Carlos Solo: A Little Time to Kill

When the light changed, Carlos eased off the brake and turned left off the Strip, heading east on Flamingo.  Even though it was past one in the morning, the crowds on Las Vegas Boulevard had diminished only slightly; it took several minutes to complete the turn while he waited for the idiots who’d decided to cross against the signal.

 

Finally the way was clear; Carlos gunned the Benz.  He’d gotten angry at the delay.  Given that he was already bored and horny, it was a lethal combination.

 

Someone was gonna die tonight.  Somewhere out there was a fag who was gonna soak up Carlos’s cum and die on his dick.

 

Nick was out of town.  He’d had a sudden offer to film a straight snuff flick in Tahoe; he’d packed his equipment in his truck and driven up yesterday.  Prior to that, though, they’d planned to go hunting this weekend.  With Nick gone, Carlos had decided not to alter his plans.

 

So here he was, heading east on Flamingo.  It was a pleasant night with the temperature in the mid-seventies, so the top was down on the bright red luxury car.  Inside, the hard-bodied convict displayed his broad, sculpted chest and flat ripped abs in a leather vest with no shirt underneath; a thick gold chain sparkled alluringly around his muscular throat.  His skin-tight black leather jeans were tucked into a pair of engineer boots.

 

And he’d found something while idly poking around the condo last night—likely left over from one of Nick’s earlier flicks.  A pair of thin leather gloves that fit Carlos’s powerful hands like a black second skin.  He was wearing them now, as his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

 

He turned right off Flamingo into what had been a decent middle-class neighborhood.  Now it was little more than a cluster of run-down cinderblock homes with dirt yards and questionable tenants.  There was still some activity on the street, most of it furtive and probably criminal, but Carlos couldn’t spot anything worth fucking.

 

Heading further south before turning east again, the leather-clad predator found the streets less well-lit—and less-populated.  After a couple of blocks, he no longer saw anyone at all, so he turned back towards Flamingo, fuming in frustration

 

That was when he saw the boy.

 

He had come to a stop at a stop sign.  The kid was on the sidewalk, leaning against the sign itself.  Late teens or early twenties—at the latest—the punk had a mane of sandy blond hair that came nearly to his shoulders.  Completely bare-chested, the youth wore a pair of denim shorts that stopped just above the knee.  On the feet were a shiny pair of black Adidas Originals X hightops.  Otherwise, the boy’s smooth, muscular body was as visible as meat on a butcher’s counter.

 

It seemed an odd place to find a trick, but the moment the convertible Benz came to a halt, the punk stepped off the curb and approaching the car, reached in.  “You can put it in my mouth for twenty or my ass for fifty,” he said, grabbing the enormous bulge in the crotch of Carlos’s leather jeans.

 

For a moment, the brutal sadist was actually surprised.  Prey was hunted; it didn’t just wander into the killing pit on its own—but this one had.

 

“How much for the rest of the evening?” Carlos asked, knowing that the amount the boywhore named wouldn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be in a condition to collect it anyway.

 

The rentboy’s eyes opened wide with surprised greed; he clearly hadn’t expected an offer of this magnitude.  The eyes in question were dark, dark brown, almost black, and the white were stained red as a result of drugs and/or alcohol.  “Two-fifty and you can do what ya want till morning,” the slut responded, its breath confirming the at least the alcohol part of Carlos’s estimation.  The killer chuckled inwardly—this was Vegas, for fuck’s sake; kid with a body like that coulda asked for at least double that.

 

Good.  Ain’t no one was gonna miss a cheap fucking fag whore.

 

“Get in,” Carlos said gruffly.  “I ain’t fuckin’ ya in public, cunt, I got class.  My place is a coupla miles north.”  Class had nothing to do with it; he was gonna destroy this cheap-ass hustler, and he didn’t want an audience while he worked the bitch over.

 

The rentboy obeyed, jumping into the passenger seat and buckling himself in.  As Carlos stepped on the gas, he noticed the kid sizing him up with sidelong glances.  He also noticed—he couldn’t help it, it was too obvious—that a tentpole was stretching the denim in faggot’s groin.  Little cocksucker was horny himself. Carlos headed out.

 

They were inside the condo in less than twenty minutes.  “Damn,” the meat said, looking around in awe, “This is some nice crib ya got, dawg.  Name’s Kris, by the way—Kris with a K.”

 

Carlos ignored the cunt and headed to the bedroom in silence.  He didn’t turn on the bedside lamp; instead, he opened the curtain on the picture window, allowing the bright neon of the Strip to reflect gaudily off the gold satin bedspread.

 

Kris staggered in, his booze- and meth-addled head reeling in the kaleidoscopic effect the spectacular view provided.  “Goddam,” he muttered.  His bleary eyes lit up; Carlos could almost see dollar signs in them like a cartoon character’s.  The muscle-bound sadist chuckled.  Wheeling around the kid, he locked the bedroom door behind him.  Kris was still too stunned by his surroundings to notice.

 

The boywhore was attuned enough to hear the stealthy sound of a zipper, though.  He turned and directed his entire attention on Carlos’s crotch as the tattooed stud extracted the full length of his horse-like dick from the confines of his tight leather jeans.  The glistening tube of meat fell out and slapped against the alpha’s thigh, throbbing and swelling as it bobbed in the air.

 

Kris gasped.  The whore had seen lots of cocks, but had never come across one quite this large.  Even as he watched beads of precum well up on the pulsing purple tip, he could feel his own boyjuice start to trickle from his straining, aching shaft.  Instinctively, he reached down and grabbed the bulge in his groin.  He gave his tight waist a quick jerk and his denim shorts slid to the floor.  Stepping out of them, Kris grabbed his cock and stood fondling it in nothing but his shiny black Adidas hightops.

 

“Get yer hands off yer dick, faggot!” Carlos barked.  “I bought you for the night, cunt, remember?  You’re here to serve me, got it, ya fuckin’ whore?  Now get over here; I wanna skullfuck ya!”

 

Kris staggered across the room towards Carlos.  He liked being used, and he was high enough to let anyone use him, but the combination of lust for this dominant hunk and chemical confusion led him to ignore any red flags—like the tattoos.  Despite his age—he was a couple of months shy of his twenty-first birthday, not even old enough yet to buy beer legally—he was no stranger to crime or convicts.  He knew the meaning of some of Carlos’s inks—and recognized the amateurish nature of others that indicated a prison origin.

 

It didn’t matter.  The dude had the body of a god.  And he was gonna pay him enough to stay high for three days straight, maybe more.  Maybe, if he played his cards right, this guy could become a regular customer—fuck, lookit this place, he must be fuckin’ loaded

 

“Suck my cock, faggot!” Carlos snapped, cutting through Kris’s reverie.  Before he could respond appropriately, Kris found that he couldn’t respond at all—Carlos had literally taken matters into his own hands by grabbing thick fistfuls of Kris’s hair and jerking the rentboy’s head forward until it was forced down onto the ex-con’s dick.

 

The well-used whore found his eyes watering as the massive flesh tube was thrust inexorably past his tonsils, the thick mushroom tip slipping into his esophagus on a lube of spit and precum.  The young homo was an experienced cocksucker; he knew how to control his breathing while sucking a pulsing, vein-wrapped hog down his throat—but this was manmeat of a different magnitude.

 

And Kris realized it once Carlos’s tool slid over his epiglottis and sealed of his airway.  Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all.

 

“Fuck, dude, is that all of me you can take?” Carlos sneered, “Whadda lousy cocksucker!  Shit, whore, ya gotta do a lot better than that if ya wanna get paid—now swallow my fuckin’ dick, you worthless homo slut!”

 

Kris’s hand’s reached out in from of him, looking for support, something to brace himself, as Carlos’s grip intensified and he plunged his iron-hard shaft further down the boy’s throat.  The hard-bodied alpha began to throatfuck the punk, but never drew his shaft out far enough for Kris to take a breath.

 

The helpless rentboy was too drunk and too high to fully understand what was happening; he just knew he couldn’t breathe.  His hands had finally made contact with the smooth, pumping firmness of Carlos’s leather-clad thighs, but no matter how hard he pushed back, all he seemed likely to do was tear open his scalp where the vicious sociopath still held a tight grip.

 

As the young faggot whore jerked and writhed under him, Carlos closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure.  “Choke on it, cocksucker, choke on my cock, you worthless motherfucker! That’s it, work my load out, bitch—take this one and if yer lucky, I’ll give ya another!”

 

Kris heard him.  His response was divided; his logical mind ignored the words and kept beating against those strong, thrusting thighs, wrapped in black leather, while his unconscious absorbed the full meaning, causing the slim but well-built young pansy’s own cock to swell painfully.

 

The kneeling slut could hear his pulse pounding in his head; the rapid, frenetic tempo seemed to match the speed at which the cruel, leering top was facefucking him.  His chest seemed to balloon up, swelling in agony as froth spilled from both nostrils.  Kris could feel his eyes bulge; his sight went dim and his panicked struggles slowed and became more rhythmic.

 

Just as Kris’s consciousness started to fade, the powerful convict, still holding him in an inescapable grip, began to shudder and grunt uncontrollably.  Even on the verge of asphyxia, the experience cumsucker knew an incipient orgasm; if he could only hold on a little longer…there!

 

The young faggot felt the thick, wide base of the alpha’s cock pulse as it pumped a solid stream of cum down his throat.  Kris had no choice but to swallow; he was literally just trying to stay conscious as the muscled stud unloaded a massive amount of spunk, jets of hot creamy sperm shooting into his belly as the huge shaft of manmeat continued to throb and pump.

 

Kris felt like he was drowning in cum.  His burning, heaving lungs seemed to be filling up with manseed as the brutally aggressive top emptied his massive, puckered balls.  Suddenly, the hot dude let go and Kris fell back into a huddled heap on the floor.  He gasped, choked, and coughed up an enormous wad of cum.  It dribbled down his chin as he panted and drooled, trying to regain his breath.

 

Finally, the shaken and cowed boywhore turned his paradoxically innocent face up to that of his assailant, his dark eyes wide with shock.  The well-endowed ex-con towered over him, his monstrous cock jutting out from the black leather darkness of his crotch.  Above, even in the semi-darkness, Kris could trace the amateur tattoos inked on the killer’s rippled abs and broad, sculpted chest, even under the latter’s body fur and leather vest.

 

The faint glitter of the gold chain was visible around the thick, bull-like neck.  And above that, the handsome, chiseled face—despite the trauma he’d just endured, Kris could feel his own shaft stiffen as he gazed on the john’s wiry black goatee and stared into those blue eyes, flinty with a cold rage.  The incredible stud wore a do-rag on his head; it seems to be shiny black satin.  In the back of his head, Kris wondered if this hot, scary-ass fucker was shaved like a skinhead…

 

Then the hard, cruel face broke into an open sneer.  “Don’t get comfortable, faggot,” Carlos snarled, “There’s a fuck of a lot more where that came from.  I got another load already churnin’ in my scrote, bitch.”

 

The words snapped the slut out of his reverie.  The meth he’d smoked and the Colt 45’s he’d drunk had dimmed his sense of danger, but not his sense of business.  Sadly for him, it led him to miscalculate and make a bad business decision.  He decided that there was enough demand to inflate his price.

 

“D-dude,” he coughed, still choking on Carlos’s spunk, “If yer gonna do that kinda shit—get all rough and shit—you gotta pay more.  At least four or five big ones, man.”

 

“You worthless piece of shit,” Carlos returned in an even, toneless voice.  “We had an agreement.”

 

“Yeah, and now I’m uppin’ the price, man.  I can take gettin’ used, dawg, but you gotta pay extra for that freaky chokin’ shit, see?”

 

Even in his drugged state, Kris could feel the tension in the room thicken like glue.  He half-expected the stud to explode in rage; he was somewhat disconcerted when the guy gave him a cold, shark-like grin instead.  “Sure,” the alpha replied, “I’ll go to five if ya want.”

 

There was something about his malicious chuckle that raised Kris’s hackles.  He suspected he was gonna get ripped off.  “Show me,” he said suspiciously, still sitting on the floor with his firm, buff legs curled under him.  “I wanna see yer cash, dude.  Course, if ya ain’t got it, I’ll take meth, or coke.  I mean look at this set-up—ya gotta have one of the three around here.”

 

The boywhore knew the value of his body and was trying to use it to get what he wanted.  What he got was something he feared—something he’d heard about often enough, since it was an occupational hazard.  He just never thought it’d happen to him.

 

His first clue was the flash in the older stud’s eyes; it was literally as if a light had shone momentarily.  Unfortunately for Kris, he didn’t see the glare of rage for what it was.  “So what’s it gonna be, dawg?  Cash or dope, dude, ya gotta pay up—”

 

And that was when Carlos said, again in his calm, toneless voice, “Naw, ya faggot cunt, yer the one who’s gotta pay.”  The second he finished speaking, he drove his foot forward, sinking the steel toe of his leather engineer boot deeply into the yielding, unprepared flesh of Kris’s belly.

 

“HOOOGH!!!” the boycunt cried as the swift, vicious kick forced all the air from his lungs; grabbing his midsection, the youth doubled over in agony, his sweet, innocent face twisted in pain.

 

“Fuck yeah, now yer talkin’” Carlos crowed as he stood over the shuddering, gasping youth.  “Ya like that, ya faggot cunt?  Huh?  That feel good, cocksucker?  Cause just like my load, there’s plenty more where that come from!”

 

Fighting against the physical trauma, Kris managed to inhale deeply enough to regain control of himself.  He knew now, beyond any drugged doubt, that he’d picked up a bad john.  He knew he’d let his defenses down and that his survival depended on his getting away from this psycho motherfucker as soon as possible.

 

So he bolted for the door.

 

He was already low to the ground so he lunged forward, below the grasp of the killer alpha—he hoped.  Scooting past Carlos, he grabbed the doorknobs for the double bedroom doors. He didn’t stop to notice that the hulking stud wasn’t coming after him.

 

He did notice that he couldn’t open the doors.

 

Kris jerked frantically on the doorknobs as he became aware that Carlos had finally turned and was moving towards him.  Whimpering in horror, the blond whore stopped trying to open the doors and beat on them mindlessly as death approached slowly and deliberately.

 

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and despite his hard dick, Kris was vaguely aware that he was pissing himself in terror.  The yellow fluid spurted from his erect shaft again when he felt the grip on his other shoulder.  When Carlos whispered, “Big mistake, asswipe,” a flood of urine splashed from Kris’s cock, splattering his black hightops, but before he knew what he was doing, he was flipped in the air up over Carlos’s shoulder and slammed back down flat on the floor face-down with rib-shattering violence.

 

Kris’s breath was driven from his muscled frame with a loud, agonized grunt.  As he moaned and writhed on the floor, the killer’s big black boots stepped into view.  Suddenly, Carlos squatted down.  Grabbing a fistful of long blond hair, he pulled the kid’s head back, twisting it to the side so he could look into the slut’s pale, terrified face.

 

“You wanna see how yer gonna get paid, you sack of shit?” the powerful convict hissed, his eyes narrowed into rage-filled slits.  “This is how—pain.  Yer getting paid in pain, bitch, and ya just asked for double, right?  Yeah?   Don’t worry, ya stupid homo fuck, yer gonna get paid real good.  It’s yer lucky night, cunt; I’m feelin’ generous!”

 

Carlos let go of Kris’s hair and stood back up, then, with a swift kick, slammed his boot into the weeping punk’s face and snapped a cheekbone.  The handsome blond whore squealed, grabbing at his injured face and groveling on the floor.  “Shaddup, ya worthless cockpig,” the hypersexual alpha snarled, his thick tool still erect and dripping as he bent down and jerked Kris by the hair yet again.

 

This time, he forced the trembling youth upright and up against the wall in the corner of the bedroom.  Finding himself trapped with the well-built powerful body of the vicious killer in front of him, Kris began babbling.  Tears streaked down his bruised, swelling face as he begged for his life.

 

“P-please, man, d-d-don’t do th-this,” the young, drugged whore pleaded, “Don-don’t hurt me, d-dude, oh please, oh fuck, don’t kill me I’ll do any—URK!”

 

His shrill pleas were suddenly cut off when a hand encased in a tight black leather glove closed around his throat.  Kris opened his eyes wide, just in time to see the other gloved hand, balled into a fist, drawn back then rocketing towards him with blinding speed.

 

The blow landed on Kris’s nose, smashing it with a wet, squelching sound.  The hot young slut jerked, his howl of pain managing to escape Carlos’s grip on his neck.  The vicious stud cut the cry off with another swift punch; this one caught the bitch on his jaw, snapping his mouth shut so fast and so hard that the boy bit through his bottom lip.  After that, the succession of belts and bashes to the face were brutally regular.

 

Kris was stunned, his head rocking back under the hail of blows that were slamming against it.  As blood flowed from his split lip and bruises bloomed on his young, smooth face, the whimpering cunt could just barely make out the words his assailant was hissing with malevolent glee.

 

“Enjoyin’ the pain, motherfucker?  Ya must be, ya worthless pig bottom bitch, lookit the way yer dick’s throbbin’ an’ oozin’ every time I pop ya one!  Fucking sick-ass pansy piece a’ shit, yer just lovin’ this, aintcha?  Yeah?  Ya like gettin’ put in yer place, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ shown what a useless cocksuckin’ pervert like you deserves, huh?”

 

Carlos paused, his large, muscled body heaving and slick with sweat.  Kris focused his blackened, swollen eyes on the powerfully-built alpha.  It was drawn first to the thick gold chain around the convict’s neck, glinting and highlighting the buff killer’s neck tats.  But then he shifted to Carlos’s balled fist, drawn back to shoulder level and waiting, ready to spring into action in the blink of an eye, inflicting even more agony and more damage.

 

During the tension-laden pause in the violence, Kris had time to notice that the skin-tight glove looked wet.  His already drugged and now brutalized brain didn’t have time to realize that his own blood was too dark to show on the black leather.  Then his attention was drawn back to the cold, hard masculine countenance of his killer.

 

“You wanted money,” Carlos whispered, his eyes narrowing with a piercing, ice-cold rage.  The expression would have made Kris piss himself again if anything had been left in his flaccid bladder.  “How much was it, cunt?  How much didja want me to pay?”

 

Kris blinked dazedly and moaned.  With unbelievable speed, the sadistic alpha drove his bulging, inked arm into the rentboy’s face with the force of a jackhammer; after an intense, bright-red explosion of agony, the hard-bodied young whore shuddered and coughed up a bicuspid.

 

“Answer me, you cumsucking cunt, or I’m gonna knock out yer teeth one by one, ya hear?  How much?  How much didja want, faggot?”

 

“T-t-two h-hundr-dr-dred…” Kris muttered, barely afloat in a sea of pain.  There was a slight whistling sound caused by the gap in his teeth.

 

Carlos’s face twisted in anger.  “Lyin’ homo bitch!” he snarled, slamming another right hook into the youth’s jaw.  “It was two-fifty, yeah?  That’s what ya think yer worth, you piece of shit?  You stupid cumsuckin’ motherfucker, didja really think I was so desperate to fuck your worn-out asshole that I’d spend that much for ya?”

 

He punctuated his contempt with another blow.  Kris could sense this one coming and tried to turn away but the hand of the buff sadist was gripping his neck too tightly for him to move.

 

Not that it mattered.  Carlos went low this time, delivering a devastating and excruciating gutpunch.  His gloved fist smacked into Kris smooth, flat belly; despite the kid’s firm abs, the jab sank in deeply.  The whore’s throat wasn’t closed off and the gutbash drove the air out of him in a loud, deep grunt.

 

“And now you want more, you fucking pervert?  Ya want more money cause you ain’t enough of a faggot to take my cock?  Fuck, bitch, if I’m gonna pay that much, I wanna free trial.  Ha!  Yeah, cunt, I think I’m gonna try before I buy—you gonna guarantee my satisfaction, huh?  Fuck no you ain’t, you reamed-out pansy-ass whore; ain’t no way a little queer pain pig like you gonna satisfy a real man!”

 

The well-built ex-con let go of the young rentboy’s neck; reaching up, he grabbed the punk’s mouth, the tight leather glove sealing off Kris’s mouth as Carlos’s hand clenched his jaw painfully.  “You do know what happens, dontcha, fuckwad?  You know how this is gonna end.  I’m gonna fuck ya now, and I’m gonna make it hurt—ya like that, huh, dontcha?  Fuck yeah, yer cock is all hard an’ drippin’—ha!  Holy shit—you really want this, huh?  You wanna go all the way?  Saddle up, cumslut, I’m about to make your deepest painpig desires come true!”

 

What happened next happened so quickly that Kris wasn’t even aware that it happened at all.  With one hand around Kris’s jaw, Carlos bent down and, reaching under the whoreboy’s oozing cock, grabbed his ass.  Standing back up, the muscled convict pivoted and tossed the youth onto the bed.  He was standing near the foot of the bed so that Kris landed on his left side, head toward the headboard.

 

Rolling onto his back, Kris gurgled and gasped, still trying to recover his breath.  His bruised and swollen eyes were difficult to open but when they did, he had a blurred view of the hulking form of Carlos towering over him at the foot of the bed, his amazingly sculpted torso glistening with sweat in the reflected light that also glittered on the gold chain at his throat.

 

With exaggerated slowness, the aggressive sadist slipped off his leather vest.  His massive cock dangled over Kris’s fit and nubile body, hot precum dripping onto the kid’s flesh and burning it like melted wax.  The panicked whore tried to beg, to plead for forgiveness or mercy or something—it didn’t matter—but was so terrified that nothing emerged from his trembling lips beyond a shuddering moan.

 

Stooping down, Carlos grabbed Kris’s legs and pulled them up as he climbed onto the bed so that the boy’s shiny Adidas kicks were resting on his shoulders.  Bending the rentboy double, he slapped the swollen purple head of his cock against the slut’s puckered fuckhole.

 

Then all the pain Kris had experienced faded to the intensity of love taps compared to what he had to endure—it was as if someone had suddenly and unexpectedly shoved a baseball bat up his ass without warning and without lube.  If the hot young boywhore had been able to breathe, he might have screamed; as it was, all he could do was flap his jaw and gasp like a dying fish.

 

The pain was so mind-shattering that Carlos had pumped his enormous shaft up Kris’s ass half a dozen times before the latter realized he was getting buttfucked.  While his rectum was being brutally shredded, the well-built rentboy writhed on the smooth satin bedspread and tried desperately to inhale.  He succeeded—but not for long.

 

His mistake was screaming.  Deep in his pig soul, Kris knew that it was a mistake, but he was in too much agony to control himself, and he was too terrified to try.  The whore was well aware that he was trapped, pinned helplessly under his muscle-bound rapist.

 

He was also aware of the stories that circulated among the hustler crowd—horror stories of boys who’d gone off with the wrong trick, only to be found tortured, raped and murdered when they were found at all.  He’d always listened to the tales with a sort of amused contempt, not fully believing them, and certain that he was far too smart to be caught in such a situation should it occur.

 

But tonight he’d been drunk and high and horny.  He’d mixed business and pleasure and had been too fucked up to recognize any red flags.  It was his own fault but if he could just survive this night—

 

—and then the panic bubbled over and the welling scream finally burst from Kris’s swollen, bleeding lips.

 

“Goddam, ya stupid sack a’ shit, shut the fuck up!” Carlos bark, his face twisted in rage.  He rested more of his heavy, buff body on the flailing punk, pinning the cunt to the bed with his cock.  Kris’s own swollen, throbbing cock was pressed between their two flat, firm bellies; his hightops jerked and kicked on his rapist’s shoulders  As Carlos leaned in, his hard, handsome, cruel face filling Kris’s field of vision, the boy inhaled the deep masculine scents of pheromones and mansweat.

 

“I’m sick of yer squealin’, pig,” Carlos hissed, “And it’s time for you to die anyway.  Beatin’ the fuck outta yer fag ass got me all kinda hard, bitch, huh?  Yeah, ya like that idea?  Ya like gettin’ worked over by a real man, faggot?  Fuckin-A, I think I’m blow a load here soon—ya know what that means, dontcha, ya homo cumdump?  It means I’m gonna put ya down like a fuckin’ dog—fuck, I hope this hurts.  I hope ya die in horrible fuckin’ agony, dude—it’s so goddam hot!”

 

With a quick shift of his arms, Carlos wrapped one leather-gloved hand around Kris’s neck and clamped the other over the whore’s face, sealing off his mouth and nose.  Just before his air was cut off, Kris got whiff of musky leather scent from the black glove.

 

Then he realized he was suffocating.

 

Carlos hunched down over the helpless youth, their torsos pressed together in hot sweaty mansex, fur scraping over skin on a lube of testosterone-spiked perspiration.  Kris’s battered, blackened eyes bulged in terror as the convict sneered and spit in his face.  The whore closed his eyes but couldn’t turn his head—Carlos was putting a lot of his weight on his arms; his hand was literally crushing the cunt’s nose and lips.

 

Some part of his mind, walled off from the agony of the brutal assrape, was able to discern a faint jingling sound amid the grunting of the rutting top and the noise of violent sex.  Feeling the killer’s spittle slide down his cheek, Kris opened his eyes again, catching sight of Carlos’s gold chain.  The boy knew what the jingling sound had been.  The thick chain seem to be dancing in the air with malicious glee, coming to life with each of its owner’s deep, repeated thrusts.

 

Each penetrating plunge of his killer’s cock brought searing agony to Kris’s rectum, but every part of his body was flooded with pain.  Beyond the shiny dark do-rag covering Carlos’s head, Kris could see his own hightops kicking feebly in the air; he had no idea that the slashing pain across his midsection was from being doubled-over.  Carlos’s ferocious gutpunch had torn the slut’s liver; this position was tearing it even more.  Left untreated, the injury was large enough to cause Kris to bleed to death internally with about forty-five minutes…

 

But there was other pain.  His once-adorable face had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp out of which his large brown eyes now protruded grotesquely, tiny hemorrhages popping up in the whites.  His long blond hair, dark and matted with sweat, was spread in tangles across the gold satin comforter.  And the excruciating pressure that the muscled and tattooed convict was now exerting on his already-broken nose and torn lips made him claw frantically at the killer’s hands—only to find the leather gloves so smooth and tight he was unable to catch a grip.

 

And then the pain got really bad.  It got bad because Kris had been without oxygen for almost a minute; reflexively, his body fought for survival by dumping a shitload of adrenaline into the dying rentboy’s bloodstream.  When it hit his brain, it triggered a tsunami of panic.

 

Kris was suddenly very, very aware that he was dying.

 

He jerked and kicked desperately, his hands flailing against Carlos’s rock-hard body.  One hand reached up to the sadist’s grinning face, scraping at the rough stubble on his face; the other hand, grabbing at Carlos’s chest, managed to snatch the gold chain and yank it, but the thick metal links didn’t give way.  The kid let go, reaching around to beat fruitlessly against the stud’s steel-like bicep.

 

Carlos stopped thrusting, giving his powerful thighs a break.  He didn’t need to pump any more anyway; the meat was doing the work for him now.  It was something he’d learned from Nick—at a certain point, the fuckmeat loses its shit and starts bucking like a bronco.

 

“All ya gotta do then,” Nick had said, “Is pretend like yer breakin’ a horse, ya know?  Ya gotta stay in the saddle and ride it till it tires out.  If ya work it right, you can hold the fag in that position and make it milk your cock until it’s down for good and you can let those fuckin’ hot-ass anal convulsions jack ya off…”

 

That was exactly what Carlos was doing now.  His huge, powerful arms were clamped onto Kris’s face and neck and locked like iron bars.  His monstrously engorged shaft was buried deep in the youth’s guts.  His leather-clad legs were spread wide, his engineer boots secure on the floor, giving his hunched-over posture the stability to keep the struggling rentboy pinned into place.

 

“That’s it,” he murmured quietly, barely above a whisper, “That’s it, bitch, fight it.  Keep fightin’ you useless faggot whore, keep fightin’ for yer worthless life—it ain’t gonna do you no good, but it’s doin’ me plenty good right now, cunt!  Fuck yeah, keep it up, motherfucker, yer working my tool so fuckin’ good right now—aw, fuck, dude, is that yer tongue?  I can feel it through the glove, cocksucker, yer tongue is stickin’ out!  Ya know what that means?  It means yer dyin’, asswipe, yer gonna die here and now with my hog up yer guts—ain’t that so fuckin’ hot, ya cumsuckin’ fag?”

 

Trembling on the verge of brain death, Kris heard the words and understood them but wasn’t able to process them fully through the roaring, pulsing silence that was darkening his pain-wracked existence.  Pressure was building in too many places—his head, his ass, his chest, his scrotum—that he couldn’t focus on anything.

 

His frenetic clawing had stopped; his hands were now gripping Carlos’s upper arms tightly in what could have been mistaken for the acquiescent clutch of an eager, willing bottom.  His wild thrashing slowed to a more rhythmic movement.  As silent explosions burst in his head and dimmed his vision, Kris was still aware of his painfully-erect dick.  It had been—and still was being—massaged between his flat, smooth, sweat-slick belly and Carlos’s hard, ripped, furry abs and had not stopped throbbing and oozing throughout Kris’s ordeal.

 

Carlos had noticed it too.  “You fuckin’ disgustin’ faggot pig,” he sneered, hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it into the whore’s tear-streaked face.  “You deserve this, you piece of queer shit, dontcha?  Ya know it, too, cocksucker—that’s why yer dick is hard, innit?  Fuckin’ homosexual scumbag pervert, ya know ya need to get put down like a cock-worshippin’ pig!  This is what ya needed, huh—a real man to take ya out?  You were just waiting for the right dude to come along, weren’t ya—someone man enough to treat ya like the worthless piece of garbage ya are?”

 

The sadistic killer’s cruel words faded to a ringing echo in Kris’s mind as more and more of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation.  His hands slid up Carlos’s arms and over his shoulders, past his own sporadically quivering black Adidas hightops.   As death approached swiftly, Kris’s hands clutched Carlos’s muscular back.  Jerking his arms involuntarily in his final few moments, the young boywhore held his murderer in an embrace tighter than any lover’s.

 

As a result, their faces were close together at the end.  Kris was being crushed in the grip of an icy, all-consuming darkness, but he could still feel parts of his body—and he could hear.

 

“Ok, faggot, I’m gettin’ bored with yer ass—you done worn out yer welcome, bitch.  I got shit to do; I ain’t got all night waitin’ for you to get me off.  I’m a busy man, dude, time for me to drain my load and move on.  Yer a suck-ass whore, by the way—hope ya got cash in yer wallet, cunt; you owe me for the time I’m takin’ to waste yer useless ass.  So ya ready to get this done?  I sure the fuck am, scumbag.  Die, you worthless motherfucker!”

 

It was a single swift movement that was utterly spontaneous; in the blink of an eye, Carlos had let go of Kris’s mouth, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of as much of the kid’s hair as he could.  Wrapping it around his right hand, he yanked that arm back with a might jerk that made his inked bicep bulge even more; at the same time, he threw himself down with all his weight on his left arm.

 

Kris’s head snapped forward and, with the splintering sound of shattering vertebrae, popped off the top of his spinal column.

 

The whore’s last experience in his pathetic, wasted existence, was an electrical shock that ran through his entire body, holding him momentarily in an agonized paralysis as his balls exploded and released a raging flood of semen through his rigid shaft.  His boiling deathload spewed in a solid stream of cum that lasted for a good fifteen seconds, hosing the dead slut’s belly and splattering up along Carlos’s chest.

 

Instinctively, Carlos bent his head back as a final wad shot between them, splashing against the picture window and smearing the view.  Carlos’s reaction was instinctive because he was cumming so hard himself that his eyes rolled back in his head.  His massive, well-built body bent back, rigid with extreme stress as the hulking alpha injected the dying boycunt with his load, pumping what felt like a dull quart of manseed into the dead kid’s convulsing fuckhole.

 

Carlos’s huge puckered scrote wasn’t empty, though—bending forward to send his second jet of spunk into the youth’s guts, the sadist was so lost in his bloodlust that he leaned too far forward over his victim.  His boots had good deep tread, but they could only go so far.

 

Carlos fell forward, full-length on his victim’s trembling corpse.  He ended up spewing his final wad into the dead boy with his face in the mattress, cheek-to-cheek with that of the corpse, now doubled over into a position that would be impossible for a living person.

 

And there they stayed for at least three minutes while Carlos regained control of himself.  Heaving and panting, he finally straightened up, withdrawing his still-throbbing purple cock from his victim’s ruined anus. Heading for the bathroom, he kept one hand wrapped around the head of his shaft to avoid having any cum drip onto the carpet.

 

After all, he already had enough of a problem figuring out how to clean the bedspread and take out the garbage before Nick got back; he wasn’t afraid of Nick, but he wasn’t sure how the dude who paid the bills would react to something like this, so he wanted to keep it on the DL…

 


 

Carlos didn’t watch the videos Nick made of him; his interest was in the doing, not the viewing, for which Nick was grateful.  The experienced snuff producer had known that the cameras he’d hidden in the condo—more than twenty in the bedroom itself—would come in handy with Carlos around.

 

He’d seen the video within an hour of returning from Tahoe; it was edited and posted online at a very high premium by that evening; it had returned a record profit by morning.

 

No, Nick was not angry about Carlos’s solo adventure.  Not at all.

Interlude: Adam 1

Adam had long been in the habit of stalking the muscular young men to whom he was attracted.  He would light on one particular boy and follow him relentlessly, especially if he worked out.  If he got the chance, he would swipe some article of clothing; he had a number of jockstraps, briefs, and sock, but his prizes were the shoes.

 

Adam was a Creeper—psychologically incapable of a physical (or emotional, for that matter) relationship with another male, particularly those to whom he was attracted, he instead tracked them down and infiltrated their lives without them ever becoming aware of his presence in their homes.  Sometimes, he even got in while they were sleeping.  Sometimes, he stared down at their unconscious forms and beat off, spraying long ropy strands of cum across the bed or the floor…

 

The focus of his attention was always a twink of a certain type but, within that type, was usually chosen at random; in this case, Adam had had been on his way to troll a nearby gym that always had a hot clientele.  On this occasion, though, the disturbed youth didn’t even have to go inside the building—something caught his attention in the parking lot.  Something that gave him a new focus.

 

The kid was exactly Adam’s type—young, firm, and built but not jacked.  The boy had dark hair and under a blue jacket be sported a gray t-shirt and black shorts.  He was standing several rows away, so Adam didn’t have a clear view, but the kid had an almost Asian look.  Even at this distance, though, Adam could see the boy, while strong and muscled, was neither as tall nor as developed as he was.

 

That was what Adam liked—someone slightly younger, slightly smaller.  He’d track the kid, maybe steal his kicks and get off on imaging the boy wearing while he—

 

Adam wasn’t quite ready to finish the sentence, even in his own mind.

 

At that moment, another dude appeared.  He was older and incredibly buff; in fact, his hulking form was even more developed compared to Adam’s than Adam’s was to the kid in the blue jacket.  The two distant figures huddled together for a while before separating, something in the body language indicating the older man was dominant.  If the hot twink had had a tail, he would have wagged it as he climbed into a red pickup, and Adam realized that a hookup was about to happen.  He scrambled back to his car.

 

Backing out of his space, he caught a glimpse of his face in the rear-view mirror.  It was an unusually open and innocent face—Adam was only twenty-three—with bright hazel eyes ringed with long lashes.  Tilting the mirror, he checked his gleaming red-gold hair; cut relatively short in what was nearly a flattop, it was the same color as the short stubble covering his cheeks.

 

He’d dressed for the gym himself, his hard, bulging biceps well-displayed in a navy-blue tank top stretched across his broad, buff chest.  Under that, his huge thighs were covered by a pair of Nike Phenom shorts, gray with a black liner visible underneath.  On his feet were a tightly laced pair of Puma Cell running kicks, white with black stripes.

 

The red Ford truck caught his eye; it was almost out of the lot.  He accelerated to catch up but a light-colored car was in front of him.  As it pulled out of the lot and turned in the same direction the truck had, Adam realized that he was following the older dude, who was himself following the kid.  He also realized he recognized the car; it was usually parked a couple of blocks over from where he lived.  It wasn’t a huge neighborhood; there couldn’t be that many champagne-colored 1978 Camaros—and assuredly no others in such mint condition, right down to the tinted t-tops.

 

It didn’t take too long for the convoy to reach its destination, a condo complex with which Adam was unfamiliar.  Noting the spaces into which the two other vehicles pulled, he parked on the other side of the lot.  He waited to get out of his car until he saw the two male figures, both strong and well-built–but one much more so than the other–vanish down the sidewalk into the complex.  Adam made it to the corner just in time to see them enter the last unit on the left.

 

Then he turned around and walked away.

 

After approaching the Camaro and noting the plate number, Adam returned to his car and waited.  He wanted to see what would happen with the lean, muscular Asian youth he’d spotted; maybe he could even sneak in after and collect some trophies—those Nike Fingertrap Max kicks the boy were looked good.  Adam could imagine himself jacking off and blowing a load while wearing them.  There was something about this kid that interested the buff but perverted collector.  He was prepared to wait for quite a while.

 

As it turned out, he waited about an hour before he became distracted.  Adam had kept a sharp eye out; there wasn’t much foot traffic.  At one point early on, a harried-looking woman with an armful of groceries had bustled quickly down the walk.  She was soon followed by a youth who suddenly diverted his interest; the boy had coppery blond hair just barely visible under a dark hoodie jacket with the sleeves jammed up past his elbows.  Beneath that, gray shorts flashed in the dim glow of the security lights; there must have been a metallic shading to them.

 

Losing his focus, Adam got out of his car.  It was a bad idea, he knew, but this one was too hot not to track.  Maybe he’d sneak into this dude’s place too, jack off over his sleeping form like he’d done that one time…

 

Wrenching his mind back to the task at hand and ignoring his throbbing erection as best he could, Adam crept back around the corner to the walkway to see which unit this stud would enter.  He was utterly nonplussed when the hard, lean young stud entered the last unit on the left—the one the other two had gone into.

 

Returning back to his car, a dozen possible scenarios played out in Adam’s sick mind, each one more perverse and erotic in his mind.  Were these dudes partners?  Was a fuckin’ orgy goin’ on in there?

 

He leaned back, resting his head against the car window.  Closing his eyes, the hard-bodied introvert wondered what the older dude was doing with the boys.  Maybe he was doing something to them.  With a smile on his handsome face, Adam began to imagine what he’d do to them if he had them, helpless, yielding, unable to resist…

 

When he woke up, nearly an hour and a half had passed.  He hadn’t planned on falling asleep but he’d been up late the night before snatching that one kid’s undies.  He’d stood in the boy’s room with his cock out, pulling back the blanket—

 

And then the kid started to wake up.  He’d fled, but he’d collected his prize.

 

Well, it had cost him now.  He had no idea what was going on at this point; getting back out of his car, he rubbed his eyes and stretched his strong but stiff muscles.  Looking around the lot, he noticed that the classic Camaro was gone.

 

So the big stud had left.  Adam’s curiosity was aroused as to what he’d left in his wake. The older dude had been larger and better built than Adam himself; the hot young twinks must be worn the fuck out, so to speak—and that meant they’d sound asleep.

 

He headed quickly towards the darkened unit, his Pumas padding quietly down the walk.  The thought of spraying his load across their hot, insensate forms had already gotten his dick hard.

 

As he approached, Adam was disconcerted to see that lights were still on in the unit.  He was even more startled to see that the front door was slightly ajar.  For a moment, a long moment, he paused; he had an undefinable feeling…

 

Then he crossed the threshold and changed his life forever.

 

The unit was small, but nice.  A living room to the right, an open space on the left with a desk and a small table—and dead ahead, a short hallway with a pair of doorways at the end; a faint glow of light came from the one on the right.  No one was visible and the condo was eerily silent.

 

Creeping forward down the hall Adam soon reached the lit doorway. He peered around the corner—and his whole world was rocked.  He could only gaze, stunned and slack-jawed, at the scene in front of him.

