Trucker 3–Trucker v Rentboy

The Trucker sighed and leaned back in the driver’s seat. He’d been driving for hours and was sore and stiff. Traffic had been heavy during the day but now, after dark, it had dropped off considerably. He needed to pull over soon or he’d have a hard time keeping alert and awake.

Hell, he needed to pull over now. He needed to take a piss.

Might as well find somewhere to stop; wouldn’t be a bad idea to grab something to eat. And, if possible, to fuck. He was still traversing the desert, so most of the exits gave access only to state roads with no town in sight. If a rest stop came up, he’d pull over—he might find someone to play with, but the most he could hope for in the way of food would be a vending machine…

He kept his eyes out for the blue signs in front of the interstate exits that indicated the amenities available. Ten miles further on, he saw the logo of a large truck stop chain and felt better. He took the next exit.

The place wasn’t hard to spot. It was a couple of miles off the highway, right at the edge of town—but the sign, a good eighty feet in the air, was a blazing beacon in the dark. The lot was fairly empty; only a couple of rigs had stopped for the night. The Trucker followed his usual pattern in pulling to the back of the property.

He wasn’t particularly tired and didn’t know if he’d stop here for long—no telling what might come up. But the back end of the lot was a good place for privacy should he need it…

He shut off the massive, rumbling engine and glanced at his mirrors, making sure no one saw him exit the cab. His thick-soled, unlaced dirty tan work boots hit the ground with a thump. He was struck by the humidity as soon as he got out; he hadn’t experienced a night this sultry in the desert before—but then he remembered signs on the highway that indicated as dam and a reservoir.

At any rate, he began sweating heavily as he walked towards the brightly-lit truck stop. His tight jeans, clinging to his thick muscled legs, channeled his perspiration into his boots. His white wifebeater t-shirt became spotted with moisture as he traversed nearly an acre of burning concrete back to the building but the denim button-down he wore open over the t-shirt kept it mostly hidden. He was inside the store before his sweat had soaked into the tight-fitting, well-worn outer shirt

As he opened the door, an icy, air-conditioned blast hit his face. Realizing that he’d run out of cigarettes some time back, he moved towards the clerk at the register, his long, firm legs striding across the linoleum. The clerk, a young, weasely-looking youth with a pock-marked face and long greasy black hair, heard the Trucker’s boots clomping across the floor and turned to stare blearily at him.

Towering over the punk, the Trucker bought a pack of Camels. As the slack-jawed teen rang up the purchase, the Trucker asked where he could find some action in town.

The kid’s eyes slid up and down the Trucker’s hard, firm body. Deep inside those bloodshot eyes, the Trucker could make out a deep gleam of lust. He knew the kid wanted him—most of them did, after all—but he had no interest in this dank little wanker at the moment.

“There’s a bar about a mile down the road into town,” the boy muttered. “It’s called the ‘Manhole’. Can’t miss it; it’s right across from that sleazy pay-by-the-hour motel.”

The Trucker grunted. He grinned at the clerk, just to give him an image to jack off to later, and stalked quickly towards the bathroom.

The men’s room at the truck stop was large, bright and recently cleaned; the floor was still slick and the sweet citrus scent was overpowering. One of the eight stalls was occupied but there was no one at the urinals. The Trucker chose the one at the far end, and unzipping his bulging fly, let his thick hog flop out and a strong stream of yellow piss pound out into the bowl.

As he sighed with relief, the Trucker’s eyes focused on the tiled wall in front of him. He noticed tiny print written in the grout—“Gen? Joey”, followed by a phone number in with a 928 area code.

The Trucker memorized the number as he stuffed his massive member back into his tight jeans. As he washed his hands in one of the long line of lavatory sinks, he chuckled at his image in the mirror.

So Joey was looking for a generous dude? That could be arranged. Didn’t matter how much the guy asked for—it’d all be refunded at the end of the evening.

Best of all, he could avoid the bar the clerk had recommended. The punk had been eyeing him too closely for him to feel comfortable that the little fucking weasel wouldn’t remember him.

The Trucker strode quickly out of the store and back across the lot. He climbed into his cab—he’d left his phone there—and dialed the number from memory. The voice on the other end sounded young, a slightly higher pitch, almost a throaty hoarseness…

“Found your number at the truck stop. How much ya want, and how much can ya take?” the Trucker growled.

“Dude, you can do whatever you want to me for fifty an hour,” the slut replied.

“Okay—how about three hundred and I get ya for the night?”

There was a brief, calculating pause, and then, “Sure. I’m at the Waters Motel, right across from the Manhole. Room 115. Cash up front, man. How long?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” the Trucker replied. “Maybe twenty.”

“Cool. Make it twenty; gotta finish somethin’. Bring your cash and your hard cock and I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

The Trucker smiled. “So will I.” He ended the call. He’d named three hundred just because he happened to have that amount on him. Not like he wasn’t gonna get his money back once he’d snuffed the whore.

He jumped back out of the cab, his jeans stretching tightly across his thick legs as they flexed under his weight on landing. His dick was obvious as a long ridge of denim in his crotch, even though it was still semi-soft. No sense in getting fully excited until he knew the lay of the land.

The walk into town wasn’t arduous; the state highway had been widened here and a sidewalk added, so that he walked past open fields rather than through them. The bar was on the same side of the street; the motel across from it. The Trucker strolled nonchalantly across four lanes—there was absolutely no traffic and only a few cars parked at the bar. Most of their clientele probably walked from the truck stop as well.

The motel office was a small cinderblock building out on the road; the rooms were a double row set back on the lot. The lobby in the office was dark but there was a light visible in a small shade-covered window at the rear of the building.

Room 115 turned out to be the room at the far right end of the row. The Trucker instantly wheeled about and moved along the chain-link fence that marked the property line between the motel and the empty waste ground next to it.

His boots crunched on the gravel at the edge of the parking lot as he made his way carefully towards the building. He drew up level with it and was about to step out into the lighted area when the door to 114 opened up and a pudgy middle-aged man stepped out. As he cautiously checked the lock, 115 opened and a tall thin red-headed man in his late twenties came out, closing the door quickly once he realized he wasn’t alone.

The Trucker paused in the shadows and watched. And listened.

The older man asked the other—who was clearly the rentboy’s last trick—if the bar across the street was a good place to have fun. The Trucker smirked as he watched the exchange; the older dude scoping out the younger and mentally undressing him; the younger noting the fact and deciding to play it for all it was worth…

“It can be,” he chirped encouragingly, “I can show ya how much, but it ain’t cheap. And I just partied, so ya gotta keep me goin’ for a while.”

“Not a problem,” the man said lasciviously. “I can pay my way and yours too.”

The trick, his dick still undoubtedly dripping from his encounter with the slut in 115, took the older man by the hand and they strolled off in the direction of the bar. The Trucker was very pleased.

This room was on the end. The room next door was gonna be empty for long time, thanks to the trick who was a whore himself. The Trucker wondered if drugs were involved; they usually were with these lowlifes.

He knocked on the door of 115. There was a momentary sound of scrambling in the room before it opened.

Standing silhouetted in the doorway was a kid in his late teens to early twenties—no older than twenty-one or –two. His hair was brown with frosted blond tips and was short but not overly so, about three or four inches. The fact that he’d been partying was reflected in his bloodshot eyes and pinpoint pupils; the little fucker was higher than Jesus.

“Hey, you the dude from the truck stop? C’mon in,” he said, backing out of the door and into the light. The Trucker could see him clearly now. Young and slim, he was no more than five-eight or –nine.

The Trucker grinned and stepped inside. Just the kinda worthless punk who gets wasted in a sleazy hourly motel. He knew he was gonna have a good time.

The kid was dressed in a tight black sleeveless t-shit and denim cutoffs cut very short—the head of the boy’s dick peeped out under the jagged, ripped cuffs. His strong, smooth legs tapered from his thick, firm thighs down to the black leather combat boots he wore tightly laced up his calves. His hard, wiry arms had a faint haze of light brown fur on the outer forearms. On the inside of the left arm was tattooed a skull.

The rentboy paused and took a good look at the Trucker, letting his eyes slide over the hard, menacing man towering over him. The Trucker glared icily back but the whore was too high to read the danger signals.

The Tucker’s entrance had let the sharp sweaty tang of his manscent in to cut the haze of smoke in the room; the male pheromones mixing in but not completely overpowering the heavy reek of cigarettes and the sweeter scents of weed and crack. The little motherfucker had been having a good time, it seemed.

Now it was the Trucker’s turn.

“Ya got the cash?” asked the slut.

Slowly, the Trucker dug his wallet out of his hip pocket, taking his time working it out of his skin-tight jeans as he maintained silent eye contact with the kid, not moving a muscle in his face. Despite the lack of reaction, the young hustler was too fucked up to feel what should have triggered a twinge of fear.

Slipping three Benjamins out, the Trucker waved them in front of the boy. “Strip,” he sneered. “Leave the boots on. Gonna fuck ya in ‘em”

As the punk peeled his t-shirt off, the Trucker fished his pack of smokes and the book of matches that came with it out of the breast pocket, replacing it with his wallet. Standing at the foot of the disheveled bed, the sheets tangled and soaked with sperm, the boy looked up at him, grinned, then began running his hands down his abdomen. The Trucker lit his smoke and inhaled, sticking the matches inside the cellophane wrapper before tossing the pack on the dresser, leaning back against the wall as the whore rubbed himself, his eager hands highlighting the sheen of sweat and other body fluids already oiling his smooth, firm skin.

While the Trucker slipped out of his open dress shirt and tossed it on the dresser, the punk worked his way down to his cutoffs. As the Trucker nonchalantly tapped his ash onto the stained carpet, his eyes greedily devoured the youth’s thick, smooth thighs and the dark brown tangle of pubic hair from which the slut’s short but thick cock now swung free.

When the Trucker took another drag, the rentboy whirled around, his shorts still on the floor around his boots. He bent over to retrieve them, straight from the waist, displaying his pink, quivering fuckhole like an animal presenting for mating. Little motherfucker was a pro; from here the Trucker would never had guessed the slut had been brutally cornholed just a few minutes earlier if he hadn’t seen the trick on his way out.

Too quick—he wanted to savor the moment a bit. The Trucker turned and stepped into the bathroom. “Gotta take a piss. Be on the bed with your boycunt in the air when I get back out.”

The Trucker stood in front of the mirror and pulled the tight, sweat-streaked wifebeater off his massive torso. Balling it up, he used it to swab out his reeking pits and sponge the perspiration from his thick, dark chest hair. The door was still open a bit and the Trucker was aware that the whore could see him in the angle of the mirror.

The cunt seemed mesmerized by the Trucker’s developed, rock-hard chest. Perhaps the dogtags had hypnotized him; his trophy from the marine still hung around his neck, catching the light over the bathroom mirror. The whore’s dong began to rise; even from this distance, the Trucker could see the tube of flesh begin to swell along the youth’s flat, firm belly.

