Not as of now.  You’re a citizen, like the staff at the estate, and you’re entitled to respect and freedom so long as you don’t disobey the Alpha Male laws.  That’s why I respected everyone’s limits for the S&M fun we had on the plane but didn’t with the slave.  It’s your choice, and you could choose to be a salve instead if you want to.”

 

“Is that the birthday present you’d like?”

 

“Yes, but only if you choose to do so.  You see, there’s a special feeling of sexual power from using a slave who chooses to serve, suffer, and die.  Knowing that choice was voluntary adds a lot to the sexual thrill of owning and using the slave.  If you wanted to do that, it would increase the intensity of my orgasms and my satisfaction in dominating you.  But don’t misunderstand:  The choice is irrevocable, and if you make that choice you will indeed be like the slaves you saw, and I will torture you constantly, humiliate you always, and eventually (or maybe right away) horribly kill you.  This is not a pretend thing.  It would be for real.”

 

Matt didn’t even hesitate in his choice.  “Of course I’ll be your slave.  I think I already am and have been for a long time.  This would just make it official.  You are free to do whatever you want with me, and I know it will involve me being tortured and snuffed whenever you feel like doing so.  I hope you really get a thrill out of it when you do.  And you can count on my total obedience and cooperation.  Happy birthday from your new slave.”

 

Jim was thrilled.  This was indeed the birthday present he most wanted to get.  And he made it effective immediately.

 

“Great.  I’d say thanks but as of now you’re an object, a piece of property. You’re important only to the extent you can provide me pleasure. I don’t like to think of objects like you as slaves because the term slave implies people who are somehow just of lower rank. What you need to understand is that you have no rank at all – no more than this bed we’re laying in or a piece of meat in the fridge.  If I want to destroy that footstool by my desk, or eat some meat, no one would object.  The stool and the meat are mine to do with as I want.  You are no different, just potentially more fun to use than a chair or a wastebasket.  You perform the same function as a urinal in a bathroom, but it’s more fun to piss down your throat than to piss into a porcelain toilet – and ultimately, you’ll be more fun to destroy, because it would be wrong to waste a nice designer toilet. It’s fun to destroy a piece of male property like you – a piece of not yet dead meat.  And porcelain isn’t edible.  You are.

 

“You are now my body slave.  That means you’d always be nearby and ready to serve me however I want.  That is your sole purpose, and when I get tired of you or if you fail in any aspect you’d be destroyed.  Again, think of a piece of furniture, except that furniture doesn’t get tortured to death and eaten when I decide to get something new.  For a piece-of-shit-slave like you, being my body slave is quite an honor.

 

“Incidentally, your foster dad works for my family.  He has been part of the program for years, making sure your self-esteem remains low and you endure humiliation and deprivation.  Dad and I arranged the scene at his house the other night to trigger a change in your status, so you’d arrive here without any ties or options through him.  I also arranged the “coming out” scene in front of the school with Dennis, which is a great cover to explain you dropping out of school. No one will ever know or care what happened to you.  And you cooperated by throwing away the last possessions you had – the clothes you prostituted yourself to get at the beach – and you now have absolutely nothing.  My goal was to get you psychologically ready to admit what you are and accept your proper role in life.  But it still needed to be your choice, and I would have honored it had you chosen a life as a citizen.  You would not have been happy or fulfilled, however, because what you now are is what you were meant to be.  All of our effort was just to get you to the point you’d recognize that.  I’ve given you the gift of fulfilling your role, and when I kill you I’ll give you the further gift of the kind of horrible death you deserve – and want and need for your sense of having been useful.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“Good.  Remember that first S&M video I showed you with the guy getting whipped?  I told you dad hired him and we had a great weekend when I got to flog him.  I told you he was grateful for dad taking care of his troubles with the law.  That’s all true, but the way dad took care of his troubles was by turning him into a sex slave.  We were testing some drugs we developed for criminal types who were being reduced to slave status, and we wanted to find out if he would agree to cooperate and be snuffed just for our amusement.  He did, and I not only got to flog him, but I got to snuff him.  It was my first kill, and sexually thrilling for me as I fucked his ass, gutted him, and then slowly strangled him.  Watching the pain and despair in his face and feeling the pressure on my cock as his body pitifully struggled to stay alive was amazing.  He even shot a load as he died, which triggered my own orgasm.  I was so horny I fucked him again as his dead body continued to gyrate for my pleasure.   He did join us for dinner, but as the main course, and dad let me carve the meat.  Part of the plan is to replace cattle with slaves as our prime meat source, since that will help with the ozone environmental issues and slaves are so much more satisfying to kill and eat.  It’s especially fun if they’re still alive while being carved up.  All the meat we serve here is slave meat.  I’ll let you see the video of that first kill for your education.  Put this DVD in the player. There’s a large screen that will come down from the ceiling when you put it in.”

 

Matt obeyed. He took the DVD and started it, then returned to the side of Jim’s bed, kneeling obediently beside the bed even though Jim had not instructed him to do so. Jim was pleased. Matt’s instincts and training were serving him well.  He told Matt to lay beside him so he could observe Matt’s reaction to the film.

