Meat Chronicles 18–Boy Toy Destroyed

I almost missed him.  I was heading west on Roman Boulevard and he popped out of one of the side streets on his skateboard; I had a split-second glimpse of him, then I was past.  That glimpse was enough to make me turn around, though.

 

It’s been a while since I’ve been out hunting.  I never got back to my last meat; the used van I’d bought threw a rod the next morning.  Took me a couple of days to get a new ride—by the time I got back out to the abandoned warehouse, there was a chain-link fence around the entire property and a large sign that announced a new construction project.

 

I turned around and left; the meat woulda been too overripe to hold my dick anyway.  Wonder what they’ll do when they start tearing the place down and find what’s left of him.  In this summer heat, I bet it there won’t be much left to find—just his bones and his kicks.

 

At any rate, I gotta load that needs release.  I need to find a punk to dump my seed in, and it looks like I just spotted one.  I ease into the left lane and pull a U in my van—it’s a nondescript gray Chevy Astrovan—heading back towards the boy I’d seen.

 

He’s ahead on the left, about half a block up from a shopping center and heading towards it.  I speed up, overtaking the kid and turning into the strip mall’s parking lot.  Pulling into a spot facing the street, well away from the stores, I wait for the kid to approach.  Soon enough, he glides into view.

 

Young—no more than eighteen or nineteen, at most.  Long sandy-blond hair, almost shoulder length.  His lean, firm chest is wrapped in a black Nirvana t-shirt, and he’s sporting skinny jeans so tight it’s impressive the little shit can move at all.   His feet, in a pair of gray and white Adidas Top Ten Hi’s, cling tenaciously to his board as he rounds the corner into the parking lot, leaning into the turn.  He passes within ten feet of me, allowing me to see the large bulge in his crotch in greater detail.

 

Yeah, this one would work.  This meat would be acceptable to soak up my cum.  Now I just need a lure.

 

I watch him for a while; I got plenty of time.  He navigates the parking lot in decreasing circles that centers on the convenience store to my left.  After about fifteen minutes, he slows to stop about thirty feet away from me.  Bending down and flashing his bubble butt at me, he snags his board and heads into the gas station’s store.

 

Ten minutes later he comes back out with a pack of cigarettes and an agitated expression on his face.  He walks to the end of the store closest to me and lights a smoke, looking around for a minute of two.  Suddenly he moved towards a dude who’d just exited the store carrying a twelve-pack of beer.  The kid approached and had a conversation with the guy, at one point pulling out his wallet and offering money.  The other dude shook his head in clear refusal, then got in his car and left.

 

The long-haired kid looked dejected and continued to suck on his smoke.  Five minutes later, he was approaching someone else leaving the store—a Mexican laborer with a six-pack of Modelo.  Again, a brief conversation, an offer of money, and the kid gets shot down.

 

Took me a minute to get it, but once I did, I knew I had my lure.  The little fucker was trying to get someone to sell him beer; he was too young to buy it himself.

 

I waited till he left the store’s lot, morosely heading back in my direction on his board.  I let him get about ten feet away, starting his turn back out onto the boulevard, before I rolled down the window and called out to him.

 

“Yo!  Brah!  Hey, I ain’t from ‘round here—you know where there’s a liquor store?  I wanna get some decent booze, none of this gas station crap.”

 

His hair fanned out behind him briefly as he whipped his head in my direction.  His face was smooth, with full lips, a large nose.  He had huge puppy-dog-brown eyes ringed with lashes so long they were almost effeminate; they lit up at the word “liquor”, as I knew they would.

 

These little suburban kids; they’re so stupid, so predictable—and so much fun to play with.

 

“Sure, I know a great place,” he said, somewhat unsure of himself.  They got all kinda stuff.  But ya gotta do somethin’ for me if I take ya there.”

 

“Like what?”  I ask, as if I don’t already know.

 

“Buy me some beer.  I’ll pay for it; I mean just go in and actually buy it.  They won’t sell it to me—” he broke off and blushed embarrassedly.

 

“How old are ya, dude?” I ask.

 

His blush deepens.  “I turned eighteen two months ago,” he admits shame-facedly.  Suddenly he recovers himself, though, shaking his head so that his long hair spun out.  He looks up and grins; his face is youthful and eager and I want to slam my fist into it so badly I can barely control myself.

 

“Hop in, dude.  I’ll get ya fucked up—don’t worry about it.”

 

With a cheerful smile, the punk makes the worst mistake in his life and opens the door to my van.  Tossing his board to the floor of the passenger seat, he speaks as he climbs in.  “Hey, man, I’m Timothy.  Well, no, only my mom calls me that.  You can call me T-Money.”

 

What a tool.  I snort derisively and the kid gives me a suspicious side-eye.  Then, noticing my physical presence for the first time, he gives me a longer look-ever.

 

I’m dressed for the hunt.  It was hot enough outside that I had no qualms about dispensing with a shirt altogether, but I didn’t want to have my skin up against the cloth seat of the used van, so I’d slipped on a thin leather vest, leaving it unbutton to show off my massive pecs and flat ripped abs.  My jeans were tight, but they were old, with a number of tears, and faded to a pale sky-blue.  Halfway down my claves, they were tucked into a pair of worn black combat boots that I’d laced but left untied.

 

As he looked at me, I could see his dick start to get stiff; his jeans were so tight it was kinda hard to miss.  I eyed it rather pointedly and grinned at the boy; he flushed beet-red and turned away.  Interesting reaction.

 

“Ya see anything ya like?”  I asked in a low voice.

 

The punk turned back to me, more embarrassed that ever.  “I, um, I—wh-what’re ya talkin’ ‘bout, brah?” he mumbled, not looking me in the face.

 

I pulled over into the parking lot of a church.  In the middle of a weekday afternoon, the lot was empty.  I turned to face the kid.  “My dick.  You want it,” I said matter-of-factly.

 

What?” he cried.  “Dude, I ain’t gay.”

 

“The fuck you ain’t,” I snapped, “Yer cock is hard right now.  You want me to fuck you good and hard.  You know it and I know it, so stop pretendin’.”

 

The kid unbuckled his seat belt and inched toward the door.  “Man, I done told ya I ain’t no fruit.  Ain’t no way yer gonna fuck me, ya psycho.”

 

“The fuck I ain’t, cunt,” I hiss with an expression to match his last word.  His eyes wide with sudden fear, the punk snatches at the door handle but in his haste is unable to grasp it properly.  Not that it would’ve mattered; I’d’ve caught him before he exited the van.

 

Shit!” he yells in desperation just as I grab a hank of his long dirty-blond hair and slam his face brutally into the dashboard.  With his hair as a handle, I jerk his head back up again swiftly.  “Uhhh…” the boy moans dazedly as I ram his head forward, smashing his face a second time.  This time, when I pull his head back up, he’s silent.  I let go and he slumps limply into the seat, unconscious.

 

I head out of the church lot.  I know a place to go; I’ve been there before.  It’s not that far from the last place I dumped meat.  It’s been a couple of years since I was on the property; at that time, there had been an operating business in the building, so I’d gone there at night.  Now, it was abandoned like much of the rest of the neighborhood.

 

I could park in the back and shove the meat out into the drainage ditch behind the property in broad daylight.  And it won’t matter that it hasn’t rained in weeks; no one goes back there.  By the time anyone finds him, there won’t be anything left beyond a bloated, unrecognizable corpse.

 

A car whips out of nowhere as I start to pull out of the lot, forcing me to slam on my brakes.  The kid slides off the seat and slumps on the floorboards like a pile of dirty laundry.  Good place for him; I leave him there as I head to the east side.

 

I cruise slowly through the industrial neighborhood, tracing my way back to the kill site.  Most of the buildings around here are empty if not downright abandoned; there’s no traffic and the parking lots are empty.  I’ll have plenty of privacy while I play with my meat—at least urban blight is good for something.

 

Finally, I turn onto a side street.  Just past the next intersection is the long, low one-story building that has the strip of parking in the rear, up against the drainage canal.  It takes less than three minutes to whip around the building and back into a parking space up against the canal’s low guardrail.

 

One of the reasons I chose this van was because it had been a utility or cargo van at one point; the rear section was sealed off from the cab.  Nice and private; the only windows were the polarized ones on the rear doors.  Of course, it’s a pain to have to drag the meat out of the passenger seat, but it’s worth the effort.

 

I exit the cab and walk around to the passenger side.  Opening the sliding door to the back first, I then reach for the passenger door.   I reach down and jerk the kid up off the floorboards.  He isn’t very big; only about five-eight.  And while he’s not scrawny—I can feel some firm muscles under his smooth skin—he can’t weigh more than a hundred twenty.  I’m pretty built myself; I can lift him like a sack of potatoes and easily toss him into the back of the van.

 

Like the last one I had, I’ve made my own improvements to create a mobile killing pit.  The floor is covered with Astroturf, and the walls are bare metal.  I can hose the whole thing out with ease—and that’s a good thing.  This one is gonna get a little…messy.  The one touch I’ve added is a mirror, about two feet square, propped against the front barrier that blocks off the cab.

 

I’m gonna do this kid doggie style, but I still wanna watch his face as he dies.

 

I close the door behind me; the interior is dim but not dark.  It’s hot, though, and my chest is already slick with sweat; I slip out of my leather vest and lay it carefully by the rear doors.  As I do, I hear a loud groan behind me—the little shit is starting to wake up.  I stand up—not fully, I have to slouch some to avoid hitting my head against the roof—and dig in my pocket for the zip tie I’d brought with me.  My jeans are tight enough that it takes me a moment to retrieve it.

 

He’s still groaning as I approach him, his long eyelashes fluttering as he starts to awaken.  I flip him over onto his belly and secure his hands tightly with the zip tie.  He starts trembling.  “Whu—” he mutters thickly, “Wh-whas happen…”

 

“Shh,” I whisper, patting him gently on the back of the head.  “I got somethin’ that’ll explain everything.  Lemme go grab it.”

 

What I have is located in the large lower compartment of the center console in the front of the van.  Now that the whoreboy is bound, I can retrieve it.  I open the side door again and go into the cab. I’m gone no more than fifteen seconds, but it’s enough for the kid to be fully awake and trying to roll over when I get back.

 

Time to put the stupid little punk in the picture.  Sliding the door closed behind me, I smile sweetly at him.  “I got somethin’ for ya, darling’,” I drawl.  “I got somethin’ long and hard, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ sexy when I stick it in ya.”

 

He looks up, and I notice a crusty trail of dried blood extending from his left nostril.  He’s still in some discomfort from having his face slammed into the dashboard, but it’s nowhere near overwhelming enough to cause him serious distress.  His face is flushed again—but not with embarrassment; this time he’s angry.

 

“I told ya I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot!” he yells.  “Keep yer fuckin’ dick away from me, ya pervert!”

 

I allow my smile to grow broad.  “Oh, I wasn’t talkin’ about my cock.  I mean, yeah, I’m gonna fuck ya in the ass, but that wasn’t what I was talking about.”  I’d kept one hand behind my back the entire time’ now I brought it around to show the cunt what I was holding.  “I was talking about this.”

 

The moment T-Money sees my knife, the color drains from his face and his eyes open so wide they look like they’re in danger of falling out.  It’s an eleven-and-a-half inch long hunting knife with a seven inch serrated steel blade and a wood grip.  Ideal for gutting, flaying, and general mayhem on all kinda fuckmeat.

 

The kid gulps in fear like a cartoon character; I laugh aloud at his fear.  “Aw, this is gonna be all kinds of fun,” I grin, “Especially if you fight my cock.  Cause if ya do, I’m gonna start usin’ this on ya nice and slow.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  You better be down with my D, dawg, or I’m gonna jack ya up.”

 

The boy whimpers and seems to shrink into himself, cowering.  His arms are jerking frenetically, but there’s no way the teenaged dickwad is gonna break free of that zip tie; all he’s doing is digging deep, painful furrows into his wrists.

 

He blinks and looks up at me but the moment his puppy-dog eyes meet mine, he looks away and gives another comic gulp.  “You, uh, you don’t need the knife, man.  You—you can p-put yer dick in me.  Just put away the blade, dude, please…put it away and you can do what you want to me…”

 

I can do what I want to him anyway, and will, but I go ahead and play along with it.  After all, it’s his suffering that gets me off, and if I can mindfuck him and assrape him at the same time, that just makes it so much hotter.  “Sure, bitch,” I chuckle, “But I gotta cut myself some access first.”

 

“Hey, man, wait!” he cries out as I come nearer, but I’m not going to hurt him yet.  I kick him back over onto his belly, then bend down and slip the knife under his t-shirt and start cutting.  The thin cotton parts at the slightest touch of my sharpened steel blade.  A couple of well-aims slashes and the punk’s Nirvana shirt slides off him, a mass of black shreds.  Over the kid’s protests, I cut open his jeans too.  The denim is tougher than the shirt hard been, but it’s still no match for my knife; I’m even able to saw through his leather belt in less than seven seconds.

 

I’m pleased.  I’ve honed this blade to a razor sharpness; my work is about to pay off.

 

Within about a minute, the kid is lying nude—of course the little fucker is commando; despite his denials, he’s been lookin’ for dick—on the Astroturf, only his Adidas hightops left to him.  “That shirt cost me thirty-five bucks!” the teen wails.

 

I squat beside him, fondling the silky-smooth skin of his back and his thighs.  This boy is small but strong; I can feel the muscles moving under his flesh as he squirms and kicks and tries to evade my touch.  “Get yer hands off me, ya fuckin’ sicko!” he yells as squeeze the firm, tender mounds of his asscheeks.

 

“Ok,” I say, pulling my hands back, “After all, puttin’ my hands on you ain’t anywhere near as much fun as what I’m gonna be puttin’ in ya.”

 

He goes quiet for a moment as I place the tip of the blade against the back of his neck and slide it, slowly and sensually, down the center of his back, following his spine down to the crack of his ass.  My touch is light; there’s not enough pressure to break the skin—just enough to remind the fuckboy why he’s in this position.

 

After a moment, he speaks with a sob.  “You—oh god, go slow, please—you-you’ll be the first, just d-don’t hurt me.  Okay?  Please?”

 

There’s a crack in his voice as he pleads that makes my cock throb.  I stand up and grin.  He rolls on his side to look up at me with hope and fear in his eyes.  I reach down, unbutton and unzip my jeans and let my hog flop out.

 

Once T-Money sees my dick, his demeanor changes.  The latent little faggot had been willing to get fucked in theory, as long as he could convince himself that he was forced into and didn’t really want it.  Once he sees the size of my tackle, though, he knows that this is gonna hurt—bad.  Real bad.  I don’t like to boast, but I’m hung like a stallion.  When I fuck a bitch, he stays fucked.

 

For good.

 

“Shit, dude, I can’t take that,” the helpless teen whispers, his wide eyes focused on my pulsating rod.  I step behind him, planting my combat boots on each side of his legs and lowering my jeans to my knees.  Kneeling, I slap the huge purple head of my schlong against the boy’s ass, spattering it with hot precum.

 

“No,” he begs, “For fuck’s sake, get some lube, man, yer gonna make me bleed!”

 

“Fuck yeah I am, you stupid cunt,” I whisper, mounting him like an animal and inserting my shaft into his ass.  I shove as hard as I can, encountering such stiff resistance from the kid’s clenched sphincter that for a moment I’m almost worried that I’m gonna bend my dick.  Then I can feel the flesh tear in his rectum and my cock slams home, penetrating the full length of his colon and sinking the head of my tool deep into his intestines.  I chuckle when I feel my wiry pubes grinding against those smooth buttcheeks of his.

 

“Guess you were right about one thing,” I jeer, “Damn sure made ya bleed.”

 

The teen is unable to enjoy my taunt; he’s screaming in pain—loud shrieks that end in sobs.  I laugh at his pain.  “G’wan, scream like a little girl, ya fuckin’ pussy.  Ain’t no one around for miles.  Every time ya scream, yer ass tickles my dick, so keep it up, cunt—it feels fuckin’ great!”

 

I know he heard that one, because he tries to stop.  He can’t be completely quiet; he’s in far too much pain, but he does manage to subdue his outburst to low sobbing moans.  “Aw, you spoilsport,” I whisper, “Here, lessee if ya like this, then.”

 

All I’d done so far was to merely mount and penetrate the teen.  Now I started fucking him, reaming my thick, vein-wrapped shaft in and out of his asshole.  Each brutal pump of my hips tore his sphincter fractionally more; as he bled internally, I could feel the warm liquid flow on my cock.

 

This fresh new source of pain drew an immediate reaction.  “Fuck, no!” he screeched, “Get outta me!  Oh God, no, yer tearin’ me open!  Get the fuck outta me!”

 

I reach one hand down under him, jamming it up under his flat belly and working my way down to his dick.  It ain’t huge, but it’s respectable—and it’s hard.  I knew it would be; my rod is grinding against his prostate like it’s drillin’ for oil, so the motherfucker can’t help his erection.  I grab hold of it and start jacking.

 

“Shaddup, ya dumbass little homo,” I hiss in his ear.  “You fuckin’ love it, dontcha?  You worthless teenage faggot—so full of hormones and sperm; all you needed was a real man to come along and drain it all outta ya, right?  You young pups are all the same—you just need a genuine alpha to load you up with manseed and put you in your place.”

 

“Uhhh…” the punk moans, still sobbing.  His legs are thrashing, his Adidas kicks scrabbling against the Astroturf, seeking purchase, but he can’t get any traction.  I’m lying on top of him, my chest against his back, and I can feel the fingers of his bound hands clenching and clawing at the coarse, dark hair on my abs.

 

I pump the slut’s ass like a steam piston.  He’s starting to accommodate himself to my rod; that’s a shame.  I want it to hurt him.  It doesn’t feel as good if he’s not in pain, and the more pain he’s in, the better it feels.  Then I remember—in all the swiftness of the rape, the kid hasn’t noticed the mirror.

 

“Hey boy,” I whisper, “Look up.”

 

Moaning and crying, the fucker ignores me—so I grab a handful of his hair and jerk his head back.  “I said look up, asswipe.”

 

His head bent back, he opens his eyes and finds he’s looking himself in the tear-stained, snot-streaked face.  Looking up a little higher, he meets my eyes and I grin cheerfully at him.  “Hey there, cunt,” I smirk, “Ya feelin’ me yet?”

 

I squeeze his dick hard, feeling the thick, erect shaft of flesh pulse moistly in my hand.  He moans loudly, a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain, and I know he’s starting to submit.  He’s starting to relax, accepting my cock and letting it plunge deep into his guts with less resistance.  He’s starting to enjoy getting fucked.

 

And I’m starting not to enjoy fucking him.  The resistance it what feels good.  I like it when the meat’s ass clenches in agony on my tool.  Once the little pansy starts accepting my cock, it means I’ve reamed him out and I need to find a way to re-tighten his fuckhole.

 

“Oh…oh…oh, yeah…” the adolescent faggot is moaning as I plow his hole.  In the mirror, I can see that his face is still taut and pale with pain, but there’s a hint of a smile in his expression.

 

“Goddam, I knew you were a cumguzzlin’ queer-ass fairy,” I sneer at the kid; he opens his eyes wide and stares at me in the mirror, bewilderment written on his face.  “I’m the real man who’s gonna give you exactly what you deserve—and what you deserve is a nice long dirt nap.  I’m gonna put you in yer place, and yer place is dead and rottin’ in a ditch.  Now don’t that sound fuckin’ hot as hell?”

 

“Wha—what?” he asks, his huge brown eyes focused on mine with sudden laser intensity.  “What’re ya sayin’?  Wh-what’s goin’ on?”

 

“It ain’t what’s goin’ on,” I reply, “It’s what’s goin’ in.  You’re getting loose, asshole.  Yer fuckhole’s wearin’ out.  How many cocks you had up there, you fuckin’ whore?  What—didja bang the whole football team at yer school?  Only one way to tighten up a reamed-out fag hole, ya sperm-suckin’ homo, and that’s with pain.  I’m gonna hurt you, asswipe.  I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad yer gonna pray for death—but you ain’t gonna die till ya milked the load outta my shaft.  Remember that, boy.  You can end it any time ya want, but ya gotta make me cum to do it.”

 

And without another word—or any warning whatsoever—I stick the knife into the punk’s back.

 

I know what I’m doing; I’ve done this before.  I can have a lot of fun with my meat and a sharp implement as long as I avoid the vital areas.  And there’s a surprisingly large number of excruciatingly sensitive non-vital areas on the human body—I’ve kept meat alive for over an hour, screaming itself hoarse.

 

In this case, I’ve inserted the knife just below the ribcage and angled it upwards.  If my aim is correct—and it is—the razor-sharp steel slices through the kid’s right kidney and impales his liver.

 

The reaction is exactly what I’d hoped.  The meat screams, his voice rising to a pitch he’d not yet achieved, as his body goes rigid with trauma and shock, gripping my engorged dick life a tight velvet fist.  “Oh fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” I grunt with a satisfied sigh as the teen faggot shrieks in agony.  He buries his face in the floor as his entire body shudders rigidly—but I still have one hand on his cock, and I felt it pulse as I stuck him.  Little fuck can say he don’t like it, but we both know the truth.

 

It doesn’t matter how much he screams and cries and begs, he wants this.  And I’m the man to give it to him.

 

I leave the knife embedded in his back as I pump my erect shaft into his torn and bleeding rectum.  The punk howls in pain, thrashing under my weight.  It’s hot in here and I’m sweating—so is the kid, but his is a cold rank sweat forced out of his smooth young body by suffering.  But I only get about a half-dozen good deep thrusts before his ass starts to go loose again.

 

“Jeez, you’re a worthless assfuck, you bitch,” I sneer, drowning out the boy’s wailing.  “Yer ass muscle goes as limp as a flat tire in five minutes.  Guess I gotta keep tighten’ you manually, huh?  That what it’s gonna take to keep you workin’ my shaft right?  Goddam, yer one sick-ass painpig, aintcha?”

 

I jerk my blade out of his back and, transferring it to my left hand, slip it into his flank, as smooth as a hot knife into butter.  The vicious serrated barbs rip their way through the boywhore’s pancreas and into his spleen and again, he stiffens instinctively with massive internal organ trauma.

 

“Does that feel good, ya sack a’ shit?” I whisper erotically into his ear as he shudders and gasps, too far gone in shock to scream.  “Yer a lucky faggot, y’know?  You get to have two long hard shafts stuck in ya today, hah!”  I rub my free hand down his smooth, slick back; there’s very little blood from the wound I’ve made there—most of the bleeding is internal.  His lithe teenage body writhes and kicks and I can feel each shudder as it resonates in his colon and down my thick, engorged cock.

 

“No…” he moans shakily, his voice thick and slow with agony, “P-please…no…stop…”

 

“Stop?” I guffaw.  “I’m just gettin’ started.  Dude, I’m gonna jack up yer ass so fuckin’ bad they’re gonna have to use DNA to ID yer rottin’ meat.”   I look into his eyes but the little fuck lowers his head and sobs; I can’t see his face.

 

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, you dumbass motherfucker,” I snarl and twist the knife in the wound, gouging out huge chunks of his pancreas.  It gives me the reaction I want; the meat raises his head and squeals like a stuck pig—which is exactly what he is.

 

“Learnin’ yer lesson yet, boy?” I growl.

 

“F-fu-fuck you,” he moans between teeth gritted in agony.

 

“Wrong answer,” I say.  And it is.  I show him just how wrong by jerking the knife out of his side with a flourish that spatters blood on the side wall of the van.  Switching the wickedly sharp blade between one hand and the other, I poke his back with the tip—just enough to break the skin and elicit a tense yelp from the cunt, but doing no real damage.  Yet.

 

“Where’s it gonna go, boy?  What part of ya is gonna be lucky enough to feel the cold sharp bite of my blade?  What area of yer flesh do ya want ripped open by my serrated steel blade, you teenage fuckwad?”  I make damn sure that as I’m poking him with the knife, his boyhole is getting all the attention it deserves from my dick.  “Make up yer mind quick, you cumsuckin’ shit, cause yer ass is gettin’ loose again.  Where do ya want me to stick ya and make ya tight again?”

 

The kid is groaning sluggishly; he’s bleeding internally, but not badly enough to be in imminent danger of dying.  On the other hand, shock is setting in.  That makes it hard to keep his attention.  He needs more pain, and I need to make it drastic.

 

I reach around, down and behind, and place the tip of the blade against the punk’s taint, just behind his scrotum.  I can feel his puckered balls—pulsating sacks of sperm, shifted into overdrive by relentless adolescent hormones.  There’s a lot of things going on in a very small space in this part of the body; I had to do a bit of research to get this move down right.  I wanna see how this will work on live meat.

 

I did practice, once, on some fuckmeat that was already dead.  But that’s a story for another time.  At any rate, I’m fairly certain I know what I’m doing here.  With a loud grunt and a powerful flex of my large bicep, I shove the blade up into the scumbag’s body, behind his balls.

 

The angle of the blade is the most important thing.  It slides up between the prostate and the pubic symphysis, a mass of cartilage in the front of the groin.  The serrated steel slashes the kid’s vas deferens, separating his seminal vesicles from his penis but leaving the testicles intact.  When I yank the blade out, tearing the wound even wider, there’s a gush of warm yellow fluid—the tip of the knife had punctured the little shit’s bladder.  The muscles at the base of his cock, clenched tight due to the crushing pressure my monster hog was exerting on his prostate, had blocked the flow of his urethra at that point.

 

Now I’d cut an alternate path through his taint.  The teen was pissing himself though the knife wound.

 

This is a pain that he’d never imagined existed.  Soft suburban meat, learning the true meaning of suffering.  His head is up, his eyes meet mine in the mirror, but he’s not looking at me.  He’s looking at Hell.  I know he can see it burning in my eyes; the expression on his face tells me so.  Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot—he’s so cute and he’s suffering so horribly, so erotically, I just wish I could keep torturing him for eternity.

 

His mouth is open; he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out.  The pain is too great to be released that way.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I moan in his ear, “Now you’re gettin’ it, faggot.  Now you’re working my cock right.  All I had to do was hurt ya in the right way to make ya nice and tight.  That’s it, ya worthless homo cunt, milk my shaft.”

 

His body is trembling uncontrollably; his white kicks knocking against my combat boots and his bound hands still clutching uselessly at my belly fur.  He’s making gasping and grunting noises as the flow of bloody piss from his mangled taint slows to a drip.  Suddenly, he inhales in a great shuddering breath.

 

“K-kill me…” he gasps, his tormented face white and taut in the mirror.  “P-please, n-no more, man…just-just kill me, dear God, just end it…”  He looks at me, a silent plea for mercy—those puppy-dog eyes are begging for euthanasia.

 

“You worthless faggot,” I sneer, riding his thrashing ass like a bucking bronco, “You wanna die?  Ok, cunt, I’ll waste yer useless as, but first I’m gonna make it my own personal cum dumpster.  Get up, bitch—on yer knees!”

 

I lean back and pull myself up onto my knees; grabbing a hank of the kid’s long hard, now darkened and slick with sweat, I drag him up too, keeping my thick engorged tool buried in his guts as I change position.  When we’re both on our knees in front of the mirror, I keep one hand in his hair, pulling his head back with his chin slightly raised.  The other hand still has the knife.  I hold it up in front of him.  This is the first time he’s seen it up close.

 

“Look at it, you piece of shit,” I whisper to the shuddering, sobbing teen.  “That’s your blood dripping off of it.  See those shreds of flesh caught in the serrations?  That’s part of yer guts, brah; ain’t that hot?  Sure ya wanna end the fun now?  I mean, lookit how hard yer cock is, faggot.”

 

His brown eyes, ringed with great black circles of shock, look up at mine with an almost insane intensity.  His dick was slapping rapidly against his belly in time to his frantic, pain-maddened pulse.  The little shit must be bleeding heavily inside by now, but my huge dick plugging his ass kept his cock rock-hard and throbbing.

 

Suddenly I can feel the electric tingling in my balls, and I know I’m about to shoot my wad.  “Ok motherfucker,” I growl at the dying kid, “Here’s what’s gonna happen.  I’m gonna take this long sharp blade and I’m gonna cut your throat.  I’m gonna slice open the tender flesh of your neck, but when I get to your trachea—that’s the windpipe, you stupid little fuck—well, that’s made out of gristle, and I’m gonna have to saw it open.  Think I’ll cut ya so I have to saw open your larynx, too—that’ll take some time, so you’ll get to enjoy it longer.  Sound like fun?  Fuck yeah, bitch, let’s get rockin’ and rollin’!”

 

Now that he’s been told what’s gonna happen to him and he can see the weapon that’s gonna be used, he changes his tune.  I’ve been expecting it; even in nightmarish agony, the young ones hesitate when push comes to shove.

 

“Oh my fuckin’ God, no…” he whispers, a catch in his strained, pain-filled voice as he begs.  “Please don’t, just make it end, I don’t wanna hurt no more, please, just make it stop…”

 

“Even when it stops, I’m still gonna be fuckin’ yer ass,” I jeer.  “Now shaddup and die, you worthless shit.”  Yanking his head back, I place the blade up against his throat and start slicing.

 

His flesh parts swiftly, almost eagerly, as it seems to open up at the merest touch of the knife.  Blood flows from the wound—a small trickle at first but soon becoming a hot, coppery gush.  The kid’s taut, lean body is rigid, tightly clenched in mortal pain.

 

“Oh hell yeah, cunt, milk my shaft as ya die,” I grunt, my physical pleasure ringing in my voice— he knows as his life blood jets from his throat in time to his panicked pulse that his pain and death are bringing me to orgasm.  The little asswipe should appreciate the honor.

 

As I’d told him, I had to slow down once I hit the esophagus; it’s a stiff and rubbery piece of tissue.  He starts shrieking as I begin to cut in.  “Oh God no Jesus Christ help me fuckin’ stoAAAGGHHH—”

 

At the last second, his scream spirals up an octave as I pierce his windpipe, allowing his breath to whistle out of the hole I’ve cut in his throat.  The thrashing teen can’t scream anymore; all he can do is make thick gargling sounds as he coughs up his own blood.

 

His body is still so stiff and hard it’s quivering; his ass has my dick in a deathgrip, squeezing it and jerking it like it’s deliberately trying to make me cum. His fingers are clutching at my hard flat abs in agony, unable to get a purchase on my skin, slick with sweat.  All he can do is grasp at my wiry body fur.  His smooth, firm legs are kicking and shuddering, the Adidas Top Tens knocking against my black combat boots.

 

I’ve got a teenaged boy dying in horrible pain in my arms and on my cock and it feels fuckin’ fantastic.

 

I toss the knife down; I don’t need it any more.  He’s bleeding heavily from his throat but I’ve managed to do no more than nick either the jugular vein or the carotid artery—which means he’s gonna remain conscious for maybe another forty-five seconds before his heart starts going into arrhythmia from overwhelming blood loss.

 

I’m still gripping a handful of his hair, more to keep him upright than anything else.  I put my free hand to good use—reaching around his sweaty, heaving torso, I grab his thick cock, still amazingly erect, and start jacking him.

 

“C’mon, motherfucker, just fuckin’ die,” I whisper in his ear as he trembles and gargles his blood.  “You want this.  Deep inside, you needed a man to fuck you and put you down like the piece of shit you are.  I’m about to blow, cunt.  Last thing yer gonna feel in your useless faggot life is my hot manseed hosin’ down yer guts—”

 

He doesn’t give me a chance to finish.  His body jerks violently in my arms and I can feel a powerful throbbing spasm in his dick. It erupts in a geyser of teen boycum, sending a jet of sperm up almost to the roof of the van before falling back to spatter viscously on the mirror.

 

I can’t control it anymore; the pressure in my balls is too intense.  Howling and cursing, I pump my spunk up the meat’s ass.  I’m still holding the kid’s dick; I jerk it and crank it mercilessly.  As powerful as my ejaculations are, I’m still able to notice something in the mirror—a puddle of milky fluid under the meat’s scrote.

 

It takes me a minute to realize that I’d severed the kid’s vas deferens when I jammed my blade into his taint; the seminal vesicles were behind the cut, and they produce the fluid in semen.

 

The kid wasn’t just cumming outta his dick, he was cumming outta the hole I’d sliced in him.

 

The meat is gone.  His eyes have rolled back into his head and his body jerks as he strains to breathe, air wheezing sickeningly through the gash in his windpipe.  Pearly beads of cum are oozing from his hard cock as I let him go, the rank sweaty boymeat slumping lifelessly to the floor.  One of his legs twitches randomly, his hightop sneaker scuffling momentarily on the Astroturf, then he’s still.

 

T-Money is cashed out.

 

I pull out and roll over on my back.  Fuck, that was so fuckin’ good.  I just need a little nap…

 


 

It’s still warm in the van when I wake up, and the sun is still up, so I haven’t been asleep for long.  I grab the shredded remains of the punk’s Nirvana shirt and use it to brush off the dried smears of blood on my chest from the boy’s back wounds.  He’s still laying on the AstroTurf, hunched over with his ass in the air, his legs spread with his kicks splayed out, forming a perfect V leading to his fuckhole.  His face is buried in the floor; his long sandy blond hair fanned out around his head.

 

From the rear, I can see that the dead kid’s taint is completely crusted with dried cum—some of his that leaked from the hole I’d cut and the rest is mine, leaked from his torn asshole.

 

Goddam, I’m hard again.

 

I’ve already reamed out the meat’s ass; I need a new hole to fuck.  I give the corpse a good hard kick, my boot making contact with its belly and flip it over onto its back.  From here I can see the pale face and blue lips, the gruesome slash that opened the throat, exposing the severed trachea—

 

—a nice firm hole just waiting for my shaft.  Fuck yeah.

 

I squat over the dead boy’s head, facing his feet, and feed my erect tool into the mangled esophagus.  The flesh is still warm and pliant, almost moist, and it seems to cling to my thick, throbbing rod.  I sit on the corpse’s face and throatfuck it for another seven or eight minutes, my hands fondling the smooth limp body.  The dead punk jerks with every pump of my hog, his Adidas kicks scraping as his legs twitch.

 

This time, I have no warning.  Suddenly, I find myself hunched over in orgasmic spasm, shooting a load down the kid’s windpipe and into his lungs.  I remain straddling the corpse for another couple of minutes, regaining my breath, before I pull my dick back out of the cut throat.  Standing up, I pull up my jeans and tuck my shaft back into ‘em.

 

Time to dump the meat.  I open the rear doors, flooding the interior with the bright golden light of late-afternoon summer.  The drainage ditch is only a yard away, beyond the foot-high guardrail.  The ditch is deep, too; it’s a good fifteen feet to the bottom.

 

The kid is laying splayed on his back, his hands still bound behind him, naked but for his kicks.  I’m still not satisfied.  I owned this little motherfucker, and I want everyone to know it. And then an idea comes to me.

 

I grab the knife in one hand and the meat’s scrotum in the other and start cutting.  It takes less than sixty seconds to completely remove the dead fag’s cock and balls.  I bend over the corpse and grin.  “Stupid little homo, all ya wanted was some beer.  Hope it was worth it.”

 

Then I shove the severed genitalia into the throat wound, tucking the kid’s cock into his trachea, where it slid in smoothly on a lube of my cum.  If they find him before he rots, they’ll find him choking on his own dick.

 

I drag the meat out and over the guardrail, dropping it unceremoniously and watching it tumble down the embankment into the trickle of muddy water at the bottom.  I return to the van and gather up the remains of the clothing, then toss them over the rail as well.  I notice that one of the slut’s Adidas sneakers had evidently caught on the rail and been jerked off; it was sitting upright at the edge of the concrete.

 

I left it there and climbed into the van.  Fifteen minutes later, I was merging onto the highway, heading for a DIY car wash over on Third that I’d used before; I still needed to hoes out the back of the van.  Just as I entered the highway, I heard a rattling sound from the floorboards on the passenger side.  I shot a quick glimpse over there and realized I still had the fuckmeat’s skateboard.

 

It was probably dangerous to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge across the cab, keeping one hand on the wheel, but I managed to snag the board without any major repercussions.  Just as I reached my exit, I rolled down the window and tossed the skateboard out onto the highway.  I kept an eye on it in my rearview mirror as I headed down the exit ramp; it bounced across two lanes before being run over by a semi.  It was destroyed, crushed to pieces.

 

It makes me feel even better.  I’m still tingling with afterglow as go to wash out my killing pit.

Trucker 13–Trucker vs Teen Runaway

Erik’s eyes watered as he gulped and slurped on the thick cock that was stuffed down his throat.  The teenaged boy was already well-experienced in giving blow jobs; he’d managed to get two-thirds of the way across the country by trading sex for rides with men he’d met at rest stop and gas stations.

 

Suddenly there was a grunt and a violent shudder and Erik felt a hot wet spurt on the back of his throat.  His mouth filled with smoky manseed; he swallowed greedily, working his tongue along the sensitive ridge of flesh running along the underside of the engorged dick in a successful effort to milk every drop of cum out of the dude.

 

“Fuck,” the stranger moaned, “Damn, you’re good.  Shame yer headin’ west up here at the interstate—I’d love to have ya suck my dick all the way back to Gallup.”

 

“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, “Gotta get out to LA.  I’m gonna make it big out there.  Hey, looks like there’s a rest stop coming up—you can drop me there.”

 

The driver sighed, nodded, and pulled off into the rest stop.  The place was well-lit, a state installation with restroom, an info center—closed at this late hour—and an array of vending machines; it also had separate lots for cars and commercial vehicles.

 

The car pulled up to the curb.  Erik opened the door and the interior dome light illuminated the driver—an older, pudgy man.  Erik had barely gotten a glimpse of him when he’d gotten in the car; he definitely wasn’t the kid’s type.  Good thing he’d had nice, thick—if short—dick, or the ride woulda been a long, dull slog.

 

As the older man headed back onto the highway, the boy turned headed for the bathroom.  He needed to piss, and he wanted somewhere air-conditioned to wait for another lift.  The car lot was completely empty, and the commercial lot there was but a single semi, shrouded in darkness at the far end of the lot.

 

It was past two in the morning; it might be a while before the right guy came along.  And it was hot.  Even at this late hour, the dry desert heat lingered unusually late—wasn’t it supposed to get cooler at night?

 

Within seconds, the boy was standing at a urinal, his long shaft pounding out a steady stream of piss. It took a while to empty his bladder; once he finished, he washed up at a sink, contemplating his appearance in the mirror.

 

Erik—whose darkest secret was that his real name was Louis; he still blushed at the memory of his mother’s raucous cries of “Louie, get in here!”—was seventeen and certainly looked no older than that.  He’d been sexually active for more than four years, and had already learned the power his lean, youthful body had over the desires of others.  He had no concerns at all over trading his body to get what he wanted.

 

The problem was that he’d been born in a small town in North Carolina.  The supply of men who were in a position to help him was small; he had to find a place where he could whore himself out on a grand scale.  Los Angeles seemed ideal; three days after his seventeenth birthday, he’d taken the cash he’d received as gifts, a small bag of clothes, and climbed out of his bedroom window without looking back.

 

That was four days ago.  Now he was here, somewhere east of Flagstaff, Arizona, almost within reach of his goal.  Excited and happy, he stood at the sink and washed the glaze of dried cum from his lips.

 

He’d included gel and mousse in his bag; his short black hair stood up from his scalp, but his careful sculpting was tousled after his last BJ; it actually somehow emphasized a quality of artless youth.  His thick black eyebrows added to the arrogant cast of face; his large blue eyes were those of a spoiled punk used to achieving his every whim with a minimum of effort.

 

His lithe, boyish body was barely clad in a wifebeater that displayed his trim youthful arms to perfection.   The white cotton was so thin that the dampness of Erik’s sweat made it transparent; the dark circles surrounding his erect nipples were visible from across the room.  Below the waist, the kid sported a pair of cheap running shorts; the bright blue nylon was short enough to display a long length of Erik’s smooth, firm thighs.

 

One thing he hadn’t packed enough of—and hadn’t yet stopped to get—was socks.  There was nothing between his bare feet and his dark gray Nike Air Ring Leader sneakers.

 

Bending over the sink, Erik splashed water into his face.  He’d spent days servicing fat old men for rides without any release.  He desperately hoped the next dude he met would be hot; he was horny as all fuck.

 

Then the restroom door opened and Erik was confronted with the sexiest man he’d ever seen.

 

The newcomer was tall, well over six feet.  He wore a short-sleeve flannel work shirt in red plaid; it was unbuttoned and spread wide, displaying a hairy, burly torso.  Small, oblong pieces of metal were nestled in the dark wiry chest fur; even from a distance, Erik recognized them as dog tags.  The stranger’s dark hair was mostly obscured by a khaki green trucker’s cap; his hard, masculine face and strong cleft chin covered with a short black scruff.  The muscle-bound stud’s footsteps echoed as the thick soles of his black harness boots thumped across the tiled floor; above them, the stud’s worn, slightly oil-smudged jeans strained against his powerful legs with every movement.  Around his narrow waist snaked a thick brown leather belt with a large, elaborate buckle.

 

Erik could tell at a glance that he was looking at a semi driver.  And the same glance took in the enormous bulge in the dude’s crotch, an extended ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran frighteningly far down the older man’s right thigh.

 

Fuck, Erik thought, please let him gimme a lift.  He doesn’t even have to be heading west; I’ll go wherever he wants…

 

The Trucker only needed one glance himself; he knew fuckmeat the moment he laid eyes on it.  This one was young, still in his teen.  The experience killer smiled; he could almost smell the abundance of hormones from here.  Full of testosterone and cum—even from across the room, the Trucker could see the hard-on tenting the punk’s shorts.

 

He knew the kid would ask for something—money, a ride, drugs, something to get the ball rolling.  He already knew he’d play along; it’d been a while since he’d had a chance drain the rage and sperm that was boiling up the need for explosive release.

 

But the first thing that needed explosive release was his bladder.  Ignoring the boy, he walked straight back to the urinal.  Unzipping his fly, he made sure to turn slightly back to the door, standing just far enough back from the urinal that the kid could watch as he slowly extracted the full length of his thick shaft from its tight denim confines.  Turning back to piss, he smirked, having seen the slut’s jaw drop at the sight of his tool.  Kid was hooked.

 

He was right, in more than one way.  As the buff truck driver stuffed his enormous hog back into his jeans, Erik worked up the courage to approach him.

 

“H-hey, man,” the teen quavered, hating the lack of confidence in his voice, but unable to control it in the presence of such a hyper-masculine stud, “You, uh, you drivin’?  I’m—I’m lookin’ for a ride…”

 

The Trucker turned and looked directly at the kid for the first time, his ice-blue eyes sliding over the young slut like a butcher appraising a side of beef.  Erik was used to the look—but somehow, this was different.  This dude seemed to be much more intense about it.  And Erik himself was much more responsive.  A dark moist circle sprouted at the highest point of the peak in his shorts.

