M4M4RightNow

“Cum fill my hole—looking NOW

It’s a warm wet night and I need to be bred right now

R U man enough?  Send pic”

 

The photo attached to the post was only a torso shot; it was difficult to determine the dude’s age.  But the pic showed a lean, boyish chest with broad smooth pecs.  Large dark nipples weren’t the only thing to stand; a large tattoo was inked across the left pectoral—the anarchy symbol, a letter A made of three crossed lines, with a circle around them.

 

There was a faint haze of brownish fuzz across the guy’s flat belly; there was nothing else distinguishing about the pic—but it was enough for Joe.

 

He’d been off work, but it had rained all day.  Now, long after the sun had set, he sat listening to the pattering of raindrops against the window.  He was bored and horny, and that meant one thing.

 

Some lucky faggot was gonna spend the last few minutes of his life with Joe’s huge cock buried in his ass.

 

He’d trolled through the app he’d downloaded to an earlier victim’s phone.  Nothing stood out, so he’d held off until later in the evening.  The really sick homos, the ones who most deserved to be put down like dogs, tended to crawl out from under their rocks under the cover of darkness.

 

And he’d been right.  This fucker right here was just beggin’ to get whacked.

 

He sent a reply—a dick pic, full erect.  “U bitch enough to take me all the way?”

 

The response was quick and detailed.  An address, and the info the door was unlocked.  The pansy wanted Joe to come right in, head for the bedroom where the queer would be on the bed on his hands and knees.  He wanted Joe to walk in and stick his dick right up his ass.  No foreplay, no talk—just plug his hole and start banging him.

 

Joe could do that.  He let the dude know.

 

“Cool can you make it quick—got more dudes cummin later gonna be a serious cum dumpster—Cliff ”

 

Joe smirked as he padded off to put some clothes on, his hard, muscled body moving like a panther’s in the dark.  No, it wasn’t gonna be quick.  No matter how much Cliff begged, it wasn’t gonna be quick at all.

 

The hardcore sex killer selected his outfit with care.  It was warm and humid outside; the rain was the last of the summer showers, but it hadn’t cooled off quite yet.  He pulled a black sleeveless t-shirt over his hairy chest; it displayed his well-developed biceps and furry forearms perfectly.  Next, he slipped into his favorite pair of jeans well-worn and skin-tight, cinching them around his narrow waist with a wide belt of black leather.  Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of engineer boots, also of black leather, with a buckled strap across the ankle and another at the top of the shaft.  It was easier just to pull them on over the legs of his jeans…

 

Dressed to kill, Joe stood up and headed for the door, his dick already tenting the crotch of his jeans in anticipation.  He needed to drain his huge, hairy balls badly, and that meant he needed a cumrag—a human cumrag.  Time to head out.

 

Within fifteen minutes, Joe had arrived at the address given to him, a gated apartment complex in a decent part of town.  Cliff had already sent him the gate code; Joe drove into the complex, looking for the right apartment.

 

It took a while.  The rain had stopped-or, rather, the air had become so saturated with water that everything was wrapped in a warm, soggy mist like fog.  The apartments were three-story units in long rows down alleyways; the ground floor of each unit was a garage and an entryway.

 

Finally locating the right unit, Joe parked in front of the garage door.  He glanced up and down the alley, but no one was out on a wet night like this.  Trying the front door, he found it unlocked as promised and entered the unit.

 

He found himself in a small entryway with a tiled floor.  To his immediate right was a door to the garage; straight ahead were the stairs.  The slutboy had informed him that the bedroom was on the third floor, so Joe headed up the steps.  Halfway up, they turned and doubled back and Joe found himself in a dimly-lit living/dining area; off to his left was a dark space that was obviously the kitchen.  The stairs continued up, and so did Joe.

 

There were three doorways on the third floor; two of them—presumably leading to a bedroom and a bathroom—gaped blackly at the landing at the top of the stairs.  The third one, though, was illuminated by a faint flicker of light.  Joe entered the room.

 

Dark shapes of furniture lined the walls.  Joe had to maneuver around what appeared to be a club chair—it was difficult to make out, but there appeared to be clothing draped over the back of the chair.  A fragment of color caught briefly in the faint light—a silk tie lay on top.  As he passed by, the bulked-out alpha snatched the tie and stuffed it in his pocket; no telling how it might come in handy at some point in the evening.  The motion had been too quick and subtle to be seen.

 

But in any case, the only thing that could be seen clearly was the bed.  It was king-sized and had a mirrored headboard with a built-in shelf; the flickering light—the only light in the room—came from three LED candles sitting on this shelf.  The bed itself had been stripped down to the fitted sheet, but it wasn’t bare.  Crouched on his hands and knees on the bed with his ass in the air, the fag was staring into the mirror, trying to get a better look at the dude who was gonna breed him.

 

Cliff was twenty-eight but with his lean, lithe body and nearly shoulder-length tousled dirty-blond hair, he looked younger.  He worked as an account manager at a bank, where he got by with a button-down look and a quiet demeanor; there was no hint of his wild, sluttish sex life at the office.  Once he got home, though, the whore came out to play—and played hard.

 

The youth was a serious power bottom; he loved to get fucked by anyone anytime—as long as he was off work.  “You don’t shit where you eat,” was his motto, and he stuck by it, but his sex drive was so intense, he was usually trolling for tops on his phone as he sat at stoplights on the way home.

 

The room was dim—he liked a sense of anonymity, of danger—and it was difficult to see, but it looked to Cliff like he’d scored big-time tonight.  Yeah, he had other dudes lined up later on, but this hulking muscular stud damn sure looked like he knew how to handle a hot bottom boy.  Cliff couldn’t see the guy’s face in the mirror, but he didn’t really care.  What he could see of the body was hot as fuck; what he really wanted a look at was the dude’s dick.

 

He got it soon enough.

 

Standing at the foot of the bed, Joe grinned at how easy the horny faggot was making it.  This pansy wanted a thick tubesteak up his ass bad, and Joe was just the man to give it to him.  Unzipping his fly, he reached down into his crotch and slowly extracted his massive cock like a handler pulling a python out of a cage.  He heard a faint gasp and realized the homo had caught sight of it.  The punk had seen it before, when Joe sent his dick pic, but it had been a close-up without a good sense of scale.

 

Now Cliff could see the full size of Joe’s shaft, the impressive length and frightening girth obvious as the thick rod of manflesh throbbed and swelled.  The dark veins wrapped around it practically writhed as they pulsed with blood.  Eager as he was, Cliff had never seen a cock that big and wasn’t sure his asshole could take it.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of dicks up inside him before, but this…this was something different.

 

Good thing he had a fresh bottle of poppers.

 

Joe climbed onto the bed and moved forward until he was up on his knees directly behind Cliff.  Pulling up his cock, he let it fall back down onto the homo’s bare backside where it landed with a loud, meaty slap.  Cliff moaned and quivered like a bitch in heat and Joe’s grin got wider and more shark-like.

 

“Ya want that, do ya, cunt?” he jeered, grabbing his dong and steadily slapping it against Cliff’s smooth, rounded asscheeks.

 

“Go easy, dude,” Cliff gasped his breath shuddering in erotic anticipation, “I ain’t—I mean, you’re—Jesus, that thing is gonna hurt.  Just go slow, man, ok?”

 

Since Cliff’s face was closer to both the mirrored headboard and the sources of light, Joe could make it out much better than Cliff could his.  The long-haired queer’s eyes were large and dark, with long lashes.  His nose was long and straight, and around his mouth was a sandy-brown stubble, a goatee just a shade darker than his hair.  Joe could also make out the small dark bottle clutched in the cunt’s hand.  So the faggot liked his poppers?  Good.  Joe could make use of that.

 

He decided to give the slut something to look at.  It was warm up on the third floor and Joe was sweating a little.  He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head, bending back slightly.  While still unable to make out Joe’s face, Cliff could make out his incredibly well-developed torso very well, drinking in the details of the dominant stud’s thickly-muscled chest—broad pecs with large dark nipples jutting out, seemingly hard enough to cut glass.  Thick, dark, abundant fur spread across the alpha’s abdomen and ran down his ripped abs, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans, demarcated by the wide leather belt.

 

“Oh fuck it,” Cliff muttered.  “Fuckin’ hell, lookit that bod.  Put it in me, man.  It’s gonna hurt, but I want you in me so fuckin’ bad…”  He opened the bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply, holding first to one nostril and then the other.

 

Joe wasn’t waiting for an invitation.  And he wasn’t waiting for lube either; he was going in dry.  The little fuck needed to feel it.  He pressed the thick, swollen head of his cock against Cliff’s pink puckered sphincter and pressed slightly.  Cliff moaned loudly.

 

Then Joe rammed his shaft home, shoving it all the way in until his pubes were rasping on Cliff’s baby-smooth asscheeks.  His enormous shaft speared the pansy’s colon, ripping open the clenched ass muscle and tearing at the tender lining of the rectum.  Cliff screeched in pain as the huge rod sank deep in his guts, further than anything had ever penetrated before—

 

—and could also feel an electric shock run through his own dick as Joe’s cock rode over his prostate like an out-of-control semi.  He’d been right, it hurt so bad, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…but he was still getting hard.

 

“Damn, man, no,” he whined, “Pull out, dude—jeez, I toldja to go slow, lemme get used to it!  Goddam, I think ya tore somethin’…” Digging his hands into the mattress, Cliff tried to pull himself off Joe’s dick.

 

“No ya don’t, bitch,” Joe said calmly, and grabbing Cliff’s right bicep, pulled that arm around behind the boy’s back.

 

 

“Wha—?” Cliff asked in bewilderment.  “What the fuck ya doin’?”

 

Joe didn’t both to explain.  Fishing the tie out of his pocket, he brought the slut’s left arm around in the same way—expending a little more effort this time since Cliff was disposed to resist—and with the ease of an expert soon had the gay youth’s hands bound securely behind his back.

 

Cliff’s fear started to override the horrible pain of torn flesh in his anus. There was always the possibility of something going wrong in these blind anonymous hookups—but nothing ever had before.  Now, though…this guy was hurting him, and he couldn’t get away.

 

“Get off me!” he yelled.  “I don’t wanna do this anymore!”

 

Without saying a word, Joe hunched over the cunt’s lithe, smooth body and began pumping his cock fast and hard, plunging all the way into Cliff’s ass.  As often as he’d offered his fuckhole up to anyone who’d use it, Cliff had never been fucked all the way up into his guts before.  There was something horrible about the searing pain—something that made it feel like he was being badly fucked up on the inside.  And yet despite all that, his own cock was so hard it actually hurt…

 

“Stop!” Cliff cried.  “Goddammit, no!  This is fucking rape—stop!!”

 

“Shaddup, faggot,” Joe said evenly, “Ya know ya want it.  You like it like this, dontcha, ya worthless cocksucker?  This what ya been looking for, huh?  A real man to come in and pound the shit outta yer ass?  So quit squawkin’ and enjoy the ride, motherfucker, or I’m really gonna make ya hurt.”

 

Laying his head back down on the mattress, Cliff realized he had no choice.  He couldn’t free himself; he was pinned to the bed as if the alpha’s enormous shaft had impaled him on the mattress.  “Oh god,” he moaned tearfully, “Oh god, oh god, oh god…”  His lean, straining body was wracked with pain with every thrust of Joe’s long, thick rod; his long brown hair darkening as sweat was forced from his smooth skin.

 

Hearing a clinking sound behind him, the humbled and submissive youth glanced in the mirror.  It took him a moment to notice the glint of light winking off to the power top’s side.  It was a belt buckle, he realized; the rapist had unbuckled his belt.  It had no significance for him.

 

What did have some significance was that he was still lucid despite the increasingly nightmarish nature of the evening.  After all, some part of his bottom pig soul reasoned, all that was really happening was he was getting a good rough fuck, right?  And that was what he’d been looking for anyway, right?

 

But for all the times he’d whored his ass out, he’d never endured so much pain—and even worse, somehow, he’d never been made to feel so trapped and helpless.  This dude was not only rough, he was incredibly powerful and Cliff was utterly at his mercy.

 

And it wasn’t long before he learned Joe had no mercy at which to be.

 

“Yer gettin’ loose on me, asswipe,” the hulking alpha growled.  “Tighten up that fuckhole boy, or I’m gonna tighten it for ya.”

 

“I—I ca-can’t…” Cliff said, his body and his voice jerking with Joe’s deep, powerful thrusts.  He looked pleadingly at the top in the mirror.  As he spoke, Cliff could see the alpha’s hands moving at his waist.  The dude was slowly and menacingly removing his belt, but the boyslut was too full of cock to care why. “Dude, you-you’re reamin’ me ow-out…”

 

“So ya wanna play it the hard way, faggot?” Joe sneered.  “Figures.  You worthless fag cunts always hafta have some sense beaten into ya.”

 

He drew his right fist back and slammed it down onto Cliff’s kidney with the force of a piledriver; the thick, meaty slap of flesh on flesh sounded like someone hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat.  The sudden agony of the kidney punch made Cliff squeal, a loud, high-pitched sound almost identical to that of a pig.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Joe grunted, “Felt that one in my cock.  That what ya like, fag?  You need to be hurt to get off?  Fuck yeah, homo, can do.  I’ll put yer worthless ass down so hard you’ll cum for joy, ya disgusting little assfuck.”

 

Moaning and gasping for air, Cliff wallowed in a small dark cloud of pain.  He could hear Joe speak; he could even make out the words, but he was too busy trying to deal with the agony in his ass and his guts and his back to bother to comprehend what was being said to him.  He could only writhe in abject fear and pain, which worked Joe’s cock even better—and caused Cliff even more pain in his traumatized rectum.

 

Glancing up at the mirrored headboard, the dazed youth could see the buff older man’s torso shifting in the dim light as the alpha brutally plowed his hole.  The fur on Joe’s chest started to darken and mat with sweat; the room was hot and stuffy and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly more charged with male pheromones with each passing moment.  In horror, Cliff could see Joe’s thick, strong arm draw back, bicep swelling with latent power, and he knew he was gonna get hit again.

 

Joe timed the blow with the thrusting of his cock so that he was balls-deep in the kid’s guts when his fist impacted Cliff’s back like a cannonball, fracturing a rib.  The slut grunted in pain and the entire length of his smooth, slim body, slick with sweat, went rigid.

 

“Hell yeah, work my cock, you fuckin’ pansy,” Joe muttered as Cliff’s colon clamped down on his swollen shaft in agony.  “Now I got yer number—abuse gets ya off, huh, ya disgustin’ pervert?  Huh?  Ya like gettin’ a beatdown from a real man?  Well it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night, asswipe, cause I’m the man to put ya in yer place and make ya stay there!”

 

Grinding his hips at an incredibly swift speed, Joe powerfucked the bound, helpless homo as he spoke, reaming the kid mercilessly.  “Ya wanna know where yer place is, you dumbass sack a’ shit?” he sneered, “It’s ridin’ my cock down into yer grave and then takin’ a nice long dirt nap.  You ain’t no good to me or anyone else once you’ve soaked up my manspunk.  Like any other cumrag, yer just gonna end up another piece of garbage.”  Another blow, this one totally unheralded, struck Cliff’s other kidney, the sudden organ trauma literally taking the slut’s breath away.

 

“Course, ya gotta milk my load outta me first,” the sadistic killer drawled casually as the long-haired punk shuddered silently beneath him, desperately trying to draw a breath.  “Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you work my dick right.  I got a sure-fire means of inspiration.”

 

With that, he tossed his belt down onto the bed in front of Cliff.  The lean young man, already suffering under the brutal blows to his back and the violent assfuck, stared dully and uncomprehendingly at it.  Wrapped tightly in an aching haze, he could only tug his hands feebly at the silk binding and endure the pain.

 

The gay punk had retreated into a mental fugue state once the assault had begun, hearing the words that were spoken to him and suffering the pain of the beating and the rape, but not allowing anything to sink any deeper into his psyche.  His body was responding automatically; the heady funk of testosterone and mansweat in the air would have kept his dick just as hard even if Joe’s gigantic hog wasn’t crushing his prostate under its huge, vein-wrapped girth.

 

The youth had whored out his twink body on hundreds of occasions; while he’d always known that the danger of running into someone like Joe was out there, he also knew that it was the kinda thing that would always happen to someone else—never him.  After all, he just wanted to get fucked.  What was wrong with that?

 

But Cliff’s need for dick had increased.   Getting fucked led to getting bred multiple times a night by anonymous strangers—which led to Joe.  To the extent that Cliff allowed himself to think, he wondered vaguely how this had happened.  He could feel the top’s strong, muscled thighs press against his own with every thrust of the dude’s cock and felt a faint sense of shock that this should have been the best fuck ever—such a fuckin’ stud—and had turned out so bad.

 

Joe sensed the boy going slack beneath him and knew immediately what was happening.  He’d offed enough fuckmeat by now to know that the kid was withdrawing; he was minimizing his psychological damage by submitting to the physical rape without processing any mental input.

 

Joe didn’t like that.  He wanted the kid to suffer mentally as well.  He wanted to rape Cliff’s mind as well, to fuck and abuse and destroy the useless fag’s entire being.  And he knew exactly how to do it.  He started by leaning forward, stretching out and laying full-length on top of his writhing victim, feeling the slim youth’s smooth back writhing under his chest.

 

Cliff, likewise, could feel Joe on top of him, the wiry, sweat-matted chest hair scraping and scouring the tender skin on his back every time the unlucky punk shuddering in pain.  He looked up, quite by accident, and for the first time, got a look at Joe’s face in the mirror—and froze, his blood running ice-cold in terror.

 

The man fucking him was brutally handsome, his face composed of hard, sharp angles and deep shadows.  Some of the latter, the ones that ran across the alpha’s chin and cheeks, were blue and scratchy, shadows of scruff.  Dark, slightly curly hair, a long straight nose and full lips curled into a sneer of disgust completed the face of what could have been a portrait of masculinity in the abstract.

 

But it was the look in the eyes—the beautiful, long-lashed, ice-blue eyes—that instilled such fear in Cliff.  It shifted and changed, with rage and lust and disgust chasing each other, but the glint of homicidal glee never faded.  Without another word being said, Cliff realized this guy wasn’t just gonna kill him—this guy was gonna get off while killing him.

 

Then Joe clamped one big strong hand over Cliff’s nose and mouth, completely cutting off his air.

 

“You’re startin’ to bore me, faggot,” the cruel alpha said quietly, the wiry scruff on his cheek scraping the bound cunt’s ear ash he bent his head down to whisper.  “Time for me to blow my load and split.  Time for you to die, you homo trash.  You need to massage my rod good and hard, and I got an idea.”

 

Joe had spoken softly and calmly, taking his time as Cliff, squirming and kicking beneath him, slowly suffocated with the top’s powerful hand clutching his face.  When he judged the fuckmeat desperate enough, Joe brought up the bottle of poppers which he’d picked up off the bed after binding Cliff hands.

 

With one hand, Joe unscrewed the top of the small dark bottle.  With the other, he released the fag’s left nostril only.  As Cliff inhaled deeply and desperately, Joe applied the bottle. The slutty young homo found himself involuntarily taking the largest hit of poppers he’d ever done in his short, wasted life.  Joe closed his air off again and held on for sixty seconds as the meat, riding on its rush, bucked and jerked frantically beneath him, Cliff’s smooth back sliding along Joe’s muscled chest and ripped abs on a film of slick boysweat.

 

Joe suddenly released Cliff’s face, letting the kid exhale.  This close to his meat, Joe could smell the chemical fumes on the cunt’s outgoing breath.  Before the slut could breathe in again, Joe closed off everything but his right nostril and reapplied the bottle.   Lack of oxygen meant that Cliff had no choice but to inhale another lung-busting hit of poppers, deeply and lengthily.

 

The young homo felt himself losing it; his head spun and there was a loud throbbing in his ears.  His cock was so fuckin’ hard and his ass was getting plowed and he wanted it to go on all fuckin’ night—

 

—and that was when Joe released his head again, picked up the belt, and wrapped it around the fuckmeat’s neck.

 

Leaning back, Joe pulled on the thick strap of black leather, forcing Cliff’s head up off the bed.  The boy slowly bent backwards as Joe continued to pull; for every fraction of an inch that the kid’s head moved back, the pain in his twisting spine grew geometrically.  The force caused the belt to sink deeply into Cliff’s neck—not completely cutting off his air but impeding the flow down his trachea enough to cause the bitch to wheeze frantically.

 

Cliff’s hands jerked and pulled at the silk tie binding his wrists; Joe could feel the boy’s fingertips desperately twining in the fur on his ripped abs.  Nothing the kid could do would loosen the knot; he was as helpless as if he’d been caught in a steel trap.  Cliff looked up involuntarily—and caught sight of his own image in the mirror.

 

Somehow, that was the worst thing of all.    His mind was still fogged with an intense chemical haze from the forced poppers; it only seemed to intensify the horror.  He’d been pulled so far backwards that his chest was off the bed.  His face was already starting to turn blue and his painful, labored attempts to breathe deeply had forced saliva out of his mouth where it ran down his chin in a foamy drool.  It was grotesque and sickening—and he wasn’t actually even being strangled yet.

 

But it was coming.  He knew it was coming.

 

The most surreal aspect of the whole thing was his cock.  He was being raped and murdered, but—as he could see very well—the biggest, most intense erection he’d ever experienced was flopping around between his smooth thighs and slapping against flat, sweat-beaded belly.

 

“Don’t,” he cried out, “Please stop…”

 

At least, that’s what Cliff heard in his head.  What came out of his mouth was more of a choking, gagging sound, accompanied by more streamers of drool trailing from his chin.

 

“Shaddup, faggot, and work my dick,” Joe growled.  He wrapped the belt around both palms and, grinning sadistically, rode Cliff’s ass like a bucking bronco, using the belt to control the meat like reins.  Joe’s thick cock, plugged up the kid’s fuckhole like a baseball bat, could sense whenever the homo’s jerking and kicking slowed; the alpha lost that sensation of moist velvet caressing the swollen, leaking head of his shaft.

 

To get it back, all he had to do was pull on the reins and cut off a little more of Cliff’s air.

 

The next fifteen minutes—the last fifteen minutes of Cliff’s life—were a pit of nightmarish horror as the smooth young faggot was slowly and incrementally choked to death.

 

Every jerk on the belt made it that much harder to breathe, to pull air into his lungs.  Cliff no longer paid attention to the searing pain in his ass; he could still feel the alpha’s enormous cock reaming out his rectum, but his entire being was focused on the effort of breathing.  And again, another pull on the belt, and this time Cliff both heard and felt something crack in his neck.  Against his will, he tried to look in the mirror again.  It took a little effort—his head was tilted back now, so he had to point his eyes downward but they responded slowly, and it took a moment for him to see himself.

 

Joe’s cock was still smashing Cliff’s prostate, keeping the slut in an erect state, which is why Cliff wasn’t able to piss himself when his eyes focused on his image.

 

For a moment, he refused to recognize himself.  That couldn’t be him, that gargoyle in the mirror.  Cliff was rapidly aging out of the twink category, but he prided himself on his youthful, boyish appearance.  He’d always looked younger than his actual age, and that alone had gotten him lots of dick.

 

But that thing in mirror was a caricature.  His face, yes, but swollen and purple, his full lips now blue and parted by his thick, protruding tongue.  His face burned and felt hot, so very hot—and that thing was sweating, its near-black skin smeared with clammy perspiration—but no, not him, not him…

 

Joe had glanced up and noticed the direction of the dying pansy’s stare.  “Oh fuck yeah, watch yerself die, you piece of queer-ass shit,” he chortled cruelly.  “You like that, yeah?  You sick fuckin’ pervert, this is what you been lookin’ for, ain’t it?  You been layin’ here night after night, lettin’ any dude who walks through the door fill you with cum, hopin’ that one of ‘em would put you outta yer fuckin’ misery and waste yer sorry ass, yeah?  Well I’m here, boy, and you’re done.”

 

The muscled killer bent forward, not allowing any slack in the remorseless leather strap.  His head nearly nuzzled Cliff’s, his hot breath disturbing the meat’s long hair, now damp and stringy with agonized boysweat.  “See the way yer eyes are buggin’ out?” he whispered, the stubble on his cheek scraping Cliff’s left ear.  “Watch the whites turn red as blood vessels pop.  You can hear it, cantcha?  That pounding in yer empty fuckin’ head?  It’s yer pulse—you’ll be able to hear your heart start to fail.  Damn, fag, yer droolin’ some pink foam now, see?  Know what that is?  That’s blood.  We done jacked up yer windpipe real bad, boy—and yer dick is still hard as a fuckin’ brick!”

 

The pain was clawing at Cliff like some vicious living entity.  The front of his throat had been squeezed so far back by the belt that ran around it that the cartilage of his trachea had cracked.  Every drawn-out and desperately-fought-for cubic inch of air that the cumslut drew into his burning lungs was accompanied by a searing pain in his fractured windpipe.  And even though the pounding and dark buzzing in Cliff’s head made rational though difficult, the struggling homo had no problem feeling Joe’s massive shaft still plowing his hole, a relentless, unstoppable reaming that he had never known could exist—it was like he was getting fucked to the depths of his sick little faggot soul.

 

Joe could see that the meat was just barely hanging on.  The little fuck’s ass was starting to spasm weakly; it felt good—but not good enough.  Time to kick this shit into high gear.

 

“Looks like it hurts,” Joe chuckled, his lips inches from the side of Cliff’s head.  “Looks like it hurts like fuck.  Does it?  Does it hurt, fag?  I hope the fuck it does.  The more it hurts, the more you work my tool.  And I gotta tell ya, cumdump, you ain’t workin’ it good.  You ain’t givin’ me no satisfaction, boy.”

 

Still trembling on the edge of functionality, Cliff heard and understood every word, but his entire being was engaged in the struggle of just staying conscious.  The battered and abused youth knew that if he blacked out, he’d never wake back up.

 

The alpha’s cold, dry chuckle would have made Cliff’s blood run cold if he could have spared the attention.  “Guess that means I gotta hurt ya some more,” Joe whispered seductively.  “Ya like that, dontcha?  Sure you fuckin’ do, you pig fuck; lookit how yer little faggot dick is droolin’ precum.  Guess what, dude—I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser, cunt.  Know how I’m gonna do it?  Huh?  Know what hurts bad enough to do that, bitch?”

 

Joe’s head hovered beside Cliff’s, his breath hot on the punk’s ear as he whispered.  “Death, motherfucker,” he hissed.  “Death is the ultimate pain.  You’ll never suffer more agony that what you’re about to experience.  And your dying convulsions are gonna suck the sperm right outta my balls.  I’m gonna pump yer stupid fag ass full of cum and leave your dead meat to rot.  Don’t that sound hot as fuckin’ hell?”

 

The struggle to live was wearing Cliff down, but he wasn’t ready to die.  Some arrogant part of his weak, sputtering personality simply refused to believe that he was gonna die; the part that regarded him as the main character in his own story couldn’t accept that the story was about to have a dark ending.

 

And some part of his sick pig soul didn’t want to die because it felt so good—the sharp, searing pain in his torn rectum, the shattered sensation in his crushed throat, the blooming bruises on his back…the searing, throbbing agony of his forced, involuntary erection…it all hurt so fuckin’ good.  At the very end of his short, wasted life, some part of Cliff embraced the pain, wallowed in it, fetishized it—because on a deeply subconscious level, the reamed-out and used-up fag knew that pain was the last thing he’d feel.  Only death would release him from pain, and he didn’t want to die.

 

Joe knew it all.  He knew what the meat went through when he snuffed it, and he didn’t give a shit.  He was doing the homo a favor—taking a worthless pansy and giving it a purpose as his personal cumrag.  Little fucker should be thanking him.  Instead, the stupid cunt wasn’t even able to give his thick oozing shaft the intense stroking it needed.

 

“I’m done with you, ya worthless asswipe,” Joe snarled, his voice dripping with menace.  “You’re even useless as a faggot—ain’t even a good buttfuck, huh?  I’ll be doin’ the planet a service by takin’ out a waste of space like you, bitch.  You think someone’s gonna care how much you’re sufferin’?  Fuck that—no one’s gonna give a shit that you’re dead, motherfucker.  No one cares.  Time to die like the garbage you are, queermeat.”

 

Joe’s next move was so swift that Cliff never noticed it—not that the bound, struggling homo was in enough control of his sense to note anything at all.  The muscle-bound alpha brought both ends of the belt together, looping the loose end through the buckle—a simple slip knot.  Then, with a single brutal jerk of his powerful biceps, he cinched the belt around Cliff’s neck, sinking it in even deeper than it had been before.  As the leather strap whipped into place, it moved so fast it flayed the tender flesh around the punk’s throat in a neat circle.   The slashing pain was so intense, for a brief, horrific moment Cliff thought his throat had been cut.

 

It would have been no more horrific than what happened next.  Joe had only given the belt a casual yank, but his brute strength had been enough to tighten the belt to the point that it completely crushed Cliff’s trachea.  The lean, long-haired bottom pig was still alive, but no matter what happened, he’d be dead within five minutes.

 

His bulging, bloodshot eyes locked on the mirror, the choking, dying faggot could see the depths of his own suffering in the grotesque and distorted mask his once-handsome visage had become.  Black and swollen, his cheeks smeared with snot and foamy drool, Cliff’s face was etched with strangled agony.  His legs were useless, pinned under him as his killer’s weight bore him down onto the bed.  His arms still struggled against the silk binding, to no avail.

 

He could feel it all, though—from his crushed and mangled larynx to Joe’s wiry pubes scraping his smooth asscheeks with every balls-deep thrust, to his own erect and oozing cock–even as he died, Cliff continued to suffer.  Well past rational thought, he caught motion in the mirror and could see Joe draw his powerful arm back, but this time he wasn’t able to follow the idea to its logical conclusion.

 

“Die, motherfucker,” Joe snarled and unleashed the ultimate rabbit punch on his victim.

 

The muscle-bound killer’s fist struck the back of Cliff’s head with the force of a sledgehammer.  Simultaneously, Joe jerked back violently on the belt.  The combined impact drove Cliff’s head forward while his neck was pulled backwards.  There was a loud, wet crunching sound and the top three vertebrae of Cliff’s neck exploded into tiny shards of bone, tearing through his spinal column like shrapnel.

 

Unluckily for Cliff, the damage to his nervous system was catastrophic but not instantly fatal.  His spinal cord was severely damaged but hadn’t been completely severed.  The pain was beyond anything in the young homo’s imagination.  It was a searing electrical shock that tore through every nerve fiber in his body, completely filling the lean punk with burning agony. As his head lolled forward limply on his broken neck, his muscles contracted involuntarily, his slick, smooth body trembling with rigidity.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” Joe grunted with pleasure as he hunched forward and unloaded a steady stream of cum into Cliff’s guts.  The nearly-dead meat felt the splash of manseed deep inside, but his traumatized nerves could only record the boiling heat of Joe’s load, as if the killer had pumped his victim full of molten lead.

 

At the same time, the shattering of his spine had also triggered the fag’s straining cock.  Cliff’s dangling head no longer allowed him to look in the mirror, but he had a perfect view of the long, ropy strands of semen that were being violently expelled from his own purple, engorged shaft.

 

It hurt.  He was cumming so hard it hurt.  It felt like his innards were being ripped out and expelled from his body in a squirt of boyspunk.  Unable to look up, he never saw his cum splatter and smear on the headboard mirror.

 

Joe held the corpse close to him for a few moments, his powerful, bulked-out body shuddering as the fag’s death throes continued to milk his swollen, sensitive shaft.  Finally, he withdrew his still-oozing rod from the punk’s mutilated asshole and let Cliff drop to the bed.  The randy young fag spent his last seconds on earth suffocating face-down in puddle of his own sperm.

 

Standing up, Joe turned to the chair with the clothing piled on it and extracting a pale blue button-down shirt, used it to wipe the sweat and cum off his hard, hairy torso still-erect cock before tossing it onto the floor.  Tucking his long shaft back into his jeans, Joe then grabbed his own shirt from the floor beside the bed and put it back on.

 

The last thing he did was retrieve his belt.  It took a moment to pry it from around Cliff’s loose, shattered neck.   It had sunk so deeply into the flesh of the throat that Joe had to sit on the bed for a moment with the head of the trembling corpse in his lap so he could dig the leather strap out.  Once he’d clawed it free, he stood up, dumping the pile of dead manmeat onto the floor with a loud thump.  Treading on the dead body with a contemptuous sneer, the muscled alpha threaded the belt back around his waist and left the room.

 

In the silent darkness, broken only by the faint flickering candlelight, Cliff’s body began to cool and stiffen.  Long minutes later, there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and someone walked into the bedroom.