 

The film was astonishing, and showed Jim doing a fabulous job torturing the young male to death, while the victim not only did not resist but politely thanked Jim for the honor of being Jim’s first snuff victim.  Several cameras focused on different angles of the tortures, catching all aspects of the death itself, including the agony on the face of the dying male and the sexual ecstasy on Jim’s as he fucked the body while it was twitching violently in its death throws and then again after it was technically dead but still convulsing.  The film then featured Jim celebrating with his dad and some others at dinner, slicing choice cuts of meat off the now-dead slave and enjoying the feast.  Surprisingly to Matt, all of this turned him on a lot.  He had never even conceived of anything like this and it took him by complete shock.  But it did something else. The scene confirmed his decision and turned him on beyond belief. Matt shot a giant load of cum as he watched the scenes where Jim fucked the dying body, fanaticizing himself as the victim.  His orgasm wasn’t caused by touching himself or even by being fucked – it was triggered by the images in the movie and the realization this likely would happen to him someday, as it should.

 

“I hoped you’d react that way. I told my dad that you were ready, and clearly you are. By our standards that first time for me was a quick snuff. Usually it takes much longer and is far more painful.  And I like to enjoy some of the meat while the guy is still alive and can watch me eat him, although I leave the body in good enough shape to enjoy fucking it while it dies and again while it’s still nice and warm, finishing its death convulsions.  I’ve learned a lot of great torture techniques since then so you can count on a far worse level of torture, leading to the same fate.

 

“This guy was cooperative and willing because of drugs, and we’ve proven we can convert anyone into a willing slave when we want to.  That will be critical as we reform various societies and take control.  But you are different in an important way.  You are a willing slave because you know you should be.  That is what my project was all about, and that is why I will especially enjoy owning you and killing you. For the full effect, it had to be your choice.  I’m pleased you made the choice you did and given how resilient you are I know it is for real.  Even after all the events before you came to the island, you recovered quickly and continued on, showing up at school despite humiliation that would have broken most people.  That makes you a more appealing slave.”

 

“Thanks, Jim.  That means a lot to me and yes, this is my choice.”

 

Jim moved the conversation to a different aspect.  “Incidentally, you didn’t have permission to shoot, so you’ll have to suffer consequences for that. I’m going to torture you, introducing you to a new definition of pain.  Pain will be a central part of your life from now on.  Further, now that you know your role you need to perform adequately. And adequately means perfectly – doing what I say always, serving my desires, and using your body only to serve and entertain me. If you ever shoot a load again without permission, it will be your last.  You will never have the honor of serving me again, you will be totally emasculated so you can never enjoy any sexual gratification, and you will be used for months as a lab animal for research on advanced methods of inflicting extreme pain.  Is that clear?”

 

“Yes, Jim.”

 

“And you don’t get to call me Jim any more. People call each other by their names. You’re no longer people. You are to call me “sir” and you are to bow

your head when you address me. You are also not allowed to speak unless you are spoken to and a response is required. If you have a question, you first ask permission to speak.  Clear?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“OK.  One last chance to change your mind.  Do you accept and agree to your new position as a piece of property?”

 

“Yes, sir.  I understand, and I will obey completely.  Thank you for accepting my unworthy birthday present.  I hope you enjoy it.”

 

Matt noted the change in his master’s tone. They were no longer schoolmates, with Jim as the elder mentor leading Matt into sexual awareness. Now, Matt had been assigned his role in life and he must obey. At that moment, Matt accepted his fate and determined to satisfy his new master. He understood his role, and for whatever time Jim chose to keep him as a piece of Jim’s property, Matt would cooperate fully.  He realized this was not only his purpose, it was his greatest hope and source of joy.  He wanted to be Jim’s property.

 

Jim and Matt rejoined the larger group for dinner, and everyone congratulated Jim on his outstanding success in training his body-slave.  Matt knelt behind Jim to be available for any needed services, observing how lavish the dinner feast was, with an assortment of delicious looking vegetables and side dishes on the table.  To the side was another table on which there was a handsome young slave lying on his back.  A chef stood by him and sliced off the desired cuts of live slave-meat that the diners requested, either serving them as slave-tar-tar or grilling the selection to order on a nearby Hibachi.  It appeared to Matt to be a wonderful meal and a wonderful gathering of family and friends.  The combination of the slave’s screams and his expressions of appreciation for the honor of being their entree’ added nicely to the atmosphere.  The slave had expressed his thanks to each diner, until one of them decided to try some fresh tongue.  When it came time to serve the cock, the chef brought it to orgasm so it could be sliced off as it was spilling cum, which was a nice effect.  Matt only hoped he could someday perform as well as this slave had done.

 

 

5

An Interlude

 

Jim’s voice over the noise of the drive once again brought Matt back to the present reality.

 

“What I can’t decide is whether I want to keep a souvenir. After all, you were my first human property, and that has a little sentiment. Dad says it doesn’t matter, and advises against keeping anything from slave carouses, but I’m not sure. What do you think?”

 

“I’d be honored if you did. It would mean a lot to me, not that my feelings matter. Nor should they.  But maybe you could use my cock and balls as a paperweight? It might help organize all that stuff on your desk.” (Before their roles had shifted from schoolmates to owner and property, Matt had teased Jim about his disorganized desk.  It had been one of their favorite jokes since Jim tended to leave stuff all over the place.) “Or maybe my skin could be turned into a jacket or something?  You’re very good at skinning guys alive, and it’s always a crowd pleaser since it’s obviously unbelievably painful but not necessarily immediately fatal.  I’d still be alive while you cut me up as food.”

