Carlos was horny and impatient, an explosive combination.  Worse, it didn’t seem like he’d moved the Mustang more than thirty yards in the last fifteen minutes—he’d never seen traffic this bad.  Of course, it was understandable; there was a lot to look at on the Vegas Strip.

His decision to head to Las Vegas was sudden but the desire behind it wasn’t; he’d always wanted to be in Sin City.  He’d never really thought it through until last week, though.  The motivation had been provided by his last snuff; he’d gotten off on the media coverage for the first few days—until the police started asking questions about a red convertible Mustang.  That was too close for comfort.  He got out.

It made sense, anyway.  He’d knew he’d find lots of deserving fags to waste there; more importantly, he could find rich fags to waste and rob.  Fuck, some dudes in Vegas could have lots of cash on them.  He could be livin’ large, keeping his tight body in shape during the day, raping and snuffing worthless cumsuckers at night.

It took several days to drive across country but he had plenty of cash already.  Gas, food, cheap motels—he didn’t spend much.  The only other thing he wanted to spend was his sperm; rage and lust built up in him and he ended up relieving the pressure one night in a tiny fleabag in the middle of nowhere on I-44 south of Springfield, Missouri.

After that, he was able to maintain control until he got to Nevada.

But it had built up again.  He needed release—now.

He’d taken I-40 all the way to Kingman, Arizona and then gone north on 93; he ended up driving into Vegas from the south, coming up the Strip past the iconic “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign.  His thrill at recognizing the landmark was topped by the overwhelming awe of the glittering towers in front of him.

And then he hit the traffic.  It was Saturday night.  Worse than that—although Carlos had no way of knowing it—it was Fight Night.  Saturday night on the Strip was always a mess; thousands of vehicles and tens of thousands of pedestrians congealing into a thick ooze. Fight Night amped it up by a factor of a hundred or more.  The next light north was Tropicana; on the northeast corner, a major boxing match was taking place at the MGM Grand.  Not only was traffic totally gridlocked but it seemed as if every cop in the county was out.  Fight Nights were notorious for spawning violence.

It took Carlos three hours to drive three miles.

It was a warm night; even this early in the year, the temperature was hovering just under ninety degrees as it approached midnight.  Naturally, Carlos had kept the top down on the Stang.  Now he found himself getting a fair amount of appreciative attention from the folks on the sidewalks.

As always, he was dressed to lure; the simple leather vest that stretched across his hard tattooed pecs highlighted his muscled, inked arms.  His furred chest glistened with sweat, but only slightly—it was a dry desert heat.

The boys on the street ogled and leered; they’d have been even more impressed if they could have seen him below the waist; the skin-tight black jeans he had on did nothing at all to hide the enormous bulge running down his thigh.  The sadistic ex-con was already so horny that his massive hog was throbbing visibly beneath the restraining denim.

Well above the ankles, the tight jeans disappeared into the cuff of a pair of combat boots, untied and loosely laced.  Carlos found that tucking the jeans into the boots made concealing and transporting his knife easier; the massive Bowie blade was hidden against his leg.  To reach it, all he had to do was slip his hand inside his boot and pull up on the cuff of the jeans.

He was impatient, ready for a kill.  And here he was, stuck in fuckin’ traffic.

His frustration mounted as he inched along, but he noticed a change ahead; large islands of darkness amid the intense, elaborate lighting.

The north end of the Strip was less densely populated; there were fewer open casinos.  Circus Circus still squeaked along, but the Riviera across the street was closed down and fenced off, in the process of demolition.  South of Circus Circus was a huge dark construction project that had been sitting idle for several years after running out of money.  To the north of the Riviera was a similar property, the vast 68-story Fontainebleau Tower—also unfinished for years.

There was little to tempt pedestrians along this part of the road; traffic eased off some and allowed Carlos to change lanes.  He decided to take the next right and get off the Strip for a while.

The next light turned out to be Riviera Boulevard, a short street that ran east from the Strip to Paradise Road.  There were some occupied office buildings and convenience stores at the eastern end, but most of the block was dominated by the dark, deserted hulks of the Riviera on the south side and the Fontainebleau on the north.

Carlos turned the red Mustang convertible onto the side street; as the beam of the headlights swung down the dim-lit pavement, the muscled killer felt his dick stir.  The street wasn’t empty; there was a boy walking away from him.  The figure wasn’t clear; the kid was nearly three hundred yards ahead of him.  Before Carlos could size him up properly, the dude turned a corner and vanished.

The horny ex-con sped up, finally reaching the same spot.  There was a drive leading south from the street, past the rear entrance of what had been the Riviera convention center. It connected with some open parking lots for the businesses that faced Paradise and other lots associated with the defunct casino that now contained demolition equipment.

The closest lot to the convention center entrance had some cars in it; all of which seemed to be occupied.  Carlos switched off his headlights, realizing he’d wandered into an impromptu cruising spot hidden behind the deserted resort.  He didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself, even though he knew that the guys in the cars wouldn’t notice anything—they were otherwise engaged.

To the right was the covered portico entrance for the convention center; Carlos could make out the slim figure of his prey sauntering in the dark driveway.  Wasting no time, the sadistic killer turned in and pulled up to the kid.

