The Trucker had a need for prey. He usually took his time and enjoyed the hunt, but tonight was different.
The last few weeks had been insane, and it didn’t look like things were getting better anytime soon. Constantly on the move and always in demand, his job qualified as an essential service.
Tonight, he needed some essential servicing himself. He’d dropped a trailer full of supplies at the distribution warehouse for a small chain of grocery stores in central Texas this morning, then headed north and east in his unburdened cab. Wanting to avoid the larger cities, he pulled over about forty miles south of Dallas in a small town well off the interstate.
He’d headed here specifically, based on an app he’d downloaded. Just outside of town was a small roadside motel, and on the other side of the state highway, sitting in about two acres of crumbling asphalt, was a huge metal building housing a nightclub. According to the app, the place wasn’t a gay bar, but it was known for the likelihood of faggots propositioning men from the bar in the parking lot.
The Trucker had also heard about the place from some of his fellow drivers. Seems the fags got taken up on their offers enough for the place to develop a reputation. Of course, it had another reputation—sometimes the homos hit on the wrong dude, and bad things happened. Very bad things.
Tonight, the Trucker was full of built-up testosterone and rage. He needed to do some very bad things.
He pulled into the motel parking lot and headed for the office. His sleeper cab was his home, and he didn’t want to mess it up. He needed a temporary killing pit.
There was a small Hispanic woman behind the counter with a bandanna over her face. No shelter-in-place order had been given locally, so everything was still open, but she clearly wanted to avoid the Trucker. She handled his cash gingerly and shoved the key across the counter at him as if he was visibly radiating plague germs.
Clearly no one at the honky-tonk was worried about physical contact; as his thick, heavy Timberland Pro Logger boots thudded on the cracked cement pavement, he could see the full parking lot across the street and hear the loud, raucous music. He was in number fifteen, the next-to last on the right end of the ground floor.
The moment he opened the door, the overpowering reek of bleach hit his nose; the cleaning staff weren’t taking any chances. The buff hardman quickly strode to the window and opened it; the atmosphere was damn near toxic. As he waited for the eye-watering fumes to clear, he glanced around and took in his accommodations.
A queen-sized bed with a thin mattress, thin, flat pillows and a thin and scratchy comforter of quilted polyester. A dresser/desk unit that had no legs; it was evidently bolted directly to the wall. There was a small and battered chair for the desk and, on the other side of the room, a mismatched armchair that didn’t look sturdy enough to support his weight next to a small round table.
The bathroom, to one side, was small and white-tiled. Very, very white. Housekeeping had gone through a full gallon of bleach in here, at least; almost too much to be accounted for by the virus. The Trucker wondered idly if the place had been used as a killing pit before.
Well if it hadn’t, it was about to be broken in. He’d seen what he needed to—it’d suffice.
He flicked off the lights and headed out, a muscular man in a leather jacket and tight jeans tucked into laced but untied logger boots striding purposefully towards the bar. Anyone seeing him would know that he was a man with a mission, but few would be able to guess at a distance what a violent and murderous mission it was.
There was movement in the club parking lot; he could sense the surreptitious mansex occurring all around him and grinned viciously. If the stupid fags couldn’t stay in quarantine, what else could they expect but death?
He was about two thirds of the way to the main entrance when words caught his ear; he suddenly found himself listening to a couple of homos having an argument two rows over.
“—couldn’t even stay in Dallas, couldja? Lemme guess—with everything shut down, you couldn’t find any cock to suck but mine, and that ain’t good enough, is it?”
“Aw, chill out, man; I’m just havin’ a little fun—ain’t no big deal.”
“No big deal? Fuck you, Jay. I’m done. You’re a whore and you’re gonna get me sick, one way or another. I’m leaving.”
“What? C’mon, Chris, you ain’t going—”
“The hell I ain’t. Go on and have your fun, Jay. I won’t be there when you get back—if you get back.”
They parted, one climbing into a mid-size SUV and pulling out. The remaining one headed towards the club entrance—directly towards the Trucker.
The moment they were able to get a clear view of each other, something filled the air between them like powerfully charged ions; thunder and lightning smoldered in their eyes.