Might as well give the cocksucker a show before the end, the Trucker thought as he grinned at his muscled image in the mirror, tossing the soaked t-shirt on the floor. Much like the slut had done, the older man ran his hands over his chest, emphasizing his huge, cut muscles, leering at the boy in the mirror.

The kid’s hand was a blur in his crotch, he was jacking already. With a cynical smile, the Trucker slowly unbuckled his belt and let it hang loose. He unzipped his fly gradually, teasingly, keeping eye contact with the enthralled bitch beating his meat on the bed. Just as his huge shaft was about to fall out, he stretched his leg back. His unlaced work boot made contact with the door; he swung his leg and it closed behind him.

He was gonna take a leak in private. Besides, he wanted the whore to feel his cock before he saw it. If he saw it at all; he probably wouldn’t survive feeling it…

The moment the door was closed, the rentboy was off the bed and at the dresser like a shot. He wanted the dude bad, but he needed the cash too; the last bump had been expensive and he was already going on credit. He owed the three hundred he’d be getting for this job to his dealer for fronting the crack he’d already smoked…

Too focused on his actions and too high—and horny—to pay attention to the sounds from the bathroom, the punk was still pawing through the Trucker’s wallet when the door opened unexpectedly. The Trucker hadn’t bothered to flush. His jeans were unzipped and his huge hog dangled in front of him.

The pause was momentary, no more than a couple of seconds, but despite his drug-addled brain, the rentboy was able to comprehend an awful lot in that time.

The first thing that struck him was the look of rage on the Trucker’s face. He’d never seen that depth of anger in a trick before, and he’d had some pretty nasty customers. And most of them had been old or fat or otherwise not much of a threat.

This was different. This guy was built like a fucking tank. His arms were thick and writhing with muscles; his massive pectorals seemed to swell as he approached. A trail of sweat glistened in the light as it snaked its way through his dark curly chest hair, already matted with perspiration. The dogtags jingled and danced with the Trucker’s powerful, loping stride.

The rentboy began trembling in fear, his legs going rubbery as he backed as far away as he could, cowering in the corner.

Just before the Trucker grabbed hold of him, the rentboy pissed himself in terror. Then he got a detailed tour of hell.

There was a pause, a split-second of lucidity in the whore’s numbed brain. His terror had crystallized into a solid object; gripping him tightly—it was more a force of nature than anything inside himself.

And so he was able to note, in a flame of panic so pure it was almost calm, that he could smell the rage boiling out in the Trucker’s sweat as the larger man bore relentlessly down on him. It was almost with a sense of detachment that he felt the dude’s hands clamp down on his biceps with a brutal, vise-like grip.

The calm broke the moment the Trucker lifted him into the air. That was because the Trucker didn’t want the rentboy paralyzed by fear; he wanted him to experience every single moment of what was about to unfold.

Shaking the kid violently, face twisted in anger, the Trucker snarled into the boy’s tear-streaked, pleading face. “Thought you were gonna rob me, huh, you worthless fucking faggot cunt? That three hundred wouldn’t have been enough? It’s at least three hundred times more than you’re worth, cocksucker!”

He paused, still gripping the punk tightly, dangling him in the air. The slut lolled his head limply. As he looked down, even in this moment of crisis, he couldn’t help but notice the Trucker’s crotch; his belt unbuckled, jeans unzipped, long thick dark tube of flesh hanging out.

A tube that was rapidly rising and swelling to frightening proportions.

The boy turned his shocked eyes back to the Trucker in mute horror. The Trucker knew he’d gotten the point, but wanted to make sure that the stupid motherfucker understood it thoroughly.

He grinned at the kid. “Not like ya’d have kept any of it, bitch; I was gonna waste ya tonight anyways. I was gonna choke you out while you rode my cock. You’da liked it. You know what? I might still do that. But before I do, you gotta be punished. You tried to rip me off, you worthless faggot piece of shit, so now you gotta pay. And I promise you, you ain’t gonna like this. It’s gonna hurt, cunt, it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

The rentboy shuddered and moaned in terror, unable to utter a single coherent word. A few final tickles of urine ran down his legs, soaking into the tops of the white athletic socks visible just about his tightly-laced boots, now dangling helplessly several inches off the floor.

The Trucker chuckled before growing silent and grim. He held the boy up eye level and spit in his face. “Ya ready for it, you useless homo cunt? Ready to die in nightmarish agony? Fuckin’-A, man I can’t wait to hurt you and fuck you to death!”

With no warning, the kid felt himself flying across the room with but a moment to realize what was happening before he smashed excruciatingly into the dresser, his momentum rolling him up onto the surface and into the mirror, shattering it. As he bounced off the wall and rolled back onto the floor, slivers of glass slashed at his smooth skin painfully but not severely. He slammed violently to the floor and lay still, not moving, his whole existence focused on being able to get air back into his lungs.

His mouth opened and closed silently, like a dying fish. As he tried to focus his pain-blurred eyes on the floor, the Trucker’s boots came into his field of vision. Before he had time to brace himself, the slut felt himself being grabbed and lifted effortlessly, but roughly, from the cheap, stained carpet, marking his smooth legs with rugburn.

The Trucker grinned sadistically as the boy jerked and shuddered in his grasp, the cunt’s face still twisted with the struggle to get his air back. “Stupid motherfucker,” he hissed evilly, “does it hurt? What’s that—not enough? You want more? Ok, you sick fuck, here ya go!”

He whipped around instantly; the punk was spun through the air and thrown into the TV set. The unit, a no-name flatscreen, buckled and caved in under the pressure. Again, he hit the wall behind it and bounced off, crashing back to the ground facedown, the broken TV falling on his back and driving the breath out of him again with a loud squeaking sound.

The whore kicked his legs, desperately seeking purchase with his combat boots in response to a futile instinct to flee, but he kept his eyes closed. He didn’t want to see the Trucker approach, he didn’t want to watch death stalk him…

In any case, he didn’t need to; he could hear the jingle of the dogtags and feel the heavy tread of the Trucker’s boots as he came nearer. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He could only lie there defenselessly and accept what was happening to him.

The Trucker was still roiling with rage, his anger and hormones flowing swiftly, swelling his thick cock to fearful proportions. As he paused momentarily, standing over the cowering rentboy, huge, clear drops of precum oozed from his pulsing, purple head, splattering on the back of the kid’s head, matting his tousled, frosted hair.

With a deep, visceral grunt, he bent down and grabbed a fistful of the gasping youth’s hair. As he jerked the cunt roughly to his feet, the kid cried out and flailed his hands at the Trucker’s excruciating grip on his scalp. His hair was slick with oil and sweat; the Trucker suddenly found it slipping from between his fingers. Before either of them knew exactly what had happened, the kid was free.

The whore spun around and bolted for the door like a jackrabbit.

The Trucker had no intention of allowing his prey to escape. He clenched the buckle of his belt and gave a hard tug; the thick strap of brown leather snaked its way out from around his tight waist and immediately hung free.

Grasping the other end of the belt tightly, the Trucker shot after the whore. Before the rentboy could reach the door, the Trucker had thrown the belt over the punk’s head and looped it around his throat. He quickly transferred both ends of the belt to one hand, and pivoting to one side, put all his weight into swinging the cunt around by the strap around his neck.

The slut felt the constriction around his throat but before he could react, he found himself yanked backwards off his feet. The Trucker had pulled back on the belt almost hard enough to snap the kid’s neck. He flew through the air with devastating consequences.

The thick belt flayed the flesh around his neck excruciatingly as his lithe body twisted in the air. The Trucker found himself losing his grip on the belt with the force of his rage; he’d just meant to capture the fuckmeat and drag it back but the cunt shot completely across not only the bed, but the nightstands on each side before smashing into the far wall—the outside wall of the building—hard enough to cave in the drywall, leaving a massive dent. His limp, smooth form fell back painfully onto the fragmented remains of the bedside lamp, the clock and the phone, its cord torn from the wall in the violence of the moment.

The cunt’s battered, bruised body lay heaving on the floor, utterly helpless. He moaned faintly, his limbs twitching in agony from the assault, but he was still very much alive. The Trucker stood over him again, still grinning. As the boy rolled over, his swollen, tear-stained face begging the alpha male for mercy, the Trucker hocked up a massive wad of phlegm and spit into the kid’s desperate, pleading face, letting a streamer of drool mix with the snot coating the fucker’s smooth cheeks, so innocent-looking, so deceiving…

With a quick snatch and jerk, the Trucker grabbed the whore by one arm and tossed him onto the filthy, stained bed like a piece of trash. He looked around for something appropriate to express his rage; his belt had been flung to the far side of the room.

His eyes lit on the shattered base of the lamp. Placing his big construction boot on it, grinding it into the carpet, he bent down and wrapped the plug end of the power cord around his strong, muscled hand and pulled as hard as he could. Almost immediately, the cord tore free from the base.

The slut lay on his back, barely moving as the Trucker towered over him, sneering down at the rentboy’s pain and terror. The weeping boy cringed and held his bruised arms up over his face in a vain attempt to protect himself; the Trucker batted them away easily with a single swipe of his massive paw, leaving the punk exposed in his helplessness, his nude, battered body shuddering faintly in despair.

The badly beaten whore forced his swollen eyelids open, his large dark eyes utterly bloodshot. He only dared glance up at his attacker for a moment, but the image seared into his brain—the huge alpha Trucker, his massive pectoral muscles swelling as he leaned over his supine victim, slowly and menacingly.

The punk noticed, almost despite himself, the faint trail of sweat that worked its way through the older man’s chest hairs. It was almost hypnotic, the way it caught the light, amplified by the jingling sound of the dogtags that swam into focus as the Trucker came closer. He could sense, could almost smell the menace wafting off the alpha stud while the older man loomed over him as he climbed onto the bed.

The Trucker straddled the youth, his knees digging painfully into the rentboy’s upper arms, pinning them uncomfortably to the disgusting mattress, wet with sperm and sweat. Despite his state of traumatic shock, the weight of the Trucker’s body pressing him into the bed made the whore dimly realize that what was about to happen would be far, far worse than anything he’d yet experienced.

In panic, he began whipping his head from side to side. His swollen, split lips pulled back in an attempt to scream, but he’d been beaten so badly that all that he could get out was a high-pitched squeal.

It was enough to enrage the Trucker again. “Shut the fuck up, you worthless fuckpig!” he yelled at the sniveling slut. Like a swift crack of lightning, he backhanded the boy across the face, rocking his head back into the stained sheets.

The kid writhed and moaned in pain and terror. The Trucker chuckled malignly down at him before smacking him across the face again, hard, knocking the rentboy’s head back in the other direction. The whore grunted and jerked, but put up no further resistance. He’d been beaten into submission. He was ready.