 

At first, the buff young pervert thought he’d walked in on the two twinks having sex; they were on the floor, nude.  The blonde kid was on top, his mouth open and full of thick cock.  From his position, Adam couldn’t see the face of the kid on the bottom but the single Nike Fingertrap shoe on his right foot identified him as the Asian boy.

 

It took Adam a good ten seconds to realize that there was something wrong with the erotic tableau.  It was silent and motionless—and there was something wrong with the blond’s eyes; they were rolled back, glazed, staring sightlessly towards the ceiling…

 

The realization that they were dead flashed through Adam’s body like an electrical bolt; almost literally a sensation of shock…that was not unpleasant.

 

Nor was the throbbing of his hard shaft.

 

Suddenly, one of the bodies moved.  Adam jerked, visibly startled, but a closer looked showed him that the boys were so freshly dead that the corpses were still kicking.  And that was when full understanding washed over his hard, muscled form.

 

He had exactly what he’d always wanted, a hot young twink helpless before him—two, actually—unable to resist his sick, twisted desires…

 

Reaching into his Nike shorts, Adam grasped his thick, pulsing dick and pulled it out, brandishing it like a weapon as he approached the quivering pile of meat.  No more jacking off.  He’d never had sex with a man before.  It was time.  Finally, it was time.

 

He pulled the blond kid’s head up off the somehow still-hard cock on which it was stuck and shoved his body off of the Asian kid; the blond was hot but it was the latter he was really after. As the dead twink rolled off onto the floor, Adam could see the boy’s face, swollen and fading from purple to cyan, covered with a white crust of semen.

 

Revealed under him, the slim but muscled Asian youth had also been obviously strangled to death.  What appeared to be a thin leather band was cinched tightly around the kid’s throat, but it was sunk in too deeply for Adam—who hadn’t seen the boy closely enough earlier to notice his choker—to figure out what it was.  At the moment, it didn’t matter anyway.  What matter was that Adam now had the little punk’s hot, hard body all his own, to use as he wished…

 

First, he wanted to add to his collection, though.  The dark-haired corpse still sported one Nike Fingertrap; after a glance around the room, Adam spotted the other, nearly hidden in the tangled bedclothes.

 

It took no more than a minute to slip out of his own Pumas and into the Nikes.  Then he returned to the body, ready to fuck the corpse while wearing the dead kid’s own kicks.

 

He bent down and lifted the youth; the kid was well-built and it took more effort than Adam anticipated to raise him up to the bed.  As the body slumped forward, the head lolled forward limply onto the chest, showing how the kid’s neck had been snapped.  Adam didn’t care; his dick swelled and throbbed as he held the fit, sinewy, cooling corpse tightly in his arms before tossing it halfway onto the bed, facedown, with the smooth bubble butt at the edge and the legs dangling to the floor.

 

Holding his dark, pulsing shaft in one hand, he slapped it into his open palm, stiffening it further as he moved in.  The boy’s ass was covered with a fine dark haze of almost invisible fuzz; the firm cheeks lightly smeared with a mix of cum and blood.  It was clear his hole had been recently brutalized, but the thought of sloppy seconds didn’t put Adam off.

 

There was almost no resistance as he mounted and penetrated the corpse.  He was well hung himself, more than six inches of throbbing manmeat, but the boy had already been thoroughly reamed out.  It still didn’t matter.  Digging the dead kid’s own Nikes into the carpet, he shoved his rod up the punk’s colon; he could feel occasional twitches as the still-quivering corpse passed through the final few minutes of its death throes.

 

Hunched over the athletic teen’s body, Adam’s muscular form heaved and bucked as he impaled the boymeat.  The only sounds to break the deathly silence of the condo were Adam’s visceral grunts and the rutting, smacking sound of flesh slapping together.  The buff young pervert was still clothed, his gray shorts around his ankles and sweat darkening his already-dark tank top.  His coppery gold hair glinted in the light as he rode the helpless, inert form of the dead twink to orgasm.

 

Adam cried out inarticulately as his hot, spurting jizz injected a last moment of warm life into buff Asian boy’s ass.  Panting and shuddering, he found himself pounding the boy’s back, involuntarily driving his fist into the cooling slab of flesh pinned under him.

 

After a bit, he was back in control.  He pulled out of the corpse, the spade-shaped head of his still-swollen cock accompanied by an oozing wad of spunk.  Standing up, he took a step and was staggered by a wave of vertigo so intense, he had to reach out and steady himself against the wall.

 

The sensations that accompanied his first physical sexual encounter with another person were overwhelming.  He found himself dazed and trembling, awash in an erotic warmth that kept pearls of cum dripping from his curving, semi-soft rod.

 

Almost instinctively, Adam knelt and picked up a small gym bag that was on the floor, partially hidden under the other kid’s body.  The collecting desire was still in force; pivoting, he grabbed the blonde’s thick, furry calves and manhandled his legs, now cold and still, into a more convenient position.  Unlacing the Nike Flight Falcon kicks, he slipped the gray and white hightops into the bag.

 

This time, when he stood up, he wasn’t dizzy.  Tossing the bag onto the bed, he stepped out of his short and crossed the room, his shadow elongated to the side from the single lamp.  Crossing the hall into the bathroom he found the dim light just sufficient for him to wash off his dick.

 

Back in the bedroom, he retrieved the bag from the bed and added his own Pumas to it.  He thought briefly about adding the socks as well but, while the blond twink had his pair, the Asian hunk was missing one of his—and it didn’t seem to be anywhere around.  Since he was planning on wearing the latter’s kicks home anyway, he zipped the bag up and headed to the door.

 

In the doorway, he turned and took a look back.  The blond was on the floor, his arms by his sides, his legs slightly bent.  The young, fit, Asian stud was still lying face-down on the bed, his legs hanging off the bed with the feet curled so that the soles were visible—well, one; the other still had a ped sock.  A fresh layer of spunk glistened on the pale globes of the corpse’s asscheeks.

 

Sighing deeply with pleasure, Adam left the bedroom and then the condo itself.  He’d been so fixated on fucking the Asian that he’d almost forgotten about the blond boy.  And that was a shame.

 

The blond was straight.  And he’d been skullfucked, not assfucked.  Adam had missed a virgin fuckhole, and he never knew it.

 

On the other hand, he did know a killer.

 

He confirmed it the next day.  He thought he’d seen the Camaro parked a few blocks from his apartment; the plate number proved him right.

 

From then on, it was easy to stalk the deadly stud once Adam knew what he was looking for; both the killer’s car and his well-built physique stood out.  It was easy to follow him in a crowd; it was easy enough to follow him to the park.

 

Adam took notice of the kid he was meeting—dark-haired, with a slim swimmer’s build, the kid wore gray shorts and a pair of Nikes, blue and fluorescent yellow, but nothing else.  His broad, smooth chest glistened with sweat in the strong sunlight, highlighting the star tattoo on his left pectoral muscle.

 

Adam himself had slipped his own Pumas back on; in black jersey shorts and a simple white cotton t-shirt, he was able to keep the two dudes in sight ahead of them on the jogging path.  Putting his creeping skills to good use by making sure he was well back in the shadows, he was able to see them head for the park restroom.

 

He knew.  All he had to do was wait, and he knew the slim, fit young boy would be his…yielding, helpless, all his…

 

His knowledge and confidence were shaken when an older man, strolling along the path with his wife, turned aside and went into the bathroom.  Rigid with anticipation, Adam counted out several tense minutes until the man emerged.  His expression was neutral, his reactions normal—nothing to indicate he’d walked in on a hot rape and snuff.

 

The second dude to go in, a long, lank solitary jogger, also came out unperturbed.  Adam’s confusion increased.  He couldn’t see the actual door to the men’s room from his position; had they really entered it or were they off fucking in the woods somewhere?

 

The well-built young pervert tried to keep a lid on his rising anxiety levels.  What if he’d been wrong this time?  He’d been crouching in the underbrush long enough for his powerful legs to grow stiff; if he’d been wasting his time…

 

Wait.  There he was—the muscular older stud.  He had just walked into view around the corner of the building; after glancing around surreptitiously, he set off jogging back down the path.  Adam watched the well-built man as the latter headed to the park; his eyes taking in the sculpted torso, glistening with sweat and the thick, firm legs pounding his orange Nikes onto the pavement.

 

Adam rose and stretched, glancing around himself prior to heading towards the bathroom building.  One last backwards look at the corner confirmed that the coast was clear, then he ducked inside the dark, dank building.

 

Inside, Adam paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom.  Ahead and to the left, he could see a pair of legs sticking out of the far toilet stall; the body was obviously face down, the blue and green kicks spread far apart on the bare concrete floor.

 

The hard-bodied pervert stood over the corpse and fondled the huge bulge in his shorts.  He stepped back for a moment and slipped his shirt—and his Pumas—off before kneeling down and prying the Nikes off the body.  Still on his knees, he put the Nikes on himself.

 

He didn’t know why it was so hot to fuck the dead kid in his own kicks, but it was.  And with that thought, the demented stud reached into his shorts and pulled out his thick, throbbing shaft.

 

Sighing with deep pleasure, he thrust his dick between the corpse’s still-quivering asscheeks.  As he penetrated the reamed-out fuckhole his hands slid up the boy’s lithe, smooth back, still slick with deathsweat.  The kid’s head was turned to the side—Adam could just make out the swollen, congested face.  It looked nothing like the hot young punk who’d entered the building, and the muscled pervert found that even more enticing.

 

As he pumped and grunted, Adam reveled in his possession of the hot young twink.  This was how he liked his boys—yielding, helpless, under his complete control.  His muscled legs slapped against the dead boy’s firm but motionless thighs.

 

This one seemed to take a little longer, though.  The kid was hot—but loose.  Adam was still gripped in the erotic lust of having the youth exactly the way he wanted him, so after a while he found himself gasping and moaning loudly as his hard shaft pumped cum into the corpse’s already-violated fuckhole.

 

Pulling his dripping shaft out of the cold meat, Adam stood up and went to the sink.  He could see his own hard, muscled chest, sweaty and heaving as he got his breath back, his coppery hair now dark and matted.  Outside, there a noise—a child yelling at another—that suddenly reminded him that he was in public.  Half nude, cock out and dripping and a fucked-out corpse lying in the toilet stall behind him—he needed to go.  Now.

 

Quickly wiping his dick down with some wet paper towels, he grabbed his Pumas and rolled them up in his t-shirt.   He went out the door without a backwards glance, but he did stop to reconnoiter the scene and make sure it was clear.  One he was sure, he tucked the rolled shirt under his arm and jogged leisurely off in the direction of his car.  He looked like any other muscular young man getting a run in on a warm afternoon; in fact, the only bit of color about him to attract any attention were the blue-and-fluorescent-green Nikes on his feet.

 

The third time, Adam watched the snuff happen.  He hadn’t planned on it, but he’d had to follow the killer.  He’d tracked the older man back to the park—the rec center at the other end of the park, specifically.

 

The rec center was a large building.  Adam realized that there’d be no way to track the stud once he vanished inside; he would have to dog his footsteps and see where he went.  And that was how he ended up in the pool area, peering around the corner into the locker room, a raging erection tenting his knee-length jogging shorts.

 

He saw it all—the rough facefuck at the start was hot, but he wasn’t quite as interested in the massage or the way the lean, fit blond was running his tongue over the alpha hunk’s body.

 

After all, Adam still preferred his meat motionless and helpless.   He watched the renewed skullfuck with a kind of erotic impatience; he wanted it to be over.  But when the process of actually making the meat motionless started, he perked up.  In fact, he was fascinated.

 

Adam heard the older man dominating and humiliating the young faggot and felt his shaft pulse, but it began throbbing rhythmically not long after the beating started.

 

The vicious killer was swinging a sock into which he’d dumped a large padlock.  Each blow, each scream, each gruesome snap of shattered bone, got Adam harder and harder.  It had been a revelation to him that he got off on fucking corpses; it was an even greater one that he was enjoying the sight of the hot punk becoming a corpse.

 

He flushed and panted as the killer dragged the broken, ruined twink across the floor by a cord around his neck, but when he jammed his massive tool up the kid’s ass and started strangling him, Adam could only watch, agape and on his knees in stunned awe.

 

It went on too long and was over too soon.  The horrific struggles of the dying youth were the stuff of nightmares; Adam was almost overwhelmed watching a life being taken right in front of him.  But, yet…there was something—well, something sexual about it.  He didn’t understand it, but it drew him.  He’d never wanted to know this part; he just liked the boys quiet and still, unable to resist him.

 

Now that he was seeing it, though, he was drawn to it almost hypnotically.  He couldn’t look away.

 

And throughout the entire thing, he could feel what seemed to be electric shocks running the length of his rigid hog.

 

At the end, he was entranced by the boy’s blackened, desperate face and his incredibly sensual convulsions.  As the little slut died, he seemed to caress his killer, slowly and gently, the way Adam had always wanted to be caressed.

 

Despite his well-built physique and handsome scruffy face, Adam was too damaged to engage in a normal gay relationship.  It wasn’t due to any repressed sexuality; it more some sort of bizarre idiopathic inferiority complex.  For whatever reason, he’d always felt so certain he’d be rejected by the hot young twinks he wanted so badly that he’d never actually attempted to initiate anything with one.

 

Hence his desire to possess one who could never reject him, one with—or, rather, to—whom he could do what he wanted.

 

Now, he was learning something else.  Now, as he watched the sadistic older alpha heave and grunt like a rutting stag as the blond kid died in agony, Adam found that he was learning how to deal with that implied rejection.

 

He needed to make the little faggot cunts pay.  He knew he was bigger and stronger than most of the boys he’d fixated on.  He could do this to them.  He could show them what he thought of them first, before fucking their dead, helpless assholes.  He could even remember how to get back into their apartments; at least, some of them.

 

The hairy older stud was finally done cumming—he’d shot his load for several minutes, or so it seemed—and regained his feet, gasping for air as his sweaty muscular flanks heaved.  After taking a moment to recover from his explosive orgasm, the alpha killer padded off to the shower, leaving the dead boy sprawled face-up on the bench on which he’d been raped and murdered.

 

The body was still kicking; it was all Adam could do to not run over and start fucking it immediately.

 

But the shower had shut off; the killer would be on his way out.  The budding young psycho looked around for shelter, and saw the diving platform fifteen feet away, past the locker room door.  The older stud wouldn’t pass it on his way out; it was perfect.  He quickly crossed the open space (a swift glance through the locker room entrance showed the killer toweling off his buff body, facing away) and hid in the shadows of the platform.

 

In the few moments he had to wait, he slipped the Pumas off his feet.  The killer left, his footsteps silent in his own pair of Pumas—they were black Tazons, Adam noticed; he’d almost gotten a pair himself.

 

It didn’t take long to pull the dead kid’s white Nike Free RNs off and stick his own feet in them; he’d always been able to handle a size or two larger or smaller, but these happened to be a perfect fit.  It took somewhat longer to roll the body over, but once he did, Adam could clearly see the damage done to the homo’s ravaged fuckhole.  The boy had been torn.

 

In fact, he was so torn, he was loose.  Adam slipped his purple, engorged rod into the corpse’s ass, sighing as he penetrated the cooling, twitching rectum.  Placing his hands high up on the boy’s broad back to support himself he leaned forward and fucked the dead body, his hips thrusting forcefully against the shuddering boymeat.

 

The kid’s ruined, blackened face smacked against the wooden bench as Adam banged his corpse.  He flopped limply, helpless and unaware of the further indignity to which his already-violated body was being subjected.

 

Adam felt himself building to orgasm, but most of his stimulation was mental.  He was replaying the snuff in his mind, watching the hot twink being dominated, raped and strangled.  The boy’s colon was too reamed out by the older man’s enormous dick to give Adam much pleasure itself.

 

As he stiffened and grunted, his hot steady spurt of cum mingling with that of the sadistic alpha killer, Adam knew what he needed to do.

 

First, he hauled the corpse out of the locker room.  Peering out the door to make sure the coast was clear, the handsome, well-built necro pervert dragged the abused, semen-filled fag to the pool and rolled it over the edge into the deep end.  He wasn’t entirely certain why, but it seemed appropriate.

 

Then he returned to the locker room.

 

The dead kid’s locker was still open.  Nimbly avoiding the pools of coagulating blood, Adam pulled a towel out of it which he used to wrap up his shoes.  Carrying the innocuous bundle, he left the scene of the brutal crime without looking back.  The pool area was dark, with scurrying glints of reflected light.  The dark, huddled shape under twelve feet of water was barely visible at the far end.

 

With a smirk, Adam turned away.  He wasn’t quite the same sick creeper he’d been when he first started tracking the alpha killer stud.  He still wanted his fuckmeat dead—but now, he wanted to be the one to make it dead first.

 

Grinning broadly, Adam left the rec center.  Wearing a dead kid’s shoes and sporting a huge—and very obvious—erection, he was already planning his first kill…

M4M Unhappy Ending

It began idly enough; Joe was randomly trolling through an online hookup app.  Specifically, he was poking around on the same app Andy had had—the Asian punk he’d offed earlier.

 

Naturally enough, it was dangerous to carry the phone too long; it would be tracked.  So before he disposed of it, he hijacked the dead fag’s account, changing the profile and the password. But he still wasn’t gonna access it on his own phone; that’d be stupid.  He hadn’t taken anything off the last meat he’d offed—the one in the public bathroom—so he’d gone and gotten a burner phone.

 

He really wasn’t even looking, just curious what was around, when the ping came, and it was close.  Joe glanced around, but there was no one else in the parking lot.  It must have come from inside the building.

 

One of the reasons Joe wasn’t actively hunting at the moment was his proximity to the scene of his last kill.  He was at the rec center at the north end of the park where the restroom had been located.  He was there for the swimming pool.

 

The heat had gotten intense lately; so intense, in fact, that Joe had given up on running until cooler weather set in.  He’d returned to his gym for the duration of the summer, and while he utilized most of the available equipment, he preferred the pool for a solid full-body workout.  Problem was, the pool at his gym had been closed down for long-term remodeling the week before.

 

His membership allowed him access to the pool at another gym across town, but on weekdays there were all kinda of classes and lessons—things like water aerobics, even swimming lessons.  He would be lucky to find an open lane.

 

On the other hand, the free pool at the rec center was almost always deserted.  It really made no sense; it was larger—the only Olympic-sized pool in town, in fact—and very well maintained.  Even the locker and shower rooms were kept spotless (the male one, at least; Joe couldn’t vouch for the female side).

 

He had just pulled into the lot and was sitting in his car, just checking the scene when he got hit on.  The altered account now showed Joe’s buff, hairy, toned torso as a profile pic and usually generated some lust among the homos on whom Joe was preying.  In this case, the message came almost immediately after the ping.

 

“Hey, stud,” it read, “Love the muscles.  Work out a lot?”

 

The profile didn’t have a face pic; the avatar was some kind of zodiac thing.  All it contained was a name—Cory—and an age—twenty-two.

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied.  He was interested, but only very slightly; he didn’t have enough to go on.  The communication proceeded quickly and tersely.

 

—“U looking now?” from “Cory”.

 

—“Yeah”

 

—“Where r u”

 

—“Rec center on Kanen rd  still in parking lot  U?”

 

—“here too in locker room”  This one was accompanied by photos.

 

Cory turned out to be relatively well-built.  Short and slightly smaller than Joe, he was young with straw-blond hair, styled carefully to look like scruffy negligence.  He had wide-set green eyes ringed by long lashes, a pug nose, broad smooth cheeks and the blinding, suspiciously easy grin of a natural con man.

 

The pics weren’t limited to his face, though.  One displayed his smooth, toned torso to perfection; another showed half a foot of manmeat jutting proudly from a golden nest of pubic hair.

 

Joe hadn’t been looking, but he’d found something.  “OMW,” he messaged back as he snatched up his gym bag—Speedos, a towel and some grooming items—and got out of the car.  Once inside the building, he glanced around the lobby, again noticing how empty the place was.  Even for the middle of a weekday, it was deserted.

 

The pool was down a hall to the left.  A set of double doors on the right side opened into the pool area, cavernous and alive with faint obscure echoes. Skittering glimmers of light, reflected from the surface of the water, seemed to make the background shadows dart and scurry furtively.  The entire room was empty, but it still seemed occupied.

 

On the far side of the pool, bracketed by huge signs declaring no lifeguard on duty, were the doors to the locker rooms; the men’s was the closer door.  Joe was already familiar with the layout and headed in that direction.

 

His feet, firmly laced into a pair of black size-11 Puma Tazon kicks with white ped socks just barely visible, padded quietly across the concrete decking.  Above, he wore nothing but a pair of low-waist shorts, black with red trim.  The shorts were so form-fitting that Joe’s massive cock was outlined like a long black ridge running down his thigh, the head almost peeping out under the hem.  There was nothing covering the broad expanse of wiry fur on his rock-hard, sculpted chest

 

Pushing open the door, Joe strode into the dank locker room.  The far back wall of the room was covered with a double row of lockers, an upper and a lower.  Set out perpendicularly from the wall were more lockers, forming small “bays”, with wooden benches between them.  On the right side of the room was a row of sinks with mirrors above; on the right side were the showers.

 

And in the locker bay on the far left, beyond the sinks, a boy was sitting on the slatted wood bench.

 

It was the same grinning blond kid from the app.  He was leaning back on the bench, propped up on one arm, his smooth, taut body almost glowing under the fluorescent lights.  His other hand was tucked down inside the tiny bathing suit he wore, stroking his hard dick.

 

The shorts were electric blue with a black band at the waist.  Inside the band was a drawstring, also black, tied in a large but basic bow.  The suit was so short that if the bottom edges had been slanted up instead of running horizontally across the thigh, he’d have been wearing briefs.

 

The only other thing he was wearing was a pair of Nike Free RN sneakers, white with the trademark in black; his well-developed upper body was bare.

 

“Hey, dude,” he murmured up at Joe with a leer when the latter got close, “Ya lookin’ to play?”

 

“I might be,” Joe replied, his lips twisted with faint, cold smile.  “So how do you play?  What do you want?”

 

The kid stood up.  “Dick, man.  I want your dick.”

 

Joe’s smile became deeper, more contemptuous.  “Good answer,” he replied, reaching his hand down and pulling his enormous hog up out of his shorts.  “So get over here and work it, boy.”

 

“Cory, man, my name is Cory.”

 

Joe grinned maliciously.  “Your name is cocksucker, you little homo.  Now get over here and swallow my shaft!”  The strong youth stiffened as if he’d been slapped—but his cock stiffened too; his skin-tight shorts made the fact too obvious to hide.  The boy knelt down on the hard cold tiles in front of the larger, more powerful alpha and wrapped his lips around the thick, throbbing head, already oozing precum.

 

As Cory accepted the huge throbbing rod into his mouth, he felt the top’s hands pressing against his head—and then, in the blink of an eye, he was forced down on the shaft with sudden, irresistible force.  Cory hadn’t even had time to inhale before he found himself involuntarily deepthroating the dude.

 

Joe gripped the punk’s head tightly in his hands, brutally facefucking him as he felt the styling gel the little shit used crunch in his hands.  Choking, Cory beat his hands against Joe’s powerful thighs; it was as ineffectual as beating on a tree trunk.  Joe grunted with pleasure as he felt the blond boy gagging, the kid’s tongue writhing and scraping against the sensitive rosebud just under the pulsating head…

 

Finally, with a curse, he abruptly shoved the slut’s head away. Cory fell back, coughing up a huge streamer of drool as he tried to catch his breath. “D-damn,” he gasped, then gagged again.  Eventually, he regained control.  “Fuck man, that’s a monster cock you got.  And yer so fuckin’ strong, dude—ya work out a lot?  I mean, I know it’s a lot, but, well, a lot a lot?”

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “Some.  Why?”

 

“Ever get sore, man?  Here, hang on…”  Cory scrambled to his feet and dived at one of the lockers—an upper one, on the side wall.  Swiftly twirling the dial, he opened the heavy steel combination lock and tossed it onto the bench.  He opened the locker and partially withdrew a pair of jeans, digging into the back pocket to extract his wallet.  As he did so, a balled up pair of socks fell out of the locker.  Inside, Joe could also make out some indistinct shapes that seemed to be more clothing, and a pair of loafers—the kid’s post-workout clothing.

 

The boy turned back, proffering something in his hand that turned out to be a business card.  Joe read it with sneering amusement:  “Cory Carlisle, licensed massage therapist”—it even had the official license number issued by the state.

 

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled aloud.  “You any good?” he smirked.

 

“I can show ya—here, lay down on this bench.  On yer back, man.  I’ll give you and your cock the best massage you’ve ever had.”

 

“This better be good, boy,” Joe drawled, “I got high standards and I don’t like bein’ lied to by worthless pansies who ain’t got the skill to satisfy me.  Ya feelin’ me, boy?  You think you got what it takes, you better be prepared to prove it.”

 

The blond boy flashed his car-salesman grin again, his taut firm body almost wriggling with anticipation.  “Shit, dude, you’ll love this.  Just lay back.”

 

Joe went to the bench and swept the lock off; it landed on the tile floor and clattered to a stop near the socks.  He slipped out of his shorts, standing completely nude except for his black Puma kicks, then lay back on the bench.  His erect tool rose above him like a thick, trickling flagpole.

 

For his part, Cory’s electric blue swimsuit had a large moist circle that darkened to navy blue as it expanded outward from his leaking crotch.  “Hang-hang on, m-man,” he stuttered in erotic excitement as he plucked frantically at the knot in the suit’s drawstring.  Snatching one loose end, he gave a quick, nervous jerk that not only undid the knot, it also pulled the thick nylon cord halfway out of the shorts altogether.  “Damn,” Cory muttered as the shorts slid to the floor.  Just like Joe, he was now wearing nothing more than his kicks—the white Nikes—and a swollen, dripping erection.

 

Joe spread his legs as Cory drew near, exposing a small area of the bench between them.  Cory knelt there and then slowly crawled upwards, his silky-smooth skin scraping against Joe’s fur as he slid upwards until he way lying directly on top of Joe and looking down into his face, their throbbing dicks nudging and twitching against each other.

 

Reaching up, Cory placed his hands on Joe’s broad, bulging pectorals and began rubbing them.  The boy pressed down firm on the older man’s muscles, curling his fingers into Joe’s dark, wiry chest hair.  Joe himself could feel no benefit from the supposed “massage”, but it was evident Cory did.  He slowly moved down Joe’s torso, his hands grasping and exploring the body of the anonymous stud.  Joe’s hijacked profile showed no name—and Cory had never asked.

 

It clearly didn’t matter to the fit, well-built faggot.  All he was interested in was dick.  Well, he was gonna get plenty.

 

That wasn’t quite accurate, though—he was also interested in Joe’s rock-hard body.  He continued to worship it.  He worshiped it with his hands, dragging them through dominant top’s body fur as he felt the iron-hard immobility of the alpha’s ripped abs.  He also worshiped it with his tongue—he’d started at the nipples, slurping assiduously, before lowering his head towards Joe’s groin.  His tongue was now exploring the musky depths of the stranger’s navel.

 

Joe could feel the slut working his way down his body; he was waiting for the little homo to get back on his dick.  He was considering his options.

 

Should he let this one go?  He wanted to waste the cumsucker; he wanted to hurt the little piece of shit so bad—but it wasn’t wise.  Even just having sex here was a bad idea; if they were caught, he’d be an immediate suspect in the other murder in the park.  And besides, this didn’t feel bad…

 

Joe made his mind up.  He’d give Cory a fair deal.   If the boy could get him off—and he had to admit, the queerboy sure knew how to suck a dick; maybe he’d be good enough—he’d leave it at that.

 

Cory would walk out alive.

 

When the slut got to Joe’s groin, he braced himself by placing his palms flat on the alpha’s rock-hard thighs.  Kneeling on the end of the bench, Joe’s swollen purple dick towered in front of him.   As Cory watched, entranced, the thick shaft pulsed visibly; a glittering bead of translucent fluid oozed from the top and slowly trickled down the side.

 

The punk’s own tool was already hard; this sight merely stiffened it to nearly the point of pain.  Knowing that this anonymous stud liked him gagging, Cory took a deep breath before lowering his head onto the throbbing rod.  As he went down, he took time to wrap his tongue around the stranger’s cock, savoring the vein-wreathed length as it filled his throat.

 

Joe’s arms were raised and bent back, his hands behind his head, holding it up so he could watch the blond pansy suck his dick.  “That’s it, cunt,” he sneered, “Lick my dick like a good cocksucker.”  He shifted his legs, sliding his black Pumas up so he could leverage his hips and pump his stiff pole into the boy’s greedy mouth.

 

Even though he’d known it was coming, Cory hadn’t known when; Joe’s sudden thrust completely plugged his airway.  At the same time, the muscular, aggressive top clenched his fists in the fag’s hair, the golden, stylized spikes somehow still crunchy with gel.  Cory found himself as trapped and immobile as if he’d been strapped into an iron cage.

 

Again, he found himself subjected to a violent skullfuck.  Despite his deep breath, his lungs were already beginning to ache; he dug his fingertips into the firm flesh of Joe’s inner thighs with as little impact as if they had been steel.  Joe noticed and chuckled maliciously.  “Havin’ trouble breathin’, ya cumsuckin’ faggot?” he gloated.  “Ok, then—but ya gotta be quick, boy, I expect a lot outta my bitches.”

 

For a brief moment—Joe actually counted out five seconds—he eased his vise-like grip and let Cory pull his head back.  Barely; in fact, he could only pull it back an inch and a half.  It was enough to allow him to breathe, but it was messy relief.  Still choking and gagging, Cory was coughing up white ropy strands of drool, the thick strings of saliva flowing around Joe’s tool—still stuck deep down the cunt’s throat—and down the boy’s chin to stream to the floor.

 

“Gag on it, you homo cunt,” Joe sneered.  “C’mon, boy, get back on my cock!”  Cory had just enough time to get another deep lungful of air before his esophagus was rammed full of pulsating manmeat.

 

The young blond found his face mashed into the alpha’s groin, the tough, wiry pubic hair scraping his cheeks and forehead.  A pair of huge, wrinkled balls slapped jarringly at his chin as the domineering alpha reamed the throat of the well-built youth.

 

This session lasted longer.  Cory’s sinuses were clogged and his frantic five seconds of gasping hadn’t allowed much air past the meat tube wedged in his windpipe; he was running out of oxygen faster than he had earlier.  And as a result, panic set in sooner.

 

The cum-hungry boyslut found himself desperately trying to get the alpha’s dick out of his mouth.  It was too much; this dude was both too big and too rough.  Cory realized he needed to put the brakes on this one or he could get hurt—but would he get the chance to?

 

He wasn’t sure he could get free.  For the first time, a cold shaft of fear penetrated his warm erotic lust.  As hard as his own dick was, as hot as the facefuck action was, the crushing pain in his chest was starting to become the focus of his attention.  Cory frantically beat his hands on Joe’s legs before planting them firmly and straining to pull himself up so strongly that his biceps bulged almost to the size of Joe’s.

 

“Whassa matter, boy?” Joe sneered.  He could feel the sperm starting to boil in his testicles; he was getting close.  “My dick too much for ya?  Tough shit, homo—suck it!”

 

Cory wasn’t having it.  Jerking forcefully, he bucked like a bronco, yanking his head back until Joe released him with an angry grunt.  Cory instantly went upright on his knees, gasping for air.  He bent forward, instinctively placing one hand on Joe’s broad chest to steady himself as he crawled back to full consciousness.

 

“F-fuck du-dude,” the kid choked out, “T-too much, man, too much.  I charge extra for a happy ending…”  He trailed off in an extended coughing fit.

 

Joe went rigid, staring coldly at the slowly-recovering punk.  “You want me to pay to cum?” he said slowly and coldly.  Cory, clearly not recognizing the suppressed rage in that flat, icy tone, replied with an obnoxious, whining tone, “Fuck yeah, asshole, ya think I give a massage for free?  Ya gotta pay to get off.”

 

“You fucking sack of shit whore,” Joe responded evenly just before he lunged upwards.  Jamming his left hand into Cory’s armpit, he shoved the boy up and to the right, into the open locker.  At the same time, he brought his right arm up and slammed his forearm flat into the locker door, driving it closed and smashing Cory’s head.

 

With a loud squawk, Cory fell to the floor, bleeding from both sides of his head where the sharp metal edges of the locker door on one side and the frame on the other had cut into his skin.  Sobbing and crying, the boy began to crawl away from his assailant across the cold tile floor.

 

Sitting up on the bench, Joe looked down at the stupid little fairy squealing and writhing on the floor like a pig and felt his body flood with rage.  The whore had actually expected him to pay to cum.  He needed to learn what a terrible mistake he’d made—and then Joe saw how to teach him.

 

Bending down, he scooped up both the balled-up socks and the padlock.  It took no more than ten seconds to free a single sock and stick the padlock inside.  Once he had, Joe stood up and walked over to Cory.

 

The young blond homo had actually managed to crawl some distance in the brief time that had passed.  Still sobbing and in severe pain, he could hear the footsteps of Joe’s black kicks relentlessly coming for him.  “Don’t you fuckin’ touch me, you psycho!” he screeched.  “I’m gonna call the fuckin’ cops, you asshole!”

 

Joe continued to approach silently, remorselessly.

 

“Stay the fuck away from me!” Cory screamed, sobbing uncontrollably.  “I-I’ll sue you, m-man, y-yer gonna go to jail!”

 

Standing over him, Joe swung the weighted sock like a blackjack.  On the floor, Cory peered up at him with horror.  He could see nothing but implacable anger in Joe’s face.  “P-please, man,” he whispered hoarsely, realizing with cold terror that he was looking death straight in the face, “I-I didn’t mean it—don’t, dude, please god no, don’t fuckin’ do this; I’ll do whatever ya want, just lemme live, man, oh fuck oh please—“

 

Curling his scruffy, handsome face into a contemptuous leer, Joe swung his arm and delivered a vicious blow to Cory’s back.  The heavy metal lock smashed directly into a rib, shattering it.  The boywhore screamed and writhed like a worm on hot pavement as splinters of bone tore through his innards.  “Fuck!” he screeched, scrambling over the tile, “Please god, stop!”

 

Towering over the crawling faggot, Joe stomped his foot in the middle of Cory’s back, driving the wind out of the unfortunate youth and leaving the tread of his sneaker embedded in the cunt’s smooth flesh as a bruise. Swinging the sock around in his hand like a sling, Joe increased the momentum of the heavy metal lock, then abruptly bent down, his powerful arm circling high above his head as he slammed the improvised weapon down.

 

Cory knew it was coming and tried to move but Joe’s foot was pinning him to the floor; the best he could do was twist to his right.  It turned out to be a serious mistake.  The homemade blackjack, instead of hitting center body mass, made contact with Cory’s left arm, halfway between the shoulder and the elbow.  The chunk of metal, moving with irresistible force, snapped the humerus like a chicken wing.

 

Cory shrieked in agony and flailed, his broken arm jerking limply and grotesquely but was unable to get out from under the sadistic alpha.  Even in the depths of his fear and pain, the handsome young slut was still aware of his assailant’s erection—he couldn’t have forgotten it even if he’d wanted; Joe’s precum was dripping on his back in burning drops like melted wax.

 

Oh shit, this dude wasn’t just bashing the fuck outta him, he was gettin’ off on doing it—

 

Cory’s futile thrashing on the cold tiles became even more intense as his panicked squeals rose in pitch.  “Goddam, yer a mouthy little fairy whore, aintcha?” Joe snarled in anger, taking his foot off the kid’s back.  Cory’s faint relief at his release was short-lived, though; Joe had merely freed his foot to deliver a vicious kick to the boy’s waist—one strong enough to flip Cory onto his back.

 

The whore could look directly up into the hard face of his torturer; the rage that he saw there so overwhelmed him with terror that his bleatings and mewlings tapered off into a subdued sobbing.  The depths of his abuse and humiliation were obvious—as was his lust.

 

The little fucker was hard as a rock.  As he was getting the living fuck beaten out of him, Cory had remained erect, and the glaze of slime smeared on the head of his dick showed that he’d even dripped out some precum of his own.

 

“Yeah, ya worthless sack of shit, that’s what I thought,” the muscled alpha panted, his broad furry chest heaving with exertion.  “Goddam fag already knows it’s such a useless piece a’ garbage it gets off on bein’ treated like one.”

 

He knelt down leaning directly over Cory’s face.  “Guess what, cunt?  If ya liked that, it’s yer lucky day.  I’m gonna take you out like the trash you are, bitch—and it’s gonna hurt.”  As he bent further down, the prostrate youth, frozen in horror, could smell the mansweat on his killer’s body, laden with adrenaline and testosterone; even in an extremity of terror, his cock responded by swelling and darkening.  Joe spit contemptuously in the boy’s face before he stood back up; Cory’s only reaction came from his oozing dick.

 

“C’mon, ya homo punk, time for shit to get real,” Joe drawled as he rose again, his large shadow stretching ominously across the battered youth cowering at his feet.  The words pierced Cory’s mind with a cold shaft of fear.  From deep within his soul, the crumbled remains of his arrogance found one last sliver of spirit—just enough to make him protest.

 

“N-no…” the blond boy whispered.  “D-don’t. No. Please…”

 

Then, seeing the rage darkening the cruel alpha’s face, he realized he’d made another mistake.  He’d set the psycho off again; he could see the murderous light of wrath building in the towering stud’s eyes and his resistance collapsed immediately.  He started weeping uncontrollably, in fear of the inevitable blow—he could already see Joe’s arm moving back for another swing of the blackjack.  And so Cory made yet another error in judgment—he seemed to be involuntarily digging his own grave—by raising his right arm to ward off the blow, holding his hand up, palm side out.

 

This time, Joe crushed the kid’s hand, snapping three of his fingers like twigs.

 

Cory’s shrill shriek should have echoed off the tile walls of the locker room, but his throat was so hoarse and ragged with screaming that all he was able to emit was a loud, cracking wheeze of agony.  The whoreboy lay flat on his back, kicking and trembling in agony as tears streamed down his pain-wracked face.  In a reflexive attempt at escape, he flexed his legs, trying to get some traction with the heels of his white Nikes.  His arms, of course, were useless now; the punk had been brutally immobilized.

 

But he still hadn’t lost his hard-on.

 

Joe noticed and grinned evilly.  “Goddam, you queer-ass cunt, you sure fuckin’ loved bein’ treated like the sack of shit you are.  Almost as much as I love treatin’ ya that way.  Lessee if we can amp that shit up, huh?”  And with that, he wheeled and walked back towards Cory’s open locker.

 

The writhing lump of bruised and beaten flesh that had been a handsome young massage therapist twenty minutes ago still lay gasping and sobbing on the floor.  During the brutal assault, he’d managed to crawl along the floor for a good distance; as a result, when Joe strode away, he passed beyond Cory’s line of sight.  The suffering punk, shuddering and moaning on the cold floor tiles, had an idea that the buff sadist had bent down to retrieve something.  He heard Joe give a very faint grunt of exertion, followed by the sound of fabric ripping.

 

He had no idea what was happening, though, till Joe returned.  In the killer’s big, strong hands dangled a length of cord.  It took Cory’s traumatized mind a while to realize he was looking at the draw cord that had been torn out of his own swimsuit.

 

Some part of him expected his legs to be bound for further torture; he felt a dull sense of surprise when the cord was looped around his neck instead.  The cord tightened and Cory, moaning and crying, expected to be strangled instantly.

 

Instead, he found himself being dragged roughly across the floor by the cord around his throat.  His legs kicked and flailed in protest, but his arms were no help.  The shattered left arm trailed limply at his side; he could still move his right arm, but the crushed hand, looking like a pale, mangled starfish, was utterly useless.  His own inert body weight had caused the cord to squeeze his throat to the point that he was unable to speak, but with extreme effort, he was still able to breathe.