 

Joe hadn’t been the only dude Cliff had been intending to trick with that night; he’d had multiple appointments.  The next guy in line had arrived.  It took a few minutes of confusion for him to locate the corpse, but once his did, he backed away in horror and fled the apartment, not stopping to alert anyone—or to wonder why the sight of the murdered slut had left him hard.

 

Over the next six hours, three more dudes arrived ready to fuck Cliff, only to leave hurriedly—in in terror, one in frustration, and one curiously stimulated and more eager than ever to find someone to fuck.  None of them called the police.

 

The body wasn’t officially found for another two days, after the mail had backed up and one of the neighbors complained about the smell.

Trucker 14–Trucker vs Bar Bitch

It was almost midnight and Wes was ready to rock out.  He was higher than fuck and horny as hell.  He’d need money soon if he wanted to wanted to keep the high going, but there were ways of getting it—even ways of combining the two.

 

And combining the two was something Wes was good at.  Just two months past his twenty-second birthday, he was slim and lean, with a perfect twink body that managed to attract a lot of dudes.  The ugly ones, the ones who were fat or old, were usually willing to pay, and Wes would whore himself out if he needed—but he preferred to play a different game.  After all, why bargain when you can steal?

 

It was the ice, of course—whether he smoked it, snorted it or shot it up, it got him too amped up to be controlled.  Aside from the rampant horniness, it made him crave danger.   Things could get ugly if the guy bangin’ him caught him in the act, but that didn’t happen often.  And anyway, he was getting a lot better a rifling through wallets whenever his fuckbuddies’ backs were turned.

 

He was just under six feet tall with a broad face darkened with the faintest hint of facial hair under his turned-up nose and across his cheeks.  His smooth, clear skin was not yet tainted from the meth use, although the dilation of his large dark eyes hinted at it.  His brown hair was cut short on the sides of his head, but left longer—about three or four inches—on the top, carefully arranged to look casually tousled.

 

He was looking to take a dick up his ass and had dressed to make sure he got it.  He wore a gray long-sleeve t-shirt that clung tightly to his lean, boyish chest.  His black skinny jeans, even though they were tight enough to highlight the muscles in his long legs and the drug-enhanced bulge in his groin—and were held up by a thick leather belt clasped shut by a buckle with a black-on-black Superman logo—still sagged enough to show a couple of inches of the colorful boxers underneath.

 

His feet padded quietly in a pair of Under Armour Jet Express hightops; the kicks were a bright shade of blue that contrasted nicely with the black jeans.  Since the jeans rode so low on Wes’s hips, the hems caught in the uppers of the sneakers, making it look like he’d deliberately tucked them in.

 

In short, Wes looked exactly like what he was, a hot little twink on the lookout for cock.  The fact that he was also on the lookout for cash was probably a bit more obvious than he’d have liked. But it was Friday night and the gay bar was packed and raucous; the noisy crowd even managed to explain away some of the noticeable signs of Wes’s meth use, like his sweating and jitteriness.

 

The bar was only part of the large nightclub; it was teeming and dark, but it opened out onto a huge dance floor that dazzled the eyes with strobes, mirror balls, and smoke machines.  The dance floor occupied at least half the building, while the bar only took up about a quarter.  The other quarter was taken up by offices, bathrooms, and a game room with some arcade games and a couple of pool tables.  Tonight, all the rooms were filled to capacity.

 

Wes had already cadged a drink of an old fat guy with a long beard and was leaning back against a wall and surveying the crowd for a likely mark when his eyes were drawn to a dude who’d just entered the bar from the game room.  The guy was huge, at least six and a half feet, with black hair and stubble on his face; the hair was mostly hidden under a red trucker’s cap.  He sported a white cotton wifebeater, too small and tight to leave any details of the stud’s muscle-bound and fur-covered chest to the imagination.  The dude’s powerful build was obvious in every movement he made; the way his biceps and deltoids flexed as he turned and set his pool cue into a rack by the door made Wes drool with lust.

 

The stoned-out hustler moved away from the wall and approached the hot stud.  As he got closer, he could see the guy’s tight jeans, faded to sky-blue and worn to the point of softness, with a tear on the inside of the left leg that teasingly revealed a firm, hairy inner thigh.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of brown Justin Wyoming pull-on workboots.

 

The closer he got to the hulking stud, the more certain Wes was that this was the guy he was looking for.  This guy was capable of feeding him dick the way he wanted, the way he so desperately needed tonight.  And someone this hot had to have cash; the moment the stud looked away, Wes would pocket his dough.

 

Wes had no way of knowing it—and would have been too high and horny to pay attention if he had had a way—but he was very unlikely to catch this stud with his guard down.  There was little the Trucker missed, especially when he was dealing with fagboy fuckmeat.

 

It’d been a couple of weeks since the Trucker left his last fucktoy dead in a ditch; he was back on the hunt and looking for a kill.  He was familiar with this place; he’d stopped off here on his last haul through this town.  On that occasion, he hadn’t found anything worth sticking his dick into; he’d ended up offing a street punk in an alley, but it had left him feeling unsatisfied.

 

Of course, that had been on a weeknight.  This was Friday night—almost Saturday morning—and the place was full.  The Trucker was sure he’d find someone tonight; in fact, he’d though he already had.  The boy had been small and dark, hairy with olive skin.  The Trucker had followed him into the game room and picked up a game of pool with him, but within minutes, the kid’s friends had shown up.  The Trucker finished the game, but deep inside, he was raging with frustrated desire.  The little punk never knew how lucky he was that his friends showed up.

 

Wes wasn’t lucky, and he didn’t have any friends.  He approached the Trucker head-on, brazenly grinning up at the well-built hunk.  “Hey, man, wanna buy me a drink?”

 

The Trucker glanced down incuriously at the boy, as he would at an insect crawling on the pavement.

 

“I’ll make it worth yer while,” the boyslut said.

 

“Yeah?” the Trucker inquired impassively.  “How?”

 

Wes was too high for subtlety.  “In the sack.  I’m a great fuck.”

 

The Trucker sneered.  “Yeah, heard that before.”

 

The DJ on the dance floor changed the music; the new shit was loud and cacophonous.  Wes didn’t even try to make his voice heard over it; he just reached out and grabbed the massive ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran down the older man’s thigh.  He didn’t expect it to be real; it was way too big.  And he was used to guys padding out their groins; it’d get a lot of looks in the bars, even if it did lead to eventual disappointment.

 

With this type of fake enhancement in mind, Wes openly slipped his hand into the tear in the Trucker’s jeans.  His fingers slid across the firm, thick thigh—and then stopped as they came into contact with an enormous shaft of semi-soft throbbing manmeat.

 

He looked up into the Trucker’s face, his eyes wide with amazement.  He couldn’t believe the dude’s cock was really that big.  “Forget the drink,” he said with an audible gulp during a lull in the music, “My apartment is three blocks from here.  Put it in me, bro.”

 

The Trucker smirked.  “Sure, faggot.  I could use a good workout.  Lessee if you can go the distance.”

 

This was what he’d been waiting for—meat that provided its own death pit.  The Trucker was tired of cleaning out his cab after every fresh kill.

 

For his part, Wes was thrilled.  He was stunned by how easy it was to lure his mark; the thought that he was the mark being lured never crossed his mind.  What did flash across his mind was that if this dude was so eager, even if he did notice Wes had gone through his wallet he probably wouldn’t mind.

 

Ice had made Wes make bad decisions and jump to wrong conclusions before, but this was far and away the worst.

 

“C’mon, man, just follow me,” he said and started making his way through the crowd.

 

The Trucker was tall enough that he didn’t have to follow on the punk’s heels to see which way he was headed, and that suited him just fine.  He left a little space between himself and the meat so that later on, nobody would associate the two of them together.  Not that it was likely they’d be noticed in the randy, gyrating crowd anyway, but there was no sense in the Trucker taking chances.

 

After all, the meat was taking enough chances for them both.

 

Wes made it outside first.  The Trucker ambled along, not worried about losing the kid; he knew he had this faggot already hooked.  He took his time to cross the dance floor and walk nonchalantly out of the building in front of the bouncer—obviously alone.  Nothing to connect him with the stupid little fuck who stood waiting under a streetlight halfway down the block and across the street.

 

The Trucker could see him the moment he exited the door.  He walked towards him but kept to the opposite side of the street.  The footsteps of his thick-soled workboots echoed off the nearby walls, but otherwise the side street was relatively quiet.  Nobody hung out in front of the bar; most of the action was in the back, where there was parking and a patio with an outside bar.  There was no one about to see him quickly cross the street and join the kid.

 

Wes was tweaking and impatient.  He was afraid the hot musclestud had changed his mind until he saw the dude come out of the bar.  He relaxed as much as the meth would let him, watching the tall, masculine figure stroll towards him, his legs swinging wide to accommodate the massive tackle that hung between them.

 

Without the noise and commotion of the bar to distract him, Wes was able to notice a few details that had escaped his attention before, like the jingly bits of metal that bounced on the dude’s broad chest and dangled from a chain around his neck; as the Trucker got closer, the slut realized they were dog tags.  He also got a better look at the stud’s face.

 

He was aroused not only by the strong jaw and cheeks covered with just enough jet-black stubble to cast a shadow, but by the cold, hard expression on the handsome face and the icy glint in the pale blue eyes that he glimpsed momentarily under the brim of the cap.  The last two were obvious danger signals; if Wes was less fucked-up, he might have heeded them.  As it was, they just fed into his horniness, his craving for sexual danger.

 

“C’mon, man,” he grinned happily, “Right down here.  We’ll go down the alley, it’s faster.”

 

The Trucker followed silently, his heavy footfalls the only sign he was keeping up.  Wes’s Under Armour kicks made no sound on the gritty, cracked pavement as he dodged litter and reeking puddles in the alleyway, helped by an occasional overhead light.  They crossed a couple of side streets, sticking to the alley, and suddenly came to a residential block.

 

“Over here,” Wes said and headed to the left towards a small two-story brick apartment building.  The place was old and run-down; the windows were tiny and some of the ones upstairs had AC units precariously dangling from the sills, droning into the warm night.  There were cracks in the brick from settling; none had been repaired and some of them were old and alarming large.

 

There was an oil-stained patch of asphalt in the rear that served as a parking lot; at the moment, it was mostly empty—no surprise, on a Friday night—with just a couple of broken-down pickups and a huge late-80’s Chrysler that belonged in a museum.  Down the side of the building was regular pattern of a doorway followed by two windows; it looked like there were about four apartments down this one side.

 

Wes and the Trucker crossed the cracked, weed-choked asphalt to the rear-most door on the side.  It was thin and painted a dingy, weathered white; it took Wes a moment to get it unlocked since the rusted light fixture above the door had no bulb and probably wouldn’t have worked if it had.

 

Once inside, Wes flipped on the light switch, revealing a tiny, barely-furnished efficiency apartment, a single room with a kitchen nook jutting off to the rear and a small bathroom.  The barren, sterile light of a single overhead bulb was enough to illuminate the small space.  The harsh overhead light shed no softening shadows on Wes’s bed—a mattress and box spring set sitting on the floor with no frame.  The fitted sheet—once white, now with a sickly yellow tinge—still clung tenaciously to the mattress, but the flat sheet and the pillows were in a tangled mass halfway on the floor.

 

There was a large flat-screen TV against one wall (far and away the most expensive thing in the entire apartment), but no other furniture at all.  The kitchen sink was piled with dishes and glasses; the only reason they didn’t litter the counter as well was that Wes didn’t have any more.  Not to say that the counter was bare; on the contrary, it was cluttered with lots of empty booze bottles—most of them the cheap plastic kind.

 

The Trucker took it all in as he silently locked the door behind him.  Wes never noticed.  “Here, lemme open a window,” he said evidently embarrassed by the almost visible funk of cigarettes, meth, weed and boyspunk.  And the room was stifling—Wes had hocked his AC months ago.

 

“Naw, boy, leave ‘em closed,” the Trucker drawled, “I like to sweat.  And I wanna make you sweat.”

 

The boy turned to the towering stud, the bulge in his crotch pulsing visibly.  For the first time, he got a good look at the Trucker’s chest—the muscled hunk was already perspiring enough to make his thin cotton wifebeater transparent.  Wes could see details that had been invisible before, the thick, wiry chest fur, the large erect nipples surrounded by dark circles of flesh…

 

With a deep, shuddering inhale, Wes gasped, “Fuck, brah, stick it in me.  Fuck me, man, cum in my ass.  I want yer fuckin’ load.”

 

The Trucker leered, a cold, shark-like grin spreading across his handsome face.  “Gonna hafta see if you deserve my wad, boy.  Yer gonna hafta work for it—and if you ain’t workin’ hard enough, I got way to make ya.  Think you can handle that?”

 

In response, Wes peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, lean, boyish chest, already glistening with sweat himself.  “Dude, I can handle whatever you got,” he boasted.

 

The Trucker’s grin got even wider.  He was gonna have so much fun proving the stupid little faggot wrong.

 

Digging into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros, he lit one up before reaching up and taking off the red trucker’s cap and tossing it on the floor.  His hair was short but not shaved, a pure black that gleamed in the overhead light like silk.  Wes, noticing the lit smoke, pulled back a small pile of dirty clothes near the mattress to reveal an ashtray on the bare wood floor; next to it were a phone charger and a small metal lamp, both plugged into the wall and within easy reach of the bed.  The boywhore fished his own cigarettes out of his pocket, but didn’t get the chance to burn one.

 

“Get over here,” the Trucker commanded.  “You want my dick?  Work for it.  Pull my shirt off.”

 

Eager as a puppy, Wes dropped his pack of generic smokes and darted across the room.  He instantly ran his hands over the rippled muscles on the Trucker’s hard, furry abs, feeling them through the thin fabric of the wifebeater.  He stuck his hand down inside the Trucker’s jeans, reaching for the hem, but he made the mistake—or perhaps it was deliberate—of going in front and center, like he was reaching for the alpha’s dick.

 

The Trucker knocked his hand away.  “Uh-uh,” he said, “You ain’t earned the right to feel my cock yet.”  The stud grabbed the shirt and pulled it up out of his waistband before he let Wes continue.

 

Wes paused for a moment, unsure of himself.  The Trucker took a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of bluish smoke into the punk’s face.  “Whatcha waitin’ for, boy?” he growled, “I toldja to pull my shirt off!”

 

Responding instinctively to the hard edge of command in the Trucker’s voice, Wes grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up.  The hard-bodied alpha raised his arms to let the shirt come off over them; he knew damn well that the whore wasn’t tall enough to pull the shirt up over his head, but he kept the pretense up.

 

Wes has risen up on the toes of his electric-blue hightops in his attempt to raise his arms high enough when the Trucker suddenly planted his big hand on the back of the kid’s head and rammed Wes’s face into his hairy, reeking armpit.  The kid gasped as the alpha ground his face into the warm, wiry pit hairs.

 

Before he could react, Wes’s face was pulled back, then forcibly rubbed against the Trucker’s chest.  The powerful top was clutching a handful of the cunt’s hair, using it like a handle to maneuver Wes’s head.  The boy could feel the alpha chest fur, moist with sweat, scratching at his face, when suddenly there was an erect mound of flesh in his mouth.

 

“Work my nipple, faggot,” the older man hissed roughly.  Wes obey, slurping eagerly at the large knot.  For a moment, he dug his teeth in and leaned back, stretching the dark flesh out, then the Trucker cuffed him in the head.

 

“That’s enough, cunt,” he snapped, pulling his shirt off himself and tossing it on the floor.  “I gotta take a leak.”  Walking to the bathroom, he bent down momentarily and tapped his ash into the ashtray beside the bed.  It wasn’t a characteristic move for him.  Usually, he just let the ash fall on the floor—after all, with the hour, the meat would be long past caring if the floor was dirty—but he had a gut feeling this time.

 

He was right.  From the corner of his eye, the Trucker caught the whoreboy’s eyes glued to his ass.  While that in itself wasn’t unusual—faggots always stared at the way denim cradled his firm, round asscheeks—there was something odd about the way the homo kept his eyes on one spot like a laser.  The experienced mankiller knew exactly what was going on—the kid was fixated on his wallet.

 

The alpha turned back and retrieved his shirt.  He removed the wallet form his hip pocket, rather ostentatiously, wrapped the shirt around it, and tossed it back down into his upturned cap lying on the floor.  Satisfied, he headed to the bathroom.

 

It was a trap, of course.  As he stood at the toilet, pounding out his piss, his blood boiled at the thought of the cheap hustler trying to steal from him.  At the same time, the thought of what he’d do to the punk if he actually did try anything was starting to get him stiff.  He let the stream of piss slow to a stop and listened, but heard nothing.

 

The kid was waiting.  The Trucker could play that game, too.  He kept still and silent for a good five minutes before he heard a faint rustle form the bedroom.  When he threw the door open, he was already prepared for what he found.

 

Wes had already stripped.  His gear was tossed onto the pile of dirty clothes; the belt with the black Superman logo was coiled on top.  The slim youth was crouched, nude but for his ped socks, over the Trucker’s cap on the floor.  He’d already managed to unwrap the shirt from the wallet and had just opened it up when the bathroom door opened and the Trucker emerged.

 

The room was so small the large, muscled killer was standing over Wes before the thieving fagboy even knew he was there.  His pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, Wes slowly turned to look at the Trucker’s brown, scuffed workboots next to him, then raised his eyes.

 

The homo punk’s gaze crawled up the Trucker’s thick legs, noticing almost for the first time how the tight denim barely contained the firm calf muscles, how the tear on the left thigh revealed the power of the thick thigh behind it.  Then he raised his eyes further to the groin and gasped involuntarily in shock.

 

Wes, despite his youth, had taken a lot of dick in his life, but this…this was as intimidating as fuck.  The Trucker’s erect member, huge and swollen, jutted from the unzipped fly out over the kid’s head; as he watched, a large transparent bead of precum welled out and fell on him—Wes could feel the moist potent heat of the drop on his scalp.

 

The thick veins writhing across the surface of the enormous cock expanded as the dark shaft pulsated.  Wes was transfixed, both horrified and attracted by the massive rod of manmeat—it was too big, it would literally tear him a new asshole, but it was such hot fucking proof of manhood that the young power bottom couldn’t help getting hard himself, despite the inherent danger of the situation.  The meth still circulating in his system went some ways towards explaining this—but not all the way.  Stone cold sober, Wes still craved cock to the extent that he’d have walked into a bear trap to get this hot hardbodied stud’s tool.

 

It was hard to tear his gaze away from that mesmerizing rod of glistening, pulsating manmeat, but Wes’s eyes were drawn upwards, along the dude’s ripped, hairy abs to the dark forest of body hair covering the alpha’s broad, bulked-out chest.  The glint of metal indicated the presence of the top’s dogtags, nestled in the dark, furry valley between the twin peaks of his thick hubcap pecs from which the large dark nipples protruded.

 

Again, the instant impression was of overwhelming masculine power.  There was something about the alpha’s muscle-bound torso that suddenly reminded the lust-distracted faggot that he’d just been caught stealing.  In his sudden fear, he raised his eyes to the Trucker’s face.

 

He took one look at the expression of unholy rage and triumph on the Trucker’s face and went pale in fear.

 

“No, man,” he started, “It ain’t what ya think—”

 

The Trucker bent down and slammed his fist into Wes’s temple.  The blow to the head didn’t completely knock the whore out, but it sent him sprawling dazed onto the floor.

 

The muscled killer had tossed his first butt into the john.  He pulled his pack out and lit another as he walked around the stunned, moaning youth.  “So ya thought it was smart to go for my wallet, huh?” he sneered.  “Guess I’m gonna hafta teach ya what a bad fuckin’ idea that was.”

 

Wes groaned tried to rise, placing his right hand flat on the floor to brace himself.  Before he could move, the Trucker was there, grinding his bootheel onto the back of Wes’s hand.

 

“AHH!  Wha—wha—” Wes cried out as the Trucker crouched down, keeping the cunt’s hand pinned to the wood floor.

 

“Ya see,” the Trucker said in an almost conversational tone, “I was just gonna fuck ya and snuff ya, but now I’m gonna hafta make ya suffer.  You were gonna die tonight anyway, faggot, but now yer gonna die in agony.  I gotta teach you a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your worthless life—which I’m guessing is gonna be about another half hour at most.”  He paused and took a long, searching look at Wes’s lithe, lean body.  “You’re young; you might make it to forty minutes.  It don’t matter, as long as you learn what a huge fuckin’ mistake you made.”

 

Wes was about to reply that he already knew he’d made a mistake bringing this huge sexy psycho home when the Trucker reached down, grabbed one of the boy’s splayed fingers—the index finger—and jerked it up, violently.  The snapping of bone wasn’t very loud but it echoed in the small room.

 

Wes’s scream was even louder.

 

“Good thing all yer low-life neighbors are out partyin’,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Ain’t no one around to hear ya scream, asswipe.  Not like they’d bother to help a worthless cumguzzlin’ fag like you anyway.”

 

The middle finger was next.  It was larger, so the snapping sound was louder.  “Are ya learnin’ to keep yer homo hands off my shit?” the sweat-slicked muscular killer asked, flicking the ash from his smoke into the cunt’s hair.  Wes couldn’t answer; he could only moan and sob.  “No?” the Trucker grinned.  “Fuck, yer a stupid sack of shit.  Guess I gotta keep learnin’ ya, huh?”

 

When the Trucker broke Wes’s ring finger, the cheap rentboy reacted, beating on the Trucker’s leg with his left hand and drawing his knees up under himself, trying to unbalance the sadist kneeling on his hand.  The sadistic alpha laughed cruelly and leaned forward to put his entire body weight onto the bootheel that was crushing Wes’s hand.

 

“See, that’s the problem with you dumbass faggots,” he jeered, “Ya don’t even appreciate a good education.  Gotta make ya learn the hard way, no matter how long it takes.”  Wes’s howls of pain as his pinkie finger was shattered made the cracking of the bone almost inaudible, but they were nothing to the noise the cunt made when the Trucker went to work on his thumb.  The muscle-bound killer didn’t break it; he wrenched it out of its socket, dislocating it, and wrung it around in huge circles, tearing the ligaments and tendons until it was useless.

 

Abruptly, the Trucker stood up and stretched.  He stepped away from Wes and headed towards the kitchen.  “Might as well make myself comfortable while I’m educatin’ ya, boy.  Got anything decent to drink in this place?”  He opened the cabinets and fridge.  “Shit, all ya got is a coupla Buds?  Figures.  Worthless asshole.”  There being no other alternative, he grabbed one anyway.

 

Wes had curled into a fetal position, cradling his broken and useless right hand.  “You—you—” he sobbed, “You fuck—fuckin’ psycho…”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” the Trucker drawled as he opened the beer and took a swig.  He walked over to the bed and placed the can on the floor next to the mattress, then returned to Wes.  The whoreboy was just rising to his knees when the Trucker approached, grabbed a handful of the kid’s brown hair and dragged him, kicking and squalling, over to the bed.

 

Seating himself on the mattress at what would be considered the foot of the bed, the Trucker pulled Wes’s head into his crotch, and with his dick running across the wailing homo’s face, wrapped his leg around the kid’s neck to hold him in place.  The well-built sadist then bent down and, grabbing the youth’s left arm, brought his hand up and continued the lesson.

 

This time he started with the little finger, a quiet snap that added no more to the agonized bleating that the pansy bitch was already making.  “See, the best way to learn somethin’,” the Trucker said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling into Wes’s face before taking another swig of beer, “Is to make sure it’s associated with somethin’ you ain’t gonna forget.”  He went for the index finger this time, slowly bending it backwards until it cracked like a green twig.  “Like pain.  Ya feelin’ me, faggot?”

 

Wes screeched, his right arm flailing against the Trucker’s restraining leg, his mangled fingers slapping uselessly against the tight faded denim.

 

The cold, sadistic killer chuckled and knocked the ash from his smoke into Wes’s tear-streaked face before settling it back between his lips and causally breaking the ring finger on his left hand.  The frantic fagboy jerked and kicked, his legs scrambling vainly on the wood floor, unable to find a purchase.  “Stop!  Help! Stop!” he screamed suddenly as he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this by himself—and that this was turning out far worse than he’d ever thought possible.

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker snapped and punched him in the face.

 

Wes grunted, stunned by the impact that was so hard, it had broken the thin bone behind his left eye, which instantly began to swell and darken.  His head lolled as the Trucker bent his index finger past the breaking point, the loud snap heard easily over Wes’s semi-conscious moans.

 

The Trucker chugged the rest of the beer, then jammed the smoldering butt of his smoke into the can and tossed it aside.  Standing up, he let Wes slump to the ground, wallowing in pain.  “Fuck,” the alpha grunted, “Got yer fuckin’ horse piss beer on my hands.”  He headed to the bathroom and ran them under the sink.

 

It had taken him less than sixty seconds, but when he came back out, the Trucker found that Wes had managed to regain his feet and was trying to escape.  Even though there was no possibility of that, the Trucker growled malignantly as he watched the panicked whoreboy’s futile attempts to work the doorknob of his own front door with all his fingers and one thumb broken and useless.

 

“Get back here, you stupid sack of faggot shit,” he snarled crossing instantly to him, “I ain’t done with you yet, asswipe. You still gotta lot to learn before you take yer dirt nap, cunt.”

 

Wes looked up at him, his youthful, once-arrogant face gray with shock and despair, and had a sudden realization of the nightmare he was about to endure.  Blubbering mindlessly, he lost control of his bladder, his piss running down his legs and soaking his socks—and spattering on the Trucker’s boots.

 

Incandescent with rage, the sadistic powerhouse grabbed the desperate punk with both hands—one hand clamped around his throat and the other hand snapped shut on his scrotum like a steel trap, shutting off the flow of urine—and hoisted him in the air.

 

“Piss on me, will ya, you goddam faggot scum?” the Trucker roared and flung Wes headlong into the kitchen.  Flying across the counter and stove, Wes barely had time to fling his arms over his head before he slammed excruciatingly into the far wall and fell to the floor with a clatter of pans and dishes.

 

The dazed, semi-conscious found himself flailing helplessly on the kitchen floor as the heavy, ominous tread of the Trucker’s boots came closer.  Aside from the horrible pain wracking his lean, firm body, his sensations were vague.  He knew that those approaching footsteps meant unrelenting suffering and torment, and that it had something to do with some imagined idea of hot intense sex he’d hoped for, but everything else was confused and distorted.  He wasn’t even entirely sure where he was; this kinda pain couldn’t be happening in his own room…

 

The Trucker stood over the mewling boycunt writhing on the floor and kicked him in the gut, his steel-toed workboot sinking deeply into Wes’s smooth, soft, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the faggot grunted as the impact knocked the air out of him.  Wes looked up at the Trucker, his face soundlessly expressing his horror as he tried desperately to inhale.

 

The hardbodied alpha knelt down by Wes’s head.  He grabbed the fuckboy’s carefully sculpted hair—now a tousled mass—and jerked his head up.  Staring into the kid’s eyes, he spit into Wes’s face, the frothy spittle splattering on the punk’s forehead and trickling down into the boy’s left eye, which had turned black and swollen shut by now.  The older man radiated violence and cruel power in the same way his slick mansweat filled the air with an acrid mix of testosterone and adrenalin, and some dim part of the whore’s mind was aware of his own traitorous, involuntary erection—

 

“Ya know I’m gonna kill ya, right?” the Trucker leered.  “Ya know I’m gonna use you as a cumdump and snuff yer sorry faggot ass, huh?  No, ya don’t.  I can see it in your dead soulless eyes, you worthless homo; you don’t think yer gonna die.  I’m gonna hafta teach it to ya.  I’m gonna hafta hurt you so bad you’ll finally appreciate what a huge fuckin’ favor I’m doin’ ya by wastin’ ya.”

 

Wes heard the words but couldn’t process them.  Out of his good right eye, he could see the Trucker’s handsome, scruff-covered face just inches from his—such a hot fucking dude couldn’t be trying to kill him, this was some kinda nightmare or he’d gotten hold of some bad ice and was freaking out—

 

The Trucker stood, pulling Wes up with him, one hand still clutching a hank of the boy’s hair and the other locked around his throat.  This time, the alpha held the kicking pansy aloft for a moment, letting the boy choke and gag as his own body weight crushed his throat.  Then he flung the slut across the room as hard as he could.

 

Wes hit the wall next to the window, collapsing the drywall and leaving a massive dent as he fell limply back to the floor with a thump like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground.  He was still trying to catch his breath when the Trucker was on him again, hoisting him up by the throat.  “You still want my cock, fag?  Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m still gonna stick it in ya.  You’ll get my load, cocksucker.  ‘Course, you may have too much brain damage by then to enjoy it—but I’ll fuckin’ enjoy it enough for both of us.  Sounds like a fair deal, huh, motherfucker?”

 

The frantic youth instinctively tried to claw at the Trucker’s arm.  Every single contact of his hands on the brutal stud’s bicep and tricep was agony as his broken fingers twisted excruciatingly with the impact.  But the crushing pain in his throat was swiftly overtaking his notice—his entire body weight was collapsing his esophagus in the Trucker’s vise-like grip.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Panic bubbled up in his fear-frozen pansy brain; lack of air had triggered a subconscious terror of asphyxiation.

 

Wes had never spent a moment of his shallow, drug-addled life speculating on what would be the worst way to die; now he knew, without any thought being involved.  He didn’t want to choke to death.

 

The nude queerboy tried to plead wordlessly with the Trucker.  A less experienced killer wouldn’t have been able to read the desperate expression on the swelling, blackening face, or understand the depths of sheer horror behind the tears leaking from the one eye not already swollen shut—but the Trucker did.  He laughed aloud, a hard, cruel sound that drowned out the thick grunting noises coming from Wes’s closed-off throat.

 

“Don’t worry, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” he chuckled.  “Trust me, motherfucker, you’ll know when I’m offin’ ya—I’ll make goddam sure of that.”  Then he gut-punched Wes twice in swift succession, his rock-hard fist first sinking into the kid’s belly as before.  The second blow landed squarely on the solar plexus and Wes forgot all about the pain in his fingers and almost forgot the pain in his throat.

 

The Trucker laughed again as he watched the suffering faggot shudder limply in his grip.  “Looks like yer about to go to sleep, boy,” he drawled.  “Am I borin’ you, fuckmeat?  Here, you stupid piece of fag shit, maybe this’ll teach ya to pay attention!”

 

He slammed the kid headfirst into the TV, holding him by the neck and throwing him like a dart.  Wes’s head cracked the screen; his chest hit the TV stand.  The stand was cheap particle board, but the boywhore hit it hard enough and at just the right angle to break two ribs on his left side.

 

The punk hit the floor and didn’t move.  The Trucker lit up a smoke and sat back down on the bed, keeping an eye on the heaving, gasping pile of boymeat.  He knew he needed to pace himself or he’d whack the motherfucker before he’d had a chance to fuck ‘im.  And as much as he wanted to make the kid die, he particularly wanted to make the kid die while riding his cock.

 

Wes was lying inert, wrapped in a tight, throbbing blanket of pain.  It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe; it even hurt to think.  Especially if he thought about what the Trucker had said to him—so he didn’t think, at least not for a while.  But he could still hear the breath of his sadistic assailant, long inhales and exhales as the alpha calmly smoked his cigarette and watched Wes suffer.

 

After a while, a cloudy sense of self-preservation began to stir in the craven twink’s mind.  He was in a dangerous situation—he wouldn’t let himself recognize the true extent of the peril—and he needed to find a way out.  There was no way he could physically escape; maybe he could talk to the guy, work something out with him.  The fact that his thought process shied away from the real reason behind his inability to escape—the hot stud had casually and cheerfully broken his fingers, one by one—showed his distorted his thinking was.

 

There wasn’t anything to work out with the Trucker except how slowly and how painfully Wes was gonna die.

 

The Trucker wasn’t a mind reader, but he had enough experience offing worthless rentboys to have an accurate, if general, idea of the flow of the whore’s thoughts.  The kid just couldn’t fit the idea of his own death into his shallow brain.  The intensely cruel alpha smiled grimly and stood up.

 

“Recess is over, dickhead,” he growled.  “Time to start learnin’ again.”

 

Wes had rolled over, about to try reasoning with the Trucker, but the tone in the muscle-bound stud’s voice stopped him cold.  It took about four steps for the Trucker to reach him from the bed.  As the helpless punk stared up at the hulking figure towering over him, his words dried up on his cracked lips.

 

That amazing furry body, muscles glistening with sweat in the dim light, the enormous hog—thick, purple, pulsing in vein-wreathed lust—it was everything he wanted in a top, but this was too much, the dude was too aggressive…

 

…and then Trucker bent down to grab him again.  “Wanna play, little boy?” he whispered with an evil grin, and Wes lost it.