“Get your fuckhole ready, you useless cumsucking faggot, cause I’m gonna plow your hole. I’m gonna ream your ass out, cunt, I’m gonna make you bleed. I’m gonna fuck you up bad inside. I’m gonna rip your guts out with my cock. It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad you’d scream your head off if ya could—but I’m gonna make sure you can’t.”

The whoreboy shuddered. He’d kept his eyes tightly closed, not wanting to look death in the face, but fascination got the better of him. Prying his bruised lids open, he batted his long, vulnerable lashes as he turned his bloodshot gaze up to the lamp cord the Trucker was wrapping around his large strong hands.

The slut gave a faint, snuffling gasp. He knew what the cord was for. And even if he hadn’t, the shark-like grin on the Trucker’s face and the predatory gleam in his eyes would have clued him in.

It was always there, this danger. Throughout all the sex, all the drugs, all the times he’d gotten fucked by random strangers or swallowed some dude’s cum in a back alley, he’d always know something like this could happen—but he’d never truly believed it could happen to him. He thought he was clever; he thought he’d had the street smarts to avoid becoming prey.

He was learning that he was not just wrong—he was nightmarishly wrong. This guy didn’t just want to kill him. He wanted to make it hurt.

The kid would have pissed himself again if there had been anything left in his bladder. The Trucker shifted his hard body. Whatever physical relief the slut might have had when the pressure was removed from his arms was swallowed up in horror as the Trucker suddenly grabbed his ankles—his combat boots, actually—and parted them roughly.

He let go of the punk’s left leg for a moment, grasping the thick, purple tube of flesh hanging between his legs and, brandishing it like a club, began slapping the rentboy’s unaccountably hard cock and puckered scrotum with it, splashing the cunt with thick spatters of precum.

The slut wriggled on the bed; the Trucker couldn’t tell if it was in fear or in pleasure. The boy didn’t seem to be aware of his own erection. His face, twisted into a grimace, was turned to the side. The Trucker let go of the whore’s cock—and paused, waiting.

Not for long. Just long enough to see the bitch relax momentarily. Beneath him, the lean, battered body still heaved with suppressed sobs. The youth let out a low gasping whine and snuffled his nose. As the Trucker kept still, he took note of the subtle signs of tension draining out of the punk’s face as the apprehension of immediate pain eased.

Without the slightest hint, the Trucker lunged forward, ramming his thick vein-wrapped dick deep into the kid’s ass, burying it as far in as he could, feeling his stiff wiry pubic hairs scraping at the cunt’s smooth asscheeks.

The boy’s reaction was swift and violent. He went rigid as a board in an instinctive attempt to resist the violation of his colon; his ass clenched tightly on the Trucker’s swollen cock, making the alpha dude grunt with pleasure. The whore’s wide eyes registered the shock as he parted his thick, bleeding lips and shrieked, a high-pitched wordless wail of agony.

“Shut up, you worthless piece of fuckmeat!” yelled the Trucker. He spit into the kid’s crying face before suddenly bending down and looping the lamp cord around the punk’s neck. He pulled it taut around his throat, but didn’t tighten it—yet.

The rentboy was in too much pain to stop the screaming but he somehow managed to find the will to control it a little and lowered it back to a shrill whine exhaled with each breath. The Trucker noted this and was pleased.

“Good boy. Good little faggot. That’s it. Save some of that fight, you cunt. I wanna feel you fight and kick away your last few minutes on earth while you’re ridin’ my cock. Make it last, you motherfuckin’ homo bitch. This is gonna be the last, best fuck of your wasted life. Yer gonna die choking and clawing, you thieving piece of shit, and they’re gonna find your used-up, reamed-out corpse left crumpled in this room like a used cumrag, filled with so much DNA from all the dudes who fucked ya today, they’d need an army to swab all the suspects.“

The boy’s large eyes, circled with bruises, turned wearily up to the Trucker’s cold, hard face. He didn’t seem to fully comprehend what was happening, even now; this living nightmare only happened to other guys, the stupid ones who walked into it…

When he attempted to beg and plead, the stunned youth couldn’t make contact with the Trucker’s steely gaze. He addressed his unintelligible stuttering to the dogtags clattering around the stronger man’s neck, now hanging just inches from his own face.

The Trucker grinned sadistically and began to pull the cord between his hands, watching it sink into the tender flesh of the punk’s throat.


The rentboy began to cough and gasp as his esophagus started to constrict. He brought his hands up, scrabbling desperately at the cord and at the Trucker’s fingers, but he was so weakened by the beating that even at that shallow depth, he couldn’t pry the cord away from his neck.

“How’s that feelin’, cunt?” chuckled the Trucker. “Ya likin’ that? Ya want more? I thought so. Here, let’s see if ya like more dick, too.” Gripping the cord tightly and expertly, he used it as a handle to pull the smooth, lean body down onto his cock as he started brutally thrusting his hips.

As he rode the helpless young man’s ass, he continued to tighten the cord down incrementally on his victim’s throat. The whore twisted desperately under him, hands flailing at the Trucker’s muscular arms and his legs clamping down on the alpha’s heaving, sweaty flanks. The boy’s face began to darken with the effort to breathe but he was still able to get air, as his high gasping squeal indicated.

The rentboy himself was in full survival mode. His entire body and mind were absorbed in the struggle for oxygen; in the back of his brain somewhere a cluster of nerves was screaming in excruciating pain as his sphincter was stretched and his rectum torn during the rape, but these sensations were secondary to the fight to live.

As of yet, he was still totally unaware of his own raging hardon.

“Yeah, fuck, yeah, that’s it, you cumsucking cunt,“ grunted the Trucker gutturally, knowing that the kid was still getting air and could comprehend him. “Fuckin’ kick on my dick, dude, kick on my dick. Flail like your worthless little life actually means something. C’mon, you whore, work my thick purple hog!”

The boy seemed almost to agree; his legs began to kick more violently, the thick black heels of his combat boots digging into the alpha top’s strong back muscles as his hands clutched the Trucker’s bulging, shuddering biceps. The older man sneered back down into the punk’s contorted face and spit in it again.

“Gettin’ loose, faggot. Goddam, you can’t even milk my spunk outta me, can ya, you useless piece a’ shit? I really am gonna do the world a favor by wastin’ ya, ain’t I? C’mon, fuckmeat, if you can’t grab my shaft better than that, I guess it’s time to make ya.”

The Trucker tightened the cord even more—to the absolute minimum of space left open in the slut’s trachea. The punk’s face went blank with panic as his gagging and whining was cinched up into the high-pitched squeal of air moving through a confined space. The opening in his throat was so narrow that it was repeatedly blocked with phlegm and saliva, forcing the youth to cough up a foamy drool that moistened his swollen, split lips and ran down his cheeks.

The Trucker held himself still for a moment; he didn’t need to move. The rentboy was impaled on the dominant stud’s massive shaft and in his frantic struggle to snatch his last few gasp of oxygen, he pumped his ass along the rod embedded agonizingly deep into his colon.

It quickly became apparent to the Trucker that he was losing the kid’s attention; it was understandable, of course—the boy was fighting for his life—but the Trucker wasn’t done messing with the little fucker’s mind yet. He didn’t just want to watch the whore die; he wanted to watch the whore die completely aware of what was happening to him.

So the kid was too busy trying to breathe? Maybe it was time to recapture his attention. The Trucker smiled down almost sweetly at the boy’s terrified, pain-wracked face. Momentarily transferring both ends of the lamp cord to one hand without slackening the ligature, he reached down his free hand and gently stroked the darkening, tear-stained cheek. The kid turned his head, his wide, bloodshot eyes—they might have been green in this light but he was so fucked up it was hard to tell—meeting the Trucker’s gaze for the first time since the start of the snuff, an almost insane light of hope flashing in them that was extinguished instantly as the Trucker drove his fist into the motherfucker’s nose, breaking it with a loud, wet crack.

The Trucker had reoriented the cord into both hands before the cunt’s head had ricocheted off the hard cheap mattress. With a swift, brutal jerk, he shut off the punk’s air for good.

The boy somehow managed to lift his head up off the bed. Streams of blood flowing from his swelling, crooked nose, he stared, frantically wide-eyed in shock and betrayal, directly at the alpha stud. Even now, he was still aware of the massive cock tearing into his rectum, each excruciating thrust adding geometrically to his agony. The Trucker watched the rentboy’s face as he died, finding each stage more erotic than the last, absorbing the punk’s suffering and terror like an aphrodisiac. He knew he had the bitch’s attention. Fucker damn sure wasn’t focused on any air moving into his lungs.

“Guess what, motherfucker? You’re dying! How’s it feel, huh? This what ya thought would happen to ya, getting’ used in a cheap motel room and thrown out like garbage?” he whispered into ear of the terrified youth. “I know you wanted this, you worthless fuckin’ faggot, cause your dick is hard. You just fuckin’ love this, don’t ya, you sick piece of cocksucking shit?”

The rentboy’s face was swelling and blackening; it became an almost-unrecognizable mask of pain as the dying kid’s eyes protruded grotesquely and his tongue, thick and dark, emerged in a froth of drool from his purple lips. The copious streams of blood from the punk’s broken nose leaked into the drool and made a pink foam that lubed the slut’s twisted, agonized face.

Now. It had to be now, the Trucker realized. The whore had been through too much trauma to take a nice long chokeout; he was gonna go brain-dead fairly swiftly. There was still just enough time left to let him know, though–to let him know what was happening and why.

“This is it, cunt. This is where I kill you just so your convulsions can jack me off. How’s that feel, knowin’ that’s all you’re good for, huh? All your pain, all your fear and suffering is just so I can shoot my load in your dying ass and then leave your corpse here to rot like trash—ya like that, you worthless motherfucker? I don’t want you, you stupid piece of shit, I want your shuddering, dying meat to work my shaft until I fill your dead guts with sperm. So go ahead and die, you stupid homo motherfucker, die with my cock rammed all the way up your worn-out asshole!”

With one last, sharp jerk, the Trucker violently tightened the cord one last time. It sank in deeply, crushing the cartilage of the esophagus with a loud crunching sound similar to the sound the kid’s nose made when the Trucker broke it.

In the extreme agony of death, the rentboy shuddered wildly, his entire body thrashing uncontrollably as his brain began to progressively die off from lack of oxygen. The Trucker threw himself down full-length on the lithe, smooth body thrashing helplessly under him, feeling it slide against his on a film of cold death-sweat forced out of the dying youth’s tortured form.

Suddenly the punk went rigid in mortal agony, a massive convulsion seizing his dying brain and causing his arms and legs to contract; the Trucker could only hold on as the dying kid embraced him and gripped him tightly, thrusting his smooth, traumatized rectum along the alpha’s huge purple rod.

The Trucker let out a loud cry, throwing himself down on top of the quivering, writhing youth as he injected huge amounts of boiling seed into the rentboy’s spasming colon. Some spark deep within the howling black vortex of pain and fear that had swept through the punk’s mind (his real name was Todd, not Joey, but even he didn’t know that or care anymore) felt and responded to the hot splash of fluid in his bowels; at the same moment, the slut’s dick began to throb in time to the convulsions and the Trucker felt a hot liquid gush against his own belly.