 

Since he was being dragged by his head, more or less, Cory was unable to see where he was being taken; he could only feel the tiles on his bare skin.  Within seconds, though, the dragging had stopped, and was replaced by something worse.  He was lifted up off the ground by the noose around his neck briefly before a flat bar dug into his shoulders and started scraping its way down his smooth back.  Hearing Joe strain as he jerked on the cord, Cory understood—vaguely, his air was now completely cut off—that the hulking sadistic killer was dragging him backwards up onto the wooden bench.

 

And then it was done.  The constriction around his neck relaxed.  His aching, beaten body was lying limply on the bench, his legs spread.  His right arm was curled on his smooth, broad chest while his left hung at an unnatural angle over the edge.  The pain-twisted, suffering youth coughed up a thick wad of phlegm as he gasped desperately and rapidly.

 

Cory was too stunned, too beaten down by this point to wonder what was coming next; he could only hope it wouldn’t hurt anymore.  Even if it meant death, he wanted to the pain to end.

 

He was sadly disappointed.

 

For his part, Joe had kept his eye on the pansy’s cock as he’d dragged the pile of shit across the floor.  It had continued to darken, becoming so engorged that it looked like an eggplant.  As the buff, toned alpha had tightened his biceps and manhandled the cocksucker up onto the bench, he’d momentarily wondered if the little bitch was gonna cum right there.  No matter how much pain he inflicted on the cringing queerboy, the fag seemed to love it.

 

Now it was time for Joe to get what he’d come for.

 

Cory moaned slightly as Joe parted his legs, his large hands gripping the soft smooth flesh of the boy’s inner thighs.  Semi-conscious at best, the punk was aware of the movement, but little else—

 

—until Joe shoved the entire length of his gigantic, pulsing rod up Cory’s tender fuckhole in a single, unlubed thrust.

 

The searing, slashing agony in his anus shifted the homo slut from semi-consciousness to full consciousness in the blink of an eye.  His emerald-green eyes widened, huge and round like platters, deeply ringed with shock and physical trauma.  He screeched, a high, unpleasant squeaking sound, as his body shuddered and jerked in protest.  Instinctively, Cory began beating at his rapist with his right hand; the action made the jagged ends of his broken fingers grind together, intensifying the pain he was in.

 

“Quit fightin’ me, ya stupid fuckin’ faggot!” Joe barked in fury.  Doubling his fist, he drove it into Cory’s jaw with the all the power of a horse’s kick.  The boy’s head rocked back, slamming into the bench as his mouth snapped shut with such sudden violence that he bit through his tongue.

 

Spitting up blood, Cory coughed and squealed in agony and abject terror as Joe roughly pulled his thick hog back up out of the punk’s colon, keeping in only the massive mushroom tip.  Joe repositioned his kicks on the floor for better leverage and immediately plunged his shaft deep into the cunt’s soft, squelching guts.  Another agonized screech rose from Cory’s swollen, split lips.

 

“Goddam it, I’m tired of lissenin’ to ya squealin’ like a pig, you worthless cum-guzzlin’ homo!” Joe snarled, “Guess it’s time to make you shut the fuck up!”

 

Leaning forward, Joe grabbed at the loose ends of the draw cord still draped around Cory’s throat.  With a single violent jerk, he pulled it so taut that it immediately sank into the skin.  The hard-bodied killer yanked tightly on the cord as he brutally reamed out the kid’s fuckhole.  Luckily, it was thirty inches of black woven nylon, well able to stand up to the strain.

 

Cory, on the other was less able to cope.  His frantic gurgling had been cut short and his mangled hand flapped uselessly at his throat.  His bulging eyes glittered with highlights of terror and excruciating pain so intense they bordered on insanity.  As his hard, firm young body shuddered under the assault, the punk’s dazed brain tried to understand how an offer of a massage and a quick blowjob had turned into rape, nightmarish torture and murder.

 

Joe pounded his tool into Cory’s torn, bleeding ass, yelling “Fuck! Yeah! Take it, cunt!” with each thrust, the raging lust in his voice enhanced by the swift slapping sound of flesh on flesh.  He was pulling the cord with such force that tendons were starting to stand out, first in his neck, then his forearms.  The cord itself was so deep in the kid’s throat that it couldn’t be seen.

 

What it was doing to Cory could be seen very well.  The youth’s face was a deep blue, darkening to purple so quickly that it was impossible to tell if any bruises were present—everything was the color of a bruise.  Even his huge, panic-struck eyes were blotched with ruptured blood vessels.  The only part of him not turning dark was the thick foamy spittle trickling around the sides of his swollen, protruding tongue.

 

Cory’s hard, tight body jerking and convulsing under him, Joe shuddered with pleasure as the dying fag’s rectum caressed the sensitive engorged head of his cock.  The sadistic alpha chuckled maliciously; the stupid little motherfucker had turned out to be a good massage therapist after all—at least, he was good at massaging Joe’s dick in his death throes.

 

And as Cory twitched and kicked, his thick cock was still erect; in fact, it seemed to stiffer than ever and twitching rapidly in tempo to Joe’s relentless ass-pounding.  With each forceful pump of the murderous top’s hips, the boy’s dick slapped against Joe’s ripped abs and sprayed a fine mist of precum over his chest fur.

 

Cory himself was past sensation at this point; part of him knew that he was dying full of cock and that was the part keeping his dick hard.  The rest of him knew that he was dying full of pain and that part wanted to die.  There was no more terror, there was almost no more Cory; all that was left was the pain—and the lust.

 

And at the extreme end of oxygen starvation, even those two primal drives were losing their grip; massive brain damage was sending Cory’s smooth body, muscled and slick with sweat forced from his pores in metabolic trauma, into violently erratic convulsions.  He wasn’t quite as large or strong as Joe, but his lithe body was powerful enough that the hard-bodied sex killer had to clamp down and ride Cory into death like he was taming a horse.

 

As the dying cunt kicked away his last few seconds on Earth, his internal muscles convulsed as well, creating a rippling effect in his colon that almost seemed to draw suction.  It was as if Cory’s mindless, flailing body was trying to suck the cum right out of Joe’s rod.

 

It was working.

 

Joe could feel his hot sperm starting to bubble in his puckered sack; the thick tube running along the underside of his shaft seemed to tingle with electrical fire.  He was close, he was so fucking close…

 

It was time.  He was gonna blow.  He was gonna seed this worthless faggot meat.  His black Pumas slipped back as he bent forward, his full body, heavy with the weight of his muscled mass pinning the thrashing boycunt under him, still impaled on his cock.  As Cody’s swollen, pulsing dick slid moistly between their flat firm bellies, Joe wrapped both ends of the nylon cord around his right hand and placed his left hand flat on the punk’s shuddering forehead.

 

Then, straight-arming the kid’s forehead, he gave the cord a single, swift yank so brutal it snapped the woven nylon.  It also snapped Cory’s neck.

 

The popping sounds of shattering bone once again echoed in the locker room.  It was accompanied with another round of violent physical convulsions in the entwined male bodies on the bench.  Cory bucked and spasmed as an electrochemical surge flashed though his nervous system; his arms and legs contracted involuntarily, causing the corpse to wrap its legs around Joe’s waist, white Nikes helplessly kicking in midair.  The meat had even swung the broken arm up and around Joe’s back.

 

At the same time, the release the dying homo’s dick had been craving was finally granted; Joe felt the hot spurts of semen pumped into the fur that lined his sculpted chest.  The little motherfucker must have been full of cum; it kept spewing and spewing.  Even after Joe had uttered an inarticulate, strangled cry and flooded the kid’s guts with boiling manspunk, Cory’s still-erect shaft was spitting out ropy strands of jizz across his own motionless chest.

 

The boy’s body had one last wrenching spasm that pulled the last drop of semen out of Joe’s still-throbbing hog.  The alpha thought the kid’s phenomenal death load was over; he raised himself up and felt one last warm splash, this one under his chin, caught in his facial stubble.

 

The heaving, gasping alpha slowly withdrew his still-dripping cock from the corpse.  Standing up, he took a moment to catch his breath and to guiltily scope out the situation.  He’d given in to his anger, and that was a bad thing; this snuff was way too close—and too recent—to the other one in the park.

 

On the other hand, he’d needed a workout, and he’d gotten one.  Scooping up his gym bag, he padded off to the showers.

 

Toweling himself off after he got out of the body, Joe redressed and took a glance around.  If he hadn’t known how absolutely deserted the place would be, the snuff would have been the height of insanity.  The corpse, sprawled on its back with the legs spread, the soles of the white Nikes facing forward, was at least partially visible from the locker room entrance.  It was necessary to take a few more steps into the room to get a clearer look, to see the snapped arm or the congested head, now fading to a dusky blue, hanging at odd, impossible angles.

 

Still, it had all worked out.  For Joe, it was a happy ending.

 


 

The pool area was quiet, but not silent.  Empty, but not motionless, refracted glints of light danced across the walls and faint slopping sounds coming from the water.

 

And then it wasn’t empty.

 


 

The next day, Joe was dressing for work; he’d gotten a call to come in.  He’d flipped on the TV in the background, not paying much attention until a certain story attracted his notice.

 

It was a mention of a body found at the rec center that caught his ear.  “The body was that of a young Caucasian male,” the anchor intoned.  “The report came in of an accidental drowning but when paramedics pulled the man from the water, he was completely nude.  Police aren’t saying much beyond the fact that there were clear signs of physical violence; however, inside sources have hinted that the victim suffered multiple sexual assaults.  In light of the death of Bradford DeLaney III, found raped and strangled in a bathroom in the same park, authorities are now saying—“

 

Joe shut the TV off, then let the remote fall.  For the first time in a long time, something had taken the alpha stud by surprise.  He tried to reconcile the scene he’d left and the one the TV had described; it simply didn’t compute.

 

“What the fuck?” he asked the blank screen.

Convict Finale/Carlos and Nick 1

The ad was short and simple; it just said that a local film company wanted well-built actors for male-on-male videos, some wrestling involved.  It damn sure didn’t take a genius to read between the lines; at the very least, it would be soft-core porn.

 

Carlos considered it carefully.  He wasn’t out of money yet, but he was running low.  He needed some steady source of income.  He’d loved the Mustang, but the car was probably way too hot to keep; he had to buy another car.

 

And he damn sure wasn’t gonna stint himself.  He ended up spending more than half of the ten grand he’d managed to acquire on his new ride, but it was worth it.  And he’d made a potential contact.  The salesman, a friendly young man with a shaggy mop of sandy-blonde had hit on him repeatedly.  At the end of the sale, Carlos drove off with the kid’s business card in his wallet.  He was well aware that the boy had written his personal cell number on the back.

 

Maybe later.  A little time would need to pass; most of the staff had noticed him that day.  After all, he’d bought a burgundy Mercedes SL 300 convertible.  Yeah, it was a 1990 model, but it looked great.

 

He’d spent a little more money renting a 10 X 15 storage space not far from his apartment—and hidden the Mustang there.  He didn’t own it, so he couldn’t sell it, and he was worried that it was too full of evidence to abandon.  He’d deal with it later.

 

The apartment he’d rented was in North Las Vegas, an ancient two-story fourplex, built of cinderblock covered in cracked babyshit-yellow stucco.  The neighborhood made the area where he’d offed that last whore look like fuckin’ Candyland, but Carlos could take care of himself.  It was a cheap, furnished, bills paid shithole that the muscular serial killer planned to escape as soon as he could get a guaranteed source of income.

 

Which brought him back to this ad.  It’d be a start.  His “Sin City High” had evaporated in the brutal Vegas heat; there was no way he could rob and steal his way into lifestyle he wanted.  As an ex-con, convicted of felony manslaughter, his options were limited—but there were things he could do.

 

And whatever he did, nothing was gonna stop him from having fun putting down fags.  Maybe this ad was a way to do both.  Yeah, it was unlikely—but what the hell, why not?

 

The address was unfamiliar; Carlos had to look it up.  It turned out to be north of town, off I-15 near the Craig Road exit.  “Walk-in auditions today, 2-6pm.”—great.  It was almost five thirty now.  He just barely had time to make it…

 

With a vague idea of what he was in for, Carlos dressed for the part.  First on was a pair of electric blue Under Armour compression shorts that reached to mid-thigh.  They clung to Carlos’s groin so tightly that his huge package was outlined in vivid, intimidating detail.  His thick, muscled calves descended into a pair of red Air Jordans, the laces the same shade of blue as the shorts.  Above the waist, his powerful, sculpted abdomen was wrapped in a red compression t-shirt with white piping on the seams; it highlighted his well-developed chest.  The tattoos writhing on his bulging biceps could be seen below the shirt cuff; similarly, the tight neck of the shirt did not obscure the inked designs on his throat.

 

Admiring himself in the mirror, the buff killer decided he looked both menacing—and powerful enough to carry through on the menace.

 

Turned out to be a good thing, too.  The moment he stepped out his front door, he could see his car.  Parked in the paved-over yard between the house and the street; open to the sidewalk, it had evidently attracted some attention.  It was surrounded by a crowd of rowdy young cholos who were staring at it in envy and murmuring among themselves, probably about the best way to part it out.  Suddenly, one of them reached out to the driver’s door handle.

 

“Hey, vato, keep yer fuckin’ hand off my ride if ya wanna keep yer fuckin’ hand!” Carlos snapped.

 

The greaser kid took one look at Carlos’s imposing form and jumped back.  “No daño, señor, no daño!” he cried in a panicked voice as the others took the hint and rapidly backed from the car.

 

“Better not be any harm, you worthless punk, or I’ll make you pay,” the hulking psycho growled, “Now get the fuck outta my way.”

 

They scattered like startled deer.  Carlos jumped in the car and headed towards the highway.  Damn, he was gonna have to find something soon.  The Benz was a target in that hood and he couldn’t watch it all the time.  It’d be nice if this worked out…

 

The neighborhood in which he found himself after he exited the highway was an industrial park, full of large buildings of cinderblock or corrugated steel.  At least a third had large wooden billboards plastered with the words “for lease” visible somewhere on the property.   He finally found the right address, a long, low warehouse building with a small lobby section.

 

There were three vehicles in the lot; one a dark green ford F250 pickup.  Just as Carlos pulled in, a pale, freckled twink wearing nothing but shorts and a pair of skate shoes came out.  He was thin and had a couple of bruises; his expression was one of discouragement and exhaustion.  He got into a beat-up old Nissan and left.

 

Stepping out of the oven-like heat, Carlos felt the refrigerated air of the lobby wrap around his slightly sweat-soaked body.  The room was empty except for an easel with a placard reading “Auditions this way”; there was an arrow pointing to a hallway on the right.  The hallway itself was dark and lined with doors, all closed—except the fourth on the left, from which flowed a rectangle of light.

 

Carlos approached slowly and warily.  Peering around the corner, he found himself looking into a large room, possibly a conference or meeting room at one time, brightly lit by overhead fluorescents.  In the far left corner, a wrestling ring had been set up.

 

It was a basic setup, a sixteen-by-sixteen foot square ring with skirting and a canvas mat.  The turnbuckle covers were of canvas, the same color as the ropes.  On one side was a small platform for mounting and accessing the ring.

 

There were two dudes in the room.  On the far left, some folding tables had been set up.  Covered with monitors and video editing equipment, they were being operated by a large dude with long black hair; he was sitting with his back facing the door and hadn’t seen Carlos in the doorway.

 

At the very back of the room, to the right of the ring, was another folding table.  This had what looked like a makeup case, some indefinable personal effects—and a twink dressed in nothing but a pair of briefs and knee-high boots.  The boy was smaller than Carlos but still surprisingly well-built; even from across the room, Carlos could see his thick muscles.

 

The boy was bent over the table, concentrating intently on something.  Carlos approached quietly until he was close enough to hear the sniffing sounds.  Little fucker was snorting coke.  Probably thought he was too high-class for crack or meth.

 

The muscled alpha snorted in contempt.  The kid evidently heard him; visibly startled, he jumped and whirled around.  Carlos got a good look at him.

 

Young—he looked like he was in his mid to late teens.  In fact, he had the build of a high-school wrestler, smooth, fit and muscled without being stocky or over-developed.  He was wearing a pair of bright red briefs which on closer inspection turned out to be Speedos.  They left nothing to the imagination; the kid was hung like a horse—not as well as Carlos, perhaps, but damned impressive in its own right.  Or it would have been had it been hard.  On his feet were a pair traditional knee-high wrestling boots, red with white laces.

 

The kid swiftly wiped the white powder of the end of nose and sniffled, the color of his wide eyes almost impossible to discern through cocaine dilation; his pupils were huge.  His face was innocent and boyish, with a slightly snub nose.    His hair was dark brown and cut short.

 

Grinning, the boy approached, holding out his hand.  This close, Carlos could see the hard lines in his face—kid was older than his teens and had been living hard for a while.  “Heya,” the coked-up punk chirped, “here for the video shoot?  Cool.  Name’s Brody La Roc—ya mighta heard of me.  No?  Most popular escort on the Strip, man.  Hey, when we’re done, take one of my cards.  I’ll make sure ya have a good time—if you can afford it.  Ha!  Hey, Nick, ya got another one!”

 

This last was to the dark-haired dude on the other side of the ring.  The guy had been engrossed with a video monitor, evidently doing some editing.  As soon as he heard his name, he jumped up and crossed to join them.

 

Nick was huge.  He was both taller and better-built than Carlos himself—not by much, but enough for Carlos to notice.  He was simply dressed in faded jeans, well-worn but clean work boots and a dark red sleeveless t-shirt but the clothes clung so tightly to his sculpted body that there was nothing left to the imagination.  The buff Hercules greeted Carlos genially, his broad, handsome face breaking out into a blinding grin.

 

“Hey, man, you just made it!  This is gonna be the last shoot of the day.  So—what’s your name?”

 

After the preliminary introductions, they got down to business.  Nick was doing what he called a film test, but he dropped some random comments that clued Carlos in.  The individual clips would be edited together as a bonus “screen test” feature on another porn flick, probably already shot.  This was a quick-and-dirty shoot for the purpose of padding out a video.  But it paid $150 and probably wouldn’t take an hour.  And Nick held out the possibility of further work.

 

“After all, man,” he said, “I got a wide distribution network.  I do all kinda videos.  Who knows?  I might be able to find something for ya.  Let’s see what you can do.”

 

Gazing over Carlos’s well-built bulk, Nick nodded with critical approval.  “Ok, shuck off that shirt.  The shorts can stay; I like them.”  Carlos obliged, peeling off the red compression shirt and tossing it onto a folding chair off to one side.  “And the shoes.  That’s a real canvas mat; those soles will lose traction.  You wear what—eleven, eleven and a half?  Lessee here, I got some extra gear just in case…”

 

After rummaging through a heap of boxes and bags piled in the corner, Nick returned triumphantly, holding a shoebox.  “Your lucky day, man,” he chuckled, “I got these new and ain’t come across anyone big enough to wear ‘em—you’ll be the first.”

 

It was a pair of Adidas Adizero Varner wrestling kicks, black with white laces.  Carlos slipped them on, tightening the laces until the shoes wrapped around his feet like socks.  He stood up and faced Nick, now clad in nothing more than his skintight blue shorts and the black Adidas shoes.

 

This time, Nick pulled out his hand-held camera and sighted it on Carlos.  “Fuckin’ excellent, stud.  Totally hard-core rough trade; this lighting shows your tats perfectly.  Let’s get y’all in the ring.”

 

The kid—Brody—made his way up the steps to the mounting platform.  Carlos followed, with Nick bringing up the rear, carrying his camera.  Carlos glanced around as Brody bent down and slipped between the ropes.  He noticed small cameras—from a distance, they looked like GoPros—mounted on each of the corner posts, just above the topmost turnbuckles.

 

As Carlos parted the ropes and entered the ring, Brody called out, “Hey, Nick, where ya want me?  Gonna run this one like the last one?”

 

Nick paused, his dark eyes running contemplatively over both Carlos and Brody.  “No,” he said after a pause, “I don’t think you’re gonna be the top here.  Don’t get me wrong, dude, ya know I love ya, but look at this guy.  Ain’t no one gonna believe you can take him down.”

 

Brody nodded and fidgeted but didn’t speak; he was too coked up to be completely still.  Carlos, waiting to see where all this was going, stood quiet and impassive—on the outside.

 

This was a mistake.  He’d made a terrible mistake.

 

Rage had welled up within him at the first sight of the cocky boywhore; Carlos had known from that moment that he would need to maintain the utmost control just to make sure he didn’t go too far.  He wasn’t going to be able to make it; he was gonna end up fucking up this little piece of shit on video.

 

The homophobic sadist was abruptly pulled from his reverie by the sudden awareness that Nick was eyeing him keenly.  Nick spoke first, a shark-like grin flashing across his face.  “I got it—dude, what’s your name?  Carlos?  Ok, Carlos, this is the plot—it’s a battle to be the top.  Got it?  Winner gets to fuck loser, and neither of ya wanna get fucked, so it’s gonna be a real struggle.  And since you’re the first guy we’ve had in today who looks like he could take down this guy”—this with a nod towards Brody—“you’re gonna be the winner.”

 

“What happens when I win?” Carlos asked.

 

“We’ll figured that out when we get there,” Nick replied, “but let’s get some good struggling on camera first.”

 

Getting down on one knee, the buff porn producer squared his subjects on the screen.  “Ok, let’s get y’all into the center, facing each other—great!  Now start with a grapple and let’s see who gets thrown down first.”

 

Chuckling maliciously, Nick zoomed in as Carlos closed in on Brody.  The young punk feinted to the right before breaking left; he was just barely able to dodge Carlos’s lunge.  The buff, inked alpha stumbled, digging the black kicks into the mat to recover his balance.  Enraged, he whirled and faced the sniggering escort.

 

“Gotta be faster than that,” Brody smirked.  “Want some coke?  It’ll get ya movin’, stud.”

 

“Naw, bitch,” Carlos snarled, “I don’t need no help to take ya down.”

 

His massive, muscled chest heaving, the hard-bodied sadist turned away and walked to the corner.  He needed to get control of himself; he was making stupid mistakes.  This wasn’t like him.  There was something about this obnoxious little piece of shit—

 

Or was there?  Was that really what was going on?

 

As his firm, heaving torso, slightly slicked with sweat, slowed in tempo with his breathing, Carlos threw a sidelong glance at Nick and the camera in his hands.  Goddam, the thought of snuffing the fit little faggot on video made him get hard.

 

And given how tight his shorts were, it was obvious.

 

But this other dude, this Nick—there was something about him.  Some kinda vibe he was giving off…

 

As if maybe he was into that too.

 

Carlos regained control.  An evil grin crossed his handsome—a grin he made sure was visible to the camera.  “Ok, you little motherfucker, get ready.  I’m comin’ for ya.”  Slowly and carefully, he moved to the center of the ring, his muscled form crossing the canvas with the lithe grace of a jungle cat.

 

Brody hadn’t been paying much attention to anything until Carlos spoke again.  “Well, it’s about time,” he muttered petulantly as he stomped his way towards his hulking opponent.

 

In the view screen of the camera Nick was holding, it was clear that Brody, buff and fit as he was, was still outclassed by Carlos to what would be a ridiculous extent in a genuine match.  The sculpted ex-con towered over the cocky high-priced rentboy; if the latter hadn’t been high as fuck, he might have had some well-grounded fears.

 

They stood facing each other, silently, for a moment.  Brody, of course, was the first to break.  “Ok, so now fuckin’ wh—“

 

This time, Carlos lunged so fast the Brody never got the chance to finish his sentence.  Clamping his huge hands around the kid’s thick biceps, he pivoted and hurled the punk across the ring with no warning whatsoever.

 

With a loud, inarticulate cry, the boywhore struck the padded ropes and was flung down to the mat, flat on his back.  As he lay there desperately gasping with the wind knocked out of him, he turned his head to the side.  Carlos’s tight black Adidas shoes suddenly swam into his vision; before he was able to catch his breath, he was flying through the air again.

 

He hit the ropes again, but this time it was closer to the corner post where there was less give.  It was a violent impact that left him face down on the canvas, wondering what the fuck had happened.  Before he could figure it out, though, something even worse happened.

 

Stunned by the swiftness of the assault, Brody was unable to protest when Carlos’s powerful arm, knotted with muscles, wrapped around his neck.  Once it tightened up, he tried frantically to protest, but by then it was too late.

 

Nick inched forward into the ring, closing in on the scene.  It was fantastic—Carlos was sitting on the canvas, his thick legs spread out directly in front of him.  Between them, practically sitting on his lap, was Brody, his face darkening as Carlos applied pressure to the sleeper hold he’d locked on the boy’s throat.

 

“Ya like that, ya little faggot?” Carlos jeered in a loud tone.  “What, ya think you can stand up to a real man, you piece a’ shit, huh?”  As he spoke, the aggressive alpha made sure his eyes made direct contact with the camera lens—and then with Nick.

 

Yeah, it was there.  The light of a predator.  This guy wouldn’t care if he wasted this worthless fairy right now.  As for the video—

 

Carlos decided to see how far Nick would go.

 

With a grunt, he jerked his powerful arms, tightening the hold even more.  Brody, with a purple, swollen face and bulging eyes filled with fear, clawed helplessly at the empty air in front of him.

 

His smooth, muscled legs, pinned between Carlos’s, began to kick and thrash, the heels of the red wrestling boots beating a desperate drumbeat that echoed hollowly on the canvas mat.

 

Carlos knew his own cock was stiffening and would be instantly visible one he stood up, but he was interested to see a bulge developing in Nick’s groin as well.  He was even more interested to see how long it took for Nick to break it off—he got a good thirty seconds of chokeout footage before he spoke up.

 

“Ok, man, cut—that’s enough for now,” he said, powering down the camera.  Carlos kept the pressure up.  Nick noticed after a particularly loud gagging sound from Brody.

 

“Hey, hey, hey!” he protested.  “C’mon, dude, time out.”  Carlos relented, letting Brody fall limply to one side, teetering on the edge of consciousness.  The punk gasped and coughed as his assailant climbed to his feet.  With a concerned look on his face, Nick approached the kid.

 

Kneeling down, he gave the boy a bit to stop coughing and gagging before pulling his chin towards him and smiled down into his fear- and tear-streaked face.  “Hey, man, you ok?  Sorry about that, I’ll go have a talk with him.  Go do another coupla lines; you’ll feel better—and I’ll give ya an extra three hundred if we finish this one, ok?  Ya good with that?”

 

Snuffling, the subdued rentboy nodded sulkily and slowly pulled himself up with the ropes, casting a baleful glare back at Carlos.  Nick stood up and strode quickly to the platform.  “C’mere,” he snapped at Carlos, gesturing him to follow as he descended the stairs and walked out the door.  Bemused, the ex-con trailed along, his raging hard-on pointing out the way.

 

They were halfway down the darkened hallway when Nick whirled and faced Carlos.  “What were ya doin’ back there, man?  Were you tryin’ to kill him?”

 

Carlos paused, uncertain how to answer—when he noticed Nick’s hand.  It was rubbing a noticeably growing bulge in the crotch of his tight jeans.  Glancing up into the well-built videographer’s face, the buff ex-con saw a gleam of lust in his cold blue eyes and was not really surprised.

 

Carlos played along.  “Sorry,” he said with grin more wolfish than sheepish, “I get carried away sometimes—but these fags need to be taught their place, y’know?”

 

Nick seemed to consider a moment before he spoke again.  “Ok, then.  You might be exactly what I’ve been looking for, and if it works out, you’ll end up making a lot of money.  But the important thing is—how far are ya willing to go?  On camera?”

 

The hardbodied sadist wasn’t dense, but it took a moment for him to work it out.  “Money?  On camera?  Y-ya mean people will pay to watch?”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, his boots scuffing the carpet as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.  “I’ve already done several—I got a great way to make a profit off ’em.  The income is phenomenal but I keep it in an offshore account since a large part of it is in foreign funds.”

 

Carlos laughed aloud.  His enormous dick was now fully erect, and indicated his acceptance of the offer more eloquently than any words could.

 

At any rate, it was clear to Nick.  He said, “Tell ya what, man let’s go back in there and you do what ya want to that worthless little cunt.  And here’s an incentive—I already have the cash to pay him.  So if I don’t have to pay him—well, let’s just say I’m not comfortable walking around with that much cash; I’ll have to give it to someone…”  He abruptly strode back down the hall back to the room, leaving Carlos somewhat stunned at his luck.  He didn’t know how much had been promised to the slut, but the bonus of three hundred was itself twice what he’d been offered for the shoot.

 

Re-entering the room himself, Carlos couldn’t help but notice that Brody was already back in the ring, pacing, jittery, and obviously coked to the gills.  “Hey, dude,” the punk piped up shrilly as soon as he saw his opponent, “If you bruise me up, yer gonna hafta pay!  Ain’t no one gonna hire me if I get marked up—I’ll sue ya for loss of income!”

 

“Calm down, Edgar,” Nick said, “Carlos and I had a talk and he’s gonna treat you right from now on, we promise—right, Carlos?”

 

The buff escort blushed an angry red.  “Brody!” he screamed, enraged.  “Goddamit, my street name is Brody!  You better get it right in the credits!”

 

“Chill, dude,” Nick replied in a somewhat exasperated tone.  “I guarantee that everyone who sees this video will know the name Brody La Roc, ok?  Now get to your mark and lemme get this damn thing finished!”

 

Smirking grimly, Carlos mounted to the ring quickly and quietly.  He scanned the ring to see if there was anything he could use to his advantage, silently taking note that the turnbuckle on the top rope to the left of the far corner post had lost its padding, the threaded metal buckle glinting brightly under the harsh fluorescent light.

 

The impassive look on the alpha’s face was belied by the predatory gleam in his dark eyes, but the obnoxious boywhore was too drugged-out to notice.  It was clear that it wouldn’t be difficult to take the useless cunt out; the kid was obviously too high to put up an adequate defense.

 

This was gonna be fun.

 

As Carlos stepped to the center of the ring, his body bulked over that of his prey.  The shaven-headed alpha with his sculpted, tattooed chest and ripped abs was an intimidating opponent; the skin-tight blue compression shorts obscenely emphasizing his massive, straining cock.  If Brody had been more aware of his surroundings, he might have noticed the large dark spot right at the tip of the protruding shaft; he might have wondered what such an outpouring of precum might portend.

 

Brody himself was still jumpy; his thick, muscled body seemed to quiver with electric shock, but the dilated pupils of his bleary eyes spoke to the true cause of his symptoms.  His taut, smooth body, barely obscured by his knee-high red wrestling boots and matching Speedos, was glistening with a light coat of sweat, also generated by the coke.  And the Speedos gave yet more proof of his drug use.  Brody actually had a long, thick cock, nearly the equal of Carlos’s—but the tight briefs showed it curled limply in his groin.

 

Cocaine kills erections.  Carlos wondered how the kid made a living as an escort if he was doing that shit constantly—then it hit him.  The little motherfucker was a bottom. A complete, utter fag.  The burning rage began to swell in his chest again.

 

Nick could see what was happening simply by observing the way Carlos’s tool began to pulse rhythmically, and the way the dark circle of precum grew rapidly.  It was time to start the show.

 


 

The camera was centered on two buff, muscled men, one of them older and obviously more powerful than the other.  From behind the camera came a voice.  “Well, c’mon you two, whaddaya waitin’ for—an invitation to dance?”

 

The two men lunged towards one another, the larger tripping up the smaller.  “That’s it, Carlos!  Good!”

 

Carlos leaned down and grabbed the firm, half-naked youth.  Twisting the kid’s right arm behind his back, Carlos brought the mewling boy to his feet.  “Fuck!” the kid screamed, “That hurts!  You’re too fuckin’ rough!  Stop!”

 

“Shaddup, Edgar—oh, sorry, Brody,” came the cold, placid voice from off screen.  “You’re supposed to be an actor—fuckin’ act, bitch!”

 

Carlos swiveled his body, forcing Brody around so that the punk’s face was directly in the camera.  The handsome, well-built boywhore was flushed with rage.  Shaking violently, he tried to free himself from Carlos’s hold, his short brown hair fanning out as he struggled.  “What?!?” he screeched.  “Goddamit, I told ya—“

 

But was he told was never revealed.  With brutal swiftness, Carlos spun the cunt into the far corner and slammed him face-first into the exposed turnbuckle.  Gripping his fingers tightly in the slut’s hair, Carlos dragged his head back and smashed it forward again repeatedly, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as he beat the shrieking, screaming hustler’s face to hamburger against the metal buckle.

 

Finally, he dropped the mewling boy onto the mat with a loud, hollow thud.  As he tried feebly to crawl away, it was clear that Brody was in complete shock from his sudden, violent assault.  The once-beautiful whore, his face beaten and bloody, squirmed across the canvas mat, squealing like a stuck pig.  A deep, guttural gurgling was emitted from the battered face; it seemed to be a plea for mercy but was utterly unintelligible.

 

“Where the fuck ya goin’, faggot?” Carlos jeered as he relentlessly stalked the brutalized fuckmeat.  Brody blubbered in panic, plainly aware of the fact that Carlos intended to inflict more pain on him.   The soft sound of Carlos’s Adidas wrestling shoes padding inexorably across the mat towards him were almost inaudible, but unnecessary in any case; the ruthless, implacable vibrations of Carlos’s tread on the taut canvas told Brody of the approach of death.

 

“What’s that, you worthless homo slut?  I can’t understand a thing you’re sayin’,” Carlos mocked the stunned punk as he loomed over him.  “Hey, I gotta great idea!” he chortled cruelly, driving his foot forward to deliver a strong kick directly into the smooth youth’s heaving ribs.  “I know exactly how to figure out what yer tryin’ to say, ya cocksucker—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

This was accompanied by another kick, this one much more powerful.  This kick was rewarded with a loud crack of bone as one of Brody’s ribs shattered.  The writhing hardbodied boy wailed in pain as Carlos shoved his foot under him, then with another kicking motion, rolled Brody onto his back.  Grinning evilly down into his victim’s blood- and tear-stained face, the hulking sadistic psycho said in an even tone, “I know how to find out what yer sayin’, fag—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

The camera came in for close-up as Carlos knelt over sobbing, mewling escort and spat into his face.  “Goddam, ya whiney-ass pussy,” the brutal alpha taunted, “Listen to ya squealin’ like a fuckin’ pig.  Here, you cumsucking faggot, here’s something for ya to whine about!”  And with that, Carlos plunged straight down, his arm stiff like a pile driver and his full body weight thrown into the blow that hit Brody dead in the face.   The force was great enough to snap the whore’s cheekbone; the violent rebound bounced his head roughly on the mat.

 

The frame was centered on the boy’s battered face.  Even under the blood and trauma, the expressions on the kid’s face were readable—the pain, the fear, the paralyzing bewilderment generated by an unexpected explosion of violence.  All were captured on the video.

 

It wasn’t the only thing the camera captured—Brody begged for his life.  His bruised and beaten body, taut and sweat-soaked in physical defeat, twisted in agony as the rentboy reached his arms out towards the camera—and the cameraman.  “N-n-ni—“ came from between his swollen, split lips.  “Ni-ni-n-n-ni—“

 

He could get no further than that one syllable.  “Hey, Edgar,” came a grim chuckle from behind the camera, “I’m gonna give him yer bonus after he wastes ya, cunt.  I don’t pay whores.”  The kid’s eyes, already wide and ringed with dark circles of shock, grew huge with panic at the words.  His pupils, though, were no longer dilated; the intensity and brutality of the assault had flushed his system with adrenaline and testosterone, neutralizing the effects of the cocaine.

 

He no longer had any anesthetic.  He was suffering every single moment of the beating.

 

Carlos didn’t let up.  He continued to draw his fist back, then slam it down with all the force that his thick, knotted biceps could deliver.  The wet, smacking sounds of the repeated blows echoed in the empty room as Brody’s sobbing and gurgling began to fade.

 

The whore was on the verge of consciousness; he knew that he was being beaten to death and it was obvious just by looking at him.  The desperate, panicked look haunting his eyes had faded, now replaced with a dull, dim look as the light of life flickered and ebbed within him.  An extreme close-up of his face recorded the resignation that took hold of the high-priced rentboy in the last few moments of his life.

 

Carlos suddenly broke off the beating.  Panting and heaving, his sculpted torso slick with sweat, he turned abruptly to the camera.  “Hey, man, this little homo sack of shit still hasn’t learned what happens to faggots who think they can seed real men.”

 

“Why don’t ya tell us what happens,” the off-screen voice drawled with malicious glee.

 

“They get offed by a real man, that’s what happens.  But first the little cocksuckers gotta get seeded themselves; that’s how they know it’s a real man wastin’ them.”

 

With a wild grin, Carlos flipped Brody back over onto his face and roughly jerked the Speedos off him.  Peeling himself out of his blue compression shorts, Carlos stood with his massive tool fully erect; a camera zoom revealed the full details of the pulsing, vein-wrapped shaft pumping out a steady stream of precum.  “Yeah,” Carlos’s voice come from off-screen as his throbbing cock filled the frame, “Time to show this worthless sack of queer-ass shit exactly what a real man does to homos…”

 

Lunging forward in a nude body slam, the hard-bodied alpha dropped his full weight on the smaller whore, who responded by moaning hoarsely and scrabbling frantically at the canvas mat.  Placing one hand in the small of Brody’s back, Carlos pinned the shuddering youth, angling his massive shaft for deep penetration.

 

“You like cock, you worthless pansy?” the ex-con sneered in a tone of cold rage that was contradicted by the glitter of lust in his eyes—a glitter of which he seemed to be unaware, but which was perfectly captured on camera.  “Then yer gonna love this, cunt, this is what a genuine fag-snuffin’ grade-A male feels like!”

 

And with that, he reamed his entire swollen tool into the whore’s ass, in a single powerful thrust.

 

Brody had taken plenty of cock up his hole in the last six or seven—was it eight?—years since he’d been selling his young, smooth body, but none of them had been quite this big.  And those that had been close had also been slow and well-lubed.

 

Even with his face beaten to a pulp, he could feel every moment of this fresh new torment as he was skewered on a gigantic dick, one that tore his sphincter open without waiting for it to relax and accept.  After that, it all dissolved into a sheet of white-hot agony as the engorged mushroom tip plunged the depths of his colon, scraping and tearing at the rectal lining.

 

And all his horrific pain was recorded in loving detail.  The camera pulled back enough to show Brody, squealing and thrashing, impaled on Carlos’s cock.  The tattooed killer, his muscled back moving rhythmically with his thrusts and covered with a glistening film of mansweat, reached up and grasped the battered rentboy’s chin, clutching it tightly, painfully in one powerful hand.  Brody gave one final high-pitched squeal before Carlos clamped his mouth shut.

 

Looking up with an insanely gleeful grin, Carlos spoke directly to the camera—he was speaking to Nick.  “Whaddaya think, dude?  Time to waste this useless faggot?  Yeah?  Fuck, I’m about to pump his guts fulla hot manspunk, man—goddam, I’m gonna mark this bitch as mine and snuff his worthless ass—fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!”

 

Jerking violently, Carlos began spraying a solid jet of sperm deep into Brody.  As he did, he grabbed a huge handful of Brody’s brown hair.  Feeling the cumdump meat kicking his wrestling boots in fear and pain, the cruel sadist gave a loud grunt, shot a boiling wad of spunk into the cunt’s ass and jerked his arms reflexively in orgasm.  As his bulging biceps tightened he jerked Brody’s head around a full ninety degrees or more.

 

It sounded like popcorn, the noise of shattering vertebrae.  The expression in the boywhore’s bloodied face showed that despite his shredded spinal column, death was not instant.  His entire body was immediately wracked with violent convulsions.  “Fuck yeah,” Carlos moaned, “Milk my cock, fag, drain my cum as ya die…”

 

The camera closed in on Brody’s face, zooming in to capture his eyes as life drained out of them.  The beautiful high-price escort was almost unrecognizable in the twitching pile of damaged and bleeding meat centered in the frame.  The image was held for a few seconds before widening again.