 

“Oh please no,” he gasped, amazed at how painful it was to speak; every breath he took shifted the sharp, jagged ends of his broken ribs inside his abdomen.  “Do…do what ya wa-want, but pl-please don’t hurt me anymore, oh please sir, dear god don’t hurt me no more…I’ll, I’ll do whatever you want, please, sir, I’m so sorry, take anything ya want, just, just…just no more pain…”

 

His entreaties became more frantic as the older man reached out to grab him again.  “No!  Fuck, please, no!  Oh god, oh god, please fuck please no don’t fuck no—”

 

Again, the Trucker grabbed him in two places—by the throat and by the scrote.  This time, though, there was no dangling.  The hardbodied killer whirled around, flinging Wes on the bed at full speed.  The homo slut hit the mattress and bounced up off it, smacking into the wall at the head of the bed and falling back, toppling the bedside lamp and knocking the ashtray across the room, leaving a trail of sooty ashes in its wake.

 

Before Wes could recover—it was taking him longer and longer to come back with each new bout of abuse—the Trucker had laid him flat on his back on the bed and had climbed between his legs, propping the kid’s socked feet on his shoulders.  The sick top waited until Wes seemed to be conscious enough for comprehension.

 

“Know what, faggot?” he jeered at the dazed, agonized youth, “All this exercise is gettin’ me horny as fuck.  Think it’s time to drain my load.  Time to say yer prayers, motherfucker, cause once I use you as a cumrag, I’m gonna be done with ya.  The hot squirt of my manseed deep in yer guts is gonna be the last thing yer fag ass feels before I put you down, ya piece a’ shit.”

 

And before Wes could even blink, the Trucker slammed his gigantic shaft balls-deep into the twink’s raw, unprepared fuckhole.

 

If he had been capable of rational thought, Wes would have felt betrayed by the way his young, form body refused to let him lapse into blessed unconsciousness under this new onslaught of excruciating pain.  The searing agony of a ripped sphincter and a torn colon shot through his lithe form, forcing him into involuntary rigidity that only increased his suffering—his body no longer flexed to accommodate the huge thick rod of manflesh spearing his innards.

 

And greatest betrayal of all—in spite of his fear and pain, his own seven-inch cock went rigid itself with a painful stiffness as the Trucker’s cock ground its way over Wes’s prostate.  He could feel it, over all the other stimuli.  The badly-beaten punk was still struggling to breathe—he couldn’t scream, but a high-pitched squeal was forced out of him by sheer agony.

 

“Shaddup, meat, no one fuckin’ cares,” the Trucker barked and sucker-punched Wes in the face.  There was a thick wet crunch as the whoreboy’s nose was crushed, and the Trucker achieved his purpose.  It damn sure got Wes to stop squealing; the stunned youth’s wide eyes, circled with gray rings of shock stared at the alpha in abject horror as blood trickled from both nostrils.

 

The Trucker bent over, his massive hog plugging the kid’s ass.  The dogtags around his neck hit Wes’s smooth chest with a clink and slid to one side as the muscled top lowered himself until their faces were inches apart.  “Worthless fuckin’ faggot, can’t even take a real man’s cock,” the alpha growled, his expression a terrifying mix of rage and demonic glee.  “You’re about to ride that cock right into your grave, fucker, and if you don’t stop squealin’ like a pig, I’ll break yer fuckin’ jaw.”

 

He gave his hips a sudden, single pump, ripping his swollen rod out of the kid’s ass—not completely; he left the billiard-ball-sized head inside the rectum—and driving it all the way back in.  Wes’s entire face went gray with agony as the gigantic horsedick reamed out his colon; he strained until sweat coursed down his face but was unable to suppress a loud, bleating whimper.

 

The Trucker was as good as his word.  He leaned forward, putting his left hand around Wes’s throat to support his weight and driving three hard, swift blows into the fag’s jaw, wielding his right fist like a sledgehammer.  The punches were delivered with the force of a steam piston and by the time they were done, the boy’s jaw was broken and he’d had three teeth knocked out.

 

Best of all, the whore’s body had jumped and jerked with each impact; the Trucker had felt each blow reverberate in the whore’s asshole, making it squeeze his dick.  The kid was gonna be a nice, responsive fuck.

 

Wes wallowed in pain; his face, his ass, his hands…there was a loud humming in his head that seemed to distort things.  Was he on a bad trip?  There was an incredibly hot stud fucking him; he could feel the top’s broad, muscular chest pressing against his own, the wiry body fur scraping painfully across his smooth, soft skin…too much pain, something was wrong.  Maybe more ice would fix it…

 

“I need a hit,” Wes mumbled, not fully aware that he was speaking aloud, his broken jaw barely moving, his speech slurred.  “Comin’ down—gimme another hit…”

 

“What, another one?” the Trucker jeered, knowing damn well what the boywhore meant.  “All you fuckin’ faggots are pain pigs.  Sure, asswipe, here ya go!”

 

Another three blows in rapid fire, striking the cunt’s torso.  The Trucker had aimed with frightening precision at the spot where the kid’s ribs had broken.  Wes screeched, ignoring the agony caused by the sudden, violent motion in his snapped jaw, as the jagged ends of the ribs were driven inwards, puncturing his left lung in two places.

 

The Trucker grinned and began fucking the suffering fuckmeat brutally.

 

Wes was beaten, in more ways than one.  He could only lie on his back, arms and legs outspread, and try to breathe while the muscle-bound alpha hunched over him and raped him viciously.  His left lung was collapsing; every breath of air was a desperate, agonizing struggle that taxed the diaphragm and tore the lung open even further.  The weight of the older man’s heavy, hulking form pressing down on him only made it worse.

 

All in all, it was a blessing for Wes—the frantic attempt to breathe, to merely draw air into his one working lung drew his focus from his pain.

 

But pain was what made Wes work the Trucker’s dick.  The Trucker was not happy.  The meat was supposed to spend the last few minutes of its life pleasuring him; it needed to be reminded of its duty.  He looked around and noticed the small bedside lamp lying on the floor right next to him.  He reached out his left arm and grabbed it, then rose up on his knees.

 

The sudden lifting of the pressure on his chest gave Wes a chance to inhale enough oxygen to regain full awareness.  Even as the tide of nightmarish suffering rose up around him, he looked up at the Trucker looming over him, holding the lamp.

 

As he watched, the powerful hardbodied older man held the lamp in one hand, wrapped the power cord around the other hand and pulled them apart.  There was a quick bugling of his biceps and the cord came away with deceptive ease—it had taken a lot of strength to pull it out.

 

The alpha threw the lamp over his shoulder; it clattered off on the far side of the room.  He held the cord up in front of Wes’s face and grinned.  Nothing needed to be said; the boy knew what it meant and tears welled from his blackened eyes.

 

A glittering light, refracted from the surface of the Trucker’s dangling dogtags, danced hypnotically in front of Wes’s eyes; the panicked whoreboy his focus to be drawn from the cord to the light, steadfastly denying the obvious implications of the former until the Trucker bent forward.  The icy glint in the alpha’s cold steely blue eyes broke the trance; his hot breath on the boy’s face brought Wes back to his excruciating, terrifying reality.

 

“Are you scared, little boy?” the Trucker mocked, “You should be.  Yer gonna die now.  It’s gonna take a little while and it’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna be worth it cause yer gonna jack me off as you kick and struggle.  Your death throes are gonna milk the cum right outta my cock.  That’s why ya gotta die, homo—so I can shoot my wad.  Stupid motherfuckin’ faggot; all yer good for is catchin’ my load in yer dead asshole.”

 

The lamp cord was long.  The Trucker was able not only to wrap it around both hands to ensure his grip, he was able to loop it twice around Wes’s neck, lifting the cunt’s head up by the hair.  The slut was past begging or pleading by this point; pain and terror had paralyzed his ability for positive action of any kind.  All Wes could do was submit as his mind spun in a benumbed circle—he’d just wanted a good hard fuck, he’d found the perfect stud, what the fuck had happened?  He’d totally forgotten his attempt at theft; he was the helpless and innocent victim of…of…

 

In the course of wrapping the cord around Wes’s neck, the Trucker had shifted to one side slightly.  As Wes peered up at the alpha, now silhouetted in front of the overhead light, the battered fuckmeat’s swollen and tear-filled eyes could only perceive a looming, hulking outline of pure masculinity, the quintessential maleness of the muscular top emphasized by the adrenaline and testosterone escaping from the alpha’s sweat and overwhelming the small room with the atmosphere of mansex.

 

This was what Wes had wanted, what he’d craved and had been driven to seek night after night in seedy bars and back alley.  Now he had it—and it was torturing him and killing him.

 

The Trucker tightened the cord, grinning sadistically as it sank into the tender flesh of Wes’s throat.  He could see that the meat was sinking into mental shock; nothing like a little breath control to stop that shit.  The cruel stud wanted his fucktoy in the here and now as it died.  And, of course, the experienced killer was right.

 

The moment his air was cut off, Wes was brought back to reality, abruptly and involuntarily.  He had a cold, clear moment of lucidity and remembered the instinctive, gut-wrenching horror he’d felt when his powerful tormentor had held him aloft by the throat and choked him.

 

Oh fuck.  Oh fuck no.  Not this.  He couldn’t die like this, no, no, no no no nononono…

 

Panic descended on the helpless sack of fuckmeat in a black mist that clouded his eyes; the Trucker recognized the glazed look of terror.  It always happened somewhere around this stage of the game; despite everything it was told, the fagmeat was usually too stupid to fully comprehend its impending death until it was actually in the process of dying.

 

Which, of course, was exactly why it had to die—it needed to be brought to this level of emotional intensity to properly work the Trucker’s cock.  The muscled alpha tightened the cord further and braced himself for the first spasm of panicked struggle.

 

And even though Wes’s life expectancy was approximately five minutes, he did manage to learn some things in the last few nightmarish moments of his short, useless life.

 

He learned that panic only briefly numbed the pain, and that there was a terrible price to pay for his mindless flailings in terms of sheer agony.  He kicked wildly, his heels drumming on the Trucker’s back with as much impact as if they were pillows; as his feet flailed, one of his ped socks slipped off and feel to the floor.

 

He slapped his hands repeatedly against the Trucker’s wrists in an instinctive and utterly futile attempt to wrest the killer’s implacable, relentless hold on his throat, his snapped fingers splaying and flopping limply.  The excruciating pain of the jagged ends of the broken bones grinding into tissue and each other wasn’t alleviated, merely delayed.  When it hit, Wes went rigid, shuddering with neural overload.

 

The fingers weren’t the only thing contributing to the punk’s mental short circuit.  The complete collapse of his left lung was kinda moot at this point, but the way his broken ribs tore into the deflated organ with every twist of Wes’s lean, smooth torso was another, much more painful matter.

 

And then there was his cock—never truly unheeded even during his darkest moments, it had remained hard involuntarily throughout his sufferings merely by the grinding, remorseless pressure exerted on his prostate by the phenomenal girth of the Trucker’s massive rod.  Now, though, it was actively swelling and throbbing in tempo with his racing, terrified pulse.  And every single individual throb seemed like an electrical shock running the length of his shaft and churning in his balls…

 

The Trucker paced himself, holding still, letting the meat massage his dick as it thrashed in terror, wrapping its smooth strong legs around his waist and squeezing tight.  Once it settled down into neural shock, the cruel alpha began speaking again, knowing the meat was still conscious and able to hear him.

 

“Are ya grateful to me, faggot?  Do ya appreciate what I’m givin’ ya?  Yer gonna get the honor of bein’ my cumdump.  All ya gotta do is convulse nice and hard as I choke ya to death, an’ I’ll hose yer guts with my spunk.”

 

The Trucker found the expression of absolute despair on Wes’s swelling, blackening face incredibly erotic; jerking the cord even tighter, he spit on the trembling cunt pinned helplessly under his powerfully-muscled body.  “That’s it, motherfucker,” he hissed, “Die on my dick.”

 

Thick black blossoms were popping open in Wes’s field of vision as blood vessels ruptured in his eyes.  His entire body was awash in pain; the pressure in his mangled chest cavity was unendurable.  His hypersensitive cock was rubbing against the Trucker’s firm, flat belly, the alpha’s body fur scraping the long, cum-filled ridge on the underside of the dick like a power sander.

 

And above the nightmarish agony of death, the beaten and raped whoremeat could still feel drops of precum oozing from the head of its own dick—it felt hot, like magma…

 

The Trucker realized that the meat was very close to death.  His seed began to boil, his balls began to contract, forcing his white-hot cum on its journey up his huge, erect shaft.  “You ready for my load, cunt?” he whispered into Wes’s dark face.

 

Foamy drool trickled down the whore’s face and his bulging eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving only the blood-streaked whites visible, but there was still a tiny fragment of Wes’s personality left, desperately straight-arming death in sheer terror.  It was sinking under the relentless torrent of pain and brain damage, but it was still there—and it knew what the Trucker’s question meant.

 

The Trucker bunched his biceps and with a loud grunt, gave the cord a powerful jerk.  At the same time, the thrusting of his hips increased, plunging his enormous shaft faster and deeper into the dying boy’s guts.

 

A loud wet crack echoed in the small room as Wes’s esophagus was crushed into a mangled wad of cartilage.  Simultaneously, the Trucker cried out, “Fuck—FUCK!!” and pumped a huge load of hot sticky cum deep inside the meat.

 

The little part that was still Wes felt the sharp, knife-like pain of its collapsed windpipe and the searing, boiling wetness filling it from the inside out.  There was time for one last fleeting thought—what happened dude I just wanted to get fucked—and then there was one last pain, the greatest and most intense pain, and it came from his dick.  In his last moment of life, Wes knew he was blowing his death load and it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was cumming molten glass—

 

—and then all that was left was convulsing meat, thrashing and ejaculating mindlessly, impaled on the Trucker’s still-shooting rod.  White ropy jets of semen erupted from the dead kid’s dick, splattering across the alpha’s broad, hairy chest and smearing his dogtags.  The corpse, its prostate still being forcibly massaged by the Trucker’s pumping shaft, remained erect and spewing boycum that spattered itself, pooling in the eyes and covering their grotesque, bulging blank whiteness.

 

After a while—he didn’t know how long—the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his huge scrotum drained.  He’d pumped a full load into the meat; so much, some trickled from the dead kid’s ass when the older man pulled out.  Once he got his boots back on the ground, the sweat-slick muscled stud headed to the bathroom.  A few minutes with a wet towel was enough to wipe the boypig cum off his body and out of his fur.

 

Returning to the bedroom, the Trucker retrieved his cap, shirt and wallet.  Replacing the red trucking cap on his head, covering his dark hair, he tucked his wallet in one rear pocket and his white wifebeater in the other, where it dangled out behind.  Fishing out his pack of smokes, he decided to burn one while surveying the scene.

 

The sadistic alpha felt a sense of satisfaction; he’d done a very thorough job.  The meat was on its back, blank cum-filled eyes pointed at the ceiling.  The arms were above the head and the legs were spread, showing the glaze of semen leaking from the torn asshole.  The semi-soft cock was still extended its full length and likely to remain so; it was glued to the flat belly by a thick crust of boyspunk.

 

Halfway up, the neck was puckered and drawn in so deeply it was difficult to make out the cord that was sunk into it.  Above that, the faggot was unrecognizable, the face black, swollen and covered with drool from between the dead kid’s purple, foamy lips.

 

The corpse still twitched randomly, the toes on the bare sockless foot curling, but as the Trucker finished his cigarette, the stupid homo’s brain finally figured out it was dead and the body became still.  The hardbodied alpha grinned and tossed his butt on the floor.  Grinding it out with his boot, he headed for his truck, leaving the apartment door cracked open.

 


 

Figures, Donato thought, Sarge has gotta walk in and catch me in the middle of a yawn…

 

“You bored, Donato?” the Sarge barked.

 

“No, sergeant,” Donato replied.

 

“Awright, what’s goin’ on here?  Jesus, what a fuckin’ mess.  Looks like someone got terminated with extreme prejudice, as they say in the movies.”

 

“We got a call about a dead body, Sarge.  Me and Ayers, we responded.  Ayers is out talkin’ to the neighbors now.”

 

The Sarge ambled over to the bed and took a good look at the body.  “ME on the way?”

 

“Yeah,” Donato replied, “Med examiner’s got the meatwagon comin’.”

 

“Well tell ‘im not to waste too much time over this one.  Some faggot got fucked to death.  And by th’ looks of this place, someone really wanted this one dead.  I seen a lot of these, but this is the first one where it looks like our killer tried to put the vic through the wall.  Oh, Ayers, there ya are.  What’d ya find out about the dead meat?”

 

“Well, like you was just sayin’, Sarge, some fag who got fucked to death.  Lady next door knows him as Wes—office ain’t open yet, so I ain’t gotta last name.  Anyways, she sez he’s out at the bars almost every night, always bringin’ dudes home—she can hear everythin’ through wall.  Even sez there’s been some yellin’ an’ fightin’ at times.  Seems like the little cocksucker liked to rip off his fuckbuddies.”

 

“Hey, Sarge?” Donato interrupted, “Dunno if yer interested, but I found a meth pipe in a drawer in the kitchen.  Some baggies with residue, too—ya want I should test ‘em?

 

“What, are you nuts?” the Sarge barked.  “You wanna go spend the taxpayer’s money for that kinda shit?  When the ME gets here, tell him to haul this pile of meat outta here.  And if he can’t tell me anything more than this little fuck got the shit beat outta him by some real strong guy, he can spare me the autopsy report.  I can see for myself the faggot was raped and strangled.  Serves the thievin’ piece a’ shit right.  Just wrap this shit up and forget it; y’all have real work to do.”

Adam–Fourth Kill–Bye Bi Boy

His name was Jeremy, he was twenty-seven years old, he was bi-curious, and he wanted to fuck Adam.  He was also drunk, which was how Adam knew so much about him so fast.

 

The buff killer was back at the SoHoLo Hotel for the first time in weeks.  He liked it here; the ambience was nice and there was lots of fuckmeat.  Perhaps too much—his last kill had closed the place down for almost a full week.  The second gay snuff in two months had given the place a bad name; it had shut down, ostensibly for security upgrades, but Adam didn’t see anything different.  He wasn’t worried.

 

He never worried about getting caught; somehow, he knew it wouldn’t happen.

 

He’d hit up the bar first and had better luck this time.  No party in progress, and since it was the middle of the week, it was relatively quiet; the clientele seemed to be mostly confined to hotel guests.

 

Adam had seen several potential cumdumps in the place, but one dude at the bar caught his eye.  Like Adam, he was a redhead, but whereas Adam’s hair was a lustrous coppery color, almost metallic, this guy had an unruly mop of carroty-orange hair that seemed to suit his snub nose, emerald-green eyes and freckle-spattered face perfectly.

 

The dude looked a little disheveled, as if he’d had to dress in a hurry and had thrown on what was at hand.  He wasn’t badly built; the Domo-kun character emblazoned on his dull yellow t-shirt was stretched so tightly across his chest that it was almost pulled out of recognizable shape.  A pair of skinny jeans in dark brown denim showed that he had some decent muscles in his thighs and calves—to say nothing of the nice large bulge in his crotch with the accompanying ridge down the inside of his left thigh.  His feet were laced into what looked like a new pair of dark gray Nike Lunar Fingertrap trainers.

 

Adam had taken the dude in with a single glance; the dude took longer to let his eyes wander over Adam, but the guy’s interest was obvious.  Not that Adam was surprised; he’d dressed to get some looks.

 

Bearing in mind the atmosphere of his hunting ground, the experienced killer had gone with an upscale casual look.  He wore a light blue button-down shirt, but he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbow and left the shirt unbuttoned, exposing his white cotton t-shirt underneath.  He also wore jeans, tight and faded, but clean.   He’d slipped on his old pair of Puma Cell running shoes, the black ones with white stripes.

 

Everything he wore but the kicks looked like it was size too small on his massive, muscle-bound bod.  He’d gotten several admiring looks—from both sexes—on the way in.  And he’d damn sure captured the attention of the guy at the bar.

 

All it took was a smile and a nod and soon Adam wasn’t alone in his booth.

 

That was when the whole story came out.  Jeremy had been in the bar for a couple of hours already, throwing back cheap beer but in the last half-hour or so, he’d switched to well drinks and was feeling no pain—a situation Adam was sure he could rectify easily.  He worked in construction, for a company that had a highway maintenance contract with the city.  He’d left his phone at home when he went to work.  His chick knew the code and accessed the phone—and found an email exchange where he’d replied to an M4M ad.  Nothing had ever come of it, but she’d had no idea of that side of him and went berserk.

 

He’d already scheduled a couple of days off work.  Now he was here alone at this hotel, he was drunk, horny, and bi-curious as ever, and, he slurred lasciviously, he wanted to bone Adam.

 

“I ain’t ever been fucked by a dude,” Adam said.  “We can go to your room and see what happens, though.”

 

Here Jeremy faltered slightly; there was something else he wanted to do, but even in his drunken state, he was hesitant to admit it.  “Well, I…thing is, I, uh, I wanna…fuck, man, yer shoes are so hot…”

 

Adam took the hint.  “You wanna worship my kicks?  Yeah, man you can do that.  Kinda like yours myself.”

 

Jeremy grinned with inebriated cheer.  “Aw, fuck yeah, man, this is gonna be so hot!  C’mon, bro, les’ go—I’m up on…um, it’s seven, I think…yeah, room 726.”

 

Adam wasn’t afraid of getting caught, but he wasn’t completely reckless, either.  He didn’t want to be seen leaving the bar with the drunk fucker.  “I gotta go take a leak first.  Plus, I need to settle my tab.  You go on and I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

 

“You ain’t gonna back out on me, are ya?” Jeremy asked anxiously.

 

“Fuck no, dude,” Adam said, leering at the smaller man.  “I’m gonna show ya such a good time tonight, you ain’t ever gonna go back to pussy again.”

 

Jeremy stood up, a huge happy smile on his freckled face and an obviously throbbing bulge in his groin, and headed for the door.  Drunk as he was, he walked in a remarkably straight line.

 

Adam chuckled contemptuously and ordered a shot of Jack.  When it came, he downed it and paid the bill, then slowly sauntered out, heading for the elevators.  Just as the elevator doors were starting to close, he dived in and found a giggling teenaged couple already in the car—with the button for floor seven pushed.

 

“Nine, please,” he said, and the boy obliged, disentangling himself from the girl just long enough to hit the floor button.

 

Adam let them get out on seven and continued to nine, where he walked down the hall to the emergency stairs and used them to get back to seven.  By the time he emerged on the floor, the hall was empty.  Reaching room 726 unseen, he knocked at the door, hoping the meat hadn’t passed out.  Unlikely—it was drunk, but not that drunk.

 

Jeremy opened the door just a crack, glanced around, and then opened it wide, standing behind it.  Adam stepped inside, turning as the door closed behind him to see that the dude had stripped to nothing but his sneakers and a pair of red briefs that did nothing to hide his thick shaft of manmeat.

 

The dude didn’t have a bad body; he was broad-chested and had some muscles, but he wasn’t anywhere near as built as Adam was.  Or as hairy.  There was the faint shadow of a strawberry-blond haze on his flat belly that seemed to thicken slightly as it plunged beneath the waistband of his briefs, but other than that, his skin was soft and smooth as silk.

 

“Fuck, man,” Jeremy said breathlessly, “I been dreamin’ about doin’ some a’ this shit since before high school.  Come over here an’ sit down, I wanna work on your feet before I fuck ya.”

 

Adam played along, walking into the room.  This was one of the least expensive rooms in the hotel; it still had the stripped-down, ultra-modern vibe, but it lacked the fancy bathroom and the huge window with the great view.  It compensated for the latter by covering the large closet doors with mirrors that reflected the gleaming black furniture and everything else.

 

Some of the less congruous items reflected in the mirror were Jeremy’s work clothes, piled in a chair—jeans and white t-shirt, both filthy; a yellow reflective vest and a similarly-colored hard hat; and on the floor next to the chair, a pair of dirty, well-worn construction boots, slouching and completely unlaced.

 

On the closest nightstand, Adam noticed a package of new bootlaces—one lace still in the open package, the other out and coiled to one side.  Even from this distance, the words “heavy duty” could be seen clearly on the package, as well as the length of seventy-two inches.  The sick sadist grinned; looked like the foot-fetish pervert was planning on doing some boot maintenance.

 

Jeremy caught Adam’s first glance at the chair and looked away momentarily, embarrassed.  “Yeah, I hadn’t had time to change when Amber kicked me out.  Had to check in wearin’ that gear; lucky I was able to get some shit together in a bag.”

 

“Ok, where do ya want me?” Adam asked, determined to give the little sicko enough rope to hang himself, so to speak.  He was gonna off the dude no matter what—he just wanted to see how badly the fucker deserved it.

 

He wanted to see how badly the guy needed to suffer before he was purified into prime fuckmeat, ready to receive his cock.

 

“Over here—sit over here,” Jeremy panted, indicating a chair in the corner of the room.  Adam obligingly sat, with the nightstand on his right and the mirrored closet door on his left.  The moment he was down, the half-nude punk was on his knees at Adam’s feet.

 

Jeremy grabbed Adam’s right foot, lifting it and caressing the Puma sneaker.  Raising it higher, he held it in one hand, bending forward and rubbing his face on the shoe’s upper while running his other hand up Adam’s leg, fondling his thick thigh muscles through the denim.   “Fuck yeah,” the dude moaned, his voice hitching in sexual excitement, “I been wantin’ this for-fuckin’-ever, man…”

 

He bent his head forward again and ran his tongue over the black leather sneaker.  Adam leaned back in the chair and slipped off his dress shirt, then peeled off the white t-shirt.  Jeremy glanced up, his eyes running up the skin-tight denim wrapped around the stud’s thigh muscles.  Passing the wide leather belt, the bi dude’s gaze swept along the trail of dark fur leading up from Adam’s waistband, rippling over his perfect washboard abs and spreading out into a thick, wiry forest of chest hair on his massive pecs.

 

“Holy shit, man, I wanna fuck you so bad…” Jeremy said, his voice low and taut with sexual energy.  He saw Adam’s smile but he was too lost in his desires—and too drunk—to see the cold, cruel glint in that smile.

 

“You ain’t done workin’ my kicks yet,” Adam told him.  This time, Jeremy picked up a little—a very little—of the tone of contempt in the hardbodied killer’s voice; he paused for a moment, looking back up into the copper-haired hunk’s face.  But there was no hint of emotion in the hooded, long-lashed eyes, and Jeremy bent down and applied his tongue to Adam’s other sneaker, still flat on the floor.

 

Adam sneered down at the kneeling footpig.  This little shit thought he was gonna fuck Adam?  He had to be taught how wrong he was.  And Adam was just the dude to make sure he learned his lesson real good.

 

The muscle-bound necro freak slowly unzipped his fly.  Reaching in with both hands, it took him a couple of minutes to fully extract his dick.  Jeremy was too busy slobbering over Adam’s Pumas to notice anything until he heard a dull thump above him.

 

Looking up, he saw a seven-inch tube of manmeat, over an inch thick—and completely soft.  “You want it hard?” Adam asked, leering down at him, “You gotta earn it, bro.  Ain’t goin’ in ya till it’s hard.”

 

Jeremy blinked in confusion.  “What?  I—no, man, I ain’t gay.  I-I ain’t takin’ anything up the ass, dude, ok?  Nothin’ wrong with it, but I don’t swing that way.  You’re supposed to ride my dick, remember?”

 

Given his drunken state, he was remarkably eloquent in stating his desires. It had remarkably little impact on what happened to him over the next forty minutes.

 

Adam stood up abruptly.  Jeremy, knocked back on his ass, threw an arm behind himself for support.  “Watch it, motherfucker!” he yelled with alcohol-fueled bravery, “Don’t make me fuck you up!”

 

Adam smiled coldly down at him.  “So,” he said with a quiet, calm voice, “You really think you’re man enough to fuck me, you little faggot?”

 

Jeremy’s face went red.  “I ain’t no faggot!” he shouted angrily.  “Dint I tell ya I gotta piece a’ pussy?  I was just lookin’ for someone to take my load, and I been curious—”

 

Disturbed, the slim young man had scooted himself backwards until he reached the bed and could go no farther.  Adam had moved forward as the punk had moved back and was towering over him, looking down with a contempt-filled smirk.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he jeered, “Yer gonna act like you don’t want the D, but you ain’t fooling no one, cocksucker.  See, problem is, I ain’t no homo either.  There’s only one way for you to earn my cock, ya fuckin’ fairy, and you ain’t gonna like it.”

 

Jeremy stared up at the hulking dude, his eyes wide with sudden fear.  “You’re crazy, bro.  You’re fuckin’ psycho. Ain’t no way I’m gonna—GAACK!!”

 

Adam had pounced with the swiftness of a jaguar, clamping his left hand around Jeremy’s throat with the speed and force of a bear trap, cutting off the dude’s air.  With a single deep grunt—the same sound he made when doing squats in the gym—he single-handedly lifted the guy up off the floor and held him dangling at arm’s length in the air.

 

Jeremy’s Nikes kicked furiously but were unable to find any support.  His fingers clawed frenetically at Adam’s hand but for all the impact they had, he might as well have been scratching at a statue.   Gagging and choking, Jeremy’s panicked, bulging eyes watched in horror as Adam held up his right hand, balled into a fist.  The brutal alpha kissed his own knuckles, said, “From Hell with love, cunt,” and sucker-punched Jeremy in the face so swift and so viciously, the fucker never saw it coming, and never felt it land.

 

That isn’t to say he didn’t feel pain.  His next sensation was huge explosion of pain; his lips were split, there were…things in his mouth and he could taste blood.  He jerked violently, which made his head hurt worse, and drooled the solid objects out of his mouth, which turned out to be teeth.  Three of them.

 

“Gha…gha…” Jeremy grunted, his closed-off windpipe preventing any further protest.

 

Adam grinned cheerfully.  “This next one’s from Hell, too,” he said.  “But there ain’t no love in this one.”  There was a flash and what seemed to be a violent explosion that filled his mind with a red haze and a sound like someone crumpling stiff paper, only louder.  The force of the blow had been so intense it momentarily delayed the pain of his crushed nose—but not for long.

 

Agony slammed through Jeremy’s firm young body like a physical blow; he was starting to lose consciousness from lack of air and everything from his neck up was already in terrible pain, but this new torment amplified the process.  The red sea of pain in which he swam suddenly rose up and swallowed him down in a tsunami of suffering.  Jeremy was aware of little else…there was a brief sensation of violent motion, and the red sea became oblivion.

 

When he regained consciousness, Jeremy felt pain in every limb.  He was lying on the floor with no further idea of the force with which Adam had flung him down than that which his aching, battered body provided him.  He hurt so bad he couldn’t move—but he could breathe.  The lithe young redhead instinctively curled into a fetal position as he coughed and gagged.  At the moment, catching his breath was more important than trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

 

And he didn’t have to figure anything out, in any case.  Sensing the presence of Adam, Jeremy opened his eyes—just barely, his agonized grimace forced them into slits—to see, in the mirrored closet doors, the reflection of the powerfully-built alpha grinning psychotically behind him.  The muscled stud was holding something in his hands but Jeremy’s eyesight was too blurred to make it out.

 

“You stupid faggot,” Adam chuckled with malevolent glee, “You don’t even know how to use a hot pair of kicks right.  You damn sure don’t deserve the ones ya got on, so I’m gonna take ‘em, asswipe.  And I’m gonna break ‘em in the right way, cunt.”  He bent down and in a single violent motion grabbed the waistband of Jeremy’s red briefs and jerked forcefully.  There was a rough tugging sensation at the dude’s waist, a ripping sound, and suddenly Jeremy’s Nikes were all he had left on.

 

Tossing the torn underwear into the corner, Adam grabbed a fistful of the slim youth’s bright red hair and pulled him, moaning and blubbering, to his knees, facing the mirrored doors.  “Open yer eyes, fuckwad,” Adam hissed, “Open ‘em up and lookit yerself.”

 

The tone of command, tinged with contemptuous arrogance, was too powerful to resist; Jeremy obeyed instinctively.  Reluctantly forcing the swollen lids of his eyes open, he could see his own ruined face, streaked with blood, snot and tears, staring desperately back at him from less than three feet away.  His vision was still somewhat blurry, but he could also see now what Adam was holding in his hand.

 

It was the bootlace from the nightstand—seventy-two inches of heavy-duty braided nylon.

 

Adam, standing directly behind him, patted Jeremy on the shoulder.  “See, the right way to break in those sexy sneakers ya got is to wear ‘em while yer fuckin’ a good piece a’ meat.  And that’s just what I’m gonna do; ya feel me, brah?  I’m gonna be wearin’ ‘em while I fuck ya.”

 

The hulking, hard-bodied stud stretched the bootlace out to its full length, then began to wrap each end around his palms.  He did this multiple times, getting an unbreakable hold on the nylon cord while still leaving a good long length free between his hands.  “’Course, I ain’t no cumsuckin’ faggot pig.  I don’t stick my dick in no worthless homo shit like you, motherfucker.  Know what that means?  Means that if we’re gonna get them kicks christened right, yer gonna die.”