In the last dimly lit corner of his fragmented, fading psyche, the youth had felt the burning seed boil into him; the hypersensitivity of his dying nerves intensified the suffering of his last few moments of consciousness, giving him the nightmarishly tortuous sensation that molten steel had been pumped into his rectum; his own ejaculation, for the same reason, was just as agonizing. As darkness overwhelmed the boy, he slid into complete brain death in horrifying pain, convinced his life was being torn out of him through his cock…

Deep into his own orgasm, the Trucker did manage to register the fact that the meat was expelling his own DNA in a final instinctual attempt to preserve his inadequate genes. He grunted out expletives as he unloaded, almost uncontrollable in his rage as he filled his victim with his seed and his testosterone. “Fuck! Shit! Fuckin’ take my load, you worthless faggot! Die on my fucking cock, you homo piece of shit!”

It seemed to go on for minutes, pump and curse and shoot and pump and curse and shoot…

As the Trucker regained control, he found himself with his dick still buried into the quivering, shuddering corpse. The whore’s dick was still hard and throbbing; each pulse forced another pearl of spunk out of the dead punk’s cock to merge into the pool of semen that had formed on the boy’s flat belly.

He crouched over the body, still gasping and cursing. “Fuckin’ dead piece a’ shit. Tryin’ to steal from me, cunt? Showed ya what I do to worthless thieving faggot whores, huh?” He grabbed hold of the boy’s still-spasming dick, milking post-mortem spunk out of the shuddering corpse’s shaft, while using his other hand to slap his own thick tube of meat against the dead kid’s quivering thighs to shake the last drops of cum out of his pulsing member.

Finally feeling his pulse returning to normal levels, the Trucker pulled back up onto his knees. Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned his head back and ran his hands over his own sculpted torso, feeling the whore’s thick, sticky cum smearing into his dark, wiry chest hair along with his own rank sweat. For just a moment he indulged himself in playing with the jizz he’d choked out of the rentboy…

With a final grunt of pleasure, he climbed off the bed and went back into the bathroom. Grabbing one of the bath towels, he turned on the warm water in the shower and soaked the towel in it, then used it to rub down every inch of his torso, wiping away all the cum and sweat. Leaving the shower running, he tossed the sopping towel into the tub, to be left in a continual rinse until someone found the body and turned the shower off. He dried himself with the other towel—reluctantly, this one was much more stained—and threw it into the tub too. He took one last quick glance around the bathroom before stepping back out.

His glance had been a little too quick, but he wouldn’t find out about that until later.

Back in the bedroom, the Trucker snatched his pack of smokes from the dresser and lit one, taking a long, deep drag before going to work retrieving all his belongings that had been scattered during the assault. His belt was against the wall past the bathroom door. His wallet had been knocked under the bed in the scuffle; he’d noted it at the time and marked the location in his efficient killer’s mind.

Tapping his ash onto the ancient, torn carpeting, he slipped the wallet back into his rear pocket and wrapped the belt around his tight waist and scanned the room quickly. His denim shirt was on the floor in front of the dresser—covered in glass shards from the broken mirror.

He picked it up and shook it off, then held it to the light. He could see sparkles from tiny spicules of glass still embedded in the fabric. Putting it back on was not a good idea; he looped it through his belt.

Turning back, he took one last survey of the room.

It was a wreck, with the dresser and nightstand knocked about. The unflattering overhead light left no merciful shadows on the pitiful remains of the rentboy, his body twisted on the semen-soaked sheets, his swollen face, blackened and contorted, testifying to the unspeakable horror of his last few minutes on earth.

Around him, the shattered remains of the furnishings gave proof of the violence to which the punk had been subjected prior to being brutally raped and painfully strangled by the power cord ripped from the base of the lamp—which was still so deeply embedded in the corpse’s throat that it wasn’t visible.

The Trucker grinned. Tonight had turned out even better than he’d planned. He strode back towards the bed as he sucked the last few drags of his cigarette; each thump of his big thick construction boots was accompanied by a crunch of plastic or glass from the debris scatted across the floor.

The hard older alpha stood over the still-twitching cadaver of his latest victim. Sneering contemptuously at the quivering sack of meat that had been a functional cumsucking whore an hour ago, he bent down and ground out his glowing butt into the kid’s exposed cheek. There was a hiss and a sizzle like bacon—and a puff of smoke with a distinct smell.

As the Trucker left, he put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He paced quickly away from the room, the warm breeze drying the sweat he’d worked up while gathering his belongings. With his hard bare chest, tight jeans, open boots and his denim shirt fluttering at his waist in the night air, he looked like any other faggot walking back to the truck stop from the bar.

He’d had quite a workout and he needed to rehydrate—to say nothing of eating; it was why he’d pulled over to begin with. Despite an instinct telling him to go back to his truck, he headed straight for the convenience store instead.

Even before he got inside, the condensation on the glass told him how cold it would be. When he opened the door, the air rushed out in an icy blast, hardening his large nipples almost painfully. He stepped quickly over to the coolers and extracted a sport drink to help get some fluids back into his body.

To the left was a refrigerated rack of premade sandwiches. The Trucker snatched an egg-and-cheese biscuit off the shelf and threw it into the microwave. Three minutes later, as he strolled to the counter to pay for the items, he noticed the same greasy teen clerk staring pointedly at his hard body, still gleaming with a sheen of sweat (despite the heavy AC) under the bright fluorescents. The useless little punk was still on shift.

The Trucker was sure the boy drooled over every decent-looking customer he dealt with, but there was a particular gleam in his eye at the moment that sent up a warning signal in the back of the Trucker’s brain. Nothing definite, just a slight uneasiness at the intense scrutiny.

Shrugging it off, he maintained a cold silence during the transaction, responding to the clerk’s attempt at small talk with a series of curt grunts. He left the store quickly, wolfing down his food as his boots thumped back across the wide expanse of concrete towards his rig. He tossed the paper wrapper over his shoulder, and, chugging the sport drink, pitched the empty plastic bottle after, leaving the trash to be blown about the parking lot.

It took less than ten minutes to put a new shirt on, get himself settled down and start the engine. Another five minutes saw him back on the interstate, heading out of town, with the clerk keeping an eye on the fading taillights through the foggy windows of the isolated truck stop.

================================================== ==================================

The Trooper struggled to keep his eyes open. It was a hot day and he’d had a large lunch; he could see the lines on the highway start to blur as he fought to keep his eyes open. Something needed to happen soon, something to keep him awake.

He got his wish soon enough. A call came in over his radio—it was a local sheriff’s deputy requesting backup for a homicide at a motel. When the address came across, the Trooper’s ears picked up; he’d just passed that exit.

Half a mile further on was an emergency vehicle crossover. The Trooper whipped his cruiser across the median and was back at the exit less than three minutes later.

He got even more interested when he arrived at the motel. There was no mistaking the nature of the bar across the street and the cheap flophouse was clearly the kinda cash-only place that didn’t bother to ask for ID—this should be good. He parked next to the deputy’s car, noting that the local cop was interviewing a pudgy middle-aged man standing in the doorway to a room. The door to the room next to it was open. There was another group of people standing further off; it appeared to be the motel manager and some others trying to comfort a weeping maid who was wailing loudly in Spanish.

No one noticed as he stepped into the room to survey the crime scene for himself. He was glad; there was no one to see the boner that arose involuntarily as his eyes slid lovingly over the battered, bruised body of a young man, splayed nude across the bed. A hard white crust like the glaze on a doughnut showed clearly that this had been a sex crime and the damage to the room showed just how violent it had been.

A dark circle the size of a quarter blemished the corpse’s smooth cheek, which on closer inspection was revealed to be a burn mark, probably from a cigarette. There were multiple butts scattered around the room, not always in ashtrays, but the one lying on the sheet in a large still-moist puddle was like the one that did the damage.

The Trooper grinned as the tent pole in his tight beige slacks rose even higher. He moved slowly about the room, drinking in all the details as fragments of glass and plastic crunched faintly under his glossy knee-high boots. He noted the huge dent in the wall, the shattered TV, the slight smears of blood on the dresser. The dead kid had some minor lacerations on his smooth flesh, now blue in death—the Trooper was sure the blood was his, left there during the assault.

After carefully scoping out the room, the Trooper stepped into the bathroom. The shower was still running; the small room was filled with steam like a sauna. He could see a couple of sodden towels lying in the bottom of the tub. No evidence to be found there, he realized. The killer had cleaned up and disposed neatly of the evidence. Sure, there was plenty of DNA, but that was useless without someone to whom to compare it. And there was no telling how many men had contributed to the obviously vast amount of sperm on the bed and the body.

As he turned to leave, the Trooper saw that the door had swung closed behind him. Up against the wall behind the door, he noticed what looked like a small white bundle on the floor. Bending down, he quickly retrieved it before any of the locals saw it.

It was a white wifebeater t-shirt, still stained and damp with sweat. The Trooper could tell it was sweat by the smell. The smell told him something else, too.

It was familiar. He’d encountered it before. He couldn’t place it, but evidently his dick could; it responded to his first sniff by swelling to almost painful proportions.

The Trooper knew he had to find this dude, for several reasons.

He wadded the shirt up and jammed it into his pocket before he went out to talk to the deputy. The local cop was a much older man and was completely out of his depth; he seemed to be relieved that someone was offering to help since the sheriff hadn’t bothered to dispatch anyone else to help with another faggot dead at what was the equivalent of the local whorehouse. He quickly clued the Trooper in on what he’d learned.

No one knew the victim by name; he was just some male slut who liked to hang around the bar and the truck stop. This kinda thing happened here every so often; it was clear that there wasn’t going to be any real investigation. The deputy was more aggravated by the amount of work involved in the pretense of looking busy that anything else. But he’d gleaned some useful info; the fat guy next door had confirmed that the whore hadn’t been in the bar anytime past midnight. The deputy wasn’t a smart man, but he had experience. Skin coloration and rigor mortis made it unlikely that the slut had been offed before then.

“Man, I can’t believe I gotta do all this legwork for some stupid fag that gets wasted whoring himself out—I mean, who cares, right? But I gotta a shitload of paperwork to get off my desk and this bullshit ain’t gonna help,” the local whined.

The Trooper paused, thought, then spoke. “I ain’t got any jurisdiction here, but I’m bored as shit. You said he wasn’t in the bar, so maybe he was at that truck stop I passed on the way here. Lotta homos like to hang out in those places. Why don’t I go ask around up there? Go get your shit done. If I hear anything important, I’ll let you know. If you don’t hear from me, I didn’t find anything worthwhile.”

