Stealth Speed Kills

Tom stood alone in the dark and lighted a cigarette. He was cold and slightly bored but he had a job to do. He was standing guard.

No job for a professional, he thought. He was a hired killer, not a sentry. But the pay was good and all he had to do was make sure that no one went down the dirt track he was watching. He didn’t know why he needed to watch it and he didn’t need to know.

All he needed to know was that he was to kill anyone who appeared on the dirt road from which the track led. Someone wanted some privacy.

Tom wore jeans over black tactical boots. He had on a leather biker jacket, zipped up against the cold. A black knit cap fit tightly over his head. With a rifle in his hands and a knife in his boot, he felt ready for anything.

He had a hard, fit body to match his hard, cold mind. Tom was in his early thirties and had killed many men in many ways. He was familiar with sudden violent death and had watched men gasp away their last few seconds in shock and pain.

Someday it could happen to him. But not if he kept on his toes. And tonight, Mike was watching his back. He’d worked with Mike before and trusted him.

Mike had gone to check out the surroundings a little further down the road. His appearance was similar to Tom’s—same age, same cold face and hard body. His jeans, boots and cap were like Tom’s too, but he wore an olive green nylon jacket. He was as experienced a killer as Tom and could take care of any problems quickly and efficiently.

Tom took another drag on his cigarette. He wouldn’t be smoking if he thought there was a chance for some action, but he knew there was no one but Mike around for miles.

But for once his killer instinct let him down. As he took a third drag, he was unaware that he was being stalked and set up for a kill.

When it happened, it happened fast. Tom barely knew what hit him.

A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, crushing his lips. At the same time, a knife sheared through his leather jacket and plunged into his kidney in a burst of agony.

Shock flooded Tom’s body. He went up on his toes and bent backwards to escape the pain. He could feel the muscles of his killer’s chest against his back and hear his ragged breath in his ears. But the pain was what held him frozen—the pain and the adrenalin shock.

The killer’s arm held Tom like a steel trap as the knife was twisted viciously in the wound. The gloved hand sealed his mouth, his screams of pain reduced to muffled groans.

Then the knife was removed and the hand was grabbing his chin. Tom could open his mouth but deep shock prevented him from doing more than gasping. He felt himself pulled backwards so that his chest was exposed but he had no control of his body and was powerless to stop it.

He saw the gloved hand holding the blood-smeared knife a split second before the knife was slammed into his chest. It punctured him with such force that his breath was expelled in a long rattling moan.

Tom stared dully as the hand twisted the knife into this wound. The killer was grinding it, trying to cause as much damage as possible. It also caused as much pain as possible. The injury to his kidney was nothing compared to the searing agony of his quivering heart slicing itself to hamburger on the probing knife.

Tom’s wide, panicked eyes dilated and he lost control of his bowels. The air reeked of piss and shit and sweat—the smell of a dying man. He sank slowly to the ground. His killer left as silently as he had come. Tom twitched on the ground for a while, his eyes glazing into dull terror. He come up against someone who was a better killer than he was and experienced the same violent and painful death he’d dealt out himself.

The faint moans Tom had made in his death agonies hadn’t been heard by Mike. The first clue he had of trouble was his leg being kicked out from under him and his arm being twisted behind his back. He was on his knees with a razor-sharp knife slashing at his throat before he could react. The killer sliced Mike’s throat to ribbons, multiple slashes in a quick burst, cutting deeply through the larynx and esophagus. Then the killer was gone.

Mike knelt in the road, his eyes wide and his face white. His hands clawed in horror at the gaping flesh of his ripped-out throat. A rhythmic jet of blood pulsed from his neck, splashing his hands and the ground in front of him. The gurgling and hissing of his breath in his shredded windpipe grew more frenzied as pink foam bubbled out of the hole in his throat.

Suddenly Mike pitched forward into a pool of his own blood. He struggled for life for a few more seconds, slowly blinking his uncomprehending eyes, opening and closing his mouth as if he was still trying to speak.

His killer was long gone as Mike shuddered to his death alone on the dirt road. The hardman was left to rot in a sticky puddle of his own blood and piss.

Casual Hit

Ricky eased his seat back and rubbed one hand on his crotch. He was very, very high and horny as fuck. He wasn’t sure he’d have enough time to jack off, though. Jeff had gotten out of the van a couple of minutes ago—to go take a piss, he’d said.

Probably just beatin’ off, thought Ricky. No telling how soon he’d be back. He and Ricky had banged the same chicks, so Ricky had heard some things. Like how Jeff would shoot his load at the slightest touch when he was super-randy. Either way, he’d be back before Ricky could rub one out.

That was ok, though. Jeff was the one with the weed. And Jeff had cut him in on this gig when he didn’t have to. He was getting a hundred bucks for just sitting here. Well, that and not asking questions. Something weird was going on with this job and high as he was, Ricky was a little nervous.

He’d originally just had his usual Saturday night plans—go get fucked up and try to get laid. That meant finding someone to get him drunk or high—he was nineteen and well-known as a worthless little punk in his little town. Jeff was his best friend and was twenty-one. If he didn’t have any pot, he could always buy the booze, so Ricky went looking for him.

Ricky had dressed to show off his body; anything to help his chances of getting some pussy. He was a country boy so his tight jeans were faded and the ropers they were tucked into were scuffed. His white t-shirt was clean, at least, and was tight enough to highlight his well-developed chest. Ricky earned what little money he made by doing odd jobs on local ranches and physical labor had given him a lean, hard body.

Ricky didn’t own a car. The autumn chill filtered through his denim jacket as he walked into town. The wind had picked up and the baseball cap covering his short brown hair didn’t protect his ears. He felt lucky when Jeff pulled up next to him. Jeff said he needed some help and it would be easy money, so Ricky climbed into the van.

Jeff had been hunting. His tight jeans were also tucked into boots, but they were camouflage patterned combat boots. There was camo pattern on his t-shirt, too, as well as on the cap covering his red-gold hair. He wore a simple brown leather jacket and there was no trace of bright orange anywhere—which meant he’d been on someone else’s land, illegally.

Jeff had said he’d been approached by a couple of guys—strangers–when he’d got back to town. They’d offered him two hundred dollars to transport them and their motorcycles that night. He wanted Ricky’s help loading and unloading the bikes and would pay him half and get him high. Ricky jumped at the offer.

The first part of the gig had gone smoothly enough. They’d each smoked a joint on the way to the pickup spot, which was on an isolated back road in the state park to the north of town. This was where Ricky got a look at the two men.

Both of them had hard, grim faces. They were well built and quiet, almost emotionless. Each was in black, from their tight knit caps to their combat boots. Ricky caught sight of a knife in a boot sheath as he was helping to place a bike in the back of the van and wondered what he’d gotten into.

As they settled into the back beside their bikes, one of the men spoke, issuing orders in a gruff voice. They were to proceed to a specific point to the west and unload the bikes. The men would leave on the bikes while Jeff and Ricky waited. When they returned, the bikes would be placed back in the van and they would be driven back to this spot.

Ricky was worried. These guys looked like commandos. What the fuck was going on? Not that he’d ask—there was something in the cold faces of these men that said questions were a bad idea.

So they’d driven to the point they had been told and stopped at what seemed like random on a dirt road. The men had ridden away and Jeff had rolled more joints. Ricky had gotten high enough to forget his concerns and get horny.

He quickly jerked his hand away from the ridge in his jeans where his hard cock was throbbing—Jeff opened the driver’s door. “C’mon,” he said, “they’re back. I can hear the bikes.”

The two men seemed a bit less tense when they returned. Clearly whatever they had planned had gone well. They remarked that they still had a little “cleaning up” to do and they wanted to get it done with. The drive back to the park was made in silence.

Ricky was relieved when they pulled to a stop and Jeff turned the van off. The thought of money prompted him to speak. “You dudes need anything else or are you gonna pay us now?”

“No,” replied one of the men over Ricky’s shoulder. He was crouched right behind the passenger seat. The other was similarly poised behind Jeff. “Your job is done. We don’t need you anymore.”

And before Ricky was aware it happened, a nylon cord was whipped around his neck and pulled taut.

In his heavily drugged state, it took Ricky a couple of seconds to react. He knew that Jeff was thrashing in the driver’s seat, his hands flailing at the steering wheel and his boots jerking and catching the pedals. Ricky’s hands moved instinctively, trying to release the crushing pain in his throat.

He turned helplessly to Jeff and saw that he was being strangled. The cord was buried deep in his throat above the adam’s apple. It was tight enough to pucker the skin around it. Jeff’s face was a mask of pain and shock. He batted uselessly at his assailant. His bulging eyes stared at Ricky and foam drooled down his chin.

Ricky panicked. He was being killed, they were both being killed. They had been going to get fucked up tonight and get their dicks wet. He couldn’t be dying. This couldn’t be happening. Ricky screamed in terror but the only sound he could make was a frenzied grunt.

“Shut up,” muttered his killer into his ear, “this ain’t personal. Just tying up the loose ends. Shhhh. It’s almost over.”

It was almost over with Jeff. Despite his overwhelming panic and the progressive damage to his oxygen-deprived brain, Ricky was aware that he was watching Jeff die.

Jeff was convulsing violently in the driver’s seat. His bloodshot eyes gazed into nothing. His dying spasms thrust his pelvis up, his erect cock clearly straining inside his jeans. Spittle trailed from his blackened, swollen tongue.

The sound of death filled the van—the drumming of the victims’ boots against the floorboards, the labored breathing of the hitmen, the faint gagging sounds emerging from clamped-off throats.

Jeff’s body suddenly went rigid, bending backwards and thrusting his hips up. A dark stain formed in his crotch and the writhing of his cock could be seen through his skin-tight jeans. He remained in that position for what seemed like a long time, groin in the air and streams of spunk soaking his jeans, spreading through his pubic hair and onto his thighs.

Jeff went limp. The large dark spot on his jeans grew larger as his bladder emptied. The corpse shuddered in the pool of piss that collected in the seat.

Jeff’s death was the last thing Ricky saw. His vision became obscured by silent fireworks. The insane racing of his heart filled his ears. His tongue was agonizingly huge—it had forced his mouth open and he could feel it protrude. He could still feel lots of things.

He could feel that he was drooling uncontrollably. He could feel snot and tears running down his face. He could feel pain—crushing pain in his throat, burning pain in his chest and a fiery pressure in his engorged cock.

As more of Ricky’s brain shut down, more of his world disappeared. He could see nothing and the pounding in his ears was now a faint and irregular throb.

That’s my heart, he thought in a dim confused way; it’s stopping. Why am I dying? Why is this man killing me?

The pain swallowed him. Darkness and agony rushed over him in a tide. The pain in his throat, the pain in his chest—the pain in his dick.

Then that’s all there was. The final sensation in Ricky’s worthless life was the burning of molten metal as thick gobs of cum erupted from his dick. As his brain shut down and his heart failed, his seed spewed desperately out of his swollen shaft.

The hitman kept the cord cinched tightly around Ricky’s neck for another two minutes. By the time he released the corpse, the death throes had stopped. Ricky was nothing but dead meat soaking in its own piss.

Once the hitmen had removed their cords, they discussed what to do with the bodies. The longer it took to find them, the better. They’d reconnoitered the area thoroughly and knew there was a deep ravine in the woods, several hundred yards to the northwest.

Hoisting the cum-and-piss soaked bodies over their shoulders and carrying them uphill to the ravine was tough. The corpses were dumped in unceremoniously. Jeff stared up with dull glazed eyes from the bottom of the ravine. Ricky lay across him; face down, one arm twisted back behind him.

They were left to bloat and rot. There was a chance they’d be cover with snow soon and wouldn’t be found till spring. There wouldn’t be much left of them by then.

The hitmen drove the van to a spot on the other side of the park and left on the side of the road, keys in the ignition. They had finished “cleaning up.” Time to go…

Jack, Offed

Jack walked warily down the rain-slicked sidewalk. He was drunk, and angry—and horny—but not enough of any of them to risk getting the new gray Etnies skate shoes laced tightly around his feet getting wet. He was higher than fuck, too, having burned an entire joint himself in the men’s room back at Club 69.

He was high enough to be seeing tracers, making his ability to avoid the large puddles on the pavement seem miraculous. But then, Jack had always had the ability to perform well while impaired; he spent most of his life drunk or stoned or cranked out of his head, but he still managed to hold onto a job and an apartment.

Not much of either one, which was fine with Jack. His goals in life were to stay as fucked-up as possible and to get fucked as much as possible. It actually took a great deal of skill to manage. Jack wasn’t intelligent, but he had street cunning and a lot of drive. He’d kept his body slim and taut, looking far younger than his true age of twenty-three; he looked like he was mid- to late teens.

His short black hair was draped across his forehead, arranged with careful negligence, giving him a scruffy look. He was short, about five-seven at the most. His emerald eyes glittered out from behind long dark lashes, his full lips parting almost to a pout in resting position.

He’d have had the face of a model if he hadn’t abused his body so much; he’d been active with both drugs and sex at a very early age and nearly a decade of hard living had taken a toll—still subtle, but present, and becoming much more obvious year by year. Even now, his skin wasn’t clear and there was a dark shadow under his bloodshot eyes. His nose was large and getting larger (and redder) as his drinking increased over the years.

Jack was still hot, but he was wearing out. And he knew it. It was why he was so angry tonight. He was horny as fuck, and he couldn’t get fucked. All the studs on the dance floor—the big strong types Jack liked—had blown him off and gone for the other twinks.

Jack had been devastated. He worked hard to maintain his firm, smooth body. He knew he looked good, dressed as he was. Under a plain gray t-shirt, he wore a long-sleeved skin-tight black thermal shirt that he’d tucked into black skinny jeans. The jeans ended just above the ankle to show an inch of his white socks above his skate shoes.

At one point, he’d discarded the t-shirt to show how tightly the thermal shirt clung to his lithe but developed chest. But even with clothing so tight that very little imagination was required to picture Jack nude, there was still a hard edge to his face and manner that put dudes off.

And so Jack stormed angrily out into the rain, grabbing his leather jacket—a simple windbreaker—on his way out the door, but leaving the t-shirt on the dance floor.

He had no idea it’d be retrieved later as evidence.

Although Jack wouldn’t admit it to himself, the fact that none of the twinks had come on to him made it worse. He wouldn’t have touched them; he had standards, after all. He liked his tops bigger, stronger, slightly older than he was. When he’d been younger, he’d been offered money by twink types that wanted to bang him. But he wasn’t a whore; money gave the other guy too much control. And Jack liked to get fucked, but there was a limit.

But by the same token, he was a slut, willing to get fucked bareback by any stranger who actually did turn him on. Problem was, he was a picky bitch and only wanted to get fucked by muscle studs.

Alpha muscle studs were hard to find, though. And while he had the perfect teen body, his abuse of it over the years was finally catching up to him. The few tops he’d wanted were all snagged by younger kids.

So here he was, walking home in the rain like a Hemingway hero. Not that he’d heard of Hemingway, or could be considered a hero; he was just a drunk, stoned twink who was pissed off because he wasn’t quite enough of a twink.

He didn’t have his shit together enough to afford a car, but he managed to hold on to a shitty hourly job and filthy cheap-ass efficiency apartment. So he was gonna go back, drink some more, toke some more, and pass out with the TV on and his dick hard.

He turned the corner and walked past the parking lot behind the clubs. Club 69 was where he’d ended up; he’d run the entire circuit on the strip. So there was no use in trolling the parking lot; no one coming out was interested. He’d already tried. Fuck. If he’d had a car, he might have tried The Underpass, but it was too far to walk. And he was way too drunk to drive, anyways…

Jack was three blocks down, deep in the gay ghetto, before he remembered he needed to go two blocks south; he had just kept staggering drunkenly (but amazingly around anything that might soil his shoes; high as he was, he’d paid too much to want to ruin them this soon) after he turned the corner, ruminating angrily over his slights. At the next intersection, he turned left onto the dark, unlit side street.

Halfway down the block was the entrance to an alley that gave access to parking in the rear of all the properties that faced the main street. The side street was dark but there were security lights down the alley from the parking lot of a house that was divided into apartments.

Jack paused a few steps down the street. There was a shadow stretching out from the alley, the elongated, backlit image of a man standing with his legs spread. Some guy was just standing there, in the alley, out of sight behind the wall that ran along the pavement. Jack felt a chill for a moment but kept going. He could handle himself. He might have the body of a sixteen-year-old, but he was lithe and deceptively strong.

Jack moved quickly, increasing his step as he approached the alleyway, determined not to look or draw attention to himself. He flipped the collar of his leather jacket up, ducked his head and strode quickly along the sidewalk.

The voice, when it came, had something in it—a quality, a timbre—that made him listen and obey. “Hey,” was all it said, a deep, basso voice that seemed to reverberate along his spine and command him to stop. So he stopped. And looked.

All he could see was a silhouette. One of the security lights was angled down the alley to the street; the glaring halogen blinded Jack, but he could see a large, tall man standing there. As Jack paused, shading his eyes with his hand, the man slowly began to move towards him. Perversely, as the man blocked out more of the light with his body, Jack could see his body more clearly than he had with the light in his eyes.

This dude was huge, well over six feet. His biceps and thighs were larger than Jack’s torso. His hair was black as well; it had an almost blue glint and curled tightly, a feature it carried down the side of his face to merge with a thick goatee covering a strong, firm jaw. Even with his face in shadow, the dude’s eyes sparkled in pools of darkness.

He wore what looked like a plain white cotton t-shirt under a thick leather biker’s jacket with zippers at the cuffs. His tight denim jeans sank into a pair of black leather harness boots with buckled straps.

Jack’s fear was gone, instantly replaced with lust; this was exactly the kinda stud he’d been looking for. He grinned up at the man, a giant towering over him, praying that he could lure this incredible stud back to his place. “Hey,” he replied, “what ya lookin’ for?”

The stud stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned to face Jack, leering down at him. Jack could see the left half of his face illuminated by the alley light. The dude’s eyes were an extraordinary pale blue. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw covered with the same curly black fur that circled his mouth. His lips were full and red, but compressed into a hard, tight line.

“I’m lookin’ for someone to fuck,” the dude drawled lazily. “I’m lookin’ for someone who can take my cock.”

“I can take it,” gasped Jack, trying to contain his excitement.

“Yeah?” asked the leather-bound stud. “Gotta warn ya, punk, I fuck hard. Ain’t found anyone yet who could stay the whole course. If ya get what I mean.”

Jack smiled, an almost contemptuous look on his face. “I know what ya mean. I can take you, dude. I can take anything you give me.”