 

“I don’t wear clothes, idiot,” came the needling reply. “But maybe the paperweight idea is worth thinking about. I must admit my desk is still a mess, and you do have a nice set.  I don’t like eating cock – muscles aren’t very tender. If I don’t have it made into a paperweight, I’ll probably just have it turned into hamburger or sausage, or maybe have you eat it yourself.  I strongly suspect your breast meat will be the best, so I’m going to try that first. The issue is if I want to enjoy your balls as an appetizer. Guy oysters are tasty, and I’ve wondered what you’ll taste like. I guess I’ll decide at the time.”

 

“I hope you enjoy my meat however you decide.” Matt was quite sincere in this. His only regret about the party was that it would end his service.

 

“If I may ask, have you decided whether to kill me first or do you think you will be able to keep me alive long enough to enjoy my flesh while I watch? I know how much you like munching on a guy’s tastier parts while you vivisect him and watch the agony and humiliation. I want to provide you as much fun as possible.”

 

“I haven’t completely decided, but that’s my inclination. I think it’s the most humiliating way for a guy to die, watching himself get cut up for food and knowing he’ll literally wind up as shit.  So don’t disappoint me by dying too soon. I want a worthwhile show.”

 

“I’ll do my very best. You can count on me. I’m deeply grateful for all the use you’ve made of me over the past five years. I expected you to snuff me on my 18th birthday like you mentioned when you took me over as your property. So these years have been a wonderful chance to serve.”

 

“Yeah, I considered that. But you are a fun fuck and extremely obedient.  Frankly, I like your attitude, and I even used to like you as a buddy back when you were a person. Having a willing slave who is content or even eager to be killed whenever I feel like it has turned out to be even more of a tun-on than I’d imagined.  Besides, when you were 18 I didn’t have a great replacement.

 

“I’m glad I kept you around. Maybe I’m sentimental like dad accuses me of being. I’m not sure. But in any event today will take care of the issue. It would be a little embarrassing to keep a slave any longer than I have.

 

“There’s another thing too.  I posted a message on the fact I was going to snuff you today as part of my birthday party and invited young guys on the island to apply to replace you.  I made it clear it was just going to be a one-year gig, so I was amazed how many did so, happy to convert from citizen to slave so they could be my body slave for a year and then be snuffed at my next birthday party if not before.  It’s down to four finalists, and they’re all terrific.  Before they watch you die they’ll all compete to take your place.  They’ve all agreed that the contests will be to the death, which seems appropriate.  Maybe it would be amusing to have the winner eat your cock.”

 

Matt was not disappointed with this report.  He knew he was six years older than when he had first attracted Jim’s sexual attention.  He was glad that Jim would find other objects to satisfy him after Jim disposed of Matt. The years of training had been very instructive in confirming that it was about Jim’s desires, his pleasure.

 

“Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t throw you away at 18. You have been a great sex object, and you provided me with quality entertainment, like when I used you in those soccer matches a few years ago. You were pretty impressive.”

 

“Thanks.” Matt was ecstatic. He had never gotten any reaction from Jim for that effort, and he had given it his all. Matt knew he was a good soccer player since his freshman year in high school, when he made varsity after leading a winning freshman team. Jim had used him, along with some other slaves, to form a highly competitive team. They played other slave teams, and they always won. (One incentive was that the losing teams were brutally slaughtered at the end of the games by being fed to the crowd.)  Matt knew he was the primary reason Jim’s team won but had never had a conversation about it.

 

The best part of the soccer games was knowing Jim was watching. As Matt and his teammates ran up and down the field, their beautiful bodies glistening with sweat and their hard cocks bouncing with the motion, he was aware that it got Jim turned on.  Those nights tended to have some of the best sex Matt would enjoy with Jim. Jim sometimes kept a few of the losing slaves for himself, and let Matt eat their cocks while they were still attached, just as they reached orgasm from Matt’s blow jobs.  As they died, Jim would shoot his load up their tightening assholes. It was a lot of fun and those were among Matt’s most wonderful memories.

 

The two young men drove on in silence for a few minutes, but then Jim spotted a side road and turned off toward the beach.  “Here’s a place I want to show you,” Jim said. “It’s my favorite place on our whole island. The beach is unusually smooth and wide, and there’s a fantastic view. Let’s stop for a while.”

 

Matt was startled at the suggestion, assuming they would head straight to

Jim’s birthday party.  But he hardly objected. Nor did he have any idea what Jim had in mind.  He wasn’t even aware of the beach despite the fact he was almost always with Jim.

 

Jim stopped the car at the end of the side road, and motioned for Matt to follow him., taking Matt by the hand, which also had not happened in years.  They walked down a trail, and Matt understood why Jim liked the spot. It was the best view of the water and the mountains that Matt had ever seen, and the beach was totally pristine. There were no footprints, and the beach was so clean it was almost as if it had been manicured.  There was a large blanket laid on it just above the water line with a picnic basket next to it.

 

“No one is permitted to come here except me,” Jim explained. “I have gardeners who tend to it every morning to assure it’s always perfect.  I had them prepare it for us to visit, and then they smoothed out their footprints as they left to preserve the effect.”