The deputy’s face brightened considerably at this suggestion. Surprisingly, he’d already managed to get some crime scene tape up and notified the county coroner to get his meatwagon over to the Waters for another homo stiff. With profuse thanks, he gave the Trooper a card with his number on it in case he found anything. He was still grinning as he jumped into his car and peeled out of the lot, heading back into town, relieved to be free of what he regarded as a useless burden.

The Trooper tore the card apart and scattered the pieces in the breeze before climbing back into his cruiser and driving out to the truck stop.

Asking for the truck stop manager, he learned several things. The first was that the surveillance cameras posted around the store were all dummies; the owner was too cheap to install the real thing and thought that fakes would discourage robbers just as well. The manager disagreed, but what could he do?

The other thing the Trooper learned was that only a single clerk had been on duty after midnight last night—a local 18-year-old named Zach. The manager was sure he’d be asleep at this time, but willingly called the boy, waking him out of a sound sleep and demanding he get his ass back to work so a cop could talk to him.

While he waited for the clerk to show up, the Trooper used the restroom. Sighing with relief as he eased his huge throbbing member out of the confines of his tight white briefs, the image of the dead whore, face blackened in strangulation, displayed like a prize on his deathbed, flashed in front of his eyes. It took a massive amount of control to restrain himself from beating off at the thought.

The Trooper planted his boots wide apart, focused on the job at hand and managed to control himself. He willed himself to go limp so he could take the piss he’d needed to take for the last twenty minutes. As the hard flow of liquid from his semi-flaccid but still huge dong began to splash in the white urinal, his eyes were somehow drawn to tiny print written in the grout between the tiles. “Gen? Joey 928-“ it read—the rest of the number was smeared and illegible.

The Trooper grunted in frustration. He mighta called the dude if he coulda read the whole number; he could use a good release…

The night clerk was in by the time he left the restroom. A slim young man, face slightly pimpled, long black hair with a somewhat greasy sheen, there was a damp musty air about the teen. He wore a tight black t-shirt and tight black skinny jeans with black boots; clearly trying to rock the emo look. The Trooper didn’t like the way the boy’s eyes slid over his body, greedily devouring the cop’s well-built physique.

He did, however, realize that this attention to detail could be useful.

He spent the next forty-five minutes interrogating the punk—never once bringing himself to call the little shit by name—without letting him know exactly what had happened. It didn’t take much for the clerk to realize another hustler had been whacked at the motel; it wasn’t uncommon, but the Trooper was skillfully able to deflect his suspicions away from any individual.

He did this by asking about every single detail of everyone in the store the previous night without betraying any emotion or excitement. He felt plenty, though, as the weasely little fucker described the Trucker.

The shock of recognition was an almost physically electrical sensation as the teen fag enthusiastically described the phenomenally-built older man. It built to an almost fever pitch when the kid gave what details of the dude’s truck that he’d been able to absorb.

The Trooper had been taking notes in a pocket notebook during the interview. Normally, he recorded it on his phone, but that was state-issued and this was his own project. Now, his handwriting became jagged and unreadable as the memory of scent flooded his brain.

That smell, the one on the shirt. That was where he’d smelled it before—the cab of that rig that had been on the side of the road. And later he’d found that body, the kid with the beard…

Was that him? Had he been wasting that punk when the Trooper had showed up; was that why the cab had reeked of manscent?

It took a great deal of willpower for the Trooper to complete the rest of the interview calmly, but he didn’t want to let this motherfucker know that he’d pointed out the killer. This was his own thing; he wanted this dude for himself. He could feel his cock throbbing again…

Gritting his teeth, he got through the rest of the questions and left the truck stop quickly. North. The clerk had said he’d headed north when he left. He floored his cruiser as he left the lot, leaving rubber skid marks on the concrete.

Back at the truck stop, Zach added the image of Trooper to his treasured memory of the Trucker. He went home to jack off at the thought of the two of them fucking….

Trucker 1–Trucker v Marine

He sat in the cab of the parked semi. He’d left the lights off; he was sitting in the darkness looking out into the cold hazy night.

He’d pulled his rig all the way around to the far end of the truck stop lot, up by the chain-link fence at the edge of the property. He didn’t know yet if he’d be using his sleeper cab tonight or not. Maybe he’d find someone to fuck who had his own place. Either way, it didn’t matter, but there was more privacy out here on the edge.

And the fence helped. One of his earlier toys had managed to get out of the cab. It’d been in a different state, but he’d been at the edge of the lot that night too. The kid hadn’t been able to get past the fence before he’d been caught.

The Trucker smiled grimly. The punk had pissed him off, having to be chased down like that, but he’d paid. Oh yes, he’d paid. He’d squealed for mercy in agony before it was over…

A rush of lust flowed over the Trucker’s body at the memory. He took a deep, shuddering breath and regained his composure. Slipping out of the driver’s seat, he drew the curtain that partitioned off the sleeper compartment and turned on a light off to one side, giving himself one last glance in the small mirror.

A well-built man with sky-blue eyes staring out of a hard face looked back at him. Hair in loose black curls tumbled almost to his shoulders; his thick goatee was the same dark shade. He was broad-shouldered and handsome in a hard, craggy way that managed not to draw attention to his face.

In other words, he had the perfect face for a serial killer. Good enough to draw in victims without being so striking that it impressed itself on the memory of any possible witnesses.

Well, it was good enough, at any rate. He flicked out the light and returned to the driver’s compartment. He was clean and fully dressed and had already located the nearest bar by way of an app he’d been using for a couple of years. Luckily, it was less than a mile from here; he could actually see the place from here.

It was on a side street just off the highway exit, so it was literally just around the corner from the truck stop. From here, the Trucker could see the lights out front, but he could also see a long, low structure in the back. It looked like a motel.

First time he’d seen a fag bar with a motel attached. Not a bad idea, though; bet the place made a killing.

Maybe he needed to make sure it did make a killing.

He opened the cab door, but only used a single step or two before he leaped to the ground, his scuffed, worn ropers contacting the tarmac with a loud thump. The moment they did so, the Trucker reached into his faded denim jacket and extracted a pack of smokes from an inside pocket. That pocket was the main reason he’d held onto the jacket, worn and stained as it was. Most denim jackets don’t have inside pocket—it was useful. For—surprises.

His tight jeans were also faded and worn; they cradled his firm ass, leaving nothing to the imagination. Good thing the bar was close. They wouldn’t keep the cold out for long, nor would the thin, clean white cotton t-shirt he wore under his jacket. The outside temperature was just above the freezing point—not too cold, but cold enough to discourage loitering, especially when combined with the steady wind. Good thing it was dry, or else getting outta here would be a bitch.

And the Trucker’s plans involved a relatively easy getaway. They always did; it was why he chose the occupation to begin with. He was usually several counties away—if not several states—by the time his playmates were found.

Lost in the pleasant memories of past pleasures, the Trucker reached the end of the lot and wheeled about, heading towards the corner. He usually hunted twinks, but tonight, he was in the mood for someone with some fight in him. He wanted a faggot slut who’d give him a workout; someone who’d put up a fight before being put down. There was a military base nearby—next town up the highway, he thought it was; maybe he’d be lucky and stumble on a hot little army boy…

He paused for a last look back at his rig, just to keep an eye on it. Not that he was worried; it was a load of cheap imported textiles. Not fragile, not perishable, and certainly not valuable enough to draw unwanted attention.

It was cool. He released the concern from his mind as he prepared for the hunt.

There were several bars along this stretch of road. Most were straight strip clubs; some were just cheap dives. The proximity of the highway, the truck stop, and the military base all brought in a booming trade to this tiny little town, and the exchange of money for sex was exploited to the fullest.

The Trucker noticed several bars advertising rooms for rent on a nightly or hourly basis. Seemed that the standard business model in town was to buy a long lot, build a bar in front and a row of very basic motel rooms in the back. Serve cheap booze and charge a high hourly rate for the rooms.

Seemed like it was a successful model, at that.

Well, it explained what he’d seen behind the gay bar; it was indeed a motel. Maybe he wouldn’t be returning to his rig tonight, after all.

The industrial dance music was overpowering the moment he opened the door. A beefy dude in a tight black t-shirt stepped up; SECURITY was stenciled across his burly chest. “Cover’s five bucks, stud,” he said flatly.

“Are you shittin’ me?” snapped the Trucker—before reaching ruefully for his wallet. Don’t make a scene. Don’t make them remember you.

A cover charge for this shithole! Oh well, it was ok. Someone would pay. The Trucker smiled gently at the bouncer. Someone would pay for the indignity of the cover charge.

The inside was a haze of smoke and lights. At least this wasn’t one of those pansy-ass places that banned smoking in bars. The Trucker plucked another Red from the pack and lit it, leaning back against the outer wall and watching the boys at play.

There were several twinks on the dance floor who caught his eye, but they were slobbering over other twinks—and anyway, he really wasn’t in the mood for that. Not tonight. But the place seemed to be filled with local small-town boys and older truckers. Maybe a couple of military dudes, but they seemed to be sticking together. Nothing else was—

That was when the Trucker saw him, over on the far side of the dance floor, rockin’ out all by himself. A Marine. Well, he was wearing Marine combat fatigues, and there were enough military dudes near him to call him on it if he was fake. And even from this distance, the Trucker could spot the tiny beads of light reflecting off the chain holding the Marine’s dog tags.

He was young—no more than twenty-one or –two. It was hard to get a glimpse of his face under the circular flat-topped cap; all that was visible beneath the low desert camo brim was a pair of full lips, almost pouting.

Almost begging to be hurt, the Trucker thought.

It was an interesting look—the kid didn’t want anyone to know who he was, but he didn’t mind them knowing what he was; his combat fatigues made his military status clear. An olive-green t-shirt clung to the boy’s slim but muscled torso, darkening in spots where sweat had soaked through. The kid was giving himself a good workout dancing, given the thick soled lace-up combat boots his camo trousers were bloused into. The pants themselves were slightly baggy, but the Trucker could still get a good idea of the boy’s firm legs moving within them.

He watched the kid dance with various guys out on the floor. The Marine seemed to be almost aggressively horny, grabbing at every guy within reach. He kept getting shot down, though; there was something demeaning about his desperation that turned most dudes off.

It didn’t turn the Trucker off, it got him hard. He could put that desperation to good use. He’d give the Marine a whole new sense of desperation before morning.

The Trucker gave a slight dry chuckle; he was anticipating getting his five bucks’ worth outta the kid—and then some.

He circled the floor impatiently, like a shark sensing fresh blood. The place was packed—it was Saturday night, so it was naturally busy. And actually, it was already well past midnight.

The Trucker needed to work fast. The hours had been posted outside; the bar closed at two in the morning. That left just over an hour for him to lure the little fuck in and put him down. And he wanted to put the Marine boy down, hard. His impatience getting the better of him, he glanced angrily in the kid’s direction—

–and made immediate eye contact. The punk had been getting tired. He was worn out. He’d been flaunting his ass all night, frantically searching for a hot top to plow his hole before his furlough ended tomorrow morning.

