M4M4Whoreboy

It had been a rough week at work.

 

Joe felt tense and restless.  He usually enjoyed his work—a lot—but sometimes, some people made it unpleasant, especially when they fought—well, it didn’t matter.  It was over.  But Joe couldn’t relax.

 

He turned to his usual resource in times like these—the hookup app on the various phones he’d collected.  He no longer remembered who they’d belonged to; occasionally, he’d dump one to make sure activity couldn’t be traced back to him—but he’d pick up a new one as well, now and then.  It all balanced out.

 

The one he picked up at random was a white iPhone 6.  It had several apps uploaded; Joe chose one, again at random.  Then he leaned back on the sofa and casually scanned through the posts.  The first two pages were a mix of scrawny, effeminate twinks, bald pudgy trolls and obvious fakes using airbrushed models’ photos as profile avatars.  It wasn’t till he hit the third page that something caught Joe’s eye.

 

The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, and his profile said twenty-three.  His chestnut-colored hair was soft and wavy with long bangs, but there was a certain cast to his face betrayed a lack of youthful innocence behind the young face.  The boy’s hazel eyes, wide and long-lashed were slightly sunken and underneath, the flesh was just starting to sag and become lined.

 

The kid was a whore, and probably a junkie.

 

That he was a whore was certain; it was part of his profile:

 

“—Clint, 23, 4.8 miles

Looking for:  generous daddy

Preferred position:  all up in me

Favorite activity:  you pay you pick I do it all”

 

There were a couple more photos, showing Clint in nothing but bikini shorts.  He had a swimmer’s build, slim with taut wiry muscle.  A light coat of dark brown hair furred his belly, condensing into a dark line that ran down to his groin, vanishing beneath the waistband of the shorts.

 

The part about being a junkie was just something that Joe felt; there was nothing to prove, or even specifically indicate it.  But the dark circles under the whore’s eyes, the vague hint of pallor on the boy’s skin—Joe had seen that before.

 

Yeah, this one could get used.  No one would miss it; no one could care.  He could have some fun with the faggot and then—well, not put it out of its misery, no.

 

It was gonna endure a fuck of a lot more misery before he was done with it.

 

The first thing Joe had done when he’d gotten home was take a shower; he still wasn’t dressed.  He took a quick selfie torso shot, nothing above the shoulders or below the waist.  He replied to the post with the image, then strolled casually to the dresser to put some clothes on.  He already knew it wouldn’t be a matter of if the whore would respond back, but when.  And he suspected that it’d be sooner than later.

 

The stupid cunts always responded back.

 

The buff hardman pulled on a pair of jeans, so tight that damn near every vein on his huge cock was visible, and so worn they felt like suede, cinching it to his narrow waist with an inch-wide black leather belt.  Over this went a plain white t-shirt, clean but just as tight as the jeans.  He slipped on a pair of Chippewa eight-inch steel-toed boots, leaving them loosely laced and untied.

 

It was then that the phone buzzed.  Joe had been right; the little whore had responded.

 

“Fuk yeah daddy 100 and u can do what u want make me ur bitch rm 118”

 

Accompanying the notification was a location tag.  Joe didn’t know the Tavern Inn, but he was familiar enough with the part of town it was in to have a pretty good idea of what the place would be like.

 

Yeah, he could have some fun with this one, and no one would complain.  Whores of every gender were found dead in that neighborhood on a monthly, if not weekly, basis.

 

Grinning, the muscled killer paused in front of the mirror.  The jeans tucked onto the boots, the t-shirt so tight his large nipples tented the thin cotton stretched across his broad pecs…yeah, there was no way any fag whore was gonna be able to resist.  But still, it was a chilly evening…

 

When he stepped back in front of the mirror, he’d donned a black leather aviator jacket, zipping it up only a couple of inches from the waist.  It completed the outfit and Joe, satisfied, headed out.

 

Three highway exits and four stoplights later, the homicidal stud pulled his Camaro into the parking lot of the motel.  It was a one-story L-shaped building running back from the street, with the office a separate cinderblock structure across from the end of the hotel building.  No street number was visible, but the backlit sign stretched across the façade of the office read “Tavern Inn”.  Under that was a poster that read “Newly renovated—rooms by the week or month available!”

 

Turning in, Joe drove past the office and back into the motel lot.  Room 118 turned out to be in the far corner, near the end of the building.

 

Avoiding the potholes in the in the poorly-maintained parking lot, Joe parked at the far side, up against a vine-engulfed chain link fence that separated the motel property from the auto body lot next door.  He wasn’t too close to room 118 but he could cross the lot straight from his car without having to pass in front of any other rooms.

 

It got better; a glance back at the office showed a car pulling in and stopping at the entrance.  Anyone on duty was about to be needed at the front desk.  He was out of the car and striding across the lot in a heartbeat, the thick treaded soles of his boots making faint grinding sounds on the loose surface of the deteriorated asphalt.

 

The door in front of him was a faded turquoise.  He gave three sharp taps, it popped open and he stepped in unseen.

 

It was perfect; the fuckmeat had invited him in of its own free will.

 

Inside, the room was dim, but Joe had no problem focusing on Clint.  The well-used young rentboy was wearing nothing but red gym shorts and a pair of red and black Adidas Pro Model kicks.  He stood near the center of the room, his lean, firm body silhouetted by the bedside lamp directly behind him.

 

The sheets on the queen-sized bed were tangled into a mass off to one side; they looked cheap and thin, but they at least appeared clean.  True to the sign out front, the room did seem to have been remodeled, judging by the hastily-installed paneling and the slapdash paint job.  Some of the furniture looked as if it had been expensive at one point, but it was mismatched, marred, and at least a decade out of fashion—possibly leftovers from a hotel liquidation broker.  The heavy musk of mansex and various kinds of smoke was undercut by the sharper tang of paint and toxic chemicals from the cheap paneling.

 

Clint noticed Joe looking around.  “It’s cheap,” he said without any tinge of embarrassment.  “I usually Uber to a trick’s place but I went on a rock binge this afternoon.  Dude offered me some and after I left him, I blew all my cash on more.  Damn—crack’s great, but the down sucks after.  Anyways, now you’re here.  You got the cash?”

 

Joe smiled.  He did have it, and he pulled out his wallet to prove it, opening it up and letting the slut see the Franklin nestled inside.  The moment Clint reached for it, though, he closed it back up and slid it back into his pocket.

 

“Uh-uh,” he said brusquely, “Afterwards.  Let’s see if ya deserve it all first.”

 

There was a brief flash of fire in Clint’s eyes, a last flicker of a human soul that resented the dishonor of the insult.  Then it was gone, as the whore won out.  The punk smiled.  “Time yer done with me, daddy, you’ll wanna take care of me for the rest of my life.”

 

It was Joe’s turn to grin.  “If yer that good, boy, I may do just that.  Now get outta them shorts and let’s see what I’m payin’ for.”

 

Clint grinned and began shucking off his shorts.  While he did so, Joe slipped out of his leather jacket, laying it carefully on the back of an upright chair, then peeled off his shirt as well.  His last action before turning back to face the whoreboy was to unzip his fly and extract his freakishly large cock.

 

The look on Clint’s face when he saw Joe’s monster hog was pure awe.  The kid wasn’t badly hung himself, with nearly eight inches of thick stiff boymeat, but it looked like an overcooked frankfurter compared to the buff fagkiller’s tackle.  Joe noticed Clint’s intimidation and grinned maliciously.

 

“Ya ready to service my dick, boy?  Ready to give it what it deserves?” he jeered as the hot young punk approached slowly, mouth agape and hand reaching out to take Joe’s huge manhood.  There was something in the older man’s tone of voice, though, that made Clint pause—not a red flag, just a hint of something half-acknowledged.  The rentboy hesitated, giving Joe a good once-over.

 

The dude was certainly his type; older, erotically masculine, incredibly well-built.  From his boots and thickly-muscled legs wrapped in denim, up past his gigantic jutting cock, to the coarse, wiry fur spread heavily across his ripped abs and the broad mound of his pecs, the stranger had everything Clint wanted in a man.   And there was something more, something unseen, just below the surface—a hard, cold edge that the slut to which the slut somehow found himself attracted…

 

“Yeah,” he said breathily, “I’m ready to service it, bro.  Whaddaya want me to do?”

 

“Aw, that’s easy,” Joe grinned, “I want you to suffer.”  Clint was only briefly aware of movement on his left side before Joe’s fist slammed into his jaw like a runaway train, stunning the whoreboy and knocking him to the floor.

 

Dazed and groaning, Clint rubbed his aching face, feeling his split lips and swelling skin.  Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, he looked up just in time to see Joe lock the room door and slip the chain on.  As the buff sadist turned and headed back towards him, Clint swiveled into a half-sitting position and spoke up, his voice weak and shaky.

 

“Wh-what th’ fuck, dude?” he whined, “What’s that for?”  He had to crane his neck as Joe loomed over him, cock dangling just above his head.

 

Joe answered in action, not words.  He kicked Clint in the belly, the rigid steel toe of his Chippewa boot sinking deeply into the punk’s firm, flat belly.

 

“HOOG!!” the whore spat out as his breath was violently expelled.  Clutching his injured gut, the kid fell over and writhed on the floor.

 

“Stupid piece a’ shit,” Joe drawled casually, “I toldja I wanted you to suffer.  I wanna see you hurt.  The more pain yer in, the more I get off.  Ya feel me, bitch?  Not yet?  Don’t worry, you will.  You gotta work for my load, cunt, and these little love taps don’t even count as foreplay.”

 

As Clint huddled and sobbed on the floor, Joe raised his leg and stomped on the kid, driving the tread of his boot deep into the soft, smooth flesh on the boy’s back and leaving a detailed black bruise.  It was too much for the young rentboy; he rolled to the side and scrambled on the floor, gasping and desperate to escape.  Clawing at the foot of the bed, he managed to get enough leverage to raise himself upright.

 

But there was nowhere for him to go.  And Joe was right there.

 

“Hey, motherfucker, where ya goin’?” the older man said, and Clint turned to look at him.  The kid’s hazel eyes were huge with fear and bewilderment, but there was something else, too—a wounded look, as if the punk had no right to expect such treatment.

 

Joe’s sense of homicidal contempt shifted into high gear.  The boy was a faggot whore.  If he didn’t already know that this was exactly what he deserved, Joe was gonna go to great lengths to ensure that he learned it thoroughly.

 

Clint open his mouth to speak but he never got a chance.  Joe clocked him in the side of the head, a stunning blow that sent the rentboy staggering across the room into the dresser.  The nude whore clutched at the furniture to keep from falling.

 

When he looked up, Joe was coming at him, fists—and dick—upraised.

 

“NO!” Clint screamed, now truly scared, “Stop!  I didn’t do nothin’—”

 

Whatever the slut thought he could do to avoid the inevitable was useless.  The thickly-muscled hardman descended upon him like the wrath of God, fists raining down blows of unbelievable force.  As the young whore got the living fuck beat out of him, he sank to the floor, arms raised above his head to ward off the hammer-like impacts.

 

That pissed Joe off.

 

“Quit fightin’ me, faggot, and take yer fukkin’ beating.  The more you resist, the more I gotta hurt ya.”  Here Joe bent down, thrusting his hard, grinning, masculine face into the kid’s weeping countenance, “And believe me, motherfucker, I wanna hurt you.”

 

He kicked out hard, swiftly, twice, and was rewarded each time with the crunch of bone as his boot made contact with Clint’s ribs.  The fuckmeat squealed, a bleating, despairing cry of helpless pain.  Joe’s engorged cock throbbed with pleasure at the sound.

 

“Yer mine, asswipe,” he told the terrified rentboy, “Mine to use how I want.  Mine to beat to hamburger and fuck raw.  Mine to use and leave behind like cum-soaked toilet paper.  Hear me, motherfucker?  I wanna cum and I’m gonna use you to do it.”

 

Under other circumstances, the diatribe he’d just heard might have made Clint horny, but the beating he’d suffered drove all thoughts of sex out of his mind.  He’d gotten hold of a crazy john.  He’d heard stories of dangerous tricks who did…things…to the dudes they’d hired, but Clint was too smart for that shit.

 

This wasn’t happening to him.  It couldn’t.  He was too smart…

 

…but if he was so smart, why did he hurt so bad?

 

Then Joe clenched a hank of his thick brown hair and hoisted him aloft.  The pain was excruciating; Clint thought that his scalp was being torn off, but it only lasted until Joe had got him up off the floor.  Then the hardbodied killer grabbed the kid by the throat, releasing his hair and holding him straight out.  Joe’s right bicep bulged with power needed to keep the whoreboy’s Adidas Pros dangling inches above the carpet; as Clint watched wide-eyed in choking horror, a vein in the buff sadist’s arm began to throb.

 

Clint kicked wildly.  Staring the gagging slut in the face and sneering with contempt, Joe calmly and carefully turned and walked to the small round table in the corner of the room.  Unmatched to anything else in the room, it was small and incredibly flimsy, with a particleboard surface inadequately covered by a paper-thin veneer.  Together with an aluminum-framed chair, it served as a desk, but it didn’t allow much room for work given that it also supported a thirty-two-inch no-name flat screen TV.

 

It allowed even less room to work once Joe rammed Clint’s head right through it.

 

It didn’t take much effort to punch the cunt’s skull through the thin particleboard, but the force broke Clint’s nose and lacerated his cheek.  As he hit the floor, the rentboy had the brief, lucid thought that he’d be off his game until his face healed.  Then the pain hit.

 

“Owwww…” he moaned, “Dude…don’t do this… give ya anything ya want…”

 

“Yeah,” Joe said evenly, “Ya sure will.”

 

He bent down and grabbed Clint’s ankles, slowly dragging him out form under the table.  The kid was half-stunned still, but he could feel the motion and fear rose within him, a bitter taste like bile in the back of his throat as his taut young body throbbed in pain.

 

He couldn’t get out of this himself.  He needed help, and he needed it now.

 

“HELP!!” he shrieked, turning his face towards the door, “IN HERE!!  FUCKING HELP OH GOD OH SHIT—GAAGHGHK!!!”

 

Again, Joe responded with the icy precision of a professional killer.  He dropped Clint’s legs, stepped up to the boy’s head and raising his leg, stomped the whore’s face, swiftly, powerfully, brutally.

 

He ground the heel of his Chippewa boot into the faggot’s mouth, his dick pulsating each time he heard the crack of Clint’s jaw snapping.  The cunt gurgled and coughed, hacking up half a dozen of its teeth as the twisted hardman crouched over it and spit in its face.

 

“That’ll keep ya quiet, fuckmeat.  Now shut up and get ready for my dick.”

 

He snagged the rentboy by the throat again; lost in a vast space of fiery agony, Clint felt a faint weightlessness as he was tossed onto the bed on his back.  The impact wasn’t as severe as others he’d already endured, but anything that caused the jagged edges of broken bones to grind together deep inside him caused inexpressible suffering.

 

Joe knew that and planned to take advantage of it.  Of course, he needed to be in the right place to do so.

 

As Clint writhed and moaned in horrible pain, Joe climbed up on the bed, hoisted Clint’s red kicks up to his shoulders, bending the agonized punk in half, and started probing the slut’s anus with the cue-ball-sized head of his dick.  The boy could feel the pressure and he knew what was coming next.  He didn’t want it.

 

His head and face were afire with horrific pain—to the point that his prior injuries weren’t even distant memories—and every attempt to vocalize was cut short by instant agony.  His hands were still free, though, and the moment Joe started to force his member into Clint, the cunt responded with a frenetic, clawing frenzy.

 

The boy’s hands rose up like embattled birds of prey, talons gaping wide, searching for any weak spot.  The impetus given them by Clint’s sheer panic gave them a force the used-up whoreboy could never have attained in the usual course of his wasted life.  His fingers raked Joe’s face, nails digging into the dark, wiry scruff covering the killer’s jaw—not quite enough to draw blood, but much more than enough to piss Joe off.

 

It was a simple disarming move, so to speak; one Joe had often used on the job.  Batting Clint’s left arm away, he wrapped his right arm around it and twisted, forcing the sweaty, gasping youth to strain as hard as he could to stop his arm from being bent backwards at the elbow.

 

Clint failed, of course.  He knew he was gonna fail, and so did Joe—which was why the sick killer felt such an erotic rush as he gazed into the terrified whore’s huge dark eyes just before he ripped the kid’s elbow socket apart like it was a chicken carcass.  There was a gristly cracking sound and the rentboy howled in inarticulate agony, his slim firm body rigid and trembling as it tried to process the trauma.

 

He was still howling when Joe plowed his massive cock up the kid’s ass in a single powerful thrust.  Clint’s screams suddenly spiraled up past an audible pitch.  The sound he was emitting was more like a ragged wheeze than a cry of pain—not that he wasn’t in pain.

 

Clint’s physical suffering was so intense it was nearly hallucinatory; he had a sense that none of this was happening—that he was already dead and was being tormented for his sins.  He’d asked this muscle-bound stud over to give him a nice hard fuck—and at a discount; he’d been horny—and the sudden explosion of violence and pain, with no warning at all, had traumatized his psyche as much as the beatdown had damaged his body.

 

He was getting fucked now, but this wasn’t what he wanted.  Even the fuck itself, as Joe’s enormous unlubed member tore open his unprepared sphincter and ground roughly over his prostate, caused him unspeakable agony.  And his arm…oh fuck, his arm—

 

“Yeah, fucker, yer just what I was lookin’ for tonight,” Joe commented with a wicked grin as his well-developed torso, gleaming with a slight film of perspiration under the dim light, pumped rhythmically between Clint’s smooth thighs.  “I needed a piece of meat to work my frustrations out on.  I can jack yer worthless ass up as much as I want, and ain’t no one gonna care what happens to cheap fag whore, amiright?”

 

Clint wasn’t looking and he was trying not to listen.  In fact, he’d come pretty damn close to putting himself into a trance state—not because he was adept in meditation, but as an instinctive reaction to protect what was left of his fracturing mind from this excruciating nightmare.  He had gone utterly limp, and since every movement brought forth new waves of nauseating pain, he let his tight young body flow with Joe’s thrusts, matching the sadistic top’s vigorous pumping.  It somehow seemed to make everything hurt less.

 

“Uh-uh, cunt.  Yer goin’ slack on my hog, meat.  Ya got all nice and tight when you were sufferin’ an’ now yer actin’ like a cocktease.  That pisses me off, motherfucker.  I showed ya my money, yeah?  And you said whatever I wanted…”

 

Joe’s voice trailed off as he reached down to his crotch with both hands.  The kid hadn’t been able to shut out his assailant’s cruel taunts, but he was gonna keep pairing his motion with that of Joe’s as long as he could.  It was only a sound—a familiar metal clank—that brought him back into hellish reality.

 

The sound was a belt being unbuckled.  Clint couldn’t lift his head much, but he could see Joe on his knees, Clint’s own legs wrapped around his waist.  His sculpted, hirsute torso flexed with each powerful thrust of the hips.  And without missing a beat, the handsome killer was slowly pulling his belt from around his tight waist, winding the long black leather strap around his hand.  Once it was completely off, he unwound it and passed the tip back through the buckle, making a simple but effective garrote.

 

Grinning, he kept eye contact with Clint the entire time.

 

He finally dangled it out over the boywhore’s heaving chest.

 

“You know what this is for, dontcha?”  It was more a statement than a question.  “You know how this is gonna end.  It’s happened to plenty of yer fag whore buddies, yeah?  Now it’s your turn, bitch.

 

Clint’s hazel eyes were huge with panic.  Despite the horrific agony of his mangled mouth, he tried to plead for his life.  He’d heard the stories…and there was his old fuckbuddy Rick, they never caught the guy who did that…

 

This involuntary defense mechanism—drifting off into inconsequentia—was abruptly terminated as Joe slipped the leather noose over Clint’s head and tightened it.  From that moment on, Clint was in the here and now, fighting for every last second of his useless life.

 

This was the point Joe was hard for—the way the cunts always thrashed and jerked when he began throttling their life out.  The most reamed-out whorefucks invariably locked their assholes around his shaft as death set in and they panicked, and this one was no different.

 

Clint’s left arm was useless, but his right worked fine; as his battered and bruised face began to swell and darken even further, he clawed frenetically at the thick leather strap encircling his throat.  It was already sunken so deep that he couldn’t get his fingers under it—all he did was tear at his own flesh until he drew blood.

 

The rentboy’s lithe young body was awash in physical misery; the symptoms of asphyxia that began to occur only added to his suffering.  The tight, fiery ache in his chest, the overwhelming pounding in his head, the excruciating pressure on his throat—and through it all, he was fully aware of the killer’s huge hog plowing his guts.  And his own erection.

 

The dude was snuffing him and fucking him like a rutting boar—and he was so fuckin’ hard it hurt.

 

Somehow that scared him most of all.  It set off a blind panic that transferred the meat’s attention from the belt around its throat to the stud holding the belt; in a flash, the whore’s hand came up, scrambling and digging at Joe’s face.  Even an experienced killer can be caught off guard, and this was one of those occasions; Joe jerked his head back and arced back to keep his face out of the flailing kid’s reach.  Instead, the desperate hand first beat on the buff killer’s broad, muscled chest, then snatched a thick fistful of the older man’s chest hair.  When it jerked back, it didn’t manage to pull out any of the sadist’s fur—but it did manage to piss him off.

 

“Goddam motherfucker,” he growled, grabbing the punk’s wrist with his free hand while keeping the belt tight around its neck with the other.  Slamming the slut’s arm down on its chest, he grabbed its index finger and bent it backwards.

 

“Just don’t get it, ya dumbass fuck?” Joe snarled, “You only exist to make me cum when you die [CRACK].”  The unfortunate whore wasn’t able to scream as its finger was broken, but with his dick, Joe could feel the way the pain registered in its ass.  He grinned with pleasure and moved on to the next finger.

 

“You need to stop fightin’ me, faggot, and die like the fuckin’ slutpig you are [CRACK].”  Again, the meat clenched its sphincter in agony.  Joe held the belt around its throat steady, neither increasing nor decreasing the pressure.  The bitch’s air was sealed off—but it was still reversible, and the whore knew it.  It didn’t matter what Joe said, it had to believe it could survive.

 

Good.  The more it suffered, the more it milked Joe’s cock.  He moved on to the third finger.

 

“You know it yerself, asswipe; you know this is why you were put on this planet.  That’s why yer pathetic fag dick is hard [CRACK].”  Blackened and twisted in nightmarish pain, the punk’s once-handsome face had become a grotesque mask of agony.  Its wavy hair was dark and matted with sweat, the hazel eyes were red with hemorrhages and bulging frantically from their sockets.  A swollen purple tongue protruded from the loose, mangled mouth as foamy drool oozed down its chin.

 

And even so, there was still some Clint left inside to hear Joe’s words, and as his brain progressively died of oxygen deprivation, the sadistic sex killer’s perverted logic made sense to the young rentboy.  And when the next blast of pain came, some sick part of him was eager for it.  When Joe bent the pinky finger not backward but outward, off the side of the hand, Clint had become an almost mindless being, living solely for the sake of the next intense stimulus—looking for one intense enough for…but the lucid thought was interrupted.

 

Joe was close; he could feel his hot potent seed churning in his huge, hairy sack, but he still had some last rage to vent, and he did it by using the whore’s face as a punching bag, pounding the fucker with both left and right jabs, transferring the belt from one hand to the other.  With each blow, the cunt’s firm smooth body jerked violently; the legs curled and kicked.

 

If the whore hadn’t already suffered irreversible brain damage, Joe’s beating would have had the same effect.  As it was, the punk flailed violently enough to kick off the Adidas Pro on its left foot; the sneaker tumbled to the floor as the toes curled in death agony inside the white ped sock.

 

And still some part of Clint held on.  Something more, yes, it needed something more.

 

Joe could feel his dick begin to tingle and swell.  He could also feel the rentboy’s hot rigid shaft pressed against his own furry ripped abs; the fuck was still hard even after he’d pulped its face.  It wasn’t dead yet.  He could still see the huge puppy-dog eyes, now red and staring.  He was about to blow, and the fag didn’t deserve to see it.

 

He splayed out his huge strong hand and pressed it onto the slut’s ruined face.  At the same time, he dug his Chippewa boots into the bed, wrapped the end of the belt a couple of time around his other hand, and gave it a brutally powerful jerk.

 

In a fraction of a second, the whoreboy’s esophagus collapsed just above the larynx, the cartilage crushed into a wad of gristle.  At the same time, three cervical vertebrae—C2, 3 and 4—were dislocated, mangling the spinal cord.

 

The tiny spark of painpig soul left in the cheap whore finally found justification for its ultimate orgasm in death.  As the massive trauma to its central nervous system sent the cunt’s slim but strong body into violent convulsions, it began to spew semen from its hard thick rod like an oil well striking a gusher.

 

Joe felt the hot spray of boycum on his thickly-furred belly at the same time he felt the punk’s rectum grip his pulsing tool and milk his load out as if there was a conscious effort to make him shoot.

 

“Fuckin’ die, ya worthless faggot!” Joe roared, and as he hosed the meat’s intestines with his seething manload, he jerked the belt again, ripping the bitchboy’s spinal cord out of its skull.  The meat responded with one last violent jerk, the limbs drawing in and wrapping around Joe as if giving its killer one last embrace.

 

Then the whore flopped back, quivering and trembling, utterly owned and used.

 

Joe collapsed on top of it, heaving and spent, the weight of his furry muscled body pressing the shuddering corpse into the mattress.  After a few minutes, he’d caught his breath and began the slow process of peeling his cum-matted chest off the corpse’s torso while simultaneously extracting his still-oozing hog from its ass.

 

Climbing off the bed, he headed for the bathroom, his boots echoing loudly off its tiled surfaces.

 

The smell of new grout was overwhelming; even the thin, rough towels were new.  Joe found their sandpaper-like texture perfect for scrubbing congealed slutcum out of his wiry chest fur and off his massive schlong.  Tossing the towel into the toilet—which reeked of bleach—he tucked his enormous manhood back into his jeans and returned to the bedroom.

 

The room was mess, but the splayed corpse of the horribly beaten rentboy took center stage.  Spread-eagled on its back, with its parted legs and cum-dripping ass pointed directly towards the door, Joe decided it couldn’t be better posed if he’d done it deliberately.  He decided to leave his belt where it was; it was so buried in the dead whore’s throat, it’d be difficult to remove in any case.

 

Striding to the chair where he’d left his clothing, Joe picked up the t-shirt and balled it up.  He was still warm from his well-deserved and very satisfying workout; He slipped on the leather jacket and stuffed the t-shirt into its pocket.  He headed out the door without a backwards glance at the boy whose life he’d just so viciously and cold-bloodedly ended.

 

He took the T-tops off his Camaro for the drive home, basking in the crisp cool air with deep sense of well-being.

 

 


 

 

“Hey Danilo, whatcha got?”

 

The beat cop paused in the open doorway of the motel room, leaning against the jamb and glancing up at the detective, his face weary and his expression jaded.

 

“It’s a bad one.  Fag whore was offed.  Cocksucker died hard.”

 

“Bad trick?”

 

“Probably.  Manager says he’d been here about a month.  No regular hours.  Had guys in and out all the time.”

 

“ME seen him yet?”

 

“No, they’re on the way.”

 

The detective stepped into the room and took a good long look.  He returned to the beat cop.

 

“Musta been pretty goddam violent, and doesn’t look like it happened too long ago—you ask if anyone heard anything?”

 

The cop grimaced.  “C’mon, man, you know this place as well as I do.  Remember that chick that they hauled outta here last month?  The one that was gonna testify against that biker gang?  They held her down and injected her with battery acid and didn’t no one here hear or see a goddam thing.  You think anyone’s gonna care a pansy whore gets offed?”

 

The detective sighed.  “Yeah, I know, but its my job to ask.  Yer right, though, might was well sign off on this one and shove it to the back of the caseload pile.  Ain’t no one cares about these wastes of human flesh.  Tell the guys from the ME’s office to send me their report; I got crimes against real human beings to solve.”

 

The beat cop watched the detective walk off with contempt.  Figured he’d be the one left here with the stiff corpse of a worthless homo slut, waitin’ for the meat wagon to show up.  Like anyone would give a shit if he tossed it in the dumpster and went and had a beer.  If those ME dudes didn’t show up soon, that’s exactly what he’d do…

Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 1

The dark and crowded bar presented something of an obstacle course to anyone carrying a pitcher of beer, and especially to someone of Pete’s broad-shouldered, muscular build, but he managed to get back to the table without spilling any of the golden, frothy liquid.  Seating himself, grinning, he expertly poured a couple of glasses without generating an overflowing head.  He then slid one of the glasses across the table to Dan.

 

Pete had been working out heavily, as per Dan’s instructions, and it showed.  The younger cop was much more built now than he was when they’d first met.  This was the first night in two weeks that they’d both been scheduled off together, and they took advantage of the fact by going out to celebrate.

 

It was just sheer chance that Brody was in the same bar.

 

They’d kept up their surveillance of him; the pair of bulked-up cops hadn’t forgotten their pursuit of drug traffickers, but there’d been little movement in that area.  On the other hand, there hadn’t been much movement from Brody either.  Ever since he’d wasted the teenaged faggot, he’d laid low; they knew that because either Pete or Dan had spent part of virtually every day trailing him.  Not that they’d intervene if he initiated another snuff; Pete was still waiting for the signal, and Dan hadn’t given it yet.

 

Tonight, though, was for relaxing and celebration.  Both men had dressed down in plaid western-cut button-down shirts; Dan had rolled up the sleeve of his, showing off his furry forearms.  Both men also wore very tight, very worn jeans and boots—Dan’s was a pair of steel-toe Rocky western ropers while Pete sported a comfortable pair of Wolverine Moc Toe 8-inch workboots.  They pretty much looked like the other country guys in the bar—which was likely why Brody never saw them, even though they weren’t in stakeout mode.

 

It was Pete who first noticed him.  “Well, I’ll be goddammed!” he said in amazement.

 

“What is it?” Dan asked.

 

“Look over there, Cap—ain’t that Brody?  See, next to that buff, dark-skinned dude at the bar…”

 

Dan squinted into the crowd.  “Yeah, it sure is.  Well ain’t that a coincidence.  And here I thought we were givin’ him the evening off.”

 

For a time after that, they ignored the rogue killer; after all, he wasn’t gonna kill anyone in public.  Dan was congratulating Pete on his physical progress, letting the younger man know how proud he was and suggesting some further areas of improvement, but Pete kept noticing how the captain’s eyes were wandering back to Brody.

 

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him.  “Ok, Cap, out with it—what’s he doin’?”

 

Dan shook his head.  “Naw, it ain’t him.  It’s the guy he’s talking to.  I swear I seen him somewhere recently.  Or maybe his picture.”

 

Pete craned his neck to see the guy better, but his view wasn’t as good as Dan’s; all he could make out was the guy’s back.  He seemed to be a well-built Latino in a yellow t-shirt, torn, stained jeans and a pair of black Timberlands.  His blue-black hair was nearly shoulder length and while he was older than most of the fags Brody went for, Pete could see the attraction.

 

“Yeah?” he asked, “Think we should keep an eye on them?”

 

Dan looked Pete levelly in the eyes and said, with little fanfare, words that made the young hardbodied acolyte’s heart leap with joy, “Yeah, we should.  You’re ready, boy.  You can take ‘im if ya hafta.”

 

 

Within ten minutes, Brody and the Latino man got up and headed for the door.  With little fuss, Dan and Pete left their table as well, keeping close to their prey but not close enough to be noticed.  Outside, it was even easier to stay in the shadows; while Brody headed for his truck, the cops headed for Dan’s.

 

The moment he was behind the wheel, Dan snapped his fingers.  “Tony Rodrigues, that’s who he is,” he said.

 

“Who, Brody’s new fucktoy?” Pete asked.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, grinning.  “Came across the wire a couple of days ago—he’s wanted in Calabesa County on suspicion of raping and murdering seventeen-year-old Billy Webber—his stepson.”

 

Pete whistled, his eyes wide.

 

“Yeah,” Dan chuckled, “Looks like we’re might have us a rasslin’ match tonight ‘tween these two.  So much the better.”

 

His grin took on a darker hint that was mirrored in Pete’s face when he glanced at the younger man.  “Loser’s gonna take us on.  No matter what happens, Body’s goin’ down tonight.”

 

Pete felt his powerful muscles tighten in anticipation.  The feeling of rigid hardness penetrated his entire body, as the thick, pulsing bulge in his crotch proved.  “So we’re gonna be there for the kill?  How’re ya gonna manage that, Cap?”

 

“Easy,” Dan grinned.  “Who’s working the east side tonight?  Mike, yeah?”

 

He got on the radio and called out to Mike.  It seemed that nothing much was happening on the east side tonight and Mike was glad to do the Captain a favor.  Providing him with Brody’s plate number and a description of his truck, Dan asked Mike to delay the driver.

 

“Ya just want me to hold him for a few minutes?”

 

“Yeah, Mike—I just wanna check out a hunch without a possible suspect around.  I appreciate it.”

 

“No problem, Captain—glad to help!”

 

Pete looked at the older man questioningly.  “What was that for?”

 

“That’s how we’ll be in on the kill,” Dan replied, “We’ll get there first.  We’ll be there watching as it goes down.”

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” Pete chuckled.  “Damn, that’s good.  Watchin’ one snuff the other so we can be on the spot to waste the one left alive.  Fuckin’ hot as hell!”

 

“You ready for this, boy?” Dan asked, his face serious for a moment.  “You ready to end a man’s life, to feel him die in yer hands?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete responded in a strained voice, “I been fuckin’ ready since day one, man.”

 

Dan didn’t have to see Pete’s huge erection straining the worn denim of his jeans to know that the younger cop was eager.  The question was—was he able?  Tonight, Dan would learn for certain just how far he could trust Pete with his plans for the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department.

 

And some of those plans were…extreme.

 


 

Brody was in a foul mood as he slowly maneuvered his pickup up the rutted gravel road towards his trailer.  He’d have to talk to Dan about that cop who pulled him over.  Pure fuckin’ harassment.  He wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t fuckin’ acting like it, either.

 

On the other hand, the dude was with was drunk; in fact; the fucker was totally bombed.  He was laying back in the passenger seat, slurring out boasts about his sexual prowess and leering at Brody.

 

Dude seemed to have no idea he was gonna be the one taking it up the ass tonight.  He’d learn soon enough, though. Maybe he’d put up a fight.  Brody kinda hoped so; his internal rage needed a good venting.  Beating the shit outta this drunk muscled faggot would feel damn good.

 

He shut off the truck.  “We’re here,” he told the guy—couldn’t remember his name and didn’t care anyway—and jumped out of the driver’s seat.  The other guy fumbled at the door handle, got it open, and managed to get out of the truck without falling.  Staggering, he followed Brody up the steps.

 

The buff killer had headed to the bar straight after work; he was still in his work clothes—torn, stained jeans tucked into his laced, untied Redwing construction boots and a white tank top clinging to his huge hairy chest.  As he mounted the steps, though, he could feel the gaze of the hardbodied homo behind him and knew that it was centered on his ass.  He grinned; if the motherfucker thought he was gonna be shagging Brody, it was gonna be a pleasure to teach him otherwise.

 

Brody was all man.  He didn’t take dick from nobody.

 

Neither did Tony.  At least, he never had before and had no plans to change that, but he was too fucked up at the moment to consider the matter at all.  He’d never had a problem getting hard even when he was drunk; his seven and a half inches of thick, vein-wrapped manmeat was already stiff as he watched the trailer trash stud climb the steps in front of him.

 

Brody flipped the light switch as soon as they entered.  Tony’s first drunken thought as his glance swept the trailer’s dark and dingy interior was that he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place.

 

Then Brody turned towards the kitchen and the sight of his firm, rounded ass covered in the soft, faded denim, filled Tony’s mind with other thoughts.

 

Brody grabbed a beer from the fridge.  He didn’t ask, or care, if his guest wanted one.  As far as Brody was concerned, it’d be a waste of a good beer. Drunk homo wouldn’t be around long enough to finish it anyway.

 

“Bedroom’s in there,” he grunted, nodding towards the partially open door on the other side of the clothing-strewn living room.  Popping the top of his beer, he took a long swig, then noticed that the motherfucker was still standing there, swaying slightly.

 

“Whatcha waitin’ for?” he snapped.  “G’wan, get in there an’ strip.  Get on the bed.”

 

Tony finally picked up on the instruction, without picking up any deeper meaning in the stud’s harsh tone.  By now, he’d absorbed all the alcohol that had still been in his stomach when he left the bar—he wasn’t just drunk; he was stupid drunk.  Grinning inanely, he staggered into the bedroom.

 

Behind him, the buff killer polished off his beer and crushed the can in his fist.  He peeled off his dirty t-shirt, baring his powerfully muscled torso.  The gleam of his sweat-slick skin under the dim overhead light was matched by the faint twinkle of his thick gold necklace, half-hidden in the dense fur that swept across his massive chest.

 

He was looking forward to this.  The piece of faggot shit in the other room might think it was a top but by the time Brody was done with it, it’d know its true place on earth—or in it.

 

Grinning maliciously, he reached down and unzipped his fly, then slowly extracted his formidable shaft.  Once free of the confines of his jeans, it pointed straight at the bedroom, so hard it ached.

 

It knew its prey was in there, and Brody wasn’t one to deny it.  He headed for the door with his rod jutting in front of him like a weapon; the thud of his boots was muffled by the threadbare carpeting.  He was intent on the kill and didn’t look back.

 

If he had, he might have noticed the way the guest bedroom door was being slowly and stealthily opened.

 


 

In the bedroom, Tony had at least been lucid enough to strip off his clothes; his t-shirt and jeans were piled sloppily on top of his Timberlands.  His hairy, muscular body was the first thing Brody could see when he entered.  The drunk Latino was grinning stupidly and hard as a rock.

 

“C’mon, man,” he slurred, “C’mon an’ suck it.  I got it ready for ya.”

 

Brody’s answering grin was colder and more malicious.  The dumbass actually though he was gonna be driving.  The psycho clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.  This was gonna be fun.

 

“Get on the bed, faggot,” he said, the cold steel in his voice cutting through the haze in Tony’s alcohol-soaked brain.

 

“Huh?” the buff Hispanic chirped, peering blearily at the larger man.  “Wha’, ya wanna suck me off on the bed?  Naw, get on yer knees.’

 

Brody didn’t bother to conceal the line-drive punch that he aimed at Tony’s head.  The nude furry fag saw the powerful blow coming at him but was too wasted to dodge it.  He took the full impact in his face, falling back, stunned, onto the bed.

 

Stunned and wasted, yes, but not incapacitated.  Tony wasn’t quite as tall and powerful as Brody was, but the difference was minor.  He was strong, and he’d been caught off guard to the extent he’d had no clue that he was about to be attacked.  He rose up off the bed before Brody could approach him.  A hurt anger glowed in his red-rimmed eyes as he wiped his busted lip with the back of his hand, leaving a bloody smear.

 

“Wha’ th’ fuck, man?” he demanded.  His voice had the slightest hint of a whine in it; just enough for Brody to hear, and to spark his contempt.

 

“Get back on that bed with yer fuckhole in the air, ya worthless pig,” Brody barked, “I’m gonna jam my rod so far up yer ass you’ll be gaggin’ on it from the inside.  Bend over, bitch—now!”

 

Tony’s drunkenness meant that his reaction was more stupefaction than anything else; it soon shaded into amusement.  “Aw, naw, dude, I fuck—I don’t get fucked,” he laughed easily, as if he’d entirely forgotten that he’d been punched in the face two minutes earlier.

 

Brody decided to remind him.  He kneed Tony in the crotch, driving his hard patella into the Latino’s hairy, low-hanging nads.  As he grunted, painfully and viscerally, and crumpled, Brody jerked his leg up again, this time planting his knee deep into Tony’s flat, firm belly.

 

The buff Hispanic expelled the air in his lungs with a forced wheeze and fell straight to the floor, gasping and shuddering at Brody’s feet.  The tall redneck killer squatted down and, placing one knee on Tony’s back, leaned forward.

 

“Guess what, asswipe,” he hissed menacingly, “You’re already fucked.”