The man stepped forward into the light; Jack got a much better look at him. He was somewhat older, but his age was hard to discern; he was well-built and his body was incredibly developed; the arms of his leather jacket and the legs of his jeans bulged with muscles. He could have been anywhere from his early thirties to his early fifties; the only evidence that he was at the younger end of the spectrum was his jet-black hair with no trace of gray.

He looked down at Jack, smiling faintly. “Can you, dude? Can you take whatever I give ya? Let’s find out. You got someplace private I can stick it in ya?”

Jack gasped as lust flooded his body, triggering the flow of hormones. “Yeah, man, just follow me back to my place.” He wheeled about and began staggering down the street. He was more fucked up than he thought—but he attributed his difficulty walking to the fact that his cock was harder than a brick.

Across one more street, then up the alley to the right—this one far less well-lit than the other—to the rear parking lot of Jack’s little bills-paid complex. He led the stud around to the rear-most unit on the left on the ground floor.

It was a squalid affair; Jack’s job didn’t pay much. He had a memory foam mattress—but no bed to put it on; it sat on the floor. He had a decent chair and an expensive TV and game system. On the other side of the large room, next to the open closet displaying Jack’s expensive clothing, was a cheap desk supporting an equally inexpensive computer and printer. Jack’s priorities were fairly clear; especially when one took into account the amount of booze in the kitchen, pot in the bathroom, and coke in the closet.

But this guy didn’t need to know any of that, Jack decided; he just needed to stick his hopefully enormous schlong up Jack’s ass.

The older man glanced coldly at the squalor around him—despite Jack’s care with his new clothing, anything that remained in his possession more than two months was considered too used to be worth caring for. As a result, costly designer shirts and name-brand jeans were massed in piles on the floor. Soiled sheets of high-grade Egyptian cotton twisted across the bed and dragged onto the filthy floor.

His eyes, ice-blue and utterly emotionless locked onto Jack’s own. Jack felt a tremor run through his body, but was unable to define the emotion associated with it. Lust and unease and the sense of something hidden and unknown stirring deep inside him.

The older man shrugged off his heavy leather biker jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a thump. Under it, he was wearing a thin white cotton wifebeater which he proceeded to pull off as well.

He stood before Jack, almost literally taking the boy’s breath away. His thick, taut torso descended in a V-shape into the top of his tight jeans, his waist circled by a belt woven of black leather strips. It had no holes; the shaft of the buckle could be jammed into the weave at any point.

But Jack’s eyes didn’t linger on the belt. They were drawn back up to the six-pack abs and rippled chest, covered with thick, wiry black fur. It spread over the dude’s chest but concentrated in a distinct line as it got lower, a line running straight down to his crotch.

The stud sneered at Jack as he spoke. “On your knees, bitch. Suck on it. I wanna see how far I can stick my cock down your throat.”

Jack’s green eyes glittered defiantly as he replied. “You can stick it in my ass if ya want, but I don’t take any guy’s dirty piss-stained dick in my mouth.”

The alpha dude’s expression changed from contempt to terrifying rage instantly. He stepped forward and snatched a fistful of Jack’s shirt, jerking him forward and twisting the fabric. As he did so, Jack’s collar tightened into a near chokehold.

“Listen, cunt, you’re gonna get on your knees and suck on whatever I put in your mouth. There is no ‘or else’; you’re gonna do it. Your only choice is gonna be how much it hurts.”

Jack made his fatal mistake. He hesitated. That was all it took to establish the balance of power, once and for all. And although he wasn’t aware of it at the moment, ‘for all’ wasn’t going to be much longer for Jack—say forty minutes at the outside.

Depended on how strong he was, really, although that could work against him, too. Somewhere near the end of those forty minutes, it was likely that Jack would be hoping that the end of ‘for all’ was imminent.

But as Jack sank to his knees and the black-haired stud unzipped his fly, letting his thick, veined hog flop out like a butcher laying out a slab of prime beef, the end of it all was still several minutes in the future. Jack paused, looking at the enormous organ with trepidation. His useless bravado aside, Jack was no stranger to BJs; he’d swallowed enough sperm to float—well, if not a battleship, at least a dinghy. But this was something else, a tool big enough to completely plug his esophagus.

Even with the amount of use—he called it ‘experience’—Jack had undergone, he knew that this fuck was gonna hurt worse than anything he’d experienced before. Even so, he had no concept of the pain in store for him as the dude’s rough, strong hands grabbed Jack’s face and roughly forced his mouth open.

There was no tentative exploration. Before Jack had the time to react, his mouth and throat were full of cock. He could feel the thick oozing head plugging his windpipe, its ridged length lying on top of his epiglottis, preventing him from breathing.

He grunted in panic, his hands pummeling the dude’s legs. It felt like (and seemed to have the same effect as) beating on tree trunks. As tears welled from Jack’s bulging eyes and saliva bubbled out in a foam past the massive tube of meat jammed into his mouth, he could feel the hard manstud’s pubic hairs scratching his face. He turned his eyes upward, trying desperately to catch those of the stranger choking him, but his vision faded into the dark forest of fur hanging above him.

Gasping and choking, Jack placed his hands against the stud’s rock-hard thighs and pushed with as much force as he could muster. The top clamped his hands down onto the side of Jack’s head. With excruciating, inexorable force, he exerted a vise grip on Jack’s skull, causing him great pain as he forced his dick even further down the slut’s gurgling throat.

Jack’s resistance was useless. The tender flesh on the inside of his lip was torn against his teeth as his face was forced relentlessly into the top’s groin. He squealed and gurgled; his tongue wriggling reflexively along the underside of the alpha stud’s shaft, making the man grunt and apply yet more agonizing pressure.

Jack could feel himself going under; as he coughed and spewed foam, darkness was closing in around him. He was going numb. His body was fading…foam dribbling down his chin past the manmeat in his mouth…why was his dick hard…

Suddenly, it was gone. He could breathe. Jack took a deep, whooping gasp of air and fell back onto the half-stripped foam mattress. He laid back, eyelids fluttering, as he spent the next two minutes coughing foam up onto his cheeks, the darkness in his face slowly fading.

The alpha top glared silently down at him, waiting for him to recover enough to obey. He decided a couple of minutes were enough. “Okay, bitch, strip. Still think you can take me? Let’s see what my shaft feels like up your ass, cunt. Get outta yer clothes, slut. Now.”

Jack pulled his shirt off in one fluid motion, revealing his firm, slim, smooth torso, shiny with sweat. The deep register of the older man’s voice had vibrated through his tender ass to the root of his cock, already erect. Even though he hadn’t recovered enough of his wind to be able to think clearly, he knew that he had to do as he was told.

He sat abruptly on the edge of his mattress as he pulled off the new sneakers. Standing up immediately, he wriggled out of his jeans. He stood before the dominant stud, nude except for the white athletic socks climbing his calves. His cock, unaccountably, was jutting out in front of him, despite what he had just been through.

Jack faced the unknown man, letting his eyes slowly slide up the dude’s hard body, starting with his black harness boots. They moved up the thick calves and thighs, tightly wrapped in worn, frayed denim. His long, thick, cock, still only semi-hard, dangled out in front like tackle, its swollen purple head shiny with saliva and precum. His scrotum was still in his jeans; they still clung firmly to his tight ass even with the fly and waist open, peeled back to show a black, hairy V from which his throbbing, veined shaft protruded.

Jack’s attention was momentarily diverted by something shiny—it was just the dangling buckle of the woven leather belt catching the light—before it was drawn upwards along the stranger’s body, almost hypnotically. The stud’s furry, rippled abdomen, his heaving, sweaty flanks, the muscles in his chest bulging as he breathed—Jack took them all in greedily, knowing that no matter how much this might hurt, he was gonna be able to beat off to the memories for the rest of his life. This motherfucker was the perfect stud; exactly what Jack had wanted. Even the skull tattoo on the right shoulder.

Then up to his face. Dark curly hair covered a strong jaw and circled a full mouth set in an emotionless straight line. The beard merged with the thick hair that was just as black and curly. But the eyes; those icy blue eye…Jack stared directly into them—

WHAM

It wasn’t a punch; it was a backhand blow hard enough to raise a bruised welt on his cheek. Jack was both physically and emotionally unprepared for the assault, though, and crumpled to the mattress as if he’d decked in the jaw. As he cowered, clutching his face, the older man spoke.

“You don’t get to look at me, cunt. Only time my bitches get to look me in the face is when they make me cum. Got that, you fucking worthless faggot? You wanna look me in the face, you gotta earn it by milking the sperm outta my dick. Now roll over and get on your hands and knees, slut, I’m gonna fuck ya like the homo dog you are. Gonna take ya from behind, boy. You won’t get to see me, but ya damn sure get to feel me.”

As Jack positioned himself on the mattress on his hands and knees, he felt almost nothing at all. It was due more to denial than anything else—yes, he was a bottom, but he’d been a desirable one, able to command respect. He’d never anticipated so completely losing control of a situation. He was shocked; he felt nothing.

The top lived up to his word. Jack felt something soon enough. His response started as a moan but quickly escalated to a shriek as the dude’s massive tool stretched his sphincter past its breaking point. Instantly a hand clamped tightly and painfully over his mouth and a voice snarled, “Goddam, cunt, ya squeal like a fuckin’ pig,” so close he could feel the breath hot on his ear.

It took forever. The stud was enjoying Jack’s pain, holding him close with the brutality of iron clamps as he slowly slid his cock into Jack’s torn, quivering fuckhole. Jack’s arms beat frantically against the mattress, his fingers tightly flexed, his toes curling visibly in his white socks, his jerking feet confined between the alpha’s boots. Holy fuck, it felt like he was getting raped with a baseball bat…

Then, there was blessed relief. It stopped. The dude wasn’t shoving it in anymore; he was kneeling behind Jack with one hand spread on his back, holding him down, the other hand over his mouth, pulling his head back.

Suddenly both hands were gone.

Jack gasped and whimpered, his entire body trembling. He was still upright on his hands and knees. He felt full of cock. The pain, the trauma to his lower colon, had taken his breath away, but at least it had stopped. Christ, any farther and he’d be getting fucked in his guts—there’d be internal damage…

He’d known it’d hurt. He’d been willing to accept that as the price for the perfect fuck. He hadn’t known it would be this bad—but it was still worth it. If he could just take a moment to let his ass muscle collapse and accept the stud’s shaft…

As usual, Jack’s grasp of reality was weak. This time, though, the contradiction was about to be driven home, brutally. It started with a faint rasping sound.

It didn’t last long, and Jack couldn’t make out what it was at first. Then he realized the alpha stud was slowly slipping his belt out the loops on his jeans. Jack almost went faint with relief; the dude would have to pull out of him to undress further—maybe Jack could talk him into some lube—

It was a brief relief. As Jack trembled on his hands and knees, with an excruciatingly huge cock shoved up his ass and sweat running down his face, something flashed in front of his eyes—something that looked like woven leather straps.

Then the top’s belt cinched brutally around Jack’s throat, instantly cutting off his air.

Jack’s hands frantically scrabbled at the leather mesh digging into his neck, leaving his upper body unsupported. The older man threw himself down on Jack’s back, letting the young slut feel the dude’s muscles rasping his belly fur against Jack’s smooth, slick back. They boy fell forward, the thick choking grunts emerging from his closed-off windpipe directly into the mattress as his face was buried in it.

There was a terrible, tearing pain on the right side of Jack’s neck. His hands found the spot, clawing desperately at the piece of metal cutting into his skin. It was the belt buckle—the alpha wasn’t using the belt like a cord; he’d made a basic noose by looping it back through the buckle.

The stud took control immediately, locking Jack into place by grabbing a fistful of hair on the back of his head; with the head immobilized, he only needed to pull on the belt with one hand to tighten the leather mesh through the buckle.

Jack’s mind was aflame with sheer panic. He’d never known—never had any reason to consider—that sudden cessation of breath could be so terrifying. The only thing that kept his weak psyche from disintegrating in a white-hot sheet of terror was the pain; as scared as he was, he couldn’t escape the agony of his physical suffering.

It wasn’t just the strangling; the top had started shoving his dick in again. Jack braced himself up on one arm, bending the other behind him at an almost impossible angle in his desperate attempt to reach his torment.

“Stop it, you worthless fuck, you ain’t gettin’ away,” the dude growled, then spit on the back of Jack’s shuddering head. “Only way you’re getting’ off my dick is with my load inside you. Sooner ya make me shoot, the sooner I let ya go. Whaddaya think, cocksucker, think you’ll last long enough for me to cum? I bet not. You’re a useless fuckin’ faggot, not even good at gettin’ fucked. Look at ya, bitch, look at this place. Ain’t no one gonna miss ya.”

Jack couldn’t see that his face was turning purple, but he could feel it swelling painfully. His throat was blazing agony, the woven straps sinking ever more deeply below the surface of his skin, making impossible for his fingers to find a purchase. It pulled violently at the buckle, jerking his skin up and tearing it, a trickle of blood dripping onto the mattress and soiled sheets.

There was a huge, swelling pressure in his chest. His air had been shut off for almost two minutes, most of which time Jack had been struggling and burning the limited oxygen in his bloodstream. But his years of drug use had conditioned his body to functioning under extreme conditions—which meant, unfortunately for Jack, that he was a long way from going numb or losing consciousness.

Already, despite his instinctive fight against the overpowering force crushing the life out of him, part of Jack’s spinning, frantic brain craved oblivion—even death, if it meant an end to the pain.

His ass—oh fuck, it was being torn wide open. He could feel the burning shaft of ridged flesh penetrating deep into his guts, tearing him on the inside. He’d never felt so full, so completely violated before. But as painful as it was, it had to come second in his attention. Breathing came first. Jack jerked and writhed, anything, anything to release that horrible crushing pressure in his chest, oh shit his lungs were gonna pop move move get away…

Then came the voice. Even in full survival mode, there was something in the deep bass timbre of the stud’s voice that reverberated along the root of Jack’s unaccountably hard dick.

“Now you got it, fucker. Goddam, your quivering and trembling feels so good on my tool. Gotta get ya to do it some more. Let’s see—ya like that, pig? Fuck yeah, that made ya kick! Goddam, I gotta do more of that; you milk my cock good, you fucking squealing cockwhore!”

The top had shifted himself slightly and ground his engorged rod into Jack’s bleeding fuckhole at a different angle, tearing the rectal lining in a new spot.

Jack had bent his back upwards, his hands clawing the air in front of him in mindless agony. The tip of his black, swollen tongue was already forcing its excruciating way out his mouth as thick foamy drool spilled down his smooth, weak chin. His bulging eyes leaked tears as petechial hemorrhages formed in the lids and blood vessels ruptured, red blossoms appearing in his green eyes. In some deep recess in his fear-wracked mind, some part of Jack was screaming at the thought that the nightmarish pain and terror he was experiencing was sexually arousing to his assailant.

That was the true, mind-shattering revelation for Jack. He’d just planned tonight to be like any other. Get a little stoned, get a little drunk, let some stud fuck him. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Tonight there’d be no repeat. This guy wasn’t just gonna kill him; this guy was gonna get off on killing him as slowly and painfully as possible.

The realization was accompanied by an icy coldness flooding Jack’s body. Through it all, he could still feel his own dick, traitorously hard, slapping against his thighs as his body bucked and jerked. He wasn’t paying attention anymore, though, huge black roses were blooming in his face; they made a buzzing sound that got louder. He could still the alpha stranger speak, but the words had no real significance to him…

“Almost there, you faggot piece of shit. Almost ready to shoot. Goddam, I had to work you over good—you really are a stupid cunt, ain’t ya? Don’t even know how to make a guy cum without choking the fuck outta ya. But ya like it, don’t ya, whore? Ya like that mancock rippin’ into your soft homo guts, huh? Are ya ready for my load, faggot? Think ya can take it? Ready to look me in the face as you get my spunk, you worthless queer? Get ready, motherfucker, here it comes—UUURRRGHHH!!!!”

With a loud cry, the dude hunched down over Jack, his cock swelling and pumping a solid stream of boiling semen into Jack’s torn colon. As he did, he locked the buckle into place around Jack’s neck so the belt wouldn’t loosen.

Then, still clutching a hank of hair at the back of the head, the alpha reached around, grabbed Jack’s jaw in the other hand, and twisted his head through 180 degrees.

Even in the extreme last moments of consciousness, Jack was aware of what had happened. His protruding eyes gazed in utter, absolute horror at those of his killer, ice-cold and remorseless. The sound was that of a tree limb snapping, but Jack felt it as well as heard it. It was the last thing he heard or felt.

The sensation was that of a massive electrical shock running through his body. He had no awareness that his erect cock had blown a huge load of creamy sperm onto the bed as his neck shattered. He didn’t feel it; what he did feel was the shattering of half a dozen vertebrae that sent bone fragments slicing into his spinal cord.

His entire body went intensely rigid, every muscle clenching tightly. Even torn and mangled, his sphincter was able to tighten around the base of the killer’s dick, making the stud cry out and collapse on top of Jack’s quivering body, punching the shuddering mass of flesh repeatedly.

As the universe faded into a cold sheet of dark eternal ice, Jack’s consciousness faded to a pinpoint focused on the rage and lust of the man who was beating him while filling his abdomen with semen and spitting into his gasping, dying face. It was the last thing he saw.

The dude didn’t stay around long. He stepped into the bathroom to wash up. When he came out, slipping his wifebeater back over his slick, heaving torso–still breathing deeply with exertion–Jack’s body was still convulsing on the mattress, face up but chest down. His white tube socks were still covering his twitching calves and white foam still trickled down his blackened face from his blue lips, parted by his grotesquely swollen tongue. Even from here, the dude could see his own cum oozing out of the corpse’s ravaged ass.

The killer stuffed his thick cock back inside his tight faded jeans and zipped the fly. Approaching the bed, he bent down and grabbed a handful of Jack’s sweat-soaked hair, lifting his head. It lolled forward easily with no functioning spine to stiffen it. Keeping a firm grip on Jack’s hair, the dude worked the fingers of his free hand up under the belt; his nails tearing open the purple flesh of the slut’s crushed neck. The buckle had become embedded deeply—it took a few minutes before it was pulled off and slipped back around the top’s waist.

Jack’s eyes, now faded to a cloudy green ringed with red, stared into his killer’s face. Blank and dull, they gave no hint of the terror he’d experienced at being forced to give up his useless, wasted life.