 

The Trucker saw that, too.  He grinned salaciously at the boy.  “Yeah?  Ya wanna ride, huh?  And whatcha gonna do to earn yer way?  You got gas money?  Takes a lot to fill the tank, boy.”

 

Erik swallowed the lump he felt in his throat with an audible gulping sound.  Just hearing it made the Trucker’s cock throb; his jeans were so tight that the pulsing of the massive tube of manflesh was as obvious to the kid as his own sexual arousal was to the Trucker.

 

“Yeah,” Erik gasped breathlessly, “I can do that.  Fuck yeah, man I can do that as long as ya want.”  What it was he could do didn’t need to be stated in any more detail at the moment.

 

“I’m headed west,” the Tucker said gruffly.  Actually, he was headed north, but he’d seen enough of these worthless little road sluts to know they were usually headed out to LA in the hopes of whoring their way into riches and fame.

 

For a brief moment, he idly wondered how many ended up dead in a ditch. He was personally responsible for at least five that he could recall; they kinda blurred together after a while.

 

And at any rate, it didn’t matter which way the punk was going.  The only way he was gonna go was down, permanently.

 

For his part, Erik would have gone whatever direction the Trucker was just for a chance to ride his cock; the fact that he was going west only added to his pleasure.  “Aw, bro, that’s perfect!”

 

Abruptly, the Trucker headed for the door, jerking his head.  Erik took the hint.  In a moment, they were out of the building, the teen’s Nikes padding across the asphalt as he eagerly followed the Trucker’s thick, thumping bootsteps back into the darkness at the far end of the commercial lot.

 

Trailing like a puppy, Erik’s eyes were glued to the older man’s ass, covered in tight denim like a second skin.  He felt as if he’d hit the jackpot—he felt as if, for the first time since running away from home, he was getting a glimpse of what his life held in store.  For a moment, he was held entranced by the image of continuous sex with a string of hot buff studs—

 

—only to walk right into the back of the hot buff stud he was with.  The latter had stopped at the cab of his truck.  He turned and glared momentarily at Erik, making the boyslut blush with embarrassment.

 

The Trucker was briefly annoyed, but he smiled grimly at the thought of the punishment he’d soon be meting out to the cunt.  Unlocking the door, he swung his large, muscle-bound frame up into the cab.  “C’mon,” he said as he headed to the sleeper compartment in the rear.  He didn’t bother to look back and see if the boy was following; he already knew.  Stupid little faggot was walking into a killing pit with his eyes wide open.

 

Erik climbed into the semi’s cab.  He glanced around the space in the back, marveling at the almost cozy compactness of the rear compartment as the Trucker closed off the front with a privacy curtain.  The bunk on the rear wall wasn’t big, but it was big enough to get fucked on, and that was all he was interested in.

 

Hearing a faint thump behind him, Erik turned around and saw that the older man had slipped off his shirt and let it fall to the floor.  The Trucker stood with his magnificent, bulked-out chest bare, with nothing but the dogtags to accent the furry cleft between his bulging hubcap pecs. It was warm in the cab—the Trucker had turned up the temp on AC, not wanting to run the battery low—and beads of sweat glistening deep in the forest of his body hair.

 

“Strip,” he commanded, looking levelly at Erik.

 

The kid complied, hurriedly pulling the white wifebeater up over his head and revealing his smooth, flat belly and broad chest, the low-rising pecs surmounted by large dark nipples.  Erik then reached down to his slim waist and slipped the running shorts down, wriggling his firm legs to make them drop to the floor.  He had to reach inside briefly when they got hung up on his jutting cock; once free of the silky blue nylon, his erect rod bobbed about, dripping clear spatters of precum on his Nike Air Rings.

 

The Trucker moved his hand down to his groin.  Without breaking his cold, hypnotic eye contact with Erik, he slowly—very slowly—slid the zipper down.

 

Despite his cocky expression, Erik’s voice was hesitant and uncertain.  “I-I’m, um, Erik—with a K,” he said haltingly, wanting to see what the older man was doing in his crotch but unable to look away from those captivating, ice-cold eyes.  It took a physical effort to drag his eyes away; when he did, they landed on a half-empty pack of Marlboros on a small shelf to one side.  The boy’s attention was momentarily diverted.  “Hey, can I bum a smoke?

 

“Not yet, boy,” the Trucker snapped.  “Get over here. I got somethin’ else for ya to stick in yer mouth first.”

 

Erik took the hint and kneeled in front of the alpha, looking along the man’s rippled, fur-covered belly.  “Uh-uh, face down here,” the Trucker growled, grabbing the punk’s head in his strong hand and physically reorienting it towards his open fly; as he did, he felt the cunt’s hair gel crunch under his fingers.

 

At eye-level with the open zipper, the teen could see that the massive tube was still semi-soft, bent downwards so the dick was stuffed down the stud’s left thigh.  “Haul it out, you little slut,” the Trucker demanded.

 

Reaching in, Erik felt the throbbing in the thick cock in his hands.  He tugged it mightily, slowly extracting the pulsating manmeat.  Once he had the full length of the shaft out, it began rapidly stiffening in his grasp.

 

It was also oozing precum in a steady stream.  “Put it in yer mouth, kid,” the Trucker demanded roughly.   “I wanna feel you choke on it.  I wanna feel my big cum-filled balls slapping against yer chin.”

 

Erik’s dick swelled painfully at the words, but before he could obey, the Trucker took matters—and the boy’s head—into his own hands.  Digging his fingers into the slut’s stiff hair, he jerked forward, ramming his cock into the kid’s gaping mouth.  Erik gagged, his eyes watering, as the thick rod, already slick with precum, slammed into the back of his throat; the shaft of manflesh was so large it forced his jaw open.

 

With his mouth crammed full of cock, the teen slut was in fag heaven.  As he let his tongue lovingly explore every thick, pulsing vein wrapped around the enormous tool, he reached up, almost unconsciously, and ran his hands over the alpha’s tight, ripped abs, his fingers catching in the heavy, dark fur in the stud’s treasure trail.

 

“C’mon, boy,” the Trucker snarled, “Open up yer fag throat and take it, cocksucker.  Quit actin’ like you ain’t lotsa dick in your mouth, ya little bitch.”

 

Closing his eyes in erotic pleasure and fondling the older man’s rock-hard abdomen, Erik opened his jaw as wide as he could and did his best to deep-throat the huge, throbbing shaft.  It wasn’t enough.  Clutching Erik’s head in an iron grip, the Trucker shoved his swollen manhood far down the punk’s esophagus, completely plugging the airway.

 

Erik began to choke.  It was hot as fuck—for about forty-five seconds.  Then he pressed his hands flat against the top’s firm, powerful thighs and pushed, trying to pull back from the alpha’s overwhelming throatfuck.  He couldn’t.

 

The kid started gagging.  He slapped his hands on the Trucker’s legs, trying to signal him to back off; instead, with a sinister chuckle, the stud gripped the boy’s head tightly and drove his shaft even further into the slut’s trachea.

 

For a brief moment, as his eyes started to water, Erik began to panic.  Then, with no warning at all, the Trucker pulled his tool out, shoving the kid away.  Erik fell back on the floor, coughing.

 

“Get up here and work my nips, cunt,” the alpha commanded.

 

With the back of his hand, Erik wiped drool from his chin.  He looked up at the leering top in disbelief.  “Uh, c-can I have a cigarette now?  Please?” he asked plaintively, his cockiness skullfucked out of him.

 

The Trucker paused for a moment, considering, then spoke.  “Sure, cocksucker,” he grinned, “Grab the pack and the lighter and bring them here.”

 

Erik obeyed, scrambling quickly for the pack of Marlboros.  Clutching them eagerly, he approached the Trucker.  “Light one and gimme,” the alpha demanded.  Again, the boy did what he was told, lighting the cigarette, then handing it to the older man before lighting one for himself.

 

Erik took a deep drag off his smoke but before he got the chance to exhale, the powerful top reached out and grabbed his head again, jerking it forward until the punk’s face was being ground into the stud’s chest hair.  “I toldja to work my nips, asswipe,” the Trucker barked.

 

Suddenly the teen slut found a hard plug of flesh shoved into his mouth.  He worked it with his tongue as he breathed out the cigarette smoke, feeling the nipple grow even firmer under the ministrations of his mouth and the hot smoke.

 

The moment the pressure on his head relaxed, Erik pulled back and took another drag.  The Trucker wasn’t happy.  “You only done one of ‘em, bitch,” he growled, but the effect wasn’t what he expected; the boyslut’s cockiness seemed to flood back into him with each fresh inhalation of nicotine.

 

“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, leaning back on the bunk and sucking on the butt with his eyes closed.  “I want you in me.  I wanna feel that big cock in my ass.  It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but I’ll bet I’m gonna remember this one.”

 

The Trucker’s eyes narrowed as his rage at the arrogant young fag bubbled up.  “Remember it?  You’ll remember my cock for the rest of yer pathetic little life, cocksucker.”

 

Erik blew out a huge cloud of smoke and lolled his head languidly, trying desperately to maintain his nonchalance, but his dick told the real story.  The dribble of precum from his swollen purple head had increased dramatically; the slit in the tip had widened to allow a steady trickle of transparent fluid to flow.

 

“Oh yeah,” the horny teen said in a tight voice, shuddering with eager lust.  Stubbing his butt out in a half-filled ashtray on a shelf, Erik turned around.  Facing the rear of the cab, he bent over, placing his palms flat on the bunk, presenting his smooth bubble butt to the Trucker. Overwhelmed by the hormones flooding his lean, lithe adolescent body, Erik reached back with both hands and spread his rounded asscheeks.  “Put it in me, dude,” he moaned, “Use me, dude, fuck me like there ain’t no tomorrow!”

 

A quiet voice came from behind, shot through with cold humor.  “I can do that.”  Then Erik felt pressure against his sphincter.

 

The Trucker grinned as he pushed the head of his dick—nearly the size of a standard cue ball—into the kid’s ass.  Reaching over to the ashtray he ground his own smoke out, then grasped the punk’s waist with both hands and started to shove, feeling his enormous tool start to force its way into the youth’s tight fuckhole.

 

Erik grunted, first with pleasure, then—as the pressure on his ass continued to increase—with surprise.  This was followed by a deeper grunt of effort as he struggled to adjust himself to the massive flesh tube penetrating his rectum.

 

It didn’t take long for the grunt to escalate into a cry of pain.

 

“Wait!” the boy cried out, “Fuck, it hurts—stop!”

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker growled, shoving harder.

 

Erik squealed in pain as his sphincter was stretched further than it ever had been before.  The sound stoked the alpha’s anger; he dug his fingers into the boy’s tender skin, holding the struggling youth tightly.

 

“You wanted my dick, motherfucker, now take it!” the older man snarled.

 

“No!” the teen screamed, “Lemme up!  Goddam it, lemme up, it hurts too much—lemme go!”

 

Grabbing at the bunk, Erik managed to bring one knee up onto the edge of the sleeping surface.  He lunged forward, trying to escape the pain of having his asshole torn open.  He succeeded in slipping off the Trucker’s massive rod, but then his attempt backfired miserably.

 

It happened so fast he had no time to react.  A powerful arm reached under his and then he was flipped in the air, landing on the bunk on his back, hard enough to knock the air out of him.

 

He looked up at the Trucker.  “Stupid fuckin’ faggot,” the alpha sneered and dealt the punk a quick pair of rabbit punches right to the face.  Bright pain exploded in Erik’s face and his head rocked back under the violent blows.  Stunned, the youth was unable to protest as the muscle-bound sadist thrust his giant throbbing shaft between the kid’s parted legs.

 

The moment he rammed it home, though, Erik found his voice in spite of the sudden assault.  The agony in his ass was like nothing he’d imagined could ever existed; the Trucker’s cock was so big it literally split the teen’s sphincter, ripping it open in two separate tears.  Searing, glassy pain shot through the youth as his colon was stretched out of shape by the thick manmeat that plugged it full.

 

Erik screamed.  He shrieked until his voice cracked as it echoed off the metal walls of the cab.  “Yeah, that’s it,” the Trucker grinned, “That’s how a fag like you needs to get fucked, yeah?  Take a real man’s dick, you worthless little sack a’ homo shit!”

 

Wallowing in nightmarish pain, Erik still heard and understood the buff killer’s words.  They had no effect on his screaming; the veins wrapping the cruel top’s cock scraped his tender, sensitive rectal lining like barbed wire—his high-pitched shrieks were merely the involuntary result.

 

The punk’s deafening clamor only emphasized his desperate isolation.  The teen fag’s lithe, lean body writhed helplessly, pinned to the bunk by the weight of his powerful assailant’s muscles, impaled on the alpha’s cock.

 

Outside, Erik’s screams were swept away on the hot night wind, becoming inaudible mere yards from the darkened cab.  There was no one around for miles.  There were just the two males, alone together, entwined in a painful, erotic embrace of violence and lust.

 

Inside, the kid’s ragged shrieking reverberated in the small space.  “Shut yer goddam mouth,” the Trucker barked, “You’re givin’ me a headache, ya worthless piece of fuckmeat.  Shaddup or I’ll shut ya up myself.”

 

Again, Erik heard the words, but they seemed to come from some other world, some place beyond the glassy bubble of pain he was inhabiting.  They had no bearing on his reality, which—like his ass—was full of cock.  Enormous, agonizing cock, plumbing the furthest depths of his guts.  Part of his mind that managed to remain insulated from the pain and fear of the brutal rape held a mental image of him at the moment as nothing more than a human sheath, wrapped around a gigantic dick.

 

He couldn’t understand why his own shaft was fully erect; pain had always made him go limp.  He had no way of knowing that he was being stimulated internally by the intense pressure of the Trucker’s tool against his prostate.  All the unfortunate runaway knew was that his own dick was traitorously stiff, bobbing in the air as he was being brutally assraped.  And it hurt so fucking bad.  And it was probably gonna hurt worse if he couldn’t stop screaming…

 

…but he couldn’t stop screaming.

 

 

The Trucker leaned forward, his handsome, erotically masculine face lit from within by an unholy, frightening rage.  There was a faint clinking sound as the top’s dogtags danced on the boy’s heaving chest.  Erik could feel the older man’s breath hot on his face.

 

“I said shut the fuck up,” the Trucker hissed between clenched teeth; despite his intense anger, he never mistimed a single thrust of his hips as he continued to drive his shaft mercilessly up the punk’s ass.

 

“No!  Get outta me!  Fuckin’ hell, get it out, it hurts fuck AAAHHHH!” Erik screeched.  His balled fists drummed uselessly against the Trucker’s broad, rock-hard chest.  Suddenly the Trucker twisted away; keeping the kid impaled on his erect rod, he managed to bend down and snatch something up off the floor of the cab.  He made sure to hold it up in front of Erik’s face.

 

It was Erik’s white cotton wifebeater.  At first, the shrieking teen didn’t understand.

 

“I toldja I’d shut you up, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  He started twisting the shirt into a three-foot length of fabric, and Erik understood.  He stopped screaming, but it was too late.

 

“Was gonna off yer worthless ass anyway, punk,” the Trucker sneered, breaking the sudden silence, “But yer screamin’ like a fuckin’ pansy and it’s gettin’ on my nerves.  So ya get to die a few minutes early.”

 

Erik shook his head, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide with fear.  He didn’t want to acknowledge the purpose of the twisted shirt in the alpha’s hands, but he wasn’t permitted the luxury of denial.  The Trucker lunged; Erik tried to block but the alpha knocked his arms away as easily as swatting a fly.  Before he could prevent it, the scared teen realized the cotton band had been wrapped around his throat—and pulled tight.

 

The fabric was still damp and rank with hormone-laden boysweat.  Just before his air was cut off, Erik inhaled a deep, heady musk; the mix of his own sweat and that of the powerful alpha filled his lungs with pheromones before they were permanently sealed.

 

“There ya go,” the Trucker jeered, “Now shaddup and die, fuckmeat.”

 

It was worth it, the alpha thought as he jerked the wifebeater brutally tight, it was worth it, just to see the look of panic in the young faggot’s eyes, just to feel the teen’s fuckhole clench his dick in involuntary spasms.

 

Terror welled up in Erik.  This stud, this muscle-bound god—this wasn’t supposed to be happening.  He hadn’t hit the jackpot, he was being hurt, being raped…being murdered.  Frantically, he jammed his hands up under the Trucker’s jaw, trying futilely to push the alpha away.

 

The powerful sadist easily shrugged the kid’s flailing hands away.  “Die on my dick, you cumsuckin’ pervert,” he sneered, then hocked a wad of phlegm into the boy’s panic-stricken face.  “It feels so fuckin’ good when little homo fucks like you kick and die with my cock inside ya.”

 

Erik kicked and writhed in horrific agony; the tensile strength of the damp cotton band allowed it to sink deeply into the kid’s smooth, soft neck flesh without stretching or tearing.  The frantic youth clawed desperately at the shirt, but once it sank in, he could no longer get his fingers around it—and he turned his panic on his assailant.

 

The Trucker had snuffed at least two dozen faggots—he didn’t keep count—and by now knew the stages of terror, submission and death better than the meat experiencing them did.  He recognized the impending explosion of fear and braced himself as the cunt lashed out like a feral cat.

 

 

The slim young teen scrambled with a frenetic strength that would have surprised anyone not experienced with the true fear of death; the meat was awash in cold terror and stuck blindly at the Trucker’s muscled mass.  His hands, crabbed like claws, clutched at the older man’s bulging biceps before slipping off the sweat-slick skin.

 

Still mindlessly seeking some way of stopping the choking pain, the clutching, grabbing hands soon landed on the Trucker’s broad chest—and dug in.  The kid’s fingers curled in the wiry, almost steel wool-like chest hair and yanked painfully.

 

Then, inadvertently, Erik opened the door to a whole new universe of pain.  He raked his fingernails over the Trucker’s chest, scraping off fur and drawing blood.

 

Only one person had made the Trucker bleed before, and that wasn’t a good memory.  It triggered a heightened rage response.

 

“Goddam fuckin’ piece of fag shit!” he roared, twisting the cotton shirt so he could maintain the excruciating tautness with a single hand.  The other hand he drew back into a fist, then used it to punctuate his speech with the emphasis of a wrecking ball.

 

“Worthless [BAM] little [BAM] motherfucker [BAM], you still don’t fuckin’ get it [BAM], do ya [BAM]?  Only thing yer good for is milkin’ my shaft [BAM] and soakin’ up my load [BAM].  Looks like I’m gonna hafta beat it into ya [BAM], huh, cunt [BAM]?  Know what I’m gonna do [BAM] with yer used-up boymeat [BAM] when I’m done with ya [BAM]?  Huh?  I’m gonna throw ya out [BAM] like a used cumrag [BAM]—yer gonna end up rottin’ in a ditch like garbage, hah [BAM]!”

 

The third blow was accompanied by a snapping sound as Erik’s cheekbone broke, the fifth with the squelching sound of split lips.  On the seventh or eighth—neither predator nor prey was keeping an accurate count—the boy’s nose broke, the cartilage collapsing with a loud crunching noise.  And on the thirteenth impact, the orbit of the teen’s left eye fractured into multiple pieces, causing the white of the swelling, bulging orb to hemorrhage blood-red.

 

Unfortunately for Erik, his youth worked against him; his adolescent body, fueled by raging hormones, was unable to succumb to unconsciousness.  He was awake and aware of every blow, and every word.  He knew exactly what was happening to him; he just couldn’t understand why.

 

Even the sex had gone bad; it felt like a massive ingot of white-hot steel had been shoved up his ass, searing his guts out as it reamed his fuckhole.  The intense pressure against his prostate was reflected in the intense pressure in his cock; it felt so achingly hard and swollen that it seemed about to burst.  And the pressure of the ligature around his throat was reflected by the pressure in his chest, which felt like it had already burst in a fiery explosion that still raged within him.

 

It was his head that hurt the worst, though; his smashed face was flaming agony, but on the inside…oh my fuckin’ god my head is swelling my tongue I can’t close my mouth I can’t close my eyes…

 

Taking the shirt back in both hands and tightening it further, the Trucker lowered himself down until he was lying full-length on top of the kid.  The lean, smooth teen body writhed and jerked under the weight of the muscled hardman, skin sliding against furry skin on a lube of deathsweat that was being squeezed out of the boy.

 

The older man bent his head down to whisper in the punk’s ear; as he did so, the stiff black stubble on his cheek grazed the kid’s face, scraping painfully against the boy’s bruised, swelling skin.

 

“Ya feelin’ me now, boy?  Ya findin’ out what it feels like to die, aintcha?  Fuck yeah, cunt, I’m gonna cum so hard when you die.  Been too long since I wasted a fag—you came along just in time, asswipe.  Stupid young fuckmeat, ready and waiting to suffer and die on my dick.  Just needed a little tenderizin’ to learn how to accept death from the hands of a real man.”

 

Erik hadn’t learned to accept his own death yet, but at the moment the terror was overwhelmed with sheer physical pain; as his nervous system slowly began to die of oxygen deprivation, the nerve endings underwent a common paradoxical reaction—they became more sensitive.  The slighted touch against Erik’s skin was magnified to the intensity of agony.

 

Without even breaking the skin, the sharp edges of the Trucker’s dogtags, pressed as they were into the boy’s chest by the heavier man’s weight, felt like knives piercing his flesh.  His thick purple cock, already painfully erect, was also pressed between the entwined male forms; as the underside rasped up and down on the Trucker’s large metal belt buckle, Erik felt unimaginable pain that he pictured mentally as the skin being flayed off his dick.

 

“Does it hurt?” the Trucker asked, grinning.  “Good.  Yer gonna die in fuckin’ agony, just like you deserve, ya cockpig sack a’ shit.”

 

Beneath him, the once-arrogant teen was unrecognizable in the battered, blackened mass of swollen flesh above the cotton band—the latter sunk so deep in the kid’s throat it was almost invisible.  Erik’s face was dark and congested, the eyes—both now blood-red with hemorrhages—bulging grotesquely from their sockets, the left one off-center from the shattered orbit.  They were swollen to the point he was unable to close them; he was forced to watch his own Nike Air Ring Leaders, just past the Trucker’s shoulders, as they kicked and flailed helplessly in the air.

 

The boy’s split, purple lips had parted, letting the monstrously swollen tongue to emerge in mass of thick white foam that drooled down the youth’s smooth cheeks.  His black hair, stiff in gelled disarray, was wet with the same cold deathsweat that soaked his pits and lubed his smooth young body.

 

The cruel alpha grinned viciously at the dying boy.  “Still fightin’ it, cocksucker?    Keep tryin’, ya stupid fuckwad.  Fuck yeah, the younger the fag the longer it takes ‘em to die—and the longer I get my hog worked.  Gotta remember that, huh?  Next time I wanna get my dick milked real good, I gotta find me a dumbass piece of teenage homo meat!”

 

Erik heard the words—barely, and understood them—barely, but they no longer carried an immediacy about them.  His brain was dying, cerebral cells going dark by the millions as his body shudder helplessly in the grip of a death that was swiftly approaching—but not swiftly enough.

 

The teen slut was ready to die.  The pain was too much; he just wanted it to end, but the Trucker was right—his youth worked against him; his healthy system had been full of oxygen when his air supply had been cut off.

 

He could feel—oh fuck, he could still feel everything.  This wasn’t supposed to be happening; he’d just wanted a lift and some dick.  Now—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, his throat, he could feel is collapsing—

 

“Ya likin’ that, fuckpig?  I can feel yer dick leakin’ all over my belly, queerboy.  Fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?”

 

No, no he wasn’t enjoying it, but his cock was so hard it hurt and he didn’t know why, the pressure and the pounding in his head in his cockhead and behind his eyes, that frantic percussion—was that his pulse?—his head was gonna explode and his dick was gonna explode the pressure was too intense—

 

“Goddam, boy, I ain’t had no one’s ass grab my shaft like this—yer really gettin’ into this, cunt!  Fuckin’-A—gonna ride yer ass till ya die, faggot!”

 

The enormous cock that had roused such lust and desire in the oversexed teenager was now being wielded as an instrument of nightmarish torture, tearing him open on the inside.  With the heightened sensitivity of his dying nervous system, Erik was suffering the pain of impalement in an almost medieval sense as the alpha’s inhumanly massive shaft pounded its way through his torn, inflamed colon and repeatedly embedded itself deep into his tender guts.

 

The Trucker held on to the twisted wifebeater with both hands, feeling the teen dying on his engorged cock.  Tracing the progression of the kid’s brain death was relatively easy for the proficient serial killer; he knew the symptoms from long experience.  The meat was nearly gone, but the way the little fuck was gagging and slobbering meant that there was still a spark of human mentality left—

 

—and the Trucker was so fucking turned on at the thought of abusing and tormenting that spark until it finally flickered out.

 

“Does it hurt to die?” he hissed, “Good.  You earned this, you faggot slut.  Only thing you’re fuckin’ good for is catchin’ my spunk, and you’re good for that once—maybe twice. And after I’m done usin’ ya, all that’ll be left it rottin’ meat that I’m gonna dump on the side of the road.  Not like anyone’s gonna miss ya, right, fuckwad?”

 

The boy heard the words, at least the start, but had lost the ability to react.  Lack of oxygen had inflicted massive trauma to his central nervous system; he no longer had control over his physical movements.  As the Trucker spoke, the kid began to convulse, slowly at first but with a swiftly-increasing intensity.

 

The sick, sadistic top grinned and grunted with pleasure; this was the best part, the way the meat stroked and milked his shaft as it writhed in its death throes.  And this boy seemed to last forever; the slick, lithe, smooth body wriggling and shuddering beneath his hairy weight, the kid’s thick, pulsating dick pressed between two flat, firm bellies.  The youth’s arms had stopped flailing; now, they clutched rigidly at his killer’s shoulders.  The Trucker could feel the heels of the punk’s kicks digging into his denim-wrapped ass as the boy’s legs tightened involuntarily around his waist.

 

Erik was gone and what little was left of Louis was encased in a hard red ball of agony—the fiery pain that seared his chest and head, his throat and his ass and especially his dick, had somehow managed to merge into a solid mass of suffering as his body twisted and contorted itself convulsively.

 

“Oh fuck, fuck yeah,” the Trucker grunted, his face grimacing as he tried to hold back the explosive orgasm boiling up in his tight scrotum.  Deep in his boots, his toes curled in an instinctive attempt to brace his hard, powerful body. His arms jerked back almost involuntarily, veins popping out on his thick, swollen biceps; the white cotton ligature sank into the kid’s neck to a grotesque depth.

 

Suddenly, there was a loud wet cracking sound; the boymeat’s throat had been crushed into a wad of blood, phlegm and mangled cartilage.  It was a special kind of pain and it merged seamlessly with the last sensation that the unfortunate youth had to endure—the razor-sharp agony of his own ejaculation.

 

As the teen spewed a massive deathload over the Trucker’s chest and belly, the boycum matting the older man’s fur, the Trucker gave one last, deep grunt and let go, his hot potent manspunk hosing the boy’s guts and filling his rectum.

 

The hot wind still swept out of the night, whipping around the silent cab where a man remained locked in a tight, trembling, orgasmic embrace with the corpse of a seventeen-year-old boy.

 

A few minutes later, when the Trucker was sure he’d drained every drop of sperm out of his huge balls, he disengaged himself from the dead punk.  Taking a moment to stuff his still-oozing dick back into his jeans, the sweaty, cum-covered alpha looked down with contempt at the corpse.

 

There was little left that was recognizable of the cocky teenager.  The smooth young face was now a puffy blue mask with a thick purple tongue protruding from the middle of it.  The nose was bent and broken with blood trials from both nostrils and the eyes were nothing but slits of white streaked with red under swollen lids.

 

The dark gray Nikes were quivering as the fag’s nervous system continued to fire random nerve signals; the Trucker knew from past experience that the meat would twitch and kick for an hour or so longer.  The little fucker’s dick was going soft, expelling the semen that had remained in the shaft at death.

 

 

 

The Trucker sneered at the dead boy.  “Fuckin’ faggot,” he muttered, “Shoulda hurt ya more.”

 

Grabbing a washcloth from a small set of drawers on the left, the heaving, sweat-slick alpha slipped past the privacy curtain and exited the cab.  Walking quickly across the empty parking lot, he headed into the rest room.  Under the glaring fluorescent light, he soaked the washcloth and used it to give his torso a brief sponge bath, wiping the teen’s crusty jizz out of his body fur.

 

Even though his boots thumped just as loudly on the pavement on his way back to the truck as on the way in, the Trucker’s steps were lighter.  He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the workout he’d gotten snuff the young homo.  Even his dogtags jingled cheerfully on his chest.

 

The young ones could take a good, hard beating and still let him work out some while bangin’ and offin’ them—he’d remember that.  Oh fuck yeah, he’d remember that.

 

He was on the highway within fifteen minutes, cruising along with the window down, letting the warm night air dry the dark curly hair on his chest.  As the miles flew by, his mind kept turning back to the incredibly erotic way the adolescent slut had died on his cock.  The way the motherfucker’s asshole clutched his throbbing shaft, milking it desperately, convulsively as life was choked out of the little punk…

 

The Trucker found that he had to reach into his crotch and shift his stiffening rod.

 

He began eyeing the side of the road, wanting to dump the meat before sunup.  He was near the center of one of the most godforsaken sections of highway in the state—in the entire country for that matter—but there was no sense taking chances.

 

He’d seen no other vehicles for an hour when he pulled off the two-lane road onto a wide, level section of shoulder.  Beyond the shoulder, the land dipped down into a deep, narrow gully, shadowed with the dry, brown remains of whatever dank vegetation managed to grow when there was water present.

 

It’d be a long time before anyone found anything tossed down there.

 

Taking one last look in the rearview mirror to ensure he was alone, the Trucker made his way past the privacy curtain into the sleeper section of the cab.  Somewhere in the past hundred miles, the dead boy had rolled off the bunk; the corpse was splayed out face down on the floor.

 

Standing over it, the Trucker admired the smooth, lean meat, the tender, rounded ass that seemed designed for fucking, the firm, lithe legs spread invitingly apart, with the grey Nikes still on the feet.  His cock was straining painfully in his jeans.  The feelings were conflicting; he didn’t fuck corpses, but this little fuck still seemed to be asking for it.

 

“Fuck it,” the Trucker muttered, “Why not?”

 

Bending down, he grabbed the dead teen and tossed the corpse onto the bunk, still face down.  He positioned it crossways with the legs hanging off, as if the boy was kneeling at the bunk and bent down over it.  In that position, the ass was perfectly set up for penetration.

 

As usual, it took the hulking alpha a moment or two to extract his gigantic shaft from its tight denim confines.  When it was finally free, it was as engorged and oozing as if he hadn’t just emptied his sack a little over an hour earlier.

 

Lowering himself down, he inserted his throbbing member into the cadaver and was pleasantly surprised.  The meat was cool, but not cold, and rigor mortis had set in just enough to make the mangled dead asshole comfortably firm enough to grip the Trucker’s cock just right.

 

With a sigh of pleasure, the sick killer inserted his manhood into the boy’s fuckhole until he was balls-deep in the dead teenager.  The sigh was soon replaced by deep lusty grunts at the older man plowed his cock into the depths of the cooling carcass.  The meat was still limp enough for the dead youth’s limbs to jerk and shift in response to each and every thrust of the Trucker’s huge, pulsating shaft.

 

It had been years since the Trucker had violated the corpse of one of his kills; he’d forgotten the sweet, easy sensation of a victim unable to resist—and this one, such young smooth flesh, so supple, even in death…

 

It was too much.  The Trucker shuddered violently as he pumped another massive load into the dead boy’s guts, giving the cold meat one last burst of warmth with his scalding geyser of semen.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Goddam faggot!  Dead piece a’ shit!” he cried in a gruff, constricted voice that echoed of the metal walls of the tiny sleeper compartment.  Involuntarily, he grabbed the punk’s jaw and twisted it, his arms jerking roughly in orgasmic intensity and snapping the meat’s neck with a gruesomely loud shattering sound.

 

The only other noises to accompany the perverted desecration of the teenager’s corpse were the joyous jangling of the Trucker’s dogtags and the desolate whistling of the pre-dawn breeze.

 

For the second time, the Trucker disengaged himself from the dead kid; this time, he used the boy’s shorts as a rather unsatisfactory cumrag to wipe off his dripping cock.  As he tucked his fully-drained member back into his jeans, he pulled back the privacy curtain and looked outside the cab—there was still obviously no one within miles.

 

So there was no one to see him yank the dead teenager out of the cab by his arms; there was no one to see the channels carved in the dirt by the corpse’s Nikes as it was dragged across the shoulder to the gully.  There was certainly no one to notice when the muscular hardman, in tight jeans and boots, but shirtless, dumped the dead meat into the ditch; in fact, it was three months before the skeletal remains were found.

 

It was finally ID’d by dental records.  The kid’s mama had made sure her Louie had good teeth.

 

There was someone to notice that one of the fucker’s Nikes had come off as he was being dragged—the Trucker.  When he drove off, he made sure one of his rig’s wheel passed right over the sneaker, grinding it into the gravel on the side of the road.

Adam–Third Kill–Room Service

It was about eight-thirty on a warm summer evening when Adam pulled into the parking lot on the west side of the SoHoLo Hotel.  Getting out of his car, he could a bank of clouds still illuminated from underneath by the setting sun.  They were lit in a garish blood-red.

 

Adam took it as a good sign.  For a moment, his handsome face flashed an evil, shark-like grin before it lapsed back into its normal innocent expression.  He reached into the car and grabbed a gym bag before heading towards the hotel lobby.

 

He’d enjoyed himself so much the last time he was here, he’d left the place a five-star rating on Yelp, hoping to offset some of the negative publicity that swirled around the hotel once the violated corpse of his kill had been found.  Now he was back and on the hunt again.

 

This time, he didn’t want to wait around in the lobby.  He’d checked out the amenities online from the well-equipped exercise room and the full-service laundry in the basement to the luxury spa and executive suites on the tenth floor.  He’d decided to start in the bar.  If that didn’t work out, he’d hit up the gym and the pool, in that order.  Maybe the top-floor sauna after that.

 

Surely, the copper-haired stud thought, he’d find some dude to play with.  At any rate, he’d brought a change of clothes along, just in case he struck out in the bar and needed to get more…physical.  Otherwise, he was dressed casually in a dark green button-down shirt and a pair of tight jeans, faded to pale blue.  On his feet were the gray Nike Flight Falcons that he’d used on his last kill here at the hotel.

 

Holding his gym bag casually, Adam crossed the large lobby area, circling around the open work space in the center.  A few of the carrel-like spaces were occupied, but no one caught Adam’s eye.  He headed for the darkened passage that led to the bar and the elevator lobby.

 

The hip, modern décor with flames and falling water, did nothing to illuminate the murky entrance to the bar, but the raucous babble of voices and music were sufficient indication of its location.  Just outside the door was a sign with plastic letters spelling out “Morrison bachelorette party.”

 

Sighing, Adam poked his head into the bar.  On the far left was a small impromptu stage where three drunk women were wailing off-key at a karaoke machine.  The handsome sex killer shook his head in disgust and withdrew.  He’d pinned his hopes on finding fresh meat in the bar; now he’d have to fall back to plan B and see if there was anyone in the hotel’s well-equipped exercise room.

 

The elevator lobby was just behind him; within two minutes, he was outside the glass door leading to the hotel’s gym.  Peering in, he saw a middle-aged woman, lean and stringy in a t-shirt and yoga pants, riding a stationary bike.  He dismissed her immediately, focusing his attention on the other occupant of the room.

 

The young man—he was no older than his early twenties—was over by the free weights, working his biceps with a set of dumbbells.  He was wearing nothing but a pair of gray Under Armor shorts, leaving his broad, well-built chest, streaked with sweat, to glisten under the overhead fluorescents.  His short hair was also darkened and spiked by sweat, but the stubble on his cheeks and his strong jaw showed its true chestnut color.  Below the shorts, muscled legs descended to a pair of white and gray Nike Zooms.  Presumably the dude was wearing ped socks; Adam couldn’t see from his position.

 

The woman on the bike finished her workout and walked towards one of a pair of cubicles to the left side of the exercise room; they were changing rooms—not that the broad bothered to change anything but her shoes.  She emerged quickly and, opening the door, headed towards the elevators.

 

Adam took his chance, stepping forward and catching the door before it closed—and then he was in.  He headed directly for the changing room and swiftly got into his workout gear.

 

The t-shirt that clung tightly to his massive pecs was a bright, eye-catching yellow.  There was a tear at the collar, deep enough to reveal his furry chest and the lack of sleeves emphasized his thick biceps and hairy forearms.  His powerful legs were bracketed between the Flight Falcon kicks and a pair of black Adidas shorts.  The outfit was designed to draw attention to his strong, hard body.

 

 

It did the trick.  From the moment he stepped back into the gym area, the other dude focused on him with laser intensity.  Deep hazel eyes ringed with long lashes roamed over Adam’s hot, hard body.  There was a visible tenting action in the kid’s shorts as he approached, holding out his hand, a big grin on his face.

 

“Hey there,” he said with a slight Southern drawl.  “Name’s Clint.”

 

Adam shook his strong, sweaty hand.  “Hey,” he responded, “I’m Tim.  Just got into town.”

 

Clint perked up.  “Me too!  Here for the horse show tomorrow—you know, down in the arena?”

 

Adam shook his head; he was honestly unaware of what was happening in the arena downtown over the weekend.

 

Clint gave a sheepish grin.  “Yeah, well, it ain’t a big deal.  I’m assistant to Clyde Sanger—you prob’ly ain’t heard’a him; he’s a horse trainer.  He got himself a nice room downtown, but said there weren’t no more vacancies, so he put me up here.  Anyway, reason I’m yammerin’ my mouth off—I didn’t get the chance to work the horses—Clyde did it himself tonight—and if I don’t get a good workout in before bed, I can’t sleep.  I was hopin’ you’d spot for me.”

 

Adam nodded sympathetically.  “Sure, bro, I’ll spot ya,” he said.

 

“Cool, man!”  Clint smiled enthusiastically and, heading to the bench, lay on it.  He’d already fastened a pair of forty-five pound weights on each side of the bar.  “I like to start by pressin’ one-eighty,” he confided.  “No way I coulda asked that lady in here earlier to spot me; weight woulda killed the broad.”

 

“I gotcha,” Adam said, flexing his arm so the thick vein running down each bicep popped out. Clint stared up at him, lust glittering in his eyes, before laying back, gripping the bar and lifting almost two hundred pounds.

 

Clint strained under the weight.  His handsome, scruffy face flushed red and pulled back into a rictus of Herculean effort.  His bare pecs, glistening with sweat, bulged massively as he struggled; his Nikes were pressed firmly against the floor to give him leverage.

 

Slowly, he extended his arms out to full length, then brought the barbell back down to its rest.  Adam walked to the head of the bench and stood there while the buff boy pressed seven more reps.  By the eighth, Adam had seen enough to get hard himself.

 

This was prime meat.  Time to get the show on the road.  He stepped forward as Clint lifted the bar again.  The kid glanced up—and found he could look right up Adam’s Adidas shorts.

 

Adam, of course, was commando.  Clint had a perfect view of the stud’s huge, hairy balls and, above them, his massive, vein-wrapped member looking less like a tent pole in his shorts and more like a baseball bat under a napkin.

 

This wasn’t Clint’s first time at the rodeo, so to speak.  He was twenty-two and had been working for Clyde since he was sixteen.  He’d started accompanying his employer when he was seventeen—and had managed to sneak out of the hotel and get himself fucked on that first trip.  He’d been on more than two dozen trips since then, and had only struck out twice.  He was no virgin.

 

But he’d never seen a cock this big.  Fuck, it was huge, and he wanted it so bad.  He gasped aloud—and in his distraction he let the barbell slip.  For a brief moment, it hung in the balance, then it tipped to the side and Clint found that he was unable to stop it.

 

Adam saw the barbell moving sideways.  “Here, dude, I got it,” he said, leaning forward and grabbing the bar with both hands.  He then impressed the hell outta Clint by easily lifting a hundred and eighty pounds, setting the bar back in its rests.  When he straightened up, he wasn’t even breathing hard.

 

“D-damn, man,” Clint stuttered, disconcerted both by Adam’s tool and his strength.  “Shit, buddy, you’re powerful as fuck.”  And with an unmistakably direct look at Adam’s crotch, he continued, almost shyly.  “And speakin’ of a powerful fuck, I, uh, I gotta room by myself up on the eighth floor…”

 

Adam grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye.  “Well, hell, bro, what we waitin’ for?”  He stepped to the far side of the exercise room and retrieved his gym bag as Clint gathered up his own gear.  The deviant sex killer followed his victim out to the elevator, watching the kid’s frim ass flex in his Under Armor shorts.  Hell yeah, he wanted to stick his dick into that meat—the thought was getting him even harder.

 

So was the thought of making the little fucker into meat in the first place.

 

Clint hadn’t bothered to put his shirt back on; his well-developed chest glistened with sweat in the dim elevator lighting.  His dark eyes were glued to Adam’s crotch.  As he stared he rubbed the massive bulge in his own shorts almost absentmindedly.  Adam smirked, looking at his prey.  The kid was strong and tough, only about three inches shorter than Adam, and nearly as well built.

 

Adam was gonna have to plan this carefully; the punk would probably put up a fight.  As an experienced killer, he knew he could take the boy down—but he didn’t want to get injured doing it.  This was going to take either a little finesse or a lot of brute force.

 

The car slid to a stop on the eighth floor; the ride had occurred in silence, but Clint spoke as soon as they stepped out.  “It’s down here, on the right.  Just a little ways,” he said reassuringly, as if he was afraid Adam would change his mind.

 

Adam had no intention of changing his mind.  As he tagged along behind the buff boy, he could feel sexual desire flowing though himself like an electrical charge.  Such prime fuckin’ meat; it was gonna be so hot fucking that sexy corpse…

 

Caught up in his thoughts of murderous lust, Adam almost walked into Clint when the latter stopped and opened the door to his room.  He followed the punk into the room and glanced around.

 

The room wasn’t quite as swanky as the last one he’d been in; it was smaller and the view wasn’t as good—the window was large, but it looked out over a side street at the solid glass wall of an office building—but it still had a certain hip sparseness to it.  Like the other room, a floor-to-ceiling divider wall separated the bedroom form the bathroom with the bed facing the window, its head against the divider.  On the far side of the room was corner unit that combined desk, TV stand and minibar; there was a small dresser on the near side.

 

Clint flicked on the lights.  There were three; one on a nightstand next to the bed, one on the dresser and one on the desk.  Together, they cast a warm yellow glow into the dark room.  Once the lights were on, the hot young faggot didn’t waste any time; tossing his shirt aside on the floor, he kicked off his Nikes and shimmied out of his shorts.