 

He stood erect and drew back one foot, then drove his steel-toed Red Wing boot crushingly into the heaving, gurgling fag.  Brody’s cock visibly pulsed and stiffened at the wet snapping sounds caused by two of Tony’s ribs shattering under the brutal impact.

 

If the hardbodied Mexican had been able to catch his breath, he would have screamed; he’d broken bones before, but he’d never endured the pain of sharp jagged shards tearing open his left lung.  And suddenly, regaining his air became much, much harder.  The pain cut through the alcohol-induced fog in his brain like—well, like a sharp knife.  As he writhed, nude, on the filthy floor of a stranger’s bedroom, Tony understood that he was in trouble.  A lot of trouble.

 

Brody, on the other hand, was filled with satanic glee; his uncouth backwoods brain full of a barely controllable mix of red-hot lust and white-hot rage.  The faggot was learning his place.  But if this was kindergarten, Brody was ready to accelerate the lessons to post-graduate level.

 

“C’mon, motherfucker,” he sneered as be bent down and grabbed Tony, “My dick it gettin’ cold and I wanna warm it up in yer guts while I jack you up.”  Brody locked his hands around the moaning homo’s upper arms; they weren’t quite big enough to encircle Tony’s thick, strong biceps, but they were close.  He hoisted the Hispanic dude in the air and held him close—their chest fur bushed and tangled together—while he looked Tony straight in the eyes.

 

“Ready to get what’s comin’ to ya, spicmeat?  Fuckin’ wetback pansy—ready to get what ya deserve?”

 

Tony still couldn’t speak clearly, but he didn’t need to.  Much to his horror, he felt his long, thick tube of manmeat slowly but visibly growing rigid.  Since Brody was strong enough to hold him dead-arm straight at eye level mere inches away, within seconds the two hard cocks were practically jousting with each other.

 

The look of triumph in Brody’s eyes was cold, hard, and terrifying.  Dominance had been established, but in this pairing, there would not be an alpha and a beta.  There was only an alpha and a null—soon to become a negative.

 

Tony already knew he had to act fast if he was going to leave this room alive, but his vicious assailant’s inherent sadism worked against him in more ways than one.  He figured he might be able to scramble away once he was tossed on the bed.  Brody, however, had other plans, and he put them into action with a blindingly swift maneuver.  Letting go of Tony’s right arm, he grabbed at the fucker’s throat, his left hand clamping around it like a steel trap.

 

He was then free to ball up his right hand into a fist and slam it like a wrecking ball into the left side of Tony’s torso—exactly where his boot had landed.  The Hispanic homo had recovered enough breath to scream, but his throat was cinched off.  He could only gurgle and writhe, his toes curling in agony barely an inch above the dirty carpet.

 

When Brody tossed him onto the wadded pile of stained, yellowed sheets, Tony was less concerned with escaping and more concern with trying to breathe without shrieking.  He was about to find out it didn’t matter if he shrieked or not—no one would care.

 

It wasn’t that there was no one else nearby; it was just that those who were nearby wanted to hear him scream.

 


 

Pete crouched in the doorway with Dan right behind him.  As close as they were, the captain could sense the raw sexual excitement surging through his buff young deputy.  It emanated into the hazy atmosphere of the darkened hallway—an electric aftertaste, a whiff of cordite, something hot and powerfully charged.

 

The two men watched silently but intently as Brody beat Tony into submission before raping him.  They did nothing to intervene.  They were representatives of the law, but it was an artificial law, a human construct.  This situation was under the jurisdiction of the law of the jungle—a much older and more primitive law that gave to the strong the right to do whatever they desired to the weak.  It was the law by which all four men lived their lives—even Tony, who had used it to his advantage with his stepson.

 

Problem was, Tony met someone even stronger.

 

But four aroused hardbodied males within a fifteen-foot radius, all pumping out pheromones in an area already permeated with mansex, were adding fuel to a raging fire.  And the brutality Brody was inflicting on the Mexican fag was nothing compared to the explosion of violence that was soon to come.

 


 

As Tony wallowed in pain on the bed, Brody’s towering presence suddenly loomed over him.  In his agony, the well-built Latino had lost sight of the vicious bastard who’d inflicted it on him—until Brody was there, his shadow thrown across Tony’s muscular body.

 

 

For a moment, the battered boykiller glanced up at his assailant.  It was a terrifying sight—the hulking psycho standing over him, huge muscles gleaming with a light sheen of sweat and an angry, jutting erection that would intimidate the most submissive bottom whoreboy.  The glint of the thick gold necklace nestled in Brody’s wiry, luxuriant chest fur naturally drew Tony’s gaze up to the sadist’s hard, masculine face, covered with dark, unshaven scruff and filled with such hate and lust that Tony almost lost control of his bladder.

 

He had to get out of here.  Now.

 

Despite the pain it caused him, he managed to roll over onto his belly and begin to squirm away.  He might not have been as bulked-out as Brody, but he’d been powerful enough to waste his stepson without breaking too much of a sweat; he might stand a chance against this loco motherfucker if he could just beak away—

 

—and then Brody was on him, a sudden crushing weight as the hardbodied killer landed on his knees on Tony’s back, pinning him face-down on the bed.  The startled Latino reached out for the side of the mattress, seeking something to grip so he could pull himself out from under, but Brody stopped that maneuver cold.

 

He shifted his weight, keeping one knee in the middle of Tony’s back and placing the other in the middle of the spic’s right forearm.  “You ain’t going nowhere, ya fuckin’ wetback,” he snarled, his redneck voice thick with racial hate, “Not till I’m done with ya.”

 

He laid his right hand on top of Tony’s and curled his fingers between those of his victim.  In another setting, the gesture would have been intimate, even loving.

 

Here, it just gave Brody a better grip, letting him use greater force as he jerked Tony’s arm back with enough power to break it at the point where his knee was placed.

 

The thick, almost gristly double snap of the radius and ulna shattering simultaneously was drowned out by Tony’s screech of pain.  His escape plans evaporated as he stared incredulously at the way his useless right arm hung at a bizarre angle.  His muscled body heaved and twitched; Brody rode it out with a vicious grin, his thick meaty cock slapping on Tony’s bare back as the cunt flailed.

 

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, cocksucker,” the sadistic top crowed, “Lissenin’ to yer bitch ass squealin’ like a fuckin’ pansy turns me on.”  Still kneeling on Tony’s back, he silently unbuckled his belt and snaked it out from around his waist.  Beneath him, the furry, muscled spicmeat was still bucking and jerking in pain.

 

Tony never saw Brody double the belt up; her never had the chance to flinch from Brody’s upraised arm or to try, however uselessly, to ward off the impending blow.  He never knew it was coming until it was there.

 

Then it was all he knew.

 

Instead of holding the ends of his thick leather belt, Brody held it in the middle, leaving the ends—including the large metal buckle—to cause the actual strike.  As a result, the power of his blows was instantly doubled.  The end with the leather strap left vicious welts that added to the agony caused by the buckled end tearing at Tony’s taut manflesh.

 

The first lash was almost as painful as the broken arm, a searing slice across his right shoulder blade, as if a butcher was making a preliminary cut before slicing off a specific cut.  The next one came before the fiery agony of the first had subsided, and from that point on, Tony only remembered that his arm was broken when his mindless thrashing ground the jagged ends of the bones together.  And even then, it didn’t matter.  What mattered was that the sheer excruciating torture of Brody’s insanely violent attack convinced Tony that he was being flayed alive.

 

He wasn’t that lucky.  Death would’ve come sooner that way.

 


 

Pete’s bloodlust was near the boiling point.  Dan couldn’t blame the younger man; he was no less full of testosterone and cum than Dan himself.  And the scene playing out in front of them certainly wasn’t cooling them off.  Two hardbodied males on the bed, one screaming in pain, the other grunting with the muscular effort of inflicting pain…

 

They could see well enough; Dan had decided it was safe enough to crack the door open a little wider.  The two motherfuckers in the bedroom were too engrossed in their own relationship, so to speak, to notice much of their surroundings at this point.

 

And so the pair of buff lawmen crouched with erect, straining cocks, as Brody beat the screaming Mexican to a pulp, whipping the thrashing faggot until he drew blood, then moving on to a different spot.

 


 

After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually closer to ten minutes, Brody stopped swinging his belt.  Still straddling the fagmeat, he could feel it twitch and shudder beneath his firm muscular thighs.  It moaned and sobbed quietly, as if it already knew that begging was useless and that its best choice was to accept what was being done to it.

 

It expected to be hurt again; some deep dark area of its brain, walled off by battlements of denial, even expected death.  What it didn’t expect was Brody’s long swollen shaft rammed brutally up its virgin hole as the violently powerful redneck mounted it from behind and took it like a bitch.

 

Tony was a top.  He’d enjoyed the fuck outta raping his teenaged stepson.  He’d never felt any desire to take it up the ass, and this new source of agony somehow transcended the pain of broken bones and lacerated skin.  It was…invasive, somehow, in in the way nothing else had been.

 

And despite his suffering, the memory of Billy’s snuff flooded into Tony’s traumatized mind.  From nowhere, the thought flashed through his head that he’d inflicted exactly this pain on the teenaged punk.  Adding to the effect caused by Brody’s cock grinding against his prostate, it created an involuntary physical reaction.

 

To his horror, Tony found himself with a raging hard-on while he was getting viciously assraped.

 

Again, he screamed at the top of his lungs—but not at top of his vocal cords.  He’d been shrieking and crying so long that his already hoarse voice cracked.  The sounds he gave off now were guttural and grating.

 

Brody found it instantly annoying.  He liked his meat screaming, but he didn’t like it gargling.  He’d never let go of his belt, even when he’d plowed his tool into the pansy’s asscunt; he’d intended to use at some later point.  The noise the spic homo was making decided him; that point was now.

 

If the fucktard wanted to gag, Brody would give it a goddam good reason to gag.  He looped the belt over its head, then switched the ends in his hands so that it crossed at the back of the neck.  After that, all he had to do was lean back and jerk on the reins.  By easing up on the belt (or vice versa), he controlled if the meat breathed or if it choked, if it gasped for air or if it gagged in suffocating horror.

 

The hairy, muscled wetback was his fucktoy, a sack of meat to enjoy as it died on his cock.

 


 

Tony, of course, didn’t think of himself that way, but nobody gave a shit what he thought.  And by this time, lucid ratiocination was beyond his abilities.  With a monstrous cock up his ass and a thick leather strap cinching off his windpipe, self-preservation took up more of his mind than self-image.

 

But some part of him was also recalling Billy’s violent convulsions as the teenaged punk had died.  Tony had strangled him with a belt.  He’d forgotten that.  He’d raped his stepson and choked the boy to death with a belt.  Now it was happening to him.

 

The inside of Tony’s head felt like it was going to start spewing out of his ears; the pressure and the pounding were unendurable—but he could only claw ineffectually at the thick strap with his one good hand.  He couldn’t move; he was pinned to the bed by what felt like a telephone pole being reamed up his ass.  He couldn’t even scream aloud anymore.

 

And that was the point when Tony lost his Alpha card.  He was suddenly flooded with remorse for what he’d done to his stepson.  Now that he was suffering the identical agony he’d put the little cunt through, he developed a rudimentary sense of empathy.

 

It came too late to redeem him as a human being; it just made his last few minutes on earth as thrashing fuckmeat even more painful.

 


 

From behind, Brody couldn’t see the spic’s face.  He didn’t get to watch the way his bitch was drooling, or the way its eyes bulged and its face darkened from purple to black, but he didn’t need to.  He could feel its asshole working his dick, massaging the full length of the thick, throbbing shaft as he plowed it into the fucker’s guts.

 

The more brain damage the homo suffered, the harder its fagcunt stroked Brody’s rod.  The hardbodied redneck pumped his massive hog faster and faster into the dying shitsack, feeling beneath him its powerful muscles clenching and relaxing involuntarily as it started to lose physical control and coordination.

 

One thing it hadn’t lost yet was consciousness.  Brody didn’t know how he knew it could still hear him—but he knew.  He bent down to whisper into the motherfucker’s ear, so close, his rough, unshaven cheek brushed against the faggot’s head.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ wetback,” he hissed, “Still drunk, asswipe?  Still so drunk ya think you can fuck me?  Only thing yer good for is sinkin’ in th’ swamp after you die and milk my load outta me.  Ya hear me, boy?  Work my dick, faggot, work it good!”

 

With a snarl, Brody rose up and jerked brutally on the belt, his hands tightly gripping the ends as the thick bands of muscles in his biceps strained visibly under the skin.  The pressure on the dying pansy’s throat was inexorable.

 


 

Tony both felt and heard his esophagus collapse.  It was a soft crunching sound, like some crushing plastic foam, with the snapping of the hyoid bone adding a moment of punctuation.

 

When it happened, Tony shot his load.  It was an instinctual and uncontrolled reaction—the reflexive response of hypersexual manmeat to overwhelming physical trauma.  Since he was pinned face down on the bed, no one knew he’d spunked.  Not even Tony.  What he’d felt was an excruciating ache, as if his scrotum had been turned inside out, and in a way, it had.

 

In other circumstances, it would have been his best orgasm to date; he unloaded more sperm onto Brody’s stained sheets than he’d ever shot before.

 


 

It wasn’t how the meat’s dick reacted to a mortal wound that interested Brody so much as how its rectum did.  And the spicmeat’s ass was handling the buff killer’s engorged member like it was deliberately jacking him off.  The faggot’s fuckhole seemed to have a mind of its own, one not affected by lack of oxygen—one that wanted the alpha’s seed.

 

“Oh fuck,” Brody grunted, dropping the belt, “Oh fuck!!”  With a loud, inarticulate cry, the muscular killer leaned forward and wrapped his powerful arms around the corpse’s head.  His hips pumping at a frantic tempo, the redneck stud gave a massive grunt and twisted his arms.

 

The movement was quick and brutal; he wrenched the spic’s head off its spine.  The top two cervical vertebrae shattered with a popcorn-like burst, clearly audible outside the bedroom.  The sound damn near made Dan and Pete cum.  It did make Brody cum.

 

He jerked and heaved, his muscle-bound form shuddering violently as he hosed the dead fucker’s guts with his semen.  As the dead man continued to kick and twitch on his cock, Brody hunched over and spewed jet after jet of seething sperm up the corpse’s ass.

 

Gasping and heaving, he finally slowed.  Gingerly, he began to extract his still-oozing manhood from the dead faggot when the door was kicked in.

 

Brody looked up, angry and confused, as Pete and Dan piled into the room.  Pete had his shirt off, baring his huge furry chest; Brody hadn’t realized how pumped up Pete had gotten.  Behind him, Dan just finished unbuttoning his shirt and was slipping it off.

 

Then Brody realized that Pete’s fly was open. and his enormous tackle was hanging out.  And hard.

 

It happened in the blink of an eye.  “Take ‘im, Pete!” Dan barked, and the younger man threw himself at Brody.

 

Brody might not have known why it was happening—but he knew what was happening.  It was gonna be a fight to the death.  And if he lost, he was gonna take it up the ass.

 

 

 

Alpha Male Eddie

Eddie was pissed, but that was nothing new.  It was what had got him kicked out of the Corps after three years; he still seethed with rage at the memory of the Marine shrink’s diagnosis: fragmented personality with psychotic breaks trigged by latent homosexuality.  That motherfucker.

 

Eddie was ALL man, and he damn sure knew how to show it.  Every facet of his image, from his chiseled, rock-hard body to his military gear and clothing, to his jacked-up matte-black Dodge Ram picked, was specifically designed to show that was a true Alpha Male.  Nothing—nothing—would ever disprove that.

 

But every now and then, something slipped.  And when that happened, things got—

 

Well, for example, there was JJ.

 


 

It started one summer evening just as the glaring sullen heat of the day was fading into a swift dusk.  Eddie just happened to be driving by the Hudson Street Skate Park when he saw the boy.  He didn’t know why he pulled over, but he did.

 

The boy was heading out, walking away from the park with his skateboard under his arm.  He seemed to be headed for the bus stop at the corner—that was when Eddie decided to make his move.  He quickly pulled to the curb and asked if the kid needed a lift.

 

“Sure, man,” the kid grinned, adolescent hormones giving the teen’s voice just enough depth to prove that he was sexually mature.  “Name’s Jeremy,” he said, opening the door and climbing up into the cab, “But my friends call me JJ.”

 

JJ was in fact seventeen—and was sexually mature.  Two years ago he’d managed to get Amy Schneider from down the block to give him a handjob and just lately he’d talked her into blowjobs.  He wasn’t going steady with her or anything, but none of the other girls he went with would suck his dick yet.  He was supposed to see Amy tonight and was anxious to get home.

 

For a brief moment, the two males sat and scoped each other out.  JJ’s face was smooth, with just a hint of youthful fullness; his hair was short and dark, but it was mostly hidden under a black ball cap—with, Eddie noted with interest, a Marine Corps logo.  Maybe the boy’s daddy was enlisted on the base.

 

The teen’s gear was nothing special—a gray t-shirt and black mid-thigh shorts covered his lean, lithe body but showed his smooth, firm legs to advantage.  A pair of black Converse Play hightops with a red heart logo completed the skatepunk look.

 

For his part, JJ was almost mesmerized by Eddie; he’d never seen such a perfect male form.  And Eddie wasn’t dressed to be ignored.  His military affinity was clear from the way he kept his dark blond hair buzzcut and his facial hair trimmer in a razor-straight line.  His khaki utility pants, bloused into a pair of black leather combat boots, wrapped tightly around his thickly muscled legs.  The pair of dogtags dangling against his skintight olive-drab t-shirt drew attention to his huge sculpted pecs and his almost-perfectly ripped abs.  But there was something both compelling and repellant about his face—JJ couldn’t say what.  Maybe it was the cold hard lines of his cheeks, or the grim set of his mouth…or maybe the unnerving glare of those piercing green eyes, icy and fiery at the same time…

 

It was Eddie who broke the silence.  “So, where ya goin’, man?” he asked, the friendly, open tone of his voice making the teen relax visibly.

 

“Aw, I’m headin’ out to Jupiter Road—over where it crosses Adams, y’know?  Gotta meet my girlfriend…”

 

Eddie chuckled and JJ blushed boyishly.  “Well, she ain’t my girlfriend…I mean… well, she kinda—”  He lapsed into a confused silence as Eddie continued to grin.

 

“Yeah?  What, she letcha dip yer wick, huh?” the older man laughed coarsely, making the teenager blush even harder.  Finally, Eddie decided to relent.

 

“Yeah, I gotta head out that way for business—ya mind if we stop at my place on the way?  Need to pick up something.”

 

“Naw,” JJ said, “And lissen, about Amy—”

 

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Eddie said tersely.

 

“No, but seriously, man, I get to thinkin’—see, maybe I could get a real girlfriend—one a’ them hot senior bitches that won’t even look at a junior like me—if I had a hard body.  Like yours.  Man, how do I do that?  Whadda I gotta do to look like you?”

 

Eddie glanced at the teen covertly, noticing the boy’s wide-eyed, innocent look.  The little fuck wanted to pretend to be an Alpha Male?

 

“Ya wanna get swole?  C’mon, boy and I’ll show ya some of my routine if ya want.”

 

Of course JJ wanted.  Eddie shut off the loud rumble of the truck’s huge engine; from his vantage point in the jacked-up cab, he could see that there was no one about.

 

“You c’n leave yer board here,” he said and jumped from the truck, his combat boots crunching loudly in the gravel lot.  JJ followed, but his lean teen body made far less noise when he hit the ground; he watched the well-built older man enviously as he trailed him into the apartment.

 

Half of Eddie’s bedroom was devoted to weights; in the center was the standard inclined bench, now laid flat, with a rack of barbell weights on the left and one of dumbbells on the right.  All the weights, including the hex dumbbells, were metal—the set looked old, but was obviously still functional.

 

The other half of the room also caught JJ’s notice—not so much the twin bed and the inexpensive dresser as the posters on the wall.  For a moment, the kid thought they were movie stills—then he realized he was looking at blown-up photos from war correspondents across many wars.

 

They were almost all photos of corpses.

 

On the far wall was a large flag with a grinning skull superimposed over a pair of crossed daggers.  Chains of roses frames the image; a motto, split to appear above and below, read “Die, Motherfucker, Die”.

 

Eddie noticed JJ looking at it.  “I’m gonna get that tattooed,” he said proudly, “Right here, on my right bicep.  Already got the money for it, too.  But the guy I wanna do it is in prison; I gotta wait till next year for him to get out.”

 

JJ took all this in with the silent reverence of a teen who feels he’s in the presence of a serious badass.  His admiration for the red-blooded male in front of him overpowered any sense of unease the gruesome photos had generated—after all, the dude was in the military, just like his dad.  Mighta even had to kill someone.  If he got to know him better, he’d ask, JJ decided.

 

“So anyway, I’m up to pressing three hundred and twenty-five right now, but I like to start down at two seventy-five for a few reps before adding the final fifty,” Eddie explained.

 

JJ looked at him questioningly.  “You don’t use a spotter?” he asked.

 

“Fuck,” Eddie sneered, “Spotters are for pussies.  Real men don’t need no help to lift.  Watch.”  And with that, he pulled his shirt off in one smooth sweep, letting the dogtags fall jingling back to the center of his broad chest.

 

And even though neither of them realized it, the sight of Eddie’s smooth hubcap pecs and erect, jutting nipples got JJ hard.  Eddie wasn’t in a position to notice it and JJ was used to the spontaneous erections of adolescence without thinking about what caused them—although he did find it odd how his breath caught was he eyed the older stud’s six-, or fuck, eight-pack abs, so taut and ripped.  As Eddie stood before him, booted, in tight pants and with that amazingly sculpted torso, JJ realized he’d never seen a more perfect male form.  He was overwhelmed with desire, but in his mind, it was desire to be Eddie.

 

If he’d come right out and said that, it might have prevented what happened next.  But probably not.

 

“Ya gotta get yerself positioned right,” Eddie was saying as he settled back on the bench, sliding under the already-loaded barbell, “Yer gonna fuck up yer back if ya don’t…” he trailed off, his face going blank.  He was looking at JJ, but his gaze seemed to be miles away.

 

Only seemed.  His head was right at the level of the kid’s crotch.  Eddie had suddenly realized the little punk was hard.  He’d gotten hard while looking at Eddie.

 

The kid was a faggot.  A little fuckin’ faggot tryin’ to act like a real man.  A little fuckin’ faggot who’d wormed its way in, wantin’ to make him a homo too.

 

The break was swift and silent.  Eddie blinked, smiled, and sat up.  “But for you, dude, I’d suggest building up those arms first.  Try some daily reps with a five-pound dumbbell, like one of these.”  He picked one of the hex weights up off its rack and strolled over to the skatepunk.  “In fact, these are good for lotsa things.  Like puttin’ fags’ lights out.”

 

“Huh?” JJ asked, his youthful face full of innocent confusion as Eddie smashed it with the dumbbell, knocking the teen senseless to the floor.

 


 

JJ was climbing.  He didn’t know to where, but it was a long and painful climb, and the higher he went, the more painful it got.  It had started as a general agony but seemed to be devolving to a specific ache.  Just as he regained consciousness, he located it in his jaw.

 

The pain ballooned in severity as he blinked and groaned.  His eyesight was blurry, and he was utterly unable to comprehend the change of circumstances he’d undergone since his last memory.  He vaguely recalled the buff shirtless dude who was standing over him with a look that could be either a hate-filled snarl or a vicious grin.  And the teen couldn’t place the significance of the blood-smeared dumbbell the guy was holding.

 

“Www…wwh…whaa—” he tried to speak, but there were hard lumps in his mouth.  He spit them out and saw two of his teeth tumble down his own chest, leaving faint bloody streaks on his smooth skin.

 

That was when he realized he was nude.  Well, he still had his Converse kicks on; he could feel them, but otherwise he’d been stripped nude.  And he was—he was on the military dude’s workout bench, evidently.  It had been raised from a flat to an inclined position, and he was on it on his back, completely nude.

 

He didn’t try to move; it was useless.  he could see hid hands–hinging above his head, they’d been handcuffed separately to the barbell, one on each side of the bench.

 

As he looked at the barbell in confusion, Eddie spoke.  “G’wan and try it, cumsucker.  I got four hundred pounds on that thing.  Yer fag ass ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  His voice was filled with a cold glee that sent chills down the teen’s back.

 

“Ay…ain’t no fag…” JJ managed to mutter, rolling his head to the side and spitting out blood.

 

“Course ya ain’t, you fuckin’ lyin’-ass fairy.  I saw yer boydick get all stiff when ya saw a real Alpha Male.  That’s why ya came here, yeah?”

 

JJ couldn’t think.  His head hurt.  In a way, it was why he was here, but not that way—but he couldn’t think.

 

“Fuckin’ luring me in from the side of the road—betcha could barely keep from grabbin’ my cock right there in fuckin’ public, huh, ya goddam homo?  Ya wanna see what Alpha Male meat looks like?  Here ya go, asswipe.”

 

His eyes blazing with psychotic fury, Eddie jerked his zipper down and dug inside his tight utility pants.  And as dazed and bewildered as JJ was, he couldn’t help but be in awe of the massive tool the buff young stud pulled out.  Over eight inches long, nearly two in diameter, wreathed in pulsating veins and with a huge purple head—it was as terrifying to the trapped teen punk as any deadly weapon would have been.

 

And in its own way, that was exactly what it was.

 

The captive youth gaped at the erect member that dangled directly over his face.  With terrifying speed, the malicious grin on Eddie’s face was replaced with an enraged snarl.  “You fuckin’ pervert!!” he screamed, and before JJ could even flinch, the hardbodied ex-Marine began pounding him in the face with the blunt metal dumbbell.

 

The sounds in the next few minutes were unbelievable—the wet squelching sound of flesh beaten until it splits, the crying and bleating of the teenager as he was forced to submit to the brutal violence of the older, more powerful man, the rattling of handcuffs and jingling of dogtags, the crunching and snapping of facial bones…

 

When Eddie finally stood up and tossed the bloody dumbbell aside, his massive, well-defined torso glistened with a film of sweat.  He paused to catch his breath and admire his progress.

 

The faggot was still conscious, but not coherent.  It gurgled and coughed up some blood and a few more teeth before lying back, gasping—it couldn’t breathe through its crushed nose.  The eyes were dark and swollen shut, the lips were split, the jaw was fractured and both cheekbones were broken.

 

It wasn’t enough.  The faggot hadn’t suffered enough.  Eddie still needed to show what an Alpha Male did to impudent skatefags who tried to sneak in for gaysex.

 

He needed to fuck it, to plant his potent manseed deep inside the boymeat.  That’d show the fucker, all right.  Show it just what the fuck was up.

 

As he wandered in and out of dark clouds of pain, some small part of JJ’s mind that wasn’t cowering in a corner wondered exactly what the hell had happened.  This major stud had offered him a lift, had offered to show him how to get swole, and then just—

 

The kid’s thoughts were interrupted by a sensation of movement.  He could feel the Marine dude grab his ankles and yank; with a supreme effort, the youth managed to pry open his swollen eyes—to watch in horror as the buff psycho placed JJ’s Converse hightops on his shoulders.  Even then, his terrified psyche wouldn’t let him go all the way—he could see the huge pulsing shaft that was pointed right between his legs, but he refused to acknowledge what it meant.

 

But reality could be denied only so long.  Even with his eyes closed again, he could feel the pressure starting to build against his anus as the huge thick spongy head of Eddie’s dick probed the tiny opening.   Suddenly Eddie muttered, “Ya know what a real Alpha Male is? He’s a man who can make anyone submit to his cock.”  JJ braced—but it wasn’t enough.

 

This pain wasn’t like the pain of the brutal beatdown his captor had administered.  It was much, much worse.  His adolescent sphincter could only stretch so wide; it was a virgin hole utterly unused to external penetration and lacked the flexibility to handle the older man’s enormous tackle.

 

Eddie literally tore the teenager a new fuckhole.  JJ’s cry of outraged discomfort spiraled into a shriek of terrified agony as his ass muscle split open and Eddie’s gigantic throbbing member pounded its way relentlessly up his ass, tearing at his rectal lining as it went.  Nothing in the young skatepunk’s life had prepared him for this—this nightmarish pain of impalement, of being torn open from the inside—

 

To Eddie, he was just a tight fuck.  And a noisy one.  “Aw, shaddap and take it like a fag, ya cunt!!” he roared, spitting in JJ’s face.  He then drove his point home by driving his fist into the kid’s face, cutting his scream off abruptly.  As the skatepunk lolled listlessly on the narrow bench, the buff ex-Marine took a savage joy in using the virgin boymeat as his own personal fuck toy.

 

Drifting in and out of consciousness, JJ was still aware that his ass was being pounded with relentless fury; he couldn’t help but be aware of it. The thick pulsing veins that sheathed Eddie’s massive tool rode roughshod over his prostate, massaging the hormone-filled adolescent until his own boycock rose up stiffly, as if in defiance of the vicious assrape.

 

He could only moan in bewildered agony, but it was enough for Eddie to hear.  It was enough to trigger another break.

 

“Ya like that, ya fuckin’ piece a’ shit fairy?  Moanin’ like a goddam whore with a dick in ya—cocksuckin’ pansies like you need to fuckin’ die!”

 

Leaning over JJ, Eddie wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and began squeezing.

 

Nothing in the teen’s short, useless life had prepared him for this level of trauma and abuse; the entire attack had left him stunned and defenseless—not just physically, but in a profoundly psychological sense as well.  Despite the pain, he still simply couldn’t believe that what was happening was real.

 

That all changed now, instantly, with the cessation of breath.  Whatever his failings, whatever he’d suffered, JJ still had the lithe, lean body of a fit and active teenager.  That body sprang into action, instinctively, in a frantic attempt at self-preservation.

 

For his part, Eddie was taken by surprise.  He’d been heavily trained in the art of the hand-to-hand kill, but he’d never actually killed anyone before.  He didn’t expect such a violent reaction—but his training enabled him to retain control of the situation.

 

As JJ thrashed and kicked, Eddie leaned forward, pressing down on the boy and pinning him under the weight of his muscles.  He could feel the teen’s smooth, firm belly and strong pecs flexing valiantly under him, sliding against his own massive chest on a film of sweat.  His dogtags dropped onto the punk’s swollen, blackening face, then slid to the side.

 

The muscle-bound stud endured the aimless frenetic buffetings of the boy’s hands; he’d already wrapped his powerful arms around the kid’s legs as a grip to fuck him, so all the gagging youth could do with his legs was squeeze at Eddie’s waist.

 

“That’s it,” he hissed psychotically into JJ’s pain-twisted face, “Yer dyin’, homo.  Does it hurt?  I hope so, ya sick fuck.  Goddam piece a’ shit—yer dick is hard!  You deserve to die, ya disgustin’ pansy.  Fuck you, ya fuckin’ faggot!!”  And having worked himself into a frothing anger, he spit in JJ’s dark, congested face and dug his thumbs into the teen’s larynx.

 

JJ had been going on for nearly a minute with no oxygen; he should have been starting to black out, but some perverse physiological anomaly was enabling him to remain conscious.  It wasn’t a benefit.  He could hear and comprehend everything being said to him.  He didn’t understand why he was being called a faggot, but he knew his dick was hard and he knew he was dying.

 

And he knew when Eddie crushed his larynx.  He could feel the older stud’s thumbs slowly gouge the thick mass of cartilage out of place; he could hear as well as feel the gristly crunch as his voicebox was pulped.  Again, it was pain of a kind he hadn’t realized could exist and his physical reaction was innate, and instant.

 

Eddie had never experienced anything like it—the way the teen’s virgin rectum clenched up on his swollen member, squeezing it vigorously, almost desperately, as if it knew that making him ejaculate was the only way to stop the agony.  The boy’s thrashing ceased; he gripped his murderer tightly, sensually—an instinctive response to minimize movement and hence pain.   But to the homicidal ex-Marine, it seemed to be a drawn-out moment of intimacy—of him finally proving, and the worthless faggot finally understanding, exactly how Alpha Male Eddie truly was.

 

Now that Eddie had asserted himself as Alpha, he still needed to mark the meat as his.  He still needed to pump it full of his potent manseed, to neutralize its faggotry.  It needed it.  The faggot needed his cum.

 

And it hadn’t suffered enough.  It was still alive.

 

“Ain’t dead yet, faggot,” he grunted, pounding his shaft into the twink’s ruined fuckhole, “Ain’t dead yet.”  The hardman tightened his hands remorselessly around JJ’s neck, feeling the erotic sensation of the rubbery esophagus being crimped shut by the sheer force of his powerful hands.

 

JJ could feel it too, in a way.  The pounding in his head was worse than the pounding in his ass; the pressure that had built up in his skull felt like it was shoving his eyes out of their sockets.  In spite of the way they bulged grotesquely, he still couldn’t see much—but the great black explosions in his field of view weren’t just blood vessels rupturing in his eyes.  The oxygen deprivation was catching up to him.

 

He’d been a healthy little punk, and it betrayed him physically.  He’d managed to stay conscious long enough to still be awake as brain damage set in.  So he was unlucky enough to be able to feel his windpipe being crushed but was totally unaware that a long stream of drool was oozing out past his protruding tongue and was trickling down his left cheek.

 

Reason and meaning ebbed from the dying teen but sensation and pain remained.  The thrashing boymeat could still feel its own erection.  Eddie could feel it, too.

 

“Still hard, ya fuckin’ pervert?” he snarled, “Fuck you, faggot—fuck you!!”

 

Jamming his thumbs under the angle of JJ’s jaw, on each side, the ex-Marine, his phenomenal strength amped up by psychotic rage, squeezed his hands with all the power he could muster while simultaneously wrenching them in opposite directions.  In a fraction of a second, Eddie totally destroyed the major anatomic structures of JJ’s neck.

 

The collapse of the trachea yielded the same viscerally satisfying crunch that had accompanied the mangling of the unlucky youth’s larynx.  This was enhanced by a loud snapping sound that came from a deeper location—by the placement of his thumbs and pressure applied to the right way on the back of the neck, he’d managed to pop the kid’s skull right off his spine, shattering the first cervical vertebra and sending bone shards slicing into JJ’s spinal cord.

 

Whatever the punk’s screaming terrified adolescent brain wanted to do after that was moot; the electrical signals coming from the cerebellum shorted out.  The adolescent body responded to its damaged nervous system in the way it was most primed to: it went into instant convulsive orgasms.

 

It was the convulsions that got to Eddie, too; the way the smooth, lithe teen body suddenly clutched him tightly and shuddered beneath him—it was almost as if it was deliberately milking his swollen, pulsating rod.  He felt the hot splash of the boy’s cum on his chest and realized that the faggot was spewing a steady stream of boymilk all over him; it was being smeared across his chest as their bodies pressed together in a frenetic coupling of semen and death.

 

“Aw, fuckin’ faggot!” he screamed, pounding his right fist into the dead boy’s already-ruined face, and felt his balls draw up beneath him.  Then he had to hold on tight as his own ejaculation rendered him powerless, clutching the trembling corpse as he spunked, again and again, pumping what felt like quarts of searing hot manseed into the worthless homo cumrag.

 

Eddie lay on top of the teenager’s dead body for nearly ten minutes, feeling the corpse quivering beneath him until it finally lay still.  When he disengaged himself, he had to peel his chest from the twink’s; the boy’s cum had already started to dry.  His thick shaft, still engorged and leaking, came out of the kid’s ass with an audible pop.

 

Eddie left the room and took a shower.

 


 

When he returned, he paused in the doorway to admire his work.  He was proud of himself; he’d taken a worthless faggot out of the world, and he’d shown it he was full Alpha Male as he did it.

 

It had fallen off the bench while he’d showered, but it was still handcuffed to the barbell, so it hung by its arms, resting on its left hip.  The smooth chest was covered by a crusty glaze.  One of the Converse sneakers still twitched every few seconds, but otherwise it was still.  The face couldn’t be seen; with its neck broken, the dead kid’s head was slumped forward.  Only the boy’s sweat-matted black hair was showing.  And its softening cock, pearls of semen dripping from the tumescent head.

 

Eddie had put his pants and boots back on after the shower; now he slipped the t-shirt back on as well.  Then he stepped up to the weight bench and unlocked the cuffs that held up JJ’s corpse, letting it slump to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.  Stowing the cuffs in his nightstand drawer, he paused and considered for a moment; then, picking up the teen’s clothes and cap, he left the apartment.

 

At his truck, he opened the bed.  He used an old section of carpeting as a bedliner, cut to fit; he rolled it back and tossed the clothes into the bed.  Retrieving the skateboard from the cab, he placed it in the bed, too.  Then looking around to make sure no one was observing him, he darted back into the apartment.

 

When he came back out, he was carrying the meat.  He placed it in bed of the truck, then rolled the carpet back over it—not perfect camouflage, but good enough in the dark.  Hopping in the cab, he started the huge beast up and headed out.

 

The front part of the skate park was still brightly lit and in active use; most of the punks out now were older, probably late teens or early twenties, but there were a few who looked younger—some much younger.  Eddie ignored them; if they weren’t faggots after his dick, he had nothing against them.  But now he knew that fags hung out at this park, and he intended to send a message.

 

The rear part of the skate park backed up to the interstate and wasn’t used after dark; this was enforced not so much by chains or fences as by the simple expedient of keeping the place unlit and as dark as possible.  The few daredevils who regarded it as a challenge had already injured themselves enough to serve as a warning.  One boy had died; another had suffered massive brain damage and was still on a respirator.

 

The back end of the park was left alone at night.  Tonight, though, it wouldn’t be.

 

All Eddie could see was a pit; he couldn’t tell its shape or form, and he didn’t need to know.  He tossed the reamed-out boymeat, nude except for its sneakers, into the darkness and heard it hit the concrete below with a boneless thud.  It was followed momentarily but its clothes, hat, and board, the latter of which clattered noisily down into the pit before evidently landing on its wheels and rolling some distance away.

 

An unexpected breeze picked up, ruffling Eddie’s buzzcut hair.  He glanced over at the lighted part of the park, his steely gazing sighting on the heedless youths darting about.  Yeah, this place was infested with faggots.  He’d have to keep his eyes peeled.

The Return of Leather Dave

The building was located off Randolph Street, some three blocks from the river.  On a side street facing the massive rail yard of a huge train station, the hotel didn’t give a view of anything worth looking at—not that you could tell by the prices.

 

Dave supposed it was the décor.  The place had been refurbished from a turn-of-the-century theater into a bijou hotel; the theater itself too small for modern stage productions but, once the balcony was redone as a mezzanine floor, perfect for smaller conventions.  Like the Chicago S&M Leather Club’s SpikeCon.

 

Dave wasn’t staying at the hotel himself; he knew better than that.  He was hunting.  He wasn’t into the hard-core masochists that he knew would be attending, but these kinda events drew curious little cunts looking to be dominated and willing to go farther than most before realizing they’d gone too far.

 

Stupid fuckers, Dave thought with a grin and at least two dudes looking in his direction feel in love with his handsome, porn-star features.  His long-lashed green eyes sparkled in the oddly dim “unconventual” lighting, and the dark hair on his head gleamed.

 

But Dave was used to that, especially decked out in all leather.  He’d gone high-gloss black leather on everything, from the vest that hinted at the stud’s broad chest while showing off the thick wiry black fur that covered his torso to the skin-tight jeans that left neither his taut, firm ass or the enormous bulge in his groin to the imagination.  He’d topped it off with black Wesco harness boots and smooth, tight leather gloves.

 

He looked every inch a man, and judging from the leather-wrapped ridge running down his leg, that extended a number of inches.  As a matter of course, he drew stares of raw, naked lust as he moved silently through the leather-clad crowd.

 

The time was near midnight and the convention hall was packed.  Behavior wasn’t quite as licentious as it would have been in a gay nightclub—and, in fact, a number of attendees had already left for a tour of the local clubs—but the throng was rowdy and horny.

 

No one would notice anything unusual about him picking up a fuckbuddy and heading out.  He just needed to find the lucky stiff.

 

And that was when Dave spotted him, about ten yards away, at a cash bar by a side door.  The slut had noticed him, too, and they kept eye contact as Dave approached across the crowded floor.