Slipping his leather jacket back on, the stud smiled to himself. He always enjoyed putting down a pig; it was a good workout. Kept him in shape. And it wasn’t like anyone was gonna miss the worthless little homo slut anyway…

Another Skater Bites the Dust

“Hey, dude, ya got any smoke?”

I sit forward on the bench and take a closer look at the kid. He and his friends had been riding their boards around all afternoon—or at least as long as I’ve been sitting on this bench. This boy has taken a couple of good long looks in my direction but he hasn’t indicated any interest, till now.

Maybe that’s because his friends had left. There’s no one to see what he does now. Which is good for me.

It’s very bad for him, but he doesn’t know that yet.

He’s no older than eighteen, if that. Shoulder-length brown hair, with large dark eyes. He’s about 6 feet tall, but not big—he has more of a swimmer’s build, lean but muscled; not scrawny. He’s wearing tight grey jeans that just cover his ass and a black t-shirt with some band logo on it. On his feet are what look like purple suede hightops, tightly laced…

He’s beautiful. And he’s hoping to get high with me.

Sure, I’ll get him high. And then I’ll put him down like a dog.

“Ya wanna smoke?” I ask him. He nods eagerly. “Sure, I got some weed back at my place. C’mon, we’ll go get high and see what happens. I’m parked over here.”

He follows me back to my van like a puppy; the little fag was eager to “see what happens”. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him massaging his dick with one hand. Horny little fucker thinks he’s gonna get his cock sucked or something.

He’ll get something, all right. I grin at him as he climbs into the seat beside me. Poor little boy grins back. He has no idea what’s in store.

Back at my place, I roll a joint while the kid gets undressed. “What about my kicks?” he asks. “Some guys like watchin’ me jack with ‘em on.”

“Yeah, go ahead and put ‘em back on,” I tell him, wondering how many guys he’s been with. I don’t think it’s been very many. He’s too—oh, how do I put it? Too soft. No rough edges; he’s a sweet but kinda stupid suburban kid whose main interests are clearly getting high and draining the copious amounts of semen his raging teen hormones are producing.

Other guys like watching him cum while he’s wearing his kicks? I’m gonna like watching him die wearing them.

See, I knew it. I tell him I’m gonna fuck him and he gets all nervous. A virgin; at least anally. And he protests too much. “I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot! You wanna suck my dick, fine, but I ain’t lettin’ no dude stick anything into me!”

Of course he wants my thick purple rod up his ass; for all his words, the look on his face and the gleam of lust in his eyes as he stares at my meat show the truth. I push him over onto his back, spread his legs with my arms and plow my cock straight into his tender hole.

He tries to scream. I quickly let go of his legs and clamp both hands over his mouth. Gotta keep the fucktoy quiet for now. He struggles beneath me, the heels of his hightops beating on my asscheeks. I’m reaming him violently, penetrating deep into his rectum with each thrust. His cries emerge as plaintive moans from behind my hands, clenching painfully tight on his mouth.

I spend a good ten minutes ramming his virgin teen fuckhole with no lube but my own spit. Then I let up on his mouth; his cries have tapered off. He’s still moaning, but now it’s in pleasure. He’s a natural little homo all right; he just loves it up the ass.

Shame to have to end it all, now that he’s found out what makes him happy.

It looks like a simple length of white clothesline. It’s just a nylon cord. The skater punk is lying back, eyes closed, a huge happy grin on his face. He never sees it.

I lift him up and gently loop the cord about his neck. Then I pull tight—hard—straining to tighten it as much as possible.

The kid reacts instantly. His eyes wide with horror, he claws frantically at me, at my arms. I’m pressing him down onto the floor with the cord around his neck and my dick still in his ass. I’m dominating him to such an extent that he can’t really move. He gyrates his ass side to side in an attempt to break free but all he’s really doing is massaging my cock.

“Ooh yeah, ya little fuck,” I mutter in pleasure, “that’s it, bitch. Struggle and die. Milk my cock as you kick away your last few minutes on earth. I wanna feel you suffer. C’mon, boy, die for me, let me feel your agony in my dick. Useless fuckin’ skater punk…”

He’s beating and slapping at my face now, but he’s so panicked that he’s not doing any damage. I can see the terror in the kid’s face; the stunned disbelief that this can be happening to him. He’d planned to go to the park, show himself off, maybe get high, get sucked off–he hadn’t known that he’d die today.

But he is dying. He’s dying like a fucking cumdump whore on my cock. He’s thrashing violently, but there’s no concerted effort to escape. He’s in a state of blind panic; his conscious mind is still there, but it’s nothing but a solid shriek of terror. He’s sweating heavily with the strain and the lack of oxygen.

His face darkens from red through purple to a near black color. As it darkens, it swells. His eyes bulge, seeming to stare frantically at me as the tiny vessels hemorrhage.

The boy gags horribly as his tongue swells and protrudes. Drool leaks out both corners of his mouth and his eyes have become so red it looks like he’s gotten higher than his wildest dreams.

Maybe he has. The oxygen deprivation has taken a toll. He’s not fighting me any longer. His movements have slowed, become much gentler. He’s caressing me now. He’s sweat so much his body is covered with a fine oily sheen that slips and slides against my own.

I tighten the cord, brutally. It sinks into the teen’s neck so deeply it can’t be seen. There’s a loud cracking sound as the kid’s hyoid bone shatters. I could release the little shit now; it wouldn’t matter. I’ve crushed his windpipe. He’s dead meat now, no matter what. I’ve wasted the little fucker. From here on out, it’s mindless nerves and dead meat. The punk is toast.

He leans back, in extremis. Suddenly he arcs his body upwards intensely. His smooth, firm chest and belly slide frictionlessly over my body and I feel a sudden warmth blazing against my stomach.

Skater punk has shot his load all over me.

He falls back into the rhythmic convulsions of fatal brain trauma. Oh god, the inside of his little virgin bitch hole feels like velvet as it flutters against the head of my dick in its dying spasms. I can’t control myself.

The last thing I remember, as I unload what feels like a solid quart of spunk into the dying teen’s ass, is that I’m cursing and punching the boy in his face as hard as I can…

-————————————————————————————————–

It’s very late when I wake up. I’m still on top of the kid and my limp cock is still in his ass. He’s cool to the touch now, but I’ve been out for a while and I think rigor mortis has passed already.

Oh, my poor little skater boy. So alone, so utterly helpless—now he needs me more than ever. And he’s sticky and dirty. There’s blood on his face—he must not have been completely dead when I punched him.

I draw a nice warm bath and get in—not alone, of course; he’s the one who needs it. I lower his body down onto mine as I sit in the tub. I take soap and a washcloth and I gently bathe my boy.

He lies in my lap, so peacefully, so willingly. I clean his beautiful body all over. I wash the scales of dried spunk off his tight, smooth belly. I carefully clean his adorable face, washing off the blood and snot and foamy drool. His thick cock floats limply in the water as I clean it, too.

When we’re done, I dry myself off, then my boy. We lay in bed, together, he and I, and I kiss him deeply, passionately. I force my tongue against his, swollen, bulging, rough, dry. His bloodshot eyes are turning milky in erotic death. He wants to get fucked again and how can I resist such innocent beauty? I slip my swollen tool back into his cool smooth teen fuckhole.

He jerks limply with each thrust of my dick. He’s so pretty, so totally dependent on me, so helpless in the face of my every whim—how can I deny him my seed?

I shudder and cry out as I fill his cold dead guts with spunk.

It saddens me to know that I’ll have to dispose of him soon, but he won’t be fit to keep for much longer. Such a shame; he was so adorable. But there will be others.

There are always others.

The Boy in the Blue and Black Sneakers

The guy in 1324 has got himself a rentboy. I can see him out on the balcony, which usually means the deed is done and the tenant is asleep—or passed out, more likely. Dunno why he does that; he’s been ripped off so many times…

He leaves his blinds open and I own an excellent pair of binoculars. I see exactly what goes on over there and he has no idea. He’s never laid eyes on me directly.

The boy, though…he can see me. I’m out on my balcony tonight and we have a clear view of each other across the courtyard. I’d already checked him out with the binocs, of course.

He’s got black hair, a large nose, olive skin—kinda a Middle Eastern look. He’s well-built with smooth, muscular arms shown off by the electric blue sleeveless t-shirt he’s got on. His tight jeans highlight his junk, the long bulge of his tool very visible. His hightops are black and blue, the same bright blue as his shirt—laces, too.

Now that he can see me—and see me looking—he seems to develop an interest in me. He’s rubbing his dick and I think he’s smiling at me. He’s far enough away that I can’t tell for sure.

Well, why not? His john is passed out and nobody would know he was over here. If anyone ever bothers to trace him, the trail will end at apartment 1324.

But nobody bothers to trace the whores. That’s why I like to play with them. When I’ve used them up, I can just throw them away.
He’s on the other side of the courtyard but he sees me beckon. He vanishes from the balcony, and in a couple of minutes I see him emerge from building thirteen, coming towards me. Most of the courtyard is shrouded in deep shadow, the security lights not having been maintained (like much else in this place).
I hear him coming up the stairs and meet him at the door. He’s smiling, eager to get laid and get paid. I’m stripped and ready. He tells me his name, but I don’t care. His name is fuckmeat and he ain’t gonna live long enough to enjoy it.
When he gets his shirt off, I can see his smooth, hard belly and developed pectorals. I’m actually surprised at smooth he is; he’s in his mid-twenties and I had somehow expected him to be hairier. Even his legs are like silk. I wonder what kind of skin treatment he uses—and how much he charges.

Again, not that I really care. Price isn’t an issue. By the time I’m done with the bitch, he’ll be past his sell-by date.

He’s a pro. When he’s down to a jockstrap and socks, he puts the shoes back on. I’m on him the moment he stands back up, throwing him up against the wall face first. As I press against his back, he moans and shudders with pleasure. I force his hands back and slip a zip tie around his wrists before he realizes it.

The fucktoy starts complaining. Wants to charge more for kinky stuff. I slam his face into the wall, stunning him. Kinky? Little fucker has no idea.

I wrap duct tape around his head a couple of times to seal off his mouth. No more complaints. I toss him onto the bed on his back and climb on top of him. He’s just starting to wise up as I plow my dick into his ass. He opens his eyes wide and glares at me, struggling to slide out from under me.

That’s when I pull out the bag.

It’s a plastic bag from the cleaners. It’s perfect. A couple of twists around the head and it’ll cut off all air but I’ll still be able to see his face. I’ll blow my load as I watch him die.

He sees it coming. He squirms away in terror, his cries muffled behind the tape. He knows what is happening here; he’s a professional whore who knows the risks.

He knows he’s in for a long, slow death.

For the first few seconds, he lays there, huge liquid brown eyes staring into mine. Then the little free air he has starts to go bad and the panic sets in. He starts squirming again, trying to kick at me with those long firm legs. I grin at him and give the bag another twist around his neck.

Now he’s really panicking. He’s blindly shaking his head. Inside the bag, the temperature is going up each time the fuckboy exhales. Sweat beads dot the boy’s forehead and cheeks. The bag is now being pulled tight against his face with each attempt to inhale; his nose is profiled in plastic.

I can feel every single time he attempts to breathe. He’s struggling so hard his body goes rigid with the strain and his sphincter tightens around my meat like a cockring. It’s incredible; it’s totally a reflexive action on his part. He has no idea that his dying spasms are giving me the best fuck I’ve had in a while.
So maybe I should let him know. I jerk his head up towards me, shaking him harshly to get his attention.

“Yeah, bitch, that’s it. You know what’s going on, boy. Let go. Let death take you. Let me feel your dying meat jerk the cum out of my dick. Give it up, whore. This ain’t gonna end till you’re dead.”

He’s writhing against me, his skin slick with perspiration, the sweat of extreme bodily crisis—of death. His legs flail aimlessly against my back and my ass. I can feel those black and blue shoes digging at me but he can’t muster up enough force to really hurt me. His brain is starting to shut down and he doesn’t have the coordination.

His beautiful olive-skinned face is much darker now. His mouth is gaping, the plastic bag forming a concave surface over the opening. His muffled grunts have increased in pitch, caused by a combination of fear and lack of oxygen. Even now, though, they are becoming quieter and farther apart. His movements seem to become less deliberate; he’s nearing the point of brain death. I can’t tell if there’s anything left inside the twitching sack of meat that’s jerking me off—but just in case, I thought I’d let it know…

“Die, motherfucker, die on my fucking cock. Come on, you fucking whore, I want to feel it when you kick off. Gonna blow my wad in your worthless dead ass and throw you out like rotting meat. Yeah? Yeah? Ya feel it? Ya feel death coming? Good. Hope it fuckin’ hurts, bitch. I hope this hurts a lot.”

His face is dark and grimaces spasmodically, uncontrollably. Even though I can feel his rock-hard uncut cock against my belly, a pool is spreading across the whore’s own stomach. He’d pissed himself just before the involuntary hard-on.
His rectum seems to flow in waves along the shaft of my dick. Each one is slightly slower and yet slightly more intense than the last. Suddenly, the fuckmeat goes rigid and I realize that he’s in the final moments of life. Somewhere deep inside, he’s accepted what must be and is using his last seconds on earth to earn my seed.
His blackened face clenches in the final physical agony of death. His entire body shudders; the slightest nuance of each quiver is transmitted to the head of my cock by the fuckmeat’s agile colon.

As I spew load after uncontrollable burning load into the dying slut’s hole I yank the bitch’s head up with one hand and start punching him in the face with the other because my orgasm is so intense I’ll start screaming otherwise and wake the neighbors…

A few minutes pass before I’m fully functional again. I’m still hard and still buried deep in the whore’s ass. The meat is still quivering around my dick, but it’s the uncoordinated spasms of the freshly dead. I need to get cleaned up.
I can’t keep this toy around too long; after all, I did steal it from my neighbor. But I might be able to play with it one more time. That gaping mouth looks inviting…

Mall Rat Trap

It wasn’t love at first sight—not at all—but it was certainly lust at first glance. Jason was bored out of his mind, standing in the concession line. He’d agreed to meet Sam in the food court of the mall before going to the theater, but like a fool, Jason had bought his ticket and gone inside before he got Sam’s text. Asshole bailed on him. So he was standing here waiting for overpriced popcorn before going to see a movie he’d already seen and hadn’t really liked.

Looking around, he noticed the dude standing next to him, in a parallel line (and moving just as slowly). He was instantly hard.

The guy was older than Jason—early thirties, perhaps. He could easily have passed for younger but for the tightness about his mouth and jaw and the lines that gave his eyes a squint. His hair was a mass of golden curls like that found on cherubim, but there was nothing else cherubic about him. He was very well-built and dressed to show it off. A simple white cotton t-shirt stretched tightly over his chest, looking at least two sizes too small. The nipples on his hubcap-like pecs would have been visible had he not been wearing a leather vest.

His narrow waist was circled by a thick black leather belt; the shirt was tucked into a pair of tight but very worn jeans. A slash on the left side revealed a bulge of thigh dusted with a fine gold fur. The knee was worn away on the right leg. The jeans had no further tears; they continued complete until they vanished into the tops of his black engineer boots.

As if he knew he was being looked at, the dude turned and stared directly at Jason, his thick arms flexing as he turned, revealing some tattoos—zodiacal symbols, Jason thought. Then he caught the dude’s eye. His eyes were still in a squint, but head-on, they were an unnerving ice-blue. Jason felt like he was being appraised like a side of beef.

He was well-dressed beef himself. He hadn’t set out today to get fucked—but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to get fucked. Even Sam, although that had gotten old for both of them. At any rate, he was an eighteen-year-old faggot mallrat and had dressed for sexual success.

He hadn’t needed much to enhance his natural assets; his face, clear and smooth, drew older men like a magnet anyway. He looked younger than his years and much less experienced than he really was. His brown hair was swept to a point in front and kept short behind. He was wearing a maroon t-shirt that clung to his slim but firm torso.

His tight low-rise jeans exposed flesh at the waist; in the back, a starburst tattoo could be seen just above the crack of Jason’s ass—his tramp stamp, so to speak. The jeans wrapped around his slender but defined legs. The shiny black hightop sneakers on his feet were loose, the tongues sticking out.

It was what the dude seemed to notice. At any rate, his assessment of Jason started with his shoes and worked its way up, making him feel even more like meat. It was incredible; Jason had never felt so judged on the basis of sexual utility before; it was like the guy was trying to decide if he wanted to buy a sex toy.

He got even harder at the thought. His skinny jeans were too tight to let him hide it. The man’s expression became a sneer of amused contempt when his gaze reached Jason’s crotch. He kept going up to take in his torso and—momentarily—his face, but he’d already seen what he’d needed to.

His steely blue eyes locked onto Jason large dark ones and he jerked his head towards the exit. He left the line, striding swiftly towards the door. Jason followed automatically, as if pulled along by the head of his dick.

Jason had followed lots of guys into the restrooms in the mall, but not too many outside. If they were hot enough, he’d go out and get fucked in their car. But they had to be really fucking hot.

He’d let this guy fuck him in the food court. He had no qualms whatsoever about following the man out to his car. He was willing to endure damn near anything to get this stud to drill his hole.

Exactly how much he was willing to endure was about to be tested to—and beyond—the breaking point.

It was a long walk. The alpha dude had parked way out at the end of the lot; Jason was winded by the time he got there. Once the man had opened the door, he slipped into the passenger seat gratefully. The dude climbed into the driver’s seat. Jason turned to him and had a brief impression of a fist before he had no impressions of anything at all.

His next awareness was of pain; it took a while to sort out exactly what was hurting. His face hurt and his left eye was swollen shut. But his hands hurt too, and his arms were in an awkward position.

As Jason began to sort out his physical sensations and the world swam up out of the depths, he came to understand his position. He was on his back, his arms up over his head with some sort of ligature around his wrists, painfully constricting the blood flow.

The dude; the hot blonde dude he’d followed out to the car. Jason realized he’d been assaulted.

He looked around frantically. He could barely see out of his left eye but his right eye worked fine. He was in a room. A small room, painted white, utterly bare except for the mattress on which he was laying. He couldn’t see what his hands were bound to above his head, but whatever it was, it was very firmly attached.

The dude was standing over him. He’d removed the vest and t-shirt and was rubbing one hand over the massive bulge in his groin while the other pulled and manipulated a nipple. “Good, you’re awake,” he chuckled, “I was afraid you might miss this.” Both his nipple and his dick grew erect under his handling.

“W-wait,” stammered Jason, “where—where am I? Wha-what’s h-happening here?”

“You know what’s happening here,” the older man said as he bent forward. His shark-like grin appeared for a moment just before his head was silhouetted by the overhead light, his hair becoming a halo of golden froth as he leaned in menacingly.