 

Adam lunged forward and wrapped the bootlace around Jeremy’s neck so fast the battered bi kid never saw it happen.  There was a blur, and then he couldn’t breathe.

 

This was worse than before.  It hurt worse; the thin nylon cord dug deeply and painfully into his throat, sinking below the surface of the flesh even as his fingers clawed frantically at it.  And earlier, when the psycho stud had held him up and choked him, Jeremy had been afraid he might die.

 

Now, he knew it.  He just didn’t believe it.

 

Pulling the nylon cord tight, Adam stood over him, grinning down at his kneeling, struggling victim.  “Hey, dude,” he whispered sensually, “Look in the mirror.  Watch yerself die, faggot.  Watch yerself choke to death.”

 

Jeremy’s eyes were already wide in terror; he couldn’t help but to watch the scene reflected in the mirror.  It showed him himself—part of him refused to recognize that swollen face, battered and bleeding, as his—on his knees, jerking fitfully and pawing at his throat.  Standing behind him was the half-dressed alpha, his furry muscled chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his powerful biceps bulging as he viciously tightened the cord around his victim’s throat.  The hardbodied stud stood with his legs spread, the toes of his Puma Cells digging into the carpet as he slowly choked the life out of the punk.

 

The worst thing of all, though, was the expression on Adam’s brutally handsome face; it was a look that mingled contemptuous lust and a murderous triumph.  There was no hint of mercy or pity in that look; it was the look of an experienced sex killer.

 

As Jeremy coughed and gagged thickly, he realized that this time the dude wasn’t gonna let go.  If he was gonna get out of this alive, he was gonna have to do it on his own.  A single glance in the mirror should have forewarned him of the futility of the effort—Jeremy was neither weak nor scrawny but he was no match of someone of Adam’s massive build—but reason and panic aren’t compatible and the inability to breathe had shoved Jeremy pretty firmly into the latter state.

 

He thrashed about on the nylon cord like a deep-sea fish fighting a line; Adam was forced to dig in with both feet to maintain his balance while keeping up the pressure.  In the back of his head, some part of Jeremy’s flashed up the memory of his purchase of the bootlaces and felt a vague touch of irony at his selection of the “heavy-duty” pair.  The bootlace was durable; he’d be dead long before it broke.

 

“Quit fightin’ it, motherfucker,” Adam hissed, his face twisted with rage.  “You piece of faggot shit—best thing I can do to ya is put ya down.  Does it hurt, asswipe?  I fuckin’ hope so.  You deserve to die squealin’ in agony like a stuck pig, you goddam homo!”

 

Jeremy had stopped trying to dig the cord out of his throat—it had sunk in too deeply; all he was doing was tearing at his own flesh.  His eyes, already starting to bulge grotesquely from their orbits, could see every detail of his own murder.  Among other things, he could see Adam’s arms, so he transferred his attention there, clawing at his assailant like a cornered bobcat.  Bending backwards, he managed to pull one leg up underneath him and plant it in front of himself.  Lifting up, he tried to do the same with the other.  If he succeeded, he’d go from a kneeling position to a standing position and might have a better chance for defense.

 

His actual chance of defense against an experienced sociopath like Adam was nil whether he succeeded or not—not that he did succeed in rising to his feet; Adam had noticed the movement—had anticipated something of the sort, in fact—and had thrown his weight forward, right on Jeremy’s neck.  If the lithe young fag had kept trying to arc backward to free his foot, he’d have broken his own neck.

 

“G’wan,” he whispered huskily in Jeremy’s ear as their heads were pressed together, “Keep movin’, pussyboy.  I wanna hear yer spine shatter.  It sounds like a fresh branch breaking, a kinda wet cracking snap as your spinal fluid sprays out and your vertebrae shred your spinal cord.  It’s so fuckin’ hot, that sound, it’s gettin’ me hard just thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

 

A thick grunting sound came from Jeremy’s swollen lips as he backed down into his kneeling position again.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Adam sneered.  “All you fuckin’ fags are the same.  Keep thinkin’ somethin’ gonna save yer stupid ass at the last second, too goddam dumb to take the easy way out when I offer it to ya.  Suffer, you cumsuckin’ cunt; watch yerself die in terror and agony like ya fuckin’ deserve.”

 

Jeremy gazed at himself in the mirrored closet doors a blasé expression that had more to do with fading consciousness than boredom.  The whites of his unfocused eyes were becoming peppered with tiny red hemorrhages; it was difficult for him to see as a pounding gray haze filled his vision.

 

Adam could see well enough; he knelt behind Jeremy and pulled him towards himself, the bitch’s sweaty, shuddering back pressed against his muscled chest, his wiry fur digging into the punk’s smooth, slick flesh.

 

“Shit, motherfucker,” he growled seductively, “Think yer gonna die here soon.  Your dick is hard as fuck—can ya feel it, cocksucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  Ya feelin’ that shit, asswipe?  It means yer brain is startin’ to shut down.”

 

Jeremy wasn’t able to see very well, but he could hear.  The words came through distorted and slow, but still audible over the jackhammer pounding of his frenetic pulse that echoed off the inside of his skull.  And yes, he could feel his erection.

 

It hurt.  Fuck, it hurt so bad.  He was so fuckin’ hard it felt like his dick was gonna split.  He tried to reach down, to feel himself, but he’d lost fine motor control in his arms; they raked convulsively at the air.

 

Adam knew there was still a spark of humanity left in the twitching fagmeat he was strangling.  He wanted to humiliate what little was left of the stupid faggot who though he was gonna fuck Adam.  As he bunched his deltoids and triceps and tightened the braided nylon bootlace, he spoke derisively.

 

“You see yer face, asshole?  Yer “girlfriend”—bet he’s a real cunt—wouldn’t wanna fuck ya now, huh?  All purple an’ swollen—damn, yer one ugly-ass homo!  Lookit the way yer droolin’ all over yerself, ya disgustin’ sick-ass bitch.  And once you’re down, I’m gonna slip on those Nikes and fuck your dead ass good and hard.  I’m gonna plant my seed in yer cold boymeat, and I’m gonna take your kicks when I go.  All they’re gonna find is a sack of dead meat I used for a cumrag.  You got that, cunt?”

 

It was the last thing the cunt got.  The constricting agony in his throat intensified—the bunched-up skin in his neck felt like it was shredding—then there was sudden, horrible release of the tension.  It wasn’t the release he’d been praying for, though—it was accompanied by a nightmarish crushing sensation, a cracking and shattering of cartilage that was felt more than heard.  What little was left of Jeremy realized, not that his esophagus had collapsed, but that he was a dead man.

 

And in the blink of an eye, Adam held a thrashing, jerking piece of meat in his arms, a lithe, smooth-skinned corpse that was not only convulsing violently, it was spewing its death load with the force of an opened fire hydrant.  Jeremy sprayed the closet doors with cum, his hot sperm splashing off the mirrored surfaces and splattering over the heaving, sweaty bodies of both killer and victim.

 

“Goddam right,” Adam snarled, “Got what ya deserved, you fuckin’ faggot cunt.  Now you’re prime fuckmeat.”

 

Dropping the dead sack of manflesh, Adam stood up.  He was breathing heavily; his huge chest, sweaty and matted with cum, heaved with his recent exertion.  He wasn’t done yet, though—he bent back down and picked up Jeremy’s body.  He had to clamp down on it; the boymeat was still convulsing as he lifted it in his powerful arms and tossed it face-down on the bed.

 

Approaching the shuddering corpse, Adam’s long thick cock finally began oozing precum.  Snuffing the homo had got him hard and throbbing, but the thought of cornholing the dead meat was what really got him off.  Well, that and something else.

 

Sitting on the neatly-made and undisturbed bed, Adam slipped off his Puma Cells and placed them on the nightstand next to the unused bootlace.  Then he got up, his toes curling in his ped socks, digging into the plush carpet.  He stood behind the quivering sack of fagmeat and untied the Nike Fingertraps, pulling them both off.  Jeremy had died with his ankle socks on; Adam grabbed one of the spasming, jerking feet, feeling it quiver in his hand under the white cotton sock.

 

With a deep shuddering sigh of pleasure, the buff killer grabbed the other foot and brought both feel together on his dick.  He moaned faintly as his shaft pulsed between the twitching socked feet, the steady stream of his precum soaking into the absorbent white cotton.

 

He knew he might cum if kept it up, so he dropped the sexy dead boyfeet and sat back on the bed, slipping his feed into the dead cunt’s Nikes and lacing them tightly.  Then he spread the legs of the shuddering meatsack.  “This is how you break in a good pair of kicks, ya dumbass pansy,” he whispered.

 

Climbing up on the bed, Adam mounted the corpse, aiming the swollen purple head of his rod directly at the dead dude’s fuckhole.  With a single, savage lunge, the muscled necro freak speared Jeremy with his tool, penetrating the sphincter with no other lube but his precum.  It wasn’t as if Jeremy was in any position to complain with his black, congested face buried in the comforter.

 

There was a brief resistance, then the ass muscle went slack as Adam penetrated the corpse’s colon.  “Oh yeah,” Adam sighed with pleasure as his cock sank full-length into the dude’s limp, quivering body.  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  Nothing like some hot fuckin’ meat to plow.”

 

True to his word, the powerful alpha began to plow the corpse, the smack of flesh on flesh echoing in the quiet room.  The only other sound was Adam’s heavy breathing and the deep grunts of sexual arousal that he let out with every brutal thrust of his hips, every deep plunge of his huge swollen cockhead into the dead faggot’s guts.

 

Jeremy’s body was still trying to understand it was dead; it trembled and jerked under Adam in its final death throes.  To get better traction, the well-built sociopath planted the Nike Fingertraps on the comforter and dug his toes in as his massive dick plumbed the depths of their former owner’s corpse.

 

The dead guy’s smooth back was still slick with sweat, now cold and clammy.  Adam placed his hands on the small of Jeremy’s back, but they slid off.  “Goddam motherfucker,” the necro psycho muttered under his breath, his rage building along with the pressure of sperm boiling over in his puckered nutsack.

 

Suddenly both reached a crisis point.  As he tried to keep his spunk from erupting from his pounding, pulsing shaft, Adam began beating the corpse, slamming his hammer-like fist into the dead homo’s back.  “Fuckin’ faggot!” he roared, “Ya goddam cum-slurpin’ asswipe!”  Each blow of his fist, each thrust of his rod, was bringing him closer to orgasm.

 

And then it was there.  He’d fucked the limp body hard enough to turn the head to the side; as the muscled killer transferred his attention to Jeremy’s dead, cum-covered face, breaking bones and knocking teeth out with every hate-filled punch, a sensation went down his dick like and electric wire had been inserted.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!” Adam yelled as his body hunched over, violently and uncontrollably; he shot a steady geyser of manseed into the dead dude’s ass that lasted for a good twenty seconds without interruption.

 

Then his hard, bulked-out body convulsed and he cursed and shot again, even harder.  And then again, and again.

 

Adam didn’t know how long he stayed with his cock stuck in Jeremy’s body, hosing the corpse’s guts with cum.  It seemed to last a long time, and when he finally pulled out, backing off the bed, his knees were a little weak and his scrotum felt empty.  A thick, slimy wad of white spunk leaked out of Jeremy’s reamed-out ass and trickled down his taint to soak into the comforter.

 

Glancing around, Adam spied Jeremy’s Domo-kun t-shirt over in the chair; he got it and used it to wipe off the sperm still oozing from his rod  and the drying crust from his chest fur before carelessly tossing it on the floor.  He then retrieved his own shirts, slipping the white t-shirt back over his broad sweaty chest, then putting the button-down back on.  Finally, he picked up his Puma Cells from the nightstand.

 

He walked back over to the corpse.  Jeremy was motionless now; the brutal assfuck had stilled his death throes.  The boy was still lying face down; from the door, it wouldn’t be obvious that too much was wrong with him, aside from the mottled appearance of his badly-beaten flesh.  Once they rolled him over, things would be different—but to roll him over, they’d have to peel that fancy, expensive comforter off him.  It was stuck to his chest and belly by a thick dried glaze of his own cum.

 

Tucking his Puma kicks under his arms, Adam took a final glance, to impress the satisfying memory of his latest kill in his mind, then left the room.  He headed for the stairwell, just to make sure no one saw him and wondered why he was carrying an extra pair of sneakers under his arm.  He made it to his car, and then home with no unpleasant consequences.

 

Actually, there was one unpleasant consequence, but Adam didn’t learn about it until the end of the week, when it was announced that the SoHoLo hotel was closing until further notice.  Nobody paid attention to a snuffed fag or two, but three in the same place—and that place a hip, high-end hotel—made the news in a bad way.

 

Adam watched the broadcast about the closing and it made him think.  He was gonna hafta change his hunting pattern.  While that wasn’t a bad thing—falling into a pattern was fatal for a serial killer, and besides, it was beginning to bore him—he hadn’t made arrangements for anything new yet.

 

The more he searched for a new and interesting plan, the less progress he made, and then something else came to mind.  Why not something old and interesting?  He cast his mind back to the days when he was just developing an interest in snuff, and suddenly an idea occurred to him.  He wasn’t sure he could carry it out perfectly, but it seemed with an idea.

 

The more Adam thought about it, the harder his dick got.  Oh fuck yeah, it’d be worth it just to give it a try.  Alone in his room, his handsome face twisted with malicious glee; anyone seeing his expression would have known immediately that it meant death.

Carlos and Nick 4: Tommy’s Lucky Break

The day after Carlos snuffed the punk handyman, Nick got back from LA.  He’d found a video editing software package he liked, and he was eager to try it out.  By the time Carlos dropped by the office, Nick had already installed it on the system in the back room and was working on something on the laptop in the reception area.

 

“We’re gonna shoot a new vid,” he said, looking up from the monitor as Carlos strode in the door.  “Hey, you changed your look—I like it.”

 

Carlos had been leaving his face scruffy and unshaven for some time now; overnight, he’d trimmed it down until he had a dark, well-defined goatee outlining his mouth and emphasizing his strong chin.  More noticeable, though, was the fact that he’d shaved his head clean.  He’d always kept his hair short, so his scalp was already bronzed by the bright Vegas sun.  It gave the tattooed ex-con a distinct rough trade appeal; he could easily be mistaken for a Mexican gangster thug.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, “I figured this’d draw faggots in like flies.  So we’re doin’ a new snuff?  How much is the commission?”

 

“There ain’t one,” Nick said, grinning.  “We’re doin’ this one on spec.  I just wanna see what kinda performance I can get outta this new software.  Once I put it online, we’ll make plenty of dough anyway.”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “I ain’t worried about the money; there’s lotsa horny fuckers out there who’ll pay a shitload to watch us take out a homo the hard way.  I was just wonderin’ if we had to do another scene with costumes…”

 

“What, you didn’t like that?” Nick grinned.  “That was fuckin’ great.  But no, this is gonna be just a straight snuff—ha!  ‘Straight snuff’—I like that.  I’m puttin’ an ad up now.  Here, take a look.”  He turned the monitor so Carlos could read what he’d typed.

 

“Two top men, fit, muscular, ages 28 & 32, seeking younger sub male 18-22 for video of intimate encounter.  Previous video experience not necessary.  Send photo.”  This was followed by an email address for an anonymous drop box where Nick could retrieve the replies untraceably.

 

That evening Nick dropped by the condo.  Carlos was in the kitchen when Nick walked in and dropped a manila folder on the condo.  “Got one,” he said.  “I printed off the info; take a look and tell me what ya think.”

 

Carlos opened the folder to find himself staring at the face of a young man with stunning electric-blue eyes, a beautiful boyish face and silky black hair.  He wasn’t quite model quality, but a few touch-ups here and there would elevate him to that status.  “Damn,” Carlos replied, “Pretty little faggot—bet he’s already been reamed out, though.  Face like that, though, gotta be kinda dangerous—someone might recognize him.  He’s done other shit, yeah?”

 

“Naw,” Nick grinned.  “It’s perfect.  Kid’s from some Mormon town over the state line, St. George or someplace like that where they don’t like homos.  Only been in town three months.  Here, lookit his bio—he’s only done a coupla softcore shoots, and one of them was straight.  Ain’t no one gonna miss him, but damn, can you imagine what dudes’ll pay to watch us off the pansy?”

 

“And he wants to do this shoot with us?”

 

“You saw the ad, man, he thinks it’s still gonna be kinda softcore.  But I sounded him out—he really wants to do hardcore fag shit, so I told ‘im to come by the warehouse tomorrow afternoon and we’ll see what happens.”

 

From where he was standing, Nick could see the bulge in Carlos’s groin start to swell.  “Yeah,” the inked killer chuckled, “Yeah, we can do ‘im.  How you gonna set it up?”

 

Nick paused for a moment before speaking.  “You know how to work the hand-held, right?  Cause I wanna fuck this one.  It’s been a long time, bro, I wanna feel this kid squirm and die with my cock up his ass.”

 

Carlos broke into a broad grin.  “Go for it, man—as long as I get the chance to beat the fuck outta the fairy.  That prettyboy face is just beggin’ for my fist.”

 

“Dude,” Nick said with a matching grin, “By the time we’re done with him, his own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between him and a pile of ground beef.”

 


 

It was near sunset on the following day when Carlos pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse that Nick used for some of his video shoots; he’d already converted a portioned-off area into a set of sorts, filling it with cheap bedroom furniture—the bed was fully made, covered with an incredibly ugly comforter crocheted from yellow wool; Nick had found it at a yard sale.  He was busy arranging the lights to get the best angles—it was clearly something he’d had prior experience doing, especially in this kinda setting.

 

Carlos never asked, but he was always curious about how many fags Nick had snuffed before they met.

 

“Is he here yet?” he asked as he walked in.

 

Nick was adjusting a tripod with a video camera mounted on top.  “No, but he called twenty minutes ago and said he’d gotten off late and would be over as soon as he showered.”

 

“Don’t bother me none if he don’t shower,” Carlos said.

 

“Yeah, well, he works at a cheap-ass burger joint over on Paradise while waitin’ for his ‘big break’—probably better if he washes the grease off first.”

 

Carlos noticed the dossier with the kid’s info, lying on a table near the door—Nick had brought it along.  He picked it up and idly started leafing through it.  Suddenly he stopped and snorted in laughter.  “Tommy LeBone?  Really?  That’s the name the stupid little shit wants to go by?”

 

“Yeah,” Nick said with a smirk.  “From what I can gather, Tommy is his real name, but he picked the last name because he wanted something to really ‘pop’ in the credits, as he put it.”

 

They both had a good laugh over that, knowing good and well that there weren’t gonna be any credits on the video they were shooting—and the only things about Tommy that were gonna pop were his bones.

 

As they were laughing, the electric chime went off, indicating someone entering the main entrance.  Nick left the room as Carlos returned the papers to the folder.  Knowing what was coming, he peeled the white cotton t-shirt, sticky with sweat, from his furry, muscle-bound torso.  For a moment the collar snagged on the catch of the gold chain around his thick neck, but it soon came free.  Within two minutes, Nick was back, followed by Tommy.

 

It was easy to recognize him from his photo, although it had evidently been taken some time earlier.  His glossy black hair was shorter now, and the bangs were spiked.  He was trying to grow a mustache, but all he’d achieved so far was the effect of a dead caterpillar on his upper lip.  A pair of “diamond” stud earrings glinted on his earlobes; the stones were much too large to be real.

 

The kid was slight but not slim; he was about five-foot-seven or so.  He was wearing a white t-shirt silkscreened with the image of Che Guevara in black.  Below, he sported a pair of sky-blue polyester satin shorts edged in white that hung down past his knees. Further down, his firm calves, dusted with a dark haze of hair, descended into a pair of red and white Nike Air Jordans.

 

“Tommy, this is Carlos. Carlos, Tommy,” Nick said, getting the introductions out of the way and letting Tommy look around.

 

The boy did, and liked what he saw.  He didn’t have much—or, really, any—experience with hardcore video and the setup looked professional to him.  There were two cameras on tripods, and even in his inexperience, Tommy could see that one was for wide-angled shots, while the other could be lifted off its stand and carried about.

 

The two dudes he was gonna be in the sack with were both hotter than fuck, too.  The one guy with the shaved head—he looked downright dangerous, with his bare broad hairy chest, the gold chain with thick links around his neck, his tight jeans and his black harness boots.  He looked kinda mean, too, but for some reason, Tommy found that no less enticing.

 

The other guy, Nick, had short sandy brown hair with a slight curl in it; there was a faint shadow of scruff on his firm cheeks and filling in the dimple on his strong chin.  He wore a black sleeveless t-shirt with the collar torn open about halfway down the chest, revealing a thick mass of body fur in the same sandy-brown shade as his hair.  A pair of khaki cargo shorts was secured at his waist with a thick canvas strap serving as a belt; it had no buckle but was kept taut by being looped through a pair of steel rings.  A pair of yellow leather construction boots, loose and untied, formed the perfect base for his thick, muscled legs.

 

Nick didn’t look as mean as Carlos, but he was incredibly well-built and radiated an air of hyper-masculine power.  Tommy wanted to service Nick badly, but there was something equally alluring in knowing the older man had the physique to snap him like a twig any time he felt like it, and Tommy wouldn’t be able to prevent it.

 

The boywhore was vaguely surprised by the way that this subtle air of sex and danger intensified his own lust, but he was young, horny and shallow, and not into introspection.  He was twenty-two, and although no longer an adolescent, his hormones were still stimulating his balls into seething sperm factories.

 

“So, uh, so whaddaya want me to do?” he asked.

 

“Strip, boy,” Nick commanded, grinning.  He kicked off his boots and peeled off his shirt, letting Tommy get a look as his massive chest and his broad pecs, glistening with sweat, his dark nipples jutting into the air.  The kid was practically drooling with excitement as he yanked off his t-shirt and dropped his shorts, stepping out of them easily with his kicks still on.  Under the shorts, his thick cock and loaded balls were packed into a black and red jockstrap.

 

“Keep that on,” Nick said as Tommy reached down to remove the jockstrap.  “It’ll turn our viewers on to watch ya die—uh, cum with that on…”

 

Tommy didn’t hear Nick’s slip of the tongue.  Carlos had unzipped his fly, pulling his massive, glistening dick out of his jeans.  The boy stood staring, entranced, by the huge tube of manflesh.  “Fuuuck…” he whispered—he wanted it in him so bad.

 

A sound behind him made him turn to see that Nick had shucked off his shorts.  He stood nude in front of Tommy, his hairy, bulked-out body lubed with sweat and glittering under the overhead spotlights.  The randy homo took one look and found himself literally gasping with sexual excitement and anticipation; a dark moist spot formed on the bulge of his jock and grew as the killers watched.

 

They exchanged a quick grin; it was lost on the fag.  They knew he was hooked.  He was theirs to play with and torture and fuck.  He wasn’t getting out of the room alive—and long before death claimed him, he’d be begging for it.

 

“Okay, bitch, get on the bed,” Nick demanded.  “Up on yer knees, boy; I’m gonna fuck ya like a dog.”

 

His dripping dick tenting the elastic pouch of the jockstrap, Tommy hastened to obey.  As Carlos powered up the camera and focused it, the smooth young faggot posed on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, the delirious smile on his face showing his happiness at finally getting fucked by two real men—and in a porno, no less!

 

Just out of the camera’s view, Nick was at a control panel adjusting the lighting.  He plunged the room into darkness except for a single overhead spot shining directly down onto the bed, illuminating it—and it alone—brightly.

 

“Yeah, that’s gonna look hot,” he muttered to himself before raising his voice.  “You ready to get reamed, boy?”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Tommy moaned ecstatically.  “I want ya both in me!”

 

“Good, cause that’s how we’re startin’,” Nick responded with a smirk.  “After that—well, things might get a lil’…rough.”

 

“Oh yeah,” the boy moaned, wriggling his body like a dog wagging its tail.  Nick approached the bed, his bare feet padding silently across the concrete floor to the section of carpeting laid down for the bedroom set.

 

“So rough, in fact, that Carlos here is gonna have to hold the camera.  I’m gonna want him to get a good close-up when it starts.  Don’t worry, though, he’ll still have plenty of chances to let you feel the power of his muscles—especially those big biceps of his.  You see ‘em?  See those tattoos?  Wanna know where he got ‘em?”

 

With this speech, Nick was almost at the foot of the bed.  Carlos had already started the camera, watching the image carefully.

 

It was perfectly centered on the bed and the bed was hard to lit—harshly spot-lit, with nothing else visible in the surrounding darkness.  On the bed, a slim, smooth dark-haired figure on his and knees, his dick stretching out the mesh of his jockstrap pouch, looked behind him nervously; he was startled by something.

 

He hadn’t realized Nick was as close as he was.

 

From off-screen, the top’s voice spoke in a bass rumble, “He got that ink in prison, boy.  He killed a man.  More than one, in fact.  That do anything for ya?”

 

Nick appeared from the darkness, the dramatic lighting cutting his powerful form into bright glints reflecting from sweat-slick muscles and deep dark shadows, some lined with body fur.  Gold highlights sparkled in his sandy hair.

 

Tommy’s eyes grew wide, but his dick throbbed so intensely it was visible on camera.  He started to rise up on his knees, but Nick was already climbing onto the bed.  “That get ya off, boy?  Ya like ‘em dangerous?”

 

Tommy gulped ominous and spoke with a nervous quaver in his voice.  “That’s, uh, yeah, that’s hot man…and y’all can get rough if ya want, but, uh, just don’t do anything to really hurt me, y’know?”

 

By now Nick was pressed up behind him, his brawny, furry chest against the young homo’s smooth back.  Placing one hand on Tommy’s shoulder and forcing the kid back down to the bed with minimal effort, the strong alpha used his other hand to guide the oozing, purple head of his engorged shaft between the punk’s asscheek directly to his pink, pucker fuckhole.  With malicious glee, he bent down and whispered into Tommy’s ear.  “’Fraid I can’t make that promise, boy.  You’re gonna suffer.  You’re gonna get hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

 

The lithe young pansy blinked his gorgeous blue eyes in confusion.  “What?” he asked incredulously, “What was tha—AAAIIIIEEE!!!”

 

Nick had answered the question by jamming his rod up Tommy’s ass raw, with no lube.  The camera picked up the huge grin on his face. The way the slut’s sphincter had resisted his tool, and then finally gave way, letting him slide all the way in, grinding his wiry pubes against the boy’s round, firm asscheeks, scraping the smooth skin like steel wool—it felt fantastic.  “Fuck yeah,” Nick said, looking directly into the camera (and speaking loudly to be heard over the fag’s wailing), “It’s been too goddam long since I made a faggot into fuckmeat.  Bitch is squallin’ too much, though—Carlos, get over here and shove yer dick down its throat, make it shut the fuck up.”

 

The wide-angle camera was aimed perfectly at the spot-lit tableau on the bed, the boy hunched over on his face, sobbing loudly, the muscular alpha mounting him from behind, thrusting his cock deep in the kid’s ass, then pulling back—but never withdrawing completely—before ramming his rod back in as far as he could.

 

Suddenly, Carlos emerged from the darkness on the left side of the frame, walking towards the bed with his back to the camera.  The warehouse’s metal roof had been baking in the sun all day and the old AC system hadn’t been able to keep pace—beads of sweat were visible, running down the ex-con’s back.   It was impossible to ignore the way his tight jeans cradled his ass or the strong masculine tread of his harness boots on the concrete floor.  As he got to the head of the bed, he turned his profile to the lens so that his enormous, erect dick was obvious.  Reaching down and grabbing a handful of Tommy’s hair, he yanked the kid’s head up off the bed.

 

The youth’s face was streaked with tears and twisted into a grimace of pain.  “P-please,” he begged, stuttering as he tried to make himself understood without crying out in agony, “Pl-please sto-stop…”  He drew another shuddering breath before trying again.  “Th-this…not-not what I wa-wanted…it h-hurts, please, it-it hurts so b-bad…”

 

Carlos reached up under Tommy’s chin, placing his thumb on one side of the punk’s face at the joint where the jaw connected to the skull and his fingers in the same place on the other side.  A brutal clenching of his powerful hand forced the slut’s jaw to pop open involuntarily.

 

“Shaddup, ya fuckin’ perverted faggot,” Carlos jeered and drove his massive dick down the kid’s throat.  Using one hand to keep the meat’s mouth pried open, the killer stud clapped his other on the back of Tommy’s head.  Carlos wasn’t throatfucking Tommy, he was jacking off with his skull.

 

“Whaddaya think?” Nick asked, smirking at the camera.

 

“Whadda I think?” Carlos replied.  “I think this fuckin’ piece a’ faggot shit needs to learn how we handle dumbass homos around here.”

 

“Fuckin’-A, dude,” Nick laughed.  “Only thing better’n a dead fag is one that took a nice long time to get that way.  This piece of meat might live another forty minutes or so—plenty of time for it to die like pathetic garbage.”

 

“I wanna hurt it,” Carlos growled, his rage and suppressed lust vibrating deeply in his voice, “I wanna hurt it so fuckin’ bad, man…”

 

“Aw hell, bro, there’s plenty of meat to go around,” Nick responded.  “By the time we’re done with it, all that’ll be left is a bleeding sack of human meat.  Hey, back off a bit, dude—don’t wanna choke it out this quick.”

 

Tommy had heard the beginning of the conversation with horror, but his attention was soon drawn to the fact that with Carlos’s huge rod plugging his esophagus, he was utterly unable to breathe.  He tried to jerk his head away from Carlos’s hands, but the sadistic killer was so powerful, he didn’t even notice the slutboy’s attempts to break free.  The last thing Tommy consciously heard was the remark about living another forty minutes—death from asphyxiation seemed so imminent that he slipped into panic mode.  It was his frantic thrashing that had called Nick’s attention to his plight.

 

Carlos withdrew his shaft from the cunt’s windpipe, leaving his pulsing, oozing head in the fucker’s mouth.  Tommy coughed and slobbered all over it, weeping desperately as he tried to catch his breath.

 

“Oh god,” the kid gasped, “No…don’t…”

 

Carlos snatched a handful of Tommy’s hair and yanked his head up, staring coldly into the boy’s snot- and drool-smeared face.  “I told ya to shaddup,” he said calmly, then slammed his fist into the youth’s face like a piledriver, hard enough to knock the slut’s head out of his grasp.  “UH!” Tommy grunted as the blow drove his head to one side; as he brought it back up, he spit out a canine tooth in a dazed fashion.

 

“Hell yeah, show the fuckwad who’s boss,” Nick chuckled.  “Hey, dude, go get the camera.  I wanna get a close-up of this.”

 

Carlos turned and approached the camera, his massive hog jutting out in front of him from his unzipped fly.  Nick pulled his cock out of Tommy’s ass, leaving just the swollen head in the cunt’s rectum.  The terrified homo felt the slight abatement in his violent rape, and in a semi-instinctive move, made a break for it.

 

Scrambling like a scaled cat, Tommy dug his Air Jordans into the bedspread and lunged forward, pulling himself off Nick’s tool and off the bed at the same time.  Unfortunately for the panicked queerboy, he hit the ground headfirst with his arms out in front of him; he managed to regain his feet and bolt for the door, but he managed to take no more than two steps before Carlos brutally impeded his progress by decking him in the jaw.

 

Nick had gotten off the bed and was standing beside it, his buff, toned body glistening with sweat under the spotlight; with his enormous raging erection, he was a perfect image of raw masculinity.  He was still aware of the camera, but he wasn’t sure if Carlos remembered it—he didn’t want the ex-con to waste the faggot then and there out of rage.

 

“Send ‘im over here, bro,” he called to the shirtless, booted fagkiller, winking at the camera as he did.  Carlos, his arm pulled back, sweaty, tattooed bicep bulging as he prepared to smash Tommy’s face in—literally—held back the blow.  “Huh?” he asked, looking up at Nick.

 

The hardbodied stud nodded briefly at the camera and Carlos caught on, a wicked grin spreading slowly across his goateed face.  “Sure, man,” he drawled, “Here ya go.”  He gave the slim pansy a hard shove, sending him flying into Nick’s arms.  The latter grabbed the punk with his left hand, drawing his right arm up to his left shoulder and giving the unlucky youth a vicious backhand that split his lips.

 

Grunting in abrupt pain, Tommy wheeled and collapsed halfway onto the bed, but before he could slide limply to the floor, Nick snatched him up again.  “Back atcha, bro!” he called, aiming the kid at Carlos.  He planted his foot on Tommy’s ass and with a swift kick sent him stumbling back to Carlos, who caught the little fuck in the face with his elbow, dropping him to the ground with a black eye.

