Tag: strangle

Interlude: Adam 1

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories7 Comments

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then he turned around and walked away.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then he crossed the threshold and changed his life forever.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Nor was the throbbing of his hard shaft.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

On the other hand, he did know a killer.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then he returned to the locker room.

 

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

 

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

 

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

Trucker 9–Trucker vs Trucker

On By m3mayhemIn The Trucker1 Comment

The Trucker knew he was being followed.  Not literally, of course, no one knew exactly where (or who) he was—but the cops were damn sure gonna be searching.  That meant he needed to take some steps to make sure the trail went cold.

 

That meant getting several states away.  It took self-control to go that length of time without wasting a bitch, but the Trucker had the discipline that comes with experience.  He’d held off, feeling rage and sperm building inside him, but keeping a lid on the simmering angry lust was taking an effort.

 

Now he was crossing northern Oklahoma.  It was late and he was heading east; darkness had closed in some time ago.  As he began to look for a truck stop, a thought occurred to him—there was a boy out there in the night, somewhere not too far away, happy and carefree and probably horny, who had no idea he wasn’t going to live to see dawn.

 

There, ahead in the distance, the colorful sign advertising a major stop shone out brightly from the top of a hundred-foot pylon.  Full bathrooms with showers, all facilities including a truck wash.  Likely busy, but such places had huge lots and most dudes parked as close to the facilities as possibly; the far edges would be less crowded.

 

A cold grin crossed the Trucker’s face.  It was time.  It was finally time.  As he approached the exit he wanted, he downshifted, slowing the rig.  Then he took a moment to shift another shaft—the huge, throbbing shaft in his crotch.

 

As the truck rumbled off the highway onto the frontage road, the Trucker bore to the right into the truck stop, passing the diesel pumps to head towards the back of the huge paved lot.  He didn’t need gas; his tanks were more than half full.

 

What he needed, he decided, was privacy.

 

At the back end of the lot he finally pulled to a halt, up against a chain-link fence that separated the commercial property from what was evidently an empty field.  He was on a state highway, somewhere west of Vinita—but at fifteen miles to the west, it was the closest town.  The truck stop was an island of glowing, buzzing light in a sea of darkness.

 

But it was busy.  The Trucker knew he’d have no problem finding prey; there were always whoreboys at truck stops.  Shutting off his rig’s engine, he opened the door and jumped out of the cab, the thick soles of his work boots thumping loudly on the cracked concrete pavement.

 

It was warm and humid.  The Trucker’s gray sleeveless t-shirt, already stretched tightly across his massive, muscled chest, was starting to become slightly transparent as sweat seeped through.  The black jeans that wrapped around his firm thighs and strong calves were cinched off at the waist by a wide leather belt the same shade of brown as his boots.  His coal-black hair was mostly hidden by the cadet cap he wore, jet black with the brim slightly cured at the ends.

 

Walking quickly across the tarmac, the buff alpha with the jet-black hair and goatee dug into the rear pocket of his jeans.  The denim cradling his taut, firm ass showed the outline of a crumpled box; retrieving it, the Trucker fished out the last his last remaining cigarette.  Tossing the empty pack to the ground, he lit the smoke.

 

The flash of his lighter was followed by a faint flicker of light to the northwest.  Peering into the darkness, the Trucker was unable to make out anything; he kept moving.  He was only about two-thirds done with his cigarette when he reached the main entrance to the truck stop; pausing outside to finish it, he caught another flicker out of the corner of his eye.  Stepping around the side of the building in an attempt to keep as much light out of his eyes as possible, he gazed intently to the northwest and was soon rewarded with another flash.

 

No doubt about it.  Bad weather moving in.  Grinding the glowing butt under the heel of his work boot, the Trucker turned his back on the storm and went inside.

 

The glass doors led into the convenience store.  Restrooms and showers were to the left, a lounge and game room were to the right.  In the back was an all-night diner.  The Trucker headed towards the latter; it’d been hours since he’d last eaten.

 

The diner wasn’t small, but its narrow layout gave it a somewhat cramped appearance even though it was it was only about a quarter full; the muscular alpha caught a glance or two from the men nearby, but it was impossible to see any of the men in the back of the place.  But they would be men.  The only woman in the place seemed to be the middle-aged platinum blond who was writing down orders with a bored expression.  She glanced up as the Trucker made his way down the narrow aisle between the tables.  “Sit anywhere ya like, hon,” she said in a desultory tone, “I’ll be by to getcha in a sec.”

 

There were only a couple of other tables occupied in the rear half of the diner as he settled himself at a small two-top.  About eight feet away, a man sat at a similar table, facing him. He had an open menu up in front of him and the Trucker couldn’t make out too many details.  Impossibly wedged into a booth in the far corner, two older, obese men in caps and coveralls were demolishing a platter filled with ham and eggs.

 

The Trucker picked up a menu himself and opened it.  It was simple grill fare—a limited breakfast menu, some hot and cold sandwiches and burgers, cheap nachos with industrial-grade cheese and, topping out the menu at ten bucks, a “strip steak” that was undoubtedly tougher than the Trucker’s boot leather.  He was still looking at the sandwich selection when the waitress approached.

 

“Ya ready?” she asked. As she leaned over the table, the Trucker saw her plastic name tag; the label marked “Darlene” was already starting to lift up and peel off.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, “Lemme get a ham and swiss on rye.  Lettuce and mustard only.”

 

“And ta drink?” she drawled.

 

The Trucker glanced over the menu. “You got beer?”

 

“Naw, we don’t serve it in here,” the waitress said wearily; it wasn’t the first time she’d been asked.  “Ya can buy it out in the store till two—lessee, it’s only twenty past one now; you got plenty of time after ya eat to get some.”

 

The Trucker pondered for a moment.  “Ok, that works.  Just get me a cup of coffee.  Black.”

 

“Sure thing, hon,” she said lethargically as she shuffled off.  The Trucker replaced the menu in the rack on the table.  He needed to get beer, and another carton of Marlboros, and maybe—would this place carry zip ties?  Some truck stops did and this one was certainly full-service, it was likely…

 

“So that’s a cheeseburger fully loaded, fries and a Coke, right?”  Darlene’s voice broke in on the Trucker’s thoughts.  “Yeah, that’s it,” came the reply in a gruff but youthful male tenor.  The waitress was standing between them, but as she left to turn in the orders, the handsome alpha finally got a glimpse of the dude at the other table.

 

He was young, but there was something hard in his expression; maybe it was his eyes—they looked mean.  His face was smooth except for a fine line of dark scruff that ran along his jawline, carefully trimmed to a razor-sharp edge.  His clothing was well-worn, from his frayed light-blue baseball cap with its brim curled from repeated washings to the short-sleeve button-down shirt in faded plaid, half-open to display his smooth chest.

 

Under the table, the Trucker could see a pair of torn and frayed jeans clinging to the kid’s slender legs.  Under that, he’d jammed on a pair of work boots in such a hurry that the cuffs of jeans had gotten stuffed inside them.  Like the Trucker, his boots were also brown leather, but they were so old that the heels were half-worn and the shafts were soft and slouched to near the ankles, with the jeans bunched just above.

 

The boy glanced up—and froze, his large brown eyes looking directly in the older man’s ice-blue ones.  The youth’s jaw fell open; he appeared to be stunned.  Breaking eye contact, the kid let his gaze roam over the Trucker’s hard, well-displayed form.  He’d twisted his slack-jawed gape into a leer and was about to lick his lips when Darlene, appearing out of nowhere, plunked  a plate with a burger and fries in front of him.

 

“Here ya go, hon,” she said in a tired voice, “Watch the plate, it’s hot.”  And old pro, she handed him his glass of soda from a heavily-laden tray she held in one hand.  Passing straight from him, she approached the Trucker’s table and dropped off his sandwich and coffee.  “Lemme know if ya need a refill,” she muttered before changing course and dropping off the check for the men in corner.

 

The boy had picked up his burger; he wolfed it down greedily but kept his eyes on the Trucker the entire time.  The experienced alpha took his time over his ham on rye, occasionally throwing a side glance and faint smile at the kid.  He knew he’d hooked his fish, but he didn’t want to be seen on camera reeling it in; he needed to play with the line for a while.  In the end, it was a near tie; the kid had eaten more quickly, but he’d had more food too.   But there was just enough of an overlap—when the boy stood up and began walking out, the Trucker had half a cup of coffee left and bill for $5.95.

 

The young man paused at the Trucker’s table, just as the latter expected.  Staring directly into the older man’s face, he rubbed the very visible tentpole in his soft, frayed jeans.  Looking up momentarily into the kid’s eager eyes, the alpha gave an almost imperceptible nod.  Beaming happily, the boy exited the diner.

 

Leisurely finishing his coffee—the slut would wait—the Trucker left eight bucks on the table before edging his large, muscled body down the narrow space between tables.

 

The younger man had been milling around out in the convenience store—it was huge, with all kinda of items, anywhere from CB radios and GPS devices to winter coveralls.  He popped up the moment the Trucker came out.  “Hey, man,” he said in his rough tenor, “Ya got a smoke?”

 

“Naw, man,” the Trucker drawled, “Was gonna get a carton after I ate.  Ya wanna bum one?  Go out to the smoking area, the one around the side to the left.  I’ll be out.”

 

It worked like a charm; the little fucker hightailed it.  As he turned, a swinging glitter of light caught his eye; the boy’s wallet (clearly outlined in his tight jeans) was secured to a belt loop by a surprisingly strong-looking chain.  The buff sadist pondered for a moment, chuckling, before heading to the cashier.

 

The moment he stepped out the door, he became aware that the storm he’d seen in the distance had closed in very quickly.  The faint flickers now took on the aspect of floodlights repeatedly blinking on and off.  Low background rumbles of thunder were more felt than heard, and once he got around the corner, the rising outflow breeze was more heard than felt.  It whistled at the corner but in the shelter of the building, he was able to get a strong enough flame to light up smokes for both of them.

 

The kid took a deep drag.  “Thanks, man.  Name’s Dave.”

 

“No problem,” the Tucker replied.  “So, what’s going on, Dave?”

 

“Aw, y’know, nuthin’—well, that is, y’know how it is when ya been out on the road awhile by yerself, y’know, ya just kinda wanna find someone to hang with…” Dave muttered, an embarrassed grin on his face.  It was clear what he wanted, but he had no idea how to broach the subject.

 

The Trucker removed the stumbling block—not in the name of mercy, but in the name of efficiency.  “Ya wanna come hang out in my cab?  I can go get a six-pack of beer; was gonna get one anyway.”

 

The slim young trucker perked up, grinning ear-to-ear.  “Sure, man, sure.  I—uh, well…” he faltered, then rallied.  “Got-got any poppers?” he asked timidly.

 

The powerful older stud chuckled indulgently.  “Naw, dude, don’t use ‘em myself—but if you wanna, go for it.”

 

Even happier now, Dave replied, “I got some back in my cab.  You got a sleeper?  Lucky fucker, can’t afford one myself.  Where ya parked?”

 

“I’m out at the far end by the fence,” the Trucker said, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder, “That way.”

 

“Fuck, I’m on the other side.  Lemme run while you get the beer.  What’s yer rig like? “

 

“Can’t miss it; it’ll be the big blue sleeper up against the fence—” the buff alpha was interrupted by an especially intense flash of light.  “What the—” Dave cried before the rest of his exclamation was drowned out by a reverberating peal of thunder.

 

“Better run, boy,” the Trucker laughed, “Don’t wanna get wet—yet.  See ya back at my place…”  As Dave took off running in the night, the hollow thudding of his boot heels fading into the distance, the alpha turned back into the store, his recently-purchased carton of Marlboro Reds tucked under his arm.  One entire wall was covered in beer coolers; the selection was truly impressive.

 

Glancing at the clock over the door, the Trucker noticed it was ten to two.  He had to be quick, but not rushed.  Looking over the display, he was pleased to notice a brand of bock lager made in Texas he was familiar with.  He grabbed a six-pack and made it back to the cashier just in time.

 

It never occurred to him to ask Dave what kind of beer he wanted.  It didn’t matter.

 

As he strode quickly back across the concrete parking lot, weaving his way among the various rigs parked in orderly lines, he felt the occasional random splash of a large raindrop on his head, shoulders or arms.  The flickering of the lightning had increased in frequency, as had the volume of the thunder; it was nearly percussive now.

 

Reaching his cab, the Trucker hoped the little faggot made it back before the storm broke—he didn’t want wet meat in his cab.  Not that he’d turn it down, of course, but still, it would piss him off.

 

He shoved the beer in the mini-fridge in the sleeper compartment and, tossing his cap aside and peeling off his t-shirt, settled into the passenger seat to await his fucktoy.  A sudden violent blast of wind rocked the cab and the Trucker began to worry that this one might get away—when the boyish face with the hyper-trimmed beard popped up in the driver’s door window.  The Trucker motioned that it was unlocked; in an instant, Dave was inside.

 

And not a moment too soon; at that moment, the skies broke open and a torrential downpour began to hammer relentlessly on the roof of the cab; the visibility beyond the windshield suddenly something like six inches.

 

“Damn, man, just in time,” the Trucker drawled, “C’mon into the back, if ya want, the fridge with the beer is back there.  We can sit on the bunk; it’s an extra-wide.”

 

In a haze of lust, Dave followed the towering, hardbodied stud into the sleeper area.  “Fuck, dude,” he said, his voice dripping with envy, “This rig is the bomb!  I ain’t even gotta sleeper bunk, man, I can’t afford it…”  His impression of the back of the cab was somewhat fragmentized, though; the Trucker left the light dimmed to a bare minimum.  The primary illumination was the flashing of lightning.

 

The Trucker squatted to get the beers out of the fridge, deliberately giving Dave a good look at his ass, tightly wrapped in black denim.  Taking his cue from the tone of the punk’s voice, he decided to try a little sympathy.

 

Sitting on one side of the bunk, the muscular sadist patted the foam mattress next to him.  “C’mon and have a brew, dude, and tell me about it—young hot boy like you should be makin’ lotsa dough.”

 

The blush on Dave’s face made it clear he’d caught the gay compliment.  He spoke hesitatingly, stumbling over his words. “I-I…well, fact is, I-I got a wife…”  He trailed off, gulped, and then it all came out in a rush.  “Five years ago.  Prom night.  I got drunk as fuck and my buds and me went out with these skanks and, well, anyway, I don’t remember a damn thing but she got knocked up and we had to get married.  Her folks and mine.”

 

In a single swig, he threw back half the bottle of beer before resuming his story.  “Couldn’t say no, y’know?  And then she wouldn’t stop partying and lost the kid.  So now I gotta keep supportin’ the bitch.  And ya wonder why I spend all my time away from home, out on the road lookin’ for dick…”

 

Actually, the Trucker hadn’t wondered at all and was bored with the faggot recital of woes, but as the punk finished the rest of the bottle with another deep gulp, he popped the lid off another cold one and handed it to Dave.  As fast as the cunt was pounding them down, he was gonna be pretty hammered real soon.

 

“So yer lookin’ for some cock,” the Trucker mused, one hand fondling the elongated bulge in his groin.  “Lessee what ya got, first.”

 

The younger trucker grinned and popped up off the bunk.  Taking off his cap, he revealed a head as closely-shaven as his face, only the slightest trace of dark hair kept him from being a complete skinhead.

 

“Can I bum another smoke?” he asked.  The alpha tossed him one, along with the lighter.  Just before lighting, the kid reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of dark brown glass.  Unscrewing the lid, the punk held the bottle to his nose, inhaling the fumes deeply before reclosing it and lighting his smoke.  Once it was lit, Dave left the cigarette dangling in one corner of his mouth, tossing the lighter back before slowly unbuttoning his short-sleeve shirt.  Slipping it off, he revealed his smooth, muscled chest.  The youth was too buff to be described as having a swimmer’s build, but he wasn’t built.  Slender and wiry, but strong with well-defined pecs and biceps.  A flicker of lightning illuminated his right arm; below the shoulder an amateurish tattoo of an eagle with spread wings stood out against the kid’s smooth skin.

 

The Trucker had placed an ashtray between them on the bunk; sitting back down, Dave placed his bottle of poppers next to it and his smoldering cig in it as he bent down and pulled off his soft, well-worn work boots.  He retrieved his glowing butt and, taking one last drag before grinding it out, exhaled a cloud of smoke as he wriggled out of his torn and faded jeans.

 

He stood in front of the Trucker, his firm young body dramatically backlight by bright bursts of lightning.  His long hog jutted eagerly from a tangle of dark brown pubes.  His smooth skin was still slick with rain and sweat; it glistened on his chest, in the dip between his broad pecs, in the strobe-like flashes from outside the cab.

 

Standing up, the Trucker revealed a matching gleam on his own chest and for the first time, Dave noticed the dog tags hanging from the older man’s neck.  Glancing closer, the kid couldn’t quite make out the name, but he could read ‘USMC’ faintly during a particularly bright flash of lightning.

 

“Dude, were you in in the Marines?” he asked loudly, to make himself heard over the seismic blast of thunder.

 

“Naw, man,” the Trucker chuckled as the thunder trailed off, “But I was in a Marine once…”

 

“Musta been a damn good fuck for him to give ya those,” the punk said, panting faintly with excitement.

 

“Damn straight,” the heavily-muscled alpha growled.  “Best the little fucker had in his life.”

 

Dave was completely oblivious to the older man’s use of the past tense.  He was focused on the stud’s huge, furry chest, his deep, gravelly voice, the massive, throbbing bulge in his crotch…

 

That was the point at which the Trucker reached down and unzipped his jeans.  Still buttoned and belted at the waist, he had to reach in and manually pull his enormous cock up out of the jeans like he was hauling in an anchor chain.  The kid’s eyes widened in lust and awe at the sight of the massive tubesteak, only semi-hard but pulsing and swelling visibly.

 

As the wind howled and buffeted the cab with sheets of rain, the scruffy young trucker was felt the energy of the storm; the scent of burned ozone permeated the air, increasing with the quickening intensity of the lightning.  His own swollen shaft was so hard it hurt, but the image of the muscled older man towering over him, lit by the strobe-like flickering, made him start to drip in a steady stream.

 

Dave panted, lust interfering with his breathing.  Snatching up the poppers, he took another hit of chemical vapor; he lay back for a moment, letting the rush flow over his taut, smooth body.  “Damn, dude,” he gasped breathlessly, “I want you in me.”

 

There was a lull in the lightning; in the darkness, the Trucker’s smirk could be heard in his voice more easily than it could be seen.  “Yeah?” he sneered, “Think ya can take me, bitch?  Think you can handle my cock in yer guts, huh?  Yeah?  Then get on the bunk, you faggot, and get yer heels in the air; I’m gonna go balls-deep into yer fuckhole.”

 

For a moment, the iron grip of lust had Dave in such a tight grasp, he was unable to breathe at all.  Not that that stopped him from obeying; a single quick motion, and he’d scooped his jeans off the floor.  Wadding them up, he scrambled eagerly onto the bunk and, lying at an angle so that his ass could be more easily accessed, he shoved the denim bundle under his head as a pillow to support his neck.  Dave’s random placement left a length of the wallet chain running across the back of his head; he reached back, almost unconsciously, and swatted it aside, where it fell back onto the bare foam mattress.

 

Reclining back, the scruffy youth tucked one hand back behind his head.  Grasping his throbbing shaft with the other, he gazed up at the incredibly well-defined torso of the alpha looming imposingly over him.  Despite the crashing thunder and rising wind, there was another pause in the lightning; the Trucker was silhouetted by the faint amber glow of the dimmed interior light.

 

The darkness added an erotic touch of danger to an atmosphere already heavily laden with testosterone and mansweat.  Dave shuddered with ecstasy.  “Fuck, man,” he moaned, “I want ya in me, dude, I want your fuckin’ manmeat up inside me…”

 

In the shadows, the sadistic killer grinned with an icy, malevolent glee.  This was just too fuckin’ perfect.  He moved in.

 

He stood at the edge of the bunk, legs spread, workboots planted widely apart to anchor him—he was gonna need traction; he was goin’ deep.  This little cumsucker was hot and ready.  The Trucker doubted the punk was ready for everything he was gonna get—but, fuck, that was half the fun.

 

Taking another deep hit from the poppers, Dave gasped and gave another moan, this one breathy and intense, as the hulking alpha grabbed the slut’s ankles and propped his feet on his shoulders.  The stud’s hard, handsome face, darkened by his black goatee, hung in the air just inches from his face as the younger trucker felt pressure against his sphincter.  For a moment, Dave wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling; for a moment, it almost seemed as if someone was trying to shove a doorknob into his ass.

 

Then the Trucker grunted, “Fuck yeah!” and, gripping Dave’s thighs in an iron grip, thrust forward, ramming the full length of his swollen hog into the cunt’s fuckhole.  The doorknob that Dave had imagined became an excruciating reality.

 

There was a blinding flash of lightning; at the same time, the lithe, younger trucker gasped again.  This one was totally different than his earlier, erotic gasps; this was a deep, shocked inhalation that fueled the agonized scream that tore from his struggling body but was utterly drowned out by the seismic crash of thunder.

 

“Does it hurt, faggot?” the rutting alpha chuckled, shoving his engorged tool even further into the boy’s resisting colon.  “Quit squealin’ ya cocksuckin’ pansy, I ain’t even all the way in—what kinda homo are ya, huh, if ya can’t take my cock?”

 

Dave tried to repress his cries, subsiding to a high-pitched whimper.  The strong young punk had grasped the top’s bulging, muscular arms to brace himself; with each inch of cock shoved into his ass, his grip intensified until his fingers were digging into the alpha’s hard, unyielding biceps.

 

The rest of the plunge came without warning; the Trucker lunged forward, bucking his hips abruptly and shoving his gigantic rod all the way in.  There was a brief resistance before he felt his engorged, oozing head slam past Dave’s pulsing prostate and sink deep into the boy’s guts.  “Oh fuck yeah, cunt, that feels so fuckin’ good…” the vicious sadist snarled

 

Thrashing on the bunk, Dave’s experience was considerably less pleasant.  With the help of the poppers, he’d managed to grit his teeth and accept the slow penetration of the Trucker’s inhumanly-proportioned hog, but the sudden thrust had ripped a deafening shriek from the agonized youth as his sphincter was instantly stretched beyond the breaking point and tore open in a blast of excruciating pain.

 

“Oh fuck!” the writhing hard-bodied young trucker screamed, “Oh my fucking god, stop!  Please, oh shit, oh fuck, get it outta me, it hurts too much, get it OUTTA ME!!!”

 

The Trucker bent forward, his frighteningly cold and hard face inches from Dave’s.  “Yer makin’ too much noise, faggot.  Shut the fuck up or I’ll pop ya one.”

 

But Dave was in too much pain to listen.  He screamed uncontrollably, his tear-stained face twisted in unimaginable agony.  “Goddammit, ya stupid cocksuckin’ sack a’ shit,” the brutal alpha grunted as he drew back his powerful right arm and balled up his fist.  Ramming his arm forward with the violent strength of a pile driver, he sucker-punched Dave directly in the face, slamming the fucker’s jaw closed with such abrupt force the fag bit through his own tongue.

 

The Trucker spit in Dave’s stunned, bleeding face.  “Toldja to shut the fuck up, fuckmeat,” he hissed maliciously.  “If ya get loud again, I’ll shut ya up for good, you worthless queer-ass motherfucker.”

 

Dave heard the words, vaguely, but they had no meaning for him; they had no bearing on the nightmarish pain sweeping his body.  And even if he had been capable of understanding them, the physical became imperative.

 

He couldn’t stop screaming.  It just hurt too fucking much. For a moment, the howling wind drowned out the flailing slut’s shrieks, but after blasting another curtain of rain over the darkened rig, it faded down and the youth’s wails became distinct again.

 

For a moment, the storm’s lightshow intensified.  The struggling fag was illuminated brilliantly; his smooth skin glistening in the white, strobe-like flashes, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.  His pleading, tear-stained eyes turned up to his assailant.

 

From Dave’s point of view, the Trucker was silhouetted by the lightning; it was almost impossible to make out any specific features on the hulking mass of male muscle that was holding him down and impaling his young ass brutally. Even though his nose was half-clogged from his sobbing, the closeted homo could still smell the primal scent of mansex as their straining bodies pumped out pheromones—an acrid tang of sweat, testosterone and adrenalin.

 

The near-continuous play of light slowed; it had only lasted a few seconds.  During that time, the Trucker never missed a beat in his deep, powerful thrusts—and each time he planted his swollen head deep inside Dave’s guts, the shuddering cocksucker screamed loudly.  Little fucker was almost hoarse—not that it was gonna be any help to him.

 

“You really are a stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” he snarled as he bent down over the young trucker punk, “I toldja I’d shut yer whinin’ bitch-ass up but ya just can’t keep yer mouth shut, huh?  Goddam, faggot, I wish I had another dick to jam down yer throat—guess I gotta find somethin’ else, huh?  Lessee here, I wonder—”

 

An intensely bright white flash was followed, within a couple of seconds, by a clap of thunder so violent that it shook the cab.  The glare had caused a momentary reflection that caught the Tucker’s eye; peering closer, he saw a loop of the boy’s wallet chain that snaked out of the wad of denim tucked under his head.  Grinning, the sadistic killer grabbed at it; since Dave had no idea what was going on, he didn’t move his head and there was some resistance.

 

The whimpering youth heard fabric tear as the jeans were jerked out from under him.  His tear-blurred eyes had a hard time seeing what the aggressive stud was holding up until an inevitable blast of the storm illuminated the scene in extensive, if brief, detail; the flash burned the image in to Dave’s mind.  The Tucker towered over him, powerful muscles heaving and gleaming with sweat, his handsome but hard face grinning at the wallet chain in one hand.  The stunned bottom bitch could see that the wallet was still attached on one end; on the other was a thin strip of pale blue denim—the belt loop that had been torn off his jeans.

 

The Trucker was kneeling on the bunk at this point with his cock plugging the homo’s fuckhole.  He flexed his powerful thigh muscles and slowly pulled his shaft out, the thick ridge around his huge mushroom tip scraping the inside of Dave’s colon.  He lowered himself down onto the youth, leaving the head of his dick just inside the cunt’s quivering sphincter.  Dangling the wallet in the younger trucker’s face, he opened it and began rifling through the billfold.

 

“Wha-what a-a-are ya d-doin?” Dave quavered in a voice that trembled with fear.

 

“Shaddup, fuckmeat,” the Trucker sneered as he dug the cash out of the wallet.  “Ain’t like yer gonna need this anymore—only forty bucks, you cheap-ass cocksucker?”  Spitting contemptuously on his prey, the alpha jammed the bills into the rear pocket of the tight black jeans he still wore.   “Fuck, I’ll be doin’ you a favor when I waste yer broke ass, huh?”

 

A wave of icy terror broke over the already-frightened youth.  He not only understood what he’d been told, he also realized that he was pinned to the bunk under the heavy mass of the cruel alpha’s body.  “W-ait, man, n-no, p-p-please, no,” he gasped, his eyes bulging in horror, “G-god, no, please don’t, man, please don’t kill me…”

 

“C’mon, boy, that’s it,” the Trucker chuckled as the slut’s torn ass muscle tightened around his pulsing tip like a cockring, “Beg for yer worthless life, yeah, cocksucker, that’s it—beg, ya stupid faggot…”

 

Now panic set in.  “No!” Dave yelped as he thrashed his arms, reaching for something.  “I’ll do anything, dude, oh fuck, don’t kill me—”  His frantic hands came up; in one was the bottle of poppers.  “I’ll make myself take it, I’ll take your dick, sir, please, don’t—I’ll prove it, here, sir, oh shit please—”

 

Dave inhaled deeply, moving the bottle quickly from one nostril to the other.

 

“Too late,” the Trucker grunted.  Before the buff young trucker had a chance to exhale, the brutal alpha had the chain wrapped tightly around his neck.

 

Dave never got the chance to exhale.

 

The move had been swift and brutal; the buff older stud had whipped the chain up under his victim’s head before he’d crossed it in front and bore down, cinching off the windpipe.  The closeted homo found the cold, hard metal links embedded all the way around his taut throat before he’d realized what was happening.    The Trucker lay on top of the choking faggot, his hard, furry chest sliding on a film of sweat over Dave’s writhing torso, wiry chest hair scratching the boy’s firm, silky skin.

 

The hard-bodied young slut was riding high on the rush; the fumes ramped up the tempo of his heart and now panic increased it more.  As the chain dug painfully into the tender flesh of his throat, he thrashed and flailed like a feral cat in a trap.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah, faggot,” the Trucker grunted as the well-muscled punk struggled under him, “Fight it, ya worthless cunt, lemme feel that stretched-out fuckhole work my dick as ya die!”

 

Deep in his pounding chemical high, Dave heard the words.  Combined with the swelling pressure of asphyxiation in his chest and the intense pain of metal links tearing at his throat, they drove home the fact of imminent death in a way that the searing torment of the violent assrape hadn’t.  After all, he’d endured a rough buttfuck or two from strangers he’d picked up on the road—but his only concern on those occasions had been holding on and taking the D; he’d never been in fear of his life.

 

Of course, none of the others had actually strangled him—

 

And his mind dissolved again into a white-hot flame of tortuous agony and blind panic.  His bare heels drummed mindlessly against the Trucker’s firm, pumping ass, but they left few marks under the black denim.  One hand clawed and scraped at the powerful sadist’s rock-hard jaw while the other beat fruitlessly at his killer’s broad, bulging pecs.

 

“Goddamit, you cumsuckin’ motherfucker,” the Trucker snarled, anger streaking coldly through his voice, “Keep yer faggot hands offa me, ya queer-ass piece a’ shit!  Just fuckin’ lay there and take my dick gratefully like the worthless homo garbage ya are or I’ll fuck ya up, hear me, boy?  Ya hear me, fag?”

 

He yanked the chain viciously as he spoke, tightening it so deeply it sank into its blood-oozing groove in Dave’s neck, squeezing a thick, choking gurgle out of the dying boy’s throat.  That wasn’t all he squeezed out; the muscled punk was sliding beneath him on a film of mansweat.  Some of it was his; some of it was deathsweat forced from the kid’s pores as his body went into metabolic shutdown.

 

The younger trucker’s face swelled and blackened; his assailant had also managed to squeeze out the little fucker’s tongue.  Thick, glistening, swollen, purple, it slowly began to force its way up past Dave’s bright blue lips, slipping out on a froth of foamy drool.

 

At the same time, the dying youth’s cock was responding identically; the thick shaft, not quite as long as the Trucker’s, began to swell and darken until it resembled an eggplant, glistening with involuntary precum at the tip.

 

Dave could feel that too, as he died.  And worst of all was the painful reality that the hot, sharp throb of agony in his confusingly erect dick was timed to each thrust of his murder’s relentless powerfuck.

 

As dark explosions began to blot out his vision, the youth felt a faint despair at the loss of his wasted life.  Some tiny corner of his fading mind thought of how he was dying, how his body would be found, what his wife and family and friends would say.

 

That part soon died, screaming in shame and terror.  What was left was open to physical sensation.  The involuntary nervous system was still functioning.

 

As the sweating, hulking alpha pounded his shaft into the kid, he could feel the meat begin its death throes.  It started with the reflexive clamping of the sphincter around the base of the Trucker’s gigantic shaft, tightening again like a cockring.  Even though the muscle had been torn when the top first penetrated his victim, the spasm was so intense that it clenched closed with excruciating force, continuing to tear itself open in the process.

 

Dave felt it all as a blast of pain that hit simultaneously with a blast of lightning. His bulging eyes, red with exploded blood vessels, caught a bright white nightmare illumination of his killer rising up over him, face twisted with inexorable hate, sculpted torso highlighted by the flash reflecting off the dangling dogtags.  Then the Trucker hunched down over his helpless prey again, riding the punk fucker into his grave like he was breaking a wild horse.

 

He’d only wanted a quick fuck from a hot stud.  It wasn’t really a conscious thought; Dave was past thinking rationally, but amid his pain was a confusion of how he’d gotten to this point.  He couldn’t be dying here in this stranger’s cab; this couldn’t possibly be happening.  Someone would help him somehow.  He beat frantically on the sides of the cab; outside, maybe, someone would hear—but the constant shuddering crash of thunder muted his frantic attempts to summon help.

 

As the fit young punk slowly died, his strong body suffered convulsions of increasing violence.  His sturdy frame was wracked with severe spasms, each one causing his colon to collapse around his killer’s hog, clinging to the thick, throbbing, vein-wrapped shaft like soft and velvety vacuum wrap.  “Yeah, shit yeah,” the rutting stud sneered down at his victim.  “Still there, aintcha, ya pansy fucker?  Fuck yeah, bitch, you ain’t dead yet—lookit yer cock, scumbag, yer hard as shit even though I’m wastin’ yer punk ass!  Lovin’ this, aintcha, ya worthless faggot?  Even though I’m snuffin’ ya, my cock up yer ass is still enough to make ya blow yer wad, ya goddam homo sack a’ shit!”

 

The last effects of the poppers still circulated in the electrochemical stew into which Dave’s psyche was dissolving.  The words meant nothing to a personality already dead, but the repeated prostate massage that the Trucker’s tool gave on its way into his guts had set off one last sensation of pain in a penis so erect that it literally hurt.

 

The younger man’s hands stopped beating at the Trucker; they stroked his chest and arms with the fluttering caresses of dying birds.  His legs, on the other hand, seemed to grow rigid; the thrusting alpha could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the cunt’s inner thighs pressing against his heaving flanks, gliding on a lube of dying boysweat.

 

The convulsions the hardbodied young trucker suffered became longer and more drawn-out.  With each passing moment, the buff older stud tightened the chain around the boy’s throat.  He could feel his seed bubbling over in his huge, puckered scrote as it slapped against the useless homo’s taint; he knew he was gonna unload soon—and violently…

 

It all kinda happened at once.  With a deep, vital, irrepressible grunt, the powerful, dominant top felt his massive biceps bulge almost involuntarily.  The chain disappeared into Dave’s neck as a cracking sound permeated the sleeper cab, loud enough to be heard over the drumming sheets of rain.  The cunt’s black face, smeared with foam that caught in the razor-thin edge of facial hair, was totally unrecognizable as the either the hard young trucker from the diner or the eager skinhead faggot from half an hour ago.

 

 

The bolt of agony that accompanied the complete and utterly crushing destruction of his windpipe as the final trigger that Dave’s straining, firm young body needed.    He convulsed in one final spasm of incredible magnitude; his arms and legs both contracting violently, he clasped his killer in an embrace as strong as an iron cage as he died.  At the same time, his rectum milked the Trucker’s huge, pulsating tool as if it was deliberately trying to make the sadist shoot—and if so, it succeeded.

 

The Trucker’s potent, muscle-bound form jerked and bucked involuntarily in orgasm, injecting a steady stream of manseed deep into Dave’s guts; as the boiling spunk splashed over the kid’s prostate, the searing hot pain set off a kindred response in the nearly-dead meat.  The younger trucker, clutching the older in a hard deathgrip, blew his wad.  The Trucker felt the first warm splash over his ripped abs; the second was much longer, spewing sperm up into his chest fur and higher, until the corpse splattered cum across the underside of the cruel killer’s chin.

 

Somewhere between the injection of boiling jizz up his ass and the expulsion of the same from his swollen dick, Dave died as the storm reached a nightmarish crescendo outside, rocking the cab like a ship at sea while deafening rain pounded on the metal roof.  He sank into a cold screaming blackness of pain and fear, experiencing his deathload only as excruciating agony.  The Trucker, on the other hand, grunted deeply and contentedly as he emptied his testicles into the dead boy.

 

Holding on until he knew his balls were drained, the powerful serial killer slowly withdrew his still-pulsing rod from the corpse; the head popped out of the dead kid’s mangled ass in a huge wad of pink, blood-stained spunk.  “Yeah, bitch,” he whispered to the still-twitching corpse, “That’s how I handle faggot cumdumps…”

 

The Trucker stood up, shakily, and lit a cigarette.  Calmer after a couple of drags, he stepped forward and picking up the dead punk’s soft, worn jeans, used them to thoroughly wipe down his cum-dripping dick.  Stepping to the front of the cab, he settled into the driver’s seat and finished his smoke, watching the storm pass.  Looked like the worst was over…

 

 

By half-past two in the morning, the Trucker was on the road again.  Avoiding the interstate in Vinita, he headed north on state highways to Welch, then east towards Miami, looking for a place to dump the body; in doing so, he managed to outrun the storm.  It caused him a few intense moments, keeping the rig under control in high winds, but control was his specialty.

 

After carefully guiding and controlling countless fags to orgasmic death, the storm didn’t scare him.

 

Just west of Miami, the Trucker pulled to the side on a bridge spanning a dry gulch.  The wind was out of the west, the flashes of lightning light the rain-drenched rig as thunder growled ominously.  The storm was strengthening; it might spawn tornadoes and was approaching swiftly.  But the buff killer wasn’t planning on being here when it hit.

 

There was no other traffic out here at this hour.  Still shirtless, the Trucker stepped to the back of the cab and grabbed Dave’s body.  The dead trucker still had his own wallet chain, wallet still attached, wrapped around his throat; it was embedded so deeply, the Trucker has no interest in trying to extract it.  The kill was so fresh, the alpha could feel the corpse still quivering in his arms as he dragged the mindless boymeat out of the rig and over to the rail.  With one last deep grunt, the muscled alpha tossed the fag cumdump over the edge into the darkness.

 

Rain was starting to spatter down as he returned to the cab and gathered the rest of the fucker’s belongings.  He dashed back out and tossed the clothing and boots over the edge of the viaduct before diving back into his truck.  The rain intensified as he got into gear and sped up; by the time he got to the interstate, he’d driven out of the rain.  And by the time he got to the state line, the storm was a memory in his rear-view mirror.