Jason whimpered in fear, in the realization of his surrender of control to this unknown and evidently malevolent entity. He had no idea what was happening; he thought he was gonna get raped—but he was still fully dressed. What the fuck was this dude doing?

The older man couldn’t help but notice the boy’s trepidation. He chuckled in predatory anticipation. He leaned forward again, placing his left foot on the bed. As he did so, there was a tearing sound and the denim on his left leg parted, the existing tear widening as the dude’s huge thigh muscle flexed within it and stretched it beyond its bounds.

The man paused and looked down at the material hanging loosely under his furry leg. His hand moved down to his boot. Jason arced his neck to follow him and noticed for the first time that something was sticking up from inside the alpha stud’s right boot. It was clearly a handle with a full molded grip, including finger holes, looking like nothing so much as a set of brass knuckles covered in black rubber.

As the blond dude’s hard hand closed on it and pulled up, it became obvious that it was the hilt of a knife. A long, wicked-looking knife. The blade was at least seven inches long. The four inches closest to the tip gleamed with a razor-like ferocity, then came another couple of inches of vicious serrations designed to rip tender skin apart irreparably.

The dude withdrew the knife slowly from his boot sheath, looking Jason straight in the eye while maintaining a cold smirk on his face. Jason felt himself entranced, the way snakes are said to entrance birds in folklore. The introduction of the weapon seemed to sap his will.

The older man cut away the torn leg of his jeans, first near his thigh, then slitting the leg all the way down and pulling off the remainder. He was now standing over Jason shirtless, his golden hair gilding his sculpted pecs and firm six-pack abs, his large dark nipples protruding like fireplugs. His right leg was still in worn pale denim down to his engineer boot, but his left leg was bare from the hip down. A white tube sock clung to his muscled calf above his left boot.

Despite his fear and physical discomfort, Jason was still turned on beyond belief. He knew that this was gonna end badly for him and the thought scared the shit outta him, but maybe—just maybe—the dude wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe he just wanted to dominate him.

Jason was enough of a slut to enjoy being treated like a slut. This guy didn’t need a knife to fuck him, but if he got off by fucking Jason at knifepoint, Jason didn’t care. As long as he got to have this stud’s cum inside him…

The dude didn’t have to unzip his fly. He was commando under his jeans. His huge tool was already stiff and poking out from under the ragged edge of the cut-off denim. Thick and heavily-veined, it was oozing clear precum as the man surveyed his captive fucktoy.

He suddenly bent over Jason, whose heart leaped into his mouth with fear. The dude saw that, too, and laughed outright. “Don’t worry, cunt,” he grinned, “I ain’t stickin’ this in ya yet. First, I gotta get to ya.” And with that, he cut Jason’s shirt off, revealing his firm, slim chest heaving in fear and excitement.

Abruptly, the man threw himself on top of Jason, grabbing a fistful of his hair and jerking his head back. His face less than six inches from Jason’s, his gaze drilled directly into the startled and scared punk’s eyes. He spit in the boy’s face before stroking his face with the tip of his blade, not quite breaking the skin.

“Yeah, you like fuckin’ bitch, you want me inside ya? Huh? That what ya want, faggot? Don’t matter, it’s what you’re gonna get. I’m gonna stick all kinda things in you and you’re gonna like it, you worthless fuckpig!”

Jason whimpered again, not realizing how his fear only added fuel to the older man’s lust. He closed his eyes and, gritting his teeth in determination, turned his head to the side as the hard dude ran the blade down from his face—moving slowly, oh so slowly and lovingly—over his throat and down his slick smooth chest.

“I know what you want, you fucking faggot cunt. I know what you been lookin’ for. Don’t worry, bitch, I’m gonna make it hurt so good you won’t be able to tell my long hot dick from my long cold blade. All you’re gonna know is that I’m stickin’ ya good, like the worthless fucking pig you are.”

He left the knife on Jason’s belly. It slipped and slid on the sheen of sweat that Jason was oozing in a state of terror.

He’d wanted to get fucked. That was all. Whatever was going on here, it was gonna…

He couldn’t let himself finish the thought. He simply wasn’t able to process it. He’d been picking up guys in the mall for three years now but he’d never imagined that he was in any danger beyond that of an STD.

That changed the moment the dude grabbed the knife and slammed it up his ass, slicing a hole in his jeans, shorts—and sphincter.  There was a momentary pause that lasted eons and then the knife sliced its way back out, a long, smooth icy-cold slash in his colon…

The pain was like a tsunami. It paralyzed him. He shuddered, gasping, his eyes wide and staring at the dude’s face with an expression of absolute horror. The man returned it with a cheerful grin and as Jason inhaled deeply, instinctively driven to scream, he was aware of a flash of movement on his left side and had just enough time to realize that the hilt of the knife was indeed a set of rubber-coated brass knuckles when another burst of pain in his face took him under…

When he surfaced from the pool of darkness, he was still swimming in a sea of pain. His ass—Jason had never known such pain existed. And now he was getting fucked through the wound.

The dude was raping him through the hole he’d cut in Jason’s jeans. Jason’s legs, still encased in tight jeans, were spread out as the man lay on top of him, pumping and thrusting his engorged shaft into Jason’s torn and bleeding hole. The kid’s hightop sneakers kicked in the air in agony as he twisted his arms fruitlessly against whatever restraints were binding them—he couldn’t see over his head and by now he’d lost the sensation in his hands due to the tightness of the ligature.

“Fuck yeah, cunt, had to cut your fuckhole open so it could handle my horse dick. Knew ya’d be cool with it, motherfucker, since you ain’t gonna be usin’ it once I’m done with it anyway. Now just relax what’s left of your asshole and enjoy what’s coming, slut.”

Jason looked up into the face hanging over him, a face gleeful in demonic lust. He was desperate to speak, to beg and plead for his life but his mouth was jammed full of something—an acrid scent of sweat—he realized the dude had shoved his t-shirt into Jason’s mouth to stifle his screams.

The next few minutes were not preserved in Jason’s memory; moments of blind panic rarely are. By the time they subsided, Jason was swimming in the sea of pain again, accompanied by the sound of cruel laughter.

“Ya done kickin’ yet, cocksucker?” the hard dude sneered. He spit in Jason’s face, then thrust his cock deep inside the kid’s torn and bleeding rectum, lying flat on top of him and stroking his face with the blade again. “Whaddaya think, fuckwad? Where do ya wanna get stuck next? Or ya wanna kick and jerk some more first? Just let me know, cause your kickin’ feels great on my cock.”

Jason’s screams of agonized terror were muffled to faint squeals by the rank t-shirt shoved into his mouth. His hands were useless; the flow of blood had been cut off by the restraints and they were little more than lumps of cold flesh. He kicked and jerked his legs but his jeans were so tight they hindered his movement. The heels of his shiny black sneakers couldn’t reach the dude’s back to leave any marks; no matter how much he thrashed, his jeans wouldn’t let him bend his legs far enough.

The blond man with the ice-blue eyes knew what he was doing. It was obvious in the calm and collected way he dragged the tip of the knife over Jason’s slim but muscular torso, allowing the anticipation of the first thrust, the first ice-cold blast of agony, to build for them both. He was setting Jason up for an experience that would fuse pain and pleasure in a way he’d never known possible.

First, he needed complete control of his victim; this was done by inducing shock. A quick jerk of the wrist and the knife sliced into Jason’s left flank. Seven inches of cold carbon steel pierced deep into the teen slut’s kidney as seven inches of hard throbbing cock tore into his colon. Jason was aware of both; it was a sensation he had never known could exist. His muted cry became a moan as adrenaline flooded his system and his body went into neurochemical overload.

His lithe, hard body, soaked in sweat, writhed against the blond dude’s chest, matting his fur with the kid’s rank perspiration. The alpha dude gave a gasp as Jason’s slashed sphincter fluttered against the base of his cock. He twisted the knife in the wound, shredding Jason’s left kidney as the punk grunted in agony and kicked his shoes helplessly in the air.

“Ya likin’ that, fuckpig? You’re squealing like a fuckin’ pig in heat, so I guess ya do. I knew you were such a slut you didn’t care what I stuck in ya. Fucking cunt. You wanted a real man to show you your place. Well, ya got it, motherfucker. Your place is kicking your life away on the end of my cock, and I’m about to grant your whore cunt wish!”

Jason shook his head wildly, in denial, in panic, in self-defense. It had no effect whatever and he knew it. What he couldn’t understand, in the middle of the horrible agony that was being forced upon him, was why some of the worst pain he was experiencing was in his own cock, which was swelling and oozing uncontrollably.

This guy was raping him and killing him. He couldn’t be right. This couldn’t be what he wanted, Jason thought—but his dick said otherwise. It was swollen and purple, slapping against the dude’s belly as he got fucked, each impact leaving a spatter of precum in the alpha dude’s fur.

“Ready for it, cunt?” whispered the alpha blond, his blue eyes gleaming as he closed in for the kill. “Ready to experience pain beyond your worst nightmare? Ready to feel my cock spasm and pump your faggot asshole full of hot seed as I shove this blade into your head? Not that I fuckin’ care; I just want you to know what’s happening. See, I think it’s gonna take a little while for you to die. I sure the fuck hope so; I want you to enjoy this as much as I’m gonna. Feel it and enjoy it, you motherfucking faggot cunt; I’m gonna fill your ass with my spunk and your brain with my blade.”

His eyes were almost insane with lust and contempt as he spit one last time into Jason’s face and placing the tip of his blade under his jaw, as far back as he could, angled it directly up and began inserting it into the back of Jason’s oral cavity where the mouth met the esophagus.

As he’d promised, he did it slowly, allowing Jason to enjoy every agony-soaked moment of death. As the blade moved upwards, it sliced through the base of Jason’s tongue. Even in the excruciating nightmare of pain that followed, Jason was aware of the dude’s larger, harder, more muscular body holding him down and preventing him from thrashing too violently. He could also feel the alpha male’s long hard cock, like a hot shaft of iron, pinning him to the stained mattress.

In an almost idle moment of lucidity, Jason glanced around the bare white walls of the room and had time to vaguely wonder where he was dying. He would never know. He’d never know if his killer was caught. All he knew from this point on was the overwhelming agony of a brutal death.

“You’re getting’ loose, man,” leered the alpha male, “I guess I cut you open too soon. That’s ok, though. Wait till I get this sharp metal shaft into your sinuses. You’ll feel the crunch as I rip my blade through your skull. Fuckin-A, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, you’re gonna taste blood and steel in your brain as you soak up my sperm. Ready for it, cuntwad, ready for that last grunt and thrust as I bury my cock in your worthless guts and my blade in your useless brain?”

Jason squealed like the pig in heat he was. He knew that he was utterly helpless in the hands of this man. He could only hold on in agony and terror, hoping for the mercy of a quick death. The fact that his dick was erect and straining, a steady stream of precum oozing from the tip, was beyond his control.

As the knife slashed up through his sinus tissue, Jason experienced a horrifying mortal pain, the pain that can only lead to death. His body instinctively clenched in resistance, tightening his ravaged sphincter around his killer’s raging erection. Each crunch of the blade tearing through the thin bone structure inside the skull reverberated in Jason’s head, amplifying the pain and contacting his anus, bringing more pleasure to the alpha dude.

One last thrust was all that was needed. A quick jerk of the dude’s wrist and Jason ceased to exist. A meat puppet jerked and spasmed, shooting great streams of semen uncontrollably, splashing the blond man’s chest and face. The alpha male grasped the thrashing meat, placing his hands on both shoulders and forcing the faggot’s convulsing corpse down to the root of his cock, draining every drop of sperm into the flailing colon.

Jason fell into a howling vortex of pain and orgasm. The dude had been right. He was in a place where he could no longer tell pain from pleasure; it was as if he was shooting agonizing razor blades from his cock while someone fucked his skull and was shooting a load in his brain.

Jason died awash in semen. He never knew where he died or the name of the man who killed him.

The Mule

The wind whipped round Josh’s helmet as he throttled his bike up over the speed limit. The Kawasaki lurched as he let off the clutch, almost throwing him. He knew he’d get pulled over if a trooper saw him out here on a state highway, going ninety miles an hour, and he didn’t have the skill to outrun a highway patrol car, anyway. But he was running out of time and had to take the risk.

And anyway, getting a speeding ticket wasn’t so bad. They’d never think anyone on a crotch rocket would be smuggling drugs. It wasn’t like he had any place to conceal them except his backpack; and there was nothing there but dirty clothes and toiletries. His youth would probably count against him—he was twenty but looked younger—but it was obvious he had nothing secreted about him.

He wore a skintight black t-shirt that showed the outlines of his pectoral muscles and the exact placement of his nipples. From under the sleeve stretched around his right bicep a snake tattoo writhed down his sweat-covered arm. Leather gloves kept his grip firm on the handlebar. His jeans were so tight they weren’t capable of hiding anything, neither his wallet attached by a chain to his belt or the thick gourd-like bulge that mushroomed out of his groin. The jeans clung to his leg down to the point where they disappeared into his calf-high black motorcycle boots with thick buckled straps circling his legs. No real reason to suspect he’d be carrying anything else.

And even if they did, even the dogs wouldn’t be able to sniff out the fourteen small balloons filled with heroin working their way through his intestines. He certainly hadn’t had any problem boarding his flight from Mexico six hours ago; he’d passed through the security at Escobedo International Airport in Monterrey without breaking a sweat.

He was sweating now, though. He wanted the damned things out of him and was cursing himself for ever getting involved. This was scary shit, dude, and Josh had every reason to be scared. But he had every reason to go on, too.

He’d never intended to get into debt with Rocky. But Josh hadn’t had a sugar daddy in a while (and never had worked in the usual sense of the word at all) and Rocky kept fronting the coke and meth—reeling him in, of course, though he’d been too doped up to see it.

He wasn’t doped up now. He’d found some while he was south of the border, but he’d used it all there. Even Josh wasn’t stupid enough to try to board an international flight with a bag of coke.

He was down, and down hard. He needed another boost. He needed to get back to Rocky. He knew that he was just getting himself in deeper, but it didn’t matter. Besides, there were other options. Rocky had offered to let him work off his debt with sex, but Josh chose being a drug mule with a sense of relief. Rocky was one of the hottest guys Josh knew, but he was also the scariest.

The man—Josh only knew that he was slightly older but was so well-built, Josh felt like a small child in his presence–was worse than a sadist; he was a sociopath. He’d let Josh watch some video he’d taken of one of his sessions with a delinquent customer. Josh had made him stop, pale and shaking, ten minutes in.

“I can’t believe he lived through that,” whispered Josh.

Rocky was silent. After thirty seconds, Josh ran to the bathroom and vomited.

And here he was, hurrying back like an anxious lover. But he thought he had an edge that would keep him safe for at least one night. And maybe he could tame the wild beast. Just one good fuck and Rocky would care enough for him not to hurt him.

Josh wasn’t old enough to have realized that sometimes a romantic nature can be fatal.

Rocky had arranged to meet Josh at a small motel on the rough side of town. He’d promised Josh some money and some extra coke when he showed up–his pay for a successful mission. Josh would hang around in the motel room until nature took its course and the balloons reappeared.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d let Rocky fuck him. He was counting on the fact that Rocky couldn’t afford to hurt him too badly until he got his heroin back to keep him safe. It never occurred to Josh that there was a flaw in his logic.

He’d called Rocky when he landed to confirm the meeting, so he already knew where to go and which room to knock at. He pulled off the state highway into the motel parking lot, hearing the gravel crunching under his tires. He cut the engine on the bike and got off, wheeling it over to room 113 so he didn’t attract too much attention with the noise.

Josh pulled off his helmet, revealing short, almost curly brown hair and thick, rosy cheeks that gave a hint of innocence to his cornflower-blue eyes that they certainly didn’t deserve. Leaving the helmet on the bike, he moved towards the building. The thick black soles of his boots clumped on the concrete walkway as he nervously approached the door.

Rocky opened up immediately. Josh gulped as the large muscular figure loomed in the doorway. Rocky was a good six inches taller than Josh. And while Josh certainly wasn’t underdeveloped, it was very clear that Rocky was much stronger than he was. Josh was still a bit unsettled just by being in the same room with the man; he radiated an air of menace and barely-suppressed violence that Josh found as erotic as it was disturbing.

Rocky let him enter and closed the door behind him. He stood grinning at Josh. Six and a half feet tall with short black hair under a baseball cap, Rocky was wearing nothing but his jeans and boots; his t-shirt was draped over the back of a chair. He’d been waiting here for Josh for a day or two and hadn’t bothered with his hygiene during that time. A faint musky reek of sweat drifted from him and his face was covered with rough black stubble.

It all made Josh hard. He stood silently, waiting for Rocky to say something, admiring his hard, firm body. Rocky’s left arm writhed with tattoos, a colorful sleeve of ink covering his bulging biceps from the shoulder to the wrist, too many shapes and patterns to assimilate. It was a warm evening and the AC wasn’t working well–Josh could see beads of sweat rolling down the smooth topography of Rocky’s chest and was filled with the desire to let his tongue trace the same path.

Rocky’s black jeans were too tight to leave much to the imagination; Josh felt that if he looked closely enough, he might even be able to see the veins wrapped around the huge, thick ridge outlined in denim in Rocky’s crotch.

Josh sat himself on the bed. Rocky looked down at him and couldn’t help noticing the huge hard-on tenting his jeans. He smiled to himself–he could have the kid anytime he wanted, just as he’d thought. Even though Josh had seen the kinds of things that got Rocky off in the sack, he’d still be willing to get fucked.

And once Rocky had Josh where he wanted him, there’d be no escape. He’d checked in with cash on Friday evening, at a time when the place was full of whores and tricks; no one had looked at him twice. He’d taken the room under a false name. No one would know who he was when all was said and done.

Well, Josh would know, but he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.

Rocky reached down and grabbed his thick package. “How about it?” he asked Josh. “I know you want it. I seen ya lookin’. Get your clothes off and I’ll bang ya.”

Josh hesitated momentarily–the things on that video had been terrifying–but relaxed with the knowledge that Rocky wouldn’t be able to do anything bad to him; not if he wanted his heroin back. It would be different if he didn’t have this hold over Rocky, he reflected as he slipped off his high motorcycle boots and wriggled out of his skin-tight jeans. Thick white socks clung to Josh’s chiseled calves; his muscled legs rose to a smooth, slim torso with a flat belly that looked like silk covered with a fine down. His massive shaft swung excitedly between his legs as Josh jerked his shirt off over his head, tousling his hair.