 

Shuddering and gasping, Carlos withdrew his still-engorged member and stood up.  Stepping to the far side of the corpse, he faced the camera, smiled, and ground his foot into the still-quivering face, the sole of the Adidas shoe flattening the already-broken nose.

 

“Yeah, bitch,” Carlos said proudly to the camera, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  That’s what us straight dudes do to worthless faggot fucks!”  There was no trace of irony in his words; as he spoke, large drops of semen were still oozing from his erect cock, splattering onto the dead punk’s smooth, bruised chest.

 

“Ok, that’s a wrap,” said Nick.

 


 

After cleaning himself up and re-dressing in the bathroom down the hall, Carlos came back to the large room and joined Nick.  The latter was sitting at one of the tables along the wall; he was editing video, just as he’d been doing when Carlos first saw—but now it was Carlos himself on the screen.

 

“Sit down, kid,” Nick said evenly.  With a loud metallic clang, his iron-toed work boot kicked an empty chair out as an invitation.  “Ya did really good. Not great, but really good.”

 

Anger rose in Carlos’s well-developed chest.  “Whaddaya mean?  What’d I do wrong?”

 

“Chill out, man,” Nick said with a deep chuckle.  “I been doin’ films like this for a long time.  Both sides of the camera—ya feel me, dude?  I know what I’m talkin’ about here.”  He cued up a section of video.  “See here, where you’re bashing his face into the turnbuckle?  It woulda been a lot more effective if you’d stopped in the middle to taunt him, especially if you’d forced him to face the camera.”

 

The buff filmmaker forwarded the video on the screen before he continued.  “And here, where you kicked him—that was hot, man, but you coulda done more.  You coulda made the slut suffer a lot more—and same thing at the end.  You got too excited and shot your bolt too soon.  But I can’t complain too much; the biggest mistake was my own.  I shoulda told ya to strangle him.  Mighta gotten him hard despite the coke.”

 

And suddenly, the rage-filled convict did chill.  He’d been right, Carlos thought, he had been getting a vibe from this guy.

 

Carlos was in the presence of a master.

 

“So here’s the deal,” Nick continued calmly.  “I like your work, but you’re gonna have to be able to take some direction—and to stick to it in the excitement of the moment.  Do you have that kinda self-control?”

 

It was a good question.  Carlos had to stop and think; he could sense that this was an important moment for him and he wanted to answer honestly.  “Yeah,” he finally responded, “Yeah I think I can.  But that’s on camera.  Sometimes I hafta just go and waste a homo cunt, and if there ain’t a camera around, tough shit.”

 

Now it was Nick’s turn to consider.  “Ok, fine.  You go do your own thing, but you’re available whenever I’m ready to film.  We’ll start ya at a grand per video and see how they gross; if you turn out to be as popular as I think ya will, you’ll soon be earning a lot more.”

 

Carlos could hardly believe his luck—then a question occurred to him.  “A grand per vid?  How often are we shooting?”

 

Nick laughed, a loud braying guffaw.  “Man, there ain’t no regular schedule for this kinda work!  I’m hopin’ for two a month to start; we’ll see how many hits ya get.  But I’ll need to be able to reach you at any time.  Lessee, I got your cell and if something comes up I can send a car if you’re too fucked up to drive—where ya stayin’?”

 

The older, larger stud recoiled in surprise when Carlos gave him the North Las Vegas address.  “Shit, man, you’re in the fuckin’ war zone.  Ya know what—I gotta high-rise condo on Paradise, right off the Strip.   Use it for bedroom sets.  Used to rent it out for all kinda porn shots too, but haven’t had any offers for a while.  Why don’t you stay there till we see what kinda revenue you can generate?”

 

Carlos was overwhelmed.  Nearly everything he’d wanted from Vegas had just been dumped right into his lap.  And as eager as he was to accept, he was suspicious.  “Why are ya doin’ all this for me, jefe?  You ain’t gonna get all fruity on me too, are ya?”

 

Nick laughed again, deeply.  “Carlos—that is your name, right?  Carlos, the reason I’m doing all this is because I can make a shitload of money offa ya—and, incidentally, make you a shitload of money, too.  I told ya, I got a great snuff porn network from my last partner—these dudes will cum all over themselves watching you.  Now c’mon and gimme a hand.  Actors gotta pitch in and lend a hand breaking the set.”

 

“What?” Carlos asked, startled, “You want me to help take down the ring?”

 

“Fuck no,” Nick replied, “I got a crew comin’ in in an hour or so to take it down and haul it out.  Get that tarp over there.  We’re gonna go dump the corpse.”

 

In a hazy sense of excitement, Carlos grabbed the folded tarp and climbed into the ring one last time.  Nick was already kneeling near Brody’s body—now still—and unlacing the knee-high wrestling boots.  “Might be able to return these if the cunt hasn’t damaged them too much.”

 

A couple of sharp tugs and the red boots were flung over the side onto the floor.  Then Nick motioned Carlos to approach.  They unfolded the tarp on the mat next to the body, then rolled the corpse over, wrapping the tarp around it until it was fully encased.  Without being asked, Carlos bent down, picked the limp form up and slung it over his shoulder.  “I got this,” he said, “where do ya want it?”

 

“Thanks, dude,” Nick smiled.  “Worthless cunt pissed on the mat when he died; I gotta get that cleaned.  We’ll go toss that meat in the back of my truck and run it down the street to the factory compactor.”

 

Walking down the hall towards the front door with the dead weight of Brody La Roc resting on his shoulder, Carlos couldn’t help asking one last question.  “Hey—uh, Nick, you said something about a partner in this porn network.  Is he someone I need to worry about?”

 

From the darkness behind him came a grim chuckle.  “Tony?  Naw, man.  I took care of him.  Ain’t no one gotta worry about him anymore…”

M4M Bathroom Break

It had been unusually hot the past week; not just hot but almost tropically humid as well.  The conditions made being outside during the day an unpleasant experience—which explained Joe’s presence on this dark, silent suburban street after midnight.  It was just too uncomfortable to jog any earlier.

 

The buff alpha believed in keeping himself in shape; in addition to running, he kept up an active gym membership.  But his last kill had been someone he’d met at a gym.  Joe wasn’t a member there, but he knew lots of people went to more than one gym.  He’d decided to stop going for a couple of weeks, just to let things die down.

 

Even in a city this size, the discovery of two strong, healthy young men, found overpowered, raped and murdered, had hit the local news with the force of a bomb.  Especially the way he’d left the meat posed.  And they traced that first faggot—the hot Asian dude—back to his gym.

 

Joe was gonna stick to jogging for a bit.  Not like he couldn’t find a way to work the rest of his muscles…

 

…he just didn’t expect to find a way right then and there.

 

The street was lined with houses, small but nice, that were set back from the road by a lawn.  A line on each side as he jogged along, passing by in dark monotonous rows—

 

Except there was light in one window.  Ahead, two houses down, on the right.  A golden rectangle falling on the lawn, crossbarred.  Light shining through an open set of blinds.  Joe wasn’t normally a voyeur…

 

…well, fuck, yes, he was.  He wanted to know what was there to be seen.  Slowing his steps, he paused on the sidewalk in front of the house and glanced around.  Certain he was unseen, he stole across the lawn and peered through the window.

 

It was worth the effort.  He had come in right in the middle of a hot blowjob; two hot, hard dudes were going at it right there on the living room couch.  One, tall, almost platinum blond, was standing, facing the sofa.  His back was to the window.  The other, a shorter boy with a lean swimmer’s build and smooth tan skin, was seated with his face buried in the blond’s crotch.  As his head bobbed on the top’s dick, his abdomen turned slightly and Joe could just barely make out the tattoo of a star on the boy’s left pec, above and to the left of the nipple.  It was a somewhat clumsy inking, a simple outline that was obviously amateur.

 

As Joe watched, he could see the top’s ass flex, the smooth cheeks dimpling each time they clenched in pleasure as he shoved his tool down the other boy’s throat.  The hulking killer, peering unseen at the brutal throatfuck, felt his own huge dick get hard.

 

And then he remembered he’d brought a phone along—the one that belonged to that last cumsucking homo he’d wasted, the one from the gym.  It was in a pocket of his shorts, along with his keys, the only other thing he took with him.  Quickly, he whipped it out and opened the hookup app the kid had used to contact him.

 

He clicked “nearby”.  Sure enough, the profile pic that popped up closest to him was the kid who was chugging cock.  He opened the profile—and felt his shaft getting stiffer as he read, chuckling quietly.

 

“DTF Dude—

25 yo/WGM/5’9”/145 lbs

Looking for raw dick.  Discrete, can’t host.  Can travel.  Fit guys only.”

 

The profile pic didn’t show the face; it was bathroom selfie showing a smooth torso, muscled but lean.  The star tattoo was the identifying mark; it was what let Joe know he had the right cocksucker.

 

Grinning, he favorited the profile.

 

The powerful alpha turned his attention back to the show in front of him.  The blond top was really pounding the kid’s mouth but the greedy young cockpig didn’t seem to have any trouble keeping up.

 

Things were just getting good when a light flashed on the periphery of Joe’s vision—specifically, the porch light from the house next door.  Instantly, he turned and dashed back across the lawn.  He’d reached the sidewalk and had slowed into his leisurely nighttime jog before he heard the door open behind him.  Swiftly glancing back, he noticed a man wearing a robe stepping out; the porch light illuminating his tired, drawn face—and the retractable leash in his hand, at the other end of which a small, elderly Chihuahua trundled along.

 

Well, they hadn’t noticed him.  He felt a surge of rage—of power flowing through his powerful body; it was generated by his frustrated desire.  He’d wanted to see then end of the skullfuck.

 

But he’d keep trolling the app to see the next time the hot little bitch was on.  Wasn’t gonna have the slut back at his place, though; ya don’t shit where you eat, as they say.  It’d have to be someplace else.  Well, when the time came, he’d improvise.

 

As he turned his course back towards his home, he was glad for the darkness and seclusion the night provided.  His jogging shorts did nothing to hide his enormous erection; he looked like he’d gone jogging with a jousting lance.

 


 

Joe had to work the next two days.  His job didn’t have regular schedule; once he was done, he was off till he was needed again.  He’d had to file the hot young homo for later.

 

Now, it was later.

 

It was a bright, clear morning and Joe was feeling jumpy.  He wanted something physical to do—and he reached for Andy’s phone.  He pulled up the hookup app and ran a search for “DTF Dude”.  He’d already accessed Andy’s profile and changed the profile pic to a landscape.  Now he sent a body pic of himself, attaching the following message:

 

“Hey man—

I got an 8in dick 4 u 2 ride—HMU.  32, 185, 6 foot 4.”

 

After the message was sent, Joe waited a few minutes.  Once a few minutes stretched into twenty, though, he decided to get up and get moving.  He’d be surprised if the lean cocksucker he’d seen through the window was uninterested in his buff, toned body—he’d put on fifteen pounds of muscle mass over the last six months or so.  But there was no accounting for taste.  And besides, the little fag might just be busy.

 

He was still avoiding the gym.  An overnight cool front had left the morning temperature pleasantly temperate.  Joe decided to go for another jog.

 

He threw on a simple white wifebeater t-shirt and a pair of black Adidas jogging shorts.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled on a pair of ped socks that could no longer be seen once he slipped on his sneakers.

 

He wore a bright orange pair of Nike Air Zooms, tightly laced. Standing in front of his mirror, he admired how they set off his powerful calves and muscular thighs.  Even if this kid never answered back, he knew he’d be getting some looks while he was out.  He wouldn’t have any problems finding someone to fuck.

 

Several miles east, the city had put in a jogging and biking trail along a “greenbelt” than ran beside what had a drainage ditch for outflow from the river.  They’d actually done a nice job with the area, adding a dog park, some restrooms and some playgrounds.  The far end of the trail terminated at the city rec center.

 

Joe enjoyed running there during the day in the middle of the week; he had it mostly to himself.  He was halfway there when the dead fag’s phone beeped.

 

Well, whaddaya know.  The cocksucker had responded.  Joe pulled over at a convenience store and opened the app.  Sure enough, there was a message.

 

Kid said his name was Brad.  He said he’d been at work earlier but was now on his way to the gym.  Or at least, he had been.  He’d seen the pic, and he wanted Joe’s cock.  Everything else could wait.

 

Joe sat back in his car and guffawed aloud.  He quickly replied, telling the punk where he was going.  He suggested that they meet at the park and run together for a bit.

 

Not only did the fag respond, he had a suggestion of his own—a detour to one of the cinderblock restrooms that dotted the greenbelt.

 

Joe peeled out, heading towards the park.  Fuck, this one was eager.  The powerful top grinned as he accelerated, wondering how eager the fucking cunt was gonna be in an hour or so.

 

They’d arranged to meet in the parking lot at the south end of the trail. There would be far less traffic there; the rec center and sports fields were at the other end.  Joe didn’t have long to wait; within five minutes, a blue Volkswagen pulled in and a dark-haired boy got out.

 

It was clearly Brad.  He was shirtless; his star tattoo was clearly visible even under the runner’s tan tinting his smooth flesh.  His gray jersey shorts hung halfway down his firm thighs but Joe’s eyes were drawn down to the bitch’s kicks.  The slut was sporting a pair of Nike Frees, in bright electric blue; the trademark swoosh and the laces were fluorescent yellow.

 

Clearly, the little homo was trolling to get fucked.  Good.  Joe’d make sure he got what he wanted—and then some.

 

Getting out of his car, he headed towards the kid, who heard him approach and looked up.  His clear, bronzed face lit up as he saw Joe’s muscular form—and a bulge started to form noticeably in his groin.  “H-hey,” he muttered, then cleared his throat.  “Hey, man, you the dude from online?”

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “you Brad?

 

The youth blushed and grinned.  “Yeah—Bradford, actually.  Family name, y’know, but everyone just calls me Brad.”

 

Joe smiled warmly down at the horny fuckmeat.  “C’mon, man, let’s hit the track.  Work up a nice sweat, and you can point out that bathroom ya mentioned.”

 

Brad’s grin grew wider and more lascivious.  There had been no need to dance around gingerly to determine interest; it was obvious to both that the kid wanted Joe’s cock, and that Joe wanted to give it to him.

 

They took off together, jogging along at an easy pace.  The trail wound in and out under the trees, leaving the pavement alternately in glaring light and deep shadow.  After a quarter mile, it bent out into an open area.  The brazen sun in the cloudless sky beat down on the two firm, fit male bodies moving along the path, and Joe was hot.  Literally.

 

In a single graceful movement, Joe whipped his wifebeater up over his head, pulling it off.  He tucked it into the waistband of his shorts but one end came free.  It fluttered along behind him like bandanna in a rear pocket as he ran.

 

Brad kept ogling Joe as they moved along the trail; he couldn’t keep his eyes off the older man’s sculpted chest, darkly furred and glistening with light sweat.  His thick legs pumped powerfully, slamming his neon orange Zooms against the white pavement.  The young slut’s equally-bright Nikes kept up with the pace, his lean, tight torso also covered with a sheen of perspiration.

 

The randy young cocksucker was so hard, he was having difficulty running.  Luckily, he didn’t have far to go.  “Just up here, man, on the left.  See?  Over there; the doors are on the far side.”

 

Joe looked in the direction the kid indicated.  In the trees on the far side of the path was a low cinderblock building, partially hidden behind some trimmed shrubbery.  From the main trail, two paved paths extended around each side of the building; a small post by each path bore a sign indicating gender.  The men’s room was the further one.

 

“You been here before?” Joe grunted as they approached.

 

“”Y-yeah,” Brad panted.  “I gave a dude a great hummer here a coupla weeks ago.  Fuck, I musta swallowed a whole fuckin’ pint of cum…”

 

“You take it up the ass?”

 

Brad almost tripped.  “Fuck, yeah, dude—I want your shaft in my asshole; c’mon, man!”

 

The horny cunt broke into a full-on sprint, dashing ahead.  Joe kept up his easy jogging pace, taking time to look around.  They’d been running for about twenty minutes and had passed a few others on the path, but no one was within eyesight at the moment.

 

The buff sadist chuckled darkly and broke into a run himself.  Good as time as any to get started.  His own gigantic shaft was starting to swell and pulse…

 

The men’s room was dark and spare; the floor was a concrete slab with a drain in the middle.  The walls were bare cinderblock all the way up to the roof; the topmost line of blocks were the open, decorative type that let in air and some light.  There were no windows and a single light fixture was in the center of the ceiling.

 

On the right side of the room were two urinals, separated from three pedestal sinks by a partial dividing wall.  On the opposite side were three toilet stalls.  “Here,” Brad gestured, heading for the stall furthest from the door, “I like this one best—less likely to be noticed in here if anyone comes in.”

 

Joe paused just outside the stall while the horny youth with the slim runner’s build peeled his jogging shorts off and kicked them into the far corner by the toilet.  The muscle-bound sadist leered at the kid’s lithe body; the only thing the little slut had on under his shorts was a jockstrap.  Joe considered having him leave it on, but before he decided, it was off anyway.

 

Brad assumed the position.  He placed his palms flat on the wall above the toilet and bent forward.  His slender but strong and firm body, nude except for his bright blue and yellow kicks, was presented at the best angle to take cock.

 

Joe appreciated the fact.  His huge tool was fully erect now; an even darker circle forming on the groin of his black shorts—a circle that grew as his dick continued to ooze precum.  Fitting his broad shoulders through the narrow entrance to the stall, he locked the door behind him.

 

He took a moment to bend down and remove his shorts.  Normally, he’d have dropped them exactly as the queerboy did, but Joe had a reason for reaching down to the floor.  Snagging the discarded jockstrap, he doubled it and wrapped it around his hairy forearm.

 

Brad was panting as he anxiously awaited the Herculean stud standing behind him.  He could feel the alpha’s physical presence like an electric charge that grew as the stud got closer.  His lean but strong body thrilled when he felt the thick, firm head of the dude’s cock press against his fluttering rosebud asshole.

 

Joe gripped the punk’s hips tightly, mounting the kid and holding his fuckhole in position while he lined up his massive hog.  He didn’t want to frighten his prey yet, so he inserted his dick slowly and gently, penetrating the faggot smoothly and easily.

 

It took a great deal of discipline; Joe grunted with the effort.  Brad heard, and assumed it was in lust.

 

The horny cunt was trying not to cry out anyway; even slowly inserted, the cock penetrating his ass was the largest hog he’d ever had stuffed inside him.  And it hurt.  Even slow, it hurt.

 

But fuck, it hurt so good.  This motherfucker was a real man, and that was what he wanted—a real man inside him, filling his colon with hot, throbbing manmeat.  So he ground his teeth and did his best to keep quiet as the enormous shaft plowed deep into his rectum.

 

He succeeded only partially.  With each gradual thrust of the top’s dick, Brad gave a faint but audible moan, so high-pitched as to be nearly a squeal.  Stretching his bright Nikes, he rose up on his toes and tried to angle his ass to ensure the smoothest passage for the horsedick that was impaling him.

 

Suddenly his sphincter collapsed; as he gave a faint gasp, his ass relaxed and allowed Joe’s tool easier entry.  The hardbodied alpha felt it too; digging his fingers into the soft flesh on the Brad’s hips, he sank his pulsing shaft deep into the kid’s quivering rectum.  The young slut dug his fingers into the wall as Joe began to pump, dragging his long, vein-ridged cock out of the boy’s ass, leaving just the swollen head inside before ramming the whole thing all the way back in.   As his bright blue kicks bounced on the floor, the eager young homo gave a low moan that slowly increased in intensity as Joe’s thrusts intensified—

 

—and then the door to the rest room opened.

 

They froze.  Two hard, sweaty males locked in full anal penetration, keeping still as footsteps crossed the room behind them.  After a nerve-wracking pause, the sound of piss splashing into one of the urinals echoed through the cinderblock room.  It went on forever; the dude seemed to have a bladder like a racehorse.

 

Finally, it ended.  After the flush, they heard water splashing into the sink, followed by withdrawal and use of paper towel.  By the time the door slammed closed, Joe had started plugging Brad’s hole again, both of them panting in lust and the heat.

 

“F-fuck,” the slim, smooth youth gasped, “that was close—“

 

“Shut up,” Joe muttered.  “Just bend over and take my cock, bitch.”

 

Brad shut up.

 

But as he took it, his feet began to slip.  He was struggling to brace himself against the wall under the brutal onslaught, but his Nike Frees were starting to slide on the smooth and slightly slick concrete floor. “Sh-shit, man…” he bleated uneasily.

 

Joe grunted in annoyance and slammed the punk forward into the wall.  Brad gave a short, swift yell but quickly drew his left leg up and placed it on the toilet seat.  It was clean but cheap and thin, warping under his weight when he brought his other leg up.  But it held up as the slim fit fag kneeled on it and got his ass pounded.

 

And Joe’s swollen hog had remained fully embedded in his colon as he repositioned himself.  As Brad clung to the wall, his lean smooth torso shining with a sheen of pheromone-laden sweat, he was aware of Joe’s hog above all else.  It filled him utterly; he could feel every thick vein scraping the inside of his rectum, he could feel the enormous head, spongy but firm, probing deep into his guts.

 

Joe’s muscled abdomen was also covered with a light film of sweat that left testosterone-laced beads of moisture glittering like diamonds among his chest hair.  They shook and danced as the buff alpha grunted and pumped his toy’s fuckhole, his toes curling for purchase inside his orange Zooms.  Larger and stronger than Brad, he didn’t have the same traction issues…

 

The randy punk started really enjoying his vigorous cornholing.  They started low, his whimpers of pleasure, but they kept pace with the tempo of Joe’s thrusts and gradually grew louder.  The hulking alpha shifted his right foot back, the orange Nike scraping along the concrete floor.  Having steadied himself, he hunched over the boy’s sweating, heaving back and drove his huge throbbing cock even more brutally up the kid’s ass.

 

The sound of wet, firm flesh slapping together echoed through the cinderblock room, accented by the grunting and groaning that accompanied rough sweaty male sex.  It increased in speed and intensity before a voice interrupted the rhythm.  “F-fuck!” Brad cried out through gritted teeth, “yer killin’ my ass, man, I’m gonna cum!”

 

“Not yet you ain’t,” Joe muttered.  “You ain’t got me off yet, bitch.  I ain’t done with ya.”

 

“Dude, I can’t hold out much longer,” the lean fag slut panted as his toes curled in his kicks and his fingers curled against the wall.  “I’m gonna blow…”

 

Joe gave a slight chuckle—without missing a single pump of his gigantic dick—and said, “So think of something else.  Here, I got something to take yer mind off it.”

 

And after a brief pause, Brad’s mind was very much taken off his orgasm.

 

He didn’t know what was happening at first; he was aware that the alpha stud was no longer griping his hips—and he was very aware of the thin but strong band of fabric and elastic that was suddenly looped around his neck.  But even as it started to tighten, Brad didn’t realize that his own jockstrap was the ligature.

 

And he damn sure didn’t realize he was about to die.  “What are ya—“ he managed to squeak out just before his trachea was clamped off.

 

Joe didn’t need to hear the whole question.  Pulling back on the twisted ends of the jockstrap, he bent the lithe youth back until he could speak directly into the kid’s ear.  The boy’s short dark hair brushed against his cheek as he whispered, “What am I doing?  I’m offin’ ya, faggot.  Yer gonna die here, cunt; how ya like that?”

 

Brad was not in a position to immediately comprehend the words; he was in a position that was causing him a lot of pain, with his body tortuously bent backwards.  He was almost literally nailed to the toilet by Joe’s massive meat spike while the straining elastic of the jock brutally yanked his slick, smooth torso back in an arc.

 

But while the words might not have been understood, the action certainly was; the helpless bottom boy could feel pressure mounting in his head as his circulation was shut off above the neck.  Instinctively, he reached back, twisting his arms awkwardly behind his head.  His hands, scrambling in panic, groped frantically at empty air until, by chance, he found Joe’s wrist.

 

The hard-bodied killer grunted with annoyance; the sensation of the bitch’s hands clawing desperately at his straining arms pissed him off.  “Quit fightin’ it, ya sack of shit,” Joe hissed, “You ain’t goin’—“

 

The rattling of the doorknob warned him just in time—they were about to have company again.

 

Deep in his terror, Brad heard it too; it generated a futile spark of hope within his pounding heart.  The embarrassment of being found getting fucked in a public bathroom never registered with the desperate youth; he was willing to risk anything if meant a chance to break free from this powerful, brutal psycho.

 

Joe, of course, knew every thought and emotion running through the meat’s paltry mind—he’d put down enough of these little faggots to know they were pretty much all the same.  He knew the meat was gonna start to squeak and squeal and struggle violently in hope of a rescue.

 

He wasn’t putting up with that shit.  Time to show the worthless pansy cunt exactly who was running the show.

 

It all happened instantly.  The hulking alpha threw himself forward, simultaneously jerking back on the twisted strap around the kid’s throat, his biceps bulging with effort.

 

For Brad, the pain of the tightened ligature was immediately overshadowed by the agony he experienced as his slim form was crushed between the cinderblock wall and Joe’s huge, heaving body.  His face was forced to the left, his head buried between the killer’s massive pecs; suddenly, he could hear no more than the swift frantic beating of his own heart and the slower, more controlled tempo of his killer’s.  As the trapped punk shuddered, Joe’s wiry chest hair scratched at the back of his head.  He could feel it scraping his cheek, the back of his neck, down his back between the shoulder blades.  He could feel the vicious alpha’s ripped abs pressing into the small of his back, sliding on a light coat of sweat…

 

Joe drove himself forward, his powerful thighs and calves straining at the effort, his orange Nikes planted firmly on the concrete floor and giving him enough traction to grind his fucktoy into silent submission; his thick, engorged shaft remaining deeply implanted in Brad’s ravaged asshole. He could feel the bitchboy writhing frantically but silently, the kid’s neon kicks flailing in empty air.

 

The swiftness of the assault was amazing.  Brad was rendered utterly impotent in the blink of an eye; he wallowed helplessly in crushing pain as the restroom door opened and the unknown dude strode across the floor, a few feet away—a thousand miles away.

 

He was useless.  Help was there, right there, all he had to do was make some sound, some sign—but his lean body, strong with youth, was no match for the powerfully muscled mass of his killer.  As Brad’s face swelled and blackened grotesquely, he dimly realized that he was dying to the sound of piss pounding into a urinal.

 

He tried.  He fought to live, but his feeble struggles did little more but inflict more pain on himself—and to enrage Joe, who took note and planned to extract his vengeance once the coast was clear.

 

He didn’t wait long.  A loud flush was followed by the door opening.  Motherfucker didn’t even wash his hands.  Not that it mattered—what mattered was that Joe and Brad were alone again.

 

Joe didn’t ease off the pressure right away.  He continued to grind the homo cunt against the wall with his heaving, sculpted body, bending his head close to whisper in his meat’s ear, “Like I was sayin’ before we were interrupted—you ain’t goin’ nowhere but Hell, you faggot cumdump!”

 

Then he pushed back, standing erect but with his huge stiff dick still impaled in Brad’s quivering ass.  The sadistic alpha yanked back on the jockstrap like he was reining in a runaway horse, forcing the agonized youth to bend backwards.  Brad’s head was tilted so far back his bulging, reddening eyes were gazing sightlessly at the ceiling while his hands clawed frantically at the empty air in front of him, occasionally slapping at the wall.

 

The horny gay kid was close to death.  His air had been cut off long enough for progressive brain death to begin; his vision was already clouded with big black explosions of hypoxia.  He was randomly beating the bare cinderblock wall because he no longer had either the physical or mental coordination to assail his killer.

 

And yet, he was still able to suffer.  His breath had been cut off, not his nervous system; even in mortal fear, some part of his mind registered the agony in his knees and shins, pressed into the hard plastic toilet seat and supporting his weight.   And that was the least of the torture he was currently enduring.

 

Through the whole ordeal, Joe’s thick shaft, wreathed with veins, had continued its merciless probing of his guts.  Even as Brad had been forced against the wall, he had still felt the massive flanged tip of the alpha’s cock plunged deep into inside him and held there, nestled in his guts, wet and throbbing.  He knew he was impaled on a huge rod of oozing purple manmeat; in other circumstances, he’d be hard as hell.

 

And that was the worst of it—he was hard as hell. He was in pain—oh fuck, he was in so much pain—but some of that pain was in his dick  It was erect and straining so strongly that it was causing him severe torment.  Bent over backwards in violent assrape, Brad naturally couldn’t see his how his swollen tool had flushed into an angry red as it slowly darkened to match the purple-black shade of his face.

 

“Goddam, fag, I’m just about done with ya,” his killer sneered in a deep, guttural growl.  “I’m gonna blow my wad inside ya as I choke your useless life out.  Yer gonna be found in a park bathroom, fucked, filled with cum and snuffed.  Ha!  Ya like that, queerboy?  Ya think anyone’s gonna care?  Naw, not for worthless faggot scum like you, cunt.  Die, bitch, die on the toilet like the piece of shit you are!”

 

Some slight sense of the words sank through to Brad, but what little consciousness he had left was busy fending off pain and trying to stay aware as  long as possible.  His head was a ball of nightmarish agony; his nerveless hands were now slapping at his face, now distorted beyond recognition.

 

The handsome young man with the short dark hair and runner’s tan had been replaced with a grotesque caricature.  His smooth cheeks, now bloated and purple, were streaked with white froth that was being forced from his mouth past his dark, distended tongue.  His eyes, once large and clear, had rolled back in his head, showing only the whites—which were visibly turning red with each passing moment as more and more blood vessels ruptured under the pressure of manual strangulation.

 

Joe could feel the meat trembling on the edge of the abyss.  The scumshit homo was starting to shudder bonelessly; from experience, Joe knew that the next step down into the grave would be violent rhythmic convulsion.  And that was exactly what he was waiting for.  Grinning, he twisted the jockstrap one final time and pulled it so tight the tendons stood out on his neck. Almost immediately, he could feel the fag’s neck give.  With a loud cracking sound, he succeeded in crushing the motherfucker’s esophagus.

 

It started slowly, almost gently, the way the fucktoy began backing his ass up onto Joe’s dick.  The hard-bodied sadist didn’t need to thrust anymore; he just needed to hold on and squeeze the meat at the right time.  The cunt’s death throes would milk the sperm right outta him…

 

He was right, of course; as more and more of Brad’s brain shut down, the more his lean, lithe, sweat-slicked body began to jerk and thrash.  Swiftly, he lost control, flopping forward as full-body convulsion wracked his slim form.  Joe quickly leaned forward himself and, placing his hands on the back of Brad’s shoulders, forced them forward to the wall.  The experienced killer used his own weight to pin the flailing slut there as he died.

 

Brad was gone.  There was a slight flicker of light left in some brain cells, cells able to process input from the nervous system.  There was no register of emotion or personality left, only that of physical sensation—and even that was faulty.

 

It equated the hot explosion of spunk internally to the hot explosion of spunk externally; it determined no difference between the boiling jet of seed injected deep into Brad’s intestines by Joe’s pulsing cock as the killer snarled and grunted, and the violent spurt of the unlucky punk’s death load that spattered the cinderblock wall with the corpse’s own DNA.

 

Joe continued to press Brad into the wall; it took him a few minutes to unload completely.  The shuddering body had slipped off the toilet seat and was only held up by Joe’s pressure.  When he was done, the muscled alpha withdrew his shaft from the corpse’s ass and stood up, letting the body tumble to the floor of the bathroom stall like the pile of meat it was.

 

Brad’s body, still quivering and kicking, fell face down.   His one identifying mark, his star tattoo, couldn’t be seen and the jockstrap was so embedded in his neck as to be invisible.  All he had left in the way of clothing was his ped socks and his blue and green Nike Frees, now scraping jaggedly and arrhythmically on the concrete floor.

 

Joe took a moment to tear off some TP and wipe down his still-dripping cock before he bent down and scooped his clothing off the floor.  The muscled killer dressed quickly before he left the stall, letting the door swing shut behind him.  Chuckling at  the sound of children playing in the park outside, he washed his hands in the sink, splashing a little water on his face after.

 

Within two minutes, he was back out on the jogging trail, just another runner taking advantage of the unexpectedly pleasant weather.

 


 

As the afternoon set in, Brad’s body cooled and gradually became still, the lean but firm muscles ceasing to quiver mindlessly as time went by.  As it lay quietly on the concrete floor, the door to the bathroom opened—and then the door to the stall.

 

There was a pause, then the corpse jerked.  It jerked again, more strongly, none of the movements under its own power.  The body was being manipulated.  Another jerk, and the interloper was gone.

 

For the rest of the afternoon, the stiffening corpse was undisturbed; it wasn’t discovered until nearly six in the evening.  The reporting officer noted that except for the ligature, the body was completely and utterly nude.

Convict 4–Sin City Snuff

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It took Carlos three hours to drive three miles.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But he wasn’t afraid enough.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was far worse than he’d imagined.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Except it was happening now.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It had the opposite effect.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

With steel.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was sawing him open from the inside.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And it stank of blood and mansex.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Trucker 8–Trucker v Loose End

Mark was livid.

 

The psychopathic homosexual serial killer he was tracking had at least a twenty-four hour lead on him.  And it wasn’t as if Mark could discern a pattern anyway; despite being one of the best profilers employed by the FBI, he still couldn’t determine exactly why the dude had offed two low-level hustlers—one a paid dancer at a club—in the same night.

 

And the state in which he’d left them, especially that kid in the motel room…

 

Dan was still incommunicado on assignment and Mark was getting increasingly frustrated.  He needed to find this motherfucker, and fast.  This was gonna hit the news soon, even if it wasn’t linked across state lines to that dead trooper.  The stripper knocked off in his apartment coulda been kept under wraps, but the room maid who found the dead drug slut in the motel went full mental and half the town knew something had happened by the time Mark had arrived.

 

Where the fuck was this guy?

 

————————————————————————–

 

 

The guy in question was in the last place Mark expected him to be.  It was a cliché—and a true one—that criminals returned to the scene of their crimes, but even an experienced profiler wouldn’t have expected to find the Trucker in room 115 of the Waters Motel.

 

He’d planned to ask for the room when he checked in, but it turned out to be the one the aged clerk gave him anyway.  He’d checked in using cash and a false name (like everyone else who used the place), leaving his rig back at the truck stop, as he’d done on his earlier visit. The only difference was that he was carrying an overnight bag on his walk to the motel.

 

This time, the room didn’t reek of crack and mansex, just a slight musty smell that the aggressively citrus-scented cleaner couldn’t quite overcome.  The furniture was intact, but the mirror didn’t match the dresser.  The TV and bedside lamps were new and very, very cheap.

 

The drywall had been replaced, but the paint was half a shade off, just barely noticeable.  Most of the occupants of the room were doubtlessly too intent on other things to notice these details—much less guess at the savage beating, rape and murder that had caused them.

 

The Trucker dropped his bag on the floor.  For a brief moment it all came back to him—the white-hot rage that burned within him when he discovered the whore stealing, the pleasure he got out of throwing the worthless cunt across the room before beating the fuck out of him, the fag suffering an agonizing, drawn-out death while riding his cock…

 

The powerful sadist grinned, his dick hard at the memory.  Then he shook his head brusquely, clearing his mind.  He was here for a specific purpose.  Well, he always had a specific purpose—but now he had a specific target.

 

He glanced at his watch in the dim, depressing glow of the overhead light.  Past ten p.m.—he needed to get ready.  Retrieving his bag from the floor, he tossed it on the bed and began to strip.

 

Slipping off his loosely-laced work boots, he took off his jeans, peeling the thin denim from his bulging thighs and thick calves.  Taking off his trucker’s cap, he ran his hands through his thick, fine hair, tousling the black strands before peeling off the thin white cotton t-shirt that clung to his hubcap pecs like a second skin, his large nipples proudly protruding from his broad chest.

 

Except for the white tube socks clinging to his muscled calves, the Trucker stood nude in the center of the room, facing the mirror.

 

He took a moment to admire his own body—an erotic, powerful killing machine.  His broad chest, slightly glistening with sweat in the warm room, rose and fell with his even breaths.  The faint motion was just enough for a dim shimmer of light to reflect from the dogtags nestled snugly in his wiry chest hair.

 

In the mirror, the Trucker’s eyes followed the line of fur down his firm, rippled abs.  The happy trail became denser as it approached his waist, finally bursting out in a bush of curly black pubes.  From the center of this dark nest, the alpha’s enormous cock jutted proudly.  The memory of the last time he’d been here, the justice he’d meted out to the thieving boywhore, had gotten him hard.

 

As he watched the mirror, he could see his dick throb; the pulsations were visible from halfway across the room.  And soon so was the faint twinkle refracting from a transparent drop of precum.

 

Not yet, he thought.  He needed to get ready; he had a plan to put into motion.

 

And he knew he’d have an opportunity to drain his shaft later on.

 

Padding back to the bed, his feet still clad in the tight white cotton socks, he opened his bag and began extracting clothing.  He removed a tan shirt and pair of slacks first.  Underneath them was a pair of glossy brown leather boots, nearly knee-high.  When they were out, all that was left, rattling in the bottom of the bag, was a pair of hardened steel handcuffs.  Well, that and a bottle of Jack Daniels that quickly went into the nightstand drawer.

 

It was the Trooper’s uniform—well, most of it.  The Trucker was planning on walking a fine line between enticement and intimidation tonight.  Not that that was particularly unusual for him, but tonight his sense of purpose added something extra—perhaps a touch of anticipation, of eagerness, to tease his jaded appetite.

 

He dressed carefully.  The Trooper had been slightly smaller than him, so the clothes were tight.  The Trucker didn’t realize quite how tight until he tried to pull the smooth khaki trousers up over his thick, strong thighs.  The tan-colored chinos clung to the alpha’s firm legs, stretching the seams to their limits.

 

Leaving the pants undone, he slipped on a clean white t-shirt, followed by the Trooper’s tan button-down shirt.  The Trucker left the top two buttons unfastened, allowing a glimpse of his curly chest hair over the collar of the t-shirt.

 

After tucking the shirttail into the waist of the pants, the muscled stud picked up the jeans he’d tossed on the bed and unthreaded the thick belt from the loops.  The belt, nearly two inches of black leather, was soon cinched tightly around his waist.

 

It wasn’t the Trooper’s original belt.  He hadn’t kept the badge, and he’d gotten rid of the gun too.  Guns weren’t his style to begin with—he liked to linger over his kills—but he had another reason as well.

 

After all, the local fags would clam up around a real cop.  But a dude in a cop uniform would be an irresistible lure for some of the cockpigs, whether or not they were into roleplay.

 

The Trucker sat on the bed and pulled the knee-high glossy boots on before standing and facing the mirror again.  His smile became colder and more evil as he assessed his appearance.

 

In front of him stood a tall, intimidating man whose body was rippled with muscles.  The khaki uniform seemed to be painted onto his powerful physique; even the brown leather boots were bulging with his hard, thick calves.  The black belt didn’t quite match, and there was no badge—no way he could be legitimately accused of impersonating an officer.

 

The cuffs he jammed into his hip pocket were the real deal, though.  And as smoothly as the tan chinos clung to his firm, rounded buttocks, the cuffs were obvious.

 

Again, there were cockpigs who would find that irresistible.  And the Trucker had a strong suspicion that his target would be one.  Now, he just needed to wait.  Quickly placing his original clothing into the bag, along with the work boots, he laid the bag smoothly into the top drawer of the dresser.

 

Turning out the light, the Trucker opened the blinds in the window.  And waited.

 

He had a decent view across the parking lot and the street to the main entrance of the gay bar.  As it turned out, he had to wait just over an hour before he saw the cunt he was stalking saunter down the street.  The punk paused under the electric glare of the bar’s sign to check his wallet before pushing open the blacked-out door and vanishing inside.