 

As he headed east, the cold, experienced killer cast a though back to the shuddering manmeat he’d thrown into a ditch; part of him wondered if it would be found once the storm passed through.

 

 

As it so happened, it was Dave’s rig that attracted notice first.  Truck stop employees noticed that it hadn’t moved in two days and called the police.  That was how Mark had found out about it.

 

Increasingly frustrated after finding out, too late, that his killer had gone back and offed the only eyewitness available, Mark had requested information on all police reports that involved semi trucks, truckers, and truck stops.  He’d picked up quickly on the abandoned rig in OK, but had no idea if it had any significance in his hunt for a serial killer.  Luckily, he’d been heading that way himself.

 

He reached the area a day after the original call; heading straight to the county sheriff, he presented his ID and requested information on the investigation.  With a smirk, the sheriff handed him off to a deputy who led him to the evidence room.  “Had to force the lock on the cab,” the young cop drawled as he opened the door, “And this is what we found.  Seems yer guy was a gen-u-wine practicin’ homo-sexual.  Lookit all this faggot shit we found in his rig.”

 

The collection of porn, popper bottles and assorted drugs wasn’t as interesting as the huge black dildo.  Mark could feel his own shaft stiffen as he looked over the missing trucker’s trove.  Completing his erotic interest, the deputy casually mentioned, “This ain’t nothin’, man, you should see all the digustin’ homo crap on the laptop—it’s over there.”

 

“I may need to examine that,” Mark said, a slight hitch in his voice.

 

He was still examining it two days later in a motel room in Vinita when word reached him that a body had been found in a dry gulch, right where it emptied into the Neosho River.  A couple of fishermen, noticing a pale flash among the rocks, had discovered the battered and bruised corpse of a young man, among the rocks.  Near the body, a plaid button-down short-sleeved shirt was caught on the branch of a downed tree; in the cleft of the rock which had caught the boy’s body was a single, well-worn work boot.  Otherwise the corpse was nude.

 

Identification, however, was easy.  The victim had been strangled with a wallet chain; the wallet, with a commercial driver’s license still inside, was attached.

 

Mark knew he was getting close.  He got back on the road, heading east, still tracking his quarry.  He was halfway across Missouri when he got the autopsy results.  The victim had been raped and strangled—he was on the right track.  Identity was confirmed; the victim had a tattoo that helped, as did dental records.

 

He wanted this guy.  He wanted him so bad, his dick was hard.

Carlos and Nick 2: Lawyering Up

On By m3mayhemIn Movies with Carlos and Nick4 Comments

The broad expanse of the Strip, baking under an unrelenting sun, was crowded despite the heat.  Carlos had been in Vegas long enough by now not to be surprised; the Strip was always crammed full of people, day or night.  He’d asked Nick if he’d ever seen it empty; the massive stud thought for a moment.  “Once,” he’d replied.  “It was four-thirty on a Wednesday morning in February.”

 

Well, Carlos was out on it now, making his way through the masses of humanity.  He was dressed for attention, as usual—this time, in the interests of drumming up business.  He wore a tight white wifebeater that left little of his hard, inked body to the imagination.  And even that little was decreasing as sweat oiled Carlos’s sculpted torso, rendering the thin white cotton nearly transparent.

 

Below, a pair of cargo shorts covered with a camo pattern reached to just above his knees.  His calves, thick with muscles, descended into a pair of yellow workboots with thick soles and black leather at the ankles; they were loosely laced and untied.  The entire outfit displayed his overwhelmingly well-developed form to perfection and he got lots of admiring glances among the throngs of people—from both sexes.

 

Carlos had just turned the corner off Desert Inn Road, walking south.  He was on the east side of the strip, so he passed the Encore tower of the Wynn casino before he reached the main tower.  He was well aware of the sidelong glances his hard, glistening body drew.  Good—if he could lure a target, he might be able to get Nick to do another film.

 

He was living well in the condo Nick had lent him—it was a little ways back, on Paradise, with the master bedroom facing southwest towards the Strip, illuminated by the bright lights and neon that blazed all night long.  But he still needed money—the drain on his cash reserve had slowed, but it was still there—so he was out here in the heat.

 

Hunting for a fag to fuck and snuff.  Surely among all these half-dressed, perspiring males, there was someone—

 

That was when Carlos, lost in thought, bounced off someone walking the other way.

 

He paused, looking at the other dude, who was apologizing sheepishly.  The guy was no older than twenty-five, fit but not buff.  He had moderately long blond hair, a large Roman nose and deep brown eyes.  He was dressed in business casual in a long-sleeve button-down shirt with thin vertical stripes of white and blue.  The dude also wore a pair of beige slacks that weren’t extremely tight but still managed to emphasize his bubble butt.  Brown leather loafers completed the look.

 

“Sorry, man,” he was saying, a distinctive Texas drawl in his voice, “I didn’t see ya there.  No offense.  Was kinda focused on finding some fun; guess I got a little distracted.”

 

Drawing himself up to show off his ripped body, Carlos grinned sociably.  “Not a problem,” he drawled, “What kinda fun ya lookin’ for?”

 

The blond dude paused and gulped nervously.  “Well—“ he started, then paused, embarrassed.  “Well, actually, I’m lookin’ for a stud like you.”

 

Carlos’s smile broadened brilliantly.  “Yeah?  For what?”  As he spoke, he fondled the bulge growing impressively in his groin.

 

The other guy noticed.  The sight seemed to relieve him and excite him simultaneously.  “For that,” he grinned, nodding towards Carlos’s crotch.

 

Carlos’s smile deepened as his hand worked his groin, pressing down the fabric and revealing the full extent of his massive dong.  “I gotta place around the corner if you’re interested…”

 

The blond’s boyish face reddened in embarrassment.  “I-I can’t right now.  I’m here for a convention and I gotta go to a couple of seminars this afternoon.”

 

“What about later?”

 

The kid thought for a moment.  “Well, I got dinner at Gordon Ramsay over in Paris at seven with Les—he’s one of the partners and I can’t ditch on that.  But I should be done by ten.”

 

“Partners?” Carlos asked, “What do you do?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” the kid replied, as if he’d just remembered something.  “Name’s Luke—I’m an attorney.  The Civil Law Association has the Convention Center for the whole week, so the firm is payin’ for the trip.  The partners are all at the Bellagio, but us associates are all at Bally’s.”

 

“You’re a lawyer?” Carlos asked incredulously; the punk standing in front of him had a certain professional bearing, to be sure, but he looked like he was sixteen.  Even though Carlos knew he was older, he still couldn’t imagine this boy standing up in front of a judge.

 

“Yeah,” Luke responded shyly.  “Well, like I said, just an associate.  But hey, one day I could make partner.”

 

Carlos pondered for a moment—actually, a very swift moment; Luke never noticed the pause.  “You’ll be free after ten?” he asked.

 

“Yeah—well, yeah, I guess Les can blather on for a while.  Say eleven at the latest.”

 

“I can work with that,” Carlos said slowly.  “I know—I’ll come pick you up.  Outside the main entrance to Bally’s at, oh, eleven-fifteen or –twenty?”

 

Luke’s, broad, naïve face lit up with pleasure.  “Sure, dude, sure!  That works great!  Er—if you’re gonna pick me up, what car should I be looking for?”

 

The light of lust in the blond homo lawyer’s eyes brightened like a star going nova at the mention of a red Mercedes convertible.  Seeing it had a couple of different effects on Carlos.  First, he knew that he’d picked the right fairy to take the brunt of his terrible rage.  And secondly, he knew—knew for a certainty—that Nick would want to film this.

 

Only thing wrong with the setup was that he wasn’t able go full meat-grinder mode on the faggot lawyer leech right away…

 

The hate-filled ex-con took a deep breath.  Self-control, he reminded himself.  He could still have his fun, but if he did it on camera, he got paid.  A lot.  He’d learned a lot about discipline lately; he’d learned that channeling his boiling rage into icy-sharp cruelty was much more satisfying.

 

But this all passed in a fraction of a second.

 

“So how does that sound?” he asked Luke.  “Eleven-fifteen to eleven-thirty outside the main entrance?”

 

“Fuckin’-A, stud,” Luke panted, nearly drooling with lust. Carlos noticed a respectable tent pole in the punk’s khakis; little cumsucker had an impressive set of tackle himself. “But don’t park under the portico; it’s always full of cabs.  Pull over out front on Flamingo; if you got a convertible Benz with the top down, I can find you.”

 

They sized each other up for a long, long moment before parting ways.  Luke was drinking in the full splendor of dominant masculinity he’d engaged for the evening.  Carlos was appraising fresh meat.

 

Then they headed in different directions, Luke towards his seminar and Carlos to make a phone call.

 

 

 

 

At exactly a quarter past eleven, Carlos parked on Flamingo Road.  He’d driven past the portico, as requested, and managed to find a space at the curb halfway down the block.  Above him towered the bulk of the original 26-story tower, now striped horizontally in white and blue.  The building was idiosyncratic enough in that it didn’t directly face the Strip.  Considered monstrously huge when it opened in 1973, it was now dwarfed by the massive resorts surrounding it.

 

It was also famous as the site of one of the deadliest high-rise fires in history.  Of course, it wasn’t Bally’s back in late November, 1980; it was still the MGM Grand at the time.  There were still ghost stories circulating about the eighty-five people who died, but Carlos wasn’t superstitious.

 

After all, he wasted enough fags to know no one came back after they were made into meat.

 

He waited with the top down, the heat of the day still radiating from the concrete valley of Flamingo Road.  He’d showered and changed; the idea that he was getting ready for a gay date was anathema to his virulently homophobic mind—but that’s exactly what he’d done.  Going with the typical sex addict colors of black and white, he’d exchanged the sweat-soaked wifebeater for a new one.

 

He’d jammed his thickly-muscled legs into a pair of skin-tight black jeans, which were tucked into pair of heavy, thick-soled black engineer boots.  Frankly, it was a little warm for the gear—but Nick had insisted.  He’d even specified the belt, thick black leather with a row of paired grommets, designed to accept the double posts of the buckle.  Since the paired holes ran the length of the leather strap, the belt could theoretically be bucked with a circumference of about two inches.

 

Nick had been excited as fuck at the suggestion, but he had something else going on and couldn’t be at the condo until midnight at the earliest.  He’d told Carlos exactly what to wear, and given him advice on keeping the action consensual until he showed up.

 

Then, they could have some fun.

 

According to the dash clock, it was more than half-past eleven when he heard the steady tread of a pair of boots pounding on the pavement to the rear, coming closer.

 

When Luke came into view, the Texan in him came out more than just in his voice.  His figure was somewhat vague until he stepped into the bright circle of illumination cast by a street light.

 

The lean, lithe young professional had gone full cowboy; from the straw hat with the curled brim to the polished gray roper boots on his feet, he’d shown his country soul.  He sported a short-sleeve shirt in Western plaid, blue and white (oddly like the death-laden tower looming above him), with pearl-covered snaps running down the front and fastening both breast pockets.

 

He’d been meeting with a partner; he was late—the obvious explanation was that he’d changed.  However much he felt comfortable in the presence of his employer, Carlos couldn’t imagine that Luke had shown up to dinner in that pair of thin, skin-tight black leather jeans.  They screamed “faggot slut” louder than an air horn.

 

Seeing him, Carlos laughed aloud.  Oh fuck, wasting this cocksucker on video was gonna be so worth it…

 

Luke wasn’t stupid—he did have a legal degree, after all—but he was young and naïve.  Worse, he was young, naïve and horny, a state which tended to impair critical judgement in males.  His lean, lithe body pulsed with hormones that revved him to extreme physical arousal that needed immediate gratification.

 

If he’d been a little more aware of his surroundings, he’d have heard the harsh ring in Carlos’s laugh.  It held a simmering, barely-suppressed rage that found vent in a kind of ferocious glee.

 

All this was lost on the randy youth.  He could only see the sculpted, rock-hard body of the stud in the open convertible Benz.  Without any hesitation, he hopped into the passenger seat next to Carlos, making the worst—if not quite yet the last—mistake of his short life.

 

“Where we headin’?” Luke drawled.  This close, Carlos realized this kid had had a drink or two.  He wasn’t plastered, but his Texas twang was starting to get out from under him.

 

“My place,” Carlos replied, his cold grin glittering like steel.  All Luke could see was the glittering of a gold chain, the thick, heavy links in looped twice around the buff dude’s neck.

 

“Where’s that?” he asked.

 

“We’ll be there in five minutes,” Carlos responded tersely as he sped away from the curb, heading west.  When he turned left at the light, the wind whipped the straw cowboy hat right off Luke’s head; the kid’s only response was to laugh giddily.

 

Owing to a slight delay at the elevator in the condo parking garage, it took closer to seven minutes to get back.  Luke didn’t care; awash in erotic anticipation, he didn’t notice much beyond Carlos’s hard, sculpted body until they were actually inside the unit.    The living room was nice and seemed to be professionally decorated; the window faced southeast down Paradise.  There seemed to be a bedroom on the east side but the master was in the southwest corner.

 

It was the master bedroom that made Luke inquire about Carlos’s occupation; the large window opened onto the full neon panorama of the Las Vegas Strip.  “Dude,” he muttered in awe, “This view musta cost a fortune…”

 

In fact, the view had lowered the selling price; most people wanted to see the Strip from their living room and preferred to do without the garish lighting flooding the bedroom while they slept.  But Nick hadn’t been “most people”—and neither was Carlos.

 

Carlos silenced the slim blond’s questions by peeling his wifebeater off, the motion accompanied by faint jingling as the doubled gold chain was momentarily caught in the thin fabric.  Luke was transfixed, staring gape-jawed at the older man’s furred hubcap pecs.  The alpha noticed with faintly amused contempt that the youth’s tight leather jeans revealed his straining cock in more detail than the slut had likely anticipated.  Carlos could see every vein wreathing the disgusting faggot’s seven-inch shaft.

 

“C’mon, boy,” the hulking tattooed-covered hardman chuckled genially, “Lessee what ya got to work with.”

 

Luke’s hands fumbled at the snaps of his shirt; he was so excited he had to pause and take a deep breath before he could regain his coordination.  Once he did, though, a single vigorous jerk separated all the snaps at once with a ripping sound.  Luke shrugged the plaid shirt off, revealing his firm, smooth chest.

 

Nowhere near as well-developed as Carlos, Luke had the slim, boyish body of a swimmer—not thin or scrawny, but not bulging with muscles.  His torso looked smooth and silky but across his flat belly appeared a faint golden haze that darkened as it descended beneath the waist of his leather jeans.

 

For a brief moment, they stood facing each other, several feet apart; two bare-chested men in jeans and boots, one slightly older and obviously much stronger than the other.  It was the latter who broke the silence.  “Aw, c’mon, son,” Carlos drawled with a cocky grin, “Ya gotta do better than that.  Get it all off.”

 

Luke flushed with excitement, his pale skin turning red.  Sitting on the bed, he crossed his legs and slipped the gray ropers off, one after the other.  He unbuttoned his jeans—the leather clung to him so tightly he hadn’t needed a belt—and slowly slid the zipper down.  He kept his eyes on Carlos the entire time, though, as if afraid the buff stud would vanish if he looked away.

 

Luke was no virgin; his cute little bubble butt had been plowed before, but he’d stayed within his own race and body type, playing around with other twinks.  He’d always wanted to get used by a real man, though—and this tan, tatted, rough-trade alpha was nothing if not a real man.

 

Standing back up, he sinuously peeled his lower half out of the skin-tight black leather, slowly uncovering his firm smooth thighs and his long dick.  He wasn’t hung quite as well as Carlos, but seven inches was disproportionately large on his strong but lean frame.  The boy looked like he was hung like a horse.

 

And he was hard; the moment it was freed from its leather confinement, the shaft popped up erect, flinging a faint liquid spray.

 

Carlos smirked.  Little homo was oozing already.

 

As Luke sat back down on the bed to finish pulling off the leather jeans, Carlos lost some of his complacency.  He was gonna have to string this worthless sack of shit on for at least another fifteen minutes before Nick showed up.  He hoped he’d have the self-restraint not to beat the pansy cocksucker into submission before then.  There was something about the lithe blond youth with his large dark eyes and easy grin that made Carlos want to hurt him badly.

 

Well, he was gonna do that, one way or the other—but he wanted to do it now.

 

Gritting his teeth and swallowing his rage for the moment, despite its bitter taste, he undid the double-post buckle of his belt and, sliding it out of its loops, tossed it onto the dresser.  Leaving the waistband of his black jeans buttoned, he unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, it took both hands to extract his enormous tackle, still semi-soft and pliable.

 

Luke had finished undressing.  Completely nude, he stood before Carlos, once again agape in awe at the stud’s formidable physique.  Even though it wasn’t completely hard, the hulking ex-con’s cock was still larger than the blond twink’s.  That was something he hadn’t dealt with before; Luke had always been hung better than any of his little playmates.

 

The thought the he’d entered into a bout well beyond his weight class was just starting to sink in for the horny young lawyer.  But all that meant so far was erotic excitement—Luke figured he’d finally found the dude who could fuck him like he needed to be fucked and the thought had him blind with lust.

 

How completely and utterly correct he was would be driven painfully home in a very short period of time—but Carlos’s eagerness to start the driving made it seem like forever to the killer alpha.

 

“Get over here, boy,” he said evenly, “C’mere and work my nips.”

 

Luke hastened to obey.

 

Nuzzling his broad, innocent face into Carlos’s scratchy, curly chest hair, Luke found himself tracing his tongue along the lines of one of the hardman’s tattoos until it got near the right nipple, at which point he transferred his attention to the large knot of flesh, already hard.

 

As he slurped, nearly gnawing on the alpha’s hard chest, Luke’s hands reached downwards, groping blindly until they encountered Carlos’s slowly stiffening shaft.  Grasping the monstrous tube of manmeat, the eager twink began to milk it, slowly and lovingly.

 

The homophobic muscle stud grunted unconsciously in pleasure.  His mind was seething with rage against the faggot who was worshipping his body so assiduously, but his body itself was responding inevitably to the physical manipulation.  He looked at the clock on the nightstand.  Eleven fifty-three.  Goddam, Nick better get here soon…

 

Carlos balled his hands into fists, so focused on maintaining his control that he didn’t realize that the slut wasn’t getting down on his nipple anymore.  Luke was working his way down Carlos’s broad, rock-hard chest, dragging his face through the top’s rough, wiry body fur.

 

The alpha lost patience.  Luke suddenly found his head in a vise-like grip as Carlos forced the punk down on his rigid shaft, fully erect by now.  The golden-haired youth, his gullet completely plugged with cock, gagged and choked; the powerful ex-con could feel the kid’s tongue struggling along the underside of his swollen tool.

 

He wanted to hold the little shit there till he choked to death on cock.  He glanced at the clock; it was less than five minutes to midnight.  Where the fuck was Nick?

 

Again he found the strength to master his rage and, unconsciously, the lust that drove it.  It wasn’t just that he wanted to get paid—he damn sure wanted to paid—but he also liked the idea of snuffing faggots on camera.  He liked the feeling.

 

As a result of his association with Nick, the murderous muscle stud was learning self-control and discipline.  He was honing his skills as a predator, slowly but steadily becoming ever more dangerous.

 

He let go of Luke’s head.  The slim young lawyer fell back, coughing and drooling, as Carlos sat on the bed.  The alpha gave the cocksucker a count of five to recover, then spoke.

 

“Get over here, boy, and pull my boots off.”

 

Luke wiped the spittle off his chin with the back of his hand, then advanced eagerly on his hands and knees to Carlos’s feet.  The sculpted stud extended his leg, watching coldly as the lean, boyish lawyer crawled up and began caressing his harness boots.

 

Sliding his hands up the glossy black leather, Luke pulled the cuffs of Carlos’s jeans up.  Gripping each boot with one hand on the heel and one hand on the shaft (breathlessly savoring the memory of that other shaft in his mouth), the kneeling blond punk removed them, one at a time.  Setting them, almost reverently, off to one side, Luke turned back and pulled off the alpha’s calf-high white tube socks.

 

Pushing the boy back roughly, Carlos stood up.  Reaching down to his waist, just above his jutting dick, he undid the button in the jeans waistband.  “Up here, boy,” he barked, “my jeans—strip ‘em off me.”

 

Luke stood up, his long thin dong swaying and dripping.  The youth’s large brown eyes, glittering with lust, looked up into those of the buff, toned ex-con.  Misreading the cold light reflected from the killer’s icy blue eyes, he placed his hands first on Carlos’s hard washboard abs, fondling the rippled muscles, before finally grapping the jeans at the waist.

 

Sinking slowly to his knees, Luke peeled the skin-tight denim from the hulking stud, revealing a pair of thick, sinewy thighs and powerful calves.  As the jeans dropped below his knees, Carlos sat on the bed once again, moving his bare feet forward so the thick wad of blue denim could be completely removed.

 

Standing up yet again, Carlos towered over Luke.  The young attorney, who less than an hour earlier had been dining with a multimillionaire partner in his law firm, was on his knees at the feet of a nude, heavily-muscled dude who’d been convicted of killing a man.  As Luke stared yearningly at the enormous throbbing hog dangling over him, oozing precum, some part of him wondered what his co-workers and employers would think if they could see him now.  Good thing they would never know about this, he thought.

 

Suddenly, there was a rapping sound.  Luke was so sunk in his sexual reverie that Carlos had already turned and was on his way out of the room before the young blond realized what he was hearing.

 

Someone was knocking at the condo’s front door.

 

That was bad.  What was worse was that the alpha stud seemed to actually be opening it.  What the fuck was going on?

 

There was a brief murmur of voices beyond the bedroom, then the buff inked dude reappeared—and he was not alone.

 

For a moment, Luke’s heart froze—not in fear, but in desire.  The rough trade alpha was strong and sculpted, but the dude who followed him in was even larger and even more well-built.

 

He had long black hair, almost shoulder-length, with a broad, handsome face and a strong jaw; much like Carlos, the lower half of his face was covered with short dark scruffy fur.  His massive pectoral muscles, broader than hubcaps and each crowned with a nipple like tire valve, were displayed to perfection by the vest he wore; distressed patches of black leather, stitched together.  It clung tightly to his back but fell open in front, revealing his cut, toned torso.

 

Under that, the hot stranger wore jeans—not black, like Carlos’s had been, but blue; a very worn and faded blue, they had softened and worn to such a point of soft fragility that it seemed impossible that they could still cling so tightly to the stud’s strong, piston-like legs.  Under them, he sported a pair of black harness boots, the three leather straps connected by a steel ring.  He seemed to be the oldest of all three of them, but no older than in his very early thirties.

 

“Hey, man,” the tatted alpha said cheerily, “wassyername, Luke?  Luke, this is my bud Nick.  Yer gonna like Nick.”

 

Luke couldn’t help but notice the video camera in Nick’s hand.  He was horny as fuck, but he had a career to think of; he damn sure wasn’t doing anything on video.

 

“H-hey,” the blond youth stammered, “Nicetameetcha, but the camera’s gotta go—I-I can’t, man, I just can’t.”

 

Nick responded with a blinding grin as he entered the bedroom, “No problem, dude, I’ll set it down over here.”  And with that, he placed it on the dresser.

 

Luke never noticed that it was placed with the lens towards the bed.  Or that the “record” light was still on.

 

“I told my bud Nick here that I’d met a dude who wanted a real man,” Carlos drawled.  “He said he might stop by—now ya got two real men.  Think you can handle it, boy?”

 

Luke had never risen; still on the floor on his knees, he licked his lips, his eyes darting nervously between the two men.  Deep inside, he had a sense of something not being right—but then he glanced up at Nick, rubbing his hand over the huge bulge in his crotch that seemed to go halfway down his thigh, and at Carlos, sneering down at him as his engorged cock leaked precum.  He shoved the nagging suspicion away and stood up, his strong but lean body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

 

“Yeah, man,” the young blond lawyer said cockily, “I can take whatever y’all can give.  Come at me, bro!”

 

Nick’s grin widened to shark-like proportions; he slipped out of his leather vest, letting it drop to the floor as Carlos, glowering with lustful fury, approached the punk.  His swollen shaft, already an angry shade of red, seemed to darken as his rage deepened.  He reached out and grabbed Luke by the chin and then straight-armed him back into the wall.

 

But the ex-con was using the restraint he’d learned; he was gonna trust Nick to see that he’d get the chance to show the little faggot exactly what he thought of him.  Luke hit the wall kinda hard, but nowhere near as hard as Carlos was tempted.

 

Luke’s breath was knocked out of him; the muscled stud forced his head roughly to the side so that his left cheek was pressed against the wall.  When Carlos asked Nick where he wanted to start with the bitch, the first response was from Luke; a long, shuddering moan of pleasure.

 

On the few occasions he’d actually appeared in court, Luke had come across as relatively calm and confident; few people who’d seen him in that environment would recognize the cum-hungry fuckpig locked in the powerful arms of an ex-con and greedy for more.

 

“Does he suck dick good?” Nick asked.

 

“Naw,” Carlos smirked, “Little homo could barely take my meat.”

 

“Toss him up here on the bed,” Nick replied, “I’ll ream out his windpipe.  Go ahead and plug his boycunt, see how loose the whore is.”

 

Another red flag for Luke; part of him wanted to protest, to deny he was a whore—he really wasn’t—but the warning was submerged in lust when Carlos whispered into his ear.  “Ya hear that, boy?  Ya ready to get stuffed fulla manmeat?  You better be, faggot, yer about to get more dick than even a worthless homo like you can handle!”

 

And that should have been a third signal that things weren’t right, but Luke was too sunk in an erotic haze as Carlos manhandled him onto the queen-sized bed to take notice.  He liked aggressive tops, but the homophobic verbal abuse was new and uncomfortable to him.

 

But he never had time to process the thought; suddenly, he was tossed onto the bed, landing on his hands and knees.  Before he had the chance to orient himself, he felt Carlos’s large, strong hands grab at his hips, pull him to one side—

 

—And then his ass was full of cock, more cock than he’d ever had before, more cock that he’d ever thought possible—

 

—And opening his mouth to scream in startled, searing pain, he felt his head jerked to one side by another hand, this one tightly clutching a hank of his long blond hair, and his shriek was muffled by the enormous, throbbing shaft that plugged his throat completely.

 

For the first time, Luke felt true fear.  He hurt, he hurt like fuck, and not only did these dudes not care—he had no way out.  Not that that didn’t stop him from trying.

 

He had no idea it was all being recorded.

 

The frame wasn’t quite centered on the action; the three intertwined male bodies were slightly to the right of the screen.  A pair of muscled hardmen were sexually assaulting a slim blond youth.  One of the buff studs, the one with long black hair, still sported his jeans; he was gripping the kid’s hair and skullfucking him.  The head of the other was so close-shaven he looked like a skinhead; he was balls-deep in the blond’s ass.

 

“Hey, Carlos,” the alpha in jeans said, “Where’d ya find this cocksucker?”

 

“Right out on the Strip, man,” Carlos grinned back.  “Sez his name is Luke and he’s a lawyer-ha!  Gotta hand it to ya, Nick, you were right—it’s a great place to troll for fags.  Looks like we got a hot one—hey, stop fightin’ my dick, you stupid cunt!”

 

This last was directed at the unfortunate Luke who seemed to be doing his best to resist.  He wasn’t quite on his hands and knees; Carlos’s tight grip on his hips held him in place, but his spread legs, Carlos planted between them, were kicking out behind him at random.  As the well-built ex-con plowed his fuckhole, the punk’s feet were the closest thing to the camera.  It managed to capture the way the blond boy’s toes curled with each deep thrust of the top’s massive shaft.

 

At the other end, it was clear that the one called Nick was inflicting even more trauma; while probably less physically painful than the brutal assrape he was enduring, it was clear that Luke’s more immediate concern was the hulking alpha’s gigantic cock in his mouth.  It was also clear by the blond’s darkening face that he was literally choking on it.

 

He was fighting it, though.  Luke’s slim but tightly-muscled arms flailed, his hands slapping against Nick’s rock-hard abs and thighs with all the futility of beating on marble.  The fear in his frantic, bulging eyes, streaming with tears, was obvious even at this distance from the camera.

 

Nick laughed aloud, a harsh, raucous sound.  “Fuck, Carlos, I thought ya’d found a good cocksucker.  This piece a’ shit can barely take my hog.  Whaddaya think—let him breathe or keep chokin’ the bitch?”

 

“Let him breathe, man,” Carlos said in a cold tone.  “I ain’t done with the fucker yet.”

 

And with that, Nick released his handful of long blond hair pulled his huge dick up out of Luke’s esophagus.  The firm, slender fuckboy collapsed, kinda, his ass still held in the air by Carlos’s brute force—and still getting penetrated by the buff ex-con.  Mewling in pain, he coughed and gagged, heaving up wads of foamy spittle before he managed to recover himself.

 

When he did recover, he made a move that surprised his rapists and ensured that the evening would end badly for him.  Well, it would have anyway—but he managed to make it worse.

 

Grabbing double fistfuls of the blankets and sheets at the foot of the bed, Luke jerked mightily—perhaps with more force than he’d ever used in his short life—and shot forward, pulling himself  straight off Carlos’s cock.

 

Luke propelled himself out of the left side of the camera frame, towards the bedroom door. Instantly, both Carlos and Nick lunged after their escaping prey.

 

Luke didn’t stand a chance; he never even made it to the door.

 

It didn’t happen on camera; the audience never saw Nick reach out and snag Luke by the hair again, swinging him around and hurling him directly at Carlos.  The blond punk smacked into the muscled ex-con with the force of running into a brick wall, his face smashing into the alpha’s hard pecs and stunning him.  The only effect on Carlos was to jingle his gold chain slightly.

 

The effect on Luke’s smooth nude body was obvious—and unexpected; despite his fear and confusion, his cock was erect.  It slapped against the angry top’s sculpted thigh, splattering it with inexplicable precum of which the young fucktoy was utterly unaware.

 

The ricochet bounced the dazed young attorney back into Nick; again his face impacted the firm, furry, unyielding chest of his assailant with more force than was obvious.  The fact that he was in the grip of two powerful and sadistic alpha was driven home in a rather literal manner but before he could take stock of the realization, he felt Nick’s large strong hands wrap around his upper arms…and then he was flying through the air.

 

This time, the camera captured most of the action.  Luke flashed across the frame like lightning; the impact with the headboard couldn’t be seen but it could sure be heard—a loud bang, the high, breathless squeal that comes from sudden chest compression, and then Luke flopped back into the frame.  He landed on the bed flat on his back, smooth firm legs spread wide, gasping for air—and his rod still erect and throbbing; he was dimly aware that he’d somehow seemed to lose control of it…

 

“No,” he begged weakly, “I-I can’t…don’t, please…don’t do this…”

 

“What, you led us on?” Carlos sneered.   “Yer a faggot cocktease, huh?  Get scared and run when ya see a real man?  Too fuckin’ bad, cunt, you ain’t gettin’ outta here till we’re done with ya.”

 

Luke was dazed with the surreal turn his reality had taken.  He’d just wanted a quick hard fuck with this hot alpha stud—no more than an hour of fun.  Unable to accept what was happening, he not only heard Carlos’s words but watched Nick stride to the dresser and get the camera before approaching the bed, all with a sense of disorientation.

 

Closing it all out, he focused on the first solid fact that entered his fear-locked mind—he had a symposium on contract law at half-past eight the next morning.  Summoning his best courtroom manner, he tried to become assertive.

 

Opening his clenched eyes, he spoke.  “Look, fellas, you’re both sexy as hell but I gotta—“

 

And he froze.  Both men were looming over him.  Two heavily-muscled dudes, their furry chests trickling with sweat, their physiques deepening Luke’s sense of danger; two swollen, vein-entwined dicks, oozing hot transparent precum, dripped onto his flat belly as they towered over him.  And one thing he hadn’t noticed earlier—Nick hadn’t just retrieved the camera; he’d also picked up the thick leather belt.

 

As the slim blond twink watched wide-eyed, Nick handed the belt to Carlos while he focused the camera.  “Here,” he said, the cold glee in his voice slashing through the warm air, “Do what ya do, Carlos.  Show ‘im what happens to stupid fags who try to run.”

 

Luke looked up into Carlos’s chiseled face, cheeks dark with scruff and moaned in terror; he registered a moist sensation in his crotch but didn’t realized that he’d managed to piss himself despite his hard, throbbing shaft.

 

When the buff, tatted ex-con spoke, his tone was low and erotic, almost breathless with anticipation.  “How bad can I fuck him up?” he asked.  “How much can I hurt him?”

 

Nick chuckled richly.  “Dude, ya gotta leave something to fuck.  This is just…making the homo cunt learn its place, yeah?  But I think this one’s really, really stupid—it’s gonna take a lot to teach it.  Go for it, man, fuckin-A!”

 

And with that, Carlos doubled the belt, gripping the buckle and the tip together in his right hand.  Raising his arm high, he looked down on Luke, cowering on the bed.  “Y’know, man,” he said to Nick (while staring Luke straight in the eyes), “I think yer right.  This fag’s a lawyer; it’s gonna take a lot of beatin’ to make it learn how worthless it is.”

 

The camera centered on the youth’s face.  His nearly shoulder-length blond hair was fanned out behind his head on the blanket; his face was wan and gray with shock as he stared up at the hulking alpha dangling the wide, grommeted belt over him.  Then the cruel stud leered and lunged.

 

Carlos’s rage broke like a storm.  His blow was as swift and severe as a blast of lightning; the sound echoed like a deafening clap up thunder.  Luke’s shriek of pain rose above it all.  The camera closed in on the red welt, darkening by the second that rose on the boy’s smooth pale flesh.

 

The grommet-ringed holes had done their damage; blisters were rising in neat, orderly pairs across the wailing punk’s writhing belly.

 

“What ya think of that, fag?” Nick sneered.  “Ya wanted a real man to treat ya like a slut, yeah? Then ya must be lovin’ this, you cocksucker, cause that’s exactly what yer fuckin’ gettin’!”

 

Another blow, another squeal of agony, another angry red stripe darkening the squirming youth’s skin—this one across his heaving chest.  His eyes, wide with frantic despair, flashed a signal the experienced killers could easily read.

 

Little fuck was gonna try to bolt again.  They glanced at each other, and grinned.  Piece of shit wasn’t even gonna make it off the bed this time.

 

Of course, they were right.  In the blink of an eye, the cowering, sobbing homo became a whirling mass of panic and flailing limbs; pushed to the edge of reason by the brutal whipping, he clawed at the blanket.  Managing to make it to his knees, Luke had a brief moment of hope.

 

But he was facing away from Carlos.  His hope vanished instantly in a shriek of agony when the muscular alpha slashed the thick leather strap across his smooth, vulnerable back.  At the same time, Nick’s massive paw reached out and grabbed a fistful of Luke’s long golden hair, using it as a handle to force the boy’s head back down to the bed, face down.

 

Nick leaned forward, half-kneeling on the bed.  Well, on the head.  One strong, sinewy leg, still wrapped in skin-tight denim, was planted firmly on the floor, the black engineer boot digging into the carpet.  The other was bent, the knee on Luke’s head, pinning it firmly to the mattress.

 

“Goddam,” the massive stud jeered, “You really are a stupid sack of shit, aintcha?”  He paused to frame his shot again.  He pointed the camera straight down at the shuddering youth, making sure to capture his own thick, throbbing cock.  “Think ya can get outta here without learnin’ yer lesson?”

 

Luke response was muffled in the sheet, but it was shrill and vigorous.  It became more so as Carlos resumed the beating.

 

With each blow of the belt, Luke’s tender flesh was battered and bruised, blisters rising across his back.  And with each blow, the young yuppie professional reverted to an animal, a pig squealing in pain.  Thrashing and flailing wildly, he managed to dislodge the sheets; they twisted and billowed around him, hampering his movements.

 

The fact that he broke free yet again was not only miraculous, it was unintentional.

 

Nick had shifted his weight; going slightly off balance, he let his fistful of hair go to brace his hand against the headboard.  At that moment, Luke happened to jerk backwards, an instinctive flinching from the inevitable next blow from his tormentor—and ended up slipping to the floor, dragging the wadded sheets with him.

 

As Carlos backed up, his sculpted, buff body slick with sweat, Nick popped up off the bed.  They both glared down at the twisted boy on the floor.  Carlos glanced up at Nick—and paused.  Then he spoke to Luke, awe and reverence obvious in his voice.  “Dude, you fucked up.  He toldja to take what ya got comin’—fuckin’-A, man, I think ya got more comin’ now!”

 

He’d seen the light of sexual rage in Nick’s eyes and recognized it for what it was; he acknowledged the driving force of will behind it—and determined to be worthy of it when he was on camera.

 

Nick, for his part, focused both his lens and his fury on the soft lean blond boy beneath him.  Normally cool and in control, there was something about the handsome young lawyer that triggered a rage response in the Herculean stud.  “Motherfucker,” he hissed, “Motherfuckin’ faggot cunt, yer gonna regret that…”

 

The icy tone of the threat slashed through the red haze of pain and terror clouding Luke’s mind.  He looked up at the huge alpha towering over him.  Nick’s red, swollen cock was dangling over his belly, oozing hot transparent drops.  Even in his pain and fear, the brutalized white-collar pansy was attracted to the engorged shaft of his assailant.  And while the blond boy’s stunned brain was unable to make the link between lust and violence, it was obvious that his erect tool had made it and responded enthusiastically.

 

Still clutching the camera, Nick raised his boot, hanging it over Luke’s face; the kid had just enough time to realize what was gonna happen.  “No!” he squealed, “Fuck, no, please!”