 

Of course he was freeballing underneath.  His thick cock sprang out the moment his shorts were lowered, slapping up against his flat ripped abs.  It was over six inches long and about an inch and a half thick, not including the pulsing veins wrapped around it.  It rose in a graceful curve from a mass of bushy brown curls that filled his crotch.

 

Wordlessly, the buff young slut approached the bed and began stripping it, first peeling back the thick, soft sand-colored comforter, then the crisp white high-thread-count cotton sheets.  As he worked, Clint put his hard body on display, his thick muscles flexing as he bent down or reached across the mattress.  In the space of a few seconds, a large, luxuriously-appointed bed had been pared down to bare platform for fucking, with only a single fitted sheet left.

 

When he was done, he turned back to Adam, silent, almost nervous, nude except for a pair of black ped socks.

 

Adam smiled—it was more like a sneer.  “Get on the bed, boy,” he commanded as he pulled off his sleeveless yellow t-shirt.  He approached the bed, still in his shorts and hightops.  As he loomed over the young man, he could see the boy’s eyes fixed on his chest, the pupils moving as they traced the contours of his furry, hubcap-like pecs.

 

“I wanna see your dick…” Clint said breathlessly, almost in a moan.  His shaft pulsated powerfully twice, then there was a glitter in the piss slit of his engorged head as his precum started to flow.

 

Adam turned abruptly and walked to the window without saying a word.  Standing with his back to the bed, he slowly slipped the Adidas shorts down his legs, stepping out of them without removing his Nikes.  He, like the kid, was commando underneath; as he bent down to retrieve the shorts, Clint got a perfect view of the older stud’s firm, perfect asscheeks flexing with the movement.

 

When Adam turned around, Clint gasped aloud.  He’d had a glimpse of Adam’s dick while the dude was spotting him, but that had been partially obscured and at an awkward angle.  Now he could see the enormous club-shaped shaft of engorged, pulsating flesh clearly.

 

He wanted that cock.  He’d never wanted dick so badly in his life.

 

Even from the window, Adam could see lust glinting in the boy’s eyes.  The fag was hooked; all he needed to do was reel him in.  He approached the bed, slowly and deliberately—almost ominously.

 

Clint sighed in sexual contentment as the (slightly) older man climbed onto the bed—and onto him, sitting on his torso and straddling him.  The young fag could feel the buff stud’s firm asscheeks planted on his belly as Adam’s huge tool jutted over his chest, dripping hot pearls of transparent precum onto Clint’s hard, glistening pecs.

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” he moaned, arching backwards and thrusting his pelvis up, his own cock slapping against the small of Adam’s back, “Fuck me, dude, stick it in me…”

 

Adam looked down in disgust at the muscular homo writhing in sexual pleasure beneath him.  He wanted nothing to do with the pathetic, mewling degenerate shuddering between his legs; he was just looking for a hot sexy corpse into which he could sink his aching shaft and find release.

 

That meant he had to put a little effort in—luckily, it was work he enjoyed.  Plus, it’d make up for the workout he’d cut short.

 

And, of course, tough meat like this always benefitted from tenderizing.

 

Clint opened his large, dark eyes, placing his hands on Adam’s thick, powerful thighs as he gazed worshipfully up into the perverted killer’s face.  “Damn, bro, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he muttered, fondling the alpha’s tree-trunk-like legs that were wrapped around his waist.  “I gotta tell ya, dude, I work hard and I play hard.  After a long day workin’ out the horses, I like to get rid’ myself, but I ain’t never seen no hossdick like yers.”

 

The youth ran his eyes lasciviously up the top’s well-defined torso, then let his hands follow suit.  They slid up Adam’s smooth, sweat-slicked flanks to lodge in the stud’s chest hair.  Clint sighed with erotic pleasure as he curled his fingers in the dark, wiry fur spread across Adam’s broad, muscled chest.

 

Clint was too engrossed in sexual desire to pick up on Adam’s silence or to notice the expression of lust-laced rage on the stronger man’s face.  The boy was focused completely on the muscled form that straddled him, pinning him to the bed.  Instinctively, irresistibly, he reached up and grabbed Adam’s enormous cock with both hands.

 

“Goddam,” he whispered, his eyes huge as he slowly jacked the long, thick shaft.  “I—uh, I don’t know…I mean, uh—well, I want ya in me, but—well, shit, dude—this thing it gonna tear me open.  You’ll go slow, won’tcha?”

 

Adam leaned forward, placing one large powerful hand on the kid’s chest and resting his weight on it.  Clint grunted as the air was pressed out of his lungs.  Even though he was looking directly into Adam’s face, the horny young faggot still thought the gleam that lit the copper-haired top’s eyes was lust; he was incapable of recognizing the glitter of gleeful cruelty that was radiating from the alpha.

 

“You want it slow, boy?” Adam whispered huskily.  “I can make it slow.  I can make it go so slow you’d beg me to end it if you could still speak.”

 

“Holy shit,” Clint gasped, writhing ecstatically under the serial killer’s heavy, well-built body, “That’s the hottest fuckin’ thing anyone’s said to me.  Fuckin’-A, man, use me.  I wanna be your sex toy.  Just—just don’t hurt me too bad, ok?  I, uh, I still gotta work tomorrow…”

 

“Don’t worry,” Adam smirked, “I guarantee you won’t be in any pain tomorrow.”

 

Clint’s handsome young face broke into a broad smile, despite the intense pressure on his chest.  “Goddam, man,” he moaned, “That hog’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad but I’m gonna cum before it’s all the way up my ass…”

 

“You’ll dump your load before that, cocksucker,” Adam responded.

 

Once again, Clint failed to notice the coldness in the stronger man’s voice.  “Oh no,” he chirped as well as his compressed torso would allow, “I usta shoot a wad at the slightest touch but nowadays I need to get fucked before I can cum.  Nothin’ else does it any more, not even BJs.”

 

As he spoke, the hard-bodied punk ran both hands up the one arm Adam was using to pin him to the bed, feeling the knotted muscles slide under his palms. Once he reached the shoulder, he brought his hands back down, curling his fingers in the wiry, sweat-matted hair covering the alpha’s wide, powerful chest.  Lost in physical admiration, he smiled happily up at the murderous stud.

 

Adam permitted himself a small, icy grin as he shifted his weight to his other hand—and moved it higher up Clint’s chest, making it more difficult for the kid to breath.

 

“Yeah?” he sneered, “Ya whored yerself out so much you gotta get yer fuckhole reamed so you can spunk?  I got another way to get it outta ya, you worthless fag—I can just squeeze it outta ya.”

 

Even if Clint had missed the tone of Adam’s voice, this time there was no way to miss his words.  The boy was young, well-built and extremely attractive; he had gotten many protestations of love—but no abuse.  His eyes widened in confusion as Adam’s contempt caught his attention.

 

“Wh-what?” he gasped in bewilderment.  “What-what’d ya c-call me?”

 

“I said you were a worthless cumsuckin’ piece of shit,” Adam said calmly, “And I’m not gonna fuck you, ya stupid homo; I’m gonna fuck your dead meatsack corpse.”

 

His eyes wide as dinner plates, the muscular slut stared up at the alpha, incomprehension writ large on his face.  His brain simply refused to process the words.  “Wh-” he stammered, “I—wha—I don’t under-understand—”

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’re dumber than a sack of hammers.  Guess I gotta beat it into ya, asswipe.”

 

Adam reached out and snatched up the lamp on the nightstand.  In spite of its weight—the base was a two-foot rectangle of polished stone and carved wood—he swing it around easily and cracked Clint across the skull with it, putting the kid’s lights out good and hard.

 

With the fuckmeat lying limply beneath him, Adam held the lamp in one hand and wrapped its power cord around his other hand.  He pulled hard enough for the veins to pop out on his bulging biceps, but within seconds he’d pulled the cord free from both the base and the outlet simultaneously.

 

In the increased dimness of ambient light, he tossed the lamp to the floor, barely noticing the sound as the shade crumpled and the bulb shattered with a loud pop.  His bulked-out hairy chest sweaty and heaving with exertion, Adam swiftly used the cord to bind Clint’s hands to the open metalwork of the bed’s headboard.  As he jerked the cord tightly around the kid’s wrists, the latter moaned, an indication that he was starting to regain consciousness despite the vicious blow to the head that had left blood trickling from a nasty cut on his temple.

 

Pain, in fact, was the first thing Clint experienced on awakening, the unexpectedness of the blow adding shock to the sensation of physical damage.  He could feel weight on his abdomen, but it took him a moment to clear the aching dimness out of his mind and remember the stud he’d picked up down in the exercise room.  Dude had hit him—what the fuck?  He tried to push the guy off him, only to find his hands above his head, so tightly bound that the circulation was cut off.

 

And that was when fear joined shock and pain.  Clint’s eyes widened and his cock wilted.

 

“Wacha doon?” he slurred, still disoriented and lacking some fine motor control.

 

“I’m gonna strangle you to death, then I’m gonna fuck your corpse, that’s what I’m doing, faggot.  Ready to die?”

 

 

Adam waited for what he knew would follow.  First, about fifteen seconds of quiet as the meat tried to digest the meaning of his words.  Second would be a rigidity, a stiffening of the body in horror as full understand sank in.

 

Third depended on the nature of the meat.  Clint went with begging.

 

“Why-why ya wanna kill me, man?” he whimpered, “I ain’t done nothin’ to ya.  Please, bro, don’ hurt me—you can do anythin’ ya want, I won’t say anythin’, I swear I won’t!”

 

Terror had enhanced his slight southern drawl.  Adam’s first response was twitch in his dick, followed by a visible increase in the precum drooling from his purple tip.  Clint could feel the hot liquid spattering his chest and moaned in fear.

 

“Ain’t gonna say nothin’?” Adam sneered.  “Course you ain’t gonna say nothin’—you’ll be dead, asswipe.  You’re gonna be a sack of rotting meat.  You ain’t telling no one nothin’.”

 

“B-but why?” the buff youth wailed.

 

“Cause I wanna,” Adam said coldly.  “Cause it gets me off.  Cause I ain’t no homo.  I don’t fuck other dudes, you worthless cocksuckin’ pig; I fuck meat.”

 

Clint stared in confusion up at the alpha’s handsome, masculine face, now twisted bewilderingly into a mask of rage.  He couldn’t understand why this was happening.  He was just gonna have some innocent fun getting fucked in the ass by a strong, muscled stranger.  How had he ended up bound and helpless under a sociopathic killer?

 

 

“No—fuck, please no…” he whispered in terror.  They were the last words he ever spoke.

 

“I’m horny,” Adam growled.  “I wanna cum.  Time to take a dirt nap, motherfucker.”  Leaning forward, he wrapped his huge, powerful hands around the kid’s throat and squeezed.

 

Clint was in instant agony; it felt like a bear trap had closed on his neck.  He tried to scream but all that came out was a thick, wet gagging sound.

 

Adam glared down at the panicked, struggling youth.  “Die, you stupid sack of shit,” he hissed, “My balls are so fulla cum they hurt.  Choke and die, asswipe, so I can fill your useless boymeat with my spunk.”

 

The writhing, terrified punk knew he was dying.  His young, innocent was swelling and turning red.  He jerked his arms frantically, his well-developed delts and triceps quivering with the strain, slowly managing to unloosen the knot,even though he was unaware of it.

 

“Quit fightin’ it, faggot,” Adam snarled.  “More ya fight, more I make it hurt.  Ya got that, cunt?  You’re dyin’—how long it takes and how bad it hurts is all up to you, bitch.”

 

Clint gagged and heaved, hearing the words but unable to control his strong young body.  Adam, of course, knew that most of the kid’s movements were involuntary; he just wanted to watch the boy suffer as he tried to stop the physical reactions.  “Dumbass cocksucker,” the cruel alpha sneered, “I toldja to stop strugglin’.  Now I’m gonna hafta hurt ya.  Hold on, fuckwad, this is gonna blow yer tiny faggot mind.”

 

Twisting his hands, Adam positioned them on Clint’s throat with his thumbs resting on the punk’s larynx—and then squeezed.  Hard.  Really fucking hard.

 

Clint’s eyes were already starting to protrude from lack of oxygen; there was nothing in his agonized, distorted face to indicate the new depths of pain he was plumbing as his voice box was slowly crushed.  His legs, on the other hand, expressed his reaction eloquently; his thick, muscled thighs flexing as he kicked violently.  As he flailed, the sock was pulled off his left foot, which was left bare, toes curling with exertion.

 

Viciously, Adam spat into Clint’s darkening face.  “Ya feelin’ the burn yet, homo?  Useless fag like you deserves to die in a fuckload of pain, right?  So take what’s comin’ to ya, boy, die like a fuckin’ dog!”

 

His thumbs dug deeply into the bulge of cartilage in Clint’s throat.  As it began to deform and give way under his brute strength, Adam’s cock began to pulse even faster, the veins wrapped round it becoming more engorged with lust and rage-fueled blood.

 

Clint’s dick had a different response.  Adam felt a wet spurt against the small of his back, and a persistent warm trickle under his asscheeks.  Clint had pissed himself in sheer terror as his throat was being crushed.

 

Suddenly, a faint crunch came from the kid’s windpipe; the larynx had collapsed and folded back into the esophagus.  Between the pain and the horrific impact the sound of the physical damage made, Clint went momentarily insane.

 

Thrashing like a landed fish, Clint’s hands slipped free of the cord.  The boy beat his hands vainly against Adam’s massive chest.  He pressed his hands against the top’s arms and tried to pry them away from his neck.  He pressed his feet—now both bare—against the bed and tried to lift himself up and shove the alpha off.  Nothing worked.  All he succeeded in doing was to burn through most of what little oxygen remained in his bloodstream.

 

“That’s it, you stupid sack of shit,” Adam whispered, “Give it up.  You’re done; fuckin’ die already.  Only way the pain’s gonna stop, asswipe.  Go to fuckin’ sleep and let it go.”

 

Still Clint struggled, straight-arming death for as long as the strength in his young hard body held out.  By now, most of his resistance was involuntary.  His eyes bulged unseeingly from his tear-streaked, blackening face, his thick, protruding tongue was almost as purple as Adam’s dick.  Foam bubbled out past his blue, swollen lips as his hands gradually slowed from panicked pounding to near-gentle caresses of his killer’s shoulders and arms.

 

And his cock was starting to swell, too.  Even as Adam was violently strangling his prey, he could feel the spongy tip of the meat’s shaft pressing against the small of his back.  The sensation of the kid’s stiffening cock touching him further enraged the psychotic stud.

 

Spitting into Clint’s black, unrecognizable face again.  “Die, you fuckin’ pig!” he hissed.  Underneath him, there was little left of Clint to understand; the buff gay boy started to shudder as large parts of his brain started to die.  The pain in his throat, the pounding in his head and the horrible pressure in his chest were all starting to fade, along with his consciousness and his personality.  A loud, buzzing darkness had started at the periphery and was now rapidly eating its way to the center of the fag’s universe, and the darkness was death.  The punk’s heart began to fail, beating in an increasingly (and excruciatingly) erratic pattern…

 

…and there was a deep, vital ache in his scrotum, like he’d been kicked in the balls, except it ran the entire length of his unaccountably erect, swollen cock…

 

As his body progressed from violently flailing to slow, pre-death convulsions, Clint’s randomly-moving hands stroked his killer’s hard, sweaty body.  One hand reached up and slid almost tenderly down Adam’s cheek while the other, clutching at the alpha’s chest, ended with its fingers curled tightly in the wiry fur.

 

“Fuck you, faggot,” Adam whispered and clenched his hands together as tightly as he could. The cracking, splintering sound of Clint’s esophagus collapsing into a mangled ball of cartilage rang out like a shot in the dimly-lit room.

 

The meat’s eyes rolled back in its head and the body began to convulse rhythmically, jerking and flopping between Adam’s powerful thighs as he straddled the dying punk.  All of Clint’s short, spunk-filled existence contracted into a blast of searing agony that boiled up out of his balls and shot out great strands of pearly boyseed, jetting straight up and raining back down on both the killer and his victim.

 

Grimacing with rage and effort, Adam kept throttling the corpse, feeling the meat convulsing in its death throes under him.  The punk’s load had splattered in his hair and down his back; some of it had even shot over his head and landed in the kid’s own face, where it pooled in his half-open eyes from which only the blood-streaked white peeked.  More boyspunk had fallen on the homo’s cheeks, where it blended perfectly with the foamy drool still leaking of the meat’s face.

 

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Adam muttered, “Nice piece a’ fuckmeat.”  Releasing the corpse’s neck, he reached down.  Looping his arms under the meat’s still-quivering legs, he brought them up, placing the ankles on his shoulders.  The strong alpha inserted his tool into the dead kid’s fuckhole and shoved.  Despite being flaccid in death, there still wasn’t enough elasticity in the sphincter to take the full girth of the top’s shaft.  Adam felt the ass muscle tear as he mounted the corpse.

 

The meat was still shuddering in its death throes as Adam pumped his rod deep into its guts.  Out of corner of his eye, he could catch a glimpse of its feet, resting on his shoulders.  The toes were curling; it was a mindless reflex, of course, the random firing of nerves as the last few functional brain cells died, but they seemed to be perfectly timed to Adam’s thrusts.

 

It was almost like the fagmeat was still alive.  Adam didn’t like that.  Without missing a beat, he reached around and grabbed the corpse’s crushed throat, digging his fingers into the spinal ridge in the back while placing his thumbs under the corner of the jaw.

 

As he fucked the meat, he applied pressure to his thumbs.

 

The alpha’s hard, sweat-soaked body pumped the dead homo brutally.  Adam could feel his balls drawing up, ready to fill the corpse with hot geysers of mansperm.  His breathing became labored and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he tried to delay his orgasm—then he gave in.

 

“Fuckin’-A!” he shouted, tightening his hands involuntarily as his muscled form shuddered violently in physical release.  There was a faint cracking sound, barely audible over Adam’s deep, orgasmic grunts and the corpse went rigid; for a brief moment, the slack dead intestinal muscles tightened around Adam’s throbbing, shooting tool before lapsing back into limp death, this time irretrievably.  The buff killer had literally popped the meat’s skull off its spine when he shot his wad.

 

Sighing with sexual satisfaction, Adam held his position for a little longer, his still-oozing dick buried in the corpse.  When he finally stopped shuddering in ecstasy, he pulled out and stood at the foot of the bed, his chest and sides heaving as his breathing gradually slowed back to a normal pace.  Abruptly, he turned and headed for the bathroom.  He needed a shower.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the bedroom, pulling on his jeans a slipping back into the green button-down.  He didn’t put the Flight Falcons back on, though; he slipped the hightops into his gym back—along with the dead boy’s Under Armor shorts.  They looked like they’d fit him.  He laced the fuckmeat’s Nike Zooms onto his own feet before zipping up the back and heading towards the door.

 

Just before stepping out of the room, he turned for a final look back.  The dead fag was splayed out on the bed, hands near the head with the fingers curled in final death agony.  The body wasn’t twitching anymore; the neck snap had taken care of that.  The abuse and violence inflicted on the sexy, unfortunate youth was as obvious as the fact that his corpse had been violated after death.

 

With a huge, self-satisfied grin, Adam left the room.  He hung the “do not disturb” tag on the door on his way out, wondering how long it’d take for the punk’s boss to get pissed off enough to come looking for him.  The meat would be nice and stiff by time it was found.

M4M4Rent

It had been too long, and there was too little online.  Joe was frustrated and horny.  He was also uneasy; there were things going on…

 

Specifically, there had been a couple of fags snuffed recently that he’d had nothing to do with.  That bar back from Mack’s, that had the air of an amateur—twink was probably offed by a jealous boyfriend, or something.  The other one, though—that construction dude in the old Androy Hotel—that was something else.  That was someone who knew what he was doing.

 

So Joe had been worried, and he’d laid low a bit.  Turned out, he wasn’t the only one; when his hormones built up and he felt the need to drain the semen from his aching, overfilled balls, he found little to choose from while trolling on the hookup apps.

 

That was when he spotted the ad.

 

“19yo looking for gen daddy who can top me  5’10”, 145.  work out daily so you gotta be tough and buff enough to handle me  can’t host  cash only”

 

If the pickings had been better, he might have ignored it—he damn sure wasn’t gonna pay for the privilege of fucking the slut, and things could get tricky if the cash was asked for up front—but Joe was feeling the need to unload badly, so he responded to it anyway.

 

After all, wasn’t like the whore was gonna be able to spend a dime by the time Joe was done with him.  But he’d need to get a room somewhere; he wasn’t gonna waste meat in his own home.  You don’t shit where you eat.

 

“Powerful daddy, 32, 6’5”, 185.  I can bang ya all night long.  Can’t host either, know a place we can go?”  The message was accompanied by a body shot; the pic only showed Joe’s ripped, hairy abs and bulging pecs.

 

It was enough.  The reply was immediate.

 

“cum get me and we’ll work it out.  U no curley’s bar on olive st?  meet me @ back door in alley 20 mins ok?”  This one had the boy’s pic.

 

He certainly looked no older than nineteen, if that.  The photo was a nude, from the head to the knees; it showed a dark-haired youth with a slim but muscled body.  His smooth, creamy skin was unblemished.  His broad, almost innocent face had large blue eyes and a dark smudge on the upper lip that appeared to be an attempt at a mustache.

 

Below the waist, a long, glistening cock jutted proudly from a black tangle of pubic hair.  Kid had no qualms about putting it out there, that was for certain.  He knew how to market himself.

 

Tonight, he’d done it perhaps a bit too well.

 

Joe knew Curley’s; it was a gay piano bar, somewhat run-down these days, which catered to old queens with pretensions to money and culture.  It should have been a happy hunting ground for someone like this little slut; he musta struck out tonight for some reason.

 

Joe smiled.  Given the chance, he was gonna make sure the kid was struck out for good.  But he still needed a kill pit.  He wasn’t coming back here, and he didn’t wanna blow any cash on a motel room.  Well, as the whore said, it’d get worked out.

 

Joe slid his thick, muscled legs into a pair of tight black jeans before slipping on his eight-inch tall Timberland Classic boots, leaving them untied and loosely laced.  Pulling a khaki-green compression t-shirt over his head, he stood in front of the mirror and admired the way it highlighted his huge chest and washboard abs.  He made sure his own shoulder-length black hair was in place before heading out the door.

 

Within five minutes, he was in the driver’s seat of his classic Camaro, heading south towards Olive Street with the T-tops open.  It was a pleasant evening, and Joe was up for some fun.

 

There was still some traffic on Olive Street, but the side street was empty and the alley behind the bar was absolutely deserted—except for a lone figure, standing in the garish orange glow of a streetlight, smoking a cigarette.  Joe recognized the dark-haired youth from his face pic.  The kid was wearing a day-glo yellow t-shirt that clung to his well-built torso like a glove; the shirt was advertising some bodybuilding organization.

 

The little slut was clearly on the make—his low-slung skinny jeans in faded denim barely cleared his waist, letting skin flash between the bottom of the t-shirt and the beltline of the jeans.  This let the boywhore show off the tramp stamp tattoo on the small of his back just above his firm, well-rounded asscheeks.  The belt itself was thick black leather, pierced with dozens of flat, square studs.

 

On his feet, the kid sported what appeared to be a pair of black and white hightops with red laces—they were actually a pair of Asics JB Elite wrestling shoes.  Like the rest of his outfit, they were worn with the idea of attracting attention to his body, and they did the trick well.

 

Joe pulled the car up to him.  The kid approached and leaned into the window.  “You the dude from the app?” he asked, his voice slightly slurred.  Alcohol wafted on his breath.  Joe nodded, hoping the boy wasn’t too drunk to enjoy the ride.

 

“Cool,” the kid said, “Name’s Connor.”  Walking around the car, he opened the passenger door and hopped in.  “So, you gotta place we can go?”

 

“No,” Joe said evenly.  “Can’t go back to my place; the ol’ lady got home early.”

 

“Goddam!  Well, fuck…” Connor spat out.  “Shit, ya got money for a motel room?”

 

“Depends on how much you want for yourself,” Joe replied.

 

The whore paused to think, his large blue eyes narrowing, giving his face an almost feral look as he glanced at Joe, obviously considering how much he could get away with asking for.

 

“Dude, I get a hundred an hour,” he said at last, watching Joe carefully for a hint as to how his outrageous demand had been received.

 

The alpha killer smiled calmly; he’d been expecting something similar.  Little fucker was delusional—but Joe could work with that.  “Ok,” he said.  “Two hours.  But for that, no, I don’t got cash for a room.”

 

Connor’s face lit up, then fell a bit.  “Ok, I’ll take ya back to my place.  But it’s a shithole.  Don’t judge me by it, ok?  I got plans, bro—big plans.  You watch; yer gonna see me on the news some day.”

 

“Fine,” Joe said, shifting the Camaro into drive, “Now, which way?”

 

“Right onto Ransom Street and back out to the highway.  I’m in a place over on Willow Falls.”

 

Joe knew the area—cheap, run-down apartments and by–the-week motels.  Connor’s place turned out to be the former.

 

The apartment complex called itself “The Lakes” by virtue of a trash-filled ditch that functioned as runoff for a nearby creek.  It had rained yesterday, so the ditch was full—Joe couldn’t help but notice as Connor led him towards a building in the rear that faced the ditch.

 

It was a low, two-story building, about fifty years old.  All doors opened out onto the front; those on the second floor accessible by a balcony reached by an iron staircase at each end.  Connor’s was on the ground floor, third from the end.  Joe noticed how few lights were on in the building as a whole.

 

“Toldja it was a shithole,” Connor muttered.  “They ain’t renewing anyone’s leases—think I was the last person to sign a new one.  Plan on tearin’ the place down, I hear…”

 

With that, he unlocked the door and led the way inside, where it was even more of a shithole than outside.  A two-room apartment with a tiny kitchenette at one end of the front room and a bathroom at one of the back room.

 

The front room was furnished with a cheap futon; the mat was torn and leaking stuffing.  There was a warped particle board side table with a lamp and a cigarette-burn-scarred coffee table on which a Nintendo game console sat.  Facing it was a large flat-screen TV, easily the most expensive item in the apartment.

 

That assessment didn’t change when Joe saw the back room.  Under the pitiless, barren glare of a solitary overhead lightbulb, a single mattress was on the floor, completely bare.  There did seem to be a set of sheets, though, in a pile of apparently dirty laundry spilling out of the closet.  On the floor next to the bed was another lamp, a mate to the one in the living room.  The shade and bulb were missing.  By the lamp was an overflowing ashtray.

 

A tiny doorless room in the corner held the toilet and bathtub; the rest of the end of the room was taken up with the sink vanity with the mirror above—it reflected most of the smallish room.

 

Joe looked around in disgust.  The air reeked of stale cigarette smoke and boysweat.  Connor caught the look.  “It’s hard to get to the laundromat, an’ I don’t have a car.  Can’t use the laundry room here, man, the spics an’ niggers will steal all my threads.”

 

“Yeah?  Well lessee what ya look like outta yer threads, boy,” Joe replied, reaching down to the hem of his compression tee and pulling it up over his head.  Connor stiffened; even though he’d seen Joe’s fantastic physique in the body pic he’d gotten, the sight of that furry, muscular torso, already glistening with sweat in the warm bedroom, in real life was intensely erotic.  As the rentboy slipped off his own shirt, revealing his smooth firm chest, well-built but not bulked out like Joe’s, he already knew he wanted the older stud’s cock, bad.   But first, he wanted his money.  He whipped out his hard, throbbing cock.

 

“Cash up front, dude, or ya don’t get to touch the goods.  Ya gotta pay ta play, bro,” Connor said.  He’d always asked for payment in this manner, casual and cocky.  He twerked his hips briefly, letting his long dick bob about in the open air, as an enticement.

 

He had no idea of the nightmarish violence his usual request was about to unleash.  As usual, it started with an incredibly stupid move on the part of the slut.

 

Joe had turned around, seeking a clean spot to toss his compression t-shirt.  It took a sec; there weren’t many options.  Finally spotting a clear area on the floor, he bent over and let the shirt drop—and felt a simultaneous tug on his back pocket.  The one he kept his wallet in.

 

The buff, hulking alpha immediately stood up straight and turned around.  The slim but well-built boywhore had slipped Joe’s wallet out of his pocket and was rifling through it.  Spotting a wad of cash in the bill compartment, he yanked them out and pocketed them before turning back and glancing at the ID.

 

Connor’s eyes widened.  “Holy shit,” he said, “Is your name really—”

 

He never completed the sentence.  Joe’s rage was instant and overwhelming; he rabbit-punched the rentboy in the jaw, splitting his lip and sending him reeling.

 

Connor staggered back, dropping the wallet and clutching his face, his blue eyes wide with shock—he’d had no idea the blow was coming.  Tears running down his face, he looked up at Joe.  “Wha—what the fuck, dude?!?”

 

Joe’s eyes glittered with a dangerous, angry light.  “You tryin’ to steal from me, faggot?  You got no idea how big a fuckin’ mistake you just made.  You will, though.  By the time with you, you’ll know exactly how bad you just fucked up.”

 

Connor’s reaction was different than most of Joe’s prey.  Perhaps his physique inspired him; he was more toned and much more muscular than most of his johns—he was used to getting his way.

 

He got angry.  It was like putting out a fire with gasoline.

 

“You owe me, you sonovabitch!” he shouted petulantly.  “You want this body, asshole?  Then pay for it—now!”

 

The cold killer noted with amusement that despite getting punched in the face, the homo whore was willing to continue, as long as he got paid.

 

“I don’t pay,” Joe said calmly, stepping forward and wrapping his huge hands around Connor’s biceps.  “You, though—yer gonna pay, faggot.  Yer gonna pay hard, you thieving little sack of shit.”

 

In one single, swift moment of brutal violence, the powerful sadist lifted the unsuspecting cocksucker in the air by his arms, and turning on his heel, flung the punk across the room into the vanity.

 

It happened so fast, Connor didn’t realize what was going on.  He screamed in pain as he impacted the mirror and shattered it, before falling onto the vanity.  The tap on the sink tore into his flat, smooth belly before he rolled off and landed breathless on the floor.

 

He didn’t have time to catch his breath before Joe was on him again.  “Worthless pansy scum,” the alpha hissed before snatching the moaning rentboy by the arms and hurling him through the air again, into the bathroom.

 

This time, the impact was more intense.  Snagging the shower curtain and tearing the rod from the wall, Connor slammed into the tiled wall and fell into the hard, unforgiving fiberglass bathtub.  There was a momentary blast of agony, and the boywhore was knocked out.

 

He was only unconscious for a few moments.  It wasn’t long enough for Joe’s anger to subside.  He was dragging the limp boymeat out of the bathroom when it began to shudder and moan, as consciousness slowly and painfully flowed back in.  The enraged sadist dropped Connor to the floor and stood, towering over him.

 

Sure, he’d been planning on snuffing the faggot, but that woulda been a nice slow strangle.  This fucker—he had to pay.  Presumptuous little cocksucker had swiped his wallet and seen his ID.

 

No one had done that before.  A lesson needed to be taught here—not of course, that the pupil would benefit by his knowledge.  As soon as he learned what he needed to, he’d die.

 

The boy’s large blue eyes blinked open.  A large bruise was rising on his cheek where he’d hit the tile in the bathroom.  Another, caused by the vanity faucet, discolored his abdomen.  He closed his eyes again, groaned loudly, and then looked dazedly up at his assailant.

 

There was still some fight in him.  “Du-dude…” he uttered painfully, “Wh-when I g-g-get back onna my feet, I’m gon-gonna fuck ya up so b-bad…”

 

“No you’re not, ya piece of cumsucking shit,” Joe snarled.  “Wanna know what yer gonna do?  Yer gonna beg for your wasted life as I put the beatdown on ya, rape yer sorry ass and waste ya.”

 

Stooping down, he wrapped his huge hands around the teen’s throat and lifted him into the air.

 

Connor found himself dangling, hanging from his neck.  He instantly grabbed at Joe’s hands, trying to pry himself free of their choking, crushing grip.  Young and strong as he was, he was no match for the experienced killer—even with all his strength, he couldn’t move so much as a single one of the alpha’s fingers.  Worse, his air was cut off.  He’d been too groggy to process Joe’s words when they were uttered, but now the full import hit him like a ton of bricks.

 

He was gonna be murdered.

 

Connor panicked.  He’d always been the strongest and most fit of the small clique of rentboys he hung with; he always been far and away stronger and more fit that his johns.  This was the first guy he’d come across who could take him—and suddenly, he was taking him out.

 

The slut went feral.  He reached out, clawing, towards Joe’s face; too short to reach, he ended up clutching helplessly at the killer’s bulging biceps and triceps.  As his legs jerked and flailed, his bladder voided involuntarily, piss splattering on his jerking wrestling kicks.  Joe chuckled, then spat into the boy’s swelling, darkening face.  “Oh no you don’t, whore,” he jeered, “No nice easy choke-out for you.  I gotta beat some sense into ya, motherfucker.”

 

Connor had brief sensation of violent motion.  The hulking alpha had let go of his throat, but just as the cunt tried to draw a needed lungful of air, he was hit with a shattering blast of pain.

 

Joe had rammed Connor straight through the closet door, snapping the kid’s left humerus, the bone in the upper arm.  The battered, bleeding faggot found himself huddled on a pile of clothes, semi-conscious and moaning.  It was dark, except for the light coming through the large, Connor-sized hole in the cheap, hollow-core door.

 

Suddenly, a shadow fell across him.  Protectively holding his arm, mewling from the sharp agony of a broken bone, the boywhore turned his large, tear-filled blue eyes up and caught sight of Joe’s eyes staring right back at him through the mangled door.  The eyes of the buff killer were also blue, but they glittered with a cold sadistic light.  Even though Connor was in shock and in full mental retreat from the nightmare that his current reality had become, he still recognized the gleam of homicidal lust.

 

When Connor lost his shit this time, he pissed all over his dirty laundry.  This time, he drained himself; when he was done, the pile of clothes reeked of more than just sweat.  He scrambled off the sodden pile, cowering and gibbering in the corner of the closet as Joe tore the remainder of the door form its hinge and paced inexorably towards him.

 

As much as he consciously blocked the thought, Connor knew the approach of death when he saw it.  He was young and strong, but this towering slab of solid, hairy man-muscle was much more powerful than he was, and he knew it.  “No…” he whimpered as Joe approached slowly, menacingly.  “Please, no…don’t, bro, don’t do this…I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry, just please don’t hurt me no more…”

 

Joe was grim and silent as he bent down and grabbed a handful of the whoreboy’s hair.  Yanking viciously on it, he dragged Connor, moaning and crying, to his feet and led him out of the closet like a dog on a leash.  The buff young slut staggered out and fell to his knees again.

 

“Please—” he started.  He had time enough to get just the one word out before Joe hoisted him into the air by his throat again.  This time Joe held the thrashing punk up at his eye level—with a single hand.  The muscles of his upper arm, already glistening with sweat, bulged with the strain of keeping the kid aloft.

 

“Lookitya, ya stupid faggot,” the cruel killer hissed, his face suddenly lit with a brutal, unholy glee.  “Y’know what?  You’re gonna die tonight.   And it’s gonna hurt, you worthless sack a’ shit.”

 

To emphasize his point, Joe drove a roundhouse punch directly into Connor’s face, as hard as he could.  There was a loud squelching sound as the rentboy’s nose was smashed into a pulp of crushed cartilage.   The powerful sadist drew his arm back again; the next blow was rewarded with a loud crunch as the teen’s cheekbone snapped.

 

With his esophagus closed off, Connor had no way to protest; using his good right arm—his broken left dangled uselessly—he could only claw at Joe’s thick, fur-covered arm as huge gray circles of shock formed around his wide, frantic eyes.  His face, already swelling and darkening with lack of oxygen, was now a mass of fiery pain.  A surge of panic shot through his smooth, muscled body, and he managed to catch hold of some of the skin on Joe’s arm.  Jerking quickly, the kid managed to scratch his assailant, drawing blood.

 

It was a bad move.

 

“You motherfucker!” Joe snarled.  Lifting Connor even higher, he rammed the boy down onto the floor, as hard as he could.

 

And then before Connor could catch his breath, he was introduced to Joe’s Timberland Classic boots—the hard way.

 

It was like the older man was trying to kick a field goal.  Joe relished the sounds of ribs snapping like twigs and Connor’s shriek of pain as fragments of broken bones tore through his guts like shrapnel.  “Now you’re feelin’ me, ya cumsuckin’ faggot,” he muttered with a twisted grin on his cruel, handsome face.

 

Then he placed his foot on Connor’s flat, heaving belly and put his weight on it, grinding the tread pattern of the boot sole into the boy’s soft, smooth flesh.  The punk screamed in pain as the hulking, hardbodied killer stomped down with all his force, putting his weight into it.

 

“Shaddup, ya stupid fuckin’ faggot,” Joe snarled, “You love this shit.  Lookitya, you goddam cocksucker, yer dick is hard as fuck.  You love gettin’ treated like the sack of fuckin’ garbage you are, ain’t that right?”

 

Connor’s turned his once-smug face, now a purple mass of bruised flesh, up to his attacker.  His eyes were so swollen he could barely open them; when he did, tears flowed uninterruptedly.  “Wh-why?” he gasped as he clutched at the rough brown leather of the muscled alpha’s work boot, his fingers tangling in the loose laces.  “Why, du-dude? Sorry…p-please, so…s-so sorry—”

 

Despite his blurred vision, Connor could see well enough to see the dangerous flash of rage in Joe’s eyes.  He gasped in terror, knowing he was looking death in the face  He was even able to realize that there was something else behind the rage…something like glee—or could that be lust…

 

He didn’t notice the flash of motion until the last second.  “No!” he screamed—it was the last coherent word he ever spoke.

 

The reinforced toe of Joe’s boot made impact with the boywhore’s chin with high velocity as he delivered a brutally swift kick.  The blow was devastating; Connor’s jaw shattered into three separate pieces.  The inarticulate screech that escaped his mangled mouth had an animalistic quality to it.  The “fight or flight” instinct kicked in involuntarily; the boy was clearly unable to fight his way out of the situation so, taking advantage of the fact that Joe’s boot was no longer pinning him down, he rolled over and began to scramble awkwardly with one arm towards the doorway.

 

As the fuckmeat twisted away, Joe noticed that the fucker’s cock was not only hard, it was glistening at the tip.

 

Watching the rentboy’s bubble butt flexing in the tight jeans, his tramp stamp gleaming under a sheen of sweat, Joe realized how badly his puckered, aching scrotum needed release.  His balls were overfilled with manseed and needed draining immediately.

 

Time to mount the meat.

 

Striding forward Joe reached out to grab Connor by the waistband of his jeans.   The badly beaten rentboy heard the thumping of Joe’s boots approaching from behind and threw himself forward; all Joe managed to grab was the thick studded belt.  Since it was already unbuckled, one end slipped free and Joe was left with nothing in his hands.

 

Connor reached the doorway and, grasping at the jamb, tried to regain his feet.  Despite the agony as the jagged ends of broken ribs slashed at his innards, the dazed teen whore hoped he’d be able to make the front door—it was only a few feet beyond…

 

That was when Joe caught him by the waistband and jerked him back from the doorway.  Pinning the struggling meat to the floor face-first, the horny alpha yanked the youth’s jeans down to his knees.

 

Then, crouching over the shrieking boywhore, Joe placed his thick, throbbing, ooze-smeared dickhead against the pink, fluttering sphincter and drove the pulsating shaft deep into Connor’s guts, penetrating the punk until his thick, wiry pubes were scratching the kid’s smooth asscheeks.

 

In spite of the agony of his battered body, broken arm, and pulverized face, this new ripping, slashing sensation in his rectum took precedence in Connor’s universe of pain.  It wasn’t as if he’d never been fucked before; he did that for a living.  But he’d never been so viciously impaled on such a huge rod of manflesh; no one who’d fucked him before had ever been this big—or this brutal about it.

 

The well-built teen punk screamed, the movement of his shattered jaw increasing his torment.  As he pawed helplessly at the thin, stained carpet covering his bedroom floor, his stunned mind was trying to comprehend how what started as a simple trick had ended in such horror, but he wasn’t really capable of sustained rational thought.  His thrashing, useless attempts to escape were purely involuntary.

 

The whoreboy’s hightop Asics wrestling kicks managed to grab a purchase on the carpet, but it did no good; Joe was pinning the meat to the floor.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but to fuckin’ hell,” Joe growled in Connor’s ear.  “You ain’t gettin’ offa my dick till you’re dead, cunt.  Does it hurt?  Good.  You better enjoy the pain, boy, cause when it stops, you’re dead.  Hear me, ya worthless homo?  As long as yer still in pain, yer still alive.”

 

As he rammed his massive shaft, writhing with veins like a log wrapped with barbed wire, into the critically injured teen rentboy, the buff alpha lowered himself to lay full length on the flailing kid.  Bending his head down so that his dark scruffy cheek scraped against Connor’s, Joe whispered into the squealing cumsucker’s ear.  “Ain’t gonna be long now, cockpig.  It’ll be over soon.  Gonna hurt ya one last time, then you’ll get to take a nice long dirt nap, pumped fulla my cum.  Fuck yeah, that’s whatcha want, ain’t it, faggot?  Yer dick’s still hard, you queer sack a’ shit, cause you know yer gonna die fulla my spunk.  Yer gonna get dumped like trash to rot with my sperm all up in yer guts…”

 

Connor heard the words, but physical shock had finally kicked in.  He could process the meaning, but his young, hard body, already full of testosterone and adolescent hormones, was suddenly flooded with adrenaline.  He shuddered violently, as much in chemical overload as in fear.  The older man was pumping harder and faster; his breath was becoming ragged—

 

Connor knew what was coming but had no way to brace himself against the onslaught of semen and pain he was going to be forced to endure; he could only wail aloud as a shriek of terror tore silently through his frantic mind.  He was gonna die.  It was gonna happen now.  No, it couldn’t, this couldn’t happen, he was just gonna meet a john to get banged real quick, he was gonna go hang with Stevie and Paulie later tonight…

 

Joe pulled himself back up on his knees, jerking Connor up with him, pulling the teen up onto his knees as well.  Connor’s right hand clawed aimlessly at the air, for just a moment.  Joe was panting, his rock-hard, sweat-soaked body smacking brutally and wetly against the abused teen.  His balls were aching so bad, he had to let go, it had to happen now…

 

It did.  As the first searing gush of manspunk hosed Connor’s guts, Joe reached around and grabbed the young faggot’s chin with one hand, placing his other hand on the back of the kid’s head and grabbing a hank of his black hair.  Then, with a single swift yank, the buff killer rotated the whoreboy’s head through a full one hundred and eighty degrees.