Josh lay back on the bed, displaying his lithe, firm body for Rocky, trembling with anticipation. He’d always wanted Rocky inside him, but had been too scared of what Rocky would actually do to him. Now he could enjoy it, as rough as it might get, because he represented an investment that Rocky couldn’t afford to waste. As long as he’d been in debt to Rocky, Josh would never have let himself get this far into the dude’s power, but now the tables were turned and Josh had something Rocky needed. He felt safe to enjoy a good fuck with a dangerous man, without worrying about the consequences.

Rocky unzipped his fly and let his hog flop out like a length of sausage, dripping at the tip. He’d wanted Josh just as much as Josh wanted him, but he was smarter, stronger, and infinitely crueler and had worked things out to the smallest detail. He already knew the lust-tinged thoughts percolating through the hot younger boy’s mind and had worked on allaying his fears to the point that he knew Josh wouldn’t begin to resist until it was too late. The kid was young and strong, but he was also a drug-addicted slut and not very clever; there were things about the situation he’d overlooked–just as Rocky had expected.

But he’d notice some things. Rocky still needed a little compliance from him still. He tossed the kid a rock, a lighter and a glass straight. “Light up, man,” he chuckled. “After all, I want ya in a good mood when I fuck ya. And yer gonna wanna be numb before it’s over, anyways.”

As the sharp, sweet scent of crack and the bubbling hiss of the melting rock filled the room, Rocky sat on the bed, his eyes moving over Josh’s lean body, glistening with sweat. Josh was too busy to notice Rocky’s surreptitious movement, sliding his hand down to his black leather harness boot as if to check something.

Josh’s big purple cock was lying along his stomach like an iron rod. Rocky was too horny to wait any longer. Kneeling between Josh’s legs, he threw the boy’s feet, still in white athletic socks, up on his shoulder and began spearing the thick, spade-shaped head of his dick into the kid’s ass. Josh whimpered and grimaced in pain as Rocky’s fireplug shaft pierced him like a javelin. He groaned as Rocky thrust in even further.

“Shut up, bitch, I ain’t even halfway in yet,” Rocky snarled.

“Oh fuck, please go slow,” moaned Josh. “You’re too big. It hurts.”

“Yeah,” grinned Rocky, “I know.” And he rammed himself in even harder.

“Fuck!” cried Josh. “Get out–yer killin’ me! Ease off, man, I can’t do this!”

Rocky had managed to get one hand in his pocket. He smiled down at Josh as he pulled it back out, holding some cable ties. He’d already known that this would happen–it wasn’t the first time–and he was prepared. “Too late to back out now,” he whispered.

Josh’s eyes grew wide. He still didn’t realize the danger he was in; he wasn’t panicking–he just wanted Rocky to stop hurting him and suddenly realized that wasn’t going to happen. Before he could react, Rocky had secured his right hand to the headboard with one of the cable ties.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Josh yelled angrily. “You think I’m gonna give you your shit if you rape me? Ain’t happening, dude. Now untie me and get outta my ass. I’ll blow ya, but you’re too big to fuck me.” He was beating at Rocky’s broad, sculpted chest with his left hand, trying futilely to push the larger, stronger man off of him.

Rocky caught hold of Josh’s flailing arm by the wrist and cinched it to the headboard as well. Josh began jerking his arms harder in a desperate attempt to free them but only succeeded in making the thin but tough plastic strap embed itself even more painfully in his skin.

Josh was beginning to realize that things weren’t going according to his plan. He whimpered and began to thrash but wasn’t able to move very much. He was pinned down to the bed, practically nailed to the mattress by Rocky’s enormous cock, his legs almost immobilized by Rocky’s strong arms.

Suddenly, Rocky bent forward, folding Josh’s legs until his knees were resting on his chest and Rocky’s leering, terrifying face hung a foot over his own. Josh just had time to wonder why he’d never noticed the homemade teardrop tattoo by Rocky’s eye before it hit him that not only was his ability to move restricted even further now, he also couldn’t get a deep enough breath to enable him to cry out loudly.

He stared fearfully into Rocky’s eyes and saw lust reflected back—but an ice-cold lust that regarded him as an object to be used for mere pleasure and discarded. Rocky wouldn’t “care for him” after just one fuck.

Rocky would dispose of his corpse after just one fuck.

Terror, true terror, can have different effects on different people (to state the obvious) and in Josh’s case, it induced a flaccid immobility. Rocky realized at once what had happened. He spit on Josh’s face, watching his spittle gleam on those rubicund cheeks.

“You—you can’t. You can’t kill me,” Josh whispered in horror, “I’ve still got your stuff in me…”

Rocky smiled gently. He moved his arm down to his boot and back, holding up a serrated hunting knife with a black seven-inch blade that he’d retrieved from his boot sheath. He reached his heavily-tattooed left arm down to stroke Josh’s face as he whispered in reply, “Who sez ya gotta be alive for me to get my shit back?”

The realization of the huge gap in his reasoning made Josh rigid with mental shock; he’d walked willingly into the lion’s den. And tonight, the lion was hungry.

Rocky had been waiting for the rigidity. He felt Josh’s sphincter tighten around his cock. Throwing himself back up on his knees, he pulled Josh’s body back towards him with as much force as he could, impaling the boy on his swollen shaft.

Josh wailed loudly. Rocky hit him—move of a love tap, really, didn’t even leave much of a bruise—and Josh subsided into a quiet sobbing. Rocky bent forward, fully inserted into the boy’s ass and stroked his tear-stained face again. He started to whisper once more. ”Hey, hey, hey. Shhh. C’mon, look up at me. It’s ok. I’m just kidding. I ain’t gonna cut the shit outta your dead body. Really, I ain’t.”

Josh snuffled and blinked hopefully up into Rocky’s face. The gentle smile encouraged him. “You’re not?” he whispered tremulously.

Rocky was straight up on his knees, with the kid’s legs parted around him, his hard strong body looming over the helpless, bound youth. He toyed with the knife for a moment, his smile fading slowly. “No,” he said. “I’m gonna cut it outta ya while you’re still alive, you useless cunt.”

His arm flashed down like lightning. Before Josh had enough time to process the words spoken to him, all seven inches of black cold carbon steel had torn through his hard flat abdomen, ripping viciously through his intestines.

The force of the blow made Josh exhale violently. There was nothing wrong with his lungs—yet—and he inhaled again immediately, only to blast it out again in agony.

Rocky leaned down and grabbed Josh’s jaw with his left arm. Josh’s field of vision was filled with Rocky’s leering face as the vicious sadist twisted the knife in his entrails. His eyes, circled with black rings of shock, looked up blankly into those of his assailant.

“Fuck yeah,” moaned Rocky as he yanked the knife up outta the wound, “lookit that nice fuckhole. Want me to stick it in there, Josh? Yeah, you’re just dyin’ for a hard cock inside of you, aincha, faggot?”

He held the knife in front of Josh’s eyes. Even in the chemical stew of shock, Josh realized that the bleeding shreds of meat caught in the serrations were parts of himself.

“Business before pleasure, though,” chortled Rocky as Josh’s rectum tensed at the root of his cock again; a spontaneous reaction to the pain. Inserting the knife back into the wound, he began cutting upwards, away from himself, slicing through the smooth flesh and opening a slit in the abdominal cavity.

Josh’s eyes grew so large in shock and horror that Rocky almost thought they’d pop. He was enjoying himself. He’d been right; Josh was fun to fuck. Shame it’d only be the once, but it was worth it. Josh was working his cock real good.

“Yeah, you little punk, time to get my investment back. Thought you could hold my delivery ransom till you got fucked, huh? How you like it, bitch? Was this the fuck you wanted? It’s damn sure the one I wanted. Set you up from the beginning, you cunt. Gave you the shittiest leftovers from making rock and meth—didn’t cost me a dime, bitch, but it got ya to think you had to go get me the real stuff. So now I’m gettin’ the real shit back and havin’ a little fun, too. Fuck yeah, dude, we shoulda done this sooner. You’re a great lay, motherfucker.”

In the vain denial of death that only the young and strong truly possess, Josh raised his head as he continued to flail his arms, trying to free himself. He was not equipped mentally for the sight of Rocky pulling out loops of his small intestine and slicing them open. The older man had felt through them with his hands until he’d located the balloons—and started cutting. Now he was squeezing Josh’s guts and popping the heroin out like he was shelling peas.

Josh shuddered and went rigid. His ass tightened in agony around Rocky’s dick once again. Rocky leaned back, dropping the slippery organ he’d been clutching—he’d just removed the last one—and inhaled deeply in blood-soaked lust.

He looked down at Josh. The boy lay beneath him, exposed, vulnerable. A four-inch slit, from which a pink loop of slashed intestine protruded slightly, ran up his belly. He was otherwise unmarked.

Aside, of course, from the mask of terror and agony stretched tightly across his young, innocent-looking face.

Josh’s brain was too full to work. He knew he was watching himself die. The pain itself would have rendered him unable to move, but the realization that he had never known that someone could actually go that far

How could he not have thought it? After the video he’d been shown, how could he not have realized that Rocky would go to these lengths? He’d been a fool…

He deserved it. Deep in his pig soul, he knew this was how his worthless life would end; this was why he was attracted to Rocky in the first place. Because Rocky was enough of a man to use him as he deserved to be used and then toss him aside like a reamed-out fucktoy whose utility was long gone. He’d served his brief purpose and could be disposed of; he knew it and welcomed it.

But the physical intervenes, as they say. Whatever Josh’s little crotch-rocket-riding, biker-gear-wearing soul craved, his body wanted to live. It fought back.

Rocky had counted on it. From long experience, he’d recognized the deathpig symptoms the moment he’d met Josh. He’d groomed him towards this moment, letting little hints drop about what was in store; just enough to titillate. He’d known, no matter what Josh had said, the boy would be turned on by the thought of a man who could to something like that to him.

Well, now the little fuck was getting it. He shuddered and jerked, looking up at Rocky’s face beseechingly, the skin on his face taut with agony. Rocky ran his eyes down the youth’s slim, blood-streaked body. Deep in the kid’s rectum, the head of Rocky’s dick was banging away at his victim’s prostate. Josh’s thick tool slapped against his belly in time to the pounding his ass was getting.

If Rocky had been inclined to remorse—he wasn’t—this would have ended it. Despite the horrible pain and the terror of imminent death, the punk was hard. It was all the proof Rocky needed that he’d been right; the little shit was a deathpig. Getting offed was getting him off.

Josh probably wouldn’t have put it in those terms, if he had been capable of putting things in any terms at all. At the moment, all he could do was lie back and try to breathe. Keep breathing was the thought he kept clinging to like a spar tossing on a violent sea of pain. If you’re breathing you’re still alive oh fuck keep breathing oh shit he’s so fucking deep in me oh god please just breathe…

His full, red lips, parted, gasping, drew Rocky’s eyes to the kid’s pale, snot-covered face. “I know,” he grinned down, “Hurts, don’t it? Must suck to get your guts yanked out, sliced open and then stuffed back in. But you knew it was coming, you fucking bitch. Thought you’d hold out on me? You wanted me to gut you like a deer, didn’t ya? You wouldn’t’a done it otherwise.”

Josh shuddered and sobbed violently, only able to express himself with faint mewling sounds. “Shut up!” snapped Rocky, backhanding Josh across the face with the hilt of the knife, splitting his upper lip and leaving a small laceration on his cheek. Josh’s blubbering became more subdued but did not cease altogether.

“You’re taking too long to die, fuckwad. You’re not bleeding out quick enough. I’m getting bored; you’re not worth keeping alive to fuck anymore. Your job is over, you useless piece of shit. When they find you—whatever parts of you they can find—they’re gonna know it’s just another sorry-ass drug mule who got cut up to get the load out. They ain’t gonna look for the load I put in ya. They ain’t even gonna look for me; dead thugs like you show up here all the time. They’re gonna haul your meat off and move on to the next dude. Get it, bitch? You’re gonna die on my cock and no one’s gonna know or care.”

Rocky leaned down over Josh’s face, carefully watching the reaction to his words. Once again, the mental shock produced a physical response, a tightening, stiffening throughout the entire body. Rocky could feel Josh’s colon wrap around his engorged rod like a glove.

This was it; this was the moment to hold. Before Josh was aware of what was happening, Rocky had clamped one hand down over his face and with the knife in the other, slashed brutally at his throat one, two, three—four times in lightning-quick succession.

Then he tossed the knife to the floor, placed his hands on Josh’s shoulders and, with his dick planted firmly in Josh’s ass, watched the kid die.

Josh’s eyes, already wide with shock, rolled back as his throat was sliced open. He could taste his own blood; could hear himself gargle his life away—and could feel an uncontrollable swelling in his cock. As he began to gray out, his blood pressure dropped dramatically everywhere but in his groin, where his muscles had locked in excruciating rigidity in reaction to the penetrating pain of Rocky’s enormous tool.

Josh’s entire body rocked with convulsions as he fought to stay conscious, desperately clinging to his wasted life. His asshole constricted tightly around Rocky’s shaft, tugging at it as if suction was being applied.

Suddenly, the open wound in the kid’s throat was covered in pink foam as he drowned in his own blood. Josh’s last physical sensation as everything faded into a screaming whiteness was that there was a white-hot wire running down the center of his dick; his final orgasm was so intense that his dying brain was too dull to interpret between pleasure and pain.

Josh’s body thrashed and flailed as thick, ropy streams of semen flew from the purple, straining head of his cock, splattering both himself and Rocky. His ass clenched and grasped, milking a burning wad out of Rocky’s swollen, aching rod. As Josh’s final loads splashed on Rocky’s chin and spattered his arms, obscuring some of his tattoo, the kid’s legs kicked away his last few seconds on earth, the white athletic socks still clinging to his sculpted calves but twisted around where he’d flailed against the denim of the jeans Rocky still wore.

Rocky grunted as he shot another load. He raised his arm and slammed the blade back down, grunting as the last wad of sperm exploded deep in Josh’s guts while the blade punched through the punk’s left pectoral and plunged directly into his quivering aorta. “Fuck, yeah…” moaned Rocky as he watched Josh’s eyes dilate and glaze over and a last milky spurt ooze from the fucker’s dick.

Rocky paused for a moment, waiting for the kid’s sphincter to relax in death. Once it did, he pulled his long hog back out of the corpse and stood up. Josh was on his back, legs spread, socks still on. His hands were bound to the headboard by the cable ties. A dull, gorgeous death stare gave a certain nobility to his violated corpse.

There was a lot of blood on the bed. Some had leaked from the opening sliced in his smooth flat belly (the protruding, sliced-open intestines testifying to the drug mule angle) down his flanks and stained the sheets at his sides, but most of the mess was up by his neck. The bloody froth exuded by his final breaths obscured the gaping wound where his throat had been torn out. And everywhere were pools of cum—which DNA testing would show were the victim’s own. And as Rocky knew, no one would care beyond that point. Just another addict pervert who made a really bad choice in a lifetime of bad choices.

Rocky showered quickly. He’d managed to keep the blood off his jeans and boots, but after throwing his t-shirt back on, he took Josh’s motorcycle boots—they’d fit him too. As for the rest—well, the maids in this part of town had dealt with worse.

Jamie’s Night Out

Jamie stomped angrily out of the twinkie dance club, his expensive black Nike ball shoes slapping firmly against the pavement. Everything about Jamie was expensive—or so Brad had said. So Jamie, already so drunk his gait was just short of a stagger, had screamed at Brad, right in the middle of the dance floor and stumbled out.

He paused at the corner and turned back. The club’s neon sign lit his face as it was reflected in a puddle left by the sprinklers; he could see ‘Studio 69’ in the murky pool, the words upside down but the numbers just right. The name was as subtle as a coronary thrombosis, but subtlety wasn’t Jamie strong suit.

He was in his early twenties, thin and wiry without being scrawny. There was just enough definition to his lithe, hard body to make him desirable, and he knew it. With his slightly olive complexion, black hair and high cheekbones, he had an ethnic cast. Depending on the lighting and the angle at which they beheld him, some observers had thought he was Hispanic. Others caught something Asian in the tilt of his dark almond eyes. In fact, he was neither, but because of this trick of the light, he had a unique ability to attract all kinds of men.

His boyfriend Brad, a chiseled blond god, as vain and shallow as he was, had the advantage of being rich. He and Jamie had met out of a mutual interest in choking. There was actually no choking involved; Brad would put his hand over Jamie’s mouth, Jamie would flop around a little on top of Brad, getting each other hard, then they’d jack off together. They didn’t really think about why it got them hard, especially since they never cut off each other’s breath long enough to get so much as a headache.

But Brad was getting bored. And Jamie had pricey tastes and no job. Plus, he was a slut; he tried to hide it from Brad since Brad paid the bills, but it was kinda obvious when Brad got home from work to find the freshly-laundered sheets he’d put on the bed last night stiff with cum and he hadn’t had sex with Jamie since they were put on…

It came to a head on the dance floor. And so Jamie was out on the corner, swerving back around to find the car. Fuck Brad. He could take a cab home.

Jamie was wearing a tight sky-blue t-shirt that wrapped firmly around his lean swimmer’s torso—swimming was about the only thing Jamie did regularly; not with the discipline of a sport, of course. But he knew on an instinctive level that he had to keep it up to maintain his desirability. A white leather belt covered in square metal studs wrapped around his narrow waist, holding up a pair of skinny black jeans that outlined each asscheek, cinched up along his taint and wrapped around the thick bulge in his groin.

As he turned the last corner into the parking lot, staggering toward the car and a near-certain death in a fiery drunken wreck, he ran straight into some dude who was walking out of the lot. Jamie grunted in surprise as he bounced off a hard body as if he’d walked into a brick wall.

He stumbled back and looked up—and instantly got hard. The dude was seriously hot. Taller than Jamie himself, the guy must have been six-six or more. He was older, early thirties perhaps. Curly hair like spun gold, he had a broad, muscled chest accented by the dirty sleeveless white t-shirt he wore. Jamie could see a skull tattoo on the dude’s left shoulder. Under the skeletal grin were inked the words “Die, Motherfucker, Die!”

The dude’s jeans were tight and faded, ragged at the hems and torn at the left knee. On his feet were rugged, well-worn construction boots laced tightly above his ankles.

Jamie looked up into the man’s face. The orange glare of the sodium light in the parking lot lit a nimbus of fire in the man’s gold hair. His eyes were ice-blue—and ice-cold. Stubble darkened his lean, hard jaw. He looked down at Jamie with no emotion at all.

