A Meat Slave in Hell by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

As the slave rotated slowly over the hot coals, its body impaled by an iron spit inserted into its anus that exited through its mouth (to which its hands and feet were tied), it wondered idly how many times it had been killed.  But that thought was interrupted as the slave’s elongated cock brushed against the little pile of particularly hot coals placed so that the cock would touch them on each rotation.  That pain was extraordinary even compared to the agony caused by the red-hot spit cooking its insides and the excessively hot coals that were blistering its skin as the live meat slave slowly turned and cooked.  This was how the demons, who watched, laughed, and used their powers to keep the spit turning, liked human flesh prepared – not just cooked, but burned, especially the delicious cock.  The cock was kept so aroused and hard that it was parallel to the horizontal body, enabling its entire underside to scorch as it brushed against the extra-hot pile of coals.  The cooking would not kill the slave, which was important since the demons insisted on only eating living flesh.  It would be the removal and consumption of the slave’s heart that would once again bring the sensation of death.  That would not happen until nearly all the high quality meat on the body was greedily eaten.  The real nourishment didn’t come from the meat, which they enjoyed but didn’t need to eat.  The nourishment came from the extraordinary pain they were able to inflict both in cooking and in eating.  After one of them removed the beating heart and ate that final organ, the slave’s body would reform and the cycle would start again, beginning with sexual torture and humiliation and ending with a creative way of once again preparing the slave as meat for a demon’s feast.

 

It had been over 2,000 years since the first time the slave had died. That event, like all the thousands in between, was one the slave still vividly remembered, and it could still relive the sensations.  It had been in a Roman circus, where it had been displayed as one of the slaves captured by the Emperor Caligula.  The capture was a fake, of course, since the Emperor never actually went to war, and the slave had simply been one of the many young males selected by the Emperor because he liked its body and wanted to watch it die.  So the slave was brought out naked to the cheers of the crowd, fucked by several huge gladiators, and hacked to death as the cheering increased.  The gladiators started by cutting off its penis and testicles, which were presented to the Emperor as trophies.  The Emperor tossed the shriveled cock to a nearby slave kneeling beside him on all fours, who ate it doggy-style.  But the Emperor picked the man-seeds from the ball sac (which he also tossed to his slave-dog) and popped the fresh meat into his mouth.  This further delighted the crowd.  Oddly, even though it no longer had any sex organs with which to react, the sight of its former male pride being eaten turned on the slave sexually.  It was pleased that it had been used so personally by the great emperor.  From its perspective, for a mere slave to have part of its body used as a snack by the Emperor of the Roman World was a great honor.  The fact it also meant the slave would die a very painful, humiliating death was of no concern to it (or anyone else).

 

At a signal from the emperor that he was done with his snack, the gladiators slowly and carefully hacked the slave into pieces, trying to keep it alive as long as possible, laughing and sharing the severed body parts as more crowd-pleasing snacks.  The slave died when one of the gladiators, after cutting open its belly and reaching in to remove its liver, reached into the body cavity again and pulled out its heart.  The slave was not alive to watch the heart stop beating and get consumed by the triumphant soldier.  But this established its method of death for its eternity of pain.

 

The slave had not resisted or even objected.  In fact, it was sexually turned on by having its naked body on display and getting gang-fucked while the crowd watched, so that it was able to maintain an erection until its cock was sliced off.  One of the gladiators had masturbated it to the point of orgasm, so that what he cut off was a pulsating cock just starting to emit cum.  The clever transformation from pleasure to pain was a huge crowd-pleaser.  The slave somehow felt it owed the crowd (and especially the Emperor) as much pleasure as possible for having allowed it to serve them, alerting the gladiator to its impending orgasm so he could have the knife ready and make the timing perfect.

 

It had been born into slavery, and because it was exceptionally handsome it had been trained and used as a sex slave (among other things, such as a human urinal).   Whether it had enjoyed that naturally, or simply become accustomed to being fucked and tortured, was of no matter.  The simple fact was that it was seriously turned on by having another guy’s cock up its ass, by being whipped and kicked, by drinking sperm and piss, and by having lots of people watching and enjoying its torment – or, better yet, joining in the fun.  That’s why its owner figured it would be a perfect slave to sell to the Emperor, who thrived on torturing young males.  The night before its public execution the Emperor had personally fucked and tortured the slave, which had been the greatest honor it could imagine.  The Emperor had even considered doing the killing himself, but decided to let the crowd enjoy the scene.  The slave was deeply humbled that the Emperor would even consider such an honor, and went to its public death quite content with its life.

 

The slave had only limited understanding of heaven and hell, or even the concept of an afterlife, while it was alive.  Its understanding really began the instant it died.  To its amazement, it was able to watch the soldier pull out its heart and eat it in front of the wildly cheering crowd as the other gladiators let go and what was left of its body finally crumpled to the ground, ready to be fed to the livestock.  Even more amazing, the slave could actually feel itself being eaten.  The pain was extraordinary, but so was the excitement.  The slave understood, at a much deeper level, how appropriate it was to be a slave, and that its ultimate fate was the best use of its otherwise worthless flesh.

 

As the slave watched the soldier finish his task by cutting off its head and holding that, too, for the crowd to enjoy, it was sexually aroused by the feel of the axe through its throat, and reached a kind of climax as the soldier fucked the severed head through its neck.  That’s when it realized that it was somehow whole again – complete with a cock that was spurting cum.  As it watched the pieces of its body being dragged off the field to make room for the next victim, the sight brought it to orgasm yet again – a level of intense orgasm it had never achieved before.  And as it watched its massive load of sperm literally shoot from its body, the slave realized it was not alone.

 

“Nice loads, slave,” a voice observed.   “I see you’ve adjusted rather quickly.”

 

The slave was horrified.  It had reached orgasm without permission, which it knew was wrong.  It turned to look at the person who spoke, and immediately got on its knees, knowing that this was truly a master deserving of obedience.  The voice belonged to the most beautiful male the slave had ever seen.  Naked and ageless, he was perfect in every sense, including his massive, erect cock that the slave desperately wanted to service.  As the slave contemplated the perfection of the being it now worshiped, it realized even more its own imperfections and how unworthy of service it was.  But it also could not help but note that it had reformed, still naked, without any of the flaws its body possessed during life.  It was as perfect as its unworthy body was capable of being.

 

“You are correct,” the voice informed the slave, reading its mind.  “You are far below me, and in no way worthy of my attention.  But I will grant you the honor of servicing my cock since that gives me pleasure and is so clearly your overwhelming desire.  You can suck while I inform you of your fate, which is my task and right.  You do not need to talk as I can read your tiny mind and discern your pathetic thoughts.”

 

The slave crawled on all fours over to the perfect male being, and gently used its mouth to begin massaging the giant cock.  It was almost too large to fit in its mouth, but the slave was expert at this task and gratefully began its first post-death sucking assignment.

 

The cock erupted almost immediately and began gushing sperm down the slave’s throat.  There was so much of it, and it was so thick, that the slave was concerned it would choke to death.  But it quickly discovered an advantage to already being dead – it could swallow all the cum without any problem.  As he continued to spew cum in an endless orgasm, the beautiful male explained things to the slave.

 

“You’re dead, so you can’t die again.  But you can feel the pain of death again and again.  That will happen whenever someone rips out your heart and eats it, since that’s how you died the first time.  Once that happens, your body will reform and you will be whole and healed.  But while you’re being tortured or eaten, you cannot experience death and will feel the pain of every stroke and every bite.  Your potential to suffer is infinite and there is no limit to the amount of pain you can feel, or to what can be done to you without allowing you any relief from the pain.  This will be your state for all eternity.

 

“But you have been given a gift.  You, like me, can keep your cock hard at all times and you can achieve ongoing orgasms with no limit to the amount of cum you shoot – like I’m doing now in your mouth.

“I am Satan, ruler of the underworld, and I have claimed you as one of my eternal victims.  You have been a sex slave your whole life, and you were very obedient.  But do you think a piece of slave meat like you belongs in heaven?  A worthless sack of shit like you belongs in hell where you can be tortured and eaten for eternity, serving Me and my demons.”

 

The slave considered the comments as it continued to swallow Satan’s amazing sperm, its own cock now rock-hard and ready to erupt.  It touched its own cock to test the statement about being able to cum endlessly, and to its amazement it quickly reached orgasm and began pumping its own sperm.  It did this before it realized it hadn’t gotten permission, and that helped it respond.

 

“I am a sex slave, and can see myself as a meat slave, sir.  I really don’t think I deserve to be in heaven.  I guess I belong in hell.”  It spoke no words, since it was still swallowing what had now turned into a gusher of piss, but the speaker read its mind.

 

“So do I,” the voice agreed.  And with that, he reached down toward the slave’s chest, and was able to push his hand into the chest cavity and tear out the slave’s heart.  The slave could feel the incredible pain once again, and watched as its heart was thrown toward a massive fire the slave noticed for the first time.

 

“One of My demons will eat your heart when it lands in hell, and you will reform there.  And that is where you will stay for eternity.”

 

And so it had begun.  After its heart was eaten that first time, the slave reformed in hell as predicted and was examined by a vicious demon who took great pleasure in ripping off parts of the slave as it was examined and its parts inventoried, then eating them.  The slave had indeed felt the pain of every tear in its flesh, muscle, and bones, and it was reconstituted again after the demon enjoyed eating its heart for the second time.  But the demons were also incredible examples of male perfection, and they sexually excited the slave immensely.  It felt honored to be consumed by them, and it achieved its ongoing orgasm even while it was being dismembered.  This, in turn, further amused the demons, who loved drinking human sperm while torturing its source.

 

The slave quickly learned that demons prefer their meat burned and charred, and they especially liked to overcook it on a bar-be-cue.  Their favorite was what had been done to it on this particular day, with a long, heated, iron spit rammed into its anus until it protruded from its mouth.  With its hands and feet also tied to the spit, it could be roasted both inside and out, producing charred meat that they greedily ripped off to enjoy.  The fact the meat was live even after being separated from the body, and the fact the slave could still feel the pain as it was eaten, was essential to their pleasure.  The slave even learned to amuse them further by achieving orgasm while it turned slowly over the flames, its sperm causing the coals to flare up and burn its skin a bit more intensely.  As it slowly turned, the slave focused on trying to get as many flare-ups as possible, since it obviously added to the pleasure of its tormentors.  This made it a favorite meal, and that in turn meant it was roasted more often than most of the other humans available to the demons.

 

True, the slave also responded quite nicely to the torture sessions, which included rape with everything from huge, multiple demon cocks stuffed into its butt for simultaneous gang-fucks, to dynamite exploded in its asshole.  These sessions would last for many hours, or even days, between cooking events, and the demons prided themselves on their creativity.  Crucifixion of the humans in hell was routine, and since the sufferers wouldn’t die it was particularly effective at administering extreme agony over a long period of time.  The slave was included in those rotations as well, sometimes having its body nailed up in the middle of the vast desert-like setting for months on end, burned by the heat while trying desperately to breath.  And while the slave was not considered muscular enough to participate in the vicious gladiatorial contests, its great good looks made it a frequent target for events like archery and axe-throwing.  The greatest honor, however, was to be permitted to suck the giant cocks of the demons, drinking their gushing loads of sperm and urine that would have chocked the slaves to death in their prior existence.  Now it was something to look forward to, as it so clearly gave pleasure to their masters while degrading themselves.

 

What was strange was how none of this depressed or even bothered the slave.  It knew this was its intended purpose, and that it belonged in this place of torture and depravity.  Its cock was hard at all times in part because it was so sexually turned on by what was being done to it, by the extraordinary male bodies the demons chose to present themselves with to their victims, and especially by the knowledge that its degradation gave pleasure to its masters.  As a slave, what better purpose could it serve?

 

The daily cooking was nearing completion, and the slave realized its body was now appropriately charred and burned, ready to be eaten.  It was soon removed from the coals, and the spit was placed near a table where the demons could easily reach it without burning themselves.  The slave felt every bite and tear as its flesh was ripped from its body, and even felt the pain as each piece of meat was chewed and swallowed.  The greatest pain occurred when one of the senior demons pulled off its genitals, slowly munching on its burnt manhood as it idly tortured yet another doomed soul tied to a whipping post nearby.  It would be a while before one of the masters consumed its heart, causing it to reform, but there was plenty of time.  After all, there was eternity.

 

Peter and Michael had just finished a great 69 session, erupting into each other’s eager mouths with intense mutual orgasms.  This was one of their favorite activities, and they made sure to start all their meetings with a long sexual exploration of their amazing bodies.  When they finished coming, Peter asked a question:

 

“I don’t understand why you don’t retrieve that Roman slave you allowed Satan to claim all those centuries ago?  I don’t see how he ever did anything wrong, and even if he did it sure seems he’s suffered enough.  Look at him – being spit-roasted and eaten yet again.  I wasn’t here yet when he was processed, so maybe there’s something I’m missing.”

 

Michael laughed.  “There is indeed, my well-endowed friend.  This slave is one of the perverts He likes to make from time to time, who is truly happy only if suffering horribly and serving in a completely humiliating role.  Like many of them, this one revels at being eaten.  So I didn’t really sentence him to hell.  And I gave him the gift of continuous orgasm.  Being a meat slave is, for him, the equivalent of the highest level of heaven.  He’s completely content and will remain that way forever.”

 

Peter understood, and watched as the demons down below finished their latest meal.  It was a pretty good show, and Peter no longer felt guilty enjoying watching it.

What Do You Want by Den

I first meet Jack on an on-line torture forum. Sexual torture, not the political prisoner stuff, and we hit it off almost instantly. We meet for a drink about a week later, and it’s the same story: Instant attraction. He drags me back to his place and works me over for hours, taking me places I didn’t know I’d enjoy going. I soon come to love the look in his eyes that communicates his absolute joy in cruelty.

In a few short months we progress from play piercing to permanent piercing and soon I am hanging two thick and heavy rings in each nipple, and enough stainless steel in my genitals to fashion a full place setting of flatware, and we‘re both proud of his handiwork. He has a great love for knifeplay, and soon so do I. Shallow careful cuts progress as I come to like it, till I sport a selection of scars on my chest and back and arms to go with my hardware. A permanent map of our landscape of pleasure and pain. Eventually the sight of my own blood begins to excite me as much as it does Jack. He really gets off on hearing me ask for his cruelty and I am more than happy to oblige, He’ll bring out the knife and ask, as he holds it to my chest “What do you want boy?” “Please, cut me”. I’ll say. And he does.

Of course I want it, he knows exactly what I want and how to make me feel pain and pleasure mixed incredibly. But the added pleasure we get from the ritual is great. I have never had orgasms as intense or as satisfying as when Jack is torturing me, and over time I find myself craving more and more brutality from him. The line between pleasure and pain shifts more and more to the left, and he always has another trick up his sleeve to turn me on. Finally, and inevitably I think, my thoughts turn to snuff and it dawns on me that I want the experience of being butchered by him. Want it bad.

We see each other regularly for well over a year, and it just keeps getting better. I want to give him more and more in return for the excitement and pleasure I get from our play. I daydream more and more about what it might be like to be killed in the midst of a brutal play session, high on both lust and drugs and aware that i was to be killed. I think of him killing me when ever we are together, but not knowing his inner desires never let on. I let him think it is simply his use of my body that has inspired the increasing sexual frenzy i display when he tortures me.
One night while walking home very late I hear a vehicle approach. The streets are totally deserted, but I think nothing of it. The brakes screech, the door opens and the next thing I know a damp fume-reeking  rag covers my nose and mouth and I pass out.

When I come to, I have no idea how much later that is. I am bound naked on a steel table with a raised edge, and a drain in one corner, like an enormous pan. I realize immediately it is an autopsy table. A rubber mat makes it a bit more comfortable. It is in what appears to be a basement room dimly lit by moonlight coming through a small window, and I can hear crickets outside. I am obviously outside the city. The overhead light comes on suddenly and I hear Jack say “Hey boy, quite a surprise huh?”
“What’s going on, what are you doing?” I ask, but intuitively I already know and my mind begins to race, my dick swell.
“I really hadn‘t planned this, but have had this room set up for a number of months now with an eye towards future activity. This is an old family property, way out of town and in the middle of 100 wooded acres. I saw you last night just by chance. I had been out late, and with no one around it was really perfect.  Having the ether was just dumb luck, my cousin needed some for a model boat engine so I’d picked it up during the day. It seems fated to me. No one knows we are here, no one saw me take you.” He walks around where I can see him and he is naked as well, his body gleaming in an anticipatory sweat, his dick proud and long. He strokes my body and then mounts my face to fuck my throat, it is hard to move, but I manage to get to it and give him the best blow job of my life. I am more excited than I could ever imagine, totally certain at this point of what is ultimately in store. And sure enough while fucking my face he says softly “All this time since we met I have wanted to kill you. Tonight’s the night. I have already dug your grave”, as if he has read my mind.  My excitement is huge and I struggle to get his dick as far down my throat as is possible. He pulls out before he comes, panting and raging with desire.

“What do you want boy?” he asks.
I could say let me go and bring an end to this, and I am sure he would do it, but seeing the excitement in him, and feeling the same in myself I answer quickly. There is fear, but desire trumps that by a mile.

“Please Jack, hurt me. Make me scream. YES Jack, kill me.Please!” I whisper. And he goes to work. I moan and scream and cry, as much in excitement as in pain as he works on me with a freedom and pleasure we have not known before. He kisses me hard on the lips and whispers in my ear “There is nothing stopping us now.” “I know, you can do whatever you want to me, no limits!” He lets me lick and worship his sweaty armpits as he admires my bound torso.”Are you scared boy?” “Yeah, but look at my dick, I’m not too scared to do this. This is what I’ve wanted for a while now but was scared to tell you.” He tortures me for hours with belt, cane, fists, paddle, an exacto knife, and all the other toys we love. A Wartenberg wheel makes beaufitul bloody patterns across my chest, scrotum and abdomen; bloody rows of dots on my hard dick.  We had shied away from drugs in the past but now considering the one way trip I’m on, he stokes us both up with speed and poppers to make my experience more pleasurable. My body sings as it gets covered with sweat, piss, bruises, blood….Terror wells up in me periodically, but lust keeps up, and the things i am feeling as he slowly destroys my body make me realize that my death is the only way to get what i know i want.

What do you want boy?
“Destroy my balls Jack, please.” And he does, tying off my sac then spending the next hour with nails pliers, ,branding iron and finally the caresses of a mallet to reduce my manhood to pulp, as I have always fantasized. From my thrashing, cries and screams he knows he has given me what I want. Looking into my eyes, wide with agony, he asks:”What do you want?” “Castrate me, Jack, Castrate me please” And he does. Slowly and sweetly drawing a blade through my scrotum making it last as long as possible, and then rubbing the ruined sac over my body leaving cool bloody smears that make me shudder. I have my penultimate orgasm, and it is blindingly intense. I had expected the pain which draws an involuntary scream from me, but not the pleasure that floods my body in equal measure as he cut my balls and sac free of my body. My fear fades away as I understand that this will be as I had imagined and that there is absolutely no turning back.

He goes to work again with excitement and relish and hours more pass. My nipples are pleasured by knife, heated pliers and toothed clamps till they are gone, all that remains is the ache and sting centered on an unrecognizable mass of bloody tissue. The skin of my pecs around the nipples is sliced and peeled away.  My ass is opened wide by both his arms; stretched to the point of tearing as he lays all his strength into getting both elbows into my body. When he asks”What do you want ?” all I manage to say is “more!” He pulls my sphincter apart with all his strength, like some giant muscular speculum, and with a groan from me, it gives way and tears. Finally he shows me a razor sharp Swingblade knife and I nod my consent as my excitement mounts still further. With the point just above the groin begins to sink the blade into me. “Give me what I want boy!” He commands, barely under control at this point. ” Yes Jack!Gut me!  please…… please!” And he does.

The first blade goes in sweetly, he reverses it and i arch my back to get the hooked blade in as quickly as possible. It easily zips me open from groin to sternum, and he quickly makes side cuts at the top and the bottom. Pulling me apart with his hands we both gasp to see my guts shiny and alive inside me. He cuts the rest of my abdomen away, clamping all the big vessels as he goes. I am lost in the pain and in my own blood lust, but my dick is still hard and throbbing despite my screams and moaning.  He strokes and plays with my guts and the feeling of his hands on my entrails is exactly as i had imagined. “Untie my hands” I implore, and of course he does, kissing me hard. I need to feel the heat and slippery mass of my own guts.The pain threatens to overwhelm my excitement, but he begins to skull fuck me taking my mind off myself, and pleasure wins out. I begin to jack off, wanting to feel what orgasm will do to the pain and wanting to be killed soon, as I am already meat, beyond saving. Jack comes and then pisses into my open abdomen and I receive his sperm and piss in a frenzy of sensation and sexual excitement. Finally I approach orgasm, and as I lose myself in the unbearable sensations, see him raise a gleaming new hunting knife.

My orgasm begins to well up as I feel the knife’s blade pressing into my neck and I groan in actual pleasure at the feeling. I am no longer scared, this has been exactly what I had imagined. We both know I am too far gone now anyway and must be finished. He kisses me hard then asks fiercely, his voice thick with animal lust and well aware that all my pain is being momentarily transmuted by orgasm  “What do you want boy? What do you want?” His face aglow and grinning from ear to ear.

My orgasm is enveloping my body, and it is too intense to hold back”Please Jack, KILL ME! Please kill me NOW” I cry, head back to bare my neck “Kill me Jack, please!”
And he does.

 

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Although he has just come, Jack is so wound up form the thrill of watching his boy cum while being gutted and killed, that he pulls the head over the edge of the autopsy table and mounts it. He fucks the dead throat brutally as the body, still dripping sperm, piss and blood jerks randomly. He lets go of the head and gripping the sides of the table fucks like a madman. The sound of the body’s neck snapping throws him over the edge and he howls as a huge load pours into the corpse. When he withdraws, the  head flops at the end of the broken neck. „Fuck YEAH“ he groans in awe of what he has just done. He will fuck the head and the soft loops of gut several times before he finally disposed of the body that gave them both so much pleasure. With every future kill he will wonder who had the most satisfying experience, him or the men who sought him out and welcomed his desire to kill them.

Mac Solo: The Interrogation

The guard glanced down, carefully placing the rugged soles of his combat boots so that he avoided making a sound.  The tightly-laced leather footgear fit him snugly, especially the right one—he kept a blade hidden there.

 

He was young, but he was trained and confident, an efficient killer.  His hard lean body vibrated with violence and testosterone; it oozed out in his sweat and soaked into his tight-fitting clothing.

 

The boy’s cold dark eyes glittered as he squinted and scanned the underbrush around him.  Black tactical gloves tightly gripped his modified AK-47, ready to spring to action at the slightest alert and spit swift burning death.

 

He was prepared to do it.  He was paid to guard, not to question what he was guarding or why.  He was there to kill anyone he saw.  It was a job he was good at—a job he enjoyed.

 

He was twenty-three and just under six feet tall.  He kept his russet hair short for strategic purposes; long hair gives opponents a grip during hand-to-hand combat.  He flexed his muscular legs, encased in black military-grade cargo pants; above, a skin-tight black compression t-shirt camouflaged his broad chest

 

The young merc was very familiar with hand-to-hand combat—he’d already had the experience of killing a man and watching him die, kicking, in his arms.  He enjoyed it—it got him hard.  He knew he’d found his place in life.  He loved killing, and he loved getting paid to do it.

 

So here he was, peering into the woods for intruders—and desperately hoping to find some.  He didn’t know what behind him was so important or who was supposed to be coming to jeopardize it; it didn’t really matter.  He was getting paid good money and he had the chance to take a life.

 

Cold and arrogant, the hard young merc’s cruel eyes glinted as they attempted to pierce the shadows.  Half-hard at the thought of killing, he really wanted someone to be there.

 

Someone was there, but not the someone the guard wanted.

 

Mac was so close to the young hardman he didn’t need the night vision goggles anymore; in fact, he could almost reach out and touch the punk.  The gun was that only reason he didn’t—at the moment, it directly (if unknowingly) at Mac, crouched deep in the underbrush a yard away.  So he paused.  This kid was young, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

 

Slipping his hand down his own thick, muscled leg, Mac gripped the hilt of the Ka-bar combat knife hidden in his boot sheath.  He silently withdrew seven inches of razor-sharp carbon steel, darkened so it wouldn’t reflect any surrounding light, not that that was a problem in this situation.  Mac could see his target, but just barely.  It was enough, though—enough for him to see the kid turn slightly to the side.

 

Mac’s body, taut and hard with well-trained muscle, was a killing machine; it sprang onto action as if a switch had been flipped.  In the blink of an eye, death came to the young mercenary—swift, brutal agonizing death, but not so swift that the hardman wasn’t aware of what was happening.

 

He heard Mac first, of course, as the professional killer launched himself from the underbrush, and pivoted to face the attack.  He wasn’t fast enough—a sudden blow from behind knocked the gun out his hands; at the same moment a gloved hand was clamped across his mouth, the fingers digging in mercilessly as the powerful hand clench tightly.

 

The merc was stunned by the lighting attack; the overconfident punk had thought himself equal to anyone.  He needed to shift his weight, if he could grab this fucker’s arms and tuck under just right, he could throw the dude…

 

Then Mac yanked his head back and pressed the blade against the boy’s throat.  The hardman, young, but experienced, had just enough time to realize what he was feeling when the older, stronger—better—killer began cutting his throat.