 

The kid was young—at least twenty-one, since he’d bought a beer and the bartender was carding, but surely no older.  What little of his hair could be seen under his backwards leather ball cap inclined more to strawberry than to blond, and his smooth, youthful face was sprinkled with a band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his upturned nose.

 

The punk was wearing a white tank top that showed off his smooth arms.  He wasn’t anywhere near as well-built as Dave, but he wasn’t scrawny.  The boy looked like he could hold his own, and that made Dave happy.  The sadistic killer wanted a good workout and had been hoping to find a sparring partner that could last for a little while.

 

The kid’s concession to leather included combat boots tightly laced to nearly mid-calf and a pair of short shorts that ended inches down the thigh and didn’t quite conceal the florid head of the cunt’s dick.  But it was the thick leather dog collar the fag was sporting around his neck, with its triple row of jet-black steel spikes, that caught Dave’s eye, and set his imagination working.

 

“Hey,” he said smoothly, his baritone voice resonating deeply as he glided up to the boy.

 

“Uh—hi,” the kid replied nervously, grinning and blushing boyishly.

 

“I wanna fuck you,” Dave said bluntly.

 

The slut’s gentle shyness evaporated instantly and his muddy brown eyes lit up with expectant lust.  “Oh fuck yeah, dude,” he said with breathless excitement, “I gotta room here—you, uh, ya wanna go?”

 

“We gonna be alone?”

 

“Yeah,” the punk replied, “Buncha us got a suite but the others all went out clubbin’.  They won’t be back for at least three hours, if they come back at all, the fuckin’ whores.”

 

“Let’s go,” Dave said and followed the kid out.

 

The boy was so eager, if he’d been a dog, he’d have been wagging his tail.  On the way up to the third floor, he told Dave his name was Harold, “but everybody calls me Buddy.”  He rattled on about his personal life—how he’d come to the convention with a group of gay friends all into leather, how his father, some high-ranking judge, had no idea why his son had taken a week off his classes to visit Chicago.

 

“He thinks it’s to tour the Art Institute,” Buddy finished up smugly as the elevator reached the third floor and opened.  The suite was to the left, last door on the right.  The mellow lighting, tasteful carpet and ambient music went some way towards explaining the hotel’s ludicrous pricing.

 

So did the interior of the suite.  There was a bathroom to the left and a kitchenette off to the right of the entry; Dave had a brief impression of stylish cabinets of dark wood and glass and steel appliances and fixtures, but he had little interest in those rooms beyond ascertaining that they were empty.  Past the entry was a small living area minimally furnished with a loveseat, coffee table, floor lamp, and a huge TV on a stand.

 

“I’ma go grab us a drink,” Buddy chirped, heading for the fridge.  Dave grunted absently in agreement and checked out the bedroom.  It was a sight worth seeing.

 

Most of the room was taken up by an almost grotesquely huge bed; it seemed too big to be a king.  The bedding mostly crumpled on the floor; in fact, the whole room looked like the set for an orgy scene in a porno.  Clothes, sneakers, boots and random pieces of leather gear were scattered around.  Dave found himself admiring the Red Wing harness boots propped on the recliner in the corner, along with the harness draped over them.

 

A large window was opposite the door; it looked down onto the street and the railyard.  There was a dresser next to it and a desk opposite the bed; both were covered with sex toys, popper bottles and wads of tissue.  On the desk was an enormous black dildo, reflected in the large mirror above.

 

Dave smirked and turned back to the other room.  Buddy emerged from the kitchen with a couple of tumblers.  “Here,” he said, somewhat unsteadily, “It’s Frieball.  I mean, Fireball.  Good shit.”

 

Dave took a sip of the whiskey.  “So how many of ya are here?” he asked.

 

Even though Buddy was seriously buzzed and horny as fuck, he still knew what the leather stud meant.  “Ya saw the bedroom?  Yeah, there’s three of us all in there.  Man, Lee wanted to fuck me so bad last night, but I been waitin’ to get plowed—hopin’ I’d find someone like you—” he here broke off and blushed charmingly again.  “So, anyway, I gave ‘im a BJ instead an’ helped ‘im use the dildo on Todd.  Todd’s such a fuckin’ whore…”

 

The punk trailed off as Dave slowly stood up and slipped his leather vest off, tossing it down onto the coffee table.  It knocked both drinks onto the floor, adding the heady scent of whiskey to an atmosphere already redolent of testosterone and mansex.  Buddy didn’t notice; his attention was riveted to the older man’s huge hairy hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.

 

Buddy rose too, not gracefully as Dave had, but popping so eagerly his leather cap came off, revealing his light wavy hair.  The kid almost lunged at Dave, fastening onto the muscular killer’s chest, his tongue lapping at the large nips while he ran his fingers through the black wiry fur.  He paused a moment to lift a finger and run it around Dave’s goatee, outlining the stud’s mouth before bringing it back to his own and sucking on it.

 

Suddenly the boy broke off.  “I want you in me,” he muttered breathlessly, then pulled off his shirt, revealing his smooth, firm, wiry torso.  Grabbing Dave by the hand, Buddy led the way to the bedroom, wriggling out of his tight leather shorts as he did.  By the time they reached the bed, the only things Buddy wore besides his gleaming leather boots and his spiked collar were an eager grin and a raging hard boycock.

 

Dave didn’t bother to pull his dick out; he didn’t need to.  Buddy did it for him, hands trembling with excitement as he worked the older stud’s zipper.  Dave could feel the boy’s fingers around his massive, throbbing member as Buddy excitedly began to extract the enormous manshaft from its leather confines.

 

“Goddam,” the punk whispered in awe, “It just keeps comin’…”

 

“Wait’ll it’s fuckin’ in ya, whore,” Dave growled and Buddy squirmed in submissive glee.  “Now get over here.  I wanna fuck you right here in front of the window.  Show all those cunts down there what a fuckin’ slut you are.  C’mon, fucker!”

 

The ginger-blond fag obediently assumed the position, bent forwards with his hands placed on the huge plate-glass window and his ass posed and ready for receiving.  He had a great view of the street—and in the backlit bedroom, the conventioneers milling about on the street below had a great view of him.  Whistling and catcalling, faint but still audible, could be heard from below as the leather-gear crowd began to realize they were being given a free show.

 

Dave stayed far enough behind that he couldn’t be seen from the street.  They knew he was there, though, from Buddy’s reaction as the muscle-bound older man began to shove his huge, vein-wrapped mantube up the boy’s fuckhole.

 

The kid rose up on his toes, flexing his feet inside his tightly-laced boots and bending his waist in a vain attempt to find a position that would be more accommodating to the enormous rod being relentlessly thrust into his colon.  He was into pain, sure, and he knew he could take the dude’s cock, if only he’d used lube…

 

The youth beat on the window in sexual pain, groaning loudly and erotically as his eyes rolled back in his head.  “Aw yeah—fuck, brah, yer killin’ me…” he moaned to the faint cheering from below as his own thick, dangling boycock slapped against the glass.

 

“Not yet, cunt,” Dave muttered and started pounding the boyhole remorselessly.

 

Fuck YEAH!!!” Buddy cried out, his smooth young body already slick with sweat.  For a moment, Dave was surprised the little fucker could take it, before realizing what a serious whore the kid truly was.

 

The problem with major asssluts is that even if they start out tight, they always go loose.  Dave smiled, already anticipating the enjoyment he’d take in making sure he got the fuckmeat properly re-tightened.

 

Buddy had no idea what Dave was thinking about; it was sheer coincidence that made him speak.  “Hurt me, dude,” he moaned, “C’mon, show me yer a man—hit me…”

 

“Ya like that, cunt?” Dave sneered.  “Ya like gettin’ hurt when yer gettin’ fucked?  Cause I’m about to put a serious fuckin’ beatdown on yer twink ass!”

 

Sexually supercharged by the banter, Buddy never considered the possibility that Dave was speaking literally.  “Oh hell yeah bro, make me feel it,” he grunted in erotic abandon.

 

“Ya got it, motherfucker,” Dave chuckled, and grabbed Buddy’s dog collar at the buckle, where there were no spikes.  It wasn’t tight–in fact, it was loose enough around the kid’s neck that he could easily slid his hand under it and jerk it back like a horse’s rein.  At the same time, his swung his balled-up leather-wrapped fist like a wrecking ball, giving the punk a brutal donkey-punch to the back of the head.

 

The impact was hard enough to bounce Buddy’s head off the thick window glass.  “Ahh!” the kid cried out, “What the fuck, man?!?”

 

“You said ya wanted to be hurt,” the muscle stud chuckled, not missing a beat as he pumped his tool up into the twink’s ass with a driving tempo, “Why—want more?”

 

“Not like that!” Buddy shouted indignantly, but it was too late.  Dave was swinging again.  This one was a roundhouse blow from the shoulder that swept wide and caught the youth on the side of the face.  As such, it was visible to the horny dudes watching the sex show from the street, and it was roundly applauded—well, it was an S&M convention.

 

Buddy was much less appreciative.  He squalled and yelled, jerking himself forward and managing, somehow, to get himself off the huge spear of manflesh.  He whirled around and faced Dave.  From outside, the crowd realized the show was over and several loud and distinctive boos came wafting up to express their displeasure.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the kid whispered, wide-eyed with a fear that came far too late to be useful.  He reached behind his neck and unfastened the dog collar; determined that it wouldn’t be used to snare him again, he tossed it onto the bed.

 

“You fuckin’ pussy,” Dave growled, “You wanted to be hurt?  I ain’t even started on ya, you stupid cunt.  Those were just love taps.  By the time I’m done workin’ over yer worthless fuckmeat, you’ll be in so fuckin’ much pain you’ll cum in agony.”

 

Cold terror flushed through the lithe boyslut, causing his smooth skin to pale.  He began edging towards the corner of the room as Dave started closing the distance between them.  “You—you fuckin’ stay away from me, you psycho—NO!!”

 

Buddy scrambled onto the bed.  Dave lunged at him, but the limber youth somehow managed to tuck into a somersault and roll off the bed; the move was spontaneous and amateurish and he ended up sprawled on the floor, but it bought him a precious few seconds. As Dave floundered his way off the huge bed, the terrified cunt bolted out of the bedroom, heading for the hall door.

 

Gaining the door, Buddy fumbled frantically with the deadbolt.  His fingers finally caught it and he gave a sigh of relief as the lock clicked open.  Then Dave’s hand clenched in his hair, jerking backwards and tossing him to the floor.

 

The hairy, hardbodied stud re-locked the door and turned to his victim.  From the floor, Buddy looked up at the older man, still in clad in tight black leather from his boots to his waist; only his gigantic cock was free, pulsating as it swung, erect, in the air.  Above, the boy’s eyes followed the vast, furry expanse of Dave’s broad chest and huge hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.  Above that, the handsome face, that charming, cheerful grin framed by the virile black goatee…

 

…Buddy had fallen back in lust with Dave so hard and fast that he forgot what he was doing.  Dave didn’t.

 

He bent down and clamped one hand around the punk’s throat, his black-gloved fingers digging in excruciatingly as he lifted the kid into the air.  Buddy’s reverie came to an abrupt halt as his windpipe was closed off and he was hoisted agonizingly by his neck.  The young whoreboy clawed at Dave’s wrist and arm while his combat boots flailed uselessly four inches off the ground.  His bulging eyes stared directly into those of his torturer, without the latter showing the least concern—or the slightest bit of exertion, despite single-handedly dead-lifting the kid off the floor.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, ya little asswipe?” Dave asked him, the deadly gleam in his eye belying the almost conversational tone of the question.  “You said ya wanted to be hurt.  I came all the way the fuck up to this room to hurt ya, so you goddam sure better enjoy it, motherfucker!”

 

With that, he hurled the kid into the loveseat.  Buddy hit it on his back hard enough to bounce off, falling forward onto the coffee table, which promptly broke under his weight.  The kid ended up on his hands and knees in a mess of broken wood and leather—his cap and Dave’s vest—coughing and gagging, but essentially unhurt.  For the moment.

 

Staggering to his feet, the fair-haired boy glared at Dave, sullen and defiant.  “What are ya, some kinda sicko?  Lookit this shit—you gonna pay for that table?  You better get the fuck outta here or I’m gonna call—UHH!!”

 

Dave, tired of the chattering, popped the kid right in his gaping maw, knocking out a canine and shutting him up.  Buddy stared at him wide-eyed, one hand clamped over his injured mouth.

 

“Like I said, I ain’t even got started on hurtin’ ya, son.  I’m gonna hurt you so good, ya perverted little cocksucker, you ain’t ever gonna need anyone else to hurt ya again.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  No?  You will.  Trust me, faggot, ya damn sure will.”  Almost casually, he reached out and gripped Buddy by the upper arm; before the youth even realized he’d been grabbed, Dave had spun around and flung him into the TV.

 

This one didn’t leave the punk unscathed.  The flat screen TV was totaled and a large dent left in the drywall behind it.  Buddy landed badly, wrenching his right arm.  He lay on the floor wheezing, trying to breathe, but the only thing his hazy eyes seemed to focus on were the gleaming toes of Dave’s Wesco harness boots as they came closer…

 

“On yer feet, motherfucker.  Or do ya want me to carry ya into the bedroom?”

 

The threat worked; still gasping, Buddy clambered to his feet and dove into the bedroom with an abortive plan to try and lock Dave out.  Dave was already in the room when the boy turned back—and Dave locked the door behind him.

 

“No more interruptions,” he said with a sinister grin, “And no more fuckin’ foreplay, bitch.”

 

Buddy hadn’t noticed Dave was wearing a belt; the wide leather strap with the chrome buckle had more or less blended in with the rest of his leather gear.  It wasn’t until he unbuckled it and started sliding it off that Buddy even realized it existed.  And even then, he still didn’t understand what was going on; at least, not until Dave wrapped the end without the buckle around his hand a couple of times.

 

With a screech, the young slut tried to dodge out of Dave’s reach, but the experienced killer was able to swing his makeshift lash wide.  Buddy howled in pain as the strap whipped across the smooth, soft flesh of his back, the thick buckle leaving a vicious purple welt.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah,” the buff older man crowed, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”  With a wide grin, he slashed the belt at Buddy twice.  The first blow went across the whore’s back again; with an agonized yelp, the kid spun around just in time to receive the second squarely across his firm, flat belly, the loud slap instantly echoed by another cry of pain.

 

“You son of a motherfuckin’ bitch, I’m gonna—AAAHHH!!!”

 

Dave had swung the belt with the precision of an animal tamer’s whip, landing the buckle in Buddy’s face with enough force to break his right cheekbone—and shut him up.

 

“Close yer cocksuckin’ cumhole, faggot,” the cruel leatherman sneered, “You’re mine now.  Got that?  Ain’t no one gonna come save you.  You’re here so I can do what the fuck I want to with ya—and when I’m done, you’re done.  Understand me?  When I’m done with ya, ain’t no one else gonna have any use for ya either.  So shut up and take it, cunt, no matter how bad it gets—cause I promise you, I can always make it worse.”

 

Buddy clutched his swelling face, whimpering and cowering.  He didn’t reply.  He was still trying to figure out what had happened—how a chance meeting with a smokin’ hot stud had somehow become a nightmare of pain and fear.  That was when Dave, annoyed with losing his fucktoy’s attention, gut-punched him, sinking his gloved fist deep into the boy’s tender abdomen.

 

Buddy knelt on the floor, trying to breathe, when Dave yanked his head back by the hair.  “You pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya, you scum-suckin’ piece a’ shit, you hear me?  Say ‘yes sir’!”

 

“Y-yessir…” Buddy managed to gasp out painfully.

 

“That’s right, asshole,” Dave growled and gave the cowering punk a swift kick with his steel-toed boot.  Buddy gave a breathless yip, then started sniveling.  The sound enraged the older man; he glared down at the huddled mass of sobbing boymeat.  “Fuck, I’m gonna be doin’ the world a favor by takin’ a worthless piece of crap like you outta it,” he muttered in disgust, “Shut the fuck up!”

 

Lost in his little world of fear and pain, Buddy never heard him.  The lithe youth with the red-gold hair continued to sob on his knees until the muscled older man, fed up with the irritating mewling noise, began to beat him with the belt again.  At the first blow—across his upper arm—Buddy came out of his despairing reverie, squalling.

 

He bolted to the door, by now so panicked that he didn’t even try working the locked knob; he beat and clawed at the door, yelling frantic gibberish.  Dave let him go at it for a moment or two, to let the meat wear itself out, then casually strode over, yanked the boy back, and gutpunched him.  Hard.

 

Buddy went limp and would have fallen to his knees again, but by now Dave’s dick was raging hard and he was out of patience.  He literally picked the boy up and threw him bodily onto the bed.

 

Buddy gave a cry of pain as he landed on the spiked collar.  He managed to twist himself sideways and get off it, but he wasn’t able to get off the bed itself before Dave was on it as well.  As the young boycunt tried to wriggle away, Dave leaned over, drew back his gloved fist, and pounded Buddy in the face.  Three roundhouse blows with the force of an industrial piston put paid to the twink’s escape attempt.

 

The faggot was still moaning in semiconscious agony when Dave parted the boy’s smooth, firm legs, climbing between them and propping the fucker’s boots on his shoulders.  With a perfect view of the kid’s puckered asshole, the hardbodied leatherstud aligned his enormous manshaft with cunt’s fuckhole and plunged straight in, going balls-deep on the first thrust.

 

Even for a reamed-out whore like Buddy, it was too much.  The window fuck hadn’t been too bad, but Dave had taken the time to ease himself in.  There was no easing this time; this was brutal dead-on rape, and Dave wanted it to hurt.

 

It did.  Once again, Buddy found himself dragged out of a dazed state by a new burst of physical pain.

 

“Fuck!  Oh fucking God, stop it!” he screamed, doubling his fists and beating on Dave’s powerful hairy pecs like a small child having a tantrum, “Stop!  PLEASE DEAR GOD FUCKING STO—”

 

Dave backhanded him across the face, then swung his arm back, slapping him.  Whimpering, the abused boycunt continued to writhe and struggle.

 

“Ain’t nothing worse than a bad fuck—except a mouthy one.  You’re both, ya worthless piece a’ faggot shit,” Dave growled angrily.  Keeping his huge rigid cock buried deeply in the boy’s guts, he reached out one hand and began to feel around on the bed.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.

 

“Good thing I know a way to fix both,” he said menacingly, and held up the dog collar, making sure that Buddy got the chance to focus on it and see clearly what it was.  The hulking leatherman leaned forward and began to put it around the punk’s neck—then stopped and leaned back again.

 

“Know what?” he said musingly, “I put down some dumbass twinks in my time, but yer the stupidest one yet.  Gonna need more control for a dumb motherfucker like you.  Here, it’s big enough—I’m gonna try it this way.”

 

Both of Buddy’s eyes were blackened and swollen, but he was still able to watching in incomprehensive fear as Dave flipped the collar over.  It was only when the older man leaned forward again that the kid realized he was putting the collar on inside out—with the spikes on the inside.

 

For a few moments, Buddy went wild in sheer panic but the weight and pressure of Dave on him (and in him) kept the youth, strong as he was, from moving an inch.  The sadistic killer just kept still, enjoying the way the punk’s thrashing was working his dick.  When the meat finally wore itself out, he calmly passed the collar around its neck.  There was just enough room to loop it back through the buckle with the spikes deeply indenting the tender flesh of the throat without piercing the skin.

 

“So ya like to be dominated?  Ya like to be hurt?” he sneered down at the trembling, terrified slut, “I’m gonna show ya what real control is like, you disgusting pansy.  I’m gonna show ya what it’s like to get used by a real man, faggot.  That means no matter how bad it gets, we ain’t done till I say we’re done.  I don’t give a shit how much it hurts you, ya motherfucking cunt; you’re only here so I have something to cum into.  Grin an’ bear it, asswipe, cause my dick is hard, my balls are full and it’s time to rock n’ roll!”

 

Dave placed one hand flat on Buddy’s chest—the twink could feel the leather-clad expanse of the older man’s palm across his pecs—grabbed the loose end of the dog collar with the other, and began pounding the kid’s ass like he was literally trying to fuck him in half.  As he did, he began slowly pulling the collar tight.

 

He did it so slowly that Buddy didn’t realize it at first; he could only feel the brutal, relentless way the older stud was reaming his captive ass, the way the huge engorged head tore at his rectal lining as it plunged into his colon, battering his prostate remorselessly on its way up his intestines.  And somehow, some way, his own dick was responding, his long thin boycock, slapping between his own flat abs and the hairy, ripped ones of his rapist, was getting harder by the moment…

 

…then the spikes began to break the flesh and the true nightmare of Buddy’s last few minutes on earth began to reveal itself.  Awash in agony and terror, the boy almost didn’t realize it at first; it was all part of the pain.  But as he continued to struggle, the spikes sank deeper into his flesh—incrementally, but remorselessly, the excruciating torment grew to overwhelming proportions.  There was nothing he could do to escape it, but he damn sure tried all the nothing he could.

 

Dave knew that the punk would panic and at some point he’d be having to rein in a thrashing piece of boymeat, so he was prepared when Buddy’s reaction set in.  The fucker went ballistic, flailing like a landed seabass, trying his best to fight Dave off, or, failing that, to wriggle his way out from under the horrific torture.

 

The lean, sweaty twink clawed frenetically at the hardbodied leather stud pinning him to the bed; his fingers, curled into talons, tried in vain to scratch at Dave’s face, but the serial killer was too experienced to let that happen.  As the spikes tore their way into his esophagus and his windpipe began to constrict, Buddy’s mindless terror only increased.  Unable to damage Dave’s face, the punk began scraping and digging at his chest, his fingers snagging in the thick wiry manfur covering Dave’s strong, broad pecs.

 

Undaunted, Dave planted his free hand on Buddy’s forehead, pinning the fuckmeat securely to the bed.  The hulking sadist could feel his spunk seething in his huge hairy scrote and knew it was time to shift into high gear.

 

“I’m gonna cum, motherfucker,” he hissed at the frenzied youth.  Something about it—his words, or maybe just his tone of voice—seemed to break through to Buddy.  Even though the meat wasn’t able to regain enough control to stop its involuntary flailing, Dave could tell it was hearing him.  “I’m about to coat yer guts with hot potent manseed.  Ya want it, dontcha, ya fuckin’ faggot?  Yeah, all you little homos want my load.  Earn it, asswipe.  Make your corpse a worthy receptacle for my semen.  Work my dick, fucker, milk my wad outta me!”

 

If Buddy heard him, he didn’t do anything new to indicate it.  In point of fact, Buddy did hear him, but was still in too much pain and panic to fully understand what was being said.  It didn’t matter.  What happened next would have happened in any case; it was what Dave had wanted from the moment he’d set eyes on the ginger-blond freckle-faced leather twink.

 

With one gloved hand on Buddy’s fist, Dave stopped pulling the collar back through its buckle with a slow, even force with the other.  Instead, with a single powerful jerk, he yanked the collar as tight as he fuckin’ could.  Instantly, the circumference of the leather strap decreased by more than thirty percent.  It was now so tight around Buddy’s neck that the queerboy was being strangled by the leather strap.

 

And, of course, for that to happen, the spikes had to be fully embedded in the youth’s throat.

 

It was…there weren’t words.  Buddy had never imagined such agony could exist.  The spikes were three quarters of an inch long and nearly a half-inch wide at their widest point—which wasn’t at the base, but just above it.

 

The steel spikes in the back of his neck had sunk in until they reached the cervical vertebrae.  It might have been merciful had they pierced the spinal cord; instead, they buried themselves in the bone and anchored the improvised garrote at the rear, giving Dave more leverage to choke the cunt to death.

 

In the front, it was different.  The metal points punctured first the jugular veins, then the carotid arteries on both sides.  If Dave removed the collar now, Buddy would bleed to death.

 

Dave wasn’t removing the collar now.  Increased pressure on the spikes merely drove them deeper into the blood vessels without allowing the blood to leak out.

 

As the twink endured the first sufferings of strangulation—the rise of pounding pressure to intolerable levels inside his head—he fought even harder.  There was no lucid thought involved; some instinct drove Buddy to concentrate on Dave’s arms, to try and yank them away in a fruitless effort to ease the throttling agony.  The boy clamped his hands around Dave biceps and pulled, but it was like trying to bend marble.  Deep inside, the choking faggot felt the sheer awesome power of the muscles being used to choke out his useless boywhore life, and despaired.

 

Dave bent forward, the stiff wiry hair of his goatee brushing Buddy’s cheek as the older man whispered in his ear.  “Die, motherfucker.  I’m gonna pump my load up yer guts and leave yer reamed-out corpse spread across the bed, so fuckin’ die, you homo shit.”

 

He gave another cruel, vicious jerk to the dog collar.  When the steel spikes tore through Buddy’s Adam’s apple, he could not only feel the way the sharp points ripped into his larynx, he could hear the crunching of the cartilage.

 

By now, Buddy wanted to die.  The pain, the terror was all too much.  Somewhere in the back of his fagslut brain, he was still aware of his own erection—he couldn’t ignore it; he was so hard it hurt.  He didn’t know it was an involuntary reaction to asphyxia; he could only feel his achingly rigid shaft pinned between the flat, firm bellies of two males locked in a fatal embrace.

 

As the young punk’s struggles began to fade, his faced showed the hideous effects of a drawn-out strangulation.  Already badly battered and swollen, the boy’s innocent, freckled-marked face was blackening grotesquely—long past purple, it was darkening to true black.  His eyes, bugling horribly, were streaked with red where blood vessels were bursting; Buddy could only see great black bursts of nothingness blooming in his field of vision like fireworks of eternity.  The bloody froth oozing from his choked-off throat found an outlet beside his purple protruding tongue, the pinkish foam trickling down the kid’s smooth cheek.

 

The dying boycunt was going under.  Its weak little faggot brain was suffering more and more damage; unable to hold out for much longer, it was no longer fighting its killer.  Dave grunted with exertion and pleasure—he knew that once his warm sweaty fucktoy stopped fighting and started caressing him, it was close to death.

 

“That’s it, faggot, time to die,” he whispered huskily, know the slut was too far gone to hear him.  By now, Buddy was a vegetable.  A tiny spark of his personality remained screaming in terror and pain, trapped in some small corner of a dying brain, but it could only suffer.

 

Even if the boy had been magically bestowed immediate medical care, his only use would have been as an organ donor.  Not that Dave planned on any medical care.  This was what he’d wanted.  From the moment he’d noticed Buddy, he’d planned to have the young man’s brain-damaged convulsions milking his hard shaft to orgasm—and the stupid little homo cunt had played along every step of the way.

 

What little coordinated motion the near-dead whoreboy had been able to command slipped away.  The hands that had been slowly caressing Dave face and trailing in his chest fur fluttered aimlessly for a moment, then rose to his shoulders.  At the same time, the meat’s legs wrapped around Dave’s tight waist; he could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the kid’s inner thighs pressed against his sweat-slick flanks and he knew that the final act had arrived.  He waited tensely for the signal, no longer thrusting himself into the dying fuck’s asshole.  He didn’t need to any longer, once he felt—there, that tight trembling in the rigid boymeat as the progressive damage reached a tipping point in the fuckwad’s dying brain—

 

Buddy’s death load was intense.  The violence even caught Dave by surprise; evidently, for all his whining and squealing, the little cunt had been a major pain pig deep down inside.

 

As the fuckmeat thrashed, it clutched Dave to itself with phenomenal strength, its fingers digging into his shoulders as its legs kicked and flailed with such convulsive violence that it managed to pry one of its combat boots loose, causing it to slide halfway off.

 

While this was going on, its internal muscles were convulsing as well—its colon gripping and releasing Dave’s engorged, throbbing shaft like it was deliberately trying to jack him off.  “Aw, fuckin’-A!” the brawny leather-clad muscleman grunted.  Then he felt it—the sensation, almost like an electric shock, that told him he couldn’t hold off anymore; his balls were unloading.

 

With a single brutal tug, he gave Buddy’s collar one last powerful jerk.  A loud gristly cracking sound filled the room as the young punk’s trachea collapsed, steel spikes deeply embedded in the bloody mass of crushed tissue.

 

There was just enough of Buddy left to feel the burn, and for it to trigger the disgusting little pain pig’s orgasm.

 

For Dave, this was it.  This was his reason for being—young smooth nubile boymeat thrashing beneath him in its death agony, squirting jet after jet of hot creamy spunk across his hard, furry chest, to be smeared between them as they intertwined in an agonizing, erotic orgasm.  The hardbodied older man was aware of his own inarticulate, animalistic grunts as he hunched over the dead boy’s corpse, spewing what felt like a steady stream of searing manseed into it.  As he shot his wad, over and over, Dave continued to pin the flailing corpse to the bed and beat it, driving his gloved fist into Buddy’s vacant face repeatedly.

 

By the time he pulled his dick out of the corpse and rolled, gasping, onto his back next to it, Buddy had been thrashed to hamburger.  The fresh-faced twink was utterly unrecognizable.

 

Unwillingly, the sweaty, satisfied serial killer rolled off the bed, his thick-soled boots hitting the carpet with a loud thump.  He bent down and retrieved his belt from the floor, looping it back around his waist as he went out into the living area of the suite.  Rooting about in the wreckage of the coffee table, he recovered his vest—and Buddy’s leather cap.  Dave held it for a moment, considering, then walked back to the bedroom to try it on in front of the mirror.

 

Well, fuck it—wasn’t like Buddy had any further use for it.

 

He like the look, especially worn with the brim backwards.  He hadn’t wanted to damage the expensive lining of his vest by wearing it over his sweaty, cum-covered chest, so he’d simple looped it through his belt, leaving it to dangle—and himself shirtless.  As he admired his furry ripped abs, matted with the dead boy’s sperm in the mirror, he realized he could see Buddy in the reflection—the splayed, twitching corpse on the bed behind him, cum pooling and already congealing on its flat chest, one combat boot still kicking at the twisted sheet while the other was half off.  Even now, the corpse’s face had faded from jet black to a vivid fuchsia as the blood started to drain away from the front of the head.

 

It was a fuckin’ hot scene and Dave was proud of his work.  As he watched the faggot’s limp cock continue to ooze semen after death, the buff sadist fondled his nipples, feeling them get rock-hard.  He grinned at his own reflection in the mirror, then realized his own dick was stiffening again.  He massaged it for a moment as well, still admiring his own hairy muscular body in the foreground and the twink’s mauled, fucked-out corpse in the background—then put his tackle away.  Playtime was over; he needed to put a little distance between himself and his playmate.

 

Dave locked the suite door on his way out, but otherwise left all the interior doors open and lights on; he wanted his handiwork to be viewed under the best possible circumstances.

 

Out on the street, there was still a large crowd of conventioneers still milling about; more than before, in fact, since most of the bars and nightclubs had closed and so most were heading back to their rooms.  Directly outside the hotel door, Dave bumped into a pair of twinks.

 

One, a slender homo with long blond hair, looked up at him, awestruck.  “Hey, sweetie,” it cooed with a feminine voice, “My name’s Lee.  Wanna blowjob?”

 

Dave looked at it with a sneer of contempt.  “No thanks, faggot; just got one.  Still drippin’.”  He strode of down the street, his leather-clad physique drawing appreciative stares.

 

“Just my luck,” Lee sighed sadly, “Best hunk I’ve seen all week, and I get turned down.  I can’t win for losin’.  Hey, Todd, wait up—let’s go see if Buddy got laid!”

 

 


 

 

“So, Kracznik, whadda we got?” the Sarge barked out.  “I ain’t got time for details; just gimme the basics.”

 

“Easy enough,” the beat cop responded.  “Seems those two faggots out there—” he nodded indicating where Lee and Todd were sobbing in the outer room, “—got back a few hours ago and found this faggot here—” here he nodded at the battered remains of Buddy sprawled across the bed, ‘—a little bit ago.”

 

“Jesus, what is this—another homo convention?  Fuck, just write it up and move on.  There’s one or two of these killings every time one of these conventions happens and they don’t ever get solved.  Too many suspects, most from outta town.  And it ain’t like anyone gives a shit about faggots anyway.”

 

“So ya want me to call the crime scene folks?  I already contacted the coroner…”

 

“Yeah, Kracznik, go ahead.  But tell ‘em to get here fast, I can’t wait around all day.  And you need to get down to Wabash and Wacker, remember?  There’s that big protest in front of the Trump Tower and it’s all hands on deck.

 

Swearing, the beat cop left the bedroom, telling his partner in the living area to finish up taking the statements.  The Sarge looked around, shaking his head.  It was clear from the state of the suite that there had been an explosion of almost unimaginable sexual violence.  No forced entry—the little cocksucker had let his killer in voluntarily.

 

The Sarge snorted in disgust.  Faggot probably enjoyed it, at least up to a point.  Well, he damn sure wasn’t gonna worry about it; cocksuckers got what they deserved.

 

He took a closer look at the corpse, prying at the thick leather collar wrapped tightly around the corpse’s neck.  As he tugged at it, he noticed the spikes.

 

Jesus, this one really died ugly.  Bad way to die, not that the Sarge cared.  The boy had been pounded into meat, too, but it wasn’t anything the seasoned cop hadn’t seen before.  Happened to homos all the time.  He managed to build up a good head of indignation at the pansy for getting itself killed on his watch when the ME finally showed up.

 

He already knew he wasn’t gonna be reading Kracznik’s report; it was destined to be round-filed.  But that didn’t absolve him from filling out his own paperwork.  Turning over the crime scene to the ME, he headed out to the living area and confronted Lee and Todd with an expression of extreme disgust.  “C’mon, I want you two nancy-boys down at the station to sign yer statements.  Get moving; I ain’t got time to waste on dead pansies.”

 

Behind him, the fucked-out, cum-covered corpse of the son of a Republican state supreme court judge was dumped unceremoniously into a plastic body bag.

Meat Chronicles 20–Transformation of a Twink

He says his name’s Derek and he can’t be any older than eighteen.  He’s got glossy black hair and a brownish skin tone that makes me think he’s Latino, but there’s no trace of an accent.  And with that name; well, maybe he’s just really tanned.

 

Whatever.  He’s also completely fucked; he just doesn’t know it yet.

 

I spot him on the side of the road beside an ancient, beat-up Ford Probe.  He’s leaning back against the car, surreptitiously trying to toke on a joint as he eyes the passing cars.  His firm, lithe young body is more than adequately displayed in a navy-blue muscle shirt that shows his smooth bulging biceps.  His long, thick legs are highlighted by a pair of worn and pale jeans, skintight, that he’s tucked into his kicks—an expensively tacky pair of Nike Air Force 1 boots, bright red.

 

Of course I have to pull over.

 

He stubs out the joint shiftily and approaches the passenger side of my van.  I roll down the window.  “Need some help?” I ask, keeping my face open and friendly.

 

He brushes some stray hairs out of his face and grins up at me, his dark eyes bloodshot.  The punk is high as a fuckin’ kite.

 

“Yeah, dude, th’ POS fuckin’ died,” he replies dreamily.  “Was gonna call up some homies to come get me but m’ phone is dead too.”

 

“That’s a lotta shit to die at once,” I riposte with a wicked grin, “Get in and I’ll give ya a lift.  You can re-fire that jay, if ya want.”

 

And that’s all it takes to lure the stoned fuckmeat into my van.

 

He tells me his name and where he’s going—something about picking up booze for a party with his bros, but I’m not listening to the details.  I’m busy maneuvering through traffic towards a certain abandoned warehouse I know of, where I can find the necessary privacy.  Luckily, the teen is too fucked up to notice where we are until I actually pull into the warehouse lot and head for a secluded loading bay.

 

“Hey, man,” Derek says with a cough as he exhales a thick haze of blue smoke, “Where are we?  I was gonna have ya go by Bart’s Liquor over on Adams, it’s kinda my favorite—”

 

“Shut up, motherfucker,” I bark.  He starts, his eyes opening wide.  Then he laughs; a boyish sound, almost endearingly goofy.

 

I pull out my blackjack.  Actually, it’s just a pair of socks, one inside the other, filled with marbles.  He stops laughing and focuses blearily on it.

 

“What-what’s that for?” he asks hesitantly.

 

“It’s to put yer lights out, asswipe.  An’ once I do that, I’m gonna rape yer ass and kill ya.  Yer about to die, cocksucker.”

 

I love this part.  There’s something so erotic about the look of stunned confusion in a teen’s face as he realizes what I’m about to do to him.  And this one is no different—in fact, he’s better.  He’s so stoned it takes him some time to process my words.  I can watch him working it out, his smooth features twisting with the unaccustomed effort of thinking.

 

He’s a stupid little fuckwad.  My dick is so fuckin’ hard at the thought of putting him in pain…

 

He’s finally caught on.  “Wha—wha—wait, wha’d you say?”

 

“Time to die, twinkie.”

 

The blackjack makes a deep, solid “thunk” sound as it connects with his right temple.  Kid’s too fucked up to even flinch.  He goes limp in the seat.

 

I get out of the driver’s seat and slip into the rear to check my gear.  I don’t need much, just a box cutter for access and a pair of thick industrial zip ties.  Then I unbuckle his seatbelt and drag him into the rear—and at that point the transformation is complete.

 

Derek no longer exists.  There’s no more “he”; there’s only an “it” that exists for my pleasure.  And I’m gonna make goddam sure it pleasures me.

 

I could simply pull the clothes off but I like cutting them off.  Well, not fully cutting—I just nick the collar of the fucker’s shirt, then rip it off its smooth torso, rubbing my hands over its pecs, pinching and twisting the large dark nipples…

 

…it starts moaning.  I decide to leave the jeans and boots on.  Quickly rolling the semi-conscious boymeat over, I slice its jeans open—a straight slash down the crack of the ass that I pull wide to reveal two golden globes, covered with a faint peach fuzz and no underwear at all.

 

Having cut myself access to the teen’s fuckhole, I flip it back over.  Just as its eyelids start to flutter, I unzip its fly and pull out the punk’s long tube of dickmeat.  Motherfucker has an impressive cock—nowhere near as thick or long as mine, as it’s about to find out, but not bad.

 

I like a nice stiff piece of meat as much as the next dude.  I place one of the zip ties around the meat’s rod and scrote, tightening it past the pain of pleasure—well into the tissue damage zone.  Instantly, the teen’s shaft begins to turn purple and go rigid.

 

I don’t need any help for my own dick.  I pull off my t-shirt, and whip out my hog—but like the meat, I keep my jeans and boots on.  The treaded soles of my combat boots help me to maintain traction on the floor of the van as I raise the fuckmeat’s legs and expose its ass.

 

It’s just waking up as I plow my swollen, engorged rod into its tight teenage asshole.

 

It starts squealing and squeaking; the meat always does.  Stupid little punks are getting the best fuck of their lives, and they never appreciate it.  At least, not this early on; they need encouragement.  Time to give this kid some.

 

“Shaddap, ya worthless sack a’ fuckmeat,” I snarl and pop it in the face, hard.

 

The impact knocks the breath out of it momentarily; it can only moan and gasp, looking at me with eyes wide with fear and pain.  Well, one eye—the other is already swelling…

 

I plunge my erect cock into the kid’s colon again, the huge purple head probing deep into the fucker’s tender guts.  The virgin asshole feels so goddam good around my hard, unyielding manshaft; I can feel my tool tearing remorselessly at the boy’s fragile innards.

 

The meat shudders and sobs; it’s in fucking agony.  Good.

 

“Ya think that hurts, ya fuckin’ cocksucker?  You ain’t felt nothing yet; by the time I’m done, you’ll be in so much pain you’ll be begging to die!”

 

I lean down closer, letting my rough stubble scrape the fucker’s cheek while I whisper in its ear, “Only, ya won’t have to beg.  See, I’m gonna keep hurtin’ ya till I cum, and the only thing that’s gonna make me cum is watchin’ ya die.  Got it, fuckwad?  Then let’s get goin’; I gotta a huge wad to unload today.”

 

It starts beating at my chest.  It’s so cute, the way the twink’s fists thump helplessly against my massive pecs; it’s almost as if my fucktoy is giving me a nice chest massage.  I laugh in its tear-stained face.

