Cuttin’ Down Ebony Woods, Part One

It was Frankie who bagged the first nigger.

 

It helped that his military-issue combat boots had rubber soles; the coon never heard him coming.  And after Frankie got there, the coon never heard anything, ever.  Period.

 

They’d met at two-fifteen on a Sunday morning in a back alley.  Sordid, filthy and dimly lit, it was filled with garbage bins and piles of trash, like most of the alleys on their turf—except this one wasn’t on their turf.

 

It didn’t matter.  A message had to be sent.  The two-story building that they met behind was filled with niggers and faggots who needed to learn the meaning of white power.

 

Jack had been responsible for collecting the guns; he had sources for untraceable small arms.  He handed Frankie, Mike and Hank nine-millimeter pistols and half a dozen extra clips each, keeping the same for himself.  Ed was the only one he didn’t provide a gun for—he had his own favorite Colt .45 and kept his pockets filled with extra shells.

 

Mike handed out zip ties, twenty-five to each Nazi—lotta apes to corral inside.  They grinned at each other and waited for their chance.

 

“We’re gonna go in quiet,” Jack had said.  “I wanna get in there and get control of the situation so we don’t have no howler monkeys screamin’ down the street.  All the shit stays inside—we can get as loud as we want in there, got me?”

 

They got him.  They all waited in patiently in the darkness of the alley—five muscle-bound skinheads, filled with rage and lust and racial hatred that was about to violently boil over.  They didn’t have to wait long.

 

The nigger bouncer was in its early twenties.  It had an expensive fade, a gold grill in its teeth and a black t-shirt with the word “security” printed across its broad, muscular chest.  It was checking the alley for the last time to make sure the bar back could empty the trash.  It wasn’t expecting trouble, and it damn sure wasn’t expecting Frankie’s bat or the powerhouse swing that connected it to its head with a loud crunch.

 

The hardbodied coon fell to the pavement and thrashed violently in a puddle of stagnant rainwater, the massive dent in its thick skull revealing the extent of brain damage it had suffered.  Quickly, Jack jumped forward and put his green twenty-hole Doc Martens to work, stomping the dying nigger’s head, kicking the open wound in in the skull with his steel-toed boots.  Soon the big ape was lying still, dead coonmeat stretched out on the pavement.

 

“One down, too many to go,” Jack growled and the thugs made their way in through back door.

 

Just inside the back door was a storeroom—and inside the storeroom were two faggots, one nigger, one white.  The boys burst into the room just as the nigger was shoving its thick black cock up the white twink’s ass.  For a moment, it was hard to determine which party was the most surprised.

 

With the guns, it wasn’t hard to determine which party was in charge.  The white punk stood up, pulling off the darkie’s thick rod with an audible pop.  They were both young—late teens, both of them.  The nigger sported back and red DC skate shoes while the white fag had gray Etnies, but were otherwise nude.

 

“Fuckin’ hell, lookit this shit,” Jack said, his face contorted with disgust, “A fuckin’ faggot gettin’ banged by a fuckin’ ape.  Almost as bad as an actual human gettin’ fucked by one.  Whaddaya say, boys?

 

“I say we off ‘em now,” Hank said, his muscles rippling under his white t-shirt as he brandished a claw hammer.

 

“Hang on,” Jack said, grinning.  “We need to do this quiet, remember?”

 

That was all the white homo needed to hear.  It opened its mouth wide and inhaled, but Jack was even faster.  He decked the cocksucker in the jaw, putting its lights out.  The nigger flinched and cowered in fear, trembling.

 

“P-please,” it begged, “Pl-please d-d-don’t hur-hurt me—”

 

Frankie noticed it had a goatee.  “Hey, look,” he jeered, pointing at the dark, curly hair outlining the jigaboo’s mouth, “It’s got pubes on its fuckin’ face!”

 

“That’s its face pussy,” Ed laughed.

 

Hank grabbed a bottle out of a nearby box; a single sniff after removing the cap showed it to be nearly pure grain alcohol.  “Ya like shovin’ things in yer coon pussyface?” he snarled at the terrified fag, “Here, shove this in!”

 

He forced the bottle into the monkey’s mouth.  Mike, standing next to him, stepped up and wrapped a muscular arm around the cunt’s head, locking it into place, while Frankie, simply but effectively, pinched its nose shut.  Within a space of fifteen seconds, Hank managed to pour almost a quart of 190-proof alcohol down the teenaged nigger’s throat.  They all held on for a full count of three minutes—just as if they were strangling it—then let go.