 

He wasn’t fast enough to get his arms up to block the blow.  Nick drove his foot down, his hard thigh muscles pumping like a piston as the thick black sole slammed into Luke’s face.  The camera centered on the boot, grinding into the kid’s face.  Luke wailed and writhed, his arms slapping aimlessly at Nick’s legs and his kicking feet making occasional contact with Carlos’s.

 

Holding the camera with remarkable steadiness, the hugely-developed sadist filmed himself stomping the young lawyer’s face into an unrecognizable pulp. The sound of the occasional crunch of bone as his nose or a cheekbone was broken was accompanied by a shrill shriek, but otherwise Luke was unable to either protest or plead.

 

After venting his anger on the helpless blond twink, Nick stepped back, muscular flanks heaving with exertion.  His furry chest was slick with sweat, much as Carlos’s was, after the energetic beating he’d delivered.  The scent of mansweat filled the room; acrid with testosterone and adrenaline.

 

All it needed was the aroma of mansex, and Nick knew it.  “Ok, man,” he said to Carlos, “Time to get the money shot.  Ya ready to waste this worthless piece of meat?”

 

Carlos broke out into a broad, eager grin.  “Fuck yeah, man—whaddaya want?  I’ll do ‘im however ya want!”

 

His desire was clear to Nick—and the camera.  He focused the lens on Carlos’s face before replying.  “Fuckin’ fag’s gotta die gettin’ plowed like a real man—I mean, all he’s been fucked by is other fags, huh?  So he’s gotta learn what a real man feels like as he dies.  Strangle him with yer belt, dude, choke ‘im out so he dies on yer dick!”

 

Carlos had no idea that he shuddered with pleasure at the suggestion; he simply bent down and grabbed Luke by an arm and a legs and threw him back onto the bed like a bag of garbage.  The moaning, mewling cunt landed on his back crossways on the now-bare mattress so that his ass was just on the edge at the side of the bed.  Carlos approached the bed slowly, holding the wide leather belt in one hand and his enormous, throbbing cock in the other.

 

Mustering just enough of his feeble strength, Luke raised his head.  Opening his swollen, bruised eyes, he could dimly see the muscle-bound killer approaching him—his eyes naturally attracted to the sparkle of gold from the chain around Carlos’s neck.  Despite the blurriness of his vision, the terrified faggot could see the powerful alpha with his weapons in his hands—one to fuck, and one to kill.

 

And for the first time—in spite of all the evidence, in spite of everything he’d heard; hell, in spite of everything he’d suffered—Luke finally realized that he was about to die.  He didn’t know why, but he knew how.  He didn’t know when—but he knew it would be soon.

 

But first, he was gonna get fucked.

 

Nick bent down as Carlos forced Luke’s legs apart, zooming in as the ex-con’s long, thick, pulsing cock impaled the blond twink’s ass.  The moment the huge purple mushroom tip penetrated Luke’s fuckhole, splitting the sphincter, the kid started screaming again.  The high-pitched shrieks torn from the writhing slut echoed from the wall; Carlos looked worriedly at Nick.  “Hey, man, do we need to shut him up?” he asked.

 

“No rush,” Nick drawled, “This place is pretty soundproof.”  He chuckled darkly.  “Trust me on that, dude—the meat can scream his worthless life out and ain’t no one gonna hear ‘im in here.”

 

Luke heard every word.  His response wasn’t flight or fight; he froze in terror, his screaming dulled to a deep, visceral, gasping moan.  As he lay on his back, being beaten and raped by a pair of powerful sadists, he glanced up at the ceiling and had a brief moment of clarity.

 

The ceiling, like the walls, was painted white, but Luke was seeing a rainbow of color parade across his vision.  He wasn’t delusional, he wasn’t hallucinating—not yet, at any rate; he was seeing lights reflected off the Strip.  That was when lucidity kicked in.

 

He was in Las Vegas.  He was here for a legal convention, he had an expense account, everyone had told him how much fun—and sex—he would have in Sin City…

 

That had been his reality until about forty minutes ago; now, there was no way to reconcile that to the universe of torture he currently inhabited.  The excruciating agony, the sheer cold horror he’d suffered in that time had damaged him mentally as well as physically.

 

Not that it mattered.  The terrified twink fairy had heard the words, but hadn’t experienced the reality of death; his self-centered core would deny the very possibility of his own death until it happened.

 

And both Carlos and Nick knew it.  It was time Luke knew it too.

 

“Go for it, buddy,” Nick said, shuddering with excitement, “G’wan and fuck the fag to death.  Choke ‘im out as he chokes yer chicken, man.  Show ‘im how a real man handles worthless faggot cockpigs!”

 

Carlos needed little encouraging; still convinced of his own heterosexual superiority, his shark-like grin grew as he bent down.  Grabbing a handful of long blond hair, he lifted Luke’s head and slipped the belt under his neck, then looped it over and around the front of the throat.  The punk’s eyes widened even more; his hands instinctively came up to clutch at the thick leather strap.

 

“Leave it alone, motherfucker,” Carlos snarled as he slipped back off the bed and placed himself between the kid’s legs, “or I’ll break your fingers, or arms.  Or both.”  With a shuddering gasp, Luke’s arms fell limply to his sides.

 

Not that it mattered—Carlos gave the shocked queerboy something else to occupy his mind—and his ass.  With no warning, the buff, inked ex-con lunged, ramming his thick, glistening pole in full-length in a single, powerful, agonizing thrust.  He didn’t stop feeding his vein-wrapped shaft into the shrieking pansy’s boycunt until his wiry pubes were digging at Luke’s smooth, flexing asscheeks.

 

Pulling back out just far enough to keep his massive, spear-shaped head still planted firmly in Luke’s colon, he drove home another thrust, more powerful than the last had been.  Nick recognized what was happening and backed away, panning the lens out to allow a wider view, from which it was easy to see the Carlos was literally fucking Luke further onto the bed.

 

Once he’d gotten his fuckmeat into the right position, Carlos picked up the loose ends of the belt; Luke had been too busy flailing his hands against the alpha’s rock-hard chest in a vain attempt to stop the rape to try to remove the strap.

 

Now, it was too late.  By this point, the torture, both mental and physical, had reduced Luke to a nearly catatonic state—but even so, there was still enough pig lust in him to feel his own cock, bizarrely erect throughout the entire ordeal, throb a little harder as Carlos swam into view through tear-streaked eyes.  The hulking alpha with his tatted, well-defined chest was so close, Luke could smell his mansweat, thick with hormones.  Cutting through his mental haze, the cold metallic glitter of Carlos’s gold chain and cold eyes caught Luke’s fragmented attention.

 

And then he wasn’t able to breathe anymore.

 

It wasn’t just that, though, it was the excruciating, crushing pain of a two-inch-wide leather strap compressing his neck with nightmarish force.

 

The camera captured the twink’s panic as his ruined face began to swell and darken.  As the homo punk choked, his fingers scrambled frenetically at the belt wrapped around his throat; his nails dug into the black leather—and into his own flesh.

 

Luke wasn’t aware that he was clawing his skin open; in comparison to everything else, that pain was negligible.  As bad as it had been before, this assrape was even more violent; Carlos had stopped with the long, drawn-up thrusts.  The powerful alpha, his muscled flanks and thighs slick with mansex sweat, was using the belt as a handle to hold the fuckmeat down while his strong hips pumped with the rapid speed and inexorable force of a jackhammer.  Over and above the horrible pain of strangulation, the unlucky twink had the sensation of a steam piston being driven into his rectum, churning and tearing at his tender guts as he died.

 

And his killers made sure he knew what was happening.

 

“Fuckin-A, Carlos, waste that fuckin’ faggot,” Nick said gleefully as he knelt on the bed to let the camera get a better view of Luke’s suffering.  “Make it hurt, man, make sure the worthless sack of shit knows he’s dyin’!”

 

“You heard the man, cocksucker,” Carlos sneered down into the kid’s swollen face.  “Shit, ya useless motherfucker, yer halfway there—yer eyes are buggin’ out, dude, an’ I can see blood vessels poppin’ in ‘em.  Fuck, that’s gotta hurt, huh?  Does it?  Hope yer likin’ the pain, asswipe, cause it only gets worse from here.”

 

By now the belt was sunk so far below the surface of Luke’s neck that he could no longer grasp at it; instead, the dying youth began to flail at his assailants.  As his slim, smooth legs kicked vainly at Carlos, his hands went towards Nick.  The camera caught a quick view of the pleading, imploring look on the blond’s once-handsome face before his thrashing arms forced Nick back.

 

“Goddam, you stupid motherfucker, ya just ruined a great shot!” Nick barked in anger.  Speaking to Carlos—but still looking directly into Luke’s congested face—he said, “Think the fag needs another beatdown, yeah?  Needs to be tenderized some more; it’s still too stupid to take what’s comin’ to it.”

 

Carlos chuckled.  “Here, man,” he replied, “Grab the end of the belt—here, the one in my right hand.”  Nick did so, not allowing any slack in the thick, choking strap that he and Carlos were now both pulling taut around Luke’s throat. With his right arm now free, Carlos began punching Luke in the face, driving blow after roundhouse blow into the shuddering twink’s face.  As his fist crushed the boy’s nose and knocked out another tooth (Nick’s boot had taken care of a couple already), the tempo of his pumping pelvis never slowed; while Luke was getting his face beaten in, his ass was subjected to vicious repeated penetration.

 

And he was still conscious enough to feel it.  All of it.

 

He couldn’t see very well; his eyesight was dim and occluded, but he could still make out Carlos’s looking shape.  The light glinting off the thick links of his gold chain helped define his form for the fading young lawyer; some part of him knew that Nick was off to the side with the camera, but he was visible only as an ominous dark shape.

 

With his windpipe slowly being crushed, Luke wasn’t able to smell the acrid scent of mansex flooding the room, a musky, heady scent of sweat and pheromones, adrenaline and testosterone.  He could hear, though.  He could hear his torturers’ taunts clearly, he could hear their deep breathing, ragged with rage and sexual excitement—and he could hear something else, too.  It was a wet, meaty, smacking sound that seemed to be coming from two separate sources.

 

His brain was too traumatized to realize that the sound of a hard, driving buttfuck sounded almost identical to that of a hard, driving, fag-bashing.  He was hearing every thrust of Carlos’s cock up his ass and every blow of Carlos’s fist in his face.

 

But there was a limit.  Luke was young, healthy, and despite his slim build, very strong.  That had worked against him tonight; it had lengthened the time of his suffering.  Eventually, though, he reached a point where his conscious mind could take no more; the battered, abused punk actively craved death as the most immediate way out of his torment.

 

Some part of his fading awareness was still trying to process what had happened; just a little while ago—not even an hour and a half ago—he’d been a successful young lawyer in Vegas for a convention, having dinner with a partner of the firm, networking with coworkers over drinks…

 

And now he was being raped, beaten, and strangled…all he’d wanted was a good time, a little hot mansex—what the fuck had happened?

 

It was the despairing bleat of a mind dying alone in fear and pain, far from any form of hope or comfort.

 

The camera caught it all.  Nick crept closer, his muscled body glistening in the reflected neon as a trickle of sweat ran down between his hubcap pecs into his dark, curly chest fur.

 

“Here, man, lemme get that back,” Carlos said as he finally stopped pummeling Luke’s now-unrecognizable face.  Taking the end of the belt from Nick, he continued, “Yer gonna need both hands to get this part recorded right—and anyway, I wanna off this scumshit faggot myself.”

 

As Nick relinquished the killing strap back to Carlos, he reoriented himself on the bed for the best view.  At the same time, the hulking ex-con spit into Luke’s swollen black face.  “Ya hear that, ya homo cumdump?” he snarled at Luke.  “Time to die, fuckpig.  Time to fill ya fulla cum an’ toss ya out to rot like the garbage ya are.  I’m doin’ ya an honor, you disgusting fairy; no way a queer-ass pansy like you deserves to hold my manload, but I guess it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, huh?  Yeah?  So die, motherfuckin’ faggot, die on my cock!”

 

He jerked the belt with all the force that his massive, bulging biceps could apply—and that was a lot.  As the thick black leather strap sank deeper and deeper into the blond cunt’s throat, it was accompanied by a series of cracking, crunching sounds.

 

As the sounds grew louder, Luke’s face grew darker.  He arched his back up instinctively as his throat was crushed; his smooth body, lubed by the film of deathsweat that was literally being squeezed out of him, pressed up against the steel-hard, unyielding firmness of Carlos’s torso, bearing down on him.

 

The young attorney would no longer have been recognized in his office; his youthful face a ruined mass of flesh.  The lower half, smeared with blood and drool, was disfigured by the thick purple tongue protruding from his split, swollen lips.  More drool bubbled out around it, creating white, foamy strands that oozed down Luke’s face.  Above, the boy’s eyes bulged grotesquely, rolled back so that only blood-streaked whites were visible.

 

His panicked flailing and thrashing had slowed as brain death began to set in; from violent random clawing, his struggles had diminished to the point that his hands seemed to be bestowing gentle caresses on his killers—one hand was stroking Carlos’s firm, strong arm while the other was rubbing the soft smooth denim on the thigh of the jeans Nick was still wearing.

 

But as his voluntary nervous system started to die off, the involuntary system kicked in.  Luke still had some vague, dim awareness left in him as his body began to tremble and shudder, signaling the onset of violent, uncontrollable convulsions.

 

Luke didn’t know this, of course, but from experience, both Nick and Carlos did.  “Oh hell yeah, this cunt’s about to blow!” Nick chortled evilly as he crouched over the two sweaty men, locked together in a primal brutal embrace of sex and death, his own erect, throbbing shaft dangling over Luke’s head and dripping precum onto the bitch’s mangled black face.

 

Luke wasn’t the only one about to blow; Carlos could feel the sperm near the boiling point in his huge, puckered scrote.  “Fuck!” he grunted, “Fuckin’ faggot whore!”  As his face pulled back into a rictus of rage, Nick realized the “straight” ex-con was on the verge of cumming; he adjusted the camera angle to get the best view.

 

The buff, inked sadist wrapped the belt around his own hands for a firmer grasp.  As he felt the explosion of spunk building at the root of his cock, he jerked back on the thick black strap was hard as he could.  And then Carlos shot his wad.

 

It was incredibly brutal.  The crunching sounds that had come from Luke’s neck before were nothing compared to the intense cracking noise as the kid’s larynx was crushed into splinters of cartilage.  There was still enough of a spark of life in the used-up faggot to respond, both to the pain of a mangled esophagus and to the sensation of boiling hot seed pumped into his guts.

 

Luke began to cum.  His thin but long dick had remained erect the entire time—by now, both Nick and Carlos were so used to this phenomenon that they didn’t pay attention to it.  After all, every one of these cumlicking deathpigs had gotten hard and shot a load as they died; why would this one be any different?

 

What was left of a (possibly) once-brilliant legal mind was dissolving into a sputtering electrochemical stew.  Nothing was left of Luke, the Texas lawyer; all that remained was an ass and a cock—an opening for seed to be pumped in and an opening for seed to be pumped out.

 

And pump out he did.  As Carlos leaned back, Nick’s camera centered on Luke’s dark, swollen shaft.  It began to pulse visibly, swiftly accelerating until the long tube of manmeat seemed to be convulsing on its own.  Suddenly, a spasm of incredible violence rocked Luke’s long, lean, helpless body.  The mangled sphincter clenched around the base of Carlos’s rod like a cockring, triggering and explosive orgasm that was matched—if not exceeded—by the fuckmeat’s own cumshots.

 

The very first load shot straight up out of the shaft, falling back to splatter over all three men on the bed; the second went to the side, spewing Nick’s chest hair with pearly sperm that also managed to smear the far right side of the camera lens—it created a blurring effect that didn’t impact the focus.

 

Carlos, grunting violently as he continued to unload his aching balls into the almost-dead meat, leaned forward to brace himself.  As he bent over his victim, another powerful jet of semen erupted from Luke’s uncontrolled shaft.  Searingly hot spunk was splattered up Carlos’s hard torso, from his ripped abs, up through his sweat-matted chest hair, all the way up to the underside of his chin, some of the pearly DNA caught in the links of his chain.

 

The fading spark of physical awareness trapped within Luke’s cold, dying brain was able to feel a new warm wetness; hot thick fluid was spurting into his face with intense pressure.  The spasming homo was too far gone to realize that Nick was shooting huge wads of cum in his black, twisted face; he could only process the physical sensation.

 

And the last sensation the slim blond twink faggot was able process was an abundance of spunk.  If he’d been able to think anymore, he might have appreciated his death, submerged in a sea of jizz.  Instead, he got one final violent convulsion that wracked his body in unimaginable agony, wringing a solid stream of boyspunk out of his shaft.  Luke, unlucky to the last, didn’t get to enjoy his complete death load; he died mid-spurt, his muscles continuing to empty his balls in mindless spasms.

 

Carlos continued to pump his shaft into the corpse for another minute or so as his huge hot load drained into the dead homo’s ass.  With a deep grunt, he pulled out and stood up.  At the same time, Nick got off the bed, too, and centered the frame on Carlos.  Taking the message, the tattooed stud posed, arms up, proudly showing his massive flexed biceps.  Grinning at the lens, he swayed his hips.  His still-hard dick swayed, the head—still oozing large pearls of jizz—dripping fluid across the floor.

 

Panning to the side, the frame focused on Luke’s corpse, used up and splayed across the bed.  The meat’s smooth, firm chest and flat belly were smeared with sweat and spunk.  His face was also a blank, congealing pool of sperm, but his swollen, livid tongue was gruesomely obvious.  His spread legs kicked randomly and his semi-hard dick throbbed feebly, but his hands were frozen, clenched in agony.

 

“Hey, dude,” Nick called out, “Your belt…”

 

“Oh yeah, thanks,” the buff alpha responded, “That cost me more’n fifty bucks; I wanna get it back.”

 

Nick got some great footage of Carlos manhandling Luke’s limp corpse.  The belt was so deeply embedded into the meat’s neck that Carlos had to hold the head down.  Suddenly, a mischievous grin crossed his face.  He was still nude, his amazingly developed body completely bare; instead of using a hand, he braced the dead faggot’s head with his foot, smashing his sole into the meat’s face and freeing up both hands to pry his belt free.

 

After, Nick shut off the camera and set it back on the dresser as Carlos went into the bathroom to clean up.  Once he came out, Nick went in, telling Carlos to get dressed—they needed to figure out what to do with the body.

 

It didn’t take Carlos any longer to slip on his jeans and engineer boots than it too Nick to wash off his cock.  And when Nick came out, Carlos had a proposition.

 

 

Somewhere near half-past two in the morning, two pairs of headlights snaked north out of Vegas, heading up I-15 towards the Valley of Fire.  Just south of the Moapa reservation, they exited, crossing over to the Great Basin highway and taking a more directly northern route into the vast desert wasteland.

 

They traveled for some time, until they pulled off the road to the east, well north of Coyote Springs, at which point it became obvious that one of the vehicles was at a distinct disadvantage going cross-country.  The vehicle in question was a convertible Mustang, top down, with Carlos at the wheel.

 

They’d secured the coordinates via GPS, which he was following as best he could.  Behind him, Nick’s heavy-duty Ford F250 had four-wheel drive and fared better.  But, of course, the ‘Stang wasn’t coming back from this trip.

 

It had been Carlos’s idea.  Luke’s nude body was on the floor of the back seat, his clothes in a wad next to him.  In the trunk were five five-gallon plastic containers full of gas.  After all, he had a car he needed to get rid of and they both had a corpse to dispose of…

 

They turned left into a dry gully, the ground on each side rising sharply as the Mustang bucketed over the narrow wash, littered with rocks as small as softballs and as large as—well, bigger than the Mustang, at any rate.  About a mile up the gully, a half-submerged boulder took out the oil pan and Carlos brought the shuddering wreck to halt.

 

Getting out, he waited till Nick, moving carefully a half-mile behind, caught up.  He’d had the hard job; his truck needed to get back out.  They’d both known the Mustang wasn’t coming back, any more than Luke was.

 

One Nick arrived, he shut off the pickup but left the headlights on, starkly illuminating the rear of the red convertible.  “This is perfect,” he said as he got out.  “So far out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere ain’t no one gonna see the flames.  G’wan and pop the trunk; let’s get this bonfire on!”

 

The two men stood together in the warm desert air, each dressed in nothing more than jeans and big black boots, they poured twenty-four gallons of gasoline over Luke’s slim, lithe body, now battered beyond recognition and stiffening into rigor mortis while curled in a fetal positon on the rear floorboards of the ruined car.  The last gallon was used to leave a flammable trail back to a safe distance; once they’d done so, Carlos produced a lighter—he’d cut back on cigarettes, but he hadn’t quit—and applied it the gasoline-soaked dirt.

 

The flame, low and blue, streaked towards the Mustang.  There was a drawn-out, pregnant pause—and then a roar.  Not an explosion, not a big Hollywood bang to illuminate the night sky, but the deep, guttural roar of fire taking hold after finding plenty of fuel.  Luke’s funeral pyre wasn’t showy, but it burned fiercely.

 

As Nick carefully navigated his truck back to the paved road, something occurred to Carlos.  “Hey, man, you seemed to be kinda into it tonight—you sure you got enough good stuff recorded?  No offense, dude, but I got a financial stake in it too, now.”

 

Nick chuckled deeply as he hit pavement and headed back to town.  “Don’t worry, Carlos.  I got plenty of good footage; our viewers will be happy.  Trust me.”

 

And he did have the footage.  Carlos was utterly unaware of the hidden cameras Nick had planted throughout the condo, and Nick planned to keep it that way.  He’d have shots of tonight’s snuff from multiple angles; more than enough to make an underground online hit.

 

 

Later on, they were proved right about the location of the body dump.  By the time a state employee found the vehicle, what was left of Luke was a rotting chunk of carbonized meat fused to the car chassis; he was finally ID’d by his dental records some three weeks after he was reported missing.  The autopsy noted the missing teeth and broken bones of the face and concluded he’d died from extreme homicidal force, but could determine little else.

 

The VIN on the vehicle was traced to male whore who’d been raped and murdered on the east coast a couple of months earlier.  Local cops wondered about a serial killer but could make no connection between a dead rentboy on one side of the continent and a dead upstanding lawyer on the other side.

 

Like a stiffening corpse, the case soon went cold.

M4M Unhappy Ending

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories3 Comments

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

—“U looking now?” from “Cory”.

 

—“Yeah”

 

—“Where r u”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Cory, man, my name is Cory.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “Some.  Why?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Cory would walk out alive.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Joe continued to approach silently, remorselessly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But he still hadn’t lost his hard-on.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He was sadly disappointed.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was working.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

And then it wasn’t empty.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

M4M Bathroom Break

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories4 Comments

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“DTF Dude—

25 yo/WGM/5’9”/145 lbs

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

 

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

 

Grinning, he favorited the profile.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

Now, it was later.

 

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

 

“Hey man—

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “you Brad?

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You take it up the ass?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

—and then the door to the rest room opened.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Brad shut up.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

Trucker 8–Trucker v Loose End

On By m3mayhemIn The Trucker1 Comment

Mark was livid.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Where the fuck was this guy?

 

————————————————————————–

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Either way, the insects died horribly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The kid was taking the bait.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

As he expected, this aroused the kid even more.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The effort to control himself forced the Trucker to dig his fingernails into the surface of the wooden bar.  “Yeah,” he said evenly, “yeah, I think I can do that.”

 

He turned to fully face the boy, standing in such a way that the enormous erection tenting the chinos in his crotch was instantly obvious to Zach.  The young slut again lost his cool, gasping aloud as he gazed on the evidence of the older dude’s ability to give him everything he wanted.  Forcing his eyes away, the kid found them drawn to a glint of light at the stud’s waist.  Peering closer, he could see the rounded metal arcs of handcuffs peeking out of the stud’s pocket.

 

That was it.  That was all that was needed.  The Trucker had landed his catch.

 

Time to take the fish back and clean it.

 

The Trucker could see that the fucker was still nursing his beer.  “Ya might wanna get somethin’ stronger than that horse piss before I go Attica on yer ass, boy,” he chuckled.

 

Zach’s face, pockmarked with adolescent acne, flushed red again.  “I-I can’t, dude.  I’m only eighteen.  The bartender slips me a Bud or two cause I suck him off sometimes, but they won’t serve me here.”

 

“Well, damn, bitch, yer gonna need something stronger for sure.  I gotta fresh bottle of JD back in my hotel room.  Let’s have ya hit it, then I’ll hit you—ha!”

 

The kid lit up at the suggestion.  “Fuck yeah, dude, let’s go!” he chirped giddily, slamming the remainder of his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Zach followed the Trucker out of the bar and across to the motel as eagerly as a puppy; if the young cunt had had a tail, he’d have been wagging it.  His tall Nike hightops padded quietly on the pavement, the sound completely covered by the older man’s heavy footfalls—not that there was anyone to hear.

 

It was past midnight in a small country town; most of the action was already inside the bar (or one of several straight bars in town).  They were able to reach the room without being seen by anyone, not that Zach paid attention.  But the Trucker did.

 

The Trucker opened the door and went in, flicking on the lights as he entered.  He stepped to the side to allow the boy to enter, then closed the door behind him, making certain that the self-locking latch had connected properly.  Again, Zach paid no attention, seating himself on the bed and looking around.

 

The alpha crossed to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of disposable plastic cups.  He handed them to Zach.  “Here,” he said, “get that wrap off them while I get the bottle.”  He allowed a slight gruffness into his tone, noting how the boy seemed to shudder at the ring of command in his voice.

 

The little cocksucker liked to be dominated.  He liked to be forced to obey.

 

So it was time to give him something to obey.  He grabbed the cups from the kid.  “Now strip the bed, boy.  Next time I look at it, I don’t wanna see nothin’ but the bottom sheet, ya hear me?”

 

The Trucker turned away from him to get the whiskey bottle out of the nightstand, which was probably a good thing; the sadistic killer was unable to completely hide the look of malevolent glee that crossed his face.

 

He opened the bottle and  filled the cups,  each about half full.  They were eight-ounce cups; each had the equivalent of four shots.  Turning around, he was pleased to see his order had been obeyed; everything had been swept off the bed into a pile on the far side of the room; the kid was sitting on the edge of the bed, his tight black jeans highlighted by the dingy, off-white fitted sheet.

 

The Trucker handed one of the cups to Zach.

 

“Here’s to yer jail rape, dude,” he grinned, “here’s to a fuck so long and hard you’ll remember it for the rest of yer life—no matter how long that is.”  He bumped the rims of the plastic cups together before tossing back the entire cupful.  He steeled himself as the smoky amber liquid coursed down his throat, setting his blood aflame.  He cleared his throat twice, shook his head, and set the cup down, staring expectantly at Zach.

 

He knew damn well Zach hadn’t had much in the way of hard booze before, not if he was already known at the bar.  He didn’t seem to know what a large amount he’d been handed, and he didn’t want the hot cop dude to think he couldn’t take it.  Without hesitation, he shot back all four ounces as well.

 

Well, not as well.  Not well at all, in fact; it took a moment for it to hit him, then he fell to his knees with his hands at his searing throat, coughing and crying.  His face was bright red and he was gasping like he’d drunk acid—but he didn’t puke.  He kept the booze down.

 

“That’s it, boy,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Don’t puke.  Ya know what happens if ya puke in jail, dontcha, bitch?  Ya gotta lick it up!”

 

Even as Zach tried to control his choking, he could feel his cock stiffening in his groin, painfully restrained by his tight jeans. This was it; this was the real deal.  This hard motherfucker was gonna treat him like the pig he was.  He couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

 

And that was when the alcohol hit.  The Trucker had been right; Zach wasn’t used to that amount of liquor—certainly not at once.  The boy tried unsteadily to rise off his knees.  He put his hand out to the nightstand for support but kept missing it, his hand grabbing at air.

 

“C’mon, bitch, stand up,” the muscled strongman snapped, stepping forward and jerking the boy upright by his arm.  Once on his feet again, Zach grinned up at the Trucker.  The pockmarked teen was only attractive in his youth, his smooth slim body.  His face was slightly rounded, with a weak chin and large, bloodshot brown eyes.  His nose was crooked and slightly snub, and his long black hair was coarse and stringy.

 

Ain’t no one gonna miss this one, the Trucker thought.  And after all, he was at the height of his attraction now; really, it was a mercy to waste him.

 

Of course, the Trucker’s method wasn’t going to be merciful, but that was beside the point.  The worthless little faggot needed to be taught a lesson and the powerful alpha was gonna make sure the cunt learned it if was the last thing the boy learned on earth—which it would be.

 

But for now, he was willing to take his time, to play a little.  And he was curious to see just how far he could go before the cumpig realized that his fantasy was becoming a snuff.

 

“C’mon, punk, get outta that shirt,” he barked, “ya know the drill; I gotta search ya, make sure you ain’t got no weapons.”  Zach complied right away, pulling the tight red t-shirt up over his head and shaking his ponytail free.  He stood facing the Trucker, swaying drunkenly, his soft, smooth skin glistening faintly with a thin sheen of sweat as his chest heaved in excitement.  The long, swollen ridge in his groin, wrapped tightly in black denim, pulsed visibly as the teen gasped raggedly in lust.

 

“Up against the wall, boy, NOW!” the older man shouted suddenly, “assume the position!”  Startled, the kid jumped, but instantly did as he was told, wheeling around and placing his palms flat on the wall.  Then the Trucker approached.

 

The muscle-bound alpha pressed himself against Zach’s back, leaning in to whisper.  “Gonna frisk ya, bitch—and if I find anything, I’m gonna do a cavity search.”  With that, he placed his large, strong hands on the teen and began to fondle him.  He wrapped one arm around the boy’s chest, holding him in place like an iron bar while he shoved the other hand down the front of the kid’s jeans.

 

The Trucker grabbed hold of Zach’s long, throbbing cock and began to twist it and squeeze it, slowly increasing the force until the youth was whimpering in pain.  Floundering in a haze of lust and alcohol, Zach found himself unable to break free; with each brutal wrench of his scrotum, he could feel his tormentor’s huge pecs bulging in effort, pressed against his back.

 

The young cockpig loved it.

 

“F-fuckin’-A,” he slurred, moaning ecstatically, “yeah, dude, I’ll be yer fuckin’ prison bitsh.  Use me, you fucker…”  He broke off in a breathy gasp, shuddering with pleasure.

 

Without saying a word, the Trucker let go of the boy’s dick and withdrew his hands.  With a sudden, practiced movement, he jerked Zach’s hands around behind his back and had them cuffed before the boy even realized what had happened.  Even when he did realize, he was too incapacitated by the booze to do much.

 

He stood and swayed, staring blearily at the Trucker as the latter slowly unbuttoned the cop’s tan dress shirt and tossed it on the floor.  Next, the older stud unbuckled his thick leather belt and unsnaked it from his tight waist, hanging it over the headboard of the bed.  Only after all this was complete did his pull off the thin white cotton t-shirt.

 

If Zach had been less drunk, he might have recognized that amazing chest, broad and muscled with dark wiry hair; it had certainly drawn his attention the last time he’d seen it.  Unluckily for him, the alcohol was interfering with his sense of danger to such an extent that even the sight of the dogtags nestled between the alpha’s hubcap-like pecs didn’t send up a red flag.

 

“C’mere, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  “C’mere and work my chest, you jailyard cumslut.”

 

Zach approached the brawny sadist slowly, almost hesitant to touch the Trucker for fear that his fantasy would pop like a bubble.  The Trucker grunted with impatience.  He reached out and snagged the teen by one of his ear studs and brutally yanked him closer, making Zach cry out in pain.  But before he could yelp again, his face was being ground into the alpha’s chest; the older man’s fur scraping at his skin like steel wool.

 

“Work it, cunt, get yer tongue out and work it!” came a vicious hiss.  Zach did as he was told, running his tongue along the dude’s skin, slurping up a heady salty mix of mansweat and pheromones.  The teen’s adolescent body, already in a ferment of hormones, went into overdrive.  He felt the hard metallic edges of the dogtags slicing against his face—painful, but too dull to break the skin.

 

As Zach knelt to run his tongue down the length of the Trucker’s rippled abs, his own young, slim body was flooded with testosterone and adrenaline.  When the buff alpha pulled the boy back up to his feet and forced the kid’s face into his pits, the youth was pressed against him and he could feel the hot rigid shaft in the punk’s crotch.  “C’mon, ya fuckin’ jailbait, work my pits good,” he growled, “show me how ya keep yer cellie clean.”

 

The Trucker abruptly stood up straight and, grabbing Zach by the upper arms, threw him down onto the bed on his back.  The boy drew a sharp, surprised intake of breath.  His eyes opened wide as the Trucker loomed ominously over him and, bending down, grabbed the fly of Zach’s jeans.  A single rough, swift jerk undid the button; the loose zipper came down immediately.

 

Another couple of jerks and the Trucker had peeled the jeans off the kid completely, turning them inside out as he shucked the boy like corn.  There was a slight ripping sound as the cuffs were forced over the heels of Zach’s Kobe X’s, but a little extra tightening of his bicep was enough to power through the resistance.

 

Zach didn’t protest the damage to his pants; he was both too drunk and too horny to care.  Despite the former, he was able to demonstrate the latter with no doubt; his own dick had bobbed up ecstatically the moment it was free from the confining denim, slapping against his flat belly and spattering precum like a fine rain, the drops of which were caught on the soft brown fur surrounding his navel.

 

“Fuck, man,” the horny young punk moaned, “you got me in cuffs, you can lock me up and do what the fuck you wanna do to me…”

 

Nude but for the Nike hightops laced above his ankles, Zach’s smooth skin gleamed with the slight film of sweat worked up by his sexual ecstasy.  He writhed in erotic helplessness as the heavily-muscled stranger towered over him.

 

“Do me,” the teen gasped, almost involuntarily.  “Stick it in me…”  It was obvious that his rational mind was shut down, overpowered by the hormones rampaging through his slender but firm body.  The adolescent faggot wanted dick.  He wanted it rough, and he wanted it now.

 

The Trucker was only too happy to provide.  But not yet.  He’d left a pack of Marlboro Reds on the dresser.  Wheeling abruptly on the heel of his boot, he walked across the room and took a moment to light one up, completely ignoring the desperately randy youth shuddering on the bed.

 

Turning back, he could see that the little fuck had raised his head.  Whimpering faintly, the kid was gazing at him with a look of raw sexual hunger.  Zach was actually right—the Trucker could do whatever he wanted to the teenager.  No one could stop him.

 

His grin deepened, giving him a predatory, carnivorous look.

 

The Trucker approached the bed again slowly, his incredible body rippling with menace.  He exhaled a cloud of smoke over the boy before placing the cigarette, still lit, on the nightstand. Reaching down to his groin, he lowered his own zipper.  His massive dong was too large to fall out of the trooper’s tight beige chinos on its own; the Trucker had to reach in with both hands to extract the thick, pulsing tube of meat.

 

Drunk and horny as he was, Zach blanched when he saw the monster cock emerge, throbbing and dripping.  Things were long past the point of him having the power to object, though, even if he hadn’t been swamped in teenage horniness.  But when the older man bent down over him, the youth lost whatever trepidation had penetrated his whiskey-fumed haze.

 

His large dark eyes greedily drank in the alpha’s broad hairy pecs as they got closer.  For a moment, he was distracted by the jingling dogtags before looking up to the stud’s scruffy face, hard and handsome, with icy blue eyes…

 

The punk’s reverie was shattered as the Trucker grabbed him by the arms and yanked him roughly, positioning him so that his head was at the head of the bed.  Instantly, the sadistic strongman was on the bed on his knees, his large callused hands pressed against the boy’s smooth, firm thighs and forcing them apart, then lifting them.

 

Before Zach knew it, he was staring fuzzily at his Nike Kobe Xs, kicking the empty air over the Trucker’s shoulders.

 

“Yeah, cunt, ya liked gettin’ fucked in juvie, huh?” the Trucker sneered, gripping his dick in one hand like a club and slapping it into the palm of the other, spattering as much precum on Zach as the randy teen had himself.  “Ya liked bein’ backed into a corner and gettin’ raped?  Hell yeah, boy, I’m gonna shag ya like a prison bitch, you fuckin’ sack of shit!”  Zach laid his head back on the bed, shuddering in bottom pig pleasure.  He never saw it coming; he didn’t see the Trucker aiming his gigantic cock right at the kid’s tender pink fuckhole.

 

He damn sure felt it.

 

The adolescent felt pressure against his sphincter—a pressure that swelled to excruciating pain in the blink of an eye.  It happened so fast that Zach couldn’t breathe.  The slim youth looked up at the Trucker with tormented, watering eyes as he gasped like a dying fish, unable to catch his breath from sheer agony.

 

The searing, white-hot pain of ripped flesh and torn muscles slashed through the mist of alcohol in his brain.  His desperate hyperventilation seemed to go on forever; he was forcing his air out with a high-pitched panicked whine that didn’t give his lungs enough time to absorb oxygen.  As darkness mercifully closed in on the nightmarish physical shock he was experiencing, Zach seemed to see, without quite registering it, a cold, cruel light of lust illuminating the alpha’s eyes without thawing their cold steel-blue tint.

 

The Trucker spent the next couple of minute raping the kid’s motionless ass.  Unconsciousness caused the boy’s muscles to relax; his sphincter, torn and bleeding, gave way at last, allowing the Trucker to penetrate deep into the punk’s colon.

 

Zach came to slowly, moaning and blinking.  The horrible spearing pain in his ass was still there, but now he could feel the pulsing immenseness of the muscled stud’s rod plugging his rectum.  The powerful man was bearing down on him with each vicious thrust of his hips; the handcuffs binding the slut’s hands painfully crushed between his back and the stripped bed.