Jamie found himself turned on—and scared. There was something about this guy that reeked of sex. Jamie knew, somehow, deep within himself, that this man was capable of giving him the best sex he’d ever had. He didn’t know why he was so certain, but he was. He was, however, also frightened by the dude. There was something about him—he was appraising Jamie with a look of lust that Jamie was very familiar with, but the other emotions that should be there—hope, doubt, desperation—well, there was nothing.

It didn’t matter. Jamie was too drunk to heed the red flags. “Hey, sweetie,” he leered obscenely, “wanna fuck me? We can go back to my place; it’s only a few blocks away.”

The dude looked down at him for a moment, considering. In his drunken state, Jamie concluded the guy was a construction worker. Straight to his friends and family. Comes down for a quick fuck on the DL every now and then. Ok by him. Dude had a hot body and anyway fuck Brad! This guy would fuck him without bitching about money and maybe even choke him a little. He’d ask; couldn’t hurt. And if he was better than Brad and had some money—fuck Brad!

Even in his alcoholic stupor, Jamie felt a slight chill down his spine when the dude reacted to his suggestion by staring levelly into his eyes and saying in a monotone, “Yeah, you’ll do.” Jamie interpreted it as a lack of gratitude that a young stud like himself should condescend to make the offer. It was an experience he was not used to; most of the time guys were “generous” to him in every sense of the word, which infuriated Brad.

“C’mon, we’ll take my car,” the dude snapped suddenly, “you’re in no shape to drive. You live alone?”

“No,” Jamie slurred, “but that asthhole won’t be back for long time. He gonna go fuck someone elsh. Like I don’t fuckin’ know what he means when he says ek—exthp—I cost too much, fuckin’ bitsth…”

Jamie found himself strapped into the front seat of a car, not quite remembering if he’d gotten in under his own power. The car was moving. He must’ve passed out for a moment. He hoped they were going home but was just a little too wasted to be able to tell. “Where we goin’, man,” he blurted.

“Your place. That’s what ya said,” the dude replied abruptly.

“How you know where t’ go?”

“Your wallet. Got the address off your driver’s license. Just lay back, James, you’re gonna have a good time.”

“Jamie, dude, name is Jamie. Will you choke me? I don’ mean really choke me, dude, I mean act like it. Y’know, pretend-like. Gets me off, if ya know what I mean.”

The older man let out a deep chuckle. “Yeah, Jamie,” he grinned, “I think I can do that. I can choke ya and make you get off.”

It was a ground floor condo at the back edge of the complex. In the parking lot, Jamie grabbed the dude’s hand and led him to the front door, letting go to unlock it. The unit was dark. Jamie didn’t bother to turn on any lights. Walking straight back into the bedroom, he started to strip.

“When you’re done, put your shoes back on,” the dude said as he walked into the room and pulled his shirt off, exposing his broad chest and rippled abdomen covered with a fine golden haze of fur. “I wanna fuck you while you’re wearing them.” His taut body glistened in the half-light.

As Jamie tightly re-laced his basketball shoes up to his ankles, the older man unzipped his fly. Slipping the elastic band of his briefs under his scrotum, he let his cock and balls flop out, already swollen and purple.

Lying back on the bed, Jamie stared at the dude’s thick tackle and inhaled deeply, shudderingly. “Fuck, dude,” he moaned, “stick it in me. Make me feel it.”

The dude’s cold, icy eyes roved over Jamie’s body like he was appraising a piece of meat—which was exactly what he was doing. The thin, firm, wiry body of the boy was stretched out on the bed. He wrapped his hands under his knees and hoisted his legs, exposing his pink quivering butthole, his black Nike kicks dangling in the air.

The dude approached the bed. Not bothering to remove his boots or his jeans—since his dick was out anyway—he plunged his long, erect member into the boy’s trembling, pale rosebud of a sphincter. Jamie cried out in pain as the thick tool split his ass, impaling him on a rod of hard flesh. He’d been fucked many, many times before, but never quite this ruthlessly.

Somewhere deep in his little pig soul, he loved it and craved more. He looked up into the dude’s face and saw nothing there but contempt. It scared him, and being scared got him harder than ever. So did the dude’s cock. Jamie could feel every ridged inch of it stretching out his already well-worn fuckhole; the guy’s tool was painfully thick.

If Jamie hadn’t been so drunk and angry, he might have recognized some danger signals; he was pretty experienced with random pick-ups. But with his senses dulled, he walked into a bad situation. He was about to make it worse.

“Goddam, dude,” he moaned breathily. He jerked back on his legs, spreading his black sneakers further apart as they hung in the air. “Fuckin’ Brad can’t fuck me like this. Can ya choke me, too? Can ya do that better than him? If ya got some money, I’ll be your bitch, dude. Take care of me and you can bang me all th’ time.”

The dude slipped one hand down to the right front pocket of his jeans. Without breaking the rhythm of his pumping, he grinned into Jamie’s face, his left hand placed in the center of Jamie’s chest, pinning him to the bed. “Don’t worry, bitch,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you, all right.”

Suddenly, he spit in Jamie’s face. It took a moment for Jamie to realize what had happened; just as he did so, the dude’s right arm came up, biceps bunched in strain, swinging right at Jamie’s face. In the last split-second before it made contact, Jamie could see what looked like a length of braided nylon cord in his clenched fist.

The blow stunned him–it actually wasn’t that strong; just hard enough to split his lips and cause some minor bleeding. But Jamie was still too drunk to put up any kind of coordinated defense, so the impact was out of proportion to the force. He grunted in pain as he felt a hand grip his hair and jerk his head up off the mattress. He was laid back down a moment later, but he could feel that something was different.

He could feel the rope on the back of his neck. Despite the unexpected, terrifying assault, Jamie’s long cock was still erect, slapping against his own lean belly as his body rocked with the purposeful thrusting of the man on top of him. As the dude crossed the ends of the rope over the front of his throat, Jamie’s dick started oozing in anticipation. He had a live one. This guy was gonna fuck him good. And a hard alpha male like him pretending to choke…

And then the dude pulled the rope taut. Jamie’s perspective changed immediately as the cord sank deeply into his skin. Jamie’s eyes widened; Brad had never cut off his air so completely so early. And besides, it hurt like fuck. The dude was gonna have to let up or this was gonna be over real fast.

Jamie tried to cry out, to tell the older man to ease up a bit, but found that his throat was too constricted to be able to make an intelligible sound. He turned his bulging eyes up to the dude’s face and for the first time during the encounter, experienced true fear—just after the nick of time, so to speak.

The dude was bearing down on him, straight-arming the tight cord into his neck. It was the look in the eyes, though, that managed to pierce through Jamie’s alcohol-induced haze and spark true terror in his soul. It was a look of lust, mixed with contempt and rage. Seeing it made Jamie instantly aware of his vulnerable position; a larger, stronger man was holding him to the bed with his huge cock up Jamie’s ass and a cord wrapped tightly around Jamie’s neck.

That’s when he finally realized what was happening. This guy wasn’t gonna let go. He wasn’t pretending. He was gonna take Jamie all the way down that path to the very end.

Jamie panicked. He began flailing wildly, trying to batter his way free. The dude shifted both ends of the cord to one hand, never creating any slack in the process. Jamie still couldn’t breathe, but now the man had one arm free. He drew back and began pummeling Jamie’s face. Bruises bloomed on Jamie’s tan cheeks as a series of roundhouse blows taught him the virtue of accepting his fate.

With each shuddering smack of fist against flesh, Jamie’s colon tightened involuntarily; even in his pain and fear, he could feel it—but he didn’t know what the feeling was. Since he had no way of knowing that his rectum was contracting, he thought the dude’s dick was swelling to completely fill his ass every time he got punched.

This was going way too far. Jamie’s eyes, protruding from the orbits, began to leak tears. He wanted to stop, to get off the ride. He wrapped his lean, strong legs around the dude’s heaving, sweaty flanks in a vain attempt to force him off. His Nike kicks drummed helplessly on the man’s back. His face was beginning to swell and turn red, and he was gagging uncontrollably; if his esophagus hadn’t been closed off, he’d have been vomiting. But it still wasn’t too late. If the cord came off now, it could all still be okay.

That was when he made his fatal mistake. Giving in to utter panic, Jamie clawed and scrabbled furiously at the dude, scraping and scratching along the man’s hard, hairy chest, breaking the skin and clawing out hair.

The dude grimaced and leaned down with his face up against Jamie’s. Jamie could feel the man’s stubble graze his cheek as he hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, you fucking slut. You marked me. But you’re my bitch, remember? So now I gotta mark you even harder. See, this is how I know you’re my bitch; I’m gonna mark you as my property—for good.”

With a deep grunt from the center of his chest, the dude spit into Jamie’s face. Wrapping the ends of the cord twice around his hands to improve his grip, the dude yanked it tight around Jamie’s neck.

After Brad’s play-smother, Jamie was unprepared for the dude’s first true choke. Compared to the intensity of the burning agony around his windpipe now, that first one seemed as benign as Brad’s. His fingers scrabbled frantically at his throat but were unable to find leverage; the cord had sunk in too deeply for him to reach.

Jamie felt the pounding, excruciating pressure increase above the stricture. His head felt like it was being over-inflated; his eyes, his tongue, the very skin of his face, all were swelling. A fire was burning in the center of his chest; he thrashed wildly in an attempt to escape it. Somewhere in the depths of his fear-inflamed mind, he could feel the dude’s cock, like a red-hot shaft of iron shoved up his ass. But the pain in his chest and his head overrode that.

The dude was still, holding himself over Jamie’s thrashing, limber body. He didn’t really need to thrust anymore; he could just stay still and let Jamie’s quivering, flailing hole work his cock for him. He remained poised above the kid’s wiry, convulsing body like a steel cage, one shaft of which held the boy to the bed by his ass.

Jamie couldn’t actually feel his face turning black. He could feel his tongue swelling and forcing his jaws apart, though. He could feel his eyes bulging out to the point that he could no longer close his lids. He couldn’t feel the petechial hemorrhages or the blood vessels rupture in the white of his eyes, but he could see the great bursts and blooms of nothingness as his eyes began to misfire from lack of oxygen.

By the time white frothy drool began to leak down his cheek from the corners of his blue lips, Jamie wasn’t really capable of conscious thought. There was nothing left but a nervous system growing increasingly unstable under progressive brain damage. His long, thin cock, all seven inches, was erect and glistening.

Suddenly, a massive convulsion wracked Jamie’s body. As his muscles tightened involuntarily, cum flew from the end of his dick in thin, ropy strands; it looked like someone stomped on a tube of toothpaste.

The older man shuddered, grunting and groaning as Jamie’s colon sucked out his spunk in a suction created by the death throes of the rectum. Gripping the cord in one hand and a handful of Jamie’s hair in another, he jerked them violently apart. As Jamie’s neck snapped under the strain, sending a last constrictive shockwave through his body and milking that last drop of seed out of the dude’s cock, he gave a last strangled cry, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” before relaxing his hard, tensed body.

After a couple of minutes, the dude’s breathing returned to normal. He pulled himself out of the corpse’s ass, his boots hitting the floor with a thump. He walked into the bathroom and spent a little time cleaning himself up.

When he came out, Jamie was still lying stretched out across the bed, legs spread, arms still clutching his throat, blood-stained eyes rolled back so that only a tiny arc of the iris was visible. It was too good of an opportunity to miss. The dude’s dick was still hard. He slipped it into the corpse’s mouth, forcing it past the dry, swollen tongue, feeling it rasp against the sensitive bud of nerves on the underside of his dick head. As he pumped his shaft down the dead kid’s throat, he could feel a slight obstruction on his deepest thrusts; it was the crushed section of Jamie’s esophagus.

The dude came so hard it overflowed the corpse’s oral cavity and leaked out onto the face. It took another few minutes in the bathroom to clean up for the second time. The dude left without a look back.

It was another couple of hours before Brad got home. As Jamie had thought, he’d fucked someone else who’d dropped him off afterwards. Brad was stunned and shocked when he turned on the bedroom light and revealed Jamie’s throttled, abused corpse.

Shocked and stunned, yes. Surprised, no. Brad had known that Jamie could be naïve and randy when drunk, so he had always kinda thought this might happen someday. He’d tried to imagine how he would handle it and now he knew.

Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t fuck Jamie’s body; he couldn’t afford to contaminate the evidence.

But he took plenty of photos before calling 911.

M4M4snuff

“M4M—looking now.

Aggressive top looking for service.  32, built, 170, 6’4”.  Can host.  Looking for young only.  HMU.”

That’s all it says, but that’s all it has to.  I’m already hard just reading it.  No idea who this dude is, but I want his cum.  Thank you, Craigslist.

I reply with my stats:

“Hey man, want your dick.  19, 5’9”, 123 lbs.  Blond and smooth.  Willing to travel for your load. –teenslutboi”

I navigate the obstacle course of my bedroom floor, littered with piles of dirty laundry, to the tiny bathroom area.  The vanity and sink are actually part of the open closet; as I check my look in the mirror, I can see my remaining clean clothes hanging behind me.

What I wear will depend on the reply.  Fuck, man, please let him reply.  I’m so anxious my hands are trembling when I reach for the phone.  I can barely pull up my email account.

Man, I know I’m high, but there must be something else going on; it’s not like I’ve seen a pic of this guy, even.  But there’s something about his ad that makes me know I want him.

Fuck, there’s an answer. Please, please, pleasepleaseplease….

“Roehampton Suites, 15th and Park.  Reply when you get here and wait for directions.”

I look at the time—it’s about a quarter past eleven.  I’m one block off Park and four from 15th.  “OMW.  Be there by 11:30.”

I know the place; I’ve had hookups there before.  The entrance is locked after 10 pm.  There is no real lobby, the street door leads to a glass cubicle.  From it, the door on the left leads to the check-in desk, which is set so far back it can’t be seen.  The door on the right leads to the guest entrance and gives access to the rooms.

He’s gonna have to come down and let me in.  If I don’t like what I see, I can always leave.  But I think I’m gonna like it.

But that clears up one thing—I can’t dress too much like a slut.  Well, I mean, I ain’t gonna cover myself with a burka, but I can’t go full-on whore the way I’d like; this motel ain’t that kinda place.

So I find a clean simple t-shirt of thin white cotton.  I’ve shrunk it slightly.  My torso is smooth and slim, but the shirt is tight enough to highlight my small but firm pecs.  I tuck the shirt into the tightest pair of skinny jeans I have—they’re black, with elaborate designer stitching on the rear pockets, which draws attention to the way they lovingly cradle my firm bubble butt.

I cap it off—literally—with a black ball cap worn backwards, shoved down on my head.  Even so, the mirror shows unruly strands of blond hair peeking out underneath.

Just before leaving, I lace my white leather sneakers forcefully around my feet, tightening them almost painfully.

I’m ready to be used.

It actually takes me twenty minutes to get there; I missed a light because of an ambulance going through the intersection at the wrong moment.  I send a reply the moment I throw my car into park; I’ve parked on the side of the building out of sight of the entrance.

His response is swift and abrupt; he’ll be at the door in exactly three minutes to let me in.  I leave the car and hurry around the corner to be there in time.

Holy fuck, I’m glad I am.  He’s there—it has to be him.  Jesus Christ, what a fucking stud.

His short hair is dark and slightly curly—and receding slightly at the temples; a sure sign of an overabundance of testosterone.  His t-shirt is tighter than mine, stretched tautly across the massive swelling of his chest muscles.  It’s the same shade of electric blue as his eyes, coldly appraising me the way I’m appraising him.  The cuffs of the sleeves stretch tightly across his large biceps and down the inside of his left forearms is a large tattoo of a winged skull.

His jeans are as tight as his shirt; they aren’t skinny jeans like mine because skinny jeans wouldn’t fit over the massive knots of muscles in his thighs and calves.  Under the frayed denim cuffs, I can see he’s got on a pair of worn and scuffed square-toed ropers.

Did I say I could leave?  I can’t leave.  I have to have him.  I crave his cock.  I want his sperm so bad, please let him want me too, oh please…

I sigh with relief as he opens the doors and lets me in.  He gives me another quick cold glance before turning silently away and striding down the brightly-lit but empty hallway.  I follow, almost having to run to keep up with the pace of his long legs.

He arrives at his room and opens the door before I catch up; I manage to slip inside quickly—but realize I never caught a glimpse of the room number.  Not that it matters.

The dude turns to look at me calmly.  I notice the muscles bunched at the corners of his hard, frim jaw.  A heavy scruff of five o’clock shadow darkens the jaw as well as his cheeks.  “Well, what ya, waitin’ for, faggot?  Strip!” he barks.

I comply; even if I didn’t want to obey this stud, I don’t think I could have resisted his command.  There’s something about the scent coming off him—pheromones, maybe—that overrides the smell of bleach and industrial cleaning solvents in the relentlessly clean room and establishes his alpha status.

Sitting on the bed, I start with my shoes, unlacing them carefully before prying them off.  The dude stands over, watching, one hand rubbing an almost frighteningly huge bulge in his crotch.  He continues to rub himself as I stand up and wriggle out of my skinny jeans, so tight I almost need to peel them out of the crack of my ass.

Once free of the jeans, I jerk the shirt up and off over my head, taking my cap with it.  I stand before the dominant stud, nude except for my white ankle socks, my long, thin, vein-wrapped cock standing to attention in front of me.

He smirks at me and I know what he thinks.  He thinks I’m just some useless slut who wants his cock—and he’s right.  I’m anxious to prove it to him.

Suddenly he reaches down and grabs the hem of his t-shirt.  In a much smoother move than mine, he whips it off over his head in one swift motion, revealing his enormous pecs and six-pack abs.

There’s a dusting of dark fur across the stud’s bulging chest which darkens into a clearly-defined trail as it works its way down his firm belly and disappears below the waistband of his jeans.  A long, defined ridge in the denim extends outward from his groin; as he rubs his right hand over it, the ridge extends even further.

Holy fuck, what I have I gotten myself into?  I want his dick, but I’m not sure I can handle it—it’s literally that big.

But then my eyes are drawn inexorably upwards along the thick fur trail lining his belly, up past his muscular chest, glistening with sweat, his large dark nipples hard and erect like his cock, to his cold, hard, handsome face.  I know I’m going to submit.  No matter how much it hurts, for him, I’ll submit.

His eyes drift behind me.  He grunts and looks back at me.  I get it; he wants me on the bed.  Without allowing my gaze to shift from his face, I slowly back towards the double bed. I stop when I feel the slick polyester comforter against the back of my calves.  Gingerly, I ease my way back up onto the bed.  I hadn’t paid any attention to it before; the comforter and blankets, I now realize, have been turned down and soon the thin sheets, stiff with starch, are scraping my bare, smooth asscheeks.