 

They walked in silence to the edge of the water, next to the blanket, where Jim turned to Matt and touched his body. To Matt’s utter `amazement, this was followed by a very tender embrace and a deep, loving kiss. Slowly, Jim led their bodies down to the blanket, where he continued to stroke Matt’s smooth skin and deepened his kiss.

 

“I hope you have enjoyed the freedom you have had during the past five years,” Jim whispered as he briefly withdrew his tongue from deep in Matt’s mouth.  “I wanted to be sure you understand how fortunate you have been, and also to give you one last gift.”

 

Matt was too shocked to speak. Jim used Matt sexually all the time both before and after acquiring him, but afterwards it was as an object, never as a lover. That was fine and all Matt expected.  But this was totally different and far beyond exciting.  Matt also had no idea what Jim was referring to.  Freedom?  Matt was a total slave, a piece of property as Jim often pointed out.  Matt was quite content with that but didn’t see how this related to freedom.  Yet his confusion was overwhelmed by his excitement at the tender embrace.

 

The two bodies became tightly coupled and rolled onto the beach. They were lapped by the warm waves from time to time, which only increased the mutual excitement. Jim didn’t just kiss Matt’s mouth, he adorned his whole body with affection. In due course, that even included Matt’s throbbing penis, as Jim maneuvered them into a 69 embrace.

 

“I know you’re confused, as usual.  You were never a quick study.  Let me explain.  At the party dad will announce that I’m officially his heir and successor and appoint me to run a series of major family enterprises.  It’s a tremendous honor and I want to do a great job.  But it comes at a cost.  Someone in his and my positions cannot trust anyone, and we do not have real friends.  We have everything else anyone could possibly want, and more, but we are in one sense prisoners of our own wealth and positions.  But you were given the freedom to turn over everything you are to me as your complete owner.  That gives you a kind of freedom.  You don’t have decisions to make or anything to worry about.  You only need to obey and everything else will be decided for you.  You have freedom from having to make decisions or achieve goals.  You are free to focus entirely on your role as my body slave without having to concern yourself with anything else.

 

“But what I want you to know is that, if I were permitted to have a true friend and lover, it would be you.  That’s why I’ve kept you so long.  You’ll be dead by the end of the day, so I don’t have to worry about issues of trust after the party.  So I think we should consummate our relationship.  I want you to fuck my ass.  No one has ever done that, and likely no one ever will again.  But I want to feel your cock inside me and see if we can shoot our loads together.”

 

Matt’s emotions were a combination of shock, joy, gratitude, and, most of all, love. He never expected such a reaction from Jim even when they were high school lovers.  This was beyond his wildest dreams.

 

Under Jim’s direction Matt carefully positioned himself over Jim, who lay on his back with his legs wrapped around Matt’s torso.  Jim wanted them to have the ability to see each other’s faces while they made love, and once positioned he had Matt insert his penis slowly into Jim’s virgin man-hole.  Matt was careful to hold himself in check as he began to thrust in and out, concerned that he was inflicting some pain on his lover and master, but comforted by Jim’s assurances and the obvious pleasure Jim was feeling.  As the thrusts increased in intensity and speed Jim’s cock also began to throb, but it was quite some time before the two young males allowed themselves to reach orgasm – which they did simultaneously.  Both were sexually overwhelmed by the intensity, and they lay side by side still enjoying each other’s’ bodies.  Matt licked Jim’s cum from his chest, and that was followed by more long, deep kisses and caressing.  They went for a swim to clean off and enjoy the memory of so many swims in high school, and when they returned to the beach Jim pulled two beers and some chips from the picnic basket.  This was the first “fresh” beer Matt had since becoming a slave, and it tasted great.  By the end of the second beers their cocks returned to full erections, and they concluded their session with a second set of orgasms following a long 69 session of sucking each other’s cocks and swallowing each other’s cum.  It was glorious.  For the only time in his life, Matt was treated to truly mutual sex. It was a deep, satisfying session of love-making.  Matt felt sexually satiated in a different and more fulfilling way than any time in his life.

 

“That was very nice,” Jim said after a while.  “thank you.”  Matt was simply too overwhelmed to speak and just kissed and hugged Jim with all his being.

 

As Jim and Matt finished their lovemaking, a separate scene was underway in Mr. Fletcher’s office.  One of his security guards had entered and asked to make a report.

 

“I just witnessed something I believe you would want to know bout, sir,” he began.  “It was from the secure satellite camera that tracks Master Jim’s car.  May I play it for you?”

 

“Of course,” said Jim’s dad.  “Use this screen on the desk next to mine.”  The guard called up a video, and he and Mr. Fletcher watched a recording of Jim’s and Matt’s beach sex, listening to Jim’s explanations to Matt.  “I felt this might be damaging if it got in the wrong hands,” the guard continued.  I don’t think making actual love to a slave is good for Master James’s image.”

 

“Indeed not,” agreed Mr. Fletcher.  “You have done well to alert me.  Has anyone else seen this, and are there any copies?”

 

“No, sir.  I immediately placed it into a secure file and destroyed the automatic backup.  I’m the only one who’s seen it besides yourself.  If you’d like, I can destroy this copy form here and there will be no record at all.”

 

“I’m afraid Jim has been careless.  The slave is going to be destroyed later today.  What if he blurts something out?  I know he’s amazingly loyal to Jim, but as animals begin to endure the level of pain he’s going to receive strange things can happen.”