 

“Dude—“ Zach managed to wheeze out.  “Y-yer hurtin’ me…please stop, man, lemme just…just…”

 

“Shut up,” the Trucker snarled, “ya wanted to get fucked like a prison bitch?  You got it, cunt.  I’m gonna use you like fresh meat and the more ya squeal, the more I’m gonna ream out yer hole like the jailyard pig you are.  Trust me, you worthless piece of shit, I know how to make you hurt.”

 

Tightly gripping the youth’s slim hips, the sadistic killer held him down on the bed and drilled the kid’s mangled fuckhole, his powerful thigh muscles flexing and bulging with each excruciatingly deep pump of his shaft.  Zach tried to protest but the violence and pain of the assault left him unable to speak; he could only stare beseechingly into the cold, contemptuous face of his tormentor.

 

The cruel alpha smirked at the pain-wracked adolescent writhing on his dick.  “Guess what, faggot?” he hissed malevolently.  “You’re locked in with a killer—just like prison, huh?  Ya got what ya want; is that fuckin’ hot or what?”

 

Zach was still trying to figure out how his greatest fantasy had morphed into an excruciating nightmare.  The actual meaning of the Trucker’s words took some time to sink in.  When they did, they hit a brick wall of deliberate incomprehension.

 

“No…you c-can’t…you haven’t…” the teen squeaked in a high, terrified pitch.

 

The Trucker leaned down and rested his body full length on top of the boy, sweat-streaked skin to skin, full length.  The punk’s legs twisted painfully to the side as the weight of the older man’s well-built body crushed him; the dogtags digging into the kid’s heaving chest.

 

From this position, the Trucker’s hard-edged, masculine face, twisted with rage and sick lust, filled Zach’s field of view.   “Yes I can,” the sadist whispered icily.  “And I have.  Right here.  Look around ya, boy—you ain’t gonna be the first homo cunt I wasted in this room.”

 

Again, Zach’s face was blank; the teenager was either too frightened or simply too stupid to understand the allusion.  Not that it bothered the Trucker—he was looking forward to enlightening the cunt.

 

“I knew you were a worthless pansy slut the first time I laid eyes on ya,” the brawny, powerful sadist growled.  “Or the first time you laid eyes on me.  Just another disgusting faggot who wanted my body.  And since ya couldn’t keep yer homo trap shut, you’re gonna get my body—all up in your guts.”

 

A dim light of recognition glinted in Zach’s shocked, terrified eyes.  That face, that broad hairy chest—he had seen them before; in fact, he’d gone home that night and jerked off until he was sore over the memory of them.

 

This was the hot guy from the truck stop; the one who’d asked about the bar.  He’d come back in a couple of hours later, bare-chested, sweaty, hot as all fuck…

 

…and that was the night that cheap-ass rent boy got the shit beat out of him.  Kid was raped and strangled, in this motel…

 

The Trucker watched the horrifying realization dawn on the boy. The panic in his victim’s face made his dick, sunk deep into the teen’s rectum, pulse and swell.  He knew exactly what thoughts were running through the punk’s head.

 

“This room, dude,” the Trucker whispered with malicious cruelty as one hand crept towards the head of the bed.  “That spot on the wall where I frisked ya?  They fixed it good—I threw that cunt into it so hard he went through the sheetrock.  Slammed the motherfucker through the TV, too.  Thieving queer-ass cocksucker tried to steal my wallet, so I fucked him to death.”

 

He drew back his hand, now clutching the belt he’d left over the headboard, without once allowing Zach’s wide, shock-rimmed eyes to escape from his own terrifyingly hypnotic gaze, at once white-hot with lust and ice-cold with killing rage.

 

“It took him a long time to die.  And it hurt—I made sure of that.  When he finally died, he was grateful to escape the agony.”   The Trucker lowered his face down to Zach’s, so close that his dark scruff scraped against the boy’s cheek as the alpha whispered into his ear.  “And all he did was to try to steal my wallet.  You squealed about me to the cop.”

 

He pulled back and raised himself up so that he was kneeling over Zack, his enormous shaft still jammed up inside the frightened teen’s smooth body.  He held the belt now in both hands, letting the import of both his words and the leather strap sink in.

 

“The cop, yeah?  You remember him?  I raped and tortured him to death, too.  I took my time with him and left his baton jammed up his ass.  You’re the last loose end—and the one with the biggest lesson to learn.”

 

Zach understood.  He knew what was about to happen, and why.  He also knew that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to evade the brutal violence he was about to endure, but this didn’t resign him to his fate.

 

In a moment, the teenager went into full reflex mode, his lean but muscled body thrashing and flailing in blind panic.  He wrapped his legs around the Trucker’s firm, hard flanks and squeezed; the alpha responded by slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and hoisting them back onto his shoulder, where the punk’s Nike kicks flailed uselessly in the air.

 

Zach was in too much fear to be able to cry for help or even scream effectively; he gibbered and squealed like a stuck pig, spittle flecking his thick lips.  As his sweat-streaked body writhed on the bed, his terror was so strong that a stream of piss was shot out of his long cock, even though it was still semi-erect from the adolescent hormonal overload.

 

The Trucker glared down at the helpless, fear-maddened teenager.  “Stop squealin’, you stupid motherfucker,” he barked in anger.  “You don’t even deserve to die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit; I shoulda just offed ya.  But I wanna drain my balls, and since I gotta snuff ya anyway, I might as well dump my load in yer ass as I take ya out.”

 

Zach’s first panic had faded, simply because he didn’t have the energy to sustain his frenzied thrashing.  “No…no…you…no…” he moaned quietly.

 

“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the Trucker said evenly as he drove his fist into Zach’s jaw.  The boy gave a deep, instinctive grunt of pain as his mouth slammed shut and he bit through his tongue.  The vicious alpha spit into the face of the suffering youth, the phlegm sliding down the kid’s smooth cheeks and mingling with the blood leaking out of his mouth.

 

Stunned, awash in agony and sheer terror, Zach inhaled deeply.  He’d found his voice again; even though no conscious thought was involved, his animal midbrain realized that the only way to survive the next hour was to get help by alerting others.  He didn’t know he needed to scream; it was going to happen anyway.

 

The Trucker knew he needed to scream, though, and he wasn’t gonna have it.  Zach had stopped inhaling and had opened his mouth wide to shriek, when it all came to sudden halt.  Instantly, a thick band of crushing pain circled his throat, and he couldn’t scream.  He couldn’t breathe.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Nothing.  Nothing he could do.  He wrung his hands in the cuffs underneath him, the sudden panic overriding the pain as the case-hardened steel tore cruelly into the tender flesh in the small of his back and bloodily flayed the skin from his wrists.  Nothing.  That pain around his throat—it was the belt…

 

Still fucking the boy’s torn asshole, deeply and intently, the Trucker focused his eyes on Zach’s face and watched him start to die.  The kid continued to kick and writhe as he fought for his short, wasted life; all that the youth’s frantic struggles accomplished was to give this killer’s cock a nice, vigorous massage.  As he twisted and jerked, he burnt though his oxygen even faster.

 

His face swelled and darkened, turning purple—and so did his dick.  The teen could feel his own erection, but the sensation was lost in the horrifying agony of strangulation.  As his throat was compressed, Zach’s eyes, wide with terror, started to bulge.  He could feel his tongue swelling, too—it seemed to fill his entire mouth.

 

The worst pain of all was still in his ass, though—that was the truly nightmarish part of Zach’s situation; he wasn’t only forced to suffer the pain and violence of a slow murder, he also had to endure the pain and violence of a vicious rape.  It was too much.  It was overwhelming.  His weak adolescent psyche crumbled under the onslaught of the attack.

 

The Trucker had no intention of letting him slide into a catatonic haze, though.  He wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot.  “You stupid motherfucker,” he contemptuously taunted the dying teenager, “this is what happens to dumbass squealin’ cocksuckers.  Only reason yer still alive, faggot, is cause you ain’t milked my cum out.  Does it hurt, you worthless cunt?  Ya want me to stop it?  I’ll end your useless homo life the second I fill your guts with sperm.”

 

He gripped the belt forcefully, straining his biceps as he tightened the strap around the boy’s neck.  Bending down, he spit into the kid’s distorted, blackening face as he sneered, “When it hurts bad enough, you’ll wanna die.  Make me cum, slut, and I’ll stop the pain and the fear.  C’mon, you worthless fag, drain me and die”

 

The helpless, choking youth could feel the rigid stiffness of his own dick.  Even as his lithe, smooth body convulsed and kicked, he was still gruesomely aware of his own throbbing erection.  As Zach twitched beneath him, the Trucker could see that the teen was swiftly going under.  He kept up the tension in the belt; the room filled with the musk of sex and sweat, forced out of his bulging muscles by the effort.

 

Suddenly the punk went rigid, his stiff dick bobbing up, its oozing head smacking wetly against the alpha’s rippled abs.  His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but blood-streaked whites under fluttering lids.

 

He was edging—literally.  Zach was trembling on the brink of irreparable brain death.

 

The Trucker grunted in anger.  He wasn’t even close to cumming.  Worthless little faggot couldn’t even make him shoot as he died.

 

Ok, so it wasn’t time for him to die.  The Trucker slackened the belt; after a couple of convulsive gurgles, Zach began to cough uncontrollably, blood-spotted mucus from his damaged throat splattering his cheeks.

 

The powerful sadist, his hard, heaving body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, remained looming over the gasping adolescent, his monstrous shaft still jammed deeply into Zach’s guts.  He stopped pumping, though, taking a moment to let the boy wake up.  The Trucker wanted him conscious again before starting the next round.

 

And anyway, the fuckmeat was still desperately trying to catch his breath; in his struggles, he was working his killer’s shaft pretty damn good on his own.

 

The traumatized youth slowly clawed his way back into consciousness; the pain flooded in as he gradually came to.  The dark lividness of Zach’s drool-smeared face drained away while his breathing slowed slightly—it was still rapid and ragged, but he was no longer gasping violently in an attempt to stave off brain death.

 

The kid’s fuckhole was still gripping the Trucker’s thick tool like a fist in a velvet glove, but it was no longer jacking him off.  On his shoulders, the hard-bodied top could feel the high fabric tops of Zach’s Nikes, resting now as opposed to flailing in the air, but still trembling perceptibly.  With his arms still wrapped around the boy’s legs, the silky-smooth flesh of the latter’s inner thighs was pressed against his rapist’s sweaty, powerful flanks.

 

Finally, the boycunt recovered his voice—barely.  “P-pl-please…” he croaked, “I-I can’t…don’t…”

 

“You stupid piece of shit,” the cruel, hulking brute sneered in reply.  “I ain’t done with ya yet, cunt; you ain’t made me cum yet.  Ya know what that means, meat?  It means you ain’t learned your lesson yet.  You ain’t suffered enough yet.”

 

The belt was still wrapped around Zach’s neck; no longer crushing his windpipe, it was still sunk into the skin.  With a deliberate intent to cause pain, the Trucker viciously jerked it free from the punk’s throat, flaying the skin underneath.  Zach was still too weak to do more than shudder and make faint mewling noises, as much in fear as in agony.

 

The Trucker passed the end of the belt through the buckle, making a loop, and slipped it back over the boy’s head.  Now he had a slipknot leash to pull the kid up with one hand.

 

He did so.  The other hand he used to deliver a driving roundhouse punch to Zach’s face; the immediate result was a wet smacking sound, a deep involuntary grunt of pain and the faint crunching sound of the teen’s cheekbone breaking.

 

“Fuck yeah, you worthless cocksucker, that felt good, dinnit?” the muscle-bound alpha chuckled gleefully at his helpless prey.  “Ya musta really liked it, cumpig; yer reamed-out ass worked the head of my shaft great—that what it’s gonna take, huh?  You a pain pig, cunt?  Damn, fag, ya shoulda said so!  Hell, I’ll give ya all ya want!”

 

Zach was wedged into an excruciating position—his slim, firm torso brutally yanked up by the loop of leather around his neck, his arms twisted agonizingly behind his back while his expensive kicks had slipped from the Trucker’s shoulders but were still caught in the latter’s arms.  The only part of the boy still touching the bed was his ass—and the Trucker’s huge, rigid cock was still plugging it.

 

Zach retreated mentally; the sheer horror that the knowledge of his helplessness, his utter inability to prevent or evade whatever nightmarish torture this sexual psychopath wished to inflict on him, plunged him into a state where he was capable of little more than response to stimuli.  His fogged attention, like an animal’s, focused blearily on bright, shiny objects, which was how Zach found himself staring at the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling against the latter’s hard furry chest, as the tortured teen homo wallowed in agony.

 

The Trucker could see the blank, stunned look in the eighteen-year-old kid’s eyes; it was the look of a youth who had been subjected to an unexpected and shockingly violent assault.  The sadist’s powerful body was filled with a strong urge to overwhelm and destroy the boy, to literally fuck him to death.

 

He braced himself by extending one leg, planting the glossy brown boot on the floor and tensing his thighs, making them bulge visibly in the tight beige chinos he still wore.  He channeled his sexual rage into his fist, driving it into the side of the kid’s head with such explosive savagery that he lost his grip on the belt—he’d literally knocked the little fuck right out of his own hand.

 

Zach’s head whipped to the side, flinging his dark ponytail behind as his skull hit the nightstand with a loud crack.  The impact toppled both the lamp, which fell to the floor and broke, and the bottle of Jack, which stayed on the stand.  The amber-colored fluid splashed across the flat surface, drenching Zach’s hair and adding a distinct smoky scent to the pheromone-laden air.

 

“Goddam it,” the Trucker muttered in the deep, guttural growl of a predator, “that shit cost more than you’re worth, you miserable pansy.”  He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the semi-conscious teen, so close that even in his deep, pain-wracked haze, he could feel the killer’s wiry scruff as it grazed his cheek.  “You owe me, cunt; how ya gonna pay?  Huh?”

 

Then the Trucker paused.  At this distance he could see the studs in the kid’s ear much more clearly; there were three—and the top one had a slight sparkle.

 

“Motherfuck—ya been holdin’ out on me, boy.  Bad mistake.  If that tiny chip is real diamond, it might cover the cost of my booze.  Maybe.  Lemme take a look.  If it’s real, I’m gonna take the other one too.”

 

He spread his huge hand out and placed it on the side of Zach’s head; placing all his weight on that arm, he forced the kid’s head down onto the nightstand with such power that the unfortunate youth was already mewling with pain when the Trucker started fondling the top stud.  He held the ear between two fingers, one looped about the stud, the other around its back.

 

Then, with a single tremendous jerk, he tore the stud out of the teen’s ear.

 

The sharp agony of ripped flesh snapped the tormented adolescent out of his catatonic state; he tried to scream but could only push out a high, thin shriek that spiraled into a croak.  His bloodshot eyes, huge and darkly ringed by shock, were riveted on the Trucker, who was examining the stud under the light on the other nightstand.

 

The pain in his ear, now throbbing with his pulse as blood flowed from the wound, was so severe that he even managed to forget the gigantic rod that even now was still skewering his torn colon.  But what he couldn’t forget was his own erection; his dick was so stiff as to be downright painful.  He didn’t know how it could still be so hard after all he’d suffered.

 

It never occurred to him that he liked it.  On some level, he wanted and deserved it, but he could never have admitted it.

 

And whatever he desired, pain overrode the physical and fear the mental aspects.  No matter how hard he got, how close he came to shooting his wad, he was still going to fight death to the very end.  He wouldn’t submit, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

The Trucker didn’t give him the choice.

 

Repositioning his big cop boot on the thin carpet, he shifted his muscled mass and pulled Zach back upright on the bed by the belt around his neck.  Reaching around to the other side of the punk’s head, he ripped the top stud on that side out too.

 

This time, the response was much stronger.  This stud had been torn from the side of the punk’s head that had been drenched in whiskey; the alcohol burned like fire as it trickled into the open wound.

 

Zach screeched like an ape, twisting and shuddering violently.  His black Nikes kicked the air behind the Trucker’s head—until the kid made the mistake of jerking one leg in and kicking the Trucker right in the side of the head.

 

“Ok, meat, that’s it.  Yer done.”  Enraged, the powerful alpha yanked the belt in a whip-like motion, unexpectedly snapping Zach’s head down and to the side so that it smashed back onto the nightstand.  Except it didn’t—it smashed into the half-empty whiskey bottle and shattered it, shards of glass slicing open the skin at Zach’s temple.  A jagged edge left on the base of the bottle left a shallow—but long and painful—slash across his cheek.

 

Instantly, the teen was jerked back up into position, his rectum rotating on the Trucker’s engorged tool.  Scrambling his pricey kicks, Zach drew his legs up and, planting his feet on the older man’s rippled washboard abs, pushed himself off the bed—and off the Trucker’s cock.  The smooth young teen, half-insane with fear, threw himself on the thin, cheap carpet, bleating in terror as he tried to wriggle away from his killer.

 

The Trucker had grunted with surprise at the blow, but otherwise didn’t make a sound.  He simply stood up and strode towards Zach, his powerful muscled form looming over the nude youth.  Flat on his back with his arms twisted behind him, the kid was still erect despite the pain from his mangled ears, and slashed head, all still bleeding.

 

But as the Trucker towered above, Zach shot another golden stream of piss involuntarily across his firm, smooth chest, already glittering with sweat.  The teenager was lost in a rising tide of doom; turning his head to the side, he could see the shiny finish on the tall cop boots.  His eyes traveled up the legs, muscles visibly bulging through the skin-tight sand colored chino trousers…

 

…and above that, a huge shaft of meat, dark, throbbing and oozing—and streaked with blood.  His blood.

 

The heaving, furry chest above, dogtags lying between the broad, hubcap-like pecs…and above that, the face…that face.  That hard face, the cold, cold rage in those eyes that showed there would be no mercy, no remorse, nothing but the desire to inflict as much pain as possible.

 

In his mind, Zach screamed; what came out of his mouth was a feeble gurgle.

 

The Trucker trembled with rage as he glared down at the worthless fag who dared to defy him, to try to escape the consequences of his actions.  The tall, well-built killer bent over slowly at the waist, extending his hand and reaching out to the helpless boy who cowered and sniveled in terror.  The muscle-bound stud grabbed the end of the belt that was still looped around the kid’s neck.

 

Standing up, the half-nude alpha continued to raise his arm as if he was doing curls with a set of weights.  As the bicep on his arm flexed with the strain, the Trucker lifted Zach up off the ground and held the slim young teen dangling in the air.

 

The boy kicked weakly, his Nike hightops dancing in the air as his own weight tightened the leather strap around his neck and cut off his breath.  Struggling uselessly as the incredibly powerful older man literally hanged him by holding him in the air, the sweaty, shuddering punk was nonetheless aware of his own dick slapping wetly against his firm, flat belly as he thrashed and choked.

 

The red-tinted blackness that filled Zach’s bewildered mind had the effect of focusing his attention on the hard, chiseled face of his assailant.  It was somehow getting him even hornier; he could feel it even as he felt consciousness slipping away.  That strong, hard jaw, that jet-black goatee surrounded by fainter fuzz—a five o’clock shadow of gunmetal blue that darkened the sadist’s cheeks—and those eyes.  Again, those eyes—so blue, bright with a light that curiously combined the heat of lust and rage with the calculating coldness of an experienced killer.

 

And then Zach was snapped out of it.  In fact, he was damn near snapped out of life forever.  With the loud, snarling growl of a vicious predator, the Trucker whipped his arm to the side.  The belt popped like a whip as the teenage boy flew through the air and slammed into the wall so hard he blacked out for a moment.

 

But it was just a moment; as he blinked and tried to breathe—the impact hadn’t loosened the leather noose enough for him to inhale—he could feel death approach in the heavy tread of the boots on the floor behind him.  He was lying near the far wall of the room, facing it, his back to the room.  Turning his bulging eyes up, he could see the huge dent his body had made in the drywall.

 

As the boots paused, directly behind him, Zach had a brief flash of clarity—and memory.  Something this hot, erotic, cruel, brutal psycho…something this dude had said…the other guy.  That whore.  He’d been killed in this room—but he’d been beaten into hamburger first.

 

And part of that beating had put him through the wall too.

 

Once again, despite his huge and painfully throbbing erection, Zach lost control of his bladder to such an extent that the stream of urine that shot out of him hit the wall and splashed the teen with his own piss before he was hoisted into the air again, his slender young body jerking and kicking.

 

The Trucker sneered contemptuously at the choking boy.  The muscles in the powerful alpha’s arm were knotted with the strain of holding the kid up off the ground, but it was worth the effort to watch his expensive Nike kicks flail as they desperately sought some support to relieve the crushing pain in the suffering punk’s throat.

 

Then, in a lightning-swift motion, the strongman flung his helpless young victim across the room again.  In his suffocating haze, Zach felt a brief giddiness but was mostly unaware of his flight.  He was aware when it was interrupted, though, the impact of smashing headfirst into the flatscreen TV piercing through his dying fog.

 

This time, when he landed on the floor on his back, the belt noose loosened.  His lungs, full of useless carbon dioxide, emptied immediately with a loud sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt.  Much like before, his esophagus had been so badly crushed and traumatized that the expelled breath was accompanied by bloody mucus.

 

The Trucker approached.  He stood over his victim, his cold, stony gaze taking in the sight of the raped and tortured youth.  While his prey stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed shock, gasping violently, the vicious sadist took pleasure in letting his enormous cock jut out over the shuddering, sweating teen.  Large clear drops of precum welled from the slit in the center of his purple, engorged mushroom tip; they fell at random, sprinkling the writhing adolescent with his killer’s bodily fluids.  “Stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker said in his steely bass voice, his cold even tone more frightening than any screaming or ranting could have been.

 

He bent down.  Zach saw him coming.  He was completely and utterly unable to prevent whatever was coming; all he could do was gasp and try to inhale as much oxygen as possible in case it was cut off.

 

It was.  Instantly.  The Trucker snatched the belt again.  This time, there was no admiring, gloating dangle for the meat; the teenager experienced swift motion and terrible, slashing pain, but was too traumatized to realize he’d been thrown into the dresser and had shattered the mirror.   The glass slashed at the smooth, soft skin on his back but, like his encounter with the whiskey bottle, the injuries were agonizing but not serious.

 

When he fell to the floor this time, he landed face down.  The majority of Zach’s attention at this point was absorbed in trying to breathe; it was few seconds before the faint crunching sound of boots grinding glass into the carpet seeped into his awareness.

 

The Trucker was stepping on the remains of the mirror as he moved towards writhing prey.  Without a word, his huge muscled body moving with startling swiftness, the older man snatched the lithe, trembling teen, not by the belt this time, but by his long black ponytail.  For a single horrifying moment, Zach was suspended by his hair and felt his scalp starting to tear before the Trucker threw him on the bed.

 

Actually, threw him at the bed.  Zach smacked face-first into the headboard before rebounding and rolling back; he ended up nearly in the center of the mattress but turned ninety degrees to the orientation of the bed.  His long, smooth legs hung over the side, hightops not quite touching the floor.

 

On his back again now, he could look up and see the hulking form of his torturer towering implacably over him.  The powerful stud’s vicious sadism was obvious in his massive, throbbing cock, jutting proudly over the trapped youth and oozing a steady stream of transparent precum.  Above that, the psycho’s furred and heavily muscled torso was heaving, a faint sheen of sweat making his hard body glisten.  The stony, merciless look of cold masculinity on the handsome face was accented by the icy glitter in the eyes.

 

Zach looked into those eyes and he knew—no matter what type of personal hell he was gonna endure in the next few minutes, there would be no return from the silent darkness this time.  Death was staring him in the face.

 

But Death was gonna fuck him first.

 

Hoisting the kid’s legs, the Trucker dropped the punk’s Kobe X Elites on his shoulders and shoved the thick purple head of his shaft against the boy’s torn, quivering sphincter.  At the first hint of pressure, Zach moaned in terror and writhed, trying to wriggle away from the huge tool about to penetrate him.

 

And yet, with all the pain and the fear, the hormone-fueled adolescent still felt the overwhelming physical lure of the hard-bodied older man.  The funk of mansex and pheromones that pervaded the room so densely that it nearly coagulated into a visible fog that intensified the young slut’s sexual dilemma.  Zach’s own dick was hard and pulsating and he didn’t know why.  But as the Trucker lunged at him again, the boy couldn’t spare the time to worry about it.

 

“P-please…” the battered youth gasped faintly, “I-I’ll do any-anything…use me…hu-humiliate me, I w-won’t tell anyone…”  Here the slender kid gave way.  Stupid little piece of shit that he was, even he could figure out that tonight was gonna end with him taking a dirt nap.  He burst into tears.  “D-don’t kill me, man, p-p-please, I won-won’t tell anyone but don’t k-kill me, please, man, oh fuck, oh please—“

 

The Trucker’s sole response was an evil grin that spread slowly across his sexy masculine features. Zach saw it and understood, instantly breaking into loud, hysterical sobs as he went into panic mode.  The older stud decided that the meat needed something else to think about than becoming meat.  With a single powerful, brutal thrust, he plunged his monstrous vein-wrapped cock all the way up the teenager’s ass, tearing the sphincter and mangling the colon.

 

Eyes so wide with pain and shock that they seemed about to pop out of his head, Zach’s sobbing spiraled up into a frenetic shriek of agony.  “Shaddup, faggot,” the Trucker barked, popping the unfortunate punk in the jaw one last time before cinching the belt down on his neck.  The cunt’s scream was instantly throttled off into a wet gagging sound.

 

Wrapping the thick leather strap around his hand—so he could control the tightness of the noose while keeping one hand free—the Trucker flopped forward, his heavy, powerful body crushing the slender youth beneath him.  Zach’s legs, propped up on his assailant’s shoulders, were compressed back towards his body until his knees were resting on his chest.  And the weight of both males on his arms, still cuffed around his back, was excruciating.

 

The last few minutes of Zach’s short, wasted life were filled with unimaginable pain and terror.  He was pinned under the sheer physical bulk of his killer, feeling the alpha’s hard muscles flexing against him on a light lube of sweat as the older man continued to plunge his enormous shaft deep into the boy’s torn, bleeding guts.  The alpha’s wiry body fur scraped against the teen’s soft, silky flesh like steel wool.

 

The Trucker jerked the belt tightly.  His dogtags, laying on the meat’s smooth firm chest, were dislodged by the violence of the fucking; they slid up to Zach’s neck and slipped, jingling, into the depression circling his throat, caused by the leather garrote.

 

At this distance, the twisted sadist could enjoy the effects of the strangulation in detail.  As the slim, dying teen writhed beneath him, the cunt’s cock stayed hard as it slid on oily sweat between two flat, firm bellies pressed together in desperate, brutal sex.  His confusion was obvious, even on his swelling, darkening face.

 

“Ya don’t get it, do ya, you stupid cumsuckin’ fag?” the cruel, powerful top sneered.  “Yer lovin’ this shit.  You fuckin’ bottom pain pig, you love gettin’ plowed, dontcha?  Yeah?  Ya fuckin’ love gettin’ put down like the cheap cockslut you are—fuck, dude, lookit how hard ya get when yer gettin’ snuffed like a useless homo cunt!”

 

Zach’s body, slender but strong with youth, was wracked and contorted with pain.  The thick leather strap embedded in his neck was a constant source of agony—and the wretched punk, twisted in the nightmarish pain of slow, tortuous death, found the crushing torment in his windpipe less painful than the tearing, rending pain in his colon as his cruel, evil killer fucked him swiftly and brutally.

 

Zach’s black Nike kicks were twitching in the air behind the Trucker’s head; his current helpless position rendering them impotent as weapons.  As his bloodshot eyes bulged grotesquely, forced from their orbits by the pressure building inexorably inside his skull, he could just barely make out the crimson trademarked swoosh jerking and twitching in the distance.

 

Inches away, the Trucker admired the teen’s black face, swollen and distorted beyond measure.  He found the adolescent slut’s suffering erotic and, determined to draw out the torture as long as possible, let a little slack into the leather strap around the young whore’s neck.  Zack was allowed a single brief gasp of fresh oxygen to momentarily clear the death fog clouding his mind before his throat was clamped off again.

 

“You stupid cumsack,” the powerful alpha whispered into the ear of the dying teen, so close that the teenager writhed involuntarily with pleasure at the scrape of his killer’s scruff across his cheek, despite all the pain and horror.  The screaming, pounding silence that was filling the empty spaces of his pathetic cumslut soul was not yet loud enough to drown out the cruel taunts of his killer.

 

“You made me do this,” the psycho strongman hissed at his helpless young victim.  “You talked, you pansy-ass cunt.  You did this.  Does it hurt?  Good!  I want you to hurt.  I want you to die in fuckin’ agony on my cock, you disgusting faggot.  You wanted a prison fuck, you punk-ass bitch?  Fuck, dude, you got death fuckin’ row!  Now die, you fuckin’ homo meat; milk me and suck up my spunk like a sponge.  Best thing anyone can do to yer worthless fuckmeat is use ya as a cumrag and throw ya in the dump like the fuckin’ garbage you are, motherfucker!”

 

With a snarl, he jerked his arm, making the thick leather strap squeeze the queerboy’s throat shut.  Zach was sinking back into the stimulus-response phase of imminent death, but this time there would be no recovery.  The quivering youth hadn’t been able to take much advantage of the brief respite he’d been given; his contorted position—bent double with his killer’s muscled bulk crushing him into the mattress—had made it difficult for the semi-conscious punk to suck air.  He’d gasped and slobbered in panicked asphyxiation, but he hadn’t been able to get enough oxygen to stave off brain damage.

 

Zach had heard the Trucker and understood him, but just barely; the sadistic stud’s cruel taunts were the last words the brutalized teenager would hear in his life.  As his brain died, the universe contracted into a cold darkness.  Zach’s last five minutes of life slowed to a crawl.  Rational though all but ceased; the suffering boy was sunk in a pit of sensation—of pain.

 

He was vaguely aware of the powerful alpha pressing down on him; he could still feel the hairy thrusting form on top of him.  He could hear—without understanding what he was hearing—the deep, ragged breathing and strained grunts of the dude who was fucking him and killing him.  A faint memory of start of the evening flickered like a guttering candle in the dying kid’s mind…the hot cop, the booze—even now, he still reeked of whiskey—the erotic click of the cuffs behind his back…

 

The last truly conscious emotion to pass through Zach’s mind a fleeting sense of despair, like the plaintive bleat of a slaughtered sheep. Then the physical took over and the teenaged faggot was submerged in a crimson wave of pain.

 

It hurt.  The young punk’s smooth, slim body was wracked with agony, with an excruciating torture that shorted out his nervous system to the point that it was unable to discern pain from pleasure.

 

From inches away, the Trucker watched the face of the adolescent cumslut swell and darken.  Blood still leaked from his mutilated ears and his cheek, but it was sluggish and too thick to flow much.  Zach’s battered face was twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable mask.

 

Wrapping the belt around his hand for greater control over the meat, the Trucker jerked the strap brutally, causing it to sink deeply into the boy’s neck.  The gay bottom boy went rigid, his swollen purple lips parted by his protruding tongue, forced out on a lube of foamy drool that trickled down the teen’s smooth cheeks.

 

The indefatigable power top continued to plow the dying kid’s ass.  Even as he murdered his victim, the timing of his thrusts wasn’t thrown off by a single thrust; his huge horse dick kept plunging deep into the meat’s fuckhole like it was being rammed by a piledriver.

 

It was getting a good workout, too.  The Trucker was vaguely aware of the Nike basketball shoes flailing randomly in the air behind his head as he kept the cunt’s legs propped up on his shoulders, but the little fucker, his body pinned into position by his larger, stronger killer was convulsing violently on the inside.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure; he realized the stupid piece of shit must be suffering nightmarish intestinal cramps for the punk’s guts to polish his knob so vigorously.  Zach’s own dick didn’t give the impression of pain; quite the opposite—it slapped, oozing and throbbing, between the two heaving, writhing male bodies, smearing precum over the teen’s flat smooth belly as well as the Trucker’s furry rippled abs.

 

The dogtags bounced off Zach’s flat, firm chest repeatedly before slipping off to the side where they occasionally added a faint jingle to the quiet, desperate sounds of sex and death.

 

Zach’s youth worked against him, prolonging his suffering until  the oxygen had been completely wrung from his quivering body.  In the end, even the physical started to fade.  The teenaged faggot no longer felt the pain from his limbs, twisted agonizingly in their sockets.  He couldn’t feel his eyes, bulging and rolled back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites showed under his fluttering lashes.

 

By a cruel neurological twist, though, he could still feel his rectum being savaged.  The erratic electrochemical bursts in his dying brain conveyed nothing more than a long thick hard shaft viciously impaling his innards; there was nothing left to process the concept of rape, of a throbbing vein-wrapped cock plunged up his boycunt.

 

In a way, it was a shame.  Zach was getting fucked exactly as he wanted; roughly, by an amazing muscled alpha who bound him and mounted him ruthlessly.

 

By the time the end came, Zach was past all sense of the irony of the where and how of his murder, past all fear—in a sense, past all pain.

 

The Trucker had a lot of experience of putting sluts down; he recognized the way the adolescent’s convulsions had lost their rhythmic tempo and slipped into spasms that were more intense but also more erratic.

 

Fuck, it felt wonderful.  The silky flesh of the teen’s guts sliding over his engorged mushroom tip while the motherfucker’s colon gripped his shaft like a fist—the worthless squealing cumpig was finally learning his lesson.  He was getting exactly what he deserved, the disgusting piece of homo shit.

 

The Trucker could feel the sperm boiling in his balls.  He was close; he just needed one last thing—he needed to know that the firm, smooth, slender teen had truly died on his cock.

 

One last brutal yank on the thick leather belt and the sociopathic sadist was rewarded.  The young kid’s esophagus collapsed with a loud cracking that was instantly followed by an even more intense and erotic snapping sound, like the splintering of green wood.   With a single powerful movement, the Trucker had crushed Zach’s windpipe and broken his neck.

 

The very last thing Zach experienced in his useless cumslut life before the searing electrical blast of bone shards slicing into his spinal cord sent him into screaming cold eternity was an eruption of searing heat in his groin.  In an instant, his existence shrank to the white-hot wire of pain/pleasure that ran along the underside of his cock; almost immediately, a similar agonizingly hot feeling, akin to molten lead, was pumped into his ass and up his guts, a last scorching sensation of heat as he slipped into frigid dark death.

 

The Trucker spent the next minute shuddering and spunking, filling the dead teen cunt with his sperm.  As his hulking muscled body jerked and shuddered in violent orgasm, he was vaguely aware of the teen’s thick, ropy cum splashing across his broad, hairy chest.  The hormone-laden adolescent was so full of semen that his corpse spewed a steady stream of pearly jizz for at least thirty seconds straight, catching both shuddering, sweating male bodies in a rain of glistening spooge.

 

Long after he’d emptied his balls of seed, the Trucker found himself still fucking and cursing at the convulsing sack of boymeat.  Regaining a measure of control, he took a deep breath and pulled his still-pulsing cock out of the corpse.  Getting quickly off the bed, he let Zach’s legs flop back, spread wide, one landing on the bed.  The other leg hung off the side, the Nike hightop just barely touching the floor.  As the body twitched, the expensive kick scuffed a ragged furrow in the thin cheap carpeting.

 

The Trucker felt a little rubbery after his explosive release of anger and semen; he staggered back to the dresser for his smokes, finding the pack undamaged from the earlier violence but surrounded by glass.  Lighting up a Red, he turned back and admired the gruesome scene.

 

Zach was still trembling; erratic spasms rippled the muscles under his smooth, sperm-glazed flesh.  Above the splayed legs, the teen’s long dick was still semi-erect, a faint trickle of pearly ooze leaking from the head onto his flat belly.  A pool of cum was congealing in the shallow smooth valley between the slight mounds of the youth’s pectorals.  The arms, of course, were still twisted behind the corpse’s back.

 

Taking another drag on his cigarette, the Trucker vaguely wondered if keys to official law enforcement handcuffs were universal across states or agencies or some other way.  If not, the coroner was gonna have a fun time; the keys had gone out the cab window somewhere on the other side of the state line.

 

Above the chest, things got ugly.  The thick leather belt was sunk so deeply into the boy’s throat that the Trucker had no intention of trying to retrieve it—something else for the coroner to enjoy.  And above that, the face was still swollen and congested with blood; the lividity would slowly drain away but that process had not yet begun.  As a result, Zach’s face bore no trace of his usual expression of slack-jawed adolescent lust.  Instead, it spoke eloquently of the torture the kid had endured, the agonizing pain and nightmarish terror in which the teenager had died.

 

The rolled-back eyes gave a blank white stare while the tongue, livid and swollen, still protruded from between blue lips.  The punk’s smooth cheeks were streaked with drool, snot and blood, but none of the wounds were bleeding anymore; even his mangled ears had stopped seeping.  At least one wasn’t; the other was hidden by the youth’s ponytail coiled beside it.

 

Even the room attested to the horrific violence of the teen’s murder.  The broken lamp and the shattered whiskey bottle—still adding its heady scent to the musky, smoky atmosphere of the room—were just the start of the physical destruction; the Trucker had deliberately targeted his violence towards the parts of the room he’d destroyed on his earlier visit.

 

After all, that was why he’d placed his clothes in the dresser drawer.  This time, they wouldn’t be covered with glass.

 

The buff older man picked his way across the debris-strewn floor and got the bag containing his clothes.  Snatching his pack of smokes as well, he crossed to the bathroom.  Soaking a hand towel in warm water, he wiped the dead teen fag’s spunk out of his body fur.   Wadding the towel up, he tossed it into the toilet before sitting down, pulling off the knee-high boots and stripping himself from the beige chinos trousers.  Just for the fuck of it, he rolled the latter into a ball and dropped it in the toilet as well, first fishing the diamond-chip studs out of the pocket.