 

Deep inside the red Nike boots propped on my shoulders, I can feel the little cunt’s toes curl in sexual agony as my huge, vein-wreathed manshaft reams its fuckhole like I’m snaking a drain.  The fucker’s shrieks and screams rise in pitch with every deep thrust of my powerful hips; the sound is grating on my nerves.

 

“Why is it every motherfucker I bang ends up bein’ a screamer?” I ask the meat conversationally, then punch it in the face again.  I plowed into the teen’s jaw mid-squeal, slamming its trap shut and causing it to bite its lip.  Its eyes rolled back momentarily in its head; blood trickled down its chin as it moaned groggily.

 

“Fuck, I can feel that shit all the way down on my dick,” I tell the stunned teen, “Goddam, cunt, your fuckhole gets nice an’ tight each time. Ya like that, dontcha, ya sick motherfucker?  Yeah?  Ya like a real man beatin’ yer teen face to a fuckin’ pulp?  Well, why didntcha just say so, asswipe?”

 

Like a coiled spring, my strong bicep flexes three times in quick succession, bashing the adolescent punk viciously in the mouth and nose.  The latter breaks with a wet squelch; the meat coughs up its left incisor and gurgles incoherently.

 

“Ok, cunt,” I tell the heaving teen fuck, “Enough foreplay.  I wanna shoot my load; I got other shit to do today.  Time to die, asshole.”

 

Before it can make another sound, I loop the remaining zip tie around its neck and cinch it tight.  I have to place one hand on the cuntboy’s throat and pull hard—real hard—with the other to get those last few notches through the clasp.

 

When I’m done, it’s so deep, it can’t be seen.

 

I’m kinda surprised; the teen meat reacts right away.  I thought I’d beat it down enough to accept its death and milk me with some nice convulsions, but it begins to struggle with renewed vigor.  The eyes open wide and almost immediately begin to bulge, even the blackened one.  After a few seconds, though, it becomes difficult to tell which eye had been blackened—the entire face is darkening to the same shade.

 

I hadn’t bound its hands; I like feeling my prey struggle.  At the moment, the punk’s clawing uselessly at its throat; even as the cute adolescent visage begins to distort in agony, I can still see the abject terror in the meat’s eyes.  Its smooth chest is slick with an ice-cold sweat squeezed from the pores as the nervous system begins to malfunction.

 

“Yer dyin’, motherfucker,” I jeer, staring hard into the huge dark panicked eyes and watching blood vessels burst into starburst shapes in the straining whites, “Does it hurt?  Didja expect this ta happen today when ya slipped on them expensive kicks and tight jeans—that ya’d be gettin’ fucked and snuffed while wearin’ ’em?  Fuck, dude, I knew I was gonna use yer corpse like a cumrag the moment I laid eyes on ya!”

 

My voice seems to cut through the meat’s mortal torpor.  It seems to focus on me—and then the hands come up, spastic, frantic, desperate.

 

My head bobs and weaves as I dodge the clawing fingers.  Goddamit, I thought I’d busted this fuckin’ bronco, but it keeps tryin’ to throw me.  Looks like it needs re-breaking.

 

Let’s start with the jaw.

 

Now that I’m pissed, my blows land with the force of a sledgehammer.  My build is enough to lure in any fags I wanna snuff, and the dumb cunts never stop and think about how easy it is for me to overcome them and waste their pansy asses.  Now this one is learning that lesson the hard way.  The first slug only knocks two teeth out; it’s the second that gives me that nice satisfying snap that I only get by breaking a bone.

 

It works, at least to an extent; the boymeat clutches my shoulder, wallowing in excruciating pain, a thick, choking, gurgling sound seeping from its misshapen mouth.  Without a clenched jaw to hold it in place, the punk’s swollen, purple tongue, lubed by a froth of drool, begins to protrude from between the twisted blue lips.

 

The motherfucker’s tongue isn’t the only swollen, purple appendage generating its own lube.  The twink’s long dick is not only oozing precum, it’s pulsing visibly and rapidly—it seems to be in sync with the cunt’s pulse, which is speeding as it hurtles towards asphyxia.  It’s hot, too; the kid’s dick feels like a bar of heated iron as it smacks against my ripped abs with each brutal thrust of my cock.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, bro,” I tell the meat reassuringly, “Ya know it now, dontcha?  Ya know the only thing yer worthless fag ass is good fer is milking out my hot thick potent manseed as you kick and die, yeah?  An’ it’s gettin’ ya hard as a rock.  Stupid faggot teenagers, yer all alike—I gotta beat some sense into ya before you accept the inevitable.  But then, ya like gettin’ beat, right, assfuck?”

 

I’m fairly certain it can still understand me.  It’s taking it a long time to die, and it feels so fucking good on my throbbing shaft—the boymeat is writhing, almost undulating, as it rides me.  The hands are still on my shoulders but the grip is loosening.  The cunt is drooling heavily now; irreversible brain damage is setting in.  It gives me one last despairing look.

 

I punch it in the face again and that’s all the fucker is waiting for.  The convulsion is violent; the orgasm even more so.

 

At some point the teen’s feet had slipped off my shoulders and were now around my waist.  I’d thought nothing about it at the time but now the firm adolescent thighs tighten around my waist in a vise grip.  The arms, with a sudden jerk, encircle my neck, and before I know it the fuckmeat has me in the mindless, intense embrace of violent muscle spasm.

 

Fuck yeah, man, this is it.  This is what I was waiting for–dead smooth young boymeat milking my rod.  As it shudders, clutching me tight, I can feel its thick rigid pole suddenly pulse and spurt; an intense liquid warmth spreading over my belly oh fuck yeah dude fuck yeah FUCK FUCK FUCK

 

I cum again and again, vaguely aware that I’m raining blows on the dead kid’s face with each wad I blow up its ass.  It seems to go on forever. I cum so hard it hurts.

 

Damn, this one was good.  And it feels good to be back on the hunt again.

 

I use the meat’s shirt to wipe all the cum off me, then open the back doors of the van and toss the shirt out.  Tucking my dick back in and putting my own shirt back on, I roll the shuddering fagmeat out of the van, letting it hit the ground like a sack of garbage.  After all, no one saw me pick the cunt up, and the face is damn near unrecognizable anyway.  And I really do have things to do this afternoon.

 

One of the teen’s Nike AF boots is still twitching as I close the doors and drive off, leaving the dead adolescent sprawled on the hot, cracked asphalt under the baking sun.

 

Anyone know how long that bank over on Fifth is open on Wednesdays?  I wanna ask about financing for a new van…

 

Trucker 18–Trucker vs Teen Fuckmeat

It was when he got off the interstate in Holbrook that the Trucker first began to notice how the wind was picking up.  While it was true that winter driving in the Arizona desert didn’t have the same dangers as, say, the Midwest, it was still cold—and now the wind was building.

 

An even colder front was moving in, and the straight-line winds were expected to be intense for the next twelve hours.  He was headed for a little place in the national forest south of Zeniff—a small consignment load—but he didn’t need to be there till tomorrow evening.  Might be a good idea to pull over and let the front pass through.

 

And anyway, he was overdue for a kill.

 

The urge had been building in him again; he was almost surprised how quickly it’d come back.  But the need to beat a faggot to a pulp and drain his balls into its quivering meat was almost overwhelming.  Maybe he’d find a playtoy at the next stop.

 

If there was a next stop.  The empty desert receded into the darkness on all sides surrounding the Trucker’s rig; as the wind increased, though visibility decreased as dust began to billow across the two-lane state highway.  Suddenly, the Trucker noticed a hazy glow in the distance.

 

It turned out to be an intersection in what was literally a one-traffic-light town.  A county road crossed the highway; to the south was a small cluster of ramshackle frame houses.  To the north, nothing was visible in the immediate area.  All four corners of the intersection were occupied.

 

To the Trucker’s immediate left was a truck stop—a small one, not part of a chain.  It’d give him a place to park, but it didn’t appear to have many amenities.  Two trucks were already in the lot, one hauling a Walmart trailer, the other a refrigerated unit.  On the other side of the county road was an ancient motor court motel, complete with neon sign.  Most of the neon was out, but enough remained for the Trucker to make out the name “Ranch Hand’s Rest”.

 

Continuing counter-clockwise, across the highway a dollar store, now closed for the night but with its parking lot still brightly lit.  The remaining corner was occupied by a fast-food joint, also closed for the evening.

 

The Trucker eased his rig into the lot and circled in the back, pulling around so that it was facing back out.  No sense in wasting valuable time later on trying to turn the thing around.  Once he was satisfied with his parking job, he killed the engine and climbed out.

 

He paused for a moment to zip his black leather aviator jacket up against the cold wind; underneath, he was wearing nothing but a thin cotton t-shirt.  His muscled legs, wrapped in tight, faded jeans, powered him swiftly across the parking lot towards the truck stop.  The heavy tread of his black Chippewa logger boots was almost muffled by the ragged gusts of icy air.

 

The air inside the truck stop wasn’t icy, but it was far less pleasant, heavily laden as it was with grease and the scorched scent of food that had been sitting under a heat lamp for too long.  The cashier, it appeared, also had to maintain a small “deli” with offerings of hard, dry chicken tenders, rubbery breakfast tacos and pizzas pooled with red grease.  There were a couple of booths between the counter and the racks of merchandise, but the entire place seemed empty.

 

“Men’s room?” the Trucker barked at the half-asleep cashier.

 

“In the back on the left,” she said with a jerk of her head to indicate the direction, then became instantly engrossed in her phone again.

 

The doorway to the rear hall was between two wall coolers.  The hallway was short, starkly lit, paved with tile, had two doors for two restrooms—and a boy.

 

He was leaning against the far wall, near the door to the men’s room, and he was eyeing the Trucker pretty openly.  He looked young—late teens at most, way too young to be whoring himself out.  And he was dressed like a typical teenager in a white fleece hoodie, skin-tight skinny jeans and white canvas Vann SK8-HIs.

 

But the way he leaned against the wall, one leg thrust out and bent back at the knee so the sole of his sneaker was on the wall—and the deep glittering light of lust in his large brown eyes…

 

The Trucker headed into the men’s room.  No sense rushing anything.  He’d let the kid make the first move; if the little fuck was looking for some dick, well, the Trucker would be happy to oblige.  He had plenty of dick to offer, and a lot more to go with it.

 

He was still standing at the urinal, grinning and pounding out piss, when he heard the door open behind him.  He didn’t even need to look to know it was the boy.

 

“How much to suck my cock, boy?” he asked evenly.

 

There was a faint gulp behind him, then the kid’s voice stammered forth, “Tw-twenty bucks.  Up-up front.”

 

“Not in here.  You got a place?”

 

“Uh, yeah—over in the motel.”

 

Without responding, the Trucker shook off his massive hog, shoved it back into his jeans, and stepped to the sink to wash his hands.  In the mirror, he could see the boy waiting anxiously behind him.  Even in the reflection, the thick bulge in the kid’s crotch was visible, and the way the boy kept rubbing his hand over it didn’t make it any less obvious.

 

The hulking sadist saw his own smile grow more pointed.  The little faggot wanted it bad.  And bad was exactly what he was gonna get.

 

“Okay,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, “Get out.  Wait for me outside.”

 

The kid blinked and paused for a moment.  “Uh—okay.  I’ll be out on the curb.  Name’s, uh, name’s Quinn…”

 

The Trucker ignored him.  There was another pause, then the kid left.

 

After washing up, the Trucker casually strolled back into the store and bought a cup of black coffee.  Figuring enough time had gone by to disassociate him from the boy, he headed back outside, sipping at his cup.

 

The coffee tasted like diesel fuel, but the fuckmeat was exactly where he was supposed to be.  The kid seemed eager, almost bouncing on the toes of his hightops.  “C’mon, this way,” he called out as the Trucker approached him.  The boy began to cross the street.  “I’ve got the one on the end, right here.  See?  Real close.  Got an arrangement with the manager; I get the same one every weekend.  Not like there’s enough business to hafta worry about it bein’ booked…”

 

The Trucker let the punk babble away, focusing his attention on the way the kid’s tight jeans cradled the firm mounds of his asscheeks and anticipating what it’d feel like to force the swollen purple head of his cock between them.

 

“…and man, if my folks found out what I was doin’, I’d be in such deep shit.  I mean, fuck, dude, I got my big bro’s car while he’s off at school—he’d beat the shit outta me if he knew.  And my dad…”

 

The boy kept on, the silent footfalls of his Vanns drowned out by the heavy tread of the Trucker’s Chippewas, as he led the way back to his room—and to his doom.

 

As he’d said, it was the room on the end, marked with a small plastic plaque inscribed “17”.  Directly in front of the door sat a black 2010 Mustang convertible—the car the little fuck wasn’t supposed to be driving.  It was one of three cars in the lot—and one of those, parked way over by the office, was evidently the night clerk’s.

 

Inside, the quality of the motel matched its occupancy rate.  As the Trucker leaned back against the door on surreptitiously engaged both the deadbolt and the chain lock, he glanced around to take a quick survey of the room.

 

The room was unpleasantly dim, with cheap worn carpeting in a shade of dark green not popular since the seventies—from which decade the dark, splintery plywood paneling seemed to come as well.  There was a bed, covered by a scratchy polyester comforter with a gaudy floral pattern, with a nightstand that held a phone, a digital alarm clock and metal lamp with a dented shade.

 

There was a desk/dresser combo unit, cigarette burns scattered over its surface like chicken pox.  The mirror over the desk section was intact but badly warped; just looking at the skewed reflection made the Trucker dizzy.  A small flat screen TV stood on the dresser, pointed at the bed, next to it was a cable box.

 

Just past the dresser was the opening into the restroom.  Even from the entrance, the Trucker could see the cracks in the grout between the ancient white tiles.  And it didn’t take a drug-sniffing dog to determine the bathroom was the source of the overpowering scent of cheap antiseptic that almost—but not quite—drowned out the reek of stale cigarette smoke.  Not that the AC unit was helping the air quality.  Located under the front window, it rattled and clanked like a rollercoaster as it exuded fetid puffs of dry, scorching air into the already-overheated room.

 

While the Trucker scoped out the room, Quinn pulled off his hoodie, showing that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.  The skin on his slim, boyish torso was firm and clear.  There was a faint down of hair on his flat belly, but otherwise his chest was smooth but for his large pink nipples.

 

“I get paid first, dude.  Sorry, but it’s a house rule.  Gotta have the cash up front,” he said casually as he sat on the bed and kicked off his sneakers—they were loosely laced and left untied for easy on/off action, it seemed.

 

The Trucker, in the middle of sliding off his leather jacket, grinned.  “Sure,” he said nonchalantly as he folded the jacket over the back of the chair by the desk.  He dug into his back pocket and fished out his wallet, taking a twenty out and replacing the wallet.  The kid wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy trying to peel his skin-tight jeans off.  The Trucker palmed the bill and pulled his own t-shirt off, laying it over his jacket.

 

Finally out of his clothes—he’d been freeballing under the jeans—Quinn slipped his kicks back on and stood up.  “Hey, I gotta hit the restroom real quick; you wanna—”

 

He broke off at his first glimpse of the Trucker half-dressed, wearing only his jeans and laced workboots.  The twink’s greedy little eyes went straight to the glittering point of light in the middle of the hunk’s muscular, fur-covered chest—the Trucker’s dogtags, nestled in the dark mass of wiry fur between the huge mounds of his pecs.

 

Quinn’s dick, already hard, began to visibly pulsate.  Smirking, the Trucker held out the twenty.  The boy gulped and reached out for it unsteadily, still focused on the stud’s amazing physique.  “I, uh…thanks…” he mumbled, turning and laying on the nightstand.  As he turned, he heard the unmistakable sound of the Trucker unzipping his fly.

 

He was right.  When he turned back around, the hardbodied killer had managed to extract the full length of his enormous, vein-wrapped horsedick.

 

Despite Quinn’s obvious desire to get to the bathroom, the Trucker’s cock hypnotized him like a snake hypnotizing its prey.  And though Quinn had no way of knowing it yet, its venom was just as deadly.

 

The slow, steady of movement of the Trucker removing his belt broke the trance.  The clank of the large brushed-silver buckle and the stealthy sound of the inch-and-a-half wide strap of black leather sliding among the denim loops stirred something in Quinn.

 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back…” he said hesitantly, then darted into the bathroom and locked the door.  Behind him, the Trucker laid the belt over his shirt and jacket.  He could afford to be patient.

 

Quinn wasn’t as quiet in the bathroom as he thought he was; even through the closed door, the Trucker could hear the click of a lighter and the hissing, bubbling sound of the kid inhaling some kind of drug.  In a small town like this, that probably meant meth.

 

Well, that was fine.  Little fuck should be off his guard when he came out.

 

The Trucker was right.  Thirty seconds later and high as fuck, Quinn stepped out of the bathroom with a big grin on his face and a big erection between his legs.  “Hey, man, yer gonna hafta take it easy with that big dick you—”

 

The Trucker sucker-punched the teen in the jaw.  Stunned, Quinn slammed back into the bathroom door, then slumped to the floor—not unconscious, but too dazed to be functional.  He was aware that the buff older man had hit him, and had then moved away.

 

“Wh-wh-wh…” he tried to start, but speaking hurt.  A lot.

 

Then he heard a harsh slapping sound—a single slap, actually, repeated slowly and menacingly.  Painfully turning his head, Quinn tried to see what was happening.

 

He was at ground level, looking across.  The first thing he could see were the untied laces of the Trucker’s dirty, well-worn Chippewas.  Raising his eyes up the thick, denim-clad legs, he was again confronted by the sadist’s frighteningly huge cock.  But the source of the sound was above that.  Quinn looked up to see the cruel serial killer standing over him with the doubled-over belt in one hand, ginning and slapping the palm of his other hand with it.

 

“Wh-whath’fuck?” the young faggot managed to mutter.

 

“Just gonna have a little fun, dude,” the Trucker chuckled, his deep bass voice vibrating the root of Quinn’s cock, still somehow semi-hard even after the assault.  “Just gonna beat the fuck outta ya, rape yer worthless homo ass, and snuff ya—don’t that sound like fun?”

 

Quin glanced up in disbelief just in time to see the Trucker’s powerful arm snap downward.  Cringing, the lean teenager threw his left arm up to block the blow.  It turned out to be an excruciating maneuver.  Even doubled over, the thick leather strap hit the boy’s arm with such force, it wrapped itself around it momentarily.  With sadistically perfect timing, the Trucker viciously jerked the belt back towards himself.

 

The snapping of the bones in Quinn’s forearm breaking was less noticeable than the shearing sound as an inch-and-a-half wide strip of the outer layer of skin completely circling his arm was flayed off.

 

For a moment, the amateur boywhore sat wide-eyed, staring in horror at his raw, dangling forearm—then the pain hit and he screamed.  Briefly.

 

“Shaddap,” the Trucker snarled and lashed him across the face.

 

That got a quick, loud shriek, then the boy collapsed to the floor.  The Trucker stood over him for a moment, looking down, gloating, and fondling his stiff manhood.  Then he dug into the pockets of his folded jacket, pulled out his pack of Marlboros and leaned back to burn one as the punk queerboy sobbed sloppily on the floor.

 

“You lucky-ass motherfucker,” he jeered, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the already stale air of the motel room, “You get to take my load.  I was lookin’ for some hot boymeat for a beatdown and a good pump an’ dump—an’ there you were.  Course, a dumbass teen fag like you takes a lotta beatin’ ‘fore its ready for my dick.”  He paused for effect, taking another drag.  The fuckmeat was still sniveling, but it was listening.

 

Good.  It needed to know what to expect.  It needed to be prepared to receive his shaft, and that meant a good manual tenderizing.

 

He stubbed out his smoke.  “Ready, motherfucker?  I’m gonna beat ya like a bitch, just cause it gets my dick hard to hurt teenaged faggots before I dick ‘em down.  Got it?  Then let’s get started.”  Standing over the prone youth, he brandished the belt again, wielding it like a whip and brought it down on smooth, silky flesh of Quinn’s back with a sound like a pistol shot.

 

This time Quinn didn’t squeal or shriek; he flat-out screamed.  The intense, slashing pain across his tender adolescent flesh was too much to endure.  He scrabbled wildly on the floor on all fours like an animal, then, regaining his feet as if by magic, bolted right past the Trucker, heading for the door.

 

The Trucker lunged after him, more out of rage that the faggot was trying to avoid what was coming to it than out of any concern it would get free.  His experience with snuffing homos in motel rooms served him well; Quinn managed to get the deadbolt unlocked with the hand on his working arm, but maddened by pain and terror, fumbled uselessly with the chain.  The twink slut’s escape attempt was as useless as everything else in his wasted life.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then was whirled around and pinned up against the door, slamming it shut again.  Then, before the young cunt could say anything, plead for its life, anything—the Trucker’s right hand shot out and clamped around its throat like a vise.  Quinn gagged involuntarily, his eye wide as his air was cut off and he was literally deadlifted straight off the floor.

 

As his hightops drummed against the door, Quinn could see the massive bicep of the Trucker’s arm bulging with seemingly effortless power while holding him off the ground.  The buff older man tossed the belt over his shoulder, then reached out with his left hand, over Quinn’s shoulder—and re-locked the deadbolt.

 

“Where ya think yer goin’ motherfucker?” the Trucker asked Quinn with a cold, hard grin on his hyper-masculine face, “This party ain’t even got started yet, you cunt.  I gotta work off a little stress before I can settle down and choke yer faggot life out with my dick up yer ass.  I toldja that already, but you small-town homos gotta have everything beaten into ya, right, dumbass?”

 

Quinn, his face purple and swelling, was in no position to answer back.  His legs and his good arm scrambled frantically as he dangled and choked in the sadistic serial killer’s powerful grip.  He pawed frenetically at the Trucker’s broad chest.  The stud’s pecs, hard as marble, suffered no visible damage from the twink’s one-handed onslaught, but once Quinn curled his fingers in the older man’s wiry chest hair and began pulling, the dying punk became a nuisance.  And when he caught the Trucker’s dogtags inadvertently and nearly yanked them off, the buff psycho had had enough.  He spun around and flung Quinn through the air with the ease of a rag doll.

 

Violent motion, an even more violent impact, then a hazy darkness filled with pain were what Quinn experienced next.  He didn’t know he’d been thrown into the dresser and that his smooth young teen body had broken the mirror and smashed the television before it fell back limp to the floor.  What he did know, when he became aware of his surroundings, was that he was in agony—and he could hear that slapping sound again.

 

The guy was coming back.  The hot, sexy guy, the one he’d wanted so bad…the one who was hurting him so bad…

 

Quinn forced his eyes open.  Again, he was at ground level.  Again, those dirty Chippewa boots were approaching…but this time, he knew what it meant.  But he’d let his mind wander.  He was only vaguely aware of the sudden movement of his assailant, and didn’t even have time to flinch as the Trucker swung the belt at him again.

 

Except this time, it wasn’t a single swing.

 

As Quinn cowered and squealed like a pig under the repeated lashes of the heavy belt, the muscle-bound sadist felt his huge, stallion-like shaft begin to pulse and ooze with bloodlust.  Every loud slap of leather on skin, every bleat of agony from the crouching, helpless teen slut, propelled another drop of hot precum out of the thick purple head of his dick.

 

Then, for a moment, it stopped.  The Trucker stepped away, fired up another smoke, and observed his prey for a moment.

 

The youth’s back was no longer the smooth expanse of pale silky skin it had been before.  The Trucker’s foreplay had left the slut covered in red, angry welts.  On at least two occasions, the violent lashing had broken the boy’s skin, and a thin trickle of blood was creeping down the whimpering kid’s flank.

 

The Trucker took another drag, walked back to the prone, shuddering punk and knelt down by his head.  He exhaled the smoke into the cunt’s face.  “Ya ready, motherfucker?” the buff killer asked jovially.  “Ready to die on my cock like a worthless fag?”

 

Quinn was swimming in a sea of pain, but he was aware enough to understand what was being said to him.

 

“N-no…” he gasped, turning his huge, tear-filled eyes up to his tormentor in desperation, “Pl-please…no-no…”

 

“You ain’t ready?” the Trucker taunted in mock surprise, “Ok, I guess I need to kick some sense into ya, huh?”

 

And without another work, he drew back his foot and kicked Quinn in the side with his steel-toed work boot, hard enough to break two of the little fuck’s ribs in several places.  The writhing cunt’s shrieks of pain began to annoy the brutal sadist; his next kick was directly to Quinn’s face, silencing the faggot by breaking his jaw.  The boy continued to sob and moan as the Trucker kicked him twice more in the flank, breaking more ribs and further shattering the ones he’d already broken.

 

By the time the Trucker stopped kicking Quinn and, shoving the toe of a boot under him, flipped him over onto his back, the teen homo was bleeding internally from half a dozen wounds to his guts caused by bone shards.  As he lay on his back, gasping, his sweet young face a bloody wreck, the Trucker leaned over him, spit in his face, then stomped him twice, leaving the imprint of the deep tread of his boots imprinted on the boy’s flat belly.  Then he bent down and ground out the glowing butt of his smoke on the whore’s smooth, tender flesh.  It sizzled for a moment before the sadistic alpha reached out for the boymeat again.

 

Quinn’s entire universe had shrunk to a tiny bubble of agony; trapped inside it, the kid wasn’t able to realize that the hardbodied psycho had picked him up by the throat again—the young cunt couldn’t breathe anyway.  And he was barely able to register the sense of flight as he was flung like garbage across the room again.

 

He damn sure felt it when he hit the wall and crushed a hole in the drywall, though.  He felt it even more when he fell back and smashed the nightstand, sending everything on it crashing to the floor.  And even as he bounced back, to lay stretched and trembling across the bed, he could hear a jangling noise that made him look up.

 

The Trucker had looped the belt around his own neck at some point—the noise was the silver buckle striking the dogtags as the powerful sadist closed in.  As Quinn watched, the older man slowly drew the belt from his neck.  Grinning with evil lust, he held the looped leather strap out as he approached the trapped, defenseless teenager.

 

And Quinn realized that the moment that strap got around his neck, he was dead.  Even if he hadn’t been injured, he was in no way strong enough to fend off the hairy, muscled serial killer he’d willingly invited in.

 

The Trucker tossed the belt down onto the bed next to Quinn’s head; the boy would have grabbed for it but for his broken arm—and the fact that he was paralyzed by terror.  The sinewy, hulking killer loomed over him, grinning with obviously sadistic intent, the slowly turned and paced to the end of the bed, letting Quinn get a look at the way his lat muscles tensed and flowed and the tight bunching of his glutes as he walked.  The man literally exuded power in his pheromones and his physique managed to inspire Quinn with both lust and despair—the latter because the more he saw of the Trucker, the more futile he felt any escape attempt to be.

 

The hardbodied stud stopped at the foot of the bed, grabbed the teen’s legs, and parted them effortlessly, despite Quinn’s best attempts to keep them closed.  It didn’t matter.  Nothing he did mattered.  And then there was a sudden pressure against his sphincter—

 

“Keep fightin’ it, faggot, I love when th’ meat squirms on my thick fuckin’ manshaft,” the Trucker sneered, and shoved.

 

Quinn screamed.  Loud and shrill, it was torn from the depths of his slim teenaged body as the older man’s huge cock plowed through his rectum like a runaway train, ripping his asshole mercilessly as it pounded his prostate and plunged into his intestines.  In the nightmarish waves of searing pain that pummeled his lithe, smooth form with each brutal thrust of the Trucker’s hips, the young homo wasn’t aware that his own tube of boymeat was stiffly slapping his rapist’s ripped abs—and was already smearing the Trucker’s belly fur with teen precum.  He just kept screaming.

 

Not for long, though.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ bitch,” the Trucker grunted and punched Quinn in the face, rocking his head back.  The kid moaned and peered blearily up at his assailant through his right eye—the left one was already swelling and turning black.

 

“Fuck yeah, ya dumbass cunt,” the sick stud growled as he placed the punk’s legs on his shoulders and dug his work boots into the sheets for better traction, “Now yer feelin’ me, yeah?  Huh?  Lemme know if you can feel this!”  He began to ride the teenaged slut like a bronco, pounding his shaft so hard and so fast into Quinn’s colon that his huge scrote slapped the boy’s hormone-filled balls like billiards, striking with such force that it damn near bruised the kid’s sack.

 

Instinctively, Quinn closed his eyes and tried to struggle, but the heavy mass of the muscled stud pinned him down prostrate on the bed.  He could hear a jingling somewhere but didn’t connect it to the Trucker’s dogtags until he felt the cold metal on his chest.  He opened his eyes—to the extent he could open the left—and found the older man’s hard, unshaven face next to his.

 

“It’s been fun, fuckmeat, but I gotta get some rest.  Time to blow a load and go catch some Z’s.  Time to die.”

 

He held up the belt, giving the terrified cocksucker a gentle smile that he couldn’t hold.  It broadened into a shark-like grin almost immediately.

 

“Ready to get yer pitiful life choked out, faggot?”

 

The lithe young teen was in more pain and more fear than he could have believed possible, but the thought of being released from his torment into the dark freedom of death filled him with cold terror.  “No, please,” he whimpered, “Please, don’t—”

 

The Trucker looped the belt back through its buckle, making a simple noose.  Quinn kept babbling.

 

“Oh fuck no, please, please, oh god, please, for fuck’s sake don’t do this—”

 

The Trucker grinned again.  With his enormous rod still planted firmly in the boy’s ass, he slowly lowered the leather noose over the kid’s head.

 

“Oh god no please no fuck oh shit oh fuck don’t nonoNONO—GACK!!”

 

His pleas were choked off as the Trucker jerked the thick strap tight, sealing off Quinn’s windpipe and silencing the faggot forever.

 

The young homo fought with the strength left in him; consciously, he knew it was hopeless, but the animal midbrain in his adolescent mind continued to try to claw its way to air.  Sadly for the teen slut, the fact that he was flailing both arms in panic didn’t prevent him from feeling every last agonizing grind of bone on bone as his broken arm thrashed impotently.

 

His right arm and hand worked perfectly well, though.  The Trucker watched the cunt dig vainly at the leather belt sunk deep into its throat flesh.  As the lean teen body shuddered beneath him, his wiry body hair scraped the smooth young flesh.

 

Suddenly, Quinn changed his focus.  His hand came up, fingers hooked into talons, and he began to gouge at the older man’s face. The Trucker was still pumping steadily, feeling the sperm start to seethe in his overloaded, aching balls—he had no intention of taking any shit from a goddam sack of fuckmeat that was only still alive because he hadn’t cum yet.

 

He plowed his fist into its face three times in a row; fast, jackhammer blows that squashed the bitch’s nose like a rotten tomato, with a nice satisfying squelching sound, blackened its other eye and knocked out three teeth.

 

The last impact, the one that knocked out the teeth, was to the lower jaw.  But the dying meat had been without air long enough for its tongue to start swelling, protruding from between the blue lips with a gush of foamy drool.  The hardbodied stud’s sucker-punch snapped the jaw closed; the cunt bit through its tongue, damn near severing the tip.

 

“Fuckin’ take it,” the rutting alpha snarled, spitting in the fuckmeat’s face, his spittle flowing into the pink foam trickling down the punk’s face, “Take my fuckin’ dick and die, ya piece a’ shit!”

 

As their bellies slapped together in the throes of violently forced mansex, the Trucker could feel the teen’s hard, oozing cock being pressed against his furry ripped abs.  The little fuck was nearly brain-dead, but asphyxia and the vigorous prostate massage provided by brutal assrape kept its tool stiff and leaking.

 

The Trucker was almost there.  He could feel his seed starting to boil over, the electric tingling deep at the root of his gigantic rod that let him know he was about to spew his thick potent alpha load.  The meat needed to die.  Now.

 

It was almost there anyway.  Quinn was gone; all that was left was a convulsing sack of teen boymeat.  The swollen face, bruised and black, was unrecognizable.  The entire thrashing body was covered in cold death sweat, literally squeezed out of it along with its worthless life.  The cunt’s left arm was convulsing just as powerfully as the right, the broken limb flopping grotesquely about.

 

And still the boymeat drooled and gurgled.  The Trucker had to feel it die, had to feel that final clenching of its colon as it suffered its final agony.  It was easy enough to do.

 

He jerked the belt forward, roughly, swiftly, with one hand while swinging with the other fist, deep, piston-like punches that drove the fag’s skull savagely backwards.  As the thick strap around the spine went in one direction and the cranium on top of it went another, there was a loud crackling noise—the erotic sound of the teen fuckmeat’s top two cervical vertebrae shattering and slashing through its spinal column.

 

That was what the Trucker had been waiting for—that final intense overload of the central nervous system.  Oh fuck, the way the boycunt’s rectum seemed to collapse on his tool, almost sucking his scalding semen out—

 

“Fuck!” he cried out, “Fuck! Fuck! OH FUCK!!!”

 

He hunched over, his massive, muscle-bound body shuddering and convulsing itself as he pressed the still-thrashing corpse of the teenager beneath him, cursing and beating its face in.  Despite the intensity of his release, the alpha was dimly aware of a splash of warmth against his abs and up into his thick chest fur as the meat unloaded involuntarily during its death throes.  It didn’t matter.

 

The Trucker had so much cum to drain out of his balls he spent the next five minutes hosing the dead slut’s innards with his hot manseed.  After his scrote emptied, he spent another couple of minutes relaxing and catching his breath with his cock still jammed up the dead kid’s ass.  Finally, reluctantly, he took a deep breath, pulled his hog out of the corpse, and headed to the bathroom to wash up.

 

He wasn’t in any hurry.  He wasn’t in a position to know that the boycunt had spent the entire weekend whoring itself out, but he’d figured out enough to know that the little fuck was getting banged here on a regular basis.  And he’d made damn sure no one had seen them together, or had seen him enter this room.  Or even approach the motel, for that matter.

 

It took a few minutes to scrub the thick ropy strands of boyspunk out of his chest and belly fur, but he had enough experience to know that teen boys are cum bombs, full of semen, waiting to go off at any moment.  He was an expert at setting them off, and didn’t mind cleaning up some of the mess afterwards.

 

Only some of it, though.  As he re-entered the bedroom and slipped his shirt back on, he lit up a traditional after-sex cigarette and leaned back against the door, proudly surveying his handiwork.

 

The body was sprawled face-up on the bed, legs and arms both spread wide, with the left arm bent at an unnatural angle.  He’d left the belt where it was; it was sunk so deeply into the fucker’s neck, it’d probably have to be cut off.

 

Above the collapsed section of the esophagus, there was little recognizable of the boywhore once known as Quinn.  Even the hair was matted and dark with sweat.  The face was a grotesque swollen purple mask.  The body, aside from the left arm and some heavy bruising on the torso, was relatively unmarked, but the torso was completely smeared with cum.

 

The corpse’s feet still shuddered and kicked as random signals shot down its ruined nervous system.  One of the cunt’s Vann hightops had come off and was on the floor beside the bed; the Trucker could see the toes curling in death agony inside the ankle-high ped sock.  The other hightop sneaker scraped and jerked randomly over the cheap thin sheet.

 

The room itself was mute testimony to the violence of the Trucker’s need to cum.  The TV and mirror were in pieces on the floor, the wall over the head of the bed was damaged and the nightstand and its contents destroyed.

 

The hardbodied alpha grinned and finished his smoke.  Just looking at the scene made his cock throb again, but he needed sleep.  He slipped on his leather jacket and quickly left the room, setting the lock in the doorknob to engage as he left.  Whoever entered the room next would need a key.

 

It was past two in the morning as his Chippewa boots echoed on the pavement as he crossed back to his cab.  No one was out to see him.  He gave the truck stop itself a wide berth to avoid being spotted by anyone at the counter and made it back to his rig unobserved.  He slept for five hours and was back on the road again by half-past seven.  There was no sign of any disturbance as he left; the motel across the street, at that time of the morning, was dead as a doornail and silent as a tomb.

 


 

The call had come in at ten in the morning, and it damn sure wasn’t how the sheriff wanted to start his week.  A fuckin’ murder.  He hadn’t had to deal with a homicide in this place…ever.

 

And then that scene.  His deputy had come outta the room puking, and the sheriff couldn’t blame him.  That teenaged boy with his legs spread and a thick flow of dried glazed cum that had leaked from his asshole, the sheer cruelty and viciousness of the attack…

 

And the parents.  He’d traced them through the car.  They didn’t know he’d taken it.  And when they found out what had happened to their eighteen-year-old son, what he’d spent the past year doing in that little motel…

 

And the gossip.  He’d stomped on the local paper—there was only one little weekly—and made sure that the story didn’t get spread.  But everyone knew.  A fag murder, right in their town.  Even the homo’s parent suffered.  The car was towed to be processed for evidence; when they came to town from Zeniff to pick it up, three days later, their house was vandalized.

 

Goddam faggots, the sheriff mused.  Should all be killed.  Nothin’ but trouble.

 

 

Meat Chronicles 19–Halfpipe in the Park, Full Pipe Up the Ass

I first see them leaving the skate park and almost give them a pass; after all, if they were leaving the park, they were probably on their way home, right?  And they look like typical teenaged wigger punks; home is probably a nice suburban neighborhood with lots of security cameras.

 

Fuckin’ cameras ruin a good hunt.

 

But these boys…there’s something about them, something about the cocky arrogance of their young faces and the lustful wantonness of their hormone-filled bodies.  I turn around and pull over, giving them plenty of headway; they’re riding their boards and I don’t want to overtake them until I can figure out their destination.

 

It turna out to be an improvised skate park in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse some two miles east.  The low buildings of rusted metal are gaunt and desolate in the late afternoon sun.  There isn’t anyone for miles, not even any other skaters.  I pull quietly to the curb and watch the boys practice their moves, away from prying eyes—so they thought.

 

I can’t tell if they’re related.  They took a smoke break a few minutes back, the dark-haired one offering the ginger punk a Camel.  Willing to bet Camel boy is older than eighteen—the legal age for buying cigarettes in this state.  It’s just a guess, though; if he is over eighteen, it isn’t by much.

 

The redhead’s freckled face, squinting in the sunlight, looks younger than that of his companion, but I’m estimating him at seventeen, largely by his outfit.  He’s rigged out in full skater punk gear, from the ped socks and Etnies Fader 2 kicks to the shiny black and blue polyester ball shorts and black tank top with the Adidas logo in white, all kinda generic.  But like a true douchebag, he’s wearing a flat-brimmed ball cap with the sales tag still dangling from it.  It’s dark green with white piping and a white logo; I’m too far away to make out the logo, but I don’t need to.  Those colors are the colors of a high school not far from my home.  And that big squarish glint of gold on his finger is obviously a class ring.

 

So gingerboy is a high school senior and his douchebuddy is probably a recent graduate—jobless punk, just fuckin’ around.

 

Nobody’ll miss him.  Nobody’ll miss either of them.

 

I decide on a tried and true lure.  Quietly starting my van, I circle the block away from them. I light up a joint and quickly take a couple of deep hits, making sure that the cab reeks of weed.  I then whip a corner and come upon them suddenly, as if I didn’t know they were already there.

 

“Yo!  Dude!” I call out.  The older one is closer; he eyes me warily but comes towards me.

 

“Whatcha need, bro?” he asks cautiously.

 

His face is smooth except for a very faint haze of new hair growth on his cheeks and chin, and across his upper lip.  He’s wearing a gray knit cap pulled down over the tips of his ears, but his black hair is long enough to stick out underneath.  I like it.  I’ll let him keep his cap on as he dies.

 

He’s wearing a thin, tight tank top, gray on the front with the words “U Mad Bro?” in black.  Below a pair of faded red chino skater shorts, he’s got on a pair of Osiris NYC 83 hightops in brick red.  Little fuck thinks he’s stylin’…

 

“Hey, man,” I call out, an easy grin on my masculine face.  Nothing wrong here, motherfucker.  “I been drivin’ round for half an hour—where’s the fukkin’ highway?”

 

“It’s, uh, it’s that way,” the kid mutters, pointing to the left.

 

“Yeah, well, what I really wanna know is, where can I get some beer?”

 

Skaterboi becomes a little more enthusiastic about helping a stranger in need.

 

“Well, yeah, there’s this place…it’s kinda hard to find, though…”

 

He’s giving me an opening and I take it.

 

“Wanna show me the way?” I ask.  “I’ll getcha high on the way.”