 

“Well, sir,” said the guard, smiling.  “Master James is pretty clever, as you know, and you don’t need to worry about that.  As they reached his car he ordered the slave to stick out his tongue.  Once he did, Master James cut it off.  The animal will only be able to make noises, not form words.”

 

“That makes me feel a lot better about this,” said Mr. Fletcher, chuckling at the cute solution Jim had implemented to remove any risk.  “I think I can chalk this up to a rite of passage.  Jim had a long history with that slave, and he clearly understands this type of relationship can’t happen again.  That’s why he decided to just keep body slaves for a year at a time.  So please destroy this copy, and I assume you know what else needs to be done?”

 

“Of course, sir.”  The guard quickly deleted the file and stood facing Mr. Fletcher.  “And may I say it has been an honor working for you.”

 

“You have performed well.”  Mr. Fletcher watched as the young naked guard walked over to a sort of shower area in one corner of the huge office and surveyed a set of tools on a metal table.  As he started to pick one up Mr. Fletcher interjected.  “The one on the far right has been dipped in some fairly fast-acting poison.  Feel free to use that one.”

 

“Thank you, sir.  It has always inspired me how thoughtful you are of your staff.  But will this give you enough time to enjoy my body as I die?  No point short-circuiting a good fuck by having the “fuckee” die too quickly.  I’m hoping I can provide you one final service besides my meat.”  When Mr. Fletcher assured him it would be fine, since he was planning to achieve orgasm as the body finished its death throws and the poison tended to enhance those, the young man picked up the indicated knife.  He began to masturbate for Mr. Fletcher’s entertainment, while his benevolent employer inserted his cock up the smooth, willing ass.  As the youth started to cum, he slowly cut off his cock, and then his balls.  The poison kicked in, and Mr. Fletcher guided the dying body over a nearby fuck stand as he intensified his fucking.  He reached orgasm just as the body stopped convulsing.  Ironically, he was particularly satisfied since he had lusted after this young man for some time as a snuff target, but he didn’t snuff staff unless they requested it or broke the rules.  This young man had done the right thing given the situation, and that meant Mr. Fletcher was not violating his own rules by snuffing an obedient staff employee.  So he got a great orgasm, there would be no witnesses of Jim’s little indiscretion and therefore no risk, and no harm was done. The shower area in his office was designed to make it easy for house staff to clean up the mess.  Nr, Fletcher was always considerate of his employees.

 

Once the two former schoolmates had rested, and then cleaned themselves off again with a relaxing swim in the ocean followed by a third set of beers, they returned to the car. Their bodies dried quickly in the sun, and Jim explained to Matt the need to remove his tongue.  Matt’s only concern was that this would mean he wouldn’t be very good at giving blow jobs, which he assumed a lot of the guests would want.  But Jim had thought of that too and explained that he was also going to use a pliers to remove Matt’s teeth so he could “gum” the cocks to orgasm.   It wasn’t quite as precise as using his tongue, but Jim had experimented with it on several slaves and it was quite satisfying.  So Jim removed Matt’s tongue as a precaution (one Matt fully understood, appreciating the fact there was no longer any risk of him saying something that would embarrass Jim), and he then removed the teeth that would get in the way of blow jobs otherwise.  Of course there was no anesthetic for either process, and Matt’s pain added a bit more entertainment for Jim, who had resumed fully the role of owner and master.  Jim then resumed the drive to his beach party. Both were in a festive mood., and in due course Jim spotted the turn-off to the party. It was easy to spot since it had signage consisting of two crosses that each had a young male nailed to it in the late stages of crucifixion. Each had one arm cut off, creating the effect of the remaining arm pointing the way.  All but the index finger on the remaining hand were also gone, and the index finger was extended, literally pointing the way.  The artistic display was Jim’s idea, and he told Matt how cooperative the two slaves had been when he explained the joke and then slowly sawed off an arm.  “I also cut off their fingers and was tempted to leave the middle finger for pointing.  But I thought that would be rude to my guests.  I had them nailed up yesterday morning so the hot sun would burn their skin, helping make sure they’d be dead by the time the party gets into full swing this afternoon.  I figure guests will enjoy the humor, and we can add their bodies to the meat supply.  You’ll also notice they’re identical twins, which I think is a nice touch.  It’s way better than tying some balloons to a post.” The path to the beach was between the two crosses.

 

“We need to resume our proper roles here,” instructed Jim, who nonetheless still had a little more softness in his voice than usual. “But I hope you enjoyed your respite.”

 

Matt couldn’t talk any more but gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.  He knew that the informality was over, and that he was once again just Jim’s property.  But the brief moments of affection were all he had ever dreamed of, and he was completely content and grateful.