 

The hairy, well-built convict stooped and grabbed the inert form by the wrist, dragging it forcibly to an upright position.  Tommy, too stunned to defend himself, or even whimper, found himself flung back at Nick, who dropped his arms and let the flying slut slam into his furry chest face-first.

 

The slender fairy bounced off his rapist’s firm, massive pecs like he’d hit a brick wall, falling back to the floor—luckily for him, on the carpeted area—where he lay on his back, writhing in pain and moaning feebly.  Unable to open his bruised eyes to more than just slits, he tried to focus them on the hulking muscled god towering over him.  He could see the thick, firm legs and the frighteningly huge penis that was dripping hot clear drops of precum, but beyond that, Tommy’s vision went blurry.

 

He could hear footsteps, but there was something wrong with his hearing, the sounds seemed to be fading in and out.  There was raucous laughter that at times seemed very far away, but the well-pounded slutboy was very aware of a second pair of legs near him, encased in tight denim and terminating in black leather boots.  Like the other pair of legs, Tommy was unable to see any higher than a fat, dripping cock—although with this one, there was a very faint glint of gold somewhere high up in the distance…

 

In the camera frame, Tommy was laying on the floor, shuddering in agony.  Nick, knowing a good pose when it became possible, drew Carlos to his side and put his right arm around Carlos’s shoulders.  Carlos, already able to figure out what was coming, did likewise with his left arm around Nick’s shoulders.  He placed one boot on Tommy’s flat, heaving belly and with his index finger, little finger and thumb extended, flashed his right hand at the lens, sticking his tongue out and wagging it.  Nick grinned delightedly and placed his bare foot on the mesh pouch of Tommy’s jockstrap, pressing down and making the punk mewl and squirm.

 

“Dude,” he said, “My balls are startin’ to ache somethin’ fierce.  I gotta drain ‘em real soon here, bro—think it’s about time to make us some meat.  Do me a favor and get this subhuman cumdumpster up on the bed, wouldja?

 

Leering, Carlos bent down and grabbed Tommy by the throat, then lifted him single-handedly into the air in a show of brute strength.  Once again, the little slut found himself unable to breathe.  Carlos turned slightly to one side so the camera could get a clear view of the kid.

 

Tommy was flailing, his Nikes thrashing in midair.  The look of bewildered horror on the young homo’s face spoke volumes; it was obvious that the whoreboy couldn’t understand how a hot twofer fuck had become a nightmare of agonizing torture.  Gasping helplessly for air, Tommy’s arms clawed desperately at anything within reach.  One of his hands clutched Carlos’s right wrist in a panic-fueled grip, the other pawed at the buff ex-con, snatching at the thick links of his gold chain before sliding down the sweat-slick expanse of his chest to curl in his chest hair.

 

Then Tommy made a serious mistake—he yanked, tearing free some of the sadist’s body fur.

 

“You goddam motherfucker!” Carlos roared and threw Tommy bodily into the wall, ten feet away.  The kid hit the paneled cinderblock with a wet, meaty thump before bouncing back into the room—and into Carlos’s arms.  Grabbing his throat again, the enraged killer, his intense anger making his face glow, lifted the dazed, struggling faggot into the air and slammed him down hard on the bed.  Wild-eyed, Carlos quickly glanced around and caught sight of a boom—an extendable metal rod for holding a microphone—out of the corner of his eye.  He darted for it, snatching it up and brandishing it; Nick had just enough time to catch him and restrain him before he beat the queerboy to death.

 

“Naw, man,” Nick hissed.  “Chill.  That’s too fast.  The asswipe needs to suffer more, yeah?”

 

Carlos blinked and took a deep breath.  “Yeah, man you’re right.  But fuck, this one needs to learn the real meanin’ of pain, dude.  It’s gotta beg to be put down in mercy before we’re done.”

 

Nick flashed him—and the camera—a shark-like grin.  “Well fuck yeah, bro, that’s the whole fuckin’ point.  By the time we’re done with it, its own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between it and a pile of ground chuck.  C’mon.”

 

They walked back to the bed.  As they approached, Tommy managed to pry his eyes open.  He was still gagging for air, his body shuddering in pain.  He looked up, vainly hoping for some trace of pity in the faces of his assailants.  Instead, two hairy, muscular killers loomed terrifyingly over him.  The overhead spotlight was blinding; their disgust- and contempt-filled faces were lost in the blur of light—all he could see were thick, bulging muscles, dark patches of wiry body fur and two enormous cocks, each wreathed with pulsing veins and oozing out heavy, viscous drops of transparent precum.  What little air he could draw into his lungs was tainted with mansweat, heavily laden with pheromones and the acrid tang of adrenaline-fueled testosterone.

 

It began to dawn on the helpless little fag that he was in the power of a pair of incredibly strong men.  Real men, who thought he was a worthless piece of shit.  They weren’t going to make love to him; they were gonna use his body however they wanted to in order to empty their cum-filled balls, and it didn’t matter what he himself thought about it.

 

And they were gonna kill him—but no, that couldn’t be happening.  He was only twenty-two; he couldn’t die yet.  They were just trying to scare him.  They were gonna beat him and rape him, but despite everything he’d heard already, he simply refused to believe that he was looking death in the face.

 

Then death bent down and spit on him.  “Hold the meat down while I stick my dick in it,” the big sandy-haired brute said.  “If it squeals, pound the fuck outta it.”

 

The buff, tattooed skinhead with the face like Satan grabbed a handful of Tommy’s hair again and drew back his right fist.  “G’wan and cry, cunt,” he grinned, “Gimme a reason to beat yer faggot face into hamburger.”

 

Within ten seconds, Tommy knew he was getting beaten into hamburger.  It couldn’t be possible, but it felt like the big man’s cock had doubled in size since he put it in last time.  This nightmarish, glassy agony that was slashing at the tender, nerve-rich lining of his rectum, it was like nothing he’d felt yet—he’d only been fucked a couple of times before, but it had felt so good.  This, this was horrific, unbearable, he couldn’t…he tried, but there was no way…

 

Tommy screamed and Carlos, with a single pop to the face, broke his nose.  The punk wailed in agony, his shrill screams underscored by the low rumble of his killers’ cruel laughter.  “This is what happens to stupid little faggots like you,” Carlos jeered.  “You wanted to get fucked, you cumsuckin’ cunt?  Guess what—you are so fucked right now, dude.”

 

“Yeah,” Nick grunted, his powerful, sweaty body heaving as he pumped Tommy’s strained, torn asshole.  “You were just beggin’ for this, you dumbass motherfucker.  The thought of gettin’ double-teamed by two hot studs got yer little fag cock all hard an’ oozin’, huh?  Is it everthin’ ya dreamed it’d be?  Yeah?  Answer me, you fuckin’ piece of faggot garbage!”

 

Tommy’s eyes were blurred by tears and pain; he couldn’t focus clearly on Nick’s face, just inches away from his own, but he could make out the insane mix of hate and lust in his voice, his and the other one…he couldn’t make out the other one…

 

Carlos had gone to get the handheld camera.  He knew it was time for a close-up, even without prompting from Nick—who was enjoying the brutal fuck with such malevolent glee that he wasn’t giving his attention to camera angles at the moment.  The muscular, inked convict made sure he got a good shot of the meat writhing and struggling helplessly under the weight of Nick’s buff, toned body.  He let the frame linger on Tommy’s smooth, firm, slender legs wrapped tightly around Nick’s waist, the whore’s red and black Jordans kicking uselessly in the air.

 

Nick was pinning the kid to the bed, his hands grasping the boy’s upper arms.  With his hulking body pressing the slut down, Tommy was not only trapped, he was almost completely immobilized, able only to twist his smooth body, from side to side, his firm chest and flat belly scraping against those of Nick.  Despite being lubed by a thin film of panicked sweat, the whoreboy’s soft, silky skin was scratched and abraded by Nick’s coarse, wiry chest hair.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fuckin’ bad—but it wasn’t unbearable anymore.  His sphincter had already been torn, his rectum was starting to relax and accept the enormous tube of flesh buried deep inside it, and although his face was swollen and bruised and he couldn’t breathe out of his crushed, flattened nose, the skinhead wasn’t beating him anymore.  Maybe—just maybe—they’d be satisfied with a violent rape and let him go after…

 

Nick glanced up as Carlos approached with the camera.  “Hell yeah, bro, good thinkin’.  Get a good shot of his face as I wring his fuckin’ neck.”  Turning to look down at Tommy, he spit a wad of phlegm into the tear-stained, horror-filled face.  “Hear that?  Time to fulfill yer purpose.  Time for me to use ya for the only thing yer good for—a meatsack to hold my cum.  I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out on camera and dump yer sperm-filled corpse in a trash bin so you can be hauled off to rot like the rest of the stinkin’, maggot-infested garbage.  Ya like that, meat?  That get ya off?  No?  Then why’s yer little homo dick all hard and throbbin’, huh, fuckwad?  Looky here, guys, the faggot’s gotten its dick outta its jock without even usin’ its hands—fuckin’ perv!” Nick said, rolling to one side so Carlos could focus the lens on Tommy’s thick, pulsing cock—obviously oozing precum; the guilty evidence was matted in Nick’s body fur. The jockstrap’s pouch had clearly been pulled to the side in the struggle. “This one wants it.  It’s gonna squeal and cry like a little pussy faggot, but it knows its place and it’s gettin’ off at the thought of bein’ put down with extreme prejudice by a couple of hardbodies.”

 

Tommy shook his head; it wasn’t a conscious reaction—his mind was blank with panic.  They weren’t gonna let him go.  He wasn’t gonna get out of here alive.  His dreams, his hopes, his plans were all gone; even he didn’t remember them in his cold, soul-searing terror.  His entire world, his entire life, was focused with pinpoint clarity on the next few minutes.  He was a vain, shallow fairy who’d wanted little more than dick and cash in the immediate future, but even he was able to figure out that what he’d already endured was going to seem like a lover’s caresses compared to the suffering about to come.

 

For the first time that evening, Tommy was right.

 

He started shuddering, a scream building behind his lips.  “Aw, man, ya better start soon,” Carlos said.  “If it starts bleatin’ again, I’m gonna break its jaw.”

 

Nick guffawed.  “Dude, you can break its jaw anytime ya want.  Beat it to a fuckin’ pulp as it dies.  Stupid fuck needs to take a long painful ride to Hell.  Long as it lives long enough for me to empty my balls in it, I don’t care how bad ya fuck it up.  But make sure the camera stays on the face.  That’s what the viewers want; they’ll jack off over and over watchin’ it die.”

 

As Carlos shoved the camera into the cunt’s face, chuckling in a cold, merciless tone, Nick let go of Tommy’s arms—and grabbed his neck.  He smiled gently down at Tommy.

 

For one single lucid moment, the hate was gone from Nick’s face and Tommy could see the beautiful face of the sexy, dominant lover he’d always dreamed of.  Then Nick started squeezing.

 

It was like a bear trap had closed on his throat.  He hadn’t been prepared; he hadn’t had time to inhale, to fill his lungs with air, and he never would again.  Nick’s big, strong hands had instantly compacted the unfortunate youth’s esophagus, the cartilage painfully deforming out of shape.  The mindless panic came back; it was a kind of white fog that clouded Tommy’s vision and dulled his senses; he never knew how violently he thrashed about, struggling vainly against death.

 

His frantic, clawing hands first went to those of Nick’s, but finding the latter clamped around his neck with the relentless strength of iron bands, Tommy reached out, clutching desperately at whatever was within reach.  One hand beat against Nick’s huge hairy pecs with as much effect as if he was beating against an oak tree; the other slapping at Carlos’s chest and grabbing at his gold chain.

 

“No ya don’t, motherfucker,” Carlos growled.  Transferring the camera to his left hand, he drove a roundhouse punch straight from his shoulder into the side of Tommy’s face, both feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of bone as the unlucky fuck’s cheekbone splintered under the force of the impact.  “Quit tryin’ ta fight it, fuckhead, yer only makin’ it worse.”

 

If Tommy had been capable of rational thought, he might have wondered how it could have been worse.  Even though he was still being impaled by an enormous rod of manflesh that tore at his guts and ground roughly at his prostate with every agonizing thrust, it seemed to be the least painful part of his suffering—his power-bottom soul was starting to accept the dick and revel in the rough, painful rape.  Everything else, not so much.

 

There was a huge ball of fire in his chest, a kind of burning vacuum that ached vainly for oxygen.  The slim, smooth homo writhed and twisted involuntarily, instinctively seeking some way to allow air into his burning lungs.  Everything from his neck up was a solid mass of excruciating pain, from his slowly-collapsing throat to his pulped and pounded face to his throbbing brain, swelling with oxygen deprivation.

 

The wide-angle camera had a perfect view; two sweaty males, locked together in violent, thrusting intimacy, the older, more powerful, more dominant man obviously enforcing his sadistic sexual will on the thrashing, shuddering youth.  It also caught Carlos’s hulking, half-dressed form as he leaned in with the other camera.

 

The handheld’s frame was filled with Tommy’s face.  It lingered lovingly on the physical effects of the strangulation on the terrified young homo.  The kid’s skin was already so battered and bruised that it was hard to tell when his face began to darken, but the swelling soon turned his split lips and broken nose into a grotesque parody of himself.  His thin black mustache, already moist with blood that had trickled from his left nostril, all but disappeared as his face distorted from asphyxia.

 

As the boywhore whipped his head from side to side in panicked denial, the stones in his stud earrings caught the light and created a twinkling effect on his ears that remained a constant as everything above his neck began to blacken.

 

“Yeah, brah, now ya got ‘im,” Carlos encouraged Nick.  “Lookit the little fuckwad.  It’s learnin’ how real men treat worthless pansy cocksuckers.”

 

“You ready to die, boy?” Nick hissed.  “It hurt bad enough yet?  Ya wantin’ it all to go away?”  He paused as Tommy’s head came to a stop, the dying slut looking up at him with an almost insane gleam of hope in his eyes.

 

Nick chuckled cruelly. “Tough shit.  I ain’t ready to cum yet, so you’re gonna hafta keep sufferin’ till I say yer hurt bad enough.  Hey, dude, he ain’t fucked up enough yet.”  This last was to Carlos, as Nick drew his legs up under himself, repositioning so he could ram his huge erect cock even faster and deeper into the punk’s ass.

 

As Carlos laughed and repeatedly slammed his fist into the boy’s face, Tommy learned that things could indeed be worse.  The wide-angled camera captured several minutes of footage of two muscular men beating and raping a slim, helpless youth, whose body kicked and jerked with every brutal thrust and blow.

 

After a while, things began to fade in Tommy’s mind; a gray fog descended, filled with a loud, fast banging.  Some part of him knew that the banging noise was his pulse, but as his brain began to die, that rational part grew dimmer.  Perversely, as the rational grew dimmer, the sensory grew sharper; as brain death progressed, Tommy’s nerve endings became more sensitive.

 

The pain of impending death started to blur with the overstimulation of his brain’s pleasure center.  His cock, forced erect by the pressure on his prostate, was pressed against Nick’s belly; the killer’s wiry body hair scraped against it rapidly with each pump of his pelvis.  To Tommy’s inflamed nerves, it felt like someone was taking a belt sander to the tender underside of his prick.

 

The pain was phenomenal.  It felt like the flesh of his dick was being shredded.  It felt like…it felt like he wanted to cum.

 

Nick noticed the change.  “Meat’s startin’ to go,” he grinned up at Carlos—and right at the handheld camera.  “Lookit the little faggot—fuckin’ perv still wants dick even as it’s gettin’ whacked.”

 

“Well fuck, man, that’s all they ever want,” Carlos sneered.  “Stupid cunts are so cum-hungry they’ll walk right into a death trap if they think they can get some manseed.”  He spit in Tommy’s face, then spoke directly to him.  “What, didja think gettin’ our loads would turn ya into a real man, ya fuckin’ pile of fagmeat?”

 

Even if there was enough left of Tommy to formulate a reply, he wouldn’t have been able to say it.  His mouth was plugged with his tongue, so thick and swollen that it forced his jaws apart and protruded, a mound of purple-black muscle, from between his cracked blue lips.  Thick streamers of drool bubbled from the boy’s mouth, oozing down his cheeks in a thick white froth that gave the appearance that the faggot had just given a wet, sloppy blowjob.

 

The light was fading from Tommy’s eyes; they were fixed and bulging, the whites turning bloodshot as millions of tiny blood vessels ruptured within.  His hands had stopped flailing randomly; the wide-angle camera clearly captured how one was clenched tightly around Nick’s sweaty, bulging bicep while the other was spread flat on Carlo’s belly as if fondling the ex-con’s ripped abs.  His legs were still kicking, but not as violently; they drew up at the knee, then straightened again, the heels of his Nikes carving furrows in the ugly crocheted comforter.

 

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Nick whispered spitefully, “Die.  Die with my dick in yer guts, you fuckin’ sack of shit.  Yer gonna rot with yer innards fulla my cum, ya cumsuckin’ pig.  Yer gonna end up—fuck!  Goddam! FUCK!”

 

Nick hunched and shuddered as he felt his seed boiling up from his overloaded balls, then he went rigid in explosive orgasm.  As his powerful hands clenched involuntarily, he crushed Tommy’s throat, the cartilage cracking and snapping like dry kindling as the esophagus collapsed into a mangled mass of useless bloody tissue.

 

Rational Tommy was dead but sensory Tommy was still dangling in a nightmarish world of tactile torture that was unable to distinguish pleasure and pain.  The horrific agony of his crushed windpipe and larynx and his snapped hyoid bone trigged an intense release in his swollen, tortured scrotum.  Tommy’s first death load squirted up between him and Nick, smearing as their chests rubbed together in his agonized throes.

 

“Aw hell yeah!” Carlos cried, pulling the zoom out to capture Nick’s look of rage as he shot his load and Tommy’s blank, shuddering face as he spent his last few moments on earth ejaculating uncontrollably.  Without warning, the convulsing punk twisted violently to the side; as he did, another geyser of sperm erupted from his spasming cock.  This one jetted into the air, splattering not just over Carlos’s sweaty, hairy chest, but over his face and the camera lens as well, smearing both with milky cum.

 

With a loud grunt, Carlos returned the favor, a thick, ropy strand of semen spewing in an uninterrupted flow from his erect shaft.  The muscled convict hadn’t so much as touched his dick; he’d shot his wad hands-free the moment Tommy’s spunk had splashed on his chest.  His own jizz spattered on the boy’s black, swollen face, blending in with the drool.

 

“Fuck!” Nick cried again, releasing Tommy’s neck.

 

In a blinding rage, Carlos tossed the handheld down and leaned forward.  Grabbing the back of Tommy’s head in one hand and his chin in another, the muscle-bound killer gave the head a swift, brutal twist, rotating it up and back a hundred and eighty degrees.  Tommy’s neck snapped, the vertebrae shattering like shrapnel, tearing the spinal cord to shreds.  The corpse went rigid as the massive trauma to the nervous system forced one last spurt of cum from the dead kid’s dick; this flew out with just enough force to clear the bed and spatter on the toes of Carlos’s black harness boots.

 

“Fuckin’ faggot, fuckin’ cummin’ on me,” the ex-con whispered in barely contained rage.

 

For a moment, Nick paused, looking down no longer at Tommy’s black, strangulated face, but at the back of his head.  Then he slowly withdrew his cock from the corpse.  Even in death, the faggot somehow maintained suction in his fuckhole; Nick’s rod came out with an audible sucking sound.  Getting off the bed, he stood beside Carlos, looking down at the dead boy.  In a shot from the wide-angle camera that Nick edited into the footage, they both remained standing for a minute, admiring their work.  The slim young homo’s cum-drenched corpse was still twitching, his black-and-red Air Jordans scuffling nervelessly on the comforter.  Both studs were still heaving with exertion as the overheat spot glinted on their sweat-soaked backs; thick pearly beads of jizz still dripped from their cocks—and the meat’s as well.

 

“Goddam, I needed that,” Nick muttered.

 

“So did he, stupid little faggot,” Carlos sneered.  He leaned forward as if he was going to attack the corpse again.

 

“Hey, man,” Nick said, “I wanna get rid of the meat here soon.  Go splash some water on yourself and cool off; I’m gonna need a hand gettin’ rid of it and its car.”

 

Carlos paused.  “Yeah, dude, you’re right.  Hang on.”  He headed to the bathroom.  After a few minutes, he returned, his body glistening with moisture.  In the meantime, Nick had redressed, pulling on his shorts and slipping back into his construction boots.  He’d slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on but the deep tear at the neck revealed that his chest hair was still crusty and matted with the dead boy’s cum.

 

“Grab the clothes and see if you can find any keys,” Nick said.  “I’m gonna take the trash out.”  He grabbed the corpse by one quivering ankle, just above the Nike sneaker, and dragged the body off the bed.  Tommy’s head had remained twisted around backwards; his face his the floor with a splat.  Heading out the door, Nick dragged the body along the floor behind him, not minding the faint trail of blood from the kid’s brutalized face; there’d be time to clean it up later.  He was excited; he wanted to clear out the meat and get to working on the video.

 

As Nick dumped the corpse into the bed of his pickup, Carlos gathered Tommy’s t-shirt and shorts.  From the latter, he retrieved both keys and a wallet with forty bucks inside.  Carlos pocketed the cash; the young faggot certainly didn’t need it anymore.  Following Nick out, he headed towards a ten-year-old Ford Focus with a taped-up taillight.  Sure enough, the key he’d found fit—it wasn’t hard to figure out; the only other vehicles in the lot were Nick’s truck and his own Mercedes.

 

Tossing the clothes in the back, he put the car in gear and followed Nick’s green truck out to the highway, where they headed south towards downtown.  Traffic was bad, as it always was at this time of day, and the AC in the cunt’s car was barely functional.  Carlos soon found himself sweating again.  To keep himself calm, the psycho killer imagined the homo piece of shit already starting to rot under the blue tarp Nick had wrapped around it.

 

After several road-rage-inducing merges, Nick finally took the Las Vegas Boulevard exit, heading south into downtown.  Turning west on Bridger Avenue, he made a sudden right into an alley between Third and Fourth Streets, pulling up next to a large industrial dumpster.  Carlos parked behind him and got out.

 

It took less than thirty seconds to hoist the corpse over the edge of the dumpster and roll it out of the tarp.  Within three minutes, they were heading south on Las Vegas Boulevard again and within twenty, pulling into the parking lot of a casino located well to the south of the airport.  The left the Focus at the far end of the lot, Carlos climbing into Nick’s truck for the ride back to the warehouse.

 


 

Some twenty-four hours later, an unmarked car pulled up in an alley between Third and Fourth.  It wasn’t able to get very far down the alley thanks to the two patrol cars and the ambulance already in place, surrounding a dumpster.  A fat middle-aged man with a shaggy moustache opened the driver’s door while a taller, thinner man of about the same age emerged from the passenger side.

 

“Hey, Patterson, what’s up?” the fat one asked the first uniformed cop he came across.

 

“Hey, Nuñez—whatcha doin’ here?  Didn’t think this was yer beat.” Patterson replied.

 

“Me an’ Schweitz was just comin’ back from lunch when we heard the call, figured we’d check it out,” Nuñez said.  “Whatcha got?”

 

“Just another stiff,” Patterson yawned.  “You can check it out if ya wanna.”

 

Nuñez headed for the corpse, already out of the dumpster and lying bagged on a gurney.  Schweitz headed after him, but paused when he saw the fat detective open the body bag, recoil violently, and zip it back up.  He waited as Nuñez returned quickly to the car.

 

“So?” he asked laconically.

 

“Not worth it.  Another faggot.  Damn, you could smell the cum three feet away once I got that fuckin’ bag open.  Goddam corpse was covered in the shit.”

 

Schweitz snorted with disgust.  “Who the fuck bothered to call it in?” he asked.

 

“I dunno,” Nuñez replied, “But I wish they’d kept their traps shut.  We got real people out here gettin’ robbed and killed, and some asshole calls in a dead fag.  Like I give a shit who snuffed some fuckin’ homo—they guy should get an award, if ya ask me.”

 

“Yeah,” Schweitz agreed, garrulous as ever.

 

“C’mon, let’s get back.  Central can handle this; they’re good at ‘misplacing’ this kinda file.  And anyway, I gotta get caught up on some paperwork.  Goddam bureaucrats, always comin’ up with a new way to keep a man from doin’ his job, y’know?”

 

Still bitching, the fat cop backed out of the alley and drove off, wiping the image of the raped and murdered youth from his mind as if the boy had never existed.

 

 


 

Forty-eight hours after that, Carlos got a text from Nick: “Told u that software was the bomb got a great commission meet me @ office ASAP u won’t believe this shit”

M4M4S&M

The best ads are clear, concise and direct; they get their point across with ease.  This was a very good ad.

 

“22, white, 5’ 10”, 125 lbs looking 4 older.  Need a daddy to punish me.  R U rough enough?  Send pic; will contact if you’re worth it.”

 

The words were appended to the photo of a young man’s torso—lean and smooth, with some muscles but not overly buff or developed.  Dark areolae surrounded the nipples, two hard plugs of pale flesh.  It was a body that would appeal to a lot of dudes.

 

It certainly appealed to Joe.

 

He’d been skimming through a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior kills—he couldn’t remember which one; after a while, the meat tends to blur—when he came across the pic.  He knew the moment he read the words that this little motherfucker was gonna be his bitch tonight.

 

He responded to the ad with nothing but a photo of his own torso.  No words were needed; his massive, fur-covered pecs and ripped hairy abs spoke for themselves.  And given how fast the horny little cunt replied, they didn’t just speak, they commanded.

 

“Hell yeah dude u got the power to stick it in me and make it hurt?  Want ya to hurt me”

 

For a moment, Joe started blankly at the small screen, unable to believe his luck.  When he finally responded, it was with a broad, shark-like grin and an erection so hard it hurt.  “Yeah boy I’ll hurt u good I promise”

 

He’d be as good as his word—it was a promise he’d keep with pleasure.

 

The reply was swift.  “Cool cum now”

 

Along with it was a map location file.  Joe opened it and noted with interest the neighborhood; most of the houses in that area were million-dollar-plus mansions.  This should be interesting, he decided; clearly this kid was living with his parents or other relatives.  At least it wasn’t a gated community, and it wasn’t too far away—only about twenty minutes if he took the freeway.

 

Joe didn’t need any time to prepare.  The image reflected in his bedroom mirror was adequate for the purpose; it showed a dark-haired, muscular stud in black clothing—a t-shirt that was two sizes too small, so skin-tight that his large nipples were clearly defined on his broad chest.  Below the waist (circled by a thick leather belt with a large buckle of dull, burnished metal), his jeans were equally revealing.  His crotch bulged and a thick ridge was traceable halfway down his thigh.  The mirror didn’t reach down far enough to reflect his slightly worn harness boots.

 

Pulling up the app, he texted “OMW” and headed out the door.  Outside, the summer night was hot and unusually humid.  Even on the highway, with the T-top of his Camaro open, a slight gleam of perspiration burnished Joe’s bulging biceps and hairy forearms.  He stepped on the gas and headed into the dark night.

 

The address wasn’t in a gated community, but the house he was headed to had gates—luckily, they were open.  A long drive led up to massive, rambling house, its exterior done in a half-timbered, faux-Tudor style that owed nothing to historical accuracy.  He followed the driveway past the courtyard that contained multiple garages, around to the main entrance, where he parked and exited the car.  No lights showed anywhere in the façade of the house.

 

The double front door sat in darkness under a deep porch, but the darkness wasn’t so intense that Joe failed to spot a security camera aimed directly at him.  He paused on the doorstep, considering his options.  The idea of being caught on camera was disturbing—but on the other hand, he’d probably been on video since he’d driven onto the property.

 

If that was true, he needed to get inside in any case and see if he could find the recording; he wasn’t about to leave that kind of evidence behind.  He knocked at the door and was surprised to find it open immediately.

 

The figure in the doorway was lit from behind by a dim lamp in the rear of the foyer.  It took Joe a moment to focus on the lithe, lean form which soon resolved into a youth with tousled blonde hair.  The boy was shorter than Joe, with a snub nose and freckles across his cheeks.  His smooth, slim abdomen was bare; the only clothing he wore was a pair of lounge pants—the striped flannel looked like pajama bottoms.  His feet, in white ped socks, seemed to slide on the polished parquet flooring of the vestibule.

 

“Come in,” the kid said abruptly, glancing out the door before shutting it hurriedly, “Quick, before anyone sees ya.”

 

Since the nearest neighbor was at least a heavily-landscaped half-mile away, Joe grinned at the boy’s paranoia.  The youth noticed the look of contemptuous amusement and blushed.

 

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered shamefacedly, “But seriously, dude, I gotta keep this on the DL.  My folks’ll freak if they find out; they don’t even know I like dick.  I mean, they’re on vacation, but I gotta be careful, y’know?  I even shut off the security cameras so nothin’ will be recorded.”

 

That was what Joe needed to know.  He could let the beast out tonight, and let it rage unchained.

 

“This way,” the kid said, heading up the stairs.  “I’m Bart, by the way.”

 

Joe grunted his reply and followed, the thump of his boots echoing in the cavernous stairwell.  Like the rest of the house, the upper hall was shrouded in in darkness.  Bart led the way towards an open double door from which an orange light flickered.

 

Once inside the doors, Joe looked around and realized he was in the largest bedroom he’d ever seen.  On the far right, in a large window-filled bay, was a huge TV with a pair of recliners in front of it.  To the immediate right was a California king waterbed sheathed in plush mauve velour.

 

Just opposite the door was a large gas fireplace, already lit.  The kid was standing in front of it, on what appeared to be a bear-skin rug; the rug was surrounded by a divan and a couple of chairs, all upholstered in thick mohair.  On the left was a large cheval mirror that appeared to be an antique.  Its handsome appearance was somewhat jarring, given the off-putting décor of the rest of the room.

 

“It’s my parents’ bedroom,” Bart admitted; Joe had already figured that.

 

The older man approached the boy, who was standing with his back to the fireplace.  As he got closer, he could almost feel the heat from the lust in the kid’s eyes was they slid over his well-defined form.

 

“Strip, boy,” Joe said.  “Let’s see what ya got.”

 

As Bart reached for the drawstring at the waist of his flannel pants, he turned his large blue-gray eyes up to Joe and grinned.  “Goddam, dude—I wanna see what you got, too.  Bet a big fucker like you’s got the tackle to tear my ass up good.”  He dropped the pants as he spoke, revealing his legs, his firm thighs smooth while his calves were shaded with a faint golden fuzz.  Six inches of thick but semi-soft boycock dangled from a tangled mass of dirty blond pubes.

 

Smirking, Joe peeled off his shirt, revealing his powerful, V-shaped torso, wide across his broad, hubcap pecs and narrowing to his tight, firm waist.  The fur on his sculpted abs darkened and thickened as it descended his flat belly in a black treasure trail that vanished behind the dull burnished steel of his belt buckle.  Above the dark forest on his pecs, the firm twin mounds of his large nipples protruded, hard in the open air.

 

At the sight, Bart’s dick stiffened and enlarged.  His eyes followed Joe’s hand as it descended to his crotch below the belt buckle and grasped the zipper.  Slowly and longingly, the youth’s eyes lowered with the zipper itself, achingly tracing its path until the fly was wide enough for Joe to reach in and extract his enormous shaft.

 

“Oh fuck,” Bart moaned sluttishly, “That’s gonna tear me the fuck open.  Shit, bro, I need to be hurt—and you’re the dude to do it.  Use me, man, make me your whore.”

 

Joe grinned, moving forward slowly.  “So ya wanna get hurt, do ya, boy?  How bad ya wanna get hurt?”  His cock pulsed rhythmically with each step.  Bart noticed.

 

“I—uh, I want ya to hit me.  Slap me around while you’re fuckin’ me.  Spit on me, treat me like shit.”

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “Treat ya like shit?  You are shit, faggot.  And I’m gonna make damn sure you know it.”

 

The blond youth wriggled like a bitch in heat.  “Yeah,” he squealed, “Oh fuck yeah…”

 

Joe had reached the bearskin rug; turning so that the orange glare of the gas fireplace was out of his eyes, he was able to note a few more details about the room—the faint tiger-stripe pattern on the velour bedspread, the utter incongruousness of the saccharine Thomas Kinkade print on the far wall…

 

…and the useless and unused set of elaborate cast-iron fire tools set to one side of the fireplace.  Turning his back to the kid, he went to the set and pulled out the poker, holding it up and examining the brass-handled shaft of iron.

 

“Don’t worry, cunt,” he said quietly, “I’ll hurt ya.  I’ll hurt ya good…”

 

Whirling back to the boy with a broad smile on his face, he realized that his control was slipping.   There wasn’t gonna be any foreplay with this little fucker.  “Ya ready, fag?” he asked and without waiting for a response, swung the poker like he was aiming for the fences.