 

The young niglet had been carded on entry and hadn’t been drinking that night.  The booze hit it like a semi.  The coon cocksucker was still scared out of its mind, but was too fucked up to resist.  It staggered for a moment, then fell back on the pile of garbage bags that had been stacked to be taken outside.

 

“There ya go, Hank,” Jack said.  “Frankie got one outside, this one’s yours.  After all, y’all missed the fun last time…”

 

Hank grinned sadistically and grabbed another bottle.  The baby ape focused blearily on the Nazi’s black DM’s as he approached, then looked up.  “N’more…” it muttered.

 

“Aw, c’mon,” Hank chuckled, “Just one more itty-bitty drinkie-poo.”  He forced the bottle between the nigger’s thick lips and before the faggot realized that this bottle was plastic, not glass, Hank had poured three pints of commercial-grade drain cleaner down its throat.

 

The reaction was instant and explosive, but silent.  It rose up, flailing, eyes so wide the whites looked like dinner plates.  A torrent of rancid foam spilled from between its thick lips as it stared in horror and desperation into Hank’s hard, sneering face.  “Ya just swallowed a mouthload of white-fuckin’-power, ya piece a’ monkey shit.  How’s that taste, huh?”

 

The agonized coon felt the warm trickle of Hank’s spit on its face and tried to cry out but the caustic chemicals had already eaten at its vocal cords and peeled off the lining of its esophagus.  It could only foam and drool and piss itself, clutching its belly in nightmarish pain, and try to stagger away.

 

“Hey, Frankie,” Hank called out casually, “I taught the fuckin’ thing to play dead—why’ncha teach it how to stay?”

 

Laughing, Frankie stepped up, swinging his bat, low and hard.  There was the hard, wet cracking sound of a green, healthy tree limb being snapped and the nigger fag collapsed to the floor, its broken tibia and fibula folding up under it.

 

“What about that one?” Ed asked as a faint moan from the corner told them the niggerlover was regaining consciousness.

 

“Let’s save it for the party.  Mike, zip it.”

 

As Mike bound its hands behind it with zip ties, Jack and Ed dragged the stunned twink homo through a pair of swinging doors and out into an area near the back of the bar.  Behind them, the cocksucking niglet shuddered impotently on the floor.  Even had it gotten immediate medical attention, the chemicals were too strong; the young ape was being eaten away from the inside.

 

But there was no medical attention.  The teen coon could hear everything that happened in the next room.  It had the satisfaction of living longer than most of those around it, even if those extra moments were spent writhing in nightmarish agony on the cold concrete floor, alone in the dark.


The bar itself stretched off to the right.  Two buff young bucks were working there.  Both were shirtless, their smooth ebony skin glistening under the flashing lights from the dance floor.  Out on the floor were three couples—all of them nigger fags, kissing and slobbering on each other.

 

Jack was sick at the sight.  “Ok, fuckers, time to rock n’ roll.  We got us some jungle bunnies to round up.  Ed, you, Frankie and Hank get the ones out there.  Mike and I’ll grab these two.  Ready to make some noise?”

 

The boys nodded eagerly, hate and sexual excitement reflected in their masculine faces.  “White power, motherfuckers!”

 

The cry rang out among them all, echoing over the dance floor, drowning out the nigger gangsta rap.

 

“White power, motherfuckers!  White power!  White power!”

 

Jack and Ed fired their guns, aiming at the ceiling.  Even if the dry-humping nigs on the dance floor hadn’t heard the shouts, they damn sure heard the gunfire.  So did everyone else in the building, and they did exactly what they’d been told to do in live shooter situations: shelter in place.

 

They froze, waiting to be hunted down like the animals they were.

 

The boys leered at each other and the Ebony Woods Coon Slaughter got started.

 

“Awright, get over here, ya fuckin’ apes!” Jack snarled at the bartenders.  The young coons looked at each other, then approached hesitantly, trembling with fear.  One was tall and muscular, with an expensive fade and a thick gold chain around its neck, the other was slightly shorter and not a heavily built but well developed.  Both wore skin-tight satin pants that clearly showed the outlines of their thick black cocks, like male strippers, and both sported black go-go boots.

 

“What the fuck do we got here?” the vicious Nazi thug sneered.  “On yer knees, jigaboos.”

 

Behind him, Frankie and Hank had rounded up the six Sambos on the dance floor and with Mike’s help, was getting them to pull each other’s clothing off.  As each coon was stripped down to its glistening chocolate skin, its hands were securely bound behind its back with zip ties.