 

6

Party time

 

The beach party itself was well attended and carefully orchestrated.  Bar-be-cue pits were set up all around the area, each with a freshly impaled, spitted slave roasting over it, providing a wonderful aroma of cooking slavemeat throughout.  Their innards had been removed and replaced with stuffing, ranging from traditional croutons-and-sage-based to slavemeat sausage to combos of fruits and vegetables.  There were also plenty of fuck-stations with young males tied up for easy access and use.  Jim let everyone know there were plenty more slaves in the holding cages, so no need to worry if a guest wanted to snuff the one he was fucking.  But when that happened the bodies were left for a while on the fuck stands so guests could also enjoy fucking the carcass before it cooled.  Whipping posts, racks, and various other torture stations and tools were plentiful, with an unlimited supply of slaves to fill them and to act as grateful human urinals when the need to piss arose.  Jim removed the dildo he’d inserted into Matt so his guests could enjoy fucking him, and Matt received a lot of painful attention from guests who wanted one last chance to fuck Jim’s favorite human toy.  Matt was by no means the only slave who was going to be snuffed that day – the plan was to kill several hundred of them given the importance of the occasion, but he was Jim’s toy and that made him a special target.  This included blow jobs, and Matt did a reasonable job satisfying guests with his gums replacing his tongue in massaging the cocks rammed into his mouth.  Of course, there was also lots of used beer for him to enjoy.  What was different was that guests were invited to use metal-tipped whips on his back, as Jim had joked that Matt wanted to be skinned alive, and this would be a good start.  Matt, of course, cooperated fully, pleased at how happy Jim sounded, perhaps aided a bit by a plentiful supply of beer.

 

Once Matt was positioned, Jim’s dad pulled Jim aside for a quick chat.

 

“I saw a video of your interlude with Matt on the beach.  Don’t you think that was a little dangerous?  What if that video had gotten out?”

 

Jim laughed.  “No risk.  I made sure Jordon was doing camera duty today, and I asked him to do me a little favor.  He was one of the ones who applied to replace Matt, but he didn’t make the finalists, partly because I knew how much you lusted after his ass as a snuff target.  But he was especially eager to serve me.  So he agreed to be sure no one else saw the video and to give you an alert.  We both knew you’d use that as an excuse to have him kill himself, which removes any problem with us taking advantage of our servants, and you’d get to fuck his ass as he died.  So no harm, no foul.  I assume it played out as planned?”

 

Now it was Mr. Fletcher’s turn to laugh.  “Perfectly.  He was a great fuck, and you were right about my desire to snuff him and fuck his ass while he was dying and again while his body was still convulsing.  I guess you gave me a present on your birthday.  I’m impressed.  You’re turning into a great Alpha leader.”

 

Jim deeply appreciated the complement.  He and his dad had never been closer.

 

By the time Jim decided to make a little presentation, Matt had been gang-raped by most everyone.  His back was badly lacerated with welts and cuts from being whipped as he lay over the fuck-bench, most of the skin gone form the effect of the metal-edged whips, and his belly and ass full of piss and cum.

 

“Thank you all for coming to my party,” Jim began.  “And I think cum-in is the right term.”  Everyone laughed.

 

“As you know, I’ve decided to dispose of one of my high school sex toys.  I could say I knew Matt so long I even knew him when he was a person. Yet even then he was always my property, since he was my high school project to get a natural slave to realize his true nature and willingly accept it.  I think I got an ‘A.’”  The crowd cheered loudly, pleasing both Jim and Matt.

 

“I did have some help, of course.  His foster parent made sure his self-esteem never developed, and that his natural masochistic tendencies were maximized.  I want to thank him for a job well done and asked if he’d like a memento of his success.  It turns out he would, so he’ll get to cut off and keep Matt’s cock.”  (Matt was disappointed to hear this, having hoped Jim would be the one cutting it off, but obviously understood his desires were utterly irrelevant.)

“I noticed he’s already fucked Matt’s ass several times this afternoon, making up for the fact we wouldn’t let him do that when he raised Matt.  That way I’d have the fun of being the first fuck, which I enjoyed a lot.”  The crowd cheered again, and Matt’s foster dad took a well-deserved bow, followed by administering a well-placed blow to Matt’s cock and balls.

 

Besides disposing of Matt, one of our events today is the selection of a replacement body slave.  I liked the idea of having someone willingly choose to abandon their status as a person and choose to be a piece-of-shit sex slave dedicated to suffering pain and humiliation for my amusement and pleasure.  So I inquired if anyone would be interested in that and was amazed at the overwhelming response.  It was touching and heart-warming.  It’s a great testament to how much everyone loves the Alpha males like dad and me, and it shows how well things are going in our new social order.

 

“We reviewed all the applications and got it down to four finalists, who are here now.”  Jim pointed to four amazingly good-looking young studs standing together nearby.  Each had an astonishingly gorgeous body and a giant cock protruding in front of him.

 

“I’ve interviewed the finalists and had fun fucking and torturing each of them.  They are each 17, my favorite age to acquire a slave.  Frankly, they are all great and I have had trouble deciding.  When I poised the dilemma to them they all came up with the same idea:  Why not have them compete for the honor at today’s party?  And of course the competition would be to the death, so there would only be one survivor.  That was such a great idea it’s what we’re going to do now.  There will be two contests, each with tow contestants.  And the contests will simply be a fight, with the only rule being that the fight goes on until at least one contestant is dead.  Once the first round of fights is done, there will be only two finalists, and then those two will fight to determine who gets to serve me, with the same simple rule.  They drew lots to see which sets of two would pair off against each other in round one.  I think everyone has placed their bets, so, gentlemen, have at it.”