 

Even with a sharp blade, it took Mac a few second to saw through the punk’s windpipe.  The flesh itself parted easily, but the trachea was tough and rubbery; Mac was forced to tighten his grip on the unfortunate merc’s face to vise-like intensity.  He cut through the thick tube of cartilage as the youthful hardman’s muffled squeals increased in pitch and intensity before subsiding into a desperate, wheezing gurgle as the esophagus was penetrated.

 

Mac kept up the agonizing, inexorable pressure, his fingers brutally clutching the dying kid’s face, until he’d slashed the boy’s throat open practically to the spine.  Then the ruthless killer planted the thick sole of his utility boot on the kid’s ass and shoved him forward.  As the dying merc stumbled forward and fell to his knees, the silent specter of death slipped back into the darkness.

 

The guard’s hands flailed desperately at his torn-out throat, fingers clawing at the horrific wound.  Things were going gray and cold; the vicious punk had done this to enough men to know what was happening—he was bleeding out.  Some dark corner of his mind, as it faded to black, wondered if his assailant had had a hardon…

 

As the thought crossed his panicked mind, the young merc lost control of his bladder.  As hot piss flowed down his legs into his boots, he voided his bowels helplessly, the earthy stench of bodily waste mixing with the hot coppery smell of blood on the cool night air.

 

Then the icy nothingness stole in and the kid flopped forward.  He died alone in the dark, spending his last few seconds on earth drowning agonizingly in his own blood, his face planted in the mud.

 


 

Frank wondered what Joey was doing.  He wasn’t worried about the boy; the kid was a professional and could take care of himself.  He’d known that from the moment he’d seen the kid’s cold, soulless eyes.

 

Frank’s face was colder and more soulless.  He was thirty-eight and had been a hired mercenary since he’d left the Marines fifteen years ago.  He knew that Joey could handle himself because he was good judge of men—how hard they were and how tough they’d be to kill.  Joey had reminded Frank of himself at that age—young, hard, and full of hormones that drove a bloodlust.  Joey got off on killing, Frank had realized, just as much as Frank did himself.

 

The experienced hardman had smirked at Joey’s tactical gear, though—it was the mark of an amateur.  Frank himself had dressed his strong, sinewy body in more casual clothing—tight jeans tucked into a pair of plain black leather combat boots.  A dark t-shirt under a brown leather jacket completed the ensemble, along with a gray knit cap over his short brown hair.

 

He was armed as well, holding his AK-47 up and at the ready.  From a thick black leather belt around his waist hung a twelve-inch scabbard containing a massive hunting knife.  Peering into the underbrush, Frank was caught up for a moment in a gliding beam of moonlight that glinted from his cold green eyes and darkened the shadows on his lean, hard face.  His grim, tight-lipped visage was an archetype for a hardened killer.

 

And he had no idea that within five minutes, he’d be nothing but mangled, quivering meat, cooling on the forest floor.

 

The attack was swift, silent, and brutal.  Mac had approached within five feet of the guard, letting the man pass by him before springing out from behind.

 

Frank was taken by surprise, in more ways than one.  He’d been sure enough of his own skill that he’d neglected some basic precautions—a final lucid moment of regret for is arrogance that flashed across his mind as a powerful arm wrapped around his throat and yanked him backwards, off-balance.

 

Frank knew the move; he knew what to expect—he just wasn’t fast enough to stop it.  The muscles in the small of his back tightened—a useless move.  His fall was broken, as he expected it would be, by the razor-sharp tip of a blade that pierced his leather jacket like it was wet paper.

 

Before Frank could react, nine inches of sharp icy steel had penetrated his back just below the ribcage, the serrated edge of the blade slashing effortlessly through the merc’s flesh, muscles and organs with only the slightest change of resistance to indicate the type of tissue it was cutting through.

 

Not that anyone needed to be told.  Mac knew he was slicing through the hardman’s kidney and spleen because that was where he was aiming.

 

And Frank knew, because he could feel every inch of it.  Just to be sure, though—and to keep his target immobilized by shock—Mac twisted the blade viciously, reaming the sharp cutting edge and cruelly honed serrations deep inside the merc’s shuddering body.

 

Adrenaline flooded Frank’s system in an uncontrollable wave as he rose up, his feet curling in agony involuntarily inside his boots.  When Mac jerked the knife back out, he slashed it wide, almost literally cutting his way out; only the shock prevented Frank from screaming in horrific pain.

 

Then, before the shock subsided, Mac put an end to Frank’s ability to make any sound at all.  Whipping his arm around in front, the dominant killer rammed his blade down with a swift, powerful motion.  In a split second, the long wicked steel shaft pierced Frank’s chest, slicing between his ribs and puncturing his heart like a balloon full of blood.  The dying hardman gave a loud grunt as the impact to his chest drove the air out of his lungs—then was unable to inhale again.

 

All Frank found he was able to do was shudder and suffer silently in the crushing iron grip of the rock-hard warrior who was neutralizing him so efficiently.  He trembled for a few seconds of mind-bending pain as his quivering heart sliced itself into lunchmeat on the blade impaled in his chest.

 

Then the jerking sack of meat that had moment before been a talented killer slid to the ground.  As Mac rolled the corpse onto its back and withdrew his knife, the dead man’s boots combat carved furrows in the dirt as the body kicked mindlessly in its death throes.  Mac had vanished back into the woods long before the cooling pile of meat stopped shuddering.

 


 

There was one guard left, Mac knew—and he knew he needed to interrogate him.  Mac had been assigned to retrieve a certain item located in a structure ahead.  This last guard would know where the item was inside.  Based on the intel he’d received, Mac knew that last dude knew more than the others—and was more dangerous.

 

The last guard was in his early thirties.  He’d dressed completely in black, much like Mac had, to become almost invisible in the shadows under the trees—excellent camouflage for a hunter.

 

A tight black jumpsuit emphasized the hardman’s tight, muscular body; around his slim waist a webbed utility belt was wrapped.  Two knives, a pistol, a baton, and several less identifiable weapons dangled from it; the merc was prepared to inflict swift, brutal death one anyone he targeted.  His combat boots were black waterproof fabric with rubber soles that allowed him to move quietly.

 

He was good, but he wasn’t too good.  Above his hard, handsome chiseled face, a few golden curls had escaped from under his black knit cap.  They glinted in the moonlight—just enough to catch Mac’s eye.

 

He shifted slightly to the right, centering himself on the guard, who was still unaware of his presence.  He wasn’t unaware for long, though.

 

The hardman heard a faint stirring to his left and whirled to meet the threat, only to find that he was half a second too slow.  A swift shadow split from the surrounding darkness and slammed him up against the tree behind him.  A large powerful hand in a leather glove clamped over his mouth.  The tips of the fingers were free; they dug painfully into the guard’s cheeks as his lips were sealed.  At the same time, the guard felt the icy touch of a blade at his throat; the knife was still razor-sharp despite being stained with the blood of two men.

 

“Awright, motherfucker,” Mac growled in a gruff whisper.  “I’m gonna ask some questions and yer gonna answer.  Gimme a bad answer or no answer and you’ll be gargling yer own blood.  Ya feel me?”  He lifted his hand from the man’s mouth.

 

“Fuck you,” the guard sneered, “I dunno nothin’ and wouldn’t tell ya if I did.”

 

“That was a bad answer,” Mac said quietly and, clamping the dude’s mouth closed again, stuck the knife into his flank.  It was a controlled thrust, only about an inch and a half deep—just enough to pierce the jumpsuit and the guy’s flesh and puncture the oblique muscles.  The merc gave a loud grunt, his face grimacing in pain—that part of it not covered by Mac’s glove, at any rate.

 

“I can do that a hundred times with killin’ ya,” Mac said.  “Start talkin’.  You know what I’m here for—where is it?”

 

“Toldja I don’t know nothin’.  Besides, yer just gonna kill me anyway.”

 

“I might let ya live—if you’re helpful enough.  If not, you’re gonna die slow and hard, asswipe.”  Mac pressed the blade against the hardman’s throat again, this time with more pressure.  A thin line of slowly-trickling red appeared.  “All I have to do is press a little harder and you’ll be bleeding out like a fuckin’ stuck pig.  Now talk, damn you!”

 

The guard knew death was staring him in the face, and acquiesced.  “There’s a cabin two clicks to the east,” he said sullenly.  “It’s in there.”

 

“How many men between here and there?”

 

“None, man, we’re it.  No one’s s’possed to know it’s here.  How the fuck did you find out?”

 

“Shut the fuck up, asshole, I’m askin’ the questions.  Now tell me ‘bout it, bitch.”

 

The merc glared up at Mac, then sighed, knowing his life depended on cooperation.  “It’s in a case on a table.  No traps, no alarms.  Someone’s s’possed to come by for it in the mornin’.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Mac growled, cutting the dude’s neck—not enough to be dangerous, but enough that the guard felt it.

 

“I swear,” the man moaned, fear overcoming his bravado, “I’m tellin’ the truth, man swear to God—don’t hurt me.”

 

“Good,” the older, more experienced killer murmured thoughtfully, “Good.”

 

“So—so I did what ya wanted, right?” the guard asked anxiously.  “Y-ya ain’t gonna kill me, right?”

 

“Wrong,” Mac said evenly and buried his blade to the hilt in the merc’s belly, all seven inches of cold steel piercing the hardman’s firm flat abs and sinking into his belly.

 

The guard gave a deep, despairing moan, his hands clutching at Mac’s wrists in a vain attempt to pull the knife back out of his guts.  His eyes, wide with shock, turned to those of his killer’s.  “I-I cooperated,” he gasped in frantic confusion, “I did wh-what ya wanted…”

 

“Stupid sack of shit—only reason I kept ya alive was to get info,” Mac sneered.  “I don’t need you anymore.  Ya told me everything ya know; now you’re useless.  Time to die, fuckwad.”

 

Gripping the merc’s shoulder tightly, Mac used his other hand to rip the knife upwards, slashing open the dude’s torso.  It took a few seconds of nightmarish agony for him to saw his way through the well-built guard’s abdominal muscles, but Mac was powerful enough to hold the man down and gut him like a deer.

 

Stepping back, Mac held his knife up.  The hardman stared in horror at the blood-streaked blade, curls of flesh dangling from the serrations.  His hands had been clenched to his belly in pain—for some reason, he reached out to Mac at this point, his hands outspread in a futile supplicating gesture.

 

It was his last mistake.  As soon as he let go of his torso, there was a loud slurping thump—and the dude’s intestines slid out of his sliced-open abdomen, landing in a stinking, quivering pile of tangled meat on the dude’s own boots.

 

His back still to the tree, the guard slid down to a sitting position, his lap full of his own guts.  He looked back up at Mac as the latter approached, but the dying man was too far gone in shock to speak.  He could only look up as the stronger, more expert warrior spoke.

 

“Stupid fuck,” Mac muttered, “All alike, you young punks.  Think yer hot shit, but ya fold like a pussy the minute things get tough.”  And with that, he unzipped his fly and drew out his dick.  As the merc started to fade out, he could see his killer was holding the blade in one hand and his semi-hard cock in the other; both were seven inches long.

 

Things went gray for a moment, but suddenly warm liquid was splashing in the hardman’s face.  With a great effort, he opened his eyes for the last time—to see that the man who had successfully interrogated and wasted him was expressing his final contempt by pissing all over him as he died.

 

“Ain’t worth takin’ time for a piss break,” Mac jeered.  Then the guard’s eyes dilated.  He shuddered violently under his golden shower for a few seconds, then slumped over onto the ground, his own piss flowing out to mingle with that of his killer’s.

 

Mac stuffing his dick back into his jumpsuit, Mac turned to the east.  He still hadn’t decided if he’d wait in the cabin till morning; part of him wanted to give whoever showed up a vigorous, violent welcome.

Carlos Solo–Down for the Count

…at two now and the queen and six cancel each other out, but the pair of tens that idiot split take it to zero…

 

It was a slow night and the count sucked.  Carlos had already dropped two hundred bucks playing five-dollar minimum blackjack.  It had taken three hours and the count had never gone double-digit positive.  He was done; he got up off the stool and left the table.

 

The buff sexual killer had taken up card counting in his spare time and had actually developed a talent for it.  The casinos frowned on it, but it wasn’t illegal, and Carlos wasn’t making large bets—it was just a pastime.

 

It had come in handy at the moment; Nick was out in LA, evaluating video editing software at a convention.   Carlos, left to his own devices, was bored and horny, which was a very dangerous combination for some unfortunate boy.  But he didn’t want to mess up the condo; Nick had plans for a shoot there once he got back and would be especially eager to get it rolling if he found a good editor in California.  So Carlos had gone to a casino instead.

 

It was a local casino—still a large complex with a big hotel attached, but located well north of downtown and not a common destination for tourists.  The inside of the casino, though, was the typical cacophony of music, electronic sounds and voice clips.  A kaleidoscope of flashing lights and video screens viewed through a smoky haze, there is something unique about a casino; it even has a distinctive smell.  By now, Carlos was familiar with it all.

 

But he was done here tonight.  He’d been sucking back free beers that the cocktails waitresses brought round, but he was by no means drunk.  He did, however, need to piss, so he headed for the men’s room.

 

The closest one was still a good hundred yards away as the crow flies, but crows didn’t have to navigate around clusters of elderly Chinese women clutching slot machines like they were life support.  It took Carlos a while to make some headway—and that gave him the chance to realize that he was being followed.  The kid wasn’t very good at it, but that might not have been his fault; the winding path the sadistic alpha was forced to take made it kinda obvious.

 

Carlos didn’t get a detailed impression at the boy; he wasn’t going to be so blunt as to turn around and look behind himself.  But his massive cock began to shift and stiffen; in his tight jeans, it was very visible that the long tube of flesh running down his left thigh was stirring to attention.

 

The boy entered the restroom twenty seconds after he did.  There was an older man standing at the far urinal; he flushed and zipped up as Carlos went to one of the urinals in the middle.  This place still had ashtrays attached to the urinals; the old dude had parked his butt there.  He left without washing his hands, the acrid scent of his cheap smoke lingering afterwards in the silent room.  They were alone.

 

Getting a good look at the kid’s face, Carlos felt a flicker of recognition. He’d seen the boy recently; he just couldn’t quite place the face.

 

He knew where he wanted to place it, though—under the heel of his boot.

 

“H-hey,” the boy faltered nervously, “Name’s Cody.  I, uh—well, I been watchin’ ya for a bit…”

 

That was where Carlos had seen him; the little fuck had been slinking around in the background, among the small crowd that occasionally gathers to watch the play at a blackjack table.  He’d peered over Carlos’s shoulder several times.

 

Cody looked young.  His fashionably disheveled hair was swept in dirty blond bangs low across his forehead, partially obscuring his huge brown eyes.  The kid’s cheeks were smooth and rounded, but there was a faint brown fuzz on his upper lip.  The boy had to be over twenty-one to be in the casino, but he looked like he was barely out of puberty.

 

Cody’s skinny jeans outlined his lean, youth body extremely well.  They had a low-rise waistband, and the tight t-shirt wrapped around his torso didn’t come all the way down, leaving the skin at the base of the spine exposed, along with the punk’s tramp stamp.  The t-shirt was thin cotton in bright yellow; it left nothing of Cody’s flat belly or slender but firm chest to the imagination.  Carlos noticed a tattoo on the inside of the kid’s wrist; it looked like a spider.

 

The youth sported a pair of Supra Skytop 2 hightops in black leather; they added little to his height.  Carlos was almost six and a half feet tall, but Cody was no taller than five foot nine. The boy might not be actively trolling for sex, but he was dressed to show off his lean young body.  His tight clothing displayed more than that, though—the long bulge running down the kid’s thigh swelled noticeably as his eyes ran lasciviously over the hardbodied alpha’s muscled form.

 

“Yeah?” Carlos questioned nonchalantly.

 

“Well, I—uh, I saw the way you were movin’ your bets, and, uh…”

 

“Yeah?  So I was movin’ my bets.  So what?”

 

The kid gulped and blushed.  “You, um—yer countin’, aintcha?” he asked quickly, getting the question out before embarrassment overcame him.

 

“Yeah,” Carlos replied.  “So what’s it to ya?  Ain’t illegal.”

 

“No, no, I know,” Cody said hastily, “It ain’t that—I wanna learn.  Can you teach me?”

 

A large grin of sharklike proportions covered Carlos’s face.  “Sure, boy,” he chuckled, “I can teach ya a lot.”

 

Carlos wasn’t dressed provocatively, at least for him.  He was in his typical gear, tight black jeans and a tank top with a low scooped neck that gripped his torso and displayed his tattoos and hard, hairy chest to perfection; the thick links of the gold chain around his neck sparkled under the bathroom’s fluorescents.  A black do-rag on his shaved head and a pair of slightly worn black harness boots on his feet completed the casual look.

 

Again, for him, nothing special.  To Cody, though, he appeared as a physical avatar of masculinity, a rough trade badass who could teach him how to successfully count cards.  The kid’s youthful face broke into a broad smile.

 

“Excellent, dude!  Aw, man, I been lookin’ to learn for a long time.  Plenty of ways to get lessons in Vegas, but I ain’t got no money for anythin’ real, y’know what I’m sayin’?  Lotsa grifters out there, but you, you look…”

 

A faint gleam of lust lit deep within the boy’s large brown eyes as his voice trailed off in distraction.

 

“Ok,” Carlos rumbled, “Your place in—lessee, what time is it?  Almost eleven?  Ok, your place in about an hour.”

 

Again Cody blushed with embarrassment.  “My place? Ok, well, um…”

 

“What’s wrong?” Carlos sneered.  “Don’t got yer own place?”

 

“Yeah, I do,” Cody said slowly, “But it’s kinda a mess.  See, I’m a handyman for the complex I live in.  I get the apartment rent-free, but I take my work home with me sometimes.  There’s a lot of machine parts and tools scattered about.  It ain’t very clean, either…”

 

“Fuck, bro, I ain’t comin’ by to grade yer fuckin’ housekeeping.  You wanna learn to count or not?”

 

“Ok, man,” Cody responded quickly.  “It’s 1224 Miranda Street, unit one forty-three in the back.  Mira Vista Apartments.  You’ll be there, right?  In an hour?  You’re not gonna stand me up?”

 

Carlos gave the kid a thin-lipped smile.  “Trust me,” he said quietly, “I’ll be there.”

 


 

An hour later, exactly on schedule, Carlos eased the red Benz convertible into a narrow parking space at the back end of the lot in the apartment complex.  He strolled casually across the asphalt, his boots thumping loudly, his wide-legged stance caused by the thick tube of manmeat dangling between his thighs.

 

The apartment was in the far rear corner; a tiny patio opened directly out onto a dumpster.  Its location clearly made it one of the least desirable units in the complex, hence it was a perfect place to lodge the handyman rent-free.  The light near the door was out—little fucker wasn’t a very good caretaker—so Carlos knocked at the door in darkness.  A slit of light appeared and widened, then filled with Cody’s eager face.

 

“You came!” he exclaimed, “Cool!”  He stepped aside and opened the door, letting Carlos in.  “Sorry about the heat, dude, the AC’s on the fritz and I ain’t got around to fixin’ it yet.”

 

Well, that certainly explained the funk inside the apartment; the lack of ventilation enhanced the background scent of marijuana and boysweat.  The unit was small and dingy, most of the interior light coming from a large flat-screen TV; a paused video game was on the screen.  A faint glow in the left rear corner indicated the kitchen; it was the light in the vent hood over the stove.

 

The heat also explained Cody’s outfit, or utter lack of one.  His lean form stood before Carlos clad in nothing but a pair of white cotton briefs, his smooth, clear skin glistening with sweat.  The tighty whities did nothing to hide the kid’s thick, half-erect shaft.  The coiled tube of flesh stirred as the boy looked at Carlos.

 

“C’mon man, in here,” Cody chirped, heading towards a larger rectangle of light on the right side; it emerged from the open bedroom door.  “”Like I said, place is a mess.  Bed is the only clear space ya can spread out the cards.”

 

A quick glimpse around confirmed the truth of this statement.  There was a tiny dinette set near the kitchen, the table piled high with machine parts.  More were scattered about randomly on the floor.

 

The chaos was even more intense in the bedroom.  Piles of dirty clothes, mostly jeans and soiled t-shirts were spread across the floor.  At least two pairs of well-worn work boots were scattered around the room.  On the dresser next to the bed was a well-stocked tool belt—and two decks of cards.

 

“Over here, bro,” Cody said, swiping the tangled bedding—limited as it was—to the floor, leaving the stained mattress free of encumbrance.  Blinking his long-lashed eyes, he managed to catch a hint of disgust in the hardman’s face.  “Yeah, I know, but I can’t afford any better.  Yet.  But now that I’m learnin’ to count, I’ll be makin’ some easy money, right, bro?”  He flashed a broad happy grin at Carlos.

 

The alpha grunted and picked up the decks of cards.  Quickly removing them from the boxes and discarding the unneeded cards, he expertly shuffled the cards in midair between his large, strong hands.

 

“I’m gonna deal seven hands and the dealer,” the older man said evenly.  “This is simple.  Tens through aces are counted minus one and deuce through six are counted plus one.  Got it?”

 

“Yeah,” Cody replied thoughtfully.  “What about seven through nine?”

 

“They’re zero.  Don’t count ‘em.  Anyway, here we go.  I’ll play out the whole table but leave the cards out till the end of the hand.  In real life, yer gonna need to be fast enough to do this before the dealer clears the table.”

 

The two of them played out all hands—four busted, two wins and a push on dealer eighteen.  When it was done, Carlos, still standing, asked, “Ok, boy.  What’s the count?”

 

Cody blinked rapidly.  “Uh—I got four…” he said hesitantly.

 

Carlos grinned.  “Good!  That’s right, four.  That’s the raw count.  To get the true count, you gotta divide by the number of decks remaining in the shoe.  Since we just started with two decks, the true count is closer to two.”

 

“Um, ok,” Cody said doubtfully, “But most casinos use a six-deck shoe…”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos grinned, “So you gotta be good with yer math.  And fast.  Learn to pair up combinations.  You see a ten and a six come out, they automatically cancel each other out, so you can dismiss ‘em, see?”

 

“Yeah, I-I guess…”

 

“Ok, we’ll go again.”

 

Carlos dealt another complete table and played it out, this time at a faster pace.  Cody managed to keep up, correctly calculating that the count had gone negative.  After a third time at an even greater speed, the kid still kept pace.

 

By this time, the heat coming off two virile male bodies in the small unventilated room was making Carlos sweat.  His tank top was sticking unpleasantly to his back; unthinkingly, as he finished up the fourth round, he reached down and swept it off over his shoulder in a single smooth motion, tossing into a corner where it ended up draped over one of the kid’s well-worn workboots—

—and Cody immediately lost the count.

 

“So what is it, boy?” the alpha asked as he stood over Cody, the latter still seated on the bare mattress.  “What’re we up to now?  What’s the count?”

 

“I—uh, I…” Cody licked his lips and trailed off, his eyes fastened on Carlos’s broad, muscled chest and wiry, sweat-matted body fur.  “I don’t…um, I—”

 

Carlos froze, his eyes narrowing on the half-naked punk.  “What?”

 

“Geez, dude, you got a hot bod…” Cody muttered, standing up.  The muscled killer could see that the youth’s hormones were working overtime; his dick was fully erect, not only tenting the cotton briefs, but staining the crotch with a dark, widening circle of precum.

 

“What’s that?” Carlos snarled icily.  “You some kinda faggot?”

 

Cody, lost in lust, never heard the danger signal, the cold erotic hate in the buff top’s rumbling voice.  His eyes fixated on the glimmering loop of metal links nestled in Carlos’s chest hair.  “Lemme see yer dick,” the slim youth panted, “Pull it out and put it in me, bro…”

 

“You want my cock?” Carlos growled, his hands curling into tight fists as he took a step closer to where the nearly-nude punk was sitting on the mattress, “What make you think a cum-suckin’ fairy like you deserves a real man’s tool?”

 

As the muscled alpha closed in on the boy, the thick bulge in the tight denim of his crotch was visibly pulsating.  Cody focused on it, unaware of the imminent menace looming over him—until Carlos grabbed his neck in a crushing iron grip.  Looking up, he saw the boiling rage in the older man’s eyes…

 

…and had a sudden sense of the overwhelming power and strength of the stranger he’d invited into his apartment.  His eyes widened as he felt an intense stab of fear.  “Wha-what’s wrong, dude?” he gasped, his voice croaking.

 

“Worthless fuckin’ homo,” Carlos spat out and jerked him off the bed, dangling him in midair.  “I’m gonna teach ya what a sack a’ shit like you deserves.  Ready to learn, cunt?  It’s gonna hurt like fuck!”

 

And with that, he bunched his thick, bulging bicep and slammed a line-drive blow straight from his shoulder into Cody’s mouth, splitting the kid’s lips and knocking out his left canine tooth.

 

The stunned youth kicked and jerked helplessly in midair, squealing in pain as blood trickled down his chin.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Carlos crowed.  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ bout!”  Cody heard the words, but before he could react, there was another bright red burst of terrible pain.  The helpless, bewildered kid not only felt his nose break as the alpha’s fist smashed it, he could hear the loud cracking sound it made as it was crushed.  He squealed again, louder and more shrilly.

 

“Goddam, that’s hot,” Carlos said.  “Squeal like a pig, faggot, squeal like the useless piece of fuckmeat ya are.  Ya wanna earn my dick?  Ya gotta take more than that, boy—you gotta take a whole lot fuckin’ more!”