 

The Trucker stood up straight, feeling his throbbing dick tentpoling the tight khaki chinos.  The angry sensation of heat in his scrotum told him it was time to get the show on the road—he was done waiting.  He strode out the door, ensuring the room was ready for his return with a quick backwards glance.

 

The Trooper’s boots thumped loudly on the parking lot blacktop, a forceful, masculine sound.  The brown leather uppers gripped his legs snugly, bulging slightly as his thick calf muscles flexed with each step.

 

He crossed the street quickly.  As it happened, there was no one out front when he approached the place.  He slipped inside the door, noting the appraising leer of the bouncer—who was rubbing his groin.

 

The entryway was small and garishly lit.  Once past it, though, the Trucker found himself in a Stygian blackness, broken by random strobe lights that induced instant disorientation by virtue of being out of synch with the pounding music.  The cold, experienced killer grinned happily.

 

It was perfect.  So much chaos—no one would be able to describe him with any accuracy.

 

Another benefit of the flashing, psychedelic atmosphere was that it gave him a brief moment of anonymity to reconnoiter.  Once he stepped out of the shadows, he’d be the center of attention.  He knew it.  It wasn’t arrogance—it was simple fact.  In the skin-tight cop uniform, he would be irresistible to all the cumpigs in the bar.

 

He was only after one.  But he already knew that one was interested in him.  The cunt wouldn’t recognize him in this getup—but would be flattered to be singled out.

 

After all, the Trucker was a well-built, powerful man, and he was dressed to highlight his physique.  And the testosterone he was pumping out with his pheromones drew fags to him like moths to a candle.  Or flies to a flytrap.

 

Either way, the insects died horribly.

 

He’d entered at one corner of a large open space.  At the other was a huge TV screen, playing music videos that were utterly unrelated to the music actually playing.  Two-thirds of the open area was dance floor; the remainder was a collection of rickety tables and chairs, sparsely occupied.  The bar stretched along three of the four walls, with stools pulled up.  Most of the clientele was either at the bar or on the dance floor.

 

Pausing in the shadows, the Trucker surveyed the crowd.  It was just about midnight and the club was in full swing.  Even though it was a small town in the middle of nowhere, it was the only gay bar in the county, so it tended to be pretty popular.  And the proximity of the truck stop didn’t hurt.

 

The clientele was a mix—some twinks, some fat old trolls, and an assortment of muscular farm boy/manual labor types.  That made it easier to sight his prey.  He was after a twink; there weren’t enough to allow the punk to blend in.

 

The buff alpha spotted the boy—he was halfway down the bar on the left-hand side of the room.  As the Trucker sized up his victim, he noticed that the kid was facing away from him, slowly nursing a Bud Light. In a room full of men in blue jeans and work boots or cowboy boots, the boy stood out—not so much as to draw a lot of attention, but enough to make him easy to track.

 

His shoulder-length black hair gleamed in the light, pulled back in a ponytail.  The Trucker smirked in contempt—at least it was clean this time.  Last time he’d seen the fucker, it had been greasy.  It had also been loose and spread out over the ears, which was why the brawny killer hadn’t noticed the multiple silver studs piercing the kid’s ears.

 

The boy was about five foot ten, with a tight, lean swimmer’s build that was amply displayed by his too-small t-shirt, thin cotton in bright red that clung to his smooth torso and slim waist like a second skin.  Beneath, the punk’s black skinny jeans gripped his taut asscheeks tightly and revealed every muscle in the youth’s legs.

 

His shoes were what stood out the most; a pair of Nike Kobe X Elites in black and red.  Taller than most sneakers, they came several inches above his ankle.  The cuffs of his jeans had gotten tucked inside; it gave him the appearance of wearing black cloth lace-up boots.

 

Time to make his move.  The Trucker crossed to the bar, heading for the stool next to the kid.  As he reached it, he made sure to jostle his prey while ordering a shot of Jack.  Naturally enough, the boy turned and eyed the Trucker.

 

The cold, calculating killer ignored him, at least for the moment.  But out of the corner of his eye, he could see the way the boy was checking him out.  In fact, he could almost literally feel the punk’s hot, lascivious gaze sliding up and down his powerful body.

 

The kid was taking the bait.

 

The Trucker finally turned and acknowledged the boy, letting his glance flicker over the kid’s slim, firm body.  The boy blinked, looked up into the Trucker’s face and gulped.  “H-hey, man, wh-wh-what’s up?” he stammered, trying to give a show of insouciance and failing miserably.

 

The older man gave the youth a friendly smile. The little piece of shit was hooked.  Time to play with his catch a little before reeling him in.

 

“Hey,” he rumbled casually in his deep bass voice.  “Just checkin’ things out.  What’s up with you?”

 

The punk’s lips must have gone dry; he literally licked them before replying.  “Just looking for some fun,” he said, recovering a slight measure of nonchalance.  “Name’s Zach…”

 

Here he broke off and peered up at the Trucker closely.  “You look familiar,” he said questioningly.  “Are you a model?  You do porn?”

 

The well-built alpha chuckled pleasantly.  “Naw, man, I ain’t done no porn—“  He broke off, remembering the video of him snuffing the stripper.  “Well, nothin’ you seen, boy.”

 

As he expected, this aroused the kid even more.

 

“So you done something?” Zach asked eagerly.  “What’d you do—play a cop?  That outfit is so fuckin’ hot…”

 

The Trucker laughed.  “No, I didn’t play a cop.  But I can.  Why—you want one?”

 

Here Zach hesitated, embarrassed.  He blushed, then muttered, “No, not a cop…”  The punk turned his reddened face away for a moment.  He seemed to consider for a moment before shrugging his discomfort off and turned back to the Trucker.

 

“Naw, I don’t want a cop.  I wanna jail guard.  I spent three months in juvie—it don’t matter why—and there was this one guard who’d let me suck him off.  He was so damn hot, I’da let him do anything he wanted, but that was all he’d do to me.”

 

Grinning bashfully, he shook his head, flicking his black ponytail.  “You’re even hotter than he was.  Can ya be a guard with a prisoner at your mercy?”

 

The effort to control himself forced the Trucker to dig his fingernails into the surface of the wooden bar.  “Yeah,” he said evenly, “yeah, I think I can do that.”

 

He turned to fully face the boy, standing in such a way that the enormous erection tenting the chinos in his crotch was instantly obvious to Zach.  The young slut again lost his cool, gasping aloud as he gazed on the evidence of the older dude’s ability to give him everything he wanted.  Forcing his eyes away, the kid found them drawn to a glint of light at the stud’s waist.  Peering closer, he could see the rounded metal arcs of handcuffs peeking out of the stud’s pocket.

 

That was it.  That was all that was needed.  The Trucker had landed his catch.

 

Time to take the fish back and clean it.

 

The Trucker could see that the fucker was still nursing his beer.  “Ya might wanna get somethin’ stronger than that horse piss before I go Attica on yer ass, boy,” he chuckled.

 

Zach’s face, pockmarked with adolescent acne, flushed red again.  “I-I can’t, dude.  I’m only eighteen.  The bartender slips me a Bud or two cause I suck him off sometimes, but they won’t serve me here.”

 

“Well, damn, bitch, yer gonna need something stronger for sure.  I gotta fresh bottle of JD back in my hotel room.  Let’s have ya hit it, then I’ll hit you—ha!”

 

The kid lit up at the suggestion.  “Fuck yeah, dude, let’s go!” he chirped giddily, slamming the remainder of his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Zach followed the Trucker out of the bar and across to the motel as eagerly as a puppy; if the young cunt had had a tail, he’d have been wagging it.  His tall Nike hightops padded quietly on the pavement, the sound completely covered by the older man’s heavy footfalls—not that there was anyone to hear.

 

It was past midnight in a small country town; most of the action was already inside the bar (or one of several straight bars in town).  They were able to reach the room without being seen by anyone, not that Zach paid attention.  But the Trucker did.

 

The Trucker opened the door and went in, flicking on the lights as he entered.  He stepped to the side to allow the boy to enter, then closed the door behind him, making certain that the self-locking latch had connected properly.  Again, Zach paid no attention, seating himself on the bed and looking around.

 

The alpha crossed to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of disposable plastic cups.  He handed them to Zach.  “Here,” he said, “get that wrap off them while I get the bottle.”  He allowed a slight gruffness into his tone, noting how the boy seemed to shudder at the ring of command in his voice.

 

The little cocksucker liked to be dominated.  He liked to be forced to obey.

 

So it was time to give him something to obey.  He grabbed the cups from the kid.  “Now strip the bed, boy.  Next time I look at it, I don’t wanna see nothin’ but the bottom sheet, ya hear me?”

 

The Trucker turned away from him to get the whiskey bottle out of the nightstand, which was probably a good thing; the sadistic killer was unable to completely hide the look of malevolent glee that crossed his face.

 

He opened the bottle and  filled the cups,  each about half full.  They were eight-ounce cups; each had the equivalent of four shots.  Turning around, he was pleased to see his order had been obeyed; everything had been swept off the bed into a pile on the far side of the room; the kid was sitting on the edge of the bed, his tight black jeans highlighted by the dingy, off-white fitted sheet.

 

The Trucker handed one of the cups to Zach.

 

“Here’s to yer jail rape, dude,” he grinned, “here’s to a fuck so long and hard you’ll remember it for the rest of yer life—no matter how long that is.”  He bumped the rims of the plastic cups together before tossing back the entire cupful.  He steeled himself as the smoky amber liquid coursed down his throat, setting his blood aflame.  He cleared his throat twice, shook his head, and set the cup down, staring expectantly at Zach.

 

He knew damn well Zach hadn’t had much in the way of hard booze before, not if he was already known at the bar.  He didn’t seem to know what a large amount he’d been handed, and he didn’t want the hot cop dude to think he couldn’t take it.  Without hesitation, he shot back all four ounces as well.

 

Well, not as well.  Not well at all, in fact; it took a moment for it to hit him, then he fell to his knees with his hands at his searing throat, coughing and crying.  His face was bright red and he was gasping like he’d drunk acid—but he didn’t puke.  He kept the booze down.

 

“That’s it, boy,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Don’t puke.  Ya know what happens if ya puke in jail, dontcha, bitch?  Ya gotta lick it up!”

 

Even as Zach tried to control his choking, he could feel his cock stiffening in his groin, painfully restrained by his tight jeans. This was it; this was the real deal.  This hard motherfucker was gonna treat him like the pig he was.  He couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

 

And that was when the alcohol hit.  The Trucker had been right; Zach wasn’t used to that amount of liquor—certainly not at once.  The boy tried unsteadily to rise off his knees.  He put his hand out to the nightstand for support but kept missing it, his hand grabbing at air.

 

“C’mon, bitch, stand up,” the muscled strongman snapped, stepping forward and jerking the boy upright by his arm.  Once on his feet again, Zach grinned up at the Trucker.  The pockmarked teen was only attractive in his youth, his smooth slim body.  His face was slightly rounded, with a weak chin and large, bloodshot brown eyes.  His nose was crooked and slightly snub, and his long black hair was coarse and stringy.

 

Ain’t no one gonna miss this one, the Trucker thought.  And after all, he was at the height of his attraction now; really, it was a mercy to waste him.

 

Of course, the Trucker’s method wasn’t going to be merciful, but that was beside the point.  The worthless little faggot needed to be taught a lesson and the powerful alpha was gonna make sure the cunt learned it if was the last thing the boy learned on earth—which it would be.

 

But for now, he was willing to take his time, to play a little.  And he was curious to see just how far he could go before the cumpig realized that his fantasy was becoming a snuff.

 

“C’mon, punk, get outta that shirt,” he barked, “ya know the drill; I gotta search ya, make sure you ain’t got no weapons.”  Zach complied right away, pulling the tight red t-shirt up over his head and shaking his ponytail free.  He stood facing the Trucker, swaying drunkenly, his soft, smooth skin glistening faintly with a thin sheen of sweat as his chest heaved in excitement.  The long, swollen ridge in his groin, wrapped tightly in black denim, pulsed visibly as the teen gasped raggedly in lust.

 

“Up against the wall, boy, NOW!” the older man shouted suddenly, “assume the position!”  Startled, the kid jumped, but instantly did as he was told, wheeling around and placing his palms flat on the wall.  Then the Trucker approached.

 

The muscle-bound alpha pressed himself against Zach’s back, leaning in to whisper.  “Gonna frisk ya, bitch—and if I find anything, I’m gonna do a cavity search.”  With that, he placed his large, strong hands on the teen and began to fondle him.  He wrapped one arm around the boy’s chest, holding him in place like an iron bar while he shoved the other hand down the front of the kid’s jeans.

 

The Trucker grabbed hold of Zach’s long, throbbing cock and began to twist it and squeeze it, slowly increasing the force until the youth was whimpering in pain.  Floundering in a haze of lust and alcohol, Zach found himself unable to break free; with each brutal wrench of his scrotum, he could feel his tormentor’s huge pecs bulging in effort, pressed against his back.

 

The young cockpig loved it.

 

“F-fuckin’-A,” he slurred, moaning ecstatically, “yeah, dude, I’ll be yer fuckin’ prison bitsh.  Use me, you fucker…”  He broke off in a breathy gasp, shuddering with pleasure.

 

Without saying a word, the Trucker let go of the boy’s dick and withdrew his hands.  With a sudden, practiced movement, he jerked Zach’s hands around behind his back and had them cuffed before the boy even realized what had happened.  Even when he did realize, he was too incapacitated by the booze to do much.

 

He stood and swayed, staring blearily at the Trucker as the latter slowly unbuttoned the cop’s tan dress shirt and tossed it on the floor.  Next, the older stud unbuckled his thick leather belt and unsnaked it from his tight waist, hanging it over the headboard of the bed.  Only after all this was complete did his pull off the thin white cotton t-shirt.

 

If Zach had been less drunk, he might have recognized that amazing chest, broad and muscled with dark wiry hair; it had certainly drawn his attention the last time he’d seen it.  Unluckily for him, the alcohol was interfering with his sense of danger to such an extent that even the sight of the dogtags nestled between the alpha’s hubcap-like pecs didn’t send up a red flag.

 

“C’mere, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  “C’mere and work my chest, you jailyard cumslut.”

 

Zach approached the brawny sadist slowly, almost hesitant to touch the Trucker for fear that his fantasy would pop like a bubble.  The Trucker grunted with impatience.  He reached out and snagged the teen by one of his ear studs and brutally yanked him closer, making Zach cry out in pain.  But before he could yelp again, his face was being ground into the alpha’s chest; the older man’s fur scraping at his skin like steel wool.

 

“Work it, cunt, get yer tongue out and work it!” came a vicious hiss.  Zach did as he was told, running his tongue along the dude’s skin, slurping up a heady salty mix of mansweat and pheromones.  The teen’s adolescent body, already in a ferment of hormones, went into overdrive.  He felt the hard metallic edges of the dogtags slicing against his face—painful, but too dull to break the skin.

 

As Zach knelt to run his tongue down the length of the Trucker’s rippled abs, his own young, slim body was flooded with testosterone and adrenaline.  When the buff alpha pulled the boy back up to his feet and forced the kid’s face into his pits, the youth was pressed against him and he could feel the hot rigid shaft in the punk’s crotch.  “C’mon, ya fuckin’ jailbait, work my pits good,” he growled, “show me how ya keep yer cellie clean.”

 

The Trucker abruptly stood up straight and, grabbing Zach by the upper arms, threw him down onto the bed on his back.  The boy drew a sharp, surprised intake of breath.  His eyes opened wide as the Trucker loomed ominously over him and, bending down, grabbed the fly of Zach’s jeans.  A single rough, swift jerk undid the button; the loose zipper came down immediately.

 

Another couple of jerks and the Trucker had peeled the jeans off the kid completely, turning them inside out as he shucked the boy like corn.  There was a slight ripping sound as the cuffs were forced over the heels of Zach’s Kobe X’s, but a little extra tightening of his bicep was enough to power through the resistance.

 

Zach didn’t protest the damage to his pants; he was both too drunk and too horny to care.  Despite the former, he was able to demonstrate the latter with no doubt; his own dick had bobbed up ecstatically the moment it was free from the confining denim, slapping against his flat belly and spattering precum like a fine rain, the drops of which were caught on the soft brown fur surrounding his navel.

 

“Fuck, man,” the horny young punk moaned, “you got me in cuffs, you can lock me up and do what the fuck you wanna do to me…”

 

Nude but for the Nike hightops laced above his ankles, Zach’s smooth skin gleamed with the slight film of sweat worked up by his sexual ecstasy.  He writhed in erotic helplessness as the heavily-muscled stranger towered over him.

 

“Do me,” the teen gasped, almost involuntarily.  “Stick it in me…”  It was obvious that his rational mind was shut down, overpowered by the hormones rampaging through his slender but firm body.  The adolescent faggot wanted dick.  He wanted it rough, and he wanted it now.

 

The Trucker was only too happy to provide.  But not yet.  He’d left a pack of Marlboro Reds on the dresser.  Wheeling abruptly on the heel of his boot, he walked across the room and took a moment to light one up, completely ignoring the desperately randy youth shuddering on the bed.

 

Turning back, he could see that the little fuck had raised his head.  Whimpering faintly, the kid was gazing at him with a look of raw sexual hunger.  Zach was actually right—the Trucker could do whatever he wanted to the teenager.  No one could stop him.

 

His grin deepened, giving him a predatory, carnivorous look.

 

The Trucker approached the bed again slowly, his incredible body rippling with menace.  He exhaled a cloud of smoke over the boy before placing the cigarette, still lit, on the nightstand. Reaching down to his groin, he lowered his own zipper.  His massive dong was too large to fall out of the trooper’s tight beige chinos on its own; the Trucker had to reach in with both hands to extract the thick, pulsing tube of meat.

 

Drunk and horny as he was, Zach blanched when he saw the monster cock emerge, throbbing and dripping.  Things were long past the point of him having the power to object, though, even if he hadn’t been swamped in teenage horniness.  But when the older man bent down over him, the youth lost whatever trepidation had penetrated his whiskey-fumed haze.

 

His large dark eyes greedily drank in the alpha’s broad hairy pecs as they got closer.  For a moment, he was distracted by the jingling dogtags before looking up to the stud’s scruffy face, hard and handsome, with icy blue eyes…

 

The punk’s reverie was shattered as the Trucker grabbed him by the arms and yanked him roughly, positioning him so that his head was at the head of the bed.  Instantly, the sadistic strongman was on the bed on his knees, his large callused hands pressed against the boy’s smooth, firm thighs and forcing them apart, then lifting them.

 

Before Zach knew it, he was staring fuzzily at his Nike Kobe Xs, kicking the empty air over the Trucker’s shoulders.

 

“Yeah, cunt, ya liked gettin’ fucked in juvie, huh?” the Trucker sneered, gripping his dick in one hand like a club and slapping it into the palm of the other, spattering as much precum on Zach as the randy teen had himself.  “Ya liked bein’ backed into a corner and gettin’ raped?  Hell yeah, boy, I’m gonna shag ya like a prison bitch, you fuckin’ sack of shit!”  Zach laid his head back on the bed, shuddering in bottom pig pleasure.  He never saw it coming; he didn’t see the Trucker aiming his gigantic cock right at the kid’s tender pink fuckhole.

 

He damn sure felt it.

 

The adolescent felt pressure against his sphincter—a pressure that swelled to excruciating pain in the blink of an eye.  It happened so fast that Zach couldn’t breathe.  The slim youth looked up at the Trucker with tormented, watering eyes as he gasped like a dying fish, unable to catch his breath from sheer agony.

 

The searing, white-hot pain of ripped flesh and torn muscles slashed through the mist of alcohol in his brain.  His desperate hyperventilation seemed to go on forever; he was forcing his air out with a high-pitched panicked whine that didn’t give his lungs enough time to absorb oxygen.  As darkness mercifully closed in on the nightmarish physical shock he was experiencing, Zach seemed to see, without quite registering it, a cold, cruel light of lust illuminating the alpha’s eyes without thawing their cold steel-blue tint.

 

The Trucker spent the next couple of minute raping the kid’s motionless ass.  Unconsciousness caused the boy’s muscles to relax; his sphincter, torn and bleeding, gave way at last, allowing the Trucker to penetrate deep into the punk’s colon.

 

Zach came to slowly, moaning and blinking.  The horrible spearing pain in his ass was still there, but now he could feel the pulsing immenseness of the muscled stud’s rod plugging his rectum.  The powerful man was bearing down on him with each vicious thrust of his hips; the handcuffs binding the slut’s hands painfully crushed between his back and the stripped bed.

 

“Dude—“ Zach managed to wheeze out.  “Y-yer hurtin’ me…please stop, man, lemme just…just…”

 

“Shut up,” the Trucker snarled, “ya wanted to get fucked like a prison bitch?  You got it, cunt.  I’m gonna use you like fresh meat and the more ya squeal, the more I’m gonna ream out yer hole like the jailyard pig you are.  Trust me, you worthless piece of shit, I know how to make you hurt.”

 

Tightly gripping the youth’s slim hips, the sadistic killer held him down on the bed and drilled the kid’s mangled fuckhole, his powerful thigh muscles flexing and bulging with each excruciatingly deep pump of his shaft.  Zach tried to protest but the violence and pain of the assault left him unable to speak; he could only stare beseechingly into the cold, contemptuous face of his tormentor.

 

The cruel alpha smirked at the pain-wracked adolescent writhing on his dick.  “Guess what, faggot?” he hissed malevolently.  “You’re locked in with a killer—just like prison, huh?  Ya got what ya want; is that fuckin’ hot or what?”

 

Zach was still trying to figure out how his greatest fantasy had morphed into an excruciating nightmare.  The actual meaning of the Trucker’s words took some time to sink in.  When they did, they hit a brick wall of deliberate incomprehension.

 

“No…you c-can’t…you haven’t…” the teen squeaked in a high, terrified pitch.

 

The Trucker leaned down and rested his body full length on top of the boy, sweat-streaked skin to skin, full length.  The punk’s legs twisted painfully to the side as the weight of the older man’s well-built body crushed him; the dogtags digging into the kid’s heaving chest.

 

From this position, the Trucker’s hard-edged, masculine face, twisted with rage and sick lust, filled Zach’s field of view.   “Yes I can,” the sadist whispered icily.  “And I have.  Right here.  Look around ya, boy—you ain’t gonna be the first homo cunt I wasted in this room.”

 

Again, Zach’s face was blank; the teenager was either too frightened or simply too stupid to understand the allusion.  Not that it bothered the Trucker—he was looking forward to enlightening the cunt.

 

“I knew you were a worthless pansy slut the first time I laid eyes on ya,” the brawny, powerful sadist growled.  “Or the first time you laid eyes on me.  Just another disgusting faggot who wanted my body.  And since ya couldn’t keep yer homo trap shut, you’re gonna get my body—all up in your guts.”

 

A dim light of recognition glinted in Zach’s shocked, terrified eyes.  That face, that broad hairy chest—he had seen them before; in fact, he’d gone home that night and jerked off until he was sore over the memory of them.

 

This was the hot guy from the truck stop; the one who’d asked about the bar.  He’d come back in a couple of hours later, bare-chested, sweaty, hot as all fuck…

 

…and that was the night that cheap-ass rent boy got the shit beat out of him.  Kid was raped and strangled, in this motel…

 

The Trucker watched the horrifying realization dawn on the boy. The panic in his victim’s face made his dick, sunk deep into the teen’s rectum, pulse and swell.  He knew exactly what thoughts were running through the punk’s head.

 

“This room, dude,” the Trucker whispered with malicious cruelty as one hand crept towards the head of the bed.  “That spot on the wall where I frisked ya?  They fixed it good—I threw that cunt into it so hard he went through the sheetrock.  Slammed the motherfucker through the TV, too.  Thieving queer-ass cocksucker tried to steal my wallet, so I fucked him to death.”

 

He drew back his hand, now clutching the belt he’d left over the headboard, without once allowing Zach’s wide, shock-rimmed eyes to escape from his own terrifyingly hypnotic gaze, at once white-hot with lust and ice-cold with killing rage.

 

“It took him a long time to die.  And it hurt—I made sure of that.  When he finally died, he was grateful to escape the agony.”   The Trucker lowered his face down to Zach’s, so close that his dark scruff scraped against the boy’s cheek as the alpha whispered into his ear.  “And all he did was to try to steal my wallet.  You squealed about me to the cop.”

 

He pulled back and raised himself up so that he was kneeling over Zack, his enormous shaft still jammed up inside the frightened teen’s smooth body.  He held the belt now in both hands, letting the import of both his words and the leather strap sink in.

 

“The cop, yeah?  You remember him?  I raped and tortured him to death, too.  I took my time with him and left his baton jammed up his ass.  You’re the last loose end—and the one with the biggest lesson to learn.”

 

Zach understood.  He knew what was about to happen, and why.  He also knew that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to evade the brutal violence he was about to endure, but this didn’t resign him to his fate.

 

In a moment, the teenager went into full reflex mode, his lean but muscled body thrashing and flailing in blind panic.  He wrapped his legs around the Trucker’s firm, hard flanks and squeezed; the alpha responded by slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and hoisting them back onto his shoulder, where the punk’s Nike kicks flailed uselessly in the air.

 

Zach was in too much fear to be able to cry for help or even scream effectively; he gibbered and squealed like a stuck pig, spittle flecking his thick lips.  As his sweat-streaked body writhed on the bed, his terror was so strong that a stream of piss was shot out of his long cock, even though it was still semi-erect from the adolescent hormonal overload.

 

The Trucker glared down at the helpless, fear-maddened teenager.  “Stop squealin’, you stupid motherfucker,” he barked in anger.  “You don’t even deserve to die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit; I shoulda just offed ya.  But I wanna drain my balls, and since I gotta snuff ya anyway, I might as well dump my load in yer ass as I take ya out.”

 

Zach’s first panic had faded, simply because he didn’t have the energy to sustain his frenzied thrashing.  “No…no…you…no…” he moaned quietly.

 

“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the Trucker said evenly as he drove his fist into Zach’s jaw.  The boy gave a deep, instinctive grunt of pain as his mouth slammed shut and he bit through his tongue.  The vicious alpha spit into the face of the suffering youth, the phlegm sliding down the kid’s smooth cheeks and mingling with the blood leaking out of his mouth.

 

Stunned, awash in agony and sheer terror, Zach inhaled deeply.  He’d found his voice again; even though no conscious thought was involved, his animal midbrain realized that the only way to survive the next hour was to get help by alerting others.  He didn’t know he needed to scream; it was going to happen anyway.

 

The Trucker knew he needed to scream, though, and he wasn’t gonna have it.  Zach had stopped inhaling and had opened his mouth wide to shriek, when it all came to sudden halt.  Instantly, a thick band of crushing pain circled his throat, and he couldn’t scream.  He couldn’t breathe.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Nothing.  Nothing he could do.  He wrung his hands in the cuffs underneath him, the sudden panic overriding the pain as the case-hardened steel tore cruelly into the tender flesh in the small of his back and bloodily flayed the skin from his wrists.  Nothing.  That pain around his throat—it was the belt…

 

Still fucking the boy’s torn asshole, deeply and intently, the Trucker focused his eyes on Zach’s face and watched him start to die.  The kid continued to kick and writhe as he fought for his short, wasted life; all that the youth’s frantic struggles accomplished was to give this killer’s cock a nice, vigorous massage.  As he twisted and jerked, he burnt though his oxygen even faster.

 

His face swelled and darkened, turning purple—and so did his dick.  The teen could feel his own erection, but the sensation was lost in the horrifying agony of strangulation.  As his throat was compressed, Zach’s eyes, wide with terror, started to bulge.  He could feel his tongue swelling, too—it seemed to fill his entire mouth.

 

The worst pain of all was still in his ass, though—that was the truly nightmarish part of Zach’s situation; he wasn’t only forced to suffer the pain and violence of a slow murder, he also had to endure the pain and violence of a vicious rape.  It was too much.  It was overwhelming.  His weak adolescent psyche crumbled under the onslaught of the attack.

 

The Trucker had no intention of letting him slide into a catatonic haze, though.  He wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot.  “You stupid motherfucker,” he contemptuously taunted the dying teenager, “this is what happens to dumbass squealin’ cocksuckers.  Only reason yer still alive, faggot, is cause you ain’t milked my cum out.  Does it hurt, you worthless cunt?  Ya want me to stop it?  I’ll end your useless homo life the second I fill your guts with sperm.”

 

He gripped the belt forcefully, straining his biceps as he tightened the strap around the boy’s neck.  Bending down, he spit into the kid’s distorted, blackening face as he sneered, “When it hurts bad enough, you’ll wanna die.  Make me cum, slut, and I’ll stop the pain and the fear.  C’mon, you worthless fag, drain me and die”

 

The helpless, choking youth could feel the rigid stiffness of his own dick.  Even as his lithe, smooth body convulsed and kicked, he was still gruesomely aware of his own throbbing erection.  As Zach twitched beneath him, the Trucker could see that the teen was swiftly going under.  He kept up the tension in the belt; the room filled with the musk of sex and sweat, forced out of his bulging muscles by the effort.

 

Suddenly the punk went rigid, his stiff dick bobbing up, its oozing head smacking wetly against the alpha’s rippled abs.  His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but blood-streaked whites under fluttering lids.

 

He was edging—literally.  Zach was trembling on the brink of irreparable brain death.

 

The Trucker grunted in anger.  He wasn’t even close to cumming.  Worthless little faggot couldn’t even make him shoot as he died.

 

Ok, so it wasn’t time for him to die.  The Trucker slackened the belt; after a couple of convulsive gurgles, Zach began to cough uncontrollably, blood-spotted mucus from his damaged throat splattering his cheeks.

 

The powerful sadist, his hard, heaving body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, remained looming over the gasping adolescent, his monstrous shaft still jammed deeply into Zach’s guts.  He stopped pumping, though, taking a moment to let the boy wake up.  The Trucker wanted him conscious again before starting the next round.

 

And anyway, the fuckmeat was still desperately trying to catch his breath; in his struggles, he was working his killer’s shaft pretty damn good on his own.

 

The traumatized youth slowly clawed his way back into consciousness; the pain flooded in as he gradually came to.  The dark lividness of Zach’s drool-smeared face drained away while his breathing slowed slightly—it was still rapid and ragged, but he was no longer gasping violently in an attempt to stave off brain death.

 

The kid’s fuckhole was still gripping the Trucker’s thick tool like a fist in a velvet glove, but it was no longer jacking him off.  On his shoulders, the hard-bodied top could feel the high fabric tops of Zach’s Nikes, resting now as opposed to flailing in the air, but still trembling perceptibly.  With his arms still wrapped around the boy’s legs, the silky-smooth flesh of the latter’s inner thighs was pressed against his rapist’s sweaty, powerful flanks.

 

Finally, the boycunt recovered his voice—barely.  “P-pl-please…” he croaked, “I-I can’t…don’t…”

 

“You stupid piece of shit,” the cruel, hulking brute sneered in reply.  “I ain’t done with ya yet, cunt; you ain’t made me cum yet.  Ya know what that means, meat?  It means you ain’t learned your lesson yet.  You ain’t suffered enough yet.”

 

The belt was still wrapped around Zach’s neck; no longer crushing his windpipe, it was still sunk into the skin.  With a deliberate intent to cause pain, the Trucker viciously jerked it free from the punk’s throat, flaying the skin underneath.  Zach was still too weak to do more than shudder and make faint mewling noises, as much in fear as in agony.

 

The Trucker passed the end of the belt through the buckle, making a loop, and slipped it back over the boy’s head.  Now he had a slipknot leash to pull the kid up with one hand.

 

He did so.  The other hand he used to deliver a driving roundhouse punch to Zach’s face; the immediate result was a wet smacking sound, a deep involuntary grunt of pain and the faint crunching sound of the teen’s cheekbone breaking.

 

“Fuck yeah, you worthless cocksucker, that felt good, dinnit?” the muscle-bound alpha chuckled gleefully at his helpless prey.  “Ya musta really liked it, cumpig; yer reamed-out ass worked the head of my shaft great—that what it’s gonna take, huh?  You a pain pig, cunt?  Damn, fag, ya shoulda said so!  Hell, I’ll give ya all ya want!”

 

Zach was wedged into an excruciating position—his slim, firm torso brutally yanked up by the loop of leather around his neck, his arms twisted agonizingly behind his back while his expensive kicks had slipped from the Trucker’s shoulders but were still caught in the latter’s arms.  The only part of the boy still touching the bed was his ass—and the Trucker’s huge, rigid cock was still plugging it.

 

Zach retreated mentally; the sheer horror that the knowledge of his helplessness, his utter inability to prevent or evade whatever nightmarish torture this sexual psychopath wished to inflict on him, plunged him into a state where he was capable of little more than response to stimuli.  His fogged attention, like an animal’s, focused blearily on bright, shiny objects, which was how Zach found himself staring at the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling against the latter’s hard furry chest, as the tortured teen homo wallowed in agony.

 

The Trucker could see the blank, stunned look in the eighteen-year-old kid’s eyes; it was the look of a youth who had been subjected to an unexpected and shockingly violent assault.  The sadist’s powerful body was filled with a strong urge to overwhelm and destroy the boy, to literally fuck him to death.

 

He braced himself by extending one leg, planting the glossy brown boot on the floor and tensing his thighs, making them bulge visibly in the tight beige chinos he still wore.  He channeled his sexual rage into his fist, driving it into the side of the kid’s head with such explosive savagery that he lost his grip on the belt—he’d literally knocked the little fuck right out of his own hand.

 

Zach’s head whipped to the side, flinging his dark ponytail behind as his skull hit the nightstand with a loud crack.  The impact toppled both the lamp, which fell to the floor and broke, and the bottle of Jack, which stayed on the stand.  The amber-colored fluid splashed across the flat surface, drenching Zach’s hair and adding a distinct smoky scent to the pheromone-laden air.

 

“Goddam it,” the Trucker muttered in the deep, guttural growl of a predator, “that shit cost more than you’re worth, you miserable pansy.”  He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the semi-conscious teen, so close that even in his deep, pain-wracked haze, he could feel the killer’s wiry scruff as it grazed his cheek.  “You owe me, cunt; how ya gonna pay?  Huh?”

 

Then the Trucker paused.  At this distance he could see the studs in the kid’s ear much more clearly; there were three—and the top one had a slight sparkle.

 

“Motherfuck—ya been holdin’ out on me, boy.  Bad mistake.  If that tiny chip is real diamond, it might cover the cost of my booze.  Maybe.  Lemme take a look.  If it’s real, I’m gonna take the other one too.”

 

He spread his huge hand out and placed it on the side of Zach’s head; placing all his weight on that arm, he forced the kid’s head down onto the nightstand with such power that the unfortunate youth was already mewling with pain when the Trucker started fondling the top stud.  He held the ear between two fingers, one looped about the stud, the other around its back.

 

Then, with a single tremendous jerk, he tore the stud out of the teen’s ear.

 

The sharp agony of ripped flesh snapped the tormented adolescent out of his catatonic state; he tried to scream but could only push out a high, thin shriek that spiraled into a croak.  His bloodshot eyes, huge and darkly ringed by shock, were riveted on the Trucker, who was examining the stud under the light on the other nightstand.

 

The pain in his ear, now throbbing with his pulse as blood flowed from the wound, was so severe that he even managed to forget the gigantic rod that even now was still skewering his torn colon.  But what he couldn’t forget was his own erection; his dick was so stiff as to be downright painful.  He didn’t know how it could still be so hard after all he’d suffered.

 

It never occurred to him that he liked it.  On some level, he wanted and deserved it, but he could never have admitted it.

 

And whatever he desired, pain overrode the physical and fear the mental aspects.  No matter how hard he got, how close he came to shooting his wad, he was still going to fight death to the very end.  He wouldn’t submit, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

The Trucker didn’t give him the choice.

 

Repositioning his big cop boot on the thin carpet, he shifted his muscled mass and pulled Zach back upright on the bed by the belt around his neck.  Reaching around to the other side of the punk’s head, he ripped the top stud on that side out too.

 

This time, the response was much stronger.  This stud had been torn from the side of the punk’s head that had been drenched in whiskey; the alcohol burned like fire as it trickled into the open wound.

 

Zach screeched like an ape, twisting and shuddering violently.  His black Nikes kicked the air behind the Trucker’s head—until the kid made the mistake of jerking one leg in and kicking the Trucker right in the side of the head.

 

“Ok, meat, that’s it.  Yer done.”  Enraged, the powerful alpha yanked the belt in a whip-like motion, unexpectedly snapping Zach’s head down and to the side so that it smashed back onto the nightstand.  Except it didn’t—it smashed into the half-empty whiskey bottle and shattered it, shards of glass slicing open the skin at Zach’s temple.  A jagged edge left on the base of the bottle left a shallow—but long and painful—slash across his cheek.

 

Instantly, the teen was jerked back up into position, his rectum rotating on the Trucker’s engorged tool.  Scrambling his pricey kicks, Zach drew his legs up and, planting his feet on the older man’s rippled washboard abs, pushed himself off the bed—and off the Trucker’s cock.  The smooth young teen, half-insane with fear, threw himself on the thin, cheap carpet, bleating in terror as he tried to wriggle away from his killer.

 

The Trucker had grunted with surprise at the blow, but otherwise didn’t make a sound.  He simply stood up and strode towards Zach, his powerful muscled form looming over the nude youth.  Flat on his back with his arms twisted behind him, the kid was still erect despite the pain from his mangled ears, and slashed head, all still bleeding.

 

But as the Trucker towered above, Zach shot another golden stream of piss involuntarily across his firm, smooth chest, already glittering with sweat.  The teenager was lost in a rising tide of doom; turning his head to the side, he could see the shiny finish on the tall cop boots.  His eyes traveled up the legs, muscles visibly bulging through the skin-tight sand colored chino trousers…

 

…and above that, a huge shaft of meat, dark, throbbing and oozing—and streaked with blood.  His blood.

 

The heaving, furry chest above, dogtags lying between the broad, hubcap-like pecs…and above that, the face…that face.  That hard face, the cold, cold rage in those eyes that showed there would be no mercy, no remorse, nothing but the desire to inflict as much pain as possible.

 

In his mind, Zach screamed; what came out of his mouth was a feeble gurgle.

 

The Trucker trembled with rage as he glared down at the worthless fag who dared to defy him, to try to escape the consequences of his actions.  The tall, well-built killer bent over slowly at the waist, extending his hand and reaching out to the helpless boy who cowered and sniveled in terror.  The muscle-bound stud grabbed the end of the belt that was still looped around the kid’s neck.

 

Standing up, the half-nude alpha continued to raise his arm as if he was doing curls with a set of weights.  As the bicep on his arm flexed with the strain, the Trucker lifted Zach up off the ground and held the slim young teen dangling in the air.

 

The boy kicked weakly, his Nike hightops dancing in the air as his own weight tightened the leather strap around his neck and cut off his breath.  Struggling uselessly as the incredibly powerful older man literally hanged him by holding him in the air, the sweaty, shuddering punk was nonetheless aware of his own dick slapping wetly against his firm, flat belly as he thrashed and choked.

 

The red-tinted blackness that filled Zach’s bewildered mind had the effect of focusing his attention on the hard, chiseled face of his assailant.  It was somehow getting him even hornier; he could feel it even as he felt consciousness slipping away.  That strong, hard jaw, that jet-black goatee surrounded by fainter fuzz—a five o’clock shadow of gunmetal blue that darkened the sadist’s cheeks—and those eyes.  Again, those eyes—so blue, bright with a light that curiously combined the heat of lust and rage with the calculating coldness of an experienced killer.

 

And then Zach was snapped out of it.  In fact, he was damn near snapped out of life forever.  With the loud, snarling growl of a vicious predator, the Trucker whipped his arm to the side.  The belt popped like a whip as the teenage boy flew through the air and slammed into the wall so hard he blacked out for a moment.