The boy approached the car with the feigned nonchalance and suppressed eagerness of an experience whore.  He was young, too, no more than nineteen; it was clear he’d gotten an early start at renting his firm, lithe body out.  He wasn’t dressed colorfully or flamboyantly but his tight, worn clothes emphasized his slender but muscled form.  His tawny hair was long, almost shoulder length, not entirely straight but by no means curly.  In the front, the sandy blond bangs were spiked exuberantly over brown eyes, large and deceivingly soulful.

Carlos already knew the little cunt didn’t have a soul.  The rentboy was just meat.

But he was sexy meat.  His chest, broad without being overly developed, was covered with a film of sweat that rendered the skin-tight thin cotton of his white wifebeater nearly transparent.  Around the boy’s throat there glittered a long chain made up of heavy gold links.  Carlos doubted the fucker bought it for himself (he was right on that; the boywhore had stolen it from a trick earlier that night)—and he damn sure wasn’t gonna need by the end of the night.

Below the cunt’s flat firm belly and narrow waist, seductively wrapped with a black belt with large metal studs, a pair of faded skinny jeans clung to his hips; tears in the denim showed the smooth pale flesh underneath. Under the ragged cuffs, the boy had on a pair of simple while leather Adidas hightops.

As the kid leaned over the car door, his face was dimly lit by one of the parking lot lights further to the east that was still working; Carlos could see faint glitters of gold hair in the barely-visible goatee around the teen’s mouth.  The kid grinned impishly and batted his long lashes.  “Whassup, man?” he drawled, letting his eyes caress the older man’s brawny form.  “Ya lookin’ for some fun?”

With an easy grin on his own face, Carlos replied.  “Yeah, dude, I gotta load I need to blow.  How much to help me out?”

The boy stood up, thrusting his shoulders back and his chest out.  It was a purely involuntary reaction—the whore was utterly unaware of the way he was presenting the flesh on sale.  “Man, I don’t get less than fifty an hour—but you can do what ya want with me in that hour.  Fair enough?”

Carlos paused for a moment as if considering the financial aspect.  “Sure—hop in.”  He’d drag the kid out somewhere, rape, snuff and rob him, and use any cash the kid had to get a cheap room.  All he had left now were Franklins and he’d be sure to be remembered if he flashed one at the desk clerk in the kinda place he was looking for.  Cheap and sleazy was cheap and sleazy, even in Vegas—especially in Vegas—and his plan was to lie low for a few days to take stock of the situation.

The boy obeyed Carlos’s instruction literally, hopping over the door and into the passenger seat.  He was slightly shorter than Carlos was, probably about five feet ten.  He seemed to weigh about a hundred and fifty pounds; not scrawny by any means but slender when compared to Carlos’s powerful mass of toned muscle.

The young punk buckled himself in as the alpha pulled out of the lot and turned left, the way he’d come in.  As he got closer to the Strip, his hand crept down towards his boot, feeling its way down towards the knife.

“Hey, man, you gotta place yet?  No?  Turn right up here.  I live a few blocks up; you can park behind my building.   It’s dark back there; no one can see us in here if you put up the top.”

Carlos’s hand froze and withdrew.  “You got a place close?  I need a place tonight.  How about this—I’ll pay ya two hundred for the night.  I’ll leave by dawn.  And it’s already past midnight.”

The rentboy jumped on the offer—fifty an hour was wishful thinking for him; two hundred for the night was more than he could have hoped for.  It not only paid the weekly rent (due on Monday), it left him enough to get good and high Sunday.  He’d let this stud bend him over and breed him, if that’s what the hot buff Hercules wanted; he found himself getting excited at the thought.

“Fuck yeah, man,” the teen slut moaned, “for that kinda money, you can do what ya want all night long.  Turn left at the next light—there, in front of the Stratosphere…”

Carlos relaxed—all of him but his cock.  This was perfect; the little faggot had his own place nearby.  He’d let the little cockpig lead him back into his own killing pit.  He made the left onto Sahara as directed and soon found himself in what looked like a war zone wedged between the Strip and the highway.

In the shadow of the massive Stratosphere Tower lurked an intensely squalid neighborhood; a small grid of streets (all named after cities) that had once been major thoroughfares before Las Vegas Boulevard developed on the east side and I-15 put through on the west.  The tiny roadside motels had been cut off from traffic decades ago; even before the massive resorts went up, these places had folded into rent-by-the-week efficiency apartments.

“There,” the whore said, pointing down a dark street due east of the casino.  Only a single block long, it ended at a cinderblock wall, tagged with gang signs, blocking access to Industrial Boulevard to the west.  One side was a group of squat square buildings, surrounded by an iron fence.  Clearly a former motel, each small square structure housed four rooms per floor, each with a single rectangular window (also covered with iron bars), underneath which was an AC built into the wall.

A gap in the fence led Carlos to an open lot behind the buildings.  He pulled to the far end of the space, up against the fence that evidently circled the entire property; beyond was a disused, crumbling alleyway and another graffiti-tagged wall.  The alpha glanced around, taking in the dismal sight.

“C’mon, dude,” the teen piped up, “I’m right over there, number 208.  Name’s Shaun, by the way.”  Releasing the seatbelt, he tensed his lithe young muscles and popped up out of the seat and over the car door, just as he’d jumped in; he seemed to take a childish, almost innocent pleasure in it.