 

Gagging and flailing, his bare feet kicking helplessly a good foot of the ground, Cody clawed at the unbelievably strong hand that was clutching his throat like a steel clamp.  He didn’t hear the powerful sadist’s words; he was choking, his pulse pounding deafeningly in his ears as the edges of the world began to grow gray.

 

He could still see enough, though, to see the dude’s other hand swinging towards him again.  It would have been hard for him to miss—the massive, balled-up fist was headed directly towards his eye.  The blow rocked his head back, the impact hard enough to stun him into a state of semi-consciousness.  In the loud angry darkness that consumed him, his only awareness that Carlos had flung him back down onto the bed was a sense of violent motion and the realization that he could breathe again.

 

Then his blurred vision began to clear, and he looked up.  Towering over him, Carlos stood like a muscled god, the older man’s face harsh expression somehow emphasized by the black do-rag on his head and the dark stubble on his face.  The tattoos on his hairy chest and down his bulging deltoids and triceps were illuminated by the sheen of sweat on the alpha’s skin.  The young punk, as always attracted to bright, shiny objects, found his attention drawn back to the glittering gold chain lying on the top’s heaving chest—until a motion below the waist caught his notice.

 

Carlos had unbuttoned his fly and was slowly extracting the tremendous length of his cock from his jeans.  Battered and in pain, Cody still found himself unable to look away as inch after inch of throbbing manflesh emerged from the tight denim confines.  His mind, still reeling in shock, remembered that he’d wanted to have that huge horsedick inside him; there was no way he could take that thing, it’d split him wide open—

 

—and hidden in a corner of his faggot brain’s pleasure center, tucked deep within his midbrain, the power bottom pain pig facet of his personality responded.  Cody didn’t know it yet, but his own dick was getting stiffer by the second.

 

“Stupid little cunt,” Carlos growled menacingly, “Ya thought you deserved this hog?  Ya think a queer-ass bitch like you should get my cock?  Only one way for you to earn my cum, scumbag—and you ain’t gonna like it.”

 

Carlos paused for a second, then laughed, deeply, erotically, ominously.  “You ain’t gonna like it, cocksucker, but I sure the fuck am.”   Holding his thick, vein-wrapped shaft in one hand, he slapped it repeatedly in the palm of the other hand, splattering precum over the shuddering youth on the bed.

 

Cody moaned as the hot transparent drops rained on his lithe body.  The throbbing pain in his face faded into the background once he realized the sadistic alpha was reaching out for him again.  The pain receded before the icy hand of fear that clutched at his heart.

 

“Wha—no!” he bleated, cowering vainly on the bed.  His arms came up to block Carlos’s hand, but he wasn’t fast enough.  “Dude, no, plea—urk!!”

 

His protest was cut off abruptly, along with his air.  Beating ineffectually at the buff top’s incredibly powerful arm, he felt himself jerked up off the bare mattress and helplessly dangled, his bare boyfeet kicking uselessly in midair.

 

Despite his swollen, blackened eye, Cody could see the psychotic light of rage in the older man’s cold eyes.  Gagging and flailing as he choked, he dug his fingernails into Carlos’s wrist—he did it in spite of himself, with a vague awareness that resistance would only make things worse.

 

He was right.

 

“Big mistake, cunt,” Carlos snarled as Cody, in his panic, drew blood.  “Big fuckin’ mistake.”  Drawing his fist back, he rammed it forward with the force of a piledriver, sinking it deep into the kid’s smooth, firm belly.  Cody’s eyes widened as the intense blast of pain hit; it hurt so bad, he’d have puked if his throat hadn’t been clamped shut.

 

Carlos wasn’t done yet.

 

“Ya cumsuckin’ [WHAM] disgustin’ [WHAM] sack of faggot shit [WHAM], didja think ya were gonna get loose [WHAM]?  Didja think a worthless little pansy like you [WHAM] could actually hurt me [WHAM]?  Fuckin’ [WHAM] homo [WHAM] asswipe [WHAM], ya better enjoy these gutpunches [WHAM], cause these are gonna feel like fuckin’ love taps [WHAM] compared to what I got planned for ya, cunt [WHAM]!”

 

By the time he was done, Cody could no longer hear his words.  He had passed out from pain and lack of oxygen.  Limply tossed back onto the bed, he was in no position to know that the alpha had lifted him higher and jerked his briefs off first, or to notice Carlos admiring his tool belt—

 

—or that the buff sexual sadist had extracted a huge, flat-bladed screwdriver with a twelve-inch shank of solid steel.

 

Slowly regaining consciousness, Cody found himself curled in a fetal position, instinctively trying to protect his badly beaten and bruised abdomen.  Surfacing in a rough sea of suffering, the battered youth could remain lucid only in flashes.  He remembered meeting an incredibly hot stud; he remembered the stud showing up at his apartment…and now there was nothing but terrible agony…he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened or why…

 

And then sudden motion made him realize that Carlos had climbed onto the bed with him, and he remembered.

 

Cody knew something really bad was about to happen.  The agony of his badly-pummeled abdomen kept him from crying out; all he could do was shrink back on the bed, whimpering as tears streaked down his swollen face.  He shook his head wildly side to side when Carlos grabbed his ankles and forced his legs wide apart, but he head to look up involuntarily when he felt pressure against his clenched sphincter.

 

The older man was up on his knees, between Cody’s spread legs, leering down at the prostate youth.  And between them, Cody could see his own dick standing straight up and oozing from the tip.  The powerful alpha, emitting menace and testosterone from every pore, spat on the writhing kid.

 

“Even after I beat the fuck outta ya, you still want the D,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, “Goddam faggot, you wanna get fucked even if it kills ya, huh?  Guess what, you worthless asswipe—looks like you’re gonna get what ya want.  It is gonna kill ya!”

 

Leaning forward, Carlos thrust with his hips.  There was a brief resistance, a sudden ripping sensation, and then his freakishly huge shaft was buried in Cody’s guts.  A second sense of resistance, brushed aside during the plunge, indicated the point at which the alpha’s massive purple tip had impacted Cody’s prostate.

 

It wasn’t the only thing.  Even as Cody shrieked in nightmarish agony as his sphincter was torn apart, his cock pulsed visibly and drooled out a steady stream of precum.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Carlos muttered with an arrogant grin as he ground his rough, wiry pubes against Cody’s smooth, tender asscheeks, “Fuckin’ pansy power bottom homo.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Cody screamed again, his voice cracking shrilly.  All the pain of his vicious beating had faded to a background hum compared to the searing torture in his rectum.  He’d taken dick up his ass before, plenty of times—but this was like getting raped by a horse—

 

And then, even though Cody didn’t think it possible, it got even worse.

 

“Ya wanna scream?” Carlos hissed, “I’ll give yer punk ass somthin’ to scream about, bitch.  Ya like my long hard hot tool rammed in ya, huh?  Wait’ll ya get this long hard cold tool stuck into yer guts, too!”

 

The sadistic killer held the screwdriver directly in front of Cody’s bloodshot, tear-filled eyes so the boy could contemplate all the ways in which it could be used to inflict pain—not that he was allowed long to contemplate.  Carlos, living up to his muscular, inked, rough trade look, reversed the tip of the screwdriver and slammed it down.  The large flat blade pierced Cody’s smooth flat belly like a hot knife through butter, the thick steel shaft sinking nearly to the hilt.

 

Cody’s eyes grew huge, dark circles of shock ringing them and making them look even larger.  His hands reached up and clawed at Carlos’s chest fur as his breath was expelled in a loud, agonized grunt.  As a tidal wave of anguish swept over him, he could see the gleam of sexual insanity in the powerful top’s eyes.

 

“Hell yeah, fuckmeat,” the brutal sadist chuckled, “Loved that, didn’t ya, ya fucking homo pervert, huh?  Yer ass grabbed my cock nice and hard when I stabbed ya, you disgusting pain pig—good, but not good enough.  Guess I gotta stick it in ya a lot more if I wanna cum, huh?  Yeah?  That what ya want, faggot?  Cause it’s what yer gonna get!”

 

Jerking the tool back up out of Cody’s gut, the psycho alpha held it up and admired the long, blood-streaked shank as the lean, lithe youth writhed and mewled in nightmarish pain beneath him.  A slow, cunning smile crept over Carlos’s face, and he whipped his hand out to the side and rammed the screwdriver into the helpless kid’s flank, puncturing the smooth, soft flesh just under the rib cage and punching the cold steel shaft through Cody’s kidney and up into his spleen.

 

The sudden intense agony of organ trauma crushed Cody in a fiery grip.  His hands clutched at Carlos’s upper arms, his fingers so tight on the hardbodied top’s biceps that his fingertips were turning white with pressure.  The kid’s eyes, wide with physical shock, stared unseeingly into Carlos’s.  As badly as he was suffering, the lean punk could feel every vein-wrapped inch of thick manmeat rammed up his ass; even his cock ached unbearably as the older man’s shaft pressed against his prostate and preventing his own erection form going limp.

 

Cody could hear the older man whispering, but could barely follow the words.  Seeing this, Carlos decided to emphasize his words.

 

Lowering himself down until his heavy, muscled body was on top of the faggot’s, Carlos let his weight press the kid into the mattress.  Bending his head forward to that the unshaven scruff on his face scraped Cody’s cheek, he muttered softly in the boy’s ear.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me bro, yeah?  Must feel sexy as fuck, bitch, the way your dick is throbbin’ and spewin’ precum, motherfucker.  Here ya go, cocksucker, enjoy it some more!”

 

With that, he twisted the screwdriver in the wound, then viciously reamed the handle in a wide circle, churning the strong steel shank through the young cunt’s tender innards.   The icy slashing pain deep inside him made Cody clutch his assailant even harder, pulling him close in an involuntary embrace of nightmarish pain.

 

It also made Cody realize that he was gonna die.  He was getting assfucked and he wasn’t gonna survive it.  He didn’t know why—it made no sense, he needed answers…

 

“Wh-why…” he moaned faintly.  Carlos’s head was still against his; he could feel himself trapped under the weight of the powerful stud on top of him, sliding across his smooth, slick flesh on a film of mansweat.  His lips were against the alpha’s ear; he didn’t need to speak loudly.  “Ju-ju-just wanted t’ g-get fuck-fucked, man, why k-kill me…”

 

Carlos pulled back just a bit and sneered down at Cody.  The kid’s face was taut with pain, his long sandy blond bangs plastered to his forehead by sweat.  The kid’s agony was so fuckin’ hot.  Carlos spat in Cody’s face, the phlegm trickling down his cheek along with his tears.

 

“I’m gonna kill ya because it’s what makes me cum,” Carlos said evenly.  “Get it?  Yer just fuckmeat to me; hurtin’ ya and wastin’ ya is what gets me off.  And I’m really horny tonight, faggot.  Think ya hurt now?  Buckle up, fuckwad; I’m just gettin’ started.  I’m gonna end your useless, wasted life in a blast of agony so hard, you’ll cum till yer balls are deflated.  You gotta lot to look forward to tonight, boy!”

 

Cody bleated incoherently in terror.  His desperate struggles to free him merely aroused his rapist, who shuddered with pleasure as the smooth, slick boyflesh slid against him while the sick sadist lay full-length on top of his victim.  “Yeah, bitch, ya like that, huh?  That thought get ya all horny?  Like ridin’ two hard shafts at once, yeah?  Here, try this, cunt, lessee if it’ll make yer dick even harder!”

 

Jerking the tool back out of the meat’s side, Carlos rose up on his knees.  Beneath him, Cody shuddered in pain, his breath coming in short, agonized gasps.  His handsome, youthful face was almost unrecognizable, twisted and gray with unimaginable torment and serious organ damage.  Blood trickled from the hole punched in his flat, smooth belly, but not much; most of the bleeding was internal. Somewhat more was leaking from the wound in his side; much more damage had been done there.

 

Just what Carlos wanted—tortured fuckmeat, splayed out helplessly beneath him.  “Yer ass works my cock real good when ya suffer, faggot.  Fuckin’-A, yer a natural-born pain pig—saddle up, motherfucker, yer gonna love this shit!”

 

Holding the screwdriver in front of him, tip down, the buff, muscular alpha drove his arm downwards with the force of a piston.   Aimed at Cody’s chest on the left side, below the heart, the rather blunt tip punched through the youth’s torso between the ribs and impaled the left lung before striking a rib in the back from the inside.  The impact was hard enough to break the rib, but it took the momentum out of the blow and the screwdriver stopped with its tip lodged deeply in Cody’s rhomboid muscle.

 

As Cody’s young, tender body plumbed new depths of hell, the defenseless young homo could only look up at the testosterone-oozing stud looming over him.  Even in his agony, Cody knew that his cock was pulsing and slapping against the top’s furry belly with each brutal thrust of the older man’s hips.  It was too much for his shattered mind to take; the shallow cunt retreated to his love of shiny things and fixated on the thick links of Carlos’s gold chain, subconsciously trying to hypnotize himself out of his waking nightmare and failing spectacularly.

 

Carlos could feel the manseed start to bubble over in his balls as the slender youth shuddered and trembled beneath him.  The kid was clearly in respiratory distress; his punctured lung was collapsing and the fucker was gurgling and gasping for air, a faint blue tinge forming on his swollen, split lips.

 

Cody’s consciousness was starting to fade; the fit but lean young fuckmeat had endured too much trauma.  Things were going gray and numb around the edges.  He could still feel the half-inch-thick shank of stainless steel embedded in his chest, just below his heart, and he could still feel the two-inch thick shaft of solid pulsing manflesh stuffed in his guts—but the icy darkness promised that soon he’d feel nothing, and he was grateful.

 

He made the mistake of letting it show on his face.

 

Carlos was an experienced killer.  He knew the meat was trying to relax into unconsciousness; an attempt to escape the excruciating pain and ease into death.  He wasn’t having that.

 

“No you don’t, ya stupid faggot,” he snarled, pumping his engorged rod viciously into the kid’s ravaged asshole, “You ain’t gonna take a dirt nap yet—you ain’t worked the spunk outta my cock yet, meatsack.  I’m close, motherfucker, I’m real close, but you ain’t doin’ it for me—am I borin’ ya, asswipe? Guess I gotta amp it up, yeah?  Gotta make ya pay attention.”

 

Leaning forward, the cruel alpha yanked the screwdriver out of Cody’s heaving chest, holding the gore-streaked shaft in front of the boy’s taut, pale face.  “Know what I’m gonna do?  I’m gonna shove this into yer head.  I’m gonna fuck yer brain to hamburger with it.  You’re gonna kick and convulse as ya die and yer fuckhole is gonna work my dick so good.  And if I shank the right part of yer worthless homo brain, ya might even cum yourself, ya fuckin’ pervert.”

 

Reaching up to grab a hank of the kid’s sweat-soaked blond hair to hold his thrashing head in place, Carlos brought the screwdriver up and—so that the meat would know what was coming—slowly and gently inserted the large blunt tip of the steel tool into the punk’s left ear.

 

Cody gazed up, completely and utterly helpless, his eyes wide with horror as the realization of what was about to happen to him sank in.  As the ruthless, brutally handsome alpha loomed over him, he tried again to focus on the gold links, on anything to take his mind off that pressure in his ear—

 

—then Carlos wrapped his large, strong hand around Cody’s jaw, crushing in in a vise-like grip and began to shove on the screwdriver.

 

Then next two minutes were both the worst and the last of Cody’s life.

 

Even with his jaw clamped shut by Carlos’s iron grasp, the volume of the shrill shrieks the trapped boymeat emitted were a good indication of the mind-bending agony he was enduring as the half-inch-wide metal tip tore through his eardrum and ground its way through his middle ear.

 

As promised, the excruciating pain made the slim youth flail and shudder, his hands slapping vainly against Carlos’s hairy chest.  His legs, spread wide apart with the alpha’s muscle-bound form between them, could only kick at the air, his bare toes curling each time Carlos went balls-deep in his ass.   Then the blade of the screwdriver punched through to the inner ear and slashed through the cochlea and the semi-circular canals, destroying the unfortunate fag’s balance mechanism.

 

Instantly, Cody’s screaming nightmare of suffering was intensified by a sickening, unbearable vertigo.  Instinctively, he clutched at the only solid, stable thing in his shrunken universe—his killer.  His hands reached up and clutched the stud’s sweating, bulging biceps; his legs wrapped around the alpha’s heaving, thrusting waist.  Then the screwdriver penetrated past the ear structure with a loud, sickening crunching sound and dug its way into the soft gray matter filling the punk’s skull.  “Fucking piece a’ meat, die on my fuckin’ cock!” Carlos barked and reamed the steel shank into the dying boy’s cranium.

 

Cody stiffened with the onset of massive brain damage, his lithe, lean, sweat-slicked body going rigid as his eyes rolled back in his head, nothing but blood-streaked white showing beneath fluttering lids ringed with long dark lashes.  Carlos ground the screwdriver around in large circles, carving out large trails of carnage in the kid’s cerebellum—then one swipe of the steel tip slashed through the pleasure center of the young fag’s brain.

 

In some deep dark corner, the last spark of Cody’s personality screamed in orgasmic agony as his firm slender form convulsed violently.   Carlos held on, grunting in intense pleasure as the meat’s rectum gripped his swollen cock and massaged it in rhythmic spasms.  Simultaneously, the cunt’s rod, pressed against Carlos’s furry ripped abs, pulsed and squirmed.

 

“FUCK!” Carlos screamed, injecting a jet of boiling manseed deep into the meat, “FUCK!  GODDAM!  FUCK!”

 

There wasn’t enough left of Cody to hear his killer or feel the load pumped into him; the last sensation the nearly-dead homo was able to feel was his own geyser of spunk.  It arose in an agonizing stream, splashing all over Carlos in a continuous flow, unnaturally drawn out due to brain trauma.  The last thing Cody felt was an almost electric pain in his engorged cock as his life drained out of it, all over the hard body of his killer.

 

As a last act of contempt towards the fagmeat, Carlos slammed the screwdriver into the corpse’s head as hard as he could and left it with the tip embedded in the cranium on the inside.  Gasping for air, his muscled chest heaving and matted with sweat and cum, Carlos pulled his still-dripping cock out of the dead meat and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at the mess he’d left.

 

Cody lay sprawled out on his back on the bare mattress, his abused and violated young body still quivering in its death throes.  There was a small pool of blood at the flank and another at the side of the head, under the ear from which the handle of the screwdriver still protruded.  Even in death, his bare toes were curling and relaxing convulsively.

 

Carlos sneered.  “Dead piece of faggot shit,” he muttered as pearly drops of cum continued to ooze from his own mushroom tip.  Impulsively, he bent down, grabbed Cody’s arm, and dragged the corpse off the bed, through the apartment and out onto the patio, leaving a trail blood streaked behind him.

 

Once on the patio, he lifted the body over the railing and tossed it into the half-full dumpster, where it landed with a loud thump.  It was still visible when Carlos glanced in; it had landed face-down.  With a vague interest, the killer noticed a white spot on the small of the kid’s back, just above the tramp stamp—a playing card had been plastered there by sweat.  It was the ace of spades.

 

Turning back to the apartment, Carlos stepped into the bathroom to clean up.  It was small and filthy, but he was able to soak a towel with warm water at the sink.  He wiped the sweat and cum off his chest; then, glancing closely in the mirror, noticed that the little fucker had managed to shoot jizz onto his gold chain.  Smirking with pleasure at the memory, he cleaned the chain off as well.  He didn’t notice the playing card that had been stuck to his own body till it fell off and fluttered to the floor, landing face-up—his was the king of clubs.

 

Tucking his enormous dick back into his jeans, Carlos swiftly left the apartment.  He left behind his shirt, draped over a pair of Cody’s workboots.  He didn’t want it anymore—and anyway, his body fur was still wet.  He planned to air dry it by leaving the top down on the way home.

 


 

“Hey, Schweitz, what’s the story on that 187 ya had this morning?”

 

“That homicide out in Paradise, by the airport?  That ain’t mine, that’s Nuñez’s.”

 

“Yeah, fine, but Nuñez is out and I ain’t got a report on it yet.  Just gimme the basics.”

 

“Sure, Captain, but there ain’t nothin’ to it.  Patrol car got called in after a neighbor found the body in a dumpster.  Responding officers saw the blood trail on the patio next to the dumpster and called us in before they forced entry to the unit.  There was blood on the bed and someone had cleaned up in the bathroom, but we didn’t find any other physical evidence.”

 

“Did ya call the crime scene techs out?”

 

“Naw.  Why bother?  M.E. was there—said the vic had been raped before he was stabbed to death.  We asked the neighbor; turns out it was just another faggot who took the wrong trick home.  Neighbor said there’s pansies in and outta that place all the time.  He did remember a Mercedes convertible parked near the unit last night, though—want me to tell Nuñez to follow up on that?”

 

“No—like ya said, don’t bother.  Waste of resources.  We had two tourists robbed and shot on Tropicana two hours ago—check it out and take Nuñez with you.”

 

“And the fag?”

 

“Forget it.  Don’t worry about filing a report—not like a real human being was involved, anyway.  Go find out if those tourists are out of surgery yet—I will want a report on that one.”

Fantasy Scenario 18

 

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

 

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

 

I can take it out and hose it down.

 

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

 

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

 

Maybe I can help him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You a cop?” he asks.

 

“No, I ain’t a cop,” I replied.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He won’t get help in time.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He gasps and grunts, but doesn’t answer.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Carlos and Nick 3: Keeping It in the Family

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What?  Why?”

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

 

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

 

“Naw,” Nick chuckled, “I gotta better idea than that.  Leave it to me, dude, just leave it to me…”

 


 

Four days later, on a much balmier Saturday, the long violet dusk of the desert was fading into blackness as Carlos stepped out of the bathroom in cheap but clean motel room.  Looking around the room, he could see Nick, already in costume.

 

Carlos himself was dressed as agreed; he was role-playing a motorcycle cop.  But since this was supposed to be “straight” gay porn, so to speak, he was dressed as the gay ideal of a motorcycle cop, which meant lots of black leather—tight leather pants tucked into a pair of nearly knee-high glossy motorcycle boots.  Even the utility belt and shoulder harness were leather straps, the latter worn over his broad, bare chest.  Shirtless, the winged skull tat on the ex-con’s left pec would be visible on camera, as would the fully inked sleeve on his right arm.

 

Picking up a classic black and white bike helmet from the dresser, Carlos turned to Nick.  Around his throat, the massy links of his thick gold necklace glinted in the bleak light of the bare overhead bulb.  “So?” he asked, “How do I look?”

 

Nick grinned appreciatively.  “Those homos will be beggin’ for yer shaft when they see ya in that getup,” he chuckled, “But speakin’ of shafts, I can see the one in yer boot”.  Glancing down, Carlos could see the hilt of his shank protruding from his boot.  It was a Ka-Bar Becker, a Bowie combat knife with a nine-inch blade of jet black carbon steel, customized with jagged serrations.  It was unlikely that the cocksuckers in the next room would notice it against his black leather gear, but there was no sense in taking a chance—he slid the viciously-edged weapon deeper into his boot.

 

Nick’s costume, while erotic, was slightly more conservative; a standard police uniform, complete with badge.  On the other hand, it was two sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin, the white stripe running down the outside of the legs of the slacks highlighted his bulging thighs and muscular calves as it disappeared into Nick’s tightly laced combat boots.

 

“And them?” Carlos asked, nodding at a door in the side wall.  “Are they ready?”

 

Nick’s grin grew wider and more shark-like.  “Fuck, whaddaya think?  Ain’t no way they’re ready for how bad we’re gonna fuck ‘em up.”

 

The door led to a connecting room in the cheap one-story motel Nick had found east of downtown, off the Boulder Highway—an old, run-down motor court with a defunct neon sign displaying the name Snake Eyes.  During the initial meeting, he’d given Ed some cash to rent a room there on his own—then Nick had gotten the connecting room himself under an assumed name.

 

There had been some rocky moments in the initial interview; Ed and Johnny had been somewhat hesitant about the scenario.  The rough sex wasn’t an issue, once they were told they’d be paid extra, but the cuffs were more of a concern—turned out they’d never done bondage before.  It took the offer of even more cash to get them (well, Ed, actually, like a good boy, Johnny let daddy do the talking) to agree.

 

And even then, the older pervert demanded a down payment.  Nick simmered with repressed rage as he handed five Franklins over to the well-built but slightly smaller man.  That cash was gone for good, he reflected angrily; the fucker wasn’t likely to bring it back to the shoot.

 

Once the money was settled, though, things went more smoothly for a while.  The meeting at the motel was arranged and the plot agreed to—Carlos and Nick were to bust in and find Ed and Johnny fucking; after separating and cuffing them, Carlos would fuck Johnny while Nick fucked Ed.  Surprisingly enough, Ed—who’d only appeared in the video as a top—had no problem with the thought of taking Nick’s cock up his ass, but Johnny seemed intimidated by Carlos’s massive dong; both tops had been  wearing revealingly tight jeans that day specifically to show off.

 

After a hurried, whispered conference between father and son, Ed spoke up in an embarrassed tone.  Johnny thought Carlos was hot as fuck but, had admitted, the kid had never taken a dick that size and was gonna need something to help with the pain.  It took another ten minutes of hemming and hawing for him to confess that Johnny wanted meth on the set.

 

Nick and Carlos glanced at each other.  They didn’t particularly care what the fuckmeat did to itself, but they didn’t want to be inhaling those toxic fumes themselves.  It was agreed that Johnny could smoke in the bathroom with the fan on prior to the killers entering the room.