 

The first pair entered a wrestling ring next to where Jim was speaking and the fight began immediately.  They were evenly matched, and it was great entertainment to watch s they applied expert wrestling techniques in their combat, slamming each other to the ground and maneuvering to get a sustainable hold.  But as one teen began to stand in order to get a better position, he tripped slightly and was kicked in the nuts by his opponent.  The very brief moment required for recovery form the kick was fatal, as the opponent seized on this advantage and managed to wrap his arm around the gasping boy’s neck.  The neck was quickly broken and that round was over.  As the guests who’d bet on the winner cheered, he looked over at Jim, who nodded, and then proceeded to fuck the dead body, followed by biting off its cock and balls.  The winner ate the cock but kept the balls in his mouth as he crawled on hands and knees over to Jim, drooping the two morsels at his feet like a cat delivering a dead mouse to its owner.   The crowd cheered even louder.

 

The second match in round one took much longer.  There were no mistakes by either fighter, and they wrestled, punched, and kicked each other mercilessly for nearly an hour.  It finally became apparent one had slightly less stamina, and gradually the other fighter was able to take advantage of his greater stamina and gain an advantage.  It was only slight, but over the course of the hour it became enough.  After an amazingly intense and thrilling fight there was finally one less live animal in the ring.  The winner was so beat up and exhausted from the contest that he was barely able to fuck the body of his vanquished opponent, but he was also so horny form the endeavor he was able to do so, and then also followed the example of his future adversary and delivered the testicles to Jim for Jim’s enjoyment.  There was more cheering, more collecting of bets, and lots more slaves being fucked as the guests were sexually excited by the awesome battles they were watching.

 

Round two began immediately and was not nearly so much a fight as a slaughter.  The winner of the first contest, whose name was Peter, had hardly been winded from the effort and had plenty of time to rest and recover.  But since there was no break between the rounds the winner of the second fight was physically spent, wounded from numerous kicks and punches to his body, and barely able to defend himself.  So Peter took his time and methodically beat his opponent to death, using his advantage to break bones and kick vulnerable areas like the gut and genitals.  He didn’t bother to break the neck, but just watched as the other broken bones and the massive internal bleeding caused his victim to fall to the mat and writhe in terminal pain while Peter pissed all over him.  This was a great crowd pleaser, and the cheering was intense as Peter first bit off the dead guy’s nipples before once again enjoying a snack of fresh cock followed by delivering the genitals to his new master.  He remained kneeling in front of Jim, his head bowed, and then prostrated himself, kowtow style.   “If you will accept me, I am honored to be your property, master.  I relinquish my citizenship and welcome you to do with me as you wish, only hoping it will be as painful for me as it will be entertaining, sexually stimulating, and, whenever you wish, nourishing for you.”  The appropriateness of the speech caused the crowd to go wild, and Jim was extremely pleased.  He reached down and raised Peter’s head from the ground, proceeding to piss down his throat as he announced that he accepted the live meat as part of his birthday presents.  He then kicked Peter in the balls, hard, sending him sprawling back toward the ring.  Peter thanked Jim, crawled back, and knelt beside him as befit his new role.

 

“Wow.  That was quite a show and I hope you all enjoyed it.  I sure did, and I look forward to torturing Peter and fucking his ass during the next year.  And no one need worry about the aggression Peter showed.  Like the other contestants he is an extreme masochist, but his desire to serve drove him to fight.  But just to be sure we will administer the drugs needed to turn any aggressive nature into a completely obedient animal, seeking pain and being utterly turned on at the prospect of being tortured and snuffed at next year’s party if he lasts that long.”

 

Jim’s attention turned back to Matt.  “Now, it wouldn’t be a birthday party without a party game to follow the entertainment, would it?  One of my favorite short stories is “Andy Boy’s Birthday Party,” which has lots of good ideas.  And it’s appropriate for this occasion, since it’s about a fun snuff party for a sex slave on his ‘birthday.’  The cute part is that the birthday status is based on the anniversary of when the kid was snatched and turned into a slave, which was his REAL birthday in his new status.  That works great today since under that definition this is also Matt’s birthday, since he gave himself to me as property on my birthday five years back.   So it’s appropriate to let him be part of the games, like in the story, even getting a featured role.  Right?”  Everyone agreed.

 

“The early games in the story involved whipping the slave, and you folks have already done a great job of that.”  Jim turned Matt around so everyone could see his back.  “As you can see, you’ve managed to flog his back to the point there is no skin left.  It was thoughtful of you all to help him get his wish to be skinned alive, even if it’s just his back.”  Then Jim faked a look of surprise.  “Oh, wait, folks.  You missed a spot.”  With that Jim picked up a nearby whip, complete with the metal tips, and vigorously laid into Matt’s back.  There hadn’t actually been any skin left, but it was fun for Jim and got a lot of laughs.  Matt was pleased Jim was having so much fun and would have thanked him if he could still talk.

 

“Well, that takes care of that task.  Our next fun game is ‘Pin the tail on the donkey.’  We don’t have a donkey here, of course, but we do have a jackass.  So, jackass, how about if you make some donkey noises to set the mood?”

 

Jim pushed Matt into position next to him, and Matt did indeed make donkey noises – which was about all he could do since his tongue was removed.  Jim had earlier instructed him to practice prior to the party, and he was not bad at the imitation.  Again, there was lots of laughter at his expense, as was appropriate.