 

The black bartenders knelt in front of Jack, looking up at the muscled skinhead in his Gold’s Gym shirt and his Doc Martens, an overwhelming presence of hate and testosterone.  The taller one began to cry.

 

Jack pointed his Glock 17 at the nig’s face.  “Aw, is de wittle jungle bunny scared?  Eat shit, ya fuckin’ nigger!”  There was a loud pop and a hole appeared in the darkie’s forehead while its brains were blasted out a hole in the back of its skull.  It fell forward, dead, but not still, its legs thrashing in its death throes.  The white thug popped another cap into it, pithing the brainstem and quieting the monkey.

 

The other coon bartender, its face splattered with its coworker’s blood, gasped and began to wail, a high, atonal keening sound.

 

“Aw, shaddap,” Jack snapped, shooting it point-blank in the mouth.  The hardbodied black buck swayed on its knees for a moment, blinking, piss running down its leg, with its teeth blown out through the back of its neck, then it fell forward, a sack of dead monkey meat.

 

The herd of coons on the dance floor were paralyzed with terror, the white niggerlover among them.  Mike stepped over to Hank and, after a quick discussion, borrowed the claw hammer from him.

 

“Awright, Hank,” Jack ordered, his voice steely with purpose, “You an’ Frankie stay here and guard this lot.  I got somethin’ special planned for these nignogs.  Fuckin’ pansy-ass coons think they can flaunt their faggot nigger asses in our part of town?  We’re gonna show the whole fuckin’ city how white power handles this bullshit.”

 

Standing up straight and squaring his shoulders, Jack adjusted the thick, straining bulge in his crotch.  Grinning at each other, the rest of the boys did the same, shifting their straining denim-sheathed cocks to more comfortable positions.  The evening was just getting started.

 

“Ok, you fuckers, it’s search and destroy time.  Mike, Ed, you’re with me.  We’re gonna through this fuckin’ monkey hut room by room and hunt down any nigger we can find.  No fuckin’ mercy, ya got that?”

 

They got it.  They didn’t need to be told.  They weren’t looking to dispense mercy, they were looking to dispense terror and torture—and testosterone.  These were gonna be sick kills; just the thought of the horrific death about to rain down on the isolated groups of trapped coon faggots made their hard white manshafts drip with anticipation.

 

Just outside the bar was the entry and the bouncer’s nook.  There was a door to one side to a restroom; on the other side were the stairs to the second level.  Most of the second floor consisted of catwalks over the dance floor, but there was a sign next to the staircase that showed there was a smoking lounge and another restroom as well.

 

“Ok, I got this one,” Jack said nodding towards the downstairs restroom.  “You head on up.  We’ll meet back in twenty minutes.”

 

“They’re gonna get bored,” Ed said, indicating Hank and Frankie back on the dance floor.

 

“Don’t worry,” Jack said, “What I got planned will make up for it.  And anyway, they’re gonna be busy going through the wallets and stripping the bling.  Fuckin’ nigger apes think they can own property—they fuckin’ are property, goddamit!”

 

Ed grinned and Mike felt his dick throb.  They turned to head up the stairs—and at that moment, a figure moved out of the entryway.

 

It was the Hispanic bar back.  Dressed in a tight, stained t-shirt and jeans tucked into pull on work boots, he was young and swarthy with shoulder-length blue-black hair.  He was carrying a mop, but dropped it, stunned, as soon as he saw the trio of white power skinheads.  Jack drew to plug the fucker, but Mike got there first with the hammer.

 

The first blow of the steel head shattered the spic’s jaw; its hands fumbled at its face in shock and horror as Mike wielded the heavy tool again, this time impacting the beaner’s skull hard enough to shatter it.  The brown-skinned wetback fell to the floor in a coma, its boots jerking on the tiles as its damaged brain, peppered with skull fragments, short-circuited.

 

Jack gave Mike a thumbs-up as Ed slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Fuck yeah, bro. Righteous.”

 

The three hardbodied, big-dicked Aryans turned back to their cold-blooded coon hunt.

 

Jack entered the restroom with his gun drawn and his dick hard.  The room was silent, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.  To his left were three sinks, with mirrors over them.  On the right were three stalls with the doors closed and at the far end was a long metal piss trough.

 

The thick soles of his twenty-holed boots echoed eerily on the tiled floor as he slowly paced down the room.  The buff young thug paused in front of the first mirror and admired himself for a moment, the way his t-shirt was stretched tightly across his huge pecs, the way his long thick shaft of pure white manhood was standing to attention during his righteous purge of the niggers.