 

And that was what was presumably happening on the other side of the connecting door right now.  Nick had a video feed from one of the cameras he’d set up previously over there streaming to his phone; the screen showed Ed utterly nude but for the thin gold chain around his neck, from which a plain cross of the same shiny metal gleamed in a nest of his chest fur.  The wiry muscles of his hairy body rippled as he paced the room, his long tool swaying as he turned.

 

The sick faggot was clearly impatient for his son to come out of the bathroom so he could fuck the slim teenager.

 

He didn’t have long to wait; the door opened suddenly and the blond kid walked out.   Unlike his dad, he wasn’t nude; he sported a pair of plain white cotton briefs that barely contained his short but incredibly thick cock and cradled his smooth bubble-butt asscheeks.  He’d left his sneakers on too, a pair of Puma Redon Moves in black.

 

There were two double beds in the room, each under the gaze of several different types of camera.  Nick hadn’t left any angles uncovered by either video or a still camera set for multiple timed shots.  As the father/son pair approached the bed on the left, Johnny’s face swam into view; even on the small screen of Nick’s phone, the kid’s twitching bloodshot eyes showed how hard the little fuck was tweaking.

 

Not that it mattered.  The adolescent homo embraced the older man; as they kissed, each obviously thrusting his tongue deep into the other’s mouth, the family resemblance became very clear.  The same deep brown eyes with long lashes, the same snub nose, dimpled chin and full, red lips—no one watching the scene could miss the fact that they were watching father and son indulging in incestuous gay sex.

 

Ed reached down and with a swift yank, jerked Johnny’s tighty whities down past his knees; they fell to the floor and Johnny stepped out of them, his fireplug-like dick popping up and smacking his abs, splattering his smooth flat belly with precum.  Panting with lust, Johnny hopped onto the bed and, rolling onto his back, spread his kicks in the air as he waited for daddy to come mount and penetrate his ass.  Ed was already there, his erect shaft probing at his teenaged son’s sphincter.  The moment daddy rammed it in, Johnny grimaced and he let out a loud moan that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

 

Smirking, Carlos looked over at Nick, who nodded back.  It was time.  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Carlos, chuckled, then put his boot to the connecting door.  Kicking it open, he drew the gun from his shoulder harness holster and burst into the other room.  “Police!” he bellowed ferociously for the camera, “Everyone freeze!”

 

Nick followed, also with a drawn handgun—the guns were real but not loaded.  After all, shooting the pansies wouldn’t have been any fun.

 

“Well, whadda we got here?” Carlos jeered.

 

“Looks like that report about faggot whores in this room was right,” Nick replied.  “C’mon, ya sick perverts, up against the wall.”

 

Ed and Johnny disentangled themselves, got out of bed and slowly back away from the “cops”, hands in the air.  “Isn’t there something we can do about this?” Ed asked, sticking to the script, “Some way we can work this out?”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos leered, “Like what?”

 

Ed looked over at Johnny.  “Go on, boy,” he said, “Show him what.”  With his father’s sanction, the firm, slim youth reached out and grabbed Carlos’s crotch, rubbing his hand over the enormous bulge in the black leather, fondling the long shaft.  The boy’s eyes widened as his fingers slid over the detail of every vein wrapped around the monster hog; daddy wasn’t this big.  Johnny was glad he’d gotten high first; he was gonna need it.

 

Ed, for his part, had reached out and started unbuttoning Nick’s tight shirt.  “Hey, I think these cocksuckers are tryin’ to bribe us.” Nick laughed, slipping his gun back into the holster dangling from his thick belt.

 

“Yeah, ya think so?” Carlos replied.  “Bribin’ a cop’s a punishable offense.  I say we punish their asses, dude; whaddaya think?”

 

“I think we need to take these faggots into custody, man, make sure they don’t try to get up to nothin’,” Nick drawled, shrugging off his black shirt.  “Turn around and put yer hands behind yer back, ya queer-ass bitch!” he barked as he spun the older man around.  Ed, fit but less powerful, was a top with his son, but the rough manhandling he was getting from the muscled stud was keeping his dick hard.

 

As Nick locked the steel cuffs around Ed’s wrists and, pressing the helpless bound man to the wall, began fondling him, Carlos turned to Johnny.  A cold grin slowly crept over his sexy, cruel face as he reached up and slid the inch-wide leather holster harness strap off his right shoulder.  “You too, boy,” he hissed at the slim, firm teen who was backing away, intimidation clearly showing in his face.  “Turn around, bitch.  You don’t wanna make me come after you.”

 

The threat implicit in the ex-con’s husky voice carried to his intended victim, if not to the kid’s father.  But the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree; the harsh authoritative tone of command managed to fill the boy with both fear and lust.  He obeyed implicitly, almost unconsciously, whimpering slightly as Carlos removed the harness completely.  Placing the revolver on the dresser, he proceeded to use the leather straps to bind the teenager’s arms like a roast trussed for the oven.

 

“There ya go, boy,” the muscular, inked stud growled, “Now get over on the bed.  We’re gonna show y’all how the law ‘round these parts handles faggots.”  He pushed Johnny towards the bed on the left; the unexpected shove knocked the youth off-balance, causing him to stumble into the wall, knocking his head on the cheap pine paneling.

 

“Hey!” Ed yelled, “You leave him alone!”  It was improvisation for the sake of the porn film—but there was a note of concern in the tone the both of the sadistic killers picked up on.  “You too, cunt,” Nick spat out, “Sit down on that bed, motherfucker!”

 

As Carlos ran his hands over the teen’s smooth, silky skin, making the adolescent moan in anticipation, Nick stood spread-legged at the foot of the other bed, facing Ed.  “Unbuckle my belt,” he commanded the well-built older man.

 

“My-my hands,” Ed stammered, “They’re still cuffed—”

 

“You stupid cocksucker,” the alpha snarled, slapping the pervert’s face, “Use yer fuckin’ mouth!”

 

Ed winced and shuddered under the blow, but his erect shaft pulsed and squeezed out a dribble of precum.  Nick chuckled.  Oh yeah, this pansy liked it rough and hard.

 

Good—he was gonna get rough and hard in abundance.

 

In the meantime, though, he had to work his mouth assiduously on the thick leather strap of Nick’s belt.  It took a while for him to get it undone.

 

Carlos, on the other hand, wasn’t into foreplay.  He’d fondled the twink enough; now he was ready to fuck.  Standing up, he undid the fly on the tight leather pants—not a zipper, but several buttons he needed to release.  As his hand worked its way down his groin, his enormous rod suddenly fell out like a toppled tree—a big, thick log crashing down.

 

Johnny’s big brown soulful eyes grew wide; both fear and lust were reflected in them as the young fag was confronted with the longest, thickest cock he’d ever seen.  The kid’s own shaft, already semi-hard and pulsing, sprang to full attention.  Carlos leered down at the adolescent and chuckled.  “Yeah, ya like that, dontcha, ya little cock pig?  Put it in yer mouth, bitch.”

 

Johnny blinked at the powerful ex-con and hesitated.  “Suck my fuckin’ dick, cunt—now!” Carlos barked loudly.  The slim youth gulped, leaned forward, and wrapped his lips around the huge oozing tube of pulsing meat.

 

As his son started to suck Carlos’s cock, Ed, still seated on the other bed, had managed to get Nick’s belt undone. Now the latter had a new task for the older man’s mouth.  Lifting his leg, he placed his thick-soled combat boot on Ed’s thigh.  “Untie it, motherfucker,” he demanded, flexing a strong bicep in front of the manwhore’s face as a show of power.  “Work it with yer mouth, slut, and hurry the fuck up, cause yer gonna do the other one too.”

 

Ed was more experienced with this kinda thing; there was no hesitation on his part as he bent his head forward and seized the woven nylon laces with his teeth.  When he jerked his head to the side to free the knot, the side of his face brushed against the boot; like his son, his tool responded to the sexual stimulus by swelling and drooling precum.

 

“Fuckin’ bootpig pervert,” Nick sneered and Ed dripped even more.

 

It only took a couple of minutes for the older man to untie both boots and little more for Nick to unlace them to the point of being able to slip out of them.  The entire time, the action was accompanied by the slurping sound of Johnny deep-throating Carlos’s shaft.

 

“Get on your back, faggot, and spread your legs,” Nick demanded, “Time for you to learn how much trouble yer in—see, cops on this beat know how to make you homos hurt.  By the time we’re done reamin’ yer fuckholes, you won’t want any other men.”

 

Ed struggled to comply, scooting himself backwards up the bed as best he could with his hands cuffed behind him.  Lying on his back was gonna hurt with the handcuff on, but he was gettin’ paid extra, so he’d deal with it.

 

On the other bed, Johnny was having a little trouble maneuvering himself, so Carlos grabbed his arm, lifted him up, and tossed him down on the bed.  The kid’s cry of pain coincided with Nick’s sudden penetration of Ed’s sphincter; the older man’s face was twisted into a grimace of discomfort.  He was gritting his teeth and trying for too hard not to cry out in pain himself to pay attention to his son’s distress.  Besides, the boy liked getting hurt.

 

“You squeal like a worthless fuckin’ pig, boy,” Carlos growled menacingly, “I like that.  Let’s see if I can make ya do it more.”  Positioning himself between Johnny’s legs on the bed, Carlos propped the punk’s Pumas up on his own shoulders and slapped the swollen purple head of his dick against the teen’s quivering pink fuckhole, splattering the smooth asscheeks with clear precum.

 

Then, without warning, he rammed his rod home, spearing Johnny’s ass; his rigid tool tore through the boy’s colon, gouging the tender rectal lining and striking the prostate as it rocketed deep into the teen’s guts.

 

The look on Johnny’s face showed Carlos he’d gone too far—he’d wanted to make the kid yell, not scream, but his innate sadism had taken over.  Quickly, he leaned forward and, clamping his large, strong hand over the punk’s mouth, squeezed it shut.  Johnny’s shriek of agony was muffled to a high-pitched squeal as tears flowed copiously from his eyes.

 

In any other situation, the noise would have been both noticeable and startling; as it was, Johnny’ father was too busy getting fucked himself to care.

 

The small room, already crowded by two double beds, a cheap dresser and a single nightstand, was swiftly filling with the sounds and scents of man-on-man sex.  Sweat and testosterone filled the air with an erotic masculine musk as two pairs of tightly entwined male bodies writhed on the beds, locked together and rutting in an excruciatingly sexual embrace.

 

Ed moaned and groaned with pleasure as Nick’s swollen shaft plunged deep into his intestines; Johnny, on the other hand, needed to be held down and muffled until his teenaged fuckhole had relaxed enough to accept Carlos’s cock.  It took more than five minutes of powerful reaming for the kid to calm down enough for the ex-con to remove his hand; the mesmeric gleaming and jingling of the thick links in the stud’s gold necklace seemed to help, somehow having a calming effect.

 

“Just shut up and take my dick,” the powerful, tattooed alpha hissed at the youth, bound and pinned helplessly under his heavy muscles.  Johnny’s true fag nature came to the fore; doing what he was told, he relaxed his ass muscle and accepted the thick tube of meat.  Closing his eyes, the teen sank back into a sensation of both pleasure and pain, sighing as he heard his father’s staccato grunting—the older man was getting pounded good.

 

Ed had been right, the cuffs were painful as hell, given that his arms were compressed behind his back by not only his own body weight but that of the well-built fucker on top of him.  But the violently intense shafting the handsome furry daddy was getting felt so erotic that he ignored both the way the metal cuffs were digging into the small of his back and the way his gold cross  pendant had slid up his hairy chest to lodge uncomfortably under his chin.  He simply spread his legs wider.

 

Ed didn’t get a chance to indulge his bottom pig side often, since Johnny was naturally an intense power bottom.  He’d forgotten how good it felt to have a real man ramming a thick cock up his ass; it’d been far too long…

 

Lost in sexual indulgence, Ed paid no attention to what was happening to his son.  The kid was doing what he loved the most, getting fucked, and that was all Ed knew.

 

So Ed never noticed when Carlos reached down and slowly withdrew the wickedly sharp blade from his boot.

 

Nick noticed; he was expecting it.  He and Carlos glanced at each other; a quick nod was all that was needed to confirm that the action was about to swing into high gear.  First, though, Nick grabbed Ed’s chin and jerked it away from the other bed.  Simultaneously, the brutal convict leaned forward and slapped his hand over Johnny’s mouth, sealing the kid’s lips so he couldn’t scream.  Then he flashed Johnny the knife.

 

The teen’s eyes grew wide with horror as he stared at nine inches of viciously-serrated steel.  “Shh,” Carlos whispered, “Quiet, motherfucker or I’ll stick this in ya.”

 

Johnny was only eighteen; he’d never come up against anything like this in his short, wasted life.  Lying helpless and bound on his back, with this sicko’s huge cock up his ass, the youth knew he was utterly trapped.  His eyes scanned up Carlos’s ripped abs, past his massive inked chest, wiry fur matted with fucksweat, up to where the thick gold links glittered in the dim light.  The blade, evil and hard, was matte black; it didn’t reflect light–a dark, cold presentiment of death.

 

Something was seriously wrong here, the teen realized—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do to escape whatever nightmare was coming.

 

He was right.

 

Grinning maliciously, Carlos hunched down over the bound punk, so close that every frantic breath Johnny took was impregnated with mansweat and testosterone; terrified as he was, he responded instinctively to the pheromones.  As the cruel alpha slid the sharp, icy tip of the Ka-Bar blade down, the smooth, silky skin of Johnny’s chest, the boy’s thick, fireplug dick began to throb and pulse on its own, standing up and slapping Carlos’s hard belly and splattering it with precum.

 

On the other bed, Nick was driving his steel-hard shaft into Ed’s ass, keeping the older man’s face turned away from the intimidation process his son was undergoing; daddy would see what was happening to his boy soon enough, but for right now, Nick wanted to make sure Carlos had a little sadistic fun.

 

After all, he’d have his own turn later.  They’d worked out a symbiotic plan of snuff, cruelly effective, in which each would enjoy his own kill.  Carlos got to go first; Nick got to watch.

 

And when it got bad, Ed got to watch, too.

 

Though cold terror had seized his soul at the sight of the vicious blade, Johnny couldn’t quite believe that anything bad was going to happen; this was the best fuck he’d even gotten. Even Dad wasn’t this well hung, this muscled, this well-wrapped in tight black leather–the smooth slickness of which Johnny could feel as his thighs brushed against Carlos’s powerful, pumping legs.  Despite the older man’s hand gripping his mouth painfully, the boy could still smell the dark, masculine scent of the leather.

 

Carlos was enjoying himself, digging his shiny motorcycle boots into the sheets to help with traction as he thrust his massive rod into the kid.  The teen’s large dark eyes glittered with both lust and fear—the prey was right where Carlos wanted it.  “Hey, boy, ya sure seem to like gettin’ stuck with a long, hard shaft, huh?  Yeah?  So lessee how ya like gettin’ stuck with another one!”

 

Rising up over the bound, helpless teenager, the well-developed convict placed all his weight on the hand over the boy’s mouth.  By this point, his other hand had reached the level of Johnny’s smooth, flat belly, now heaving in panic.  Slowly and steadily, Carlos applied pressure, driving the razor-sharp blade into the skin several inches above the navel.

 

The knife was designed for killing; it slid into Johnny’s guts easily, like a hot knife into butter.  Despite Carlos’s weight grinding his mouth shut, the youth’s high-pitched squeal was loud enough to catch his father’s attention.  Nick let him look—it wasn’t as if he was gonna be able to help.  Like Carlos, though, he understood the need to keep his victim quiet until fucker was fully controlled.

 

Clamping down on the older man’s mouth, Nick whispered in his ear.  “Wanna watch yer boy die, motherfucker?  I sure the fuck do, so shaddap and enjoy the show.”  Ed was strong and fit, but not as strong or as fit as the younger man who was now pinning him to the bed; he kicked and jerked frantically, trying to reach his son, but it was going to take him a little time to learn how futile his struggles were.

 

For the moment, Ed was forced to lie there and take Nick’s cock up his ass while watching his boy suffer.

 

And Johnny was suffering badly.  The serrated blade sliced down through his intestines but didn’t cut any major blood vessels on the way; Carlos was inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of fatal injury.  That way he got to play with his meat longer.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude, that sure tightens yer ass up,” the sadistic ex-con jeered. “You must really be likin’ my blade.  That’s whatcha been wantin’, huh, faggot?  You been lettin’ daddy fuck ya for years, but he ain’t never hurt you good enough, huh?  Go on and tell him, cunt, tell yer fuckin’ father how much you love me guttin’ ya like fresh kill!”

 

As he took his hand from Johnny’s mouth, Carlos twisted the nine-inch blade, now fully inserted into the teen’s belly, in the wound, then yanked it back out in a single, brutal jerk.  The youth stared at the dripping knife, the small strings of flesh dangling from the serrations reflected in Johnny’s wide, glazed eyes.  His mouth was wide too, but his pain was so extreme, all that came out was a single agonized croak.  Shuddering violently, the poor kid turned to his father, appealing mutely for help—and seeing that there was none to be had.

 

Carlos, in the meantime, ran the tip of the blade down the teen’s left flank, then rammed the blade upwards under the rib cage.  This time, the length of sharpened steel slashed through the punk’s spleen and liver.  “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Johnny cried involuntarily as his body went rigid with shock.

 

“Aw hell yeah,” Carlos moaned, grinning over at Nick—and Ed.  “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, dude!  Goddam boy pussy gets all good and tight—fuckin’ piece of fag meat!  Shit, man, hope yours jacks ya off as good as this one when ya waste it, man!”

 

Nick chuckled, easily maintaining control as Ed’s struggles and muffled cries both became more frenetic.  “It will, bro, I got it covered.  Gonna take a while to put this one down, so go ahead and work that little bitch over.  Daddy here needs some tenderizin’—he gets to watch.”

 

“Hear that?” Nick sneered into Ed’s incredulous, bewildered face, “You disgusting perverts are both gonna die tonight.  Fuckin’ incest faggots—gettin’ both you and yer boy here killed, huh?  Look on the bright side, cunt; yer both gonna die fulla manspunk—now don’t that make ya feel better?”  The older man shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the words out of his ears; as his head whipped from side to side, his gold cross lodging in the crook of his neck as his furry pecs slid across Nick’s in the same direction.  As their chest hair entwined, it was compressed and matted by a thin layer of sweat.  Even in his fear for himself and his son, Ed was suddenly aware of how painfully erect his nipples were with each scrape of his chest.

 

And his dick was still erect too—what the fuck?  Johnny was being murdered right in front of him, how the fuck could his dick be hard?  Jesus, this guy’s cock, too, it hurt so fucking bad, it filled his ass so—

 

—and then a shrill scream from Johnny redirected Ed’s attention.

 

Carlos was in a rush of bloodlust.  He knew the symptoms by now; the intense eroticism of every moan, every whimper he elicited from the meat; the utter clarity that allowed him to control the desperate youth who fought like the wounded and dying animal he was.  He could feel the excitement start to build deep in his balls, but he’d need to exercise control over both himself and his meat to cum the way he wanted.  And after all, this one was gonna be a money shot in the literal sense of the word.

 

The boy was sobbing softly, almost lost in shock, with the long Ka-Bar knife buried to its hilt in his left side.  The belly wound was bleeding internally, but he wouldn’t bleed out from that for another half hour or so.  This one in his side, though had cut that time to less than twenty minutes; Carlos was going to have to get the motherfucker to milk his cock before the little shit’s lights went out for good.

 

Good thing the kid responded to pain; he was about to endure a lot of it.

 

“Ok, you cumsuckin’ sicko,” Carlos growled, “Foreplay’s over.  You ready to earn my load?  Fuck no, you ain’t; no way no incestuous fairy like you ever gonna earn my cum—but I’m gonna make you work it outta me anyway.”

 

“Hey, asshole,” Carlos called across to Ed, “Yeah, you, motherfucker—did ya smack yer boy while fuckin’ ‘im?  Y’know, give the little cunt a good whack across the face like he deserves?  No?  Too bad, asswipe; your pervert son likes pain.  Fuck yeah, dude, that get ya off the way it gets me off?  C’mon, lessee how much pain he likes—lessee how much I have to stick him to make me cum!”

 

Still without breaking eye contact with Ed—or the timing of a single thrust of his cock—Carlos jerked the knife from Johnny’s side, whirled it expertly in the air, and slammed it back down into the kid’s chest.  The blade speared through the left pectoral, slipping between the ribs to puncture the left lung and come out Johnny’s back.  By the time the hilt was resting on the teen’s chest, the tip of the blade had sunk three inches into the mattress.

 

It was a shame the involuntary reaction was so violent; the convulsive thrashing caused the embedded blade to shred the existing chest wound.  “Fuckin’-A!” Carlos yelled as Johnny’s legs clamped tightly around his waist; the killer’s leather-clad legs pumped furiously as the stabbed teen flailed helplessly against him, his own chest hair matted into dark, wiry swirls.

 

Johnny had been held too tightly in an iron grip of pain and fear to think rationally, but this impaling thrust was driven home with an icy shaft of agony that somehow brought clarity to the tortured youth.  The teen lifted his head, his pain-twisted face streaked with tears, his short hair now dark and slick with sweat.  There was no trace left of his meth high; he strained his eyes to focus on the jingling links of Carlos’s chain dangling just in front of his face.

 

The horrible rigid metal shaft embedded in his chest was starting to overwhelm the kid; despite a minimum of outward bleeding, his chest cavity was starting to fill with blood.  The pain in his lung, his guts, his ass—it was all starting to go cold and gray.  His ears were ringing—what was happening here?  He couldn’t quite remember…daddy had been fucking him and then there were cops…what had he done?  Why was a cop raping him and killing him?

 

Daddy would know.  Johnny turned his head and saw his father being held down and viciously fucked.  Daddy was looking at him—and crying.  Why was he crying?  Johnny tried to reach out to him to no avail, then tried to speak.  “Da—urk!” the teenager grunted as a bubble of blood burst from his lips and trickled down his chin.

 

“Daddy can’t help ya now, cunt,” the buff, inked sadist sneered.  “And you still ain’t worked the spunk outta my tool yet—fuck, you’re even useless as a faggot, ain’tcha?  Ok, looks like I gotta make yer ass work.”

 

“Hey look,” he called over to Nick, “I looked this one up online.  If I do this right, I can make this boymeat convulse so hard his ass sucks my load right outta my balls—course, it’s gonna cause nightmarish pain.  But after all,” he said, turning his handsome and gleefully malevolent face back to Johnny, “That’s what yer here for, ain’t it, meat?  To suffer and die on my dick just so I can cum, right?  So get to work, ya fuckin’ homo, start drainin’ my sack!”

 

With that, he pulled the knife out of Johnny’s chest with a flourish, sending a spatter of blood across the ceiling before he swiftly reversed the blade.  Leaning forward, he placed one hand on the boy’s forehead, shoving the head back and the jaw up.  “Time to die, fag,” he hissed as he placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh on the underside of the jaw, about two inches back from the chin—and slowly inserted it.

 

The next thirty seconds were not only Johnny’s last, they were also the most nightmarish he’d experience.  Carlos was lying flat on top of the suffering teen, the kid’s slick, smooth body writhing beneath that of the powerful convict; during the entire cruel ordeal, Johnny was aware of his helplessness under the crushing weight of his powerful killer.

 

And Johnny was aware—as gruesomely slow as the upward progress of the blade seemed to the one who was enduring it, it was still faster than death, or even unconsciousness by blood loss.  Johnny experienced every single second of pain as nine inches of sharpened steel began to penetrate his skull.

 

As the knife inched its way up, it severed the boy’s tongue near the base before slicing up through the soft palate into the sinuses.  “Fuuuuck…” Carlos moaned, glancing over at Ed and Nick, intertwined in an intense male embrace of lust and power.  “The meat’s finally gettin’ it, bro, he’s sufferin’ so fuckin’ bad…”

 

Turning back, the cruel stud spat into the punk’s gray, agonized face; the teen’s wide, pain-crazed eyes were ringed with dark circles of shock.  With a loud grunt, Carlos reapplied pressure to the knife.  Immediately he encountered resistance; wrapping one tatted bicep around the top of the kid’s head, he shoved harder and was rewarded when the blade jerked upward with a loud crunching sound.

 

The expression in Johnny’s eyes as his septum shattered and the carbon steel blade ripped through his sinuses would be difficult to describe in words, but the grasping, shuddering convulsions that wracked the teen’s body culminated in his rectum, frantically (if involuntarily) milking Carlos’s swollen cock.

 

The tight leather pants cradling the buff killer’s ass afforded little protection as the dying boy’s Puma Redons kicked and flailed; Johnny’s smooth thighs had locked around Carlos’s waist reflexively as the convict’s vein-wrapped shaft ground against the adolescent’s hormone-swelled prostate. The sense of power the sick sex murderer felt in feeling the youth’s smooth body twist and jerk in agony beneath him became more intense the closer the kid came to death.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the sweating, tattooed stud grunted as he hunched over Johnny’s thrashing form, “That’s it.  Now yer feelin’ me, meat.  Gonna unload in yer ass real soon here, ya worthless cumdump, my balls are already startin’ to boil over—aw, fuck!  Fuck! AARRRGGH!!”

 

With a loud cry, Carlos went rigid and shot a stream of hot spunk deep into Johnny’s guts; at the same time, he clenched his biceps and shoved the knife violently.  There was a crunching sound as the serrated steel blade tore free from the boy’s sinuses and thrust up through the brain, the tip embedding itself on the inside of the cranium.