 

It connected with Bart’s left flank with a loud thump, knocking the kid to his knees.  The boy screeched in pain and clutched his side.  He looked up a Joe, his expression a confused mix of pain and angry bewilderment; his large blue-gray eyes full of tears.

 

“Hey,” he gasped in ragged breaths, “Whatdja do that for?”

 

“You needed to be punished, right, bitch?  Your own words.  So I’m gonna make damn sure you get punished real good—ya get me, cocksucker?”

 

“Wh-what’re ya talkin’ about?”  Bart whimpered.  “I ju-just wanted to get slapped around a little, dude, y’know?  I didn’t mean I actually wanted ya to hurt me!”

 

Joe grinned again.  For the first time, Bart noticed the disturbing, shark-like quality.  “Gee, that’s too fuckin’ bad,” the older man chuckled, “Cause I’m planning on beatin’ the shit outta you, faggot.  Oh, don’t worry—I’m still gonna fuck ya.  But first I’m gonna fuck ya up.”

 

“Wha—no—no, dude, no—” In sudden fear, Bart was scooting backwards, slowly and unconsciously crawling off the bearskin rug on his ass.  “No, this ain’t what I—AAAHHH!”

 

With no warning, Joe had swung the poker again, this time up over his shoulder and straight down onto the kid’s right leg, the iron tip making contact with the kneecap with a loud crunch.

 

“JESUS FUCKIN’ CHRIST!!!” the agonized youth shrieked as his kneecap shattered.  He sobbed in pain as Joe laughed mockingly.

 

“Whadda fuckin’ pussy,” Joe sneered, “Man up, homo, we’re just gettin’ started!  I ain’t even completely hard yet, cunt—it’s gonna be a long night.”

 

Panic gripped Bart’s hormone-drenched mind as he writhed in searing pain; despite this nightmarish turn of events, his dick was somehow still hard.  His rich suburban white-boy psyche hadn’t been able to fully assimilate the onslaught of violence; some part of him still seemed to be expecting hot raunchy mansex.  At least, his hot throbbing cock seemed to expect it.

 

Joe was still planning on hot raunchy mansex as well—he just wanted to tenderize the meat a little first.

 

Bart rolled over and climbed awkwardly to his feet, whimpering and blubbering and unable to bend his right knee.  “No,” the young blond faggot sobbed, “No, not this—I just wanted your dick, dude, please…”

 

“You ain’t gettin’ my manmeat till I’m done workin’ ya over, bitch.  Now shaddup and take what you deserve, you worthless little fuck!”  Joe began to slowly pace toward the kid.

 

The lean, smooth youth, his tear-streaked face ashen with shock, tried to move backwards in a clumsy hopping motion.  Surprisingly, he managed to remain vertical even as Joe approached.  The alpha tossed the poker down onto one of the sofas as he passed by—both hands were free when he reached out and grabbed hold of the unfortunate punk.

 

Joe held Bart by the upper arms, lifting him straight into the air until the kid’s white ped socks dangled a good four inches above the floor.  He brought the little pansy’s face up to his, and for the first time, Bart got a really good look at the seething rage boiling in the eyes of the stud—the sexy stud he’d thought would make this a perfect evening.

 

The fact that the rage was obviously entwined with a smoldering lust somehow only seemed to make the situation more terrifying.  And worst of all—his own dick was still so pulsatingly erect it ached as precum trickled from his enlarged piss slit.

 

“You wanted me to spit on ya?  You wanted me to treat ya like shit?  You got it, ya cumguzzlin’ motherfucker; I’ll treat ya like the piece of shit you are.  Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m gonna make damn sure you not only know exactly what a worthless faggot you are—you’ll feel it.”

 

Bart shook his head numbly, hearing the words but refusing to understand them.  He couldn’t refuse to listen to the pain, though—the throbbing in his left side, up under the ribs, the horrific pain in his right knee, the increasing ache in his shoulders as they were forced to support his entire body weight…none of it could be ignored.  The kid moaned incoherently as he kicked vainly in midair.

 

“No…no…not this…not here…not me…” he mumbled in stupefied shock.

 

“You, here and now—and this,” Joe snarled.  Bart experienced a violent sensation of movement that lasted only a split second before a sudden shattering impact that left him dazed and shuddering in agony on the floor.  It took more than a sixty seconds for the realization that he’d been thrown into—and through—the cheval mirror.  Groaning loudly, the slim, smooth youth was rolling on top of small shards of mirror glass, grinding them into his back.

 

“Ya like that one, cunt?” Joe chuckled, strolling in Bart’s direction.  “I sure did.  Teachin’ little fucks like you their place always gets me hard.  You gotta a lot of learnin’ to do in the next hour, you faggot slut.  You like pain, ya disgusting little perv?  Then suffer, scumbag!”

 

Reaching Bart as he spoke, Joe raised his foot and placed it on Bart’s crotch.   Without the slightest hesitation, the sadistic alpha applied pressure, grinding the horny, hormone-riddled youth’s cum-filled ballsack under his bootheel.  The boyslut’s moaning spiraled up into the piercing squeal of a terrified pig.

 

“Aw, yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Joe chortled.  “Ya feelin’ me, boy?”  He pressed down, crushing Bart’s thick boycock under the sole of his boot.  The oozing ridge of flesh remained erect despite the intense pain—Bart screamed in agony until his voice cracked, but was still aware of his unaccountably rigid tool.

 

“You disgusting little painpig,” the muscled older man sneered at the crying, cowering youth, “Lookit how hard yer cock is, dicksucker—you just lovin’ this shit, aintcha?  How ‘bout I give ya a little more”—here he leaned forward, letting the weight of his hulking, powerful body rest on his bootheel—“just enough to pop yer balls and grind yer homo nutsack to meat paste?”

 

The brutal stud ground down on the shrieking punk’s scrotum; for a few terrifying seconds, Bart’s testicles were in such excruciating pain that he thought they really would burst.  Then suddenly the inexorable pressure was gone.  It was such a relief that the boy almost passed out; the pain in his knee was practically forgotten.  It didn’t last long.

 

Joe struck out with his strong, muscled leg, his steel-toed boot catching the prone slut on the hip.  It was a swift, vicious kick, with enough force to flip the writhing whoreboy over onto his stomach, revealing the multiple lacerations from mirror shards on his back.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the cruel alpha muttered.

 

Bart was in deep fear.  This hadn’t worked out like he’d planned at all.  He was just gonna find a hot stud and get some dick tonight before his folks got back tomorrow; instead, he was on the floor in nightmarish pain and his parents’ bedroom had morphed from a passion pit to a scene of brutal violence.  He didn’t—wouldn’t—follow the scenario to its logical conclusion, but he knew he had to get out before things got any worse.  Unsteadily, he rose to his hands and knees.  Well, one knee.  He still couldn’t get the right one to bend right; it hurt too much to try.  He made a motion towards the door in a wobbly crawl—and then he heard Joe’s quietly mocking voice behind him.

 

“Tryin’ to fly, little bird?  Maybe it’s time to clip a wing.”

 

Bart turned his head and looked up as the buff sadist walked up to him.  Despite the way tears had blurred his vision, he could see the tall man looming over him with desperate clarity.  The dude’s enormous hog was dangling over him, dripping hot beads of precum into the kids’ blond hair.  Beyond the huge hairy expanse of muscled chest, the hard, handsome face looked down on him, glowing with a bizarre mixture of lust and incandescent contempt.

 

It was terrifying and erotic; he’d have pissed himself if his dick wasn’t so hard.

 

Then Joe stepped kicked at the queerboy’s left leg, making him fall flat to the floor.  Stepping up to where Bart’s arms were stretched out on the floor above his head, the sick stud placed his big black boot in the middle of the boy’s right forearm, halfway between the hand and the elbow.

 

Smiling cheerfully, but without saying a word, the powerful alpha bent down, grabbed the boy’s right wrist.  His biceps bulging, the muscled sadist pulled upwards with a mighty jerk.  There was a loud double snapping sound, like tree branches breaking, as Joe bent the fucker’s arm to ninety degrees, shattering the radius and ulna almost simultaneously.

 

Bart tried to scream; the cold, glassy pain of fractured bone tore through his lean, tortured frame.  He opened his mouth, instinctively taking a lungful of air, but before the pent-up shriek could escape, there was a flash, a violent impact, and the young slut slumped to the floor—not completely unconscious, but lost in a dark haze, shot through with flashes of agony like bolts of lightning.

 

Joe chuckled; the kick he’d aimed at the faggot’s head had connected perfectly with the asswipe’s jaw.  “That oughtta keep ya quiet for a bit, dickwad,” the older man smirked as he walked away, heading for the huge waterbed.

 

When he reached the bed, Joe sat on the velour bedspread; crossing his legs, he slowly pulled his left boot off, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thump.  Across the room, the kid flinched at the sound.  Joe, stripping the white, calf-high tube sock from his leg, kept his eye on the punk as the latter began slowly and painfully wriggling his way towards the door.  No need to rush; there was no way the badly abused meat was gonna be able to reach the door before Joe was done gettin’ naked.

 

And if he did, were was the little shit gonna go?  The brutal alpha had made sure his fucktoy was too badly fucked up to make it down the stairs.

 

Bart was unable to think that logically; he was driven by a reflexive drive to flee imminent danger.  But it hurt to move, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…  How did this happen?  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  He hadn’t meant it about the pain, please, dear God, he hadn’t really meant—please, no, no more pain…

 

He’d managed to squirm some four feet across the room before he heard the unmistakable thud of the dude’s other boot hitting the floor.  Moaning in terror, the lean, smooth boy tried to increase his speed but only managed to intensify his pain.  He inched along on his belly, his long hard cock scraping uncomfortably across the wood floor.  Every movement of his limbs sent jagged shockwaves of suffering through his slim firm body as his shattered kneecap was pressed against the boards under him.  Even worse was the searing torture as the splintered ends of broken bones ground together in his arm.

 

Behind him, Joe stood up, peeling his tight jeans off his thick, muscles legs.  Folding the faded denim neatly, he placed them on the bed, next to his leather belt.  The belt, though, he picked back up before heading toward the shuddering, crawling mass of battered flesh.

 

Without his boots, Bart couldn’t hear Joe coming closer, but he could feel the powerful tremors of the bulked-out stud’s footfalls.  They were coming closer, oh holy fuck, this crazy motherfucker is getting nearer—

 

And then he was there.  Joe bent down and looped the belt around Bart’s throat before the kid realized what happened.  The towering killer whirled, jerking the helpless punk around and dragging him back towards the fireplace.  Bart’s airway wasn’t completely constricted but it was cinched off enough that it cut off the agonized scream building in his chest.

 

“Didja think I was done with ya, you stupid motherfucker?” Joe asked sardonically.  “You wanted pain, faggot, you wanted a real man to make ya submit, yeah?  Well ya fuckin’ got one, bitch, and you ain’t done submittin’ till I say yer done, understand?”

 

Joe bent down and picked up the poker again as he passed the sofa on the way back to the fireplace; Bart, being dragged along on the floor behind him, saw the action but was suffering too badly to assign any significance to it.

 

Once he reached the bearskin rug, Joe spun around, flinging the lean, limp boyslut onto the center of the rug and whipped the belt from around his throat.  As the raw leather on the inside of the belt was torn away, it took the top layer of skin with it, leaving an angry red welt of raw flesh around Bart’s neck.

 

Joe tossed the belt aside—it landed on the sofa in the same spot the poker had been—and stood over the smooth young boy.  Bart was writhing in excruciating pain; he’d been dragged and thrown around like a sack of potatoes—not like a human being with internal injuries and multiple broken bones.  Even the wood floor bore witness to Bart’s torment; it was streaked with blood that trickled from the lacerations on his back.

 

On his back, groaning fitfully, the dazed homo opened his eyes, focusing blearily on the alpha stud towering over him.  Joe was nude, his cock magnificently erect and jutting out a good eight inches in front of him, hot transparent drops of precum seeping from the engorged head.  Beyond the huge hard shaft, the killer’s torso widen from the tight waist up to the dark forest of fur clinging to the broad and powerfully muscled chest.  And above that, the merciless glare of hate, contempt—and somehow, lust…

 

“No…”  Bart whispered in a croak as Joe lowered himself, grinning.

 

“Yeah,” Joe said.  “Time to take it in the ass, cunt.”

 

On his knees, Joe grabbed Bart’s legs and forced them apart.  Without a pause—and without even so much as spitting on it—he rammed his enormous tool into the kid’s quivering fuckhole.  The thick, vein-wrapped dick tore open the boy’s clenched sphincter like tissue paper before ripping its way through his colon and lodging deep in his guts.

 

After all he’d endured, Bart had thought he’d gotten jaded to the pain.  He was wrong.  Holy fuckin’ shit, was he wrong.  For a brief, insane moment, the slut thought someone had jammed a steel umbrella up his ass and opened it.  He shrieked so intensely that his voice cracked again; his mouth was open, but only a croaking, gasping noise emerged.

 

“Can ya feel me, boy?” Joe jeered.  “I’m balls-deep in yer ass, slut.  Jeez, cunt, you musta had a buncha tiny-dicked fairies bang ya, huh?  Don’t it feel good havin’ a real man tear you a new fuckhole?  Feels hot as fuck to me!”

 

Still unable to control his breathing or his voice, Bart could only stare up at Joe, his mouth and his blue-gray eyes open wide in shock and horror—and his innards full of mancock.  He was finally getting fucked by the hot stud, just the way he wanted, but he no longer wanted it.

 

Joe knew it.  It just made him hornier and more vicious.  “This what you were lookin’ fer, cunt?” he said with malicious glee.  “This what ya wanted when you asked for someone to hurt ya?  Gotta tell ya, fag, the moment I saw yer add I knew I was gonna be makin’ you into fuckmeat tonight.”

 

Bart was shaking his head in denial—not of Joe’s words; he wasn’t in an adequate condition to comprehend or process the sense of what was being said to him.  It was a denial of reality, of the horrific universe of pain in which he found himself.  But the agony was too intense to be denied, and that was the reality that was etched in tense lines across the youth’s taut, tortured face.

 

As he relentlessly pounded Bart’s ass, the brutal alpha knew shock was setting in; the boy wasn’t listening anymore.  And he didn’t want that.  The little fucker wasn’t meat yet; there was still plenty of time for a good mindfuck.  All he needed to do was grab the homo’s attention.

 

“Am I hurtin’ ya enough, cocksucker?  No?  What, ya want more?  Fuck, yer one greedy-ass painpig aintcha?  Ok, motherfucker, here ya fuckin’ go!”  Drawing his powerful arm back, he slammed his huge fist straight into Bart’s tear-stained face.

 

The loud smack of flesh on flesh merged seamlessly with the punk’s grunt of pain as his lips were split under the impact of Joe’s blow.  His head rocked back and stuck the floor violently but the bearskin rug cruelly provided enough padding to prevent Bart being knocked out. As his head rebounded, it was met with another line-drive blow straight from Joe’s shoulder; this one was rewarded with a loud crunch as the boywhore’s nose was crushed.

 

The kid’s lean body, bathed in sweat wrung from his physical torment, jerked rhythmically as Joe continued to force his massive hog up Bart’s torn, bleeding rectum.  The young pansy was dazed from the sadist’s powerful punches; he was stunned and limp in an excruciating aura of suffering.

 

But he was still awake enough to hear Joe’s cruel taunts.  “Fuck yeah, motherfucker, now we’re talkin’!  That got yer motor runnin’, didn’t it, ya pain-lovin’ pervert?  Yer sportin’ some serious wood, assfuck; the harder I hit ya, the harder yer dick gets.”

 

The muscular alpha leaned down and whispered into Bart’s ear.  He was close enough that despite his flattened, bloody nose, the kid could still smell his rank, powerful mansweat, laden with testosterone.  Bart brought up his left arm—his right was lying uselessly by his side, bent into an impossible shape—and tried to brace himself, placing his palm flat on Joe’s chest.  It was a futile gesture of protest; it had no impact on his assailant.

 

Bart could only curl his fingers in his torturer’s chest hair and hang on as the top raped his ass and fucked his mind.  “If ya liked that, you sick fuck, yer gonna cream when ya find out what I got planned for ya.  I’m gonna snuff you, faggot.  I’m gonna kill you.  You’re gonna die here, tonight, with my cock buried in your guts.  Don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  Hell yeah, cunt, time to die!”

 

Bart moaned faintly.  The pain of the beating radiated through his lean, fit body, but the searing agony of the huge tube of manflesh, barbed with thick veins, that impaled his guts was what he was suffering from the most.  This pain was alive and sentient, it tore its way through his tender innards, mercilessly keeping pressure on his prostate—and keeping him achingly erect.

 

“Yer dick is oozin’” Joe guffawed.  “That gets ya off, huh?  Yer just lovin’ the thought of gettin’ offed by a real man—ha!  Fuckin’ piece a’ shit faggot—all you cocksuckers deserve to be killed, an’ all y’all know it, too.  Every homo I snuff cums as it dies.  You ain’t gonna be no different, motherfucker.  I’m gonna put you down and yer gonna blow your fuckin’ load, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my dick.”

 

With his cock still buried balls-deep in the battered and broken boy, Joe rose up on his knees, turned, and picked up the poker.  Straitening himself, he held it up horizontally in front of Bart, then slowly lowered it until it touched his neck—a bar of iron running across the trembling boy’s throat.

 

Bart could feel the cold metal pressing against the skin.  He knew what was coming but refused to consciously acknowledge it.  That didn’t stop the fear that was building with him, though; Joe could see the terror in the boy’s eyes.  The buff killer grinned and applied pressure.

 

The poker sank into Bart’s throat like a garrote, just above the larynx.  As it pressed deeper into his flesh, it deformed his esophagus more and more, stressing the cartilage and closing off the airway.  Bart’s crushed nose had already been interfering with his ability to breathe; now, with each passing second, it was becoming more impossible for him to draw breath.  Fear turned to panic.

 

Joe recognized the symptoms and braced himself.  He’d already done a good job of hobbling the fuckmeat while he was tenderizing it; the cunt only had one good arm and one good leg.  Even so, there is a strength in frenzied desperation that can momentarily compensate for the most intense agony.

 

Joe leaned back and held on; both his hands were on the poker as he forced it into the punk’s neck, one on each side of the head.  While he could have let go with one hand and still kept some pressure on the metal shaft, it wouldn’t have been as evenly applied and he didn’t want to give the meat an inadvertent chance to draw air.  Besides, it wasn’t like the little shit could actually hurt him, even in the depths of panic.  Nor could he squirm away—he was pinned to the bearskin rug by Joe’s huge engorged cock.

 

The muscled alpha jerked his head up and back, out of the range of the kid’s left hand which had come up, clawing and fluttering around his face like a startled bird.  Curling his toes, the hulking sadist flexed his powerful thighs and ram-rodded his swollen tool deep into the meat’s fuckhole.  The veins on the thick tube of flesh rode over the helpless youth’s prostate like the ridges on a ribbed condom.  The boy responded with a dramatic increase in precum; the steady stream that emerged from the purple tip left a smeared trail in the body fur as the homo’s dick slapped and slid against his rapist’s flat, firm belly.

 

As the last remaining space in his windpipe was closed off, Bart’s labored breathing became a shrill squeal, then stopped for good.  His strained face, already bruised enough to make recognition difficult, began to darken and swell.  Now his panic reached a point near dementia—now, even searing agony wasn’t enough to penetrate the vortex of asphyxiation-driven terror.

 

Bart turned into a writhing animal, flailing in blind panic.  He beat against Joe, his left hand balled into a fist, his useless right hand flopping as the right arm thrashed; the excruciating agony of the broken bone ends grinding together having no effect in Bart’s mindless fear.  Both of the meat’s legs were wrapped around Joe’s tight waist, kicking in the air— and despite the sheer torture of the slut’s shattered right kneecap, the right leg was flung with such force that the ped sock flew off, a white ball of cotton that landed on one of the chairs.

 

Bart was finally getting what he wanted—the fuck of a lifetime by someone who was willing to hurt him the way he needed to be hurt.  It was a shame it hurt so much more than he’d anticipated that he was only vaguely aware he was being fucked at all—but it was what he deserved.

 

And his hard cock proved it, straining, glistening, erect, and as purple as Bart’s face.

 

“Ya know what happens when ya die?” Joe whispered to the shuddering meat in a low, erotic tone, as the poker sank even deeper into his neck.  “Your asshole starts to spasm.  As your brain begins to die, your body will shudder and convulse.  It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my cock.  Ain’t that cool?  Yer gonna suffer the way all you little fuckin’ faggots need to, and you’ll give your worthless life meaning by milking out my load as you die.  Just lay back and lemme snuff yer homo ass, bitch.”

 

Bart stared at Joe, his eyes bulging with hypoxia and shock.  The cute, snub-nosed blond was almost unrecognizable.  The meat’s face was swollen and black, the tongue protruding horribly, surrounded by foamy drool.  The whites of the eyes were turning red as tiny blood vessels started to rupture within.

 

The dying boy heard Joe’s words; his brain was starting to shut down, but there was still enough of him left to understand what had been said to him.  Images flickered through his fading mind; the romantic shadows that the gas fireplace cast on the bearskin rug, the shattered remains of the cheval mirror—how was he gonna explain that to his folks?—the online photo he’d received of a hairy, muscular, V-shaped torso that has inspired such lust in him.  It was the torso of the man who was murdering him.

 

And it hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad.  Dying didn’t feel good; it wasn’t gentle or peaceful—it hurt like fucking hell.  Even the pain of bruised flesh and broken bones faded into the background as the suffering youth felt his lungs strain to function, a fiery pressure like nothing he’d had to endure before.  But after a few seconds, it was surpassed by the pressure in his head.

 

Bart knew his face was swollen; he knew his eyes were bulging and his tongue was sticking out—he could feel it.  All of it.  Every agonizing second of it.  His head was swelling; the pressure within was phenomenal.  He didn’t understand why his skull didn’t just burst; the pain was beyond human endurance, and that pounding—that sledgehammer pounding in hear ears and inside his cranium, getting faster and faster…

 

But somehow, even in the depths of his nightmarish suffering, the slender young cockpig remained aware of the massive dick in his ass, and of his own hard tool, pressed between his sweat-slick, slender body and the hard, muscled form of his killer.  As he lost control of his limbs, as the overwhelming pounding of his pulse in his ears reached an insane tempo, he still knew he was being banged like a cheap whore.

 

White foam trickled down the cunt’s black, puffy cheeks.  His left hand no longer grabbed at Joe’s face; it was stroking the side of the alpha’s head in an almost loving caress as Bart’s desperate fight for life faded into a feeble, nearly gentle touch.

 

“You’re dyin’, motherfucker,” Joe whispered.  “Yer lights are goin’ out.  Mommy and daddy are gonna come home and find yer worthless, fucked-out ass right here in the middle of their bedroom.  They’re gonna see you got beaten and used like the homo cunt ya are.”

 

Bart nodded, but he wasn’t replying to Joe.  He’d reached a tipping point; enough of his brain had died off that he wasn’t coming back—he was starting to convulse.  Even if Joe removed the poker, Bart would still end up a vegetable, a brain-dead sack of meat.  Sadly for the boy, though, there a piece of him still left aware, a tiny piece of trapped sentience doomed to witness his own death.

 

Joe could feel the change coming over the meat; he was too experienced in boysnuff not to know what was coming.  “Oh hell yeah,” he muttered in sexual anticipation, “Now yer startin’ to work my tool.  C’mon, faggot, lessee if we can make ya kick real good—the more you suffer, the harder I cum!”

 

His face twisted into a hate-filled snarl, Joe shoved forward, his thick biceps bulging and glistening with sweat as he forced the iron rod deep into the queerboy’s neck.  Bart hacked and choked, a huge bubble of drool erupting past his swollen tongue, as the poker crushed his esophagus with a wet crackling sound, like someone tearing apart gristle.    His protruding, blood-red eyes stared into Joe’s with one last look of horror and despair before rolling back into his head, leaving nothing but a sliver of white showing under the fluttering lashes.

 

And then the convulsion began.  The small corner of awareness inside Bart had no memory capability; it couldn’t recall Joe’s promise that he would suffer horrific pain during his death throes.  It was still capable of suffering the pain, though and it did.  The unlucky boyslut’s last few seconds on earth were nightmarish.

 

The meat arched its back, squeezing its hard cock against Joe’s abdomen and the left hand clutched Joe’s right shoulder in an iron grip.  The left leg wrapped tightly around Joe’s waist and he could feel the smooth right thigh pressing against his hip—the right calf bent outward grotesquely at the ruined knee.  Similarly, the right arm slapped against Joe’s left arm but the hand itself dangled, limp and useless, to the side, jerking randomly as the slim but strong body convulsed violently.

 

“Shit, you worthless punk,” Joe moaned between gritted teeth, “Keep that shit up, yer gonna get my load.”  As the youth convulsed and shuddered under him, the rippling spasms that traveled along the inside of the rectum had a suctioning effect on Joe’s huge shaft; he’d plugged the kid’s colon so completely that the rectum itself was stretched and taut around the massive member, like a condom.  Every dying quiver of rectal musculature stroked the sadist’s hog.  It felt kinda like getting a handjob and a blowjob simultaneously—and the fact that he had to snuff a fag to feel it only made it more erotic.

 

As the sperm in his hot, puckered balls began to seethe, Joe grunted.  He was losing control himself; in a moment, he’d be shuddering violently himself in orgasm.  Not yet, though—the motherfucker was still alive—the meat still needed to know that it was dead—

 

—then, with a loud, inarticulate cry, Joe jerked and bucked powerfully, driving the poker so forcefully into Bart’s throat that the punk’s head popped forward with the sickening sound of shattering vertebrae.  For Bart, it was a bolt of lightning; there was an undefinable sensation of great heat and great pain.  For Joe, it was an electric shock that raced through his body and trigged an intense orgasm.

 

Jets of cum erupted from the killer alpha’s engorged cock, splashing hot manseed deep inside the meat.  The meat responded; in the last moments of life, the hot wet geyser in the meat’s ass, the incessant pressure on its prostate and the devastating blow to the nervous system all combined to force a savagely powerful explosion of spunk from the corpse.

 

The last nerve signals that were transmitted to Bart’s brain were those of his orgasm—but the spinal cord was torn and damaged, so the signals were corrupt.   The unfortunate youth could only interpret them as searing pain, as if molten metal or liquid magma was being forced along his urethra; he was too brain dead to know he was cumming longer, harder, and more intensely than he ever had in his short, wasted life.

 

Joe knew it, though, and could feel its heat and intensity as a solid stream of boycum splattered up his belly and onto his chest, the pearly seed matting his dark chest hair.  Load after load of steaming semen splashed across his pecs as both killer and meat continued to jerk and grind against each other’s sweat-and cum-sticky bodies.

 

After a few minutes, Joe was able to get better control of himself; the magnitude of his orgasm kept him shuddering for a bit longer as he strained to empty his balls.  At the same time, the convulsions of the corpse in which his cock was still buried began slow and lessen in ferocity; in another minute, the body was reduced to a twitching pile of meat and Joe was able to pull out without too much trouble.  Sometimes, the meat can knot up on yer tool…

 

Stretching himself and sighing contentedly, the buff, hardbodied alpha ambled off to find the bathroom.

 

When he did, he noted the palatial appointments—the sunken marble tub, the matching marble vanity tops, the multi-jet rainfall shower—there was even a bidet, for fuck’s sake.  Smiling with amused contempt, he grabbed the thickest, most decorative-looking guest towel he could find and, soaking it in the sink, used it to clean the dead boy’s cum off his chest and belly, as well as wiping down his dick.

 

Then, with a malicious grin, he took the towel over to the tub and wedged a corner of it down into the drain as tightly as he could, before turning the hot water on full blast.  As he left the bathroom, he idly wondered how long it would take the tub to overflow.  After all, he wasn’t quote done here.

 

Back in the bedroom, he retrieved his t-shirt and jeans, quickly slipping the shirt on.  Tucking the shirt into his pants, he zipped the fly and threaded the belt back around his narrow waist.  Then he sat on the bed, pulling his sock and boots back on, eyeing  the evening’s work critically as he did.

 

His experience told him the composition was unfinished.  The dead kid was splayed out on his back with both the right arm and right leg bent at impossible angles and a single sock on his left foot.  The head was bent forward around the poker as if his was trying to look down his chest.  The meat’s face was starting to fade from black back to a cyan blue; it was still swollen and streaked with drool.  The eyes no longer protruded quite so grotesquely, but the tongue still did.  The smooth chest and belly were smeared with a white crust—the fag’s own cum, some of which was still leaking from his deflating cock.

 

Something was still needed, something to drive home the contempt Joe felt for the meat—and for the parents who raised it.  Something that would—oh, yes.  That would work.

 

Smiling broadly, Joe strode across to the corpse, the loud thumping of his boots fading once he stepped on the bearskin rug.  Placing one hand flat on the cunt’s forehead, he shoved it back while grabbing the poker with his other hand.  He turned, shifted slightly, and knelt between the meat’s spread legs.  With a loud grunt and a single powerful thrust of his arm, Joe rammed the poker up the corpse’s ass, tearing and mutilating the dead flesh until it had gone a good two feet into the meat’s intestines.  Only the brass handle and few inches of black iron stuck out of the kid’s ass; the head of the instrument, deep inside the corpse, had been smeared with Joe’s cum as it punched its way through the boy’s innards.

 

Joe stood up and took a step back for another critical glance.  There.  That was perfect.

 

He wasn’t the type to whistle, but if he was, he would have been whistling as he headed for the door; he’d gotten his dick milked and he’d put another fag down good and hard; all in all, a good night’s work.  As he got to the bedroom door, something caught his eye—a cellphone on an otherwise bare dresser.  Probably the meat’s.  That could be handy; he needed to dump the one he’d used to respond to the ad—he’d used it too many times.  Didn’t need to be traced.

 

Powering up the phone, he saw it had a touch lock.  Well, that damn sure wasn’t a problem.  He strolled back to the corpse and used the stiffening index finger to unlock the phone.  Once it was open, he reset the lock to his own finger.  Then, in a burst of inspiration, he took some photos of the corpse, from different angles and varying degrees of closeness.

 

Once he finished recording the brutality he’d visited upon the meat, he turned and left the room.  The echo of his big black boots on the staircase lingered for a moment after he’d gone, but soon the big house was quiet, the flickering of the still-lit gas fireplace providing the only hint of heat or motion in the darkness.

 


 

Elaine unlocked the front door and stepped into the entryway in a brusque manner indicative of her anger and impatience.  The flight had been late and that stupid shuttle bus driver was so slow—and Larry had actually tipped him instead of telling the useless towelhead to go back to driving a camel in whatever fly-ridden country he was from…

 

Huffing and grunting under the weight of the luggage in the doorway behind her, Larry was no less in a foul mood; his face was red in the overheated way some men get in their mid-forties when they get stressed.  “There, I think that’s everything,” he said, dumping the bags on the floor.  “Are you sure the maids come back tomorrow?  Some of this stuff’s gotta be—”

 

“Shh!” Elaine cut him off.  “What’s that sound?”

 

Now the she’d drawn his attention to it, he could hear it too.  It sounded like a waterfall—or at least, water falling from a height.  “It’s coming from the dining room,” he said.

 

He headed in that direction with his wife following him.  In the dining room, their worst fears—for the moment—were confirmed; water was pouring from the ceiling, running down the wires and the chain for the chandelier and splattering all over the antique damask-and-lace tablecloth.

 

“Oh my God,” Elaine squeaked, “Where’s that coming from?”

 

“Our bathroom is upstairs,” Larry replied in a dazed voice.

 

“Oh no, what has Bartholomew been doing?”

 

At this suggestion, Larry’s face went puce.  “By God,” he growled, “If that brat’s responsible for this, I’m gonna take it outta his fuckin’ hide!”

 

He dashed for the stair, bawling, “You’re dead meat when I get a hold of ya, boy!”

 

Elaine trailed after him, wailing.  “Don’t you hurt him, Larry!  It must be an accident!”

 

Larry raced up the stairs, rounding the turn at the top and propelling himself into the open bedroom door—and there he paused, trying to make some sense of the bizarre scene in front of him.  The splashing form the bathroom, the water running across the floor, the broken mirror—and Bart lying naked on the floor.  He didn’t look right.  Was he drunk?  Had he gotten wasted, broken the mirror, left the tub or shower running and passed out in front of the fireplace?  If that was the case, Larry was gonna kick his ass so hard.  He walked towards the prone youth.

 

Elaine burst into the room just as Larry realized that Bart had indeed gotten wasted last night, but not in the sense that Larry had originally intended.  Looking down at the beaten and strangled corpse of his son, the older man swayed on his feet.  Dear God in heaven, what the hell was that sticking out of his ass?

 

He was in no condition divert his wife from the nauseating sight.