The Marine had only been given a forty-eight hour leave; he’d spent the first day visiting his family. He didn’t see them often and they expected it; he’d been a major punk as a teen and had ended up being given the choice of the military or jail. He’d chosen the former.

He liked it. He especially liked being told what to do. Every command, every order, sent a thrill through his body that seemed to quiver the base of his cock. He had trouble not creaming his jeans when his drill sergeant snapped at him.

But he couldn’t play on base. It could be done, sure, but his family lived in town. It’d get around. So he’d take his occasional leaves, run down the highway to the truck stop exit, and book a room behind the gay bar.

Then he’d go out looking for someone to humiliate him like his drill sergeant while fucking him. It was a surprisingly difficult role to fill—most of the tops he found weren’t alpha enough to treat him the way he wanted to be treated. But on rare occasions, he did find what he was looking for. And when he did, he let his inner pig out to play.

But this time, he was striking out. Damn, the bar was gonna close in an hour. And his leave was up as of eight in the morning. That was what—six, seven hours?—to find a fuck memorable enough to keep him beating off till his next furlough. He needed to act fast

That was when he looked up, in utter sexual hopelessness, his huge hazel eyes catching the piercing glare of a man staring at him from just off the dance floor. The dude was taller than him and older, maybe mid-thirties. Very well-built and showing it in tight, faded jeans held by the thick brown strap of a distressed leather belt with a large buckle.

The man’s black hair was long, with a slight curliness, a sharp black goatee circling his mouth and covering his strong jaw with stubble. Under a denim jacket as faded and worn as his jeans, his white t-shirt had become transparent in the spots where sweat had soaked through, revealing dark fur on the man’s chest. The brown leather roper boots on his feet were as scuffed and worn as his belt.

This dude was the real thing; the Marine could feel it immediately. This was what he’d been looking for. He felt that old thrill running through him, straight from the base of his erect tool, as he looked up and caught the erotic look of contempt from—

–the Trucker, noticing he’d gotten the boy’s attention, jerked his head in command and wheeled about. Turning his back to the Marine, he went to the bar. The boy would follow. The Trucker knew for sure. He’d seen it. In that momentary flash of the eyes, he’d seen enough of the pig in the Marine’s soul to know how this night would play out.

He checked his watch and began calibrating. This place would close in an hour. He’d stay chatting and drinking till then, getting the punk well lubricated. No one was leaving now; they’d be unremarked in the crowd that was pushed out the door at closing. They’d get a room here. Let’s see—he’d already slept at the truck stop for a good eight hours. So—in the room by two, play with the kid for a bit before putting him down, say half an hour—no, he’d been through basic training, so he might be able to fight it out a little. Say forty-five minutes to fuck and waste him. Back at the rig by three, three-ten, out on the highway by three thirty, no one finds the body till eight at the earliest—doubt the maids come around that early, but ya never know, gotta take everything into account…

That would put him in the next state before the earliest the body could be found. Perfect.

“Hey,” came a voice from behind him, hesitant, eager, uncertain, vulnerable. The Trucker’s cock stiffened even further as he grinned to himself before turning slowly to face the Marine. He turned slowly, his cold eyes sliding over the Marine’s trim, tight body. The boy was still winded after dancing, his slim, firm chest heaving, the olive t-shirt plastered to every curve by sweat.

The punk’s hazel eyes flashed briefly up at the Trucker’s, then turned away shyly, a faint blush rising on his downy cheeks. He ducked his head, just enough for the brim of his round camo cap to cover his eyes. All the Trucker could see of the kid’s face was his tremulous, eager grin.

He smirked. This was gonna be easy. The fucker wanted to be used; he wanted to be used hard. Good. He’d be in hog heaven before he realized he was getting slaughtered like a pig.

The Trucker remained silent for a moment, watching the kid tremble as he waited for a response. Just before the marine could turn away, crestfallen at another failure, the Trucker spoke up laconically. “Whaddaya drinkin’?”

The Marine looked up, his face instantly beaming. “Whatever beer they got on tap. I don’t care.”

The Trucker got two draft beers from the bar and commandeered a small table. The beer was weak and watery, as he knew it would be. Even the kid was unimpressed. “I got a bottle of Jack back in my room for later. It’s yours anytime you wanna come back and fuck me. I’d kill for your load, dude; just sayin’.”

The Marine was ready. He clearly wanted to get fucked, now. But there was still at least a half hour before closing, when he and the boy would be lost among dozens of others in the mass exodus for the hotel rooms and a night of strenuous fucking. He had to fill the time somehow; he damn sure wasn’t drinking any more off this horsepiss beer.

“What ya looking for?” he drawled at the kid. And that was all he needed to do. The Marine spent the next half-hour proudly divulging his entire sexual history along with his favorite activities. The Tucker smiled and nodded the entire time, never listening to a word. After all, the fucker would be dead within an hour; no one gave shit about what he wanted.

“Last call!” yelled the shirtless, buff bartender. He was in a hurry and clearly had plans of his own. “C’mon, ladies, time to swallow! Ya don’t have to go home, but ya can’t stay here!”

The Trucker stood up as the interior lights came up. He aimed his face down, not making eye contact with anyone else in the crush heading to the door. The kid had bounced to his feet and grabbed the Trucker’s hand. The Trucker looked down in disgust at the pig touching him without permission as the punk dragged him out the door and around the corner towards the motel. “C’mon, man, we’ll crack open that bottle of Jack I got and you can stick your cock in me!”

The Trucker jerked his hand out of the Marine’s. The kid faltered momentarily but continued towards his room once he saw that the Trucker was still following.

For his part, the older man was seething. The kid would pay for grabbing his hand. That and the cover charge.

Kid had a lot to answer for. The Trucker wondered if the boy would last long enough to pay the debt in full. Oh well—if not, it’d still be a fuck of a lot fun trying.

The punk’s room was the one on the right end; at least, that was the one he staggered towards. The Trucker noticed that not all the rooms were occupied; the window on the one that abutted the Marine’s had the blinds open on an unlit room. That was good.

From the Marine’s point of view, it was bad—or at least extremely unlucky. It was extremely unlikely, however, that he would be in a position to appreciate the point when the time came. He was drunker than he’d thought; even that weak beer had had some effect. It didn’t matter; he was young enough and strong enough to get hard no matter how drunk he got.

He did have some other performance issues, though. The door key fought with him, in collaboration with the recalcitrant lock. Frustrated, he finally managed to get the door open when he was least prepared for it, losing his balance and stumbling across the floor to land face down on the bed in the dark. He giggled drunkenly and pushed himself up off the bed as the lights came on and he heard the door close behind him.

He could also hear all three locks engage—the handle knob, the deadbolt and the chain lock—but failed to see any significance in it.

He turned and saw the Trucker leaning against the door, appraising his body coldly, one hand rubbing the thick tube outlined in the crotch of his jeans. The Marine grinned. This was gonna be a good one, he could tell. This one was gonna hurt him the way he liked it. He opened the top drawer in the decrepit chest against the wall and retrieved the bottle of Jack, already open but still three-quarters full.

“Toss it here, bitch, and strip,” snapped the Trucker, “and keep your boots on. You’re gonna need some traction when I fuck ya.”

The Marine’s dick stiffened even further at the order. He tossed the bottle to the Trucker (who caught it one-handed, opened it and took a deep swig) as he sat on the end of the bed and undid the blousing straps around his ankles. Once they were off, the wide cuffs of the fatigue pants opened up and he was able to slip them off right over his boots.

As he did, he kept glancing up at the Trucker. The older dude had shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair. With a fluid motion, he reached down and pulled his white t-shirt up over his head, shaking his long black hair free.

The Marine paused for a moment of lust, looking at the top’s beautifully sculpted chest and abdomen, covered in wiry black fur. With his shirt off, the smell of his sweat and pheromones overpowered the small room. The Trucker compensated by lighting another smoke. He took a deep drag before picking the bottle back up and tossing back another mouthful. Then he noticed the audience.

“Get it off, slut. I ain’t banging ya till yer nude; pigs don’t wear clothes.”

The Marine’s shirt came off quickly, his lithe torso slick with perspiration. His boxers gave him more difficulty; they hung up on his erect cock. Soon, though, they were off. And instinctively, the Marine knew what to do.

He stood to attention in front of the Trucker, boots firmly planted side by side, throbbing shaft jutting out in front, slim, muscled body unencumbered by anything but the dog tags dangling in the center of his chest.

He’d kept his camo cap on, though. It didn’t matter; the Trucker wasn’t looking for oral tonight. He had free access to the parts of the little shit’s body that he wanted to fuck; that was what was important.

The Trucker took another drag, exhaling the cigarette smoke directly into the boy’s face, smiling as the fucker flinched and grimaced. Oh dear, if that bothered him, he was gonna find tonight extremely unpleasant, to say the least.

He took another swig of Jack and another drag, letting the kid just stand. Punk didn’t seem to mind; even now, there was a transparent bead of precum welling on the kid’s thick purple head…

“Here,” he said abruptly, thrusting the bottle at the Marine, “drink up. A toast, bitch. Suck it down, cunt; let’s see how good you can swallow. A night to remember.”

The youth reached out hesitantly, taking the bottle in spite of feeling drunk enough already. He didn’t want to black out. But that was the point: a night to remember, at least until the next time he could get his hole plugged. So sure, what the fuck. Even if he’d been sober, he was too uneducated to associate the phrase with a disaster that took the lives of the majority of those involved. He tipped the bottle up and slammed back a hefty amount of booze. “A toatht,” he slurred happily, “a night to remememberer…”

“Turn around and bend over,” growled the Trucker, “now. Stand here at the foot of the bed, place your hands on the mattress and keep you back straight or I’ll beat the fuck outta you. Got that? No matter how hard I plow you, you’re gonna keep your back flat and level. If you don’t, you’ll knock my ashtray off.

And if you knock my ashtray off, the only thing I’ll be able to do with my smokes is stub them out on your ass. So keep your back flat and still or I’ll grind burning embers into your tender cheeks. Got it, Private Fuckwad? It’s time for drill, soldier, and you’re the one gettin’ drilled.”

With that, the Trucker unzipped his fly, letting his long thick cock flop out. A couple of quick strokes and the swollen purple shaft stood erect and waiting. The Marine was trying to keep still and failing; even his puckered pink fuckhole was quivering with excitement.

The boy jerked when the Trucker dropped the cold glass ashtray onto the small of his back—jerked, but not enough to dislodge the ashtray. The Trucker grinned. He’d have the little fucker jerking harder than that soon enough. In fact, now.

Without any warning, he grabbed the Marine’s hips and brutally thrust the bulbous head of his dick ruthlessly past the punk’s straining ass muscle. The kid gave a loud wordless wail, his boots flexing as he instinctively rose up on his toes and tried to tilt his rectum to allow for easier entry.