 

It took just a minute to wriggle back into his familiar tight jeans and snug cotton t-shirt; it took even less to slip the trucker cap back onto his tousled black locks, slick with sweat.  Since his tube socks had never come off, he simply stepped into his scuffed work boots and left them loosely laced and untied. He pocketed the studs, picked up his bag and the cop’s boots and walked out of the bathroom.

 

Approaching the bed, he decided to add one bit of artifice to the naturally-posed scene.  He left the still-trembling corpse with one boot placed upright on the face and one on the groin.  He had no doubt they’d topple and perhaps dislodge before the body was found, but it didn’t matter.

 

It was dark and still outside.  The Trucker moved slowly along the pavement to the edge of the property, where he could walk along the edge of the blacktop.  That way, his boots wouldn’t thump with each footfall until he reached the street.  Not that there was anyone watching, of course, but avoiding attention immediately after a snuff was innate to the experienced sexual sadist by now; it was how he avoided capture for so long.  But loose ends like that little piece of shit needed to get what they deserved—which was sliding down the Trucker’s cock into their graves.

 

The muscled hardman grinned coldly.  He started whistling as he strode back to his rig.

M4M41(+1)

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories32 Comments

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot.  He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

 

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym.  In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body.  He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

 

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up.  The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

 

The youth snapped out of his reverie.  It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down.  Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

 

The “cocksucker” was actually already there.  Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

 

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up.  Well, that, and throw off any investigation.  Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

 

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim.  And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

 

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean.  The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

 

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship.  But it had to be discreet.  He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

 

Joe chuckled.  He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself.  And then he’d turn him into meat.

 

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick.  After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway.  And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags.  But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

 

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

 

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching.  The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it.  The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough.  Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

 

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear.  The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection.  Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

 

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style.  They looked clean and new.  His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

 

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time.  The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

 

After all, in a way, he was.

 

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent.  His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied.  Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

 

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close.  “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

 

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in.  As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

 

Joe grinned.  It was perfect.  Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

 

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness.  As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode.  “So, man, ya ready to drain my load?  Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!”  Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

 

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot.  But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting.  Jake was gonna finish up soon.  “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me.  We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

 

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250.  Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles.  It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

 

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot.  Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street.  Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked.  “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

 

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan.  Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street.  The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

 

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left.  Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property.  He opened the door and let Joe in.

 

On the inside, the condo was small.  The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner.  Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom.  The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

 

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up.  Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right.  It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else.  The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

 

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

 

Andy took off his running jacket.  Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser.  “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket.  “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.”  Closing the door, he turned back to Joe.  “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

 

He never saw the blow coming.  Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door.  Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

 

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain.  His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap.  As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

 

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin.  There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

 

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger.  “Dude, you made a huge mistake.  When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear?  I’m gonna—“

 

“Yeah?” Joe growled abruptly, cutting Andy’s bluster off mid-stride.  “Whaddaya think yer gonna do to me, faggot?”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger.  “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

 

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.”  As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities.  In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

 

Andy grunted and kicked.  Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself.  As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing.  His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

 

That was what was binding his hands.  Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather.  Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it.  He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

 

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it.  He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

 

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself.  “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

 

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck.  Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver.  The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

 

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs.  With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles.  They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him.  And it was just about time to get started…

 

That’s when Joe heard the lock on the front door.  “J-jake,” Andy gasped irregularly, “h-he’ll fu-fu-fuck ya up…”

 

The roommate was coming home.  Joe realized he had to act quickly.  Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

 

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try.  Joe was counting on it.  Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

 

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping.  The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

 

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice.  “Hey, dude, were are ya?  I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

 

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated.  He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth.  He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it.  His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

 

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door.  A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room.  “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

 

Jake grunted and whirled around.  Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes.  His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

 

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was.  He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand.  The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.  The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

 

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow.  Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

 

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer.  Your buddy is straight?  Too bad—sucks to be him.”

 

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth.  “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

 

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude.  Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was.  He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle.  Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

 

After all, he was gonna be here a while.  His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

 

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles.  Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time.  He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

 

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser.  He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire.  Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back.  With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding.  Now all he needed was something for the feet…

 

There—draped over the closet doorknob.  A jump rope; perfect.  In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

 

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed.  Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall.  It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body.  The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

 

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay.  Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

 

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home.  A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble.  What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

 

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him.  The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

 

But the cigarette was what angered him.  He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted.  It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally.  There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

 

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly.  “What’s wrong, bitch?  Ya not inta smoke?”  With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

 

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain.  “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!”  He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back.  The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

 

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared.  He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw.  As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

 

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick.  As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

 

“No…” the trapped boy moaned thickly.  “D-don’t, man, k-keep aw-away…p-p-please…”

 

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed.  “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh?  What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt?  Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

 

“What?” Andy yelped.  The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

 

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs.  Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

 

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

 

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole.  The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was too much, too intense.  He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

 

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock.  As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

 

Jake was waking up.

 

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare.  Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head.  As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed.  The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right.  He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

 

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted.  And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped.  Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Joe growled, spitting into the hot Asian boy’s face, “take my fuckin’ rod, you motherfuckin’ homo cunt!”  As his huge tool plowed into Andy’s tender ass, the thick veined ridges on his shaft tore at the unfortunate cunt’s soft fuckhole like barbed wire.

 

It was too much.  Andy shrieked, loud and hard, his vocal cords stretching taut and sending a vibration that echoed through his entire body.  Joe felt it and shuddered in pleasure.

 

Jake felt it and shuddered in terror.

 

Joe was still pissed.  “Goddam queer-ass fag motherfucker!” he snarled in anger, “Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit!  Yer makin’ more noise than you’re worth, you little homo cunt—guess I need to stop yer fuckin’ pig squealing, cunt.  Lessee now, what’s good to choke off your cumsucking throat…”

 

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand.  Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside.  Joe seized on it like a gift.

 

“Oh hell yeah, this work fuckin’ great,” he smirked diabolically.  “Dude, you musta wanted this—you damn sure dressed to get snuffed, faggot!”

 

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote.  Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

 

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good.  Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry.  He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

 

And it was a frenzy.  It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

 

That wasn’t supposed to happen.  He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

 

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him.  Watching him get fucked.

 

Watching him die.

 

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody.  He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly.  As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly.  Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

 

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though.  His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally.  The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

 

After that, Joe was more deliberate.  Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it.  But then, a distraction—

 

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably.  “What’s goin’ on?  Andy?  Dude?  What the fuck is happening?”  His voice shook with impending tears.

 

“What the fuck is happening, dude,” Joe sneered, turning to look Jake straight in his terrified, uncomprehending face, “is that your bud here is gettin’ some dick.  And then I’m gonna waste him.  Watch close, motherfucker—when I’m done with him, it’ll be your turn.”

 

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face.  “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you.  So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

 

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole.  As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

 

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course.  “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror.  “I ain’t gay!  Andy ain’t gay!  We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

 

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right.  “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

 

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee.  “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy?  Huh?  And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh?  I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick.  He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too.  I mean, it only makes sense, right?  So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

 

With a faint chuckle, Joe hovered close over Andy and spat in his face yet again.  “But first,” he chuckled quietly, “I gotta off this motherfucking pervert.  Ya look healthy, boy.  Too bad.  Just means you’re gonna suffer longer.”

 

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them.  He was suffering enough already.  A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen.  Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

 

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain.  The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain.  The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

 

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

 

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying.  Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump.  Ya like that?  Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya!  It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

 

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror.  It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point.  Andy was getting raped.  Andy was getting murdered.  Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple.  His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

 

It was the stuff of nightmare.  But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

 

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts.  Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

 

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded.  Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

 

Maybe he was gay.  But Jake wasn’t.  He was gonna fight.

 

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought.  Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought.  And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

 

His audience in mind, Joe resumed taunting Andy.  “Like it, dontcha, cunt?  You fuckin’ love havin’ a real man hold you down and put you in yer place, huh, fag?  Can’t hide it when ya die, boy, yer hard cock is tellin’ your buddy here how much yer lovin’ this, you useless homo cum dumpster!”

 

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again.  “Stop!” he screeched.  “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

 

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat.  He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw.  He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face.  “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive.  He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet.  He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

 

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him.  A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock.  Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

 

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

 

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish.  The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

 

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that.  Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

 

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder.  He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff.  He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

 

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering.  Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

 

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face.  It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail.  Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

 

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts.  He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

 

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too.  Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

 

“Watch ‘im, dude,” he grunted as his firm, furry ass flexed with his energetic thrusts, “watch ‘im choke.  Fuck, man his dyin’ ass is grippin’ my shaft so tight—the harder I squeeze his throat, the harder he squeezes my dick.  Goddam dickpig likes it, yeah?  An’ I bet you’ll fuckin’ love it, you worthless cocksucking faggot!”

 

 

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death.  His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

 

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought.  His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions.  His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

 

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable.  The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death.  Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth.  One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

 

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock.  His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts.  Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

 

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock.  “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth.  “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is?  Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

 

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck.  Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch.  Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

 

Andy himself experienced it differently.  For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body.  Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

 

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness.  They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

 

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

 

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

 

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff.  And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it.  Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs.  Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

 

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back.  The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum.  The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath.  He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

 

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle.  As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room.  The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

 

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp.  Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head.  The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen.  His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle.  Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

 

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath.  The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall.  He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

 

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom.  For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

 

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom.  A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence.  The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness.  It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

 

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor.  He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy.  But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

 

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse.  It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move.  Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

 

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate.  “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy!  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

 

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead.  His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him.  The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

 

He needed more of the same, Joe realized.  A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

 

Maybe a little foot worship.  He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

 

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it.  Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

 

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

 

Jake was still far too confused to understand.  He remained motionless.

 

“Take his sneaker off, you stupid scumshit, or I will hurt you.”

 

This registered.  Jake blinked twice and shook himself.  “Take-what?  T-take it off? B-b-but my han-hands…”

 

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert.  You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet.  Do it!”

 

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought.  Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip.  Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

 

“Good bitch,” Joe sneered.  “Keep goin’, fag.  Get the shoe off, bitch.”

 

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head.  To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze.  His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

 

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker.  Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab.  Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

 

It took several minutes.  Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull.  He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire.  It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

 

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off.  The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

 

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done.  “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

 

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

 

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain.  He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve.  He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

 

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot.  As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

 

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out.  Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

 

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage.  “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

 

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind.  The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face.  “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief.  This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay.  And Jake wasn’t gay.

 

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock.  “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face.  “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

 

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion.  Joe next statement was what motivated him.  “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

 

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze.  Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

 

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth.  Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

 

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance.  “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

 

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear.  Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

 

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy.  He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

 

 

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum.  Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

 

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out.  But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

 

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily.  “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.”  But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat.  His heaving got stronger.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up.  The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed.  “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya.  But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker.  Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first.  Lessee, what’ll work…”

 

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva.  “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth.  Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat.  “There ya go, asswipe.  Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

 

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point.  The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control.  Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

 

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel.  But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury.  He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp.  Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

 

And reeking of mansex.  It was Andy’s cumrag.

 

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half.  He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric.  “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat.  He could, and would do what he said.

 

Jake had to obey.  His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey.  He had no choice.  He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance.  And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot.  Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

 

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them.  Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids.  He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

 

“You stupid cumsucking piece of shit,” Joe chuckled malignly, “did ya think I was really gonna let ya try to bite my cock?  Fuckin’ dumbass faggot, yer gonna pay for that—and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you worthless asswipe!”

 

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes.  His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it.  He was truly helpless now.  This couldn’t be happening.  Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this.  He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

 

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy.  “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me.  Work me.  Milk me…”

 

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy.  The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear.  His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat.  As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

 

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie.  The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

 

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym.  This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving.  It was a surreal nightmare.  The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

 

Then Joe made it real.  Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock.  And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

 

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock.  Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

 

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee.  He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow.  His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

 

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness.  The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

 

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice.  “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert.  I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh?  Yeah, faggot?  Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

 

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat.  “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted.  A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

 

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down.  Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

 

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

 

Pubic hair.  Another dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?  How—how had this happened?  He’d gone to do his usual routine after work.  Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home.  As usual.

 

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered.  And some dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?

 

And then a new imperative arose.  His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant.  But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock.  It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

 

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

 

He wasn’t gonna let it happen.  His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize.  He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee.  “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh?  Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet.  C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes.  In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

 

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus.  The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

 

“Fuckin’-A, ya homo cocksucker, that’s it.  Work my dick as you die, fuckmeat; lessee if you can milk more cum outta me than your dead butt-buddy here.  Yer last sensation is gonna be my spurtin’ sperm floodin’ yer lungs—don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  C’mon, you faggot motherfucker, show me how grateful yer gonna be for my load!”

 

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken.  It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing.  Or oozing at the tip.

 

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen.  He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face.  He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

 

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse.  He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing.  But then there were NO words to describe the entirety.

 

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did.  He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

 

He was dying with an erection.  That-that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Ever.

 

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth.  And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse.  And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

 

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions.  In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

 

It’d catch on soon enough.  Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy.  Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

 

Not when it was getting so good…

 

“That’s it, faggot, let go.  Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost.  Go on and die.  It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool.  Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

 

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool.  “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die.  You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

 

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand.  If he had, he might have agreed.  Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch.  He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation.  He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

 

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum.  As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms.  The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

 

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull.  His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat.  Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse.  Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

 

And then he died.  Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco.  In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc.  This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

 

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life.  The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier.  If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

 

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive.  The boy had come bolt upright on his knees.  His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin.  His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down.  But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

 

Jake was already dead.  In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

 

He fell on top of Andy.  Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

 

Joe looked down at himself.  “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

 

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly.  Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

 

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers.  Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure.  No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

 

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet.  He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

 

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry.  Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight.  It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous.  It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

 

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen.  It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat.  Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy.  Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing.  First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

 

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before.  But now…

 

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses.  Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back.  His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists.  The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

 

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen.  The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin.  The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

 

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

 

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead.  As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes.  His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat.  His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

 

Too late for that now.

 

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits.  As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

 

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room.  The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

 

It was too much for Joe.  He wanted a piece of that action.  Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest.  The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

 

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist.  There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked.  The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

 

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed.  But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer.  He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

 

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head.  He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

 

And he was still horny.  He still had more seed to unload.  Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones.  Whatever—it didn’t matter.

 

What mattered was that he needed to cum.  Again.

 

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was.  Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight.  Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test.  If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry.  And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

 

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

 

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness.  There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

 

Stupid piece of shit.  Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to.  Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

 

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself.  Joe smiled.  He understood.  That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves.  And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

 

That’s how they knew.  That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down.  They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

 

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening.  At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

 

And then the rodeo was on.

 

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself.  He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

 

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body.  Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head.  As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

 

Fuck.  He’d snapped Jake’s neck too.  Oh well.

 

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy.  It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser.  He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

 

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it.  While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it.  Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

 

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped.  Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible.  Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could.  Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them.  The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

 

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea.  Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks?  Fuckin’ hot!

 

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly.  He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up.  That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

 

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor.  “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face.  The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

 

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth.  Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

 

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop.  As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

 

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door.  Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with?  The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot.  He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

 

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym.  In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body.  He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

 

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up.  The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

 

The youth snapped out of his reverie.  It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down.  Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

 

The “cocksucker” was actually already there.  Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

 

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up.  Well, that, and throw off any investigation.  Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

 

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim.  And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

 

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean.  The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

 

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship.  But it had to be discreet.  He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

 

Joe chuckled.  He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself.  And then he’d turn him into meat.

 

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick.  After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway.  And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags.  But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

 

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

 

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching.  The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it.  The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough.  Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

 

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear.  The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection.  Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

 

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style.  They looked clean and new.  His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

 

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time.  The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

 

After all, in a way, he was.

 

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent.  His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied.  Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

 

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close.  “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

 

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in.  As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

 

Joe grinned.  It was perfect.  Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

 

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness.  As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode.  “So, man, ya ready to drain my load?  Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!”  Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

 

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot.  But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting.  Jake was gonna finish up soon.  “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me.  We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

 

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250.  Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles.  It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

 

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot.  Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street.  Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked.  “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

 

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan.  Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street.  The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

 

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left.  Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property.  He opened the door and let Joe in.

 

On the inside, the condo was small.  The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner.  Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom.  The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

 

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up.  Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right.  It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else.  The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

 

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

 

Andy took off his running jacket.  Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser.  “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket.  “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.”  Closing the door, he turned back to Joe.  “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

 

He never saw the blow coming.  Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door.  Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

 

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain.  His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap.  As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

 

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin.  There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

 

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger.  “Dude, you made a huge mistake.  When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear?  I’m gonna—“

 

“Yeah?” Joe growled abruptly, cutting Andy’s bluster off mid-stride.  “Whaddaya think yer gonna do to me, faggot?”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger.  “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

 

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.”  As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities.  In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

 

Andy grunted and kicked.  Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself.  As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing.  His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

 

That was what was binding his hands.  Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather.  Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it.  He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

 

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it.  He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

 

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself.  “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

 

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck.  Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver.  The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

 

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs.  With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles.  They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him.  And it was just about time to get started…

 

That’s when Joe heard the lock on the front door.  “J-jake,” Andy gasped irregularly, “h-he’ll fu-fu-fuck ya up…”

 

The roommate was coming home.  Joe realized he had to act quickly.  Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

 

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try.  Joe was counting on it.  Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

 

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping.  The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

 

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice.  “Hey, dude, were are ya?  I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

 

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated.  He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth.  He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it.  His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

 

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door.  A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room.  “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

 

Jake grunted and whirled around.  Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes.  His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

 

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was.  He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand.  The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.  The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

 

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow.  Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

 

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer.  Your buddy is straight?  Too bad—sucks to be him.”

 

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth.  “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

 

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude.  Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was.  He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle.  Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

 

After all, he was gonna be here a while.  His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

 

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles.  Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time.  He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

 

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser.  He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire.  Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back.  With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding.  Now all he needed was something for the feet…

 

There—draped over the closet doorknob.  A jump rope; perfect.  In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

 

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed.  Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall.  It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body.  The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

 

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay.  Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

 

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home.  A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble.  What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

 

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him.  The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

 

But the cigarette was what angered him.  He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted.  It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally.  There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

 

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly.  “What’s wrong, bitch?  Ya not inta smoke?”  With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

 

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain.  “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!”  He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back.  The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

 

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared.  He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw.  As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

 

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick.  As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

 

“No…” the trapped boy moaned thickly.  “D-don’t, man, k-keep aw-away…p-p-please…”

 

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed.  “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh?  What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt?  Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

 

“What?” Andy yelped.  The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

 

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs.  Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

 

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

 

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole.  The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was too much, too intense.  He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

 

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock.  As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

 

Jake was waking up.

 

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare.  Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head.  As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed.  The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right.  He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

 

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted.  And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped.  Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Joe growled, spitting into the hot Asian boy’s face, “take my fuckin’ rod, you motherfuckin’ homo cunt!”  As his huge tool plowed into Andy’s tender ass, the thick veined ridges on his shaft tore at the unfortunate cunt’s soft fuckhole like barbed wire.

 

It was too much.  Andy shrieked, loud and hard, his vocal cords stretching taut and sending a vibration that echoed through his entire body.  Joe felt it and shuddered in pleasure.

 

Jake felt it and shuddered in terror.

 

Joe was still pissed.  “Goddam queer-ass fag motherfucker!” he snarled in anger, “Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit!  Yer makin’ more noise than you’re worth, you little homo cunt—guess I need to stop yer fuckin’ pig squealing, cunt.  Lessee now, what’s good to choke off your cumsucking throat…”

 

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand.  Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside.  Joe seized on it like a gift.

 

“Oh hell yeah, this work fuckin’ great,” he smirked diabolically.  “Dude, you musta wanted this—you damn sure dressed to get snuffed, faggot!”

 

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote.  Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

 

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good.  Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry.  He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

 

And it was a frenzy.  It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

 

That wasn’t supposed to happen.  He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

 

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him.  Watching him get fucked.

 

Watching him die.

 

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody.  He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly.  As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly.  Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

 

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though.  His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally.  The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

 

After that, Joe was more deliberate.  Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it.  But then, a distraction—

 

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably.  “What’s goin’ on?  Andy?  Dude?  What the fuck is happening?”  His voice shook with impending tears.

 

“What the fuck is happening, dude,” Joe sneered, turning to look Jake straight in his terrified, uncomprehending face, “is that your bud here is gettin’ some dick.  And then I’m gonna waste him.  Watch close, motherfucker—when I’m done with him, it’ll be your turn.”

 

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face.  “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you.  So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

 

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole.  As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

 

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course.  “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror.  “I ain’t gay!  Andy ain’t gay!  We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

 

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right.  “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

 

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee.  “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy?  Huh?  And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh?  I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick.  He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too.  I mean, it only makes sense, right?  So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

 

With a faint chuckle, Joe hovered close over Andy and spat in his face yet again.  “But first,” he chuckled quietly, “I gotta off this motherfucking pervert.  Ya look healthy, boy.  Too bad.  Just means you’re gonna suffer longer.”

 

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them.  He was suffering enough already.  A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen.  Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

 

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain.  The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain.  The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

 

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

 

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying.  Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump.  Ya like that?  Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya!  It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

 

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror.  It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point.  Andy was getting raped.  Andy was getting murdered.  Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple.  His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

 

It was the stuff of nightmare.  But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

 

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts.  Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

 

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded.  Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

 

Maybe he was gay.  But Jake wasn’t.  He was gonna fight.

 

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought.  Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought.  And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

 

His audience in mind, Joe resumed taunting Andy.  “Like it, dontcha, cunt?  You fuckin’ love havin’ a real man hold you down and put you in yer place, huh, fag?  Can’t hide it when ya die, boy, yer hard cock is tellin’ your buddy here how much yer lovin’ this, you useless homo cum dumpster!”

 

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again.  “Stop!” he screeched.  “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

 

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat.  He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw.  He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face.  “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive.  He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet.  He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

 

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him.  A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock.  Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

 

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

 

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish.  The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

 

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that.  Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

 

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder.  He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff.  He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

 

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering.  Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

 

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face.  It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail.  Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

 

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts.  He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

 

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too.  Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

 

“Watch ‘im, dude,” he grunted as his firm, furry ass flexed with his energetic thrusts, “watch ‘im choke.  Fuck, man his dyin’ ass is grippin’ my shaft so tight—the harder I squeeze his throat, the harder he squeezes my dick.  Goddam dickpig likes it, yeah?  An’ I bet you’ll fuckin’ love it, you worthless cocksucking faggot!”

 

 

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death.  His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

 

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought.  His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions.  His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

 

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable.  The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death.  Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth.  One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

 

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock.  His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts.  Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

 

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock.  “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth.  “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is?  Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

 

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck.  Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch.  Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

 

Andy himself experienced it differently.  For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body.  Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

 

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness.  They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

 

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

 

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

 

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff.  And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it.  Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs.  Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

 

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back.  The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum.  The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath.  He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

 

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle.  As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room.  The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

 

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp.  Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head.  The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen.  His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle.  Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

 

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath.  The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall.  He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

 

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom.  For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

 

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom.  A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence.  The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness.  It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

 

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor.  He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy.  But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

 

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse.  It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move.  Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

 

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate.  “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy!  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

 

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead.  His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him.  The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

 

He needed more of the same, Joe realized.  A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

 

Maybe a little foot worship.  He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

 

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it.  Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

 

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

 

Jake was still far too confused to understand.  He remained motionless.

 

“Take his sneaker off, you stupid scumshit, or I will hurt you.”

 

This registered.  Jake blinked twice and shook himself.  “Take-what?  T-take it off? B-b-but my han-hands…”

 

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert.  You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet.  Do it!”

 

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought.  Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip.  Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

 

“Good bitch,” Joe sneered.  “Keep goin’, fag.  Get the shoe off, bitch.”

 

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head.  To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze.  His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

 

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker.  Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab.  Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

 

It took several minutes.  Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull.  He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire.  It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

 

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off.  The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

 

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done.  “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

 

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

 

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain.  He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve.  He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

 

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot.  As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

 

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out.  Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

 

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage.  “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

 

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind.  The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face.  “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief.  This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay.  And Jake wasn’t gay.

 

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock.  “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face.  “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

 

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion.  Joe next statement was what motivated him.  “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

 

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze.  Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

 

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth.  Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

 

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance.  “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

 

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear.  Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

 

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy.  He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

 

 

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum.  Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

 

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out.  But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

 

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily.  “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.”  But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat.  His heaving got stronger.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up.  The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed.  “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya.  But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker.  Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first.  Lessee, what’ll work…”

 

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva.  “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth.  Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat.  “There ya go, asswipe.  Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

 

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point.  The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control.  Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

 

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel.  But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury.  He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp.  Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

 

And reeking of mansex.  It was Andy’s cumrag.

 

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half.  He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric.  “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat.  He could, and would do what he said.

 

Jake had to obey.  His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey.  He had no choice.  He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance.  And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot.  Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

 

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them.  Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids.  He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

 

“You stupid cumsucking piece of shit,” Joe chuckled malignly, “did ya think I was really gonna let ya try to bite my cock?  Fuckin’ dumbass faggot, yer gonna pay for that—and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you worthless asswipe!”

 

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes.  His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it.  He was truly helpless now.  This couldn’t be happening.  Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this.  He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

 

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy.  “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me.  Work me.  Milk me…”

 

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy.  The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear.  His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat.  As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

 

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie.  The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

 

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym.  This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving.  It was a surreal nightmare.  The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

 

Then Joe made it real.  Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock.  And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

 

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock.  Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

 

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee.  He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow.  His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

 

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness.  The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

 

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice.  “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert.  I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh?  Yeah, faggot?  Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

 

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat.  “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted.  A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

 

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down.  Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

 

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

 

Pubic hair.  Another dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?  How—how had this happened?  He’d gone to do his usual routine after work.  Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home.  As usual.

 

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered.  And some dude’s pubes were in his face.  What the fuck?

 

And then a new imperative arose.  His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant.  But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock.  It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

 

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

 

He wasn’t gonna let it happen.  His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize.  He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee.  “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh?  Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet.  C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes.  In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

 

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus.  The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

 

“Fuckin’-A, ya homo cocksucker, that’s it.  Work my dick as you die, fuckmeat; lessee if you can milk more cum outta me than your dead butt-buddy here.  Yer last sensation is gonna be my spurtin’ sperm floodin’ yer lungs—don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  C’mon, you faggot motherfucker, show me how grateful yer gonna be for my load!”

 

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken.  It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing.  Or oozing at the tip.

 

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen.  He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face.  He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

 

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse.  He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing.  But then there were no words to describe the entirety.

 

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did.  He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

 

He was dying with an erection.  That-that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Ever.

 

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth.  And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse.  And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

 

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions.  In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

 

It’d catch on soon enough.  Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy.  Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

 

Not when it was getting so good…

 

“That’s it, faggot, let go.  Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost.  Go on and die.  It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool.  Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

 

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool.  “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die.  You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

 

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand.  If he had, he might have agreed.  Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch.  He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation.  He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

 

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum.  As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms.  The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

 

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull.  His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat.  Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse.  Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

 

And then he died.  Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco.  In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc.  This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

 

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life.  The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier.  If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

 

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive.  The boy had come bolt upright on his knees.  His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin.  His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down.  But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

 

Jake was already dead.  In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

 

He fell on top of Andy.  Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

 

Joe looked down at himself.  “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

 

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly.  Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

 

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers.  Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure.  No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

 

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet.  He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

 

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry.  Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight.  It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous.  It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

 

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen.  It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat.  Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy.  Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing.  First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

 

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before.  But now…

 

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses.  Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back.  His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists.  The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

 

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen.  The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin.  The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

 

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

 

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead.  As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes.  His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat.  His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

 

Too late for that now.

 

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits.  As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

 

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room.  The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

 

It was too much for Joe.  He wanted a piece of that action.  Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest.  The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

 

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist.  There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked.  The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

 

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed.  But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer.  He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

 

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head.  He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

 

And he was still horny.  He still had more seed to unload.  Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones.  Whatever—it didn’t matter.

 

What mattered was that he needed to cum.  Again.

 

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was.  Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight.  Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test.  If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry.  And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

 

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

 

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness.  There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

 

Stupid piece of shit.  Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to.  Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

 

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself.  Joe smiled.  He understood.  That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves.  And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

 

That’s how they knew.  That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down.  They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

 

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening.  At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

 

And then the rodeo was on.

 

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself.  He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

 

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body.  Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head.  As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

 

Fuck.  He’d snapped Jake’s neck too.  Oh well.

 

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy.  It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser.  He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

 

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it.  While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it.  Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

 

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped.  Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible.  Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could.  Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them.  The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

 

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea.  Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks?  Fuckin’ hot!

 

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly.  He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up.  That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

 

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor.  “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face.  The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

 

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth.  Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

 

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop.  As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

 

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door.  Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with?  The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trucker 7–Trucker v Street Whore

On By m3mayhemIn The Trucker3 Comments

The wind had died down a little but was still brisk.  It had gotten colder and a heavy mist, just short of being rain, was obscuring the quiet streets.  The Trucker had left the stripper’s apartment hot and hard, still flush with the excitement of the kill, but the raw chill in the air soon sapped both his physical and his emotional heat.  Everything was quiet and dim as he walked back to his rented room.

 

The haze got appreciably thicker the closer he got to the hotel, which was why the Trucker didn’t notice the boy until he was within five feet of him.  The hulking stud had just passed the gay bar (now closed for the night) and rounded the corner, the firm tread of his thick-soled boots muffled in the chill dank mist.  Stepping into the glowing orange ball of fog surrounding a streetlight, he noticed a dark shape just beyond.

 

As he approached it, its features resolved into those of a young man.  Despite the thick, distorting atmosphere of the incoming cold front, it was obvious right away that the youth was on the make.  No one who wasn’t selling his body would be out at this hour dressed like that—little whore must be freezing, the Trucker mused.

 

Tempting as it was, he was no longer in the mood.  Ignoring the street slut, he plodded on through the murk.

 

“Hey, dude, wanna play?” It was a hoarse whisper from off to the side. The Trucker paused, then turned and spoke to the kid.

 

“Naw, bitch, not now.”

 

The boy whined, “Why not, man?  I’m just looking for a hit or two, buddy, I won’t charge much.  Do whatever ya want, forty bucks.”

 

The Trucker snorted derisively.  “Yer flatterin’ yerself, cunt,” he grunted.

 

“Whassa matter, man,” the cheap hustler jeered, “that high-priced cocksucker you picked up in the bar take all your money?”

 

The Trucker froze.  “What?” he snapped, glaring at the youth.

 

“Y’know,” the kid drawled.  “Randy.  Stripper at the Cowboy Lounge back there.  Sure, I know him, I’m from around here—and I know what he charges, fuckin’ whore.  Anyways, I seen ya goin’ up to his place.”

 

As the Trucker processed this information, the boywhore continued to throw shade on his rival.  “Dude, I’m better than that fuckin’ cunt ever could be, and I’ll do it for less money.  Bet he didn’t even drain all yer load…”

 

This, the muscular killer realized, was bad.  He’d never realized there was a witness—was he slipping?  It had been in the backyard of that house, the garage apartment—where had this kid been hiding?

 

Whatever the case was, the Trucker realized he needed to take care of this motherfucker quickly.

 

“Maybe you’re right,” he said curtly.  “He wasn’t a good fuck.  Didn’t get me off.  Think you can?”

 

“Fuck yeah, dude, for forty bucks I’ll suck your cock dry and swallow the last drop of your jizz.”

 

“Ok, cunt, prove it,” the Trucker said in a level voice.  “C’mon, I gotta room a couple blocks over.”

 

The whore’s slim shape trailed in the mist behind him as the hard-bodied alpha made his way back to the motel.  His room was on the ground floor; his key allowed them entry through a side door, bypassing the lobby.  It wasn’t until they were in the room, with the door locked behind them, that the Trucker got his first good look at the street hustler.

 

The boy was just under six feet tall and looked no older than twenty.  His hair was long on the top, swept forward, and cut very short on the sides and back.  The longer part on top was frosted an almost strident strawberry blond that didn’t match the dark, shaved hair on the lower areas.  His green, almond-shaped eyes glittered with the cold greed of the hardcore prostitute.  His high cheekbones added a kind of calculating felinity to his expression.

 

He was wearing what appeared to be a simple unlined denim jacket over a slim-fit t-shirt that emphasized his chest by comparison to his slender waist.  His tight jeans were the same pale, faded blue as his jacket, but they were considerably more revealing.  Not because they clung like a second skin to his long, firm legs—which they did—but because of the ragged slashes deliberately cut across the thighs.

 

With every movement, the material parted, giving a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth pale flesh on the hustler’s inner thigh, an alluring inducement to spending money in order to possess his lithe young body for a few minutes—or a few hours.  The Trucker wasn’t impressed—he’d seen better.

 

He’d snuffed better.

 

The whore stood defiantly, staring at the incredibly well-built stranger he’d accosted.  His arms were crossed and his black and white Nike Air Jordan 5s were planted far apart on the thin, threadbare carpet.  “So,” he drawled, “what up, dude?  You gonna whip yer cock out or what?”

 

The Trucker grinned easily.  This little cunt wasn’t worth his time, but he wasn’t about to take a chance.  “Sure,” he said, slipping his leather jacket off, “but I wanna see yours, too.  Strip your shirt off, man, and haul your dick out.  I like to see what I’m payin’ for.”

 

The hustler paused, then smiled.  “Ok, stud, whatever ya want.  I’m Cody, by the way.  Gonna put my stuff over here, K?”  He turned towards the desk/dresser as he shrugged off the denim jacket.  As he laid it across the desk, the Trucker couldn’t help but notice that the rear of the homo slut’s jeans had been cut as well, sliced under the seat and ripped to show the cunt’s bubble butt, his asscheeks slightly shadowed with soft, sandy peachfuzz.

 

The Trucker grasped his own shirt, pulling the thermal up off his massively-muscled chest.  The dogtags he wore were caught in the olive-green fabric; when they finally pulled free, they jingled as they fell back and bounced off the alpha’s broad pecs.  The whore didn’t notice; he kept his back to the Trucker as he slipped off the black slim t-shirt.  He evidently thought the Trucker was still undressing when he slipped a small glass item out of his pocket and slipped it into the folds of the shirt.

 

The experienced alpha knew a meth pipe when he saw one.  His grin grew broader and more shark-like.  No one was gonna come lookin’ for a faggot meth-head whore. He approached the cunt silently.

 

He could waste the witness and no one would care.

 

When Cody turned back to face his john, he was stripped to the waist, the dim lighting giving his lean torso a soft and almost sultry focus.  His firmly-packed jeans still clung to his legs, his Air Jordans were still tightly laced on his feet with the tongues outside the hem of the jeans.  Like a good whore, he’d complied with his trick’s orders and opened his fly.  He’d worn no belt, so he’d left the button fastened at the waist, but beneath that his long dark cock jutted from an exuberant tangle of brunette pubes.

 

He whirled around to gasp involuntarily at the powerfully-built stud looming over him.  This close, he could see the hard, chiseled angles of the Trucker’s scruffy face—and the sharp, steely light of a predator shining coldly and cruelly from his ice-blue eyes.  Cody wasn’t naïve; as the heady, pungent reek of manscent filed his nostrils, he was alert to all the warning signs.

 

Still, the blow was so swift, he never saw it coming. There was a concussive blast of pain in his face accompanied by a dull, thudding smack, like a sledgehammer striking a side of beef.

 

Dazed, Cody blinked and wondered why he was on his knees; he didn’t remember stumbling back and falling under the impact of the sucker-punch.  The stunned boywhore reached up and poked gingerly at his bruised, swelling cheek.  His green eyes, wide with shock, turned up to the scowling face of his john.

 

Swiftly, the Trucker bent down and grabbed a fistful of the slut’s hair—the long dyed hair on the top of the boy’s head offering an excellent handhold.  “So ya saw me tonight, huh?” he snarled, his face twisted with cold rage.  “I’m gonna make damn sure you don’t see anything else, cunt.”

 

Cody gasped and tried to block the blow.  He was too slow—the Trucker popped him hard on the jaw, driving the slim youth back into the desk and knocking over the chair.

 

The groggy youth struggled back up to his knees.  He was breathing deeply, almost sobbing as he tried to understand what was happening.  His rattled, drug-fogged brain found nothing in the muscled stud’s words to cling to; they made no sense.

 

“Wha—“ he started, then stopped cold.  Kneeling, his eyes were crotch-level to the Trucker, and for the first time, he noticed the alpha’s thick, swinging dick.  Even limp, it was more than seven inches, glistening and wreathed in dark veins.  Bursting out of a black bristling mass of pubic hair, the Trucker’s cock recalled every clichéd snake and python metaphor Cody had ever heard.

 

And just as snakes reputedly hypnotize their prey, the young street whore found himself mesmerized by the massive tube of flesh.  It was several seconds before jagged darts of pain began to push their way through Cody’s consciousness, forcing him to tear his tunnel vision away from that frighteningly huge tool and focus on his imminent danger.

 

“D-dude,” he stammered, “I-I didn’t see nothin’—“

 

The Trucker lunged.  The half-dressed whore squealed in shrill terror and tried to cower under the desk.  It was a futile gesture; the older, stronger alpha had no difficulty dragging the whimpering youth from his inadequate hiding place.