He paused, waiting for Carlos to follow.  “By the way…”  Here the young punk stopped, as if embarrassed.  But the thought of two hundred bucks overcame any delicacy the reamed-out slut possessed.  “I can get kinda loud.  But it’s ok, most of the neighbors are out nights like me.  And it ain’t like anyone round here hasn’t heard me get plowed anyways.”

Carlos got out of the car with a wolfish grin, his rubber-soled combat boots silently hitting the pavement.  As he stepped to the front of the car, a flickering security light intermittently lit his strong, well-developed body.  For the first time, Shaun got a full-body glimpse of the masculine alpha.  He gasped aloud at the huge throbbing ridge plainly visible through the black denim, running down the stud’s leg.

“F-fuck, man,” the teenaged rentboy gulped, “I, uh—I…I get the money, whatever happens, right? I-I mean, even if I can’t take it?”  The pleading look in his face was as erotic as the whining, begging tone in his voice was annoying.

“Hell yeah, cunt,” Carlos said in a low, guttural tone as he chuckled grimly. “I promise ya, no matter what happens, you’ll get paid.  Maybe even more than you deserve.  I’m generous that way.”

Resuming his cockiness, Shaun smiled and brushed his blond bangs from his forehead.  “Cool.  C’mon, stud, I’m up here.”  He turned and headed toward the closest building to the left, his Adidas hightops slapping on the broiling pavement.  Carlos followed the lean, lithe youth up the stairs to the covered exterior walkway.  Two doors opened out onto it; Shaun stopped at the first.  A sheet of paper, pinned to the door, fluttered in the wind.  The boy snatched at it, muttering something about a rent notice.

“The dude next door is out turnin’ tricks,” the rentboy said in a confidential tone as he jabbed his key questioningly into the dark doorway; the entire complex was sunk in an almost Stygian blackness.  “Lucky bitch got himself hooked up with a gay bachelor party—he’s gonna be gettin’ banged all night.”

Carlos was barely able to suppress a contemptuous snort.  “You make a lot of noise, boy?  Are ya a screamer?”

Even in deep shadow, the sadistic alpha caught the blush on the teen whore’s face.  “Well—not usually,” the kid admitted sheepishly, “but I ain’t sure I can take yer hog without yellin’.  The unit that backs on to me is empty, though, and the one downstairs is too damaged to rent.  So it’s ok, dude, I can make as much noise as I want and ain’t no one gonna hear.”

“That’s good, punk, that’s real good,” Carlos said with a leer, “cause yer damn sure gonna be squealin’ by the time I’m done with ya.”

The young boywhore giggled, the sound of a horny teenage faggot about to get laid.  Carlos’s grin widened into a shark-like leer as Shaun got the door open.  The hard buff killer slipped into the room behind his prey, locking the door behind him as the slut switched on the light.

The room, unsurprisingly, was small and dim.  It had been a decent motel room at one point, but that point was half a century ago.  The conversion to an efficiency apartment had been piecemeal and clumsy.   The bathroom had the tub and toilet only; the sink had been built into a vanity in the bedroom proper.  This had been expanded to include a two-burner electric stove, a mini-fridge and a microwave.  There was no oven.  The closest thing to a dining space was a tiny bistro table onto which the teen cunt tossed the rent warning.

There was window next to the door that looked out over the balcony/walkway, and a small window across from the bed with the AC in the wall underneath.  Shaun crossed to it and turned it on.  Starting with an asthmatic wheeze, it pushed the air around with a loud grinding noise but did little to cool the almost uncomfortably warm room; the place must have been literal hell in high summer.

The sheets on the double bed were twisted and wadded; the only part of the nightstand that wasn’t covered with beer bottles and soda cans was reserved for an overflowing ashtray.  The closet was beyond the bed; it was jammed so full of dirty clothes that the door couldn’t be closed.

Shaun noticed Carlos looking at the closet and blushed with embarrassment.  “Yeah,” he admitted shamefacedly, “I know, but it’s kinda hard to get to a laundromat without a car.”

The vicious, sadistic killer smiled at his prey in a gentle, reassuring manner.  “If ya work my cock good enough tonight, I’ll make sure that that ain’t a problem for ya anymore.”

Shaun’s eyes lit up; his adolescent body stiffened with an influx of hormones and greed.  A hot stud who could take care of him financially and fuck the living shit out him at the same time—

The slim but firm teen exhaled, shuddering in ecstasy.  “F-fuck, man, you can do what ya wanna to me…you can hurt me if ya wanna, as long as ya take care of me…”

Carlos’s handsome, hard face twisted with a sneer of contempt; the stupid fuck was makin’ it too easy.  “Shit, boy, I can take care of ya.  I’ll take care of ya good.  Tonight.  Now get yer faggot ass over here.”

Shaun approached the hulking killer like an eager puppy; if he’d had a tail, he’d have been wagging it.  He moaned erotically as he felt Carlos’s large strong hands fondling his firm body; he gasped as the powerful alpha gripped the punk’s collar and, with a single jerk of his muscled arms, ripped it open, shredding the thin white cotton.

Shaun stood in front of Carlos with his chest bare, the smooth skin tautly clinging to the pecs and biceps on his slender build only marked with a faint peach-skin fuzz on his flat belly; it clustered around his navel.  The young whore looked up into the eyes of the man who was about to rape and murder him, reading the hot flame of homicidal lust as the feeble glow of mere desire.