The Trucker, with his jeans, jacket, and boots, was enough to entrance any twink cocksucker; his skintight white cotton t-shirt clung to the vast rise of his huge pecs and the rippled surface of his muscled abs. His long dark hair showed under the black trucker cap he sported and the three-days’ growth of scruff on his face emphasized its somehow dangerous masculinity.
The kid also wore a leather jacket and a tight white cotton t-shirt, but that was where the resemblance ended. His t-shirt bore an Adidas logo and below he had on a pair of skinny track pants in shiny black polyester. For some reason, he’d pulled sport socks up over the hem of the trackies, perhaps to better display his white Adidas All Star hightops, which he wore with the ankle straps hanging loose.
His face was young—the Trucker doubted the kid would’ve been let into the club without a fake ID, but maybe they were less strict out here. Little fuck sure didn’t look country, though; with his carefully-arranged hair with the faggy upsweep in the front, it was obvious he wasn’t from around here…
The fag was horny and alone. It was perfect. The Trucker had homed in on his prey; now he needed to get it back to the room. That, it turned out, was relatively easy.
Jay’s eyed had locked in on the Trucker’s bulging crotch the moment he got close enough to see it. Between the teen’s salacious grin—he was still three months shy of his twentieth birthday—and the Trucker’s evil leer, they didn’t need to bandy words coyly about intent. Each one wanted to use the other for sex, and each one knew it.
“It’s dark enough over there in the corner, if ya wanna whip it out,” Jay began, jerking his head to indicate the back of the parking lot.
“Naw, not in public,” the Trucker drawled laconically, “Like to take my time. Gotta room in the motel over there. C’mon.”
Jay’s skinny trackies were tight enough for his long boycock to tent as it sprang to attention. “Fuck yeah, bro, right behind ya.”
As they headed across the street, the Trucker’s boots again thudded heavily on the road surface. Jay’s kicks, in contrast, made no sound at all, as if the young fag was already a ghost. As he approached the motel and followed the Trucker across the threshold, he had no idea that he would never re-cross it alive.
He was about to find out, though.
Nothing was said as they entered the room; nothing needed to be said. As the Trucker drew the curtains over the window and locked the door, Jay slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing it on the armchair, and peeled out of his t-shirt. His smooth bare chest revealed, he turned and expectantly waited for the Trucker to respond.
The older man locked eyes with the kid, grinned, and turned back to slide the chain lock on the door. He took off his cap and tossed it onto the table, then pulled off his jacket and threw it on top of the kid’s. With a single, smooth motion, he grasped the hem of his own t-shirt and jerked it up and over his head, shaking out his long dark hair as he did so.
Jay stared, jaw sagging, at the stud’s muscled, furry torso. The metallic glinting of dogtags drew the slut’s eyes to the muscled stud’s chest. The huge nipples, thick and erect, rose up over the forest of fur that covered the valley between the pectorals and ran down his hard washboard abs to disappear beneath the waist of his jeans. Seeing the fagboy gaping in lust, the Trucker smirked and unzipped his fly. As Jay’s eyes strayed down towards his crotch, the hardman slowly pulled his enormous tool free from its confinement, letting it spring forward, jutting and throbbing in the open air.
With his mouth still hanging open, Jay fell to his knees.
“Get over here and suck it, cunt. Don’t get up, you stupid faggot. On your knees, boy, crawl for it.”
Jay obeyed, creeping forward until he was in reach of the massive, pulsating shaft. He leaned in and gingerly put his lips on the thick, spongy head. Instantly, the Trucker’s hands clamped onto the back of his head. Before Jay had the chance to react, his esophagus was full of oozing mancock.
“I said suck it, ya useless homo, not lick it! Fuck, cantcha give decent head, dumbass?”
Jay had no issues with a little rough talk but between the verbal abuse and the forced throatfuck, his bottom pig nature was already finding the encounter to be humiliating, uncomfortable, and a little scary. He’d have said as much, only he was gagging and grimacing, tears leaking from his eyes as his face became red.
He beat his hands on the Trucker’s legs; the fagkiller’s thighs were thick and hard, like denim-covered marble. The kid moved his arms up, his fingers clawing the dark wiry fur on the alpha’s muscled gut. The Trucker responded by shoving the kid so that he fell back, still on his knees, throwing his left arm down and behind to support himself while gasping and coughing, wiping spittle from his lips with his right hand. Blinking the tears from his eyes, he glared up at the Trucker.