 

But it was just a moment; as he blinked and tried to breathe—the impact hadn’t loosened the leather noose enough for him to inhale—he could feel death approach in the heavy tread of the boots on the floor behind him.  He was lying near the far wall of the room, facing it, his back to the room.  Turning his bulging eyes up, he could see the huge dent his body had made in the drywall.

 

As the boots paused, directly behind him, Zach had a brief flash of clarity—and memory.  Something this hot, erotic, cruel, brutal psycho…something this dude had said…the other guy.  That whore.  He’d been killed in this room—but he’d been beaten into hamburger first.

 

And part of that beating had put him through the wall too.

 

Once again, despite his huge and painfully throbbing erection, Zach lost control of his bladder to such an extent that the stream of urine that shot out of him hit the wall and splashed the teen with his own piss before he was hoisted into the air again, his slender young body jerking and kicking.

 

The Trucker sneered contemptuously at the choking boy.  The muscles in the powerful alpha’s arm were knotted with the strain of holding the kid up off the ground, but it was worth the effort to watch his expensive Nike kicks flail as they desperately sought some support to relieve the crushing pain in the suffering punk’s throat.

 

Then, in a lightning-swift motion, the strongman flung his helpless young victim across the room again.  In his suffocating haze, Zach felt a brief giddiness but was mostly unaware of his flight.  He was aware when it was interrupted, though, the impact of smashing headfirst into the flatscreen TV piercing through his dying fog.

 

This time, when he landed on the floor on his back, the belt noose loosened.  His lungs, full of useless carbon dioxide, emptied immediately with a loud sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt.  Much like before, his esophagus had been so badly crushed and traumatized that the expelled breath was accompanied by bloody mucus.

 

The Trucker approached.  He stood over his victim, his cold, stony gaze taking in the sight of the raped and tortured youth.  While his prey stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed shock, gasping violently, the vicious sadist took pleasure in letting his enormous cock jut out over the shuddering, sweating teen.  Large clear drops of precum welled from the slit in the center of his purple, engorged mushroom tip; they fell at random, sprinkling the writhing adolescent with his killer’s bodily fluids.  “Stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker said in his steely bass voice, his cold even tone more frightening than any screaming or ranting could have been.

 

He bent down.  Zach saw him coming.  He was completely and utterly unable to prevent whatever was coming; all he could do was gasp and try to inhale as much oxygen as possible in case it was cut off.

 

It was.  Instantly.  The Trucker snatched the belt again.  This time, there was no admiring, gloating dangle for the meat; the teenager experienced swift motion and terrible, slashing pain, but was too traumatized to realize he’d been thrown into the dresser and had shattered the mirror.   The glass slashed at the smooth, soft skin on his back but, like his encounter with the whiskey bottle, the injuries were agonizing but not serious.

 

When he fell to the floor this time, he landed face down.  The majority of Zach’s attention at this point was absorbed in trying to breathe; it was few seconds before the faint crunching sound of boots grinding glass into the carpet seeped into his awareness.

 

The Trucker was stepping on the remains of the mirror as he moved towards writhing prey.  Without a word, his huge muscled body moving with startling swiftness, the older man snatched the lithe, trembling teen, not by the belt this time, but by his long black ponytail.  For a single horrifying moment, Zach was suspended by his hair and felt his scalp starting to tear before the Trucker threw him on the bed.

 

Actually, threw him at the bed.  Zach smacked face-first into the headboard before rebounding and rolling back; he ended up nearly in the center of the mattress but turned ninety degrees to the orientation of the bed.  His long, smooth legs hung over the side, hightops not quite touching the floor.

 

On his back again now, he could look up and see the hulking form of his torturer towering implacably over him.  The powerful stud’s vicious sadism was obvious in his massive, throbbing cock, jutting proudly over the trapped youth and oozing a steady stream of transparent precum.  Above that, the psycho’s furred and heavily muscled torso was heaving, a faint sheen of sweat making his hard body glisten.  The stony, merciless look of cold masculinity on the handsome face was accented by the icy glitter in the eyes.

 

Zach looked into those eyes and he knew—no matter what type of personal hell he was gonna endure in the next few minutes, there would be no return from the silent darkness this time.  Death was staring him in the face.

 

But Death was gonna fuck him first.

 

Hoisting the kid’s legs, the Trucker dropped the punk’s Kobe X Elites on his shoulders and shoved the thick purple head of his shaft against the boy’s torn, quivering sphincter.  At the first hint of pressure, Zach moaned in terror and writhed, trying to wriggle away from the huge tool about to penetrate him.

 

And yet, with all the pain and the fear, the hormone-fueled adolescent still felt the overwhelming physical lure of the hard-bodied older man.  The funk of mansex and pheromones that pervaded the room so densely that it nearly coagulated into a visible fog that intensified the young slut’s sexual dilemma.  Zach’s own dick was hard and pulsating and he didn’t know why.  But as the Trucker lunged at him again, the boy couldn’t spare the time to worry about it.

 

“P-please…” the battered youth gasped faintly, “I-I’ll do any-anything…use me…hu-humiliate me, I w-won’t tell anyone…”  Here the slender kid gave way.  Stupid little piece of shit that he was, even he could figure out that tonight was gonna end with him taking a dirt nap.  He burst into tears.  “D-don’t kill me, man, p-p-please, I won-won’t tell anyone but don’t k-kill me, please, man, oh fuck, oh please—“

 

The Trucker’s sole response was an evil grin that spread slowly across his sexy masculine features. Zach saw it and understood, instantly breaking into loud, hysterical sobs as he went into panic mode.  The older stud decided that the meat needed something else to think about than becoming meat.  With a single powerful, brutal thrust, he plunged his monstrous vein-wrapped cock all the way up the teenager’s ass, tearing the sphincter and mangling the colon.

 

Eyes so wide with pain and shock that they seemed about to pop out of his head, Zach’s sobbing spiraled up into a frenetic shriek of agony.  “Shaddup, faggot,” the Trucker barked, popping the unfortunate punk in the jaw one last time before cinching the belt down on his neck.  The cunt’s scream was instantly throttled off into a wet gagging sound.

 

Wrapping the thick leather strap around his hand—so he could control the tightness of the noose while keeping one hand free—the Trucker flopped forward, his heavy, powerful body crushing the slender youth beneath him.  Zach’s legs, propped up on his assailant’s shoulders, were compressed back towards his body until his knees were resting on his chest.  And the weight of both males on his arms, still cuffed around his back, was excruciating.

 

The last few minutes of Zach’s short, wasted life were filled with unimaginable pain and terror.  He was pinned under the sheer physical bulk of his killer, feeling the alpha’s hard muscles flexing against him on a light lube of sweat as the older man continued to plunge his enormous shaft deep into the boy’s torn, bleeding guts.  The alpha’s wiry body fur scraped against the teen’s soft, silky flesh like steel wool.

 

The Trucker jerked the belt tightly.  His dogtags, laying on the meat’s smooth firm chest, were dislodged by the violence of the fucking; they slid up to Zach’s neck and slipped, jingling, into the depression circling his throat, caused by the leather garrote.

 

At this distance, the twisted sadist could enjoy the effects of the strangulation in detail.  As the slim, dying teen writhed beneath him, the cunt’s cock stayed hard as it slid on oily sweat between two flat, firm bellies pressed together in desperate, brutal sex.  His confusion was obvious, even on his swelling, darkening face.

 

“Ya don’t get it, do ya, you stupid cumsuckin’ fag?” the cruel, powerful top sneered.  “Yer lovin’ this shit.  You fuckin’ bottom pain pig, you love gettin’ plowed, dontcha?  Yeah?  Ya fuckin’ love gettin’ put down like the cheap cockslut you are—fuck, dude, lookit how hard ya get when yer gettin’ snuffed like a useless homo cunt!”

 

Zach’s body, slender but strong with youth, was wracked and contorted with pain.  The thick leather strap embedded in his neck was a constant source of agony—and the wretched punk, twisted in the nightmarish pain of slow, tortuous death, found the crushing torment in his windpipe less painful than the tearing, rending pain in his colon as his cruel, evil killer fucked him swiftly and brutally.

 

Zach’s black Nike kicks were twitching in the air behind the Trucker’s head; his current helpless position rendering them impotent as weapons.  As his bloodshot eyes bulged grotesquely, forced from their orbits by the pressure building inexorably inside his skull, he could just barely make out the crimson trademarked swoosh jerking and twitching in the distance.

 

Inches away, the Trucker admired the teen’s black face, swollen and distorted beyond measure.  He found the adolescent slut’s suffering erotic and, determined to draw out the torture as long as possible, let a little slack into the leather strap around the young whore’s neck.  Zack was allowed a single brief gasp of fresh oxygen to momentarily clear the death fog clouding his mind before his throat was clamped off again.

 

“You stupid cumsack,” the powerful alpha whispered into the ear of the dying teen, so close that the teenager writhed involuntarily with pleasure at the scrape of his killer’s scruff across his cheek, despite all the pain and horror.  The screaming, pounding silence that was filling the empty spaces of his pathetic cumslut soul was not yet loud enough to drown out the cruel taunts of his killer.

 

“You made me do this,” the psycho strongman hissed at his helpless young victim.  “You talked, you pansy-ass cunt.  You did this.  Does it hurt?  Good!  I want you to hurt.  I want you to die in fuckin’ agony on my cock, you disgusting faggot.  You wanted a prison fuck, you punk-ass bitch?  Fuck, dude, you got death fuckin’ row!  Now die, you fuckin’ homo meat; milk me and suck up my spunk like a sponge.  Best thing anyone can do to yer worthless fuckmeat is use ya as a cumrag and throw ya in the dump like the fuckin’ garbage you are, motherfucker!”

 

With a snarl, he jerked his arm, making the thick leather strap squeeze the queerboy’s throat shut.  Zach was sinking back into the stimulus-response phase of imminent death, but this time there would be no recovery.  The quivering youth hadn’t been able to take much advantage of the brief respite he’d been given; his contorted position—bent double with his killer’s muscled bulk crushing him into the mattress—had made it difficult for the semi-conscious punk to suck air.  He’d gasped and slobbered in panicked asphyxiation, but he hadn’t been able to get enough oxygen to stave off brain damage.

 

Zach had heard the Trucker and understood him, but just barely; the sadistic stud’s cruel taunts were the last words the brutalized teenager would hear in his life.  As his brain died, the universe contracted into a cold darkness.  Zach’s last five minutes of life slowed to a crawl.  Rational though all but ceased; the suffering boy was sunk in a pit of sensation—of pain.

 

He was vaguely aware of the powerful alpha pressing down on him; he could still feel the hairy thrusting form on top of him.  He could hear—without understanding what he was hearing—the deep, ragged breathing and strained grunts of the dude who was fucking him and killing him.  A faint memory of start of the evening flickered like a guttering candle in the dying kid’s mind…the hot cop, the booze—even now, he still reeked of whiskey—the erotic click of the cuffs behind his back…

 

The last truly conscious emotion to pass through Zach’s mind a fleeting sense of despair, like the plaintive bleat of a slaughtered sheep. Then the physical took over and the teenaged faggot was submerged in a crimson wave of pain.

 

It hurt.  The young punk’s smooth, slim body was wracked with agony, with an excruciating torture that shorted out his nervous system to the point that it was unable to discern pain from pleasure.

 

From inches away, the Trucker watched the face of the adolescent cumslut swell and darken.  Blood still leaked from his mutilated ears and his cheek, but it was sluggish and too thick to flow much.  Zach’s battered face was twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable mask.

 

Wrapping the belt around his hand for greater control over the meat, the Trucker jerked the strap brutally, causing it to sink deeply into the boy’s neck.  The gay bottom boy went rigid, his swollen purple lips parted by his protruding tongue, forced out on a lube of foamy drool that trickled down the teen’s smooth cheeks.

 

The indefatigable power top continued to plow the dying kid’s ass.  Even as he murdered his victim, the timing of his thrusts wasn’t thrown off by a single thrust; his huge horse dick kept plunging deep into the meat’s fuckhole like it was being rammed by a piledriver.

 

It was getting a good workout, too.  The Trucker was vaguely aware of the Nike basketball shoes flailing randomly in the air behind his head as he kept the cunt’s legs propped up on his shoulders, but the little fucker, his body pinned into position by his larger, stronger killer was convulsing violently on the inside.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure; he realized the stupid piece of shit must be suffering nightmarish intestinal cramps for the punk’s guts to polish his knob so vigorously.  Zach’s own dick didn’t give the impression of pain; quite the opposite—it slapped, oozing and throbbing, between the two heaving, writhing male bodies, smearing precum over the teen’s flat smooth belly as well as the Trucker’s furry rippled abs.

 

The dogtags bounced off Zach’s flat, firm chest repeatedly before slipping off to the side where they occasionally added a faint jingle to the quiet, desperate sounds of sex and death.

 

Zach’s youth worked against him, prolonging his suffering until  the oxygen had been completely wrung from his quivering body.  In the end, even the physical started to fade.  The teenaged faggot no longer felt the pain from his limbs, twisted agonizingly in their sockets.  He couldn’t feel his eyes, bulging and rolled back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites showed under his fluttering lashes.

 

By a cruel neurological twist, though, he could still feel his rectum being savaged.  The erratic electrochemical bursts in his dying brain conveyed nothing more than a long thick hard shaft viciously impaling his innards; there was nothing left to process the concept of rape, of a throbbing vein-wrapped cock plunged up his boycunt.

 

In a way, it was a shame.  Zach was getting fucked exactly as he wanted; roughly, by an amazing muscled alpha who bound him and mounted him ruthlessly.

 

By the time the end came, Zach was past all sense of the irony of the where and how of his murder, past all fear—in a sense, past all pain.

 

The Trucker had a lot of experience of putting sluts down; he recognized the way the adolescent’s convulsions had lost their rhythmic tempo and slipped into spasms that were more intense but also more erratic.

 

Fuck, it felt wonderful.  The silky flesh of the teen’s guts sliding over his engorged mushroom tip while the motherfucker’s colon gripped his shaft like a fist—the worthless squealing cumpig was finally learning his lesson.  He was getting exactly what he deserved, the disgusting piece of homo shit.

 

The Trucker could feel the sperm boiling in his balls.  He was close; he just needed one last thing—he needed to know that the firm, smooth, slender teen had truly died on his cock.

 

One last brutal yank on the thick leather belt and the sociopathic sadist was rewarded.  The young kid’s esophagus collapsed with a loud cracking that was instantly followed by an even more intense and erotic snapping sound, like the splintering of green wood.   With a single powerful movement, the Trucker had crushed Zach’s windpipe and broken his neck.

 

The very last thing Zach experienced in his useless cumslut life before the searing electrical blast of bone shards slicing into his spinal cord sent him into screaming cold eternity was an eruption of searing heat in his groin.  In an instant, his existence shrank to the white-hot wire of pain/pleasure that ran along the underside of his cock; almost immediately, a similar agonizingly hot feeling, akin to molten lead, was pumped into his ass and up his guts, a last scorching sensation of heat as he slipped into frigid dark death.

 

The Trucker spent the next minute shuddering and spunking, filling the dead teen cunt with his sperm.  As his hulking muscled body jerked and shuddered in violent orgasm, he was vaguely aware of the teen’s thick, ropy cum splashing across his broad, hairy chest.  The hormone-laden adolescent was so full of semen that his corpse spewed a steady stream of pearly jizz for at least thirty seconds straight, catching both shuddering, sweating male bodies in a rain of glistening spooge.

 

Long after he’d emptied his balls of seed, the Trucker found himself still fucking and cursing at the convulsing sack of boymeat.  Regaining a measure of control, he took a deep breath and pulled his still-pulsing cock out of the corpse.  Getting quickly off the bed, he let Zach’s legs flop back, spread wide, one landing on the bed.  The other leg hung off the side, the Nike hightop just barely touching the floor.  As the body twitched, the expensive kick scuffed a ragged furrow in the thin cheap carpeting.

 

The Trucker felt a little rubbery after his explosive release of anger and semen; he staggered back to the dresser for his smokes, finding the pack undamaged from the earlier violence but surrounded by glass.  Lighting up a Red, he turned back and admired the gruesome scene.

 

Zach was still trembling; erratic spasms rippled the muscles under his smooth, sperm-glazed flesh.  Above the splayed legs, the teen’s long dick was still semi-erect, a faint trickle of pearly ooze leaking from the head onto his flat belly.  A pool of cum was congealing in the shallow smooth valley between the slight mounds of the youth’s pectorals.  The arms, of course, were still twisted behind the corpse’s back.

 

Taking another drag on his cigarette, the Trucker vaguely wondered if keys to official law enforcement handcuffs were universal across states or agencies or some other way.  If not, the coroner was gonna have a fun time; the keys had gone out the cab window somewhere on the other side of the state line.

 

Above the chest, things got ugly.  The thick leather belt was sunk so deeply into the boy’s throat that the Trucker had no intention of trying to retrieve it—something else for the coroner to enjoy.  And above that, the face was still swollen and congested with blood; the lividity would slowly drain away but that process had not yet begun.  As a result, Zach’s face bore no trace of his usual expression of slack-jawed adolescent lust.  Instead, it spoke eloquently of the torture the kid had endured, the agonizing pain and nightmarish terror in which the teenager had died.

 

The rolled-back eyes gave a blank white stare while the tongue, livid and swollen, still protruded from between blue lips.  The punk’s smooth cheeks were streaked with drool, snot and blood, but none of the wounds were bleeding anymore; even his mangled ears had stopped seeping.  At least one wasn’t; the other was hidden by the youth’s ponytail coiled beside it.

 

Even the room attested to the horrific violence of the teen’s murder.  The broken lamp and the shattered whiskey bottle—still adding its heady scent to the musky, smoky atmosphere of the room—were just the start of the physical destruction; the Trucker had deliberately targeted his violence towards the parts of the room he’d destroyed on his earlier visit.

 

After all, that was why he’d placed his clothes in the dresser drawer.  This time, they wouldn’t be covered with glass.

 

The buff older man picked his way across the debris-strewn floor and got the bag containing his clothes.  Snatching his pack of smokes as well, he crossed to the bathroom.  Soaking a hand towel in warm water, he wiped the dead teen fag’s spunk out of his body fur.   Wadding the towel up, he tossed it into the toilet before sitting down, pulling off the knee-high boots and stripping himself from the beige chinos trousers.  Just for the fuck of it, he rolled the latter into a ball and dropped it in the toilet as well, first fishing the diamond-chip studs out of the pocket.

 

It took just a minute to wriggle back into his familiar tight jeans and snug cotton t-shirt; it took even less to slip the trucker cap back onto his tousled black locks, slick with sweat.  Since his tube socks had never come off, he simply stepped into his scuffed work boots and left them loosely laced and untied. He pocketed the studs, picked up his bag and the cop’s boots and walked out of the bathroom.

 

Approaching the bed, he decided to add one bit of artifice to the naturally-posed scene.  He left the still-trembling corpse with one boot placed upright on the face and one on the groin.  He had no doubt they’d topple and perhaps dislodge before the body was found, but it didn’t matter.

 

It was dark and still outside.  The Trucker moved slowly along the pavement to the edge of the property, where he could walk along the edge of the blacktop.  That way, his boots wouldn’t thump with each footfall until he reached the street.  Not that there was anyone watching, of course, but avoiding attention immediately after a snuff was innate to the experienced sexual sadist by now; it was how he avoided capture for so long.  But loose ends like that little piece of shit needed to get what they deserved—which was sliding down the Trucker’s cock into their graves.

 

The muscled hardman grinned coldly.  He started whistling as he strode back to his rig.

M4M41(+1)

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot.  He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

 

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym.  In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body.  He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

 

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up.  The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

 

The youth snapped out of his reverie.  It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down.  Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

 

The “cocksucker” was actually already there.  Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

 

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up.  Well, that, and throw off any investigation.  Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

 

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim.  And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

 

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean.  The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

 

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship.  But it had to be discreet.  He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

 

Joe chuckled.  He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself.  And then he’d turn him into meat.

 

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick.  After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway.  And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags.  But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

 

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

 

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching.  The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it.  The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough.  Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

 

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear.  The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection.  Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

 

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style.  They looked clean and new.  His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

 

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time.  The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

 

After all, in a way, he was.

 

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent.  His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied.  Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

 

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close.  “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

 

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in.  As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

 

Joe grinned.  It was perfect.  Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

 

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness.  As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode.  “So, man, ya ready to drain my load?  Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!”  Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

 

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot.  But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting.  Jake was gonna finish up soon.  “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me.  We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

 

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250.  Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles.  It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

 

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot.  Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street.  Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked.  “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

 

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan.  Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street.  The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

 

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left.  Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property.  He opened the door and let Joe in.

 

On the inside, the condo was small.  The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner.  Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom.  The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

 

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up.  Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right.  It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else.  The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

 

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

 

Andy took off his running jacket.  Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser.  “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket.  “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.”  Closing the door, he turned back to Joe.  “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

 

He never saw the blow coming.  Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door.  Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

 

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain.  His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap.  As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

 

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin.  There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

 

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger.  “Dude, you made a huge mistake.  When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear?  I’m gonna—“

 

“Yeah?” Joe growled abruptly, cutting Andy’s bluster off mid-stride.  “Whaddaya think yer gonna do to me, faggot?”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger.  “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

 

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.”  As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities.  In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

 

Andy grunted and kicked.  Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself.  As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing.  His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

 

That was what was binding his hands.  Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather.  Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it.  He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

 

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it.  He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

 

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself.  “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

 

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck.  Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver.  The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

 

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs.  With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles.  They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him.  And it was just about time to get started…

 

That’s when Joe heard the lock on the front door.  “J-jake,” Andy gasped irregularly, “h-he’ll fu-fu-fuck ya up…”

 

The roommate was coming home.  Joe realized he had to act quickly.  Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

 

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try.  Joe was counting on it.  Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

 

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping.  The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

 

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice.  “Hey, dude, were are ya?  I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

 

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated.  He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth.  He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it.  His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

 

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door.  A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room.  “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

 

Jake grunted and whirled around.  Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes.  His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

 

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was.  He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand.  The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.  The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

 

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow.  Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

 

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer.  Your buddy is straight?  Too bad—sucks to be him.”

 

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth.  “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

 

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude.  Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was.  He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle.  Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

 

After all, he was gonna be here a while.  His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

 

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles.  Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time.  He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

 

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser.  He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire.  Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back.  With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding.  Now all he needed was something for the feet…

 

There—draped over the closet doorknob.  A jump rope; perfect.  In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

 

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed.  Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall.  It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body.  The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

 

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay.  Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

 

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home.  A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble.  What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

 

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him.  The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

 

But the cigarette was what angered him.  He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted.  It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally.  There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

 

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly.  “What’s wrong, bitch?  Ya not inta smoke?”  With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

 

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain.  “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!”  He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back.  The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

 

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared.  He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw.  As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

 

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick.  As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

 

“No…” the trapped boy moaned thickly.  “D-don’t, man, k-keep aw-away…p-p-please…”

 

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed.  “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh?  What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt?  Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

 

“What?” Andy yelped.  The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

 

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs.  Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

 

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

 

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole.  The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was too much, too intense.  He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

 

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock.  As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

 

Jake was waking up.

 

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare.  Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head.  As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed.  The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right.  He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

 

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted.  And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped.  Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Joe growled, spitting into the hot Asian boy’s face, “take my fuckin’ rod, you motherfuckin’ homo cunt!”  As his huge tool plowed into Andy’s tender ass, the thick veined ridges on his shaft tore at the unfortunate cunt’s soft fuckhole like barbed wire.

 

It was too much.  Andy shrieked, loud and hard, his vocal cords stretching taut and sending a vibration that echoed through his entire body.  Joe felt it and shuddered in pleasure.

 

Jake felt it and shuddered in terror.

 

Joe was still pissed.  “Goddam queer-ass fag motherfucker!” he snarled in anger, “Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit!  Yer makin’ more noise than you’re worth, you little homo cunt—guess I need to stop yer fuckin’ pig squealing, cunt.  Lessee now, what’s good to choke off your cumsucking throat…”

 

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand.  Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside.  Joe seized on it like a gift.

 

“Oh hell yeah, this work fuckin’ great,” he smirked diabolically.  “Dude, you musta wanted this—you damn sure dressed to get snuffed, faggot!”

 

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote.  Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

 

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good.  Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry.  He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

 

And it was a frenzy.  It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

 

That wasn’t supposed to happen.  He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

 

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him.  Watching him get fucked.

 

Watching him die.

 

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody.  He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly.  As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly.  Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

 

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though.  His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally.  The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

 

After that, Joe was more deliberate.  Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it.  But then, a distraction—

 

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably.  “What’s goin’ on?  Andy?  Dude?  What the fuck is happening?”  His voice shook with impending tears.

 

“What the fuck is happening, dude,” Joe sneered, turning to look Jake straight in his terrified, uncomprehending face, “is that your bud here is gettin’ some dick.  And then I’m gonna waste him.  Watch close, motherfucker—when I’m done with him, it’ll be your turn.”

 

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face.  “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you.  So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

 

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole.  As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

 

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course.  “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror.  “I ain’t gay!  Andy ain’t gay!  We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

 

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right.  “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

 

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee.  “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy?  Huh?  And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh?  I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick.  He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too.  I mean, it only makes sense, right?  So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

 

With a faint chuckle, Joe hovered close over Andy and spat in his face yet again.  “But first,” he chuckled quietly, “I gotta off this motherfucking pervert.  Ya look healthy, boy.  Too bad.  Just means you’re gonna suffer longer.”

 

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them.  He was suffering enough already.  A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen.  Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

 

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain.  The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain.  The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

 

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

 

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying.  Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump.  Ya like that?  Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya!  It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

 

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror.  It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point.  Andy was getting raped.  Andy was getting murdered.  Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple.  His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

 

It was the stuff of nightmare.  But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

 

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts.  Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

 

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded.  Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

 

Maybe he was gay.  But Jake wasn’t.  He was gonna fight.

 

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought.  Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought.  And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

 

His audience in mind, Joe resumed taunting Andy.  “Like it, dontcha, cunt?  You fuckin’ love havin’ a real man hold you down and put you in yer place, huh, fag?  Can’t hide it when ya die, boy, yer hard cock is tellin’ your buddy here how much yer lovin’ this, you useless homo cum dumpster!”

 

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again.  “Stop!” he screeched.  “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

 

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat.  He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw.  He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face.  “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive.  He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet.  He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

 

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him.  A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock.  Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

 

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

 

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish.  The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

 

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that.  Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

 

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder.  He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff.  He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

 

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering.  Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

 

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face.  It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail.  Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

 

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts.  He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

 

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too.  Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

 

“Watch ‘im, dude,” he grunted as his firm, furry ass flexed with his energetic thrusts, “watch ‘im choke.  Fuck, man his dyin’ ass is grippin’ my shaft so tight—the harder I squeeze his throat, the harder he squeezes my dick.  Goddam dickpig likes it, yeah?  An’ I bet you’ll fuckin’ love it, you worthless cocksucking faggot!”

 

 

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death.  His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

 

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought.  His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions.  His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

 

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable.  The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death.  Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth.  One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

 

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock.  His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts.  Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

 

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock.  “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth.  “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is?  Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

 

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck.  Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch.  Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

 

Andy himself experienced it differently.  For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body.  Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

 

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness.  They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

 

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

 

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

 

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff.  And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it.  Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs.  Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

 

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back.  The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum.  The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath.  He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

 

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle.  As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room.  The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

 

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp.  Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head.  The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen.  His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle.  Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

 

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath.  The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall.  He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

 

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom.  For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

 

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom.  A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence.  The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness.  It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

 

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor.  He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy.  But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

 

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse.  It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move.  Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

 

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate.  “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy!  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

 

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead.  His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him.  The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

 

He needed more of the same, Joe realized.  A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

 

Maybe a little foot worship.  He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

 

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it.  Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

 

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

 

Jake was still far too confused to understand.  He remained motionless.

 

“Take his sneaker off, you stupid scumshit, or I will hurt you.”

 

This registered.  Jake blinked twice and shook himself.  “Take-what?  T-take it off? B-b-but my han-hands…”

 

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert.  You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet.  Do it!”

 

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought.  Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip.  Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

 

“Good bitch,” Joe sneered.  “Keep goin’, fag.  Get the shoe off, bitch.”

 

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head.  To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze.  His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

 

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker.  Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab.  Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

 

It took several minutes.  Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull.  He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire.  It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

 

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off.  The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

 

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done.  “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

 

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

 

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain.  He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve.  He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

 

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot.  As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

 

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out.  Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

 

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage.  “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

 

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind.  The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face.  “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief.  This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay.  And Jake wasn’t gay.

 

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock.  “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face.  “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

 

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion.  Joe next statement was what motivated him.  “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

 

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze.  Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

 

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth.  Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

 

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance.  “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

 

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear.  Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

 

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy.  He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

 

 

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum.  Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

 

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out.  But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

 

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily.  “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.”  But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat.  His heaving got stronger.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up.  The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed.  “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya.  But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker.  Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first.  Lessee, what’ll work…”

 

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva.  “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth.  Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat.  “There ya go, asswipe.  Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

 

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point.  The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control.  Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

 

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel.  But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury.  He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp.  Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

 

And reeking of mansex.  It was Andy’s cumrag.

 

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half.  He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric.  “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat.  He could, and would do what he said.

 

Jake had to obey.  His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey.  He had no choice.  He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance.  And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot.  Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

 

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them.  Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids.  He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

 

“You stupid cumsucking piece of shit,” Joe chuckled malignly, “did ya think I was really gonna let ya try to bite my cock?  Fuckin’ dumbass faggot, yer gonna pay for that—and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you worthless asswipe!”

 

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes.  His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it.  He was truly helpless now.  This couldn’t be happening.  Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this.  He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

 

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy.  “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me.  Work me.  Milk me…”

 

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy.  The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear.  His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat.  As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

 

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie.  The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

 

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym.  This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving.  It was a surreal nightmare.  The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

 

Then Joe made it real.  Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock.  And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

 

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock.  Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

 

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee.  He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow.  His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

 

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness.  The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

 

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice.  “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert.  I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh?  Yeah, faggot?  Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

 

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat.  “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted.  A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

 

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down.  Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

 

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

 

Pubic hair.  Another dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?  How—how had this happened?  He’d gone to do his usual routine after work.  Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home.  As usual.

 

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered.  And some dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?

 

And then a new imperative arose.  His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant.  But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock.  It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

 

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

 

He wasn’t gonna let it happen.  His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize.  He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee.  “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh?  Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet.  C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes.  In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

 

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus.  The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

 

“Fuckin’-A, ya homo cocksucker, that’s it.  Work my dick as you die, fuckmeat; lessee if you can milk more cum outta me than your dead butt-buddy here.  Yer last sensation is gonna be my spurtin’ sperm floodin’ yer lungs—don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  C’mon, you faggot motherfucker, show me how grateful yer gonna be for my load!”

 

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken.  It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing.  Or oozing at the tip.

 

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen.  He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face.  He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

 

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse.  He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing.  But then there were NO words to describe the entirety.

 

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did.  He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

 

He was dying with an erection.  That-that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Ever.

 

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth.  And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse.  And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

 

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions.  In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

 

It’d catch on soon enough.  Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy.  Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

 

Not when it was getting so good…

 

“That’s it, faggot, let go.  Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost.  Go on and die.  It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool.  Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

 

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool.  “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die.  You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

 

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand.  If he had, he might have agreed.  Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch.  He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation.  He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

 

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum.  As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms.  The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

 

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull.  His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat.  Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse.  Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

 

And then he died.  Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco.  In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc.  This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

 

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life.  The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier.  If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

 

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive.  The boy had come bolt upright on his knees.  His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin.  His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down.  But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

 

Jake was already dead.  In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

 

He fell on top of Andy.  Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

 

Joe looked down at himself.  “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

 

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly.  Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

 

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers.  Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure.  No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

 

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet.  He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

 

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry.  Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight.  It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous.  It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

 

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen.  It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat.  Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy.  Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing.  First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

 

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before.  But now…

 

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses.  Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back.  His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists.  The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

 

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen.  The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin.  The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

 

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

 

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead.  As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes.  His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat.  His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

 

Too late for that now.

 

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits.  As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

 

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room.  The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

 

It was too much for Joe.  He wanted a piece of that action.  Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest.  The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

 

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist.  There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked.  The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

 

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed.  But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer.  He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

 

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head.  He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

 

And he was still horny.  He still had more seed to unload.  Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones.  Whatever—it didn’t matter.

 

What mattered was that he needed to cum.  Again.

 

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was.  Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight.  Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test.  If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry.  And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

 

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

 

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness.  There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

 

Stupid piece of shit.  Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to.  Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

 

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself.  Joe smiled.  He understood.  That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves.  And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

 

That’s how they knew.  That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down.  They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

 

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening.  At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

 

And then the rodeo was on.

 

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself.  He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

 

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body.  Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head.  As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

 

Fuck.  He’d snapped Jake’s neck too.  Oh well.

 

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy.  It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser.  He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

 

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it.  While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it.  Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

 

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped.  Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible.  Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could.  Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them.  The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

 

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea.  Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks?  Fuckin’ hot!

 

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly.  He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up.  That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

 

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor.  “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face.  The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

 

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth.  Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

 

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop.  As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

 

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door.  Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with?  The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot.  He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

 

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym.  In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body.  He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

 

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up.  The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

 

The youth snapped out of his reverie.  It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down.  Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

 

The “cocksucker” was actually already there.  Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

 

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up.  Well, that, and throw off any investigation.  Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

 

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim.  And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

 

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean.  The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

 

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship.  But it had to be discreet.  He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

 

Joe chuckled.  He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself.  And then he’d turn him into meat.

 

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick.  After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway.  And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags.  But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

 

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

 

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching.  The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it.  The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough.  Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

 

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear.  The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection.  Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

 

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style.  They looked clean and new.  His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

 

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time.  The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

 

After all, in a way, he was.

 

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent.  His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied.  Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

 

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close.  “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

 

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in.  As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

 

Joe grinned.  It was perfect.  Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

 

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness.  As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode.  “So, man, ya ready to drain my load?  Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!”  Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

 

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot.  But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting.  Jake was gonna finish up soon.  “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me.  We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

 

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250.  Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles.  It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

 

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot.  Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street.  Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked.  “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

 

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan.  Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street.  The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

 

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left.  Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property.  He opened the door and let Joe in.

 

On the inside, the condo was small.  The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner.  Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom.  The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

 

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up.  Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right.  It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else.  The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

 

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

 

Andy took off his running jacket.  Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser.  “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket.  “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.”  Closing the door, he turned back to Joe.  “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

 

He never saw the blow coming.  Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door.  Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

 

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain.  His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap.  As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

 

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin.  There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

 

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger.  “Dude, you made a huge mistake.  When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear?  I’m gonna—“

 

“Yeah?” Joe growled abruptly, cutting Andy’s bluster off mid-stride.  “Whaddaya think yer gonna do to me, faggot?”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger.  “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

 

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.”  As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities.  In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

 

Andy grunted and kicked.  Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself.  As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing.  His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

 

That was what was binding his hands.  Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather.  Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it.  He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

 

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it.  He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

 

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself.  “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

 

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck.  Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver.  The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

 

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs.  With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles.  They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him.  And it was just about time to get started…

 

That’s when Joe heard the lock on the front door.  “J-jake,” Andy gasped irregularly, “h-he’ll fu-fu-fuck ya up…”

 

The roommate was coming home.  Joe realized he had to act quickly.  Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

 

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try.  Joe was counting on it.  Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

 

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping.  The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

 

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice.  “Hey, dude, were are ya?  I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

 

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated.  He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth.  He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it.  His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

 

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door.  A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room.  “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

 

Jake grunted and whirled around.  Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes.  His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

 

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was.  He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand.  The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.  The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

 

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow.  Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

 

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer.  Your buddy is straight?  Too bad—sucks to be him.”

 

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth.  “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

 

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude.  Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was.  He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle.  Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

 

After all, he was gonna be here a while.  His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

 

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles.  Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time.  He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

 

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser.  He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire.  Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back.  With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding.  Now all he needed was something for the feet…

 

There—draped over the closet doorknob.  A jump rope; perfect.  In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

 

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed.  Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall.  It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body.  The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

 

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay.  Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

 

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home.  A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble.  What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

 

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him.  The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

 

But the cigarette was what angered him.  He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted.  It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally.  There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

 

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly.  “What’s wrong, bitch?  Ya not inta smoke?”  With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

 

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain.  “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!”  He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back.  The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

 

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared.  He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw.  As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

 

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick.  As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

 

“No…” the trapped boy moaned thickly.  “D-don’t, man, k-keep aw-away…p-p-please…”

 

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed.  “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh?  What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt?  Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

 

“What?” Andy yelped.  The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

 

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs.  Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

 

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

 

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole.  The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was too much, too intense.  He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

 

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock.  As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

 

Jake was waking up.

 

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare.  Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head.  As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed.  The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right.  He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

 

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted.  And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped.  Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Joe growled, spitting into the hot Asian boy’s face, “take my fuckin’ rod, you motherfuckin’ homo cunt!”  As his huge tool plowed into Andy’s tender ass, the thick veined ridges on his shaft tore at the unfortunate cunt’s soft fuckhole like barbed wire.

 

It was too much.  Andy shrieked, loud and hard, his vocal cords stretching taut and sending a vibration that echoed through his entire body.  Joe felt it and shuddered in pleasure.

 

Jake felt it and shuddered in terror.

 

Joe was still pissed.  “Goddam queer-ass fag motherfucker!” he snarled in anger, “Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit!  Yer makin’ more noise than you’re worth, you little homo cunt—guess I need to stop yer fuckin’ pig squealing, cunt.  Lessee now, what’s good to choke off your cumsucking throat…”

 

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand.  Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside.  Joe seized on it like a gift.

 

“Oh hell yeah, this work fuckin’ great,” he smirked diabolically.  “Dude, you musta wanted this—you damn sure dressed to get snuffed, faggot!”

 

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote.  Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

 

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good.  Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry.  He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

 

And it was a frenzy.  It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

 

That wasn’t supposed to happen.  He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

 

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him.  Watching him get fucked.

 

Watching him die.

 

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody.  He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly.  As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly.  Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

 

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though.  His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally.  The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

 

After that, Joe was more deliberate.  Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it.  But then, a distraction—

 

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably.  “What’s goin’ on?  Andy?  Dude?  What the fuck is happening?”  His voice shook with impending tears.

 

“What the fuck is happening, dude,” Joe sneered, turning to look Jake straight in his terrified, uncomprehending face, “is that your bud here is gettin’ some dick.  And then I’m gonna waste him.  Watch close, motherfucker—when I’m done with him, it’ll be your turn.”

 

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face.  “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you.  So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

 

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole.  As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

 

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course.  “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror.  “I ain’t gay!  Andy ain’t gay!  We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

 

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right.  “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

 

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee.  “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy?  Huh?  And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh?  I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick.  He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too.  I mean, it only makes sense, right?  So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

 

With a faint chuckle, Joe hovered close over Andy and spat in his face yet again.  “But first,” he chuckled quietly, “I gotta off this motherfucking pervert.  Ya look healthy, boy.  Too bad.  Just means you’re gonna suffer longer.”

 

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them.  He was suffering enough already.  A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen.  Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

 

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain.  The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain.  The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

 

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

 

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying.  Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump.  Ya like that?  Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya!  It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

 

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror.  It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point.  Andy was getting raped.  Andy was getting murdered.  Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple.  His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

 

It was the stuff of nightmare.  But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

 

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts.  Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

 

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded.  Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

 

Maybe he was gay.  But Jake wasn’t.  He was gonna fight.