Feeling behind me with one arm, I manage to snag the pillows and get them placed under my head.  I finally settle in on my back, my legs spread, my dick rising in front of me like a hood ornament.

I’m ready for him.

Silently, he continues to stare down at me, one hand on his groin, the other rubbing and fondling one of his nipples.  I can’t tell if that faint look of contempt on his face is his natural expression or not, but it doesn’t matter.  Somehow, it only seems to make him even hotter.

He unzips his fly.  He has to reach in with both hands to wrest his monster hog free from the confines of his tight jeans.

Oh fuck, it’s even bigger than I thought it would be—how is that even possible?  From here, it looks like a vine-wrapped fireplug.  Clear beads of precum glint on the swollen purple head.

A lump forms in my throat; I have trouble swallowing.  I cast my eyes downward as I gulp, only to find my gaze pulled irresistibly upwards.  His thick-soled ropers planted firmly on the thin carpet, those faded jeans becoming tighter around his legs the further up his thighs my eyes travel, that jutting, bobbing, dripping shaft, his massive chest with its fine haze of fur heaving in anticipation, his eyes—

Oh fuck, his eyes—what is that look?  I’ve never seen that kinda look before…

I think he’s more ready for me than I am for him.

He lunges—wait, what?  Dude, no lemme prepare myself—no wait stop for fuck’s sake use some lube don’t just hawk up phlegm on my ass get something to—

FUCK STOP IT OH GOD THE PAIN YOU’RE TEARING ME FUCK FUCK THE PAIN

Breathe, just keep breathing, he can’t keep going his cock can’t be that long shit shit shit it feels like I’m getting a spear shoved up my ass FUCK DUDE STOP PLEASE OH PLEASE

There’s nothing else right now, nothing else in my universe but this huge, powerful man fucking me brutally in the ass.  The weight of his muscles pressing down on me, his fur scratching me as his body slides over mine on a film of our mingled sweat, the waves of manscent and pheromones exuded by his body as he pins me down and reams out my colon—this is all there is.

But he’s stopped.  He’s not driving in any further, oh thank you Jesus.  I can’t take any more.

I can’t speak.  I’m too full of cock.  My sphincter has already collapsed under the onslaught of his shaft, but I’m afraid to move.  Fuck oh fuck he’s so huge inside me if he moves at all he’s gonna tear me he’s gonna make me bleed please no dude…

Then he speaks.

“Almost all the way in, motherfucker.  Ya likin’ it?  I ain’t even started fuckin’ ya yet.  And I gotta special happy ending for ya—don’t worry, faggot, you ain’t ever gonna cum harder than you’re gonna tonight!”

What?  No, dude, there can’t be more, it already feels like you’re raping my fucking intestines, you gotta be OH FUCK NO CHRIST YOU’RE FUCKING HOLES IN MY GUTS JESUS NO—

It hurts so bad how can I feel anything else but I can

I can feel his denim-covered thighs pumping like pistons as he drives his shaft even deeper into my rectum

I can feel his hard firm six-pack abs thrusting against my smooth flat belly

I can feel his hands gripping my wrists and forcing my arms back above my head on the bed

I can feel his scuffed square-toed shitkickers scraping against my socks and lower calves

I can feel every inch of the hot hard man as he painfully violates my body and I love it I love the fucking and the thrusting and even the pain that sharp spearing agony hurts so fucking good

He sees it.  He knows, and I know he knows.  Good.  He knows I’ll give him whatever he wants for the sake of his load.  It’ll make him happy—and I want this hot as fuck stud to be happy.

Except it’s not.  What’s wrong?  Why is he looking at me like that?  The contempt was sexy, but this is—is—what?  It’s not hate; it’s too erotic for that; what the fuck is going on?

He lets go of my wrists and rises up somewhat, looking down on me.  He’s still pumping my ass, fuck yeah—it hurts, oh god it hurts so bad but I’m falling in with his rhythm.  Why is he looking at me like that?  What is he

His hands oh shit what the fuck dude get ‘em off I can’t breathe what the fuck are you doing

Dude no get off what the fuck off me let go why are your hands around my throat what what’s that

“Time to die, faggot.  You worthless homo bitches always fall for the Craigslist ads and the motel hookups.  You stupid piece of shit, you make it so easy.  Just another useless queer gettin’ raped and strangled in a motel room.  Yeah, you heard me, cunt.  You’re dying.  I’m gonna kill ya.  So c’mon and fight it, cocksucker—you’re gonna lose, but your struggle is gonna jack me off so good!”

What the fuck he’s killing me so he can cum what OH SHIT HE’S GONNA FUCKIN’ KILL ME THIS PSYCHO IS GONNA STRANGLE ME TO DEATH

No no no no get the fuck off me I gotta get away gotta get away I can’t his rod is impaling my ass pinning me to the bed like I’ve been speared

air air no air oh my god GET OFF GET OFF I CAN STILL FEEL YOU IN ME FUCK DUDE NO WHY WHY I JUST WANTED YOUR LOAD

it hurts so fucking bad his hands are tightening like a vise I can’t pull them away he’s too strong higher maybe

no his rock hard biceps too strong my hands slipping on sweat over his winged skull tattoo

his chest his hard heaving chest no get off beat against it fuck like beating a brick wall no fuck this can’t be happening oh god oh fuck oh please no beat and slap and thrash just GET THE FUCK OFF OH FUCKING HELL PLEASE OH GOD NO

his face his eyes claw claw make him stop rough steel wool that’s his scruff his stubble on his cheeks oh fuck those cold blue eyes

they’re not cold anymore hot hot with bloodlust he wants me to die

oh shit still on me and in me I can’t break free he fills me utterly

the pain the pressure my throat my chest my head my dick what the fuck why is my dick so hard

he’s still squeezing my throat as he thrusts that massive shaft up my colon crunching pain what the fuck

MY WINDPIPE OH GOD OH FUCK HE CRUSHED MY THROAT I FELT SHIT BREAK I HEARD SHIT BREAK IN MY THROAT

NO NO NO BEAT AND FLAIL GET OFF NOW I CAN’T THE PAIN DUDE YOUR COCK SWELLING IN MY ASS OH FUCK MY CHEST

what’s happening was gonna meet a friend for coffee after wasn’t supposed to die tonight just looking for a quick fuck why why

a vacuum I’m trying to breathe in a vacuum fight try harder keep going harder air if I try hard enough I can breathe I know it forget about the man holding you down and traumatizing your colon just breathe asshole you can do it

NO I CAN’T NO AIR PAIN HIS HANDS ARE STILL SQUEEZING I CAN’T PRY THEM OFF HE’S SPTTING IN MY FACE

“Die, you cocksucking faggot, die with my dick up your disgusting homo fuckhole, you worthless fucking cunt, yeah? Huh?  Ain’t no one gonna care about yer useless cumslurping ass gettin’ offed, huh?  Ya like that?  C’mon, cunt, fight for it, fight for the air.  Work the spunk outta my shaft as you die so your death ain’t a total waste of flesh, you piece of shit!”

what I don’t

AIR OH PLEASE AIR

it’s fading cold and black but the pain won’t fade why please just let me die but the pain won’t go away

my chest fuck it hurts the pain the pressure please let me die

my throat fuck why dude why are you still throttling me I’m dying you’re only doing this so you can keep hurting me

my head the black fireworks the maddening buzz of cicadas such agony

my dick what why so stiff so erect my sack so puckered and shriveled what the fuck is happening

please no don’t do this maybe I can still live please let me live let go

your cock oh shit it’s so big inside me the pain is fading black roses are blooming and I am full of you

no please it feels so good but it means death I know it means death but it’s so good

fuck the burning the boiling in my ass your face is fading but I can still see the snarl that’s your cum you’re cumming in me as I die that’s why

the pain the terrible burning pain in my cock what the fuck im cumming thick ropy strands

fuck feels like my spunk is being ripped outta my cock i didn’t know it would hurt this bad i didn’t know it would hurt this good

oh fuck cold and dark the pain THE PAIN NO IT HURTS TOO GOOD I DON’T WANNA DIE YET IT HURTS TOO GOOD—

seed flowing into me and out of me

Mac and Bill 1

They had scoped out the kill and were ready.

They didn’t know who the client was. Sometimes the client was private and sometimes it was a government contract. It didn’t matter. All they needed to know was who the targets were and whether they were supposed to die easy or hard.

This job, they were supposed to die hard.

The targets were a couple of drug lords. Intelligence had it that they were meeting in a neutral location to work out a territorial dispute. They had kept security light— some local punks who hadn’t been able to pay their tabs.

Mac grinned as he sighted the first sentry. He and Bill were gonna enjoy this. The actual targets would be done too quickly—a couple of taps to the head and it’d be over. But the men standing guard–oh, yeah, this was gonna be fun.

Mac and Bill had over a hundred kills of this kind between them. They’d worked out a method that involved incredible precision. Mac had found on an earlier kill that if a knife enters the target’s brain at a certain point and depth, it strikes an area that controls orgasm. The target will drop like a rag doll and cream his jeans on the way down.

He’d practiced it on his next few hits and when he felt confident, he demonstrated it to Bill. It had been on a job south of the border. Bill had already whacked his target—a Mexican hardman who gagged and coughed his life away in Bill’s arms after his throat had been slit.

The sentry Mac was going for was a young man with dirty jeans and combat boots. He wore a tight black tee which covered the handgun tucked down the front of his pants. He’d heard his buddy’s dying gasps and started moving in that direction. Mac had come behind him and clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth; ramming his razor-sharp knife into the guy’s kidney. As the hardman stiffened in agony and shock, Mac had called Bill and had him watch as he lifted the man’s chin and slammed the knife up through the guard’s jaw, puncturing his tongue and soft palate and piercing his brain. After seeing the massive, sticky wet spot form in the dying man’s crotch, Bill had been a willing and able student of form.

Now it was time to send these two punks out the same way.

Mac saw that Bill had the same hard grin as he did. This was gonna be real smooth. These two were practically kids, barely old enough to buy their own beer. Hardman wanna-bes. The wanted to be men; they were gonna die like men. And it was gonna hurt.

The two mercs had gotten close enough to overhear the guards. From their conversation, they had learned the names of each. Danny was short and dark, with shoulder-length black hair. He was wearing tight jeans and hightops, but had no shirt covering his well-developed chest. Bobby was the other one; he was practically a skinhead, with a razor-thin goatee. He was wearing a white wifebeater and showing the tattoos on his muscled arms to an admiring Danny. At the start of the conversation, Bobby had pulled a bag of weed out of his boot and fished papers from the back pocket of his jeans. They had passed a joint back and forth while talking about how fucked up they’d gotten and how many bitches they’d reamed out. When they finished, Bobby had rolled the each their own before they split up.

The warriors’ smiles got tighter. High on guard duty—these two were the definition of ‘young, dumb, and full of cum.’

Time to let that cum out.

Bobby was walking further up the road. Mac trailed him silently, timing the kill.

The hit on Danny was quick and brutal. It was over in an instant, but a lot happened in that instant.

Danny had just taken a lung-busting hit of his own from the joint when Bill grabbed the hair on the top of his head and pulled it back. At the same time, he brought his commando knife upward into Danny’s exposed jaw, slamming it home into the punk’s brain. Danny’s eyes opened wide with pain and fear as his cock swelled and began spurting uncontrollably. The dying punk jerked backwards several times, grinding his ass into Bill’s crotch before going rag-doll. Bill lowered the still-twitching corpse to the ground and turned to follow Mac.

Mac was crouched down in a ditch about ten yards behind Bobby. Bobby was fucked up—he’d been hotboxing his joint and had smoked it down in less than two minutes. Mac wasn’t worried about cover; the guy was too stoned to have any reaction speed.

Mac crept in silently for the kill. About ten feet behind the guard, he pulled his knife from his boot sheath.

He jumped forward quickly, one hand clamping the punk’s mouth, his fingerless leather glove forming a seal to muffle any noise. The other hand pressed the knife into the base of the guard’s head. There was a resistance, then a slight crunching sound as the tip of the knife penetrated the base of the skull. After that, it slid in smooth and easy.

Bobby’s reaction was immediate. He stiffened in a seizure that jerked his body erect. He arched backwards and his eyes rolled back. A grunt was forced out that was muffled to a moan by Mac’s glove.

“Shut up and die, motherfucker,” Mac whispered in Bobby’s ear.

In the dark buzzing vortex of his swiftly-diminishing consciousness, Bobby somehow knew that while he was being told to shut up and die he was spunking so hard it was agony.

After that, there was nothing left but the convulsions of brain trauma. Bobby thrashed violently, his boots digging furrows in the dirt. Mac held him tightly and reamed his knife into Bobby’s brain. The punk shuddered and went limp in Mac’s arms. Mac lowered him to the ground and wiped his knife on the corpse’s shirt.

Looking up, he saw Bill had been enjoying the show. They quickly regrouped and pressed on. There were at least two more guards between them and the final targets.

Things got quiet after they left. The dead meat that had been Bobby still kicked a little as random nerves fired. One of these kicks dislodged the bag of weed in his boot.

Danny’s body lay on its back, glazed eyes staring at nothing. Down the left side of the face was a small trickle of blood from the nose and another from the corner of the mouth. The body occasionally gave a slight twitch, the hightops scraping the dirt.

Mac and Bill crept silently up the road, leaving the piles of twitching meat behind them to rot.

Three hundred yards down, a sound to their right made them freeze. There shouldn’t have been any more guards this far out from the target, but intelligence had been incomplete before. Mac sent Bill further down the road to reconnoiter and went to investigate the sounds himself.

Moving silently through the underbrush, Mac emerged suddenly into a clearing. Right in front of him, leaning against a tree, was a young guard beating his meat. This was Frank.

Frank was wearing an open shirt-sleeve work shirt over his tight white undershirt. His jeans, opened at the fly to display his fully erect cock, were tucked into his dirty, slouched work boots. In his right boot was a half-ounce bag of weed—it was their advance pay for guard duty.

Frank was higher than a kite and had been thinking about the bitch he’d banged in an alleyway last night as he jacked himself. Precum was just starting to ooze from his mushroom tip when merc materialized in front of him. Franks bloodshot eyes widened as he tried to focus on the man who was going to end his life. The guy was wearing all black, from the cap on his close-shaven head to the tactical gloves and the combat boots.

Then bright pain exploded in Frank’s face.

Mac had been caught slightly by surprise, but hadn’t hesitated in wasting the punk. He’d stunned the little fuck with a line-drive punch straight from the shoulder. The steel knuckles built into his gloves added power to the blow.

Frank, semi-conscious, reeled away from Mac. His cheekbone was broken and his lips split. His dick, forgotten but still hard, bobbed in the wind.

Mac stepped forward and slid his left hand under Frank’s left arm and across his chest, grabbing his right shoulder. He reached his right hand around the back of Frank’s head to grab his chin from the left and pulled both of his arms back violently.

There was a cracking sound as Frank’s vertebrae shattered and his spinal cord ruptured. His head was twisted 180 degrees and his stunned, terrified eyes were staring directly into Mac’s.

Frank’s body stiffened and shuddered. His muscles went rigid involuntarily, forcing a geyser of cum to spew from his dick. Faint gasping sounds escaped his lips as he struggled to draw air with muscles and lungs that had stopped working.

There was another shudder and another fountain of spunk. Then Frank’s legs gave way, his boots buckling at the ankles and digging out paths in the dirt. Mac held him all the way down, starting into his eyes. The last thing the punk saw as his wasted life slipped away was the merciless face of the hard man who’d offed him.

Kneeling on the dead meat, with his leg on the corpse’s ass and his gloved hand pressing strongly on the blank, staring face, Mac paused and listed. These fucks usually traveled in pairs.

Sure enough, there was a rustling sound ahead and a little to the left. Mac moved quietly back into the woods, leaving the body in the clearing behind him to stiffen. After a while, the cum dried, leaving the corpse with glazed eyes and glazed thighs.

Mac was moving quietly parallel to the road. About ten yards beyond the clearing where he’d left Frank’s body, he was brought up short by a motorcycle hidden in the brush, with a helmet hanging from the handlebars. The sound he was tracking was louder now, and seemed to come from his right. He moved off in that direction.

It didn’t take him long to find the other guard. He was taking a leak into a small stream, with his back to Mac. This one had a shock of unruly black hair and a gold loop in his ear caught the light. He was wearing a white t-shirt tucked into tight leather pants cinched by some kind of metallic belt. The leather pants, in turn, were tucked into high biker boots. This one was young, about nineteen or twenty.

Mac slowly reached for the length of nylon cord in his pocket. He looped it around the kid’s neck in a flash and pulled hard.

The punk, as high as the others, hadn’t seen it coming. He flailed wildly, struggling for breath. Mac tightened his hold on the guard’s windpipe and braced himself as his victim fought—vainly—for his life.

The punk had some fight in him, too. He spent some time grabbing ineffectively at the cord digging into his neck, but Mac was pulling it violently and it was embedded in the flesh. That was when the kid panicked.

He stopped struggling with the cord and reached up, trying to connect with anything that would release his agonized throat and let him breathe again. In his terror of death, he lost control of his bladder. His dick was still out and the piss dribbled down his leather pants onto his desperately kicking boots.

The guard’s flailing hands batted aimlessly at Mac’s face and caught at his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Mac could see that the stupid little fuck had a tribal armband tattoo. Then the victim’s hands were in his face again and he decided enough was enough.

He kicked the guy’s boots out from under him and kneeled to follow him down. The guard was now sitting on the ground with his legs jerking out in front, boots tearing up the dirt and leaves. Mac could see the pot leaf emblazoned on the punk’s belt buckle. He wondered if the kid had any idea that he was going to die wearing it when he put it on today. He gave the cord a hard tug and there was a crunching sound.

Mac knew he could let the punk go now; his windpipe was crushed and he’d be dead in sixty seconds no matter what. But he held on, watching the guy’s flaccid cock suddenly swell and turn a vivid purple—the same purple as the guard’s face. A foamy trickle of saliva escaped past the kid’s swollen, protruding tongue. His hands had stopped beating violently at Mac’s face and were moving slower, almost caressing him.

The punk’s random jerking became a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, the kid shot a load and he shot hard. Mac felt a splatter of semen on his cheek. The guy shot his next three loads into his own face. Cum dripped from his dull, half-open eyes down over the tip of his tongue and off his chin.