 

“Of course, we’ll have to make some adjustments.  Instead of blindfolding the players, we’re going to blindfold the donkey.  We have is a party kit from our friends at SnuffStuff, one of the island’s most successful companies.  This is a new set of products that are becoming popular world-wide as we spread our influence, which include everything you need for a fun snuff.  They were the ones who supplied those great whips that we all used to skin the donkey’s back.  This set is for our donkey game.  Let’s start by blindfolding him, while those of you nearby start to choose toys to pin him.”  Jim rummaged in a large bag and had the rest of the content distributed among the nearby guests.  He then blindfolded Matt.

 

The game was great fun.  Guests selected skewer-style needles and inserted them all over Matt’s body.  The cock and balls were the first target, with Jim starting the fun by inserting a large needle into Matt’s piss-slit.  The clever part of that needle was the fact it could be easily heated to burn the inside of the cock, which Jim did accompanied by Matt’s intense screams of pain.  Others were inserted cross-ways into the cock, with about a dozen penetrating the balls.  His nipples were effectively removed with two biting clamps, to which weights were added until the flesh was ripped off.  His butt became a pin-cushion, and more needles and weights assured his pecs were also pretty much ripped off.  His elbows were bent back and broken, and other guests cut off fingers to keep as souvenirs.  The best part was that the drugs with which Matt had been injected in prep for the party kept him awake and prevented the effects of system shock as his body was being destroyed.

 

When Matt finally began to show the serious effects of the multiple wounds that would cumulatively be fatal, Jim interrupted the fun.

 

“Well, you’ve all certainly pinned the donkey.  But you haven’t pinned a TAIL on it.  Don’t worry.  I have just the solution, again form our friends at SnuffStuff.”  Jim held up a very large dildo, which had a handle at the bottom.  “This is their Gut-Cleaner, part of the Deadly Dildo line of products.  It’s also brand new, based on the story I mentioned, and I think you’ll be impressed.  I’ll take the blindfold off so our donkey can see it and get an idea what a wonderful tail this will make for him.  And I’ll tie the scarf to the handle so it’s an official tail.”  The dildo looked a lot like a giant pinecone.  As Jim held it up he pressed a button on the handle and the dildo expanded as a series of sharp claws emerged from the sides.  Jim pushed the button again, and they retracted so that the dildo was again pinecone shaped.    “Once I insert this where it belongs, I’ll push the button again.  Then I’ll pull it out.  The coolest part is that there is an internal infrared camera that will project what’s happening inside our donkey onto the screen behind me.  I think everyone will enjoy the effect.”

 

Matt had had hundreds of dildos rammed up his ass over the years, but this one was the largest ever.  Jim didn’t even try to ease it in.  He wanted the maximum pain, so he shoved it as rapidly as it would go, ripping Matt’s ass big time, as evidenced by the flow of blood leaking from it.   Matt was past the point of being able to scream, but his whole demeanor left no doubt about the intensity of his agony.

 

As the dildo moved further inside Matt, the infrared camera showed a remarkably good image of what was going on.  Guests could see it move further into the intestines, and then cut its way into the lower stomach cavity.  At that point Jim pushed the button and the claws extended, cutting into the vulnerable internal flesh.

 

Then the real fun began.  Jim started to pull out the dildo, extremely slowly.  The claws had lodged themselves into the flesh, and at first simply extended further as he pulled.   The result was the claws pulling down the internal meat that it had cut into.  Matt was being gutted from within, and his innards started to make a slow journey down to his asshole.  Jim pointed out what was happening as the camera showed the intestines being ripped to shreds, and there was a general cheer when it finally reached the prostrate, which was surprisingly whole when it exited the asshole.  One of the guests picked it up and held it for everyone to see, taking a bite of it out of curiosity to see what this essential male organ tasted like.  “Yuck.  Clearly not as tasty as the balls,” he announced, spitting out the bite and tossing the rest back onto the now-bloody sand.  Jim, ever the gracious host, cut off what was left of Matt’s balls, handing one to his guest as a “chaser” to the bite of prostate, and eating the other himself.

 

The dildo itself finally came out coated in meat and gore.  Sadly, Matt was so far gone there was no real fun torturing him further.  So Jim had the various needles quickly removed, and Matt was placed on a serving table alongside a set of carving knives.  Jim thanked his guests for such a great party game, and, pointing out that Matt was, amazingly, still alive, invited them to enjoy some fresh live meat.  “Matt said he wanted to join us for dinner, back when he could talk, and it turns out he’ll be able to – at least for a little while.  I’m sure he’ll want to see people enjoy the meat they choose, so be sure to position it so he can watch.  I’ll demonstrate for you.”  Jim started by carving a generous slice of breast meat, holding it in front of Matt’s face as he ate it raw.  It was as good as Jim had anticipated it would be, and Matt was still conscious enough to realize his master was indeed enjoying dining on his flesh, as Matt had always hoped.  But Matt didn’t last long as the other guests aggressively cut off favorite parts. Everyone did agree the meat was very tasty, complementing Jim on how he’d adjusted Matt’s bodyfat level and added fruit juices to make it more flavorful.

 

The party went on for many hours, and Matt was quickly forgotten.  Jim’s attention turned to Peter, whom he fucked and tortured for the amusement of the guests.  It was great fun, and while Jim did briefly think of Matt when he took his morning dump the next day, that was the last time he did.  Matt had served his purpose well, and Jim had grown into the awesome Alpha Male he was meant to be.