 

At that point, Johnny ceased to be Johnny.  The teenager’s eyes rolled back in his head; he no longer felt pain or terror or his last nightmarish seconds on earth. He also didn’t feel his death load, spontaneously generated by massive brain trauma.  Carlos felt it, though; the adolescent’s sweating, heaving body suddenly went rigid—and then there was no teen boy left in Carlos’s arms, just a violently convulsing piece of meat that was orgasming explosively because it didn’t know it was dead yet.  A geyser of hot sperm splashed up along the alpha’s abs, matting in his dark, wiry belly fur. A second, stronger—and longer—jet of spunk splattered on the scruff-covered underside of the killer’s jaw; thick streams of cum trailed off to smear across the winged skull inexpertly inked over Carlos’s left pec.

 

The muscular ex-con kept fucking the meat, grunting and snarling as the cumdump’s death throes worked wad after wad out of the killer’s stiff, unyielding shaft.  When he’d finally emptied his huge, puckered sack, Carlos pulled out and knelt on the bed above the still-shuddering corpse.  He reached up and yanked the knife out of the meat’s head—it took both hands and a little effort to pry it loose—and glanced over at the other bed.  Nick, riding his prey like a bronco, grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

 

“Goddam, dude, that was one fuck of a money shot,” he said, chuckling, then spat into Ed’s face; the latter was weeping with his eyes shut.  “Got me so fuckin’ amped up, I think it’s just about time to put this queer bitch down too.  Here, toss me the phone; I’ll yank the cord out.”

 

“Naw, man,” Carlos replied, “Too much work.  Here, use these.”  With that, he spun Johnny’s trembling meat over and quickly untied the intricate knot he’d used on his holster harness; the corpse continued to thrash on the edge of the bed, but didn’t fall. “Here, use this,” he said, handing over the harness.

 

Nick grabbed one of the black leather straps and help it up.  “It’ll work; thanks, bro.”

 

Carlos wanted to get a close-up of the action; there was camera mounted on a tripod on the far side of his bed—there hadn’t been enough room to pose one similarly by Nick’s bed—and he reached back to get it.  The camera slipped from his hands; Carlos had to lunge for it, knocking the tripod over behind the bed.  From this awkward position, he turned to move closer; in order to steady himself, he planted one boot directly on the back of the dead kid’s head.

 

And that was the moment Ed chose to turn his head and open his eyes.  That was the image that was seared into Ed’s brain after watching Johnny’s horrific death—his boy’s killer posed on one knee over the quivering corpse, still-dripping hog hanging out of the tight leather pants, one boot grinding his poor dead son’s head into the mattress…he’d never get to fuck that sweet young ass again…

 

Despair rose up within the older man, despair that soon turned to terror once he remembered he was still helpless in the control of two younger, stronger sex killers.  He opened his mouth—even he didn’t know if he was gonna beg or plead or just scream—but to no avail; as he did so, Nick wrapped one of the holster straps around his neck and pulled.

 

“Ready to join yer boy in a dirt nap?” the dominant sadist chuckled, twisting the inch-wide leather strap around his hands for better leverage, “Cause it’s time to die, dude; yer gonna die on my dick like a fuckin’ dog…”

 

The older faggot had been so wrought up by the sadistically cruel assault on his son that his concern for himself had been subsumed into a general sense of terror and panic; now that he’d been forced to watch Johnny being raped and tortured, the words of his tormentor meant little.

 

The fact that he couldn’t breathe, though—that was something else.  He’d loved his son, in his own sick way—but he needed to breathe.  Ed went rigid immediately, fighting for air; the secondary pain of his gold cross, caught under the strap and digging into his flesh, was but a minor annoyance at the moment.

 

“That’s it, cumsucker!” Nick crowed.  “I knew ya had some fight left in ya; you faggots are too stupid to know death when ya see it.  Well, don’t worry, cunt, it’s gonna take several minutes to choke the life outta ya; you’ll have plenty of time to learn that yer dyin’.”

 

As the crushing pain circling his throat intensified, Ed was also aware of how much harder his ass was being pumped by the younger, stronger top.  And another presence—the other one, the one who killed Johnny—he was there, shoving a camera into Ed’s face.

 

And whispering.

 

“Hey, man,” Carlos was hissing, “Yer boy died hard.  Didja like watchin’ it?  Fuckin’ hot as hell, wasn’t it?  It felt so fuckin’ good, makin’ him suffer, and now yer gonna do the same for my bro here, yeah?  And the best part is, we been recordin’ it all.  Dudes all over the world are gonna pay us so they can beat off watchin’ you and yer cocksuckin’ kid get snuffed—ain’t that sexy shit?  Smile for the camera, asswipe, give ‘em a grin before ya get offed.”

 

The older man thrashed and heaved violently on the mattress, his chest and hard, flat belly writhing against Nick’s as their body fur interlocked like a zipper.  His handsome face was growing congested as the holster strap sank deeper into his neck.  His dark eyes bulged open, forcing him to stare into the faces of the two grinning alpha killers hovering over him, two hard, muscled men taking pleasure in his pain and suffering—

 

—and he was suffering.  Nick had never stopped fucking him, but now the sadistic top was aggressively plunging his engorged tool deeper into Ed’s rectum than ever before; even this pleasure had become agony.  The metal handcuffs that kept his arms twisted excruciatingly behind his back had dug in his wrists far enough to cut off the flow of blood to his hands; they were nothing but useless, throbbing lumps.

 

But the trauma being inflicted on his throat was merely the most unendurable; not only was his esophagus slowly compacting into a mangled mass, but his own pendant—the gold cross (that he’d always secretly superstitiously believed would protect him from the evil he now knew existed beyond any doubt) was compressed so firmly into the tender flesh on the side of his neck that it was literally tearing the skin, making a trickle of blood seep onto the sheets.

 

“Ya likin’ that shit, fuckwad?” Nick taunted his older but well-developed victim.  “Yer ass is grabbin’ my cock like it wants more—fuck, man, if I’d known it took a good strong chokeout to make ya work my shaft right, I’d squeezed yer throat long before now.  Hey, bro,” he called over to Carlos, “Did he teach his fucktoy kid right or did ya have stick ‘im first to have fun?”

 

“Naw, dude,” Carlos drawled, winking and sticking his tongue out at Ed’s swelling, horror-filled face, “Stupid sack of shit acted like he’d never had a dick up his ass till I slipped my shank into his guts—an’ even then, I hadda twist the blade in ‘im before he really showed how much he liked gettin’ buttfucked.”

 

“Shit, man,” Nick snarled down at Ed, “Like father, like son.  Both of ya lousy fag fucks who need pain to teach ya how to take a real man’s hog, ain’t that right, cunt?”

 

The buff sadist pumped his tool up the dying porn star’s colon with ruthless efficiency; his biceps and triceps, already glistening with mansweat, began to bulge with the effort he put into cranking Ed’s windpipe permanently shut.

 

Ed could feel it, too, the effort Nick was expending on both his neck and his fuckhole.  The jackhammer pounding of his frantic pulse in his head was echoed in the furious reaming that his rectum was enduring; there was a fiery ball of pressure that was swelling in his chest and his face was about to burst—and then his eyes…oh fuck, he couldn’t close his eyes, the hard, handsome faces of his killers hovering over him, so close they could kiss…with a sense of despair, he realized that their jeering triumph in his death would be the last thing he’d see on earth…

 

And still they tortured him, not just physically, but mentally as well.

 

Carlos was particularly cruel; as he sneered and spit on their helpless victim, his thick cock—still hanging out of his tight leather pants, dripping with cum—began to stiffen again.  “I really got off on hurtin’ yer son, ya perverted fuck,” he whispered. “He was really cryin’ for his daddy when he died—too bad you were too busy gettin’ fucked, faggot.  Know what part’s the best?  Loadin’ him up with my seed.  It don’t matter how many times ya fucked yer little boy in the ass, he’s gonna end up takin’ a nice long dirt nap fulla my jizz, not yers, asswipe.”

 

“Goddammit,” Nick barked in intense anger, “Yer gettin’ loose, old man.  What, ya want it tighter—or ya need some more pain?  Yeah, that’s it—just like any other faggot, I’m gonna hafta hurt ya to make ya grip my shaft right.”  Twisting the ends of the strap together, the sweating, powerful killer yanked them to one side so he could hold them both in the same hand; as he did, Ed’s gold cross bent under the stress of the increased pressure, tearing an agonizing three-inch slash into the side of Ed’s throat as it did so.  Sadly for Ed, it did no further damage—he had no hope of escaping his suffering by bleeding out.

 

But even that pain was soon overtaken by new suffering.  The buff, strong—but not quite strong enough—musclebound victim hadn’t noticed the sidelong glance Nick had slipped Carlos.  Carlos, did, though, and recognized it as a hint for a close-up.  Zooming the camera in on Ed, he had a perfect angle to capture Nick balled-up fist raining blows into the bound, trapped stud’s dark, puffy face.

 

Each loud, wet smack of flesh on flesh was accompanied by a raging curse from Nick; the hulking alpha had shifted into sadistic bloodlust mode.  “Stupid fuckin’ (WHAM) sack a’ shit (WHAM), ya wanted to get paid for me to fuck ya ( WHAM WHAM WHAM); are ya gettin’ paid good enough now (WHAM?) Ya worthless goddam (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) pervert (WHAM), how old was yer kid (WHAM) when ya started fuckin’ ‘im (WHAM) ya fucking child-molestin’ homo (WHAM)?”

 

Nick paused to catch his breath; without dropping the tempo of his brutal assfuck, he pulled back a bit, still gripping the leather holster strap tightly in one hand.  The lifted the meat’s head up from the blood-spattered pillow.  Carlos leaned forward, allowing the fag’s battered and swollen face to fill the frame.  Ed had been a strikingly handsome man of thirty-seven, with his testosterone-influenced receding hairline, his honey-gold goatee and the long lashes rimming his large, dark, liquid eyes.

 

The only thing recognizable in the bloody, pulped ruin now being captured on camera was the goatee surrounding the swollen, blue lips.

 

“Fuck, dude,” Carlos panted as he looked into Ed’s violently-beaten face, “I think this meat’s nearly done.  Ya fucked it over real good, bro.”  The erotic hoarseness in his voice was underscored by the steady transparent stream oozing from his by-now fully erect dick.

 

Semi-conscious in a universe of screaming pain, some pig corner tucked into the back of Ed’s brain heard and agreed.  His own thick, vein-wreathed rod, already achingly stiff, smacking swiftly between his own and Nick’s flat, furry bellies in time to the rapid assfuck, suddenly began to splatter beads of precum everywhere.

 

“Yeah?” Nick grinned at Carlos (and the camera), his cruel sadism glinting in his eyes like a cold light.  “Think it’s time to put the fucker down?  Ya may be right, bro; I’m gettin’ kinda bored with these faggots.  Guess it’s time to dump my load and split.”

 

He shifted slightly as Carlos moved closer to the headboard and reversed the angle, looking down on the writhing, interlocked male bodies, glistening with sweat and slapping together in a swift, animalistic rhythm.

 

Nick was close to shooting his load, but he recognized that he’d brutalized the meat too much for any further mental abuse to avail.  He needed one final blow to the nervous system, quick, strong and fatally brutal, to make the faggot’s fuckhole tighten up around his cock.

 

He knew exactly what to do.  Wrapping the strap ends around the palm of his right hand, Nick placed his right hand flat on the meat’s slick, heaving (but not breathing) chest.  Lowering his face, the psychopathic sex killer glanced up at Carlos and the camera impishly through his own tousled bangs.

 

“Hey, bro,” he whispered, “Check this shit out.”

 

And then he jerked on the holster strap.  Hard.  Gritting-his-teeth hard, tendons-standing-out on his-neck hard, veins-standing-out-on-bicep hard.  At the same time, grunting with the physical strain, he shoved his other arm down on the fuckmeat’s muscled chest.  The buff older man’s face bent forward and his neck seemed to elongate.  As his face turned down, his thick, protruding tongue pushed out of his mouth, forcing a long foamy stream of drool to fall into his chest fur.

 

“That’s it, cunt, time to go bye-bye,” Nick hissed and yanked again.  There was a sickeningly loud cracking, crunching sound as the muscle-bound alpha literally tore his victim’s head off the top of his spine, crushing the esophagus and shattering three vertebrae simultaneously.

 

The impact to Ed’s nervous system was immediate.  He died instantly, his entire musculature going rigid in a heartbeat.  The muscles in his cock stiffened, forcing a violent eruption of semen from his agonizingly erect shaft.  The first load was so abrupt and intense, it actually shot between his head and Nick’s, splashing against the wall three feet above the top of the headboard—although some fallout landed in his dark blond hair.

 

At the same time, his colon and lower intestines contracted around Nick’s engorged cock; it was like a hand in a velvet glove jacking him off.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, Nick flooded the meat’s guts with boiling sperm.  He continued to twist Ed’s head around, mangling the spinal column.

 

This triggered Ed’s second deathload, a steady jet of spunk that lasted a good ten seconds straight, spewing huge pearly loads of spunk all over both his chest and that of his killer.  This load, though was interrupted by a third one, form a different source.

 

Still holding the camera, recording all the action, Carlos had shot a second wad completely hands-free.  Recorded for the paying viewers to see, his thick, creamy load squirted a flood of hot manseed over both the corpse and its killer.

 

“That’s it, bro,” Nick gasped hoarsely, “Spunk all over that fuckin’ faggot!”  Inwardly, he exulted in feeling Carlos’s hot semen splatter on his chest, but, still ejaculating uncontrollably himself, he didn’t process the emotion; he could only shudder and shoot.

 


 

Several cum-drenched minutes later, Nick and Carlos both found themselves in enough control of themselves to disengage from the bed and get themselves cleaned up.  Carlos moved first—largely because, unlike Nick, his dick wasn’t stuck in a quivering corpse.  Retreating to the bathroom to wash up, he chuckled with contemptuous amusement at Johnny’s meth pipe sitting on the top of the toilet cistern, along with a lighter and small baggie partially full of powder.  He left them alone.

 

Nick, for his part, withdrew his leaking shaft for the dead man.  He rolled Ed over and uncuffed him; when he did, the shuddering body slid limply to the floor with a thump.  Picking up his discarded cop outfit, he went back through the connecting door into the adjoining room, using that bathroom to wash off the evidence of violent sex.

 

By this time, Carlos had finished up and returned into the death room.  He gathered up his own gear, including the gun and the holster harness Nick had used to kill Ed; that took a bit of time to recover, given how deeply it was embedded in the meat’s neck.  At one point, he ground his boot into Ed’s face to hold his head down as he pried the strap out of the corpse’s crushed throat.  He carried the armful  of gear back into the other room and dumped it on the bed, only to be brought up short when Nick asked, “Where’s yer shank, bro?”

 

He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it.  He went back into the other room and began poking around on the bed; almost immediately, he noticed it tangled in the sheet on the other side of the teenager’s cooling, stiffening corpse.  It was still covered in gore, so Carlos used the cheap motel sheet to wipe it down; his actions made the bed shake slightly.  Not enough, but enough to dislodge Johnny’s body.  The dead teen rolled off the bed, landing on top of his father’s corpse.  Ed was face-up and Johnny face-down; they’d have been looking each other in the eye, had Johnny’s eyes not been rolled too far back in his head that only the whites showed from under his half-open lids.

 

Just then, Nick came back into the room.  “Aw, ain’t that sweet,” he jeered, “the faggot lovebirds united forever in death.  Let ‘em rot there.  You get the cameras on that side an’ I’ll get the ones on this side.  We should be able to clear out in about half an hour or so.”

 

Because of the layout of the room, the bodies on the floor between the beds made it difficult to reach everything on his side, which might account for what happened later.  But Nick had been right; they were gone within thirty minutes.

 


 

The bodies weren’t found for another eighteen hours; the maid who found them subsequently required psychiatric treatment, as did one of the two first responding police officers.  The other, a twenty-six year old rookie named Rog, found a camera tripod that had fallen behind one of the beds.  Even before the autopsy results revealed that both males had been raped as well as murdered, Rog had realized that someone, somewhere, had a video of what happened.

 

And despite the tremendous swell in publicity surrounding the case once DNA results revealed that the victims were father and son, Rog kept his surmises to himself, and laid his plans.

 


 

Nick was laying plans, too.  The commission was not only paid promptly, it included a sizeable gratuity—and a distribution agreement, with a percentage on the gross.

 

“Shit, bro, we’re gonna be fuckin’ millionaires,” he laughed a week later.  He and Carlos were both sitting in the office.  “I already paid the condo off.  Think I’m gonna soundproof that second bedroom.  We can have all kinda fun in there.”

 

Carlos didn’t care; Nick was giving him all the cash he needed.  He had wheels and a crib—and the opportunity to waste any fag he wanted, when he wanted…how he wanted…

 

“Cool, dude,” he drawled contentedly.  “Ya got any new hits?”

 

“I got a message yesterday, saying somthin’ might be coming.  Believe it or not, I haven’t checked email yet; I was too busy payin’ off debts.  Lessee if we got anything.”

 

Turning on the monitor, Nick fired up the PC, grinning broadly.  Part of it was the financial—and artistic, so to speak—success.  But part of it was what he’d learned about Carlos.  Straight, my ass, some cold, calculating part of his mind thought—he mighta gone into prison straight, but he came out a full-blown fag.  That might come in handy someday.

 

It took a while for the system to boot up; it took even longer for the email to come up.  Carlos had lost interest and was surfing on his phone when a loud ping echoed through the office.  Nick clicked on a couple of things, then his eyes grew wide.

 

“We got another commission,” he said quietly.  “Holy fuck, bro, come lookit this.”

Convict 4–Sin City Snuff

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It took Carlos three hours to drive three miles.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But he wasn’t afraid enough.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was far worse than he’d imagined.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Except it was happening now.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It had the opposite effect.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

With steel.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was sawing him open from the inside.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And it stank of blood and mansex.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Convict 3–No Trace of Mercy

As Carlos merged back onto the highway from the Winterbourne Road onramp, he became aware of a loud whistling sound accompanied by a jet of cold air.  Glancing up, he realized that the strip of duct tape covering a tear in the convertible roof had peeled off.

 

His broad, tattooed chest was still glistening with sweat from his revenge fuck.  Even though it wasn’t that cold outside, it was chilly enough to be uncomfortable against his bare skin.  He abruptly made up his mind to head back to his motel room for a moment.

 

He wasn’t done for the night, fuck no.  His adrenaline and testosterone were flowing; he was flush with cash—and he was hard again.  A quick stop to pick up a couple of things, and he’d be back on the street.

 

Another unlucky fag was gonna get snuffed tonight.  He was out there somewhere, right now, trolling the streets for dick.

 

Carlos put the pedal down.  He was unaware of the ugly leer that twisted his hard, handsome face into a sadistic grimace; he just knew he was in a hurry.  He was riding a high fueled by lust and endorphins, and he was gonna take advantage of it.  The twenty minutes it took to get back across town to his motel seemed endless.

 

He was in the room for only about five minutes.  After hiding the cash, it only took seconds to cross to the closet and pull a jacket off a hanger.  He’d gotten it at a pawn shop earlier that day, after he’d bought his other clothes.  It was a heavy leather biker jacket, a brand named “American Armor”.  Slightly worn but in excellent shape, it had zippered sleeves, wide double-breasted lapels with snaps and a thick quilted lining; it was legitimately made for a biker.

 

And used by one, to judge by the smell.  It was rank with sweat and smoke, but above all, the dense, heady scent of leather emanated strongly from it; one whiff would get the fag pigs running.

 

Laying the jacket across the back of a chair he dug in the closet for another purchase he’d made that day, this time in an army surplus store.  Taking the box to the bed, he opened it to reveal a new pair of black nylon combat boots with thick rubber soles and—the real selling point for Carlos—a boot sheath in each one, for right- or left-handed action.

 

The brawny convict sat on the bed and slipped his engineer boots off, noticing a stain of Will’s blood on the right toe.  He quickly wiped it off with a tissue before carefully setting the boots to the side.  They were still his favorite, but the new pair would hold a knife better.

 

He laced them tightly up his calf, making sure they were snug.  In the future, he’d use the zippers on the sides, but he needed to ensure the fit the first time.  He also needed to test the fit of his knife; he wasn’t sure the sheath was designed to handle his foot-long blade.

 

Carlos paused on the way out the door, admiring his hard, lightly-furred body in the mirror.  He was still all in black, from his combat utility boots to his tight jeans to the musky jacket hanging open and giving a tantalizing glimpse of his broad pecs and ripped abs.  Even the shiny black do-rag was still knotted onto his shaved head.

 

 

The hard-bodied convict grinned.  He looked hot, and he knew it.  What’s more, he looked dangerous.  The bulge in his jeans several inches below his knee caused by the handle of his knife wasn’t obvious enough to cause comment, but it might cause some interest.  No true bottom pig faggot would be able to turn him down, and he was counting on it.

 

His earlier prey had been specifically targeted for money, but now Carlos was flush with cash.  When he stalked out of hotel room, he wasn’t out to find a victim with cash.

 

A demon of sexual rage still burned in his chest. This time, he was just out to make a homo slut suffer.

 

Back in the stolen Mustang, back on the prowl.  Carlos was looking for meat on the hoof and he knew where to find it—back at his old cruising grounds.  Actually, he’d had several, all notorious pick-up spots in disreputable areas on the edge of the gay ghetto, several of which had been redeveloped while he was in the pen.

 

River Oak Park hadn’t, though.  It was still dilapidated and dark; the trails that wound under the eponymous oaks had large areas of zero visibility where the pathway lights were out.  At least it had the oaks; the “river”—more an embanked storm culvert than a natural waterway—was dry with the lack of recent rain.

 

It wasn’t a place most people chose to use for relaxation, so it became a place a few people chose to use for sex.  Carlos had met the fag he’d whacked—the one he got sent away for—in this park; then they’d driven elsewhere.

 

He’d put out his headlights even before pulling into the parking lot; his car a dark shape gliding among several others.  Drifting slowly into a space, he shut the vehicle off and glanced around.

 

Even in the dim light—only three of parking lot’s sixteen light poles were working—he could see several dudes.  Some were hanging out in the parking lot itself; as he watched, he saw one boy, barely out of his teens, so fucked on booze or drugs—well, it must have been something to make him crawl in through an open window instead of just opening the car door.  Whatever the case was, the car started up and left the park immediately.

 

Carlos wondered idly if the boy would be seen alive again. If it had been his car…

 

Other dudes seem to emerge out of and melt back into the darkness of the park.  Carlos decided it was time to get out; he wasn’t gonna do anything in the car, at any rate.

 

As his broad, muscular body slipped into invisibility under the bare, interlocking branches of the oaks, he moved forward silently.  The rubber soles of his combat boots had been designed for stealth; it emphasized the intensity of the hunt.

 

Carlos was horny, hard, and ready to kill again.  Time to take down another worthless cocksucking pansy.  His black eyes, wide and sparkling in the darkness, peered around eagerly.  So many disgusting fags; who was gonna be the lucky cunt to taste his sperm and his steel?

 

Just under a mile away, the creek bed made a sharp turn south.  The path, running along the north side of the creek, bent as well.  The inside of the bend, on the south side of the path between it and the creek, was actually a flat peninsula screened by brush—very popular and currently in use by several couples.

 

North of the path the land was also covered with low-lying underbrush, but rising to the north as it did, it was less congenial to immediate public buttfucking; one had to hike some ways up a hill to reach a level but secluded clearing.  Still, that side of the path wasn’t unpopulated.

 

Trace stood alone in the dark, in the bushes on the north of the path, angry and impatient.  The teen shifted, his long, lean body stiff and uncomfortable.  Jimmy shoulda been there almost an hour ago; Trace wasn’t gonna wait for him much longer.  After all, he’d sneaked out of his house that night just so Jimmy could skullfuck him.

 

If Jimmy wasn’t gonna show, Trace was sure he could find other dudes to ream his throat just has hard as Jimmy did.

 

Trace was just six weeks past his eighteenth birthday; his wide blue eyes made him look even younger.  His black hair was long and carefully negligent, with long bangs spread over his forehead, almost hanging into his eyes.  In the back, it was longer and layered.  Combined with his smooth cheeks and wide, easy-going grin, he had a look that ensured he got what he wanted in terms of sex.

 

Trace could have had any girl in the senior class, but what he wanted was Jimmy, tight end on the football team.  It wasn’t that Trace was pining for a sports hero to take his virginity—he’d been with half the football team and a third of both the basketball team and the wrestling team before he got out of his junior year—but there was something about Jimmy…

 

Jimmy was straight.  If he wasn’t, he was good at playing it—he’d only meet Trace in the park after dark, in a pre-arranged location so no one would know.  And it was hard to believe that his contempt for homosexuals was role-play, given the way he slapped Trace around while ruthlessly breeding his mouth.  One day, if he thought he could take the pain, he’d let Jimmy up his ass…

 

Trace had loved every fucking second of it.  And tonight, Jimmy wasn’t here.  Even worse, Trace could hear the sounds of sex all around him in the darkness.  He couldn’t see anything, but his teenage body was responding to the outpouring of semen and testosterone around him.

 

It was maddening.   It was an itch he couldn’t scratch—and it was centered deep in his balls.  The lean, well-built youth was as randy as a cat in heat.  He was done waiting for his top.

 

The lust- and hormone-fueled teen decided he couldn’t wait any more.  He followed his hard dick out into the darkness to meet his fate.