 

Cody was slim, but not scrawny.  The hard life of a street whore had had multiple impacts on his body; he damn sure didn’t work out, but he had developed some muscles.

 

Even so, when the Trucker’s huge hands clamped onto the kid’s upper arms and lifted him into the air, they completely encircled the slut’s biceps with the inexorable strength of iron fetters.

 

The gasping rentboy started mewling in pain as he was lifted; the hulking sadist had squeezed the boy’s arms in slightly before using them to raise him straight up.  His entire body weight was being supported by his shoulder joints—it was excruciating.  Blubbering and sniveling, the helpless young slut kicked his Nikes pointlessly six inches off the floor.

 

The Trucker brought the shuddering kid closer to his face.  “You didn’t see anything?” he hissed.

 

The terrified punk couldn’t speak; wide-eyed, he shook his head desperately.  He was starting to sweat in fear and the long dyed hair on his head was dark with perspiration as the rapid motion of his head made it flutter.

 

Still glowering with a brutal rage, the Trucker spat into the boy’s face, then shook him violently.  “So what were ya sayin’ to me when you hit me up, cunt?  Huh?  Answer me, you worthless sack of shit!”

 

Cody’s head hung forward limply.  “R-Randy,” he whispered, barely audible, “y-ya left wi-with him…”

 

“Look at me, whore,” the Trucker said with a tone of cold command.  “Look me in the face.”

 

The trembling hustler obeyed the hard ring of domination in his assailant’s voice.  As his eyes rose, his field of vision was filled first with the Trucker’s hulking, muscled chest, sweat matting the wiry fur.  With each breath the strapping alpha took, the dogtags lying on the dark curls of hair shifted and glinted in the light.

 

Rising higher, his gaze swept up the dude’s thick neck, the tendons showing some of the strain from the effort of keeping him aloft.  Above that was the guy’s face…

 

Cody hadn’t seen it clearly this close.  The strong jaw and firm lips, circled by a black goatee just slightly longer than the scruff darkening the sculpted cheeks entranced him, but the blue eyes, cold and glittering as ice, held his attention intently.

 

Then the Trucker spoke—harshly and gleefully.

 

“Yer little pal Randy?  He’s dead.  I fucked him and snuffed him.  He died squealing in pain and fear like the little faggot pig he was.”

 

He smiled broadly at the gaping youth and spat in his face again.

 

“So ya saw me with that useless homo, huh?  And now he’s dead.  So, whaddaya think I gotta do to you, queerboy?”

 

And with that, he dropped Cody.

 

The street whore fell in a crumpled mound of flesh and denim with his legs curled under him, only the black-and-white Air Jordans showing under his huddled body.  Curled into a fetal ball, the weeping boy tried to understand what was happening.

 

After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t experienced danger in past.  He was a back-alley whore and drug addict; he’d been beaten, he’d been robbed, he’d even been raped.  And each time he’d gotten smarter and stronger.  He’d been selling his body for cash and drugs for more than five years; now, at the age of twenty-one, he thought of himself as street-smart, able to spot the red flags and handle himself.

 

The Trucker nudged the scared youth with his foot, poking the toe of his boot into the boy’s ribs.  “C’mon, cunt, look up here at me.  Up here, bitch.”

 

Unwillingly, Cody lifted his head and peered at the towering stud through eyelids swollen with tears.  The Trucker stood over him, legs spread and hands on his hips, sneering down with anger and contempt—and that was when Cody saw something that froze his blood.

 

The muscled alpha’s cock wasn’t limp anymore.  It wasn’t fully erect yet, but it was swelling and darkening.  As Cody watched in horror, it started to throb visibly.  He knew why.

 

This buff, strapping older dude was getting hard at the thought of offin’ him.  It was the only answer.

 

As this awareness percolated through his soft, drugged brain, it sparked a deep, feral panic in the heart of the cheap rentboy.  Self-preservation kicked in and, with help from his innate arrogance, overcame his cowardice.  The cowed youth rose up in defiance.

 

It was the worst choice of his short, wasted life.

 

Curling his legs under him, Cody felt his tight Air Jordans gain traction on the thin carpet as he propelled himself upwards, his smooth, lithe body tensed in stress and effort.

 

The Trucker was ready for the whore, naturally.  He’d seen and recognized the gleam of desperation in the hustler’s eyes and was expecting a panicked lunge.  As the kid popped up, the brawny top swung his powerful arm and backhanded the punk in the face.

 

Cody’s rebellion came crashing to the ground as his wiry young body slammed into the dresser.  The slut dropped back to the floor like a sack of potatoes, frantically gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him.  Clawing his way back to vertical, he threw up his arms to block the Trucker’s lunge.

 

It was useless.  The older, stronger man knocked the hustler’s arms away and wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat.  He squeezed and lifted, raising the slim youth into the air once again.

 

Cody clutched at the vise-like grip on his neck, instinctively and ineffectually trying to pry the Trucker’s fingers free.  His hightops kicked and flailed in pain and panic as his esophagus collapsed under the weight of his entire body, dangling from the alpha’s steel-like grip.

 

The sadistic strongman spat a thick wad of phlegm into the boy’s darkening face.  He grinned in a rage that scintillated with psychotic glee as the struggling youth clawed desperately at his wrists.  “Shoulda kept yer eyes shut, huh, you worthless cumsuckin’ faggot?” he sneered.  “Now I gotta waste ya.  And since I gotta do it anyway, I might as well enjoy myself, right, cunt?  Yeah?”

 

Squeezing his massive paws more tightly around the slut’s throat, he drew the jerking youth in closer to him.  “Y’wanna know what I enjoy?” he hissed, his breath hot and malevolent on Cody’s swelling face.  “I enjoy hurting fags.  I like snuffing homo cunts.  Get it, cocksucker?  The more you suffer, the more I like it.”

 

Shaking the lean, shuddering form violently, the Trucker laughed aloud, a cold, harsh sound that was somehow more intimidating that his overt anger had been.  As Cody felt his body flop limply in the air, helpless in the top’s powerful, bulging arms, he could also feel the truth of the stud’s claims.

 

Every time his smooth torso and strong but slender legs swung in towards the dominant killer’s body, some part of him made contact with the dude’s huge, hot cock.  The massive spear of flesh was fully erect by now and Cody realized that it had been getting progressively harder as the psycho dude had been beating him.  As the hard, spade-shaped head impacted the punk’s soft, creamy flesh, it left a smear of clear, slimy precum.

 

The crazy motherfucker wasn’t lyin’—he really did get off on inflicting pain.

 

The Trucker looked the terrified rentboy directly in the eyes as he spoke.  “Tonight ain’t just gonna be the last night of your short life, you unlucky sack of shit—it’s gonna be the worst.  And it’s gonna be worse than you can possibly imagine, you disgusting pansy-ass fairy!”

 

With that, he turned abruptly and hurled the young hustler into the chair and the small round table on the far side of the room, across from the bed.  With a loud crash, the whore’s limp form knocked the furniture aside like bowling pins.  Cody, as a result, impacted several hard objects before his battered and bruised body came to rest on the filthy thin carpet.

 

The young whore twisted and writhed in agony.  He wasn’t mentally capable of understanding the details of the situation; his meth-tweaked awareness was swamped with torment and fear.  He was only vaguely aware of the vibrations of the Trucker’s heavy tread that signaled his approach.

 

He became immediately much more aware of the cruel muscleman’s presence when the Trucker swung his heavy steel-toed engineer boot back and delivered a brutal kick directly to the slut’s vulnerable torso.

 

Cody writhed and convulsed as the devastating blow from the alpha’s thick black boot shattered two of his ribs, sending razor-sharp fragments of bone to rip through the youth’s internal organs.  The whore squealed in horrific agony as his spleen, stomach and left lung were peppered as if by shrapnel.  Reflexively, he rolled onto his right side in an involuntary attempt to escape from the source of pain.

 

“Fuck yeah!” crowed the Trucker triumphantly.  “Now yer feelin’ me, huh, queerboy?  Hope ya like it, motherfucker, cause this rodeo’s just gettin’ started!”  And digging his heel brutally into the young boywhore’s soft belly, he rolled the shuddering, sweating kid onto his back.  “Did ya like that one, whore?  Course ya did, you faggot cumdump, lookitya squirming with pleasure.  Just love a real man puttin’ ya in yer place, dontcha, you sperm-suckin’ homo?  Then yer gonna love my boot in yer face, asswipe.  Enjoy it, you pansy fuckwad!”

 

The Trucker raised his leg and paused.  Flinching, Cody hesitated, then peered up at the thick sole of the boot hanging directly over his face.  It was all the vicious older stud had been waiting for.  Tensing the huge muscles in his bulging, denim-wrapped thigh, he stomped on the cheap slut’s head as hard as he could, driving his booted foot down and feeling it grind squelchingly into the wailing punk’s vulnerable, unprepared face.

 

The sharp, deep tread of the thick rubber sole tore at Cody’s skin as his nose collapsed with a sickening crunch; the tread pattern was pounded so hard into his cheek that it was clearly visible in the bruises.

 

The Trucker drew his leg up again.  For a brief moment, the traumatized whore had a glimpse of his attacker looming over him, about to inflict more pain.  The well-built stud seemed more domineering than ever as he snarled down at the pain-wracked boy, his lips curled in disgust. His broad, hairy chest, shiny with sweat, expanded with each effort-borne grunt torn from the killer by the exertions of his thick muscles.

 

Again, the boot hung over Cody’s face.  The rentboy made a half-hearted motion to dodge it, but the alpha dropped his foot with the speed and force of an industrial piston, catching the slut full on the mouth.

 

This time, the crunching sound was louder.  This time, his black leather boot did much more damage.  And this time, he was rewarded with a loud gurgling shriek as Cody’s lower jaw snapped in three places.

 

The young hustler rolled violently on the floor, squealing and mewling in wordless agony with his arms wrapped about his head.  His flailing Nikes scraped furrows in the thin carpet.  Sweat beaded on his smooth flat abdomen as he rode vast waves of pain and terror.

 

Some part of his cold and calculating street whore mentality was still functional; it had noted that the brutal stud had paused the attack.  Lighting a smoke from the pack on the bedside table, the buff sadist was sitting on the bed and admiring his work.  As he fondled his dogtags idly with one hand, his thick cock jutted like a prow from his crotch, angry and dripping in anticipation.

 

If Cody had a chance to escape, this was it; this was the longest and the farthest he’d been out of his assailant’s reach.  But escape was no longer an option for him.  Not only had his body been stomped and crushed, his mind had been beaten as well.  His street-smart but drugged brain was unable to wrap itself around the events of the last half-hour.

 

What was happening?  He’d followed this hot john back to his room.  He was gonna earn a little money, drain the dude’s balls down his throat, take his forty bucks (and whatever else he could get without being noticed) and go hit up his dealer.  Now—

 

But he couldn’t complete the thought.  As his nervous system handled the unspeakable torment by going into physical shock, his psyche did much the same thing, blocking his panicked thoughts from reaching the logical conclusion.

 

Cody shut down, physically and mentally.  He curled into a ball again, sobbing and wailing, thrashing about in pain as drool leaked from his twisted, misshapen mouth.  The Trucker watched him intently, deeply enjoying the youth’s nightmarish suffering.  He honestly hadn’t expected to get hard again tonight—after all, that last homo fucker had been a real workout—but damn if this smooth hot little faggot didn’t make his junk all stiff.  And, as he’d said, he needed to make the cumsucking shitsack witness into meat anyway—might as well get his money’s worth, so to speak.

 

Leaving his butt to smolder in the ashtray, the Trucker rose and crossed swiftly to the shuddering ball of misery making him so unexpectedly horny.  Swooping down, he snagged a handful of long blond hair and jerked the sniveling youth upright before pulling him excruciatingly to his feet the same way.  The punk shrieked and quickly found his feet, standing up voluntarily to avoid having his scalp ripped open.

 

But the Trucker didn’t want him on his feet, he wanted him on the bed.  Still grasping a fistful of hair, the older, stronger man tightly gripped the lower half of the boy’s face.  With cruel and deliberate sadism, he squeezed viciously, feeling the jagged edges of broken bone grinding together in horrific torture under his relentless handhold.

 

The punk’s eyes rolled back in his head as the pain exceeded his toleration and he trembled on the edge of consciousness.  His eyelashes fluttered as his body twitched limply against the killer’s hard, sculpted mass.  With a swift, graceful twist, reminiscent of a master martial arts move, the Trucker flipped the slim, smooth cunt in an arc that spun him in the air before slamming him down onto the bed.

 

Cody found himself surfacing in a searing pool of sharp anguish.  His breath was coming in jagged, painful gasps.  He had no way of knowing that the splintered remains of his broken ribs had torn his left lung so badly that it was collapsing.  Added to the constriction of his airway caused by his crushed nose and broken jaw, the young hustler quickly learned that the only thing more terrifying than the prospect of being beaten to death was that of suffocation.

 

He croaked and gurgled, clawing frantically at his face and throat.  Each time he pawed uncontrollably at his jaw in a desperate attempt to improve his respiration, he suffered unbearable agony, but the fight for survival took precedence over the mere physical torture.

 

The Trucker watched in malevolent, erotic joy.  Grinning, he approached the bed, his powerful, towering form imposing itself between Cody and the light, casting a huge dark shadow of doom over handsome, unlucky punk.  Even in his hypoxic panic, the cheap drugged-out cunt was aware of the hard, cold killer.

 

As the alpha reached the bed, his erect shaft swam into Cody’s field of vision.  Blurred as it was, it could still make out the dark purple mushroom-like head, visibly pulsing, each throb forcing a trickle of clear precum out to stream down from the tip like string of spit.  Soon the Trucker was close enough that his eager ooze was splattering on the whore’s smooth, silky skin like hot candle wax.

 

The ice-cold, cruel killer looked down at his victim and gave the stunned and bewildered youth a smile so charming and charismatic that even in the depths of his wretched distress, the hardened street fag felt himself drawn in.  For a split second of soft-focus blur induced by oxygen deprivation, Cody felt himself not only forgiving his attacker for the pain he’d endured, but also falling in love with him.

 

Then the Trucker spoke.

 

“Time to die, motherfucker.  Time to take you out, you worthless cumdump.  Before I do, though, think I’m gonna unload in ya.  Might as well, since yer gonna get dumped in the garbage like soiled, cum-soaked underwear when I’m done with ya.  Ain’t like anyone’s gonna care, not about you or your friend—you know, wassisname, the one I offed earlier.  Heh, wonder if the disgusting cumpig has gotten stiff yet.”

 

An evil light of sadistic viciousness sparkled sharply in the Trucker’s blue eyes as he leaned down and whispered to the helpless, frightened, desperate young hustler.   The well-used assfuck whore stretched his battered face into a silent plea for mercy from the stronger, older, more powerful man who now held his future existence in his rough, callused hands.

 

Mercy had never been on the table.

 

Sitting on the bed and spreading his thick, powerful legs, the Trucker snatched a handful of hair and Cody found himself being jerked roughly forward by his scalp yet again.  Still using the better part of his strength just to remain conscious, the youthful slut found his face being used as a towel as the Trucker dragged his bruised and tender cheeks over his strongman’s massive pectorals, the alpha’s wiry, curly chest hair scraping the kid’s damaged cheeks like steel wool.

 

The punk’s face stung and burned as the stud’s salty sweat was rubbed into his open cuts; the sharp edges of the dogtags inflicted new slashes for the Trucker’s reeking perspiration to burn.  The muscled alpha dragged the boy’s torn face back and forth across his chest several times before pulling his head back up.

 

“Lookitya, you stinking, disgusting pansy motherfucker.  Time to die like a disgusting faggot worm.  So ya like tellin’ folks what ya seen, huh?  Ya like openin’ yer big fat fag mouth, huh?  Good, cunt.  Open it now.  Open it and choke, you cocksucking piece a’ shit!”

 

The Trucker forced Cody’s head down onto his erect shaft, locking his arms into place behind his back with a single hand, strong as a steel bar.

 

The huge, oozing rod plunged deep into the whore’s esophagus; the large, spongy spear-shaped tip plugging his windpipe with brutal effectiveness.  And that was when the ultimate twist of nightmare came into play—with his jaw broken, Cody couldn’t close his mouth.

 

He couldn’t bite down.  And he wasn’t even remotely strong enough to break free from the powerful sadist’s grip.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  He was choking to death on the dude’s cock.

 

Instantly, a white-hot sheet of panic inflamed his mind.  Slim but strong, the lithe street punk didn’t just struggle, he fought for his life like a feral cat.  He kicked and clawed frantically, managing to work his right hand free.

 

Then he made another bad mistake. Curling his fingers into claws, he flailed his hand until it found purchase in the killer’s curly fur and yanked out a few hairs.

 

Grunting more in anger than in pain, the Trucker knocked the offending hand away.  “You stupid asswipe,” he hissed, “So you like pain, huh?  Motherfuck, I’m gonna make sure you get plenty!”  Glancing around in a blood-tinted rage, the furious savage killer spied a ball-point pen on the nightstand; a cheap promotional giveaway with the motel’s name and address printed on it.

 

In a towering paroxysm of wrath, he snatched up the pen and, wielding it like a knife, stabbed it through the hustler’s back and into his right kidney.  It was blunt; it took a great deal of effort to drive the dull tip through the multiple layers of flesh and muscle until it reached the organ.

 

It took time, too.  It wasn’t quick.  And as the hard plastic was punched through his helpless, splayed body, Cody gagged and foamed on the huge throbbing tool plugging his throat.  The tortured youth was making thick desperate gurgling sounds that didn’t sound human as his straining, tormented body responded to the intense trauma by flooding his bloodstream with hormones.

 

Cody writhed in the Trucker’s lap, his smooth back wet and glistening with a cold film of sweat stinking of adrenaline and testosterone.  His slim, firm legs, still tightly wrapped in his skinny jeans, thrashed violently on the bed, his hightops catching at the sheets.

 

The Trucker left the pen in the boy’s back as he forced the cunt’s head down on his dick.  He didn’t force it all the way down, though.  The cunt had just enough space in his throat to suck down a minimal amount of oxygenated air before vomiting it back up in a frothy mass of drool.

 

“Goddam ass-lickin’ queer!” the powerful alpha grunted.  “Take it, homo, or I’ll stick ya again—and this time I’ll make it hurt.  You kick too much, bitch, and I’m fuckin’ sick of it.  I’m gonna make sure this goes nice and smooth.  Your fuckmeat friend took a lot outta me—drained my balls as he died in screaming agony.  Ain’t gonna fight with you, you cheap faggot whore; you ain’t worth it.  He was better lookin’ and a better fuck, dickbag. Lessee now, what’s a good way to teach you what happens to fuckin’ fag garbage that don’t know its place?”

 

It was probably for the best that Cody was incapable of seeing the Trucker’s face’ the expression alone would have made him lose control of his bowels.

 

“I got it, dude.  Pigs don’t fly, fuckwad.  I’ll clip your wings.”

 

The Trucker had such complete control over the weeping boywhore that by putting his elbow on the back of the slut’s head, he was able to keep his engorged shaft jammed down the shuddering boy’s throat.  With both hands free, he was easily able to bend the kid’s left arm up.  Gripping the arm just below the elbow with one hand and the wrist with the other, he applied pressure.

 

It really didn’t take too much before he was rewarded with a loud double cracking sound as both the radius and the ulna snapped like toothpicks under his bulging biceps.  The unfortunate hustler convulsed in agony, his mind a blank sheet of flaming pain.

 

Next, the Trucker brought up the boy’s right arm.  He stroked the pale, silky-smooth skin for a moment before brutally breaking that arm as well. This one didn’t go as well—at least not for Cody.  The bones shattered into a greenstick fracture, tearing through the skin.

 

For the next few minutes, Cody ceased to exist.  It was too much.  The tough, street-smart, fucked-out boywhore who prided himself on being able to take anything his johns imposed on him, sank into a sea of pain.  The kaleidoscopic colors danced in his nightmare of torture and trauma, red and white—and then, finally, black…a dark, cold, fiery, silent, screaming darkness…

 

The Trucker wrapped his hands in the long dyed strands of the punk’s hair, raising his head up just enough so that the kid didn’t pass out with the shaft plugging his throat.  The vicious killer wasn’t done with Cody—yet.

 

He was close, though.  Real close.

 

He hadn’t thought he’d be able to blow another load tonight; the last few days had been—energetic.  Or was the word dynamic?

 

He paused to consider the best adjective to describe his brutal, manic killing spree as the battered and broken youth quivered in unconscious agony.

 

“Hhhuuunnnhhh…” Cody groaned as the pinpricks of awareness slowly intensified into excruciating pain.  The Trucker’s evil smirk grew wider as he felt the whore’s smooth, slim body writhe and struggle in his lap with returning consciousness.  “That’s it, cunt,” he whispered, “come back to me.  Almost over now.  Work for it, bitch, work for my load.”

 

Slowly, he began to force Cody back down, impaling his head a fraction of an inch at a time.  The mangled rentboy was utterly enmeshed in an electric net of pain as his nervous system tried to process his physical agony, but (unfortunately) the nerves still functioned—all of them.  He could feel the massive throbbing head of the alpha’s cock slip down his esophagus on a slick film of drool and precum.  Each tiny motion of his head downward sent a fresh slash of fiery torture from his shattered jaw.

 

“Does it hurt, motherfucker?” the Trucker hissed quietly.  “Toldja ya shoulda kept yer mouth shut—now ya can’t, huh?  So you’re gonna take my dick all the way down, dude.  All the way down into Hell.  Here’s a protip, bitch—the sooner you make me cum, the sooner I’ll end it.  Remember that, when it gets too intense for ya, you useless faggot.  Milk me and I’ll end your pain forever.”

 

Cody understood what was happening; the mind-bending agony would have told him he was gonna die even had the muscle-bound killer’s taunts not laid out his immediate future with cruel glee.

 

He knew he was gonna die but he didn’t know why.  And by now, it didn’t matter.  The shuddering sack of meat that had been Cody was beyond the point of wondering about the motive for his murder.

 

The lean, sexy youth had started that evening using his streetwise skills to lure johns, trading his body for money and the money for drugs.  Now his feral cunning was focused on surviving just a few more seconds.

 

Writhing in unspeakable agony, the punk gasped wetly as the thick pulsing shaft plugged his windpipe with excruciating slowness.  Each panicked breath required more effort to draw—and more effort meant more pain wracking his helpless, half-nude body as the jagged edges of his broken bones tore new wounds inside him.

 

The Trucker felt the smooth, sweat-soaked body tremble in agony.  “Fuck yeah, dude, that’s it,” he muttered softly, sighing with pleasure as the cunt’s esophagus quivered around his swollen mushroom tip.  “Work it, ya pansy shitsack.  Choke on my fuckin’ cock, you worthless faggot whore.  C’mon motherfucker, fight it.  Death is gonna be cold, bitch, so fucking cold.  Keep fightin’ it, cocksucker, your last desperate panic feels so goddam good on my dick…”

 

The dying hustler had no choice but to obey the powerful stud who was now controlling the last few seconds of his life.  The Trucker’s enormous tool was fully inserted.  Wiry pubic hair scraped the slut’s face like steel wool—a mangled face, mashed against the Trucker’s scrotum, increasing the cunt’s misery as the strapping alpha’s huge balls pressed relentlessly into his jaw, grinding the serrated ends of broken bones together.

 

Worst of all, though, was the pain of suffocation.  A huge, pulsating tube of flesh completely filled his throat, the thick blood vessels wrapped around it acting as gaskets, utterly plugging the flow of air.

 

The red, slashing haze of agony that enveloped the kid was thicker than the fog outside—but it all stemmed from the enormous cock choking him.  As the oxygen level in his blood dropped, he began to thrash, desperately seeking more air.  The harder he jerked, the more his wounds opened.  The pen that had been jammed into his kidney slashed its blunt tip through that organ while his broken arms flopped uselessly.  Slow asphyxiation even increased the pain in his crushed nose as the cunt kept trying to fill his sinuses in a vacuum.

 

The only parts of him that still functioned were his legs, kicking and flailing violently as his Air Jordans snagged on the cheap sheets.  The punk’s jerking sneakers tangled in the thin material, though, limiting their usefulness to the dying whore.

 

Actually, though, there were other parts of him that still worked.  His brain was suffering progressive damage from hypoxia, but it was still able to process the input from his screaming nervous system.  The quivering, dying boycunt was beyond all concepts of life and death and was now little more than meat responding to stimuli.

 

One piece of meat that was responding was his dick.  He was face down on the bed, his head clamped immovably in the Trucker’s crotch.  As his lean, lithe body shuddered during his drawn-out agony, it slid and slipped on the cold, rank sweat that was squeezed out of him in his death throes.  His thin but long dick, pressed between the moist sheets and his equally slick, smooth belly, was being rubbed into an involuntary state of erection.

 

The more Cody kicked and died, the closer he got to cumming.

 

“Fuckin’-A, fag, die,” the Trucker grunted as his powerful muscles tightened with approaching orgasm.  His entire body, glistening with mansex sweat, shuddered with pleasure, making his dogtags jump and jingle on his huge, furry chest.  “C’mon, you worthless piece a’ shit, take my load and die on my dick.  So close, cocksucker, so fuckin’ close to puttin’ yer lights out for good—FUCK!!!”

 

Cody’s brain had been starved of oxygen too long; it lost control of the voluntary nervous system.  The maimed, damaged cunt convulsed frenetically, twisting his fractured arms into agonizing positions as his legs kicked uncontrollably.  The sheet was still tangled around his sneakers; as his feet jerked violently, the thin, yellowed fabric failed under the strain and tore noisily.

 

It was his head, though, that was responsible for the Trucker’s outcry.  It bobbed up and down as the helpless rentboy contorted in his death throes.  The dying whore spent his last moments alive giving his killer involuntary head; it made the sadistic killer blow his load.

 

The unfortunate Cody had a last hint of what was happening as the final spark of life guttered out in his terror-wracked mind.  It was a final nightmarish impression of drowning, not in water, but in lava…or maybe molten lead…a hot thick smoky liquid searing his lungs…

 

A white-hot bolt of excruciating electricity fired in his groin; the trembling hustler never knew that he’d shot his death load onto the stained mattress, the warm milky wad smearing between the scratchy fabric and his smooth, flat belly.

 

The corpse’s blackened face was all but invisible in the cruel top’s crotch.  The rhythmic convulsions of a dying body were replaced with the random but intense twitching of a body already dead.  Each time the boywhore jerked, thick pearly foam that was equal parts drool and spunk was forced past the swollen, blue lips, matting the Trucker’s pubic hair.

 

The Trucker gasped and shuddered, sending one last powerful jet of semen deep into the faggot whore’s lungs.  The corpse was still quivering, mindless meat with no control, as the Trucker pulled the head up off his sticky, glazed shaft.  Tossing the head away from him like the garbage it was, the Trucker reached over and grabbed another cigarette from the pack on the nightstand.  He leaned back, admiring his own erect cock, still throbbing and oozing from the tip.

 

The dead whore slowly slid halfway off the bed, headfirst, landing with the dark, mangled, spunk-smeared face buried in the filthy carpet.  Up on the bed, the cunt’s expensive kicks were still jerking as the corpse began the long process of cooling and stiffening.

 

The Trucker flicked his ash around randomly; he damn sure wasn’t gonna sleep here now.  He was gonna jump in the shower and head back to his truck.  He was still making plans as he ground out his smoldering butt in the small of the fag’s back, the dead skin sizzling and blackening as the cherry scorched it.

 

Heading into the bathroom, the Trucker had already decided what he needed to do next.  He was tired, but he didn’t have any time to rest.  He needed to put some distance between these dead homos and himself.  Not that he regretted tonight; this last little fucker had taught him a valuable lesson about witnesses.

 

There was a loose end he needed to handle.  He’d get clean, get out—and get that one fuck who could ID him.

 

 

=====================================================================

 

 

By the evening of the same day, the wind had picked up again, blowing the haze away.  The night was clear but cold as Mark raced down the highway towards San Amadeo.  The news of a double killing in the next state had electrified the profiler; he knew, just from the initial reports of the crimes, that it was the serial killer he was tracking.

 

As his government-issued Ford hurtled east, he devoutly wished he’d been able to reach Dan.  These murders had stirred something deep within him.  Viewing the bodies, he’d he been horrified—and aroused.

 

And the things he’d found on that trooper’s phone…

 

He hadn’t reported the texts—the photos—the videos, dear God, those videos—that he’d found stored on the dead cop’s phone.  But as he watched them in his car, he’d felt his cock stiffen.

 

Mark was terrified.  He didn’t know why these gruesome scenes of rape and murder got him hard.  And Dan was on assignment, out of pocket.  Dan could have talked him down.

 

Mark thought that phone sex with Dan was almost as good as the real thing—almost.  It sure would have made him feel better about whatever the fuck he was feeling right now.

 

That wasn’t an option at the moment, though.  And he couldn’t ask were Dan was. Both were so deep in the closet that no one at the FBI realized that either one was gay, much less that they fucked like rabbits whenever they got the chance.

 

So Mark was on his own, chasing a killer with more than just professional interest.  He had personal questions, and this vicious serial killer might have the answers.  He needed to find the dude before anyone else.

 

He put his foot on the floor.  The Ford whined as it accelerated, speeding into the frigid night towards a murder scene.

M4M4Christ

On By m3mayhemIn M4M StoriesLeave a comment

Joe rolled over in bed, his hard, hairy body sluggish in sleep.  The phone on the nightstand was beeping an alert.  Instantly, he was awake—albeit reluctantly; less than eight hours ago he’d been engaged in vigorous physical activity.  But this might be work.  In his line, he didn’t have a regular schedule.  He was always on call.

 

Sitting up, he glanced down at the phone and realized it wasn’t his.  The details of last night came flooding back to him.  The little daddy’s boy faggot he popped.  This was that kid’s phone.  He’d taken some good shots of the corpse but hadn’t sent them to daddy yet.  He’d planned to do that once he got home, but he was so worn out, he’d fallen asleep before he got it done.

 

Of course, he might have had time to get the pics sent if he hadn’t played around on the cunt’s phone, posting a couple of ads on the fag sex apps the little homo had on his phone.  Stupid piece of shit hadn’t even bothered with any passwords, either.  Joe was free to post whatever he wanted under the dead kid’s login.

 

That was what was happening now.  There’d been a response.  The original post had been a generic “looking for sex” note giving nothing more than physical stats and neighborhood (one a good half-hour from Joe’s actual residence).

 

Despite Joe’s lack of rest, his dick slowly swelled and jutted as he read the reply.

 

“hey man i aint been with a dude but I wanna try    just turned 18   cant do anything at home  HMU if you wanna meet but its gotta be public I don’t want no pervs”

 

Joe tamped his hypersexual excitement down and sent back a response, asking about the boy’s appearance.  The teen sent back a selfie, showing a broad, grinning face with a large nose, big brown eyes with long lashes and curly hair nearly the same shade of brown.  Only the top of the kid’s torso was visible, but it showed a smooth chest, lean but broad.

 

The alpha suggested a meeting in the area he’d mentioned in the post, at a coffee bar he’d passed on occasion.  The kid agreed to the location, but asked that they meet that evening.

 

It seemed that over the holiday break, his parents had enrolled him in a draconian vacation bible school.  Any absence would be reported to them.  Afterwards, however, he could sneak out…

 

Joe grunted in frustration.  He wanted the tender young cunt now—but there was nothing he could do about it.  Stifling his anger, he agreed to meet the boy at ten o’clock that night.

 

But the little bible-thumping cumsucker was gonna pay for making him wait. In the meantime, he eased the sadistic beast within him by sending SWAT daddy the pics of his raped and murdered son…

 

————————————————————————————————-

 

Joe was in the parking lot at half-past nine, scoping the place out and waiting for the kid to show up.  He wanted to see how the teen arrived—if he came by car, if he came alone—anything to let him know if it was safe to continue with his plans.  Based on the punk’s response, Joe expected him to be alone, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

 

Laying the seat back, the buff alpha lit a cigarette as he waited.  He cracked the window and exhaled the smoke, his thick black leather jacket letting him ignore the winter chill.  The white thermal shirt stretched tightly across his broad chest helped insulate him as well, but he could feel the cool air descend over his legs.  His black jeans were faded and worn, and skin-tight as they were, did little to keep out the cold.

 

He didn’t care.  The heat welling angrily from his swollen crotch was enough.

 

He shifted his feet, his heavy leather engineer boots making scuffling sounds as the thick soles dragged on the floor mats.  As his cigarette dwindled and he lit another, his impatience built.  He’d fully expected the kid to show up at least a couple of minutes early, but it was just past ten now and the little piece of shit hadn’t shown up yet.

 

That didn’t bode well for the cunt’s immediate future.

 

Joe was just about to light yet another smoke when he saw the boy, walking quickly as he turned the corner from a side street.  He was alone—stupid motherfucker, he was gonna regret that—and wore a gray fleece hoodie zipped up with the hood tightened around his head.  Only his face was visible, with a few sandy locks on his forehead, but it was enough for Joe to recognize him.

 

He couldn’t see what the kid was wearing under the hoodie, but he had a taut pair of skinny jeans below, the pale brown material—almost the same color as his hair—cradling his rounded asscheeks.  White, firmly-laced hightop sneakers completed his outfit.

 

Even from a distance, there was something in the kid’s face—or maybe it was something that wasn’t there…

 

He got out of the car, his black boots striding quickly across the asphalt as he intercepted the youth before he could get inside the crowded coffee shop.  The odd impression of the boy’s face increased as he approached; after a moment, he recognized what he was noticing.

 

Innocence.  The boy was sexually curious, but was utterly inexperienced in sex.  The powerful sadist struggled to stifle an evil grin, but was unable to control the enlarging bulge in his groin.  He was gonna enjoy destroying the unlucky kid.  The punk had no idea what he was about to suffer.

 

“Hey,” he called out softly, “you’re late.  Thought you were gonna be here at ten.”

 

The boy stopped and sized him up.  The kid clearly liked what he saw.  His jeans were just as incapable of hiding his erection as Joe’s were in his own case—two hard throbbing dicks visible as they looked at each other.  Joe could see lust lighting the twink’s hazel eyes as they followed the contour of the older man’s thick hog, outlined in his crotch in tight denim.

 

The boy blinked. “Name’s Noah,” he gasped throatily before gulping nervously and holding out his hand.

 

Joe grinned easily.  “I’m Trevor,” he replied.  It didn’t matter if the punk new his real name or not, but Joe didn’t want anyone to overhear; there was a couple getting into a car a few feet away.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” Noah said sheepishly.  “We were late getting back from bible study and it took my folks a while to get to sleep.”

 

“You had to sneak out?” Joe asked, careful to keep the contempt out of his voice.

 

“Yeah,” Noah admitted, blushing with embarrassment.  “See, my folks are real strict and they’re real religious, too.  I’m not allowed out alone after nine at night.  And Dad takes the car keys with him when he goes to bed, so I had to walk.  I mean, they don’t let me have a license, but I can drive.”

 

Joe chuckled silently to himself.  “You couldn’t get a friend to give you a lift?”

 

Noah was horrorstruck.  “Dude, all my friends are in the same church as me—they’d rat me out to my parents in a heartbeat!  And if they knew I was meeting a strange man…”  He broke off, the thought making him shudder.  “Y’know, maybe I shouldn’t do this…”

 

“C’mon, man, you’re already here and no one knows,” Joe cajoled.  “And I damn sure ain’t gonna say anything.”

 

Noah winced at the curse but seemed to consider the idea.  Joe upped the ante.  “Besides, I got a room at a motel halfway across town where nobody’s gonna know either of us.”

 

He had, too.  It was a cheap, run-down place out on what had been the highway until the bypass was built.  Now it was a rent-by-hour/day/week/month joint that served more as a flophouse to the locals.  It was full of whores and drunks—but not, at least, bedbugs.

 

Before coming to the coffee bar, he’d driven there and given a tweaker forty bucks to rent a twenty-dollar room for the night.  After, Joe pocketed the key, secure in the knowledge that the meth addict would take the change and get so wasted that within a couple of hours he’d be unable to remember who gave him cash for a room.

 

Noah hesitated, glancing uneasily through the window, as if making sure no one inside had recognized him.  The kid was deep in the closet and scared as hell.  Joe recognized the symptoms.  He’d have to coax the little fuck gently, at least for a while.  Once they got to the room, he’d have the cunt in his control.

 

The powerful alpha smiled charmingly at the skittish teen, his rugged, scruffy good looks adding irresistibly to the lure of his muscled body.  Noah fought within himself, his fundamental Christian upbringing battling ferociously with his pure pig lust.  The hormones pumping through his lithe teen body decided the issue.

 

“Ok, dude,” he muttered thickly as desire fogged his brain, “If no one’s gonna know, I guess it’s ok.  But…but, y’know…I…I ain’t done anything like…well, like this, y’know?”

 

“It’ll be ok,” Joe grinned cheerfully, “after all, a little fun never killed anybody.  C’mon, my car’s over there.”

 

The parking lot was empty by this time.  No one saw the teen in the hoodie and the powerfully-built dude in leather and jeans get into the same car.

 

As his car headed north, then east through town, the buff sadist was surprised to feel the teen’s hand fumbling between his legs.  The boy was anxious to fondle the older dude’s shaft.  As Noah gripped the thick, denim-wrapped shaft, he inhaled shakily in lust and amazement; the strapping, mysterious stud was hung like a horse.

 

The naïve youth was enthralled; he had no actual experience with other men—not even in terms of porn; he’d had no unrestricted internet access.  He had little with which he could compare the massive tube of flesh his hands were now massaging; only his own cock seemed adequate.