 

He lights up, his youthful face glowing with pleasure; just looking at him makes my dick hard.  But then his expression clouds over and he looks anxiously back at gingercunt.

 

“Hey, it’s ok,” I grin, “I got enough room—and enough weed for him too.  Here, lemme pull into the lot and open up the back.  We’ll get good an’ fucked up before we pick up some brewskis.”

 

Now the kid’s all kinda cheerful and helpful.  “Hey, Steve!” he calls out, gesticulating at the redheaded punk, “Getcher ass over here!”

 

“Whassup?” Steve the ginger says, popping up his board into his hand and heading over.

 

“We gotta real bro here, man—he’s gonna get us high an’ then I’m gonna show ‘im how to get over to Wegel’s so we can get some brews!”

 

Gingerfuck lights up, too.  Goddam, this is like shootin’ fish in a barrel.  Stupid little asswipes actin’ like they’re big, swinging dicks in the world—lessee how big their dicks are when they’re ridin’ mine.

 

Having pulled into a space in the lot, I shut the engine off.  This neighborhood is as good as any, nice and isolated, but a few random vehicles parked here and there so my van doesn’t stand out.  I get out of the driver seat, my big black leather harness boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  I make sure the huge bulge of my manhood is visible in the crotch of my skintight but worn jeans.  These little cocksuckers are gonna see they’re dealin’ with a real man.

 

They don’t notice at first, as I slide open the door to the rear of the van; that’s ok.  I can wait.  They’ll have plenty of opportunity to notice my cock when it’s buried in their asses.  “C’mon inside, dudes,” I say jovially; both boys show their eagerness by hustling their lithe, smooth bodies with alacrity.  So young, so hot, so stupid—goddam, I can’t wait to off these little fucks.

 

“Hey, uh—” I call out to gingerfuck.

 

“Steve,” he hastens to remind me, “And he’s Jeff.”  Like I give a shit.

 

“Here ya go, Steve,” I say, tossing him a hard Marlboro box.  “Gotta couple of jays already rolled in there.  Y’all help yerselves; I got enough to roll one for me up here.”  And with that, I settle into the driver seat, waiting for the Xanax-laced joints to start taking effect.  While I wait, I quietly slip a pair of handcuffs out of the center console and into my pocket.

 

It doesn’t take more than five minutes before the sounds of muttering and giggling fade out in the back.  I step back into a thick haze of sweet blue smoke to find both boys stoned out of their fucking minds.  They managed to polish off a joint each; Steve it completely blitzed.  He’s laying back against the side of the van.  He’s grinning so hard his eyes are squinted and his tongue is out; his face is so flushed his freckles have nearly vanished.  As I watch, he lolls his head back, knocking off his cap and revealing the short, spiked orange hair on his head.

 

Jeff is on the other side; his face is heavy and vacant, but he’s still conscious and somewhat lucid.  He hasn’t completely finished his joint yet.

 

“Hey, wanna see something really hot?” I leer at him.

 

“Yeah, what?” he asks, grinning dopily.

 

“Here, lemme start with this.”  I whip out the handcuffs.  Before Jeff has a chance to react, I cinch one cuff around his left wrist and the other through a pair of holes drilled in the van’s body ribbing.  Now the punk can’t move more than a few inches from that position.

 

“Wha?” he grunts, looking foggily at the cuffs.

 

“Over here,” I say, snapping my fingers and approaching the other punk.  “I’m gonna take yer buddy here—”

 

“Brotha…” Jeff mutters, “He’s m’half brotha…”

 

“He’s fuckmeat, asshole,” I snap.  “I’m gonna stick my dick in him and unload in his ass as he dies and yer gonna watch.”

 

Jeff stares at me, gape-jawed.  It’s difficult to tell how much of his impassivity is due to shock or fear and how much to being drugged, but it doesn’t matter.  The drugs will have worn off long before I’m done with the first piece of boymeat.  By the time I get to little Jeffie over there, he’ll be plenty awake enough to know what’s going on.

 

And that’s good.  I want him awake and suffering by the time I fuck him.  I want to feel his agonized screams as they reverberate in his strong smooth body and vibrate the root of my cock…

 

First things first, though.  Gingerfuck needs a little lesson on his proper place in the world first, just as a little foreplay.  Something to get Jeff and me both into the right mood, to get the juices flowing, so to speak.

 

And where is red-headed skaterboi Steve’s proper place in the world?  It’s taking a dirt nap with my manseed coating his guts.  Just thinking about it’s already got me hard.  Fuck it, I’m goin’ in—need to get those punk threads cut off the fucker.

 

Time to start the fun.  Crouching in the center of the van—I’m too tall to stand up in here—I unzip my fly and let my huge, throbbing hog flop out.

 

Both pieces of fuckmeat stare groggily at my engorged rod, but only Jeff has retained enough motor control to speak coherently.  Well, kinda.

 

“Wha…” he mumbles, “Why…whyyerfuckin…dickout…” His dark, heavy-lidded eyes focus on my manhood.

 

Little redheaded Stevie just giggles.  I turn and grin at Jeff.  “It’s out cause I’m gonna stick in ya, cunt.  But first, I’m gonna stick it in yer brother.  Oh, and this, too,” I add, holding up a specialty tool I’ve made by grinding down the head of an eight-inch long screwdriver, leaving a pointed tip on a nearly half-inch diameter steel shaft.

 

Jeff is inarticulate; he shakes his head wildly, but is unable to speak.  I note, in passing, that his knit cap stays in place no matter how vigorous his movements.  Wonder if he had an idea he’d die wearing it when he slipped it on today…

 

I turn to Steve.  He’s still lying limply against the far side of the van from his brother, too high to move.  I know he heard my words, and I’m fairly certain he understood them, but it doesn’t matter.  If he didn’t understand them, he soon will.  I bend down and yank of his ball shorts, tugging them down his legs and over his Etnies kicks.

 

Of course the punk-ass faggot is commando, letting his thick teenaged dick swing free between his legs; it lies, limp but long and veined, against the boy’s smooth inner thigh.  His shirt is easier to dispose of; I shove the toe of one boot into an armhole, bend down, and tug.  It takes no more than a moment to rip the thin tank top off and leave the meat lying nude but for his sneakers and socks.

 

“Steve,” Jeff calls out hoarsely, his voice scratchy with effort, “C’mon…gotta wake-wake up…dude’s gon-gonna rape yer ass…”

 

“Yours too, cocksucker,” I grin at him, “Don’t forget.”

 

“No…” the ginger youth moans as I force his firm legs apart and knelt between them, my massive tool fully erect and oozing in anticipation of his taut young fuckhole.  “Whaddaya mean, no?” I jeered, “Fuck yeah is whatcha mean.  Feel this shit, bro.”  Leaning over his slim, muscled frame, helpless on the floor of the van, I pressed the pulsing head of my cock against his quivering sphincter and applied pressure.  Not a lot—just enough to let him know I was there.

 

“Ah—ah—no, p-please…” he whimpered, his cocky face twisted with fear.  So fuckin’ erotic—but not enough.  It needs to be twisted in pain, too.

 

“Fuck you, skatefag,” I whisper and thrust my hips forward, spearing the punk’s colon with my enormous shaft—dry.  I can feel some resistance on the head of my dick, then there’s a parting sensation as something in gingerfuck’s asshole tears open.  The meat squeals like a stuck pig and my rod slides home, buried so far deep into the teen skateboi’s guts that my wiry pubes are grinding his smooth buttcheeks.

 

“Aw, shaddup, cunt!” I snarl and pound my balled-up fist into his face.  My blow lands on his chin; his jaws slam shut, driving his teeth through his tongue.

 

“You goddam asshole!” Jeff sobs, his voice stricken with anguish as he looks on at his brother’s abuse and torment.  “Don’t get jealous,” I tell him, grinning.  “It’ll be yer turn to enjoy my cock soon enough, bro; let the kid here enjoy it first.”  Then I punch Steve again.  Fuck, that feels good—I can feel his entire body stiffen and clench my dick in reaction to the impact.

 

“Goddam, you really are a sick little queerfuck, aintcha?” I jeer into Steve’s swelling, tear-streaked face, “Yer really handlin’ my dick good—yer jest fuckin’ lovin’ it when I hit ya, too, huh?  Ok, ya perverted little piece a’ shit; ya like the pain—I can sure as fuck deliver.  Buckle up, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad, you’ll cum in sheer joy!”

 

It gets kinda loud in the van for a couple of minutes, between Steve’s cries of pain, Jeff’s helpless invective and the meaty sound of flesh striking flesh.  By the time it gets quiet again, gingerfuck is barely conscious and his brother is hanging limply at the side of the van, weeping quietly.  It’s warm in here; I take a moment to slip out of my shirt—there.  Damn, I’ve been sweating enough to mat down my chest hair…

 

I leer down into the dazed teen’s face—so young, so beautiful, so punchable—and run my hands down his firm, lithe torso, feeling his smooth skin slick with a film of cold sweat forced out of him by his suffering.  His dick is semi-soft and getting stiffer by the second; it’s a reaction to the vigorous prostate massage he’s enjoying.

 

Unfortunately, he’s going loose on my shaft.  I need to fix that.  I don’t think he’s going to be enjoying his assrape for much longer—but I’ll give him a chance, first.

 

“Hey, buttfuck,” I smirk, “You’re failin’, dude.  Only reason I’m keepin’ ya around is to get off, an’ here you are, going slack on my hog.  Here, I’ll give ya—” here I set the timer on my watch— “thirty seconds to start workin’ my dick good, or I’m gonna make ya work it.”

 

And I spend the next thirty seconds counting down and plowing his rectum remorselessly.  His ass doesn’t get any tighter—I didn’t expect it to—but the increasing panic in his bewildered face is intoxicating.

 

“…three…two…one!  Ok, fuckwad, now it’s my turn.”  I show him my pointed steel shank.  “See this, bro?  This is gonna tighten yer ass up real good.”

 

I’d been so busy fucking with little Stevie that I’d almost forgotten the second course.  A gasp and moan from the side reminds me that I’ve got more meat to tenderize.  I hold up the screwdriver so Jeff can admire it too.

 

“Hey, dude, yer little faggot bro here likes to get fucked, yeah?  He likes a good skullfuck?  Cool, man—I’m gonna fuck his skull with this.”

 

I don’t think he’s following me.  I know Steve isn’t, but that’s ok.  I’ll manage to get it into his head somehow—heh heh heh.

 

By now the teen fucker I’m rammin’ is panicking.  He knows something bad is about to happen, so he’s pawing at my chest.  I’m laying across him, feeling that young, strong body writhe in terror beneath me—his legs are wrapped around my waist.  His Etnies are drumming on my firm asscheeks; a minor distraction at most.  And for all this activity and exertion, the stupid little sack of shit still can’t tighten his sphincter.

 

“Awright, enough of this shit,” I snarl, “You really are a lousy lay, fuckhead.”

 

I force his head to the side and plant one of my big hands on it, splayed out and taking all my weight, pinning it to the floor.  Then I take the screwdriver and start shoving into Steve’s ear.

 

Gingerfuck’s howls of pain take on a more intense quality as the sharpened steel punctures his eardrum and starts tearing its way through the delicate structures of the middle and inner ear.  Suddenly the skateboi isn’t fighting me any more—he’s clinging to me tightly, desperately, afraid to move, as if remaining completely still will lessen the torture being inflicted on him.

 

It won’t.  Stupid little shit.  He’s holding me like a lover, and I’m about to ream his cockpig brain with a homemade shank.  His head is still twisted to the side, of course, but when I look down, I can see the wide, shocked edges of his eyes as he tries to peer at me.

 

“Shh, shh,” I whisper, grinning, and apply more pressure to the screwdriver, “Enjoy the pain asswipe; you’ll be dead in minutes.”  There’s a faint moist crunching sound as the sharpened steel shiv punches through Steve’s inner ear and begins tunneling into his cerebellum.

 

The punk vomits; I’ve destroyed the mechanism that provides his sense of balance and he’s experiencing profound vertigo. He hasn’t stopped holding me, though; as the screwdriver sinks deeper into his skull, Steve clutches me ever more tightly.

 

I look up at Jeff.  “Hey, man,” I call out softly.  He turns and looks at me unwillingly, his large dark eyes reflecting his horror and despair.  “Watch it, man.  Watch me fuckin’ cum up inside yer bro as he dies on my cock.  Watch me fuck his brain into hamburger, motherfucker—it’s so goddam hot.”  I give him my best shark-like grin.  “But don’t worry, dude—I’ll have plenty of spunk left over to hose down yer corpse, too.”

 

The older skateboi moans softly, like he’s not really paying attention.  That pisses me off.  In a couple of minutes, I’ll make goddam sure the fuckin’ faggot is payin’ attention.  He’ll be hangin’ on my every word like it’s life or fuckin’ death—but all it’s gonna be is fuckin’ death, heh.

 

In the meantime, I’ve got the screwdriver halfway into little Stevie’s head.  I’m amazed the high school punkboy is still functional; he’s gotta be suffering some pretty serious brain trauma by this point, but he’s still squirming deliberately, which means someone’s still home.

 

Time for a fuckin’ eviction.  My toes curl, digging the soles of my big black boots into the floor of the van as I brace myself and shove the steel shank in up to the hilt.

 

There’s no resistance; it’s like poking a knife into a mass of scrambled eggs.  And scrambled is the right word; as massive brain trauma makes the little bitch’s colon wrap around my thick, pounding shaft like fuckin’ velvet, I slowly start to churn the metal shaft inside Steve’s skull.

 

I make sure to catch Jeff’s eyes.  Huge as they are, they’re easy to catch; huge and round with shock.  He stares at the horrific scene unfolding in front of him.  Teenaged fear and despair wash off him in waves, his adolescent pheromones filling the heavy, lust-soaked atmosphere in the back of my van—it’s makin’ my cock throb so fuckin’ bad…

 

“Look at ‘im,” I hiss at Jeff, “I done banged yer little bro so hard I fucked ‘im into a retard, an’ he still ain’t made me cum yet.  Worthless fuckin’ faggot—you better get me off, you sack a’ shit, or the pain I put you in will make this look like an owie for mommy to kiss.”

 

I pull out and stand up, my massive manshaft still glistening with Steve’s ass juices.  The young ginger is lying on the floor of the van, his smooth, sweat-lubes body stiff, rigid and trembling.  His teeth are clenched, his eyes rolled back in his head—and his cock his hard and dripping.  He’s not dead yet; his heart is still beating and he’s still breathing, independently if irregularly.

 

But I’ve left the screwdriver buried in his head, the orange-and-blue plastic handle protruding incongruously from his ear.

 

I cross over to Jeff and uncuff him; the hardbodied skateboi sinks blubbering to his knees.  As he curls up, I bend down and rip off his shirt, then jerk him up and yank off his shorts.  He falls back to the floor as I toss them aside.

 

“Get up, pansy-ass,” I snarl and give the fucker a swift kick.  The impact of my steel-toed boot on his flank elicits a grunt and then—amazingly; I thought the asshole was too scared to speak—a reply.

 

“I—we ain’t no faggots” Jeff manages to gasp between broken sobs, tears accumulating on his long dark eyelashes.  Fuck, that’s so sexy.  He needs to cry more.  He deserves it, the fuckwad.

 

“Yeah?  Sez who, you?” I chuckle.  “Dude, yer gonna be suckin’ yer bro’s dick here in a second.”

 

“Fuck you!” Jeff yells in an access of fury, spitting at me.  A nice sharp backhand gets a yelp from the skatepunk and puts a stop to his pussy little rebellion.  “No, no—fuck you,” I reply calmly, “But first, wrap yer fuckin’ lips around your brother’s dick, cocksucker, or I’ll fuckin’ kill yer ass right now.”

 

There’s a knife I keep stashed in the back, a long, serrated hunting knife that just holding gives me an erection.  It’s one of my favorites, although I’m not using it today.  Jeff doesn’t know that, though, so when I brandish it, he gets quiet and pale.

 

“Down on yer knees, fairyboy,” I command and he does it.  Stupid fuckin’ asswipe.  He’s looking right at his brother’s tool—it’s standing straight up, more than six inches of vein-wreathed cockmeat, pulsing and oozing precum.  Still holding the knife, I circle around and kneel down by Steve’s head.

 

“Now put it in yer mouth, cocksucker,” I demand coldly, “Open wide and gulp it down.  I wanna see you chokin’ on yer brain-dead bro’s dick.”

 

Jeff blanches and gags, then swallows heavily.  “Get that fuckin’ dick down yer throat now!” I yell and the teen punk holds his breath and deepthroats his half-brother.

 

I lean forward and shove Jeff’s head down with one hand.  With the other, I grab the handle of the screwdriver and start churning Steve’s brain matter into pudding again—only this time, I’m aiming for the mass of cells that control the pleasure center of the brain.  It takes seconds to mince that section, shorting out the dying kid’s nervous system and inducing a hyper-extended orgasm that wouldn’t have been physically possible in the course of normal sexual function.

 

The red-haired skateboi literally floods his brother’s mouth with hot teen spunk.  Jeff’s on his knees, between Steve’s smooth, firm, still-twitching thighs, looking right at me as his bro unloads down his throat.  As he pulls his head up, gagging and choking, a thick wad of jizz slipping out of his mouth, the brain-dead meat just keeps spewing into the open air.  Damn, I’ve triggered a geyser.

 

I feel like I wanna do the same myself.  “Time to saddle up, Jeff, my balls need drainin’ too,” I mutter, rising to my feet, knowing the dark-eyed skaterboi with the knit cap can’t hear me—he’s too busy retching up his brother’s semen.  Steve jerks violently as a brief rain of semen falls in the van, then goes quiet–but not quite still.

 

But I have the other cunt to deal with.  Let’s see, what do I wanna use to off this fucker?  Lessee—oh yeah.  This’ll fuckin’ work.

 

As Jeff leans forward and, still gagging, gets on his hands and knees to rise, I jump forward and mount him doggie-style, plugging my big thick tube of manmeat up his tight little boyhole before he has a chance to resist.  I punch past his sphincter like a jackhammer and am buried balls-deep in his ass, my massive jizz-filled sack slapping against his scrote, before it even registers that he’s been violated.

 

When it does, he shrieks, and for a moment I devote myself to pure physical pleasure.  I wrap my hands around Jeff’s torso from behind, fondling his pecs and nipples, feeling his firm, boyish chest heave in anguish and his smooth skin grow slick with cold sweat squeezed from his youthful frame by pain.

 

Then I wrap the bungee cord I picked up around his neck and pull it tight, garroting the skatepunk from behind as I fuck him like a bitch.

 

In his sudden confusion and panic, Jeff collapses.  The sudden cessation of air can cause intense focus as a rational man plots his defense.  Dumbass faggots like Jeff, though, just kick and die.

 

And that’s just what the dumbass faggot is doin’ right now, with my cock wedged up his ass.

 

“That’s it, motherfucker, keep fightin’ it,” I whisper encouragingly into the teen’s ear, “The harder you fight, the better you work my cock.”

 

Jeff struggles beneath me, his strong, wiry body thrashing violently.  It’s more than the usual panic—oh yeah; he’s just realized he’s gettin’ assraped on top of his brother’s corpse.  If the little cunt is dead yet, that is.  Fucker’s still twitchin’.

 

I don’t care why; it just feels good.  “That’s it—ya like that, huh?  Ya like the thought of a real man takin’ yer worthless punk ass out, huh?  Fuck, you goddam sack a’ garbage, keep milkin’ my shaft!”  The elastic cord stretches in my hands, but from the corners of my eyes, I can see how the tats on my bulging biceps seem to swell as I cinch the cord even tighter around the young boy’s neck.  It’s sunk so deep into his flesh it’s barely visible.

 

He’s trying to talk, the motherfucker.  “Gh! Ng! Ng! NG!!” he grunts thickly, clawing at his throat, like that’s gonna do any good.  “You stupid fuck,” I laugh at him, ramming my pulsating shaft into his ravaged colon, “Keep tryin’ to pull it away, dipshit, it’ll keep ya busy as ya die.”

 

He reaches behind himself with one hand, awkwardly trying to reach me; it’s an utter failure, of course.  He’s twisting his head violently from side to side like it’s somehow gonna magically give him air; in the process, he dislodges his knit cap, revealing near shoulder-length russet hair, stringy and matted with desperate sweat.

 

Again, my boots are planted wide for traction.  Between them, skatemeat’s Osiris hightops are drumming frantically at the floor of the van.  He’s not just twisting his head now, he’s thrashing it, flinging foamy streamers of drool as he kicks and flails  and slowly strangles to death.

 

Just like his worthless brother, Jeff’s brain is dying.  I can feel his firm young body become less controlled in its movements at it struggles beneath my hard, muscular form, the teen’s slick, sweat-lubed skin sliding easily against my own furry flesh as the cunt dies with my cock inside him.

 

“Jeez, ya fuckin’ useless piece a’ meat, ya didn’t get me off either,” I mutter, tightening the cord—and then there’s a loud crunch, and the cord gives way as I crush Jeff’s esophagus into a wad of bleeding gristle.

 

The reaction is immediate; Jeff’s ass grabs my dick and begins to jack me off like that was its original design.  Under me, the docile, brain-damaged skaterboi suddenly erupts into a physical frenzy—motherfucker convulses violently, his young, strong body suffering extended death throes.

 

It feels so fuckin’ good, the way his dying, oxygen-deprived brain makes his body jerk and flail, as if the whole point of his death is to earn my load.  And it is, really.  So I give it to him, grunting and beating on his smooth, bare back, as I pump what feels like quart after quart of searing hot manseed into the teenaged faggot’s guts.

 

I spend a few moments on top of the fagmeat pile, my cock still sunk in Jeff’s ass as Jeff’s corpse drools out onto Steve’s still-trembling form.  I need to catch my breath, and it’s warm and moist and cozy up here.

 

After a bit, I get back up, tuck my still-pulsing manshaft back down the leg of my jeans, and slip my shirt back on.  Heading up to the front of the van, I do a quick recon and make sure the coast is clear before dumping the meat.

 

I dunno if these two fuckers built this place or if they had help, but there ain’t no one else around, and that’s perfect.  I open up the back and drag Jeff out.

 

There’s a halfpipe in the center of the park. I seat him on the ground leaning back against it, his head tilted back into the bottom of the pipe.  Then I drag Steve over.

 

It was seeing all that cum of Steve’s glazing Jeff’s face that gave me the idea.  I drape Steve into the pipe facedown and plug his dick in Jeff’s mouth.  Retreating five yards, I examine the tableau for effect.

 

Two teen boys, nude except for their skate shoes—one seated on the ground, legs spread, the other leaning over him into the halfpipe, getting a BJ.  It’s perfect.  You need to get real close to see that they’re dead.  If they are; gingerfuck still seems to be quivering. I thought he’d be goin’ stiff by now.

 

I’ll toss their clothes and boards into that canal I passed.  Think there was enough water and a  fast enough flow to confuse things whenever they’re found.  I gotta go, but I’m gonna be paying close attention to the news.  I love it when they linger on the artistic touches I give to a kill.  I not a butcher, for fuck’s sake; I take pride in my work.

 


 

News item, dated next day:

Two teenaged youths, half-brothers from the same household, found attacked and sexually assaulted on abandoned property used as skate park by local youths.  Jeff Lansing, age nineteen, was reported dead on arrival at Montgomery County Hospital.  Steven Lansing, age eighteen, was reported in grave condition upon arrival.  Sources report the surviving victim has suffered such severe brain damage that he has been placed on full life support and is not expected to recover.

Immediate response from the authorities has been to demolish the unapproved skate park.  A representative from the sheriff’s department told this reporter that…

Stepfather Knows Best

It was past midnight and Tony was pissed.  That fuckin’ punk had a curfew, and he damn well knew it; Tony had made sure of that.  So where was the little asswipe?

 

There had never been any love lost between Tony and his stepson.  Of course, he’d only been Billy’s stepfather for a year and they’d never been on good terms.  It was obvious that Tony hadn’t loved Billy’s mother, which hadn’t endeared him to the teen, but things had gotten much worse in the seven months since she’d died.

 

As Tony ground his teeth and waited for Billy, he wondered, with a bitter grin, how the kid would react if he knew that Tony had murdered her.

 

Stupid bitch had wanted his body so bad.  Tony was thirty-two, six feet tall and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of pure muscle that he exercised daily working in the freight yard of a lumber company.  He was Hispanic—Tony was short for Antonio—with fairly long blue-black hair, dark liquid eyes and black wiry fur covering his sculpted form.

 

He was also uneducated, sullen, violent-tempered—and gay.  It irked him, and he’d kill to protect his macho image, but he accepted it physically.  He’d married Billy’s mom for two reasons, one of which was the she simply wouldn’t leave him alone.  She’d met him at one of the neighborhood supermarkets and instantly fallen for his dark Latin looks and his phenomenal physique.

 

But the main reason was that she’d agreed to insure her life for a two million dollars with him—him alone, and not the kid—as beneficiary.  “Don’t worry, querida, I’ll take care of William,” he’d told her.  But Guillermo had been his father’s name; the obnoxious sixteen-year-old didn’t deserve to be called by the same name as that noble man.  He still intended to keep his word, though.

 

He’d take care of Billy.

 

Her death had been easy to arrange.  Tony wasn’t smart but he had the cunning and instincts of a predatory animal.  He’d made it simple.  The day after the kid’s seventeenth birthday—she’d wanted to have a party but of course the little fuck spent the night out getting high and banging some cheap high school slut—he’d simply pushed her down the stairs, then called 911.  When he got down and found out she was still alive, he broke her neck.

 

The autopsy concluded death by misadventure.  It was officially an accident.

 

It was taking a while to wind things up, though.  He was waiting for the final legal matters of his wife’s estate—such as it was—to finish up before taking the money and blowing town, leaving Billy behind.  Tony had already gotten the money, all two million of it, and stashed it in an account under a false identity he’d created, having set up a residence under that name in a small town on the other side of the state.  All that was left was the deed of the house.  It wasn’t worth much—but Tony was greedy.

 

He was also intolerant of his spoiled punk of a stepson.

 

But ever since his mother’s death, the teen fuckwad had become more and more insolent, sneering at Tony, daring him to try to punish him.  “You ain’t my dad!” he yelled so often that the words rang continuously in Tony’s ears, “The moment I’m eighteen, I’m outta here!”

 

That one made Tony smile.  He planned to be outta here himself long before then.

 

But lately, Billy had gotten worse.  He’d come home at two in the morning, bleary, red-eyed, obviously drunk and/or high every time, usually boasting about whatever freshman chick had been unlucky enough to get her cherry popped by him.  Tony really didn’t give a shit what the boy did, but he was drawing attention to the household.  Already the older man had been visited twice by the cops and three times by the truant officer.

 

The last thing Tony wanted before he cut and run was to be noticed by the cops.  The problem needed to end—now.  He’d told Billy two days ago that he needed to be in by midnight, or else.  He didn’t finish the sentence, but his manner and gestures made his meaning clear. Billy sneered but didn’t argue.

 

He’d gotten home on time last night, but there was something in his actions and his unpleasant expression that made Tony suspect his plans hadn’t worked out.  There’d ended up being no temptation to break curfew.

 

Tonight, however…

 

It was nearly two in the morning before Tony heard the front door open.  Billy stumbled in, drunk, his pale blue eyes bloodshot.  The teen punk flipped on the hall light just as Tony stepped out of the tiny living room.

 

“You hadda curfew, boy,” Tony growled.

 

“Huh?  Whozzat?” Billy slurred, rubbing his bleary eyes as he struggled to remain upright.  His red-gold hair gleamed under the overhead bulb the kid swayed.

 

Billy was almost as tall as Tony, about five feet ten, but much slenderer.  He wasn’t scrawny, but his lean adolescent body wasn’t remotely in the same class as his stepfather’s muscle-bound form.  The alcoholic flush in his youthful face emphasized the band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his nose and his long lashes gave his pot-reddened eyes an almost feminine appearance.

 

Billy was wearing a skin-tight pair of low-rise skinny jeans that just barely covered his ass.  His feet were tightly laced into a pair of DC Court Graffiks.  The kicks were pale gray that stood out under the jet-black jeans.  The boy’s lean, smooth chest was wrapped in an untucked thin cotton t-shirt, bright yellow—it was a Pikachu shirt.

 

Tony, standing shirtless with his arms crossed over his furry bulging chest, wore nothing but a pair of old worn work jeans tucked into his eight-inch black leather Timberland boots.  He’d just started tucking his jean cuffs into the laced boots three weeks ago after disturbing a rattler under a pile of seasoned timber.

 

“I said,” Tony snarled, a dangerous tone in his voice, “You hadda curfew.  Where ya been, you little shit?”

 

“I been out,” the teen snapped, “An’ it ain’t yer buzz—busy—business where.”

 

Tony clenched his fist so tightly that the knuckles cracked audibly.  “As long as yer livin’ in my house, you spoiled brat—”

 

It ain’t your house!!” Billy yelled.  “It’s my mom’s!  And you ain’t my dad, so quit tellin’ me what to fuckin’ do!”

 

“As long as you’re living in my house,” Tony began again, very slowly and deliberately, “You’re gonna do what I say.  Period.  You ain’t eighteen yet, boy.”

 

“Or what?” the drunken punk sneered, “Whaddaya gonna do? Tell ya what, ya greasy spic, I’m gettin’ out tomorrow.  Already told my friends about it.  Once I find me a place an’ get settled in, I’m havin’ a big-ass party and gettin’ as fucked-up as I want…”

 

He paused and giggled for a moment as Tony glowered at him.  “Oh yeah, gonna have a big ol’ party…gonna have all my friends over, all the ones you hate…gonna tell ‘em about how I came in one day an’ saw you jackin’ off to a vid of two dudes fuckin’—didn’t know that, didja?  Well now everyone’s gonna know…”

 

Again, he giggled—for the last time in his life.

 

If he’d been less stoned, less drunk, he might have noticed the way Tony’s face contorted with rage, the way the powerful older man’s eyes glittered and his thick muscles tensed.  But Billy wasn’t looking; he was too busy pawing at his phone, trying (and failing) to type an incoherent text to the girl he’d fucked earlier that evening.

 

He barely noticed the thud of Tony’s boots, but the jingling sound struck him, and he turned.  Tony wore a gold chain and medallion—the only things of any real value he owned; they’d been a wedding gift from Billy’s mother.  The chain wasn’t heavy—she couldn’t afford the big thick links he’d wanted—but the medallion was a thing of wonder; she’d spent a large part of Billy’s college savings on having it custom-made to Tony’s design.  After all, she was marrying someone with a stable job who’d surely help her son when the time came.

 

Tony loved the medallion.  From a disk two and a half inches in diameter rose a lion’s face, all of it in solid gold—the blue-collar stud, born in early August, was a Leo.  The eyes and the fangs of the beast were platinum and gave it a ferocious look.

 

The whole thing usually rested snugly on Tony’s chest, nestled in his thick fur, but when he moved suddenly or violently, it bounced around, the heavy medallion making a jingling sound as it rattled along its chain.  It was this that drew Billy’s attention—but not quite fast enough.  All the adolescent punk saw was a blur; his eyes never had the chance to resolve it into Tony’s fist, rocketing straight for his face.

 

There just the blast of pain on his jaw and Tony’s fury-filled voice, “You piece a’ fuckin’ shit!”

 

The sucker-punch to his jaw knocked Billy across the entryway; he staggered into the wall, stumbling with such force that his shoulder dislodged a chunk of plaster.  Stunned, the teen fell to his knees.  He braced himself against the wall as Tony loomed over him.

 

“You goddam faggot,” Billy muttered, rubbing his split lower lip, “Gonna call 911 on yer ass…”  He reached out for his phone, lying on the floor a few feet away.

 

“Naw you ain’t,” Tony jeered.  Before Billy could grasp the phone, Tony casually put his boot down on it.  He grinned at Billy, then ground the thick treaded heel onto the phone, obviously relishing the cracking sound as he crushed the screen.

 

“Goddam it!” Billy squawked, “Do you know what that cost?”  He seemed to be angrier about the damage to his phone than the damage to his face.

 

Billy’s hair wasn’t overly long, but it was long enough for Tony to bend down and grab a hank of it.  “Better’n you, ya whinin’ little leech; you ain’t earned a dollar in yer useless life.  Now get the fuck up!”  He jerked Billy’s hair upwards, forcing the adolescent punk up off his knees to avoid injuring his scalp.

 

Billy’s hands instantly went up to Tony’s fingers, trying to pry them out of his hair.  “Lemme go!” he demanded petulantly.

 

“Shaddap,” Tony snarled and gutpunched the teen, his piston-like fist sinking deep into to the kid’s flat, smooth belly.  “HOOG!” Billy cried, doubling over; he would have fallen to his knees again had Tony not been holding him up by the hair.

 

The hardbodied older man, sweating slightly from his exertions, towered over the moaning smart-ass punk.  “Boy, yer ma never taught ya no discipline.  I’m gonna teach ya respect the hard way—an’ I guaran-fuckin’-tee you ain’t gonna forget.”

 

Whatever Billy may have thought of this proposition went unexpressed; the youth was jerking and gasping ineffectually, still trying to get his breath back.  He couldn’t ignore the painfully forceful yanking on his scalp, though, as Tony dragged him relentlessly toward the stairs.

 

The house was old—almost a century—and had been built in what was originally a working-class neighborhood that had never risen in value.  It wasn’t just run-down; it some areas it was almost ineptly small.  The staircase was steep and narrow, the wood risers creaking and splintered.

 

Billy found that being dragged upstairs practically on his hands and knees was a painful experience.  He had no idea that in just a few minutes he’d be in such agony that this discomfort would seem like a mother’s caress.

 

“Let…let…lemme go!” he gasped out just as they reached the top landing.  Directly across from it the door to the master bedroom stood open.  Tony jerked Billy around in front of him, towards the gaping rectangle of darkness.

 

“Shut the fuck up, asswipe,” he snarled.  Planting his big black boot against the boy’s ass, he shoved hard, sending Billy flying blindly into the darkened bedroom.  The teen clipped the corner of the dresser with his hip.  His cry of pain was cut short by a loud crash as he slammed into the closet door and slumped, dazed, to the floor.

 

He could barely comprehend what was happening, but he knew that his stepfather had assaulted him.  Despite the intense physical pain and the sudden fright of the unexpected attack, there was a hard kernel of joy in Billy’s shallow, arrogant mind: he had the fucker right where he wanted him.  He was gonna get the fag put away for a long, long time.

 

The idea that he might not survive to do so hadn’t occurred to him yet, but it was about to.

 

It was to dark to see more than a hulking. moving silhouette outlined in the doorway, but Billy knew Tony was coming for him.  The rank odor of mansweat, cologne and adrenaline increased, Tony’s sheer proximity taking Billy by surprise.  Before his startled cry could escape his windpipe, though, his air was completely cut off.  Tony’s hand had clamped down on his throat like a vice and now the muscled Latino was dead-lifting the kid off the ground.

 

Billy suddenly found himself dangling in midair, the toes of his DCs jerking helplessly inches off the floor.  This was a new kind of pain; his entire body weight was hanging off his neck and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t inhale.

 

The ginger punk began to panic, clawing at Tony’s hands as his legs kicked violently.  He still couldn’t see much in the darkness, but there was a flash of light that danced and glittered at his eye level.  His pulse pounding deafeningly in his ears, Billy instinctively reach for the light.  His fingers, bent into rigid hooks, soon snagged it—it was Tony’s medallion.

 

In his frantic thrashing, Billy ripped it—and a few curly chest hairs—away from Tony’s chest.

 

“MOTHERFUCKER!!” Tony roared.  Tensing his powerful arm like a slingshot, he hurled Billy across the room at random.

 

The kid hit the partially-open bedroom door, slamming it shut hard enough to jam it into its frame.  When he fell to the floor this time, he didn’t rise—he was out cold.

 

Tony, in the meantime, had crossed the room and flipped the light switch.  A bedside lamp and a floor lamp in the opposite corner came on simultaneously.  Cursing, Tony scouted the floor for a few moments before giving a grunt of satisfaction as he noticed the medallion halfway under the dresser.  He picked it up and pocketed it.

 

Now that the important matter had been dealt with, he turned his attention back to his stepson.  Tony was violent and ignorant, but he wasn’t stupid; he knew as well as Billy did what would happen if he let the little shit out of this room alive.

 

And since that was the case, and he’d always wanted to ram his huge shaft up the swaggering teen’s tight asshole, why not have a little fun?  Especially since he could show the fuckwad exactly what he’d always thought of him.

 

Now that all bets were off, he could show the little sack of shit just how badly he wanted to fuck him—and fuck him up.  He strolled casually to the bed and began to strip the covering off.

 

Billy moaned and stirred, coming slowly and painfully back to consciousness.  He was lying in a heap on the floor; when he first opened his eyes, they were at floor level.  All he could see of Tony was the older man’s boots as he walked around the bed.  The teen’s lithe body was claiming his attention, though; even though nothing was broken, he was hurting badly.  His smooth, silky skin had sprouted ugly purple bruises and his back and sides ached horribly where he’d impacted the doors.

 

Suddenly, Billy blinked.  He’d been so focused on his own physical discomfort, he’d stopped paying attention to Tony—he never noticed his stepfather approaching him.  But now his field of vision was completely filled with the muscle-bound Latino’s boots.  The thick treaded soles, still stained with dried mud, the black leather tightly cinched to the blue-collar stud’s powerful legs by the heavy-duty tan nylon laces…

 

Billy rolled onto his back and looked up at Tony towering over him.  For the first time, the arrogant teenager felt a sense of fear.  Above the boots, Tony’s tight jeans only emphasized the power of his bulging legs.  And above his waist, circled by a black utility belt of webbed nylon the older man’s ripped abs and massive, fur-covered pecs amply demonstrated what the tight jeans only hinted at—Tony’s phenomenal physical strength.  If Tony really wanted to fuck him up, Billy realized, there was little he could do about it.

 

And at that moment their eyes met and Tony gave his helpless stepson a grin so full of malicious intent that Billy’s blood ran cold.

 

“I’m gonna hafta teach ya respect, boy.  Yer gonna learn to respect me, hear?” the powerfully-built man chuckled, “Dumb-ass motherfucker, I gotta break ya like an animal to make ya learn.  Best way to do that is pain.”

 

Before Billy could react, Tony lifted his leg and stomped on the boy’s abdomen, his huge Timberland boot grinding its treaded sole deep into Billy’s soft flat belly, driving his stomach up into his diaphragm.  The boy cried out, an inarticulate wail of pain as the air was brutally forced from his lungs; instinctively, he reached out and grabbed Tony’s relentless boots.  His hands clenched the smooth black leather tightly as he tried to shift the crushing footgear.

 

“Get yer fuckin’ hands off my boot, goddam it!” Tony barked out.  Quickly, he jerked his foot back, then gave Billy a swift, vicious kick.  The sadistically angry older man grinned with pleasure at the faint cracking sound caused by the impact of his steel toe with the teen’s flank.

 

Billy was still trying to inhale; he wasn’t able to scream as both floating ribs on his right side—and the first false rib above them—snapped cleanly in two.  The pain was horrible, but aside from minor tissue damage as the jagged broken ends of the bones dug into his tissues, the young punk hadn’t suffered any serious damage.

 

Yet.

 

Tony was surprised at how erotic the sound of breaking bones was.  It was almost good as the visual of the cocky adolescent suffering.  His dick pressed against his tight jeans, resentful that it couldn’t expand to its full glory—not a situation Tony would endure long.  He unzipped his fly and let his enormous tube of manmeat flop out.  It was already dripping.

 

And a single bead of transparent precum dripped on Billy’s smooth chest.  The writhing teen delinquent hadn’t seen what was going on—his face was contorted into an agonized grimace, his eye tightly closed—but despite the trauma of three broken ribs, he still was able to feel the hot splash of manjuice on his tender skin and opened his eyes.

 

He opened his eyes even wider when he saw Tony’s erect, oozing cock.

 

Billy wasn’t gay.  The thought of two men having sex sickened him.  On the rare occasions he’d been in school, he was notorious on the campus for bullying (and sometimes downright assaulting) any other dude he even thought was homosexual.  His discovery of Tony’s secret had been the final tipping point for his decision to leave home.