 

He was certainly dressed to meet someone.  Trace had a slim swimmer’s build—lean and firm, not scrawny—and he knew how to accentuate it.  Tonight, his smooth chest was covered with a simple white cotton t-shirt at least one size too small, looking as if it had been painted onto his low, broad pecs and his flat belly.

 

Since the night was chilly, he wore a blue denim button-down shirt open over the t-shirt.  His equally-revealing jogging jeans were less faded, but the way they clung to his tight ass and highlighted his package left nothing to the imagination.  The jeans had elastic gathering the ankles, so they appeared to be bloused into Trace’s red canvas Converse hightops.

 

The young fag hadn’t specifically dressed like a slut—but he was a slut, and a good-looking one at that, and he felt no need to hide his light under a bushel.  In fact, he wanted all the hot dudes to see just how much he was flaming.  Not that he was particularly effeminate.

 

But he did love dick.

 

Stepping out onto the path, the horny teen followed his eager, throbbing cock into the darkness.  The new moon, thin as a fingernail paring, shed little light and the occasional working light within the park itself didn’t do much to dispel the blackness.  Trace could sense other men just off the path, but couldn’t see exactly what they were doing—or if they were interested.

 

He walked on, the white soles of his canvas hightops almost silent on the paved footpath.  The ground to his left sloped down to the creek, while that on his right rose gently into a heavily wooded section of the greenbelt.  He’d wandered just over half a mile when he realized that he hadn’t seen anyone for a while.

 

Shrugging, Trace decided that dudes looking for a hookup didn’t go this far into the park.  He turned, deciding to try his luck in the parking lot, when he heard footsteps behind.

 

Instead of leaving, the young slut made the worst mistake of his life and paused to listen.  The footfalls were faint and the path curved around a bend in the creek five yards ahead—he couldn’t see anyone.

 

And then suddenly, there he was.  A tall, muscular stud, appearing out of the murk and looming over him.  Thirty feet back was a light pole; the glow wasn’t bright, but it was good enough to see the hot dude who’d come out of nowhere.

 

Just a single glance at the teen he stumbled across told Carlos all he needed to know.  After all, the little fuck wasn’t dressed to hide his assets; even in the dim lighting, he could see the punk’s thick junk through his tight jeans.  It was the eyes, though—the way lust illuminated them. Cat-like, they almost glowed in the dark.

 

The little faggot wanted it bad, Carlos realized.  Well, he was ready to give it—bad.  Real bad.

 

Trace gazed up in wonder at the muscled cholo looming over him.  The well-built dude was all in black, practically camouflage in this part of the park, but the aroused teen could still make out the older man’s huge pecs.  Even in the dim light, he could see the tattoos half-hidden under the leather jacket, the dark treasure trail undulating over the stud’s ripped abs as it disappeared beneath the waistband of the tight black denim.

 

Carlos had read the signs right.  A single look at the strapping con had driven all thoughts of Jimmy out of the youth’s mind.  This dude—this was a real man.  Trace wanted this guy inside him.  Deep.

 

Carlos could see the boy’s mouth open and silently mouth the word “wow” before his tongue darted quickly across his lips.  He knew the little fag was thinking about gagging on Carlos’s fat hog; the kid’s worthless pig lust was radiating palpably from his tight, hormone-filled body.

 

Time to make his move, he decided.  This was gonna be easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

 

It was just gonna be a lot, lot slower.

 

“Ya want my dick, boy?” Carlos grunted in a low voice, already knowing what the answer would be.

 

“Uh-huh,” Trace muttered, barely audible.  Tentatively, he reached his hand out toward the swollen bulge he could just barely discern in the top’s groin.

 

“Not here, puta,” Carlos snapped.  “I ain’t pluggin’ yer face on the path.  I don’t give no free shows, vato, got me?

 

Wide-eyed, the teen slut nodded; the gruff bass of the alpha’s hoarse voice seemed to vibrate along his spine and the root of his dick.  “Up there,” he gasped, jerking his head to the right where the ground sloped up to more dense woods.

 

As they turned and silently made their way uphill, Trace found himself walking stiffly.  His cock was so hard it hurt.

 

In a moment, they were picking their way through the trees.  The thick carpet of dead leaves crackled under the soles of the kid’s Converse sneakers.  Carlos’s military-style combat boots made much less noise.

 

Not that it mattered; they were too far back into the greenbelt to see the path.  Five yards further on, a high chain link fence marked the edge of park land.  Beyond, the tree line dwindled down to a swath of waste ground that bordered a landfill a mile away.

 

They were completely isolated, for all intents and purposes—even Carlos’s.

 

Trace’s hands fumbled hurriedly in his groin as he unzipped his fly to give some release to the aching six-inch cock trapped in his tight jeans.  Carlos stood and watched him in silent contempt—stupid little homo couldn’t even control his disgusting urges.

 

Well, then—Carlos was gonna have to control them for him.  Reaching down to his own groin, he hauled his huge tube of meat out, letting it dangle and drip in the night air.

 

The teen froze.  He was mesmerized by the older dude’s tool.  Fuck, Jimmy was hung, but this guy put Jimmy to shame.  He wanted this cock inside him, fuck, he wanted it so bad…

 

He swiftly shucked off his button-down shirt, tossing it negligently onto the ground before pulling off his tight t-shirt and tossing it on top of the other.  As he stepped toward Carlos, a thin sliver of faint moonlight illuminated his soft, flat belly and smooth chest, firm but not overly developed.

 

He approached the towering cholo stud, hesitantly but eagerly.  His huge blue eyes, framed by long lashes that added an extra hint of vulnerability to his beautiful, youthful face, turned expectantly up to those of the erotic, mysterious alpha.

 

Like a good bottom pig, he was awaiting orders.  He didn’t have long to wait.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” Carlos snarled abruptly.  “Down on your knees and gag on it, you worthless homo—now!”

 

Trace jerked, startled by the suddenness of the order, but he obeyed.  Falling to his knees on the soft flooring of leaves, he opened his mouth wide and took the swollen, oozing head into his mouth, tasting the salty drops of precum trickling from the tip.

 

Carlos grunted as the teen slowly began deepthroating him.  He felt the boy’s esophagus wrap tightly around his shaft as the kid buried his face in the alpha’s crotch, grinding his nose voluntarily into the stud’s pubic hair.

 

“Goddam, puta, you mother fuckin’ cocksucker,” the grinning killer hissed, “fuckin’ punk gobblin’ down my dick—you a natural born faggot, aintcha?”

 

Trace made the mistake of trying to answer, gurgling on the shaft of flesh jammed down his throat.  He was rewarded with a hard bitchslap across his face.  “Shaddap!” Carlos growled.  “Lick under my head, cunt.  Run your tongue down my tool.”

 

The boy obeyed, wrapping his arms around the stud’s thick, muscled legs.  As he chugged down the convict’s cock, he ran his hands up and down the taut denim, feeling Carlos’s hard, chiseled thighs and calves.  His hands sank lower and lower, down towards the alpha’s combat boots…

 

…and encountered the hilt of the knife.

 

“What?” Trace muttered in surprise as he pulled his head up off Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “What was that?”  He peered up into the stranger’s face, obscured in the darkness.

 

He couldn’t see the look of cruel anger building in the brawny convict’s face, but he could hear the menace in the older man’s cold whisper.  “It was gonna be a surprise for ya, boy.  See, vato, you’re broken.  I’m gonna fix ya.  When I’m done with ya, you won’t be a faggot no more.”

 

Trace scrambled backward across the dead leaves, trying to get to his feet.  “Wh-whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, man?” he quavered as the realization of impending danger began to percolate through his haze of lust and hormones.

 

“I’m talking about stickin’ you like the useless fag pig you are, punk.  And the first thing I’m gonna stick you with is my cock.  Shame ya didn’t give me more head, fairy, cause that’s all the lube yer gonna get.”

 

“What? No!” the youth squealed in fear.  “Dude, I just give head—ain’t no one been up my ass!”

 

“Tough luck, cunt,” the vicious convict sneered.  “Guess that means this is gonna hurt like a bitch, huh?  Good.  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you ain’t too tight.”

 

“M-man, I th-think I gotta go,” Trace whispered as cold fear stole over his smooth slim body, trembling in the pale moonlight.  “I-I gotta be-be somewhere…”

 

He had time for just one yelp of terror as Carlos sprang at him and slammed him sideways into a tree.  Unluckily for the randy, adventurous teen, there was no one close enough to hear it.  As he slumped unconscious to the ground, there was no hope of rescue.  And Carlos knew it.

 

It only took a moment to bind the punk’s hands behind his back, using his own button-down denim shirt, twisted into a band.  That done, Carlos flipped the boy onto his back, making sure the boy’s bound hands were bent up into an agonizing position under his own body weight.

 

Carlos was gonna teach the teen homo a thing or two about the pain he felt all faggots deserved, before “fixing’ him for good.

 

He started by parting the slut’s legs, leaving his jeans and hightops still on.  Shrugging off his leather jacket, he laid it between the boy’s spread legs.  As he did, the kid began to moan.  The fluttering eyelashes in his gorgeous face signaled the slow, reluctant return of consciousness.

 

Carlos grunted in contempt.  Little fuck hadn’t even hit the tree hard enough to break the skin.  If that was all it took to lay him low, he realized, he was gonna hafta be careful or he’d fix the fag before he got to have any fun with him.

 

The strapping convict stood over the prone, helpless teen.  Stripped to the waist, his powerful, tattooed torso gleamed in the faint sliver light in the small clearing.  The teen swam back to a stunned awareness to see the ominous muscled silhouette looming over him—and he realized just how isolated and alone he was.

 

Trace began to blubber, jerking and yanking his arms helplessly against the tight binding.  “P-please, man, no,” he sobbed, “I’ll do anything ya-ya want, dude, you can stick it up my ass, I w-won’t tell anyone—“  He trailed off into incoherent weeping.

 

Carlos just stood silently over the cowering, helpless boy.  He didn’t say a word—he just held up the knife.

 

It was the same one he’d bought his first day out.  The razor-sharp edge, all twelve inches of it, glinted wickedly in the faint light, as did the deep, evil serrations on the other side.  The hilt ended in a handle with a handguard; Carlos could be assured of a secure, well-balanced grip whether he was slashing through organs or slicing through bone.

 

Tonight, he was planning to do both.  But he needed to be careful.  Little queer-ass pansy was fragile; he’d have to make sure he was only hitting non-vital areas to start.  Good thing he’d learned all about inflicting nightmarish but non-fatal pain in prison.

 

But to start with, he wanted to fuck.  His throbbing shaft needed care and a warm, moist sheath.  This teen’s ass would work perfectly, but he knew it’d take time, effort, and some slight discomfort to pop the cherry hole.

 

He had a better idea.

 

“So you ain’t never had anyone up yer fuckhole, huh, you worthless slut?  What kinda fag are ya, bitch?  We’re gonna fix that right now.  Don’t worry, cunt, my shaft ain’t gonna hurt ya.  Well, not after I open ya up with this.”

 

Dropping to his knees on his jacket between the kid’s legs, Carlos leaned forward over the prone youth and held his knife up in front of the boy’s face.

 

Trace already knew that things were bad, that he was in more danger than he’d ever been in before, but he wasn’t able to absorb the implication of the knife.  For one thing, at seventeen inches with a twelve-inch double-sided stainless steel blade, it was both larger and incomparably better designed to inflict pain and death than any blade he’d ever seen before.  He simply couldn’t imagine it being used on him.

 

That changed the moment Carlos lifted the helpless youth’s legs and rammed the knife straight through the tight denim cradling his ass up into his rectum.  The sadistic killer hadn’t just cut himself a fuckhole through the jeans, he forced the blade up into the unfortunate kid’s colon, slicing his sphincter suddenly and brutally.

 

Carlos paused for a moment, his biceps bulging as he forced the blade in deeper.  Then he twisted it viciously deep in Trace’s guts before yanking it out again in a swift, cruel, slicing motion.  Holding the bloody blade up for a moment, the evil killer admired the evidence of his own malignant sadism.

 

Beneath him, the teen writhed in agony, experiencing an entire spectrum of pain he’d never known existed.  The cold, glassy slashes deep inside his tender fuckhole were too intense for him to scream; he could only gurgle and spray saliva as he tried desperately not to vomit in pain.

 

Carlos could see the amount of agony he’d inflicted on his victim.  “Fuck yeah, cunt, looks like you’re finally ready to take my dick.  ‘Course, even after slittin’ ya so it won’t hurt so bad, I’m still gonna tear ya some, but you like the pain, right faggot?”

 

As the bound, helpless teen writhed and mewled in pain, the brutal convict grabbed his club-like cock and plunged it into the kid’s mangled ass.  The only lube was the boy’s warm blood as Carlos proved true to his word; the slashes he’d cut in the cunt’s sphincter weren’t enough—his thick, pulsing shaft tore Trace’s ass open even more painfully than the knife had.

 

The young virgin had reached a snapping point; the pain was too much.  He shrieked in a shrill cry of agony, fear and despair.

 

It was music to Carlos’s ears.  It was proof of the pain he was able to inflict on this worthless little faggot—but it could also draw the attention of others.  He wasn’t done torturing this motherfucker, not by a long shot.  He needed to keep the meat quiet.

 

He brought his blade into play again.

 

For a few months, he’d shared a cell with a straight serial killer.  The guy had had lots of useful tips; Carlos had learned a lot from him.  Like how to silence a fucktoy while still keeping ‘em alive.  It caused unimaginable pain—but who cared?

 

He used it now.  “Stupid pansy piece of shit, guess I gotta shut you up, your fuckin’ pig squeals are goddam annoying, motherfucker,” he snarled as he stuck the tip of his blade into Trace’s Adam’s apple.

 

Tightening his strong bicep, he drove the sharp steel tip down into the boy’s larynx.  He had to apply some force when he felt the resistance of the cartilage, but he was able to slice through the voicebox and slit Trace’s vocal cords with ease.  Once the knife was inserted far enough to do the appropriate damage, the cruel killer abruptly yanked it back out.

 

He’d rendered the helpless teen boy mute and wallowing in unimaginable agony, without endangering a single major blood vessel.  Trace wasn’t dying; he only wished he was.

 

The pain was far beyond anything he’d ever imagined; in him mind he was screaming in horrific agony.  The fact that all he could hear was a wet gurgling sound accompanied by a faint spray of blood scared him so bad he was barely coherent, but the grotesque blood-gargling sensation in his throat was nothing compare to the red-hot iron shaft being shoved up his ass…

 

At some point, Trace wished devoutly he’d stayed in the bushes and waited for Jimmy, but it was a fleeting thought in the whirlwind of slashing agony that was enveloping him.  As he gasped frantically, he heard air whistling through the slash in his neck.

 

“Yeah, that shut ya the fuck up, dinnit,” sneered the dark-skinned cholo sadist.  “Now take my dick, homo, make me cum.  I’m gonna give ya exactly what you deserve, you useless cocksucker; I’m gonna stick ya like a fuckin’ pig.”

 

Sitting up on his knees with the boy’s feet on his shoulders and his arms wrapped around the helpless youth’s legs, Carlos held the knife in front of Trace’s pale face.  He saw its icy glint reflected in the teen’s wide, shock-ringed eyes as he continued to taunt his terrified victim.

 

“Look at it, cunt,” he whispered sharply.  “Lookit how sharp it is.  You already felt it, bitch—didja like it?  Sure the fuck hope so, ya cumsuckin’ fairy, cause you’re about to get a whole lot more of it.”

 

Bending down, he snarled in Trace’s weeping, gurgling face.  “Quit whining, you stupid fuck.  You’re out here cause you love ta get all kinda shafts stuck in ya, right?  So here ya go, you fag piece of shit, I’m givin’ ya one that’s longer and harder than any you’ve ever had—or ever will.  Now shut the fuck up and get ready to blow your load as I fuck ya to death with both my dick and my blade—two shafts at once, huh, ya cock pig?”

 

Holding the blade upright, he pointed the tip down and rammed it into Trace’s soft, flat belly, the knife penetrating the smooth skin with no resistance at all.  It sliced through the punk’s tender guts, slashing through the intestines.  Grunting forcefully, Carlos applied pressure with his arm, causing the tattoo on his bicep to bulge visibly as he forced the blade all the way through the teen’s slim, writhing body and pinning him to the earth underneath.

 

Trace’s struggles were involuntary; he was embedded in a fiery wall of pain like an insect in amber.  He wasn’t rational—he only knew that he must not move, the slightest movement made the horrible burning slashing in his guts much much worse…

 

He didn’t have much luck remaining motionless.  Carlos was ruthlessly raping his ass.  As the twisted convict pumped his enormous tool up the teen’s slit, bleeding fuckhole, the force of his thrusts jerked the kid along the ground.  Unfortunately for the young slut, the knife that was impaling him didn’t move; it was buried in the ground.

 

Every time Carlos shoved his cock deeply into Trace’s ass, the boy’s body was forced against the blade, widening the wound as he got fucked.

 

Mewling silently, the panicked boyslut jerked his head from side to side.  The slit in his neck was small and barely visible; aside from a fine mist sprayed with each desperate breath, there was very little bleeding.  He was trying frantically to scream, his beautiful face twisted in pain and terror, smeared with snot and tears.

 

But it was the hurt, bruised expression in his eyes that tripped a switch in Carlos.  There was something about the vulnerability of the hot young teen’s face that sent his sadistic anger into overdrive.

 

With another deep grunt, he yanked the knife back up and out of the kid’s abdomen.  Trace flailed in agony, his red chucks kicking the air just over his killer’s broad shoulders as the wheezing and gurgling increased in his damaged windpipe.

 

“Fuck, ya like that dontcha, ya sick fuck?”  Carlos grinned maliciously at his young, helpless victim.  “Goddam pig, yer ass sure grabbed hold of my dick when I stuck ya.  Shit, lookit yer cock, you disgusting queer-ass bitch, you’re gettin’ hard—you disgusting fuckin’ piece of shit, gettin’ banged by a real man gets ya all stiff even when yer gettin’ snuffed!”

 

Trace heard the words but they meant nothing to him; his mind was a chemical stew of adrenaline and testosterone that was incapable of coherent thought—but it was able to process the sensation of bewildering and somehow painful erection.

 

It didn’t have long to process it, though.  Carlos leveled the blade at the waist on the boy’s left side, then rammed it in at an upward angle.  This time, stabbing diagonally into the unlucky teen’s torso, the brutal killer was able to shove the knife in up to the hilt, all twelve inches of sharpened steel buried deep inside the punk’s firm, quivering body.

 

The powerful cholo groaned in pleasure as massive organ trauma caused involuntary spasms in Trace’s colon and esophagus.  As the viciously serrated blade sliced through the kid’s liver, spleen and stomach before puncturing his right lung, his rectum grasped Carlos’s thick, throbbing rod and began milking it in long, rolling convulsions.  At the same time, the boy started vomiting; there was nothing in his stomach to come up, but the cruel, excruciating internal injuries he’d endured triggered an uncontrollable retching that only intensified his agony.

 

“Now yer gettin’ it, huh, puta?” the fag-hating alpha hissed at the dying teen.  “Now yer gettin’ what all you fuckin’ queers deserve—a long hot shaft in your ass and a long cold shaft in your guts.  Told ya I’d fix ya, you stupid homo—you ain’t gonna be no faggot by the time I’m done with ya; you’re gonna be fuckin’ meat!”

 

Gripping the long handle-like hilt of the military knife, Carlos twisted and ground it in the wound, slashing the boy’s tender innards into ribbons of bleeding flesh.  Then he yanked the blade out in a sing, swift, brutal jerk.  Grinning malevolently, he spit in the cunt’s vacant, stunned face before holding the dripping knife in front of it.

 

“Look at it, fag,” he whispered evilly.  “See those strings of meat hanging off the serrations?  Those are your guts, you worthless cock-gobblin’ pussyboy.  And as much I as keep guttin’ ya like a fish, you’re still hard and drippin’ on my dick.  Ain’t no way to help ya, motherfucker; yer a natural-born homo.  So I guess you’re just garbage, huh?  Ain’t no one gonna miss garbage.”

 

The convict’s muscular, inked body heaved with lust and rage, his broad back and tatted chest glistening with hot reeking mansweat.  Trace’s smooth, flat swimmer’s chest was also covered with sweat, but his was a clammy, cold sweat wrung agonizingly from the teen’s lithe dying body.  But the strong, strapping body of the enraged alpha hunched over him, driving his thick swollen cock up the convulsing teen’s ass, gave off so much heat he was steaming slightly in the chill night air.

 

The kid’s jeans rasped against Carlos’s pubic hair as the hulking alpha’s huge, hairy balls slapped at the slash he’d cut in the denim to access the pansy’s ass.  The killer’s own tight jeans massaged his tight, taut ass as his muscled legs planted his combat boots firmly on the ground, guaranteeing plenty of traction for powerful thrusts.  As the slashed, sliced teen thrashed in mindless agony, his Converse hightops quivered and flailed over Carlos’s broad, heaving shoulders.

 

Raising the knife up over his head, Carlos brought it back down, slamming it home in Trace’s broad, shallow pectoral on his left side, slipping it between two ribs just below his heart.  It was a smooth, swift stab right into the chest, completely puncturing the left lung and—like the belly stab—completely impaling the tortured teen and pinning him to the ground.

 

The force of the blade through his lung rippled through his body, forcing his breath out with a long, ragged groan, whistling through his mangled vocal cords.  Convulsions flowed down his once-virgin body, each one causing his cock to rise up and smack wetly against his killer’s furry belly and his rectum to stroke the cruel con’s engorged tool.

 

Now, Carlos realized, the clock was running.  He’d taken care of the teen fag; the disgusting little pervert wasn’t gonna suck no more cocks—but Carlos still demanded his orgasm of rage.  The punk bitch was meat but he still hadn’t drained his righteous killer’s cock.

 

The homo whore needed to suffer more.  That was always the answer.

 

Carlos lay full-length on top of the dying young boy.  Trace was barely alive; as his lungs slowly collapsed, all his attention was now focused on being able to breathe.  He wasn’t able to comprehend that he was enduring the last few moments of his life—he only knew that he had to keep breathing.  It was hard; there was a heavy weight on his chest, sliding around on a film of sweat and compressing his somehow stiff and oozing cock…but breathe, ignore the pain, ignore the warm soft flesh sliding on your dick as you writhe in agony, just breathe…

 

And the sadistic cholo chuckled.  “Time to die, vato.  Just fuckin’ die on my cock like ya deserve, you fucking pervert punk!”

 

With that, Carlos held the knife across Trace’s neck and began to slice through his throat.  This time, he went below the larynx.  The esophagus itself was, he knew from experience, a rubbery piece of tissue.

 

It took him a little while to saw through it.

 

The ultimate agony of fatal trauma managed to focus the boy’s attention, gruesomely ensuring his full awareness of the final nightmarish horror of his last few seconds alive in a sadistic quirk of physiological fate.

 

Trace gasped and gurgled louder than ever as his throat was slashed.  He could feel each back-and-forth cut of the razor-sharp blade through the flesh and tendons of his neck.  As unimaginable pain rocked his nervous system, his swollen, purple dick pulsed with each slice of the blade.

 

So did his eager fuckhole.  “Yeaaahhhh…” grunted Carlos.  “Fuck yeah, you fucking fag cunt, ya like gettin’ put down by a real man, huh?  Then take, this, cocksucker!”

 

His powerful arm bulging, Carlos flayed the teen slut’s trachea open, listening with erotic glee as the young boy gagged and choked, gargling his own blood.  “Fuckin’ die, fag!” the angry, lust-driven alpha cried as the slim, sweaty sack of meat under him milked a massive boiling wad of  manspunk out of his almost painfully-swollen cock.

 

As the handsome teen hacked and drowned in his own blood, the screaming icy darkness that descended on him was held back by a single jolt of hot fluid flooding his mangled guts.  Somehow, it seemed to be accompanied by another in his groin; a single, white-hot wire sounding his long, thick, agonizingly hard dick…

 

Coughing up one last gout of blood, the gay teen kicked his chucks on his killer’s shoulders as a solid ropy stream of semen spurted out of his cock and was immediately smeared with his blood against his belly and that of his vicious, dominant killer.  The shuddering meat pumped a continual flow of DNA for more than twenty seconds but by that time, the teen’s blood pressure had dropped so low that brain death was occurring.

 

There wasn’t enough of Trace left to enjoy his death load.

 

Gasping, Carlos remained in place for a good two minutes as he caught his breath, his pulsing, oozing rod firmly sheathed in the corpse’s warm, moist, quivering colon.  Every few seconds the hulking, sweating convict shuddered violently and spat another stream of pearly seed into the boy’s mangled fuckhole.

 

Finally feeling his pulse return to normal, the burly killer pulled his still-dripping shaft out of the dead teen’s ass and rose to his feet.  Bending down, he retrieved his biker jacket and fished his pack of smokes out before slipping into the warm embrace of the leather.  He lit one up, inhaling deeply as he let his huge purple hog swing free and drip-dry, the cum swiftly drying to a white glaze in the cool night air.

 

Clenching the cigarette in the side of his mouth, Carlos knelt over the kid’s body, still trembling and spasming randomly in death.  “Toldja I’d fix ya, you cumsuckin’ homo,” the muscled killer chuckled vindictively.  “Ain’t gonna suck no more cocks, huh?  Unless the folks at the morgue or the undertaker’s wanna have some fun, but you still ain’t gonna be suckin’, huh, you worthless piece a’ shit pervert?”