 

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought.  Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought.  And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

 

His audience in mind, Joe resumed taunting Andy.  “Like it, dontcha, cunt?  You fuckin’ love havin’ a real man hold you down and put you in yer place, huh, fag?  Can’t hide it when ya die, boy, yer hard cock is tellin’ your buddy here how much yer lovin’ this, you useless homo cum dumpster!”

 

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again.  “Stop!” he screeched.  “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

 

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat.  He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw.  He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face.  “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive.  He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet.  He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

 

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him.  A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock.  Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

 

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

 

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish.  The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

 

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that.  Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

 

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder.  He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff.  He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

 

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering.  Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

 

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face.  It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail.  Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

 

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts.  He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

 

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too.  Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

 

“Watch ‘im, dude,” he grunted as his firm, furry ass flexed with his energetic thrusts, “watch ‘im choke.  Fuck, man his dyin’ ass is grippin’ my shaft so tight—the harder I squeeze his throat, the harder he squeezes my dick.  Goddam dickpig likes it, yeah?  An’ I bet you’ll fuckin’ love it, you worthless cocksucking faggot!”

 

 

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death.  His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

 

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought.  His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions.  His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

 

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable.  The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death.  Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth.  One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

 

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock.  His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts.  Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

 

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock.  “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth.  “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is?  Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

 

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck.  Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch.  Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

 

Andy himself experienced it differently.  For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body.  Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

 

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness.  They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

 

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

 

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

 

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff.  And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it.  Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs.  Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

 

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back.  The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum.  The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath.  He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

 

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle.  As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room.  The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

 

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp.  Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head.  The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen.  His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle.  Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

 

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath.  The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall.  He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

 

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom.  For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

 

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom.  A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence.  The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness.  It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

 

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor.  He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy.  But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

 

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse.  It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move.  Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

 

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate.  “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy!  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

 

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead.  His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him.  The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

 

He needed more of the same, Joe realized.  A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

 

Maybe a little foot worship.  He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

 

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it.  Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

 

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

 

Jake was still far too confused to understand.  He remained motionless.

 

“Take his sneaker off, you stupid scumshit, or I will hurt you.”

 

This registered.  Jake blinked twice and shook himself.  “Take-what?  T-take it off? B-b-but my han-hands…”

 

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert.  You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet.  Do it!”

 

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought.  Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip.  Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

 

“Good bitch,” Joe sneered.  “Keep goin’, fag.  Get the shoe off, bitch.”

 

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head.  To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze.  His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

 

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker.  Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab.  Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

 

It took several minutes.  Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull.  He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire.  It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

 

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off.  The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

 

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done.  “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

 

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

 

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain.  He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve.  He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

 

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot.  As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

 

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out.  Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

 

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage.  “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

 

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind.  The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face.  “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief.  This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay.  And Jake wasn’t gay.

 

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock.  “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face.  “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

 

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion.  Joe next statement was what motivated him.  “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

 

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze.  Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

 

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth.  Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

 

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance.  “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

 

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear.  Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

 

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy.  He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

 

 

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum.  Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

 

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out.  But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

 

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily.  “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.”  But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat.  His heaving got stronger.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up.  The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed.  “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya.  But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker.  Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first.  Lessee, what’ll work…”

 

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva.  “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth.  Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat.  “There ya go, asswipe.  Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

 

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point.  The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control.  Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

 

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel.  But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury.  He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp.  Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

 

And reeking of mansex.  It was Andy’s cumrag.

 

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half.  He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric.  “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat.  He could, and would do what he said.

 

Jake had to obey.  His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey.  He had no choice.  He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance.  And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot.  Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

 

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them.  Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids.  He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

 

“You stupid cumsucking piece of shit,” Joe chuckled malignly, “did ya think I was really gonna let ya try to bite my cock?  Fuckin’ dumbass faggot, yer gonna pay for that—and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you worthless asswipe!”

 

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes.  His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it.  He was truly helpless now.  This couldn’t be happening.  Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this.  He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

 

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy.  “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me.  Work me.  Milk me…”

 

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy.  The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear.  His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat.  As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

 

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie.  The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

 

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym.  This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving.  It was a surreal nightmare.  The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

 

Then Joe made it real.  Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock.  And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

 

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock.  Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

 

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee.  He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow.  His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

 

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness.  The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

 

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice.  “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert.  I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh?  Yeah, faggot?  Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

 

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat.  “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted.  A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

 

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down.  Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

 

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

 

Pubic hair.  Another dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?  How—how had this happened?  He’d gone to do his usual routine after work.  Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home.  As usual.

 

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered.  And some dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?

 

And then a new imperative arose.  His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant.  But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock.  It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

 

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

 

He wasn’t gonna let it happen.  His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize.  He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee.  “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh?  Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet.  C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes.  In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

 

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus.  The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

 

“Fuckin’-A, ya homo cocksucker, that’s it.  Work my dick as you die, fuckmeat; lessee if you can milk more cum outta me than your dead butt-buddy here.  Yer last sensation is gonna be my spurtin’ sperm floodin’ yer lungs—don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  C’mon, you faggot motherfucker, show me how grateful yer gonna be for my load!”

 

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken.  It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing.  Or oozing at the tip.

 

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen.  He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face.  He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

 

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse.  He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing.  But then there were no words to describe the entirety.

 

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did.  He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

 

He was dying with an erection.  That-that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Ever.

 

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth.  And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse.  And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

 

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions.  In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

 

It’d catch on soon enough.  Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy.  Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

 

Not when it was getting so good…

 

“That’s it, faggot, let go.  Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost.  Go on and die.  It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool.  Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

 

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool.  “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die.  You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

 

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand.  If he had, he might have agreed.  Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch.  He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation.  He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

 

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum.  As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms.  The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

 

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull.  His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat.  Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse.  Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

 

And then he died.  Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco.  In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc.  This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

 

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life.  The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier.  If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

 

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive.  The boy had come bolt upright on his knees.  His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin.  His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down.  But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

 

Jake was already dead.  In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

 

He fell on top of Andy.  Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

 

Joe looked down at himself.  “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

 

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly.  Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

 

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers.  Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure.  No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

 

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet.  He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

 

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry.  Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight.  It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous.  It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

 

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen.  It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat.  Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy.  Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing.  First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

 

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before.  But now…

 

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses.  Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back.  His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists.  The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

 

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen.  The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin.  The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

 

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

 

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead.  As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes.  His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat.  His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

 

Too late for that now.

 

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits.  As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

 

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room.  The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

 

It was too much for Joe.  He wanted a piece of that action.  Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest.  The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

 

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist.  There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked.  The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

 

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed.  But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer.  He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

 

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head.  He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

 

And he was still horny.  He still had more seed to unload.  Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones.  Whatever—it didn’t matter.

 

What mattered was that he needed to cum.  Again.

 

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was.  Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight.  Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test.  If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry.  And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

 

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

 

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness.  There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

 

Stupid piece of shit.  Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to.  Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

 

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself.  Joe smiled.  He understood.  That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves.  And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

 

That’s how they knew.  That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down.  They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

 

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening.  At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

 

And then the rodeo was on.

 

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself.  He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

 

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body.  Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head.  As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

 

Fuck.  He’d snapped Jake’s neck too.  Oh well.

 

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy.  It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser.  He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

 

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it.  While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it.  Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

 

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped.  Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible.  Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could.  Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them.  The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

 

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea.  Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks?  Fuckin’ hot!

 

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly.  He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up.  That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

 

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor.  “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face.  The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

 

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth.  Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

 

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop.  As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

 

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door.  Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with?  The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Convict 3–No Trace of Mercy

As Carlos merged back onto the highway from the Winterbourne Road onramp, he became aware of a loud whistling sound accompanied by a jet of cold air.  Glancing up, he realized that the strip of duct tape covering a tear in the convertible roof had peeled off.

 

His broad, tattooed chest was still glistening with sweat from his revenge fuck.  Even though it wasn’t that cold outside, it was chilly enough to be uncomfortable against his bare skin.  He abruptly made up his mind to head back to his motel room for a moment.

 

He wasn’t done for the night, fuck no.  His adrenaline and testosterone were flowing; he was flush with cash—and he was hard again.  A quick stop to pick up a couple of things, and he’d be back on the street.

 

Another unlucky fag was gonna get snuffed tonight.  He was out there somewhere, right now, trolling the streets for dick.

 

Carlos put the pedal down.  He was unaware of the ugly leer that twisted his hard, handsome face into a sadistic grimace; he just knew he was in a hurry.  He was riding a high fueled by lust and endorphins, and he was gonna take advantage of it.  The twenty minutes it took to get back across town to his motel seemed endless.

 

He was in the room for only about five minutes.  After hiding the cash, it only took seconds to cross to the closet and pull a jacket off a hanger.  He’d gotten it at a pawn shop earlier that day, after he’d bought his other clothes.  It was a heavy leather biker jacket, a brand named “American Armor”.  Slightly worn but in excellent shape, it had zippered sleeves, wide double-breasted lapels with snaps and a thick quilted lining; it was legitimately made for a biker.

 

And used by one, to judge by the smell.  It was rank with sweat and smoke, but above all, the dense, heady scent of leather emanated strongly from it; one whiff would get the fag pigs running.

 

Laying the jacket across the back of a chair he dug in the closet for another purchase he’d made that day, this time in an army surplus store.  Taking the box to the bed, he opened it to reveal a new pair of black nylon combat boots with thick rubber soles and—the real selling point for Carlos—a boot sheath in each one, for right- or left-handed action.

 

The brawny convict sat on the bed and slipped his engineer boots off, noticing a stain of Will’s blood on the right toe.  He quickly wiped it off with a tissue before carefully setting the boots to the side.  They were still his favorite, but the new pair would hold a knife better.

 

He laced them tightly up his calf, making sure they were snug.  In the future, he’d use the zippers on the sides, but he needed to ensure the fit the first time.  He also needed to test the fit of his knife; he wasn’t sure the sheath was designed to handle his foot-long blade.

 

Carlos paused on the way out the door, admiring his hard, lightly-furred body in the mirror.  He was still all in black, from his combat utility boots to his tight jeans to the musky jacket hanging open and giving a tantalizing glimpse of his broad pecs and ripped abs.  Even the shiny black do-rag was still knotted onto his shaved head.

 

 

The hard-bodied convict grinned.  He looked hot, and he knew it.  What’s more, he looked dangerous.  The bulge in his jeans several inches below his knee caused by the handle of his knife wasn’t obvious enough to cause comment, but it might cause some interest.  No true bottom pig faggot would be able to turn him down, and he was counting on it.

 

His earlier prey had been specifically targeted for money, but now Carlos was flush with cash.  When he stalked out of hotel room, he wasn’t out to find a victim with cash.

 

A demon of sexual rage still burned in his chest. This time, he was just out to make a homo slut suffer.

 

Back in the stolen Mustang, back on the prowl.  Carlos was looking for meat on the hoof and he knew where to find it—back at his old cruising grounds.  Actually, he’d had several, all notorious pick-up spots in disreputable areas on the edge of the gay ghetto, several of which had been redeveloped while he was in the pen.

 

River Oak Park hadn’t, though.  It was still dilapidated and dark; the trails that wound under the eponymous oaks had large areas of zero visibility where the pathway lights were out.  At least it had the oaks; the “river”—more an embanked storm culvert than a natural waterway—was dry with the lack of recent rain.

 

It wasn’t a place most people chose to use for relaxation, so it became a place a few people chose to use for sex.  Carlos had met the fag he’d whacked—the one he got sent away for—in this park; then they’d driven elsewhere.

 

He’d put out his headlights even before pulling into the parking lot; his car a dark shape gliding among several others.  Drifting slowly into a space, he shut the vehicle off and glanced around.

 

Even in the dim light—only three of parking lot’s sixteen light poles were working—he could see several dudes.  Some were hanging out in the parking lot itself; as he watched, he saw one boy, barely out of his teens, so fucked on booze or drugs—well, it must have been something to make him crawl in through an open window instead of just opening the car door.  Whatever the case was, the car started up and left the park immediately.

 

Carlos wondered idly if the boy would be seen alive again. If it had been his car…

 

Other dudes seem to emerge out of and melt back into the darkness of the park.  Carlos decided it was time to get out; he wasn’t gonna do anything in the car, at any rate.

 

As his broad, muscular body slipped into invisibility under the bare, interlocking branches of the oaks, he moved forward silently.  The rubber soles of his combat boots had been designed for stealth; it emphasized the intensity of the hunt.

 

Carlos was horny, hard, and ready to kill again.  Time to take down another worthless cocksucking pansy.  His black eyes, wide and sparkling in the darkness, peered around eagerly.  So many disgusting fags; who was gonna be the lucky cunt to taste his sperm and his steel?

 

Just under a mile away, the creek bed made a sharp turn south.  The path, running along the north side of the creek, bent as well.  The inside of the bend, on the south side of the path between it and the creek, was actually a flat peninsula screened by brush—very popular and currently in use by several couples.

 

North of the path the land was also covered with low-lying underbrush, but rising to the north as it did, it was less congenial to immediate public buttfucking; one had to hike some ways up a hill to reach a level but secluded clearing.  Still, that side of the path wasn’t unpopulated.

 

Trace stood alone in the dark, in the bushes on the north of the path, angry and impatient.  The teen shifted, his long, lean body stiff and uncomfortable.  Jimmy shoulda been there almost an hour ago; Trace wasn’t gonna wait for him much longer.  After all, he’d sneaked out of his house that night just so Jimmy could skullfuck him.

 

If Jimmy wasn’t gonna show, Trace was sure he could find other dudes to ream his throat just has hard as Jimmy did.

 

Trace was just six weeks past his eighteenth birthday; his wide blue eyes made him look even younger.  His black hair was long and carefully negligent, with long bangs spread over his forehead, almost hanging into his eyes.  In the back, it was longer and layered.  Combined with his smooth cheeks and wide, easy-going grin, he had a look that ensured he got what he wanted in terms of sex.

 

Trace could have had any girl in the senior class, but what he wanted was Jimmy, tight end on the football team.  It wasn’t that Trace was pining for a sports hero to take his virginity—he’d been with half the football team and a third of both the basketball team and the wrestling team before he got out of his junior year—but there was something about Jimmy…

 

Jimmy was straight.  If he wasn’t, he was good at playing it—he’d only meet Trace in the park after dark, in a pre-arranged location so no one would know.  And it was hard to believe that his contempt for homosexuals was role-play, given the way he slapped Trace around while ruthlessly breeding his mouth.  One day, if he thought he could take the pain, he’d let Jimmy up his ass…

 

Trace had loved every fucking second of it.  And tonight, Jimmy wasn’t here.  Even worse, Trace could hear the sounds of sex all around him in the darkness.  He couldn’t see anything, but his teenage body was responding to the outpouring of semen and testosterone around him.

 

It was maddening.   It was an itch he couldn’t scratch—and it was centered deep in his balls.  The lean, well-built youth was as randy as a cat in heat.  He was done waiting for his top.

 

The lust- and hormone-fueled teen decided he couldn’t wait any more.  He followed his hard dick out into the darkness to meet his fate.

 

He was certainly dressed to meet someone.  Trace had a slim swimmer’s build—lean and firm, not scrawny—and he knew how to accentuate it.  Tonight, his smooth chest was covered with a simple white cotton t-shirt at least one size too small, looking as if it had been painted onto his low, broad pecs and his flat belly.

 

Since the night was chilly, he wore a blue denim button-down shirt open over the t-shirt.  His equally-revealing jogging jeans were less faded, but the way they clung to his tight ass and highlighted his package left nothing to the imagination.  The jeans had elastic gathering the ankles, so they appeared to be bloused into Trace’s red canvas Converse hightops.

 

The young fag hadn’t specifically dressed like a slut—but he was a slut, and a good-looking one at that, and he felt no need to hide his light under a bushel.  In fact, he wanted all the hot dudes to see just how much he was flaming.  Not that he was particularly effeminate.

 

But he did love dick.

 

Stepping out onto the path, the horny teen followed his eager, throbbing cock into the darkness.  The new moon, thin as a fingernail paring, shed little light and the occasional working light within the park itself didn’t do much to dispel the blackness.  Trace could sense other men just off the path, but couldn’t see exactly what they were doing—or if they were interested.

 

He walked on, the white soles of his canvas hightops almost silent on the paved footpath.  The ground to his left sloped down to the creek, while that on his right rose gently into a heavily wooded section of the greenbelt.  He’d wandered just over half a mile when he realized that he hadn’t seen anyone for a while.

 

Shrugging, Trace decided that dudes looking for a hookup didn’t go this far into the park.  He turned, deciding to try his luck in the parking lot, when he heard footsteps behind.

 

Instead of leaving, the young slut made the worst mistake of his life and paused to listen.  The footfalls were faint and the path curved around a bend in the creek five yards ahead—he couldn’t see anyone.

 

And then suddenly, there he was.  A tall, muscular stud, appearing out of the murk and looming over him.  Thirty feet back was a light pole; the glow wasn’t bright, but it was good enough to see the hot dude who’d come out of nowhere.

 

Just a single glance at the teen he stumbled across told Carlos all he needed to know.  After all, the little fuck wasn’t dressed to hide his assets; even in the dim lighting, he could see the punk’s thick junk through his tight jeans.  It was the eyes, though—the way lust illuminated them. Cat-like, they almost glowed in the dark.

 

The little faggot wanted it bad, Carlos realized.  Well, he was ready to give it—bad.  Real bad.

 

Trace gazed up in wonder at the muscled cholo looming over him.  The well-built dude was all in black, practically camouflage in this part of the park, but the aroused teen could still make out the older man’s huge pecs.  Even in the dim light, he could see the tattoos half-hidden under the leather jacket, the dark treasure trail undulating over the stud’s ripped abs as it disappeared beneath the waistband of the tight black denim.

 

Carlos had read the signs right.  A single look at the strapping con had driven all thoughts of Jimmy out of the youth’s mind.  This dude—this was a real man.  Trace wanted this guy inside him.  Deep.

 

Carlos could see the boy’s mouth open and silently mouth the word “wow” before his tongue darted quickly across his lips.  He knew the little fag was thinking about gagging on Carlos’s fat hog; the kid’s worthless pig lust was radiating palpably from his tight, hormone-filled body.

 

Time to make his move, he decided.  This was gonna be easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

 

It was just gonna be a lot, lot slower.

 

“Ya want my dick, boy?” Carlos grunted in a low voice, already knowing what the answer would be.

 

“Uh-huh,” Trace muttered, barely audible.  Tentatively, he reached his hand out toward the swollen bulge he could just barely discern in the top’s groin.

 

“Not here, puta,” Carlos snapped.  “I ain’t pluggin’ yer face on the path.  I don’t give no free shows, vato, got me?

 

Wide-eyed, the teen slut nodded; the gruff bass of the alpha’s hoarse voice seemed to vibrate along his spine and the root of his dick.  “Up there,” he gasped, jerking his head to the right where the ground sloped up to more dense woods.

 

As they turned and silently made their way uphill, Trace found himself walking stiffly.  His cock was so hard it hurt.

 

In a moment, they were picking their way through the trees.  The thick carpet of dead leaves crackled under the soles of the kid’s Converse sneakers.  Carlos’s military-style combat boots made much less noise.

 

Not that it mattered; they were too far back into the greenbelt to see the path.  Five yards further on, a high chain link fence marked the edge of park land.  Beyond, the tree line dwindled down to a swath of waste ground that bordered a landfill a mile away.

 

They were completely isolated, for all intents and purposes—even Carlos’s.

 

Trace’s hands fumbled hurriedly in his groin as he unzipped his fly to give some release to the aching six-inch cock trapped in his tight jeans.  Carlos stood and watched him in silent contempt—stupid little homo couldn’t even control his disgusting urges.

 

Well, then—Carlos was gonna have to control them for him.  Reaching down to his own groin, he hauled his huge tube of meat out, letting it dangle and drip in the night air.

 

The teen froze.  He was mesmerized by the older dude’s tool.  Fuck, Jimmy was hung, but this guy put Jimmy to shame.  He wanted this cock inside him, fuck, he wanted it so bad…

 

He swiftly shucked off his button-down shirt, tossing it negligently onto the ground before pulling off his tight t-shirt and tossing it on top of the other.  As he stepped toward Carlos, a thin sliver of faint moonlight illuminated his soft, flat belly and smooth chest, firm but not overly developed.

 

He approached the towering cholo stud, hesitantly but eagerly.  His huge blue eyes, framed by long lashes that added an extra hint of vulnerability to his beautiful, youthful face, turned expectantly up to those of the erotic, mysterious alpha.

 

Like a good bottom pig, he was awaiting orders.  He didn’t have long to wait.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” Carlos snarled abruptly.  “Down on your knees and gag on it, you worthless homo—now!”

 

Trace jerked, startled by the suddenness of the order, but he obeyed.  Falling to his knees on the soft flooring of leaves, he opened his mouth wide and took the swollen, oozing head into his mouth, tasting the salty drops of precum trickling from the tip.

 

Carlos grunted as the teen slowly began deepthroating him.  He felt the boy’s esophagus wrap tightly around his shaft as the kid buried his face in the alpha’s crotch, grinding his nose voluntarily into the stud’s pubic hair.

 

“Goddam, puta, you mother fuckin’ cocksucker,” the grinning killer hissed, “fuckin’ punk gobblin’ down my dick—you a natural born faggot, aintcha?”

 

Trace made the mistake of trying to answer, gurgling on the shaft of flesh jammed down his throat.  He was rewarded with a hard bitchslap across his face.  “Shaddap!” Carlos growled.  “Lick under my head, cunt.  Run your tongue down my tool.”

 

The boy obeyed, wrapping his arms around the stud’s thick, muscled legs.  As he chugged down the convict’s cock, he ran his hands up and down the taut denim, feeling Carlos’s hard, chiseled thighs and calves.  His hands sank lower and lower, down towards the alpha’s combat boots…

 

…and encountered the hilt of the knife.

 

“What?” Trace muttered in surprise as he pulled his head up off Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “What was that?”  He peered up into the stranger’s face, obscured in the darkness.

 

He couldn’t see the look of cruel anger building in the brawny convict’s face, but he could hear the menace in the older man’s cold whisper.  “It was gonna be a surprise for ya, boy.  See, vato, you’re broken.  I’m gonna fix ya.  When I’m done with ya, you won’t be a faggot no more.”

 

Trace scrambled backward across the dead leaves, trying to get to his feet.  “Wh-whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, man?” he quavered as the realization of impending danger began to percolate through his haze of lust and hormones.

 

“I’m talking about stickin’ you like the useless fag pig you are, punk.  And the first thing I’m gonna stick you with is my cock.  Shame ya didn’t give me more head, fairy, cause that’s all the lube yer gonna get.”

 

“What? No!” the youth squealed in fear.  “Dude, I just give head—ain’t no one been up my ass!”

 

“Tough luck, cunt,” the vicious convict sneered.  “Guess that means this is gonna hurt like a bitch, huh?  Good.  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you ain’t too tight.”

 

“M-man, I th-think I gotta go,” Trace whispered as cold fear stole over his smooth slim body, trembling in the pale moonlight.  “I-I gotta be-be somewhere…”

 

He had time for just one yelp of terror as Carlos sprang at him and slammed him sideways into a tree.  Unluckily for the randy, adventurous teen, there was no one close enough to hear it.  As he slumped unconscious to the ground, there was no hope of rescue.  And Carlos knew it.

 

It only took a moment to bind the punk’s hands behind his back, using his own button-down denim shirt, twisted into a band.  That done, Carlos flipped the boy onto his back, making sure the boy’s bound hands were bent up into an agonizing position under his own body weight.

 

Carlos was gonna teach the teen homo a thing or two about the pain he felt all faggots deserved, before “fixing’ him for good.

 

He started by parting the slut’s legs, leaving his jeans and hightops still on.  Shrugging off his leather jacket, he laid it between the boy’s spread legs.  As he did, the kid began to moan.  The fluttering eyelashes in his gorgeous face signaled the slow, reluctant return of consciousness.

 

Carlos grunted in contempt.  Little fuck hadn’t even hit the tree hard enough to break the skin.  If that was all it took to lay him low, he realized, he was gonna hafta be careful or he’d fix the fag before he got to have any fun with him.

 

The strapping convict stood over the prone, helpless teen.  Stripped to the waist, his powerful, tattooed torso gleamed in the faint sliver light in the small clearing.  The teen swam back to a stunned awareness to see the ominous muscled silhouette looming over him—and he realized just how isolated and alone he was.

 

Trace began to blubber, jerking and yanking his arms helplessly against the tight binding.  “P-please, man, no,” he sobbed, “I’ll do anything ya-ya want, dude, you can stick it up my ass, I w-won’t tell anyone—“  He trailed off into incoherent weeping.

 

Carlos just stood silently over the cowering, helpless boy.  He didn’t say a word—he just held up the knife.

 

It was the same one he’d bought his first day out.  The razor-sharp edge, all twelve inches of it, glinted wickedly in the faint light, as did the deep, evil serrations on the other side.  The hilt ended in a handle with a handguard; Carlos could be assured of a secure, well-balanced grip whether he was slashing through organs or slicing through bone.

 

Tonight, he was planning to do both.  But he needed to be careful.  Little queer-ass pansy was fragile; he’d have to make sure he was only hitting non-vital areas to start.  Good thing he’d learned all about inflicting nightmarish but non-fatal pain in prison.

 

But to start with, he wanted to fuck.  His throbbing shaft needed care and a warm, moist sheath.  This teen’s ass would work perfectly, but he knew it’d take time, effort, and some slight discomfort to pop the cherry hole.

 

He had a better idea.

 

“So you ain’t never had anyone up yer fuckhole, huh, you worthless slut?  What kinda fag are ya, bitch?  We’re gonna fix that right now.  Don’t worry, cunt, my shaft ain’t gonna hurt ya.  Well, not after I open ya up with this.”

 

Dropping to his knees on his jacket between the kid’s legs, Carlos leaned forward over the prone youth and held his knife up in front of the boy’s face.

 

Trace already knew that things were bad, that he was in more danger than he’d ever been in before, but he wasn’t able to absorb the implication of the knife.  For one thing, at seventeen inches with a twelve-inch double-sided stainless steel blade, it was both larger and incomparably better designed to inflict pain and death than any blade he’d ever seen before.  He simply couldn’t imagine it being used on him.

 

That changed the moment Carlos lifted the helpless youth’s legs and rammed the knife straight through the tight denim cradling his ass up into his rectum.  The sadistic killer hadn’t just cut himself a fuckhole through the jeans, he forced the blade up into the unfortunate kid’s colon, slicing his sphincter suddenly and brutally.

 

Carlos paused for a moment, his biceps bulging as he forced the blade in deeper.  Then he twisted it viciously deep in Trace’s guts before yanking it out again in a swift, cruel, slicing motion.  Holding the bloody blade up for a moment, the evil killer admired the evidence of his own malignant sadism.

 

Beneath him, the teen writhed in agony, experiencing an entire spectrum of pain he’d never known existed.  The cold, glassy slashes deep inside his tender fuckhole were too intense for him to scream; he could only gurgle and spray saliva as he tried desperately not to vomit in pain.

 

Carlos could see the amount of agony he’d inflicted on his victim.  “Fuck yeah, cunt, looks like you’re finally ready to take my dick.  ‘Course, even after slittin’ ya so it won’t hurt so bad, I’m still gonna tear ya some, but you like the pain, right faggot?”

 

As the bound, helpless teen writhed and mewled in pain, the brutal convict grabbed his club-like cock and plunged it into the kid’s mangled ass.  The only lube was the boy’s warm blood as Carlos proved true to his word; the slashes he’d cut in the cunt’s sphincter weren’t enough—his thick, pulsing shaft tore Trace’s ass open even more painfully than the knife had.

 

The young virgin had reached a snapping point; the pain was too much.  He shrieked in a shrill cry of agony, fear and despair.

 

It was music to Carlos’s ears.  It was proof of the pain he was able to inflict on this worthless little faggot—but it could also draw the attention of others.  He wasn’t done torturing this motherfucker, not by a long shot.  He needed to keep the meat quiet.

 

He brought his blade into play again.

 

For a few months, he’d shared a cell with a straight serial killer.  The guy had had lots of useful tips; Carlos had learned a lot from him.  Like how to silence a fucktoy while still keeping ‘em alive.  It caused unimaginable pain—but who cared?

 

He used it now.  “Stupid pansy piece of shit, guess I gotta shut you up, your fuckin’ pig squeals are goddam annoying, motherfucker,” he snarled as he stuck the tip of his blade into Trace’s Adam’s apple.

 

Tightening his strong bicep, he drove the sharp steel tip down into the boy’s larynx.  He had to apply some force when he felt the resistance of the cartilage, but he was able to slice through the voicebox and slit Trace’s vocal cords with ease.  Once the knife was inserted far enough to do the appropriate damage, the cruel killer abruptly yanked it back out.

 

He’d rendered the helpless teen boy mute and wallowing in unimaginable agony, without endangering a single major blood vessel.  Trace wasn’t dying; he only wished he was.

 

The pain was far beyond anything he’d ever imagined; in him mind he was screaming in horrific agony.  The fact that all he could hear was a wet gurgling sound accompanied by a faint spray of blood scared him so bad he was barely coherent, but the grotesque blood-gargling sensation in his throat was nothing compare to the red-hot iron shaft being shoved up his ass…

 

At some point, Trace wished devoutly he’d stayed in the bushes and waited for Jimmy, but it was a fleeting thought in the whirlwind of slashing agony that was enveloping him.  As he gasped frantically, he heard air whistling through the slash in his neck.

 

“Yeah, that shut ya the fuck up, dinnit,” sneered the dark-skinned cholo sadist.  “Now take my dick, homo, make me cum.  I’m gonna give ya exactly what you deserve, you useless cocksucker; I’m gonna stick ya like a fuckin’ pig.”

 

Sitting up on his knees with the boy’s feet on his shoulders and his arms wrapped around the helpless youth’s legs, Carlos held the knife in front of Trace’s pale face.  He saw its icy glint reflected in the teen’s wide, shock-ringed eyes as he continued to taunt his terrified victim.

 

“Look at it, cunt,” he whispered sharply.  “Lookit how sharp it is.  You already felt it, bitch—didja like it?  Sure the fuck hope so, ya cumsuckin’ fairy, cause you’re about to get a whole lot more of it.”

 

Bending down, he snarled in Trace’s weeping, gurgling face.  “Quit whining, you stupid fuck.  You’re out here cause you love ta get all kinda shafts stuck in ya, right?  So here ya go, you fag piece of shit, I’m givin’ ya one that’s longer and harder than any you’ve ever had—or ever will.  Now shut the fuck up and get ready to blow your load as I fuck ya to death with both my dick and my blade—two shafts at once, huh, ya cock pig?”

 

Holding the blade upright, he pointed the tip down and rammed it into Trace’s soft, flat belly, the knife penetrating the smooth skin with no resistance at all.  It sliced through the punk’s tender guts, slashing through the intestines.  Grunting forcefully, Carlos applied pressure with his arm, causing the tattoo on his bicep to bulge visibly as he forced the blade all the way through the teen’s slim, writhing body and pinning him to the earth underneath.

 

Trace’s struggles were involuntary; he was embedded in a fiery wall of pain like an insect in amber.  He wasn’t rational—he only knew that he must not move, the slightest movement made the horrible burning slashing in his guts much much worse…

 

He didn’t have much luck remaining motionless.  Carlos was ruthlessly raping his ass.  As the twisted convict pumped his enormous tool up the teen’s slit, bleeding fuckhole, the force of his thrusts jerked the kid along the ground.  Unfortunately for the young slut, the knife that was impaling him didn’t move; it was buried in the ground.

 

Every time Carlos shoved his cock deeply into Trace’s ass, the boy’s body was forced against the blade, widening the wound as he got fucked.

 

Mewling silently, the panicked boyslut jerked his head from side to side.  The slit in his neck was small and barely visible; aside from a fine mist sprayed with each desperate breath, there was very little bleeding.  He was trying frantically to scream, his beautiful face twisted in pain and terror, smeared with snot and tears.

 

But it was the hurt, bruised expression in his eyes that tripped a switch in Carlos.  There was something about the vulnerability of the hot young teen’s face that sent his sadistic anger into overdrive.

 

With another deep grunt, he yanked the knife back up and out of the kid’s abdomen.  Trace flailed in agony, his red chucks kicking the air just over his killer’s broad shoulders as the wheezing and gurgling increased in his damaged windpipe.

 

“Fuck, ya like that dontcha, ya sick fuck?”  Carlos grinned maliciously at his young, helpless victim.  “Goddam pig, yer ass sure grabbed hold of my dick when I stuck ya.  Shit, lookit yer cock, you disgusting queer-ass bitch, you’re gettin’ hard—you disgusting fuckin’ piece of shit, gettin’ banged by a real man gets ya all stiff even when yer gettin’ snuffed!”

 

Trace heard the words but they meant nothing to him; his mind was a chemical stew of adrenaline and testosterone that was incapable of coherent thought—but it was able to process the sensation of bewildering and somehow painful erection.

 

It didn’t have long to process it, though.  Carlos leveled the blade at the waist on the boy’s left side, then rammed it in at an upward angle.  This time, stabbing diagonally into the unlucky teen’s torso, the brutal killer was able to shove the knife in up to the hilt, all twelve inches of sharpened steel buried deep inside the punk’s firm, quivering body.

 

The powerful cholo groaned in pleasure as massive organ trauma caused involuntary spasms in Trace’s colon and esophagus.  As the viciously serrated blade sliced through the kid’s liver, spleen and stomach before puncturing his right lung, his rectum grasped Carlos’s thick, throbbing rod and began milking it in long, rolling convulsions.  At the same time, the boy started vomiting; there was nothing in his stomach to come up, but the cruel, excruciating internal injuries he’d endured triggered an uncontrollable retching that only intensified his agony.

 

“Now yer gettin’ it, huh, puta?” the fag-hating alpha hissed at the dying teen.  “Now yer gettin’ what all you fuckin’ queers deserve—a long hot shaft in your ass and a long cold shaft in your guts.  Told ya I’d fix ya, you stupid homo—you ain’t gonna be no faggot by the time I’m done with ya; you’re gonna be fuckin’ meat!”

 

Gripping the long handle-like hilt of the military knife, Carlos twisted and ground it in the wound, slashing the boy’s tender innards into ribbons of bleeding flesh.  Then he yanked the blade out in a sing, swift, brutal jerk.  Grinning malevolently, he spit in the cunt’s vacant, stunned face before holding the dripping knife in front of it.

 

“Look at it, fag,” he whispered evilly.  “See those strings of meat hanging off the serrations?  Those are your guts, you worthless cock-gobblin’ pussyboy.  And as much I as keep guttin’ ya like a fish, you’re still hard and drippin’ on my dick.  Ain’t no way to help ya, motherfucker; yer a natural-born homo.  So I guess you’re just garbage, huh?  Ain’t no one gonna miss garbage.”

 

The convict’s muscular, inked body heaved with lust and rage, his broad back and tatted chest glistening with hot reeking mansweat.  Trace’s smooth, flat swimmer’s chest was also covered with sweat, but his was a clammy, cold sweat wrung agonizingly from the teen’s lithe dying body.  But the strong, strapping body of the enraged alpha hunched over him, driving his thick swollen cock up the convulsing teen’s ass, gave off so much heat he was steaming slightly in the chill night air.

 

The kid’s jeans rasped against Carlos’s pubic hair as the hulking alpha’s huge, hairy balls slapped at the slash he’d cut in the denim to access the pansy’s ass.  The killer’s own tight jeans massaged his tight, taut ass as his muscled legs planted his combat boots firmly on the ground, guaranteeing plenty of traction for powerful thrusts.  As the slashed, sliced teen thrashed in mindless agony, his Converse hightops quivered and flailed over Carlos’s broad, heaving shoulders.

 

Raising the knife up over his head, Carlos brought it back down, slamming it home in Trace’s broad, shallow pectoral on his left side, slipping it between two ribs just below his heart.  It was a smooth, swift stab right into the chest, completely puncturing the left lung and—like the belly stab—completely impaling the tortured teen and pinning him to the ground.

 

The force of the blade through his lung rippled through his body, forcing his breath out with a long, ragged groan, whistling through his mangled vocal cords.  Convulsions flowed down his once-virgin body, each one causing his cock to rise up and smack wetly against his killer’s furry belly and his rectum to stroke the cruel con’s engorged tool.

 

Now, Carlos realized, the clock was running.  He’d taken care of the teen fag; the disgusting little pervert wasn’t gonna suck no more cocks—but Carlos still demanded his orgasm of rage.  The punk bitch was meat but he still hadn’t drained his righteous killer’s cock.

 

The homo whore needed to suffer more.  That was always the answer.

 

Carlos lay full-length on top of the dying young boy.  Trace was barely alive; as his lungs slowly collapsed, all his attention was now focused on being able to breathe.  He wasn’t able to comprehend that he was enduring the last few moments of his life—he only knew that he had to keep breathing.  It was hard; there was a heavy weight on his chest, sliding around on a film of sweat and compressing his somehow stiff and oozing cock…but breathe, ignore the pain, ignore the warm soft flesh sliding on your dick as you writhe in agony, just breathe…

 

And the sadistic cholo chuckled.  “Time to die, vato.  Just fuckin’ die on my cock like ya deserve, you fucking pervert punk!”

 

With that, Carlos held the knife across Trace’s neck and began to slice through his throat.  This time, he went below the larynx.  The esophagus itself was, he knew from experience, a rubbery piece of tissue.

 

It took him a little while to saw through it.

 

The ultimate agony of fatal trauma managed to focus the boy’s attention, gruesomely ensuring his full awareness of the final nightmarish horror of his last few seconds alive in a sadistic quirk of physiological fate.

 

Trace gasped and gurgled louder than ever as his throat was slashed.  He could feel each back-and-forth cut of the razor-sharp blade through the flesh and tendons of his neck.  As unimaginable pain rocked his nervous system, his swollen, purple dick pulsed with each slice of the blade.

 

So did his eager fuckhole.  “Yeaaahhhh…” grunted Carlos.  “Fuck yeah, you fucking fag cunt, ya like gettin’ put down by a real man, huh?  Then take, this, cocksucker!”

 

His powerful arm bulging, Carlos flayed the teen slut’s trachea open, listening with erotic glee as the young boy gagged and choked, gargling his own blood.  “Fuckin’ die, fag!” the angry, lust-driven alpha cried as the slim, sweaty sack of meat under him milked a massive boiling wad of  manspunk out of his almost painfully-swollen cock.

 

As the handsome teen hacked and drowned in his own blood, the screaming icy darkness that descended on him was held back by a single jolt of hot fluid flooding his mangled guts.  Somehow, it seemed to be accompanied by another in his groin; a single, white-hot wire sounding his long, thick, agonizingly hard dick…

 

Coughing up one last gout of blood, the gay teen kicked his chucks on his killer’s shoulders as a solid ropy stream of semen spurted out of his cock and was immediately smeared with his blood against his belly and that of his vicious, dominant killer.  The shuddering meat pumped a continual flow of DNA for more than twenty seconds but by that time, the teen’s blood pressure had dropped so low that brain death was occurring.

 

There wasn’t enough of Trace left to enjoy his death load.

 

Gasping, Carlos remained in place for a good two minutes as he caught his breath, his pulsing, oozing rod firmly sheathed in the corpse’s warm, moist, quivering colon.  Every few seconds the hulking, sweating convict shuddered violently and spat another stream of pearly seed into the boy’s mangled fuckhole.

 

Finally feeling his pulse return to normal, the burly killer pulled his still-dripping shaft out of the dead teen’s ass and rose to his feet.  Bending down, he retrieved his biker jacket and fished his pack of smokes out before slipping into the warm embrace of the leather.  He lit one up, inhaling deeply as he let his huge purple hog swing free and drip-dry, the cum swiftly drying to a white glaze in the cool night air.