Silently, the buff older man bent down and hooked his fingers in a tear in Shaun’s skinny jeans, a frayed rip in the faded, skin-tight denim, high up on the thigh.  With a rough jerk, Carlos tore the material clean through, shredding the jean leg and baring the teenager’s smooth thigh and calf down to the white athletic sock that peeped out above the white Adidas hightop.  Another brutal yank, slightly lower down, revealed the other leg.

Shaun seemed somewhat stunned at the way he’d been abruptly and violently stripped; all that was left to him was his shoes and what now looked like ineptly-made jean shorts, held up by his thick, metal-studded belt.  But the horny youth took the hint and slipped out of the remains of his pants.

Standing nude, wearing just his hightops and his thick gold chain in front of the burly ex-con, the teen whore’s cock jutted stiffly in front of him.  Just over six inches of throbbing boymeat, what it lacked in girth was compensated for by the huge mushroom-shaped head, pulsing and oozing clear precum.  It sprang proudly—almost arrogantly—from a tangled mass of sandy-blond curls.

The young slut peered up impishly at the muscular man who was planning on murdering him.  “So,” he chirped winsomely, “whaddaya think—ya like?”

Carlos maintained his silence for a little longer.  Staring coldly down at the punk, he shrugged his broad shoulders, dislodging the leather vest and letting it slip off.  Even though Shaun had a good idea of Carlos’s physique, tattoos, and massive furry chest, he still gasped at the reveal of the killer’s hubcap pecs, crawling with ink.

The sadistic top grinned and reached down to his crotch.  Grasping hold of the zipper, he lowered it slowly, almost like a stripper.  And after all, he did have the complete attention of the kid, breathless and sweating in anticipation.

Once he got the zipper down…nothing happened.  He had to reach in to grab ahold of his enormous tubesteak; luckily it was only semi-hard, since he had to bend it nearly double to get it out.  Once it was out, it dangled between the alpha’s legs, jerking and dripping.

Shaun paled.  Even soft, it was more than eight inches long and two in diameter.  That wasn’t a human cock, that was a horse dick.  A cold chill washed over his body; his own shaft wilted slightly.  “Man, th-that—“ he stuttered, trying to formulate his concern, “I-I ain’t g-gonna be a-able to take that…”

“Shut the fuck up, faggot, and get on yer knees,” Carlos barked roughly.  “Open wide, you worthless homo, cause it’s time to suck my cock!”

The hard-bodied top’s stinging words struck the boywhore like a blow; his face flushing pleasurably, he obeyed instantly, dropping to his knees.  He turned his face up to his dominant trick, his trepidation belied by the erotic anticipation in his puppydog-like eyes.  Crouching on the floor, the teen moved one hand to his groin; as Carlos stepped up to him, Shaun started jerking his cock.

The boy opened his mouth and Carlos didn’t bother to give him a chance to speak.  Lunging forward, he shoved his engorged tool down Shaun’s throat with a single, swift plunge.

The teenage cocksucker had already given two other BJs earlier in the evening—one of whom was the dude from whom he’d stolen the gold chain—but he still wasn’t prepared for the huge onslaught of manmeat that plugged his esophagus and cut off his air.

The punk stopped playing with his dick, his hands flailing momentarily in the air before he groped blindly at Carlos’s legs.  Pawing at them, Shaun placed his palms flat on the alpha’s thick, muscular thighs and tried to push away; he was coughing and gagging but unable to draw his breath.  In his frantic fear, he tried harder to push Carlos away, forcing him out of his mouth, but it was like trying to topple Stonehenge with his bare hands.

Carlos’s hands clamped his head in a vise grip, strong fingers tangled in the boycunt’s long blond hair, which left him unable to pull back and free himself.  Tears flowed from his large, dark eyes as his hands fumbled down the aggressive top’s legs.  At one point, Shaun was gripping Carlos’s combat boots tightly, unconsciously.  As his questing hands searched futilely for a vulnerable spot, the gagging, cock-stuffed teenager felt a long hard shaft running up the stud’s leg from his boot.

He was too focused on trying to breathe to wonder what it was.  Later, when he found out what it was, he wasn’t in a position to appreciate the irony.

At the moment, he could only appreciate Carlos’s huge, pulsing hog, mainly because it was choking him to death.  He was aware of the hard stud’s curses and mutterings as he hunched over and brutally skullfucked the nineteen-year-old fag.  “Take it, ya fuckin’ cunt,” the tattooed ex-con grunted as he reamed Shaun’s mouth, “ya want my load?  Huh?  Ya ready for my hot wad?”

Shaun could only squeak and beat his hands aimlessly against his assailant’s immovable thighs, but he had years of experience as a cumsucker and felt some relief as he recognized the symptoms of impending orgasm.  Carlos’s breathing quickened along with the tempo and depths of his thrusts into Shaun’s darkening, swelling face.  Then the thick, vein-wrapped shaft pulsed violently; as the buff sadist grunted and clamped down excruciatingly on the punk’s head, Shaun could feel on his tongue the cum channel that ran along the underside of Carlos’s cock as it started to swell and pump.