 

Picking up his knife, Carlos looked around for a cloth.  He spied Trace’s t-shirt, a pile of white fabric easily seen in the darkness.  Grinning, he grabbed it and used it to wipe down his blade. He make sure to clean all the dangling strings of flesh trapped in the serrations, leaving the punk’s own t-shirt to be found smeared with the victim’s blood and meat.

 

Taking a final drag off his smoldering butt, he ground the glowing tobacco ember out in the very center of the dead youth’s forehead.  Rising to his feet, Carlos glanced around carefully.  There was no need; there was no one within sight or earshot.

 

And the few that Carlos encountered on his way back to the parking lot were too intent on their own activities to notice him.  Silently, he slipped back into the Mustang and had pulled out of the lot and onto the street before turning on the headlights.

 

Three minutes later, he was back on the highway.  He headed back to his motel room, finally feeling that he’d earned a rest for a job well done.

 

Not that his job was done.  They all needed to be put down—all of them.

 

Carlos felt renewed; the well-being derived from a sense of purpose filled him with excitement.  This was what he was here for—to put fags in their place.  And their place was taking his cock, then taking a dirt nap.

 

But he needed money.  Some homos had money—a lot of money.  Carlos could have all the fun he wanted, but with a little judicious hunting, he could be living good.

 

As he slowed the ‘Stang for the exit for his motel, the twisted convict began to laugh out loud.  He knew he was on the path of righteousness; being wrong couldn’t feel this good.

 

Fags needed to be taught a lesson.  He was just the man to learn ‘em.

 

 

Trace’s desperate parents reported him missing the following morning but his slaughtered corpse wasn’t found for another four days.  One of the local street whores met his dealer in the park; he got his fix for a discount if he gave the dude free sex.  Looking for somewhere to do their transactions in private, they inadvertently stumbled across the mangled body.

 

That night, Carlos beat off watching the news coverage.

The Convict

Carlos strode quickly down the street, his big black boots thumping loudly on the warm pavement.  Bystanders saw a muscular young man moving purposely in their direction and stood aside; there was something dangerous in the youth’s hard face.

They were reacting instinctively to a soul filled with hate.

It had happened again last night.  His last night in.  Two and a half fuckin’ years in that place and they got him again, just to add insult to injury.

His well-built body was boiling with rage.  He’d been given back the clothes he’d worn when he went in—but that was two and a half years ago.  Not much else to do in prison but work out—Carlos wasn’t the type to read a book—and he was much more developed than he’d been when he bought the clothes.

The navy blue sleeveless t-shirt clung to his broad chest as if it’d been painted on.  A sleeve of tattoos, mostly geometric designs, covered his right arm from wrist to elbow, bulging along with his bicep.  A large winged skull was inexpertly tattooed on the left bicep, clearly done inside.  He’d always worn his jeans tight; he’d liked the admiring glances his huge hog got, but now the worn, thin denim not only highlighted his thick thighs but outlined the massive head of his tool.

The only thing that still fit right was his pair of black harness boots.

It was what he’d been wearing when he got popped for offin’ that faggot.  It wasn’t like Carlos was a queer, man, he didn’t hang like that.  But when he’d been down on his luck and needed a little money, some of them homos were good for a few bucks.  And no one had to know…

At least not till that one had stiffed him.  He’d actually swallowed the dude’s load, too, in the front seat of his car.  Motherfucker was gonna pay for that—then the bitch said he didn’t have any money.  Carlos was left gagging, still tasting the fuckwad’s smoky sperm, when he felt the rage take over.

He’d always been violent.  This time he kept slamming the faggot’s head in his car door till he crushed his skull.

His lawyer had been good and the jury was sympathetic to the gay panic defense.  Even with a record for assault, he still only got manslaughter two, five years.  Prison overcrowding, the attorney advised him, would get him out in half that time.  The lawyer had been right.

What he hadn’t told him was that the nature of his crime had proceeded him, as it always does.  Some of the guards have access to the details.  They gossip, exchange favors…and soon Carlos was marked as fresh meat.  Perfect prison bitch.

He’d fought it, god, how he’d fought, but each time he was overpowered and raped.  Each time, he was beaten and called faggot as his ass was painfully violated and violent felons forced their cocks into his mouth.

And yes, he’d worked out.  And he’d fought back more.  He’d gotten better at fending off the attacks, but if they jumped him from behind or enough ganged up on him, he still ended up moaning in a dark corner, bruised, oozing cum from multiple orifices.

Last night was the worst.  They’d gotten the drop on him; one dude—a big, muscular black bull—had snagged him from behind with his forearm and choked him out; he woke up to violent reaming.

There’d been blood in his shorts again this morning.

That worthless fuckin’ faggot.  If he’d just had the money he was supposed to, none of this woulda happened.  But them goddam pansies always lie and cheat.

Someone needs to teach ‘em a lesson.

In addition to his clothes, he’d been given fifty dollars and a bus ticket downtown.  The city council was still squalling about that practice but hadn’t managed to alter it yet, so Carlos soon found himself in a squalid neighborhood bordering the gay ghetto—his old stomping grounds, so to speak.

So here he was, moving purposely along the street, and he did indeed have a purpose.  His current objective was hardware and there were plenty of pawn shops on this street.

His ultimate objective was money, of course, but he needed a way to get that.  He already had a plan, one that—if he played it right—would get him some cash, some transportation, maybe a little more…and would also let him vent some of his seething anger.

A gun would be the most effective means of persuasion, but he’d literally just walked out of prison.  There was no way he was gonna be able to buy even a .22.  No, guns were not an option.

There’d be no difficulty in buying a knife, however.  He had $50 in cash; he could get something perfectly adequate for far less than that in one of these shady little places.  Carlos turned abruptly and walked into the closest one.

The guy at the register narrowed his eyes and stood up straight; he knew trouble when he saw it.  He was sure this rough dude was gonna make a bee-line right for the handguns and was relieved to see the he was eyeing the blades instead.

As the muscled punk examined his options in edged weapons, the clerk scanned his chiseled face, mouth circled by a long black goatee.  The clerk wondered if the guy had a shaved head; the Confederate flag bandanna he’d tied into a do-rag made it hard to be sure.  He blinked to make sure his vision wasn’t faulty; the dude had the word “revenge” tattooed on the left side of his neck.  The irregular spacing of the letters made it obvious that he hadn’t paid a licensed tattoo parlor for that thing.

The clerk really, really wanted this guy outta the shop.  “Show ya somethin’?” he asked, moving forward, determined to flush him out.  Much to his surprise, it appeared to be a normal transaction.

“Yeah, man,” the punk said levelly, “I wanna see this shank right here.”  He pointed at the most wicked-looking knife in the case.  The clerk bent down and, unlocking the back of the display case, extracted the knife.

“It’s a bowie combat knife,” the clerk said, reading the handwritten tag attached to the hilt with a loop of string.  “Total length seventeen inches, blade length twelve inches.  Stainless steel blade with double-serrated back edge.”  He placed it on the counter between them.  “Dude, this thing can seriously fuck someone up.”

The young man—he looked like a gangbanger to the clerk—grinned at the words.  “How much?” he drawled.  The price was marked on the tag; the clerk shoved it over.  “Ten bucks?  Sure, I’ll take it.”  He’d been given two twenties and a ten; he handed over the ten and walked out with a vicious lethal weapon, no questions asked.

Stooping just outside the pawn shop door, Carlos hoisted the leg of his jeans and slipped the evil-looking shank into his right boot.

He finally felt free again.  Now, he needed prey.  Time to hit up his old hunting grounds.

The neighborhood had changed since he’d been inside.  The piano bar where the rich old fat faggots hung out was gone; now it was some kinda hookah/vapor lounge.  Carlos snorted disgustedly.  He’d have been able to snag a soft and weak old homo there and get as much money as he needed.  Damn.

Turning into a side street, he noticed sleazy dive bar where he’d picked up dudes in the past.  It was dark, with strippers and a small dance floor, but most of the action was on the back patio.  Might be worth a shot.

He should have known—middle of a weekday afternoon, the bar was dead.  A rancid old troll sat on the far side, leering at the bartender and everyone else in the room—which consisted of exactly Carlos at the moment.  Quickly ordering a beer, he grabbed the bottle and stepped out onto the covered patio, about sixty square feet surrounded by a privacy fence and filled with picnic tables.

To his surprise, the patio bar was open as well.  Several of the tables were occupied—hustlers and tricks, mostly.  A couple of strung-out twink couples looking around furtively before hitting glass straights.  The sweet vanilla scent of crack wafted briefly in front of Carlos.

Sighing dispiritedly, he sat at a table near the bar, nursing his beer.  Nothing worthwhile here but maybe if he held out long enough, something might show up—hopefully he could drag out his cash long enough.

The afternoon crept slowly by.  The patio’s cover had ceiling fans; their lazy revolutions did little to combat the oppressive heat.  Carlos’s thick, tattooed arms were soon shiny with sweat.  He was getting hot, in several senses—the most influential of which was anger.  He began to eye some of the other dudes on the patio, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t slip out and wait for one to leave alone, just to take the edge off things…

That was when Chad walked in.  Carlos didn’t know his name at that moment, of course, but he soon learned it.  Chad was friendly with the bartender, and Carlos was close enough to eavesdrop.

Most of the conversation consisted of bragging; Chad was evidently a mid-level whore.  He was flirting with the bartender but was evidently more than the dude could afford.  At the moment, he was describing how much cash he’d gotten paid for a sleazy photo shoot—which explained his clothing.

The hustler had a swimmer’s build with slim but firm muscles, his body lean without being scrawny.  His face was shadowed with copper-colored hair, the same new-penny shade covering his goatee and beard.  His eyes, slightly almond-shaped, were bright green rimmed with long dark lashes.  Above the red scruff, the rentboy’s face was youthful; he was probably no older than twenty-one or –two, but he looked considerably younger. He got relentlessly carded—occasionally even here in his regular hangout, by new employees.

He detailed his spread to the bartender—he’d been paid $500 to dress up like a skate punk and let pics get taken as he stripped.  The photog had even slipped him a little X to get him into the mood.  Chad was still riding high and wanting to get fucked.

And since he’d come straight to the bar instead of going home first, he was still dressed the part.  A white ball cap with the letters “L.A.” embroidered on it didn’t quite hide short hair the same bright red as his facial scruff.   He wore an open sky blue short-sleeve dress shirt unbuttoned over a tight black t-shirt.  The t-shirt had a smiley face with a blood-spattered bullet hole in the center of the forehead.

Chad had slipped on his tightest pair of skinny jeans for the gig; they were so revealing he’d only gotten them in black.  The seam in the seat parted his smooth asscheeks perfectly; as the seam ran down to his groin, it massaged his bare taint.  Even with the black shade of the fabric, it was clear to anyone who looked closely—and Carlos was looking closely—that the kid was commando under the thin layer of denim.  The jeans clung tightly to his legs all the way down to his skate kicks, shiny red leather shoes with laces the same bright blue as his dress shirt.

“So what ya gonna do now?” the bartender asked.  It should have been obvious; Chad had downed four shots of peach schnapps while gloating.  At least he was honest.  “Gonna get fucked up an’ get fucked, man…” he slurred.

The door to the bar opened and the inside bartender leaned out.  “Hey, Jack, we gotta delivery comin’ in.  Boss wants ya to handle it while I keep the inside runnin’.  C’mon, man, they can come in for refills till ya get back.”

The bartender grinned sheepishly at Chad before slipping away.  The slut had managed to get a fifth shot from him before he’d gone.  Wheeling around on the barstool, Chad glanced around the patio and had already thrown back his shot before his sodden brain processed the information.

When it did, he focused instantly on Carlos.

Chad had always had a fascination with rough trade.  It was a rarely-satisfied curiosity, though; Chad got fucked for money and most of the really dangerous-looking ones—the ones that made his seven-inch dick get hard when he looked at them—didn’t have the money.  And if they didn’t pay, they didn’t play.

But right now, things were different.  He was flush with cash—and not being the type to save money when his slim, youthful body was still so much in demand, he felt free to indulge himself.  The fact that he was drunk didn’t impinge on his awareness at all; the alcohol had swept up over him all at once.

The dude at the table closest to him was staring at him.  He had dark eyes, a black goatee, a body—holy shit, what a body—colored with tattoos.  Chad felt almost embarrassed by his single tattoo—Chinese characters running down the inside of his right arm the last two ideograms visible just below the cuff of his shirt.  He was such poser; he didn’t even know what it actually meant…

He somehow managed to get off the barstool without falling.  Walking confidently towards the dude—that bandanna; was he a fuckin’ skinhead?  He looks Mexican—Chad was utterly unaware of how badly he was staggering.

Carlos was, though.  He grinned.  Fuckin’ queerboy couldn’t hold his liquor, fuckin’ pansy-ass schnapps.  This was gonna be almost too easy.

Good.  He could take his time.  He could make it hurt.  He could inflict extended suffering on this faggot and wallow in the nightmarish agony he could wield.

Smiling warmly, he motioned Chad over.  “Have a seat, man.”

The slim rentboy slid unsteadily into the chair, almost overbalancing himself.  He slapped his red skate sneakers down hard onto the patio to keep from falling, his face beaming with a goofy grin the entire time.  When he finally got planted to his own satisfaction, he glanced up into the rough trade’s face.

“I’m Chad,” he slurred.  “Whass yer name?  Whatcha into?”

“Carlos,” the well-built tough said quietly.  “I’m looking for a bitch who can take my dick.  That you?”

Chad’s shaft started to swell at the sound of Carlos’s low, deep voice.  He tried to focus blurrily on the dude, but found himself shying away from the piercing stare in the cold black eyes.  The rough guy was only about five years older than him at most, but there was something about him that seemed to assume control of the situation.  High and drunk as he was, Chad new that this fella would be doing the driving, so to speak.

The thought got Chad even harder.

“Yeah,” he hiccupped, “yeah, thatss me.  Won’t even charge ya, Carlosh.  C’mon, stud, you can bang the fuck outta me back at my place—if yer up for it.  Less go, dude, lessee if ya can give me what I want and make it hurt.”

In a more sober state, Chad would have spoken more clearly, but just as directly.  He expected the guys who fucked him to be up to the task—and as more cocks got shoved up his hole, the bigger the task tended to be.  The only thing unusual in Chad’s comment was the lack of financial settlement; he normally settled the fee before taunting the trick.  But this one would be for fun, on his own time.

The patio had a one-way gate, exit only, which led to the parking lot in the rear.  After some difficulty navigating the exit, Chad stumbled into the lot and began fishing for his keys.  In his uncoordinated state, it took him a while to retrieve them, which was why he didn’t notice that it had taken several minutes for Carlos to follow him out.  Long enough, in fact, that no one on the patio had realized they’d left together.

As he yanked the keys out of the pocket of his incredibly tight jeans, they snagged on the fabric and he dropped them.  As he stood, swaying and looking dumbly down at them, Carlos swooped in and snatched them from the ground.

“I’ll drive, dude,” he muttered—little motherfuckin’ queer was way too trashed for Carlos to voluntarily sit in the passenger seat.

Chad shrugged.  “Sure, whatevs, man—it’s that one there.”

He pointed to a white Mustang convertible with red pinstriping.  The car was several years old and looked it; there were numerous small dings and scrapes but nothing major.  Part of the roof had a duct tape repair.  Carlos noted the car had paper tags.

Chad confirmed it.  “Just bought it last week—whaddaya think, huh?  Pretty sweet ride, huh?  I can tell ya, it hauls ass.”

Carlos unlocked it with the fob and slid into the driver’s seat; Chad fell in heavily next to him.  The car reeked of weed, french fries, and cheap floral air freshener.  “Take a left out the lot,” Chad said uncertainly but surprisingly clearly, “and the next left—no, wait, right.  Then second left.  It’s the De Gama Apartments; you can park in the back.”

Carlos had them there within three minutes; the place was literally walking distance from the bar.  Chad almost went to his knees crawling out of the passenger seat, but once upright, he was able to walk more or less in a straight line.  Handing him back the keys, Carlos followed him into the open breezeway of the building to the immediate left.  Chad’s apartment was first on the right.

Carlos found himself stepping into a dark, tiny efficiency apartment.  The single window was covered with blinds and had a blanket draped over the brackets holding the blinds; it let in no light whatsoever—and very little in the way of sound.

Chad turned on the overhead light to reveal the fact that he lived like a pig.  Carlos, long since used to a routine that had forced him to clean his cell on a daily basis, felt a thrill of disgust as he scanned the room.

It wasn’t that it filled with filth; but it was strewn with dirty clothing, much of it—judging by the smell—soaked with semen.  The tiny alcove that served as a kitchen didn’t need a lot to make it look cluttered; the empty glasses and liquor bottles on the two square feet of countertop sufficed.

The obscured window looked into the breezeway; in front of it was one of the few quality items in the unit—a 40-inch LCD television (the other item was a laptop barely visible on the floor under a pair of used briefs).  There was a cable box, a cable modem and an older Xbox on the lower level of the TV stand.

Opposite the TV was the bed with a nightstand on each side.  Carlos had to blink at it a couple of times before he realized it was an unfolded futon; it doubled as a sofa.  This dude was such a whore he never bother to put the bed away…

There was a cheap dresser next to the TV and past the kitchen were a couple of doors; presumably bathroom and closet.  The entire place couldn’t have been more than four hundred square feet.

And it reeked.  The funk of cigarette smoke, weed, incense, and sex was almost thick enough to be visible.

Chad chuckled drunkenly as he staggered forward and tried to smooth the twisted and stained sheets.  After a few fraught seconds, he gave it up as a bad job and sat on the edge of the thin foam mattress.  He glanced up at Carlos’s face, grinned, and started slipping off his blue dress shirt.

Tossing it on the floor, he stood up slowly.  He haltingly pulled the black tee with the shot smiley face up over his head, swaying alarmingly as he did so.  Carlos’s eye glittered as Chad revealed his leanly-muscled chest.  This shirt went on the floor as well, just as Chad lost his balance and fell back into a sitting position on the futon again.

He didn’t notice the narrowing of Carlos’s eyes.  The convict felt his cock straining in his jeans.  Another thing he could feel was the knife; much taller than the boot he’d hidden it in, the hilt was pressing into the side of his lower leg, a slight sensation of discomfort that made him both angrier and harder.  He shifted slightly and heard something crunch under his bootheel.

Looking down, he saw he’d shattered the case for one of the Xbox games—Call of Duty.  As he glanced around, he noticed the floor littered with cases and discs, some partially hidden under clothes.  Mixed with the games was a sizable collection of porn.  Judging by the titles, the slut liked it rough and raw.

Chad hadn’t heard the sound—he’d flopped onto his back and was running his fingertips up and down his slim, smooth chest, humming contentedly.  Carlos had been right in his assessment; he was drunkenly anticipating a long hard punkfuck by a hot, built gangbanger who could hold him down and ream him till he screamed.

That was exactly what he was gonna get—although when it happened, he wouldn’t be in a position to appreciate the gratification of his lust.  Taking advantage of Chad’s preoccupation, Carlos slipped off his own tight t-shit.  Quietly approaching the futon, he tossed it on the end table on the right side before Chad heard him and sat up.

He almost gasped at Carlos’s body.  Sweat gleamed off his muscular chest like a sheen of oil.  Across his left pectoral, just to the right of the large nipple, was another tattoo.  This one was also inexpertly done but very detailed; a grim reaper figure that carried not a scythe but an AK-47.  Under the figure was the phrase “Die, Motherfucker, Die!”

The wiry black fuzz that began on his broad chest thickened as it flowed down his washboard abs to his firm, flat belly.  The dark trail was cut off by the jeans and thick leather belt at Carlos’s waist.

The con could see the effect he was having on the whore; Chad’s skinny jeans bulged in the crotch as his eyes light up with lust; drunk as he was, the ecstasy was still having some effect.  He decided it was time to get started.  Reaching his hand up to his neck, he unconsciously scratched at the tattoo that said “revenge”.

“C’mon, punk, let’s see what ya got.  Show me your fuckhole, bitch.  NOW, goddamit!” he barked.

For a split second, Chad’s face registered the same shock as if he’d been slapped.  Then it vanished into a salacious grin as he scrambled to his feet.  “Yessir,” he panted, unbuckling his belt and worming the skin-tight denim down his firm legs.  His long dick—his moneymaker—flopped out stiffly, the slit at the tip of the swollen head glistening.

The jeans hit the floor on top of his bright red sneakers.  As he bent to remove them, Carlos abruptly shoved him back onto the bed.  “Just like that, bitch, I’m gonna plow your hole just like that.  Stay there like a good dog.”

Chad remained on his back, panting with anticipation as Carlos unfastened the brass buckle on his leather belt.  Unbuttoning and unzipping his crotch, he had to put in as much effort to get the jeans off as Chad had his; they were even tighter than the whore’s had been.

Underneath, he was bare; he’d gotten rid of the cheap thin skivvies the prison has issued him on his release.  He’d stopped in the first public restroom he could find and tossed them in the garbage.  Even though he tried to ignore it, he couldn’t help but notice the rust-colored stain of dried blood that had leaked from his violated ass.  Now, as the image flashed across his mind again, a red fog of fury rose behind his eyes.

Out in front, his cock rose as well.

Chad had a big dick.  Carlos’s was monstrous.  Chad’s eyes opened wide; even in his drugged haze, the kid was aware of how much this would hurt.  At the same time, seven inches of vein-wrapped flesh began to rise in his groin.  It was gonna hurt—and that turned him on.

He wanted it rough, and he was gonna get it rough.  In fact, it was gonna be fuckin’ brutal—starting now.

Carlos couldn’t wait anymore; mounting rage led to mounting and rape.  Placing his hard, rough hands on Chad’s smooth inner thighs, he forced them apart and thrust his thick, muscled body between them.  Both men has their jeans around their ankles.  For Carlos, it was a matter of expediency.  For Chad, it was a matter of bondage.  The scary-looking dude was suddenly right on top of him and he couldn’t move his legs.  He didn’t resist, though; so far, his most erotic fantasy was coming true.

Of course, he’d never noticed the knife rising out of Carlos’s boot.  And the way he was positioned now, he couldn’t see it. The rough ex-con reached down to aim his dick up the slut’s fuckhole—but before he did, he moved his hand a bit lower and grabbed the hilt of the blade, just to make sure it was still in reach.

After all, he didn’t want to be searching for it later.  Ruins the mood.

In his anger, it was the only thing he checked on; brandishing his massive rod like a weapon, he plowed it deeply into Chad’s rectum with no warning whatsoever.  There was no hint of what was happening, and no lube.  Chad wasn’t used to the lack of either, but it was the latter that had the greatest impact, in several senses of the word.

The pain tore through the drunken haze filling his weak, drugged mind.  It didn’t sober him, exactly, but it did make him aware that this might not be as fun as he’d thought—and that he was too fucked up to handle things if it went out of control.

It was a cardinal rule of whoredom.  Always be aware of the situation; always have a way out.  Most of Chad’s clients were middle-aged suburban men who found his slim, boyish body irresistible.  He’d never dealt with someone truly dangerous.  And this was fun, not business.  He’d let his guard down, but the thought was slow in processing, and the possible consequences hadn’t yet occurred to him.

What had occurred, however, was a horrible tearing sensation in his colon, a flaming, white-hot sheet of pain that evoked a shrill scream and an attempt to push Carlos off him.  “Bitch, I ain’t takin’ your shit,” Carlos snarled, “shut the fuck up, faggot, and take my cock—and if ya don’t, I’ll fuckin’ make ya.”

With another violent thrust, the muscular convict buried his tool in Chad’s fuckhole to the root.  Used and abused as the rentboy’s puckered asshole was, Carlos managed to stretch it past its prior limits, literally tearing the muscle in one place and the rectal lining in another.

Chad eyes went wide with shock; it hurt so bad his logic shorted out for a moment and he had a vivid mental image of a cactus shoved up his ass before he began to shriek at the top of his lungs.  It lasted less than a second; Carlos donkey-punched Chad in the jaw, putting out his lights.

“Worthless piece a’ shit, told ya I’d make ya shut up,” he whispered sneeringly at the limp form beneath him, the lithe body jerking unconsciously with each thrust of Carlos’s hips.  After about thirty seconds, the boy’s long lashes began to flutter.  Parting his swollen, split lips, he let out a gagging, guttural moan.

Carlos slipped his right hand down to his leg and carefully slid the knife out of his boot.  He placed it on Chad’s flat smooth belly; it was too large for the slut’s heaving gasps of breath to dislodge.  Still in the process of regaining consciousness, Chad was too dazed to notice the huge blade lying on his abdomen.    As his eyes focused on the sweaty, muscular chest in front of him, the rentboy’s awareness resurfaced in a torrent of verbal abuse from the convict.

“Stupid fuckin’ faggot, actin’ like you ain’t never had a dick up your worn-out fuckhole,” Carlos hissed viciously into the boy’s stunned, terrified face, “you squeal like a pig, ya know that?  Just like a motherfuckin’ queer-ass cocksucking pig!”

Chad was still high, still drunk—but it wasn’t fun anymore.  He wasn’t able to think clearly; all he knew was that this hot stud seemed to hate him and was hurting him more than he’d thought possible.  The drug had intensified his sensations; it was as if every vein wrapped around Carlos’s enormous shaft was barbed wire slashing at his torn sphincter.

The con was holding the slut down by pinning his shoulders to the thin foam mattress but Chad managed to wriggle out from under.  Still bleating in agony, he started clawing and beating at his assailant, making shallow scratches on the brutal killer’s hairy chest.  As he struggled, the knife slid off his belly but in his frantic, futile attempt to climb off the rod impaling his ass, he had yet to realize it was there.  The pain was just too intense for him to notice much else.