 

A loud sound like popcorn popping echoed in the room as five of Connor’s vertebrae shattered simultaneously, bone fragments slashing through his spinal cord.  The unfortunate youth could both hear and feel it; despite the damage to his nervous system, the cord was not completely severed.  Because of the powerful sadist’s straddling position, the slut’s wrestling shoes beat randomly against Joe’s Timberland boots.  An agonizing bolt like a lightning strike tore through the teen’s muscular body; an electrochemical blast that flipped a switch somewhere in cockpig’s balls.

 

As his neck was broken, Connor shot a huge deathload, a hot geyser of boyseed that jetted into the air to splatter back on both killer and victim.  Conner wasn’t dead yet, but he had no idea he’d shot the hottest, hardest, most intense load of his short, wasted life.  What he did have an idea of, though, was how much sexual pleasure the killer john had gotten from snuffing him.  To his utter horror, Connor most of his last few seconds on earth staring directly into the eyes of the man who’d killed him—as the dude was still cumming in his ass.

 

Joe held the twitching, mortally damaged teenager close, leering in orgasmic ecstasy into the wide, stunned blue eyes of the fuckmeat.  “Die, faggot,” Joe moaned gutturally, “Suffer and die…”

 

But Connor wasn’t dead.  As the last wad of jizz blasted out of his swollen shaft, he applied more pressure to the meat’s chin and twisted his head a further ninety degrees.  One last snapping sound, one last violent convulsion to milk the last drop of cum from Joe’s cock, and all Connor was aware of was loud white buzzing that appeared at the edges of his vision as the lights became too bright and I cant see oh dear god whats happening to me no wait—

 

The meat was still quivering as Joe withdrew his erect, still-oozing tool.  He walked to the vanity, admiring his body in the shattered remains of the mirror, the way the fur on his torso was swirled and sweat-matted.  He needed to clean it up, of course—there was a large hand towel that had fallen to the floor.  He picked it up, soaked it with hot (well, warm—and kinda brown) water from the sink, and wiped his entire body down.

 

Stuffing his enormous cock, still semi-hard, back into his jeans, Joe grabbed his compression t-shirt and slipped it back on, then stood over the quivering corpse, trying to make up his mind.

 

It wasn’t like Joe gave a shit about what happened with the meat when he was done with it, but lately there had been a lot of weird shit going on.  It was almost as if someone had been following him.  At any rate, he decided, there was nothing wrong with taking some precautions.

 

He looked around the room.  Hell, it looked abandoned as it was.  And the fagmeat had said they were only waiting for it to leave before tearing this place down.  Well, maybe Joe could do the owners a favor.

 

Turing off the light, Joe reached down and grabbed the twitching sack of dead flesh by the right wrist.  Striding towards the front door, he dragged Connor’s body behind him out of the apartment.  After all, it wasn’t like anyone was gonna miss the worthless cockpig.  When he got to the front door, he cracked it open and glanced out carefully.  He didn’t expect to see anyone, and he didn’t.

 

It was only fifteen steps to the ditch.  Joe lugged the still-jerking boymeat across a small patch of ground that was mostly dirt with sparse outcrops of crabgrass.  Connor’s Asics shoes—which he’d tightly laced on several hours ago, horny at the thought of getting fucked while wearing them—now carved trails in the bare soil as his corpse was dragged through the dirt to be dumped in a ditch.

 

Joe tossed the body, watching it hit the bank and roll limply down into the trickling stream of polluted water that seeped through the drainage ditch.  He stood for a moment, spit into the ditch, then turned and headed back to his car.

 

Once he was back on the highway, he was feeling the post-kill euphoria, when a bright flash in his rearview mirror caught his attention—and made him laugh aloud.  The flash had come from the sky, and the resounding crash of thunder practically rattled the car.  Pulling up the weather app on his phone, Joe was surprised at the size of the storm moving in—this one would produce hail.  The important thing, though, was the heavy rain that was approaching.

 

Who knew how far downstream the meat would be washed by morning?

Fantasy Scenario 18

 

The kid’s in his late teens, I think.  He’s walking away from me, so it’s kinda hard to tell.  I’d spotted him instantly; the guilty way he’d looked around before stepping into the dark alley was much more obvious than the little shit thought it had been.  He wasn’t in there long—it was empty.  I knew that because I’d already scouted it myself.

 

I was out on the hunt again.  It’s been a while; I had to clean house after my last kill.  That’s too cumbersome—I got a different place now for a killing pit.  For transport, I got another van.  I didn’t bother to carper the back; I laid down Astroturf.

 

I can take it out and hose it down.

 

I’ve been trolling the street for meat; there’s not much out.  It was a rainy day, but the clouds cleared at sunset.  For some reason, the rentboys stayed inside, so I decided I need to look elsewhere.

 

Which led me here—lotta drug traffic on this block, at times, but not tonight.  There’d been a raid here two days ago; it had been on the news.  It was a chance, but it paid off.  Some stupid white kid in from the suburbs, looking to get high.  Poor little fucker, he’s gonna get in trouble wandering around this neighborhood this time of night…

 

Maybe I can help him.

 

He’s wearing skinny jeans that cradle his firm ass and cling to his legs all the way down to his red and white Air Jordans.  Above the waist, he’s got on a red hoodie and—oddly enough—a red ball cap.  His hair is russet brown; I can tell by the sideburns that slope down to a thin line of facial hair that runs along the jaw line and that the punk evidently thinks is a beard.

 

Little boy pretending to be a man.  The aching stiffness in my groin makes me shift in my seat; my feet, tightly laced into black combat boots, shuffle eagerly on the floor.   I’m parked near the corner; starting the van, I swiftly pull up to him.  He turns to me, startled, his youthful face openly suspicious in a way that seemed to emphasize his true innocence.

 

After all, if he knew what I had planned for him, he wouldn’t be suspicious; he’d be terrified.

 

“You, uh, lookin’?” I ask him with a knowing leer.  “Whatcha want?”

 

Again, the kid glances furtively up and down the street before giving me the hairy eyeball.

 

“You a cop?” he asks.

 

“No, I ain’t a cop,” I replied.

 

“Cause I heard if you’re a cop and you get asked, you can’t lie,” he came back.

 

“Fuck, dude, I ain’t a cop,” I snapped.  “Ya want anything or not?”

 

Suddenly, he blushed and grinned.  “Sorry, man, I just—well, anyway, yeah.  I, uh, I was just hopin’ to score some weed and some coke.  Say, a half and a couple of eightballs?”

 

I grin at him.  “I got ya covered, dude.  Climb in.”  He hesitates, of course; he’s a stupid little fuck but he does have basic survival skills.  Let’s see how basic.

 

 

“C’mon, man, I ain’t got all night.  You don’t think I’m ridin’ dirty, do ya?  I don’t do my business out in the street.  I gotta place around the corner where you can get a little sample.”

 

The kid is clearly a newbie at this.  He actually falls for it; I’d expected a bit more of an argument.  When he opens the door, I can see by the dome light that his eyes are a dark hazel brown.  His smooth cheeks are lightly sprinkled with freckles and despite the thin line of fur on his jawline, I can see the dimple in his chin.

 

He climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door.  “We, uh, we gotta go far?” he asks, fastening the seatbelt.

 

“It’s just around the corner,” I reply, “No more than five minutes.  There’s a jay in the ashtray if ya wanna hit; it’s the same shit I’m sellin’.”

 

The boy snatched it up, digging a lighter out of his pocket.  His jeans are so tight, I can recognize the oblong shape of a pack of cigarettes still there.  He lit it and inhaled deeply, leaning back in the seat.

 

“You haven’t asked my prices,” I commented dryly.

 

The punk exhaled, filling the air with sweet smoke; I cracked the windows.  “As long as it’s reasonable, man.  Name’s Toby.  My bro Ernie’s gettin’ married this weekend—poor dickwad knocked that cunt Amy up, so he’s gotta marry her.  Asshole—he’s only a coupla months younger than me and now his life is all fucked up at age eighteen.  Anyway, we’re gonna give him one fuckuva sendoff with a kick-ass bachelor party.”

 

“So you’re in charge of gettin’ party supplies?” I ask, like I give a shit.  I’m gearing up to make a move I’ve been practicing for a while.

 

Toby takes another lung-busting hit off the joint.  This time, he at least has the presence of mind to exhale out the window; I don’t want the cab of my van reeking of weed.  “Some of ‘em,” he says slowly.  He turns languidly to me, his eyes red.  He’s stoned as fuck and I didn’t even lace this one.  “See, Chuck’s over 21, so he’s gettin’ th’ booze, an’ Dan’s gettin’ th’ pussy an’ Arnie’s lettin’ us use his basement—”

 

A line drive blow straight out from the left shoulder isn’t an easy move to perfect, and I don’t claim to have done so, especially given the results.  I put out the kid’s lights with a hefty, satisfying smack to the jaw; but in the end I should have pulled the punch a little.  Motherfucker went into the passenger window so hard he broke it.

 

I put the still-smoldering joint out in the ashtray and headed west.

 


 

 

I’d found this place some time ago, but I had to scope it out a while to make sure it was as isolated as it seemed.  A large warehouse property, it was the abandoned distribution center of a grocery chain that had withdrawn from the region over a decade before.  Technically for sale, the site was full of loading bays and storage areas that had become the hangouts of local gangs and the homeless.

 

One end of the massive building was left utterly deserted, though, and by its very nature could be sealed off and made soundproof.  It was a complex of industrial freezers at the north end of the structure; it was deserted to the point that it even lacked graffiti tags.

 

I switched off the lights as I pulled onto the property, driving around the back to the small loading bay on the north end.  It was little used as well and was a perfect place to conceal the van.  I only had to drag the unconscious meat a few dozen yards into the small freezer space I’d located and “decorated”.

 

It was no more than two hundred square feet; I have no idea what the original purpose was.  I strung up some lights, with a battery generator.  It’s an emergency power backup device, but it’ll work for my purposes.  Except for the ceiling, every surface of the room is covered with painter’s plastic—makes for easy clean-up.  Down the center of the ceiling runs a line of meat hooks.

 

In one corner is a folded, oversized TV tray, next to a small tool chest; as the name implies, I use the latter for my tools.  Dumping the boymeat on the metal-lined floor, I open the chest and retrieve a zip-tie.    Returning to the limp sack of boyflesh, I swiftly pull his hoodie—and the t-shirt he had on under—off over his head.  Leaving his jeans on, I bind the cunt’s hands in front of him.

 

Then I lift him up, slipping the plastic tie over the meat hook.  It’s perfect.  He dangles from his arms, the toes of his b-ball kicks swaying four inches above the metal floor.

 

And his ass is right at the level of my crotch.

 

His hat had fallen off in the van when he broke the window with his punk-ass head—stupid motherfucker.  His red-brown hair is short and wavy, somewhat matted with blood on the right side—the impact had broken the skin, but not badly.  He’s gonna suffer a lot more damage than that over the next hour.

 

Suddenly, he twitches and gives an almost inaudible moan.  His long eyelashes flutter; he’s starting to wake up.  I need to get into position.

 

I’d already removed my jacket and t-shirt outside the freezer.  My skin-tight jeans are tucked into my combat boots; I don’t wanna take them off.  And it doesn’t matter; this pair is old and stained with paint and grease, the denim worn thin in places.  They’re garbage.  Doesn’t matter if they get a few more stains.

 

I stand in front of the hanging fucktoy, my boots spread wide.  Reaching down and unzipping my fly, I hauled out my thick, pulsing hog, letting it dangle, semi-hard, between my legs.  I wait with my arms crossed across my hairy, muscled chest; I’ll be the first thing the little fuckwad sees when he wakes—which he does, almost immediately.

 

He groans loudly and my cock stiffens slightly.  His eyes open, but they’re rolled back.  He gurgles and chokes on his tongue momentarily, then jerks violently—and regains consciousness.

 

He looks at me, his eyes wide.  He’s confused and in pain.  “Wha…wha…”

 

I grin and fondle my cock.  He looks at me, then glances down at my groin.  His eyes widen.  “Dude, wh-what the fuck?” he quavers.  His eyes are bloodshot; he’s still high.  That’s ok; I’ll sober him up soon enough.

 

Silently, I step forward and begin fondling him.  He grunts and kicks wildly as I reach out and grab the crotch of his jeans, massaging the thick tube of flesh that even now seems to be getting a little hard.   “Get the fuck offa me, man; I ain’t no faggot!” he yells in angry denial.  Ignoring him, I run my hands up his smooth, firm chest.  His pecs and trapezius muscles were painfully elongated, causing his small dark nipples to thrust upwards.

 

He shudders under my hands.  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I got snatched by a fuckin’ pervert,” he snarls as I run my fingers through the wiry hair in his pits.  He’s already starting to sweat, not just from anxiety, but from the sheer physical stress of hanging by his arms.  “Lemme down!” he squawks.

 

I let go and step back, still grinning, still silent, before turning back to the tool chest.  “Ya hear me, motherfucker?!” the cunt shouts.  “Get back here, asswipe!  Get me down from here!”

 

Having retrieved what I want, I wheel back to him.  “That’s it, buddy,” he calls, “now get over here and—”

 

That was when he glanced down and saw that I was holding a knife.  He shut up quick.  Suddenly, he seemed to have a lot less desire to have me approach him.  Not that his desires matter; it’s mine that are gonna get satisfied tonight.  I need to let him know that—but first, I want him nude.  Walking behind him, I reach down and grab the Air Jordan shoe on his left foot.    I grip it tightly, expecting him to kick, but he doesn’t—he’s too intimidated.

 

“What ya doin’, man?” he whispers hoarsely, his voice tight with fear.

 

Again, I don’t say a word.  I insert the tip of the knife blade under the cuff of his jeans, above the left shoe, and slice upward, slitting the fabric cleanly up the back of his leg.  I keep going up to the waistband and cut through it, rapidly sawing through his belt.  It’s a Ka-Bar Bowie with a nine-inch serrated blade; it went through the inch of thin leather like it was paper.  Another slice up the other leg and the slut hung there, nude but for his kicks.

 

I walk back around to the front.  His large hazel eyes watch me anxiously.  I’m actually kinda impressed; he’s clearly a lower-middle-class teenaged punk—I’d’ve thought he’d already be crying and pleading to be let go.  Well, I can change that soon enough.

 

I need a staging area—I grab the TV tray and, setting it up, lay the knife on it.  Then I return to the tool chest.  The tray is positioned so that the boycunt can see it clearly, but just enough out of reach if he starts to kick.

 

I think he’s gonna kick.  Especially once I turn back with the item out I got out of the chest.

 

I hold it up to him; it glints in the light.  He looks at it, his long-lased eyes blinking slowly, like a cow’s.  He doesn’t get it—so I help him get it.

 

“It’s a staple gun,” I say.  It’s the first thing I’ve said since he’s regained consciousness; his eyes immediately snap to mine.  “I’m gonna hurt you with it.”

 

His face pales, making his freckles stand out.  He’s more confused than ever, so I help him out.  I step forward and, placing the staple gun against his firm, flat belly.  “Like this,” I say helpfully, and squeeze the handle.

 

With a loud “chunk”, the device slams an inch-long roofing staple through the kid’s smooth skin.  I was right about making the bitch kick; he squeals in pain and flails his legs.  The only sign of exterior damage, though, is the barely-visible glint of metal on the fucker’s heaving belly, from the ends of which two tiny trickles of blood leaked.

 

“Ya see, boy, I’m gonna rape yer ass,” I drawl casually.  The hanging boyfuck stops whimpering and gasps, but I keep on going.  “But a worthless little sack of shit like you—yer ass ain’t gonna get me off, bitch.  And I need to get off, bad.”

 

I leer cruelly at him; his brown eyes are huge as he stares at me in disbelief.  “Ya know what will get me off?  Making you hurt.  Before I fuck you and as I fuck you, I’m gonna hurt you.  I’m gonna fuck you up so goddam bad.  But ya know what the best part of all this is?”

 

He’s breathing deeply, but he flinches as I lean in close to his youthful, innocent face.  I want him to hear me as I whisper, “The best part is that yer gonna get off too.  I’m gonna put you in so much agony that yer gonna cum—and if ya don’t think I can do that, then ya better buckle up, cause I’m gonna prove it to ya, startin’ now!”

 

Balling up my fist, I slam it into the teen’s abs, a swift and powerful gutpunch directly on top of the staple.

 

The meat’s eyes and mouth both open wide, the latter a perfect O of shock and pain.  The breath rushes out of his lungs with a loud gurgling grunt as his lean form twists and kicks vainly in the air.  His red Air Jordans flail uselessly several inches above the ground as his long, thick hog slaps audibly against his smooth thighs.  I reach out and grab his cock, nimbly avoiding his jerking legs.  I stroke the teen’s meat as I swing the staple gun up and drive a pair of sharp metal prongs into his having flank.

 

He thrashes and squeals again—but there’s a reaction in his dick, too.  It was faint, but I could feel the punk’s semi-soft trouser snake throb slightly as he twisted in pain.

 

I knew it.  Moment I laid eyes on him, I knew the little fuck was into pain.  They all are, really, even the stupid little shits like this one who try to pretend they’re straight.  They’re just waiting for a real man to come along and dominate them.  And after all, what’s the ultimate show of power?  Making the victim suffer and die.  That’s what they want, what they crave in their sick souls—they wanna suffer and die.

 

I’m more than happy to oblige, of course.  I let the meat know.

 

“Ya like that shit, dontcha, faggot?” I sneer.  “Toldja so—yer dick is gettin’ hard in my hand.  Fuck, cunt, yer gonna love what I’m gonna do to ya—it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ night!”  Raising the staple gun to his chest, I slam one into the center of his stretched-out pecs.  Each time the thin metal points pierce his skin, he yelps in pain.

 

I step back for a moment to consider my next target.  That’s when he finally starts pleading.  “Stop it, man, please,” he sobs, his voice cracking with fear and distress, “Please, please, I’ll do anything ya want, just stop hurting me…”

 

“Will you?” I ask, grinning.  “Really?  Anything I want?”  Bending down, I pop a staple into the silky-smooth flesh of his inner thigh.  He shrieks.  “And what if I just wanna keep hurting you?  What if I just want you to keep hanging there like a good piece of fuckmeat while I torture you to death?”

 

Tears are streaming down his young, freckled-filled face; they dampen and darken the narrow line of fuzz that the punk pretends is a beard.  His long-lashed eyes are closed, though; he can’t bring himself to look me in the face.  “Y-you can fuck me…” he whispers so reluctantly it’s almost inaudible.  “I-I swear, ma-man, I won’t tell no one, if you’ll j-just lemme go…”

 

As I return to the tool box and get another toy, he breaks down and starts sobbing.  “P-please don’t k-kill me,” he gasps out between tears, “I prom-promise I w-won’t tell any-anyone about this—”

 

 

The sight of me and my toy cuts him off violently—it’s a set of brass knuckles.  I start with a line drive straight form my shoulder to right side of his chest; I can feel that the impact of my fist, amplified by heavy metal, is strong enough to shatter a couple of ribs, expelling a violent grunt of pain from the kid.

 

The meat stops crying and stares at me, his face darkening as he struggles to breathe.  I’ve knocked the air outta him and with those broken ribs, it’s gotta hurt to inhale.  He will eventually, of course; he has to.  As he struggles painfully in mid-air I stand and grin at him, holding up the brass knuckles for him to admire.

 

“Yeah, meat, bet that one got ya all horny, huh?  Hell fuckin’ yeah, boy, there’s a lot more where that came from.  And this is just foreplay, bitch; you ain’t suffered near enough to even get my dick hard yet, let alone to make me cum once I’m buried balls-deep in yer ass.  If yer a religious type, ya need to be thankin’ Jeebus for thowin’ you in my path, cause I’m gonna purge you with pain and fuck you into eternity on a violent, agonizing sea of cum!”

 

He loses it; shrieking and kicking, he thrashes like a wild man.  I knew this point would come—this is why (and where) they need tenderizing.  Managing to keep away from his flailing legs, I rain blow after blow on his lithe, nude, twisting body.  I’m punching him hard enough to do internal damage; even as he screams in panic, he has to grunt in pain as the physical pain overrides the mental terror while I pound his smooth, wiry abdomen.  I snap another rib on his right side; I’m amazed that I haven’t punctured his lung yet.

 

He’s young and strong; his panic is powerful.  Body blows aren’t getting his attention.  I focus on his face.

 

The first blow snaps a cheekbone; the second crushed his nose.  I can feel the cartilage crunch under my fist.  It works; he quiets down and simply dangles there, whimpering and sobbing softly.  I still want to smash his beautiful young face to hamburger and have to restrain myself from shattering his jaw.  But I’m still a long ways form being done with him, and I still wanna hear him bleat and squeal.

 

“That’s it,” I tell him, “Now you’re startin’ to get it.  You’re just gonna hang there and accept whatever I do to you.  You’re nothing but fuckmeat, strung up in a meat locker and ready for butcherin’.  Ya feel me, boy?  Ya get what I’m sayin?  Here and now, I own yer ass and I’m gonna do what I wanna with you.  As of now, your only purpose on this planet is to make me cum—and the only way you’re gonna do that is to suffer.  How long you live depends on how much you can endure, but know this—the rest of your short, worthless life is gonna be nothing but horrific, nightmarish pain—and my cock.  These will be the only two things in your universe for the rest of your life.”

 

I reset the tray within easy reach as I step behind the kid.  At the height he’s hanging, his ass is perfectly lined up at my groin; I don’t need to adjust anything at all.  My cock is full erect by now; the swollen purple head is glistening with precum.  It’s all the lube the boycunt is gonna get.

 

I probe his fuckhole with my shaft, feeling the tight resistance of his sphincter against my firm mushroom tip.  Oh fuck yeah, this meat’s deep in the closet; no one’s been up here yet.

 

“Savin’ yerself for me, huh?” I whisper in his ear as I reach around his slim, slick torso and pull him close.  I can smell his rank, fear-laden boysweat, thick with adolescent pheromones as I press my muscled chest to his back and slowly tear apart his straining ass muscle, penetrating the sobbing youth remorselessly.  “Ain’t gonna help ya, bitch; it’s only gonna make this hurt so much worse.  But I fuckin’ love rippin’ virgin boycunts open, faggot; this is gonna be yer first, last and best assfuck ever.”

 

He screams as I give a sudden violent thrust; my shaft scrapes against his rectal lining, causing an excruciating internal tear, before my long, vein-wrapped rod plows into his prostate.

 

Slipping my other hand around to the punk’s crotch, I find that the prostate impact has had its usual result; the fuckmeat’s cock is hard as a rock.  It’s an almost involuntary reaction to a nice internal prostate massage.  The head of my dick keeps traveling deep into the boy’s velvety guts, but as long as the throbbing length of my shaft presses against that gland, I can keep the meat erect, no matter what I do to him.

 

He still doesn’t like it, though. He hasn’t accepted his rightful place on my cock; he squeals like a pig and clenches his arms.  His biceps and triceps aren’t huge, but I can see them bulge as the teen punk tries desperately to raise himself up off the impaling shaft of my dick.

 

“Aw, no, cunt,” I bark, “Where ya tryin’ to run to?  Ain’t no way you’re gettin’ off my cock, ya stupid sack a’ shit—this is where yer gonna die.  Get used to ridin’ my rod, motherfucker, yer gonna be doin’ it for the rest of yer suck-ass life!”

 

He snaps.  The terror and the agony are too much for him.  “No!” he screams.  “Lemme down! Get offa me!  Get the fuck outta me, asshole!  Get the—URK!”

 

As he yelled, I reached down, snatched the Ka-Bar, and rammed it into his flank on the right-hand side.  He chokes on his shout as the pain overwhelms him, but I’ve been kind. I didn’t sink all nine inches of the blade into his lean, lithe abdomen; I only sank the carbon-steel knife in to a depth of five inches.

 

All I did was slash open his intestines and maybe pierce his spleen.  Theoretically survivable, if he gets help in time.

 

He won’t get help in time.

 

But he’s still a long way from death.  The teenaged punk is alive and kicking—and responding to the pain.  “Oh yeah, that’s it, fuckmeat,” I whisper in his ear, letting him know what a real man’s beard feels like, scratching his cheek as I lean forward to taunt him.  “Yer guts tighten up around my cock so fuckin’ good when I stick ya.  Fuckin’ deathpig—all you hot little twinks, huh?  Just waitin’ for the right man to come along, stuff ya fulla dick and put ya down like the garbage ya are, huh?  You’re such a lucky cumdump—tonight yer gonna get it, ya hear?”  I jerk the blade back out, quickly, and hold it up in front of his face as he shrieks and his taut, lean body shudders in my arms.  “Lucky little deathpig is gonna get pumped fulla long lard manshaft and long hard manshank—I wonder which one is gonna make you cum hardest, huh?”

 

He gasps and kicks, the heels of his b-ball kick drumming into my shins; it’s annoying as fuck.  “Calm down, meat,” I hiss and flip the blade around, driving it deep into his belly.  “HOOG!” he yells, adding to his repertoire of inarticulate cries.  Again, I don’t shove it in up to the hilt—this time, more outta self-preservation.  If I’d stuck it all the way in, it’d have come out his back and stuck me.

 

Which isn’t to say it won’t get shoved into the tender young boyflesh up to the hilt at some point; just not yet.  After all, I haven’t hit anything vital yet.  I can still play with the teen meat for a while yet.

 

And besides, it feel so good on my engorged tubesteak.  His warm, satin-smooth colon wraps around my cock and squeezes like a hand every time I stick the blade in…

 

…it’s almost like his ass is responding to him getting fucked by the blade.

 

Oh, this really is a sick little pervert.  Teenaged deathpig out lookin’ for party supplies—ha!  He’s havin’ the party of his fuckin’ life now.  Bet the faggot ain’t high no more.

 

Well, maybe he’s high on life—what little he’s got left.

 

I yank the blade back up, again holding it upright in front of his face. “Look at it, meat,” I whisper, nuzzling his shuddering head again.  “See those pink bits dangling from the serrations on the blade?  That’s your guts, bitch.  That’s what yer insides look like.”

 

He moans breathily, then, unexpectedly, speaks.  “Toby,” he moans, “My name…Toby…”

 

Little piece of shit is trying to establish an emotional connection by telling me his name.  “Meat doesn’t have a name, asswipe,” I remind him.  To drive the point home, I stick him again, this time on the left side.

 

He bleats like a dying lamb.  Helplessly impaled on my cock, he thrashes vainly as I twist the knife in the wound, grinding a massive hole in his liver.  Not enough to make him bleed out, but enough to make the cunt go rigid with shock from major organ trauma.

 

“What’s yer name, meat?” I hiss, reaming the blade in his side as he rides my cock.  “What’s yer fuckin’ name, huh?”

 

He gasps and grunts, but doesn’t answer.

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” I jeer.  “You’re nothing but a sack of boymeat.  You’re only here to suffer so I can cum.  You’re gonna drain my cock and die, you worthless fucker.  I’m gonna use you as my personal cumrag and throw you out after like the garbage you are, you got it?  Yeah?  You got yer place in the general scheme of things now, deathpig?”

 

The boy trembles and sobs, a low whimpering sound, as I run my hands down his chest.  I’ve left the blade in the wound; it bobs back and forth as I continue to pound the punk’s asshole.  I hold him to me, his back pressed against my chest, the slick boysweat forced from his young body matting the fur on my thick, broad pecs.  My nipples get hard as he writhes against me, his smooth skin slipping over them as if lubed.

 

And all the time, he’s working my cock.

 

Poor boy, he’s in so much agony.  He leans his head back as I fuck him mercilessly so I can see his pain-wracked face, taut and gray with shock.  His thin line of facial fur tangles in my scruff and he inadvertently nuzzles my cheek as he begs.

 

“P-please…” he moans weakly, “S-stop…no-no more…fuck, g-god, no more…any-anythin’, du-dude, just…just please fuckin’ stop…”

 

“You ain’t made me cum yet, cunt,” I murmur in his ear.  “You don’t stop sufferin’ until I’ve emptied my load in yer guts—ya feel me, cumdump?”  I prod him in the back with the blade—not badly; I only sink the blade in a couple of inches.  He stiffens and gasps.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” I tell him, “That’s what I’m looking for.  See what I mean, bitch?  Every time I stick ya, yer ass gets all nice and tight.  So I gotta keep pokin’ ya till I blow my load.  If ya live long enough, I’ll make you cum too.  It’ll hurt like all fuck, bro, but I promise you—you’ll never shoot a bigger wad in yer life!”

 

He keeps struggling, his slender body thrashing against mine as his Air Jordan hightop kick futilely at my shins.  He’s jerking his arms, his delts and triceps bulging pitifully as he desperately tries to pull himself up off my thick, throbbing shaft.

 

“Where ya think yer goin, motherfucker?” I jeer.  “Still think yer gonna run away my cock, huh?  Only escape from my pulsing manmeat is death. Get it, fag?  You ain’t gettin’ off my dick till you’re dead.  Take it, you stupid sack of shit, just accept my cock and make me cum.  Once my hot seed fills yer guts, I promise the pain will stop.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

The tortured, abused teen moans in despair.  His lithe, lean body slips and slides along mine as he still vainly tries to release himself from the horrible impaling pain of his virgin buttfuck.  Fuckin’ idiot, he still doesn’t get it—but he reacts so well to pain.

 

I wrap one hand around him, sliding it up his blood-smeared chest to his mouth.  I can feel his lips working against my palm as he continues to beg and plead silently for his worthless life.  “Fuckin’ teenaged meat,” I mutter contemptuously.  “Always has to learn the hard way.”  I ram the blade into his back, this time up to the hilt.  It slashes on a downward angle though his lean, tender flesh like a carving knife through rare roast beef, ripping right through his kidney before it emerges from the lower right quadrant of his abdomen, just above the pelvis.

 

Once again, major organ trauma has a magical effect on the cumpunk’s asshole.  Fuck, if they could control their colons this well voluntarily, I wouldn’t need to snuff them…

 

…well, no.  Worthless painpig cumdump, they all need to die, preferably in horrible agony, with my dick up their asses.  Like this one.

 

“Hey, cunt,” I whisper in his ear as he shudders violently and rigidly, his rectum squeezing my cock to tightly, I need a lot of self-control not to cum right now.  “Yer gettin’ me close, boy.  Think I’m gonna spunk soon.  Gonna anoint yer worthless guts with my potent manseed, yeah?  You ready, fuckmeat?  You ready to feel my sperm ticklin’ yer innards?  It’s almost time to make you into my personal cumrag.  Gonna make you into meat, boy, gonna make you into fuckin’ meat!”

 

I lower my hand from his mouth to his dick.  Of course it’s still hard; with my own enormous tool plugging his colon and pressing on his prostate, he physically can’t go soft.  No matter how much pain and terror he’s experiencing, his seven-inch cock remains involuntarily erect and pulsing.  As I slip my hand over the purple, spongy, engorged head, his precum smears over the palm.

 

I use it as lube while I jack his teen dick.

 

He responds, his body going rigid again, pressing back against me—whether in resistance or pleasure, I can’t tell, but he rides my shaft rhythmically, squeezing his sphincter as it slides along every vein-wrapped inch.

 

I beat his oozing tool, feeling his hard young body trembling in my arm as his ragged breathing speeds up.  Bleeding and in excruciating pain, the meat is still so full of adolescent hormones that he’s leaking a steady stream of precum.

 

This is why I like ‘em young.  Horny little fucker—even in mortal agony, he relaxes into my arms, letting me jack him off.

 

I don’t want him relaxed.  I want him tight on my rod.  He moans and stiffens slightly—not enough.  He’s about to cum, but I ain’t quite there yet.

 

“Die, you worthless piece of faggot shit,” I snarl, and slam the Ka-bar knife horizontally through his throat.

 

It’s what he needs, what he wants.  As the cold steel blade slashes through his larynx, he makes a high-pitched shriek, the death-squeal of a true pain pig.  His body, already traumatized, goes into shock; his strong young muscles snap into a rigid rictus of agony.

 

His ass tightens like a cockring around my pulsating shaft.  I can feel my balls boiling over, the hot strong squirts of my manseed flooding the dying teen’s rectum.  “Aw fuck!” I yell and slice the knife forward, sawing my way out of the cunt’s throat from the inside, “Die, motherfucker, die!”

 

I’m holding the knife in one hand—I’m still beating him off with the other.  As my blade rips open his throat, sending spurts of hot, coppery blood across the room, I can feel a massive spasm in his cock.  He’s blowing his death load so fucking hard, I can see it shooting up like a pearly geyser over his shoulder.  His steaming deathwad splatters back on my face as the teenager’s final convulsions clench my dick and his ass seems to literally suck my scrote dry.

 

I’m kinda out of it for a few minutes as I empty my pent-up load into the shuddering boycorpse still dangling by the hands and impaled on my dick.  The quivering meat is soaked in agonized deathsweat, his russet hair dark and matted, individual beads of perspiration still trickling from his rank pits—just as pink, frothy blood leaks from his slashed throat and translucent beads of jizz are still dripping from his purple head.  Even dead, he’s still leaking his bodily fluids.

 

Sighing deeply, I step back, my still-hard cock popping up as I pull out of the dead kid’s ass, spattering my oozing spunk everywhere.  I use the boy’s t-shirt to wipe my dick off, then replaced all my toys back in the tool chest.  Well, all the ones I’d taken out.

 

Getting myself dressed, I go out to my van—and drove home.  I’m tired, I need sleep…and I want the meat to stop bleeding.  I’ll come back for it tomorrow.  Who know?  I might not be done with it, if it ain’t too ripe when I get back.

 

And besides, I need to get the passenger window fixed.  Stupid piece of fuckin’ meat, I was too easy on him.  I shoulda really hurt ‘im…

Leather Pig Snuff

It started as a chance encounter, a shared elevator ride that lasted no more than forty-five seconds, but it changed the outcome of the evening for the two men involved.

 

The hotel was packed, of course; while the crowd at LFF—LeatherFetishFest—was tiny compared with that of, IML or Southern Decadence, there was still plenty of action to be had over the three-day weekend and the hospitality suites on the top floor were continually busy.

 

That was where David was coming from.  It was the last night of the con and he’d been scoping out the hot manmeat in the party suites.  Now it was after midnight, and even though the rooms were still packed, David was ready to go.  He took a last tour around the rooms, pausing to watch two dudes fuck in the far corner.  One guy with a leather mask over his face was bent over with his jeans down around his knees; he was taking it up the ass from a mohawked stud in solid rubber that adhered to his fit body like paint.  A number of guys among the admiring crowd were recording the action on their phones.

 

It was hot as fuck, and it was making David hard.  That was a bad sign; usually his self-control was stronger.  It had to be; he didn’t play at these events.  It was too public; these days, there were security cameras everywhere.  Every time he entered and left the hotel, it was recorded somewhere.  So he got horned up and inspired, but saved his playtime for when he got home.

 

At home, he knew where to hide the bodies.

 

And it wasn’t as if David was easy to miss.  Tall, broad, furry and very muscular, he’d had attracted attention in any gay gathering—in fact, the fags clustered around him like moths to a flame—but in his gear, he was the hottest dude in the room, no matter what room it was.

 

At the moment, his magnificent physique was well-displayed in a pair of quilted leather jeans.  The diamond-stitched quilting stretched tightly around his powerful legs and his groin, which was kept sealed by a pair of zippers, one on each side of the massive bulge in his crotch; when both were unzipped, the front of the crotch opened like a flap.

 

He’d worn it during playtime at home and had found it handy; he wore it now, imagining the looks on some of the boys in the room, if they knew what he was imagining doing to their tender, defenseless bodies…

 

The leather jeans highlighted David’s thighs; below that, he sported a pair of glossy, knee-high Wesco harness boots.  He used these at home, too; the thick soles were perfect for grinding into homo faces.

 

The only new item of gear he wore was the plain leather vest he wore open over his bare, hairy chest.  He’d bought it specifically for LFF; the front was cut so that it was too wide to close—it hung open so wide that the rigid erectness of David’s large dark nipples were visible to everyone.

 

As he left the hospitality suite, he stopped and checked himself at a large mirror near the door, well aware of the eyes focused on him.  It wasn’t unusual; he’d had many offers to appear in porn—but he didn’t want his face to be that recognizable.  And it would have been; it was striking.  Wavy hair so black it glittered above a wide, open brow and large emerald eyes lined with long lashes, his face alone was enough to cause an erection.  The wiry, jet-black goatee surrounding his full lips and covering his dimpled chin, with a faint but discernible scruff on his cheeks, completed the effect.

 

It was a look to fall in love with—right down to the thin gloves on his hands, encasing them in black leather so tight it looked painted on.  It was a look to die for—as some had found out too late.

 

Catching a glimpse of several lust-struck admirers in the mirror, David sneered at them and left the suite.  Prettyboys, all of them; he coulda had any one of them to fuck however he wanted, but for David, fucking was never enough.  And none of these sluts were worth the trouble of cleaning up afterwards.

 

The hotel was large and pricey; the long corridors were plush with predominant colors of white and gold.   The elevators were around the corner in a bay like a miniature temple, picked out in marble and onyx.  David sauntered leisurely down the hallway, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting.

 

Soundlessly, he turned right at the corner and took an immediate left for the elevators—and that was when he saw The Boy.

 

And The Boy saw him.

 

They stared at each other, silently, for a long, long time, their eyes saying all that needed to be said.

 

The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, about ten years younger than David.  Under spiked brown hair, his face was handsome and haughty, his dark eyes arrogantly aware of his own physical beauty.  His body was perfect, slender and lithe but toned and well-defined.  Standing shirtless—but for an over-the-shoulder strap that part of his leather belt—the skin of his lean, muscled torso was smooth and silky-looking, with small dark nipples.  The belt was around the waist of a pair of skin-tight leather jeans; unlike David’s, the youth’s pair was smooth and not quite glossy, but they clung erotically to his thick, firm thighs and emphasized the massive bulge in the crotch well enough.  The jeans were slightly too long; the hems were bunched into the boy’s laced but untied black and white DC skate shoes.  The ensemble was completed with a two-inch-wide leather wristband on the right arm and silver bracelet inset with turquoise on the left.

 

After a brief, intense struggle, David’s self-control gave up the fight.  He had to have this one.  As if on cue, the kid spoke up.

 

“Damn,” he said with a cocky grin, “Where you been?  I haven’t seen you before; I’d’a remembered a stud like you.”

 

“I been around, boy,” David drawled.

 

“Name’s Kirk,” the kid replied.  “I’d given up hope of gettin’ laid tonight, but damn, dude, you can stick that rod as far inside me as ya want.”  He nodded towards David’s groin, which was swelling visibly.

 

David grinned.  “How old are ya, boy?”

 

“I’m twenty-two.  And I got my own room here.”

 

Exactly ten years younger than David himself.  “Yeah?  This place is expensive as fuck—how’s a kid like you afford it?  You here alone?”

 

It was Kirk’s turn to grin.  “I got a daddy.  He paid for the room; he thinks it’s a seminar to help get me get a better job.  He’ll believe whatever I tell him; he’s kinda stupid that way, so he let me come here alone.”

 

David grunted.  That explained a lot of the cockiness.  Little fuck could get anything he wanted—and with a body like that, anyone.  He’d be willing to bet “daddy” was loaded, and probably expected that his boy was lying but was willing to keep paying and playing just to keep the slut coming back home.

 

“So, anyway, wanna fuck me?” Kirk asked and David burst into a huge smile; he’d made up his mind.  The slut wasn’t coming back home, not this time.

 

“Sure,” he said slowly.  “Where’s your room?”

 

“Third floor, in the front,” Kirk replied, pressing the call button for the elevator.  “Got a great view of the street party from there.  Stood in front of the window and waved my dick at a bunch of boys out there this morning; they loved it.  Man, I’m having the time of my fuckin’ life here.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” David said, letting a slight hint of contempt slip into his tone, “But I’m gonna fuck ya so hard you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”

 

“Ooh, you big, tough man,” Kirk jeered teasingly, stepping forward and running his hands over the older man’s biceps, “Lessee if you can live up to that promise.”

 

Just then the elevator arrived, the ping of the signal echoing in the marble lobby.  The doors opened silently and both leather-clad males stepped in. “Oh, I can fucking guarantee it,” David said quietly as the door closed and the descent started.

 

The ride was brief, but long enough for Kirk to reach out and fondle David’s thick shaft through the tight leather.  David smiled beatifically and leaned against the rear of the cab, letting the hot boy run one hand over his groin and another over his chest.  The alpha closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure—he was gonna be able to release tonight; he wasn’t gonna hafta wait to get home to drain his aching balls…

 

The elevator slowed, and Kirk stood up.  When the doors opened, he grabbed David by the hand and steered him around the corner and down the hall.  Even from this angle, the older, larger stud could see the young punk’s cock, straining violently in the confines of his groin.  The boy wanted the older man just as badly as David wanted him.

 

This was gonna be so fuckin’ fun.

 

The boy opened a door on the left side of the hall and turned on the lights.  His lean, shirtless torso glistened with sweat in the warm room; it was reflected in the broad expanse of glass in the wide picture window overlooking the street.  There was a chair and side table in front of the window; Kirk pushed them aside.  “C’m’ere, dude,” he said eagerly, “Lookit this shit.”

 

David strode to the far end of the room, noting the elegant dresser/mirror/TV stand on one side and the huge king-sized bed on the other, the latter with the bedding twisted in a knot and the expensive pale green Egyptian linen fitted sheet stiff with cum.  Reaching the window, he looked down into the huge crowds of men, wrapped in various degrees of leather, still partying out on the street.  It wasn’t even one in the morning; they’d be out there for hours.

 

Without bidding, Kirk reached up and slipped David’s vest off, tossing it onto the bed.  Embracing the older stud, he turned to that their backlit silhouette was clearly visible to the power fags milling on the street below and started sucking on the muscular alpha’s  thick, hard nipples.   David groaned erotically, feeling the boy’s tongue fluttering of the painfully stiff knot of flesh.

 

Lifting his head, Kirk looked David in the eyes, his young face flush and intense with lust.  “Fuck me here, stud.  Fuck me in the window.  I want ‘em to see.  I want ‘em all to watch me gettin’ plowed by a fuckin’ god like you.”

 

David grinned his charming, adorable grin that made Kirk feel faint.  “Ya like guys to watch ya get banged, huh?  Fuck yeah, bitch, I can do that.  I can fuck ya in public.”

 

Immediately, Kirk whirled around and bent over, bracing himself with one hand on the windowsill.  “There’s an opening,” he gasped excitedly.

 

Reaching down, David found it was true. In the deep depression separating the firm leather-covered globes of the kid’s ass, there was a series of snaps securing built-in access to the wearer’s ass.  One swift motion—and a rapid-fire popping of the snaps—and Kirk’s pink, pulsing fuckhole was exposed to open air.  “Stick it in me, fucker!” he cried.

 

“Not yet, faggot,” David barked.  “Ya want my cock?  Then come get it, motherfucker.  Get back here and free my tool.”

 

 

The boy whipped around obediently and grabbed the double zipper in David’s crotch.  He pulled both down simultaneously but the hulking top’s shaft was too long to be released without some help; tenderly, Kirk reached in and grasped the thick, hot, throbbing tube of manmeat, pulling it out from its musky leather confinement.