“Dude, what the fuck—” WHAM!
The Trucker stopped the cunt’s squawking by popping it in the face.
Jay huddled on the floor, clutching his bruised cheek. This time, he slowly and carefully raised his eyes. He could see the hulking stud’s logger boots, the smooth black leather rising to nearly mid-calf before the denim took over. Just above, the gigantic dick, dripping precum and boyspit—Jay had felt the way every vein wrapped around it had pulsed in excitement as he gagged on it. And then that belly and those huge pecs with the dogtags jingling cheerfully between them. And above that…
Above that, a leering, masculine stud and something else, something moving, a blur—
The second blow caught Jay in the mouth. There was sharp pain and the coppery taste of blood and then everything went nice and peaceful and dark and he didn’t have to worry about what the fuck was happening—for a bit.
When he awoke, his cranium ringing like a cathedral bell, the boyslut thought he was nude. He was in pain and his mind was vague—he remembered an assault but not much else—but he had no clothes on. It was only when he flexed his toes that he realized he was still wearing his socks and shoes.
His trackies had zippers running up a few inches from the ankles so that he could have slipped them off over his kicks if he’d wanted, but he couldn’t remember wanting to. And why that fuck did his face hurt so goddam bad?
“You finally back, fuckwad? Whadda fuckin’ pansy. Can’t even handle a little foreplay—just wait till I start actually fuckin’ ya, faggot.”
The deep masculine voice brought it all back. Jay forced his eyes open and sat up, slowly and groggily on the bed. The Trucker was leaning casually against the table, smoking a Marlboro and eyeing the boy with lustful contempt. In a corner by the door was a wadded pile of shiny polyester—what was left of Jay’s track pants.
And as the Trucker flicked his smoke at an ashtray on the table, the cunt’s eyes followed the motion and saw his wallet on the table. It was open and had obviously been rifled through.
No matter how much or little money Jay had, he was greedily possessive of it; the thought that someone else had their hands on his cash made him forget the fact that he was locked in a room with a powerful stranger who’d already punched him twice in the face. The moment he noticed the wallet, he popped off the bed like he’d been launched, his long, thick boycock swaying between his smooth thighs as he lurched unsteadily across the room.
“My fuckin’ wallet! Where’s my cash, you asshole? I’m gonna—”
His ranting came to an instant halt the moment he stepped within arm’s reach of the Trucker. The powerful hardman shot out his right arm, grabbed Jay by the neck—his hand nearly large enough to encircle the fag’s throat—and hoisted him straight up in the air. As the teen gagged and kicked, his flailing Adidas sneakers swinging four inches about the thin carpet, the muscled killer turned and slammed him into the door.
Still holding the meat aloft, the Trucker closed in, face to face, his cold blue eyes staring mesmerizingly into those of his prey, like a snake’s.
“You ain’t gonna need money by the time I’m done with you, queerboy. I brought you in here to waste yer worthless ass. Yer gonna die on my dick, ya piece a’ shit; I’m gonna use yer dyin’ convulsions to jack off. Ain’t no one gonna miss a cumguzzlin’ fag like you, cunt, so shaddup and take what you fuckin’ deserve!”
With that, the Trucker gutpunched the whore, making Jay gag and thrash, his heels drumming against the door. The hypermasculine fagkiller chuckled, his enormous cock throbbing as he watched the punk suffer for a moment, then dropped him.
Jay sank to his knees, both hands clutching his now-open throat as he choked and coughed between racking sobs. Now that he could breathe again, he was aware of how the reek of bleach had become overpowered by a mixture of cigarette smoke, mansweat, and a musky smell that he couldn’t identify but that his cock recognized as testosterone and responded in kind. This…this wasn’t happening. He had to get out of here. Maybe Chris hadn’t left yet, maybe he could find him in the parking lot or at least someone, anyone to help him—
In blind panic, the teen slut turned and scrabbled at the door, clutching desperately at the knob, fingers fumbling at the lock. Behind him, the Trucker looked on in scorn, smirking at the meat’s noticeable relief when it managed to get the knob unlocked and open the door—only to find it had forgotten the chain. He stepped forward, slammed the door, and grabbed the cunt by the faggy hairdo, dragging it back into the room. As it moaned and bleated in terror, he bent down to its crotch and reaching one hand under its taint to its taut adolescent asscheeks, picked the homo up bodily and flung it across the room.