And then, a burning, boiling heat.  “Fuck!” Carlos snarled, “Fuck!  Goddam!  Fuckin’ homo cunt!” He clamped down on Shaun’s head as the blond boy found his mouth full of hot smoky seed, a steady stream that forced him to gulp it down—and even so, it overflowed from his mouth and ran down his face, dangling off his chin in long, ropy strands.

Carlos stepped back, his phenomenal rod still completely hard and oozing a pearly thread.  He chuckled contemptuously as Shaun, on the floor on all fours, heaved and coughed, struggling to breathe as he vomited up the older man’s sperm.  After several minutes the boywhore finally regained enough control to speak.  “D-dude…” he gasped, his voice ragged and pleading, “I-I earn-earned my money, r-right?  Huh?  P-please?  Yer h-h-hot as fu-fuck, man, but I…I can’t take any more…”

“You stupid little fuck,” Carlos said coldly, “ya think you drained all my spunk?  Hell no, ya sack a’ shit, we’re just gettin’ started—you ain’t come close to earning yer pay yet, you fuckin’ faggot-ass whore.”

Shaun looked up at the top, his weary, well-used face already glazed with manseed.  He’d bitten off more than he could chew, so to speak, and he knew it.

“Get on the bed, boy.  On yer back with yer legs in the air like the useless goddam whore you are.  Do it.  NOW!”

The young slut had no choice but to implicitly obey the ring of command in the ex-con’s voice.  He was afraid; this was gonna hurt and this dude didn’t have any boundaries.

But he wasn’t afraid enough.

Shaun did was he was told, easing himself back onto the double bed, sweeping one arm behind him to shove the wadded mass of blanket, top sheet and pillows to the floor.  He lay full-length on the mattress, bare but for the fitted sheet, and raised his legs in the air.  An experienced professional, the teen whore reached down hooked his hands up under his knees to full spread his legs and allow plenty of access to his fuckhole.

Carlos stood, smirking, at the foot of the bed, looking at the slut like he was appraising a piece of meat—which was more or less exactly what he was doing.  The rentboy’s shoes hung in mid-air; below, his firm smooth legs were splayed, forming a V that pointed directly at the youth’s pink quivering asshole.  Between them, the kid’s long swollen cock pointed straight towards his flat belly, beyond which, taut, smooth skin rose and fell over the teen’s pectoral muscles.  The boy’s nipples were sharp and erect.

Carlos towered over him, his inked body shiny and glistening with sweat in the warm room.  The menace of the killer’s hardened body was accented by his cold face and closely-shaven head—and, of course, the massive, erect, dripping horse dick jutting out from the open fly of his tight jeans.

Shaun had been taking dick up his ass for years; he’d fled a sexually abusive stepfather in his early teens and headed to Vegas.  At one point he’d actually managed to get a part as a dancer in a show in a cheap off-Strip casino by lying about his age—not that anyone had really cared—but his drug use and general whorishness ensured it didn’t last long.  Ultimately, he’d been selling his body to survive for at least three years.

And even so, he’d never seen a cock that huge.  He loved to deepthroat, but he hadn’t been able to get more than a third of that enormous hog down his throat without damn near passing out.  His sphincter had been stretched and strained, but he was still afraid that this dude was gonna be more than he could take.  Part of him wanted to beg and back out, just tell the dude to go, no harm, no foul, just go…

Part of him, though needed the money.  It was Saturday—well, Sunday morning now—and rent was due Monday.  He’d pawn the gold necklace he’d swiped, of course, but combined with what this dude was offering, he’d have enough to pay the rent and still spend the rest of the week cranked out of his skull.  And meth killed his appetite, so he didn’t need to worry about buying food…

Plus, the older stud was so fucking hot.  Yeah, it was gonna hurt, but Shaun felt a certain pride in knowing he was gonna take this incredibly sexy gangbanger’s shaft.

Lust and greed won out.  The stupid young whore, despite his experience, disregarded the red flags.  He pulled back his knees, spreading his legs, offering his tender, vulnerable rosebud up to the murderous parolee.  Knowing that he was about to endure intense pain, Shaun braced himself, consoling his fears with the thought that it’d be worth it in the end (and not recognizing his own pun).

“C’mon and stick it in me, stud,” he muttered through gritted teeth.  It was the last specifically conscious action he took for the next few minutes.  Carlos pounced on him so swiftly that his preparations were derailed; before he could so much as gasp, the tattooed, hulking ex-con had placed his huge mushroom tip against the kid’s ass.  Shaun felt the pressure—and then his world exploded in agony.

It was far worse than he’d imagined.

He was being torn inside; he could feel it.  It had happened before—the pain was like getting raped with a razor blade.  Last time, he’d ended up shitting blood for a month and a half.  And this was much worse.

The thoughts passed through his mind in a split-second of lucidity; the pain itself hit him with force of an industrial piston.  So did Carlos’s dick.  Even before his mind processed the agony he was experiencing, his lean teenaged body erupted in a fury of self-preservation.  Scrabbling at the alpha’s hard body like a feral cat, Shaun found his hand slipping uselessly over the top’s sweat-lubed skin.  His legs, forcibly kept apart by Carlos’s mass between them, jerked in the air, the white leather Adidas kicks bobbing uselessly.