 

Clenching the cigarette in the side of his mouth, Carlos knelt over the kid’s body, still trembling and spasming randomly in death.  “Toldja I’d fix ya, you cumsuckin’ homo,” the muscled killer chuckled vindictively.  “Ain’t gonna suck no more cocks, huh?  Unless the folks at the morgue or the undertaker’s wanna have some fun, but you still ain’t gonna be suckin’, huh, you worthless piece a’ shit pervert?”

 

Picking up his knife, Carlos looked around for a cloth.  He spied Trace’s t-shirt, a pile of white fabric easily seen in the darkness.  Grinning, he grabbed it and used it to wipe down his blade. He make sure to clean all the dangling strings of flesh trapped in the serrations, leaving the punk’s own t-shirt to be found smeared with the victim’s blood and meat.

 

Taking a final drag off his smoldering butt, he ground the glowing tobacco ember out in the very center of the dead youth’s forehead.  Rising to his feet, Carlos glanced around carefully.  There was no need; there was no one within sight or earshot.

 

And the few that Carlos encountered on his way back to the parking lot were too intent on their own activities to notice him.  Silently, he slipped back into the Mustang and had pulled out of the lot and onto the street before turning on the headlights.

 

Three minutes later, he was back on the highway.  He headed back to his motel room, finally feeling that he’d earned a rest for a job well done.

 

Not that his job was done.  They all needed to be put down—all of them.

 

Carlos felt renewed; the well-being derived from a sense of purpose filled him with excitement.  This was what he was here for—to put fags in their place.  And their place was taking his cock, then taking a dirt nap.

 

But he needed money.  Some homos had money—a lot of money.  Carlos could have all the fun he wanted, but with a little judicious hunting, he could be living good.

 

As he slowed the ‘Stang for the exit for his motel, the twisted convict began to laugh out loud.  He knew he was on the path of righteousness; being wrong couldn’t feel this good.

 

Fags needed to be taught a lesson.  He was just the man to learn ‘em.

 

 

Trace’s desperate parents reported him missing the following morning but his slaughtered corpse wasn’t found for another four days.  One of the local street whores met his dealer in the park; he got his fix for a discount if he gave the dude free sex.  Looking for somewhere to do their transactions in private, they inadvertently stumbled across the mangled body.

 

That night, Carlos beat off watching the news coverage.

Trucker 7–Trucker v Street Whore

The wind had died down a little but was still brisk.  It had gotten colder and a heavy mist, just short of being rain, was obscuring the quiet streets.  The Trucker had left the stripper’s apartment hot and hard, still flush with the excitement of the kill, but the raw chill in the air soon sapped both his physical and his emotional heat.  Everything was quiet and dim as he walked back to his rented room.

 

The haze got appreciably thicker the closer he got to the hotel, which was why the Trucker didn’t notice the boy until he was within five feet of him.  The hulking stud had just passed the gay bar (now closed for the night) and rounded the corner, the firm tread of his thick-soled boots muffled in the chill dank mist.  Stepping into the glowing orange ball of fog surrounding a streetlight, he noticed a dark shape just beyond.

 

As he approached it, its features resolved into those of a young man.  Despite the thick, distorting atmosphere of the incoming cold front, it was obvious right away that the youth was on the make.  No one who wasn’t selling his body would be out at this hour dressed like that—little whore must be freezing, the Trucker mused.

 

Tempting as it was, he was no longer in the mood.  Ignoring the street slut, he plodded on through the murk.

 

“Hey, dude, wanna play?” It was a hoarse whisper from off to the side. The Trucker paused, then turned and spoke to the kid.

 

“Naw, bitch, not now.”

 

The boy whined, “Why not, man?  I’m just looking for a hit or two, buddy, I won’t charge much.  Do whatever ya want, forty bucks.”

 

The Trucker snorted derisively.  “Yer flatterin’ yerself, cunt,” he grunted.

 

“Whassa matter, man,” the cheap hustler jeered, “that high-priced cocksucker you picked up in the bar take all your money?”

 

The Trucker froze.  “What?” he snapped, glaring at the youth.

 

“Y’know,” the kid drawled.  “Randy.  Stripper at the Cowboy Lounge back there.  Sure, I know him, I’m from around here—and I know what he charges, fuckin’ whore.  Anyways, I seen ya goin’ up to his place.”

 

As the Trucker processed this information, the boywhore continued to throw shade on his rival.  “Dude, I’m better than that fuckin’ cunt ever could be, and I’ll do it for less money.  Bet he didn’t even drain all yer load…”

 

This, the muscular killer realized, was bad.  He’d never realized there was a witness—was he slipping?  It had been in the backyard of that house, the garage apartment—where had this kid been hiding?

 

Whatever the case was, the Trucker realized he needed to take care of this motherfucker quickly.

 

“Maybe you’re right,” he said curtly.  “He wasn’t a good fuck.  Didn’t get me off.  Think you can?”

 

“Fuck yeah, dude, for forty bucks I’ll suck your cock dry and swallow the last drop of your jizz.”

 

“Ok, cunt, prove it,” the Trucker said in a level voice.  “C’mon, I gotta room a couple blocks over.”

 

The whore’s slim shape trailed in the mist behind him as the hard-bodied alpha made his way back to the motel.  His room was on the ground floor; his key allowed them entry through a side door, bypassing the lobby.  It wasn’t until they were in the room, with the door locked behind them, that the Trucker got his first good look at the street hustler.

 

The boy was just under six feet tall and looked no older than twenty.  His hair was long on the top, swept forward, and cut very short on the sides and back.  The longer part on top was frosted an almost strident strawberry blond that didn’t match the dark, shaved hair on the lower areas.  His green, almond-shaped eyes glittered with the cold greed of the hardcore prostitute.  His high cheekbones added a kind of calculating felinity to his expression.

 

He was wearing what appeared to be a simple unlined denim jacket over a slim-fit t-shirt that emphasized his chest by comparison to his slender waist.  His tight jeans were the same pale, faded blue as his jacket, but they were considerably more revealing.  Not because they clung like a second skin to his long, firm legs—which they did—but because of the ragged slashes deliberately cut across the thighs.

 

With every movement, the material parted, giving a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth pale flesh on the hustler’s inner thigh, an alluring inducement to spending money in order to possess his lithe young body for a few minutes—or a few hours.  The Trucker wasn’t impressed—he’d seen better.

 

He’d snuffed better.

 

The whore stood defiantly, staring at the incredibly well-built stranger he’d accosted.  His arms were crossed and his black and white Nike Air Jordan 5s were planted far apart on the thin, threadbare carpet.  “So,” he drawled, “what up, dude?  You gonna whip yer cock out or what?”

 

The Trucker grinned easily.  This little cunt wasn’t worth his time, but he wasn’t about to take a chance.  “Sure,” he said, slipping his leather jacket off, “but I wanna see yours, too.  Strip your shirt off, man, and haul your dick out.  I like to see what I’m payin’ for.”

 

The hustler paused, then smiled.  “Ok, stud, whatever ya want.  I’m Cody, by the way.  Gonna put my stuff over here, K?”  He turned towards the desk/dresser as he shrugged off the denim jacket.  As he laid it across the desk, the Trucker couldn’t help but notice that the rear of the homo slut’s jeans had been cut as well, sliced under the seat and ripped to show the cunt’s bubble butt, his asscheeks slightly shadowed with soft, sandy peachfuzz.

 

The Trucker grasped his own shirt, pulling the thermal up off his massively-muscled chest.  The dogtags he wore were caught in the olive-green fabric; when they finally pulled free, they jingled as they fell back and bounced off the alpha’s broad pecs.  The whore didn’t notice; he kept his back to the Trucker as he slipped off the black slim t-shirt.  He evidently thought the Trucker was still undressing when he slipped a small glass item out of his pocket and slipped it into the folds of the shirt.

 

The experienced alpha knew a meth pipe when he saw one.  His grin grew broader and more shark-like.  No one was gonna come lookin’ for a faggot meth-head whore. He approached the cunt silently.

 

He could waste the witness and no one would care.

 

When Cody turned back to face his john, he was stripped to the waist, the dim lighting giving his lean torso a soft and almost sultry focus.  His firmly-packed jeans still clung to his legs, his Air Jordans were still tightly laced on his feet with the tongues outside the hem of the jeans.  Like a good whore, he’d complied with his trick’s orders and opened his fly.  He’d worn no belt, so he’d left the button fastened at the waist, but beneath that his long dark cock jutted from an exuberant tangle of brunette pubes.

 

He whirled around to gasp involuntarily at the powerfully-built stud looming over him.  This close, he could see the hard, chiseled angles of the Trucker’s scruffy face—and the sharp, steely light of a predator shining coldly and cruelly from his ice-blue eyes.  Cody wasn’t naïve; as the heady, pungent reek of manscent filed his nostrils, he was alert to all the warning signs.

 

Still, the blow was so swift, he never saw it coming. There was a concussive blast of pain in his face accompanied by a dull, thudding smack, like a sledgehammer striking a side of beef.

 

Dazed, Cody blinked and wondered why he was on his knees; he didn’t remember stumbling back and falling under the impact of the sucker-punch.  The stunned boywhore reached up and poked gingerly at his bruised, swelling cheek.  His green eyes, wide with shock, turned up to the scowling face of his john.

 

Swiftly, the Trucker bent down and grabbed a fistful of the slut’s hair—the long dyed hair on the top of the boy’s head offering an excellent handhold.  “So ya saw me tonight, huh?” he snarled, his face twisted with cold rage.  “I’m gonna make damn sure you don’t see anything else, cunt.”

 

Cody gasped and tried to block the blow.  He was too slow—the Trucker popped him hard on the jaw, driving the slim youth back into the desk and knocking over the chair.

 

The groggy youth struggled back up to his knees.  He was breathing deeply, almost sobbing as he tried to understand what was happening.  His rattled, drug-fogged brain found nothing in the muscled stud’s words to cling to; they made no sense.

 

“Wha—“ he started, then stopped cold.  Kneeling, his eyes were crotch-level to the Trucker, and for the first time, he noticed the alpha’s thick, swinging dick.  Even limp, it was more than seven inches, glistening and wreathed in dark veins.  Bursting out of a black bristling mass of pubic hair, the Trucker’s cock recalled every clichéd snake and python metaphor Cody had ever heard.

 

And just as snakes reputedly hypnotize their prey, the young street whore found himself mesmerized by the massive tube of flesh.  It was several seconds before jagged darts of pain began to push their way through Cody’s consciousness, forcing him to tear his tunnel vision away from that frighteningly huge tool and focus on his imminent danger.

 

“D-dude,” he stammered, “I-I didn’t see nothin’—“

 

The Trucker lunged.  The half-dressed whore squealed in shrill terror and tried to cower under the desk.  It was a futile gesture; the older, stronger alpha had no difficulty dragging the whimpering youth from his inadequate hiding place.

 

Cody was slim, but not scrawny.  The hard life of a street whore had had multiple impacts on his body; he damn sure didn’t work out, but he had developed some muscles.

 

Even so, when the Trucker’s huge hands clamped onto the kid’s upper arms and lifted him into the air, they completely encircled the slut’s biceps with the inexorable strength of iron fetters.

 

The gasping rentboy started mewling in pain as he was lifted; the hulking sadist had squeezed the boy’s arms in slightly before using them to raise him straight up.  His entire body weight was being supported by his shoulder joints—it was excruciating.  Blubbering and sniveling, the helpless young slut kicked his Nikes pointlessly six inches off the floor.

 

The Trucker brought the shuddering kid closer to his face.  “You didn’t see anything?” he hissed.

 

The terrified punk couldn’t speak; wide-eyed, he shook his head desperately.  He was starting to sweat in fear and the long dyed hair on his head was dark with perspiration as the rapid motion of his head made it flutter.

 

Still glowering with a brutal rage, the Trucker spat into the boy’s face, then shook him violently.  “So what were ya sayin’ to me when you hit me up, cunt?  Huh?  Answer me, you worthless sack of shit!”

 

Cody’s head hung forward limply.  “R-Randy,” he whispered, barely audible, “y-ya left wi-with him…”

 

“Look at me, whore,” the Trucker said with a tone of cold command.  “Look me in the face.”

 

The trembling hustler obeyed the hard ring of domination in his assailant’s voice.  As his eyes rose, his field of vision was filled first with the Trucker’s hulking, muscled chest, sweat matting the wiry fur.  With each breath the strapping alpha took, the dogtags lying on the dark curls of hair shifted and glinted in the light.

 

Rising higher, his gaze swept up the dude’s thick neck, the tendons showing some of the strain from the effort of keeping him aloft.  Above that was the guy’s face…

 

Cody hadn’t seen it clearly this close.  The strong jaw and firm lips, circled by a black goatee just slightly longer than the scruff darkening the sculpted cheeks entranced him, but the blue eyes, cold and glittering as ice, held his attention intently.

 

Then the Trucker spoke—harshly and gleefully.

 

“Yer little pal Randy?  He’s dead.  I fucked him and snuffed him.  He died squealing in pain and fear like the little faggot pig he was.”

 

He smiled broadly at the gaping youth and spat in his face again.

 

“So ya saw me with that useless homo, huh?  And now he’s dead.  So, whaddaya think I gotta do to you, queerboy?”

 

And with that, he dropped Cody.

 

The street whore fell in a crumpled mound of flesh and denim with his legs curled under him, only the black-and-white Air Jordans showing under his huddled body.  Curled into a fetal ball, the weeping boy tried to understand what was happening.

 

After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t experienced danger in past.  He was a back-alley whore and drug addict; he’d been beaten, he’d been robbed, he’d even been raped.  And each time he’d gotten smarter and stronger.  He’d been selling his body for cash and drugs for more than five years; now, at the age of twenty-one, he thought of himself as street-smart, able to spot the red flags and handle himself.

 

The Trucker nudged the scared youth with his foot, poking the toe of his boot into the boy’s ribs.  “C’mon, cunt, look up here at me.  Up here, bitch.”

 

Unwillingly, Cody lifted his head and peered at the towering stud through eyelids swollen with tears.  The Trucker stood over him, legs spread and hands on his hips, sneering down with anger and contempt—and that was when Cody saw something that froze his blood.

 

The muscled alpha’s cock wasn’t limp anymore.  It wasn’t fully erect yet, but it was swelling and darkening.  As Cody watched in horror, it started to throb visibly.  He knew why.

 

This buff, strapping older dude was getting hard at the thought of offin’ him.  It was the only answer.

 

As this awareness percolated through his soft, drugged brain, it sparked a deep, feral panic in the heart of the cheap rentboy.  Self-preservation kicked in and, with help from his innate arrogance, overcame his cowardice.  The cowed youth rose up in defiance.

 

It was the worst choice of his short, wasted life.

 

Curling his legs under him, Cody felt his tight Air Jordans gain traction on the thin carpet as he propelled himself upwards, his smooth, lithe body tensed in stress and effort.

 

The Trucker was ready for the whore, naturally.  He’d seen and recognized the gleam of desperation in the hustler’s eyes and was expecting a panicked lunge.  As the kid popped up, the brawny top swung his powerful arm and backhanded the punk in the face.

 

Cody’s rebellion came crashing to the ground as his wiry young body slammed into the dresser.  The slut dropped back to the floor like a sack of potatoes, frantically gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him.  Clawing his way back to vertical, he threw up his arms to block the Trucker’s lunge.

 

It was useless.  The older, stronger man knocked the hustler’s arms away and wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat.  He squeezed and lifted, raising the slim youth into the air once again.

 

Cody clutched at the vise-like grip on his neck, instinctively and ineffectually trying to pry the Trucker’s fingers free.  His hightops kicked and flailed in pain and panic as his esophagus collapsed under the weight of his entire body, dangling from the alpha’s steel-like grip.

 

The sadistic strongman spat a thick wad of phlegm into the boy’s darkening face.  He grinned in a rage that scintillated with psychotic glee as the struggling youth clawed desperately at his wrists.  “Shoulda kept yer eyes shut, huh, you worthless cumsuckin’ faggot?” he sneered.  “Now I gotta waste ya.  And since I gotta do it anyway, I might as well enjoy myself, right, cunt?  Yeah?”

 

Squeezing his massive paws more tightly around the slut’s throat, he drew the jerking youth in closer to him.  “Y’wanna know what I enjoy?” he hissed, his breath hot and malevolent on Cody’s swelling face.  “I enjoy hurting fags.  I like snuffing homo cunts.  Get it, cocksucker?  The more you suffer, the more I like it.”

 

Shaking the lean, shuddering form violently, the Trucker laughed aloud, a cold, harsh sound that was somehow more intimidating that his overt anger had been.  As Cody felt his body flop limply in the air, helpless in the top’s powerful, bulging arms, he could also feel the truth of the stud’s claims.

 

Every time his smooth torso and strong but slender legs swung in towards the dominant killer’s body, some part of him made contact with the dude’s huge, hot cock.  The massive spear of flesh was fully erect by now and Cody realized that it had been getting progressively harder as the psycho dude had been beating him.  As the hard, spade-shaped head impacted the punk’s soft, creamy flesh, it left a smear of clear, slimy precum.

 

The crazy motherfucker wasn’t lyin’—he really did get off on inflicting pain.

 

The Trucker looked the terrified rentboy directly in the eyes as he spoke.  “Tonight ain’t just gonna be the last night of your short life, you unlucky sack of shit—it’s gonna be the worst.  And it’s gonna be worse than you can possibly imagine, you disgusting pansy-ass fairy!”

 

With that, he turned abruptly and hurled the young hustler into the chair and the small round table on the far side of the room, across from the bed.  With a loud crash, the whore’s limp form knocked the furniture aside like bowling pins.  Cody, as a result, impacted several hard objects before his battered and bruised body came to rest on the filthy thin carpet.

 

The young whore twisted and writhed in agony.  He wasn’t mentally capable of understanding the details of the situation; his meth-tweaked awareness was swamped with torment and fear.  He was only vaguely aware of the vibrations of the Trucker’s heavy tread that signaled his approach.

 

He became immediately much more aware of the cruel muscleman’s presence when the Trucker swung his heavy steel-toed engineer boot back and delivered a brutal kick directly to the slut’s vulnerable torso.

 

Cody writhed and convulsed as the devastating blow from the alpha’s thick black boot shattered two of his ribs, sending razor-sharp fragments of bone to rip through the youth’s internal organs.  The whore squealed in horrific agony as his spleen, stomach and left lung were peppered as if by shrapnel.  Reflexively, he rolled onto his right side in an involuntary attempt to escape from the source of pain.

 

“Fuck yeah!” crowed the Trucker triumphantly.  “Now yer feelin’ me, huh, queerboy?  Hope ya like it, motherfucker, cause this rodeo’s just gettin’ started!”  And digging his heel brutally into the young boywhore’s soft belly, he rolled the shuddering, sweating kid onto his back.  “Did ya like that one, whore?  Course ya did, you faggot cumdump, lookitya squirming with pleasure.  Just love a real man puttin’ ya in yer place, dontcha, you sperm-suckin’ homo?  Then yer gonna love my boot in yer face, asswipe.  Enjoy it, you pansy fuckwad!”

 

The Trucker raised his leg and paused.  Flinching, Cody hesitated, then peered up at the thick sole of the boot hanging directly over his face.  It was all the vicious older stud had been waiting for.  Tensing the huge muscles in his bulging, denim-wrapped thigh, he stomped on the cheap slut’s head as hard as he could, driving his booted foot down and feeling it grind squelchingly into the wailing punk’s vulnerable, unprepared face.

 

The sharp, deep tread of the thick rubber sole tore at Cody’s skin as his nose collapsed with a sickening crunch; the tread pattern was pounded so hard into his cheek that it was clearly visible in the bruises.

 

The Trucker drew his leg up again.  For a brief moment, the traumatized whore had a glimpse of his attacker looming over him, about to inflict more pain.  The well-built stud seemed more domineering than ever as he snarled down at the pain-wracked boy, his lips curled in disgust. His broad, hairy chest, shiny with sweat, expanded with each effort-borne grunt torn from the killer by the exertions of his thick muscles.

 

Again, the boot hung over Cody’s face.  The rentboy made a half-hearted motion to dodge it, but the alpha dropped his foot with the speed and force of an industrial piston, catching the slut full on the mouth.

 

This time, the crunching sound was louder.  This time, his black leather boot did much more damage.  And this time, he was rewarded with a loud gurgling shriek as Cody’s lower jaw snapped in three places.

 

The young hustler rolled violently on the floor, squealing and mewling in wordless agony with his arms wrapped about his head.  His flailing Nikes scraped furrows in the thin carpet.  Sweat beaded on his smooth flat abdomen as he rode vast waves of pain and terror.

 

Some part of his cold and calculating street whore mentality was still functional; it had noted that the brutal stud had paused the attack.  Lighting a smoke from the pack on the bedside table, the buff sadist was sitting on the bed and admiring his work.  As he fondled his dogtags idly with one hand, his thick cock jutted like a prow from his crotch, angry and dripping in anticipation.

 

If Cody had a chance to escape, this was it; this was the longest and the farthest he’d been out of his assailant’s reach.  But escape was no longer an option for him.  Not only had his body been stomped and crushed, his mind had been beaten as well.  His street-smart but drugged brain was unable to wrap itself around the events of the last half-hour.

 

What was happening?  He’d followed this hot john back to his room.  He was gonna earn a little money, drain the dude’s balls down his throat, take his forty bucks (and whatever else he could get without being noticed) and go hit up his dealer.  Now—

 

But he couldn’t complete the thought.  As his nervous system handled the unspeakable torment by going into physical shock, his psyche did much the same thing, blocking his panicked thoughts from reaching the logical conclusion.

 

Cody shut down, physically and mentally.  He curled into a ball again, sobbing and wailing, thrashing about in pain as drool leaked from his twisted, misshapen mouth.  The Trucker watched him intently, deeply enjoying the youth’s nightmarish suffering.  He honestly hadn’t expected to get hard again tonight—after all, that last homo fucker had been a real workout—but damn if this smooth hot little faggot didn’t make his junk all stiff.  And, as he’d said, he needed to make the cumsucking shitsack witness into meat anyway—might as well get his money’s worth, so to speak.

 

Leaving his butt to smolder in the ashtray, the Trucker rose and crossed swiftly to the shuddering ball of misery making him so unexpectedly horny.  Swooping down, he snagged a handful of long blond hair and jerked the sniveling youth upright before pulling him excruciatingly to his feet the same way.  The punk shrieked and quickly found his feet, standing up voluntarily to avoid having his scalp ripped open.

 

But the Trucker didn’t want him on his feet, he wanted him on the bed.  Still grasping a fistful of hair, the older, stronger man tightly gripped the lower half of the boy’s face.  With cruel and deliberate sadism, he squeezed viciously, feeling the jagged edges of broken bone grinding together in horrific torture under his relentless handhold.

 

The punk’s eyes rolled back in his head as the pain exceeded his toleration and he trembled on the edge of consciousness.  His eyelashes fluttered as his body twitched limply against the killer’s hard, sculpted mass.  With a swift, graceful twist, reminiscent of a master martial arts move, the Trucker flipped the slim, smooth cunt in an arc that spun him in the air before slamming him down onto the bed.

 

Cody found himself surfacing in a searing pool of sharp anguish.  His breath was coming in jagged, painful gasps.  He had no way of knowing that the splintered remains of his broken ribs had torn his left lung so badly that it was collapsing.  Added to the constriction of his airway caused by his crushed nose and broken jaw, the young hustler quickly learned that the only thing more terrifying than the prospect of being beaten to death was that of suffocation.

 

He croaked and gurgled, clawing frantically at his face and throat.  Each time he pawed uncontrollably at his jaw in a desperate attempt to improve his respiration, he suffered unbearable agony, but the fight for survival took precedence over the mere physical torture.

 

The Trucker watched in malevolent, erotic joy.  Grinning, he approached the bed, his powerful, towering form imposing itself between Cody and the light, casting a huge dark shadow of doom over handsome, unlucky punk.  Even in his hypoxic panic, the cheap drugged-out cunt was aware of the hard, cold killer.

 

As the alpha reached the bed, his erect shaft swam into Cody’s field of vision.  Blurred as it was, it could still make out the dark purple mushroom-like head, visibly pulsing, each throb forcing a trickle of clear precum out to stream down from the tip like string of spit.  Soon the Trucker was close enough that his eager ooze was splattering on the whore’s smooth, silky skin like hot candle wax.

 

The ice-cold, cruel killer looked down at his victim and gave the stunned and bewildered youth a smile so charming and charismatic that even in the depths of his wretched distress, the hardened street fag felt himself drawn in.  For a split second of soft-focus blur induced by oxygen deprivation, Cody felt himself not only forgiving his attacker for the pain he’d endured, but also falling in love with him.

 

Then the Trucker spoke.

 

“Time to die, motherfucker.  Time to take you out, you worthless cumdump.  Before I do, though, think I’m gonna unload in ya.  Might as well, since yer gonna get dumped in the garbage like soiled, cum-soaked underwear when I’m done with ya.  Ain’t like anyone’s gonna care, not about you or your friend—you know, wassisname, the one I offed earlier.  Heh, wonder if the disgusting cumpig has gotten stiff yet.”

 

An evil light of sadistic viciousness sparkled sharply in the Trucker’s blue eyes as he leaned down and whispered to the helpless, frightened, desperate young hustler.   The well-used assfuck whore stretched his battered face into a silent plea for mercy from the stronger, older, more powerful man who now held his future existence in his rough, callused hands.

 

Mercy had never been on the table.

 

Sitting on the bed and spreading his thick, powerful legs, the Trucker snatched a handful of hair and Cody found himself being jerked roughly forward by his scalp yet again.  Still using the better part of his strength just to remain conscious, the youthful slut found his face being used as a towel as the Trucker dragged his bruised and tender cheeks over his strongman’s massive pectorals, the alpha’s wiry, curly chest hair scraping the kid’s damaged cheeks like steel wool.

 

The punk’s face stung and burned as the stud’s salty sweat was rubbed into his open cuts; the sharp edges of the dogtags inflicted new slashes for the Trucker’s reeking perspiration to burn.  The muscled alpha dragged the boy’s torn face back and forth across his chest several times before pulling his head back up.

 

“Lookitya, you stinking, disgusting pansy motherfucker.  Time to die like a disgusting faggot worm.  So ya like tellin’ folks what ya seen, huh?  Ya like openin’ yer big fat fag mouth, huh?  Good, cunt.  Open it now.  Open it and choke, you cocksucking piece a’ shit!”

 

The Trucker forced Cody’s head down onto his erect shaft, locking his arms into place behind his back with a single hand, strong as a steel bar.

 

The huge, oozing rod plunged deep into the whore’s esophagus; the large, spongy spear-shaped tip plugging his windpipe with brutal effectiveness.  And that was when the ultimate twist of nightmare came into play—with his jaw broken, Cody couldn’t close his mouth.

 

He couldn’t bite down.  And he wasn’t even remotely strong enough to break free from the powerful sadist’s grip.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  He was choking to death on the dude’s cock.

 

Instantly, a white-hot sheet of panic inflamed his mind.  Slim but strong, the lithe street punk didn’t just struggle, he fought for his life like a feral cat.  He kicked and clawed frantically, managing to work his right hand free.

 

Then he made another bad mistake. Curling his fingers into claws, he flailed his hand until it found purchase in the killer’s curly fur and yanked out a few hairs.

 

Grunting more in anger than in pain, the Trucker knocked the offending hand away.  “You stupid asswipe,” he hissed, “So you like pain, huh?  Motherfuck, I’m gonna make sure you get plenty!”  Glancing around in a blood-tinted rage, the furious savage killer spied a ball-point pen on the nightstand; a cheap promotional giveaway with the motel’s name and address printed on it.

 

In a towering paroxysm of wrath, he snatched up the pen and, wielding it like a knife, stabbed it through the hustler’s back and into his right kidney.  It was blunt; it took a great deal of effort to drive the dull tip through the multiple layers of flesh and muscle until it reached the organ.

 

It took time, too.  It wasn’t quick.  And as the hard plastic was punched through his helpless, splayed body, Cody gagged and foamed on the huge throbbing tool plugging his throat.  The tortured youth was making thick desperate gurgling sounds that didn’t sound human as his straining, tormented body responded to the intense trauma by flooding his bloodstream with hormones.

 

Cody writhed in the Trucker’s lap, his smooth back wet and glistening with a cold film of sweat stinking of adrenaline and testosterone.  His slim, firm legs, still tightly wrapped in his skinny jeans, thrashed violently on the bed, his hightops catching at the sheets.

 

The Trucker left the pen in the boy’s back as he forced the cunt’s head down on his dick.  He didn’t force it all the way down, though.  The cunt had just enough space in his throat to suck down a minimal amount of oxygenated air before vomiting it back up in a frothy mass of drool.

 

“Goddam ass-lickin’ queer!” the powerful alpha grunted.  “Take it, homo, or I’ll stick ya again—and this time I’ll make it hurt.  You kick too much, bitch, and I’m fuckin’ sick of it.  I’m gonna make sure this goes nice and smooth.  Your fuckmeat friend took a lot outta me—drained my balls as he died in screaming agony.  Ain’t gonna fight with you, you cheap faggot whore; you ain’t worth it.  He was better lookin’ and a better fuck, dickbag. Lessee now, what’s a good way to teach you what happens to fuckin’ fag garbage that don’t know its place?”

 

It was probably for the best that Cody was incapable of seeing the Trucker’s face’ the expression alone would have made him lose control of his bowels.

 

“I got it, dude.  Pigs don’t fly, fuckwad.  I’ll clip your wings.”

 

The Trucker had such complete control over the weeping boywhore that by putting his elbow on the back of the slut’s head, he was able to keep his engorged shaft jammed down the shuddering boy’s throat.  With both hands free, he was easily able to bend the kid’s left arm up.  Gripping the arm just below the elbow with one hand and the wrist with the other, he applied pressure.

 

It really didn’t take too much before he was rewarded with a loud double cracking sound as both the radius and the ulna snapped like toothpicks under his bulging biceps.  The unfortunate hustler convulsed in agony, his mind a blank sheet of flaming pain.

 

Next, the Trucker brought up the boy’s right arm.  He stroked the pale, silky-smooth skin for a moment before brutally breaking that arm as well. This one didn’t go as well—at least not for Cody.  The bones shattered into a greenstick fracture, tearing through the skin.

 

For the next few minutes, Cody ceased to exist.  It was too much.  The tough, street-smart, fucked-out boywhore who prided himself on being able to take anything his johns imposed on him, sank into a sea of pain.  The kaleidoscopic colors danced in his nightmare of torture and trauma, red and white—and then, finally, black…a dark, cold, fiery, silent, screaming darkness…

 

The Trucker wrapped his hands in the long dyed strands of the punk’s hair, raising his head up just enough so that the kid didn’t pass out with the shaft plugging his throat.  The vicious killer wasn’t done with Cody—yet.

 

He was close, though.  Real close.

 

He hadn’t thought he’d be able to blow another load tonight; the last few days had been—energetic.  Or was the word dynamic?

 

He paused to consider the best adjective to describe his brutal, manic killing spree as the battered and broken youth quivered in unconscious agony.

 

“Hhhuuunnnhhh…” Cody groaned as the pinpricks of awareness slowly intensified into excruciating pain.  The Trucker’s evil smirk grew wider as he felt the whore’s smooth, slim body writhe and struggle in his lap with returning consciousness.  “That’s it, cunt,” he whispered, “come back to me.  Almost over now.  Work for it, bitch, work for my load.”

 

Slowly, he began to force Cody back down, impaling his head a fraction of an inch at a time.  The mangled rentboy was utterly enmeshed in an electric net of pain as his nervous system tried to process his physical agony, but (unfortunately) the nerves still functioned—all of them.  He could feel the massive throbbing head of the alpha’s cock slip down his esophagus on a slick film of drool and precum.  Each tiny motion of his head downward sent a fresh slash of fiery torture from his shattered jaw.

 

“Does it hurt, motherfucker?” the Trucker hissed quietly.  “Toldja ya shoulda kept yer mouth shut—now ya can’t, huh?  So you’re gonna take my dick all the way down, dude.  All the way down into Hell.  Here’s a protip, bitch—the sooner you make me cum, the sooner I’ll end it.  Remember that, when it gets too intense for ya, you useless faggot.  Milk me and I’ll end your pain forever.”

 

Cody understood what was happening; the mind-bending agony would have told him he was gonna die even had the muscle-bound killer’s taunts not laid out his immediate future with cruel glee.

 

He knew he was gonna die but he didn’t know why.  And by now, it didn’t matter.  The shuddering sack of meat that had been Cody was beyond the point of wondering about the motive for his murder.

 

The lean, sexy youth had started that evening using his streetwise skills to lure johns, trading his body for money and the money for drugs.  Now his feral cunning was focused on surviving just a few more seconds.

 

Writhing in unspeakable agony, the punk gasped wetly as the thick pulsing shaft plugged his windpipe with excruciating slowness.  Each panicked breath required more effort to draw—and more effort meant more pain wracking his helpless, half-nude body as the jagged edges of his broken bones tore new wounds inside him.

 

The Trucker felt the smooth, sweat-soaked body tremble in agony.  “Fuck yeah, dude, that’s it,” he muttered softly, sighing with pleasure as the cunt’s esophagus quivered around his swollen mushroom tip.  “Work it, ya pansy shitsack.  Choke on my fuckin’ cock, you worthless faggot whore.  C’mon motherfucker, fight it.  Death is gonna be cold, bitch, so fucking cold.  Keep fightin’ it, cocksucker, your last desperate panic feels so goddam good on my dick…”

 

The dying hustler had no choice but to obey the powerful stud who was now controlling the last few seconds of his life.  The Trucker’s enormous tool was fully inserted.  Wiry pubic hair scraped the slut’s face like steel wool—a mangled face, mashed against the Trucker’s scrotum, increasing the cunt’s misery as the strapping alpha’s huge balls pressed relentlessly into his jaw, grinding the serrated ends of broken bones together.

 

Worst of all, though, was the pain of suffocation.  A huge, pulsating tube of flesh completely filled his throat, the thick blood vessels wrapped around it acting as gaskets, utterly plugging the flow of air.

 

The red, slashing haze of agony that enveloped the kid was thicker than the fog outside—but it all stemmed from the enormous cock choking him.  As the oxygen level in his blood dropped, he began to thrash, desperately seeking more air.  The harder he jerked, the more his wounds opened.  The pen that had been jammed into his kidney slashed its blunt tip through that organ while his broken arms flopped uselessly.  Slow asphyxiation even increased the pain in his crushed nose as the cunt kept trying to fill his sinuses in a vacuum.

 

The only parts of him that still functioned were his legs, kicking and flailing violently as his Air Jordans snagged on the cheap sheets.  The punk’s jerking sneakers tangled in the thin material, though, limiting their usefulness to the dying whore.

 

Actually, though, there were other parts of him that still worked.  His brain was suffering progressive damage from hypoxia, but it was still able to process the input from his screaming nervous system.  The quivering, dying boycunt was beyond all concepts of life and death and was now little more than meat responding to stimuli.

 

One piece of meat that was responding was his dick.  He was face down on the bed, his head clamped immovably in the Trucker’s crotch.  As his lean, lithe body shuddered during his drawn-out agony, it slid and slipped on the cold, rank sweat that was squeezed out of him in his death throes.  His thin but long dick, pressed between the moist sheets and his equally slick, smooth belly, was being rubbed into an involuntary state of erection.

 

The more Cody kicked and died, the closer he got to cumming.

 

“Fuckin’-A, fag, die,” the Trucker grunted as his powerful muscles tightened with approaching orgasm.  His entire body, glistening with mansex sweat, shuddered with pleasure, making his dogtags jump and jingle on his huge, furry chest.  “C’mon, you worthless piece a’ shit, take my load and die on my dick.  So close, cocksucker, so fuckin’ close to puttin’ yer lights out for good—FUCK!!!”

 

Cody’s brain had been starved of oxygen too long; it lost control of the voluntary nervous system.  The maimed, damaged cunt convulsed frenetically, twisting his fractured arms into agonizing positions as his legs kicked uncontrollably.  The sheet was still tangled around his sneakers; as his feet jerked violently, the thin, yellowed fabric failed under the strain and tore noisily.

 

It was his head, though, that was responsible for the Trucker’s outcry.  It bobbed up and down as the helpless rentboy contorted in his death throes.  The dying whore spent his last moments alive giving his killer involuntary head; it made the sadistic killer blow his load.

 

The unfortunate Cody had a last hint of what was happening as the final spark of life guttered out in his terror-wracked mind.  It was a final nightmarish impression of drowning, not in water, but in lava…or maybe molten lead…a hot thick smoky liquid searing his lungs…

 

A white-hot bolt of excruciating electricity fired in his groin; the trembling hustler never knew that he’d shot his death load onto the stained mattress, the warm milky wad smearing between the scratchy fabric and his smooth, flat belly.

 

The corpse’s blackened face was all but invisible in the cruel top’s crotch.  The rhythmic convulsions of a dying body were replaced with the random but intense twitching of a body already dead.  Each time the boywhore jerked, thick pearly foam that was equal parts drool and spunk was forced past the swollen, blue lips, matting the Trucker’s pubic hair.

 

The Trucker gasped and shuddered, sending one last powerful jet of semen deep into the faggot whore’s lungs.  The corpse was still quivering, mindless meat with no control, as the Trucker pulled the head up off his sticky, glazed shaft.  Tossing the head away from him like the garbage it was, the Trucker reached over and grabbed another cigarette from the pack on the nightstand.  He leaned back, admiring his own erect cock, still throbbing and oozing from the tip.

 

The dead whore slowly slid halfway off the bed, headfirst, landing with the dark, mangled, spunk-smeared face buried in the filthy carpet.  Up on the bed, the cunt’s expensive kicks were still jerking as the corpse began the long process of cooling and stiffening.

 

The Trucker flicked his ash around randomly; he damn sure wasn’t gonna sleep here now.  He was gonna jump in the shower and head back to his truck.  He was still making plans as he ground out his smoldering butt in the small of the fag’s back, the dead skin sizzling and blackening as the cherry scorched it.

 

Heading into the bathroom, the Trucker had already decided what he needed to do next.  He was tired, but he didn’t have any time to rest.  He needed to put some distance between these dead homos and himself.  Not that he regretted tonight; this last little fucker had taught him a valuable lesson about witnesses.

 

There was a loose end he needed to handle.  He’d get clean, get out—and get that one fuck who could ID him.

 

 

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

 

 

By the evening of the same day, the wind had picked up again, blowing the haze away.  The night was clear but cold as Mark raced down the highway towards San Amadeo.  The news of a double killing in the next state had electrified the profiler; he knew, just from the initial reports of the crimes, that it was the serial killer he was tracking.

 

As his government-issued Ford hurtled east, he devoutly wished he’d been able to reach Dan.  These murders had stirred something deep within him.  Viewing the bodies, he’d he been horrified—and aroused.

 

And the things he’d found on that trooper’s phone…

 

He hadn’t reported the texts—the photos—the videos, dear God, those videos—that he’d found stored on the dead cop’s phone.  But as he watched them in his car, he’d felt his cock stiffen.

 

Mark was terrified.  He didn’t know why these gruesome scenes of rape and murder got him hard.  And Dan was on assignment, out of pocket.  Dan could have talked him down.

 

Mark thought that phone sex with Dan was almost as good as the real thing—almost.  It sure would have made him feel better about whatever the fuck he was feeling right now.

 

That wasn’t an option at the moment, though.  And he couldn’t ask were Dan was. Both were so deep in the closet that no one at the FBI realized that either one was gay, much less that they fucked like rabbits whenever they got the chance.

 

So Mark was on his own, chasing a killer with more than just professional interest.  He had personal questions, and this vicious serial killer might have the answers.  He needed to find the dude before anyone else.

 

He put his foot on the floor.  The Ford whined as it accelerated, speeding into the frigid night towards a murder scene.