The kid slammed into the desk/dresser unit, rolling up on top and smacking into the wall behind hard enough to shatter the mirror and dent the drywall. The unit had been poorly installed and had never been intended to hold much weight to begin with. With a loud ripping sound, the entire unit tore free of the wall and fell forward onto the floor, projecting Jay halfway back across the room in the process.
When it was done, the sheetrock had been torn from half of the far wall. The dresser/desk lay facedown on the floor and half the room was littered with dust, pieces of drywall and shards of glass. In the middle was the huddled nude teen whore.
The Trucker walked casually over to him. Lying on his face and groaning in pain, the youth reached out his left hand pathetically, as if pleading for help.
Bringing his big black boot down on the homo’s hand, the Trucker ground it into the floor, grinning with pleasure as he heard and felt the boy’s bones snapping and crunching under his heel. The kid’s squeals of agony make his cock drip.
He was a long way from being done. The fag needed to suffer more—a lot more—before the muscled killer planned on ending its useless life.
“Does it hurt, asswipe?” he muttered so softly that the agonized teen could barely hear him, “Not enough, it doesn’t. Not yet.”
He knelt beside the boy. For a brief moment, there was something in the way the older man was beside him, something about the Trucker’s movement and position the stirred some childhood memory inside Jay and made him think of a time when someone—his grandpa, maybe, had gotten down on his knees to help him.
But as the Trucker placed his knee on Jay’s left arm, just below the elbow, and grabbed his hand, pulling it up and back, the boywhore realized that the muscled stud wasn’t trying to express tenderness—he was breaking Jay’s arm.
The realization hit the cunt’s mind just as his arm bent upright at a ninety-degree angle, halfway between the wrist and the elbow. The loud, wet snapping of the radius and ulna was almost, but not quite simultaneous—Jay heard as well as felt the Trucker break both bones with the ease of cracking a wishbone.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. He lay on the floor, nude but for his kicks, staring at his mangled left arm and gasping loudly. As the Trucker stepped back for a moment, the strong, smooth youth began to rise to his feet. It was a painful and laborious process, since he only had one arm to brace himself with. He used it to grab at the table, painfully clinging to the furniture as he pulled himself upright.
As he stood, swaying, his hair dark with the sweat that trickled down his lean body, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized at the last second that the process of getting up had been so intense, he’d lost sight of the Trucker.
The Trucker hadn’t lost sight of him. Just as Jay turned his head in his direction, the Trucker swung the upright wooden desk chair he’d picked up. The slut didn’t have time to duck; the chair struck him with such violent force that it shattered to kindling. The impact knocked the young onto and over the table; since he was still tightly clutching the edge, he managed to pull it with him, flipping it over on top of himself as he fell on the far side.
It hurt. It hurt so fucking bad, and Jay was scared to the point of panic, but his young, strong body served him cruelly, refusing to let him lose consciousness. He was forced to endure, to feel everything happening to him. And through it all, he was constantly aware of the Trucker’s hulking, intimidating presence. Like now, when the older man suddenly jerked the table off him, sending it skittering halfway across the room as easily as if it had been made of balsa wood.
The Trucker bent down and lifted the meat by the throat again; he liked this hold–this way, he knew he had the fag’s attention when he spoke to it. Jay gagged and kicked, but not as violently as he had the first time. He’d been pretty well tenderized; his right arm was clawing at the Trucker’s grip on his neck, but the left dangled and twitched uselessly.
And yet, beneath all that, the Trucker saw the teen’s thick boydick swell and stiffen. Even as he choked, tears of pain and terror running down his face, he was getting hard.
He knew. He expected it. Fuckin’ homos screamed and cried and fought, but they all died with hard cocks, shooting their final load in gratitude as he fulfilled their destiny and gave them their final purpose on this planet—to be used as a cumdump and tossed aside like the garbage they were.
Deep down, they all knew they wanted it. Ya just had to beat some sense into ‘em sometimes.