Mac held on to the wetly pulsating meat for a little while longer before removing his cord. He had to tug at it as it was buried deeply in the guard’s throat. He turned and left as quietly as he had come, on his way to rejoin Bill.

The silence that settled over the kill after Mac’s departure was only broken by the death throes of the corpse. These became fewer over time, but with each spasm, a slight trickle of sperm leaked out onto the leather pants.

Mac found Bill near what the map had marked as the last turn in the road. Beyond this point, the road ascended in a straight line to the cabin where the final targets were supposed to be located.

Naturally, there were another couple of guards around the bend.

Bill had already scoped them out. He told Mac that he’d gathered from their conversation that they were brothers. The younger brother wouldn’t give them any problems—he’d only come along to get high and would be easy to drop. The older brother, with bright red hair, would be tougher. He’d worked for the targets before and acted as if he knew how to handle himself. He didn’t, but he could still cause problems.

Mac went carefully forward and checked them out. They were standing by the far side of the road. Both had dressed similarly in tight black shirts and tight jeans. The ginger guard was in his mid-20’s and had his shirt tucked into his jeans. When he turned his back to Mac, he could see a 9-millimeter jammed down the back of the guy’s jeans, the handle out for access. Ginger was wearing combat boots and thick leather bands around his wrists, one of them holding a watch.

Junior was about 18 or 19. He was wearing a ball cap and didn’t have his shirt tucked in. He was squatting with his back to Mac, who could see that the kid was going commando. He’d tucked his jeans into ropers.

Mac returned to Bill.

“I found two more guard back there,” he said.

“Any problems?”

“Nah. They kicked a little. But we need to get one of these to talk. Need to find out if there’s any other surprises.”

Bill grinned.

“Good cop, bad cop? It’s my turn to be bad cop.”

They sprang out simultaneously. Bill went for Ginger, kicking his legs out. The guard fell to his knees with Bill behind him, one hand clenched in his hair. The other held a knife at the side of Ginger’s throat.

Junior had risen and was facing Mac when he jumped. Mac slammed the kid back into a tree and pressed hard on him, gloved hand over his mouth. He too had a knife, pointed at Junior’s belly.

Bill yanked up on Ginger’s hair.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, talk!”

Ginger snapped back, “Fuck you! I ain’t tellin’ ya shit!”

Bill hadn’t expected him to. He turned to Mac with a smile.

“He says he don’t wanna.”

Mac eased his pressure on Junior’s mouth just enough to let him speak.

“What about you? You feel like talking? “

“Don’t you say a word, dude!” shouted Ginger. “Those guys’ll fuck us up bad!”

Mac leaned forward, pinning Junior to the tree with his full body weight. He forced Junior’s head to the right, giving him a direct view of his brother.

“Watch what happens if you don’t talk. Go for it, Bill.”

With a violent jerk, Bill thrust his knife into Ginger’s throat, the tip coming out the other side. The sharp serrated blade tore through the punk’s vocal cords and windpipe, neatly spearing the adam’s apple.

Ginger made a choked gurgling sound. His face was a mask of pain and terror.

“Watch him,” whispered Mac into Junior’s ear, “watch him die.”

Ginger’s hands flailed helplessly in front of him. His body jerked and shuddered as a pink foam began to leak from the corners of his mouth. He sagged forward. The only thing keeping him from falling face down in the dirt was Bill’s hold on his hair.

Bill had gotten rock hard. He pulled Ginger’s head back into his groin. In his last few seconds alive, Ginger was dimly aware of only one other thing beside the agony of death—the sensation of a hot iron rod covered in fabric pressed against the back of his head.

Mac eased up on Junior’s mouth again. “Now talk, bitch,” he growled. “How many others between here and the cabin?”

Junior started crying—they’d been right; he was the weak one. When he spoke, it came out in one long gasp of terror, all at once.

“Ohfuckdon’tkillmepleasedon’tilltellyaanythingohfuckohshit,” he pleaded.

“Quit babbling, you little shit and tell me—anyone else between here and the cabin?’

Junior gulped hard and just barely managed to control his panic. “No one, dude,” he sobbed, “just them two dudes that went up there and the guys driving their cars—I swear. Fuck, dude, don’t kill me—I told ya what ya wanted to know. Oh God, please don’t kill me!’

Mac clamped his hand back over Junior’s mouth and turned to Bill with a grin.

“Whaddaya think?”

“Nah, he’s useless. Waste the little fuck.”

Mac turned back to Junior. “Sorry, kid,” he said with a smile. “If he says I gotta waste ya, I gotta waste ya.”

Junior stared at him with terrified eyes, He began struggling, tears running down his face.

Mac stabbed his knife upwards into Junior’s belly. Even with Mac’s gloved hand firmly covering his mouth, faint screams could be heard.

Mac slowly withdrew the knife. “You’re gonna die with your boots on, like a real man,” he whispered. “This is gonna hurt.”

With a single controlled jab, he rammed the knife up through Junior’s jaw and tongue, embedding it in the soft palate. The intense burst of agony combined with the shock of the gut stab had halted Junior’s struggle. He stood shuddering, his eyes wide.

Mac jammed the knife up into the kid’s brain. Junior’s eyes dilated, then rolled back so only the white could be seen. His tight muscular body arced forward, grinding his groin into Mac’s. Mac felt Junior’s hard dick rubbing against his own through several layers of fabric, getting him hard as well.

Then he felt liquid on his balls and the base of his cock and knew that the kid was cumming so hard in his dying moments that the spunk had soaked through. Mac lost control and shot his wad. As his own jizz spread over his belly and the kid’s cum oozed onto his balls, Mac skullfucked Junior with his knife, reaming in and out and shredding the kid’s brain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw that Bill hadn’t been able to control himself either. Still holding Ginger’s corpse by the hair, he’d positioned the body so it was facing him. He pulled his long rigid dick out and stuck it in Ginger’s mouth. A quick, violent facefuck and Bill growled, then gave a low groan, sending ropy strands of his spunk over Ginger’s mangled larynx. He was still oozing when he pulled out, sperm mixing with the blood drying at the corner of Ginger’s mouth.

“Sorry,” muttered Bill when he noticed Mac watching him. “Just seeing the two of you…well…”

“Don’t apologize. I didn’t know it would be like that. We’ll have to find a way to get ourselves off on every kill. Why should we let these fucks have all the fun?” As he finished saying this he kicked Junior’s blank staring face with his steel-toed boot.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “Shame we can’t have much fun with the targets. But I still got more spunk of my own to let out.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Mac. They cleaned themselves using the shirts of their dead fuckbuddies. “I think we can still have some fun during cleanup.”

They started climbing the hill in the direction of the cabin.

The approach to the cabin was difficult. Just a few yards past the spot where Ginger and Junior were turning cold and stiff, the line of sight forced them into the treeline—Mac and Bill could be seen from the cabin if they stayed on the road. The need for silence slowed them, especially if the two “drivers”—more likely professional killers—were outside.

They were. One of them was clearly a hardman type. Well-built, with thick short dark curls, he wore a white t-shirt and jeans, both skin-tight. His camo-patterned cap was backwards and his combat boots were desert camo.

The other guard surprised the mercs. He was about 18, little more than a kid. A black wifebeater showed tattoos on his muscled arms and pecs. His strong legs ended in colorful expensive sneakers. They later found that he was the nephew of one of the targets. He’d killed before and thought he was a major bad-ass. Mac and Bill agreed not to kill him right away.

They had plans for him.

The guards were standing between the cabin door and the cars, which were parked parallel to the front of the building. By keeping low and moving carefully, Mac and Bill had reached the other side of the cars, where they split up.

Bill whipped around the rear of the car and put the kid’s lights out. A lightning-fast blow to the jaw knocked the boy out.

The kid grunted when he got decked and the hardman heard. He turned towards Bill and opened his mouth to say something. He never had the chance. Mac was on him immediately, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other slashing mercilessly at his throat with a knife.

The hardman fell to his knees, hands grasping his throat. A look of horror and disbelief was in his eyes—he’d cut the throats of several men himself, but he didn’t know the pain and terror of watching his life spurt out. He tried to scream in agony but no sound came from his mangled larynx. The only noise was the uncontrollable gasping and gurgling from the wound.

The guard fell face down in a swiftly-spreading pool. He spent his last few seconds coughing up blood and scrabbling his boots ineffectually on the ground. The smell of blood and piss filled the air.

Bill had hogtied the boy to make sure he stayed put. The kid started to moan quietly.

“Hey, we need to shut him up. Whaddaya think?”

“Hold on a sec,” said Mac. He unlaced the dead guard’s boots and pulled them off. He yanked the corpse’s socks off and tossed them to Bill. “Gag him with these.”

Bill balled the guard’s reeking socks and shoved them into the boy’s mouth. The kid had no choice but to lie quietly until the mercs came back for him.

Time to take out the targets. There were two of them, Carlos Camacho and Eddie Herrera. Carlos was in his late 20’s and seriously hardcore. He was a major player in street gang drug activity in the western part of the state. He was wanted on several murder charges. His head was shaved but he wore a goatee and his arms were covered in tattoos. Bill and Mac, each watching through different windows, had no difficulty identifying him. He wore a white sleeveless t-shirt and tight white chinos. On his feet were expensive ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

Eddie had come up from Mexico to facilitate the flow of the drugs to Carlos. On his arrival, he’d found a rival supplier trying to make inroads with Carlos. He’d resolved the issue by leaving the rival and his entourage of guards alone—as dismembered corpses in a ravine. He was here tonight to work out the final details of the deal with Carlos in a place where they wouldn’t be interrupted.

He had no clue that both the deal and his life were about to be cut off.

Eddie was in his early 30’s and was beautiful to look at. His large brown eyes with long lashes had looked into the death stare of many men without losing the charm of innocence. His face, though, was hard and cold, showing the killer inside. He wore a long-sleeved western shirt tucked into tight blue jeans that sported a large belt buckle. His cowboy boots were dusty and plain, far less costly that the ones sported by Carlos.

The mercs quickly got the drop on their targets. The door splintered as soon as Mac applied his boot to it. He and Bill burst into the main room of the cabin, aiming their silenced handguns, taking Carlos and Eddie by surprise. The thugs were helpless.

“On your knees, assholes!” shouted Mac.

Then went down on their knees and raised their hands. Since the intruders were wearing paramilitary gear, Carlos and Eddie thought they were some branch of law enforcement. They foresaw legal issues, loss of time and money.

They didn’t see death staring them in the face—but they would, very soon.

“What have you done with Jose?” demanded Eddie.

“Who’s Jose?” asked Mac.

“My nephew,” replied Eddie, “He drove me here. If you hurt him—“

“The kid out front?” grinned Mac. “He’s safe. He’s gonna work for us. Now stand up and turn around. Spread ‘em”

Mac held the thugs at gunpoint while Bill frisked them. He did it thoroughly, making each man moan by squeezing the bulges between their legs. Nothing wrong with a man having a little fun on the job.

Neither Carlos nor Eddie was surprised when the handcuffs went on; they expected it as part of the arrest process. Mac was still pointing his gun at them, forcing them to keep their faces to the wall. They could hear Bill moving things behind them but had no idea what he was doing.

They soon found out. After a couple of minutes, Mac had them turn around. In the center of the room, a black nylon cord had been draped over a rafter. Each end of the cord terminated in a slip-knot loop, hanging about eight feet off the ground. Beneath each loop was a chair.

Even being forced up onto the chairs and having the loops placed around their necks didn’t faze the hardened thugs—they prided themselves on their reputation as tough motherfuckers and expected a little psychological torture in pursuit of a confession. The first conscious awareness they had that this wasn’t an ordinary arrest didn’t come until Mac and Bill had unzipped their captives’ pants and pulled out their thick, uncut cocks.

It was also their last conscious awareness. The mercs kicked away the chairs. After that, it was desperate, futile, primal fight for life.

Carlos and Eddie died a horrible, lingering death. With their hands bound but their legs free, they kicked at each other in their maddened struggle for breath.

Carlos had the strong, fit body of a street thug. This made him suffer longer. He jerked and kicked at his end of the rope, feeling Eddie die beside him. His face became congested and blue, with foam boiling from his open, swollen lips. His thick tool was fully erect.

Next to him, Eddie was also dancing on air, his boots flailing wildly beneath him. The slipknot had tightened agonizingly around his neck, causing great folds to form in the skin of the throat. Eddie’s thirteen-inch throat was constricted to a circumference of about five inches.

The blood, unable to escape, backed up in Eddie’s head. Vessels ruptured in his eyes and nose and his face turned black. His tongue and his bloodshot eyes bulged. A trickle of blood from the nose dripped onto the tip of his tongue. Like Carlos, his massive dick was standing up straight.

Carlos had stopped kicking. With his boots together, pointed down at the floor a couple of feet beneath him, he was arcing his body violently at the waist. He wasn’t ready to give up the battle for his life yet.

Eddie was. After a couple of convulsions, all Eddie could feel was burning agony in his throat and more burning agony in his cock. The sensation in his dick grew uncontrollably. As searing pain and death overwhelmed him, Eddie was unaware that cum had erupted from his cock in a steady stream. It shot up like a fountain and splattered back down onto all four of them. Several jets went up before Eddie’s spasms slowed and he dangled limply. The cum stains on his boots were washed off a moment later when his bladder voided post-mortem and piss flowed down his legs.

Mac pulled his straining cock out, already oozing with precum. He almost shot his wad watching Eddie die. He turned to Bill.

“You ready to finish off this little punk?” he asked.

Bill nodded. He was already beating his meat. He reached out and grabbed Carlos’s rigid dick.

Carlos’s body had let him down. It refused to let him die easy. The world had gone gray and soundless explosions burst inside his head but he was still conscious. Eddie’s spunk had splattered on his face and Carlos knew what that meant. He’d strangled men before and had seen them shoot as they died.

Carlos felt Bill’s hand on his cock, felt the smooth leather tactical glove stroke his shaft. He resisted the urge to shoot the seed bubbling up in his balls, but his dick was being controlled by automatic reflexes. He was getting jacked off as he died and he was going to blow his load whether he wanted to or not.

Carlos gave a vigorous jerk, thrusting his cock forward at Bill. It spat out a wad of cum, catching Bill full in the face. At the same time, Mac, pounding his meat furiously, shot his own load over Carlos’s legs and boots.

Bill didn’t even have to touch himself. He gushed his load when he caught Carlos’s dying facial. He continued to yank the thick rod in his hand. Carlos’s eyes rolled back in his head. Foamy spittle had run from the corner of his mouth and dripped from his jaw. Each tug on his meat was rewarded by another spurt of cum.

Bill grabbed the thug’s legs and jerked them downwards, hard. There was a thick cracking sound. Carlos felt sharp, stabbing pain in his neck and sank into the nothingness of death. His neck had stretched and his body went rigid at the moment of death, shooting out one last spray of sperm that splashed down Bill’s chest.

It took a few minutes for Mac and Bill to catch their breath. They cleaned themselves in the cabin’s washroom before retrieving Jose, who was still hogtied on the ground outside. They put him to work moving the bodies.

At gunpoint, they forced him into the driver’s seat of one of the cars. Bill sat next to him; Mac sat behind, the muzzle of his gun against the back of the boy’s head. He had to drive out to the first pair of corpses and load them into the trunk, then work his way back to the cabin. On the way down, they forced him to drive over Ginger’s body, still lying in the middle of the road.

“Shut up, bitch,” snarled Mac. “Just a pile of dead meat—which is what you’ll be, if you don’t shut your fuckin’ hole.”

Jose stopped whimpering, but terror was growing inside of him. He’d thought he was tough because he’d shanked a couple of dudes. This level of cold-bloodedness was beyond him. He was still too young to be this hard.

At each kill, Mac stayed inside the car with his gun on Jose as long as he was visible. Bill got out and had his gun in point-blank range of the kid the entire time. Jose had to drag each body to the car and lift it into the trunk. Every time he bent over a body, his eyes met the horror-filled death stare of the corpse and his panic increased.

They left the bodies in the car when they got back to the cabin. Taking a spade that was lying by the side of the building, they marched Jose into the woods. After about two hundred yards, they found what they were looking for. It was a clear spot, on the side of a hill overlooking a dry creek bed. Here they forced Jose to dig a pit.

The boy was almost hysterical now. Deep down, he knew that there was no way he’d survive this night. He had only one hope to hold on to, that his uncle was somehow all right and would save him. He hadn’t been inside the cabin yet.

That one hope was enough. He would still struggle for his worthless life. He sobbed in terror, but he dug the pit his own corpse would rot in.

When he was finished, shaking with exhaustion and with his grimy face streaked with his tears, they forced him to drag the corpses up one by one and throw them into the pit. Jose slowly emptied the car. By the time he’d pulled up the last body, the blood-caked hardman outside the cabin door, he had barely enough strength left to roll it into the pit. The corpses had been tossed in at random, boots on faces, groins to asses. The young punks had ended their worthless lives violently and were being left to rot like garbage.

Mac and Bill allowed Jose a little rest before taking him back to the cabin. They shoved him through to broken door and the first thing Jose saw was his uncle, still hanging from the beam. Carlos was dangling next to him, his neck grotesquely elongated. Jose fell to his knees, the last spark of hope dying inside him.

Mac cut the cord over the rafter and the bodies hit the floor with a thud. Jose dragged one body to the pit and Bill dragged the other.

When it was done, Mac made Jose stand at the edge of the pit and pull out his cock. His six inches of meat drooped in terror.

“Little hard-ass punk—can’t even get it up!” jeered Mac. “C’mere, Bill, let’s see if we can’t have a little fun offin’ this bitch.”

Mac wrapped a thin wire garrote around the kid’s neck and pulled it tight. The wire bit into the flesh, causing thin streams of blood to streak Jose’s throat. The boy sank to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat. Bill knelt beside him, tugging on his dick.

Jose was aware he was being jacked off, but the knife-like pain that shut off his air was more immediate. As his eyes bulged, everything grew dark and the edges of his vision shrank to a small vibrating circle. He could see his uncle’s twisted, blackened face staring back at him from the pit, Eddie’s own cum drying to a glaze on his face. Jose knew what was happening to him; when he shot his load, he knew he was dying. Before his sight vanished into oblivion, he saw his spunk raining in showers over the bodies in the pit.

Neither Bill not Mac had so much as undone their flies. Both had creamed their boxers as Jose hosed down the corpses with sperm. They rolled his body into the pit and left it the like the others to decay into a stinking pile of meat.

They returned to the cabin to clean themselves again and then started back to their local base. Time to send out word that they were ready for another job.