 

But now here he was, battered and at a severe disadvantage—he refused to recognize himself as helpless—and trapped in a room with a faggot.

 

A powerful faggot.  One who had the physical strength to make the obnoxious teen his bitch.

 

Looking down at his victim, Tony saw fear in Billy’s face for the first time, and that sealed the deal.  That was what he needed—to dominate the little shit, to put the fear of Tony into him.

 

And to fuck the shit outta him while doing it.  He grabbed his massive rod, brandishing it like a club.

 

“Guess where this is goin’, asswipe,” he chuckled, grinning malevolently, “An’ there ain’t a damn thing yer gonna be able to do about it.”

 

He kicked Billy again, quick, sharp, short; a vicious impact on the kid’s hip that split the skin.  “AAH!!” the punk yelled.  He wasn’t able to yell again; raising his boot high so that Billy could admire it for the brief moment it was held over him, Tony stomped him again.  This time he went for the sternum, slamming his heel into Bill’s solar plexus.

 

The kid was totally unaware of anything that happened in the next two and a half minutes; he was too busy trying to breathe—and not doing it well.  By the time he was in enough control of his nervous system to inhale with some semblance of regularity, Tony was leaning against the dresser, smoking a cigarette and stroking his thick, swollen member.

 

The older man leered at the gasping, traumatized youth.  “Get up, asswipe,” he commanded.

 

“F-fuck you,” Billy spat out.  Tony darted across the room and before Billy even realized what was happening, the muscle-bound stud kicked his stepson in the face.  His steel-toed boot hit Billy’s face like a speeding truck, cracking the jawbone and knocking out three teeth.

 

The teen’s agonized howl reverberated down Tony’s dick; this was his first real chance to explore his attraction to sadism—and it felt hot as fuck.

 

“Keep talkin’ back, fucker,” the hulking Latino moaned, his sexual arousal clearly audible in his voice.  “Gimme a reason to hurt you, cunt…”

 

Even though his slim teen body was wracked with pain, Billy heard—and, on some instinctive level beneath conscious thought, understood—Tony’s husky, erotic tone.  He knew what he had to do.

 

In spite of the pain, he had to obey.  Because if he didn’t, things would get much, much worse.

 

Slowly, stiffly, the kid rolled over and began the harrowing process of bracing himself on the wall and rising first to his knees, then, finally, to his feet.

 

“Strip,” Tony said, staring coldly into the boy’s tear- and blood-streaked face.  Billy damn sure didn’t want to strip, but he couldn’t say anything about it even if he dared; it simply hurt too much to open his mouth.  He pulled off his Pokémon shirt, his tight, smooth chest shuddering with suppressed sobs.  His belt, which had been hidden under the shirt, glittered in the light.  It was something he’d picked up in a retro store, advertised as “genuine 80’s punk rock”—lengths of ten-millimeter marine chain in a bundle, bound together with thick leather thongs at regular intervals along its length.

 

Fuckin’ jackass thought he was a trend-setter.  Tony smirked contemptuously.  “Yeah, motherfucker, that’s it,” he chuckled as he fondled his manmeat and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into Billy’s face.  “Show daddy what ya got.  Get them jeans off; I wanna see ye sweet ass.”

 

Billy hesitated.  He couldn’t do this.  It didn’t matter how bad he got beat—he wasn’t gonna take a dick up his ass, especially not this motherfucker’s.

 

“Do it, you sack a’ shit, or I’ll make ya do it.  Fuckin’ strip, I said.  Now.”  Tony wasn’t smiling any more, and the gleam of merriment in his eyes was somehow more terrifying—because less sane—than the openly mocking humor in his earlier manner.

 

The teen was shuddering in pain and fear; his hands trembled so badly he could barely undo his belt even though it was merely looped into a loose granny knot.  His smooth skin was slick with cold, nervous sweat.  His adolescent adrenal system had so overloaded his body with hormones that they oozed out of his pores; the atmosphere was heady with his youthful pheromones as his shaking fingers managed to unfasten the belt.  As he unbuttoned the waistband and started lowering the zipper, Billy was brought up short by Tony.

 

“Hold up, bitch.  Yer belt—I want it.  Toss it to me.”

 

Billy obeyed, submitting to his stepfather’s commands in a dazed manner.  Tony caught the belt, then tossed it onto the stripped-down bed.  “Ok, bitch, keep strippin’.  C’mon, cunt, strip an’ I’m gonna make ya daddy’s bitch.”

 

Quivering in revulsion and horror, the humbled youth paused to kick off his Court Graffiks, leaving his black no-show ped socks covering his feet as tears coursed down his cheek.  His jeans dropped to the floor, showing that the little punk was commando.  His uncut teen cock was impressively long and thick for being completely soft.

 

 

Billy’s chest and his hip ached badly and the swollen throbbing of his mouth and jaw were almost unbearable, but they paled in comparison to what he expected was going to happen next.    He had no idea how bad it was going to get, though—but Tony did.

 

“Get on the bed, boy.”

 

Those five words struck a chill in Billy’s heart.  To the oversexed adolescent, they were more terrifying than threats of beating—even in his stunned and dazed state, he knew what it meant.

 

He was gonna get ass-raped.  The leering grin on Tony’s swarthy, masculine face confirmed it.  The teen’s naturally rebellious nature, confronted with this horrifying prospect, rose up on its hind legs.

 

“Fuck you, ya faggot!” he screamed, his fear overpowering the searing sensation of opening his mouth.

 

The grin vanished from the muscle-bound Latino’s face; if Tony’ command had chilled Billy’s blood, the expression on the blue-collar stud’s face froze it solid.  Not solid enough, though, to prevent the kid’s sudden dash for the door.

 

The boy was good.  He’d never gone out for sports, but his slim firm body was strong with the power of youth—and of fear.  Before Tony had realized what was happening, Billy had managed not only to reach the bedroom door, but to get it open.

 

Billy’s heart lurched in terror as he heard the loud thump of Tony’s boots hitting the floor behind him.  He realized that his only chance was to make it out of the house; unless he jumped through a window, his only way to do that was to get downstairs.  He bolted for the landing.

 

He almost made it.  He’d actually reached the top step when Tony tackled him full-body, slamming him into the wall hard enough to punch through the plaster and break the lathes behind…

 

…and the next thing Billy was aware of was that he was stretched out on the bed.   He didn’t remember how he got there, but he remembered everything else, and he knew what it meant.

 

He’d lost.  It took all his willpower to open his eyes; he already knew Tony would be standing there next to him.  He didn’t want to look at his brutal stepfather’s face—and as it happened, he didn’t have to.

 

As his lids fluttered open, the first thing he saw was Tony’s massive cock, hanging lividly directly over his face.  It was so close he could see every pulsing vein wrapped around the engorged shaft of manmeat.

 

“Hey there, fuckmeat,” Tony chortled, “Ya like it, dontcha?  Take a good long look, ya little shit, before I stick it up yer ass.”

 

The enormous shaft was so close, Billy didn’t have the option not to look.  As he watched, the huge, intimidating shaft of rigid manmeat began to ooze.  As a sexually active adolescent, the punk knew exactly what precum was—and what caused it.

 

It disgusted and nauseated him, but there was nothing he could do.  The kid had simply too badly beaten, was in too much pain to fight anymore.  “Just fuckin’ do it, man…” he whispered, his fractured jaw making every word agony, “Just…please…don’t hurt me no more…”

 

Tony’s loud, cruel guffaw echoed off the walls.  “Don’t hurt you?” he jeered incredulously.  “It’s hurtin’ you that gets me off, ya dumbass motherfucker!”  He mounted the bed and forcefully pried Billy’s smooth, firm legs apart, manhandling them up to his shoulders.  Reaching down and grabbing his cock like some huge caveman’s club, the older man fondled Billy’s ass with his free hand.

 

He bent over the prone, helpless teen and whispered, “An’ if you ain’t had no dick up there, boy, this is gonna hurt worse than you can imagine.”

 

This close, Billy had more than a closeup of Tony’s hard, masculine face—he could smell the muscle-bound sicko, a musky mix of sweat, testosterone, and cheap cologne that gave the blue-collar stud his own unique manscent.  Billy had smelled it often before—albeit without its current heavy load of pheromones—and had always been somehow revolted by it.  Now, though, it was taking on new associations.  For the rest of his life, that particular scent would inspire terror.

 

It was a good news/bad news scenario for the once-cocky teen punk: the bad news was that he’d be forced to endure that odor for the rest of his life—but the good news was that he’d only be forced to endure it for about another half-hour or so.

 

And he’d have other things to complain about long before the end of that period of time.

 

Like assrape.  Tony wasted no time; Billy felt an increasing on his fuckhole—then Tony shoved, hard and long and Billy screamed, hard and long.

 

He wasn’t being raped; he was being stabbed.  The pain was so excruciating that Billy couldn’t believe it was being inflicted by something as blunt as a penis—he had no doubt that Tony had rammed a butcher’s knife into his ass.

 

For Tony, the feeling was bliss.  He’d wanted to dominate this obnoxious teenaged piece of shit ever since he met him, and now that he had his dick sunk balls-deep into the punk’s guts, he was gonna torture the kid until he unloaded inside him.

 

But these houses were cheaply built and close together; Billy was making far too much noise.  “Shaddap and take it, motherfucker,” he barked and popped the boy on the jaw again.  The fracture gave way and Billy was suddenly pulled between two poles of suffering—the horrific sensation of tearing tissue as his ass was impaled and the slicing torment of the broken ends of bones grinding together in his jaw.

 

The teen had the wiry strength of youth, but the physical and mental trauma was starting to overload him.  He was cold, very cold, and things were going gray.  There was a loud buzzing in his ears; he reached out, instinctively, for some kind of support as he desperately tried to maintain consciousness.

 

And that was how Billy ended up tightly clutching Tony’s hairy, muscular arms as his stepfather brutally fucked him.  What little strength the suffering youth had left was put into keeping awake by keeping hold of Tony; Billy somehow had a subconscious awareness that if he went out now, he’d never wake up.

 

It was a bad choice; it turned out that staying awake was much, much worse.

 

“Goddam, yer gettin’ loose,” his furry, sweat-slick stepfather grunted, pumping his long manmeat up the kid’s ass rhythmically, “Thought you were a virgin—you been gettin’ banged by the whole fuckin’ football team?  Haw!”

 

Billy’s face, contorted with agony and wet with tears, was still responsive to other feelings; even as he suffered, the hint of being gay stoked enough of a spark of anger to make him flush.  It was what Tony did next that made the boy go pale.

 

“I know how ta make ya get all nice an’ tight,” Tony said with an evil smirk, and brandished Billy’s chain belt.  The teen lay still, staring at it blankly; with everything he’d undergone, he’d forgotten about it.  “Saw this online one time,” Tony went on, “An’ I always wanted to try it.  On you, motherfucker.”

 

For a brief moment, an image was seared into Billy’s terrified mind—his hairy, muscular looming over him; that broad, fur-covered chest, the huge dark nipples hard and jutting with Tony’s sadistic excitement, his swarthy face glowing with contemptuous lust, his dark eyes flashing, and his arm—oh, his thick, powerful arm raised and ready to strike—

 

It moved so fast that Billy didn’t even see it; in fact, his first sensation after the impact was hearing it.  The slap of metal on flesh was louder than his stepfather’s ragged guttural breathing.

 

The older man had doubled the belt over, then swung it downwards; it had struck Billy’s chest diagonally from upper left to lower right.  Each individual link of the multiple chains hit the punk’s smooth, tender skin at high velocity.  The immediate reaction was akin to shock but when the pain did register, even a broken jaw couldn’t keep Billy from screaming.

 

“Aw fuck yeah!” Tony yelled, “Fuckin’-A, that’s it!  Felt that one all up an’ down my dick, motherfucker!”  He raised his arm again, his back lit image again striking terror into the helpless, tortured adolescent.  “C’mon, ya smartass piece a’ shit, let’s hear ya mouth off now!”

 

This time Billy raised his right arm to ward off the blow.  Again, it was a very bad idea—but the teenaged delinquent, who rarely had good ideas at his best—was suffering the impediment of broken bones and an enormous cock up his ass.  Even as he swung his mighty arm down, Tony had seen the kid’s defensive move and knew what would happen—the belt looped around Billy’s arm, centripetal force accelerating it as it tore into his flesh.  Before it could unwind itself, the sick sadist jerked the belt back.

 

Two distinctively separate sounds reverberated off the walls like gunshots.  The first was the sharp cracking noise of Billy’s right forearm bones snapping simultaneously.  The second was more of a moist crackling pop as his shoulder dislocated.

 

It was too much; it was overload—and it got worse.  As Billy hoarsely screamed himself into a white haze of agony, Tony aimed another blow at the boy’s heaving flank, oily with sweat.  The chain belt hit the point where Billy’s ribs had been broken, and the teen surrendered to the pain; almost gratefully fleeing consciousness despite his fear of never coming to again.

 

He needn’t have worried.  Tony was enraged that he’d lost his prey, but not enough to snuff it while it was out.  The little asshole hadn’t suffered anywhere near enough yet.  The buff older man simply wrapped the belt around the limp teen’s neck and continued to rape the kid’s ass.  He was bound to wake up sooner or later.

 

It took the fucker a few minutes crawl his way back to excruciating consciousness.  The moment he saw the punk’s long dark eyelashes begin to flutter, Tony pulled the belt tight.  Not enough to cut off Billy’s air; just enough to let the asswipe know that the fun wasn’t over yet.

 

Billy, utterly engulfed in agony, had stopped trying to fight back.  The horrific pain of being kicked, beaten, and chain-whipped had broken his spirit, just as Tony had intended.  The nightmarish torture of assrape and multiple broken bones had left the teen, if not in shock, then very close to it.  The ginger punk’s eyes were open, but nothing was registering.  His perspiration-soaked skin was gray and clammy and his pulse was becoming slow and faint.

 

Problem was, his fuckhole was becoming slack—but that was why Tony had put the belt around the kid’s neck.  One sharp tug could help fix all that.

 

Tony did more than tug it.

 

Billy’s eyes opened wide as the chain links burrowed into his flesh; the pressure was forcing skin out within the spaces, deeply embedding the pattern of the links into his neck.  Keeping his swollen shaft buried in the teen’s rectum, Tony pulled slowly on the ends of the belt, incrementally tightening it around Billy’s throat.  A look of panic was stamped on the boy’s face as he gave a loud wheeze and felt his windpipe cinch shut.

 

Tony smiled down at Billy.  “Yer gonna die harder than yer mom did when I offed her.  Course, I just wasted her for the money—stupid cunt was dumb enough to put on the life insurance.  You, now—this is different.  I wanna see you suffer, asshole.  I wanna watch you choke to death with my cock up yer ass,–ya feel me, motherfucker?  Naw?  How ‘bout this?”

 

With that, the muscle-bound Latino jerked the belt, hard.  His biceps bulged from the effort, dark veins rising to the surface as Tony exerted his strength to inflict the torture he knew the obnoxious, cocky teenager so badly deserved.

 

Billy’s face wasn’t pale any longer; it was dusky blue and darkening quickly.  His livid eyes already seemed to bulge from his face.  The youth squirmed frantically, his smooth, lithe body writhing on a film of sweat beneath the powerful weight of his stepfather.  His firm thighs clenched against the older man’s legs, his feet kicking and his toes curling in his black socks.

 

“Whaddaya think, fuckwad?  Gonna wipe out yer whole goddam family.  Ain’t none of ya worth shit.  Hell, I gotta snuff yer worthless ass just to get ya to milk a load outta my dick.  But hey, fucker, yer gettin’ hard too—prob’ly gonna spunk yerself, boy, so don’t say I never gave ya nothin’!  Haw!”

 

Billy knew he had an erection; he could feel it—he could feel everything.  His collapsing esophagus, his violated and abused colon, the glassy pain of jagged bone ends grinding together, yes oh holy fuck even as his lungs burned and his racing heartbeat echoed in his skull he could still feel all of it and somehow the worst was the fiery pain of his unnaturally swollen and throbbing cock and his seething balls.

 

The teen’s face was black and taut, distorting his appearance; even his red-gold hair was dark with cold deathsweat that was being squeezed out of his slim youthful body.  As the pressure in his head increased, blood vessels began to burst in Billy’s eyes, leaving large black voids in his field of vision, like negative explosions.  He could vaguely feel that something was wrong with his mouth but he had no way of knowing how his broken jaw had given way to his relentlessly swelling tongue.  It protruded grotesquely, while his cheeks were smeared with foamy drool that ran from his mouth.

 

In his last moments, Billy reached out to his stepfather.  His right arm was too damaged to move, but he raised his left, and placed it on Tony’s chest.  For a moment, the boy’s hand remained flat, nestled in the stud’s wiry fur—then suddenly, it curled and jerked sideways.

 

Tony hadn’t been expecting it.  Maybe Billy hadn’t either; he was so close to the line between life and brain death that deliberate movement was—unlikely.  One way or another, the dying teen punk had clenched his hand and clawed not only at Tony’s chest hair, but at his nipple.

 

The swarthy blue-collar alpha roared in anger.  His movement was swift and sure; it looked like a practiced kill strike even though Tony had never done this before.

 

Passing both ends of the belt to his left hand and jerking up with it, the powerful sadist balled his right hand into a fist and plowed it into Billy’s face as hard as he could.  The boy’s head snapped back as his neck was jerked forward; there was a loud gristly wrenching sound as his cranium was violently separated from his spine.

 

Teenaged boymeat, full of hormones and already forcibly erect from asphyxia and intense prostate massage, suddenly experienced a profound shock to the central nervous system—the result was only natural.  Billy’s firm, lean body went rigid, his legs wrapped tightly around Tony’s waist and the shredded remains of his sphincter tightening around the base of his stepfather’s cock.  Suddenly, he exploded into a single violent spasm, his engorged tool spewing a solid stream of boycum all over his own and Tony’s chest.

 

At the same time, the strong muscles of his rectum, flowing rhythmically in the teen’s death throes, massaged the full length of Tony’s huge rod.  With a loud grunt, the older man unloaded in the kid’s ass, hosing out his guts with manseed.  For several minutes, they clung together, bodies entwined and shuddering in orgasm and death.

 

 


 

 

Tony had time; it wasn’t like anyone was looking for the little piece a’ shit.  Once he pulled out of the still-quivering boymeat, he strolled out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom, taking some time to leisurely clean his cum-smeared dick and stuff it back into his jeans.  Then he went back into the bedroom and pulled a plain white cotton t-shirt out of the dresser and slipped it on.

 

He glanced around the room for a moment.  Nothing here he really needed.  He’d hoped to make some extra money from selling the house, but fuck it, now.  The two mil was good enough.  He could buy anything he needed, and there damn sure wasn’t anything sentimental about this place.  He’d just burn it the fuck down.

 

But first he turned back to Billy.  The seventeen-year-old’s corpse was on its back, legs and left arm splayed.  The right arm was lying twisted at an unnatural angle.  The punk’s smooth, firm chest and flat belly were covered with a thick glaze of the kid’s own semen; it had even splashed into his contorted, damaged face which had faded from black to cyanic blue.

 

Tony approached the bed, noting how the corpse’s feet kept twitching in their black ped socks.  He reached up and grabbed the belt, sunk horrifyingly deep into the boy’s throat; using it as a handle, he dragged Billy’s body off the bed.  It hit the floor with a loud, boneless thump, not that Tony noticed, or would have cared.

 

He cared even less about what he was doing to the corpse as he dragged it downstairs and out to the bed of his pickup.  He bent down and picked it up, cradling the dead teen in his arms in what could have been mistaken for a tender moment—then tossed Billy’s carcass into the back of the truck like a side of beef.

 

Tony walked back into the house, the thudding of his heavy Timberland boots echoing in the empty house, checking to make sure he’d left nothing of any value behind—not that there was any need to worry; everything worth anything had already been sold, hocked, or traded for quick surreptitious sex.

 

House wasn’t worth much anyway, he knew, it was run down and needed serious repairs, so losing it wasn’t much of a financial loss in any case.  Tony had already located four bottles of lighter fluid in a cabinet over the fridge—the broad had smoked like a coal furnace and Billy liked to pretend he was a man by smoking Swisher Sweets—and it took him no more than twenty minutes to saturate what he considered to be the most flammable parts of the house with the fluid.  He made sure to open the windows partially to allow for oxygen, but to close the curtains and blinds.  It was four in the morning by this time, and it was unlikely that any of the neighbors would be up, but Tony was feeling vindictive and wanted to make sure that the place was beyond saving before anyone noticed.

 

He lit the flame in the back hallway on the ground floor before heading out.  He locked the front door behind him.

 

Easing his truck quietly out onto the street, he waited until he turned onto the next block before switching his headlights on.  Once he did, he headed straight for the high school, driving carefully, and under the speed limit.  He had no intention of getting pulled over now.

 

The high school had security cameras; Tony already knew about them because Billy had been caught vandalizing the place.  The stupid shit had practically circled the school; as Tony saw when the principal had shown him the video—and as a result, he knew where they didn’t cover—like the sign out front.

 

Tony didn’t pull into the parking lot; it abounded in cameras.  He just pulled over to the side of the road right by the sign—a simple double-sided backlit marquee with the legend “San Clemente Senior High Cougars” at the top and letters posted on the marquee spelling out a message that the following Friday was an in-service day.

 

It was all very ordinary, and it made Tony sick.  He didn’t know why, but the thought of making a public display seemed to get him buzzed.  He got out of the truck and, going to the rear, opened the bed and dragged Billy’s corpse out.  He let it hit the ground with his usual disdain, smirking as it crunched lifelessly into the gravel; as it did, Tony noticed it had lost its left sock somewhere along the line.

 

“Truant officer’s been askin’ ‘bout ya lately, boy,” he whispered, a sick, psychotic gleam in his dark eyes, “Wants to know where ya been, whatcha been doin’.   So I thinks, why not show him what ya been up to, fucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  C’mon, boy, it’s time you got back to school.”

 

Tony hoisted Billy up over his shoulder and carried him up the slope from the road.  The corpse was stopped quivering by now and was starting to cool, but was still limp and malleable.  Tony had no problems draping it over the sign in such a position that Billy’s gaping asshole, still leaking cum, was visible from the drive to the main entrance.

 

“There ya go,” he said, his voice velvety with satisfaction, “Now everyone can see ya finally got what was cummin’ to ya.”

 

He strolled back down the hill to his truck, then kept going out of town in the same direction he was already facing.  He wanted to reach his new address before noon.  He hadn’t spent much time there, so he didn’t know the town well, but Corrington didn’t seem like it’d take long to learn.  In fact, Tony doubted that Rigler County had much to offer in the way of entertainment.  He’d have to see what he could stir up…

Trucker 17–Trucker vs Small Town Slut

Autumnal thunderstorms were moving across the Midwest and even where it wasn’t actively raining, the roads were still dangerous.  Traffic was slow on the highway, forcing the Trucker to downshift, quietly cursing to himself.  He peered ahead through the driving rain; his exit was coming up.

 

He’d headed north on I-49 out of Joplin, Missouri two hours earlier.  It shouldn’t have taken him so long to reach the town of Nevada; it was only about fifty miles north of Joplin, but the weather and the traffic had conspired against him. But he’d finally made it.  He eased his rig off the interstate and turned left onto the state highway that ran through town.

 

He was running empty; he needed to be in Kansas City tomorrow afternoon to pick up a load, but while on the way, dispatch had alerted him to the chance of earning a little extra by what should have been a quick side jaunt over to Fort Scott, Kansas to pick up a couple of pallets of return items from a dollar store to drop at the freight yard in Kansas City.  Hence his exit from the interstate.

 

The night was thick with a heavy mist, almost a fog, that seemed to mingle with the lowering clouds so that everything was shrouded in moisture.  He slowed his rig considerably; the two-lane state highway had intersections for farms and small towns scattered along it at random.  He slowed even more as he passed through the town of Deerfield, so he was only about five miles past it when he got the alert from dispatch that the Fort Scott job was cancelled, with no explanation.

 

“Goddamit,” the Trucker muttered, his face grim as he tried to figure out the best way to get to Kansas City from here—he wasn’t sure if heading back to the interstate would be faster than continuing to Highway 69, given the weather.  That’s when he saw the truck stop sign. And decided to pull over.

 

He could use some food while he figured out what to do.  And he could use a moment to relax—poor weather on poor roads made him tense.

 

The truck stop was at an intersection that had a street light on the highway.  The road it was on headed north, but nothing was visible beyond the intersection.  On the left side, the “truck stop”—an old gas station with some oversized canopies installed to accommodate big rigs—sat at the corner.  Across the street there was a small paved lot evidently intended for overnight parking; there was a single darkened cab there now.  The Trucker pulled in, circling the lot so he could head straight out without backing when he needed to.

 

The rain, which had tapered off, began pattering on the roof of his cab again.  Before he opened the door, he grabbed his rain coat—a black hooded Carhartt Shoreline jacket—and zipped it up over the white cotton undershirt, all he’d been wearing in the warm, humid evening.  Ensuring his wallet was in the rear pocket of his tight, worn jeans, he shut off the rig’s rumbling engine and climbed out.  The thick soles of his black leather engineer boots splashed in a puddle when he hit the ground; the concrete lot was awash.

 

The tall, powerful figure strode across the empty street towards the truck stop, but headed around it.  Behind it was a small diner with a lighted sign that read, simply, “24HR”.  He wanted food.  As he got past the tall, floodlit canopies, he saw that there was more. To the right of the diner, there was a low building with another sign, this one reading “Office”.  It was the end unit of a small motel built in an L-shape, that enclosed the back end of the property.  The far end of the L was behind the diner and abutted up onto the state highway.

 

Two of the units had cars parked in front.  There was a dim glow in the shaded windows of the office, but not much activity.  The diner, on the other hand, had several vehicles pulled up around it and gave more promising signs of satisfying his immediate needs.

 

And as to satisfying his other needs, well, he wasn’t expecting much, but if the opportunity arose, he wouldn’t turn it down.  And the comparative bustle of the diner seemed to offer more chance of that, too, he put the quiet, almost-empty motel out of his mind and opened the restaurant door, heading into the thick miasma that was equal parts grease and burnt coffee.

 

There were several people at the counter—a family of three, with disgruntled looks on their faces, a couple of single guys who had the shopworn look of traveling salesmen, a brassy, big-tittied woman at the far end, engaged in a loud but incomprehensible conversation on her phone.  Across a narrow isle from the counter, a row of dimly-lit booths lined the window; the Trucker chose one at random on the right and sat down.

 

He hadn’t been there for more than three minutes when a gum-chewing waitress materialized at his side.  “What’ll it be, hon?” she drawled.

 

The Trucker had barely glanced at the plastic-covered menu, but he’d seen enough.  “Gimme a bowl of the beef stew and a cup of coffee, black.”

 

“Nothin’ else?  You get a side if you want it.  C’n add a salad for two bucks, too.”

 

“No,” the Trucker said, taking the time to scope out the place, “Just the stew.”

 

“Comin’ up.  Save some room for the pecan pie, hon, it’s to die for.”  With that, she vanished as abruptly as she’d arrived.  Within a matter of seconds, she was back with a white ceramic cup and a metal pot full of bitter, burnt coffee.  As the Trucker tried to drink it without grimacing, she popped back up with a large bowl full of a dark, viscous stew.  “Anythin’ else, hon?” she asked mechanically.  He shook his head and she left.

 

The Trucker wasn’t alone for long, though.  The boy had been sitting in a booth to the left of the door when the older man had come in and turned right, which was why he didn’t see the kid until he’d already started approaching.  Before the Trucker could react, the youth slid into the opposite side of his booth.

 

“Hey, dude,” the kid grinned, “Name’s Brandon, what’s yours?”

 

The boy was young, a small-town punk with shoulder-length sandy blond hair and large puppy-like brown eyes.  The eyes were glowing with a natural lust that the kid was too young and inexperienced to suppress; his teenaged horniness was so obvious, he might as well have been wearing a sign.

 

“Yeah?” the Trucker said off-handedly, “Whaddaya want?”

 

The boy—Brandon—was staring at the Trucker’s torso, his gaze fixated on the way the older man’s huge nipples jutted up through the thin cotton mesh of his t-shirt.  He was too engrossed to notice that his question hadn’t been answered.  “You, man,” the boy said with a quick, nervous grin.  “You pulled over at the service station, right?  Well, I’m here to service truck drivers.  Been doin’ it for years, ever since Ma bought the motel.”

 

The Trucker looked the kid over again, evenly but curiously.  “Kinda bold, aintcha?  Do ya offer yerself to every dude who walks in here?”

 

“Not every dude, just the ones who look like they want it—and can afford it.  Ya gotta hustle if ya wanna make a buck, as Ma says.”

 

The strapping sex killer grinned and Brandon, seeing acceptance in the Trucker’s expression, smiled.  The adolescent slut wasn’t anywhere near as good at reading people as he thought, although he wouldn’t be aware of his deficit until it was too late to profit by the knowledge.

 

The Trucker pushed aside the bowl of salty stew and looked Brandon dead in the face.  “So, how much?  And for what?”

 

Knowing he had a good one hooked, the kid’s smile grew wider; he was utterly unaware that he was the one who was hooked.  “Aw, man, for a hot stud like you—shit, dude, you c’n stick it up my ass for twenty bucks.”

 

The grin on the Trucker’s face grew broader too.  He’d hoped to have a little fun; he hadn’t expected to run across a cheap little boywhore so horny it damn near climbed into his lap.  As the kid spoke, the powerful killer felt his balls start to ache.  They needed to be drained, bad—and he’d just found the perfect piece of fagmeat to use as a cumrag.

 

“Twenty?  Yeah, I can do that.  You gotta place?”

 

Brandon young, smooth face lit up as he broke into an infuriating smirk.  “Fuck yeah, man, I got my own place.  I toldja Ma owns the motel here, right?  I got the end room over there all my own.  Told Ma that once I hit eighteen, I was a man, and a man need his own space, an’ she agreed, so she lemme have that room.  Course,” here his face fell momentarily, “that was three months ago and she says I gotta be out by the time I hit nineteen—but hey, maybe some hot trucker will come along an’ take me away from all this, yeah?”

 

His sexualized eagerness was so obvious it made him pathetic.  The Trucker figured he’d be doing the community a favor by offing the worthless whore.  “Yeah, boy,” he drawled, “I bet yer gonna meet someone who’ll take you away real soon.”  He tossed a ten and a five onto the table and slid out of the booth.

 

Brandon followed suit.  The Trucker had the chance to fully appraise the boy once he stood up.  The kid stood a couple of inches shorter than six feet; the Trucker towered over him.  Brandon wasn’t scrawny; he’d been on the local high school wrestling team (where he hadn’t been popular, his erections too obvious in his Lycra wrestling gear).  He had a dark gray fleece hoodie that zipped up the front, wearing it unzipped, with the hood thrown back.  Below the waist, his muscled legs were encased in nearly skin-tight Levi’s.  The cuffs of the boot-cut jeans were incongruously stuffed into the tops of a pair of Adidas NMD XR1 PK kicks, white with black and gray stripes.

 

Brandon led the way out.  Once outside the diner, the Trucker zipped up his jacket and Brandon drew his hoodie up over his head; the rain had started falling harder.  The kid headed across the cracked and pitted asphalt; the older man could see he was going for the end room, out by the state highway.  As Brandon weaved circuitously, avoiding getting his kicks wet and the Trucker’s boots splashed heavily through the puddles, two semis roared past, mere yards from the room.  Ma wasn’t stupid; she’d given the boy the shittiest room she had.

 

As the kid unlocked the rear door, the Trucker glanced back towards the office.  Despite the neon glow of the word “open”, the office seemed dark and quiet.  The only two cars in the lot were in front of doors in the other wing.  This room was completely isolated.  With a malicious smile, the serial killer followed the teen rentboy into the room and locked the door.

 

If he’d wait a few seconds longer—and looked towards the highway—he might have seen the shadow of a human figure slip around the corner and crouch down at the front window, as if it was peering through a space between the curtains.

 

Once inside the room, Brandon flipped the switch just inside the door, turning on the single overhead bulb in the ceiling fan; the latter came on as well, revolving in slow, lazy circles that wouldn’t disturb a fly.  The kid continued on to the bed and, sitting on it, switched on the lamp on the nightstand.  He was already kicking his sneakers off when the Trucker entered.

 

“Hey, lock the door, wouldja?” the punk said, slipping out of his hoodie.  “Don’t want my Ma or Manny, that spic she hired, to come bargin’ in here in the mornin’, huh?  He’s even worse than she is about gettin’ all up in my business.  I think he wants to bang me but I don’t fuck with no wetbacks, ya know?”

 

The boy seemed nervous, running off at the mouth.  The Trucker kept quiet and let the kid run on; he knew he’d be able to shut the meat up when the time came.  He unzipped his Carhartt jacket and tossed it onto a chair.

 

Brandon, in the meantime, pulled off his t-shirt, giving the Trucker what he hoped what a seductive glimpse of his hard, smooth, muscled torso.  The Trucker smirked and peeled his own t-shirt off.  The homo teen gaped as the older man’s fur-covered, muscle-bound chest was revealed, a vast landscape of masculine power with a visual focus of a pair of dogtags gleaming dead center between his massive pecs.  The kid’s hormone-ridden form shuddered.

 

“Goddam, you’re…you’re…”  he couldn’t finish his sentence.  He stood up and slid out of jeans.  They clung to his legs and as he tried to free his feet, he stumbled and fell against the table, nearly knocking the ancient-looking desk phone off.  He dove for it and recovered it, setting it back onto the table with a relieved sigh.

 

The Trucker had fished out his Marlboros and fired one up as he watched Brandon peel off his clothes.  The boy turned to him sheepishly.  “That coulda been bad—there’s a button on the phone that goes directly to the phone at Ma’s bedside so she can handle guest emergencies.  Fuck, if I’d woken her up—she don’t know what I get up to, y’know…”

 

The kid was still sporting a pair of white briefs and white ankle socks.  His thick teenaged cock and sperm-filled balls were visible through the thin cotton—and anyway, the briefs couldn’t contain his swelling dick for long.  He stood up and glanced around the room.

 

“I, uh, I need to go to the bathroom,” he faltered, then paced quickly around the bed to the bathroom door on the far side of the room.

 

The moment the bathroom door closed, the Trucker sprang across the room and bent down behind the nightstand.  He quickly unplugged the phone from the wall jack and had just made it back to the ashtray to take another drag off his smoke when the bathroom door opened.  Brandon came out, looking like he was tweaking badly.

 

Then a certain familiar scent hit the Trucker’s nose and he realized that’s exactly what was happening.  Brandon had gone into the bathroom to smoke meth.

 

In the meantime, the punk had come back around the bed and was slipping his Adidas NMDs back on.  “It’s, uh, wet in there…um, I mean…the floor is wet and I don’t like wet socks on my feet, yeah?” Brandon said with a sickly grin.  He headed back towards the bathroom.  “I won’t be long.  Oh…uh, by the way, I, uh, I’m gonna need more than twenty.  Like, um, fifty.  Yeah, fifty would be good.”

 

“You want me to pay you more money?” the Trucker asked quietly and evenly.

 

Brandon, encouraged by the lack of obvious outrage at the request—it wasn’t the first time the little junkie had upped his prices once he’d gotten a john into his room—smiled and ran his hand through his long sandy hair.  His smooth body was already covered with a glistening patina of sweat forced from him by the drug.

 

“Yeah, man—you into it?  C’mon, a hot stud like you, out on the road for hours at a time—you take a hit now and then, dontcha?”

 

The Trucker smiled and stood up.  He reached down and slowly inched his zipper down, staring straight into Brandon’s eyes as he did.  The faggot didn’t bother to keep up eye contact, he was too busy gazing with eager anticipation at the Trucker’s crotch.  When the zipper was finally down, the buff alpha reached in and began extracting his enormous shaft like he was pulling a rope up out of a well.

 

“You wanna know what I wanna hit, motherfucker?” he hissed at the gaping teen, “You.”

 

“Huh?” Brandon asked confusedly, reluctantly dragging his gaze up from the Trucker’s cock to his face.

 

It never got there.  It caught a flash of motion and the Trucker’s fist slammed into the kid’s face like a sledgehammer.

 

The blow hit Brandon with the force of a swung baseball bat; the boy was knocked sideways into the bathroom, sprawling on the cold tile floor.  His right hand, which he’d kept balled into a fist, came open and a glass ball with a tube coming out of it—his meth pipe—went skittering across the floor and shattered against the base of the toilet.

 

“I ain’t payin’ you shit, faggot,” the Trucker snarled as he stormed into the tiny room, grabbed the stunned adolescent by his long hair, and dragged him, squalling, back out into the bedroom.

 

Brandon hadn’t been popular on the wrestling team—at least on the floor; he’d been very popular in the locker room and showers—but he’d been good.  No one had treated him like this, and he was pissed.  This motherfucker had gotten the drop on him and was gonna try to stiff him after promising to pay.

 

Over my dead body, Brandon thought as he lay on the floor, rubbing his sore jaw.  He didn’t have the slightest hint how right he was.

 

Slowly rising to his feet, he squared his broad—for a teenager—shoulders and stared at the Trucker, showing his assailant that he wasn’t intimidated.  “You hit me, asswipe, an’ ya broke my pipe.  Yer gonna have to pay for that.”

 

The Trucker smirked and stared back.  “Make me, you useless cocksucker.”

 

Brandon had maneuvered himself around to the foot of the bed, which was a better position to make a break for the door.  The Trucker was standing between him and the bedside lamp, and the alpha’s massive, over-developed silhouette was painfully obvious to the kid.  He suddenly realized he was challenging someone who could easily overpower him and literally mop the fucking floor with him.

 

This was bad.  This was really bad.  The teen panicked, spun around, and lunged for the door.

 

“No ya don’t, faggot,” the Trucker growled and, coiling his bulging muscled form, pounced at the terrified kid.

 

Brandon had just reached the door when the Trucker caught him by the hair again, jerking him violently backwards.  “NO!!” the boy screamed—just as the entire room rattled with the noise of a semi going by on the highway.

 

“Yeah, man,” the Trucker said as he hoisted Brandon aloft by his hair.  The kid squealed in pain, his hands grasping the Trucker’s wrist as he lifted his body up to prevent his scalp from taking his entire weight.  “What the fuck make you think yer worth even twenty bucks, you fucking piece a’ shit?” he sneered while Brandon’s Adidas’ kicked and flailed several inches above the thin cheap carpet.

 

“Lemme go or I’m gonna fuck you up so fuckin’ bad—” the punk gasped out as he continued to hang from the Trucker’s outstretched and powerful arm.

 

“Ok, cunt, time to teach ya yer place,” the Trucker said evenly, then whirled and flung the teen bodily across the room into the nightstand.

 

It hurt.  Brandon knew he was gonna be hurt; he’d just been able to process enough of the sensation of violent motion to realize it was gonna hurt, but nothing more than that.

 

He hit the table with his back, slamming against the wall and snapping three of its legs off.  The lamp shattered loudly against the wall; pieces of it sliced his shoulder—not deeply, but enough to draw blood.  The back of his head hit the drywall hard enough to put a large dent in it, while the phone smacked the wall and bounced off, its bell banging inside.

 

Without the bedside lamp, the only illumination was the overhead bulb.  It shed its lurid rays over the scene of masculine domination below.  The Trucker, strong, sweating, muscular, loomed ominously over the pain-twisted form of the buff but overpowered teenager lying in the shattered remains of the nightstand.

 

Brandon was stunned, barely aware of what was happening, but he knew he was in trouble.  He knew that he needed help—and the closest help was Ma.  He opened his eyes—there, directly ahead of him, was the phone, lying on its side on the floor, the handset a foot away.

 

He reached out his hand.  He could see it; his vision was blurred with tears of pain, but he could make out his splayed fingers reaching out to the phone—and suddenly, there was a pair of boots, gleaming black leather engineer boots between him and the phone.  And as he watched, one of those boots was lifted and planted on the back of his outstretched hand…and then it pressed down…hard, its thick-treaded sole grinding his hand agonizingly…

 

“I unplugged the phone anyway, you dumbass motherfucker,” came the deep bass voice in a sneering tone, and Brandon lost hope.  He lost even more a minute later when he was screaming in pain as the Trucker ground his boot down, shattered all five metacarpals, rendering the punk’s right hand useless.  The sadistic killer grinned as he saw the boy reaching out for the phone with his left hand.  Stupid little fuck hadn’t wanted to believe the truth…so let ‘im try the phone.