It had all happened so quickly that the young slut hadn’t had the chance to scream yet; as soon as his brain recovered from the initial shock, he shrieked—an ear-splitting falsetto that triggered an innate rage response in the ex-con.

“Shut the fuck up, you worthless cocksucker,” the powerful killer roared, backhanding Shaun across the face hard enough to split his upper lip.  “What kinda homo whore are ya, you stupid motherfucker?  I thought ya liked gettin’ fucked in the ass, queerboy; ya get paid for it, right?  So shut yer cumhole and take my goddam cock!” Spitting angrily into the kid’s befuddled, pain-wracked face, he reared back and bitchslapped the teenaged rentboy again.

A light came on inside Shaun’s head—a dim one, to be sure, insufficient to light the vast empty space around it, but nonetheless he did have enough brightness to realize that he’d asked for far too little money for what was gonna happen tonight.  But that was as far as he could go with the implications—the hot dude liked to hit; he was just getting his freak on.  As soon as Shaun could get this fucker off of him—and out of him—he’d demand more cash.  But that was easier said than done; the dude was huge, and strong, and Shaun’s efforts to free himself were completely futile.

Carlos was tired of wrestling with the little punk, though.  The stupid sack of shit kept trying to pull himself up off Carlos’s throbbing dick.  Enough was enough; the sadist’s hot Latino blood was boiling over in rage and lust.  It was time to make some meat.

Carlos had laid himself flat on the boy, full-length, keeping one hand free to fend of the kid’s frantic flailing while he humped his inhumanly long rod up the wailing teen’s ass.  He slowly dropped the other hand down his side until he could reach the cuff of his jeans.  Pulling it up, he was able to grasp the hilt of his combat knife and slip it up out of the boot sheath.

Shaun never saw it coming.  He was too busy struggling, trying to break free from the iron grasp of intense pain that clamped him to the bed—and too busy trying to think of the terms he’d negotiate to accept the pain.

That was when everything changed.  That was when he saw the knife.

At first, for a single moment, the whored-out youth that it was joke, a novelty item, a movie prop.  It was just too big to be real.  Then Carlos, smiling faintly, laid it on his chest, and Shaun could feel the cold steel edge resting against his flesh.

His tender, exposed vulnerable flesh.  This was no joke.  The knife was real.

“You’re making too much noise, asswipe,” Carlos snarled menacingly at Shaun.  “You make any more, I’m gonna stick ya, you got it?”

Shaun was silent, staring at the hard, inked face of a killer—the word “Revenge” across his neck—mere inches from his own.  He knew it now; this hot stud whose massive dick was even now shoved into his guts, was a stone cold killer.  He’d heard about dudes like this, dudes who got off on hurting—or killing—other dudes.  As a rentboy, it was something of an occupational hazard, but it was more legend than reality.  Things like that didn’t happen, and the certainly didn’t happen to Shaun.

Except it was happening now.

“Guess ya won’t be needing this; I can use it,” Carlos chuckled.  The young slut winced as the powerful alpha reached out, but Carlos was only grabbing the gold chain.  A swift yank and it parted at the clasp, twisting it slightly.  Nothing that couldn’t be fixed.  He tossed it to the floor; he’d pawn it tomorrow.  Right now, it was time to make some meat.

Shaun’s shocked whimperings began to build, a torrent of pleas.  “Please, dude, don’t kill me,” he begged breathlessly.  “I’ll do anything—anything, seriously, man, hurt me as much as ya want, just don’t kill me…”  The teen boywhore’s voice, already cracking with adolescent hormones, was driven by panic into a high-pitched, sniveling whine.  “Please, dude—oh fuck, no, don’t do this—“

Carlos sneered, spitting into the horrified kid’s face.  He picked up the knife and silently began running it down Shaun’s lean, heaving torso.  He kept the cutting edge on the skin, applying just enough pressure to break the surface.  It didn’t even hurt, but the scratches bled slightly, the red ooze mixing with the sweat forced from the boy’s pores by physical and mental distress.

For Shaun, though, it was the beginning of the end.  He could feel the blade and he lost it.  Carlos felt a warm splash across his furry belly.  Looking down, he realized that the terrified teen had pissed on him—the kid had lost control of his bladder.  At the same time, the punk’s panicked mewlings reached their maximum annoyance level.  “Oh god oh fuck don’t please don’t you can take my money the chain whatever you want please don’t kill me please no oh god please fucking don’t oh shit oh please…” the helpless boycunt babbled mindlessly, hoping somehow to appease his assailant.

It had the opposite effect.

“I told you what would happen if ya didn’t keep yer cumsucking mouth hole shut!” Carlos snarled as he rammed the blade into Shaun’s sweaty, heaving flank.

It took no more than a second for the full foot of sharpened carbon steel to penetrate all the way into the young kid’s strong but lean body.  That can seem like a long time when it’s your body getting penetrated.

For Shaun, it took forever.  The blade tore through his intestines and impaled both his liver and his spleen.  He went rigid instantly, his lithe form clenched tight in excruciating pain.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, the tortured youth noted the grunt of pleasure from Carlos as his sphincter involuntarily tightened on his killer’s cock.  Wracked with agonizing shudders, Shaun inhaled deeply; he had no control over the scream that was about to erupt from his lips.

Carlos did, though.  He clamped his huge, strong hand across the helpless slut’s mouth, sealing off his cries and reducing his nightmarish screams to muffled grunts and moans.