 

“C’mere, pup,” David commanded.  “Over here in the window.  No!  Stay down, bitch.  On yer knees, punk, get over here on yer knees.”    As Kirk crept the few feet to the window, the older stud glanced out onto the street and smirked.  “Let’s give the boys a show.”

 

As Kirk knelt in front of him, David started dickslapping him, the alpha’s thick, meaty shaft splattering precum across the youth’s model-perfect face.  Kirk blinked as the salty fluid spattered over his eyes and gripped the top’s powerful legs, feeling his thick thigh muscles flex under the tight quilted leather.

 

Brandishing his cock like a club, David grabbed a hank of the kid’s hair, feeling the spiking gel crunch in his hand.  As he beat the boy’s face with his engorged rod, he looked out the window, noticing that a large crowd had gathered around.  Three stories up and lit from behind, David knew that the action was clearly visible from the street without any identifying details being revealed.

 

And the audience seemed to be extremely appreciative of the performance so far.

 

The older leatherstud gave Kirk one more strong smack with his weapon-like dick, this one hard enough to knock the boy’s head sideways and make him grunt.  It did nothing to dampen the horny young punk’s enthusiasm, though.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” David demanded and Kirk responded eagerly, running his tongue over the swollen, purple head, greedily lapping up the precum still oozing from the pulsating piss-slit.  David was not pleased and let the disobedient pup know.  “I said suck it, motherfucker, not lick it,” he snapped, slapping Kirk in the face.

 

The boy gasped and pulled back; the blow had been soft, almost gentle, but it was unexpected.  He rose up straight, but remained on his knees.  David looked down at him angrily—and laughed.

 

“Fuck, you little leather pig, I knew ya’d like that—lookit that fuckin’ tentpole yer sportin’!  Pull that bad boy out, slut, or yer gonna tear them hot fuckin’ pants.”

 

Kirk blushed, realizing it was true; his dick was so hard it hurt.  He hurriedly unbuttoned his fly, freeing his aching hog from its constricting leather prison.  Like the alpha, his rod was seeping pre-ejaculate in a steady stream; it splashed out as his cock popped out of his crotch like an erotic jack-in-the-box, leaving large drops of the viscous, transparent fluid smeared across David’s knee-high Wescos.

 

“Get back on my shaft,” David barked.  “You ain’t a pup, you’re a pig.  So choke on my cock like a pig.”

 

Kirk paused as if to object, then, leaning forward and opening his mouth wide, he tried to swallow the older man’s tool.  He could only get the massive tube of throbbing manflesh a few inches into his mouth.  He simply couldn’t open his jaw enough to suck the alpha’s cock and still be able to breathe.

 

David, on the other hand, didn’t have the same priorities.  He ensured they were up against the window and visible to the mass of partying studs on the street below before wrapping his gloved hands around the kid’s head and slowly forced his enormous rod into Kirk’s throat.  At first, the leather-clad punk accepted the thick tubesteak but within a few seconds, things had changed.

 

David’s dick had cut off his air.

 

Kirk heaved and gagged, shaking his head and trying to pull back—only to discover that David’s grip on his head as a firm as a vise.  A sudden sharp fear rose in his breast, and he placed his hands on the power top’s thighs, feeling the quilted leather under his palms as he tried to push himself away.

 

He never noticed how his own cock had started to throb faster—but that was understandable; at that moment, David’s cock was also moving faster.

 

David could feel the boy struggle and gurgle on his shaft; it felt too good to ignore.  The youth’s beautiful face was turned up to him, helpless and distressed, the large, dark, puppy-like eyes watering.  “Fuck yeah, that’s my good little pig,” David grunted and started skullfucking Kirk brutally.

 

He rammed his dick down the kid’s throat with exaggerated thrusts that were obvious on the street outside.  Even on the third floor, the roar of the crowd’s approval was audible to both men—with different effect.  David was spurred to amp up the tempo of the facefuck while Kirk, his fingers scrabbling over the powerful stud’s boots, was still trying to find a way to break free long enough to inhale.

 

Kirk turned his seeking hands upwards, pawing at the top’s firm, furry belly.  His tear-streaked eyes turned up to the alpha’s face.  Looking down, David took pity—so to speak—on the horny but overwhelmed punk and pulled out of his throat.

 

Kirk bent over, coughing and gagging, spitting up foam on the floor between David’s boots.  The buff older man smirked down at the incapacitated boy.  “You ain’t done yet, pig,” he chuckled, “Stand up.  NOW, faggot!”

 

The ringing tone of command in his voice shot through Kirk like a jolt of electricity; he instantly stood upright.  His face was still red and slightly swollen, but the glint of lust was still visible in his eyes.  David recognized it for what it was.  “Turn around and bend over, cunt; I’m gonna fuck ya right here where everyone can see it,” he jeered.  “Ya like that, fuckpig?  Ya like havin’ an audience watchin’ you get plowed in the ass?  Does that make ya hard, slut?  Goddammit, cocksucker, I said bend over!”

 

Kirk’s obedience was immediate.  Facing away from David he bent over and grabbed his knees, the opening in the ass of his leather jeans exposing his pulsating fuckhole.  The muscled, leather-clothed top spit into his palm and lubed his cock with it—it was all the lube the lithe young boy was gonna get.

 

With no warning at all, David buried his shaft so deep in Kirk’s ass that his wiry pubic hair scratched the boy’s smooth asscheeks where the opening in the jeans was wide enough.  The beautiful bottom squealed shrilly, to the accompaniment of a rising cheer from the street below.

 

“Fuck, man, yer killin’ me!” the punk yelled, jerking forward.

 

“Not yet,” David hissed, grabbing at Kirk’s shoulder strap.  “Quit tryin’ to get away, fuckboy, we just got started.  You don’t wanna disappoint yer fans down there, do ya?”

 

Kirk whimpered and moaned as the hard-bodied top ran his hands over the boy’s smooth back, slick with sweat, but the kid never lost his erection. Even from the third floor, Kirk’s thick dick could be seen clearly by the crowd of randy, drunk faggots on the street below, swinging and bobbing with each ramrod thrust up his ass.

 

“Unh-unh-unh,” the punk grunted repeatedly, his toes curling inside his skate shoes as he experienced every inch of David’s enormous, vein-wrapped shaft plunged into the depth of his colon.  It wasn’t that he was inexperienced—he’d been gangbanged in this room the night before—but he’d never had anyone this large inside him before.  Even though his sphincter had finally relaxed to the point that Kirk didn’t feel like he was shitting razor blades every time the alpha drove his rod in, some corner of the kid’s mind was wondering if he’d been damaged and what he’d have to say to Daddy if he ended up needing medical help.

 

But then that corner was flooded with the lust that washed over the rest of Kirk’s body.  It was hard to focus on anything but how full he was of manmeat.  The atmosphere was charged with sex, heavy with the scent of mansweat, testosterone and leather.  The pain was receding and Kirk was slipping into his accustomed bottompig role, grinning with pleasure.

 

“Yeah, you fucker, give it to me!” he moaned ecstatically.  “Ram it in me, man!”

 

“Fuckin’ homo cunt,” David sneered, “Ya like bein’ watched as ya ride my dick, huh?  Shameless little whore, aintcha?  Take it, bitch, take the D.  Lemme hear how much ya want it.”

 

He was pounding the boy so hard Kirk was having trouble maintaining his balance. He tried grabbing the windowsill, but it was nothing more than a strip of metal an inch wide; his hand kept slipping.  David was holding him up with the leather shoulder strap.  The intensity of the fuck was obvious; from outside, both could hear a faint cry arise from the street, “Oh hell yeah, breed that bitch!”

 

They were getting carried away.  David decided it was time for a change of pace.  Keeping his cock buried deep in Kirk’s guts, he stopped pumping and pulled the boy’s torso back so that they were both standing upright, Kirk’s back pressed against David’s heaving, furry chest.  He slid a hand down towards the kid’s groin, and for a moment Kirk thought David might be trying to jack him off—but the muscled alpha unfastened the shoulder strap at the point where it attached to the belt in front.  Immediately afterwards, he’d freed it from the connection in the back, too.

 

Still in his tight leather jeans, Kirk was now nude from the waist up.  He felt David loop it around his throat, letting it hang down his back.  He had no idea what the stud was gonna do next.

 

What David did next was wrap his muscular arms around the boy’s lean torso, holding him in a tight embrace.  Kirk sighed happily, nestling back against the top’s chest.  David began fucking the kid again, starting slowly.  Simultaneously, he bent his head forward, letting his face scruff scrape Kirk’s smooth cheek.  Swamped with lust, the punk moaned shudderingly and reached up, running his hands through David’s hair.

The gathering on the street outside had gotten larger; dozens of dude were straining their eyes for a better view of the third-floor sex scene—and straining the crotches of their pants as well.  Even if no facial details could be discerned, the silhouetted forms framed in the window were perfectly clear.  So was what happened next.

 

Wrapping one arm around Kirk’s waist, David pressed his other hand between the bitchboy’s shoulder blades, bending the kid forward.  Spreading his skate kicks wide, Kirk gripped his own knees for support.  Then he felt the strap around his throat tighten—not unbearably, but enough to establish control.

 

Suddenly, with no warning, David began plowing his massive cock back into Kirk’s ass with mind-numbing speed and force, powerfucking the slim, buff youth mercilessly.  The aggressive alpha was holding the strap in both hands, pulling back on it like reins.  It wasn’t enough to choke the kid, but it was more than enough to dominate him.  His lean, lithe form bent backwards as he barked out short cries in the same tempo as David’s thrusts.

 

“Yeah, faggot,” David jeered, “That’s what it feel like to get banged by a real man.  Ya feelin’ me, cunt?  Ya like ridin’ genuine rock-hard manmeat, dontcha, ya little homo leatherpig?  Fuck, boy, take it—take my fuckin’ cock!”

 

The furry, well-built top was pounding the leatherboy’s ass so hard that his hips seemed to move in a blur.  Kirk cried out inarticulately in both pleasure and pain; his fuckhole had never withstood this amount of abuse before; it hurt so bad—and it hurt so good.  He was afraid he was gonna be injured but his own dick was so hard it hurt; even the gradually-increasing tightness of the strap around his throat was erotic as all fuck…

 

At that point, a chant that had started outside had finally grown loud enough for the heaving, interlocked men to hear: “Money shot!  Money shot!”  Above this, a single voice yelled “Finish ‘im off!”

 

“He’s right,” David chuckled, “It is time to finish you off.  Free show’s over—get on the bed, cunt.”  Quickly reversing the strap so that it hung down the front, the hulking top pulled out, feeling his log-like cock smack against the quilted leather on his thigh.  He shoved Kirk at the bed.

 

The boy scrambled to the center of the king-sized mattress, shoving the wadded, cum-stained bedding to one side.  His soft leather jeans slid smoothly over the expensive, high-thread-count fitted sheet.  He crouched in the center of the bed with his ass point up.

 

“Naw, bitch, on yer back,” David demanded and Kirk eagerly rolled over and spread his legs.  The leather pants swelled as the kid’s thick thighs and well-developed calves bulged under the strain of keeping his legs hefted into the air—but he didn’t use his hands.

 

And it wasn’t as if he needed to keep them up long—David was on him, and in him again, with surprising suddenness.  Kirk wrapped his legs around David’s waist, leather on leather, and embraced the muscled top as the latter once again probed the depths of his guts with his enormous rod.

 

Kirk looked up into David’s handsome, scruffy face, inches from his, and fell in instant love; the alpha seemed to be so happy fucking him.  “Are you rich?” he whispered.  “Daddy’s rich, but he can’t—”

 

David grabbed Kirk’s jaw, the scent of his leather glove wafting into Kirk’s nose as the older man squeezed the punk’s mouth painfully.  “Shaddup and take my dick, fag,” he sneered.  Increasing the pressure of his grip, he forced the youth’s mouth open and spit in it.

 

Despite himself, the young boyslut was turned on by this; David, of course, knew it right away—the naïve little faggot thought he was tough, but his dick had swollen and throbbed. Pressed as it was against David’s hard, ripped belly, the alpha had gotten the message.

 

He responded with a backhand across Kirk’s face.  This one had a little kick to it.

 

Slightly stunned, the boy grabbed his face, turning his dark eyes, wide and hurt, to the older man.  “What—why—”

 

David slapped him hard, again.  The glove seemed to make it sting even worse.

 

“Why?  Ya wanna know why?” David growled down at the bewildered youth, “Cause you’re pain pig, cunt.  See, when I hurt ya like that, it made yer ass muscle clench.  Just a little, though.  You must be one fuck of a slut, boy, yer ass is all worn out.  But see, now I know what it takes to make you milk my shaft.”

 

As a bruise slowly started to darken on Kirk’s left cheek, a blemish that somehow added to his youthful beauty, the kid lifted his head, his confusion obvious.  “Wha—I still—I don’t—”

 

“For fuck’s sake, you stupid sack of shit,” David snarled, “I’m gonna waste yer worthless ass.  Your butthole is gonna spasm as you die, and that’s gonna jack me off.  Got it, you stupid little fuckwad?  Good.  Time to die, cocksucker.”

 

Gathering the ends of the strap in his hands, he crossed them in front of Kirk’s neck, then wrapped them once around his palms to ensure a better grip.  He spit in the youth’s terrified face one more time.  “Dumbass piece of fuckmeat,” he muttered contemptuously, then jerked the strap tight.

 

This time, the strap around his throat was enforcing considerably more control over Kirk.

 

The sudden cessation of air induced instant panic.  Kirk’s mind was aflame; he’d never imagined anything like this happening to him, even within the limited range of his intellect.  Even the consequences were difficult to visualize—but David helped him there.

 

“They’re gonna find you here, ya know,” he taunted.  “Fucked and strangled.  Poor Daddy; havin’ to be told his hard-workin’ boy got himself filled with cum and snuffed at a fetish con.”

 

Despite the deafening pounding of his pulse, Kirk heard and understood the words.  His embrace of his perfect lover had morphed into a frantic struggle with his killer; his hands were clawing desperately at the point where the crossed ends of the strap were digging into his neck—excruciatingly, it was right on his larynx, slowly crushing his voicebox—as the heels of his kicks drummed relentlessly on David’s taut ass; the quilted leather came in handy here.

 

As he felt the dying boy’s colon writhing around his swollen shaft, some cold, detached corner of the killer’s mind wondered about that.  This was the first time he was doing something like this; usually he waited till he got home and offed some cheap rentboy or whatever other fuckmeat he could grab.  It wasn’t as if he planned this—but it had all worked out so right.  The beautiful boyslut with his own cum-splashed room—he was just begging to be snuffed.

 

David was more than happy to help.  In fact, he was overjoyed.  The pressure in Kirk’s head had increased to an agonizing extent; his dark eyes were bulging grotesquely—which meant he was unable to close them, to block out the sight of his killer towering over him, broad-shouldered with dark wiry fur in a triangle that stretched across both broad pecs, narrowing as it followed his torso down to his tapered waist—a triangle of body hair that pointed down to a dark line that led below the waistband of his leather pants to the dark tangled mass of his pubes.

 

And the face, the dark goatee, the rough scruff covering the cheeks, the glittering lash-lined emerald eyes—it was still a look to fall in love with.  It was still a look to die for.  Kirk was coming to accept that the two were not mutually exclusive.

 

The pain, though—that was something else.  In all his pampered existence, Kirk had never known anything like this.  The crushing, grinding pain in his throat, the vacuum-like pressure in his chest, the banging, pounding, screaming pain in his head…

 

…the straining, throbbing, pulsating pain in his cock…

 

“Hell yeah, cunt, now you’re learnin’,” David sneered, feeling the kid’s rectum contract as his swollen face darkened through purple into a frantic, livid black.  Kirk’s lips, thick and blue, were forcibly parted by his dark protruding tongue.

 

Kirk’s dying brain heard the words but was too busy enjoying the fireworks show.  Large areas of the boy’s field of vision were exploding into flares of blackness as blood vessels popped in the whites of his eyes, turning them red.

 

He was coming full circle, the fight for life slowly subsiding to a sensual dying caress of his killer.  Kirk’s desperate flailing had slowed, his hands now gently stroking the sweaty, bulging biceps of the man who was killing him.  The youth’s firm, leather-clad legs were wrapped tightly around the alpha’s waist, squeezing forcefully, as if to match the pressure on his neck.

 

As his ass fluttered and rippled on David’s tool, Kirk’s own rod continued to swell and throb at the tempo of the dying boy’s pulse—and his heart was slamming away its last few functional seconds before spasming into orgasmic arrhythmia.

 

“That’s it,” David whispered, “That’s a good little piggie.  Shh, just let go.  Die, motherfucker, let go and die.  It won’t hurt anymore once you’re dead, cunt.  Oh yeah, stop fuckin’ fightin’ it and die on my dick, fag.”

 

The pounding inside Kirk’s head had reached an overwhelming level; it dominated his entire universe—and then it seemed to falter.  There was a an intense, knife-like pain in his chest—Kirk was unaware of it, but it was the moment his heart failed—and just at that moment of silence, David words made it through the cold haze of impending death.

 

And Kirk knew he still loved him.  He died in convulsive agony on the dick of the greatest love he’d ever experienced.

 

His deathload was ample proof.  Kirk was young, strong, and very physically fit; his death throes were correspondingly violent.  Gripping his killer in an iron embrace, his body went through convulsions so intense, all David could do was hold on and allow his dick to be milked like a cow’s teat.

 

It was worth it.  Snuffing at the con was worth it.  This little fuck’s rectum was like a velvet glove sliding over his engorged, lubed head as it collapsed and spasmed along full length of manmeat buried in it.  Their hard, sweaty bodies, locked together in a haze of pheromones and leatherscent, ground against each other and writhed on the mattress.

 

Kirk gave one last gagging gurgle as foam erupted from his lips and cascaded down his cheeks in messy white strands.   Blood vessel continued to pop in his eyes.  Then, with no warning, he clutched David tightly.  A single last coughing gag sent a copious flow of drool down his face—and a violent spasm along the length of his dick.

 

Kirk shot a solid stream of cum out of his erect cock.

 

At the same time, his sphincter contracted like a cockring around the base of David’s dick.  It was all the latter had been waiting for.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, he unloaded his aching ballsack into the dead kid’s guts.

 

Kirk’s conscious brain was dead; his nervous system could only process physical sensations.  It was still aware enough that when David jerked violently in orgasm, tightening the strap and crushing Kirk’s larynx to a mangled was of gristle, it was interpreted as pain.  It was still enough of a stimulus to prompt a second geyser of semen to erupt from the fuckmeat.

 

Cold death, momentarily held at bay by an injection of boiling, life-giving manseed into his intestines—but it wasn’t enough.  Shuddering, convulsing and cumming, the choked-out cumsack once known as Kirk sank into a painful and well-deserved death.  David held on for a little while longer, though; his balls weren’t completely drained and the hard boycorpse went through an extended period of post-mortem convulsions.

 

Two hard, leather-clad bodies, shuddering together, one clutching the helpless, lifeless other.

 

Over the next fifteen minutes, David shot two more loads.  On the first one, he grunted, stiffened, and shot a long steady stream into the corpse’s guts.  The second one hurt; he cried out as he came, driving his fist into the youth’s grotesquely distorted face.

 

As he headed toward the bathroom, he glanced back.  Kirk’s lithe, firm corpse was still quivering and kicking.  His leather shoulder strap was embedded so deeply in his neck is was almost invisible.

 

Luckily, there were fresh towels in the bathroom; he was able to clean himself adequately afterwards.

 

David’s flight out was at noon, but he didn’t feel the need to sleep.  He simply tucked his cock back into his leather pants, slipped the vest back on and left the room.  Five minutes later, he was out mingling with the boys on the street.  It was inevitable that the subject of the window show would come up at some point, although it took forty-five minutes for David to stumble onto a conversation about it.

 

“Nice boots,” a bear with a thick beard remarked.  “Hey, didja see the shit that happened up there?” He nodded at Kirk’s third-floor window, now just an empty rectangle of light.

 

“I heard about it,” David replied.

 

“Man, that bottom was hot.  Whaddaya think he’s doin’ right now?  Maybe he’s just chillin’…”

 

“Yeah, I imagine he’s chillin’,” David returned, “He might even be downright cold by now.”

Carlos and Nick 3: Keeping It in the Family

For Carlos, it started with a text from Nick: “be @ office in ½ hr—got a job”.  In this context, Carlos knew exactly what “job” meant.  And the fact that Nick wanted him at the office so quickly meant it had to be something good; at this hour of the day, traffic made that timetable impossible.  Nick must be really excited.

 

Carlos was already casually dressed in tight but faded jeans, a navy-blue thermal shirt with long sleeves; it clung to the hard-bodied convict like it had been painted on.  On his feet were a pair of boots—brown leather ropers, so worn, they slouched and were soft as leather.  The outside temperature was in the lower 40’s—a chilly evening for Vegas.  Carlos was used to colder weather; he didn’t bother to put a jacket on before he left the condo.  On the other hand, he kept the top up and the heat on in the Mercedes.

 

The office that Nick referred to was literally that; he’d rented some space in an office/warehouse park in the southwest part of town off Blue Diamond Road.  It consisted of a suite of two rooms, the inner devoted to the technical aspects of the production.  Carlos rarely entered it; Nick kept it freezing for the sake of the server and expensive desktop units he used for editing and storage.

 

The outer room, however, was furnished for people to meet.  A sofa and four chairs, all cheap but relatively comfortable, were spread out with a couple of strategically-placed chairs.  In one corner was a desk with a monitor; this desktop was considerably cheaper than anything in the inner room but served well enough for things like bookkeeping and communication.  This was where Nick was seated when Carlos entered.

 

The slightly older stud was clearly eager; Carlos wasn’t fully in the room before Nick started talking.  “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to an email he had up on the computer screen.  “It’s a commission, and a damn good one—look at that amount!”  The young killer sat casually on the corner of the desk and leaned his buff body inwards for a better view of the monitor; he blinked in surprise and grinned when he saw the number of zeros after the dollar sign.  “Holy fuck—where’d that come from?  What do they want?”

 

“They wanna cop scene with two vics.  Busting a couple of fag whores, blackmailing them into sex and then snuffing them.  One vic is strangled, the other—well, let’s just say they’ve seen your work and they want you to get creative with a blade.”  Carlos chuckled at this news, and Nick noticed the bulge in the younger stud’s jeans swell visibly.

 

And the psycho killer said he wasn’t gay.  Nick knew better, but he was too smart to admit it.  He was also too smart to admit that this commission had been the result of his posting the video he’d secretly recorded of Carlos raping and murdering the young blond hustler.  Carlos still had no idea his brutal performance had been witnessed—by this time—by many, many others.

 

“Oh hell yeah, I’m down for wastin’ more homos,” the buff, tattooed sadist smirked.  “I take it you already got a plan.  Any good meat lined up?”

 

Nick’s face broke into a broad grin.  “Fuck yeah, man, you know it.  I already have this one framed in my head to get the right shot. I was savin’ these two for a special occasion, and if this doesn’t fit the bill, then nothing ever will.  Check these fuckin’ cunts out.”  And with that, he pulled up a video file, moving his chair aside to give Carlos a better view as he did so.

 

“This was sent to me by someone who wanted to see them snuffed,” Nick added by way of explanation, “But they couldn’t fund the project and I wasn’t gonna waste my time on it.  Now that we got a job, I’ll see how much these two fags want and offer them more.”

 

The video popped up to full screen; Carlos could feel his hog swelling even more within twenty seconds.  It showed two dudes, one obviously older than the other, fucking in the missionary position.  The older man was firm, fit, and looked like he was in his late thirties.  He had light brown hair that was starting to recede slightly in the pattern caused by an excess of testosterone; he compensated with a short goatee that was almost a dark gold in color.  His broad chest was covered with tightly curled fur and was almost—but not quite—as muscled as either Nick or Carlos.

 

The younger slut’s hair was lighter, almost blond, but was darkening in places.  His form was slim and smooth, and he looked like he was in his late teens.  He was the bottom in the sex scene; despite the way his handsome young face was twisted in the pain and pleasure of rough anal sex, there was still a noticeable resemblance between him and the older dude fucking him.

 

“This was shot a couple of years ago,” Nick said by way of explanation.  “The older dude is Ed and the younger is Johnny.  When this was shot, they were thirty-six and sixteen.  Video came with contact info, see—I’ve already talked to them.  They’re local—and they’re father and son.  Seriously.”

 

“Fuckin’ hell!” Carlos barked in surprise.  “So that’s why they look alike?  These perverted sacks a’ shit need to die like dogs!”

 

As a chilly grin spread across Nick’s face, he could feel his own cock start to stiffen.  “No shit, man; that’s the idea.  You up for puttin’ ‘em down?  I’ll take daddy and you can take son.  We’ll set it up like the cop porno and fuckin’ waste the faggots with extreme prejudice.  First, though—we gotta meet them.”

 

“What?  Why?”

“I want them to feel comfortable.  Nothing to alarm them. And we can set up the cop scenario—that’s what we’re being paid for, after all.  Let ‘em know where the shoot’s gonna be, that sorta thing.”

 

Carlos’s face showed the reluctance with which he acquiesced; it was obvious he wanted to get hold of the incestuous pair and wreak havoc on their unsuspecting male bodies right away.  “Yeah?” he demanded, “So where is it gonna be?  Gonna whack ‘em in the condo?”

 

“Naw,” Nick chuckled, “I gotta better idea than that.  Leave it to me, dude, just leave it to me…”

 


 

Four days later, on a much balmier Saturday, the long violet dusk of the desert was fading into blackness as Carlos stepped out of the bathroom in cheap but clean motel room.  Looking around the room, he could see Nick, already in costume.

 

Carlos himself was dressed as agreed; he was role-playing a motorcycle cop.  But since this was supposed to be “straight” gay porn, so to speak, he was dressed as the gay ideal of a motorcycle cop, which meant lots of black leather—tight leather pants tucked into a pair of nearly knee-high glossy motorcycle boots.  Even the utility belt and shoulder harness were leather straps, the latter worn over his broad, bare chest.  Shirtless, the winged skull tat on the ex-con’s left pec would be visible on camera, as would the fully inked sleeve on his right arm.

 

Picking up a classic black and white bike helmet from the dresser, Carlos turned to Nick.  Around his throat, the massy links of his thick gold necklace glinted in the bleak light of the bare overhead bulb.  “So?” he asked, “How do I look?”

 

Nick grinned appreciatively.  “Those homos will be beggin’ for yer shaft when they see ya in that getup,” he chuckled, “But speakin’ of shafts, I can see the one in yer boot”.  Glancing down, Carlos could see the hilt of his shank protruding from his boot.  It was a Ka-Bar Becker, a Bowie combat knife with a nine-inch blade of jet black carbon steel, customized with jagged serrations.  It was unlikely that the cocksuckers in the next room would notice it against his black leather gear, but there was no sense in taking a chance—he slid the viciously-edged weapon deeper into his boot.

 

Nick’s costume, while erotic, was slightly more conservative; a standard police uniform, complete with badge.  On the other hand, it was two sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin, the white stripe running down the outside of the legs of the slacks highlighted his bulging thighs and muscular calves as it disappeared into Nick’s tightly laced combat boots.

 

“And them?” Carlos asked, nodding at a door in the side wall.  “Are they ready?”

 

Nick’s grin grew wider and more shark-like.  “Fuck, whaddaya think?  Ain’t no way they’re ready for how bad we’re gonna fuck ‘em up.”

 

The door led to a connecting room in the cheap one-story motel Nick had found east of downtown, off the Boulder Highway—an old, run-down motor court with a defunct neon sign displaying the name Snake Eyes.  During the initial meeting, he’d given Ed some cash to rent a room there on his own—then Nick had gotten the connecting room himself under an assumed name.

 

There had been some rocky moments in the initial interview; Ed and Johnny had been somewhat hesitant about the scenario.  The rough sex wasn’t an issue, once they were told they’d be paid extra, but the cuffs were more of a concern—turned out they’d never done bondage before.  It took the offer of even more cash to get them (well, Ed, actually, like a good boy, Johnny let daddy do the talking) to agree.

 

And even then, the older pervert demanded a down payment.  Nick simmered with repressed rage as he handed five Franklins over to the well-built but slightly smaller man.  That cash was gone for good, he reflected angrily; the fucker wasn’t likely to bring it back to the shoot.

 

Once the money was settled, though, things went more smoothly for a while.  The meeting at the motel was arranged and the plot agreed to—Carlos and Nick were to bust in and find Ed and Johnny fucking; after separating and cuffing them, Carlos would fuck Johnny while Nick fucked Ed.  Surprisingly enough, Ed—who’d only appeared in the video as a top—had no problem with the thought of taking Nick’s cock up his ass, but Johnny seemed intimidated by Carlos’s massive dong; both tops had been  wearing revealingly tight jeans that day specifically to show off.

 

After a hurried, whispered conference between father and son, Ed spoke up in an embarrassed tone.  Johnny thought Carlos was hot as fuck but, had admitted, the kid had never taken a dick that size and was gonna need something to help with the pain.  It took another ten minutes of hemming and hawing for him to confess that Johnny wanted meth on the set.

 

Nick and Carlos glanced at each other.  They didn’t particularly care what the fuckmeat did to itself, but they didn’t want to be inhaling those toxic fumes themselves.  It was agreed that Johnny could smoke in the bathroom with the fan on prior to the killers entering the room.

 

And that was what was presumably happening on the other side of the connecting door right now.  Nick had a video feed from one of the cameras he’d set up previously over there streaming to his phone; the screen showed Ed utterly nude but for the thin gold chain around his neck, from which a plain cross of the same shiny metal gleamed in a nest of his chest fur.  The wiry muscles of his hairy body rippled as he paced the room, his long tool swaying as he turned.

 

The sick faggot was clearly impatient for his son to come out of the bathroom so he could fuck the slim teenager.

 

He didn’t have long to wait; the door opened suddenly and the blond kid walked out.   Unlike his dad, he wasn’t nude; he sported a pair of plain white cotton briefs that barely contained his short but incredibly thick cock and cradled his smooth bubble-butt asscheeks.  He’d left his sneakers on too, a pair of Puma Redon Moves in black.

 

There were two double beds in the room, each under the gaze of several different types of camera.  Nick hadn’t left any angles uncovered by either video or a still camera set for multiple timed shots.  As the father/son pair approached the bed on the left, Johnny’s face swam into view; even on the small screen of Nick’s phone, the kid’s twitching bloodshot eyes showed how hard the little fuck was tweaking.

 

Not that it mattered.  The adolescent homo embraced the older man; as they kissed, each obviously thrusting his tongue deep into the other’s mouth, the family resemblance became very clear.  The same deep brown eyes with long lashes, the same snub nose, dimpled chin and full, red lips—no one watching the scene could miss the fact that they were watching father and son indulging in incestuous gay sex.

 

Ed reached down and with a swift yank, jerked Johnny’s tighty whities down past his knees; they fell to the floor and Johnny stepped out of them, his fireplug-like dick popping up and smacking his abs, splattering his smooth flat belly with precum.  Panting with lust, Johnny hopped onto the bed and, rolling onto his back, spread his kicks in the air as he waited for daddy to come mount and penetrate his ass.  Ed was already there, his erect shaft probing at his teenaged son’s sphincter.  The moment daddy rammed it in, Johnny grimaced and he let out a loud moan that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

 

Smirking, Carlos looked over at Nick, who nodded back.  It was time.  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Carlos, chuckled, then put his boot to the connecting door.  Kicking it open, he drew the gun from his shoulder harness holster and burst into the other room.  “Police!” he bellowed ferociously for the camera, “Everyone freeze!”

 

Nick followed, also with a drawn handgun—the guns were real but not loaded.  After all, shooting the pansies wouldn’t have been any fun.

 

“Well, whadda we got here?” Carlos jeered.

 

“Looks like that report about faggot whores in this room was right,” Nick replied.  “C’mon, ya sick perverts, up against the wall.”

 

Ed and Johnny disentangled themselves, got out of bed and slowly back away from the “cops”, hands in the air.  “Isn’t there something we can do about this?” Ed asked, sticking to the script, “Some way we can work this out?”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos leered, “Like what?”

 

Ed looked over at Johnny.  “Go on, boy,” he said, “Show him what.”  With his father’s sanction, the firm, slim youth reached out and grabbed Carlos’s crotch, rubbing his hand over the enormous bulge in the black leather, fondling the long shaft.  The boy’s eyes widened as his fingers slid over the detail of every vein wrapped around the monster hog; daddy wasn’t this big.  Johnny was glad he’d gotten high first; he was gonna need it.

 

Ed, for his part, had reached out and started unbuttoning Nick’s tight shirt.  “Hey, I think these cocksuckers are tryin’ to bribe us.” Nick laughed, slipping his gun back into the holster dangling from his thick belt.

 

“Yeah, ya think so?” Carlos replied.  “Bribin’ a cop’s a punishable offense.  I say we punish their asses, dude; whaddaya think?”

 

“I think we need to take these faggots into custody, man, make sure they don’t try to get up to nothin’,” Nick drawled, shrugging off his black shirt.  “Turn around and put yer hands behind yer back, ya queer-ass bitch!” he barked as he spun the older man around.  Ed, fit but less powerful, was a top with his son, but the rough manhandling he was getting from the muscled stud was keeping his dick hard.

 

As Nick locked the steel cuffs around Ed’s wrists and, pressing the helpless bound man to the wall, began fondling him, Carlos turned to Johnny.  A cold grin slowly crept over his sexy, cruel face as he reached up and slid the inch-wide leather holster harness strap off his right shoulder.  “You too, boy,” he hissed at the slim, firm teen who was backing away, intimidation clearly showing in his face.  “Turn around, bitch.  You don’t wanna make me come after you.”

 

The threat implicit in the ex-con’s husky voice carried to his intended victim, if not to the kid’s father.  But the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree; the harsh authoritative tone of command managed to fill the boy with both fear and lust.  He obeyed implicitly, almost unconsciously, whimpering slightly as Carlos removed the harness completely.  Placing the revolver on the dresser, he proceeded to use the leather straps to bind the teenager’s arms like a roast trussed for the oven.

 

“There ya go, boy,” the muscular, inked stud growled, “Now get over on the bed.  We’re gonna show y’all how the law ‘round these parts handles faggots.”  He pushed Johnny towards the bed on the left; the unexpected shove knocked the youth off-balance, causing him to stumble into the wall, knocking his head on the cheap pine paneling.

 

“Hey!” Ed yelled, “You leave him alone!”  It was improvisation for the sake of the porn film—but there was a note of concern in the tone the both of the sadistic killers picked up on.  “You too, cunt,” Nick spat out, “Sit down on that bed, motherfucker!”

 

As Carlos ran his hands over the teen’s smooth, silky skin, making the adolescent moan in anticipation, Nick stood spread-legged at the foot of the other bed, facing Ed.  “Unbuckle my belt,” he commanded the well-built older man.

 

“My-my hands,” Ed stammered, “They’re still cuffed—”

 

“You stupid cocksucker,” the alpha snarled, slapping the pervert’s face, “Use yer fuckin’ mouth!”

 

Ed winced and shuddered under the blow, but his erect shaft pulsed and squeezed out a dribble of precum.  Nick chuckled.  Oh yeah, this pansy liked it rough and hard.

 

Good—he was gonna get rough and hard in abundance.

 

In the meantime, though, he had to work his mouth assiduously on the thick leather strap of Nick’s belt.  It took a while for him to get it undone.

 

Carlos, on the other hand, wasn’t into foreplay.  He’d fondled the twink enough; now he was ready to fuck.  Standing up, he undid the fly on the tight leather pants—not a zipper, but several buttons he needed to release.  As his hand worked its way down his groin, his enormous rod suddenly fell out like a toppled tree—a big, thick log crashing down.

 

Johnny’s big brown soulful eyes grew wide; both fear and lust were reflected in them as the young fag was confronted with the longest, thickest cock he’d ever seen.  The kid’s own shaft, already semi-hard and pulsing, sprang to full attention.  Carlos leered down at the adolescent and chuckled.  “Yeah, ya like that, dontcha, ya little cock pig?  Put it in yer mouth, bitch.”

 

Johnny blinked at the powerful ex-con and hesitated.  “Suck my fuckin’ dick, cunt—now!” Carlos barked loudly.  The slim youth gulped, leaned forward, and wrapped his lips around the huge oozing tube of pulsing meat.

 

As his son started to suck Carlos’s cock, Ed, still seated on the other bed, had managed to get Nick’s belt undone. Now the latter had a new task for the older man’s mouth.  Lifting his leg, he placed his thick-soled combat boot on Ed’s thigh.  “Untie it, motherfucker,” he demanded, flexing a strong bicep in front of the manwhore’s face as a show of power.  “Work it with yer mouth, slut, and hurry the fuck up, cause yer gonna do the other one too.”

 

Ed was more experienced with this kinda thing; there was no hesitation on his part as he bent his head forward and seized the woven nylon laces with his teeth.  When he jerked his head to the side to free the knot, the side of his face brushed against the boot; like his son, his tool responded to the sexual stimulus by swelling and drooling precum.

 

“Fuckin’ bootpig pervert,” Nick sneered and Ed dripped even more.

 

It only took a couple of minutes for the older man to untie both boots and little more for Nick to unlace them to the point of being able to slip out of them.  The entire time, the action was accompanied by the slurping sound of Johnny deep-throating Carlos’s shaft.

 

“Get on your back, faggot, and spread your legs,” Nick demanded, “Time for you to learn how much trouble yer in—see, cops on this beat know how to make you homos hurt.  By the time we’re done reamin’ yer fuckholes, you won’t want any other men.”

 

Ed struggled to comply, scooting himself backwards up the bed as best he could with his hands cuffed behind him.  Lying on his back was gonna hurt with the handcuff on, but he was gettin’ paid extra, so he’d deal with it.

 

On the other bed, Johnny was having a little trouble maneuvering himself, so Carlos grabbed his arm, lifted him up, and tossed him down on the bed.  The kid’s cry of pain coincided with Nick’s sudden penetration of Ed’s sphincter; the older man’s face was twisted into a grimace of discomfort.  He was gritting his teeth and trying for too hard not to cry out in pain himself to pay attention to his son’s distress.  Besides, the boy liked getting hurt.

 

“You squeal like a worthless fuckin’ pig, boy,” Carlos growled menacingly, “I like that.  Let’s see if I can make ya do it more.”  Positioning himself between Johnny’s legs on the bed, Carlos propped the punk’s Pumas up on his own shoulders and slapped the swollen purple head of his dick against the teen’s quivering pink fuckhole, splattering the smooth asscheeks with clear precum.

 

Then, without warning, he rammed his rod home, spearing Johnny’s ass; his rigid tool tore through the boy’s colon, gouging the tender rectal lining and striking the prostate as it rocketed deep into the teen’s guts.

 

The look on Johnny’s face showed Carlos he’d gone too far—he’d wanted to make the kid yell, not scream, but his innate sadism had taken over.  Quickly, he leaned forward and, clamping his large, strong hand over the punk’s mouth, squeezed it shut.  Johnny’s shriek of agony was muffled to a high-pitched squeal as tears flowed copiously from his eyes.

 

In any other situation, the noise would have been both noticeable and startling; as it was, Johnny’ father was too busy getting fucked himself to care.

 

The small room, already crowded by two double beds, a cheap dresser and a single nightstand, was swiftly filling with the sounds and scents of man-on-man sex.  Sweat and testosterone filled the air with an erotic masculine musk as two pairs of tightly entwined male bodies writhed on the beds, locked together and rutting in an excruciatingly sexual embrace.

 

Ed moaned and groaned with pleasure as Nick’s swollen shaft plunged deep into his intestines; Johnny, on the other hand, needed to be held down and muffled until his teenaged fuckhole had relaxed enough to accept Carlos’s cock.  It took more than five minutes of powerful reaming for the kid to calm down enough for the ex-con to remove his hand; the mesmeric gleaming and jingling of the thick links in the stud’s gold necklace seemed to help, somehow having a calming effect.

 

“Just shut up and take my dick,” the powerful, tattooed alpha hissed at the youth, bound and pinned helplessly under his heavy muscles.  Johnny’s true fag nature came to the fore; doing what he was told, he relaxed his ass muscle and accepted the thick tube of meat.  Closing his eyes, the teen sank back into a sensation of both pleasure and pain, sighing as he heard his father’s staccato grunting—the older man was getting pounded good.

 

Ed had been right, the cuffs were painful as hell, given that his arms were compressed behind his back by not only his own body weight but that of the well-built fucker on top of him.  But the violently intense shafting the handsome furry daddy was getting felt so erotic that he ignored both the way the metal cuffs were digging into the small of his back and the way his gold cross  pendant had slid up his hairy chest to lodge uncomfortably under his chin.  He simply spread his legs wider.

 

Ed didn’t get a chance to indulge his bottom pig side often, since Johnny was naturally an intense power bottom.  He’d forgotten how good it felt to have a real man ramming a thick cock up his ass; it’d been far too long…

 

Lost in sexual indulgence, Ed paid no attention to what was happening to his son.  The kid was doing what he loved the most, getting fucked, and that was all Ed knew.

 

So Ed never noticed when Carlos reached down and slowly withdrew the wickedly sharp blade from his boot.

 

Nick noticed; he was expecting it.  He and Carlos glanced at each other; a quick nod was all that was needed to confirm that the action was about to swing into high gear.  First, though, Nick grabbed Ed’s chin and jerked it away from the other bed.  Simultaneously, the brutal convict leaned forward and slapped his hand over Johnny’s mouth, sealing the kid’s lips so he couldn’t scream.  Then he flashed Johnny the knife.

 

The teen’s eyes grew wide with horror as he stared at nine inches of viciously-serrated steel.  “Shh,” Carlos whispered, “Quiet, motherfucker or I’ll stick this in ya.”

 

Johnny was only eighteen; he’d never come up against anything like this in his short, wasted life.  Lying helpless and bound on his back, with this sicko’s huge cock up his ass, the youth knew he was utterly trapped.  His eyes scanned up Carlos’s ripped abs, past his massive inked chest, wiry fur matted with fucksweat, up to where the thick gold links glittered in the dim light.  The blade, evil and hard, was matte black; it didn’t reflect light–a dark, cold presentiment of death.

 

Something was seriously wrong here, the teen realized—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do to escape whatever nightmare was coming.

 

He was right.

 

Grinning maliciously, Carlos hunched down over the bound punk, so close that every frantic breath Johnny took was impregnated with mansweat and testosterone; terrified as he was, he responded instinctively to the pheromones.  As the cruel alpha slid the sharp, icy tip of the Ka-Bar blade down, the smooth, silky skin of Johnny’s chest, the boy’s thick, fireplug dick began to throb and pulse on its own, standing up and slapping Carlos’s hard belly and splattering it with precum.