 

The latter was smaller, but not by much.  Noah wasn’t unendowed himself; his own vein-wrapped tool was almost a good seven inches long and two in diameter.  And while Noah hadn’t seen any porn, he’d seen his classmates in the locker room at his private religious school.  He’d treasured up the images of smooth naked teen bodies for his beat-off sessions, but he’d also noticed that he was better hung than any of the other boys.

 

Now he’d met someone even bigger.  And even though he knew it was not just disgusting and sinful but downright dangerous, he couldn’t help being drawn in, hoping to be introduced to dark, hidden pleasures he hadn’t dared to fully acknowledge, even to himself.

 

Joe was already aware of what was running through the boy’s mind; it really wasn’t that difficult to figure out.  He reveled in anticipation of his control over the kid’s emotions as he lulled the religious youth into taking his cock before unleashing an explosion of violence.

 

Noah had been too preoccupied with dick to notice his surroundings, but he looked up as Joe pulled into the motel parking lot.  He tightened the drawstring of his hoodie, craning his neck as he looked around concernedly.  “Uh, Trevor?” he quavered, “uh, is this place ok?”

 

Joe chortled deeply.  “Yeah, man, it’s safe.  No one’s gonna see ya here.  C’mon, man, follow me and I promise you’ll blow your most intense load ever.”

 

Noah’s cock was still erect and pulsing within the tight confines of his skinny jeans; he jumped out of the car, his white hightops padding along silently in the footprints of Joe’s thick black boots.  The sadistic alpha had already switched on a light in the room by the time the kid reached the doorway.

 

The privileged, protected youth looked around at the rented squalor in despair.  He’d only ever experienced squeaky-clean households and sanitized thoughts (except for those dark sinful ones that gave him wood).

 

The room was dim and hazy, still reeking of smoke.  Not just cigarettes (he’d recognized that illicit scent on the mysterious stud and it made him start to ooze from his mushroom tip) but the sweet and unfamiliar scents of weed and crack.  The rickety furniture was marked with dark lines—burns, actually, spots where cigarettes had burnt down and hot crack and meth pipes had been set down.

 

The dank, fetid air was being pushed lazily around by an ancient window AC unit that was not in a window but had been placed in a hole cut in the rear wall; it looked like garbage but the heat certainly worked—the room was over eighty degrees.  The double bed had a cheap iron headboard and a thin polyester cover; the pillows, also thin, were covered with yellowed, stained linen.

 

But then he looked back at the bulging muscles of the handsome top and decided to shelve his objections.  After all, he’d been right—no one Noah knew could possibly be in this neighborhood.  The place was filthy, but so was the act.  And the desire.  Filthy, all of it.

 

And he wanted to be so fucking filthy…

 

“C’mon, boy, lessee what ya got,” Joe smirked as he rubbed the massive bulge in his groin.  He leered suggestively at the innocent teen, knowing that the young faggot would have to respond.

 

He was right.  Noah gulped again, his Adam’s apple slipping up and down his smooth neck.  His hands shook as he reached for the zipper of his hoodie; they shook not in fear but in excitement.  He slipped off the grey jacket, revealing a slate-gray long sleeve button-down shirt tucked into his beige skinny jeans.

 

At the same time, Joe took off his thick leather jacket, the clinging material of the white thermal shirt revealing the full breadth of his massive pectorals.  The shirt was open at the neck, displaying a V-shaped wedge of dark wiry chest hair.  Rolled up as they were, the sleeves did nothing to hide the alpha’s muscular, hairy forearms.

 

Joe stood over Noah and slipped off the shirt, his powerful torso glistening with sweat in the hazy light of the overheated room.  The room wasn’t the only thing to get overheated; Noah found himself literally aching with desire as his eyes slid down the stud’s sculpted body, the lower half still wrapped in jeans.

 

Noah tried amateurishly to add a seductive strip-tease effect as he undressed, but his hands were trembling so much he had difficulty in getting the buttons of his shirt undone.  Joe watched and smiled patiently as his rage flared inside at this delay in his gratification.  He managed to control the desire to reach out and tear the shirt right off the bitch, buttons popping everywhere.  And after all, why not?  The kid was right where Joe wanted him…

 

But just then Noah managed to get the last button undone and slipped out of the shirt.  A thin white cotton t-shirt was underneath.  The boy smiled hesitantly, still uneasy, as he pulled it off over his head.

 

Underneath, his young teen body was smooth and slim but not scrawny.  Even at a distance, Joe could see the soft, silky texture of the youth’s skin.  Tender flesh waiting to be used and tortured—Joe’s lust was getting harder to restrain.  He needed to take a moment.

 

Abruptly turning his back on the slut, he strode across the floor to the table where he’d left his jacket, his leather engineer boots leaving little impression on the soiled, threadbare carpet.  Reaching into one of the pockets on the jacket, he fished out his smokes and lit one up, slipping the pack and lighter back into the jacket.  He didn’t carry them in the jeans—they were truly skin-tight and would have crushed the pack.

 

Noah looked on, half in fascination and half in concern.  He didn’t know many people who smoked—and those he did, his parents never failed to point out, were going to burn in Hell for various sins, cigarettes only one of them.

 

The thought of what they’d say if they could see him was strangely appealing.  This was forbidden and that made it so much more erotic…

 

“W-won’t that make my clothes smell?” he asked shakily as he leaned against the bed and crossed one leg over the other so he could untie his sneakers.

 

“Don’t worry, man,” Joe drawled with a friendly grin.  “I got ya covered.  Time we’re done here, you won’t need to worry about how your clothes smell, I promise ya.”

 

Noah nodded mutely.  The enormity of what has happening had hit him.  He was about to lose his virginity—with an anonymous older man in a motel room.  There was no going back after this.  Whatever else happened in his life, it would be stained by this night.

 

But in the battle between piety and hormones, the latter was the natural winner.  After all, his young, healthy body was at its sexual peak.  Noah rarely jacked off; that was a sin, too—worse than cigarettes, by far.  And he had almost no privacy at home anyway.

 

Lust, aided by the thick musky scents of sweat and smoke, stifled the tritely moralistic murmurings in Noah’s mind.  Having pulled off his hightops, he dropped his jeans first.  He stood across from Joe, his lithe young body nude except for his thin white briefs and his calf-high athletic socks.  Joe took another drag from his cig and leered at the kid’s groin; it looked like he’d stuffed a sausage in his underwear.

 

Little cunt was hung, that was for sure.

 

Still keeping the easy-going, charming grin on his handsome, chiseled face, Joe exhaled a bluish cloud of smoke.  “Lessee what ya got, boy.  Show me your dick.”

 

Noah looked away, shifting awkwardly.  “I-I dunno, man, I ain’t never done anything with-with a guy…”

 

Joe knew damn good and well the cringing little faggot hadn’t done anything with anybody ever.  But tonight, he was playing for effect.  Tonight wasn’t just assrape—it was mindrape too.  So the cunt had to be cajoled.

 

And besides, the punk wanted it.  “Fuck, dude, don’t back out now.  Lookit yer dick, man—even from here I can see how hard it is.  You want my shaft, don’t ya, son?  It’s ok—you can take my rod up your virgin hole tonight and no one will know.”

 

Noah moaned in erotic lust as a dark spot appeared on the white cotton briefs.  Joe chuckled, noting that it was right at the tip of the slut’s cock.  Motherfuckin’ homo was already oozing.

 

“Drop ‘em,” the hulking sadist whispered, pitching his voice seductively low.  “Drop yer drawers, boy, and get on the bed.”

 

Noah trembled, but he obeyed, slipping out of the briefs.  His flat belly fell smoothly to his groin where curly sand-colored pubes framed a thick, semi-erect tube of pulsing meat.  Clear drops of fluid were dripping out of the dark mushroom tip.

 

The naked teen backed up onto the bed, his beautiful, lithe body gingerly avoiding the stains on the cheap bedspread.  Joe dropped his cigarette and casually crushed it out with his big black boot as he moved towards the bed.  The burn was unnoticeable among the others darkening the carpet.

 

The powerful alpha towered over the punk and leered down at him.  Instinctively, the youth cowered in the shadow of the older man, but glanced up immediately when he heard the dude open his zipper.  The older man had already unbuckled his belt; the thick leather strap dangled loosely on each side of his denim-bound hips.

 

The biggest dick Noah had ever seen was his own.  That changed now.

 

Joe pulled out his cock slowly and expertly, appreciating the effect he was having on his prey.  The kid gaped openly as inch after inch of the stud’s swollen, throbbing shaft emerged from his open fly.  The flesh was so dark, it was almost black, fed by the ropy veins that tightly circled the pulsating rod.  The thick dark trail of fur leading down the stud’s muscled chest and over his firm abs seemed to be designed to direct attention to the groin.

 

Noah gulped in astonishment.  He was scared, but not as much as he should have been, even without knowing Joe’s plans for him.  He’d never so much as played with his ass before—the boy was impressed with the older man’s penis but had no concept of how much it would hurt jammed up his colon.

 

Even so, the alpha’s dick was intimidating.  “Wh-what ya gonna do with that?” he asked tremulously.

 

Joe spoke quietly, the deep bass of his voice seeming to vibrate the root of Noah’s cock.  “Look at it boy,” he muttered, “look at my dick.  You want it, dontcha?  G’wan, put it in yer mouth.  Do it, boy, you know ya wanna.”

 

The alpha was right.  Noah did wanna.  He looked confused and timid, but he leaned forward and took the spongy purple tip into his open mouth, working his tongue over the oozing head and teasing the tender rosebud on the underside.  He slurped loudly, enjoying the salty taste of the precum leaking into his mouth.

 

Joe grinned.  “Fuck yeah, dude,” he moaned, “damn, that’s good.  Work it, boy, work my hog with your mouth.  Slurp it down, cocksucker.”

 

Noah was both shocked and thrilled with the abuse.  Leaning even father forward, he opened his jaw as wide as he could to deepthroat the dominant stranger, his right hand a blur as he jacked his own tool wildly.  Even more erotic was the way the muscular stud clamped his hands on the back of the boy’s head and forced it down onto his throbbing tubesteak.  Deep in the grip of overwhelming lust, the teen had shed his trepidation and succumbed to his long-suppressed desires.

 

The top’s thick column of meat slid into the youth’s throat, plugging it thoroughly.   The kid gagged and choked as Joe’s dick sealed off his airpipe, anxiety rising in his lust-fogged mind as his breath was blocked.  As his eyes started to water, he braced his hands against the alpha’s legs and tried to shove him away. It was like trying to topple a large tree by pushing it over; he could feel the power in the taut denim-covered muscles flexing against his palms.

 

Then, with a sardonic chuckle too subtle for the horny teen to interpret, Joe pulled out.  The hardbodied sadist admired his dick, bobbing in the air and dripping long streamers of boyspit as Noah retched, trying not to puke up the dinner his momma had made him.  The shuddering youth coughed up drool that flowed off his chin, straight down onto the engorged head of his own cock.

 

He’d liked it.  It’d been scary—terrifying, for a moment—but he’d liked it.  He’d liked how the larger, stronger man had taken control and used his face as a fucktoy.  Not that the innocent little faggot virgin would have expressed it in those terms, of course, but the lust motivating his warped pig soul was the same.

 

The fact that it was a disgusting sin that would instantly damn him to Hell only made it sexier.  He was ready to be bad.

 

Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, Noah looked up at the strapping, broad-chested alpha.  He was suddenly entranced with the stranger’s black chest hair, as if noticing it for the first time.  Timorously, he extended a hand.

 

It was only with a great deal of patience and an almost superhuman suppression of rage that Joe allowed the boycunt to touch him.  He stood tall and erect next to the bed, letting the punk run his hands over his huge pecs and fondle his nipples before the greedy, desire-driven fingers sank lower down his body and curled in the fur coating his rippled abs.

 

His anger was expressed through his cock, which pulsed visibly, pumping out a steady stream of clear precum.  Noah noticed the effect but had no clue as to the cause.

 

That thought made Joe’s dick throb even more.  Even if the stupid little shit had a clue, there was no way he could conceive the nightmare in store for him.

 

Then again, maybe he could.  There were some imaginative deaths in the Bible. Joe’s grin came back, more evil than ever.  He looked down at the teen with a cold, appraising contempt.  The cunt would do; he’d be an acceptable meatsack to soak up Joe’s seed.

 

Time to get biblical on his ass.

 

He started slow.  “Ok, boy,” he said, just a hint of menace in his husky voice, “get on your back.  Time to go whole hog.”  He grinned and thrust his hips slightly so that his huge dick swung between his legs.  “And believe me, punk, you’re gettin’ the whole hog.”

 

Trembling with both fear and desire, Noah moved back, his smooth skin crawling from contact with the thin polyester bedspread.  He managed to wriggle to one side, pushing the cover away, only to find the cheap sheets underneath no more comfortable.

 

It didn’t matter.  Tonight, he was gonna explore his darkest dreams; tomorrow he’d be back to being the good little choirboy his family thought he was.  And even if he ultimately went to Hell for it, it’d be worth it.

 

The slim, handsome youth stretched out on his back and raised his legs in the air, presenting his fuckhole like a bitch in heat.  He was gonna get fucked.  A little discomfort wouldn’t matter.

 

The icy gleam in the alpha’s eyes should have been a warning, but the teen had nothing by which to judge it.  Legs spread, he waited eagerly for his first—and unknown to him, his last—sexual experience.

 

Joe climbed on the bed, kneeling between the kid’s smooth, trembling legs.  Grasping his huge oozing tube of manmeat, he rubbed his dick across the punk’s ass, smearing it with precum.  He smiled gently as he placed the thick purple head of his cock against the boy’s buttcrack, the fine hairs tickling his swollen mushroom tip.

 

Noah felt the pressure and uttered a nervous, breathy moan.  This was it.  Everything he’d dreamed of, a hot hard powerful stranger who was gonna fuck the shit outta him.

 

And then he was gonna go home and pretend it never happened.  He was gonna go on with his life and no one would ever know.  His folks would never, could never know how he’d spent the night; it was something they were simply incapable of imagining.  And that was all to Noah’s benefit.  It meant he’d get away with it—so he quashed his anxiety and readied himself for intense physical pleasure.

 

But that wasn’t what he got.

 

Joe was ready.  He knew the little motherfucker was a virgin and wouldn’t be able to handle his tool; he expected it.  He didn’t even need to know the kid’s name to know how the pig would respond.  He didn’t start forcefully, though, there was something he was waiting for, something the slut would ask for.  So he applied pressure slowly, easing the head of his dick into the youth’s tight, intact fuckhole.

 

At the start, Noah shuddered with pleasure.  As he felt the iron-hard shaft start to penetrate him, he inhaled deeply.  The closeness of the muscular alpha flooded his sinuses with sweat and pheromones. The inexperienced teen’s impatience to have the handsome hulking stud buried deep inside him, marking him as his own, outweighed any other concern.

 

Fuck his parents, fuck the bible, fuck it all.  He gave the Joe the invitation he’d been waiting for.  The kid was ready to be a complete faggot pig.

 

“Fuck me, man,” he moaned in a mind-numbing fog of lust.  “Do what you want to me, dude, fuck me rough.  Make me yours tonight…”  His plea trailed off in a gasp of desire.

 

Joe chuckled malignly.  “Ok, cunt,” he sneered, “you asked for it.”

 

Even in his erotic frenzy, the curt, cold tone managed to cut its way through to the center of Noah’s awareness.  By the time it did so, however, there were more pressing matters demanding his attention—like the horrible agony in his ass.

 

The cruel sadist had jammed the entire length of his massive, blood-engorged cock into the boy’s ass.  The phenomenal girth of his member ripped open the youth’s sphincter, making the kid bleed like his cherry had been popped—as it had, brutally.

 

Noah couldn’t scream.  He wanted to, badly, but he couldn’t—fuck, he couldn’t even breathe.  It hurt too much.  It hurt too much to breathe, to move, to think…

 

Move.  He needed to move.  He needed to get of this fucking rod that was impaling his tender rectum, oh fuck he needed to move—

 

Later, Joe was pissed at himself.  He’d let his guard down and it almost backfired on him.  Of course, when it happened, he’d been more pissed at the little homo teen.  And so it was the young cocksucker who ultimately took the brunt of his wrath.

 

At the time, though, Noah thought he was achieving redemption, not damnation, as he clawed his way up off Joe’s enormous dick, kicking and flailing like a wild thing.  Joe was momentarily taken aback—not long, but long enough that the writhing punk was able to scramble free towards the head of the bed.

 

In the next moment, the kid had rolled to the floor and bolted for the bathroom.  In a blood-red rage, Joe lunged after his prey, only to have the boy evade him at the last moment and lock himself in.

 

As Noah slammed the door and turned the lock in the doorknob, he shuddered in relief—and started praying.  He’d been wrong.  He’d sinned, badly, and he’d been punished.  It had hurt; only sinners could want pain like that, Jesus had shown him the way and he wasn’t ever gonna do anything like this again—

 

And that was when Joe’s big black boot kicked through the flimsy hollow-core door, punching out a huge hole.  Squealing with fear, the terrified teenager threw himself on the floor and wrapped his arms around the base of the toilet.  He babbled promises to behave to his God, pleading for salvation in air rank with piss.

 

The enraged alpha had gotten the bathroom door open.  Noah kept his eyes squeezed shut; if he didn’t see what was happening, maybe God wouldn’t let it happen.  He clung to that belief desperately as he heard the muscled sadist approach.

 

Joe was done playing.  He bent down and wrapped one hand clean around the boy’s upper arm.  With a powerful jerk, he pulled the punk free of the toilet and stalked back to the bedroom, dragging the helpless, sobbing youth across the floor behind him.  With a swift, brutal yank, he flung the boy onto the bed.

 

Noah cowered, weeping in abject fear.  He wasn’t curious anymore.  He wanted to go home, go back to safe quiet bible study and beating off secretly in the bathroom.  This—this was too scary, this stud, sexy as he was, was gonna hurt him.

 

The naïve teen glanced up into the face of his tormentor and flinched instantly.  This time, there was no question of mistaking the formidable look of hot rage and cold lust.  No, he wanted no part of any of this.

 

So why was his dick so fucking hard?

 

It was almost painfully erect, throbbing fiercely.  An almost steady stream of clear fluid was leaking out.  He didn’t understand.  This wasn’t happening.

 

Then Joe made it happen.

 

He lunged forward in a lightning blast of violence, driving his fist into the punk’s soft, smooth belly with the force of an industrial piston.  Noah gave a deep, loud grunt and instantly curled into a fetal position as a hard ball of pain tore through his midsection.  The next few seconds seemed an eternity as the kid clutched his abdomen and writhed, trying to get air back into his lungs.

 

“Ya made a bad mistake, motherfucker,” Joe hissed, a frightening glint of psychotic glee dancing in his eyes.  “I was only gonna kill ya before, you worthless cumsucking fag, but, see, now I gotta make it hurt.”

 

He sat gently on the bed next to Noah and softly stroked the boy’s tearstained face.  Brushing away a lock of the kid’s soft brown hair, he leaned so close that Noah could feel the older man’s facial scruff scratch his ear.  As he whispered, his breath was warm on the youth’s neck.

 

“That means I gotta make it slow…”

 

Still struggling for air, the closeted churchboy wasn’t able to comprehend what was being said to him; his attention was focused elsewhere, Joe observed with displeasure.  Time to reorient the queer-ass bitch.

 

Joe rolled the kid onto his back and spread his legs.  Noah realized what was going on just before Joe slammed the full length of his cock up the teen’s virgin ass.  The pressure at the start was tremendous but Joe shoved his rod forward with renewed force, ripping new tears through the kid’s already-mangled sphincter the way his boot had ripped through the door.

 

It got Noah’s air back.  His body contracted involuntarily in distress, stimulating him to inhale.  The pain—this was Hell, he was being punished…this kinda pain could only come from Hell…

 

He shrieked in agony—once.  The shrill screech was cut off when Joe balled his fist and sent a piledriver straight from his shoulder into the boy’s face, blackening his eye and snapping his cheekbone.  “Shaddap!” he barked gruffly as he gripped the punk’s heaving torso in his huge hands, clamping down to hold the smooth lean body still as he penetrated it further.

 

Lost in a dark haze of pain, Noah had limited awareness of anything beyond his own suffering.  His whole body seemed to be consumed in a flame of nightmarish agony from his ass to his face to his cock…

 

As his body shuddered under the violent sexual assault, Noah realized that his cock was not only still hard, it was so hard it hurt.

 

No, this couldn’t be.  This couldn’t be him.  This was wrong.  He had to get away, this wasn’t going to happen to him…  As the panic welled up inside the inexperienced teen, his struggles and cries began to intensify.

 

He hadn’t learned his lesson, Joe realized.  Well, that was ok.  The little fuck was young and healthy; he’d probably last for a while.  Plenty of time for learnin’.  But he needed lesson one all over again.

 

“I said shaddap!” Joe roared, throwing a feral growl into his voice that terrified the youth in the half-second before another donkey-punch landed, splitting his lips.  “You keep your goddam mouth shut while I’m fuckin’ ya, you sniveling faggot, ya feeling me?  Huh, you pansy bitch?  You get what I’m sayin’?”

 

Noah’s eyes opened wide with shock; even in this nightmare anticipation of Hell, the alpha’s words had sunk in.  No, this was wrong…he wasn’t a faggot…please, if he could just get away he’d never look at another dick again, he’d never—

 

And even as he pled silently, he realized it was a bargain he could never keep.  High above the wave of pain swamping his nervous system, the hormone-flooded teen could still feel his own swollen shaft stabbing into the alpha’s rippled abs. An ineffectual weapon of defense, it left trails of clear slimy precum matting the muscled sadist’s dark belly fur.

 

Suddenly, Joe stopped.  He was fully inserted, his long thick rod buried up to the root, his wiry pubes interlocked with the youth’s soft downy fuzz like Velcro.  Sweating and gasping, the powerful top loomed over his victim, the helpless teen who was now pinned to the bed like an insect on his assailant’s cock.

 

The boy opened his eyes hesitantly—at least, he opened his right eye.  He was shuddering in pain, barely able to breathe.  The left side of his face was black and swelling, with blood leaking from his busted lips.

 

The image the suffering teenager saw stuck with him for the rest of his life—approximately another thirteen minutes.

 

The coldly handsome face of the older man hung just inches from his, but the expression on the hard, unshaven face was unlike anything the innocent youth had ever seen.  A somehow erotic mixture of contempt, rage, and desire that offered no hope of compassion or common humanity.  It was the expression of a sexual sadist.

 

Noah was too sheltered to have heard of such a thing, but he got an idea when Joe hocked up a huge wad of phlegm, grinned at the boy, and spit it into his face.  “Fuckin’ faggot,” he sneered.

 

It triggered a desperate rebellion in Noah—unfortunately.  “No!” he shouted in his mind, the reality being a guttural protest pushed out inarticulately between puffy lips.  But it was enough to get the attention of the brawny psychopath.

 

“Goddam it, you piece a’ shit, you really are fuckin’ stupid, aintcha?” he snarled viciously.  “I toldja to shut the fuck up and here ya are tryin’ to whine about somethin’!  I said to shut the fuck UP!”  As his voice rose in rage on the last syllable, he swung back and delivered a massive roundhouse punch square to the boy’s jaw.

 

The punk’s head rocked back as his body flailed from the force of the blow.  Poised on his knees, Joe grunted in pleasure as the involuntary movements worked the cunt’s guts around the sensitive head of his shaft.  The slut’s own tool, violently bobbing with the rest of his body, spattered them both with a fine rain of precum.

 

The sadist observed with sick erotic pleasure the way the faggot’s eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered as he trembled on the edge of consciousness.  As the traumatized teen struggled to stay awake, he coughed up a gout of blood; he was too stunned to realize that he’d spat out one of his canine teeth.

 

When Noah finally came back to himself, he’d had his epiphany.  He was saved.  He was truly ready to give up sin in all its forms and surrender himself to his Lord.  He was convinced of the error of his ways and deeply repentant of them.

 

Problem was, it was a little too late.  Joe made that perfectly clear.

 

Leaning forward, he wrapped his huge strong paws around the teen’s pale, fragile throat and began to squeeze—slowly at first, but inexorably nonetheless.  “G’wan and pray, you useless little bible-thumping faggot—it ain’t gonna help ya, you disgusting cumsucker.  Time to die, cunt.  You ready to meet yer maker?  Cause when ya do, you’re gonna be full of cum!”

 

In a deep red sea of pain, Noah heard the words but didn’t comprehend them.  He was just a soft suburban teen; he hadn’t had the chance to recover from the brutal assault before his air was cut off—utterly and completely.

 

Instinctively, the lithe punk began to struggle violently, his hands clawing at Joe’s, trying to pry them away from his neck while his slim, firm legs kicked and flailed wildly.  His heels drummed on the bed, his flexing feet scraping at the sheets and twisting his white socks.

 

Noah opened his eyes—well, his right eye; the left side of his face was battered and swollen beyond recognition—and with tears welling out, tried to beg and plead for mercy.  He’d never do it again, dear lord, please save me I’ll never look at another boy again I promise…

 

But no words were coming out.  And somewhere in the throbbing drumbeat of torment that had become his world, he was slowly becoming aware of a new pain—that of choking to death.

 

Now his movements weren’t instinctual.  They weren’t necessarily controlled; they were born out of the frenzied panic that seized the little faggot’s soul.

 

The kid wasn’t heavily muscled, but he was no weakling and the fear of death gave an extra impetus to his desperation.  Clawing madly at his own throat, he soon realized the futility of the gesture and began tugging at Joe’s strong, burly arms.  As the youth’s legs thrashed, they slapped wetly against the alpha’s pumping, sweat-streaked torso.  His left foot caught in the a fold of the fitted sheet and pulled it away from the mattress; as his leg recoiled involuntarily, the sock came off in the fold, leaving the boy’s bare foot exposed, toes curling as he died.

 

“Yer gonna die on my motherfuckin’ cock, you homo cunt,” Joe growled like a feral beast as he raped and strangled the teen.  “How’s it feel?  Does it hurt?  Huh?  Does it, you worthless sack of shit?  Go on and pray, little boy, but I’m your God now.  I’m the one who decides when you die and how much it’s gonna hurt.”

 

He paused for a moment to admire the look of stunned shock on the punk’s face (at least, what was left of it).  He knew the meat had heard—and more importantly, had understood.  He spat another wad of phlegm into the youth’s mauled face and spoke again, this time in a low whisper, cold and sharp like a steel blade.

 

“Here’s a secret, fag—it’s gonna hurt.  A lot.  More than you can possibly imagine.  And the more it hurts you, the more I’m gonna spunk when you finally die, you useless cumdump.  Just so you know, you sick homo scum.  Just so you know you’re getting exactly what you deserve.”

 

And with that, he squeezed harder, feeling the cunt’s flexible esophagus constrict beneath his hands.  He dug his fingernails into the tender flesh on the back of the unfortunate boy’s neck, so he could get better traction with which to throttle the punk-ass queerboy.

 

Noah knew now beyond any doubt that he was experiencing Hell—he was being given a literal foretaste of the torture he’d endure for eternity.  The burning in his head, the excruciating visehold on his throat, the pounding anguish in his ass…oh God…he’d wanted to get fucked and was gonna be sodomized by the Devil forever…and worse, he was gonna be found like this!

 

Everyone was gonna think he was a disgusting pervert, a child-molesting sodomite—Momma, Daddy—oh God, Daddy—even Archie, the youth minister…he’d been at Archie’s today and seen the way Archie’d started at his crotch; oh fuck he shoulda stayed there…

 

The once-virginal teenage slipped in and out of coherence in his terror, but never slackened his struggle to break free.  His frantic, questing hands continually sought some sort of hold on his killer’s rock-hard body in an attempt to have some kind of impact.

 

Everywhere Noah’s hands landed, though, they slid across sweaty, hard, firm flesh; the only thing the flailing kid was able to grab ahold of was the stud’s thick, wiry chest hair.  Without even thinking, Noah snatched a handful and yanked it out in a paroxysm of terror and pain.

 

“Goddam motherfucker!” Joe howled in pain-ignited anger.  Clenching his huge left hand around the boy’s throat, he freed his right hand and drove it three more times into the dying faggot’s face, each blow landing with a wet thudding sound—the last one with a moist crunch when Noah’s nose was broken.

 

Without missing a single rhythmic stoke of his long shaft, Joe wrapped his hand back around the meat’s neck and kept squeezing.    He could feel the head of his dick deep inside the thrashing youth’s guts.  The way the slut’s innards had stroked the swollen, sensitive head of his tool while the boy was being beaten had been fantastic.

 

“Yeah, dude, that’s what ya need, huh?  You like it to hurt, huh, you fuckin’ pig?  Was that the problem, you weren’t in enough pain to work my cock?  Fuck, man ya shoulda said so—we can fix that right now, fuck yeah!”

 

With that, Joe slowly increased the pressure on Noah’s neck, this time digging his thumbs into the miserable boy’s Adam’s apple.  The sadistic stud grinned as he felt the cartilage start to give way under the force he applied.

 

Noah was beyond thought.  He was in a world of physical sensations that had been previously unconceivable to him, as much as he’d heard of the torments of Hell.  This pain couldn’t last for eternity; there’d be nothing left of him but a hollow screaming shell.  He was being split open from the inside out; he was still aware of the alpha’s cock reaming his rectum, pulling and tearing at his intestines like a plunger.  His face was black and swollen; between the beatings and the choking, it looked like a rotten gourd.  He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, pulpy and pulsating with pain.

 

The excruciating agony of his throat was the worst, though.  His windpipe was crushed almost completely flat and the way the top’s thumbs were grinding into his vocal cords hurt so bad Noah began convulsing involuntarily as his stomach tried instinctively to retch.

 

“Oh fuck yeah, cocksucker, that’s it,” muttered Joe in response to the boy’s rhythmic, undulating movements, “that’s it, jack me off as you die, you queer-ass bitch.  Yeah, cunt, I know how to keep ya going—just gotta ramp up the pain, huh, you sick fucking faggot scum?”

 

The grinning sadist tightened his grip yet again as his strapping, powerful body bore down on the helpless teen.  The sleazy overheated motel room was redolent with a miasma of sweat, smoke and mansex, making an almost visible haze in the air.  The sounds of mansex filled the air, too—the increasing tempo to the creaking of the bed, the swift slapping sounds of hardcore fucking, the deep, vital grunts of two males locked bodily together in intensity and lust.

 

The fact that one of the males was dying only added to the intensity.  And the lust.

 

Even Noah felt the lust.  He felt it as a hitherto-unknown source of agony.  His dick had been hard enough to hurt before, but now it was electrifying—it seemed as if a white-hot rod of steel had been jammed up through his ass into his cock, extending it in flaming agony the further it penetrated.

 

Joe felt the lust, too, both his own and Noah’s  He felt the meat’s deathpig lust as the cunt’s thick purple cock slapped against his belly, still leaving a thick trail of erotic slime in his fur, even during the throes of death.

 

He felt his own lust as the homo’s thick bloodied lips parted, releasing a torrent of foamy drool.  He felt it as the choking teen’s tongue, as swollen and purple as his dick, slowly emerged from his blackened, distorted face.

 

For Noah, there was no heaven, no Hell anymore.  There wasn’t even any Noah; too much of his brain had been starved of oxygen for too long.  The brain damage was irreversible.  Not everything was gone, though.

 

The brain stem remained, able to feel sensation and basic emotion.  What emerged was the primal submissive beast, submitting to and being marked by the dominant alpha.

 

The brain-dead teen was convulsing violently, his colon clenching the cruel killer’s shaft in an instinctive attempt to milk out the testosterone and be marked as belonging to the alpha.  The hormones flooding the queerboy’s body overstimulated this response.

 

Joe had never had a dying cumdump stroke his rod so vigorously; he’d been right to go for the virginal churchboy; they always wanted dick in the worst way.

 

And Joe specialized in giving dick in the worst way.

 

He held onto the bucking teen like he was breaking a bull, letting the natural rhythms of convulsion and death beat his swollen shaft to orgasm.  The young homo’s cock was still erect and visibly pulsing as Joe felt intense, overflowing pressure building in his puckered sack.

 

He was gonna unload.  “Guess you were an ok cumrag, faggot,” he grunted as his body jolted in violent release.

 

The hulking, muscular killer clenched his hands tightly in his first instinctive reaction to shooting his wad; the loud crunching sound of crushed cartilage filled the room.  The quivering boy also reacted involuntarily—it was the final blast of pain needed to override the teen deathpig’s nervous system and trigger an unnaturally prolonged orgasm.

 

The youth’s overabundant hormones had swamped his body in excess testosterone.  It had led him to seeking its release in dangerous situations—and now, it led his dying body to ejaculate for nearly ninety seconds straight, the last spark of his life fading with an awareness of white-hot molten steel flooding his anus and pumping out through his erect shaft; he was merely a conduit for the boiling seed of life…

 

As thick, ropy strands of semen splashed across Joe’s broad, furry chest, he cried out in rage and hate, pumping his thick, creamy jizz as deep into the worthless kid’s body as he could.  Shifting his powerful hands up Noah’s crushed neck, he clamped down again, this time where he could place his thumbs under the angle of the kid’s jaw.

 

“Ok, motherfucker, time to go,” he grunted.  As another orgasm wracked his powerful body, his hands clenched, driving his thumbs upwards.

 

There was a loud cracking sound as the brawny sadist popped the teen fag’s head off his spine, snapping the topmost vertebra and sending bone shards slashing into the spinal column.

 

Noah had already emptied his balls and his mind; there was nothing left but a sweaty cum-filled meatsack until the sudden blast of massive trauma to his central nervous system sent random signals thought his taut, shuddering corpse.

 

One of these hit the scrotum and, even in death, contracted the muscles and caused the young queer’s cock to send up a final jet of spunk, the hot pearly liquid splattering on the underside of Joe’s jaw as the older man grunted and cried out, spewing his last boiling wad into the kid’s torn and slashed rectum.

 

Even after he’d pumped his last drop of semen into the corpse’s shuddering guts, Joe continued to fuck the quivering body, his massive shaft still erect and tearing into the convulsing pig’s colon.  “Fuck yeah, dude, I’m your God now, huh?  I gave you everything ya ever wanted, huh, ya faggot?  I gave ya hot fuckin’ mansex, I gave ya pain and death—who’s yer daddy now, huh, cunt?”

 

Spitting in contempt on the twitching corpse, Joe pulled himself out of the boy’s well-worn fuckhole.  His dick slid out in a slimy pool of cum and blood that instantly stained the sheets under the slut’s quivering anus; it was obvious that the dead boy had been violently fucked.

 

Still sweating and shaking with pleasurable exertion, Joe staggered back across the room to his jacket.  He fished the smokes and lighter out of the pocket and lit one as he leaned back and took a moment to chill.

 

On the bed, Noah was chilling too; in fact, he was cooling by the minute.  But his corpse was still fresh and limber; random nerves still fired down the mangled spinal column, making the body continue to shudder and twitch.  Even now, the toes on the teen’s bare foot continued to curl and spasm in death.  The other foot, with the white athletic sock wrapped tightly around it, kicked jaggedly across the rumpled, stained sheets.

 

The punk’s smooth, flat abdomen still heaved convulsively, smeared with coagulating pools of semen, all his own.  Some of it was glazing his grotesquely distorted face.  His black, swollen cheeks were stained with a white scum where his foamy panicked drool had dried to a crust as he’d died.

 

Joe inhaled the nicotine deeply.  Even though he’d completely emptied his balls, the teenage faggot’s corpse was so hot, his dick was still throbbing as he looked at it.

 

He knew he had to go, though.  This cunt had made a lot of noise.  He needed to get away fairly quickly.  Tossing his smoldering butt onto the boy’s smooth chest (where it hissed out in a puddle of jizz), he stepped into the bathroom and cleaned himself up, using a wet washcloth and soap to remove all traces of the dead pansy’s spunk.  Tossing the towel he used, along with the washcloth, into the toilet, he returned to the bedroom after fastening up his fly and slipped on his thermal shirt and leather jacket.

 

He was vaguely aware that the teen homo was still twitching, but he didn’t really give a shit anymore.  A quick glance outside showed that no one was around, and he made it to his car and out of the motel lot unseen.

 

The corpse was found the next morning, but without ID (since Noah parents hadn’t allowed him a driver’s license yet), it went to the city morgue.  Later the same day, Noah’s folks frantically reported him missing, out in the suburb where they lived.

 

It was the better part of a week before anyone connected the reamed-out, cum-soaked corpse found beaten, raped and strangled in a cheap motel with the straight-A bible school virgin Noah.  When the connection was made, the outcry in the media was loud and shrill, demanding vengeance from every corner.

 

By that time, though, Joe had already wasted his next victim.

Convict 2–the Will to Die

On By m3mayhemIn Carlos the Convict1 Comment

The high-pitched whine of tires on concrete accompanied the car as it raced down the highway. As he shifted gears, Carlos found himself chuckling grimly at the memory of the car’s prior owner—a worthless little faggot who’d died in unspeakable agony.

 

The thought got him hard again. But that was okay–if things worked out the way he planned, he’d soon be able to release the rage and lust still boiling within him. And maybe get even more cash…

 

He didn’t know where Will was living now, but if he was still in town, he’d be hanging at the Hideout, a seedy little dive on the west side of town. Carlos took the Winterbourne exit off the highway; the Hideout was three miles north at Winterbourne and Exposition. As he got closer to his destination, the well-built killer noticed that the neighborhood looked much the same, if not worse. At any rate, there damn sure hadn’t been any gentrification going on out here.