From experience, the sadistic alpha knew he had to shut down the meat’s ability to cry out, and this time, he was grateful for his knowledge of torture and murder almost immediately.  As Carlos lay on top of the trembling boycunt, he yanked the knife back out, placing it back on Shaun’s chest so the dying fag could admire his own blood.  He’d taken care to avoid major blood vessels—by now, he was damn near an expert on anatomy; who says ya can’t learn anything useful in prison?—and while the teenaged rentboy had suffered a serious injury that would eventually cause him to bleed out, his death was not imminent.

Carlos was just settling in to enjoy his prey a little more when the sound of footsteps reverberated on the outside staircase.  The apartment was so old, the whole place shook with the footfalls, which became more intense as they rose higher on the stairs.

Carlos already knew—it was the next-door neighbor returning.  So did Shaun; Carlos could tell just by the look in the youth’s eyes.  The way a light of hope sparked deep within them, the way they broke their fearful stare at Carlos’s face to turn with anticipation towards the door past which the unknown manwhore would momentarily pass, these showed Carlos that Shaun had not yet accepted his fate.

The boy’s muffled grunts and groans increased in both intensity and volume; he was frantically trying to attract the attention of his neighbor.  The guy was passing right in front of the door; as Carlos struggled to keep his dick up Shaun’s ass and his hand over his mouth simultaneously, he could feel the flimsy floor of the unit bobbing up and down in time to the footsteps along the walkway outside.  This place really was a shitty little dive.

Perfect place for this whore to die.  Carlos was tired of fighting him. Time to make sure he couldn’t call for help, no matter what.  The husky stud drew himself upright, his powerful, chiseled form silhouetted the grim light of the single nightstand lamp .  His strong right arm, bulging with muscles and writhing with tattoos, brandished the blood-streaked Bowie knife.

From the corner of his eyes, Shaun could see the viciously serrated blade hovering in the air.  Danny was home next door; if he could scream now, Danny would call the cops, they could save him, he’d be ok…

Then then blade slashed forward, moving with the speed of lightning.  Shaun tried to scream, but his throat was blocked.

With steel.

Carlos had slammed the blade into the side of Shaun’s throat.  Without striking a single major blood vessel, he’d expertly speared the unfortunate teen’s larynx, slashing the vocal cords as the sharp serrated blade gutted the bitch’s voicebox, leaving him coughing and gagging in unimaginable pain, made even more intense by the fact that it was utterly mute.

Shaun could gasp and wheeze, gurgle and moan, but he couldn’t cry for help.  He was gonna die mere inches away from his oblivious neighbor, helpless and alone with a cruel killer.

Whatever sins he might have committed, he atoned for them in a protracted welter of pain, blood and sex.  The last few minutes of his life were a literal living hell, and they dragged out nightmarishly; for all the agony Shaun was in, none of his wounds were immediately fatal.

Left as he was, he’d bleed out eventually, but it’d take time.  Carlos, though, had no intention of leaving the thrashing rentboy as he was.  He drove his swollen shaft brutally up the punk’s ass, his powerful, heaving body pinning the terror-filled teen to his own bed.  Glaring down into the slut’s twisted, tear-stained face, he spat on the cunt and snarled, “I told ya you’d have to work to get a second load outta me, you stupid homo fuckwad—you ain’t doin’ it for me, bitch!  Only time I can get yer worn-out fuckhole tight enough around my hog is when I’m stickin’ ya; guess ya like it, huh?  That what gets ya off, you disgusting pervert, gettin’ reamed with a long, hard shaft?  Fuckin’-A, cumsucker, why didn’t ya say so?  Saddle up, faggot, cause I’m gonna stick ya lots more—yer gonna love this shit!”

The anguished youth gurgled desperately, his mouth full of the nauseating coppery taste of his own blood.  He could hear and understand the words being spoken but had no capacity for further reaction.  His entire existence was full of pain and cock.  Even in the deepest pit of panic, Shaun was aware of Carlos’s angry, pulsing shaft impaling his guts; the searing, stabbing pain in his rectum was every bit as intense as that in his side, or his throat.

The tortured boywhore barely noticed the sensation when Carlos ran the tip of his combat knife down the center of the kid’s chest, the razor-sharp point barely scratching the surface of the boy’s silky-smooth skin.  He stopped at a point several inches below the sternum.

Glancing down at the teenaged hustler, Carlos sneered, then slowly began shove the blade into Shaun’s flat, quivering belly.  He counted it out allowing ten seconds to penetrate a quarter-inch into the kid’s writhing body.

As the length of sharp steel was being inserted into his guts, Shaun screamed—or would have, if he’d been able.  His head was thrown back, eyes almost impossibly wide and ringed with black circles of shock.  His face distorted in agony, the boywhore’s mouth was stretched wide to scream but the only sound that came out was a grotesque wheezing noise.

“Hell yeah, you fuckin’ faggot pig!” Carlos crowed in triumph as he forced the knife forward relentlessly, “enjoy it, ya useless homo cumdump!  Enjoy the pain, ya sack of shit!”

The ex-con was an experienced fag-killer by now; he knew that when the resistance to the blade lessened that he’d hit a void—he’d shoved the knife in far enough to penetrate the stomach.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered gleefully at the shuddering boymeat wallowing beneath him, “I’m fuckin’ yer guts good now, cunt, and damn if it ain’t got yer ass all nice and tight.”