 

Tears rolled down Brandon’s pained face as he dragged the phone towards him by the cord, holding his crushed, lamed hand to his chest.  He knew that the Trucker was standing next to him; without even looking, he could feel the hypermasculine presence just inches from him, looming over him.  He shoved the thought as far into the back of his mind as possible and began pawing at the pushbuttons on the phone.

 

The Trucker looked down in amused contempt and, unbuckling his belt, slowly began sliding it out from around his waist.

 

Finding he couldn’t get a dial tone, Brandon uttered a despairing bleat as he realized the Trucker had indeed unplugged the phone—which meant he had something planned from the beginning.  The teen faggot desperately tried to avoid thinking about what that something was.

 

“Hey, cunt,” he heard softly above and automatically turned to look up.

 

The hard-bodied alpha stood over him, his huge cock erect and hanging over the boy’s head.  Above, the older man had one arm raised; for a brief moment, Brandon felt himself attracted to the power shown in the developed musculature of the upraised arm—then he noticed that the hand was clutching a doubled-over belt.

 

The kid had just enough time to raise his arm in a feeble attempt to ward off the blow when the Trucker slashed downward, the inch-thick raw leather striking Brandon’s arm and shoulder, taking an inch-wide swath of skin off the former.  The stunned adolescent screamed, as much in shock as in pain.

 

“Toldja you ain’t callin’ for help, dumbass,” the Trucker sneered and backhanded Brandon across the face with the belt.

 

“Stop!” the boy cried, clutching at the welt on his cheek.

 

“FUCK YOU!!” the Trucker roared in rage; as Brandon curled into a fetal position under the sudden onslaught, the sick alpha let his anger punctuate his speech, “You don’t (sounds of vicious crack of belt on flesh and pitiful crying) tell me (crack, sobbing) when to stop (crack, loud cry); I ain’t stoppin’ (crack, blubbering), till I’m fuckin’ good (crack, whimper) and ready (crack, “no…please…”), ya feel me, faggot (crack, loud howl of agony)?”

 

The older man paused for a moment, his heaving torso slick with sweat.  The homo punk was turning out to be a pretty good workout; he was enjoying himself.  He left the kid a shuddering pile of welt-covered flesh, moaning and sobbing on the floor and crossed back to the dresser, where he noted with annoyance that his smoke had burned down.  He pulled another out of the pack and lit it, tossing the belt aside as he turned to contemplate the scene.

 

The nightstand and most everything that had been on it was in pieces and the wall behind it was dented.  Brandon, still in a fetal position, had wrapped his hands around his knees and was rocking himself, his eyes wide open.  The teen cocksucker hadn’t run into anything like this in high school wrestling—he was going into mental shock, literally unable to process what had happened to him.

 

That was fine.  The Trucker knew how to snap him out of it.  Teenaged meat was all the same; the body needed some tenderizing but the brain was usually so soaked with hormones, it went into vapor lock.  Best way to break that was physical stimuli.

 

The more painful, the better.

 

He crossed back to Brandon and looked contemptuously down at the naked young slut.  Then, without a word, he ground his cigarette out on the teen’s back.

 

The Trucker had been right about pain; it worked like a charm to free Brandon from his shock.  The searing pain of the burn sliced through the fog in the punk’s mind—Brandon suddenly had one powerful crystal-clear thought in his head:  he needed to get out.  Now.

 

It was a move he’d learned in wrestling; rolling to one side, the strong adolescent tucked in his legs, planted his Adidas kicks firmly on the floor, and lunged for the door.

 

He flung himself forward, under the reach of the Trucker’s grasping arm.  The latter realized what was happening just in time.   He wasn’t quite fast enough to snag the cunt when made his first move, but didn’t need to be.  As the boy pawed frantically at the door’s lock, the Trucker simply reached out, grabbed a thick hank of the kid’s hair, and jerked.  Hard.

 

Howling, Brandon found himself jerked backwards by his scalp.  It hurt like fuck and as he raised his hands and tried to disentangle the sadist’s fingers from his long hair, he failed to notice how the Trucker was now holding him face to face.

 

Then he glanced up and caught the look on the serial killer’s face.

 

“You fuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the Trucker said evenly and plowed his fist into Brandon’s jaw, stunning the youth so badly he never felt it when the older man reached down and, with a single strong jerk, tore his briefs off.  The elastic waistband dug painfully into his skin before it parted, but Brandon was too busy simply trying to maintain consciousness to notice.

 

The boy’s long cock flopped out, not fully erect—but close.  It sprouted from the dark lush tangle of his adolescent pubic hair, above his dangling sperm-laden balls, and continued to stiffen even as the Trucker part-shoved and part-threw him onto the bed.  Brandon moaned groggily as he twisted his smooth, lithe teenaged body on the cheap polyester bedspread.

 

The buff older man strode to the remains of the nightstand.  After rooting through the debris for a few seconds, he stood up with the phone in his hands.  He turned to the bed and looked down at Brandon just as the kid was coming to.  The punk’s large eyes, blank and bewildered, returned the Trucker’s icy glare.

 

The slut touched his jaw tenderly, feeling the swollen knot that was forming and the split in his lip.  Sheer luck had prevented him from getting his jaw broken or even a tooth knocked out—but the night wasn’t over.

 

“Wha…wha happen…” he slurred.

 

“I decked you, faggot,” the Trucker said without any inflection in his voice.  He continued to stare coldly down on his prey.  “You ain’t gettin’ outta here.”

 

The memory of the last few minutes finally came crawling back into Brandon’s shaken brain, and fear began first to bubble up through the pain and then to boil over.

 

“Wh-why?” he asked plaintively.

 

“Cause I need to drain my balls, asswipe.  I’m gonna drain ‘em into you.”

 

The look of confusion on the boy’s face became more marked.  As the hardbodied alpha unplugged the phone from the cord, Brandon’s eyes darted towards his hands, still not comprehending.

 

“Y-you c’n d-do that w-w-without havin’ t’ hurt me, mister,” the teen quavered, “H-honest, you-you don’t hafta pay or anythin’.  I-I was just kiddin’ about the money, mister!  Please!”

 

The Trucker’s masculine, scruff-darkened face, which had been expressionless up to this point, contorted into a malicious grin.  The gleam in the eyes of the muscled serial killer, lit by equal intensities of rage and lust, was much more terrifying to the prone and defenseless youth than his cold composure had been.

 

“You stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker sneered, “I ain’t gonna fuck you—I’m gonna snuff you and let your dyin’, thrashin’ boymeat milk the load outta my shaft.”

 

“Wh—I—wha—” Brandon sputtered, blank terror written across his boyish face.

 

“Ya see this?” the Trucker held up the phone cord.  At the same time, he tossed the phone aside; it hit the floor a few feet away with the same loud banging/ringing sound as before.  It didn’t distract Brandon, though, his eyes remained focused sharply on the older man as he slowly raised the cord.  The kid’s eyes moved from waist level, where the powerful killer’s huge rod jutted stiffly, intimidatingly, up along the ripped, furry six-pack of the Trucker’s abs to his massive chest, covered with dark wiry hair.

 

The movement stopped just as Brandon’s gaze was reaching nipple height—right at the point where the dogtags hung.  The glitter of reflected light they gave, nestled between the older man’s broad pecs, had an almost hypnotic effect on the punk.

 

“I’m gonna wrap this around yer neck and choke the life right outta ya.  Fuckin’ hot, yeah, faggot?  Let’s get it on.”

 

Brandon was still blinking his eyes and trying to process the words he’d heard when the alpha sprang onto the bed and roughly parted the kid’s legs.  He didn’t even have time to cry out before he felt horrible unremitting pressure against his asshole.  He’d been fucked many times—but nothing this large had ever been forced inside him.  He didn’t think he could take that much cock without getting literally ripped open.

 

He was right.

 

The Trucker plowed his way in, remorselessly, relentlessly, giving a grunt of pleasure as he felt the boy’s sphincter resist momentarily, then give way as the flesh tore.  Brandon screamed in agony; it was a horrible slashing pain, like he was getting assfucked with a razor blade.

 

“Shaddup, fuckmeat,” the Trucker snarled and popped him in the face again, crushing the teen’s nose with wet, pulpy sound.  The kid’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp, blood leaking from both nostrils.

 

“Lame-ass fuck,” the alpha muttered as he doubled the cord around Brandon’s throat, leaving the ends dangling loose for the moment.  He wanted the punk awake for what was gonna happen next.

 

Little piece of faggot shit needed to know he was dying.

 

As Brandon began to groan and shudder, slowly climbing his way back into an agonized consciousness, the Trucker fucked him brutally, plunging his huge manshaft deep into the helpless teen.  The slapping sound of the alpha’s spunk-filled balls slapping against the rentboy’s taint filled the air, already thick with the musk of sweat and mansex.

 

The terrible pain of the older man’s dick impaling his guts forced Brandon awake; he blinked rapidly, his eyes already filling with tears.  His face ached so bad, his nose was squashed like a rotten tomato and his ass—oh fuck, his ass was being torn open from inside, he was full, he was so fuckin’ full of the Trucker.  The hardbodied stud, pinning him down, grunting with the pleasure of dominance, seemed to be swelling in his colon.  The kid could feel every ridged vein of the alpha’s cock as it plugged his rectum and thrust remorselessly against his prostate.

 

And that was when the ass-raped youth suddenly realized his own dick was hard.  It was so hard it hurt.  Erect and glistening, the kid’s shaft pressed against the Trucker’s belly as the two male bodies entwined in violent forced sex.  The swollen purple head of Brandon’s cock was being shoved through the wiry fur that covered the top’s washboard abs; with every thrust of the Trucker’s tool up the boy’s ass the pressure caused Brandon’s dick to fell like it was being scrubbed with steel wool.

 

The pain was intense and, stunned as Brandon was, he was still horrified to find that the agony was making his dick ooze.  As his long, turgid rod plowed through the fur forest, it left a slimy, glistening trail of precum.

 

The Trucker felt the hot trickle on his belly and knew exactly what was happening.  He’d offed enough of these little homos to know how their adolescent bodies reacted to a good fuck.

 

“Ya like that, you sick little fuck?” he sneered, grinning down at his helpless victim with contempt.  “That whatcha been lookin’ for, faggot?  A real man to fuck ya and punish ya like you deserve?  You need a real man to put ya outta yer misery, asswipe; you’re a lousy fuck.  Had to split your asshole to get my hog in and you still ain’t tight enough to make me cum.”

 

Brandon opened his mouth as if to speak, but only croaked.

 

The grim humor left the Trucker’s handsome face, leaving behind the intense gleam of bloodlust.  “Time to die, motherfucker.”

 

Reaching down, he picked up the ends of the cord and lifted them.  Brandon could only watch in terror as the muscle-bound killer wrapped the cord around each hand a couple of times.  He couldn’t miss it—the Trucker’s hands were only inches from his face.

 

“I’m gonna strangle yer pansy ass to death,” the cruel sadist said evenly.  “It’s gonna take you a while to die.  You’re gonna suffer, faggot.  It’s a slow, painful way to get snuffed and you’re gonna fight it until your brain starts to die and you go into excruciating convulsions.”

 

Here the older man bent down, his demonically masculine face coming closer and closer until the stiff bristles on his face painfully scraped the smooth skin of the boy’s cheek.  “And that’s why I’m doin’ this, cunt,” he whispered breathily, erotically, into the terrified punk’s ear.  “As you kick and die, yer ass is gonna work my cock so good.  Worthless fag like you ain’t gonna be able to make me cum, so I’m gonna snuff you slow and let yer death throes milk my load out.”

 

Brandon, his adolescent face taut with pain and terror, opened his mouth to speak—to beg, to plead, to bargain.  He never got the chance.  With a sudden, swift jerk of his thickly-muscled arms, the Trucker yanked the cord tight.  It instantly sank into the boy’s flesh, creating a deep groove in his throat.

 

“Gurk!” the punk spat out, a wordless sound forced past his tongue as his esophagus was suddenly cinched off at a point just above his larynx.  The slut’s eyes, already wide in fear, took on the proportions of dinner plates as he tried desperately to inhale with no result.

 

The Trucker expected the burst of panic and the frenetic clawing and scrambling that accompanied it.  Most meat went through the process, especially teen meat with little discipline or self-control.  Not, of course, that those attributes would help it survive, but they’d prevent it from burning up the oxygen remaining in its bloodstream with useless flailing.

 

The kid dug at his neck, clawing and scraping at his own flesh in a useless attempt to grab the cord, his struggling body flexing and jerking.  “Fuck yeah,” the brutal older man grunted as Brandon’s ass pumped itself along his huge—and now fully and massively engorged—cock.  Despite the mind-numbing terror that clouded his mind, the youth heard the erotic tone of sexual pleasure in the alpha’s voice.

 

That made it worse.  This guy was a fuckin’ psycho and killing him, Brandon realized (more accurately, finally let himself realize) was literally getting the dude off.  This was really happening.  It wasn’t a nightmare or a joke or even a scary abusive john—he’d had those before.   He was trapped and dying, and even though he wasn’t bound, he was utterly helpless.  The hardbodied, horse-dicked stud was raping him and strangling him and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.

 

The Trucker knew this frenzied response to panic was coming, too.  “Saddle up, motherfucker; gonna ride ya like a bronco,” he muttered as he pulled the phone cord tighter around the teen’s neck.  He knew Brandon was past hearing him; he was right.

 

For the next forty-five seconds, until oxygen deprivation set in, the adolescent rentboy became a feral animal.  The deep, penetrating realization of impending death triggered an instinctive attempt at frantic self-preservation.

 

The Trucker held on, his cock planted firmly in the boy’s ass, as the latter thrashed on the bed.  Brandon flung his arms out, smacking them against the top’s hard hubcap pecs with the same impact as if he was beating a marble statue.  While the Trucker moaned and grimaced in sexual gratification, Brandon, utterly unconscious of his specific physical motions, wrapped his legs around the Trucker and squeezed, his smooth, strong teen thighs pressed firmly against his killer’s waist and his Adidas NMD kicks shuddering in midair.

 

His hands curled into fists, Brandon beat ineffectually at the Trucker’s chest, making the sadist’s dogtags jump around, providing a jingling accompaniment to the punk’s death.  Slowly at first, then gradually more perceptibly, the kid’s frenzy began to slow as portions of his brain started dying of oxygen deprivation.

 

He stopped beating on the Trucker and relaxed his hands slightly, uncurling his fists.  Although he was still theoretically trying to fend off his assailant, he was actually caressing the older man’s chest at this point, his quivering fingers dragging over the large thick protrusions of flesh that were the Trucker’s nipples before becoming lodged in the wiry chest.  Brandon clutched at the alpha’s fur as if he was a drowning man clutching a rope.

 

“Yer dyin’, faggot,” the muscular alpha growled, “How’s that feel, huh?”

 

The gagging, choking teenager wasn’t able to answer—but he didn’t need to.  The way his long hard dick throbbed as it slapped roughly against the Trucker’s furry washboard abs said everything that needed to be said.  As his dangling dogtags bounced and danced on the kid’s heaving chest, the cruel, hardbodied killer grinned.

 

The handsome adolescent that had hit on him in the diner was gone.  In his place was a thrashing piece of teen meat that was slowly and agonizing succumbing to the cold commanding hand of death.  Brandon’s Ma wouldn’t have recognized her boy now—his face, terrifyingly swollen, was so dark and congested it was nearly black.  His full lips, puffy and purple, had been parted by his thick tongue.  As he gagged, spittle was flung from his mouth and a white stream of foamy drool ran down his chin.

 

The pain had taken him.  It was everything; it was all.  It was in his head and his lungs, in the frantically increasing tempo of his pounding pulse, in his ass and his guts—and in his dick.  His sperm-filled balls and his hard, straining rod ached and pulsated so badly that what little consciousness he had left was still able to feel it.

 

Brandon was almost dead, but he could still suffer.  And the Trucker knew it.

 

“Not yet, homo,” he muttered, “I ain’t hurt you bad enough to cum yet.”

 

The look in the teen punk’s bulging, petechiae-stained eyes let the Trucker know he’d scored a hit.  Somehow the little fuck had managed to hear him and understand him.  And that was exactly what the vicious serial killer wanted to see.

 

“Fuck you, faggot,” he barked cruelly, spitting into the youth’s blackened face, “Die, motherfucker.”

 

His masculine face twisted into a snarl, the Trucker grunted and jerked his powerful arms.  As his thick biceps bulged with the strain, the phone cord sank deeply into Brandon’s throat.  A split-second later, a loud, satisfying crunch reverberated in the air.  The teenager’s windpipe had collapsed, crushed into a useless mass of bloody gristle.

 

For once, the experienced killer was taken by surprise.  Brandon’s convulsions were violent—and immediate.  The Trucker just had time to grab onto the meat before the lithe firm teen body beneath him began to buck and flail frenziedly.  The older man shuddered with pleasure as the boy’s silky-smooth skin slid over his flesh on a film of cold death sweat that had been squeezed out of the dying punk.

 

But it was in the pelvic area that Brandon’s convulsions had the greatest impact.  The brain-dead kid’s colon seemed to collapse around the Trucker’s cock.  It felt like it was sucking on his shaft, as if a vacuum had been generated, as the smooth, velvety rectal lining fluttered over the swollen purple head of the older man’s dick.

 

“Fuck,” the Trucker muttered, “Gonna shoot.  Gonna fuckin’ blow.  Gonna—”

 

Brandon beat him to it.  The smooth meat spasmed violently—the legs squeezed painfully tight around the Trucker’s waist, the black and white Adidas sneakers quivering in the air, the fingers curled in the alpha’s chest hair, yanking at it—and then the dead cunt’s dick pulsed so strongly that the Trucker could feel it as it was pressed against his belly.  Instantly a solid jet of boyjizz shot through the air.

 

Brandon’s death load landed in his own face.  As his eyes glazed and faded into their final thousand-yard stare, he suffered the indignity of having them covered over by a pool of his own spunk.

 

The dead kid kept unloading.  It added something extra to the ass action; the Trucker couldn’t hold it in any longer.  He erupted into loud inarticulate cries as he flooded the fuckboy’s guts with sperm.  For at least twenty seconds, the two male bodies, one just dead and the other very much alive, continued to spew semen as they remained entwined in a sick, erotic embrace of death.

 

At last the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his body still flushed and tingling with the intense satisfaction of a powerful orgasm.  Beneath him, the adolescent corpse continued to tremble in its death throes.  With a sense of regret, the alpha slowly extracted his huge shaft of manmeat from the kid’s guts; it had felt so snug, wedged deep into the dead boy.  It slid out of the meat’s ass with a faint but audible “pop”, along with a heavy trickle of pearly cum.

 

The Trucker crossed the room weak-kneed and almost unsteady.  Grabbing his Marlboros, he lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply as he leaned against the wall to recover and to take stock of the scene.

 

The strangled teenager lay splayed on his back, his shuddering legs spread wide.  He’d managed to keep both of his Adidas kicks; they scraped and shuffled against the disarranged polyester bedspread.  The fucker’s cock as still hard; the erection was slowly fading—but very, very slowly.  There was a solid glistening trail of boyspunk up the center of the meat’s flat belly and smooth chest.  It led up to and over Brandon’s face, paling to cyan as the blood drained out of it.  The dead punk’s long hair, dark and moist with sweat, was fanned out above his head.

 

The serial killer smiled in satisfaction.  This one had been good.  The fagmeat had ended up draining his scrote the way he wanted it—the way he needed it—drained.  He finished his smoke and flicked it contemptuously onto the corpse where it hissed out in a pool of cum.

 

Heading to the bathroom, the older man swiftly wiped off his chest and abs with a moist towel, tossing it into the toilet when he was done.  Having cleaned the faggot’s jizz out of his wiry fur, the Trucker bent down and grabbed his shirt, but didn’t bother putting it on.  Instead, he wadded one corner of the thin cotton shirt and stuffed it into his back pocket, letting the rest of the shirt hang out.  As he did, his hand brushed his wallet, and he was reminded of something.

 

He located Brandon’s jeans and found the dead kid’s wallet.  The homo had twenty-five bucks; the Trucker slipped it out and into his pocket.  It’d help—barely—pay some expenses.   And it wasn’t like the boywhore needed it anyway.

 

Smiling grimly, the buff stud slipped his Carhartt jacket on over his bare torso.  He could tell by the sound that it was raining harder than ever, so he raised the hood as he opened the door.  Sure enough, it was pouring.  Hunching over, he dashed from the room without bothering to turn out the light.  The thick soles of his boot splashed in the puddles as he bolted back to his rug, never looking back.

 

If he had, he might have noticed that the door to Brandon’s death pit hadn’t closed completely.  And even before he crossed the street, a short, stocky figure had slipped into the room.  By the time the Trucker had reached the cab of his semi, the door had truly been closed.

 


 

Manny was exhilarated, and horny as fuck.  He didn’t know who the powerful stud who’d just left was, but he wanted to go to him for a number of reasons, none of them healthy.

 

Manny was twenty-one.  He was only five and a half feet tall, but he was broad and muscular.  His hard was blue-black, and curly and his skin was dark brown.  He was born in the US, but his parents hadn’t been.

 

Not that that hadn’t stopped Brandon from calling him wetback all the time.  And the old woman wasn’t any better, paying him less than minimum wage and threatening to call ICE anytime he complained.  No one was hiring in this bumfuck little town and he had no money to leave.  His job as maintenance man for the motel was all he had. So he put up with it.

 

But he hated them both.  And now here was the little gingo cocksucker, fucked and dead.  Manny couldn’t have been more pleased.  Or hornier.

 

He’d always wanted his chance at that smooth white body, but he knew the spoiled teen faggot would not only reject him but use any approach as something else to hold over his head.  He’d never made any move in that direction.

 

But now Brandon was helpless, vulnerable, and laid out for Manny’s pleasure.  It was almost as if it had been done deliberately, and in the swelling rush of lust and hate, the young, strong Latino had no hesitation at the thought of sexually abusing the corpse of a teenager.

 

When he’d first found to body, he’d been stunned—and wary.  Brandon had been beaten badly, and between that and the swelling caused by strangulation, his face was not easily recognizable.  Even though it was Brandon’s room, Manny wasn’t sure that it was Brandon, at least not until he got a closer look at the long, circumcised cock.  Yeah, that was the white boy’s dick.

 

And from the looks of the room, the handyman could tell someone had finally given the little pansy exactly what he’d been asking for, for years–the someone being that truck driver who’d just left.  That was someone Manny wanted to know.  That kinda power—that was something he wanted to feel.  But first, he had this stupid cunt lying dead in front of him, and the thought of giving him the D was too much to bear.

 

The buff, swarthy Latino peeled his wet t-shirt off, his rain-slicked chest glistening under the overhead light.  His tight work jeans were tucked into his work boots, a pair of Red Wing Heritage Mocs.  Usually, he wore them loose, but he’d laced them up tightly this time, all eight inches—he’d been standing in four inches of water, making sure that the roof was draining properly.  That bitch in the office would be all over his ass if he hadn’t fixed it right…

 

At any rate, he had no intention of unlacing them.  He just unzipped his fly and hauled out his thick uncut fireplug of a cock, stiff and throbbing, before approaching the bed.

 

“Hey, niño,” he hissed, stroking his rod as he approached the head of the bed, “Guess what this cholo’s gonna do with ya?”

 

He reached out and grabbed a handful of the dead teen’s hair, jerked the head toward the edge of the bed.  Brandon’s still-limber corpse bent sideways at the waist; Manny was easily able to position the torso so that the head hung back off the side of the bed, the mouth gaping and the tongue protruding.

 

“Gonna take some wetback cock in yer mouth, jefe, before I go wake yer ma an’ tell ‘er ya got yerself fucked to death,” Manny sneered down at the cum-covered face.  He grinned as he grabbed his dick in one hand and the back of Brandon’s head in the other, and shoved.

 

There was pressure, as if he was fucking someone in the ass.  Manny preferred being on the receiving end, but he could dominate when he wanted—and right now, he wanted.  His face tensed as he inserted his engorged, near-black tool into the dead teen’s mouth.  It plowed its way down the corpse’s throat, roughly squeezing Brandon’s swollen tongue out of the way.

 

Manny sighed with pleasure as his cock slid all the way down; just as his balls nestled down onto Brandon’s broken nose, the oozing head of his dick touched against the compacted mass of cartilage that blocked off the punk’s esophagus.  “Fuck yeah, ya dumbass puta!”

 

He rose up on his toes, flexing his brown leather boots, as he rammed his pulsating shaft down the dead kid’s blocked-off throat.  “Goddam maricón blanco, take my carajo!” he growled as he hunched his hard, stocky body over the adolescent’s corpse and skullfucked it.

 

Bent over Brandon’s inverted body, Manny could feel his wad seething and churning in his balls.  He looked down at the punk’s sperm-glazed belly and flaccid but still impressive dick, and felt himself lose control.  A searing heat boiled over in his puckered sack and suddenly, with a loud, convulsive cry, his spunk exploded into the narrow, confined space of Brandon’s crushed windpipe.

 

It was too much for the space to hold.  Manny felt the warmth of his own load flow back up the outside of his rod; as he withdrew his sticky, cum-covered shaft, he could see the overflow leaking out of the dead boy’s nostrils and gaping mouth.  “There ya go, maricon, ya like the taste of wetback cum?”  He spit contemptuously in the corpse’s face.  “Fuckin’ puta!”

 

The hardbodied handyman entered the bathroom.  Plucking a hand towel off the rack, he wetted it at the sink and scrubbed his dick off.  Turning, he noticed a bath towel already in the toilet.  He tossed his own in—and flushed.  Within seconds, the bowl backed up and overflowed.

 

Manny grinned.  Fuck it—it was gonna be the next guy’s problem.  He was getting out tonight.

 

Tucking his dick back into his jeans, the buff young Latino headed back into the bedroom, collected his wet t-shirt, and strolled out into the slowly fading rain.  The thick rubber soles of his work boots splattered the large puddles as he crossed the parking lot to the office.  Brandon’s Ma was about to have a rude awakening.

 


 

Two hours later, he was done.  He’d remained outside the room the entire time, keeping his eye on the parking lot across the street.  The rig with the dark blue cab hadn’t moved the entire time.

 

He’d spent most of the time answering the county deputy’s questions, then the sheriff’s questions—generally the same ones, over and over again—before they told him they were done with him for the moment.  As far as he was concerned, they were done with him for good.  With the mortified wailing of Brandon’s Ma ringing in his ears, Manny headed across the street.

 

He paused at the side of the cab.  A cold front had come through with the rain.  He was still shirtless, his large dark nipples erect in the chill pre-dawn air, with his wallet as his sole possession.  It didn’t matter.  All his cash was in his wallet and he could buy anything he needed.  And what was in his head was more valuable anyway.

 

He knew who Brandon’s killer was, and that was his ticket outta here.  He climbed up onto the cab and knocked boldly at the door.

 

The front section of the cab was empty.  As Manny watched, the privacy curtain that separated the sleeper section was drawn aside and the huge muscled stud he’d seen earlier came out.  Fuck, he was big—and so goddam hot.  The young Latino felt his cock stiffen again.

 

The Trucker opened the window.  “Whaddaya want?” he asked, his gruff voice low and wary.

 

“Your load, jefe.  And a ride outta here.”

 

The older man’s expression combined caution and hostility.  Manny spoke quickly.

 

“I know what ya did to the maricon.  Takes a real man to fuck a faggot up that bad, vato, an’ I been lookin’ for a real man fer a long time.  Now that I found ya, yer gonna get me outta this fuckin’ barrio.”

 

The Trucker looked down at the stocky hardbodied Latino.  “Or what?” he asked.

 

“The five-oh is still peelin’ yer playtoy off the bed back there,” Manny replied cockily.  “All I gotta do is stop back by over there.”

 

The Trucker was silent for a moment, obviously considering the alternatives, the he opened the door of the cab.  “Ok, c’mon in,” he said, moving back and letting the buff young man in.

 

Once inside, Manny glanced around.  “Aw, this is sweet!” he said in an admiring tone, as he rubbed his hands across the rock-hard tabs of his nipples and luxuriated in the warmth of the cab.  “You gotta nice setup in here.”

 

“Thanks,” the Trucker muttered, eyeing the punk cautiously.

 

“An’ I see ya got room for two,” the dark-haired youth added.  The Trucker merely growled.

 

Manny turned to face the alpha.  After the kill, the Trucker had come back, stripped, and climbed into his bunk, wanting to make sure he had enough rest to finish his haul in the morning.  He stood in front of Manny in nothing but a pair of briefs, his powerful, fur-covered mass of muscles on display for the Latino cocksucker to worship.

 

And that’s exactly what Manny proceeded to do.  Before the Trucker could comment, the short but well-built handyman had dropped to his knees and jerked the waistband of the Trucker’s briefs down, exposing the killer’s massive dangling tackle.

 

“Aw fuck, jefe, it’s even bigger than I’d hoped,” Manny moaned, opening his mouth and licking the thick purple head of the older man’s cock.

 

The muscle-bound sadist looked down in bemused contempt as the Hispanic faggot, clad in nothing but jeans and tightly-laced boots, tried to gobble down his dick.  Manny was having some obvious trouble going down on the enormous shaft; the Trucker chuckled as the youth gagged on the cue-ball-sized head.

 

“Well?” the killer sneered, a dangerous glint in his eye, “I thought you were gonna blow me in exchange for a ride outta town.”

 

Manny gagged again, lifted his head up, and wiped tears out of his eyes.  “Hang on a sec, man…damn, yer big…”  Still using one hand to guide the older man’s rod into his mouth, the kneeling homo slipped one hand down to his groin.  Unzipping his fly, he pulled out his own thick uncut tool, still sticky with cum, and began to flog it.

 

“Suck my fuckin’ cock, faggot,” the older man snarled.

 

Manny tried.  If he couldn’t get the hulking stud’s huge shaft of manmeat down his throat, it wasn’t for lack of desire.  The Trucker noticed this, grinned, and decided to show the cocksucker some pity.

 

“You want it bad, dontcha, faggot?” he jeered.  “Then it’s yer lucky day, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna help ya.”

 

Towering over Manny, his nude body emanating masculine physical power, the Trucker clamped his hands on the back of the Latino’s neck with the force of a bear trap and shoved his engorged tool down Manny’s esophagus.

 

“There ya go, ya spic fuck.  You wanted my cock?  Ya got it!”

 

Manny got it all right; the older man’s horsedick had plugged his windpipe completely.  The Hispanic punk couldn’t even cough; his throat was too blocked for him to make more than faint but increasingly frantic grunting noises.  He let go of his own hard, oozing cock and placed his hands against the Trucker’s massive thigh muscles, shoving and pushing in a desperate attempt to move his head away from the killer’s groin.

 

“See, I don’t leave no witnesses alive, you dumbass wetback,” the Trucker taunted the choking punk.  “But sure, I’ll get ya outta town—I’ll dump your rotting, cum-filled corpse so far outta town ain’t no one gonna find it.”

 

Twisting his handsome face into a grimace of hate, the Trucker forced his rod even further into the panicking handyman.  Manny tried to move, scraping his Red Wing boots on the sleeper’s floorboards, but the Trucker managed to pin him down so he couldn’t rise.  His swelling face, swarthy to begin with, was swiftly turning a livid black as drool that had been denied egress from his mouth began to leak in a stream from his nose.  The taut skin of Manny’s cheeks, now swollen and horribly sensitive, were being ground and abraded by the older man’s wiry pubic hair.

 

“Jesus, are all you spics such lousy cocksuckers?” the Trucker scoffed as he loomed over his silently suffering victim.  He grinned, feeling his huge tool pulse with power as the dying homo beat his hands helplessly against the older man’s legs.  The Trucker looked down, his gaze meeting that of Manny, who’d managed to turn his eyes upwards.

 

As he choked silently, the young buff Hispanic cast his gaze up along the Trucker’s furry washboard abs, up his chest past the dangling dogtags to see the gleaming light of psychosis shining in the alpha’s eyes.  Manny realized that blackmailing a serial killer was a really, really bad idea.

 

It was shame he wouldn’t live to profit by the knowledge.

 

The boy was fading fast on his dick, the Tucker realized.  He’d rammed his shaft down the faggot’s airway some two and a half minutes ago; already the motherfucker was becoming more docile, more accepting of approaching death.  Within seconds, he’d be pas the point of no return—brain death would set in.

 

Well, he hadn’t asked to drain his morning wood, but as long as he had a piece of dying fagmeat convulsing on his cock, why not?

 

Grinning, the buff alpha held on and felt Manny choke to death on his dick.

 

The point of death in a slow suffocation is hard to determine, but the Trucker knew the meat was close when the violent convulsions started.  Even as he remained upright on his knees, Manny’s body jerked and shuddered.  As it did, it somehow managed to create an incredible suction in the lungs.

 

The Trucker grunted and sweated, trying not to blow his wad as the dying spic’s esophagus collapsed around his cock like a vacuum seal.  He curled his fingers in the cocksucker’s hair, looking down over Manny shoulder to see how the meat was obviously—and obliviously—curling its toes inside its tight boots.

 

Suddenly there was a scalding splash on the alpha’s thighs; Manny, his hands still pressed against the Trucker’s legs, had blown his death load hands-free.  It was what the Trucker had been waiting for; with a loud “FUCK! FUCK!” he spewed a huge geyser of thick creamy spunk down Manny’s throat, flooding the dead fuck’s lungs.

 

The hardbodied alpha didn’t remember much about the next few minutes beyond the electrically explosive sensation of orgasm.  When he was done, he let go of Manny.  The corpse fell to the floor in a heap, a creamy trickle of cum leaking from the dead spic’s lips.

 

Steeping back, the Trucker felt completely drained.  He knew there was no sense remaining in town, and while he needed a good shower, this wasn’t the time or the place.  He wiped himself down as best he could, then shoved Manny’s warm, quivering body onto the floorboards of the passenger seat.

 

Dressing quickly in his worn jeans, a gray t-shirt and his black harness boots, the Trucker started his rig.  He wanted to be on the road before anyone come looking for the spic who’d been the one to find the dead fag’s body.  As he pulled onto the road, though, before he could get out onto the state highway, he saw the deputy from the motel come running towards him, flagging him down.

 

The Trucker shifted into idle and lowered his window.  “Can I help you, officer?”

 

“Hey, you hear anything about what happened over here last night?”

 

“Me?” the Tucker asked innocently, “Naw, I was sleepin’ all night.  What happened?”

 

“Kid got murdered.  Knew the little faggot was gonna get whacked sometime, but his ma’s carryin’ on like it was the Kennedy assassination or somethin’.  Anyway, hang on here for a sec.  I gotta do a routine check.”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said nonchalantly, but he raised the window and kept his eye on the cop.  The latter crossed back to the motel and in a moment reappeared, leading a plump, gray-haired woman whose eyes were swollen with crying.  It was obviously Brandon’s ma.

 

As they approached, there was a faint scraping noise form the passenger side of the cab and Manny’s corpse suddenly flopped back and began convulsing violently.  As the dead spic’s firm muscles contracted involuntarily and his eight-inch boots kicked at the floorboards, the deputy and the old woman crossed in front of the truck.

 

The Trucker didn’t have a moment to think; the reaction was instant, that of a hardened killer.  He reached out his right leg and planted the thick sole of his black leather harness boot against Manny’s jaw.  With a single powerful flex of his calf, he stomped on Manny’s head.  The cocksucker’s skull was sheared off the top of its spinal column as the loud wet splintering sound of shattered vertebrae filled the cab.  With one last kick of its boots and one last spurt of seed from its cock, the muscled Hispanic corpse lay still on the floor.

 

Turning, the Trucker lowered the window again.

 

“There,” the deputy told the old woman, pointing up at him.

 

“No,” she replied, dabbing at her eyes with a soiled handkerchief, “No, ain’t seen him before.”

 

“Ok,” the cop told the Trucker, “Thanks.  You can go.”

 

The Trucker did so, before the cop had the bright idea of asking the waitress in the diner to ID him.

 


 

More than twenty miles west of town, the state highway crossed a series of deep, narrow gullies by means of several bridges.  The Trucker pulled over on the shoulder just short of one.  Checking to make sure there was no other traffic—the road was deserted—he got out.

 

He strode to the edge of the gully and looked down.  Yeah, it’d do.  It appeared to be dry for most of the time, but after the recent torrential rains, there was a decent stream of water at the bottom—not deep or swift, but turbid and filthy and unlikely to inspire closer inspection.  It was perfect.

 

Opening the passenger door, the powerful serial killer reached in and grabbed Manny’s corpse under the arms.  The buff young homo was still warm to the touch, his firm muscles now flaccid and useless.  His last load, the wad forced from his cock when his neck was broken, was congealing on his smooth flat belly.

 

The alpha dragged Manny like a side of beef, the dead spic’s boot’s cutting a furrow in the roadside dirt that led to the edge of the ravine.  “Here ya go, ya fuckin’ piece a’ garbage, this far enough outta town for ya?” he jeered, and tossed the dead youth over the side.

 

Manny’s limp corpse tumbled ass over elbow down the gully into the slimy trickle of water, landing on it back with a wet splat.  As the Trucker watched, it sank in some, the water rising up over the blackened face and the dull, half-lidded eyes.

 

Smiling with the satisfaction of a job well done, the older man headed back to his rig.  As he climbed in, a chill gust of wind from out of the west swept across him; he was gonna have to break out his leather jacket if this weather kept up.  And judging by the dark thunderheads building up to the west, it looked like it was going to keep up.  As he sifted into gear and pulled back out onto the highway, the Trucker wondered if more rain would wash the (literally, now) wetback’s body away—and where it would end up.

 

Not that he cared.  He had a haul to see about—and then maybe it’d be time to have his dick serviced again.

RCSS–Going Rogue

Dan sat in the cab of the pickup, his buzzcut blond hair glinting the in rays of the setting sun that came in through the passenger window.  Even though the hot and steamy day was becoming an unpleasantly humid evening, the cop kept the engine off and the windows down.  He was watching.

 

It wasn’t an official stakeout; he was in his personal vehicle.  Backed off the road into the brush, he was keeping his icy blue eyes pointed to a spot a couple of hundred yards down the road where a gravel track branched off, leading back some distance.  At the end of the track, well out of sight, was Brody’s trailer.

 

Dan knew that Brody was gonna make a move tonight.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.  It had been Pete’s day off, but like a loyal young soldier, he’d kept an eye on the place until Dan left the sheriff’s office for the day and headed out to meet him.

 

“Yeah, he left once,” Pete had reported.  “When down to the corner store an’ got gas and beer.  If he’d gone any farther, I’da called, but he went back home.  So ya really think he’s gonna be up to somethin’ here soon?”

 

“I did a little research on this Josh Perez punk he says he’s gonna question.  Kid’s a worthless little faggot with a couple of public lewdness charges, but if he has anything to do with the drug trade in this county, it’s as an end user.  And Brody knows it.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“’Cause Brody was arrested along with Josh on one of those charges.  No charges ever filed, though—not enough evidence.  Seems Brody never actually exposed himself.  And Josh was so damn drunk he didn’t remember any of it, according to the file–claimed he didn’t know or recognize Brody.  So nothing happened.”

 

“Brody already knows Josh,” Pete said—a statement, not a question, muttered in a tone of disgusted betrayal.  “Son-of-a-bitch…” he muttered slowly.  “But you think he’s gonna make his move soon?”

 

“Yeah.  I can feel it.  It’s Friday night, it’s hot and humid and there’ll be a full moon—look.”  He nodded to the eat where the moon already hung over the horizon, pale and huge in the waning sunlight, already starting to slide under a cloud bank that had bubbled up from nowhere.  “Prime rutting season for a rogue predator male.”

 

“Uh, look, Cap,” Pete said, almost bashfully, “If anything, um, comes up—you’ll call me?  I mean you said yerself he could take us individually.”