“Ready, motherfucker?” he hissed, grinning with malevolent glee at battered punk slowly choking in his hand, “Foreplay is over. I’m ready to cum. Wanna know how I’m gonna get off? I’m gonna stick my cock balls-deep in yer ass and strangle you so yer convulsions jack me off. Yer gonna die just so I can have a fucktoy. And ya better work my hog good, fuckmeat—I can make this as long and as painful as I hafta.”
As he spoke, he crossed the room accompanied by loud crunching and cracking sounds as debris was crushed under the thick soles of his logging boots. Jay was kicking with a bit more spirit now; the Trucker hadn’t held him this long before, and he was seriously starting to choke. As they approached the bed, a certain reality set in; stupid as Jay was, he realized that what he was experiencing now was what he’d be feeling as he died. True panic set in; he began thrashing like a fish on a line.
The Trucker, for once caught somewhat by surprise by a meat’s struggling, grunted and braced himself to keep his hold on the cunt. It flailed about vigorously, its hand beating fruitlessly at the older man’s broad chest, legs kicking so violently that one caught the bedside lamp, shattering it and sending the pieces flying into the wall. With another grunt, the Trucker tossed the kid faceup onto the bed; before Jay could rise, the fagkiller was there beside him.
He didn’t have a chance, not that he could truly believe that yet. Even as he peered up at the hardbodied, hairy-chested stud towering over him, eyes glaring, nipples jutting and cock oozing, he still could not accept that he wouldn’t survive the night.
The Trucker knew it, too. These teen homos were all the same; unless they were hardcore whores or users, the young ones hadn’t seen enough of life to understand how brutal it really can be. And those who had seen it thought they were smart enough to avoid the worst—until they crossed paths with the Trucker.
Now it was time for this cunt to learn. The alpha stud’s cock was beginning to ache; it needed release. He climbed onto the bed, feeling the thin scratchy comforter under his knees as he pried open the punk’s legs and brandished his massive erect member like a spear, aiming it directly at the kid’s fuckhole.
Jay saw it coming and braced himself, but it didn’t help. He’d been taking it up the ass for four years but had never experienced anything this bad.
It didn’t just hurt, he was being damaged. From the moment the enormous head of the Trucker’s cock ripped his sphincter open so wide that flesh and muscles were torn, Jay realized that things were being done to him that would require massive medical intervention to fix, if it could be fixed at all. The horrible sensation of a huge alien impalement continued as the older man’s rod probed deep in the boy’s guts, ripping at the tender lining of his colon and grinding relentlessly over his prostate.
Jay screamed and kicked, thrashing as violently as he had when he was getting choked. This wasn’t the panic caused by asphyxiation, though; the fucker was wailing in sheer agony, trying desperately to get off the huge shaft that was tearing him open on the inside. His right arm beat again at the Trucker’s chest, his fist thudding dully against the wiry, sweat-matted fur and making the dogtags jump. His legs flailed, his feet dragging and kicking to the point that the sneaker on his left foot was pulled off; it fell unnoticed to the floor with a faint thump.
It was the noise the Trucker fund most annoying; the meat was squealing like a stuck pig. “Aw, shaddup, motherfucker,” he snarled and punch the boy twice in the face.
With his left eye blackened and his lips split, Jay lowered his cries to a faint mewling that still abraded the sadist’s nerves. “Goddamit, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, I said shut the fuck up!!”
Three blows strait into the fag’s belly, punctuated by the teen’s grunts as air was forced from his lungs by the impact: WHAM! “Grk!” WHAM! “Hagk!” WHAM! “Guh!”
The Trucker went for the adolescent’s face again, before he could inhale, putting an end to the boy’s loud cries by dislocating, then breaking his jaw. The entire time he was beating the cunt, his dick was still balls-deep inside it. The killer could feel the fuckmeat take the brunt of every blow as it twitched and jerked on his cock.
And through it all, the faggot was hard too. Jay had sunk into a near-trance state as an instinctive defense against the brutal mental and physical trauma he was suffering. The pain alone was almost too much to endure in a conscious state. He didn’t know the Trucker had beat him hard enough to tear his diaphragm and break his jaw; he only knew that he was in horrific agony—but despite all the other sensations overwhelming his brain, he was still aware of his own erection as it was compressed between his smooth flat belly and the Trucker’s muscled, furry abs.