 

Will had probably moved. He’d had the money to do so–his family was wealthy and gave him an allowance. He’d be–what, about twenty-three now?  And that was assuming the rich little cumsucker was still alive; he could have easily OD’d or been offed by someone else by now. Still, if he was around, he’d have plenty of cash.

 

And Carlos had a score to settle with the pansy piece of shit.  Little homo liked it rough; for the right price, Carlos had given it to him rough.  The slut was a serious pig and got off on getting fucked by an authentic cholo punk from the streets.

 

And that had led Carlos to his mistake.  Knowing how much money Will had, he decided to impress the little fuck by boasting about his kill.  He was sure that the rich suburban boy would pay extra after that.

 

Instead, the queer-ass bitch had narced on him.  He didn’t testify, but some details had come up in the trial—and the only way the prosecution could have known was if Will had told them.

 

Carlos shifted gears, then reached down to the crotch of his tight jeans and shifted his dick.  It was time, he thought, for Will to learn why he shoulda kept his mouth shut.

 

He’d made a very bad decision and now he had to suffer the consequences.  And Carlos was gonna make damn sure he suffered.

 

The Hideout was still there.  It was housed in a dilapidated two-story building right on the corner; the parking lot was behind and could be reached from either street.  The corner of the building that faced the intersection had been built flat to accommodate what had then been the main entrance.  Needless to say, most dudes came in the back these days.  In more ways than one.

 

Carlos slid the Mustang into a space near the back of the lot—he’d found one that actually gave him a direct line of sight to the rear door.  He could see anyone leaving or entering; it was perfect.  He reclined the seat and settled in, waiting for his prey.  He made himself comfortable

 

He’d already spent some of Chad’s money; the first thing he did after renting a cheap motel room was to go get some clothes.  Actually, the very first thing he did was go and buy two cartons of cigarettes. He’d had to give them up inside because he’d had no money and the only thing he’d had to trade was his body—and he wasn’t no faggot.

 

He’d finished his first smoke before Chad’s mangled corpse had stopped shuddering back in the apartment.

 

Now he was outfitted in black.  Skin-tight black denim cradled his firm ass and stretched tautly over his muscled thighs, cinched around his waist with a belt of woven leather straps.  A black short-sleeve compression shirt spread like a second skin over his broad, sculpted chest, clearly delineating his large erect nipples.  He’d even replaced the bandanna covering his short, closed-shaved hair with a glossy black do-rag.

 

Out of everything he’d left prison with, all that was left was his pair of steel-toed boots. The thick black leather boots still fit perfectly.  And tonight, he might be able to put them to use…

 

As he waited, he stewed in anger.  Will coulda helped him; he coulda at least have bailed him out.  Little faggot piece a’ shit coulda done it without a problem; his folks could drop fifty large in the gutter and never even notice.  He coulda paid, and instead, he’d fucked Carlos over.

 

Now Carlos was gonna fuck him over—and make sure he paid this time.  With interest.

 

He didn’t have long to wait.

 

Will hadn’t changed much.  He was well and truly fubar’d when the bouncer tossed him out.  He staggered across the lot in a haze of alcohol and something else—at least weed, if nothing more—passing directly in front of Carlos.  He was instantly recognizable.

 

Will was short, no more than five and a half feet tall.  His short brown hair had a slight natural wave to it.  He was dark and was occasionally mistaken for Hispanic himself.  His slim body was tightly wrapped in skinny jeans that had elastic at the ankles, showing his bright blue skate sneakers and matching athletic socks.  His t-shirt was the same shade of electric blue, now sweat-stained under the arms.  The night being warmer than anticipated, his brown leather jacket was slung over his arm.

 

His broad face and snub nose were the same too, innocent and cheerful in appearance.  Utter bullshit, of course, Carlos had pumped the worthless little faggot full of cum himself and he knew for a fact he wasn’t the only one.  Amazing how neither drug and alcohol use nor rampant bareback sex had left their mark on the wealthy youth.

 

Well, he was gonna get marked soon enough.  Carlos’s eyes narrowed to icy slits as he tracked the boy to his car.  A BMW M3—of course.  Well, it’d be easy to follow, especially in that shade of red—no one else anywhere near this shitty neighborhood could afford a car like that.  And Carlos was sure the ‘Stang, old and beat-up as it was, could keep up with the flashy import.

 

Will pulled out and headed up Exposition.  Carlos was right on all counts.  The Ford kept pace with the BMW—and Will clearly didn’t live in the same place.  His old place had been off Winterbourne, the other street…

 

Carlos followed the red car for several miles up the avenue until it turned off onto a side street.  He made sure to keep enough distance between himself and Will so that the cunt wouldn’t think he was being followed—unlikely as that was; the worthless homo was too fucked up to notice much of anything, given the way he was driving.

 

He slowed on the street as the BMW turned into a gated apartment complex.  Once Will had opened the gate and let himself in, Carlos was able to dash in behind him before it closed again.  He followed the tricked-out import to a covered, numbered spot and pulled into the closest unnumbered spot he could find, luckily not too far away.

 

He shut off the ignition and lights and watched, noting the time as he did so—it was 11:30pm.  Good.  Long before the bars closed.

 

Will opened the car door and climbed laboriously to his feet.  Slamming the door shut and leaving his jacket in the car behind him, he lurched across the parking lot towards his apartment, staggering drunkenly from side to side.  Carlos had plenty of time to get out and follow him, his fucked-up prey oblivious to the heavy sounds of footfalls as the killer’s thick engineer boots thumped on the pavement.

 

The complex was upscale, neat rows of townhouse units.  Will lurched unevenly down the walk towards the row on the left, the soles of his sneakers slapping irregularly on the concrete slabs as he tried to keep his balance.  He managed to remain upright but the effort evidently amused him; he started giggling as a goofy grin spread over his face.

 

Carlos was close enough to make out the punk’s face now.  He’d held back under the covered parking area but Will was so trashed he probably wouldn’t have recognized Carlos if he’d been standing directly in front of him.  The boy’s eyes were red and half-lidded; he was clearly baked.

 

Will paused on the walk leading up to the last unit on the left, at the end of the building.  He wormed his hand down into the pocket of his tight skinny jeans and working his keys out.  He fumbled through them, looking for the right one.  He had plenty of light—the unit next to him was lit up like the top of the Chrysler Building.  All blinds had been pulled up, revealing lights burning in every room, all of them empty.  Paint buckets, stepladders and drop cloths—the unit was being repainted between tenants.

 

Deep in the shadows, Carlos grinned.  The little fuck still had no idea he was being stalked.  The well-built convict crouched, preparing to launch his muscled body into action.  Balling his hands into fists so tightly his knuckles cracked, he tensed for the assault.  He didn’t have long to wait.

 

Will reached his door.  As he poked at it drunkenly with his key, scratching the wood, the black-shrouded killer leaped out of the darkness.  There was a small patch of lawn in front of each townhouse; Carlos’s boots landed quietly on the grass just to the right of the sidewalk.  Hunched over, he crept forward swiftly, reaching the front door just as Will got it open.

 

The attack was quick and brutal.

 

Carlos hit Will full-body from behind, knocking him across the dark room.  He hit what must have been a side table, upsetting it with a loud crash before falling to the floor with a thump.  Following the stunned boy, the hulking convict stepped in and closed the door behind him.  In complete darkness, he felt the wall next to the door and quickly found the switch.

 

Several lamps spread around the room illuminated at once, showing a small but well-furnished living room with an L-shaped sectional sofa and a huge LCD TV.  Immediately to his right was a flight of stairs leading to the second floor.  Beyond the living room, the dining room was still shrouded in darkness but Carlos could see a rustic table that matched the hardwood floor, with armchairs on all four sides.  A door beyond presumably led to a kitchen.

 

Will was huddled on the floor by the sofa, groaning and utterly confused.  Carlos had been right—an end table on its side and the shattered fragments of a lamp marked the boy’s landing spot.  Musta hurt like a bitch.  As he struggled to his feet, his skin-tight clothing showed the muscles working in his lean, lithe body.  He hadn’t changed a bit, Carlos realized.  Still the smooth little slut.  Good—that would make this even more fun.

 

Striding brusquely forward, Carlos grabbed a handful of Will’s brown hair.  Jerking his head back, Carlos sneered down into the kid’s drugged and befuddled face before slamming his fist into the boy’s snub nose.  Will’s head snapped back under the force of the blow and he gave a breathy grunt of surprise.

 

“Uhhh…” he muttered, wiping his swelling nose with the back of his hand, then peering owlishly at the blood.  “Wha’ th’ fuck?”  He turned his bleary bloodshot eyes up to the dark figure looming over him.  “Dude, wha’s goin on?”

 

Carlos glared down at the boy.  “Shoulda kept yer mouth shut, faggot,” he snarled.  “Now you’re gonna hafta be taught a lesson.”

 

“Wha-what ya talkin’ ‘bout?” Will slurred.  It was obvious he hadn’t recognized Carlos yet—not that Carlos cared.  “Shut up, cunt,” the aggressive stud barked, kicking at the boy.  He drove his steel-toed boot into Will’s ribs, leaving the slut writhing on the floor in pain.  “You still gotta problem runnin’ your mouth, dontcha, bitch?  Gonna have to do somethin’ about that.”

 

The kid made faint mewling sounds as he shuddered and tried to regain his breath.  He cowered on the floor in fear and confusion. The still-unknown (to him, at least) hunk towering over him stretched out his thickly-muscled leg again, this time forcing the thick sole of his black harness boot into Will’s face.  As the rich little punk bleated and wailed, Carlos ground the tread into his smooth cheeks.  “Lick it,” he sneered coldly.  “Lick the sole of my boot, you worthless homo pig.  C’mon, ya fuckin’ whore, work your tongue!”

 

Despite his pain and confusion, the command had an immediate physical reaction in Will.  The tight crotch of his skinny jeans did nothing to hide his growing erection, a long ridge in the denim that was visibly swelling.  It continued to grow as he slurped his tongue over the sole of Carlos’s boot.

 

He began to get into it.  He was still too wasted to be able to think clearly; he just slipped instinctively into full-on pig mode.  Getting bored with the sole, he moved his head and began to give his attention to the scarred tip of the well-worn boot—only to find it suddenly withdrawn.

 

“I told you the sole, you stupid piece of shit!” came a cold hiss from above.  Then Will had a brief sensation of movement before an excruciating blackness exploded in his face.  With another vicious kick, Carlos had put his lights out.  He’d also broken the cunt’s jaw.

 

The sadistic alpha dragged the limp youth up on the couch, face down, where the blood from his split lips began to trickle onto the fabric.  Carlos then strode back through the dark dining room and pushed open the door at the rear.  In the darkness beyond, he groped to the side and found the switch—he’d been correct, a small but well-appointed kitchen was revealed.  Directly across from the door was the knife block; he reached out and snatched one of the steak knives.

 

Returning to his victim, Carlos began cutting the unconscious boy’s clothes off.  He started with a quick slice at the collar of the t-shirt, taking a moment first to control the strong urge to slash the bitch’s throat and just watch him bleed out.  But that’d be too quick and much too easy for the little motherfucker.  Carlos wanted Will to enjoy their reunion wide awake.

 

The nick at the collar was enough; the muscled con ripped the shirt open like paper down Will’s back.  He manhandled the limp, smooth body roughly as he pulled the arms out of the sleeves and tossed the shredded fabric into the corner like a bright blue dishrag, leaving the bitch face-up, drooling and shuddering.  The slut’s belt was unfinished leather—but it was no match for the expensive knife set he’d bought.  As Carlos cut through both the belt and the waist of the skin-tight jeans, he chuckled evilly to himself and wondered if the stupid cunt had ever imagined the use to which at least one blade would be put…

 

He ripped the knife through the denim by sliding it down each leg on the inside, between the skin and the fabric, edged side up.    Yanking the slashed jeans off the cunt’s smooth, slimly muscled legs, he threw them, along with the knife, off to one side.  The wad of sliced-open denim ended up spread over the other side of the couch.  The knife bounced on the floor and skittered under the end table; its pointed tip, glittering with reflected light, the only part left visible.

 

Underneath, the faggot was commando—as Carlos knew he’d be, the flaming boyslut always went commando when he went out.  He was ready to get his hole plugged at any time.

 

He probably wasn’t ready now, though.  Not, of course, that it mattered.  Carlos peeled the compression shirt off his broad, powerful chest and tossed up onto the back of the sofa; it instantly slipped off behind.  At the same time, Will gave a guttural groan, more of a thick gagging sound, as agony-soaked awareness slowly seeped back into his stunned mind.

 

The kid blinked—twice, slowly, then several more times with increasing speed.  He finally came back to himself in the middle of a nightmare rendered terrifying by pain and confusion.  His drug- and alcohol-fogged brain was in no condition to process what was happening.  He remembered getting knocked across the room, the hot stranger who seemed to be angry but then triggered his pig love of boot worship, but none of it matched with his current experience.

 

His short-term memory had been disturbed and hadn’t retained the kick.  Will’s jaw was in flaming agony and he had no idea why.  Or why he was nude with nothing but his tube socks still clinging to his calves and his skate kicks tightly laced around his feet.

 

More importantly, as his eyes, dark circles of shock already forming around them, turned up to the well-built stud towering over him, they drew an utter blank.  Will did not recognize the former street hustler who used to plow his hole for cash and drugs.

 

Of course, Carlos had changed a bit.  For one thing, he was much more developed now, his bulging muscles showing the effect of daily prison workouts.  And for another, he had a lot more tattoos than the last time Will had seen him.

 

And finally, Will had killed so many brain cells with his constant whoring and partying that it was unlikely he would have remembered who Carlos was even if he’d been sober.  He’d squealed on the killer, sure—but Carlos wasn’t the only one.  He was just the only one to have been released from prison yet.

 

The hot buff stud looming ominously over him was unknown to Will.  He cowered in terror and tried to speak—to beg, to plead, to protest—but the pain of his snapped jaw prevented him from making any articulate sounds.  Only a low keening wail slipped past his swollen, bloody lips.

 

Carlos looked down at the helpless snitch.  The punk’s smooth, slim frame was much as he remembered it.  He’d always kinda liked fucking Will—not that he was a faggot or anything like that, but the boy was responsive.  He loved getting plowed.  It was unlikely that the little motherfucker had changed.

 

The hardened convict let his eyes roam over the youth’s lean swimmer’s body, coldly wondering how much the whore would like it this time.  Not much, he suspected.

 

Grinning evilly, he decided to make sure.

 

His icy eyes locked onto Will’s as he unzipped the crotch of his black jeans.    The eye contact was broken when he dug in and yanked out his huge dripping hog.  Will’s attention was understandably drawn downwards, his large tearstained brown eyes growing huge as they took in Carlos’s dangling meat.

 

He had seen it before, but not hanging threateningly over his head.  And perhaps it had grown some too, like the rest of the alpha’s taut body.  At any rate, the last time he’d seen it, it hadn’t made the impression on him that it was making now.

 

“Lookitya, you stupid cocksucker,” Carlos hissed, “still tryin’ to talk.  Talking’s what got ya here in the first place, faggot.  Guess you still ain’t learned yer lesson, huh?  So I gotta teach ya.”

 

He bent down, thrusting his hard, unshaven face close to his whimpering victim’s.  “I learned somethin’ in prison, fag,” he whispered.  “The best way to remember something is through pain.  Here, lemme show ya.”

 

Will began to weep even before Carlos parted his legs, but he didn’t start to scream until the rage-fueled killer shoved his massive, vein-wrapped cock into the boy’s quivering, unprepared fuckhole.  Every time Carlos had fucked Will in the past, he’d used vast amounts of lube, wrapped his dong in a condom (god knows what else had been up that hole)—and he’d eased in slowly.

 

None of that mattered now.  His thick shaft tore through the young slut’s ass like a hot knife through butter, stretching the sphincter past its tolerance and splitting apart the rectal lining with a white-hot searing agony that made Will shriek like he was getting raped with a razor blade.

 

It was music to Carlos’s ears.  And the way the lean young cunt threw his entire body into his screaming—that was almost magic, the way it massaged the swollen purple head of the grimly sadistic con’s dick.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt!” he grunted as his muscled body heaved and pumped his rod up the kid’s traumatized rectum.  “Goddam little fuckin’ pain slut, huh?  Scream all ya want, bitch—ain’t no one gonna hear it and it feels so goddam good on my cock.  Scream, you worthless homo stoolie, scream like your useless life matters!”

 

Carlos was hunched over the well-used slut, his skin-tight jeans still clinging to his thick muscled thighs as they pumped his shaft up the cunt’s colon.  One leg was up on the sofa but his other black boot was planted firmly on the floor to give him enough traction to sink his tool deep into the squealing queerboy’s guts.  He gripped the whore’s left shoulder tightly to keep the target immobile as he drove his rock-hard fist into the punk’s smooth flat belly.

 

Will was screaming shrilly in agony, his body awash in a white-hot flame of excruciating pain as his ass was violated more brutally than anything he’d ever experienced in his short, wasted life.  His mind was a quagmire of terror and physical trauma but still, some deep dark pig corner reveled in the abuse and rape.

 

That little corner noted the contempt on the hot rough alpha’s face as he hocked up a huge disgusting wad of phlegm and spit it on Will’s face, where it blended in with his involuntary tears.  It also noticed Carlos suddenly leaning back, unbuckling his belt of woven leather straps and slipping it off.

 

Even the pig part refused to recognize the implications.  Even the pig part was unable to face its own death-worship.  But on a deep subconscious level, there was a response.

 

Despite the intense pain he was experiencing, as Carlos slid his belt free menacingly, some part of Will was aware that his own dick was stiffening.  He was hung well himself—not as large as his assailant, but his thick tube steak towered a good seven inches over his flat smooth belly when it was fully aroused, as it was now.

 

But his own throbbing cock couldn’t compete for his attention as Carlos tossed the belt down on the sofa cushion and bent over him.  The young punk gasped involuntarily as the hard scruffy face of his torturer filled his field of vision.  Again, his body responded to stimuli of which his conscious mind was unaware—in this case the earthy scent of Carlos’s sweaty body, heavily laden with testosterone.

 

With a faint sense of despair, Will felt his erect dick, now more sensitive than ever, slap wetly against his sadistic rapist’s rippled belly.  From his point of view, he couldn’t see how the oozing spongy head of his shaft was leaving glistening trails over Carlos’s short dark body fur, but he was still aware that his traitorous rod was leaking precum—

 

Carlos was pissed.  He’d noticed Will’s attention wandering again.  Stupid little fuck didn’t even realize what was at stake.  Even worse, he was committing a fatal error.

 

He was getting loose.

 

As Carlos began whispering to him, Will noticed the word “revenge” tattooed amateurishly on the cruel stud’s neck for the first time.  His fear- and drug-sodden brain was too impaired to connect it to anything that followed.

 

“You stupid worthless piece of shit.  Your tongue and your ass are both too loose—guess you been whorin’ out both, huh?  Your ass to anyone who’ll pay and your mouth to anyone who’ll listen?  Time to tighten ‘em both, motherfucker!”

 

Will shuddered—he himself didn’t know if in terror or pleasure—as Carlos bent even closer, the short black bristles on his unshaven cheek scraping Will’s face like steel wool, and muttered in his ear.  “Guess what, cunt?  It’s gonna hurt.  It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you’ll shoot your load in agony.”

 

Staring coldly into his victim’s face, the powerful alpha grabbed Will’s jaw and squeezed, grinding the broken ends of the bone together in an excruciating vise-like grip.  The strung-out punk could only squeal in agony, his voice rising in a thin shrill shriek as he experienced pain he’d never encountered—or even imagined—in his protected, rich-kid life.

 

Carlos leaned back and sneered at him. Spitting in his tear-streaked face, he snarled, “Shut up, ya goddam faggot!”  Still gasping the writhing youth’s jaw in an iron grip, he backhanded Will across the face with the other hand.  “Fuck yeah!” he growled, “Now you’re gettin’ good and tight.  Ya like it when I hurt ya, huh?  Ya like gettin’ beat down like a weak useless homo punk?  Sure the fuck hope so, cunt, cause that’s what’s gonna happen!”

 

Will was caught up in a maelstrom of pain and panic.  Squealing in pure fright, he fought back violently, his bright blue kicks flailing in the air as his smooth legs wrapped around Carlos’s sweaty muscular flank.  As the powerful convict held the boy down and slammed his monstrous shaft up the struggling kid’s torn, bleeding rectum, Will beat against the alpha’s chest, his balled fists having no impact at all on the stud’s broad glistening pecs.

 

They did, however, have an impact on Carlos’s temper.  He got pissed.  He spat a stream of curses at the tormented punk, squeezing Will’s jaw periodically.  Each time he did, he could feel the broken bones grinding and watch Will stiffen and moan in agony.

 

“Stupid fucking bitch [squeeze, moan], quit tryin’ to fight it [squeeze, louder moan].  Time for you [harder squeeze, shrill wail] to take your punishment like a man [much hard squeeze, hoarse shriek].  Ya gotta learn, cunt, and we ain’t even gotten started yet!”

 

He let go of Will’s jaw.  As the lithe boyslut, pale and trembling from the torture he’d just endured, shakily gasped in relief, Carlos slammed his fist into the kid’s face.  His bulging bicep gave his arm the force of a piledriver as he beat the helpless drugged youth ruthlessly.

 

“Ya ain’t ever gonna squeal on no one again, you faggot scumbag!” Carlos snarled while Will succumbed to the beating, his firm slim body thrashing and jerking as each painful blow landed.  “I’m gonna shut you up for good, ya hear me?  I ain’t just gonna waste ya, dude, I’m gonna use yer dyin’ body to jack off.  Ya like that, huh, ya disgusting fuckpig?”

 

Will heard the words but was unable to process them—both his face and his ass were getting pounded by the brutal hard-bodied killer.  His brain was repeatedly impacting the interior of his skull; it was able to absorb stimuli but not to interpret them.  It had a lot to absorb.

 

Despite the agony and vicious violence of the moment, Will’s brain detected the pheromones saturating his torturer’s musky scent.  Deep in the punk’s brain stem, the physiological response to dominant rape kicked in.

 

And it stayed in.  Carlos halted the assault and sat up on his knees, keeping his long rod buried in the useless stoolie’s quivering ass.  As the paroled strongman rested for a moment, his buff, tattooed torso heaved as he regained his breath.  Will continued to shudder and writhe in pain, causing Carlos to grunt in pleasure and take a moment to enjoy the cunt helplessly grinding his fuckhole onto his tormentor’s swollen shaft.

 

Even now, Will wasn’t able to recognize the inevitable.  His face was battered, his eyes were blackened and swollen.  Both the orbit of his left eye and his left cheekbone had been broken—and yet, on some primal level, his bottom pig nature kicked in.  He’d always been a bottom, and the rougher the sex, the better.

 

He was, after all, only taking his sexual inclination to its logical conclusion.  And while his fragile, jagged psyche couldn’t admit it, his body was responding to the brutal rape and assault as if it was enduring the greatest fuck it had ever experienced—as it truly was.

 

But that didn’t stop Will’s conscious terror.  He could barely see out of his swollen, battered eyes—but he could see well enough when Carlos reached down and picked up the woven leather belt.  As the well-built convict rode the helpless punk’s ass, he dangled the belt in front of Will’s eyes and grinned.

 

“Damn, dude, you’re fucked up.  You’re fucked up bad,” the sadistic alpha chuckled.  Even up on his knees, his thighs were developed enough to let him keep slamming his cock up the writhing, terrified youth’s fuckhole.  “Know what, cunt?  It ain’t enough.  What you did to me—you made me do this, you squealin’ little fag.  Remember that.  Everything you’ve suffered, everything you’re about to suffer, you made me do to you, you motherfucking cumguzzling queer!”

 

Holding the belt out taut in front of him, Carlos extended his arms and, bending down, managed to slip it under Will’s head in with a quick, sweeping motion.  Bringing the loose ends around, he crossed them over the kid’s throat; the boy’s white flesh showing through the small gaps between the meshed leather straps.

 

Carlos released the belt, letting it lie across Will neck loosely.  Hunching down over the kicking, flailing slut, he again grabbed Will’s broken, misshapen jaw and clenched his iron grip.

 

“Does it hurt, you homo pig?” he hissed.  “Does it hurt, huh?  Want me to end it?  Want me to make it all go away, you fuckin’ rat?  Fuck yeah, dude, I think it’s time to exterminate some vermin!  Gonna do the world a favor and off your worthless ass.  Even your momma and daddy gonna thank me for wastin’ their useless pansy money drain, y’know?  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya, ain’t no one gonna care.”

 

Will was gasping raggedly, his mouth hanging open.  It hurt too much to close it anyway.  His nose, pummeled and broken during the beating, was clogged with blood and snot; he wasn’t able to breathe through it.  He was still struggling, still resisting the inevitable, but with much less intensity.  He’d endured far too much trauma to have any real fight left in him.

 

Even through Will’s bruised and slitted eyelids, Carlos could see the spark of resistance fade from his victim’s eyes.  He didn’t want that; at least, not yet.  “What’s wrong, ya worthless fuck?  I got beat worse than that every week in prison.  Made a man outta me—but then, I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot stoolie. You ain’t gettin’ outta this that easy, bitch, you ain’t done workin’ my cock yet.  Betcha I know how to get some fight back in your limp homo ass, boy!”

 

As the boy moaned weakly, the muscled killer stud jerked the ends of the belt, instantly causing the thin, interwoven leather straps to sink deeply into the slut’s neck.  Carlos had been right; the moment his air was cut off, the limp faggot revived immediately, a flame of sheer terror consuming what little rational mind the viciously abused youth had left.

 

Will drummed the heels of his skate shoes into Carlos’s firm ass, but the hardbodied convict never so much as noticed it through the jeans he was still wearing.  Even open at the crotch and free of the belt, the black denim still clung tightly to his muscular thighs and rounded ass.  What he did notice was the way Will’s sphincter suddenly grabbed hold of his enormous throbbing shaft.

 

“Fuck, cunt, that’s it!  Yeah, you squealin’ pig, work my dick as you die, you cocksucker!”  The words reverberated in Will’s ears as the belt sank deeper into his throat.  He was already nearly insane with the instinctual panic generated by suffocation; the physical and mental torture were almost wasted on him—but not quite.  The power bottom pig that lurked deep in Will’s dank soul heard and responded, yet again.

 

Even as the slim, lithe youth beat his hands ineffectually against his killer’s broad sweaty chest, the oozing purple tip of his rod was digging furrows in Carlos’s body fur as the overpowering killer continued to rape and strangle the little fuck.  Though his nose was blocked, his body still managed to absorb and react to the sex pheromones and testosterone that drenched the room.

 

At some point during his murder, Will remembered he was on his own couch.  He’d sat here last night and watched TV.  This wasn’t happening.  He was having a nightmare—no, nightmares didn’t hurt like this.  He was having a bad trip.  He’d taken something and was tripping balls, but oh fuck whatever he was on he’d never do it again, please god just let me come down safe and I won’t do any more LSD but holy shit acid never did this to me…

 

He couldn’t keep it up.  LSD might explain the choking sensation—but not the rape.  He could feel every ridge of every vein on Carlos’s grotesquely thick shaft tearing through his rectum, even as his head and chest started to burn.

 

It started out dull, the burn, but the pressure in his lungs and head was increasing geometrically, swelling the dull ache into a fiery agony within moments.  All the pain from the trauma his face had suffered was amplified as his bruised skin darkened even further and grew taut and stretched.

 

The terrified punk realized that his slim young body was no match for the brawny dominant stud who seemed to know him…but those tattoos—that winged skull on his arm, the horrific figure of death on the alpha’s pec, urging him to die…he didn’t know those.

 

Will had no idea who was raping and murdering him—or why.  He was far too fucked up—physically, mentally, chemically—to comprehend either the inevitability or the appropriateness of his snuff.

 

What he did comprehend, and comprehend very well, was that he couldn’t force the stranger off him.  The dude was a strapping powerhouse, a muscled god, and while Will was neither weak nor scrawny, he had no chance in hell of moving Carlos’s herculean bulk off of him.

 

The dying snitch slut had only one other option—the belt itself.  Will had no hope of either wresting it away from Carlos’s grasp or inflicting any kind of damage on the woven leather straps, but that didn’t stop him from clawing at it in a terror-stricken frenzy.  The struggling youth had little conscious thought left in any case; most of his response was simply aimed at the area where the pain was worst.

 

The slow but inexorably crushing of Will’s esophagus had overtaken the lack of oxygen in the kid’s register of pain.

 

As the agony of death intensified, Will grew more responsive to his assailant’s cock, just as Carlos had known it would.  “Now you’re gettin’ it,” the cold arrogant sadist sneered, “now you’re finally doin’ something useful, you worthless cunt.  Fuckin’ druggie faggot rat, only thing you’re good for is soaking up my cum, ya hear me?”

 

His face twisted in uncontrollable rage, Carlos bent down over Will.  The boy’s face was utterly unrecognizable.  His tongue, a bizarre shade of purple, protruded grotesquely from between swollen, blue split lips.  Oozing out around it was foamy saliva, stained pink with blood from both inside and outside the whore’s mouth.  The bubbly pink mass slid down Will’s blackened cheeks and hung off his chin in long streamers of pink drool.

 

The dying kid’s eyes bulged horribly from their orbits, red with both drug use and pinpoint hemorrhages.  As Carlos spat a huge wad of phlegm into the suffering youth’s face, Will’s hands began to lose their coordination while trying to pry the black leather belt from his throat.  They’d never had a chance of grabbing it; it had sunk in too deeply for that.  But now the slut wasn’t even trying.

 

The ripped stud kept plowing his shaft into Will’s lacerated fuckhole.  He knew that he only had a little time left—the worthless homo rat would be brain-dead within sixty seconds.  If he was gonna get off while the faggot died, he needed to put it into overdrive.

 

Will got to sample Hell before he went there permanently.

 

“Goddam piece of motherfuckin’ shit, you can’t even milk the spunk outta my hog, can ya, you fuckin’ pig?  Ok, cunt, you had yer chance.  Die, you motherfucker.  Die, you faggot!”

 

A red, lust-fueled mist descended over Carlos as he snarled and foamed in rage, his angry throbbing shaft tearing though Will’s tender guts as the killer brutally plowed the boy’s shuddering body.  He bore down on the whore, still weakly struggling.

 

There was little left of Will by this point; nothing more than quivering, sensitive flesh that was enduring the impact of trauma.  What little mind that had existed before the assault was gone; nothing was left but an awareness of physical sensation—and the physical reactions generated by those sensations.

 

So when the belt completely and utterly crushed Will’s windpipe, the cartilage crunching audibly, the young addict’s body went rigid, the rectum collapsing on Carlos’s thick pulsing cock with vacuum force.

 

As dark explosion burst in front of Will’s eyes and his last terrified spark of consciousness slid into a screaming vortex of glassy agony, his body broke out in an icy sweat as his adrenal system started to fail.  Cascading organ failure wracked the boy’s smooth body with violent convulsions

 

Carlos held the firm shuddering flesh close to him, feeling Will’s asscheeks flex and pump on the root of the hardbodied con’s extended cock.  The powerful thug grunted and tensed as his huge balls contracted.  Hot sperm boiled at the base of the killer’s dick as the dying slut kicked helplessly.

 

Suddenly Will went rigid in the grip of a nightmarish spasm, his slim but strong muscles contorting violently as inexorable progressive brain damage wreaked havoc on the cunt’s nervous system.  His legs wrapped tight around his murderer’s waist, his neon blue sneakers scraping raggedly over the skin-tight denim protecting the alpha’s ass.

 

 

The kid’s arm’s had flailed mindlessly, his hands beating and fluttering against Carlos’s massive torso, his fingers scrabbling vainly in the bigger dude’s sweat-matted chest hair.  As the smooth young punk stiffened in his final moments on earth, he involuntarily clutched at the convict’s broad shoulders and held them tightly, almost as a last desperate touch of humanity as the life he’d wasted was brutally choked out of him.

 

That’s when the long hot shaft pressed against Carlos’s furry belly began to pulse and spew.  A thick ropy jet of semen spurted between the writhing, sweating males, the tortured, vanquished youth acknowledging his defeat with his death load.  Creamy spunk splattered on the faggot’s black, swollen face, running viscously down his dark, distended cheeks and adding an additional glaze to his bulging bloodshot eyes.  And after everything, the terrified queerboy was dying without every really understanding who was killing him, or why.

 

It was too much for the muscular sadist.  “Fuck!” he snarled as his seed boiled over.  “Fuck yeah!  Fuckin’ ownin’ ya, cunt!  Fuckin’-A!”  As his hard tough body hunched and jerked in explosive orgasm, he could only keep the belt tight around his victim’s throat as he continued to curse and pump his hot seed into the corpse’s writhing innards.

 

The last physical sensation Will felt was one of utterly indescribable agony.  There was truly no Will left, just randomly firing nerves that imparted an impression of boiling magma and impalement on a sharp spike.  There was nothing to receive the impression.  Will was quivering meat, spunking involuntarily and uncontrollably.

 

Even Carlos was impressed.  As often as he’d been raped in jail, he’d seen a lot of cum.  But he’d never seen anything like the fountain of jizz forced outta the stoolie by his death throes.  Little motherfucker musta been full of spunk.

 

Still shuddering and tingling with pleasure, Carlos slowly backed off the couch, disengaging his huge, still-erect cock from the corpse’s fuckhole; it trailed a long pearly streamer of semen.  Standing up, he took a couple of minutes—it took that long to do it—to stuff his throbbing, dripping member back into his jeans.  He was just barely able to zip the fly; the enormous bulge in the crotch was incredibly conspicuous.

 

The tattooed convict stood over the sprawled corpse of his victim, admiring it for a moment.  Will was lying on his back, legs and arms both spread, completely nude except for his bright blue shoes and the athletic socks of the same shade that somehow still clung tightly to the corpse’s firm calves.  As Carlos watched, the body continued to twitch and jerk randomly, the typical mindless quiverings of a strangled corpse.

 

Will’s face was totally unrecognizable.  He’d been a beautiful—some had said adorable—youth; certainly his looks had been far more responsible for his position in life than his ability.  Carlos wondered what those “some” would say about the apparition before him now—face black, eyes bulging horrifically, thick purple tongue protruding, grotesquely misshapen jaw, and all covered with a drying glaze of spunk and foamy spittle.

 

But he’d enjoyed his kill long enough.  He still needed money.  He knew where Will kept it—if he hadn’t changed anything in the last couple of years; he’d moved, after all.  But Carlos was confident.  The stupid piece of shit had moved, but he hadn’t changed.

 

The can of shaving cream was in the downstairs bathroom.  The hardened convict recognized it immediately and, snatching it up, unscrewed the false bottom eagerly.

 

Holy shit.  What a huge fucking roll of bills.  Motherfucker had a wad of cash bigger than his death wad.

 

Carlos strolled back into the living room and casually tossed the cash down onto the end table.  Walking through to the kitchen, he took a couple of moments to root through the fridge and make himself a sandwich.

 

He returned to the living room and spent the next half hour comfortably eating his meal and counting the cash as Will’s corpse slowly started to cool and stiffen.  By the time Carlos found himself richer by more than seven grand, he’d had time to enjoy a post-meal smoke and the body had stopped kicking.  Probably for the best, since he ground his glowing butt out on the corpse’s scrotum.

 

Standing and stretching, the muscled killer felt tired in a good way.  He glanced around the room one last time and realized his shirt was missing.  He didn’t really care—it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford another, and there wasn’t anyone who’d be getting too worked up about an informer gettin’ whacked.  The cops were used to that shit; they’d shrug their shoulders and find themselves another snitch.

 

And anyway, his black belt of interwoven leather straps had sunk so deeply into the motherfucker’s windpipe, Carlos wasn’t gonna bother to try to retrieve it.  Let the cunt’s parents see what had happened to the useless cumsucker.  They’d probably heave a sigh of relief that their worthless money-sucking offspring wouldn’t trouble them further.

 

Carlos bent down and grabbed the whore’s shredded blue t-shirt.  He wadded it up and used it to swab the dried scaly cum and sweat off his sculpted torso before tossing it onto the splayed corpse.  It landed on the Will’s smooth flat abdomen and instantly started turning dark as it absorbed the still-uncoagulated sperm puddled in the hollow of the belly.

 

The hardened (and by now, well-experienced) killer took a last look around before heading out the door.  The gruesome results of his revenge sex murder were spread across the room, from the table and broken lamp on one side to the torn remains of Will’s jeans on the other—and, of course, the raped and strangled homo punk displayed as a centerpiece.  The steak knife under the table added a final macabre touch.

 

Carlos felt he’d gotten his point across.  He’d damn sure taught Will how to keep his mouth shut.

 

His thick black boots thudding on the pavement, Carlos strode back to the car.  The cool night breeze swept across his tattooed chest, stiffening his large dark nipples.  Deliberately passing up Will’s BMW as too conspicuous, he climbed back into the ‘Stang.  As his firm taut ass settled comfortably into the leather seat, he was aware of how the extremely tight black jeans he was wearing outlined the roll of cash in his pocket—it was almost as thick a ridge as his cock.

 

Carlos chuckled.  He kinda looked like the bassist in “Spinal Tap”.  As he put the car in gear and pulled out of the apartment parking lot, he wondered if it would improve his chances of landing another faggot tonight.

 

Not, of course, that he needed anything beyond his own amazingly well-developed body to lure in pansy whores.  But even now, he could still feel anger against those worthless faggot slut cunt pieces of shit—

 

And just like that, he was hard again.  He could almost feel rage and testosterone refilling his scrotum at a phenomenal rate.

 

Soon.  It had to be soon.  It was building up too fast for him to control it.  He’d have to drain it off again soon—his rage, his hate, his cum.