 

On the other bed, Nick was driving his steel-hard shaft into Ed’s ass, keeping the older man’s face turned away from the intimidation process his son was undergoing; daddy would see what was happening to his boy soon enough, but for right now, Nick wanted to make sure Carlos had a little sadistic fun.

 

After all, he’d have his own turn later.  They’d worked out a symbiotic plan of snuff, cruelly effective, in which each would enjoy his own kill.  Carlos got to go first; Nick got to watch.

 

And when it got bad, Ed got to watch, too.

 

Though cold terror had seized his soul at the sight of the vicious blade, Johnny couldn’t quite believe that anything bad was going to happen; this was the best fuck he’d even gotten. Even Dad wasn’t this well hung, this muscled, this well-wrapped in tight black leather–the smooth slickness of which Johnny could feel as his thighs brushed against Carlos’s powerful, pumping legs.  Despite the older man’s hand gripping his mouth painfully, the boy could still smell the dark, masculine scent of the leather.

 

Carlos was enjoying himself, digging his shiny motorcycle boots into the sheets to help with traction as he thrust his massive rod into the kid.  The teen’s large dark eyes glittered with both lust and fear—the prey was right where Carlos wanted it.  “Hey, boy, ya sure seem to like gettin’ stuck with a long, hard shaft, huh?  Yeah?  So lessee how ya like gettin’ stuck with another one!”

 

Rising up over the bound, helpless teenager, the well-developed convict placed all his weight on the hand over the boy’s mouth.  By this point, his other hand had reached the level of Johnny’s smooth, flat belly, now heaving in panic.  Slowly and steadily, Carlos applied pressure, driving the razor-sharp blade into the skin several inches above the navel.

 

The knife was designed for killing; it slid into Johnny’s guts easily, like a hot knife into butter.  Despite Carlos’s weight grinding his mouth shut, the youth’s high-pitched squeal was loud enough to catch his father’s attention.  Nick let him look—it wasn’t as if he was gonna be able to help.  Like Carlos, though, he understood the need to keep his victim quiet until fucker was fully controlled.

 

Clamping down on the older man’s mouth, Nick whispered in his ear.  “Wanna watch yer boy die, motherfucker?  I sure the fuck do, so shaddap and enjoy the show.”  Ed was strong and fit, but not as strong or as fit as the younger man who was now pinning him to the bed; he kicked and jerked frantically, trying to reach his son, but it was going to take him a little time to learn how futile his struggles were.

 

For the moment, Ed was forced to lie there and take Nick’s cock up his ass while watching his boy suffer.

 

And Johnny was suffering badly.  The serrated blade sliced down through his intestines but didn’t cut any major blood vessels on the way; Carlos was inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of fatal injury.  That way he got to play with his meat longer.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude, that sure tightens yer ass up,” the sadistic ex-con jeered. “You must really be likin’ my blade.  That’s whatcha been wantin’, huh, faggot?  You been lettin’ daddy fuck ya for years, but he ain’t never hurt you good enough, huh?  Go on and tell him, cunt, tell yer fuckin’ father how much you love me guttin’ ya like fresh kill!”

 

As he took his hand from Johnny’s mouth, Carlos twisted the nine-inch blade, now fully inserted into the teen’s belly, in the wound, then yanked it back out in a single, brutal jerk.  The youth stared at the dripping knife, the small strings of flesh dangling from the serrations reflected in Johnny’s wide, glazed eyes.  His mouth was wide too, but his pain was so extreme, all that came out was a single agonized croak.  Shuddering violently, the poor kid turned to his father, appealing mutely for help—and seeing that there was none to be had.

 

Carlos, in the meantime, ran the tip of the blade down the teen’s left flank, then rammed the blade upwards under the rib cage.  This time, the length of sharpened steel slashed through the punk’s spleen and liver.  “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Johnny cried involuntarily as his body went rigid with shock.

 

“Aw hell yeah,” Carlos moaned, grinning over at Nick—and Ed.  “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, dude!  Goddam boy pussy gets all good and tight—fuckin’ piece of fag meat!  Shit, man, hope yours jacks ya off as good as this one when ya waste it, man!”

 

Nick chuckled, easily maintaining control as Ed’s struggles and muffled cries both became more frenetic.  “It will, bro, I got it covered.  Gonna take a while to put this one down, so go ahead and work that little bitch over.  Daddy here needs some tenderizin’—he gets to watch.”

 

“Hear that?” Nick sneered into Ed’s incredulous, bewildered face, “You disgusting perverts are both gonna die tonight.  Fuckin’ incest faggots—gettin’ both you and yer boy here killed, huh?  Look on the bright side, cunt; yer both gonna die fulla manspunk—now don’t that make ya feel better?”  The older man shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the words out of his ears; as his head whipped from side to side, his gold cross lodging in the crook of his neck as his furry pecs slid across Nick’s in the same direction.  As their chest hair entwined, it was compressed and matted by a thin layer of sweat.  Even in his fear for himself and his son, Ed was suddenly aware of how painfully erect his nipples were with each scrape of his chest.

 

And his dick was still erect too—what the fuck?  Johnny was being murdered right in front of him, how the fuck could his dick be hard?  Jesus, this guy’s cock, too, it hurt so fucking bad, it filled his ass so—

 

—and then a shrill scream from Johnny redirected Ed’s attention.

 

Carlos was in a rush of bloodlust.  He knew the symptoms by now; the intense eroticism of every moan, every whimper he elicited from the meat; the utter clarity that allowed him to control the desperate youth who fought like the wounded and dying animal he was.  He could feel the excitement start to build deep in his balls, but he’d need to exercise control over both himself and his meat to cum the way he wanted.  And after all, this one was gonna be a money shot in the literal sense of the word.

 

The boy was sobbing softly, almost lost in shock, with the long Ka-Bar knife buried to its hilt in his left side.  The belly wound was bleeding internally, but he wouldn’t bleed out from that for another half hour or so.  This one in his side, though had cut that time to less than twenty minutes; Carlos was going to have to get the motherfucker to milk his cock before the little shit’s lights went out for good.

 

Good thing the kid responded to pain; he was about to endure a lot of it.

 

“Ok, you cumsuckin’ sicko,” Carlos growled, “Foreplay’s over.  You ready to earn my load?  Fuck no, you ain’t; no way no incestuous fairy like you ever gonna earn my cum—but I’m gonna make you work it outta me anyway.”

 

“Hey, asshole,” Carlos called across to Ed, “Yeah, you, motherfucker—did ya smack yer boy while fuckin’ ‘im?  Y’know, give the little cunt a good whack across the face like he deserves?  No?  Too bad, asswipe; your pervert son likes pain.  Fuck yeah, dude, that get ya off the way it gets me off?  C’mon, lessee how much pain he likes—lessee how much I have to stick him to make me cum!”

 

Still without breaking eye contact with Ed—or the timing of a single thrust of his cock—Carlos jerked the knife from Johnny’s side, whirled it expertly in the air, and slammed it back down into the kid’s chest.  The blade speared through the left pectoral, slipping between the ribs to puncture the left lung and come out Johnny’s back.  By the time the hilt was resting on the teen’s chest, the tip of the blade had sunk three inches into the mattress.

 

It was a shame the involuntary reaction was so violent; the convulsive thrashing caused the embedded blade to shred the existing chest wound.  “Fuckin’-A!” Carlos yelled as Johnny’s legs clamped tightly around his waist; the killer’s leather-clad legs pumped furiously as the stabbed teen flailed helplessly against him, his own chest hair matted into dark, wiry swirls.

 

Johnny had been held too tightly in an iron grip of pain and fear to think rationally, but this impaling thrust was driven home with an icy shaft of agony that somehow brought clarity to the tortured youth.  The teen lifted his head, his pain-twisted face streaked with tears, his short hair now dark and slick with sweat.  There was no trace left of his meth high; he strained his eyes to focus on the jingling links of Carlos’s chain dangling just in front of his face.

 

The horrible rigid metal shaft embedded in his chest was starting to overwhelm the kid; despite a minimum of outward bleeding, his chest cavity was starting to fill with blood.  The pain in his lung, his guts, his ass—it was all starting to go cold and gray.  His ears were ringing—what was happening here?  He couldn’t quite remember…daddy had been fucking him and then there were cops…what had he done?  Why was a cop raping him and killing him?

 

Daddy would know.  Johnny turned his head and saw his father being held down and viciously fucked.  Daddy was looking at him—and crying.  Why was he crying?  Johnny tried to reach out to him to no avail, then tried to speak.  “Da—urk!” the teenager grunted as a bubble of blood burst from his lips and trickled down his chin.

 

“Daddy can’t help ya now, cunt,” the buff, inked sadist sneered.  “And you still ain’t worked the spunk outta my tool yet—fuck, you’re even useless as a faggot, ain’tcha?  Ok, looks like I gotta make yer ass work.”

 

“Hey look,” he called over to Nick, “I looked this one up online.  If I do this right, I can make this boymeat convulse so hard his ass sucks my load right outta my balls—course, it’s gonna cause nightmarish pain.  But after all,” he said, turning his handsome and gleefully malevolent face back to Johnny, “That’s what yer here for, ain’t it, meat?  To suffer and die on my dick just so I can cum, right?  So get to work, ya fuckin’ homo, start drainin’ my sack!”

 

With that, he pulled the knife out of Johnny’s chest with a flourish, sending a spatter of blood across the ceiling before he swiftly reversed the blade.  Leaning forward, he placed one hand on the boy’s forehead, shoving the head back and the jaw up.  “Time to die, fag,” he hissed as he placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh on the underside of the jaw, about two inches back from the chin—and slowly inserted it.

 

The next thirty seconds were not only Johnny’s last, they were also the most nightmarish he’d experience.  Carlos was lying flat on top of the suffering teen, the kid’s slick, smooth body writhing beneath that of the powerful convict; during the entire cruel ordeal, Johnny was aware of his helplessness under the crushing weight of his powerful killer.

 

And Johnny was aware—as gruesomely slow as the upward progress of the blade seemed to the one who was enduring it, it was still faster than death, or even unconsciousness by blood loss.  Johnny experienced every single second of pain as nine inches of sharpened steel began to penetrate his skull.

 

As the knife inched its way up, it severed the boy’s tongue near the base before slicing up through the soft palate into the sinuses.  “Fuuuuck…” Carlos moaned, glancing over at Ed and Nick, intertwined in an intense male embrace of lust and power.  “The meat’s finally gettin’ it, bro, he’s sufferin’ so fuckin’ bad…”

 

Turning back, the cruel stud spat into the punk’s gray, agonized face; the teen’s wide, pain-crazed eyes were ringed with dark circles of shock.  With a loud grunt, Carlos reapplied pressure to the knife.  Immediately he encountered resistance; wrapping one tatted bicep around the top of the kid’s head, he shoved harder and was rewarded when the blade jerked upward with a loud crunching sound.

 

The expression in Johnny’s eyes as his septum shattered and the carbon steel blade ripped through his sinuses would be difficult to describe in words, but the grasping, shuddering convulsions that wracked the teen’s body culminated in his rectum, frantically (if involuntarily) milking Carlos’s swollen cock.

 

The tight leather pants cradling the buff killer’s ass afforded little protection as the dying boy’s Puma Redons kicked and flailed; Johnny’s smooth thighs had locked around Carlos’s waist reflexively as the convict’s vein-wrapped shaft ground against the adolescent’s hormone-swelled prostate. The sense of power the sick sex murderer felt in feeling the youth’s smooth body twist and jerk in agony beneath him became more intense the closer the kid came to death.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the sweating, tattooed stud grunted as he hunched over Johnny’s thrashing form, “That’s it.  Now yer feelin’ me, meat.  Gonna unload in yer ass real soon here, ya worthless cumdump, my balls are already startin’ to boil over—aw, fuck!  Fuck! AARRRGGH!!”

 

With a loud cry, Carlos went rigid and shot a stream of hot spunk deep into Johnny’s guts; at the same time, he clenched his biceps and shoved the knife violently.  There was a crunching sound as the serrated steel blade tore free from the boy’s sinuses and thrust up through the brain, the tip embedding itself on the inside of the cranium.

 

At that point, Johnny ceased to be Johnny.  The teenager’s eyes rolled back in his head; he no longer felt pain or terror or his last nightmarish seconds on earth. He also didn’t feel his death load, spontaneously generated by massive brain trauma.  Carlos felt it, though; the adolescent’s sweating, heaving body suddenly went rigid—and then there was no teen boy left in Carlos’s arms, just a violently convulsing piece of meat that was orgasming explosively because it didn’t know it was dead yet.  A geyser of hot sperm splashed up along the alpha’s abs, matting in his dark, wiry belly fur. A second, stronger—and longer—jet of spunk splattered on the scruff-covered underside of the killer’s jaw; thick streams of cum trailed off to smear across the winged skull inexpertly inked over Carlos’s left pec.

 

The muscular ex-con kept fucking the meat, grunting and snarling as the cumdump’s death throes worked wad after wad out of the killer’s stiff, unyielding shaft.  When he’d finally emptied his huge, puckered sack, Carlos pulled out and knelt on the bed above the still-shuddering corpse.  He reached up and yanked the knife out of the meat’s head—it took both hands and a little effort to pry it loose—and glanced over at the other bed.  Nick, riding his prey like a bronco, grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

 

“Goddam, dude, that was one fuck of a money shot,” he said, chuckling, then spat into Ed’s face; the latter was weeping with his eyes shut.  “Got me so fuckin’ amped up, I think it’s just about time to put this queer bitch down too.  Here, toss me the phone; I’ll yank the cord out.”

 

“Naw, man,” Carlos replied, “Too much work.  Here, use these.”  With that, he spun Johnny’s trembling meat over and quickly untied the intricate knot he’d used on his holster harness; the corpse continued to thrash on the edge of the bed, but didn’t fall. “Here, use this,” he said, handing over the harness.

 

Nick grabbed one of the black leather straps and help it up.  “It’ll work; thanks, bro.”

 

Carlos wanted to get a close-up of the action; there was camera mounted on a tripod on the far side of his bed—there hadn’t been enough room to pose one similarly by Nick’s bed—and he reached back to get it.  The camera slipped from his hands; Carlos had to lunge for it, knocking the tripod over behind the bed.  From this awkward position, he turned to move closer; in order to steady himself, he planted one boot directly on the back of the dead kid’s head.

 

And that was the moment Ed chose to turn his head and open his eyes.  That was the image that was seared into Ed’s brain after watching Johnny’s horrific death—his boy’s killer posed on one knee over the quivering corpse, still-dripping hog hanging out of the tight leather pants, one boot grinding his poor dead son’s head into the mattress…he’d never get to fuck that sweet young ass again…

 

Despair rose up within the older man, despair that soon turned to terror once he remembered he was still helpless in the control of two younger, stronger sex killers.  He opened his mouth—even he didn’t know if he was gonna beg or plead or just scream—but to no avail; as he did so, Nick wrapped one of the holster straps around his neck and pulled.

 

“Ready to join yer boy in a dirt nap?” the dominant sadist chuckled, twisting the inch-wide leather strap around his hands for better leverage, “Cause it’s time to die, dude; yer gonna die on my dick like a fuckin’ dog…”

 

The older faggot had been so wrought up by the sadistically cruel assault on his son that his concern for himself had been subsumed into a general sense of terror and panic; now that he’d been forced to watch Johnny being raped and tortured, the words of his tormentor meant little.

 

The fact that he couldn’t breathe, though—that was something else.  He’d loved his son, in his own sick way—but he needed to breathe.  Ed went rigid immediately, fighting for air; the secondary pain of his gold cross, caught under the strap and digging into his flesh, was but a minor annoyance at the moment.

 

“That’s it, cumsucker!” Nick crowed.  “I knew ya had some fight left in ya; you faggots are too stupid to know death when ya see it.  Well, don’t worry, cunt, it’s gonna take several minutes to choke the life outta ya; you’ll have plenty of time to learn that yer dyin’.”

 

As the crushing pain circling his throat intensified, Ed was also aware of how much harder his ass was being pumped by the younger, stronger top.  And another presence—the other one, the one who killed Johnny—he was there, shoving a camera into Ed’s face.

 

And whispering.

 

“Hey, man,” Carlos was hissing, “Yer boy died hard.  Didja like watchin’ it?  Fuckin’ hot as hell, wasn’t it?  It felt so fuckin’ good, makin’ him suffer, and now yer gonna do the same for my bro here, yeah?  And the best part is, we been recordin’ it all.  Dudes all over the world are gonna pay us so they can beat off watchin’ you and yer cocksuckin’ kid get snuffed—ain’t that sexy shit?  Smile for the camera, asswipe, give ‘em a grin before ya get offed.”

 

The older man thrashed and heaved violently on the mattress, his chest and hard, flat belly writhing against Nick’s as their body fur interlocked like a zipper.  His handsome face was growing congested as the holster strap sank deeper into his neck.  His dark eyes bulged open, forcing him to stare into the faces of the two grinning alpha killers hovering over him, two hard, muscled men taking pleasure in his pain and suffering—

 

—and he was suffering.  Nick had never stopped fucking him, but now the sadistic top was aggressively plunging his engorged tool deeper into Ed’s rectum than ever before; even this pleasure had become agony.  The metal handcuffs that kept his arms twisted excruciatingly behind his back had dug in his wrists far enough to cut off the flow of blood to his hands; they were nothing but useless, throbbing lumps.

 

But the trauma being inflicted on his throat was merely the most unendurable; not only was his esophagus slowly compacting into a mangled mass, but his own pendant—the gold cross (that he’d always secretly superstitiously believed would protect him from the evil he now knew existed beyond any doubt) was compressed so firmly into the tender flesh on the side of his neck that it was literally tearing the skin, making a trickle of blood seep onto the sheets.

 

“Ya likin’ that shit, fuckwad?” Nick taunted his older but well-developed victim.  “Yer ass is grabbin’ my cock like it wants more—fuck, man, if I’d known it took a good strong chokeout to make ya work my shaft right, I’d squeezed yer throat long before now.  Hey, bro,” he called over to Carlos, “Did he teach his fucktoy kid right or did ya have stick ‘im first to have fun?”

 

“Naw, dude,” Carlos drawled, winking and sticking his tongue out at Ed’s swelling, horror-filled face, “Stupid sack of shit acted like he’d never had a dick up his ass till I slipped my shank into his guts—an’ even then, I hadda twist the blade in ‘im before he really showed how much he liked gettin’ buttfucked.”

 

“Shit, man,” Nick snarled down at Ed, “Like father, like son.  Both of ya lousy fag fucks who need pain to teach ya how to take a real man’s hog, ain’t that right, cunt?”

 

The buff sadist pumped his tool up the dying porn star’s colon with ruthless efficiency; his biceps and triceps, already glistening with mansweat, began to bulge with the effort he put into cranking Ed’s windpipe permanently shut.

 

Ed could feel it, too, the effort Nick was expending on both his neck and his fuckhole.  The jackhammer pounding of his frantic pulse in his head was echoed in the furious reaming that his rectum was enduring; there was a fiery ball of pressure that was swelling in his chest and his face was about to burst—and then his eyes…oh fuck, he couldn’t close his eyes, the hard, handsome faces of his killers hovering over him, so close they could kiss…with a sense of despair, he realized that their jeering triumph in his death would be the last thing he’d see on earth…

 

And still they tortured him, not just physically, but mentally as well.

 

Carlos was particularly cruel; as he sneered and spit on their helpless victim, his thick cock—still hanging out of his tight leather pants, dripping with cum—began to stiffen again.  “I really got off on hurtin’ yer son, ya perverted fuck,” he whispered. “He was really cryin’ for his daddy when he died—too bad you were too busy gettin’ fucked, faggot.  Know what part’s the best?  Loadin’ him up with my seed.  It don’t matter how many times ya fucked yer little boy in the ass, he’s gonna end up takin’ a nice long dirt nap fulla my jizz, not yers, asswipe.”

 

“Goddammit,” Nick barked in intense anger, “Yer gettin’ loose, old man.  What, ya want it tighter—or ya need some more pain?  Yeah, that’s it—just like any other faggot, I’m gonna hafta hurt ya to make ya grip my shaft right.”  Twisting the ends of the strap together, the sweating, powerful killer yanked them to one side so he could hold them both in the same hand; as he did, Ed’s gold cross bent under the stress of the increased pressure, tearing an agonizing three-inch slash into the side of Ed’s throat as it did so.  Sadly for Ed, it did no further damage—he had no hope of escaping his suffering by bleeding out.

 

But even that pain was soon overtaken by new suffering.  The buff, strong—but not quite strong enough—musclebound victim hadn’t noticed the sidelong glance Nick had slipped Carlos.  Carlos, did, though, and recognized it as a hint for a close-up.  Zooming the camera in on Ed, he had a perfect angle to capture Nick balled-up fist raining blows into the bound, trapped stud’s dark, puffy face.

 

Each loud, wet smack of flesh on flesh was accompanied by a raging curse from Nick; the hulking alpha had shifted into sadistic bloodlust mode.  “Stupid fuckin’ (WHAM) sack a’ shit (WHAM), ya wanted to get paid for me to fuck ya ( WHAM WHAM WHAM); are ya gettin’ paid good enough now (WHAM?) Ya worthless goddam (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) pervert (WHAM), how old was yer kid (WHAM) when ya started fuckin’ ‘im (WHAM) ya fucking child-molestin’ homo (WHAM)?”

 

Nick paused to catch his breath; without dropping the tempo of his brutal assfuck, he pulled back a bit, still gripping the leather holster strap tightly in one hand.  The lifted the meat’s head up from the blood-spattered pillow.  Carlos leaned forward, allowing the fag’s battered and swollen face to fill the frame.  Ed had been a strikingly handsome man of thirty-seven, with his testosterone-influenced receding hairline, his honey-gold goatee and the long lashes rimming his large, dark, liquid eyes.

 

The only thing recognizable in the bloody, pulped ruin now being captured on camera was the goatee surrounding the swollen, blue lips.

 

“Fuck, dude,” Carlos panted as he looked into Ed’s violently-beaten face, “I think this meat’s nearly done.  Ya fucked it over real good, bro.”  The erotic hoarseness in his voice was underscored by the steady transparent stream oozing from his by-now fully erect dick.

 

Semi-conscious in a universe of screaming pain, some pig corner tucked into the back of Ed’s brain heard and agreed.  His own thick, vein-wreathed rod, already achingly stiff, smacking swiftly between his own and Nick’s flat, furry bellies in time to the rapid assfuck, suddenly began to splatter beads of precum everywhere.

 

“Yeah?” Nick grinned at Carlos (and the camera), his cruel sadism glinting in his eyes like a cold light.  “Think it’s time to put the fucker down?  Ya may be right, bro; I’m gettin’ kinda bored with these faggots.  Guess it’s time to dump my load and split.”

 

He shifted slightly as Carlos moved closer to the headboard and reversed the angle, looking down on the writhing, interlocked male bodies, glistening with sweat and slapping together in a swift, animalistic rhythm.

 

Nick was close to shooting his load, but he recognized that he’d brutalized the meat too much for any further mental abuse to avail.  He needed one final blow to the nervous system, quick, strong and fatally brutal, to make the faggot’s fuckhole tighten up around his cock.

 

He knew exactly what to do.  Wrapping the strap ends around the palm of his right hand, Nick placed his right hand flat on the meat’s slick, heaving (but not breathing) chest.  Lowering his face, the psychopathic sex killer glanced up at Carlos and the camera impishly through his own tousled bangs.

 

“Hey, bro,” he whispered, “Check this shit out.”

 

And then he jerked on the holster strap.  Hard.  Gritting-his-teeth hard, tendons-standing-out on his-neck hard, veins-standing-out-on-bicep hard.  At the same time, grunting with the physical strain, he shoved his other arm down on the fuckmeat’s muscled chest.  The buff older man’s face bent forward and his neck seemed to elongate.  As his face turned down, his thick, protruding tongue pushed out of his mouth, forcing a long foamy stream of drool to fall into his chest fur.

 

“That’s it, cunt, time to go bye-bye,” Nick hissed and yanked again.  There was a sickeningly loud cracking, crunching sound as the muscle-bound alpha literally tore his victim’s head off the top of his spine, crushing the esophagus and shattering three vertebrae simultaneously.

 

The impact to Ed’s nervous system was immediate.  He died instantly, his entire musculature going rigid in a heartbeat.  The muscles in his cock stiffened, forcing a violent eruption of semen from his agonizingly erect shaft.  The first load was so abrupt and intense, it actually shot between his head and Nick’s, splashing against the wall three feet above the top of the headboard—although some fallout landed in his dark blond hair.

 

At the same time, his colon and lower intestines contracted around Nick’s engorged cock; it was like a hand in a velvet glove jacking him off.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, Nick flooded the meat’s guts with boiling sperm.  He continued to twist Ed’s head around, mangling the spinal column.

 

This triggered Ed’s second deathload, a steady jet of spunk that lasted a good ten seconds straight, spewing huge pearly loads of spunk all over both his chest and that of his killer.  This load, though was interrupted by a third one, form a different source.

 

Still holding the camera, recording all the action, Carlos had shot a second wad completely hands-free.  Recorded for the paying viewers to see, his thick, creamy load squirted a flood of hot manseed over both the corpse and its killer.

 

“That’s it, bro,” Nick gasped hoarsely, “Spunk all over that fuckin’ faggot!”  Inwardly, he exulted in feeling Carlos’s hot semen splatter on his chest, but, still ejaculating uncontrollably himself, he didn’t process the emotion; he could only shudder and shoot.

 


 

Several cum-drenched minutes later, Nick and Carlos both found themselves in enough control of themselves to disengage from the bed and get themselves cleaned up.  Carlos moved first—largely because, unlike Nick, his dick wasn’t stuck in a quivering corpse.  Retreating to the bathroom to wash up, he chuckled with contemptuous amusement at Johnny’s meth pipe sitting on the top of the toilet cistern, along with a lighter and small baggie partially full of powder.  He left them alone.

 

Nick, for his part, withdrew his leaking shaft for the dead man.  He rolled Ed over and uncuffed him; when he did, the shuddering body slid limply to the floor with a thump.  Picking up his discarded cop outfit, he went back through the connecting door into the adjoining room, using that bathroom to wash off the evidence of violent sex.

 

By this time, Carlos had finished up and returned into the death room.  He gathered up his own gear, including the gun and the holster harness Nick had used to kill Ed; that took a bit of time to recover, given how deeply it was embedded in the meat’s neck.  At one point, he ground his boot into Ed’s face to hold his head down as he pried the strap out of the corpse’s crushed throat.  He carried the armful  of gear back into the other room and dumped it on the bed, only to be brought up short when Nick asked, “Where’s yer shank, bro?”

 

He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it.  He went back into the other room and began poking around on the bed; almost immediately, he noticed it tangled in the sheet on the other side of the teenager’s cooling, stiffening corpse.  It was still covered in gore, so Carlos used the cheap motel sheet to wipe it down; his actions made the bed shake slightly.  Not enough, but enough to dislodge Johnny’s body.  The dead teen rolled off the bed, landing on top of his father’s corpse.  Ed was face-up and Johnny face-down; they’d have been looking each other in the eye, had Johnny’s eyes not been rolled too far back in his head that only the whites showed from under his half-open lids.

 

Just then, Nick came back into the room.  “Aw, ain’t that sweet,” he jeered, “the faggot lovebirds united forever in death.  Let ‘em rot there.  You get the cameras on that side an’ I’ll get the ones on this side.  We should be able to clear out in about half an hour or so.”

 

Because of the layout of the room, the bodies on the floor between the beds made it difficult to reach everything on his side, which might account for what happened later.  But Nick had been right; they were gone within thirty minutes.

 


 

The bodies weren’t found for another eighteen hours; the maid who found them subsequently required psychiatric treatment, as did one of the two first responding police officers.  The other, a twenty-six year old rookie named Rog, found a camera tripod that had fallen behind one of the beds.  Even before the autopsy results revealed that both males had been raped as well as murdered, Rog had realized that someone, somewhere, had a video of what happened.

 

And despite the tremendous swell in publicity surrounding the case once DNA results revealed that the victims were father and son, Rog kept his surmises to himself, and laid his plans.

 


 

Nick was laying plans, too.  The commission was not only paid promptly, it included a sizeable gratuity—and a distribution agreement, with a percentage on the gross.

 

“Shit, bro, we’re gonna be fuckin’ millionaires,” he laughed a week later.  He and Carlos were both sitting in the office.  “I already paid the condo off.  Think I’m gonna soundproof that second bedroom.  We can have all kinda fun in there.”

 

Carlos didn’t care; Nick was giving him all the cash he needed.  He had wheels and a crib—and the opportunity to waste any fag he wanted, when he wanted…how he wanted…

 

“Cool, dude,” he drawled contentedly.  “Ya got any new hits?”

 

“I got a message yesterday, saying somthin’ might be coming.  Believe it or not, I haven’t checked email yet; I was too busy payin’ off debts.  Lessee if we got anything.”

 

Turning on the monitor, Nick fired up the PC, grinning broadly.  Part of it was the financial—and artistic, so to speak—success.  But part of it was what he’d learned about Carlos.  Straight, my ass, some cold, calculating part of his mind thought—he mighta gone into prison straight, but he came out a full-blown fag.  That might come in handy someday.

 

It took a while for the system to boot up; it took even longer for the email to come up.  Carlos had lost interest and was surfing on his phone when a loud ping echoed through the office.  Nick clicked on a couple of things, then his eyes grew wide.

 

“We got another commission,” he said quietly.  “Holy fuck, bro, come lookit this.”

Adam–First Kill

It had been a cloudy day and as the sun set, the twilight lengthened the shadows into a chilly blue gloom.  Even after midnight, the temperature remained fairly stable, but the gloom deepened to the point where it seemed to actively absorb light.

 

Not many people were out at three in the morning on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, but Robbie didn’t have much choice.  Until he could save enough to replace the busted fuel pump on his car, he was walking home from work.  It wasn’t a long walk—no more than two or three miles, up past the high school and the rec center—but Robbie was still pissed.  Greg wouldn’t let him borrow the car—as if Greg himself was gonna stay sober enough to drive—and ever since Ma had married the asshole, she’d let him run the show.  And Greg had already said he didn’t like cocksuckers in his home and wouldn’t have his car parked at a fag bar.

 

Robbie fumed.  He was gonna save up his dough and get the fuck outta this place, even if it meant staying up late for overtime.  Mack paid him decently—more than minimum wage, at least—and being bar back at the low-rent dive came with some added benefits not available to most nineteen-year-olds in terms of access to alcohol.

 

And sex.  Robbie had gotten his tight ass plowed at (and sometimes behind) the bar on a number of occasions; he was young, handsome, and very fit.  And his demeanor and vocabulary immediately pegged him as being from the wrong side of the tracks—which only made him more desirable to a lot of the dudes at the bar.

 

It sure had tonight.  Problem was, despite being a gay bar, Mack’s was a small-time affair in a bad part of town.  It had been packed on Thanksgiving (it had seemed to draw a leather crowd that night), but this was Saturday and a lot of the high-end nightclubs were offering discounts and waiving cover charges.  Mack’s was full of drunk old trolls.  Nauseated from getting pinched and fondled by nasty old men, reeking of booze, Robbie sought refuge in alcohol himself.

 

All of which explained why he was staggering slightly as he made his way along the dark and deserted streets at three in the morning.  The red glare of neon that proclaimed “Mack’s Bar” had faded behind him some time ago as Robbie turned left off of Grand Avenue and began the long trek up 22nd Street, past the rec center.

 

On his left was what might looked like an older warehouse, remodeled into hip shops and condos—except that it was about six months old, replacing a lot that had sat vacant for years.  Robbie paused on the sidewalk for a moment, catching a glimpse of himself where a nearby streetlight reflected his image in a large storefront window.

 

Short and stocky, Robbie barely reached five-foot-eight, but he was buff and barrel-chested.  His arms and legs were thickly muscled; his broad, rounded pecs presented large nipples, obviously erect under a red t-shirt that was too small for him.  Over this, the tough-looking twink sported a brown leather bomber jacket, worn unzipped and open.

 

Beneath his flat abs, his waist narrowed; around it, the drawstring of a pair of jogging sweats was tied into a granny knot.  The jogging pants themselves were dark gray, a Chinese knockoff of Under Armor that didn’t get the logo quite right.  It didn’t matter—they clung tightly to his firm thighs, the soft material revealing every detail of Robbie’s well-built body—down to the outline of the thick hog lying along his right thigh.

 

Elastic at the cuffs cinched the sweats off just above the ankle so that Robbie’s ped socks were almost invisible inside his Adidas Stan Smith retro sneakers, white w/ green details.  Not that his kicks were visible in the glass, of course; it didn’t go down that far.  His face, on the other hand, was vividly clear.

 

It was broad and smooth, the skin slightly pale but sprinkled with freckles that were visible even in the reflected image.  Somehow, Robbie’s face managed to convey a certain innocence; his wide nose and white, even teeth underscored his large, long-lashed eyes of vivid emerald green.

 

It was his hair, though, that was most noticeable.  Robbie was wearing a plain black baseball cap, but it wasn’t enough to conquer an irrepressible mop of red curls.  The term red would be somewhat misleading, in fact—the coarse, wiry strands profusely covering his head were a bright, carroty orange.

 

Robbie shrugged and walked on.  He knew well enough what he looked like, and it was good enough to get him laid when he wanted.  His active lifestyle kept him firm and fit, and he got noticed.  Maybe, one day, it’d get him notice by a sugar daddy and he could finally tell Ma and that fuckhead Greg to kiss his ass.

 

His physique had certainly gotten him noticed before, in ways Robbie himself didn’t recognize.  And if he’d known, he might not have been so pleased with himself.  He certainly hadn’t realized that he’d attracted the attention of someone who now knew far more about him than Robbie would have thought possible…

 

…someone who was even now stalking him.

 

————————————————————————————————–

 

Several days after Adam had fucked a corpse and tossed it into a swimming pool, he was still feeling both excited and terrified.  He knew what he needed to do, but he just couldn’t bring himself to commit to the act.  In a way, it was too enticing.  The muscular young man, aware of his powerful strength, was more afraid of getting too carried away, of getting so excited that he’d be careless.

 

After all, if he was gonna do this, he was self-aware enough to know that he wouldn’t stop.  And he wouldn’t want to, so avoiding detection was paramount.

 

And so he hemmed and hawed, a fierce internal debate not reflected in his outwardly calm behavior.  The argument, however, was resolved by the evening news.  Adam’s attention was absorbed by the lead story—a state senator’s kid found raped and strangled in a cheap motel room.

 

Adam was stunned; he’d been so wrapped up in his mental turmoil that he’d forgotten about the other guy.  And now that he’d been reminded, his desire to violate the victim flooded back through him, despite the knowledge that this body had already been removed.

 

And that was what broke down the internal deadlock.  Fuck detection, he’d figure something out.  He needed to stick his cock into dead boymeat, and he needed it now.  But who?

 

His mind whirled back to the gym—no, not there.  Too many of the other dude’s victims were from there.  Someone Adam had visited before himself, maybe?  The idea had some possibilities. There was that junior high kid two doors down, the fourteen-year-old, but that probably wasn’t a good idea.  You don’t shit where you eat.  And there were those other two boys—no, dammit, they had ties to that gym too.

 

Then Adam remembered the kid from the bar.  He’d spotted the dude several months ago—short but muscular, the teen looked like he was nearly as strong as Adam himself.  The punk had been lugging around bins full of ice; his tattooed biceps were visible under the taut sleeves of a skin-tight black t-shirt.

 

Adam had followed him home that night, standing outside the kid’s house with his dick hard and throbbing, listening to a virulent screaming match between the young faggot and his drunken stepfather.  Later, he crept into the sleeping youth’s room, leaving a wad of cum in the boy’s kicks and taking a pair of socks with him.

 

Now, tonight, the image of the hot little homo sprang into him mind spontaneously.  It was right after Thanksgiving, would the fucker be working?  There was only one way to find out.

 

It wasn’t a long trip by car, but it was a shitty neighborhood to park in.  Still he was only gonna be here for one beer’s worth of time—and when it came right down to it, it didn’t even take that long.  Adam had just shut the engine off when the short buff dude came out of the bar’s entrance, dragging a sack of garbage to the dumpster around the corner.  Not even bothering to get out, Adam restarted the engine and drove home.

 

When he came back, he’d be on foot.  And it’d be much, much later.

 

————————————————————————————————–

 

Much, much later, Robbie was walking up the low, slow incline past the rec center.  It was a dark stretch of roadway, with the park running along one side of the street and the other side taken up by a rest home.  No light came through from the park; the greenbelt running along the sidewalk took care of that, so Robbie walked in darkness.  The old folks’ home across the street was likewise quiet, the lobby dark and locked up.  Even the rec center, when he passed it, had been still, the single car at the far end of the parking lot, seemingly left for the night…

 

A faint rustle to his right made Robbie turn his head to the nearby underbrush, expecting to catch a glimpse of a raccoon, if he was lucky.

 

He wasn’t lucky.  And what he caught a glimpse of was far larger than a raccoon.  The large dark shape seemed to come from nowhere, suddenly filling his field of vision.  Then there were vague sensations—a swift motion, a sharp pain—and the dark shape expanded to become everything.

 

Robbie woke up in motion.  His face hurt; dirt and leaves were being ground into it—he was being dragged by his legs through the underbrush, face down.  Someone was pulling him away from the street, into the depths of the greenbelt.  His head ached and his cap was gone; he must have been hit.

 

He had a vague, confused idea that there was something sexual about all this, but that made no sense.  None of this was making any sense—with his t-shirt now pulled up around his neck, his firm, flat belly was scraping the ground, his smooth skin being scratched by rocks and bits of twig.

 

Disoriented and aching, Robbie began to struggle.  Kicking out unexpectedly with his strong legs, he managed to free himself from his unknown assailant.  For a moment, he scrabbled helplessly on the ground, then his loose Adidas kicks managed to get some traction in the dirt.

 

The short, powerful teen regained his feet with a short-lived moment of exultation, then he was blind-sided and slammed sideways into the thick trunk of an ancient tree.  The impact knocked the breath out of him and he sank to the ground, peering up at his attacker in the faint kaleidoscopic glinting of distant streetlights that managed to make it through the wind-blown boughs.

 

From the few details Robbie could make out in the dim, shifting light, the other dude was taller, slightly older and somewhat better built than he was.  A brief movement of a branch against the background lighting gave the young homo a silhouette of the well-built man towering over him; even in his pained bewilderment, Robbie felt a straining in his groin as his dick started to stiffen.

 

————————————————————————————————–

 

Adam had been tense and excited as he waited in the woods for the little homo to walk by; he was hard with excitement, but his palms were slick with nervous sweat.  As amped as he had been watching that kid get offed in the locker room, he still wasn’t sure he could do it—after all, once he’d actually killed, there’d be no turning back…

 

He’d been surprised how easy it was to put the kid’s light’s out; the fucker was short but built like a bulldog with a broad chest and narrow waist; it had been what had attracted Adam in the first place.  He’d gotten the limp punk into the underbrush quickly, taking time to fondle the unconscious faggot only when they were both completely concealed.  Even so, the street was still too near for Adam’s comfort.  He decided to drag his prey deeper into the woods.

 

This was a stealth kill, and Adam had dressed the part; one of the reasons Robbie had been unable to see his assailant approach was that the latter was dressed all in black.  The youthful killer manqué had covered his red-gold hair—much less brazen than that of his victim—as well as his powerful torso in a tight hoodie of black polyester fleece; with the hood tightly drawn over his head, only his face showed in the darkness, and that but vaguely.

 

Under this, Adam wore a pair of black utility pants, tight around his firm, muscled ass.  They had multiple pockets down the thighs but narrowed below the knee where they were bloused into a pair of Army-surplus combat boots with thick rubber soles that let him move quietly and confidently through the undergrowth.

 

It was the escape attempt the tripped the trigger.  Adam never saw it coming; adrenaline surged through his body the moment he realized that the well-built teenager was no longer in his grasp.  The moment the cocksucker collected his wits, he’d be screaming for help.  Knowing that he had little time to regain control of the situation, the stronger and slightly older stud body-slammed the little sack of shit sideways into a tree and was now standing over him, looking down on the cowering boy…

 

…and experienced a rush of bloodlust of almost uncontrollable proportions.  The hot young teen, huddled at his feet—and at his mercy, ready to be made into vulnerable, fuckable meat—

 

—oh yeah, he could do this.

 

And seeing the thick shaft rising like a tent pole from the pansy’s tight but soft sweats, Adam felt a tingling shock run through his body as if he’d touched a live wire.  The meat-to-be was just as hard as Adam himself.  A brief incident of violence, and already there were two swollen, throbbing cocks.

 

It made sense—at least to the fledgling sex killer—that more brutality would bring more sexual pleasure.  And the testosterone and adrenaline flooding his young, powerful body was not to be denied; as he stepped up and gazed contemptuously at the young faggot cowering between his combat boots, Adam could feel precum flowing freely from the enlarged piss-slit of his massive, pulsating hog.

 

On his knees in the dirt, Robbie absorbed the pheromones being given off by the dark figure looming over him; the sex-laden atmosphere only added to his sense of unreality.  Alone in the dark woods with a hot anonymous dude—it wasn’t the first time he’d been in this situation on his way home from work, but no one had ever hurt him before.

 

The handsome gay teen from the wrong side of the tracks was about to learn that not only was there a first time for everything, it was also possible for the first time to be the last time, too.  He knew instinctively that he needed to move before he succumbed to a kind of paralytic lust that was stealing over him at the thought of what this unknown stud might do to him.

 

Again, he lunged forward, twigs catching at the knees of his tight-fitting joggers and tearing the material.  He jerked towards his assailant’s right, in what he thought was the direction of the street, gasping loudly prior to calling out for help.

 

He never got the chance, but he never knew how close he came.  With a little more experience, Adam might have expected another escape attempt; as it was, he was unable to prevent it, only to end it—which he did, with a swift, brutal kick, driving his steel-toed combat boot into the boy’s lower ribcage, snapping off the floating ribs on the teen’s right side.

 

Squealing in pain, the queer punk was flipped onto his back.  Adam stood over his prey, knowing that he had to take control of the situation once and for all—and finding that the idea made his cock throb even more intensely.  The erotic haze filling his head had almost a reddish tinge; it was through this that he saw the large rock lying two feet to the right of the cumpig’s head.

 

It was clear that the fagmeat was dazed but not totally out—it was gonna start bleating again; he needed to shut it up.  Kneeling down, he grabbed the rock and pulled it out of the soil.  Ovoid in shape, about six inches on the long axis and four on the short, it fit his hand perfectly.