Above him and inside him, the hardbodied fagkiller grunted and pumped, but he was getting diminishing returns. The meat was tenderized enough. Time to finish it off.
He leaned forward so that his huge muscled pecs rested on the punk’s chest. His dogtags jingled as they struck the boy’s chest, then slid up and off to one side, by his left shoulder. Wrapping his huge hand around the cunt’s neck, he started squeezing.
Jay opened his eyes—as much as he could open them—and his look of utter terror was what the Trucker had been waiting for.
“This is it, motherfucker. This is why you were put on this earth, cunt—to milk my load out as you ride my cock while I choke ya to death. Ready to justify yer faggot existence? C’mon, bitch, fight it. Struggle, asswipe, I wanna feel ya die. Make yer mama proud, homo; she went through labor to give me a fag corpse for a personal cumdump. Now fuckin’ die, meat!”
He tightened his hands; they clutched Jay’s throat with the cruel intensity of a steel trap, remorselessly constricting the boy’s windpipe. The teen slut was panicking again; his air hadn’t yet been cut off as long as it had before—but the simple fact that he couldn’t breathe had pulled him out of his trance state.
He’d heard every word the Trucker had said. This was it. He was gonna die. He’d end up beaten, raped, and strangled to death like a street hustler. He was gonna fuckin’ die.
No he wasn’t.
In a Hollywood movie, his newfound courage and the way it rallied his strength to fight back against his cruel fate would have had a happy ending. In reality, all it did was piss the Trucker off and cause Jay new trauma and horrible suffering before he died like a bitch.
Putting his one good hand to use, the gagging homo clawed desperately at his rapist’s face, his fingers seeking a grip on the older man’s unshaven cheeks and chin. The Trucker angrily jerked his head away; feeling his target slip from his grasp, the dying teen transferred his attention elsewhere, beating and pawing at the Trucker’s massive, rock-hard chest.
The fur here was longer and wirier; Jay was able to hook his fingers in and jerk. The hardbodied killer grunted in irked discomfort as the punk pulled some of the hair out, but it was the kid’s next handful that set the stud off—the kid managed to snag his dogtags. That was unacceptable.
The Trucker wrapped his thickly-muscled left arm around the meat’s good right arm and began pulling and twisting. The action began putting stress on the joints at the shoulder and the elbow; the harder the Trucker pulled, the greater the stress became.
Jay was worse off than he’d been before; the Trucker was easily strong enough to choke him out one-handed while ripping his arm out of it socket, and that’s exactly what he was doing. As his reamed-out, bleeding colon continued to suffer brutal punishment from the older man’s huge cock, he could feel the sinews and tendons in his shoulder and his elbow being stretched past the point of endurance.
“You stupid cunt,” the Trucker remarked calmly, “Hope this hurts like fuck. You deserve it, bitch.” Twisting his face into a snarl, he gave a might jerk. With a sickening gristly crunch, Jay felt his muscles tear open and his ligaments snap like overstretched rubber bands. The arm rolled sickeningly out at the shoulder and bent backwards at the elbow.
He would’ve screamed if he could have. Some small part of him that had walled itself off from the agony felt a dull surprise that he could even feel the pain after already enduring so much—but he damn sure could feel it.
Able to return his right hand to the fucker’s throat, the Trucker applied more pressure. Letting go with one hand hadn’t allowed the meat to get any air; its swollen face was black and congested, physical proof of the sheer physical agony of strangulation. The half-lidded, bloodshot eyes were starting to bulge, an expression of abject horror glinting deep with them.
Jay’s legs were kicking and flailing; by now, it was utterly involuntary. His arms lay useless and twitching, twisted into odd shapes at his sides, but his thrashing legs showed the youth’s frenetic fight to hang onto his swiftly-fading life. His boyfeet flexed in his death agonies; as he drummed his heels helplessly against the mattress, the sock on his shoeless foot was pulled off, leaving his toes curling in the open air.
The Trucker could feel the boymeat heaving under him, lubed by the cold deathsweat forced from its body in the last few moments of its life. But Jay was experiencing a whole new level of tactile sensations. As his brain began to die off, his nervous system kicked into overdrive, developing a hypersensitivity which amped up his susceptibility to physical sensation.