 

“What the fuck is going on in here?” she demanded as she entered.  “Did Bartholomew do all this?  Where is he?”  She drew level with her husband, took one look down, shrieked at the top of her lungs and fell into a dead faint.

 

It was all over the local evening news.  It didn’t make state news until photos of the corpse began appearing anonymously on social media sites.  The first ones targeted were ones to which Larry or Elaine subscribed…

Trucker 13–Trucker vs Teen Runaway

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker growled, shoving harder.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

…but he couldn’t stop screaming.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Adam–Third Kill–Room Service

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“B-but why?” the buff youth wailed.

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Trucker 12–Trucker vs Wetback

As the narrow black ribbon of roadway veered sharply to the right, the Trucker gripped the large wheel of his rig and maneuvered the semi carefully around the sharp curve.   A few more yards ahead was another bend to the left, completing the S-curve that the black and yellow caution sign had warned about.

 

Even though he like to hunt along the lesser-traveled roadways, he wouldn’t normally have been on this treacherous stretch of state highway in west Texas if the interstate hadn’t been torn up for repairs.  Everyone had been exiting at Big Springs, so the Trucker had too, heading north.  His plan was to cut across a corner of New Mexico near Carlsbad before turning back south to El Paso, all on state highways.

 

At some point, most everyone else had turned off to head back to the interstate, trying to skirt around the construction.  The Trucker was content to slowly wend his way along the back roads.

 

After all, he was horny.  Who knew what kinda prey was waiting for him out there?

 

That question was answered much sooner than the sadistic predator thought it would be.  Skirting the Guadalupe Mountains National Park to the south, the Trucker noticed a lone figure on the side of the road, near the turnoff for a county road heading due south towards a ranch.  On getting closer, the figure resolved itself into a young Mexican kid, hitching west.

 

There was no one in sight and hadn’t been for miles.  The Trucker pulled over and watching in the side mirror as the punk ran towards the cab.

 

Young—early twenties at most.  His brown skin was highlighted by his almost shoulder-length hair, so black it was almost blue.  The boy had the hard, muscled body of a manual laborer, a fact not hidden by his slightly dirt-stained wifebeater, the thin cotton plastered to his well-built torso by sweat.  The spic’s firmly-muscled legs and bulging crotch were equally well displayed by his tight jeans, so well-worn that they were tantalizingly threadbare in strategic spots.  They were tucked into an old pair of pull-on workboots that had probably risen halfway up the kid’s calf when they were new—now they slouched and looked worn and soft as suede.

 

Soon enough, the door popped open and spic kid climbed in, in a swirl of hot air filled with tang of boysweat.  “Gracias, señor,” he said, rubbing his hand vigorously through his long hair to dislodge the dust.

 

“Where ya headed?” drawled the Trucker.

 

“West, señor.  Las Cruces.  I have job there, si?”

 

“Uh-huh,” the Trucker muttered noncommittally.  He already knew the little spic fuck wasn’t gonna make it to Las Cruces.  “Headed to El Paso myself.  I can get ya closer—maybe.”

 

The boy had been eyeing the Trucker the entire time; the buff alpha wasn’t surprised.  After all, he was dressed to attract attention from any horny little cockpig he came across.  His large muscled form was barely encased in a gray t-shirt so tight, his large erect nipples were clearly defined.  His huge, hubcap pecs were highlighted by the glint of metal from the dogtags dangling between them.

 

The older man’s tight jeans weren’t as worn as the hitcher’s, but the impossibly large bulge in his crotch was difficult to miss, as was the way his powerful legs were wrapped tightly in the denim all the way down to where they were tucked into his well-used but still intact black leather combat boots, worn loosely-laced and untied.  Above, his dark blue trucker’s cap was pulled low, shielding his eyes so that all that was visible of his face was his cheeks and his strong jaw, covered with a blue shadow of rough, wiry stubble.

 

The Trucker shifted into gear and started the rig moving forward, slowly merging back onto the empty two-lane blacktop.  As he did, he noticed in his peripheral vision the searching sidelong glances his passenger was giving him.  The boy was interested in him.  As he shifted the engine into a higher gear and the massive semi began to pick up speed, the Trucker leaned back in the driver’s seat.  He’d wait for the kid to make his move.

 

It didn’t take long.  About five miles further west, the Mexican spoke up. “S-say, señor, I can do un pequeño para ti, no?  A lil’ favor so you take me to Las Cruces?”

 

A broad grin crossed the Trucker’s face, but he didn’t look at the little punk.  “Yeah?  What kinda favor?  You got dinero?”

 

“N-no, señor, no dinero—but maybe I can do somethin’ else…”

 

With that, the spic reached out and placed his hand on the Trucker’s firm thigh, letting it slide over the denim towards the older man’s crotch.  The older man laughed out loud.

 

“Yeah, boy?” he chuckled, “Ya want me to fuck ya?”

 

The kid snatched his hand back.  His face flushed with anger.  “I ain’t no maricón!” he snapped.  “And I ain’t your niño—me llamo Jorge!” 

 

“So what the fuck are ya offerin’, then—boy?” the Trucker said, drawling out the last word in emphasis.

 

Still flushed—perhaps now in embarrassment—the Mexican punk was silent for a few seconds.  “I-I put it en mi boca, no en mi culo, compendre?   My mouth…”

 

The kid was offering a BJ but didn’t want it up the ass.  The Trucker had no doubt he’d be able to overcome the cunt’s objection to a good buttfuck.  Still, he might as well let the fucker suck on it a bit…

 

Taking one hand off the wheel, the hulking alpha reached into his groin and unzipped his fly.  Since he was doing it one-handed, it took him a couple of minutes to extract the full length of his massive cock.  Semi-soft, it slapped down loudly on his denim-wrapped thigh, pulsing and slowly swelling.

 

The Mexican youth stared down at the enormous tube of manmeat and gulped nervously.  Gingerly, he reached out for it.

 

“G’wan,” the Trucker snapped.  “You said you’d suck it, cerdo, now put it in yer mouth.”

 

“B-but you still drive, señor…” Jorge said hesitantly.

 

“Yer bitch ass ain’t enough to distract me while I’m drivin’, puta.  Suck my fuckin’ cock!  Ahora, perra!”

 

The labor-hardened slut had worked his way across country by hitching rides and doing whatever work he could pick up.  He’d picked tobacco in North Carolina, worked with a landscaping crew in Memphis and had done construction work in Dallas.  Every time he’d moved on, he’d ended up managing to trade blowjobs for rides and sometimes a bit more.  And if they weren’t grateful enough for his services, he’d steal whatever wasn’t nailed down.  There was a long, rough road behind him, but he’d never met anyone he couldn’t handle.

 

Until now.

 

And now he was scared.  This guy could hurt him; this guy could fuck him up bad.  He needed to have him pull over, say “Gracias, pero no gracias,” and wait for the next dude.

 

But he didn’t.  He kept moving toward that thick, throbbing shaft.  He wasn’t gay—no way was he a maricón—but he wasn’t able to pull away.  He didn’t know why; he wasn’t deep enough to analyze his own homosexual lust.  He just knew that he should get out, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and that was scaring him.

 

But then his hand wrapped around the huge flesh tube, and he knew he had to have it in his mouth.  Leaning awkwardly across the space between the seats, he tried to suck the Trucker’s cock.  It was so big he damn near dislocated his jaw trying to stuff it all in.  Gagging on the salty, musky head, the buff youth attempted to deep-throat the Trucker.

 

The potholes didn’t make it any easier.  Every time the cab jerked, the vein-bound tool slipped further down the punk’s throat, making him choke and cough.  The Trucker chuckled malignantly.

 

“You suck at suckin’,” he laughed.  “Gotta do better than that, boy—that won’t get ya five miles on this road!”

 

By this point, the experienced killer had spotted a wide spot on the shoulder ahead, an unmarked area to pull over momentarily.  He headed for it, keeping one hand on the wheel and the other entangled in the spic’s long black hair.  As he coasted to a stop, he grabbed the back of the kid’s head and shoved, hard.

 

Just as Jorge felt the cab decelerate, his windpipe was plugged with thick, throbbing manmeat.  He placed both hands on the alpha stud’s thigh and pushed as hard as he could, trying to raise his head up off the Trucker’s dick, but the older man was easily able to hold him down with one arm.

 

The hardbodied slut felt his fist bolt of outright fear—he couldn’t breathe and he literally couldn’t break free.  As his eyes watered uncontrollably, he curled his hands into fists and began to beat against the Trucker’s leg.  He could feel the large muscles flex in the top’s leg as he braked to a stop—and then the implacable force on the back of his head was gone.  The Trucker needed both hand to completely brake the rig.

 

Jorge instantly popped up, gasping for air.  “Mierda!  No mas!” he coughed out, drool running down his chin.

 

The Trucker parked the semi, cutting the ignition.  Grabbing a hank of the kid’s hair again, he pulled Jorge’s head up and spit in his congested, tear-stained face.  “Shaddup, ya stupid spic faggot,” he sneered and slammed the punk’s head into the dash with sudden, devastating force.

 

Jorge was literally stunned; it was like a bright red explosion of pain in his skull.  His eyes, wide with surprise, stared into the Trucker’s, with no comprehension of the hot flame of erotic rage that illuminated their otherwise cold blue depths.  The bewildered slut had barely taken in the Trucker’s words.

 

“P-pero…pero p-pensé…” he whispered.

 

“I don’t give a fuck what ya thought, fuckmeat,” the Trucker growled and rammed the boy headfirst into the dash again.  This time the kid went limp, sliding onto the floorboard like a sack of dirty laundry.

 

It took surprisingly little time for the Trucker to drag the Mexican to the sleeper section of the cab and close it off.  He had no qualms about being disturbed; he hadn’t seen another car for over an hour.  Tossing his cap to one side, he pulled off his t-shirt and left it on the floor.  Still in his jeans and boots, he squatted over the unconscious form of his passenger.  Gripping the low-slung collar of the spic’s wifebeater with both hands, he gave a short, strong yank and the thin cotton parted like wet tissue paper, revealing the homo punk’s muscled chest, the brown skin smooth and taut over his firm pecs and flat belly.

 

 

It was warm in the cab; the Trucker hadn’t wanted to switch on the AC and run the battery down.  Beads of sweat glittered like shards of glass scattered across the limp boywhore’s smooth, buff torso.  The hardbodied killer had no difficulty pulling off the punk’s worn and well-used workboots but his hands slipped momentarily on the kid’s sweat-slicked belly when he unfastened the button on the waistband of the victim’s jeans.  After that, though, it went smoothly.  One quick jerk and the young spic was lying nude on the floor except for a pair of white tube socks clinging to his calves—and displaying a thick, dark, uncut cock standing to attention from a curly nest of black pubes.  The Trucker smirked; little fag had been goin’ commando—and he said he didn’t like it up the ass.  Yeah, right.

 

And tough shit if he was telling the truth.

 

Bending down, the Trucker grabbed the unconscious youth under the arms and lifted him bodily up onto the bunk.  As he did, the kid started to moan.  Once the alpha had the boy laid out on the bed on his back, he could see the bruises on the kid’s face more clearly; the impact with the dash looked like it had split the fucker’s bottom lip.  The long eyelashes began to flutter, then suddenly large dark eyes were looking up into the Trucker’s own.

 

“M-madre d-d-de Di-dios…” Jorge muttered, his head pounding with pain.  Just regaining awareness, he wasn’t able to recall what exactly had happened—he’d been scared, and it hurt—

 

—then his eyes focused on the powerfully-built man towering over him, a man with a handsome, stubbled face and an evil grin and the biggest carajo he’d ever seen, purple and oozing…and he remembered.

 

“No—no—lemme ‘lone—” he blurted out as the Trucker let out a quiet chuckle.

 

Without a word, the older man climbed into the bunk and parted the boy’s legs.  Dazed as he was, Jorge could see what was about to happen.  Predictably, he became frantic.

 

“No! No en mi culo, no!” he protested loudly, doubling his fists and beating them against the Trucker’s chest with loud meaty smacks, as if he was hitting a side of beef—and with just as much of an impact.

 

“Shaddup and take my cock, ya dumbass spic fag,” the Trucker growled and punched Jorge straight in the face, his rocklike fist smashing the kid’s nose, breaking the cartilage with a loud crunch.  The Mexican youth squealed in agony and clutched his wounded face—leaving the Trucker undisturbed to position the pulsing, leaking head of his engorged tool up against Jorge’s pink, trembling fuckhole.

 

The sadistic top rubbed his precum over the clenched sphincter; it was all the lube the poor slut was gonna get.  Then he popped just the head in.

 

Jorge screamed; it had a high nasal pitch since his sinuses were blocked with blood.  Again he was pressing against the Trucker’s broad chest in a vain attempt to push his rapist off.  The searing pain in his boycunt was unimaginable…it was like someone had shoved a baseball up his ass…

 

The Trucker grinned and spat in the whore’s twisted face, streaked with trickles of tears and blood.  “That’s it,” he sneered, “Squeal like the cockpig ya are, boy.  Love it, dontcha?  Yeah, all you worthless spic fags fuckin’ love takin’ a white man’s rod, huh?  Fuck yeah, it’s yer lucky day, vato—you’re gonna get to spend a nice long time ridin’ my shaft.  Enjoy it, maricón!”

 

Jorge screeched as the Trucker inserted another two inches—and held that depth.  For the next few minutes, he fucked the kid swiftly but shallowly, letting him become accustomed to his ass muscle being stretched to its fullest extent.

 

And after a bit, Jorge began to relax.  His sphincter slackened and his colon accepted another couple of inches of the Trucker’s cock.  His cries had subsided to groans that slowly evolved into moans of pleasure.

 

Despite the fear and pain of the earlier assault—and his initial denials—the brown-skinned homo was getting his rocks off getting fucked.  His cock was fully extended, a good six inches of oozing, uncut manflesh.  His eyes were focused on the mesmerizing flickers of light that glinted on the dogtags dangling from the Trucker’s neck, twirling in the air as the alpha indulged in a controlled and (for him) gentle fuck.

 

And then it happened.  Jorge submitted to his pleasure in bottoming, wallowing in getting filled with mancock.  “Oh, si, si…mas, si, mas…” he moaned, wrapping his arms and legs as far as he could the top’s well-developed torso.  “Por favor, mas…”

 

“Yeah, I thought so—fuckin’ cumsuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the Tucker muttered and rammed the rest of his dick into Jorge’s ass.

 

He’d only been about halfway in before—and not the thickest half.  The whoreboy’s sphincter had been at its limit before; to penetrate the kid completely, the alpha had to tear him open.

 

Something had entered Jorge’s universe; he’d had no idea that pain like this was even possible.  He shrieked at the top of his lungs, so loudly that his voice cracked, turning his agonized cry into a croak.

 

“Oh fuck yeah,” he heard the Trucker say, “Take it all, spic.  Feel me, cocksucker, feel my dick buried in yer worthless guts…”

 

And he could.  This strong handsome gringo had filled him before, filled his ass and that aching void inside him…but now he was being not only filled by the older man, the dude was piledriving into his asshole, overflowing him, the huge mushroom tip catching and tearing at his innards as the vein-wrapped tube of flesh rode roughly over his prostate with every thrust.  The labor-hardened Mexican had thought he’d be able to handle any situation; now he was squealing in horrible pain as another dude held him down and wrecked his fuckhole.

 

And yet, the constant rough prostate massage left the helpless youth fully erect, precum leaking in an almost steady stream from the half-covered head of his dick.

 

“Lookit yer fuckin’ cock, cholo,” the Trucker jeered, “Hard as a fuckin’ brick, aintcha, yeah?  You like gettin’ hurt, dontcha, boy?  You ain’t nothing but a worthless dirty spic who gets off bein’ treated like the piece of homo shit you are, yeah?”

 

Jorge’s wide dark eyes were ringed with gray circles of shock as he looked into the scruffy, seductive face of madness hanging above him.  “Por-por f-favor, no!  N-no, señ-señor, Dios m-mío, no!”

 

He beat against the Trucker’s furry chest and sweaty, heaving flanks with as much impact as if he had been beating an oak tree.  He tried to get his feet into a position when he could obtain some leverage against his overpowering assailant, but all he managed to do was kick his legs in the air, his smooth firm thighs clenched around the buff older man’s waist.

 

Nothing he did had the slightest effect on the Trucker; the sadistic stud continued to pound his rod deep into the Mexican kid, tearing his way violently through the punk’s rectum.  Each thrust was like the slash of a razor within his colon; every time the muscled alpha grunted and pumped, the boy endured a new blast of agony…

 

…and was getting off on it.

 

That was the worst for Jorge; he couldn’t understand why his own uncut meat was achingly stiff when he was suffering some of the worst pain he’d ever encountered.  His body was betraying him—it was siding with his attacker.

 

Realizing his struggles were useless, the smooth, hardbodied fag stopped fighting and held the Trucker tight, a vague idea in his head that it might hurt less if he just held on.  The Trucker noticed.

 

He didn’t like it.

 

“You ain’t movin’ on my dick enough, ya worthless fairy wetback,” he barked angrily.  “What’s wrong, cunt—too much cock for ya?  You better get to work milking my rod, or I’ll make ya milk it—and I’ll make it hurt.  Think yer in pain now?  You ain’t felt nothin’, bitch.  This is gonna feel like mommy’s kisses by the time I’m done jackin’ up yer useless homo ass!”

 

Jorge realized he’d made a mistake, but he was too terrified to move.  The buff gringo had utterly overpowered him; he knew there was no escape.  In his migrations he’d met plenty of guys who’d introduced violence into the situation, but he’d never encountered anyone he couldn’t take.  This was different.  His only hope was to give the cruel, muscle-bound rapist what he wanted and hope the dude would let him go after he’d shot his load—after all, he was in the country illegally; he wasn’t gonna go to the cops…

 

…and deep in his pig soul, some part of him wanted it to continue.  In a dark corner of his psyche that he’d never consciously acknowledge, he was lusting after the viciously abusive alpha.  He wanted the older man’s hot wad in his ass, but the desire was being smothered by outright terror.

 

Especially when the Trucker leaned in so close his dogtags bounced on the kid’s broad, smooth chest and whispered, “Time to die, ya piece of garbage.  Tiempo a morir, niño.  I’m gettin’ bored fuckin’ ya, an’ I gotta schedule to keep.  Ready to cum an’ go, cunt?  Don’t worry, you’ll get a nice long dirt nap in a ditch when I’m done with ya.”

 

Leaning back, the hardbodied alpha sneered down at the boy writhing on his dick and spit into the kid’s pain-twisted, tear-streaked face.  He was pissed; fuckin’ spic didn’t comprehend enough English to take the full force of his mindfuck.

 

Ok, then, he’d make the meat understand manually.  Leaning forward again, the dogtags jangling loudly, he wrapped his huge hands around Jorge’s throat and started squeezing.

 

Jorge knew enough English to understand what the Trucker had said; he had simply just refused to let them sink in.  What sank in were the Trucker’s large, powerful hands, clamping down on his windpipe and sealing it off.  El gringo loco was really gonna kill him.

 

No, this wasn’t happening.  No.  He was young and strong; he could fight his way out.

 

And that was when he finally realized he wasn’t strong enough.

 

In the overheated, pheromone-laden atmosphere of the cab’s sleeper section, the two male bodies intertwined.  As Jorge tried desperately to pry the Trucker’s hands from his neck, his own hands slipped on the older man’s bulging muscles, slick with mansweat.  The Trucker squeezed even harder.

 

The Mexican punk started to panic.  There was a fiery pressure in his chest and a deafening pounding in his head; it made it hard to think.  He had to get away; it wasn’t a rational thought, it was a physical imperative.  In frantic blindness, the boy reached out, clawing at whatever was within his grasp.  In a flash, he’d managed to clench a fistful of the Trucker’s dark, wiry chest hair and jerked as hard as he could.

 

He never understood what a huge mistake he’d made; he was just aware that his involuntary reaction triggered an explosion of violence.

 

The Trucker’s cruelly handsome face darkened with terrifying anger.  “You goddam motherfucker,” he hissed, incandescent with rage, “You stupid spic cocksucker, I’m gonna jack yer worthless ass up so fuckin’ bad!”

 

Shifting his weight, he managed to take one hand from Jorge’s throat and still keep the buff slut’s airway closed.  He balled the free hand into a fist and pummeled the kid’s face, using the blows to punctuate his verbal abuse.

 

“Fuckin’ suffer, you useless sack a’ shit! (WHAM) Think yer gettin’ away? (WHAM)  Only place you’re goin’ is infierno, ya cumguzzlin’ queer wetback! (WHAM)  I’m gonna choke ya out while ya ride my dick all the way to hell, cunt! (WHAM)  Ya feel me, bitch? (WHAM)  No? (WHAM)  How ‘bout that one? (WHAM)  Ya feel that one, faggot? (WHAM)”

 

The second blow snapped Jorge’s left cheekbone; the third split both lips.  The fifth blow broke his nose with a loud crunch—and the last one dislocated his jaw.  As the Trucker had demanded, the well-built immigrant laborer suffered; he suffered bad.  The beating seemed to go on forever with all the force of a jackhammer.

 

And the unfortunate youth endured the torment while being raped and strangled.  No matter how badly he was beaten, his stunned mind was still agonizingly aware that he was choking to death, that an enormous shaft of manmeat was destroying his rectum—

 

—that his own cock was still painfully straining, erect and oozing.

 

And the end of the beating brought no relief.  The Trucker reapplied both hands to Jorge’s throat, clamping down even harder.  Now he was using enough force to deform the esophagus.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad.  The Latino whore could feel his windpipe slowly constricting under the pressure being applied.  The soft tissues in his neck were already compressed together, sealing off the airway; this was the cartilage itself collapsing.

 

The Trucker could feel pressure building as well—in his case, it was in his nutsack.  His huge hairy balls had drawn up, a sure sign that he’d be spewing his seed very soon.  As his muscular ass flexed and pumped, reaming his hard cock into the helpless spic’s fuckhole, testosterone oozed from his body in his sweat, matting his dark, wiry body fur and filling the semi’s cab with manmusk.

 

Beneath him, the fuckmeat was turning black, the boy’s face darkening and swelling from lack of air.  The youth’s dark eyes were streaked with blood where tiny vessels had ruptured under the strain; the hemorrhages were present around the bulging eyes as well, in the taut, purple skin.

 

Jorge was wasting what precious little oxygen was left in his bloodstream by flailing wildly.  The Trucker held on, grunting with pleasure, as the dying punk worked his dick, massaging the engorged shaft as he kicked and thrashed.

 

 

The boy kept wrapping his legs around the Trucker’s waist and locking his feet together, as if he was trying to hold his killer tightly to him, but, despite panic adding to the strength of his lean, hard body, the violence of the Trucker’s thrusts repeatedly broke Jorge’s leg holds.  On one occasion, the slut’s right sock came off, leaving his toes free to curl in agony as he died.

 

And it was agony.  As the Trucker increased the pressure on his neck, more of the unlucky cunt’s tongue was forced out from between his dusky blue lips.  Jorge’s face contorted as he choked to death; the motions caused his drool to bubble up into white foam that slid down his cheeks.  It was accompanied by a thick, grotesque gagging sound, the last useless croak of meat near death.

 

It was also accompanied by an increase of precum leaking from the meat’s tool; the Trucker could physically feel the difference as the punk’s swollen mushroom tip smeared across his ripped abs.

 

“That’s it,” the heaving, sweating alpha whispered, matching his thrusts to the increasingly rhythmic jerking of Jorge as his brain began to die, “That’s it, faggot.  Fuckin’ die, you piece of dick-suckin’ shit.  Die with my cock jammed up your queer ass, motherfucker.  Yeah, work my shaft as you die—oh fuck yeah, boy, that’s it, milk my cock—goddam, ya worthless spic cumrag, fucking die and soak up my spunk…gonna leave your cum-filled body to rot in a fuckin’ ditch…”

 

Technically Jorge was still alive, but there wasn’t enough left of the hard young wetback to be aware that his killer was talking, much less understand the words.  His world had contracted to a dark cold cloud of pain and pounding—pain and pounding in his head as his racing heart desperately tried to push non-existent oxygen through his shuddering body, and pain and pounding in his ass as the Trucker continued to ream his fuckhole.

 

And in that little back corner of his mind where his unacknowledged cockpig soul was still clinging tenaciously to life, he was aware of the burning, frothing sensation in his balls.  His brain was too far gone to understand what it meant; there was little left but sensation, the sensations of cold and pain…and a need for release.

 

And that’s when it happened.  With a final seismic grunt, the Trucker tightened his fingers one last time and was rewarded with a loud cracking sound and the feeling of Jorge’s esophagus collapsing into a mangled mass of cartilage under his hands.

 

The Mexican meat felt the injury more than it was able to hear it, although an echo of the intense crunch did manage to worm its way into that last single spark of awareness.  And with that, Jorge’s entire existence fused into a single bright moment when pleasure and pain fused together and became indistinguishable.  It was a solid electric shock that finally let him release; he was too far gone to know what was releasing, he only knew that it was draining from him.

 

Too close to death to realize that his semen was jetting from him in a solid stream, splattering across the Trucker’s sweaty, heaving chest and matting heavily in the fur, the fuckmeat convulsed violently, his torn, spasming sphincter clutching at the alpha’s huge dick like a drowning man clutching a log.

 

The muscled older man gave a loud, strangled cry as his cock swelled and spat out a near-endless geyser of cum, filling the corpse’s guts with massive amounts of searing manspunk.  The last sensation of Jorge’s wasted life was that as his life drained out through his dick and the chill of death seized him, there was one last spark of warmth filling his ass and his intestines—

 

—and then the useless spic whore found that death wasn’t peace, it was an icy howling vortex of blackness—

 

Shuddering and breathing heavily, the Trucker held onto the convulsing meat for a couple more minutes before standing up, inhaling deeply and pulling his thick dong out of the dead body.  Jorge, his handsome face swollen and unrecognizable and his throat visibly crushed, was still convulsing violently.  As the Trucker slipped past the privacy curtain and started the ignition on the rig, the trembling corpse managed to flop itself out of the bunk, landing in a huddled mass of flesh on the floor.

 

Turning up the AC, the buff top went back to the sleeper area and gathered up Jorge’s clothing, jamming the single loose sock down into one of the meat’s boots.  Bundling the boots with the jeans and shirt, the Trucker drew the curtain and carefully examined the landscape, using his outside mirrors as well.  No one had been by on the road while he’d been entertaining himself, but he still wanted to check.

 

Satisfied, he opened the door, then went back and grabbing the meat by its bare foot, dragging the corpse the corpse through the cab.  The sadistic alpha jumped from the rig, his loosely-laced combat boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  The dead spic tumbled out behind him, hitting the ground like a sack of dirty laundry.  Glancing around quickly, the Trucker strode quickly across the two-lane blacktop, one hand clutching the cunt’s clothing, the other hand gripping the dead punk’s ankle—the foot was still twitching, the toes curling in final death throes.

 

On the other side of the road was a deep drainage ditch; it had been visible on the side of the road for miles, but since the land sloped away to the west at this point, it wasn’t visible here unless one was standing right at the edge of the shoulder.  No one would see anything here unless they were actively looking for it.

 

It was perfect.  The Trucker tossed the clothing in first, then held Jorge’s quivering corpse up one-handedly, he dangled it over the drop and let go.  The meat fell into the ditch—about five feet below—with a muffled thud.

 

Quickly crossing back to the semi, the Trucker climbed into the driver’s seat, slipped his cap back on and slowly edged his way back onto the road.  It was still warm in the cab; he was heading out with his shirt off and a dead kid’s cum drying to a glaze on his chest pinning his dogtags to his  fur.  He’d stop off at a rest area ahead somewhere and clean off.  In the meantime, he wanted to get across the state line.

 

Checking the side mirror, he caught a glimpse of movement—in the sky.  A small black shape, moving in lazy circles.  In a moment it was joined by another, then a third.  The Trucker understood.  With an evil grin on his face, he accelerated into the west and left Jorge to the buzzards.

Leather Pig Snuff

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

At home, he knew where to hide the bodies.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And The Boy saw him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“I been around, boy,” David drawled.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

This was gonna be so fuckin’ fun.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

David’s dick had cut off his air.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“I heard about it,” David replied.

 

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

 

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

Trucker 11–Trucker vs Construction Boy

The bar wasn’t just dark and smoky; it was also small and fairly crowded.  The last attribute, at least was good.  It expanded the range of prey.

 

The Trucker was on the hunt.  He had a week and a half’s worth of seed swelling his already-enormous ballsack; he needed to unload so badly it fucking hurt.

 

And, of course, the only way to do that was to make someone else hurt even worse.

 

It had been a long, hard slog—a combination of tight delivery schedules and nasty weather across the country; the Trucker had plowed through snow, sleet, torrential rains, and, worst of all, ice.  He was far enough south at the moment not to worry about ice, though, and the weather was nice.  It was time for a release; it was time for someone to gag, choke and die on his cock.

 

The highway had been cut through an older part of town; the truck stop was adjacent to what appeared to be a low-rent and potentially rough neighborhood.  Parking at the far end of the small lot, the Trucker found his cab was less than a hundred feet from the closest rig; not ideal in case he needed a little privacy later on.  Using an app he’d put on his phone for the purpose, he located the closest gay bar.

 

Surprisingly, it was only three blocks east of his location.  It was called Mack’s.

 

Once there, he’d been disappointed by how small the place was—and how nasty; it really was a dive bar—but liked the selection of meat on display.  He was also disappointed by the service.  It seemed to take fifteen minutes just to get a beer.  “What’s the problem here?” he gruffly asked the bartender, once his brew finally arrived.  The latter, a broad, hairy-chested young man sporting nothing but a leather vest above the waist, started and flushed at the commanding tone of the handsome stranger across from him.  He was beautiful, but for some reason, the Trucker wasn’t into him.

 

Even after getting lucky with a cute boy at closing, he had no idea how truly lucky he got that night.

 

“S-sorry, sir,” he stammered, grinning lopsidedly, feeling his dick swell unaccountably.  “We’re short-handed tonight.”  Leaning forward, he whispered confidentially, “Bitch’s name was Robbie—he was our barback.   Little twink whore who used to take it up the ass back here where he though no one’d see him.  Fucker met the wrong dude after he left here; got himself raped and strangled on the way home.”

 

The Trucker snorted contemptuously.  As he turned away from the bar to survey the fuckmeat on offer, the bartender muttered vindictively under his breath, “Selfish cunt, leavin’ us in the lurch.  Hope it hurt like fuck…”

 

It was helpful to know that someone else had successfully tracked down and slaughtered meat from here; it told the Trucker two things.  First that this place was evidently a good hunting ground—and second, that he needed to be more cautious than usual.  After all, if some cunt got offed leaving this place, it could be staked out.  Glancing around, the Trucker kinda doubted that the cops would bother looking too hard for the killer of some low-life faggot hanging out in this dive; still, he’d take no extraordinary chances tonight.

 

The serial killer squinted his cold eyes as he tried to peer into the murky depths—such as they were—of the bar.  There was a lot of fuckmeat available, but none of it seemed to be worth the effort.  At least a third of the crowd were hustlers; the Trucker had no objections at all to banging and wasting a whore, but these cunts were so strung-out and skanky, the alpha almost wished he had a ten-foot pole with which not to touch them.

 

That was when he heard a voice behind him; he’d been facing the back of the building, not the entrance, so he didn’t realize someone had entered and approached the bar next to him.  “Just-just a Bud, man,” it said tentatively, the youthful, shy voice instantly intriguing the Trucker.  He turned casually and took in the view.

 

The guy next to him couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but the red cadet cap on his head, the brow pulled low over his eyes made his specific age hard to determine.  That was a clue, right there—the kid was on the down-low.  He was ashamed to be in here; he didn’t want to be recognized.  That was good.  Made him harder to ID afterwards.

 

What part of the face was visible below the cap revealed a large nose with a swelling on the bridge, a souvenir of a past break.  The full, vulnerable lips were surrounded by a patchy golden fuzz spread across the boy’s cheeks.  His hard, muscled torso would have been intimidating had the Trucker not been obviously better-built and more powerful.  It was displayed very well by a navy-blue t-shirt that looked sprayed on; tight as it was, his jeans looked even tighter.  The latter were a slightly lighter shade of blue—relatively new, but well worn, slightly stained, and torn across the left thigh, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of smooth flesh.

 

On his feet, the youth sported a pair of genuine shitkickers; pointy-toed boots of raw leather, worn to the texture of suede, the heels and soles replaced at least once.  They seemed to go with the large oval belt buckle clasping closed the thick dark leather strap circling the boy’s narrow waist.

 

At that moment, the boy noticed the Trucker.  While his cap made his age difficult to figure out, the expression on his face made his emotion easy as hell to figure out.  The hard-bodied youth was in a state of awed lust.