“What’s the matter, bitch, my dick ain’t enough?  Ya want somethin’ else shoved inside ya?” Carlos snarled.  Grunting in anger, he grabbed Chad’s flailing arms and held both wrists together in one hand above the boy’s head, immobilizing him.  He needed to get the cunt’s attention—time for show and tell.  With his other hand, he reached for the knife.

Carlos held the long, evil-looking blade in front of Chad’s bewildered eyes.  As the boy froze in shock, the con released his arms and clamped his hand over the slut’s mouth.   Leaning forward until their faces were a foot apart, he bought the knife between them so it almost filled Chad’s field of vision.  He couldn’t look away.

As Carlos whispered to him, Chad was unable to take his eyes off the gleaming steel blade, as if he was hypnotized by the razor-sharp edge and the double-serrated tip.  “Yeah, bitch, look at it,” the muscled killer murmured, “imagine what it’s gonna feel like inside ya.  It’s gonna feel fuckin’ great to me, I can tell ya.  I seen this inside, dude.  Guy got done like this.  It hurts bad, man, it hurts so fuckin’ bad you tighten up and milk the cum outta my cock.  And if I do it right, I can make it last a long time.  So get ready, you worthless faggot—it’s your lucky day; you’re gonna get all kinda long hard shafts stuck inside ya!”

Chad’s mind was a clean white sheet of panic, useless and helpless.  Tears welled from his large eyes and trickled down his cheeks into his copper-colored scruff.  His full, swollen lips trembled under Carlos’s excruciating grip as he began to blubber, a low keening sound grating to the nerves.  His own long dick, protruding limply from a tangle of strawberry-red hair, wasn’t hard enough to prevent pure terror forcing out a couple of trickles of piss that ran warmly down the boy’s smooth sides.

“Ready to get it on?” Carlos grinned.  “Ready for me to show ya what I think you disgusting faggots are worth?  Time for some fun, cunt!”

He lay his massive bulk on top of Chad’s slim body, feeling it wriggle in terror under him, slipping across his muscled form on a film of sweat and piss.  He kept his left hand tightly and painfully clamped over the whore’s mouth while with his right, he pressed the knife into the boy’s side, just below the armpit.  Applying just enough pressure to break the skin, he slowly drew the blade downward, tracing a long, oozing line of red down the kid’s smooth, heaving flank.

Chad closed his eyes tightly and tried to turn away; the hand that gripped his face like an iron vise didn’t let him move far.  He could feel the icy slice moving down his body and he knew that when it stopped—but he wasn’t able to think past that point.

He didn’t have to.  Carlos grinned evilly as he slowly brought the knife back up, cutting a little deeper this time.  Watching Chad wince in pain, he grunted and shoved his dick further up the boy’s ass, enjoying the muffled squeal he elicited.  Then he pulled the knife back and started touching the tip to the bitch’s side at random.  “Eeney, meeney, miney, moe,” he whispered, “catch a tiger—“  He shoved the blade in up to the hilt, burying all twelve inches of sharpened steel in Chad’s guts with a wet squelching sound.

The jagged serrations on both sides of the tip sliced through Chad’s tender flesh like soft butter.  The blade had entered his left side, just below the ribcage.  Slashing through the descending colon and a twisted mass of small intestine, the knife was rammed in on a slightly upward angle, shearing through the transverse colon and slicing the pancreas.  Before the sharp steel tip stopped moving, it had punctured Chad’s gall bladder and embedded itself in his liver.

And yet no major blood vessels had been hit.  The wound wasn’t immediately fatal—just horrifically painful.

Chad shuddered in shock, his wide eyes ringed with purple circles of agony.  A foot of cold steel had been shoved into his torso; the white-hot flame of agony was all-powerful.  What Carlos had said was true—he stiffened involuntarily; his muscles tightening on their own.  It made things worse; as his abdominal muscles clenched, they closed in on the knife, causing it to slice open the wound even wider on its own.

“Fuck yeah, homo, now you’re gettin’ it,” sighed Carlos.  “Goddam, guess that’s what it takes to get you stupid fuckin’ faggots to work a dick right—gotta stick ya like a pig.  That it, cunt?  That what ya like, you sick fuckin’ pansy?”

Chad barely heard the words; his world had become the flaming lance upon which he was impaled; the only other thing that worked its way through the agony was the tightening of his muscles—that had to be it, that had to be why his dick was getting hard, his muscles were sealing the blood flow into his painfully erect tool, that was OH HOLY FUCK—

Grabbing the handle, Carlos had twisted the blade ninety degrees.  As the tip rotated within the wound, the serrations on each side carved strips from Chad’s organs, shredding parts of his liver, pancreas and intestines.  With whip-like speed, the convict jerked the knife out of the whore’s quivering body.  A trickle of blood flowed from the small gash in the kid’s side, but most of the damage was internal.  Chad’s gall bladder was destroyed.

As the lean, smooth youth writhed in nightmarish agony on Carlos’s cock, his mangled sphincter desperately grabbing at the muscled killer’s tool, the con spit into the sobbing slut’s face before holding the knife up to him again.  Drops of his own blood spattered Chad’s cheeks; where they hit his beard, they made circles of crimson on the copper.

“Look at it, cocksucker,” Carlos snarled viciously.  “Ya like it when dude stick things in ya, you fuckin’ faggot, huh?  Ya like what I’m stickin’ in ya?  Look at the blade, you goddam homo cunt, lookit yer guts hangin’ in strings off my fuckin’ knife.  Fuck yeah, you ain’t dead yet, bitch.  I’m gonna make you hurt a whole fuckin’ lot more before you die.  Watch this, fag, you’re gonna love this shit!”

Lifting himself up off the rentboy’s twitching, sweat-smeared body, Carlos drew his arm back and plunged the knife down vertically, the blade sinking straight into Chad’s flat, smooth belly.  The redhead’s eyes widened to a grotesque extent as the blade again tore through his intestines, this time front to back.  The blade was longer than Chad’s torso was deep, it utterly impaled him, coming out his back and cutting several inches into the foam mattress.

Carlos’s left hand had come away from the rentboy’s mouth, but by this time it didn’t matter.  Chad gave an incoherent grunt of pain—“hoog!”—before sinking into a shuddering gasp.  He was past the point of consciously calling for help; his entire existence was now simply reaction to pain.

Part of the pain was in his dick.  It was harder that it had ever been, not that he was in a position to compare—but it was so hard it hurt.  He was well-endowed, nowhere near as big as the horse dick plugging his rectum, but too big for comfort at the moment.  As his long hard hog lay along his belly, the engorged purple head was scraping against the blade embedded in his belly.

In some malignant way, Carlos’s chuckle wormed its way through to Chad’s awareness.  He knew this tattooed roughneck was both amused and aroused by his pain.  As icy despair enveloped his shallow soul, Chad knew he’d be giving his killer exactly what he wanted as he died.  He’d be in too much pain to resist.  He’d die in horrible pain while his killer contemptuously used his convulsing rectum as a disposable sex toy.

In a defiant act of denial, the whore, realizing his arms were free, began to claw at Carlos’s face.  His manicured nails dug into the convict’s scruff-covered cheeks as the boy gasped and squealed uncontrollably.

“You goddam faggot,” Carlos growled flatly, “here, maybe this’ll shut your worthless ass up, huh?”  Yanking the long knife out of Chad’s stomach, he slammed it into the right side of the kid’s smooth chest.  The blade sliced through the boy’s broad, flat pectoral muscle between two ribs before it punctured the right lung and embedded itself into a rib in the slut’s back.

Carlos held the shuddering youth tightly to him, feeling the rentboy’s agony ripple through his lithe lean body in waves, each one convulsing Chad’s colon and sending a thrill of pleasure along the convict’s cock.  Again, he twisted the knife in the wound before yanking it back out, a long spurt of blood following the blade up out of the body.

He’d created a sucking chest wound.  The rest of the bleeding was internal.  Chad was sweating and quivering, his eyes wide and fixed as physical and electrochemical shock overwhelmed him.  The massive internal trauma he’d suffered was starting to catch up to him; damaged organs were leaking not just blood but hormones and enzymes into his abdominal cavity.

He wanted to plead, to beg for his life, not realizing that he was past saving by this point.  But it was moot; he still rigid from the physical shock, his body stiff and shuddering—and his cock.  It had something to do with the searing burning pain in his ass—some part of him remembered the alpha stud on top of him, this was his cock, he was gonna make his erotic fantasy come true…

The rage-filled killer leered at Chad’s bewildered expression.  There was a truly undeserving look of innocent appeal that made him even more contemptuous; his spit into the suffering cunt’s face again.  Chad was gasping, his face turning blue as his lung collapsed.  Suddenly, he jerked, his smooth firm legs wrapping tightly around Carlos’s waist, his red leather sneakers quivering in the air as gargling sound filled his throat.  His body strained momentarily, causing his dick to rise up and slap the con’s hairy chest, then a bubble of blood burst in his mouth.

Chad continued to jerk and cough, trickles of blood leaking from each corner of his mouth and winding its way through his curly red beard.  He was sweating profusely, his hair so dark with moisture its color was now hard to discern.

Carlos hadn’t done this before.  He’d seen dudes snuffed in jail, but the one he’d killed had been in anger.

He had no idea how good it’d feel.  And somehow, he knew exactly what to do—and when to do it.

He knew they were entering the home stretch when Chad began tensing rhythmically with each wheezing, desperate breath.  The bitch was losing too much blood.  Time to shift gears.

“Ok, homo, time for me to cum and you to go.  I’m sure they’ll slap a coat of paint on this shithole after they haul your rotting, spunk-filled corpse outta here.  That’s about all anyone’s gonna care about a cocksucking faggot whore who took the wrong trick home and got himself offed.  Just so you know, you queer piece of shit, ain’t no one gonna care how much it hurts or how scared you were.  The only one who cares is me.  And for me, more is better.”

Chad continued to shudder, his eyes losing focus and rolling back momentarily before he clawed his way back to consciousness, grimly hanging on to life despite the agonizing pain of each passing moment.  There was still enough of him left to feel the sadistic con’s engorged rod plunging deep into his battered and torn rectum.

Each breath was a struggle against the crushing pain of his collapsed lung, an uphill fight that left him weak.  Chad’s world had shrunk to a tunnel view of Carlos’s muscular chest; on the side of the pec, past the wiry hair, he again caught the words “Die, Motherfucker, Die!” on the tattoo.  Everything else was blinding white-hot pain.  Even his huge cock was so hard it seemed to be on fire.

In a way, Chad was at peace; he was experiencing the worst and it would soon be over.

He was only half right.

Carlos looked down into the ginger’s face, blue from limited oxygen.  “Useless goddam faggot, you still ain’t made me cum.  You homos make me so fuckin’ sick; you lure us straight guys in and somehow it’s our fault when we gotta teach you cunts a lesson. I went to jail for the last one, but I ain’t goin’ back cause of you.  Gonna take your cash and that piece of shit car you’re so proud of and by the time anyone bothers to check on your subhuman ass, you’re gonna be so rotten they ain’t gonna be able to tell what happen to ya for sure!”

Panting with rage and lust, Carlos held the knife up and looked at it, a terrifying glint of eagerness lighting his eyes as he gazed at the strings of flesh still caught in the serrations.  His hard body heaved, his bulging arms glistened with sweat.  The word “revenge” on his neck had actually been tattooed across his carotid; it throbbed with his racing pulse.  The Confederate flag bandanna wrapped around his shaved head was dark with sweat.

Carlos fixed his icy gaze on Chad’s dazed, half-lidded eyes.  “When we met, you told me you wanted it to hurt,” he hissed.  Inhaling deeply, he spat another wad of phlegm into the slut’s blue, tear-stained face.  “Does it hurt enough yet?  What’s that?  I can’t hear you, you motherfuckin’ piece a’ shit, so I’m gonna take that as a no.  Ok, wow, you really like it the hard way, huh?  Good, all of ya faggots deserve this much pain; glad ya realize it.  Ok, cocksucker, if ya want it to hurt, this is really gonna make you blow your cumsucking load!”

A lot happened in the next few seconds.

It started with Carlos’s left hand.  He placed it on the crown of Chad’s head, digging his fingers into the short wiry hair on his scalp like a handful of copper wires.  His right hand flashed up in a blur, shoving the blade up under Chad’s jaw, behind the chin.

Pressing down on Chad’s head with his left hand and shoving up with his right, he managed to slowly force the length of steel blade into the rentboy’s head.  The tip sliced slowly, excruciatingly up through the bottom of the jaw into the mouth.  Pinning the slut’s tongue to the roof of his mouth, it continued up through the soft palate at the top of the mouth into the sinuses.

The helpless youth kicked his feet convulsively in the air, his sneakers jerking as his body shuddered in incomprehensible agony.  Some part of him could hear, could feel his septum and the base of the cranium crunch and shatter as the knife continued its inexorable climb…

And then, nothing.  There are no nerve endings in the brain.  Chad wasn’t aware of the parts of his cerebrum that were destroyed as the knife passed through; he felt a twinge of pain as it punctured the dura and dug the tip into the inside of his cranium.

He felt an irrational and truly amazing sensation from his cock.  He didn’t know the blade had sliced through and short-circuited the pleasure center of his brain; he only knew that he was in more pain than humanly possible—and that he wanted to cum so bad…

That was when Carlos pulled his hands in different directions; the one in the hair pulling left while the one holding the knife impaling the cunt’s head pulling right.  In the blink of an eye, the convict had snapped Chad’s neck, completely severing the head from the spine.

The whore’s nervous system, already primed by the faulty signals from the brain, went into overload when the spinal column was mangled.  The smooth lean body again went rigid and quivered, but this time with an intensity far beyond anything it had displayed before.  The rentboy’s rectum clutched Carlos’s shaft desperately, like a drowning man.  The dying fag’s cock stood up.  It hesitated for a moment, throbbing and pulsating, before it began to pump out a steady stream of semen in a single ropy strand that splattered Carlos’s chest and smeared the dark fur on his buff torso.

With a loud, guttural grunt, Carlos felt himself pump his burning load into the dead whore’s guts; the convulsing slut still milking his hot spunk out of his shaft.  “Goddam faggot!” he snarled as he shot his wad, “fuckin’ die, you worthless cumsuckin’ homo!”  As he yelled, he felt himself shoot even harder; it didn’t matter if the motherfucker was already dead or not.

Carlos held on to the twitching, jerking corpse for a while longer before pulling out.  This process had to be done twice—once with his dick and once with his blade.  Then he was free to wriggle out from between the kid’s quivering thighs.

Carlos strolled to the bathroom and tried the sink.  The hot water was really, really hot.  That was good.  He soaked a hand towel and wiped himself down, then used the same towel to clean the blade.  When he was done, he left it in the sink under running water for a while.

Pulling up his jeans, he began a careful search of the room, starting with Chad’s clothes.  He found $460 in the wallet plus change from the booze he’d bought.  He also snagged the car keys.  A quick glance around showed nothing else unusual—besides the bleeding corpse of the boy sprawled nude on the bed, his jeans around his ankles, that is.

He grabbed his shirt off the nightstand next to the futon—but before putting it on, he looked into the kitchen.  There he did see something unusual.  In the midst of liquor bottles and fast food wrappers was a flour canister.  Opening it, he saw that there really was flour inside.  And under the flour was a baggie with $3500 in it.

Score.

Carlos dressed quickly.  Lifting the corner of the blanket, he peered out from behind the window blinds.  No one in the breezeway, no one in the parking lot.  Perfect.

His boots seemed to thump loudly on the pavement as he crossed the asphalt to the Mustang, but he didn’t worry about it.  He’d be past the state line by midnight.  And he had enough money now to last a while.  Well, at least till he found another victim.

Threesome

Travis took a huge swig of Jack before handing the bottle to Ryan and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, Ryan turned around and passed the bottle to Justin in the back seat. Justin returned the favor by handing Ryan the joint he’d just rolled.

“This weed’s pretty weak,” commented Justin after he’d swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey, “but we should be able to afford some good shit once we get paid.”

“Gotta do the work to get paid,” replied Travis. “Don’t get too fucked up. Sanchez said there might be some trouble tonight. Dunno what he’s heard, but he’ll treat us right if we keep everyone away from his field. And you know Sanchez’s weed is good. I got half an ounce in my boot now. We keep an eye on his grow operation and he’ll make sure we got plenty to smoke. Now shut up and let me drive. These logging trails are fuckin’ hell.”

Travis leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out the next turn the dirt road made. Travis was about twenty-five with long brown hair and a mean look on his acne-scarred face. He wore a black leather aviator’s jacket over a white t-shirt. His tight, ripped jeans were tucked into a pair of black harness boots, where a baggie of pot pressed against his ankle.

Travis was the town “problem”. Dropped out of school at sixteen, got by by selling drugs and doing odd jobs. He’d tried the biker lifestyle for about three days before he got so drunk he managed to end up ditching in the river. He never could remember how he’d done it, but he couldn’t afford another bike, so that was it for his crotch-rocket days.

Of course Ryan and Justin had gravitated towards him; he was their epitome of Cool. Ryan was twenty-one, with dark curly hair and a tuft on his chin that he thought of as a goatee. He wore a black t-shirt and gray jeans, with a white baseball cap. The work boots on his feet were clean because he didn’t do any work. He still lived with his folks, decent working-class people who had no idea that their son was a waste. He lived with them and ate their food, but he didn’t ask them for money because he got most of what he wanted by theft.

Justin, in the back seat, was the youngest at nineteen. He had more of a skater-rat look, with wavy auburn hair, skinny jeans and a hoodie, red skate shoes on his feet. He was nothing more than a small-time delinquent trying to gain some street cred by hanging around the local toughs.

They were headed out to Sanchez’s field—actually, a small clearing in the state forest. Sanchez had been growing his weed there for a while, using random occasional labor—Travis had done a lot of it; Sanchez had been his supplier for quite a while now.

Tonight, Sanchez had asked Travis to round up a couple of guys and keep an eye on the field. He didn’t say why. Evidently he had heard something—Travis thought it likely that a rival was going to make a move. He didn’t know what to expect, but he didn’t expect much. He’d chased off other growers before; they were pussies. Nothing to break a sweat over.

None of them knew they were going to die in excruciating pain in a very short time.

At a seemingly random place in the road, Travis pulled over and shut off the car (Ryan’s mother’s car, borrowed for the evening). They all got out. Travis turned to Justin.

“Dude, you stay here. Text me if you see or hear anything. We’re gonna go keep an eye on the field itself. You set up ok?”

Justin, who’d rolled himself three joints out of Travis’ stash, nodded. Travis and Ryan turned away and disappeared into the trees on the west side of the road. Justin leaned back against the car, fired up one of the jays and slipped his earphones in. In no time at all, he was groovin’ and flyin’, utterly unaware that he was being sized up for a kill.


The mercenaries crept forward silently, keeping their focus on the road. They had been hired to destroy a marijuana grow op. They were prepared to terminate any defense they encountered, by whatever means necessary.

There were two mercs, in black body suits and hoods, black tactical boots, black camo on their faces—absolutely invisible in the shadows of the forest. They had approached through the woods from the next logging road to the east, three miles as the crow flies. Justin was the first guard they came across and they were gonna make damn sure he didn’t have the chance to alert anyone.


 

Travis and Ryan split up when they reached the field. Ryan stayed on the east side of the field, closest to the road. Travis made sure Ryan was set up well and had a couple of jays tucked inside his boot too. The he made his way across to the west side. The clearing extended to a couple of acres, so when Travis got to the far side, he was some distance from Ryan.

Each of them was going to die alone.


Even if he hadn’t been rocking out, it’s unlikely Justin would have heard the faint crunch of the merc’s rubber-soled boot as he approached from behind. The kid had just taken a lung-busting hit off his joint when a kick to the back of his knee brought him down. A hand in a black leather fingerless glove clamped down over his forehead, middle fingers digging into Justin’s eyes. He gasped as his head was yanked back sharply.

He didn’t get the chance to exhale before the seven-inch serrated steel blade ripped his throat open.

Justin stiffened as the knife slashed mercilessly though his flesh and into his larynx. His involuntary scream of agony became a bubbling hiss, the coppery smell of blood blending in with the sweet scent of the smoke that had been trapped in the boy’s lungs and was now escaping through the gushing hole in his esophagus.

The merc held on tight as Justin kicked and jerked. Soon more primal smells prevailed—a dark stain spreading in the punk’s groin as the realization that he was dying pervaded his drug-fogged brain—Justin was pissing himself in terror. He could feel the terrible gash in his throat, could feel the blood filling his lungs with each desperate, gasping breath. He was dying, it hurt, it was going on so long…

When the merc let him go, Justin staggered to his feet, grabbing the terrible gash in his throat with both hands, feeling his blood pouring out around his fingers. He stumbled forward two steps, and then fell face-down in the road. He spent his last half-minute on earth inhaling mud made of the dirt road mixed with his own blood. In Justin’s last seconds, he was aware of the two dark figures that crossed the road and had a vague idea of demons. Then everything faded to gray.

Justin’s eyes glazed and his body continued to twitch and jerk for a few minutes. In the silence surrounding his corpse, the loudest sound was his red shoes scuffling in the dirt as neurons fired at random. Then there was nothing but a pile of cooling meat.


 

Ryan rubbed the bulge in his groin. He wasn’t particularly horny; he was just hard most of the time. He’d had a fair amount to drink tonight, though, so he didn’t think it was going to be an issue.

He’d already pulled a joint out of his boot and smoked it. He was thinking that Justin had been smart to bring some tunes; he wished he’d thought of it. He wasn’t given time to think of anything else. The cord that appeared out of nowhere, whipped round his neck and cut off his air also cut off whatever limited ability for rational thought that Ryan had ever had.

The boy fought hard for his life—harder than anyone who had seen him waste it would have thought warranted. He kicked and jerked like a trout on a line, thrashing about in a futile attempt to break free of the unknown force that was choking him to death.

As he struggled, Ryan reached back behind him in an instinctive drive to stop whatever was attacking him. He could feel the powerful muscles of the man behind him and heard his ragged breathing as he and his killer fought against one another. But Ryan was fighting without air–and was doomed.

As great dark patches appeared in his field of vision, Ryan could feel his face swelling with the terrible pressure that was building up. His eyes were starting to protrude and he could feel his tongue forcing its way out of his mouth. That wasn’t the only thing swelling, though. Vaguely at first, but growing more insistent, Ryan could feel his cock starting to strain as well.

It was surprising how it made a greater impression as his brain began to die. Ryan lost contact with various parts of his body as his nervous system began to shut down but the swelling and strain in his dick kept growing.

On the outside, the kid was drooling, ropes of foam dangling from his chin. His eyes stared frantically, the whites hemorrhaging to red. His thick, purple tongue extended grotesquely past his swollen, blue lips. He shook convulsively, his boots digging furrows in the dirt.

On the inside, it was all dark explosions, deafening in their silence. A fire burned in Ryan’s crotch, a blaze raging out of control until it erupted like a volcano with molten lead flowing from the caldera…

As Ryan died, he blew his load and shit his jeans simultaneously. His bowels went slack as he poured a dying load of semen into his shorts. The cord became embedded in Ryan’s neck so deeply the merc had to brace himself by planting his boot on the back of Ryan’s head to pull the it out.

He ground Ryan’s puffy black face into the dirt.


Two down, one to go. The mercs pushed quietly through the field in a direct line to the final target. There would be plenty of time afterwards to spread a few chemicals around and make sure this grow op was finished.

Their mandate didn’t include corpses. The bodies would be left where they fell. The mercs didn’t give a shit; they would be long gone by the time the bodies were found.


Travis stood facing the field, leaning against a tree with one hand, fishing a joint out of his boot with the other hand. He had drunk more than the others, so he was at even more of a disadvantage than the others when it came time to fight for his life.

The moment he stood upright, a hand clamped over his mouth and a sharp hard blade was slammed into his right kidney. Travis’ bloodshot, half-lidded eyes dilated in shock. He stiffened involuntarily, his body snapping upright and rising up on his toes. The merc twisted the knife, then ripped it back out of the wound, causing Travis unspeakable agony.

But it was nothing to the pain that came next, when the merc pulled Travis’ head back and stuck the knife into the soft flesh of the bottom jaw, behind the chin.

The tempered steel blade tore upward through the bottom jaw and pierced the tongue, pinning it to the roof of the punk’s mouth. The blade continued up through the soft palate, penetrating the sinuses, passing behind the eyes and severing the optic nerves, shredding the brain tissue in its path.

The tip of the blade came to rest in the pleasure center of the brain, which was why Travis began spewing huge amounts of spunk out of his dying cock.

Travis was locked in a blinded world of loud noises and the most phenomenal pain possible. The brain trauma sent a shockwave through his entire central nervous system. His body seemed to flow in waves from the mangled brain matter down his spine to his dick, where his entire life seemed to flow in great white gobs of cum out of his unnaturally engorged tool.

Travis fell back into the strong, ruthless arms of the merc, thrashing with massive brain damage, his entire existence reduced to the solid stream of semen his shorted-out cerebrum was forcing out of his rod in a final agonizing, involuntary orgasm.

The stoned fucker slumped to the ground, still twitching and convulsing. Long after the mercs had done what they needed to do, Travis was still jerking, cum oozing from the head of his flaccid cock.


The moon rose long after midnight. It shed its slivery beams down on three young men getting hard in the wood. But these boys were getting hard all over—in fact, they were downright stiff.

Good meat never goes to waste in the forest.