He could feel the polyester threads of the comforter, cold and wet with his sweat, as they scratched at his back. He could feel the Trucker’s chest hair, also matted with sweat, as it scraped and ground like sandpaper against his smooth, slick flesh. The weight of the stronger, more powerful man was unendurable as it pressed him into the cheap, nasty motel bed…
But these were side notes, flickering at the edge of his awareness. What he felt most was the enormous, bludgeon-like cock that some seemed to be larger that his asshole, so that his lower intestines clung to its veined cylindrical length like a condom. What he felt most was the slow, inexorable crushing of his windpipe, as the cartilage was distorted past the point of its ability to recover.
What he felt was the pain and the pounding, the confusion and the terror of being raped and choked to death by a powerful serial killer—that, and the way his own cock was responding, pulsing and aching excruciatingly, in a way he’d never experienced before.
Jay had no way of knowing that deep in his teenaged balls, his deathload was brewing—that final, ecstatic, agonizing burst as his spasming body desperately tried to save some of its DNA before it died.
Spunk was building in the Trucker’s huge, hairy scrote as well. The meat was obviously near death; a thick white foam oozed out of its mouth past the swollen purple tongue and ran down its darkened cheek. The eyes had rolled back into the head so that only the whites showed, blood vessels bursting like fireworks deep within them. The real clue, though, was the easing of resistance.
Since the alpha had snapped both the teen homo’s arms, judging the intensity of its struggles required the in-depth knowledge of an experienced fagkiller. The meat was nearly ripe for seeding; its brain was dying.
The firm, smooth adolescent body began to move rhythmically. The convulsions were slow and gentle at first, but the Trucker knew enough to hang on. This was the whole point of tonight’s wild ride; this was the destination, the payoff. There was no sensation the Trucker wanted more, nothing else that felt so incredible, as young fag boymeat convulsing on his cock as it died, and he wanted to savor it.
As the cunt’s brain shut down, it began sending faulty signals through the nervous system. As a result, its rectum began to clench and spasm, massaging the Trucker’s massive swollen member. Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward. Spitting in the punk’s black and congested face, he started plowing its ass mercilessly as he relentlessly increased the pressure on its esophagus.
His cock was so huge, and Jay’s fuckhole so collapsed around it, that the muscled sadist’s brutal thrusting literally shredded the unfortunate boy’s rectal lining. The teenaged slut may have been in an irretrievable state of brain death at this point, but it could still feel.
All it could feel was agony as its asshole was torn apart.
As the aching pressure in his balls grew, the Trucker growled, a deep, guttural sound, and dug his thumbs into the dying faggot’s larynx. There was a distinctly satisfying crunch as the delicate structure was pulped to a wad of bloody gristle under the inexorable pressure, sealing the bitch’s throat off for good.
The collapse of his trachea was the physiological trigger for Jay’s deathload, as if on some deep, instinctual level, the teen’s body knew it was lost and tried to expel its DNA. The firm young body, warm and slick with sweat, arced up in a final, bone-wracking convulsion.
The meat couldn’t clutch at the Trucker, the way other meat had in the past; its arms were twitching violently and fruitlessly on the bed, but its legs wrapped tightly around the older man’s waist, the firm thighs squeezing him in death agony.
“Fuuuuck…” the hardbodied psycho moaned as the boy’s guts clutched and jerked at his engorged, oozing rod. This was it, he couldn’t hold it back any longer—
—and that was he and the meat shot their loads together, the alpha crying incoherently, completely unaware that he’d started beating the punk’s face in as he hosed its guts with his hot potent mansperm.
The meat spewed thick gobs of boycum all over the Trucker’s ripped abs and broad, muscled chest, spattering it into the dark wiry fur. The last sensations Jay experienced as he unceremoniously exited his short, wasted life were the Trucker’s seething load filling him like molten lead and his own spunk jetting from his body with a mortal pain, as if taking the last remaining shreds of his life with it.
And it did. Jay was dead before he stopped cumming, his black, grotesquely-swollen head lolling on top of his compressed neck.