Tensing the bulging bicep in his killing arm, Carlos drove the knife in even deeper.  Slicing through Shaun’s firm, slender abdomen with a loud squelching noise, the twelve-inch steel blade tore through the thrashing, gurgling youth’s back and into the mattress beneath.

The teen rentboy was now pinned to the bed with a Bowie knife through his gut and a killer’s cock up his ass.  His smooth white body was marked by blood flowing from his wounds, but most of the bleeding was internal.  The exception was his face; his futile gasping had caused an occasional bubble of blood to form on his lips; they’d spattered his cheeks when they burst, streaking the pale blond hairs on his cheeks.

Shaun was no longer capable of rational thought; his entire awareness was focused on physical sensation, on the tsunami of torture being inflicted on his body.  The violent assfuck he was enduring made his slim form buck and jerk on the bed—but the knife was stuck in the mattress; it remained still.

It was sawing him open from the inside.

The worst thing of all was that, above the terrible agony of brutal buttrape and repeated stabbings, Shaun could also feel his own erection.  And somehow, that seemed to hurt more than anything else…

Carlos could see that the whore was almost meat.  “Fuck yeah,” he whispered, more to himself, since he was damn well aware the cunt was no longer lucid.  “Die, you goddam faggot piece of shit…motherfucking cumpig…”

With a single vicious jerk, Carlos yanked his knife up out of Shaun’s belly.  The writhing punk gasped as the razor-sharp steel slashed up out of him.  He didn’t have time to exhale before the buff, aggressive sadist slammed the blade back down into his chest.

It was the death blow.  But it wasn’t clean; the knife hit a rib on the way in, shattering it.  Bone fragments exploded like shrapnel, riddling the unfortunate youth’s viscera as the blade itself penetrated the heart, puncturing it like a large, wet, pulsing balloon.  Even then, it didn’t stop, slashing its way through the torso, emerging below the clavicle—and, again, pinning the kid to the bed.

Shaun stiffened, every muscle in his body going rigid with trauma-induced shock.  His torn, bleeding sphincter closed down on the thick root of Carlos’s dick like a cockring.  At the same time, the hormone-swamped teen’s shaft snapped to attention, smacking against his killer’s muscle-rippled belly.

Instantly, the rentboy began convulsing—and so did his dick.  It swelled and pulsed visibly as it shot a solid stream of semen in an intense, steady jet.  While the teenager slutboy’s heart ruptured and flayed itself to hamburger against the blade that impaled it, his dying body expelled a desperate geyser of genetic material, a final, reflexive, useless attempt at self-preservation.

It was the full-body convulsions, though, that milked the cum out of Carlos’s tool.  He held on to the flailing, kicking teen as the boy died, letting the cunt’s violent death throes jack him off.  The powerful alpha grunted in pleasure, then roared out curses as he pumped multiple hot wads of spunk into the bitchboy’s mangled intestines.

At some point, Carlos regained control of himself.  He was heaving and shuddering, his engorged rod still buried deep in the ass of Shaun’s corpse.  Sweating and gasping, he remained there for a few minutes, feeling spasms still flowing down his shaft, forcing the last few drops of seed out of him.

He pulled out, his massive hog bobbing up once it was free of the dead boy’s fuckhole.  The fag whore was still quivering and trembling, pinned to the bed like an insect.  Grinning with pleasure, Carlos leaned forward and jerked his knife out of the meat.  The youth’s mangled corpse convulsed violently as the blade was withdrawn, the white leather Adidas kicks tearing and scuffling at the sheets, before one last violent spasm squeezed a teaspoon of semen out of the meat’s semi-erect dick.  Then it went still.

The hard-bodied ex-con stood triumphant over his victim, bloody knife held out in one muscled, inked arm.  His enormous cock jutted out in front of him, dangling over the prone corpse of his prey, still dripping pearls of manspunk onto the mute, helpless form.

Carlos’s attention was caught by a glint of light on the floor near his boot.  Bending down, he noticed it was the thick gold chain.  Chuckling, he picked it up and pocketed it, then looked around and located his leather vest.  Snagging it and reaching into an inside pocket, he retrieved his pack of Marlboro Reds.

It was hot in the room; the powerful ex-con felt uncomfortably warm.  He was gonna need more money to get a decent place in the heat; he had enough for the moment, and the chain in his pocket would certainly help—but for tonight, he was staying here, in this miserable sweatbox.

And it stank of blood and mansex.

Whirling around in disgust, Carlos strode to the bed and shoved Shaun’s cooling, stiffening body to the floor on the far side.  He switched off the light on the nightstand and opened the door.

The buff alpha, still half-nude, stepped out on the walkway.  He was pleasantly surprised to find a cool desert breeze blowing.  Taking another drag off his cigarette, he looked up at the garishly-lit Stratosphere Tower only a few blocks east.  To the south, he could see the glittering, blinking towers of the Vegas Strip.

Standing in the darkness, he knew he was where he was meant to be.  So many rich homos to fuck, rob and slaughter—cheap whores, high-priced escorts, tourists looking for fun—he couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

His cock, still dangling out of his open fly, grew stiff again.