 

“I said we’d have a hard time with him individually—but don’t worry, dude,” Dan said smilingly, “I’m just watching, no matter what he does.  I’m just going to watch him and see how he handles himself.”

 

Pete gave him a quizzical look.  In response, Dan said, “Don’t forget—he’s supposed to let me know he’s going out after the kid, but he could simply forget that.  I want to see what he actually does with Josh.”

 

The younger cop’s scruffy, boyishly handsome face twisted into a leer.  “You’re gonna watch him snuff that fag.”

 

Dan’s answering smile was colder and grimmer.  “Why not?  Whatever else happens, at least it’ll be one less homo in my county.”

 

A few more parting civilities and Pete headed off to the gym, intent on relieving his physical tensions with a demanding workout.  Dan was left, watching and waiting, no less intent on relieving his suspicions about a possible psycho fag killer.

 

After all, Dan didn’t mind a dead faggot or two, especially if he was the one who made them dead, but there was a limit.  There had to be control.  There had to be Authority, and Brody was flying in the face of Authority.  Loose cannons were dangerous and had to be disposed of, quickly and effectively.

 

The buff police captain sat and watched for his mark, his huge, muscle-bound body tense and ready for action at any time.  No matter when Brody appeared or what he attempted to do, Dan would be prepared.

 


 

He didn’t have long to wait.  Dusk didn’t last long at this latitude; with the clouds closing in quickly, darkness closed in even more quickly—and darkness was what drew the predator from his lair.  Dan spotted a pair of headlights bouncing down the potholed gravel drive, but kept his cool, not starting his engine until Brody was almost a half mile down the road towards Corrington.  After that, it was easy to follow him, at least until he got into the town itself.

 

Corrington was a small place, but on Friday night, everyone from the outlying villages and farms came into town to get drunk.  Brody’s black pickup could have been easily lost in the sea of other big black trucks on the streets, but he’d jacked it up high enough to stand out.  Dan followed it discreetly into the parking lot of The Well.

 

Dan had no intention of following Brody into the bar; his face would be instantly recognized—by the bouncer and bartender, if no one else; he was the local law, after all.  He decided to just sit and wait, parking at the far end of a row where he could keep an eye on the back door—the way Brody had entered the place—without being immediately seen by anyone leaving.

 

It took about forty-five minutes.  Dan had been prepared to wait much longer; he was rather surprised at how quickly Brody and Josh came out.  He was also surprised at Brody’s brazenness, practically dragging his victim out the door.  And his victim wasn’t going quietly.

 

It wasn’t that Josh was resisting; on the contrary, he was drunk and vocally horny.

 

Josh was young—far too young to be in the bar; he wasn’t yet twenty.  He got around that handily enough by sucking the dicks of the bouncer and the bartender and anyone else inside who might cause a problem.  He had some money; for this little burg, he was considered a rich kid.  His dad managed one of the larger farms, located about fifteen miles northwest of town.

 

Josh was known for coming into town on Friday night and not making it back out to the farm until late Monday morning—afternoon, sometimes.  His father kept getting pissed and threatening to put him to work, but never got around to it; largely because he knew his faggot son’s uselessness.  It’d kill the boy’s mother to hear about it, though, so he kept his mouth shut.

 

Dan was well aware of the details of Josh’s life; having reviewed all available info in the files, he knew the kid was a worthless waste of human flesh.  But he also knew that the cocksucker didn’t have the ambition to get involved in any kind of drug trade.  He bought some shit all right, but nothing like China white.  He was into party drugs–molly, X, even roofies.  Fentanyl wouldn’t be his thing; it’d kill the mood.

 

Josh was evidently on something now, given the way he was staggering across the parking lot with Brody, although he could have just been drunk.  He had taken off his shirt—presuming he’d been wearing one—and his strong but not overly-muscled torso was smooth and shiny with sweat.  His dark, almost blue-black hair had been brushed up from his forehead at one point but was now disheveled and slick with perspiration; he had a patch of hair on his chin that was the same color.

 

Below the torso, he wore a pair of tight, worn Levi’s with a thick belt of brown, uncured leather circling his tight waist; he’d shoved a pair of Timberland boots on, leaving them half-laced and completely united.  It was easier to kick them off when he was ready to get fucked.  And the way his large, dark, bloodshot eyes kept turning to Brody, it was obvious that Josh was ready to get fucked.

 

Of course the little faggot was drawn to Brody.  The older dude was dressed similarly in faded skintight jeans and his half-laced Redwing construction boots.  Above, the buff sadist sported a sleeveless compression t-shirt in some dark shade that wasn’t clear in the uneven lighting of the parking lot.  He strode steadily and purposefully towards his truck, Josh following him with the eagerness of a puppy.

 

Dan knew that Josh didn’t have an address in town and figured it was unlikely that Brody would take his prey back to its own home.  Instead, he’d probably head back to his trailer, but Dan wanted to make certain.  Once the redneck alpha pulled his truck out of the Well’s lot, Dan started his engine and began following.  As soon as he confirmed that the big black pickup had turned onto the county road in the direction of Brody’s trailer, he fell back.  No sense in making the psycho paranoid.

 

And that’s exactly what Brody was to Dan, a psycho.  A killing machine, responsive only to transient emotions and sensations, not to reason.  Something easily distracted and overwhelmed by rage and lust.

 

Something blind to the value of Authority.

 

But he had to know.  He had to be sure.  He knew that, whatever happened, the odds of him overpowering the muscle-bound redneck in any physical altercation were at best fifty-fifty.  So he let Brody’s taillights vanish in the distance, giving the guy time to get home.  Time for Dan to watch him in the act.

 

Then, once his suspicions were confirmed—and only then—would he bring Pete on board and let him in on his plan.  No sense getting the kid mixed up in the messy details until Dan was certain they’d be needed.

 

By the time Dan got to the turning for Brody’s trailer, the latter was already home.  Turning off his headlights, the off-duty Captain slowly and carefully eased his pickup down the rutted gravel drive.  He stopped inside the tree line, about a half mile off the road, and walked the rest of the way.

 

As he approached the dilapidated single-wide trailer, he could hear music coming from inside.  Dance music—not Brody’s choice, surely; he preferred country.  Dan crept closer for a better look, but needed some help.  Even at six and a half feet, he wasn’t quite tall enough to look into any of the windows.  Glancing around, he spied exactly what he needed—a cinderblock.  Placing it below the living room window, he stood on it, carefully shifting his scuffed roper boots to maintain balance.

 

The window was covered with cheap plastic miniblinds; they had been closed, but they were warped and a number of them were broken.  By bending down slightly—he was too tall now—Dan was easily able to peer into the living room.

 

What he saw got his dick hard instantly.

 

Brody was leaning back in an old recliner.  Josh had stripped down to nothing his scuffed Timberlands and a pair of fire-engine red boxer briefs that clung to his groin like they’d been painted on, perfectly outlining his bulging package and erect, straining cock.  The boy had his arms up and his hands on the back of his head, arcing his back.

 

Little fucker was drunkenly giving Brody a lap dance.  Even from the window, Dan could see and easily interpret the gleam in Brody’s eye; the gyrating cocksucker was even closer, but was either too fucked up to notice—or just didn’t care.  As the cop watched, Josh reached down towards Brody’s lap, then quickly jerked his hands upward, pulling the buff older man’s compression t-shirt off over his head.  He tossed it idly to the side.

 

The boy was clearly indulging himself, writhing on the muscle-bound sadist’s lap, running his hands over Brody’s rock-hard pecs and lacing his fingers in the stud’s chest fur.  Dan shifted his boots on the cinderblock from time to time to keep the circulation flowing to his feet.  At the moment, it tended to pool near his aroused dick…

 

As the teenaged punk ground his taint over Brody’s bulging groin, he seemed to get more and more aroused himself.  The tentpole that formed in his skintight red boxers showed the dimensions of the homo’s dick; it wasn’t very long, but it was thick and meaty.  Already, a dark moist spot had formed on the thin cotton that covered the big bulbous head of his cock.

 

Brody’s trailer was old and hadn’t been top-of-the-line when new.  All the windows were single-glazed; sound penetrated them easily.  Josh started speaking, and even over the dance music, Dan could hear his words clearly.  “C’mon, man,” the punk whined, “I need dick.  I wantcha in me.  C’mon, gimme it, fucker!”

 

He climbed unsteadily off Brody’s lap and shut off the music coming from his phone, then grabbed Brody’s arm off the recliner and began tugging at it.  “C’mon!” Josh insisted, his dick all but visibly pulsating inside his boxers.  The boy’s eyes were lit with an intoxicated lust that was no less intense for not being rationalized.  He’d said all there was to say—he needed dick.

 

Brody stared evenly at him for a moment, then reset the recliner and rose to his feet.  As Dan watched, the horny young cocksucker allowed himself to be led into the bed, the smirk on his face telling Dan everything he needed to know.

 

For example, he knew he needed to move if he wanted a continued view of the action.

 

Dan hopped off the cinderblock, his boots hitting the gravel with a faint crunch that would have worried him had Brody not already closed the bedroom door behind him.  He moved down to the next window, but its blinds were closed and evidently there was something hanging over them on the inside; not even a crack of light emerged into the dark humid night.

 

Concerned, Dan prowled around the end of the trailer, which was no help—only a small, high window; this was the bathroom.  He continued around to the back, where he struck gold.  There was a small window into the bedroom that not only had the shades up, it was also perfectly positioned.  It was near the head of the bed, and separated from it only by the width of a nightstand.

 

Peering in, Dan realized he was less than a yard from where Josh was already flat on his back with his feet in the air.

 

The window was dirty—Brody never bothered to wash them—so the view wasn’t particularly clear; on the other hand, Dan realized that the film of dirt worked both ways.  He could practically press his face up against the glass and not be seen.  As it so happened, he didn’t need to get quite that close to be able to see what he wanted to see.

 

The bedroom was filthy, but the piles of clutter didn’t seem to have been there long.  Dan figured that Travis, despite his known uselessness, must have kept the place in some kind of order.  Evidently Brody needed a new house bitch.

 

Mounds of dirty clothes lined the walls.  One was directly opposite the window; on the top of a pair of filthy oil- and mud-stained pair of jeans was a pair of ten-inch Justin work boots, the tan leather uppers equally as mud-spattered.  Folded receipts and papers, some with Brody’s semi-literate scrawl on them, cascaded over the dresser, mixed with loose change, junk mail and unopened bills.

 

The dim yellow light in the overhead ceiling fan made the room look small and dingy.  The battered walls glared bleakly at each other across the confined space.  There was no sign of covering or pillows on the bed—the cheap stained fitted sheet was repelling, the thin, pale blue rayon becoming a downright repulsive shade.

 

It was clear, though, that Josh wasn’t there for the aesthetics.

 

The kid had already ditched his boxer briefs.  He was nude, his cock rising from a mass of black tangled pubes.  His slim, strong body was already slick with sweat that reeked of testosterone; the adolescent punk was so oversexed he seemed on the verge of losing control of himself.  His tan boots hung in the air as he pleaded with the hulking alpha.

 

“Lemme see it,” Josh was whining, intoxication adding a petulant tone to his usual uncontrolled horniness, “Whip that bad boy out an’ lemme see whatcha got.  I know a hunk like you’s gotta have a big ol’ dick…”

 

Brody, standing near the foot of the bed, only smiled mirthlessly and reached for his zipper.  He lowered it slowly and theatrically; it was obvious to Dan that he was enjoying himself immensely.  When Brody pulled his massive rod out of his jeans, the cop, having seen it before, already knew what to expect.

 

Josh didn’t.

 

“Holy fuck,” he whispered; even in his inebriated state, the faggot twink could tell that this enormous shaft was more than he could handle.  Not that he wasn’t willing to try.  “Dude, you gotta go slow with that.  Ya got any lube?”

 

Brody’s malevolent grin should have been both answer and warning enough; for the randy little homo hungry for cock, it was neither.

 

The older man climbed slowly onto the bed, his thick, throbbing rod dangling between his legs.  “Hey, boy, wanna hear somethin’ funny?  I’m workin’ with the cops—practically a goddam deputized po-po myself—and this is supposed t’ be an interrogation.”

 

“What?” Josh asked fuzzily, wondering what the hell Brody was going on about.

 

“See, I’m supposed to be askin’ ya about yer drug use…” Brody went on.  Josh looked confusedly up at the handsome redneck’s face.  In his bewilderment, he didn’t notice how the enormous dripping head of Brody’s cock was already pressing against his asshole, but Dan, with his ringside point of view, could see it perfectly.  He knew better than the faggot what was going to happen next.

 

“An’ I kinda wanted to go all good-cop bad-cop on ya,” the grinning muscular alpha continued, “But fuck, everyone knows yer a worthless druggie faggot—so, fuck, might as well spare the cops the trouble an’ just handle the whole thing myself.”

 

“Huh?” Josh blurted out, his face betraying the first signs of fear.  It was too late.  Brody launched himself at the prone twink, slamming his balled-up fist into the boy’s face while simultaneously spearing kid’s ass with his dick, shoving ruthlessly past the tight sphincter and sinking his shaft as deeply as he could into Josh’s guts.

 

The sudden attack even surprised Dan; the powerful redneck was good.  He hadn’t signaled his moves at all.  The Captain felt that his decision not to handle Brody alone was validated; he and Pete would need a plan to take out this strong-ass motherfucker.

 

If Dan had been surprised, Josh had been literally stunned.  Moaning, eyes rolled back in his head, the slim, firm body of the semiconscious faggot jerked as Brody thrust his cock inside it with long, brutal strokes.  For the moment, the boy was a living meat puppet, with the pumping of another man’s dick as its only moving force.

 

Dan gripped the windowsill tightly, forcing his hands to remain where they were and not seek out his painfully erect rod.

 

Brody bent over the limp, sweat-slick youth and slapped his face.  “C’mon, ya pussy, wake up.”  Josh groaned faintly, but gave no other response, so Brody backhanded him, harder.  The punk gave a louder groan and began blinking his eyes, a sign he was coming to.  “Jesus, whadda fuckin’ pansy,” Brody sneered, “You grow up the way I did, faggot, ya learn how to take a punch.”

 

Josh’s ascent to consciousness was more or less a climb into horrible torment.  His head pounded and ached from the blows he’d endured, but that was nothing next to the searing agony in his torn and bloody rectum.  Long before he was fully awake, the teen homo was sobbing with pain.

 

“S-st-stop!” he begged unable to get his bearing in the sea of agony he was foundering in, “F-fuck’s sa-sake, stop!”

 

“Aw, shaddup,” Brody sneered and bitchslapped the suffering teen.

 

Despite Brody’s derision, Josh had dealt with a certain amount of violence in the past—being an open cockwhore in a rural area had its risks and the boy had taken a certain amount of abuse.  He’d even been raped once, when he just happened to run across the team captain of the county high school’s baseball team one night after the dude had broken up with his girlfriend and gotten drunk…

 

But then again, he’d kinda known about the breakup.  And where Frank would be at that point.  And he’d enjoyed it.  This was different—much, much different.  It took a moment to catch his breath, but once he did, he made his displeasure known.

 

“HELP!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “HELP!! POLICE!!”

 

Dan knew perfectly well—and knew the Brody did too—that there wasn’t another inhabited residence within a mile.  But it still seemed to piss Brody off.

 

The look of vicious rage that contorted his roughly handsome face was terrifying.  Josh had experienced pain and fear so far this evening, but the expression on Brody’s face inspired sheer terror.  If he’d ever seen this look on the dude’s face he’d never have gone anywhere alone with him—and now here he was, overpowered and helpless, pinned to a bed by the gigantic dick of a heavily-muscled psycho.

 

But the flash of awareness came too late to save Josh from the brutal effects of Brody’s anger.  From his vantage point, Dan, with the keen instincts of a predator himself, had recognized the erotic look of fear in the faggot’s face.  Now his dick pulsed and ached as he witnessed how that fear was justified.

 

In his rage, Brody lost any control he ever had over his accent.  “Ah tole you to” (here he balled up his fist, drew it back, and drove it into Josh’s face, his huge bicep twanging like a bowstring as the helpless teen grunted out “huk!” loudly, involuntarily) “SHUT” (WHAM, grunt) “THE” (WHAM, grunt) “FUCK” (WHAM, moan) “UP!!” (WHAM, faint bleat).

 

Brody paused for a moment, on his knees, towering over the prone youth, his dick still firmly planted in the unfortunate faggot’s ass.  The sadistic alpha shook his hand out, grinning contemptuously down at the semiconscious adolescent.

 

Dan admired the fucker’s style.  It was a shame Brody was going rogue; he’d have been a great addition to the elite squad that Dan was planning to recruit.  But still, there was nothing without Authority, so he had no choice but to see that the redneck was put down like rabid dog.

 

Plus, the thought made him hard.  Well, harder.

 

But right now, he had a snuff to watch.

 

Brody bent back over the boy, planting his hands palm down on the bed beside the kid’s shoulders and began plowing his ass, reaming the punk’s fuckhole.  Each time the huge engorged head of the muscular alpha’s dick ground ruthlessly over Josh’s prostate, the boy moaned loudly, a deep, guttural sound.

 

And even though the rest of his lean, lithe body was limp, his cock not only remained stiff, it pulsed with each brutal thrust of Brody’s hips.

 

Dan was watching the scene intently but he was far too good a hunter to allow his attention to be completely absorbed.  He was aware of a faint flickering and could feel just the slightest hint of a breeze.  He withdrew mentally from the view in front of him just long enough to feel, rather than hear, a very faint rumble.  There was a storm brewing.

 

The Captain turned back to the window.  He wondered if Josh would live to see the rain.

 

Inside, Josh appeared to be starting to recover.  It was hard to tell, though; his face was battered and both eyes blackened and swollen.  The viciousness of the beating he’d received had left distinctive evidence on the boy’s face.

 

He brought his hands up to his face for a moment, then unexpected, shoved both arms up into Brody’s face and turned away, a uselessly feeble protest against the assault he was enduring.  Brody wasn’t having it.  He wrapped his thick muscled limb around Josh’s strong but overpowered right arm and with nothing more than an angry sneer and a quick, brutal jerk of his bicep, violently dislocated the kid’s elbow.

 

Josh screamed as tendons and ligaments tore, a high, thin screech, the raw sound of human suffering pushed past the point of endurance.  The lean, lithe punk writhed on the bed, the heels of his Timberland boots tracing furrows on the thin sheet as his legs flailed in agony.

 

As Dan watched, hard and leaking, Brody raised himself up over Josh.  Pinned to the bed, the boy looked up, his dark, puffy eyes awash in tears.  From this angle, the hard-muscled, furry torso of the older man filled his field of view; Josh had a close-up of those huge hairy pecs and thick jutting nipples that had enticed him so much, but now all that power was being used to hurt him.  He didn’t understand…

 

“W-why?” he managed to blurt out during his uncontrollable sobbing, “Why?”

 

As an answer, Brody punched him in the gut, his fist sinking deeply into Josh’s smooth, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the teen bellowed involuntarily, rising up into a near-sitting position as the air was forced out of his lungs, then flopping back limply.

 

There was a brief moment when Josh was still too stunned to even try to inhale; he merely lay on the bed, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, as he stared incredulously at Brody, his eyes as wide as their swollen lids would allow.

 

“Why?” Brody said, “Cause it gets me off, that’s why.  Hurtin’ dumbass little fags like you gets me hard, motherfucker.  Killin’ ya little cunts makes me cum.  That what ya wanted to know, boy?  I figured I wanted to drain my balls tonight an’ I picked you to drain ‘em into.  Now don’t that make ya feel special, queerboy?”

 

Josh’s face was a mottled purple as he choked and wheezed, then inhaled loudly and deeply.  As the leanly muscled adolescent suddenly convulsed with violent coughing, Brody, still on his knees looming over the prone youth, leaned back and guffawed loudly.  “Aintcha glad ya asked, boy?” he chortled with malevolent glee.

 

Josh was locked in a cycle of sucking in lots of air, only to expel it in a spasm of coughing.  His alcohol- and hormone-sodden brain was barely functional enough to handle Brody’s words, but he’d picked up enough to know that the searing pain in his asshole and the hot throbbing ache in his face were only hints of something worse.

 

He was right.  He managed, surprisingly quickly, to regain control over himself and stifled the coughing.  He needed to do something, think, something quick—

 

And that was when the flash lit up the room, overpowering the dim overhead light with the intense blue-white light of an electric arc.  Josh had turned his head to the side, straining away from Brody, so that while Brody was looking down at him, he was looking at the window.

 

In that split-second white-hot flash, Josh and Dan were staring each other directly in the eyes.

 

Then, as the thunder cracked like a pistol shot overhead, Brody’s big strong hands wrapped around Josh’s throat and squeezed it shut.

 

Panic seized Josh as his air was cut off.  He knew who Dan was—he’d lusted after the hulking police officer since he was fourteen—but the cop wasn’t doing anything.  He was just sitting there…watching…

 

Josh clawed at Brody’s hands, his fingers digging uselessly at the older man’s vise-like grip.  Once or twice, he reached out towards the window, his helpless fingers clutching at the empty air mere inches from Dan’s face.  The teen’s mute plea for help kept the cop’s dick achingly hard.

 

Brody, wrapped up in his bloodlust, ignored Josh’s movements.  In the hot, airless room, he pressed his heavy, sweat-lubed body onto Josh’s.  As Brody pumped his ass and throttled him, the slim teen felt the alpha’s powerful muscles working within his body as he raped and strangled the boy; even the thick, wiry chest fur that Josh had found so hot was painfully abrading his skin like steel wool.

 

“Yer a lazy piece of ass for a faggot,” Brody sneered, “Goddam homo don’t even know how to work a real man’s dick.”

 

The hardbodied redneck had pinned him to the bed and was using his body like a disposable fucktoy and there wasn’t a damn thing Josh could do about it.  And the more time went on, there was less he could do at all.

 

His handsome young face had already been beaten out of recognition; now, it was a hideous black mask.  Josh could barely see; his eyelids were horribly swollen and through the tiny slits that he was able to force open, his whites were starting to turn red with hemorrhaging blood vessels.  Convulsive movements of his enlarged tongue made him cough up white, foamy drool that trickled down his chin and lodged in the sad excuse for a soul patch on his chin.

 

His youthful body, flooded with adrenaline, kicked and thrashed in a frantic attempt at survival.  The impulse, which originated in the primitive brainstem, bypassed all rational thought.  If Josh had been capable of rational thought, he would have realized that raking and pummeling Brody’s taut, firm asscheeks with the heels of his Timberlands wouldn’t help him much.  It did help burn the oxygen in his bloodstream, though.

 

Brody knew what was happening; he’d so gotten off on snuffing Travis that every detail of death was engraved in his memory.  “Gettin’ close, aintcha, boy?” he whispered, bending down his head till his long, dark hair fell forward and brushed Josh’s black swollen cheeks.   “I can tell cause yer dick’s still hard,” the sadistic alpha chuckled and wrapped his massive, powerful hands even tighter around the suffering teen’s throat—he was able to lock his fingers in back.  Outside,  Dan had to strain to hear  Brody’s words over the rising breeze that swept up around him.

 

“I’m done, faggot,” the buff older man muttered hoarsely, the strain of holding back on orgasm telling in his voice, “Time to die, asswipe.  Gonna fuckin’ hose yer guts with my manseed, you piece a’ shit fag—AAARRGHHH!!!”

 

It was as if every muscle in his over-developed body went rigid at once.  His powerful legs tensed as he spewed a searing jet of spunk deep into Josh’s asshole.  At the same time, his hands clenched spasmodically, crushing the teen boy’s esophagus into a solid mass of gristle with a loud, cracking crunch.

 

Josh’s tongue was forced out of his mouth in gush of foamy spittle and his sperm was forced out of his cock in a geyser of pearly cum.

 

FUCK!” Brody roared, shuddering and spunking, “GODDAM CUNT!  FUCKIN—UHH!”

 

His hands tightened again, but this time was cracking sound was more brittle.  Brody had not only crushed Josh’s hyoid bone, he’d shattered the C-3 cervical vertebra, the razor-sharp shards of bone slicing through the helpless adolescent’s spinal column.

 

The boy only felt one final nightmarish shock that ended an eternity in hell; he never knew that the horrible pain had been one last explosive orgasm triggered by the massive trauma to his nervous system.  His entire body suddenly contracted around Brody as the arms, flung wildly around the alpha’s head and his legs, wrapped around Brody’s waist, convulsed and tightened inexorably.  The corpse’s feet kicked and shuddered so violently that one of Josh’s Timbs flipped off and tumbled onto the floor under the window.

 

Dan clutched the windowsill tightly, desperately ignoring the nearly irresistible straining in his groin.  Brody screamed again, loudly and inarticulately, as he shot another load up the dead kid’s ass and Dan let go.  He maintained enough control to remain rigid and upright as he creamed his jeans—

 

—then the sudden flash of lighting that burst overhead startled even him, and the cop toppled sideways off the cinderblock to the bare turf below.  Simultaneously, the apocalyptic explosion of thunder, so loud it rattled the windows in the trailer, showed how swiftly the storm had approached.  It was almost on top the them.

 

Lying in the weed-strewn yard, Dan cursed for a moment, only for the sky to light up again.  As it did, he looked up at the window that had let him watch Josh get snuffed, and his heart skipped a beat.  Brody was standing there, looking out.

 

Or, rather, looking up.  He was staring at the sky, his handsome white trash face twisted into a smirk.  The fur on his broad chest, illuminated by the flickering lighting, was thickly matted with spunk.  He stood with his hands on his hips, his still-erect cock jutting out in front—and still dripping.  And Dan had inadvertently put himself in the position of prey; his view of Brody towering over him was nearly identical to that of the buff alpha’s victims.

 

When the redneck killer turned away, Dan got to his feet and quickly circled the trailer.  As he ducked through the woods, he could hear a faint but increasing patter as the rain started to fall.  He was lucky enough to make it back to his truck before the downpour started.  He sat in the driver’s seat, pondering for a moment.

 

He had no real fear of Brody, but there was deep concern.  The cop knew it was his duty to take out the rogue killer before he could imperil Authority in Rigler County—but Dan wasn’t in a position to act with impunity.  He wasn’t sheriff—yet.

 

This needed to be done discreetly and when Brody started putting up a fight—no ‘if’, just ‘when’—Dan would need to make certain that the hardbodied psycho could be contained quickly.  Unquestionably, he would need Pete’s help.  What was open to question was how much Pete could help.  The boy was young and buff, incredibly muscular—but would it be enough?

 

Dan started the truck and eased his way down the gravel track, creeping along at five miles an hour till the county road was in sight—he left his headlights off and avoided using the brakes as much as possible so as not to give Brody any kind of alert.  He drove directly home, thinking long and hard about how to proceed.  He’d need to talk to Pete tomorrow.  And in the meantime, he needed to wash the dried cum out of his jeans…

 


 

Dan needn’t have worried about drawing Brody’s attention; the powerful stud was otherwise occupied.

 

He’d instantly decided that the easiest way to dispose of the pile of still-quivering fagmeat was to wrap it up in the bedsheet and just dump it.  He wasn’t concerned about this one being found—fuck, he was workin’ with po-po, wasn’t he?  Of course, that didn’t mean he wanted it found in his crib.

 

Brody went into the living room and gathered up Josh’s discarded clothing.  He carried it back into the bedroom and tossed it onto the corpse.  He took a quick look around and, satisfied that he’d taken care of the evidence, began to loosen the sheet from the mattress.  After prying it loose on one side, he walked around to the other.

 

That was when he noticed the fag’s Timberland boot lying on the floor.  Snatching it up, he tossed it, too, onto the body, where it landed with a moist thump.  Gathering up the corners of the sheet, Brody took one last look at Josh.

 

The dead teen was on his back, with his head turned to the left, as if he’d spent his last few seconds on earth staring beseechingly out the window.  His grotesquely swollen face had faded from black to cyan blue, but the tongue protruding thickly from hit puffy, split lips was still a congested purple.  The homo’s corpse was still jerking; the spasms were far apart and getting farther, but one of them had caused the bundle of clothing to roll off his torso and lodge under his arm.  As a result, his boot had landed in the middle of a huge mass of half-congealed cum that had pooled on his chest.

 

It was hot and Brody felt his massive hog twitch at the sight.  Josh’s own dick, slowly—very slowly—receding from its profound erection, was still oozing pearly beads of lukewarm spunk.

 

Enough.  Brody brought all four corners—or as close as he could come with a fitted sheet—to the center and tied the whole thing into an enormous bundle.  As the sheet tightened around it, Josh’s corpse rolled to one side and curled into a fetal position around the Timberland boot.

 

Brody hefted the bundle easily and carried it out to his truck.  It was pouring rain as he stepped out the door, but it felt good.  Cool and soothing.  He threw the sack of fagmeat into the bed of his truck, then stood for a moment in the pounding rain, feeling it flow over his bare chest and wash the teen’s jizz out of his chest hair.  A brilliant flash of lighting and a low grumble of thunder recalled the redneck killer to himself.  He jumped into the cab of his truck, his skin-tight, sopping jean making a squishing sound as he sat in the driver’s seat.

 

With his headlights on, he was able to reach the county road much faster than Dan had been able to.  Like the Captain, he too, turned towards town—but Dan didn’t live in Corrington.  Heading towards the highway, the cop had sped past the intersection of the county road and the town’s main street.  Brody didn’t.

 

Pulling over just past the intersection, the buff, half-nude redneck got out of his truck, still indifferent, if not oblivious, to the downpour.  The rain had intensified to the point that it was almost blinding.  When Brody bent over the bed of the truck to haul the body out, he could see that the thin rayon was virtually transparent, clinging to Josh’s corpse like wet newspaper.

 

A flash of lighting, so close that it illuminated the scene in polarized hues of blue-white and blue-black, played about the sick alpha’s head as he loomed over the dead teen, grinning with evil pleasure at the memory of snuffing him.  He reached in and hoisted the sodden bundle of fabric, boots and boymeat out of the bed, then turned around.

 

Directly behind him was a drainage ditch that ran parallel to Main Street.  About four feet deep and equally as wide, it passed under the county road in a culvert formed from a concrete pipe, slightly smaller in diameter—about a yard wide.  The ditch was already half full, water rushing madly past its grassy banks towards the culvert.

 

Yeah, that’d work to dump the cumdump.

 

With a quick heave of his powerful arms, Brody tossed the teenager’s raped and murdered corpse into the swiftly-flowing channel.   It sank like a brick, the water backing up momentarily before washing around and over it.

 

As Brody headed back to the truck, his Redwing boots sank in the mud.  When he got to the road, he paused and scraped his soles on the edge of the asphalt; he didn’t want to track filth into his truck.  After all, he’d just thrown a pile of filth out of it.

 


 

Both Brody and Dan made it safely to their homes that night, but Josh was not the only one who didn’t.  The storms grew stronger overnight, resulting in flooding in several parts of the county.  The highway was clogged with enough accidents that the state police had to be called out.  The sheriff’s department was inundated with requests for help.

 

Just before daybreak, Dan was woken by his phone; he was needed.  The call was particularly tragic; a family of five in a minivan had pulled off the highway for gas, gotten lost, and had driven into high water on one of the low-lying roads on the west side of the county.  The vehicle had been washed off the road before help could arrive; Dan had to superintend its retrieval from ten feet of water some two hundred yards downstream of the road.  Immediately after, he was given word that the county rest home was flooding…

 

It was like that everywhere across the county.  As a result, it wasn’t until late that afternoon that a county road works truck arrived at the intersection of Main Street and the county road to investigate what had blocked the drainage and caused water to back up over the crossroads.  The discovery of the corpse of a young male, evidently washed down the ditch and lodged in the culvert, let to a call to the sheriff’s office; the fact that it seemed to have been sexually assaulted and murdered, was entered into the long list of events that the officers needed to process.

 

As the body was being wheeled into the morgue, the report on its discovery landed on Dan’s desk, two flights up.  By this time, it had been identified—Josh’s wallet, with his driver’s license and seven dollars in cash had been found in a pocket of the jeans.  Dan didn’t bother to read it; he knew more about it than what would be in the report.

 

He leaned back in his chair and sighed.  It was late—past nine in the evening—but he was waiting to see Pete.  The younger cop had been assigned the second shift rotation that started today and was out on a call, but Dan expected him back soon.  They had both been too busy during the day to speak; in the same way Dan had worked late, Pete had been called in early.

 

As if on cue, Dan heard the heavy tread of Pete’s Danner Tachyon boots on the tile out in the hall.  After a quick double tap at the door, the buff, dark-haired cop entered, his face somewhat hard with the stress of the day.

 

“So?” he asked abruptly, “What happened last night?”

 

Dan tossed him the file he’d just gotten.  “Here.  That’s what happened last night.”

 

Pete looked at the Captain curiously, then read through the file.  “Damn.  Dude got rough.  This is exactly what the fuck happened to that first one.”

 

“Travis, yeah.”

 

“You saw it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

A lascivious leer crossed Pete’s face.

 

“Wipe that grin off your face, boy,” Dan snapped, “This was done in direct contradiction to orders.  He has disrespected Authority, and that makes him a murderer.”

 

“Yes sir!” Pete responded, his own respect for Authority plainly obvious.

 

Dan slowly rose to his feet.  Placing his hands flat on the desk, he leaned over it, his powerful body straining his khaki button-down as he looked Pete directly in the eyes.  “We need to take him down.  Just us, you and me.  And even with two of us, it’s gonna be tough.  He’s strong, boy.”

 

He paused, but Pete could tell he wasn’t done talking yet.  There was something about Dan’s manner that made Pete feel as if the older cop was trying to break something to him tactfully.

 

“Frankly, Pete, you’re good—but I need you better.  I need you bigger.  I need you stronger.  When we finally take this motherfucker head-on, I need to know that you’ll be prepared to back me up.  Do you understand?”

 

Pete did, actually.  He’d admired the sheer physical strength that had allowed Dan to enforce Authority properly and had already increased the number of workouts he was doing during the week.  Now, he decided, he’d intensify the workouts themselves.

 

“Good,” Dan said, not needing a reply; he’d seen Pete’s acceptance in his eyes.  “You got two weeks.  You’re nearly there, man, but we need to be certain we can overpower him when the time comes.”

 

An evil grin flashed over Dan’s face, identical to the one Pete had displayed earlier.  “Then we can show that sick faggot-fucker what’s what.”

 

Pete returned the grin with no fear of contradiction this time.

 

“In the meantime,” Dan said offhandedly, “If you get some time during the night, go down and take a look at Brody’s handiwork.  Motivate yourself for what you need to do.  I’m heading out, but I’ll be on call if I’m needed.  Looks like the worst of the flooding has subsided, at least.”

 

With that they parted, Pete heading downstairs as Dan locked up.

 

Dan had been right—the flooding had died down; the rest of Pete’s evening was quiet and mostly confined to completing reports.  He was able to leave at the end of his shift, and true to his word, headed down to the basement and the morgue.  Since the whole building was considered secure, there was no particular guard on the morgue itself and everyone on the force knew the code to the door lock.

 

It was just a few minutes past midnight.  The place had been fairly full earlier but a number of funeral homes around the county had sprung into action; at one point in the afternoon, there had been five hearses in a line, waiting for their place at the loading dock.  The  morgue—more a cold storage locker; actual autopsies were done at the Medical Examiner’s office—was still something of a mess.

 

The far end had nine of the traditional old-fashioned sliding drawers in three tiers of three; half of them were part-way open and all of them were empty.  Much of the floor space was taken up with gurneys, mostly bare, with an occasional empty body bag dangling limply off the sides.

 

Two of the gurneys were occupied.  There was one immediately to the left of the door; from where he stood, Pete could clearly read “Jane Doe” printed on the tag connected to the black plastic body bag.  He crossed to the other cart—it was located closer to the rear of the room, on the right side, up against the wall.  Pete had to move a couple of empty gurneys out of the way to reach it.

 

He unzipped the bag and opened it out, inverting down over the sides of the cart, leaving Josh’s abused body nude and exposed under the glaring fluorescents.  The teen’s corpse was now dry by now and rigor had passed, leaving it rag-doll limp.  The dead boy’s skin had paled but his lips and fingernails were still dusky shade of blue.  A milky film had formed over the half-lidded eyes.

 

The Timberland boot was still in the center of Josh’s chest; his body had curled around it, giving it some protection in the water.  The rest of his clothes, along with the remains of the sheet, were off to the side.

 

Pete could see the damage done to Josh’s throat.  It looked like the faggot had gotten his neck wrung.  It was obvious that the kid’s trachea had been crushed to gristle…and thinking about it, about the power needed to do it, about being able to wield that kind of power…

 

Pete felt himself getting hard.  Fuck yeah, he realized, this was what he wanted.  He wanted to be able to force little homos like this to obey Authority, the way Dan did.  The way Brody could, if he had the proper respect.

 

The hardbodied young cop scratched the wiry black scruff covering his left cheek—then lowered his hand to his zipper.  Lowering it, he pulled out his  throbbing dick–slowly, as if hypnotized…

 

He could see the scene now, not with Brody as a villain, but with himself as a hero, the squealing cocksucker foolishly resisting, bringing down the justifiable use of brute force on itself.  Pete stood over the corpse, one hand running over the cold flaccid flesh, the other stroking his huge, pulsing cock.  He was almost unconscious, lost in his own fantasy of physical strength righteously devoted to terminating criminal scum.

 

He imagined what the sensation of crushing the teen’s windpipe would feel like, what the look in the boy’s eyes would be as it suffered its well-deserved punishment.  His hand traveled down to Josh’s smooth thigh, his fingers scraping off fleck of dried cum.  Simultaneously, as he milked his long thick shaft furiously, the memory of driving a knife into Robbie Clebbs’ neck flashed before his eyes and the erotic joy of boysnuff, of watching the punk gag and die in the name of the law tripped Pete’s trigger.

 

“Fuck!” he shouted in a tight voice as a jet of cum shot from his pulsating rod and fell across Josh’s inert form.  Then the buff cop bent over and jerked spasmodically.  “GODDAM!  FUCK!!!”

 

As he cried out, he spewed a thick, ropy geyser of manspunk all over the adolescent’s body, from the face to the crotch.  Pete’s sperm pooled in Josh’s unseeing eyes, spattered across the tan Timberland boot still on his chest, and fell in thick pearly beads onto the kid’s matter pubes.

 

Pete staggered and fell back against the gurney behind him; luckily, the wheels on this one had been locked, so it held him up as he recovered his breath and his balance.

 

Fuck yeah, he was motivated.  He wanted to be able to do this to worthless criminal bitches.  He wanted to get off on snuffing for the good guys.

 

Unlike Brody, he was also aware of the need to remove evidence of his presence.  Not that he was worried about the consequences of his cum being found of the corpse; Brody had actually gotten it right in assuming that Dan could fix such things.  But Pete didn’t want Dan to need to do that, so he began to clean up.

 

He hadn’t expected to shoot a wad all over the corpse when he went to the morgue; he hadn’t thought to bring anything resembling a cumrag.  Glancing around, his eyes lighted on the next best thing—Josh’s red boxer briefs, still damp with ditchwater.  Pete carefully scrubbed his spunk out of the dead teen’s eyes and wiped down the Timb’s tan leather to remove the cum spots.  He finished up by wiping down and patting down the punk’s thick pubes, then balled the cotton boxers up and stuck them in his pocket.

 

Stuffing his tool back into his chinos, Pete carefully re-sealed the body bag, then left the morgue, flicking off the lights on his way out.  The sheriff’s department provided a gym; it was at the other end of the basement.  No one would be using it at this hour, but Pete was determined not to waste a moment in living up to Dan’s and his own expectations.

 

As he headed down the hall, Pete added a reminder on his phone to speak with Dan as soon as possible the next day.  While he didn’t want Dan to have to explain about his bodily fluids on a murder victim’s body, he had no qualms about asking the Captain to remove the reference to boxer briefs being found with the corpse.  He knew—correctly—that Dan had no problem with that; after all, the Captain had sent him there in the first place.

 

Freshly drained and fired up, Pete headed eagerly in the direction of the gym.  Brody was a monster, and it takes a monster to fight a monster.  Pete was looking forward to the encounter.