By the time the Trucker stopped shooting, he was a heaving, sweaty, spunk-covered mass of muscles, gasping for air after the intensity of rough sex. It took him a moment to recover—and another moment to extract his massive tool from the corpse’s collapsed rectum. A flow of blood-stained cum leaked from the dead boy’s ravaged asshole after the Trucker’s hog was out.
The fagkiller crossed to the bathroom, debris again snapping and crunching under his logger boots. Once there, he took a few moments to tidy up, wiping off his still-oozing shaft and tucking it back inside his jeans before turning his attention to the larger task of cleaning the meat’s deathwad off his chest. After cleaning himself, the buff serial killer returned to bedroom to retrieve his clothes and admire his work.
What was left of the adolescent homo wasn’t easy to identify. The face was beaten to hamburger; the smooth flesh of the chest and belly was black with bruises and the arms were just—wrong. They were twisted and bent in ways that hurt to look at.
The legs were spread, the one Adidas hightop the meat had retained still twitching as the corpse cooled. Between the smooth boyish buttcheeks, blood and sperm continued to ooze from its well-reamed ass.
The room itself was devastated; the bed and the armchair the only pieces of furniture that survived the vicious assault intact. There was easily several thousand dollars worth of damage
The Trucker slipped his leather jacket on over his bare chest, wadding up his t-shirt and shoving it his pocket. Putting on his cap, he unlocked the door. After taking one last satisfied look back, he opened it.
He was immediately greeted with the sound of sirens.
For a split second, he hesitated on the threshold. But he realized they weren’t heading for the hotel; they were heading for the honky-tonk on the other side of the road. There were two local cruisers in the lot already; as he watched, another pair of cars—these belonging to the state troopers—pulled in, sirens blaring. There seemed to be a large crowd gathered in the parking lot, and from what the Trucker could tell, some sort of fight had broken out.
It was a perfect distraction. He headed for his cab. Climbing in and starting it up, he began to pull out of the parking lot when he noticed the desk clerk coming out of the office. But she didn’t notice him at all; her attention was focused on the commotion across the street.
He chuckled and headed into the dark night, his thick cock still warm and happy with a job well done.
Pendleton had been on the force for six years. He’d seen some shit in that time; shit that would’ve scarred a lesser man. Appalling cases of domestic abuse, drug- and booze-induced fights, horrifying car accidents—but this was on a whole new level.
He waited outside the room for the ME to show up.
“Hey, Pendleton; who’s the lead on the case?”
“Hey, doc. Ain’t one. I’m the only one here.”
The ME, a wizened, gray-haired man in his fifties, frowned in concern. “Whaddaya mean, you’re the only one? I can’t wait around all day for a detective to show up; I need to get the body out of here!”
“They’re all workin’ on that fight from last night…”
“Oh yeah, across the street—what was the count? Three stabbed and four shot? I understand the chief wants see about getting some kind of lockdown order enforced…but anyway, I still don’t have time to wait.”
“Don’t think you’ll need to. Take a look inside. Pretty fuckin’ clear what happened.”
When the ME came back out of the room, his face was a gray as his hair. “Jesus wept. Kid was fucking beat to a pulp. Looks like a goddam bomb exploded in there.”
“Didja see that shit leakin’ outta his ass?” the patrolman asked morosely, “Boy was raped. Raped bad.”
“Yeah, raped and strangled. No detective work needed there, I admit, but won’t the chief want to have the scene processed?”
“You kiddin’? You know the chief. Some out-of-town faggot gets offed, he won’t wanna arrest the dude; he’ll wanna shake his hand. Hell, the chief would lift a lockdown order for him—after all, by keepin’ the down the fag population, he performin’ an essential service.”
The ME sighed. “I suppose so. Things have changed since my day, when homosexuals knew their place. Still, I don’t think it’s fair that my office has to clean up this mess.” Grumbling under his voice, the disgruntled medical examiner pulled out his phone, calling for transport as he walked to his car.
Pendleton smirked. “Whaddaya bitchin’ about, old man?” he muttered too quietly for the ME to hear, “I feel sorry for the maid. Not only did she find the faggot this mornin’, she’s gonna hafta clean the room, too.”
Shaking his head, he scuffed the sole of his boot on the parking lot surface and idly considered his options for lunch as he watched the ME pulled a folded body bag from his trunk.