 

Robbie blinked confusedly up at the muscular dude crouching over him.  A stray beam of light from a distant streetlight lit the stud’s face; even in his pain and fear, the young faggot felt his swollen tool strain painfully at the sight of his attacker’s deep, dark eyes framed by long lashes and the red-gold stubble on his taut cheeks and firm chin.

 

“W-why?” Robbie asked tremulously, his late-adolescent voice still cracking with surging hormones.  He’d have given himself to this hot top voluntarily.

 

Adam knew what the single word meant.  Still holding the large rock in his hand, he grinned at the prostrate teen.  “Cause I like my meat cold, man,” he whispered, his voice low with erotic huskiness.  “I’m gonna fuck ya, all right, but I want you dead before I stick my dick in ya.”

 

The expression on the little cunt’s face showed that he’d heard the words, but hadn’t understood them.  At least, not at once; it took some time for the perverted, terrifying meaning to sink through.  It was obvious when it hit; the kid’s eyes grew as wide as dinner plates.

 

“Wha-wh-what?” he gasped.

 

“Time to die, faggot,” Adam replied calmly and slammed the rock into his face.

 

Robbie was aware of a loud crunching sound that accompanied the overpowering blast of pain in his head; his cry of pain was somewhat muffled when he coughed out the two rearmost molars from the left side of his fractured jaw.  Mewling, with blood dripping from his mouth, the gay teen’s nightmare was just beginning.

 

And so was Adam’s sadistic killing spree.  He’d had no idea how good it would feel to have a sexy young queerboy at his mercy and in his control.  And what better way to confirm the possession of power over a victim than by making the victim endure something he never would voluntarily?

 

Something like, say, horrific pain and death.

 

Had his tight cargo pants not been black, there would have been a large and spreading circle of precum visible in his crotch as Adam raised the rock for another debilitating blow.  This was just to teach the homo to shut up, though.  His death, the budding sex killer understood, needed to be long and slow, leaving the meat nice and tight to receive his shaft.

 

After all, the twisted alpha figured as he smashed the chunk of stone into the moaning punk’s face again, the little cumsucking piece of shit didn’t deserve the D while it was still alive.

 

The second blow crushed Robbie’s nose, split his lips and shattered a cheekbone.  His handsome young face now a battered ruin, the boy wallowed on his back in the dirt, squealing and kicking in agony.  In his thrashing, he somehow managed to work free of his bomber jacket, leaving it covered in leaves, the brown leather almost invisible in the dark underbrush.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Adam moaned ecstatically as the sense of power literally rippled through his firm, taut muscles, making his already-engorged cock throb painfully inside his pants.  He tossed the rock to one side—he wasn’t gonna need it any more.  Reaching out, he grabbed the youth’s t-shirt and yanked his hands on opposite directions, hard.  After the briefest resistance, he was rewarded with a brisk tearing sound as the red tee split down the middle, revealing the kid’s smooth, buff torso.

 

The teen continued to claw at the purple swollen mass that had been his face, the shredded remains of his shirt still wrapped around his bulging biceps, as Adam grabbed at his waistband and pulled the teen’s jogging sweats down to his ankles before ripping them completely off over his white sneakers.

 

Of course the horny little fucker had been going commando; Adam hadn’t even considered any other possibility, and for good reason.  Short, strong Robbie now found himself nude except for his ped socks and retro Adidas kicks, inexplicably shuddering and wailing in agony in the woods, in the dirt, and he had no idea how he’d ended up like this.

 

Somewhere outside the boiling flood of pain, the gay punk heard another tearing sound, somehow slightly different than when his shirt was stripped—raising his head with great effort, he could see (just barely; his eyelids were swollen almost completely shut) that his well-built and mysterious attacker had ripped the drawstring out of the sweats that had just been so forcibly removed.

 

Adam stood up and leaned over the brutalized youth, now in shock-induced paralysis.  Grinning down at his helpless fuckmeat, the strong buff stud reached down and slowly unzipped the fly of his black utility pants.  Instantly, his thick hog flopped out, precum dripping from the engorged purple tip.

 

The reaction this provoked made the practicing sadist laugh out loud.

 

“Lookit that shit,” he chuckled, “Goddam, you really are a horny little faggot, aintcha?  I beat the fuck outta yer pansy ass and ya still get hard when ya catch sight of my dick—lessee if you can stay hard after you’re dead, cocksucker.”

 

And with that, he threw himself down onto the teenager.  Robbie, spread-eagled nude (but for his sneakers) in the dirt, grunted and coughed out the last reserve of air in his lungs as the hard-bodied killer slammed down on top of him.

 

As Adam had remarked, the teen homo had indeed gotten even harder than he’d been before at the sight of his assailant’s cock; his fit young homosexual body, so filled with hormones that they wafted off of him in a pheromone-ridden musk, was helpless to do otherwise.  As the heavily-muscled form fell on him, violently expelling his breath, some small part of Robbie’s attention was diverted from the pain and fear into noticing the sensation of the older dude’s hard cock, pressing into his smooth flat belly like a heated iron rod.

 

But even that cockpig section of his brain couldn’t ignore the implication of the drawstring when the anonymous alpha whipped it up and around his throat; he could ignore it still less when the cold-blooded killer yanked the thick strand of braided nylon so tightly that he was unable to inhale.  Robbie’s lungs, already achingly empty, began to burn with searing agony from lack of air.

 

That was when the teenage homo panicked like the trapped animal he was.  Instantly, two hard, muscled, male bodies were locked together in a fatal embrace.   Despite the cold, the powerful young man slid over the boy’s smooth, writhing body on a thin layer of sweat as he worked to hold the dying punk down.

 

“Quit fightin’ it, faggot,” Adam grunted, his biceps bulging as he tightened the thin nylon cord around his prey’s neck.  “Yer only makin’ it harder, cunt; I’m gonna waste ya no matter what, so settle down and enjoy the ride.”

 

Robbie was unable to process the words his killer spoke, but physical agony drove the point into his terror-wracked mind.  This hot fucker was snuffing him.  It didn’t matter why—what mattered was the he couldn’t breathe and it hurt, it hurt so fucking bad…

 

He reached up, his hands clawing wildly at those of his killer while his thickly-muscled legs wrapped around the stud’s torso and kicked randomly, the white Adidas sneakers thrashing frantically in mid-air.  As they struggled together, Adam could feel the teen’s pulsing cock pressed against him, stiffening reflexively as the kid sank deeper into asphyxia.  Adam responded in kind; his own thick shaft was leaking precum all over Robbie’s smooth, flat belly.

 

His dick was one of the only parts of Adam that was exposed; he was still otherwise fully clothed.  The desperate youth clutched at his killer’s dark hoodie, but his grip was weakening   His eyes bulged grotesquely from his black and swollen face—and somewhere in the pounding pain inside Robbie’s skull there flashed a vague thought the he was gonna die without ever getting a close look at his killer’s face.  All he knew was that he was being choked out by a well-built stud with a huge dick.

 

Adam wanted to make sure he knew something else, too.  “Die, faggot,” he hissed, pausing to spit into his victim’s face.  The spittle hit the tip of the meat’s protruding tongue and slid down the length of it to be hidden in the foamy drool that frothed over the kid’s parted lips.  “Die so I can stick my cock up yer dead pansy ass, homo.  You don’t deserve my dick alive, you cumsucker, so hurry up and fuckin’ choke to death, you useless piece of shit!”

 

Leaning back a bit, the powerful young man wrapped the nylon drawstring one more time around his hands, then jerked it so hard that tendons stood out in his neck and veins on his bicep.

 

The braided cord sank into the thrashing fuckmeat’s neck so deeply it vanished from sight.  The dying teen began to jerk and shake uncontrollably, causing the drool to run down his chin and cheeks in long white streamers.  Even in the dim light, Adam could see the whites of the meat’s cat-like green eyes swiftly darken as blood vessels ruptured under the extreme pressure building up in the boy’s head.

 

Robbie didn’t know who was killing him, but he knew why.  He’d heard Adam’s words—they were the last thing he ever heard.  He’d passed the tipping point, he’d gone too long without oxygen to recover.  As more and more of his brain died off, his struggles became less frantic and less coordinated.  He faded from mindless panic to mindless acceptance, his hands stroking his killer’s fleece hoodie as his legs, already encircling the older stud’s waist, locked together behind his back.

 

Adam was entranced.  He was holding the teen faggot right at the edge of the abyss; the sense of power and control was overwhelmingly erotic.  “Ya want it?” he whispered quietly—almost inaudibly over the sound of Robbie’s death throes.  “Ya ready for my cock, boy?  Only one way to get my load—die, motherfucker, die!”

 

Adam gave one last mighty yank to the cord and was instantly rewarded with a loud crunching sound as the kid’s esophagus collapsed in a ruin of shattered cartilage.  The meat reacted instantly; some reflex reaction caused both the arms and the legs to tighten—Robbie held his killer in one last violent but unconscious embrace.

 

Then the corpse let go and the convulsions began.  The fag had been young and strong; his brain was dead but his body hadn’t gotten the message yet.  His thick cock was still erect—even in death, it hadn’t found release.  Robbie died without cumming.

 

This was what Adam was waiting for.  In a flash, he was up and crouched over the thrashing meat, flipping it over on its belly so he’d have access to its fuckhole.  A look of disgust crossed his face; the smooth, muscled back was smeared with dirt and leaves.  Looking around, Adam spied the remains of the red t-shirt he’d torn off his prey.  Grabbing it, he used it to wipe off the corpse’s heaving back and brush the leaves out of its carrot-orange hair.

 

Then he was ready.

 

Rolling the body back over, he parted the smooth, trembling legs and, sliding between them, placed the cunt’s feet, still kicking and tightly laced into the retro Adidas sneakers, up on his shoulders.  Placing the huge purple head of his pulsing cock against the boy’s fuckhole and shoved.

 

The buff killer shuddered in pleasure as he felt the corpse’s sphincter quivering and convulsing along the length of his vein-wrapped shaft.  Adam inserted his dick slowly at first, savoring the sensation of his victim’s death throes, but when he was about a third of the way in, his lust took over and he rammed his cock home, penetrating all the way into the dead teen’s guts—and got an unexpected reward.

 

The moment his sudden deep thrust speared the snuffed fucker’s prostate, the corpse’s still-hard dick stood straight up and erupted in a shower of hot cum.  Adam hadn’t thought it was possible for a dead body to shoot a load, but Robbie had been so primed to ejaculate at the moment of his death that getting fucked in the ass triggered a mindless, reflexive orgasm.

 

Thick pearly wads splattered up Adam’s dark hoodie, right up into his face.  As the fuckmeat’s semen splattered in his face, the now-experienced killer felt his own sperm boiling in his puckered sack, now banging intently against the dead kid’s taint.  With a loud groan, the muscled necro pervert grabbed the corpse’s shoulders to hold on as he injected what felt like a quart of steaming seed into the murdered kid’s intestines.

 

Time seemed to freeze as the hot buff stud, still fully dressed, unloaded his spunk into the lifeless form of his victim, holding the cooling, stiffening form to him as he shuddered in violent orgasm.  At last, his balls drained and aching, he disengaged from the body, rolling onto his back and gasping for air as his wet, sticky, still-throbbing cock rose straight up into the cold night air.

 

It took a few minutes for Adam to regain his breath and get back on his feet; even when he did, he was a little shaky.  He looked back at the corpse; Robbie was spread-eagled on his back; in his death struggles, he’d created what Adam thought of as a “leaf angel” in the dirt, clearing the area around him a bit.

 

It had been incredible.  It had been the best sex Adam had ever had.  He had to do this again, soon—but not like this.

 

As good as it had been, there had been something unbearably dirty and squalid about it.  Adam wanted to feel another faggot die in his arms, but he didn’t want to fuck in the dirt.  It wasn’t the way he wanted to enjoy his meat.

 

Tucking his cum-smeared hog back into his cargo pants, the newly-minted sex killer considered his options as he made his way through the underbrush back to the sidewalk.  An idea had occurred to him.  His next kill, he decided, would be in completely different circumstances.

 

————————————————————————————————–

 

It took three days for the body to be found; when it was, there was little concern.  Mack’s Bar got a new bar back within a week.  Greg, Robbie’s stepfather, let out a huge sigh of relief that that faggot wasn’t gonna be in his house any more.  Even the dead teen’s mother seemed indifferent to his fate.

 

In fact, as the news of the murder played on the evening news as a brief filler before commercial, the only person in town who seemed to have any curiosity about Robbie’s murder was Joe.

M4M4Black

Joe’s phone beeped.  Actually, it wasn’t his phone; it had belonged to one of his kills—Joe had kept it for the gay hookup app the cunt had installed.  After altering the dead kid’s profile, he was using it to troll for victims.  Seemed he’d found one.  Glancing down, he read the screen—

 

Tapdisazz: hey daddy wassup

 

The buff sadist quickly replied—

 

Powertop4boi: my dick.  what ya want

 

Tapdisazz:  ur dick

 

This was accompanied by a pic.  It was a neck-down nude body shot of a young man, not powerfully built but with well-defined muscles.  Based on the lighting, the dude was black; his skin was a relatively light mocha shade, but his thick cock was a seven-inch bar of dark chocolate.

 

Joe was intrigued.  He hadn’t wasted a nigger before.  This could be fun.

 

Powertop4boi:  yeah I can slip ya the D.  u host?

 

Tapdisazz:  can host 962 walnut st apt 7H how long

 

Joe knew the street, if not the specific address; three block south of the MLK Boulevard exit on the interstate.  Bad neighborhood for an evening stroll—but as a predator among predators, the experienced killed wasn’t afraid.  He knew he could handle himself in any situation.

 

Tapdisazz: u comin man need to get fucked bad

 

Powertop4boi: gimme 20 will plow ur hole

 

Tapdisazz: k homey hurry want ur nut in my azz

 

Joe chuckled.  Faggot was gonna get his cum and a fuck of a lot more.

 

It was already past midnight—he’d been lying nude in bed; he jumped to his feet quickly and crossed to his dresser.  It was still record-breakingly warm for the time of year, so he slipped a black sleeveless muscle t-shirt over his head; it clung to his muscular torso as if it had been painted on.  Next on was a pair of beige cargo shorts that reached just below the knee.  They were tight enough to clutch his firm, rounded ass tightly but still displayed no more than his hard, hairy calves—half of which the well-built stud immediately covered with white tube socks.

 

He’d had to pull the socks so high up his legs to make sure he could get on his sand-beige combat boots.  They rose halfway up to his knees; once he had them tightly laced, he checked himself in the mirror.  In a way, he had kinda a casual-military-commando thing going.  It was unintentional, but he liked the result.

 

Slipping his wallet into his rear pocket and his keys into his front, he headed out to his car.  Within five minutes, he was on the interstate—and in another ten, he’d reached his exit.

 

Turning south on MLK Boulevard, he slowed to a halt a red light.  The first couple of blocks were lined with tote-the-note care lots, pawn shops and shade-tree mechanics.  Back in the darkness off the main street, there was a fair amount of furtive activity that melted away briefly on the odd occasions that headlights turned down the side streets.

 

The next major cross street to the south was Lamar; every weekend, there was guaranteed to be at least two murders within a five-block radius of MLK and Lamar—usually drug, robbery or gang-related.  And this was despite a large police presence; Joe passed two cruisers and a motorcycle cop during his three-block trip from the interstate.

 

Turning left onto Walnut, he followed the potholed street for another two blocks before arriving at his destination.  The address turned out to be located in a complex of dilapidated two-story buildings of fourteen apartments each, seven upstairs and seven down.  From the open parking lot in the street, the complex was laid out on a slope that led down to a malodorous, weed-choked drainage ditch at the back of the property.  Building H was next to the ditch, last building on the right side.

 

The unseasonal warmth did nothing to help the dank stench wafting up from the ditch.  Even so, several people were out in the dark—mostly young black dudes.  One punk in dreads, wearing sagging jeans showing the top three inches of plaid boxers, gave Joe a particularly hostile glance as he slipped by on the other side of the concrete steps.

 

His paramilitary appearance was arousing suspicion in an area rife with drug trade.  Again, he wasn’t concerned with his own safety—but his dick was hard and he didn’t wanna go home without burying it in nigger ass.  If one of these motherfuckers started some shit before he got to the meat’s apartment, he wasn’t sure he’d have the chance to fuck the asswipe before real trouble started.

 

In any advent, it didn’t matter; he reached building H without incident.  Apartment 7H was the one at the far end of the building on the ground floor.  The thumping of his hard-soled combat boots on the cement walkway was drowned out by music that turned out to be coming from apartment 6H; someone into old school gangsta was blaring Tech N9ne’s “Breathe” so loud the flimsy, hollow-core front door of the unit was visibly rattling.  Joe had to beat his fist heard against the door of 7H to get a response.

 

After a moment, the door opened and the towering alpha found himself facing a kid in his late teens—no older than twenty, certainly.  The boy was almost assuredly mulatto.  It wasn’t that his skin was so light that indicated that one of his parents was white—it was his stunning, startlingly light blue eyes.  His nose was broad but not overly so; his lips were thick, but they looked soft and luscious, not like a caricature.  Short curly hair like steel wool covered his scalp.

 

The punk was shirtless; his broad smooth chest was tattooed with the words “Lamar Pride” in three-inch-tall calligraphic letters in an arc descending from one shoulder and rising to the other.  Joe wasn’t aware of any local gang known as Lamar—but he did know that Lamar High School was a couple of miles away.

 

Around the black fag’s neck was what looked like a thick-linked dog chain, looped back into itself in a slipknot.  The kid sported a pair of UA Mo’ Money basketball shorts in shiny gray; despite their bagginess, they did nothing to hide his long, semi-erect cock.  Under the shorts, the boy had stayed true to form with a pair of Adidas “Light Em Up” basketball hightops.

 

Little fuckin’ gangsta wannabe.  Joe grinned broadly—wastin’ this little nigger cunt was gonna be so fuckin’ hot

 

“Holy shit…” the kid gasped, gazing up at the hard-bodied stud looming in his doorway.  Joe’s body was bulked out from his recent workouts and it was obvious the black kid was into well-built white tops.

 

“C-c’mon in,” he stuttered.  “I-I’m Deonte.”  Stepping to the side, he let Joe into the apartment.  The towering alpha filled the doorway momentarily as he paused and glanced around.  It didn’t take long—there wasn’t much to glance at.

 

The apartment was an efficiency—a single room with a closet and a couple of alcoves.  One was the bathroom, the other could best have been called a kitchenette.  There was a small fridge, a sink and a two-burner cooktop but no oven.  On one side of the room was a large flat-screen TV; facing it was an unfolded sofa bed.  To one side was an overstuffed armchair in the same light floral upholstery—now dark and stained with age—as the sofa; the set had probably belonged to the cocksucker’s gramma or something, Joe figured.

 

Interestingly enough, the off-white sheets covering the two-inch thick foam rubber mattress were that color by design; they, along with the pillowcases, were all clean and in good condition.

 

Not that he cared.  Good a dump as any to put down the black boy.  He turned back and grinned at his prey.

 

Deonte couldn’t believe his luck.

 

The nineteen-year-old really was a gangbanger wannabe; he worked at the local fast-food burger joint for minimum wage and supplemented his income by dealing drugs.  Nothing on a huge scale, but right now there was half a pound of skunk weed in the closet and about thirty dime bags of coke in a baggie taped under the toilet lid.

 

Competing as he was in a hyper-masculine culture, he’d always wanted to be dominated by older white daddies; he wanted to be violated by “the Man”—and the hulking, toned dude standing here now fit his desire perfectly.  And it was the first time.  No other white guy had been brave enough to come down here to the hood.  This fucker was hardcore…

 

He was so lost in lust he was unaware of how far out his now fully-erect cock was tenting his ball shorts—and was utterly unaware of the small but growing circle of precum that darkened the material at the tip of the tentpole.

 

It darkened even more once Joe spoke.

 

“So ya wanna real man’s cock, boy?  Think yer thug enough to handle my cock?  Lessee what ya got.  Strip, bitch, I wanna see if ya got as big a dick as niggers are supposed to!

 

Deonte’s face blushed visibly against his pale brown skin.  Grinning, he shucked the ball shorts, stepping out of them to reveal a pair of smooth but muscled brown legs and a jet-black dong the size of a Louisville Slugger—almost as big as Joe’s.

 

The sex killer chuckled.  “Damn, I guess they were right.  You jigaboos got nice big dicks.”

 

The black youth stiffened; he expected a certain level of racial abuse in the encounter, but this guy was going a little far.  Still, for that body, the horny young fag was willing to endure a lot.

 

It was probably a good thing that he had no idea how much he’d have to endure over the next hour.

 

Joe reached down and grabbed the bottom edge of his shirt, then slowly pulled it up over his head, revealing his incredibly toned torso, covered with dark wiry fur.  Deonte swallowed loudly—more of a gulp, actually—and his thick cock suddenly pulsed and began oozing clear beads of precum.

 

His already-broad grin widening, Joe slid his hands down to his waist and, with a quick shove, dropped his shorts.  As they pooled around his combat boots, Deonte literally gasped aloud at the huge shaft that rose straight up in a tube of thick, throbbing manmeat to press against the white alpha’s hairy, ripped abs.  He’d been with punks better hung than he himself was, but no one anywhere near this big.

 

“Fuck, dude,” the young thug said, wiping his thick, soft lips with the back of his hand, “You got some serious junk, dawg—ain’t sure that’s even gonna fit.”

 

Joe’s handsome face twisted into a smirk.  “I’ll make it fit, cunt.  Now be a good little bitch—come over here and put those fat nigger lips on my nipples.  Now, boy!”

 

Deonte jumped to attention and moved towards the leering stud.  Still standing near the door, Joe reached a hand behind himself and made sure the keyless deadbolt was on, then swept his arm around to catch Deonte by the back of the head and jerk him closer.

 

“Get yer fuckin’ nappy-ass head down and work my nips, ya worthless coon!” he barked.  The black kid flinched at the words but before he could do anything more, his face had been mashed into the top’s hairy, hubcap-like pec; a rock-hard plug of flesh penetrating into his mouth.

 

Obeying instinctively, the black punk began tonguing it, despite his rising concerns about this white motherfucker.  Dude was gettin’ too race-heavy for Deonte to feel comfortable; he wanted to be dominated, not treated like shit.

 

Which was a shame, really, since he was about to be treated like much less than shit.

 

“Work it, fucker, lemme feel yer tongue,” Joe grunted, clamping his large hands on Deonte’s head and feeling the short, tightly-curled hair scraping his palms like steel wool.  He dragged the kid’s face across his chest, making sure to grind the thug’s face into his own wiry chest fur.

 

“Now work the other one, ya nigger faggot,” the brutal alpha hissed as he roughly manhandled the young buck’s head onto the other large, erect nipple.  “That’s it, work it good or I’ll beat like a fuckin’ field hand!”

 

It was too much for Deonte.  Bracing his strong arms against Joe’s chest, he pushed off abruptly enough to startle the sadist, despite his experience.  Whirling in his expensive (for him) Adidas kicks, the youthful thug tried to twist his way around his now-frightening hookup—only to find that the front door wouldn’t open to his frantic fumblings.

 

Then a large hand slapped down on his shoulder; before Deonte knew what was happening, he’d been flung back a yard and a half, landing on his back on the hard wood floor with enough violence to force the breath from his trim, firm body.  As the trim black homo gasped for air and blinked his bright blue eyes in pain, his field of vision was filled by the image of Joe looming ominously over him, nude except for the boots that indicated he expected lots of combat tonight.  It was an overwhelmingly intimidating sight, made even more so by the huge straining shaft jutting out in front of the white hunk, dripping searing beads of boiling precum.

 

“Big mistake, ya fuckin’ jungle ape,” Joe chuckled, reveling in racist cruelty.  He lashed out with one powerful leg, showing Deonte that his Desert Storm combat boots had steel toes with a swift kick that caught the nigger slut on the hip and fractured his pelvis.

 

The pain was sharp and shattering; the black punk swiftly shed his tough nigga image as he writhed and squealed on the floor.  Even though the vision in his amazingly bright blue eyes was blurred by tears, he could still make out the contemptuous way in which Joe curled his bottom lip as the toned and fit killer planted one of his boots on his prey’s heaving chest and bent down over him.

 

“Stupid-ass little coon pansy,” he sneered with a hard, sharp edge to his voice, just before he hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on Deonte’s face.  Leaning forward, the sadistic alpha put his weight on the boy’s chest, the thick sole of his boot crushing the slut’s ribcage until he could no longer inhale.

 

Deonte’s beautiful eyes widened almost comically as he struggled to breathe.  His mouth gaping like a fish, the young black stud grabbed frantically at Joe’s thick, hairy calf, trying futilely to pry the white dude’s foot off him.  As his hands clutched the top’s leg uselessly, the alpha bent down and viciously swatted them away before reaching out and gasping the loose end of the slipknotted chain around Deonte’s neck.

 

Wrapping it around his hand, Joe jerked it, simultaneously removing his boot and standing up straight in a single, almost graceful movement.  Deonte took a deep breath the moment the pressure on his chest was removed—

 

—only to find it cut off again, infinitely more painfully, by the chain-link noose he’d voluntarily slipped around his own neck.

 

Now the black cunt’s eyes were bulging grotesquely as his b-ball hightops kicked helplessly in mid-air.  Raising his powerful arm over his head, Joe hoisted Deonte up to his own eye level.  “I ain’t playin’ no games with ya, you black-ass cumsucking fag—yer takin’ my dick, now, ya got me, ya nigger bitch?  And ya better take it good, ya fuckin’ spade, or I’m gonna beat ya like a field hand!”

 

The struggling thug grasped and clutched at Joe’s thick and incredibly powerful forearms, his fingers prying at the killer’s hands, desperately and futilely trying to break free of his strangling grip.  His eyes rolling wildly, he kicked and jerked like a fish on a line—his head was buzzing and panic was setting in; he didn’t know how much longer he could remain conscious.

 

Then Joe turned to the side, drawing his arm back and swinging Deonte around like a pendulum.  With a swift twist, the cruel top snapped the kid in the air like cracking a whip, flinging the flailing faggot face-down onto the bed where he landed spread-eagled.

 

The black teen was too brutalized to be fully functional; as he floundered on the thin foam mattress, clawing the chain away from his throat, he could hear the steady, measured tread of the buff alpha’s boots approaching from behind but was unable to react.  He was awake enough to know that something had gone horribly wrong with his hot white daddy fantasy.

 

Since he sold drugs—even if just on a low-level scale—Deonte carried a 9-mm piece with him at all times.  He’d rarely have more than a grand of cash on him at any one time, but in this hood, that was enough to justify a home invasion; as a result, Deonte never went anywhere without his gun—except that when he got back from his last delivery, not twenty minutes before he’d found the hot honky online, he’d left the gat in the car.

 

The realization that he was defenseless entered the young buck’s head just before Joe’s gigantic cock entered his ass.

 

Deonte was starting to rise and had gotten up on his hands and knees.  As the cruel sadist reached the foot of the bed, he was presented with a smooth black bubble butt, the asshole pulsing pinkly in the middle like a target for his thick, oozing head.  Without hesitation—and without lube—Joe instantly plunged his massive shaft into the faggot’s fuckhole up to the hilt.

 

The teenage homo screeched as Joe’s hog split open his sphincter, tore past his prostate and buried itself agonizingly in his soft, tender guts.  He tried to pull forward, away from the searing pain impaling his ass; he only succeeded in enraging his tormentor.

 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, ya stupid-ass piece of shit!” he snarled, reaching out and grabbing at the dog chain, “Just can’t control yer howlin’ either, can ya, you fuckin’ baboon?  That’s ok—I know how to make niggerboys like you obey!”

 

With a loud grunt, Joe yanked the loose end of the slipknot, sealing off Deonte’s throat and pulling the kid’s head back and up, making him arch his back in an excruciating semi-circle.  The strong, smooth light-skinned youth clawed the air in front of him as Joe began riding him like a rodeo cowboy, one arm out to the side as he used the other to jerk the chain like a bridle slung round the neck of his mount.

 

“Take it, nigga, take that white dick up yer jigaboo ass,” Joe chuckled maliciously as he pounded the black boy’s hole.  “That’s what ya wanted, right, bitch?  Cracker cock tearin’ yer coon ass up?  Fuck, yeah, boy, ya gotta be lovin’ this shit!  Enjoy it, ya lucky fuckin’ nigger fag!”

 

Keeping his tight combat boots planted firmly on the floor, the overpowering alpha shifted his positon slightly so he could thrust his throbbing manmeat even deeper into his prey’s rectum.  His powerful thighs bulged as he sped up the tempo of his pumping, driving his engorged rod further into his panicked and writhing victim.

 

On his hands and knees, with his spine bent achingly backwards, Deonte was still aware of his own thick, erect shaft and the way it slapped against his belly with every thrust of his assailant’s hips.  His right hand was fumbling vainly at the chain, which was sunk too far into his neck to reach—his left hand was on the bed supporting him; if it didn’t, he’d have fallen forward and dangled from his choker.

 

The young thug queer could hear the frantic tempo of his pulse pounding in his head as pressure built in his chest.  At first, the horrible reaming agony in his ass had been overwhelming; it was only when the oxygen deprivation reached a certain point that the nigger teen, his smooth chest slick with cold sweat squeezed out of his lean form by force, began to feel the true pain of being strangled to death.

 

As it so happened, the moment he hit that point, Joe gave some extra power to his thrust and sank his tool further into Deonte’s shredded innards than ever before.  It was too much for the gangsta-wannabe; reacting reflexively, he jerked with all the force of a bucking bronco.  The violence of the motion caught Joe momentarily off-guard—enough to make him lose his hold on the chain.  Before he realized it, the smooth black buck had slipped off his dick, leaving it bobbing and dripping fat translucent beads of precum onto the spotless sheets.  Deonte blindly yanked the dog chain away from his throat.  He’d expended the last of his oxygen in shaking off his rapist; the slim but muscled punk could only flop onto his back, gasping desperately for air as the pressure and the pounding in his head began to decrease.

 

Glancing towards the foot of the bed, the black cocksucker had a view down the entire length of his own firm, smooth body, brown and glistening with sweat in the dim light.  His dick, a seven-inch shaft of jet-black meat stood tall and straining between his legs; beyond that, his feet, still tightly laced into his Adidas kicks, were spread wide.

 

And towering between them was the crazy white dude, his hairy, muscled body also gleaming under a fine layer of perspiration.  And his cock was hard and straining, too—but it looked like it still hadn’t reached its full erect length.

 

When it did, getting raped was gonna be like being impaled on a caveman’s club.  And as his glance moved further up the stud’s body (some fuckpig corner of his brain still lustfully noting the alpha’s broad furry pecs and bulging biceps), he couldn’t help but realize that the cold, icy glint in the older top’s eye was the look of death.

 

This motherfucker was gonna kill him.

 

Even though his young and well-built body had been nearly put out of commission by oxygen deprivation, panic provided the desperate thug with enough of a jolt to propel him up off the bed.  It took a mighty heave to bring his slim but strong form away from the sagging coil net and thin mattress and Deonte wasn’t really aiming anywhere in particular.

 

Since the move was totally unexpected, and Joe had to go around the chair (toss it aside, actually, but it still took a moment), Deonte had time to reach the door and, opening it, get his head outside to call for help.

 

Unfortunately, in his disorientation, he didn’t realize it was the closet door.

 

It wasn’t until his eyes focused on the large bag of weed he’d hidden that Deonte realized his error.  By then the clumping of the sadist’s thick boot soles on the wooden floor told the terrified youth that the man was almost on him again.

 

He almost pissed himself in terror, but his traitorous erection prevented more than a dribble from coming out—and that little burned like fire along his urethra.  It didn’t matter; his mind was suddenly and utterly diverted from his dick.

 

He was face down, head halfway into the closet, so he couldn’t see what his assailant was doing; he felt the closet door being ripped from his well enough, though.  And he damn sure felt the door again when the killer stud slammed it on his head.

 

Leaning on the door, crushing Deonte’s head between it and the jamb, Joe kicked the moaning, writhing teen in exactly the same spot he had before, grinding the fracture of the pelvis into an outright break.  The boy shrieked, then sank into a subdued blubbering.

 

Joe had caught sight of what was in the closet.  As he kept his prey’s head pinned in the door, he bent down and whispered into the trapped kid’s ear.

 

“So yer a pansy-ass nigger drug dealer, huh?  Fuck, they’ll gimme a medal for this kill.  Ya hear that, ya worthless gangbanger wannabe?  I’mma be a goddam hero for snuffing yer faggot ass!”

 

Standing back up, he spoke again.  This time, he put some emphasis on his words by repeatedly slamming the door on the black teen’s head.

 

“So now it’s time to learn (WHAM) yer goddam place (WHAM), you fuckin’ uppity (WHAM) niggerboy (WHAM)!”

 

Deonte cried aloud with each blow, his entire body jerking with the force of the impacts and making his hightops kick the floor.  But it was the final blow on the final word that quieted him down, largely because it was the one that fractured his skull.

 

It didn’t cause major brain trauma but it was painful and terrifyingly loud; the young black thug heard his skull crack like an eggshell.  He instantly became light-headed with shock and did not resist as Joe dragged his limp form back to the hideaway and tossed him onto it on his back.

 

It was only when the larger, more muscled alpha actually climbed up on him that he came out his daze; the white dude’s weight on top was driving Deonte down into the crossbar of the folding frame.  Even with this new pain, the slim black buck was still unable to do more than moan inarticulately as Joe propped his legs up on his shoulders and began to stuff his—finally—fully-erect cock into the punk’s reamed-out ass.

 

“Do-don’t…no, stop…p-p-please, d-dawg, ya ai-ai-ain’t got-gotta do this…” the boy begged.

 

Joe leaned over and grabbed the chain, spitting into Deonte’s face before ramming his cock all the way up the homo’s ass—and jerking the chain tight.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ faggot junglebunny.  Only thing you homo niggers are good for is killin’—dark meat is real good at soaking up the cum of a good white man, boy, didja know that?  Yer about to find out, you stupid black bitch!”

 

And with that, Joe assumed the killing position.  He was fucking Deonte missionary style with the kid’s “Light ‘Em Up” sneakers on his shoulder while boy was getting lit up good.  The alpha was hunched over him, one hand pulling back hard on the choke chain around the black thug’s neck, the other hand splayed out over the punk’s forehead, pressing down for support—and squeezing, right along the fracture line, because he knew it caused the dying nigger agony.

 

“How ya likin’ that, boy?” Joe grunted gleefully as he shagged the teen as remorselessly, making sure the kid felt every thrust.  “That what ya were lookin’ for tonight when ya said ya wanted my nut?  I bet not, ya ignorant fuckin’ nigger.”

 

Pushing forward on Deonte’s head, Joe pulled backward on the chain to counterbalance, tightening the metal links around the boy’s throat.  As they sank into the skin, the kid’s finger’s clawed at his neck, scraping and breaking the skin but unable to grasp the slick metal surface.  The teen’s pale blue eyes bulged as his face swelled, but his field of vision was filled by Joe’s face; Deonte could look at nothing but the man who was killing him.

 

“See,” Joe said in a maliciously conversational tone of voice, “The problem with you nigger fags is that y’all never learn yer place.  And yer place is on the end of my cock, milking out my spunk.  So I gotta make ya learn, boy.  I can tell yer a stupid-ass fuckin’ coon, too, just by lookin’ at ya, bitch—ya know what that means?”

 

Deonte was in an uncharted world of pain and terror; his secret sex fantasy had turned into a nightmare.  The crushing pain in his closed-off throat was preventing him from screaming from the slashing, searing trauma being inflicted on his anus.  Amazingly, his own dick was still so hard it literally hurt.

 

And somehow, through it all, the youthful thug could see the cheery insanity in the cold killer’s light in Joe’s eye when he spoke next.

 

“It means I gotta hurt ya.  Yeah?  You get it, yeah?  Niggers learn best by beatin’, so I beat into yer head over there that you were my bitch.  An’ now I’m gonna make the lesson stick by wastin’ ya.  After all the last thing ya learn sticks with ya forever.  So once ya learn how fuckin’ good white man seed feels inside yer nigger fuckhole, I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out and leave yer reamed-out corpse for yer homies to find.  What ya say, dawg, we tight?”

 

Then Deonte learned that the nightmare could get worse.  Joe’s jackhammer thrusts mangled the teen’s innards, the thick, unlubed shaft of flesh, wreathed with veins like barbed wire, tore at the punk’s rectal lining and ripped into the lower duodenum.  As the chain sank deeper into his throat, small areas of skin were forced agonizingly through the openings in the large links.  Unable to loosen it in the slightest, Deonte transferred his hands to Joe’s wrists.

 

It was like trying to pull down concrete posts.  The flailing black youth was sweating harder now, his own distinct musk adding to the heady mix of testosterone and adrenaline filling the room.  His struggles intensified as his thick lips parted, forced aside by his swollen purple tongue, slowly pushed out his mouth on a tide of drool that trickled down Deonte’s chin and streaked his face with white foam.

 

He no longer tried to pry Joe’s hands away from his throat; realizing the futility of the attempt, the dying nigger clawed desperately at his killer’s handsome, contempt-filled face but the powerful top was both larger and stronger and was easily able to avoid his blind thrashing.  His expensive Adidas shoes kicked and jerked without making contact with his assailant.

 

The horrific pain in his mangled ass and his broken his had faded into a kinda buzzing in the background, overtaken by the relentless pounding and pressure in his head, amplified by the way the sadistic alpha was squeezing his damaged skull; even the fiery tightness in his chest was fading.

 

Funny thing was, even as his brain began to die, Deonte could still feel his own raging hard-on.  Somehow, through the cold grayness that was creeping inexorably over his firm, lithe body, the black fag could feel the pulsing warmth of his deathload boiling in his puckered balls, waiting for the final traumatic signal to erupt in a burning froth of DNA.

 

As his wasted life began to fade, the nigger thug’s struggles began to slow into caresses.  His hands, no longer claws, gently slapped at Joe’s massive, hubcap pecs, almost as if they were stroking the wiry fur.  His entire body bucked and curved, griping his rapist’s cock firmly holding it in place as the rectal muscles began to convulse.

 

And then Deonte reached the tipping point of brain death.

 

Joe knew he’d reached the sweet spot when the punk’s random thrashing became more rhythmic and less focused.  The nigger was already meat.  Joe merely confirmed it when he gave one last final violent jerk to the chain, sinking it deep enough into the slut’s throat to crush the esophagus with a loud cracking sound.

 

Perhaps it was the final blast of pain that flipped the switch in the black fuckpig’s shorted-out brain, but that was the moment that Deonte’s swollen scrotum exploded, sending jet after jet of ropy streams of cum spurting from his hard dick.  Joe could feel the wet warmth splatter across his ripped abs and spew across his chest.

 

At the same time, the gangsta wannabe—now nothing but fuckmeat—went rigid with orgasmic convulsion, making his sphincter—despite being torn now in two places—clamp down around the root of Joe’s shaft like a cockring while his colon rippled in its death throes like a velvet glove over the alpha’s huge, engorged rod.

 

With a loud, deep grunt, Joe unloaded in the nigger’s ass, his scalding sperm flooding the black boy’s guts.  Some faint spark of Deonte’s faggot soul was left to respond to getting knocked up by his killer; as Joe shot his wad, the teenaged homo erupted with one last fount of spunk before the kid subsided into quivering meat that hadn’t quite realized it was dead yet.

 

With a deep and satisfied sigh, the vicious killer withdrew his still-erect tool from his victim, stood up and glanced around.  Locating the bathroom, he crossed to it and washed himself up, tossing the towel he’d used into the toilet and flushing it.  He closed the door on the overflowing mess as he walked out.

 

Deonte was lying sprawled on his back, cum leaking from his ass, stained pink with blood from his shredded colon.  His pale blue eyes were less stunning now that they bulging grotesquely and utterly bloodshot with petechial hemorrhages.  White foam had dried to a crust on his face while large pools of his own spunk slowly congealed on his chest.

 

Joe slipped back into his shirt and shorts, glancing around the shitty efficiency apartment, partially in contempt, partially to ensure he’d left nothing behind.  Pausing for a moment, he turned back and snagged the bag of weed from the closet; he might be able to use it a lure for fresh meat.  He shoved it into his pocket and left, leaving the door closed but unlocked.

 

He’d have given anything to be a fly on the wall when the little fucker’s homies learned that he was a faggot—and he’d lost a half pound of weed.  Poor niggerboy; his rep was gonna be total shit.

Trucker 10–Trucker v Birthday Boi

It was a Friday night, so of course the bar was full.  Dylan was thrilled—he knew, naturally, that it wasn’t all for him, but it still made him feel good.  The crowded bar wasn’t the only thing that was making him feel good; he’d already slammed three beers and smoked a joint before he’d left the house.  He was primed for a party.

 

Specifically, his eighteenth birthday party.

 

Legally, he never should have been let in the door, but he’d been selling weed inside the bar for over a year by a simple expedient—going to into the back with Don, the owner, and letting the older man bend him over his desk and fuck his ass.  He’d had a free pass ever since, even being allowed to buy alcohol, as long as Don got to plow his hole on occasion.

 

Tonight, Don was out.  That was fine with Dylan.  Even though he was attracted to older men, Don was a duty fuck.  Tonight, the boy wanted fun.  He wanted a real man.

 

Dylan had plenty of cash—he was also the main (but not the only) pot dealer for the county high school.  And looking around, he could see some of his classmates at the bar and another one on the dance floor.  He knew them; they’d gotten in with fake IDs.  Unless they wanted to buy some smoke, they left him alone and vice versa—they all already knew he wasn’t into twinks, despite being such a beautiful one himself.

 

Dylan was well-built and almost exactly six feet tall.  He had dark brown hair of moderate length.  It was styled in silky waves over his forehead, almost obscuring the long lashes surrounding his large dark brown eyes.

 

Since he wanted to be the center of attention on his birthday, he sported a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, white, with the famous logo across the chest.  It was thin, worn cotton, two sizes too small—it fitted his torso like a second skin, making obvious the twink’s large pecs, flat belly and hard, erect nipples.

 

Under the t-shirt, his legs were displayed in a pair of basic Adidas basketball shorts, black with red strips.  Long, slightly furred calves descended into a pair of ped socks, almost invisible deep inside his red Nike Jordan Horizon hightops.

 

Dylan had always looked younger than his age; even now, based on his appearance, most people thought he was no older than sixteen.  The Asian ideograms tattooed down the inside of his lower left arm (he had no idea what they meant, if anything; he just thought they were cool) and the small solid gold hoops in his pierced ears only added to the confusion regarding his age.

 

He didn’t complain, though—he could get laid anytime he wanted, by any guy he wanted; his model-like looks guaranteed his ability to pick and choose.  Shame he had no better place to bestow his charms than this dive; the highway nearby had a truck stop which lured in a few eligible prospects, but otherwise Dylan knew all the regulars—and wanted nothing to do with them.  He already knew he was too good for them.  But it was a Friday night and the pickings could be good.  He’d just have to see what showed up.