As he did, he could feel the ashtray starting to slide. The agony of the forced fuck was making him sweat. The few drops running down the hairy crack of his ass did nothing to lube the massive veined member ripping open his poor abused boycunt, but it did a helluva job for the ashtray.

The Marine found himself arching and writhing, shifting his back to keep the ashtray on, shuddering with pain as the Trucker’s cock tore his rectal lining; it felt like someone had shoved a billiard ball up his ass. He began whimpering and moaning.

The Trucker took another drag off his cigarette, then flicked the ashes onto the boy’s back. He didn’t aim for the ashtray; he had no intention of using it. It was there to give the slut something to fail at.

He noticed that the kid had ducked his head down, pressing his forehead into the mattress as a form of support. It was the sound that caught his attention—or, rather the lack of it. Soldier boy’s dog tags had been hanging down and jingling on their chain during the entire fuck, but when the kid lowered his head, they came to rest on the mattress. “Hey, bitch, get yer fuckin’ head up!” he barked. The Marine lifted his head obediently, his desert camo cap coming off and revealing his buzz-cut red-gold hair. He bent his neck back, turning his tear-stained face to the ceiling.

The Marine was in his own private world where the pain and the pleasure of the brutal assfuck merged into a steady glow. He could feel the older man grunting and pumping, behind him, inside him. He could feel the dude’s jeans, worn smooth with use, pressing up against the smooth taut backs of his thighs, flexing with each thrust up his ass. He could feel the stud’s pubic hair, curly and wiry as his chest hair, scraping the sensitive skin of his asscheeks like steel wool. He shifted his feet outward to accommodate more dick, feeling his combat boots knock up against the Trucker’s ropers as he carefully balanced the slick ashtray darting across his smooth back.

The slut was getting used to it, the Trucker thought. His sphincter has relaxed. He’d been hurt, but the worthless pig had enjoyed it.

If the pig enjoyed it, the Trucker didn’t. About time for him to have some fun. Let’s see—first thing to do is take care of that ashtray…

It wasn’t difficult; all he had to do was time an extra-deep thrust to the right point. He made sure the fucktoy bucked backwards in reaction; that flipped the ashtray up over his shoulder and let it land within his field of vision on the bed.

The Trucker hoped the whore would notice that it hadn’t been used. “Oh shit, cunt, you done fucked up now. I still got a lit cig I was just about to put out. Guess what happens now?”

The Trucker ground the smoldering butt slowly into the kid’s twitching asscheek. The Marine screamed uncontrollably as the small spot of flesh began to blacken and smoke. Without pulling his cock out of the young punk’s ass or removing the still-glowing stub of cigarette, the Trucker threw himself forward, forcing the unfortunate slut down onto the bed and shoving his face down into the mattress.

He held the position for a good forty-five seconds or so, even after the butt had gone out, sighing in pure erotic pleasure as the flailing youth pumped his ass in agony and fear along the top’s throbbing shaft. One hand on the boy’s ass, the other splayed in the short red hair, forcing his head down, in complete control of the useless fucking squealing pig.

The Marine was learning that, while a little of what you like does you good, a lot’ll kill ya. Despite the pain, he’d enjoyed the merciless fucking. This, though—this was a-whole-nother level.

A hot, searing pain on his ass. He screamed involuntarily, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the Trucker curse. He knew, somehow, when his face was buried in the bedding, that it was to shut him up, not smother him.

This sick fucking psycho was gonna hurt him bad. But he wasn’t gonna kill him. That shit couldn’t happen to him; he was a Marine after all.

Suddenly, the pressure on the back of his head was gone; he could lift his head—he could breathe again. There was still a searing spot of pain on his ass, but he was too busy gasping for air to be able to scream. And by the time he got his breath back, he had other things to occupy him.

The Trucker grabbed the gasping fucktoy roughly by the shoulder, twisting him around. Keeping the boy impaled on his stiff cock the entire time, he grabbed the kid’s legs as well and managed to completely flip him without letting him off his dick. He was now staring down into the punk’s face.

The Marine was taken by surprise; before he could react, he was flat on his back with his legs spread; his eyes focused on his desert combat boots now hanging in the air past the alpha stud’s shoulders—what the fuck is going on here, what’s he doing now, oh fuck, that snarl of hate and lust oh my god what’s he gonna do…

Before he could say a word, the older man’s face contorted terrifyingly in rage and his hands clamped tightly around the Marine’s throat, squeezing with a force the poor boy wouldn’t have believed possible.

He fought. Oh god, how he fought. The Trucker knew he’d picked a good one; even if the worthless cunt hadn’t picked up anything else in the military, the physical training had made him hard to kill—and that made him a good fuck.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, it’s time to get what you came for. You wanted my load, right? You said you’d kill for it, remember? Will ya die for it? Cause that’s what it’s gonna take, motherfucker. You gotta die on my cock to get my cum. What’s that? You don’t want it that bad? Tough shit, cunt. The cancellation penalty’s even worse.”

He leaned forward and spit into the boy’s confused, tear-stricken face. It was obvious that the kid had no idea that he’d been targeted by a serial killer; despite detailed training in the military, the punk was so paralyzed by terror that he was unable to defend himself coherently.

He was young and strong, though, and his slim, lithe, sweat-slicked body thrashed violently on the bed as suffocating panic set in. The bitch flailed his arms desperately, sending the ashtray flying onto the floor with a loud clunk. His boots kicked frantically in the air as his bulging eyes peered up uncomprehendingly out of his blackening face into the leering, contempt-filled eyes of his killer. His dog tags jingled briefly as they skittered across his sweat-soaked chest before sliding off into his reeking armpit.

His hands clawed furiously at the Trucker’s chest, catching at the fur, tracing with frantic, erotic desperation the slick, firm muscles flexing, flexing to end his worthless life. He somehow realized the futility of grasping ineffectually at sweat-lubed skin and transferred his attention to his attacker’s face—but the alpha stud was experienced at putting whores down; he knew to expect the panicky gouging and dodged his head to one side while repositioning himself so that he could pin the fuckhole down with one arm crushing his esophagus.

With his other arm free, he began punching the Marine in the face, delivering shattering roundhouse blows with all the force his rage could muster.

“Quit fightin’ it, you useless faggot cunt. This is all you’re good for, you fuckin’ pansy Marine wanna-be. You thought you were a soldier, you worthless fuck? You ain’t dyin’ to serve your country, fuckwad, you’re dyin’ to serve my dick. How ya like that, huh? Take it, you fuckpig, take the pain. You know you love it and deserve it, you fuckin’ worthless homo cocksucker. Guess what your CO is gonna think of ya when they find your used, reamed-out, cum-filled corpse in this faggot fuckhole, yeah? Bet the thought just makes you wanna cum, worthless cum-sucking homo pig!”

Under a hail of pain and brutal physical impact, the Marine could hear and understand the Trucker’s words. They were the last words he was capable of understanding; at the moment they were said, he’d been without oxygen for over two minutes.

His thoughts were a jumble of random sensations jelled into a solid state of terror. His dying mind seemed to have broken into multiple compartments; the final fragmentation of a psyche confronted by horrifying, agonizing, yet phenomenally erotic death…

…because in one compartment, the Marine felt huge throbbing waves of heat originating in his puckered ballsack and flowing up the shaft of his cock, rendered so extraordinarily sensitive by approaching death that the slightest touch had the force of an electrical shock…

…and in another compartment, the Marine felt the terror and confusion of the sudden, random brutality of his death; just half an hour ago, he’d been surrounded by dozens of hot studs in the bar, any one of whom he’d have gladly blown—how did he go from that to getting raped and strangled in so short a time…

…and yet another compartment was flooded with the exquisite agony of death, the explosive, imperative pressure in his chest, the swelling torment of his head as his face turned black and blood vessels ruptured throughout his eyes and face…

…but the Trucker looked down on it all, and moved by the youth’s obvious terror, took a moment to ease the horror of death by driving another blow into the faggot’s grotesque, distorted face.

As he wrapped his other hand back around the fucker’s throat, applying bear-trap pressure to the dying kid’s windpipe, the Trucker watched the punk’s slime-covered tongue force its way past the swollen blue lips, thrust agonizingly out of the youth’s mouth accompanied by streams of foamy drool that seeped down the Marine’s death-contorted face.

The rational part of the punk’s brain began to fail from oxygen deprivation, but physical sensation continued to transmit; the Marine could still feel the Trucker’s huge hog plugging his colon and fucking his guts, even if the boy’s brain was too damaged to understand what he was feeling. As his universe collapsed into a constricting ring of blackness and pain, the Marine’s slick, smooth, muscled limbs thrashed convulsively; while his boots drummed mindlessly on the marble-like muscles of his killer’s back, his hands and arms flailed wildly on the bed. One random swing of his arm sent the bottle of Jack flying off to shatter against the wall.

Suddenly the Marine went stiff. It was the last convulsion of a slow, painful, brutal death, the final tightening of all muscles. It was what the Trucker had been holding on for; it was why he did this. The combination of the death spasm in the fucktoy’s sphincter and the convulsion in the lower intestine—it was like a spontaneous suction on his swollen shaft, with the ass muscle working as a cock ring—oh fuck, he was almost there—

The dying punk suddenly gave a violent convulsion under the Trucker. As he did so, the Trucker felt the hard burning shaft of the dying Marine’s cock begin to throb and pump; burning streams of semen erupting in a violent, desperate death orgasm as the Trucker felt the motherfucker’s esophagus collapse beneath his hands, the cartilage yielding with a satisfying crunch that added to the force of his orgasm when the older dude pumped the dead fucktoy’s ass full of hot cum.

The Trucker’s hard, muscled body locked up as firmly as the corpse of the younger boy thrashed violently under him, the alpha top nearly paralyzed and only able to emit a low, rough growl as he pumped his spunk uncontrollably up the dead Marine’s reamed-out cunt.

The Trucker spent the next few minutes gasping and trembling, his cock still buried in the corpse, feeling his balls drain of sperm. After he caught his breath, he pulled out of the still-twitching Marine, admiring the black face on the corpse, swollen almost unrecognizably.

The Trucker lit another smoke as he looked down at the body. Fuck, he was still hard. And the stunned look of horror on the corpse’s face was too irresistible.

Before he was aware of it, the Trucker was back on the Marine, violating the body, shoving his engorged shaft past the slimy, swollen tongue into the crushed throat.

The Trucker skull-fucked the corpse for several minutes before spilling so much seed that it overflowed the Marine’s crushed throat and mouth, pearly white streams oozing out the corpse’s nose.

He’d kept casually dragging on his smoke the entire time; when he was done, he ground the butt out on the whore’s forehead before stepping into the bathroom and soaking a towel to wipe the glaze of the dead Marine’s cum off his chest, where it was matting the fur.

Returning to the room, the Trucker pulled the white cotton t-shirt down over his massive furry chest; it instantly glued to him with a transparency due to the sweat from his recent workout. Picking up his denim jacket, he approached the bed.