 

The Trucker was an alpha stud and dressed to show it; his outfit was similar to the kid’s, but gave greater emphasis to the killer’s muscle-bound physique.  He wore his trucker’s cap, its brim, like the boy’s was pulled down.  Under a bomber jacket of distressed brown leather, he was wrapped in a far-too-tight white t-shirt.  The thin cotton was stretched to such an extreme that the V of wiry fur on his chest was clearly visible from its widest expanse across the sadist’s broad pecs down to where it narrowed into a dark treasure trail that vanished below the waistband of the soft, frayed jeans that clung so closely to his bulging thighs that they looked sprayed on.  The cuffs of the jeans were tucked into a pair of Ariat Workhog boots, basic brown leather pull-ons with a thick rubber tread.

 

The boy gaped at the Trucker open-mouthed and took an instinctive step backward, where he made contact with a post.  Jerking forward, he bumped into the Trucker; startled, he looked up at the erotic killer’s cold, handsome face, shadowed by a dark stubble.  Eyes a startling shade of emerald glanced up as the youth’s gold-stubbled cheeks flushed with embarrassment.  “S-sorry, man, I-I just…it was an accident…” he trailed off shamefacedly.

 

Whatever humiliation or shyness he may have felt, though, it did nothing to dispel his lust.  “I-I’m Derek.  What ya looking for tonight?”

 

The Trucker stared down at the punk without speaking, letting the silence draw out uncomfortably.  The kid—Derek—cleared his throat and had started blushing again before the hulking alpha spoke.

 

“I’m looking for boymeat to stick my dick into,” the Trucker said even in a deep baritone growl that made Derek shudder in sexual anticipation.

 

The punk’s desire was obvious; a dark circle the size of a quarter was slowly expanding six inches down his right thigh where the thick ridge in his jeans indicated his dick ended.  The homo was already oozing form his cock, just from looking at the Trucker in the dim chaos that happens in gay bars an hour before closing.  The Trucker smirked, his lips twisting cruelly on his handsome, masterful face.

 

Derek noticed.  The wet spot on his leg grew visibly.  “I-I, uh…” he stammered.

 

“You’ll do,” the Trucker said dismissively, “Gotta place I can fuck ya?”

 

Derek gulp so violently it looked like he was trying to swallow a golf ball.  “Y-yeah man,” he gasped, somewhat breathlessly, “I gotta place in an SRO around the corner.  Company I work for rented it; see, I’m from outta town and they—”

 

“Ok, where is it?” the Trucker asked curtly, cutting the excited kid off.

 

“Uh—around the corner to the right, a coupla blocks down…”

 

“Ok, bitch, go wait for me at the corner.  Gotta go drain my hog.”

 

With that, the Trucker turned abruptly away, heading to the bathroom.  Still blinking and gulping with lust, Derek headed for the door, still stunned at his luck.  Holy fucking shit, that stud was gonna cum in his ass tonight; he could scarcely believe his luck.

 

Once outside, he was hit by a sudden breeze, making him regret he’d left his jacket in his room; first glancing down at his phone, Derek saw that it was a quarter past one on Saturday morning, then, looking up, saw that the overcast sky had cleared—a cold front had come through.

 

Things were gonna be cooling off overnight, he thought, heading towards the appointed corner for the rendezvous—never realizing that one of those things was gonna be his corpse.

 

Derek’s thick bootheels echoed loudly on the empty pavement; as full as the bar was, there was no one out here.  Literally no one—he couldn’t even see anyone at the corner.  Fearing that the huge, muscle-bound stud had found someone better and bailed on him, the young man hurried his steps.

 

Rounding the corner, he saw the hot alpha standing about halfway down the block; Derek’s relief was so great that he found himself babbling as he approached the dude.  “Hey, man,” he called out, “I’m in the fourth building down on the right.  Not my real place, a’course; I’m in town on a construction job.  Company I work for put us up in this shitty fleabag…”

 

The Trucker maintained an icy silence on the way to the run-down building, letting the boymeat pour out his story.  It didn’t matter; what mattered what getting the motherfucker’s ass to grip the Trucker’s enormous tool, and that meant torturing and killing this young man.

 

Kid was well-built, though.  Looked tough—not jacked, but strong and sinewy.  Cunt was gonna take some killin’…

 

The building turned out to be a seven-story walkup; the kid’s room was on the sixth floor.  The climb sapped some of Derek’s enthusiasm—well, at any rate, it shut him up until they actually reached the right floor.

 

The landing was halfway down a single corridor running the length of the building; it was lined with doors on each side.  At the far left end, a flickering exit sign over a window hinted at the presence of a fire escape beyond.  Derek indicated the battered door at the far right end. “That’s the bathroom, dude, if ya need to go—like I said, it’s SRO.  Don’t even have a private bathroom.”

 

Derek’s room was to the left, away from the bathroom; in fact, it was the next-to-last on the end, to the right, overlooking the rear of the building.  Room 602.

 

The room was tiny, no more than two hundred square feet, if that.  To the right was a double bed, frame and mattress only.  The fitted sheet was still in place but the flat sheet and a thin microfiber blanket were tangled on top, with a single pillow tossed in.

 

To the immediate left of the door was a small closet; its door was closed, but just beyond it was an armchair with a pair of stained jeans draped over it.  On top of the jeans sat a neon-yellow hardhat.  Under the chair was what looked like a wadded-up t-shirt, nest to another pair of workboots—lace-up and very soiled.  Beyond the chair, in the far corner, was a white porcelain pedestal sink, badly chipped, with rust stains trailing from the tap.  Above the sink, a plastic medicine cabinet with a mirrored door—also chipped—had been tacked unsteadily to the wall.  The far wall, to the left of the bed, had a decent sized window with a three-drawer dresser under it.

 

The window seemed to be painted shut, which was unfortunate—the room was stiflingly hot.  A tiny steam radiator next to the sink was giving off visible waves of heat.

 

“Wow,” Derek said as they entered the room, “Fuck.  Sorry about the temperature, man, I don’t control the heat and I can’t open the fucking window.  Oh, and the clothes—haven’t made it to the laundry yet, heh.”  So saying, the buff young man opened the closet door.  Tossing his cap onto the chair, he peeled his blue t-shirt off of his smooth, lithe torso, balled up it and threw it in.

 

Closing the door, he turned back to the Trucker, revealing strawberry-blond hair, wide blue eyes, a long straight nose and full, almost pouting lips.  Below the nose, a dirty blond mustache, barely more than peach fuzz, covered his upper lip. His chest was broad and his pectorals large; even though the Trucker was taller and much more powerful, Derek had the muscled body of a construction worker.

 

Standing in front of the towering alpha he’d brought home, the kid was well aware that he was still physically outclassed by the anonymous stud.  How badly outclassed he truly was did not become clear to him until later.

 

Slipping off his jacket, the Trucker handed it to Derek.  “Here, boy, hang it up,” he demanded, “And treat it right or I’ll take the damage outta yer hide.”  The punk shuddered with pleasure at the deep tone of command in the Trucker’s voice; it made his cock throb.  The wet spot on his jeans continued to grow.

 

The Trucker noticed and grinned.  This pig was already primed.  As the boy searched for an appropriate hanger for the leather bomber jacket, the older man quickly removed his own cap and t-shirt, placing them on the small dresser.  He’d already retrieved his cigarettes and lit one up by the time Derek came out and closed the closet door.

 

The room was warm and steamy; the smoke hung heavily in the air.  “Hey!” Derek squawked, “They don’t allow smoking in—”

 

“Strip, faggot!” the Trucker barked menacingly.  “Get it all off—now!”

 

The boy flinched as if he’d been struck; his jaw fell open with shock.  “I-I just—”

 

“NOW, goddammit!  Or I’ll fuckin’ rip those jeans off with my bare hands!”

 

Leaning against the wall, Derek bent one leg and slowly reached down to slip the well-worn boot off, his foot encased in a white tube sock inside.  He never took his eyes off the Trucker, entranced with the alpha’s toned, furry chest, glistening with sweat, with a gleaming pair of dogtags dead center.  The hard, muscled physique, the intimidating, threating manner—it all turned the closeted bottom pig on.  He had to obey; his pulsing dick insisted on it.

 

As the well-built youth unbuttoned the waistband of his jeans, the Trucker took another drag from his Marlboro and exhaled. Letting the smoke hang lazily in the humid, overheated air, his cold eyes appraised Derek’s smooth, strong body.  The kid didn’t need to work out; it was part of his daily job, and it showed.

 

Gearing up his courage, the kid tried another request.  “Man, go gentle with me, willya?  See, none of the dudes I work with know that I—well, that I…”

 

“That yer a cumsuckin’ faggot who want manmeat shoved up his ass?” the Trucker sneered.

 

Derek swallowed and dropped his jeans.  Nude but for the pair of white tube socks that went almost to his knees, the boy stood revealed to the alpha stud, including his thick fat cock—six inches of oozing dick already jutting proudly from a curly nest of sand-colored pubes.

 

Even as the head of his shaft swung free, drizzling precum on the floor, Derek was explaining himself.  “Well, it’s just that…I, I really don’t have much experience…” he cleared his throat nervously, “I—I just don’ wanna make too much noise, y’know?”

 

The Trucker said nothing in reply; he just unzipped his fly and pulled his cock out.  As usual, it took a bit to free the entire rod from its tight denim confines; Derek’s eyes got wider and wider as more dick kept coming out.  He opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t get anything coherent out.

 

“Quit oinkin’, pigboy—get over here,” the older man snapped.  Derek moved forward, stepping out of the jeans that were on the floor around his ankles.  The sexy young laborer, his smooth skin glittering with beads of sweat, reached out and ran his fingers across the Trucker’s hubcap pecs, feeling the older stud’s chest fur rasp in his hands like steel wool.

 

Annoyed, the Trucker knocked his hands away just as they reached the dogtags.  Instead of taking the hint, the lust-fueled youth placed his hands on the alpha’s biceps and fondled them as the bulged.  He didn’t get long to enjoy them, though.

 

“I didn’t tell ya you could touch me, cunt, did I?” the Trucker growled and backhanded Derek across the face—not hard; just enough to split his lip.

 

Holding his face, the punk fell to the floor, stunned.  He wanted rough sex from a rough top; he didn’t mind getting slapped around some—but how the fuck was he gonna explain this in the morning?  He’d have to tell the rest of the crew he’d gotten mugged…

 

“Lick my boots, ya fuckin’ homo!”  The command slashed through Derek’s hormone-muddled mind; his dick swelled in response—and again, his bottom pig nature took over.  Before he’d followed his idea to its logical excuse of mugging, his tongue was scraping across the raw leather of the dominant hunk’s workboots.

 

Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, he slowly worked his way along the left boot.  Suddenly, his head was clamped in a crushing grip and pulled up.  “Enough, slut; get yer fag face to work on the other!”  This time, though, the Trucker took pleasure in grinding the boy’s face into the rough surface of the upper.  Derek cried out, his hands grasping upwards, reaching around the top’s massive thighs, trying to free himself from the aggressive manhandling.  It felt like he was trying to uproot a thickly-knotted tree trunk, and the result was identical.

 

Then he was jerked backwards so fast he got dizzy.  “Get on my dick, faggot!” the Trucker grunted—and suddenly Derek found his mouth full of manmeat; his already-burning cheeks swelling as the alpha’s enormous, vein-wrapped hog was crammed down his throat, sliding down on a lube of streaming precum.  “Yeah, boy!” the aggressive sadist jeered, “Yer eyes waterin’ yet, huh?  Gag on my fuckin’ cock, ya homo piece of shit!”

 

On his knees with his own erect cock slapping against his belly, Derek clutched frantically at the Trucker’s boots, trying to hold on as the cruel hard-bodied top throatfucked him brutally.  At one point, he reached up and grabbed the Trucker’s wrists in an attempt to pry himself away from the crushing grip on his head.

 

And yes, his eyes were watering, badly.  They were leaking almost as much as his dick; in fact, his whole face was leaking as he gagged and coughed up white foamy drool around the enormous, vein-wrapped shaft that was reaming his esophagus.  He couldn’t breathe right; at the tempo he was being skullfucked, he couldn’t catch his breath.  He was choking—in the dim, buzzing, background, he could hear the alpha’s malign chuckles…

 

Then, suddenly, he was free.  The huge tube of hard, throbbing flesh was withdrawn from his throat and Derek was able to take a deep breath that instantly led to a wracking fit of coughing.  He crouched on the floor, hacking and drooling onto the Trucker’s boots.

 

“Yer a worthless facefuck, cunt,” the dominant sadist snapped viciously.  “What, you been suckin’ off little kids?  Damn sure can’t take a real man’s cock, can ya, ya little fag?”

 

By this point, Derek had recovered enough to speak.  “M-man, I d-don’t do th-this much,” he coughed.  ‘My homies on the crew don’t know I like dick—they’d probably beat the shit outta me if they found out.”

 

The Trucker laughed aloud.  “So the dude sleepin’ next door don’t know yer gettin’ fucked over here, huh?”

 

“I-I ain’t gotten fucked here yet,” Derek muttered.

 

The Trucker’s grin grew even more sharklike.  “Get up on that bed, cocksucker and put yer ass up in the air.  Time to christen your shitty little room, boy.  Get up there, cunt; I’m gonna ream yer ass like I’m drillin’ for oil!”

 

Lust and anxiety flowed through the well-built young construction worker; this stud’s words were making him so hard it hurt—but he knew that that pain was nothing compared to what he’d endure when the alpha shoved that massive hog up his tender ass.  “D-dude, I…I dunno, man—I dunno if I can keep quiet if you stick that thing in me…”

 

“Don’t worry, bitch,” the Trucker said steadily, “I’ll make sure you don’t make too much noise.  I got ways of keepin’ my fucktoys quiet.”  As Derek climbed onto the bed and swept aside the rumpled bedding, the Trucker noticed a power strip on the floor near the head of the bed with a phone charger plugged into it. He noted its location just before the eager young pig shoved the pillows off onto it.

 

Once the bed was clear of everything but the fitted sheet, Derek moved to the center.  Crouching on his hands and knees, he raised his ass in the air, like a cat, presenting himself for mounting.  “Go slow stickin’ it in, dude,” he said hoarsely, wriggling the smooth globes of his bubble butt, letting the dim light from the wall sconce shimmer on the barely-visible peach fuzz.

 

“What the fuck do ya think yer doin’?” the Trucker barked angrily.  “You ain’t earned my dick yet, cunt; get over here and pull my boots off.  Now, you cumsuckin’ faggot!”

 

 

Blushing furiously, the muscled youth quickly scrambled off the bed.  Sitting at the foot of the mattress, the Trucker raised his left leg, shoving his boot at the punk.  Derek grabbed the rough leather upper of the Ariat Workhog boot, still moist with his own saliva, and jerked, hard.

 

With an angry grunt, the Trucker swung up his right foot, kicking the boy, planting his steel toe  in Derek’s ribcage—not hard enough to do any real damage, but more than enough to bruise the kid’s tender flesh and cause him pain.

 

“Treat my boots with respect, cunt, or I’ll use ‘em to grind yer faggot face into hamburger.  Ya hear me, boy?”

 

Derek knelt on the scarred wood floor, head down.  He was terrified that the Trucker’s deep, commanding bass had penetrated the thin walls and woken Angelo in the next room.  Fuck, if Angelo heard this, everyone would know…

 

…after all, the blue collar bottom had already found that the top’s voice had penetrated to the root of his cock.  It was pulsing even faster and oozing even more—especially when the Trucker barked again.

 

“Goddammit, you little slut, do you fuckin’ hear me?  Answer me, you homo asswipe, or I’m gonna break yer fuckin’ jaw!”

 

“Y-yessir,” Derek whispered, trembling with a combination of fear and lust.  The mixture was not unfamiliar to a closeted faggot whose every sexual encounter was tainted with fear of exposure, but never as intense as now.  Gingerly, he reached out and grasped the Trucker’s boot.

 

It took him a couple of minutes to gently remove both of them.  Once he did, the Trucker stood, looming over the working-class stud.  He unfastened the button on the waistband of his jeans before speaking.  “Pull ‘em down, bitch.”

 

Derek obeyed immediately, grasping the rough denim in his hands and jerking down, feeling the fur on the alpha’s legs brushing against sensitive undersides of his forearms.  When they reached the ground and the Trucker stepped out of them, the older man deliberately twisted his waist so that his enormous cock smacked the boy in the face, streaking his handsome, youthful face with precum.

 

“Ok, faggot,” the Trucker sneered, “Get back up there—on yer fuckin’ back, ya stupid bitch.  If ya don’t work my dick right, I may still hafta break yer jaw.”

 

Again, Derek’s compliance was instinctual—as was the sexual thrill that ran through him at the taunts from the incredibly well-built top.  No one had ever abused him like this—not this viciously, at any rate—and he didn’t understand his own physical response.

 

Nor did he try to.  All he consciously knew was that this hulking stud scared the shit outta him—and that he’d never wanted another dude up his ass so bad.  He scurried eagerly onto the bed.

 

Then the boy rolled onto his back and spread his legs in the air, his hands gripping the back of his knees for support.  The Trucker moved to the foot of the bed; from here, he had a perfectly-aligned view of the kid’s pink, pulsating fuckhole.  Directly above was the youth’s large, puckered scrotum, hanging down from a bush of sandy hair.  Rising above all this, Derek’s thick cock stood erect and oozing between his firm, smooth thighs.

 

Nude except for his calf-high white tube socks—just like the kid—the Trucker positioned himself on the bed, just between the boy’s inner thighs.  He pressed the huge, dripping head of his cock against Derek’s trembling sphincter, pushing forward with very slight pressure.  The closeted slut felt it and moan faintly.

 

“Gimme yer phone charger,” the Trucker demanded abruptly.

 

Derek raised his head and blinked in confusion.  “My what?”

 

“Yer charger, ya stupid fag—on the floor beside you.  Reach down and grab it and hand it to me now or I’m gonna fuck you up.”

 

It was an awkward angle for Derek to reach while still lying on his back, but he knew he had to obey the commanding top.  Contorting his hard, buff body, the young stud managed to grasp the cord and yank it free from the power strip.  With a relieved grunt, he straightened and centered himself back on the mattress, tossing the cord at the Trucker, who caught it and laid it to the side, within easy reach.

 

“Dude, what’s that for?  You gonna tie me up?  I ain’t never—”

 

The kid didn’t manage to finish before the Trucker lunged forward and bitchslapped him hard across the face.  Derek gasped as his head rocketed to the side.  “Worthless piece a’ shit!” the Trucker snarled.  “I told ya to hand it to me, cocksucker, not throw it at me!  You don’t know yer place, boy.  Time I taught it to ya.”  With that, he swept his strong arm the other direction, backhanding Derek hard enough to split his lower lip.

 

The once-eager whelp cried out and clutched his face.  Withdrawing one hand, he looked at the blood on it from his lip.  “Fuck, man, what are ya doin’?!  I gotta work in the fuckin’ mornin’, dude, I can’t go lookin’ like I rolled in a goddam alley!  Stop hittin’—”

 

His protest was crushed into a wheezing grunt as the Trucker punched him in the solar plexus.

 

For thirty seconds, Derek thought he was dying.  He couldn’t breathe.  No matter what he did, he couldn’t inhale.  When he finally could, he came up off the bed with a loud frantic gasp, only to be met by another line-drive blow from his assailant.  The Trucker’s fist slammed into the kid’s hard, broad pec on the left side with a loud smacking sound.  The violent impact knocked the flailing punk back down flat on the bed.

 

“Yeah, keep fightin’ me, ya stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker sneered, “That’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my tool.”  Grabbing Derek around his narrow waist, he rammed the cunt’s ass all the way down on his dick like a sex toy.  His shaft ground so deeply into the youth’s colon that their pubic hairs entwined.

 

Derek had been unprepared—not that he could have actually prepared himself for that massive rod, but his entire body had clenched up during the assault, including his sphincter.  The alpha’s cock almost literally tore him a new asshole, splitting the rectal lining excruciatingly on the way in.

 

The Trucker could see it in the bitch’s eyes before it actually happened.  “Keep quiet and take my dick, whore, or I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad, ya useless—”

 

Derek squealed like a pig getting its throat cut—as the sadistic alpha had known he would.

 

“I warned ya, meat,” the Trucker chuckled with evil glee, “Gotta learn to obey me, asswipe, so here’s yer first lesson.”  This was accompanied by a roundhouse punch straight from the shoulder.

 

The blow connected with Derek’s jaw, snapping it like a wishbone.  The lesson was well-learned; the boy’s ability to scream was severely hampered by the agonizing pain of trying to open his mouth.  The punk’s large dark eyes were wide and tear filled; the uncomprehending expression on his face show how stunned he was by the sudden, brutal attack.

 

The Trucker laughed aloud as he felt the blow reverberate along the punk’s buff, taut body, right down through his guts to his rectum.  “Fuck, I could feel that one in my cock,” he sneered cruelly, “Ya musta really liked that, huh?  Yeah?  Then yer just gonna fuckin’ love what else I got planned for ya, homo fuckmeat!”

 

Derek snapped into a fight-or-flight mode; between his broken jaw and torn colon, his body issued an instinctive directive to get away.  From stunned paralysis, the hard-bodied construction worker exploded into frenetic flailing, like a trapped animal.

 

The Trucker had expected a burst of feral violence at some point—more than one, most likely—but despite his experience, this one took him by surprise.  The meat’s hands came up scrambling and clawing like a cat; the alpha managed to jerk his head up out of reach, but the boy’s hands raked viciously across his torso, scraping his rough, wiry chest hair, even as his smooth but strong legs drew up, trying to get his up knees under his assailant and push him off.

 

It was a bad move.  Derek had a fantastic build thanks to his employment—one of the reasons he’d never had any real problems in any of his previous anonymous hookups was that he was obviously strong enough to take care of himself—but he was no match for the Trucker.  All he’d succeeded in doing was pissing off the older and much more powerful alpha.

 

“Worthless faggot,” the Trucker grunted, catching the kid’s right arm as it came up against his chest.  In a single, swift motion, the highly-experienced sadist wrapped his left arm around the boy’s right, and jerking violently enough to cause his massive bicep to flex and bulge, the Trucker bent the cunt’s elbow backwards at a forty-five degree angle.  There was a loud cracking, popping sound as the joint was destroyed, accompanied by a high-pitched squealing sound from the agonized fuckpig.

 

Poor Derek still couldn’t open his mouth to scream.  Some normal part of the unfortunate punk was terrified; he wasn’t going to be able to call for help.  Some closeted part of him was glad that no one would hear his shame.

 

And way down deep, some pig part of him reveled in it, and made his dick even harder.

 

The Trucker noticed.

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” he muttered contemptuously as he reached down and picked up the phone charger, leaning back in such a way that his enormous cock probed even further into his victim’s intestines.  Wrapping the cord around his left hand and grabbing the transformer in the right he pulled them apart easily.  He was just about to toss the transformer to the side when Derek’s low, keening moans suddenly escalated in pitch.  The punk was coming out of his semi-conscious state and responding to the pain.

 

“Still haven’t learned to keep yer fuckin’ trap shut, ya stupid little fuck?” the Trucker growled.  “Goddam, guess I gotta beat it into ya, then—only way yer gonna learn, right?”

 

Despite the red fog of agony clouding his mind, Derek heard and understood every word.  He couldn’t understand what had happened; all he’d done was sneak out to the local gay bar to he could get a good buttfuck on the DL.  He was getting it all right, but it came at a terrible and utterly unexpected price.  Even though he understood the threat in the Trucker’s voice, he couldn’t control his reaction to the nightmarish pain.  His screech got louder…

 

…until it was halted by a loud, wet, crunchy smack, the sound of the Trucker smashing his nose to a pulp, the older man’s fist still gripping the transformer from the cord.  Derek, grunting and gurgling, bit through his tongue on impact, as some lucid part of his mind noted the way his own hard dick was slapping moistly against his torturer’s furry, ripped belly.  Opening his swollen eyes, the naïve youth dazed and blurred vision focused on the glittering reflection of dogtags in front of his face, dancing with the alpha’s thrusts.  Somehow, the hypnotic jerking glint, coinciding as it did with the sensation of excruciating impalement, made him sink down and accept the pain as inevitable.

 

“Yer fuckhole’s gettin’ loose, cunt,” the Trucker snarled, seeing Derek’s eyes glaze, “How bad am I gonna hafta hurt ya to tighten yer ass up?”  The boy was so deep in his pain-induced reverie that he didn’t even flinch as the Trucker’s broad fist rocketed towards his face again.

 

This time, his left cheekbone snapped.  The boy coughed up spit, bloody from his bitten tongue, that ran down his faintly-stubbled cheek.  His body thrashed at the impact, but fell back limply afterwards.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are a worthless waste of fuckmeat,” the Trucker muttered ominously.  “Hard-bodied little faggot twink like you shouldn’t be worn out this fast.”  Every punch he’d thrown had been with the cord’s transformer adding heft to his already-large fist; he now tossed it aside and instead the cord itself was wrapped around both hands, leaving about eighteen inches between.  “I had plans, asswipe.  I was gonna do things to ya you couldn’t’a dreamed of in yer worst fuckin’ nightmares.  I was gonna put you in pain so bad the thought of escaping it into death alone woulda made ya cum.  Now, I’m just gonna put ya down like a dog.  I’m gonna make those firm thrashing muscles of yers into dead twitchin’ meat, just so yer convulsions jack me off.  Hear me, ya useless cunt?  Time to die.”

 

Leaning forward, he wrapped the cord around Derek’s throat and pulled it tight and hard, sinking it deeply into the punk’s neck.  This was no playful squeeze; the kid’s esophagus was instantly crushed shut, cutting off his air immediately.

 

Derek’s mental retreat from pain had been successful; even as his body responded, his mind had been protected.  The instant cessation of oxygen broke the spell; the sudden wave of agony—still inexplicable mixed with lust—would have put him into shock had not the basic need to survive suddenly become imperative.

 

So he had to endure his pounded, smashed face.  He had to endure the searing, slashing pain from the huge, vein-wrapped cock rammed deep into his guts.  He had to endure the grinding, glassy pain in his elbow that made his right arm useless.  And now, he was having to endure strangulation.  He had to get away.  Somehow, he had to get up off this dude’s dick and out of this room.  It didn’t matter what the guys on the crew thought, they could laugh at him, they could spit at him, they could piss on him, as long as they saved him from this psycho…

 

The Trucker recognized the glint of panicked consciousness in the kid’s eyes.  Grinning, he spat into the slut’s battered and almost unrecognizable face.  “Yeah, that’s it.  Yer gonna die, homo, yeah?  Ya like that?  Yer dick sure does, cocksucker, haw!”

 

Giving the cord another jerk, he managed to compress the meat’s neck by another inch and a half in circumference. The appearance was almost grotesque as the youth’s smooth skin puckered and wrinkled at the point that the cord had sunk in; the cord itself was no longer visible.

 

Beneath the alpha, the buff young construction worker was already starting to writhe and sweat in extreme bodily distress.  The Trucker himself, already exuding heady mansweat from the effort involved in snuffing strong young meat, found his victim’s smooth body sliding around under him as if lubed.  The boy’s cock felt like a long hot iron rod, pressed between the grunting, shuddering male bodies.

 

“Yer startin’ to get it, cunt,” the Trucker jeered, “Ya feelin’ me?  Ya feelin’ my cock, yeah?  Ya feelin’ me choke yer worthless fuckin’ life out, yeah?  Yer crew—they’re gonna find ya fucked and murdered like the fuckin’ faggot cockpig ya are, cunt.  Everyone’s gonna know, bitch—everyone!”

 

Derek was sinking slowly into brain death but wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t process his killer’s taunts.  In despair, he realized that it was true—he was gonna be found raped to death if he didn’t manage to get out of this…

 

A last spark of lust for life flared up in the dick-filled musclemeat.  His firm, smooth legs wrapped around his assailant’s thrusting waist and his left arm batted desperately but ineffectually at the Trucker’s head.  But it was too little, too late, and the face of the dying fuckmeat made it obvious.  The cunt’s tongue, black and swollen, had painfully pushed aside the broken jaw and was protruding with a fount of foamy drool that cascaded down his chin.  The large dark eyes bulged from the sockets, the expression of terror amplified by the petechial hemorrhages that stained the whites red.

 

“Almost there, faggot,” the Trucker muttered as he hunched over and pressed his heavy, hard body down on the thrashing youth.  “Work it out, homo, work the cum outta my shaft.  Here, meat, time to go.  Time to die, faggot.”

 

With a loud grunt, the powerful alpha tightened his arms to the point that veins popped out on his bugling muscles.  He pulled so hard that the cord actually snapped, but before it did, there was a distinct crunching sound as the cumsucker’s esophagus collapsed.  His airway was permanently blocked by a mass of shattered cartilage.

 

The last flicker of Derek’s consciousness heard and felt his throat getting crushed.  Then his eyes rolled back and the death throes started.  All the Trucker had to do was grab hold of the corpse and ride it like a bucking bronco.

 

The dead kid was strong and healthy; his balls were full.  As he died, he emptied them all over his killer, himself and the bed.  For every boiling spurt of seed the Trucker unloaded into the meat’s guts, the meat responded with a thick, ropy jet that splattered into the alpha’s chest fur, or shot between them to splash against the wall, viscous pearly drops raining back down onto the entwined males.

 

It seemed to take several minutes, filling the room with gasping and grunting, the sounds of bodies slapping together, the smell of sweat and seed and lust.  The alpha held onto the meat until his scrotum was empty and he’d filled the dead kid with spunk.

 

With a quick movement, he pulled out of the corpse and got off the bed.  Reaching for his smokes, he lit one up and looked down at the body.  Derek was lying on his back with his legs apart.  At some point in his death struggle, he’d kicked off his left sock; his right one was still on but twisted down to the ankle.   Between the splayed legs a trickle of bloody semen leaked from his mangled ass.  The youth’s hard, smooth body, covered with glistening sweat, trembled violently on the bed, each spasm forcing another bead of cum from the slowly-softening cock.

 

Up to the neck, the body looked like that of a sleeping stud—ignoring the grotesque angle of the right arm—but halfway up, the throat was constricted to a gruesome point.  Above that point, the resemblance to the attractive young construction worker who’d slunk furtively into the bar an hour ago was utter non-existent.  His face was puffy and dark; his head looked—appropriately enough—like a punching bag.

 

Grinning, the Trucker knocked his ash into the sink in the corner, the smoke adding to the steamy haziness, as he gloated over his latest kill.  Stupid little faggot.  Taking another drag, he felt his amused contempt grow—and his cock.  Striding over to the warm, soft shuddering boymeat, the Trucker plunged his still-erect shaft into the meat’s mouth.  The broken jaw helped him shove the swollen tongue aside with his pulsing tube of manflesh, his precum acting as lube as he forced his way into the dead fag’s throat.

 

Taking one last hit off his cigarette, he ground it out on the meat’s forehead, grasping the corpse by its ruined throat as he skullfucked it.  Still keyed up after the snuff, it only took about a dozen strokes of his shaft, probing the mangled windpipe until his swollen purple head fitted snugly into the shattered remains of his larynx, spat another hot thick wad.  The Trucker grunted deeply as a second and third load shot from him, backing up in the enclosed space until it flooded out the youth’s nostrils.  With one last gasp, the powerful alpha let his powerful body collapse onto the dead boy as he came, feeling the youth’s deathload smearing onto his chest.

 

Finally, spent, the older man withdrew from the twitching corpse, now completely filled with his rank manseed.  Feeling the need to clean himself, he looked at the sink with disgust—then sat at the foot of the bed and slipped his boots on, before standing and opening the door.

 

The bathroom, he remembered, was at the far end of the hall.  Some part of him, reckless and still horny, defied caution and made him step out into the hallway.  The tread of his boots echoed loudly on the wood floor as he strode confidently down the hallway, his massive shaft swinging freely and splattering drops of cum over the floor as well as the Trucker’s boot tops.

 

Reaching the bathroom, he looked around at the dingy facilities in disgust, quickly washing off with a stained towel in lukewarm water.  He paced quickly back to the murder room, never noticing that one door on the hall was opened to just a crack—wide enough for a curious eye to peer out.

 

“He was a big dude,” Ray, the occupant of the room, later told detectives.  “No one on the crew, I can tell ya that—we’d love to have someone that strong workin’ for us.  No, I didn’t see his face.  But damn, man, he was built.”  The CSI team found lots of pubic hairs and skin scrapings under the corpse’s nail, but the state of the corpse was a topic of contempt and derision among Derek’s co-workers for months.

 

Ray had actually fallen asleep by the time the Trucker had dressed, so he never say the killer leave.  The killer had gotten a meal, a brief nap, and refill of gas before the corpse was found, and was back on the highway long before cops arrived on the scene.