 

He didn’t have to wait long.  He’d already downed three rum and cokes at the bar before crossing back to the dance floor when he noticed the stud who’d just walked in the door—and froze.  It only took a single glance for the teen fag to realize that this dude would be the perfect birthday gift to himself.

 

As tall and well-built as Dylan was, this hot motherfucker was even taller and more buff.  Obviously a dominant alpha, the stud strolled in with a wide-legged stance that bespoke a massive set of tackle between his legs.

 

The older man wore a dark blue sleeveless t-shirt that emphasized not only his incredibly-sculpted chest but also his thick, bulging biceps.  His tight, faded jeans were worn so thin that the head of his huge cock was clearly outlined in his crotch.

 

The jeans were tucked inside a pair of dust-yellow construction boots.  Left laced but untied, the uppers, with a black leather band around the cuff, came halfway up the calves of the undeniably arousing stranger.

 

The stranger’s face seemed to be covered with a dark, wiry scruff, but it was hard to make out under his cap—a black trucker’s cap, mesh in the back with a solid fabric front and the word “Rogue” embroidered on it.

 

He already knew—this was it.  Dylan had decided that he was gonna have this hot fucking alpha inside him before the night was out.  Wasting no time, he struck out across the dance floor, anxious to hit the stud up before anyone else could.

 

For his part, the Trucker had already taken notice of the hot young slut.  Most of the dudes in the bar were in jeans and t-shirts or short sleeve button downs; there were a lot of caps and boots.  A few twinks writhed and undulated on the dance floor in skinny jeans and expensive kicks—but none of them stood out like the teen punk heading towards him.

 

And that was good.  It’d been a couple of weeks since he’d last had the chance to vent his sexual anger; even now, the thought of how the last meat had twitched and quivered as its life was choked out with a wallet chain made him horny.

 

The alpha killer was primed and ready to blow; all he needed was suitable prey—and that difficulty seemed to be surmounted already.  He stared down at the boy as the latter strutted towards him; the kid clearly thought he was hot shit.

 

“Hey, man,” the cocky teen drawled, posing with one hip jutted forward.  “It’s my birthday—I turn eighteen at midnight—and I deserve somethin’ special.  Whaddaya say—I’ll get us a room at that place down the street and you can plow my ass.  Think you can do that?”

 

The Trucker glared down at the arrogant little fucker, a slight smirk on his face—which actually took some control.  Jesus, this stupid twink bitch needed to be put down hard; just the thought of teaching the teenaged faggot his proper place made the cruel stud’s dick pulse and throb.

 

And his jeans were so tight, it was obvious.

 

Dylan saw it and blinked.  Fuck, the dude must be almost literally hung like a horse, the way his trouser snake—trouser python—wriggled in his crotch and down his leg.  And his own cock responded in kind, visibly tenting the groin of his black athletic shorts.  The boy’s lust was obvious, painting a bright gleam in his dark, nearly liquid eyes.

 

“I can do that, bitch,” the Trucker said in a low, cold monotone.

 

Suddenly cowed, Dylan found that he couldn’t look the stud in the face.  His eyes were naturally drawn to glinting reflections on the older man’s massive chest.  Keeping his gaze on them—they appeared to be dog tags—he stuttered, “O-ok, ma-man, let’s g-go.  I’ll, uh, I’ll get us room at the Shamrock Inn next door.”  Gulping deeply, he glanced up at the towering stud’s face, as if seeking approval.

 

The Trucker remained still, not moving a muscle.

 

“Ya-ya w-wanna go?” the punk quavered.

 

The alpha chuckled deeply, a bass note that vibrated along the root of Dylan’s dick.  “Ok, boy, I’ll bang yer boycunt if that’s what ya need.  Go get the room, faggot; I’m gonna grab a brew.”  And with that, the Trucker strode across the dance floor towards the bar, his hulking, powerful form parting the twinks like a bull moving through tall grass.

 

Staring after him, Dylan’s breath hitched with erotic anticipation.  His dick was pulsing in his shorts; he could already feel the precum oozing from the tip.  He headed out of the bar and crossed the gritty acre of asphalt that served both the bar and the motel as a parking lot.

 

Despite his drunkenness, the handsome young slut managed to successfully navigate the litter-strewn expanse.  He entered the dingy office and greeted the wizened old Indian clerk like an old acquaintance, as indeed he was.  “You again?” the old man asked in a clipped British accent.

 

“Hey, Anjit,” Dylan replied, “That one on the end open?  In the back—you know, 130?”

 

“No,” the clerk replied, “But the front wing is completely empty.”

 

“Gimme one in the middle,” the kid said, taking a moment to brush an errant lock of silky hair up out of his eyes.  “I got a live one tonight; want some privacy.”

 

The elderly Indian slid the key across the counter with an air of resigned dignity; he clearly didn’t care what Dylan had planned.

 

The teen turned to leave, but paused once he reached the door.  “Oh—and, Anjit?” he said, turning back, “I’ll probably wanna sleep in after this one.  If the lock works as bad as the one on 130, tell that stupid spic bitch that picks up the used rubbers to leave me alone, huh?  She can clean up once I check out.”

 

The clerk nodded and picked up a pen and pad of paper to note the request.  Once Dylan was out the door; Anjit put the blank, unused pad down and headed back into the rear office, already putting the transaction out of his mind.

 

After all, he’d be doing this for at least a dozen faggots on a Friday night.  He couldn’t keep track of them all and had no intention of trying.

 

The night was unusually warm for the time of year; it was very obvious to Dylan after the overly-chilled motel office.  The room was a couple of doors down on his left; as he waited, unsure of whether he should go to look for his birthday stud (and with a sudden pang of concern that perhaps he’d been dumped—not likely given his looks, he knew, but still…) when suddenly he heard the heavy measured tread of a muscular man in boots.

 

Glancing in the direction of the footsteps, he saw the hunk approaching and felt a thrill run through his groin.  Inadvertently, the Trucker had positioned himself between Dylan and the security lights of a used-car lot across the street; as a result, the hulking alpha’s phenomenal body was illuminated in silhouette, highlighting his powerful and perfectly-developed physique.

 

The well-built teen’s natural adolescent horniness had been enhanced by his chemically-altered mental state; between the bud and the booze, the punk was so ready to get laid that he could barely contain his excitement.  He gulped, then called out.  “Over here—number 103.”

 

 

Hearing the kid’s voice, the Trucker glanced up and ambled in his direction.  The room was in the front of the building, but the entire wing seemed to be virtually empty.  The vicious psycho smirked—it would do.

 

An adequate pit for slaughtering the little homo pig.

 

Dylan had already reached the room and opened the door.  Reaching in, he flicked on the light to reveal a dark and dingy room.  The towering alpha followed the twink in, shooting the deadbolt and setting the chain as the kid moved forward to turn on the bedside lamp.  More light revealed cheap worn furniture.  Cheap-ass particle board with peeling brass accents and papered veneer pocked with cigarette burns.  At least it was a matching set, the Trucker thought, and about thirty years old.

 

In his eagerness, Dylan was already turning down the thin scratchy polyester to reveal the old yellowed sheets underneath, reeking with an industrial bleach smell.  The cunt’s presumption amused the Trucker; hauling out his pack of Marlboros, he lit a smoke and wandered in to check out the bathroom.

 

His boots thumped loudly on the tile floor.  The bathroom was decrepit, with loose shower tiles and dripping taps, but it seemed to be reasonably clean.  Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink, the Trucker lowered the bill of his cap some—just enough to obscure his face, leaving only his strong, stubble-covered chin visible.

 

Walking back into the room, he saw that the bitch had stripped the bed—only the pillows and the fitted sheet remained.  The teen punk stood at the foot of bed, facing the bathroom door, massaging the extremely obvious bulge in his crotch.  The Trucker leaned in the doorway, this time with the deliberate knowledge of the impact his silhouette was having.

 

The muscled stud curled his lip.  “Strip, cunt,” he sneered, taking a drag of his cigarette, “Let’s see if yer faggot ass is worth my dick.”

 

Dylan moaned softly as peeled his Rolling Stones t-shirt off his smooth, strong torso.  His body wasn’t quite beefy enough to qualify for the football team, but it was close.  Not that Dylan was interested in football.  Football players, on the other hand…

 

“Did I stutter, bitch?” the Trucker snapped.  “I said strip.  That mean yer shorts too, boy.”  He grinned, feeling his own thick meat swelling and pulsing.  This kid liked to be dominated—that was good.  The Trucker had no problem with the thought of dominating him; his boiling rage was gonna dominate the little fucker to death.

 

Dylan dropped his shorts, freeing his thick tool to bob about and splatter precum everywhere.  Among other places, transparent drops of hot pre-ejaculate darkened the honeycomb pattern on his red Nike Jordans, all that he was left wearing.  Nude but for his footgear, the teen slut was ready and anxious to get fucked.

 

The meat’s eagerness and anticipation was obvious; the Trucker had no intention of satisfying it quickly.  The twink needed to suffer in all things, including its expectations.

 

As the kid stood trembling in front of him, the Trucker parked his smoldering butt in an ashtray on the dresser and pulled his own sleeveless T off over his head, maneuvering carefully so that his trucker cap remained placed exactly where he wanted it.  Stepping forward, he loomed over the teen by at least a good half-foot.

 

“You want my dick, faggot?” he demanded.

 

Dylan gulped, unable to catch his breath.  The Trucker’s face twisted in anger.

 

“I asked you a question, you stupid motherfucker,” he snapped and backhanded Dylan across the face, smacking the kid’s head sideways.  The young pansy gasped and moaned loudly; at the same time, his huge semi-soft cock got hard, spurting out more precum across the room before sinking back to drizzle the clear fluid on his expensive kicks.

 

The Trucker noticed—and barked out raucous laughter.  “Ya like that, do ya, faggot?  Ya like a good beatdown, you worthless cocksuckin’ fairy?  Fuck yeah, yer just the bitch I been lookin’ fer, fag—you like it rough, yeah?  Huh?  Answer me, ya queer-ass cunt!  Ya want me to ream ya like the whore ya are, right?”

 

“Yes—” Dylan had time to gasp before the Trucker unzipped his fly.  It took a bit for hulking top to excavate the entire length of his enormous, pulsating manmeat, but the teen homo’s attention was focused entirely on the spectacle unfolding in front of him.

 

The Trucker loomed before him, his massive chest darkened with wiry manfur except where the dogtags gleamed between the two huge hubcap pecs.  Below, his almost-frightening horse dick jutted proudly from the groin of the faded jeans that still clung tightly to his strong legs, bulging with muscles.  His open workboots, reaching to mid-calf, were planted wide apart in a domineering, open-legged stance.

 

“Ya want this cock, boy?  Ya think ya deserve it?” he jeered.

 

Dylan nodded blankly; he absently wiped his lips with the back of his hand—an instinctive reaction since he was utterly unaware that he’d been drooling.  His cocky young arrogance reasserted itself.  “Yeah, man, I deserve it.  Toldja it’s my birthday, didn’t I?” he slurred in drunken lust, “I deserve some nice dick on my eighteenth birthday, dude—and after all I paid for the room, yeah?”

 

The Trucker paused for tension-filled moment, picked up his smoke and found it nearly all burned to ash.  Taking a final drag, he ground it out and stepped forward.  The shadow cast by the brim of his cap cast hid the expression in his eyes, but the grim twist to his lips and the firm set of his chiseled jaw clearly showed the contempt he felt—not that Dylan was sober enough to recognize it.

 

“So ya paid for the room,” the Trucker said evenly, “So what?  Ya think ya bought me, boy, huh?  That what ya think, huh?”

 

The booze was flowing full strength through the teen’s bloodstream by this point; the beers he’d drunk before hitting the bar had been superseded by the four rum-and-cokes wannabe admirers had bought him at the bar.  Dylan had been both drinking and smoking pot for more than five years, but he was more tanked tonight than he’d been in a long time.

 

In other words, he felt both invincible and entitled.  And he was too fucked up to realize how dangerous that attitude was in his current situation.

 

“Yeah, dude, that’s what I think,” the handsome teenaged slut replied in a sarcastic tone.  “So c’mon and stick it in me, fucker.  Whaddaya waitin’ for; ya wanna give me my birthday spankings?”

 

And at that moment the Trucker straightened up, his cock suddenly starting to pulse.  Transparent beads of pre-ejaculate started to drip from the thick, mushroom-shaped head.  The cold, cruel mouth visible under the shadow on the alpha’s face curled into a malevolent grin.

 

“Yeah, cunt, that’s what ya want?  I can do that too…”

 

And with that, the Trucker stepped forward again, even closer to Dylan.  The young gay slut inhaled abruptly as the muscular alpha was suddenly within arms’ reach, an intimidating and threatening presence.  As his nostrils filled with the scent of pheromones and mansweat, laced with nicotine, the kid turned his dark eyes, the whites stained with red, up to the older hunk’s inscrutable face.

 

And that was when the Trucker’s powerful arm lashed out, diving his fist into the youth’s face and snapping his left cheekbone.

 

Dylan fell back directly onto the bed in shock.  He knew he’d been hurt badly.  Clutching the side of his face, he gaped at his attacker.  “Wh-wha—” he stuttered, the sharp pain in his cheek making it difficult to form the words.

 

“That was one,” the towering alpha sneered down at the boy cowering on the bed.  “How old didja say ya were gonna be—eighteen?  And look, it’s past midnight.  So ya got seventeen more coming, ya little sack a’ shit.  And unless you want the next one to break yer nose, ya better start gulping down my cock.  Now, faggot!”

 

Reaching out with his large, paw-like hand, the Trucker grabbed a hank of Dylan’s silky brown hair and jerk his head forward viciously.  The teen opened his mouth to cry out in pain only to find it plugged with a thick wad of throbbing flesh, oozing a stream of thick, salty fluid.  Before he knew what was happening, the monstrous tube of manmeat had been shoved past his tonsils and down his esophagus.

 

The pain in Dylan’s cheek became a piercing agony as his face was stretched out of shape; combined with the sudden cessation of oxygen as his air was cut off, the young slut was stunned both literally and metaphorically.  His birthday present was going horribly wrong and he didn’t know why or how—it made no sense, it couldn’t really be happening…

 

The Trucker knew the thoughts racing through the cunt’s sad excuse for a mind.  All these young cockpigs were the same; no concept of their own mortality until it was staring them in the face.  He chuckled deeply as he forced his enormous shaft down the punk’s throat; this evening was turning out better than it had started.

 

He’d left his rig at a truck stop on the other side of the interstate, then walked to the bar on the offhand chance of finding a decent fag on which he could work out his anger issue.  He’d actually been accosted by a hustler in the darkness of the highway underpass, a scrawny, cadaverous addict with missing teeth and a rancid odor.  He aroused nothing but disgust from the Trucker and putting the fucker’s lights out with a blow to the head didn’t provide him the vent he needed; it just served the purpose of shutting the skank up.

 

Now, though, he had this entitled, cocky-ass little fuck in his control.  Several long days in the driver’s seat had left him with a violent need to drain the built-up manseed in his balls.

 

Birthday boi was gonna suffer—bad.

 

And the worthless little fuck seemed to want to suffer.  It might simply have been a twitch in the muscles from having his jaw pried open so wide, but suddenly the Trucker could feel teeth.  And that was bad—for Dylan.

 

Using his handful of hair as a handle, he jerked the kid’s head back off his dick.  The moment his airway was clear, Dylan began gagging and coughing up his drool on the Trucker’s thick tool.    “Big mistake, you stupid motherfucker,” the muscular alpha hissed, “I guess that means you ain’t no good at givin’ head.  That means I gotta buttfuck ya to get off, cunt, huh?  Stand up.  Now, you goddam faggot!”

 

Stunned and shuddering the well-built teen climbed shakily to his feet, standing trembling at the foot of the bed.  His face was still beautiful but with his left cheek swollen and bruised, a little less perfect.  Tears leaked from his eyes and snot from his nose as he glanced up at older top.

 

Fear prevented Dylan from making eye contact with the Trucker; the cowed youth turned his gaze from the massive hog bobbing in the air in front of him, glistening with his own spit, up along the fur-covered ripples of the alpha’s buff abs.  Above that, the body hair widened out into a dark, wiry forest spread across the top’s broad chest.  In the declivity between the hubcap pecs a pair of dogtags caught both the light and Dylan’s eyes.

 

“Think yer due for another birthday bash, faggot?” the Trucker jeered.  “Need a little tenderizin’?”

 

Stunned and shocked, the twink’s attention was focused on the shiny objects; he could hear the words but the ominous meaning failed to penetrate his drug- and fear-clouded mind.  The killer noticed—unfortunately for Dylan, since it aroused his sadistic brutality.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ cunt,” he barked in rage, “Guess this’ll get yer attention!”

 

And with that, he slammed his fist into Dylan’s jaw with all the force of a train wreck, snapping it into three pieces.  The teen slut made an odd sound, a kind of gurgling shriek, and dropped like a sack of potatoes.  With a lightning-swift reflex, the Trucker reached out and snatched at the now-tousled brown hair again.  Grabbing a fistful, he pivoted and tossed the boy across the room.

 

He didn’t toss the slut at random, though. In front of the yellowed drapes covering the window was a round table flanked by armchairs; Dylan smashed into it just at waist level.  His torso smacked down onto the table, which tipped back, struck the AC unit under the window, and bounce back upright.

 

As the Trucker approached, the teenaged homo was bent over the table, chest down, quivering and helpless in agony, his legs hanging down with his red Jordan kicks just barely touching the floor.  His pink, pulsating fuckhole was clearly visible; the cruel alpha smirked as he aimed his huge dripping hog at the puckered hole in the twink’s bubble butt.

 

In a nightmarish haze of excruciating pain, Dylan clutched the edge of the table tightly, blubbering as blood trickled down his ruined chin.  Although he’d miraculously escaped losing a tooth, the slightest movement of his mouth slammed waves of agony into his head. He struggled just to maintain consciousness, barely noticing the sudden pressure on sphincter.

 

Then it wasn’t pressure anymore; it was an engorged, vein-wrapped tube of hard pulsing manflesh—and it was in him.  All the way.

 

The Trucker had thrust his cock deep into the kid’s ass, his thick precum the only lube.  The swollen purple head hadn’t hesitated at the resistance of the youth’s ass muscle; worn out with regular buttsex as it was, it still couldn’t accommodate the muscled alpha’s powerful tool.  With a faint grunt, the brutal rapist rammed his shaft home, tearing Dylan’s sphincter in two places.

 

The tsunami of sharp, glassy pain that tore through the teen’s ravaged fuckhole was too much; he passed out on the Trucker’s dick.  The sweating, heaving top spent the next few minutes pumping his shaft doggy-style into the unconscious punk’s torn and bleeding ass.

 

The hard-bodied boy awakened into the same universe of suffering that he’d left; his first sensation in the darkness of semi-consciousness was the searing pain in his torn colon and he instinctively started crying.  That triggered the second sensation—the agony of broken bone ends grinding together in his jaw.  He was forced to taper off to a faint, high-pitched keening noise.

 

Unluckily for him, the sound annoyed the Trucker.

 

“What the fuck is that, cunt?  Ya must be likin’ it, huh, faggot—yer squealin’ like a goddam pig!  If yer into that, you sick fuck, then yer gonna love this shit—check it, dude, I’m gonna make yer next birthday taps donkey punches, huh?  Bet ya know what that is; yer a stupid piece a’ shit, but yer a fucking sick-ass pansy slut too, right, boy?  You know all the disgusting homo perversions, dontcha?  Then ya know ya better buckle the fuck up, bitch, cause here it comes!”

 

Grabbing a hank of Dylan’s long (and now badly tousled) brown hair—reaching up to snatch a fistful near the forehead in front—he yanked the kid’s head back.  With no warning, he slammed his other fist like a piston into the back of the teen’s skull.

 

The idea behind a donkey punch is that the blow to the head makes the sphincter tighten.  The Trucker hadn’t actually tried it before; much to his surprise, it actually worked.  Ripped and bleeding, Dylan’s ass muscle still managed to cinch around the hairy base of the sadist’s shaft like a cock ring.

 

The stunned teen moaned as his body responded to the punch by clenching up; even his toes curled as his red Nike hightops kicked and scraped at the carpet.  Gripping the table tightly, he tried desperately to pull his head away but the alpha’s grip on his scalp was too firm; despite the horrific agony involved in moving his mouth, he began to sob and beg inarticulately, knowing that he was unable to escape the vicious assault.

 

And he was right.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, that really got yer sick homo ass off, dinnit?” the Trucker laughed cruelly, “Here—have another, birthday boi!”

 

With that, he popped the little shit in the back of head again, this time a little harder so the he was rewarded with even more tightening.  The young fag’s rectum gripped his huge vein-wrapped cock like a velvet glove, squeezing it and caressing it.  Not one to miss an opportunity, the Trucker shifted his muscular, denim-sheathed legs, planting his workboots further apart for better traction, and doubled the speed of his hard, driving buttfuck.

 

By now, Dylan was clinging to the table with his head pulled up, curled painfully backwards.  His pain-wracked face streaked with tears, his head was being violently shaken to the same tempo as his brutal assrape.  His attempts to beg had become random syllables of pain force from his mangled mouth along with a thin stream of drool, pink with blood.

 

“Shit, motherfucker, I’m gonna like puttin’ you down; I can control yer meat real good.  I don’t even need you to be alive for you jack me off, ya worthless faggot, ya hear me?”

 

Dylan heard words but no meaning; things were starting to go grey at the edges and there was a loud buzzing in his head; he welcomed the fuzziness, since it might make the pain go away…

 

The powerful, well-skilled sadist sensed he was losing his audience.  He wasn’t done with this one yet, not by a long shot.  The cruel serial killer still had a lot of rage to vent—and a lot of cum.

 

He pounded one more roundhouse into the fucker’s cranium.  The youth’s reaction was swift; he thrashed out with both arms and legs as he lost consciousness again.  The Trucker pumped the suddenly re-tightened fuckhole furiously, leaning forward, lowering his weight onto his victim’s limp form—

 

—and that was when the table gave way.  Tipping forward, it impacted the AC unit under the window hard enough to bend the metal vents out of shape; with a loud splintering sound, the circular top tore free from the metal base column.  Everything collapsed to the floor with a loud crash—top, base, the chairs on each side, and, of course, Dylan.

 

He went to the ground still impaled on the Trucker’s dick.  The experienced top had understood what was happening.  Even though it was too late to prevent it, he’d managed to turn and extend his arm, catching himself easily and breaking his fall; with his other hand, he’d caught at the boy, pivoted, and slammed him to the ground.

 

Reluctantly, though, the alpha knew he had to pull out; he needed to make a quick security check.  He’d just made a lot more noise than he liked in a public motel.  Withdrawing his long, pulsing shaft, he left Dylan slowly shuddering his way back to tortured awareness and glanced out the window from a chink in the drapes.  Nothing moved in the darkness beyond, but he still wanted to give it a minute, just to make sure everything had settled down.

 

Digging his smokes out of his pocket, he lit one and sat on the foot of the bed.  As he smoked, reassuring himself all was quiet, he could watch the meat slowly regain consciousness.  The cunt trembled and gasped before rolling over so the he now faced the bed, hid eyelids fluttering open to reveal his rolled-back eyes, white streaked with red.

 

As the kid painfully came to, the gray dimness of his vision was first pierced by a pair of bright glints of light; as he became more able to focus, he could see the dogtags buried the muscular stud’s chest fur.  Looking up, the coldly handsome face was still partially shaded by the trucker’s cap.  When he got out of the, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to ID a photo of his rapist.

 

Because he was gonna get out of this, Dylan knew; he was hurt but he wasn’t dead.  His birthday had turned into an unimaginable horror story—some deep pig part of him still wanted this violent, erotic dominant top—but the thought that he wasn’t going to survive this ordeal never seriously crossed his mind.

 

Then the Trucker spoke.

 

“That’s five, boy,” he drawled gleefully.  “It twenty past midnight, so yer, what—eighteen?  Only got thirteen more birthday beatings to go, bitch.”

 

The Trucker hit his cigarette again, exhaling in the kid’s direction as he waited for the words to sink in.  It took a bit for the youth to realize that this powerful psycho was gonna do a lot more of what he’d already done.

 

When he did realize it, the Trucker spoke again.  “Tell ya what, faggot, I’ll give ya a fair chance—you make it through yer birthday taps and I’ll let ya go.  Gotta tell ya, though, yer gonna hafta fight to survive, cause I’m gonna work ya over good—you faggot pigs feel so good when ya squeal and die on my dick.  But, hey, if ya live, ya live, and I don’t ever go back on my word.  Whaddaya say—sound like a deal?”  He ended the question with a deep, throaty chuckle.

 

The teenager’s eyes, already circled with gray rings of shock, widened in horror.  This hot, intensely masculine stud that he’d wanted so bad—the dude was gonna kill him.  He was gonna beat him and kill him.

 

Dylan panicked. Flailing wildly, he shrugged off the waves of pain from his broken jaw and began scrambling across the thin, dirty carpet towards the door on his hand and knees.  He didn’t go more than two feet before the Trucker swung out his foot.  The alpha’s powerful leg kicked forward, slamming the steel-toed workboot into the punk’s flank.

 

The kick was violent enough to flip Dylan into the air.  Smashing into the broken table, he slid to the floor, moaning in agony as the jagged ends of three broken ribs dig into his internal organs, one scraping against—but not puncturing—his lung.

 

Taking another drag from his Marlboro, the depraved killer stood up and walked toward where Dylan lay helpless and mewling on the floor.  As the high, loosely-laced boots filled his ground-level view, the teen winced at a brief singe on his cheek where the alpha had knocked off an ash.

 

“That was six, asswipe.  Wanna go for seven?”

 

The brutalized teen shuddered and wheezed; every breath cause a terrifying stabbing pain in his side.  Blinking blearily up at the grinning alpha towering over him, Dylan’s misshapen jaw moved feebly as he tried to beg for release from the torment.  Nothing comprehensible emerged from his mouth—and it wouldn’t have mattered it anything had.

 

The Trucker stooped and wrapped his large strong hands around the youth’s throat.  With a deep grunt, he heaved the struggling punk into the air with a single swift motion.  Dazed as he was, the injured slut began to flail frantically the moment his air was cut off, his red Nikes kicking vainly for traction a good six inches off the ground.

 

Holding the boy’s darkening face inches from his own, the Trucker sneered and spat.  As his phlegm trickled down to mingle with the cunt’s tears, he chuckled.  “Tell ya what, bitch, I won’t hit ya for number seven, huh?  I won’t even kick ya—how’s that sound?”

 

Deep in the shadows under the brim of his trucker’s cap, a bright glint of malicious glee illuminated his eyes.  “All I’ll do for seven it—this!”

 

He whirled and flung the well-built teen through the air with the ease of a stuffed toy.  Dylan flew across the room, smashing into the desk-dresser combo with his back.  The flimsy unit rocked back against the wall, breaking off the mirror.  As the hard-bodied homo fell face-down on the floor, the mirror crashed down over him, peppering his smooth skin with shards of glass.  Numerous small nicks and slashes were inflicted on his sweat-streaked flesh, but nothing even remotely fatal.

 

Dylan wasn’t getting out that easy.

 

The Trucker strode over and kicked the twisted wooden frame of the mirror aside.  “Tell ya what, ya pansy-ass piece a’ shit, I’ll be gentle with ya—seein’ as how it’s yer birthday an’ all—and I’ll count the mirror as eight.”

 

With a cold, braying laugh, he bent down and snatched bleeding, gasping teen fag—one hand grasping the right ankle and the other a sweaty mass of long brown hair.  From this position, the powerful alpha rose and spun, flinging the well-built meat into the wall above the bed’s headboard.

 

Dylan hit the wall and exhaled a loud, helpless bleat as he caved in the drywall and fell back onto the bed, bouncing onto his back with his legs spread.

 

The Trucker approached the bed slowly, the lower half of his face the only part visible in the dim light.  Above his strong, stubble-darkened jaw, a wicked grin had crossed his face.  “Of course,” he smirked, “Everything after eight’s gotta count for more, ya understand?  I mean, fair’s fair, yeah?”

 

And with that, the hulking alpha climbed onto the bed and grabbed Dylan’s legs by the ankles.  Spreading them back and apart he lowered his hairy, muscled form between them before repositioning the terrified teen’s red kicks up onto his own shoulders.  Then, in a single simultaneous movement, he buried his cock so deep into the slut’s ass that his pubes scraped the boy’s smooth asscheeks—and rammed his fist into the boy’s face with an unexpected violence, breaking the meat’s nose with a thick wet crunching sound.

 

“Nine, cunt,” the powerful sadist chuckled, spitting into the boy’s swelling face as he ran a hand down the punk’s smooth, muscled chest, slick with panicked sweat.  “Fuckin’-A, you really are a nasty pain pig, aintcha, faggot?  Yer dick is hard and drippin’, motherfucker, I can feel it slappin’ against, you sick perv—goddam, this shit is really gettin’ yer rocks off, huh?”

 

Moaning loudly, Dylan started to flail violently.  It was too much; the pain was too much.  His ass was split wide open, his guts were impaled with huge throbbing manmeat, broken ribs ground in his torso with each agonizing breath—and his face, oh fuck, his face hurt so goddam bad, he had to get out, he had to get away—

 

Less a thinking human than a desperate, trapped animal, the well-built teen let his desperation run wild, clawing viciously at his assailant.  His hooked fingers scrabbled at the Trucker’s face, but the skilled killer knew what to expect and was able to avoid the homo’s frantic, questing hands.  After scraping at the alpha’s chin a couple of times, Dylan suddenly threw one arm up and caught the brim of the trucker cap, knocking it off.

 

The Trucker’s reaction was immediate.  He wasn’t havin’ no fag meat fuck with his lid; with terrifying brutality, he slammed his balled-up fist into the boy’s face four times in a row, with the speed of a jackhammer.  Each blow landed with a loud, wet smacking sound—and each one made the little shit’s body jump and jerk like an electrical shock.

 

The Trucker’s grin widened; each powerhouse punch had resonated through the fag’s body and tightened his ass.  Each one had squeezed the sick top’s swollen shaft, massaging the dominant psycho’s pulsating hog.

 

Lowering his head, he hissed at the semi-conscious youth.  “Think yer gonna make it, bitch?  Can ya hold out?  Fight it, cunt, fight for yer worthless life.  Like I said, faggot, if ya survive the beatin’, I’ll let ya live—but I don’t think it’s gonna happen, you weak gay-ass cocksucker.  Yer gonna die here and now on my cock, aintcha?”

 

His face beaten to hamburger, Dylan could only gurgle his protest, his desire to live.  Even in the rising red tide of agony that had become his entire universe, he was still aware of his own straining, oozing dick, inexplicably erect despite the ongoing trauma.  But he was young and he was strong—he had every intention of surviving this horrific nightmare.

 

“Up to thirteen now, boy,” the Trucker grinned as he relentlessly shagged the punk’s bruised and bleeding fuckhole.  “Ya still with me, homo?  Ain’t been fucked to death yet?  Hang on, meat, we ain’t done yet!”  As the hypersexual alpha pumped and grunted, sweat oozed form his broad heaving back, filling the room with pheromones and manscent.

 

Dylan might have actually enjoyed it had his shattered nose not filled his sinuses with blood.

 

The teen’s slick body bent back in distress, his arms now flailing at the thin fitted sheet as he arched his back in agony.  Scrambling blindly, he managed to knock the pillows off the bed; the right one skittered across the night stand and took the clock and phone to the floor with it, accompanied by a loud crash.  The lamp was hit too, but didn’t fall to the ground—instead, it fell on its side, crushing the shade.

 

The top of the bulb threw an unaccustomed glare across the bed, casting lurid shadows of violent mansex onto the far wall.  The image was so crisp that the Trucker’s dogtags were clearly silhouetted as they dangled between the killer and his victim.

 

Deep within the recesses of his traumatized mind, Dylan felt a sense of betrayal at the way his body was responding to the vicious rape and beating; each pounding he took seemed to force more hot precum from his throbbing shaft.  Even now, as the older man lay on him, thrusting and penetrating him for his own pleasure, the teen could feel his thick rod poking into the fur on the alpha’s firm, flat abs, sliding around on a slimy film of sweat and pre-ejaculate.

 

“Shit, ya stupid fuck, yer goin’ loose on me again,” the Trucker snarled.  “Gotta tighten yer worn-out fuckhole, faggot—ya know what that means, dontcha?”

 

Rising up on his knees, the muscle-bound stud drew back his arm, tensed his thick, bulging bicep and drove his fist into Dylan’s smooth flat belly like a piston.

 

“HOOOG!!!” the fucked-up youth cried, expelling all the air in his lungs in one mighty yelp of pain.  He jerked up violently, trying to double over in pain, but the moment his torso rose off the bed the Trucker hit him again, this blow impacting the boy’s broad left pec, immediately knocking him back down onto the mattress.

 

Gasping and struggling, Dylan popped up again—a reflexive reaction caused by the agony that the punch had caused to his snapped ribs—only to be met with another belt in the chest.  Shuddering and whimpering, the brutalized teen fell back.  His face, twisted and covered with tears and snot, darkened as he fought to regain his breath.

 

The Trucker grinned; the last three hits had done as good a job as genuine donkey punches would have in terms of tightening the meat’s anus.  Grunting deeply, he hunched over the suffering teenager and rammed his enormous rod furiously into the boy’s torn and mangled colon.  “Where are we now, cunt?” he hissed at the stunned and traumatized adolescent, “Sixteen?  Gettin’ close, whore, gettin’ fuckin’ close.  It’s time to separate the men from the boymeat, and I’m willin’ to betcha can’t take it all the way, ya cumsuckin’ fag!”

 

As a thin trickle of air managed to painfully work its way back down Dylan’s esophagus, he heard and comprehended—and hoped.  The mauled youngster knew he was badly injured, but not fatally; if he could just get out of this room alive, he’d make it.  He’d survive.

 

But oh fuck, those last two blows…

 

The Trucker could tell what was running through the little cockpig’s head.  Even though his once-gorgeous face had been pummeled into hamburger, it was still easy to see the light of hope gleaming in the kid’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes.  Worthless little sacks of shit, they were all the same—it was so easy to manipulate them; the stupid fucks always walked right into the trap.

 

The sick sadist could also see the fear.  This meat knew it still had some suffering to endure.  As he pumped the oozing, engorged head of his cock deep into the homo’s guts, the Trucker smirked—asswipe had no clue how much suffering was on the way.

 

Maybe it was time to let him know.

 

“Ya like gettin’ hit, dontcha, ya disgusting painpig?” the alpha stud whispered, lowering his face so close to his victim’s that his dogtags rested on the kid’s heaving chest, “Ya sure seem to like my hairy balls slappin’ at yer gay-ass fuckhole, huh?  Well if ya like that, fuckmeat, yer gonna spunk with joy with this one—take it, bitch!”

 

This was a roundhouse punch that circled wide from the shoulder and smashed into Dylan’s face like a bomb blast, snapping facial bones and shattering the already-broken jaw.  The boy went rigid with shock.  “Fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  Goddam, cunt, that got yer meat good and tight—let’s do that again!”

 

The next blow came from the other side; the experienced killer was ambidextrous.  Even had the battered teen been in a positon to expect anything, he couldn’t have foreseen the fist rocketing towards him from the off side.  And after the impact, he didn’t see anything at all; a mountain of glassy pain fell on him, crushing his consciousness out.

 

Pain.  His first and most basic sensation as he came to was pain, overwhelming and all-encompassing.  Every part of his body, even his somehow still-erect cock and straining cock, was flooded with agony.  The second sensation was motion; combined with the searing, slashing pain in his rectum, he knew the hulking alpha was still raping him.

 

Opening his eyes, Dylan could see the Trucker sneering down at him.  One thought kept ringing in his mind: he was alive.  He’d made it through all eighteen.  He was gonna be ok.

 

The Trucker’s dick began to pulse even faster at the sight of hope pooling in those eyes, dark puddles in a ruined face.  This was his favorite part.

 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled malignly, “I forgot one—what is it they call it?  One to grow on?”

 

This blow was a rabbit-punch—swift, brutal, and intensely powerful.  In the blink of an eye, the experienced killer had slammed his knuckles directly into Dylan’s larynx, instantly smashing it back into the esophagus and crushing both with a horrifyingly loud crunching sound.

 

“We’ll call that one to die on,” the well-built psycho whispered with malicious glee, without missing a single thrust of his cock.

 

Dylan’s eyes widened in terror.  Throwing his arms out, he clutched at the bed first, arching his back violently upwards as he tried desperately to breathe.  It was useless.  His trachea had been compressed into a solid mangled mass of splintered cartilage.  There was nothing he could do; his airway was completely crushed.

 

He was suffocating.  He was gonna die.

 

No, that couldn’t be right.  He’d promised; the dude had promised him and he’d fought, oh fuck, he’d fought so hard to live—and his birthday wasn’t supposed to turn out like this; he was supposed to be having fun and getting laid—

 

As blind terror set in, the realization that he actually was getting laid never crossed Dylan’s panicked mind.

 

Again, the well-built, writhing teen pawed at the Trucker’s face, fingers clawing with no specific object in mind, motivated by mindless anguish.  The brutal top held the kid down, riding his ass as he died, feeling the boy’s smooth slick body flail underneath him.

 

Dylan’s flow of oxygen had already been seriously obstructed by earlier sinus damage.  He didn’t have any reserves left in his lung—the onset of brain death didn’t take long.

 

As darkness closed in on the teen faggot, his frantic scrambling became slower and calmer; soon, his hand settled on the Trucker’s shoulders, gripping them tightly just past where his own red Nike kicks rested.  At the same time, the youth’s strong, muscled body began undulating, a kind of rhythmic flow that the well-versed sadist knew to be a precursor to violent convulsions.

 

Now he just needed to hold on and ride the birthday boi into his grave.

 

As he expected, the kid began to shudder and twitch, jerking his head swiftly from side to side as bloody froth erupted from his lopsided, ruined mouth.  Although it was difficult to see at first, under the swollen, bruised flesh, the punk’s face soon darkened to a noticeable point, growing ever more purple as his tongue began to protrude.

 

Holding his killer tightly by the shoulders, his sneakers touching his hands, Dylan convulsively pulled the alpha to him as his hips began to buck uncontrollably.  Over the Trucker’s shoulders, the punk’s Jordan Horizons thrashed helplessly in the air; the left one, which had slowly come untied, suddenly flew off the boy’s foot, spinning into the far corner of the room with a clatter.  The punk’s foot was left to flex, curling his toes in the white ped sock.

 

Knowing what was coming, the hard-bodied stud repositioned his legs, planting his unlaced workboots wide apart for better traction on the slick sheet. Grinning, he felt the little fucker’s ass start to grip his shaft as it slid over the vein-wrapped tube of manmeat with increasing speed.

 

“That’s it, faggot,” the testosterone-laden muscled killer muttered, “Milk my load out as you get offed.  Yeah, die, motherfucker, die so I can blow my wad.  Fuckin’ work the cum outta my cock with yer convulsions, ya homo asswipe.  One less worthless fag in the world after tonight, but at least I get to use yer death to drain the spunk outta my hog, yeah?  Fair trade, huh?  Now die like the perverted subhuman cumpig you are, you fairy cunt!”

 

By the time he finished speaking, there wasn’t enough of Dylan left to hear him.  The gay teenager who had left the bar forty-five minutes ago looking for a good time on his birthday had slid screaming in terror and agony down a dark hole that led straight to death.  Technically his heart was still beating—a wildly irregular pulse—but the human spark had seeped out of the physical tissue.

 

The Trucker was left with a shuddering piece of meat that clutched amazingly at his swollen cock.  With an inarticulate cry, the powerful alpha jerked and sent a solid spray of semen deep into the boy’s guts, hosing down his prostate and flooding his intestines.

 

Whether or not Dylan’s brain was too dead for him to know what had happened, his dick responded as if he did.  He pressed his belly up to the Trucker’s; the latter could feel the kid’s cock suddenly swell and writhe like a garden hose on full flow.  Huge wads of thick oversexed boyseed spewed from Dylan’s pulsing rod, matting the older stud’s chest hair and coating the kid’s already slick, broad chest with another layer of fluid.

 

The Trucker and the teen continued to hold each other tightly, locked in an erotically fatal embrace, as each kept cumming, the Trucker using the kid’s death throes to jack off—the adolescent’s dying corpse made a phenomenal sex toy.  Dylan himself was unloading reflexively, an instinctive reaction to death by suffocation.

 

After what seemed like half an hour—but was likely no more than a tenth of that time—the Trucker pulled himself together, then pulled himself out of the dead, shuddering meat.  Getting back off the bed, he let the meat’s legs flop back off his shoulders, leave the dead fag splayed out on his back, arms and legs spread.

 

Turning away, the alpha fished out another Marlboro, lit it, and grinding shards of glass from the broken mirror into the carpet with the thick soles of his boots, crossed into the bathroom.  He needed to clean up; little homo cocksucker sure had been fulla spunk…

 

After wiping down with a wet towel—which his left under running water in the sink—the cruel stud leaned in the bathroom doorway and, taking another drag of his half-done smoke, surveyed his work.

 

The room was demolished.  There was a small cheap flat-screen TV on a flimsy stand on the far side of the room; it was the only thing not damaged during the rape and murder.  The AC under the window was making an odd noise; from this angle, the Trucker could see that the collapsed table had put a large dent in the front of the unit as well; likely it was impacting the fan blade.

 

The dead fag was the centerpiece, though, without a doubt.  Dramatically highlighted by the overturned lamp, the birthday boi—who could have had a modeling career if he hadn’t been a cumsucking druggie in a small town—was now nothing but a shuddering mass of meat, his once-stunning face reduced to bleeding pulp.

 

The Trucker approached the corpse, still jerking and kicking in the long-drawn-out death throes associated with asphyxiation, and tossed his smoldering cigarette butt at it; the glowing ember sizzled out in the congealing puddle of semen in the center of the meat’s chest.

 

The slut’s right foot, still laced into its Nike hightop, kicked and jerked on the dislodged and twisted fitted sheet.  The meat’s left foot had been kicking and scuffling too; in fact, it had worked the sock off, revealing the teen’s bare toes curling reflexively in death.

 

The condition of both the body and the room made the nightmarish violence of Dylan’s death obvious.  The Trucker felt purged and relaxed.  He slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on, then located his cap, halfway under the bed.  Taking one last glance backwards at the teenaged homo’s still-quivering corpse, spread out and lit like a selection of prime meat on a butcher’s slab, the cruel alpha felt a sense of pride in his work.

 

As he headed back towards his rig, he began to whistle.  Quietly, of course, so as not to attract too much attention—in fact, the thumping of his thick boot soles on the pavement nearly drowned it out—but the note of satisfaction was obvious to anyone who could hear it.