The faggot Marine slut was still twitching and quivering on the bed. There was a small dark burn mark on his forehead where the Trucker had put out his butt, almost invisible against the throttled, blackened skin. The older dude grinned down at the corpse, hoping the homo pig had enjoyed his last few nightmarish minutes on earth.

He turned and walked towards the door, unfastening the multiple locks. As he opened the door, he glanced at his watch—2:42. Perfect. He’d be out of the state before the body was found. He took one last glance around the room to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

As his eyes rested on the convulsing corpse, a glint of light caught the Trucker’s eye. He returned to the bed to notice the Marine’s dog tags catching the light. With one deft motion, he reached down and jerked the chain off the corpse’s neck.

Slipping the dog tags over his own head, the Trucker smiled grimly as he fastened he denim jacket and headed back towards his truck. These cheap-ass textiles ain’t gonna deliver themselves, ya know. And there are so many bars and small towns and truck stops out there.

The Trucker chuckled as his worn ropers thumped across the motel’s tarmac. It was a big country. A veritable buffet of sex and death, just waiting for him…

Meat Chronicles 10–Nothing Like a Good Screw

I’m angry tonight, in a bad mood. I’m also horny. That combination usually gets someone killed. It damn sure will tonight; I’m hunting for meat I can hurt before I waste. I wanna make a fucktoy suffer.

Y’know, I love watching nature shows. Does that sound off-topic? It’s really not. I learned a lot about the use of protective coloration to hide and attractive coloration to reproduce.

In other words, camouflage helps you hide; bright colors draw a mate. Or, at least, bright colors let others know you’re fuckable.

I’m reminded of this right away when I see the kid. My attention is instantly drawn to his skin-tight jeans. I’ve never seen jeans that color and I don’t really have a word to describe it. The best I can say is that they’re somewhere between cherry-red and burgundy.

Having caught my eye, I look over the rest of him. He’s in his early twenties at most; probably no older than twenty-one. Just under six feet, he has an untidy mop of curly red-gold hair and his cheeks glitter with light reflecting off stubble of the same color. His eyes are kinda wide-set with long lashes. His face isn’t bad; it’s not the prettiest I’ve seen, but by the time I’m done with him, it’ll look a lot worse.

He’s also wearing a tight black t-shirt that’s molded across his well-defined chest. I can see, even from halfway down the block, that it’s a bit too small for him, the hems of the short sleeves bisecting his biceps. On his feet are tightly laced black and white Air Jordans.

He’s lounging against the wall of a building—the side of one of the gay bars, actually. But he’s not in the back with the rest of the whores and he isn’t under one of the streetlights. Despite the unusual hue of his snug jeans, I probably wouldn’t have noticed him in the shadows if he hadn’t lit a cigarette.

He doesn’t know the first thing about selling himself. Which means he’s either a newbie hustler or an amateur. The latter seems more likely. He just wants to get laid.

Poor randy little slut. He’s gonna get laid like he’s never imagined.

I pull my van up right in front of him. No one’s around; this side street is little used during the day and deserted at night. He must be new in town not to know that. He’d have been standing there all night if I hadn’t shown up.

Actually, that’s even better. Less of a connection for the police when they finally find his rotting corpse.

When he opens the door of my van, the dome light illuminates his long golden eyelashes. He looks at me for a split second before shyly dropping his eyes and sliding silently into the passenger seat.

I know what that means. He’s willing. It doesn’t matter what I do to the bitch; he wants my cock enough to suffer what I will inflict on him. The momentary gleam of lust I glimpsed in his face is clear enough evidence.

I’m ready. I feel like a coiled spring, ready to erupt in an orgy of violence. I need to find someplace close to vent my frustrations on this slutty little piece of shit. He’s eyeing me in sidelong glances, one hand rubbing the bulge in his jeans.

Oh yeah, little fucker wants it bad. He’s breathing deeply. He turns towards me, lust painting his eyes brightly as he admires my body. Evidently I’m his type; so much the better.

There’s a rent-by-the-hour motel half a mile west on the interstate frontage road. I’m there in less than ten minutes. As usual, I give the meat the money to get room; it helps if the strung-out desk jockey never sees me. I make sure to park out of sight of the office, too.

The room is small, filthy and stifling. I turn on the AC and am rewarded with a gentle puff of fetid air. The boy has already turned down the stained sheet and is sitting on the bed, untying his hightop sneakers.

“When you’re done, put them back on,” I tell him. “I wanna fuck you while you’re wearing them.”

He blushes and grins. He’s adorable; I want to hold him, kiss him, make him suffer unbearable agony…

He wants it. I said it before, but when he peels off the whore jeans, he’s commando underneath. And he’s hard; it’s huge and springs out like a javelin.

Little fucking deathpig knows what’s coming. On some deep, instinctive level, he knows that he’s about to experience the ultimate sexual experience. He may not know what form it will take (which is probably for the best, since he’d back away from the greatest orgasm imaginable if he knew what it would take to reach it) but he knows he’s about to experience something that will alter everything.

It’s a hot night. I wanted to wear my leather biker jacket, so I have nothing on underneath; it swings open over my bare chest. My faded jeans, torn at the left knee, are tucked into a worn, dirty pair of old lace-up black leather boots that come halfway up my calves. A black leather belt, two inches wide with sharp metal studs covering most of the surface, cinches tightly around my waist. It’s warm and a sheen of sweat is already glistening on my muscles; I remove the jacket and toss it in the corner.

As I move towards the bed, the kid, now nude, quickly slips his shoes back on, forgetting his socks in his haste. Long before I reach him, he’s face-down on the cum-stained bed with his ass in the air. Jesus, he really is a horny fucking pig.

I don’t bother to undress any further. I unzip the fly of my jeans, still tucked into my high leather boots, letting my thick, oozing hog flop out. I’m already dripping at the thought of wasting this horny little slut, so I don’t waste any time. I bend over the bitch and stuff my thick mushroom tip up his tight fuckhole. He screams in pain/pleasure as I force my shaft past his clenched sphincter.

“Fuck yeah, slut,” I whisper into his ear as I lie on top of him, pressing him down onto the filthy mattress. “I know you want my cock. But you know I can give you so much more.”

“Please,” he moans, “do it. Do whatever you have to. I don’t care. I want your load. Whatever else happens, I want your load. No matter how loud I scream, no matter how much I resist, I want you to cum inside me.”

“Yeah,” I snarl back. “I thought so, you little fucking cumslut. You wanna know what it feels like to get fucked for real? Get ready for this, you cunt; my cock ain’t the only thing I’m gonna shove into ya!”

He’s face-down on the bed, his firm muscular legs pressing against my thighs, his Nikes kicking against my thick boots. I’m pinning him down, spearing him to the mattress with my long hard cock, my left hand on the back of his neck, forcing his face down into the thin, smelly pillow. I slipped my right hand into the pocket of my jeans, feeling the open zipper rasping around my sack with each thrust into the kid’s fuckhole.

Deep in the pocket, I find what I’m looking for; it’s an ordinary screwdriver.

I’ve always wanted to do this; I figure it’s gonna hurt like fuck.

I place the screwdriver by the boy’s head, jamming his head into the pillow so he can’t see it. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a pair of black leather gloves. I want to make sure I’ve got a good grip, whichever hand I use.

I hold the screwdriver up, looking down and admiring the boy’s broad, smooth back, muscles flexing with each pump of my dick, gleaming with perspiration, choosing the perfect spot.

There. The kidney. I slam the sharp-edged tool down, punching through his back and embedding the steel shaft directly into his organ.

The kid stiffens and shrieks. It’s a quick exhalation; an instinctive contraction of the diaphragm.

In other words, it’s not his fault. But it’s still too loud. I need to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Wrapping my hand in his shining halo of hair, I jerk his head to one side and brutally shank him through the throat, having to tense up to puncture the screwdriver through the tough cartilage. It grinds its way down, ripping out his vocal cords, rendering him helpless to cry out as he endures the unspeakable agony.

I twist the screwdriver ninety degrees before yanking it back out of the pig’s throat; it may not have been as broad as the knives I was used to using, but it was still capable of inflicting more damage. And with each extra assault on the nervous system, the meat’s colon would contract around my dick, applying that suction of which only a true deathpig is capable.

He gurgles and gasps as he jerks violently, thrusting his ass back up along my shaft, massaging my cock in his agony. There’s a bubbling, wheezing sound coming from the hole in his neck, it oozes out with the blood. He’s got his arms and legs up under him now, pressing back up against me as hard as he can in an attempt to escape the pain.

But I know that he really doesn’t want to escape; it’s a reflexive reaction that he’s unable to control. I help guide him back into submission by stabbing the shank into his back again, ramming it between his ribs and tearing through the latissimus muscles to rip a hole in his lung.

The boy squeals like the deathpig he his, his tight fuckhole flowing along my thick swollen shaft as his pelvis bucks in the ecstasy of pain. Thick mewling sounds erupt from his mangled larynx as his arms scramble feebly at the bed in a futile and half-hearted attempt at escape. He doesn’t really want to get away; deep in his disgusting little soul, this is what he’s always wanted.

I ram the tool into his back again. Blood leaks from the neat hole I’ve already torn though his smooth skin. Again, he stiffens and squeals, squeezing his ass tightly around my cock, making it swell and ooze precum deep in his guts.

“Fuck yeah, you worthless piece of fuckmeat, ya ready for my load? Your boycunt is stroking my rod like it wants me to shoot, pig. Ya know what that means by now, don’t ya? It means that if you think you’re hurtin’ now, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Get ready for pain so intense it’ll make you cum, you piece of shit.”

I stab the screwdriver down into the back of the pig’s neck, just at the top by the skull. I have to lean on it to get through the skin, then bounce up and down on the handle to force the by-now dulled steel tip through the meat’s intervertebral disc between the second and third cervical vertebrae.

The kid went rock-hard rigid as jagged steel tears its way through his spinal column. His asscheeks clamp down on my dick, straining in the final death throes, a rhythmic motion that milks the semen out of my throbbing purple shaft. A loud gargling sound bursts from the hole punched through the kid’s neck as a large moist spot spreads outward on the mattress, emanating from his crotch. I hadn’t even needed to touch the motherfucker; the little bitch was such a deathpig, he’s cum with no manipulation of his dick.

I grip the sides of the bed as I ride his bucking, flailing ass like a rodeo bull, letting him squeeze the last drop of spunk out of my tool. After a while, he slows to a stop and lies still, jerking and quivering. I pull out and stand up.

I quickly get dressed. Grabbing the bag out of the trashcan—doubtless reused many times—and stuffing his clothing into it, carry it out to my van. No one is about; perfect. I duck back into the room and, leaving the key on the dresser for the maid in the morning (or whenever), carry the pig’s nude, twitching body over my shoulder and toss him in the back.

There’s an industrial drainage ditch a couple of miles west of here. I’ll dump him there. They’ll never even connect him to the motel, much less me.

Hope I didn’t damage my screwdriver.