 

Whirling, he pressed the barrel of his gun against the door of the first stall and slowly opened it, the sound of metal scraping on metal loud in the silence.  As the door inched open, it revealed two coons huddled together in each other’s arms, their white eyes huge with terror.

 

Jack grinned and grabbed his scrote, adjusting his huge, cum-filled balls as he took stock of the situation.    “Well, well, looky here, a coupla jigaboo fags hangin’ out in the toilet.  Feel at home in there, ya pieces a’ shit?  Get the fuck out here.  Now.”

 

The two boys, trembling in terror, shuffled their way out of the stall.  In their early twenties, both were in skinny jeans and button-down shirt—one light blue, the other a blue and purple plaid.  The one in blue was wearing brown suede Chelsea boots; the one in plaid had a pair of Air Jordan 4 “Tattoos”.  Young, hip, slightly upscale urban fags, they were unused to violence and petrified at the sight of Jack’s weapon.

 

“Over there,” the menacing Aryan snarled waving the quivering monkeys to the far end of the restroom, next to the trough.  He opened the door to the middle stall with his gun, only to find it empty.  Shrugging, he turned to the last stall.

 

It was locked.

 

With a broad smirk on his chiseled face, Jack raised his booted foot and kicked the door in.

 

This one had gonna full gangsta thug, with a Lakers jersey that showed off its smooth, muscled arms and a pair of low-hanging jeans that looked like they’d been belted around its legs below its ass, showing off a pair of skin-tight black briefs underneath.  It had on a yellow Lakers cap, with the brim turned back at an angle, thick braided chains around its throat and a pair of untied Timberlands.

 

And the coon was so frightened, it’d lost control of its bladder.

 

Jack laughed triumphantly at this proof of his power.  He’d scared the piss outta the fuckin’ ape without even seeing it.

 

“More fuckin’ vermin,” he growled, “Goddam building’s infested.”  He reached in and manhandled the gibbering, terrified darkie out of the stall and shoved it towards the others.

 

“Here,” he snarled, handing a pair of zip ties to the nigger in plaid, “Bind their hands.  No, not in front, ya stupid fuckin’ monkey, in back.  And do it tight or I’ll bust a cap in yer worthless ape skull, ya hear me, boy?”

 

Its hands trembling, the jigaboo obeyed, cinching its faggot boyfriend’s wrists closely, then moved on to the cowering gangsta bitch.

 

“Nice, obedient coon,” Jack jeered, “Woulda fetched a good price back in the good ol’ days.”

 

Once it was done, Jack felt safe enough to set down the gun and secure its hands itself.  Then he lined all three niggers up, facing the piss trough.

 

“On your knees, you cunts,” he barked.  “Fuckin’ niggers should always be on their knees in the presence of a white man, but you faggots are so uppity I’m gonna hafta show y’all what real white power is.”

 

He’d been digging something out his pocket; it was a folding tactical knife.  The blade was only four inches long, but the forged steel was razor-sharp and serrated.  The hardbodied skinhead grabbed the nappy poll of the coon in the blue shirt and forced its head down over the lip of the trough.

 

“Time to die, ya nigger sack a’ shit,” Jack spat and, reaching up under the Sambo’s chin with his knife, began slicing its throat open.

 

“No!!!” it screamed, “O god no don’t please god no no nonono–AAAIIIIEEEAgghghg—”

 

As its shrill animal shriek of mortal agony echoed off the tile walls of the small, harshly lit room, Jack pressed his crotch against the nigger’s head so it could feel his hard cock as it gagged and choked on its own blood.  The coppery scent of righteous bloodletting began to overtake the acrid tang of nigger piss.  After a minute or so, the jigaboo stopped twitching, its brown Chelsea boots finally growing still on the stained white tiles.

 

Jack left it slumped over the trough and moved to the next nig in line, executing the homo coons with the efficiency of an industrial slaughterhouse.

 


 

Upstairs, Ed had turned right and headed into the smoking lounge while Mike went directly forward into the upstairs restroom.  The smoking lounge was hazy and dimly lit, with sofas and chaise lounges scattered about.  There was a TV showing music videos on one wall, muted, and a smaller bar, closed up, at the far end of the room.

 

There were also four jungle bunnies hiding behind the various pieces of furniture.  It took Ed a couple of minutes to round them all up and get them to bind each other with the zip ties.  Soon they were all kneeling on the floor, looking up at him in abject terror.

 

Ed was an intimidating sight.  Tall and well-muscled, his white wifebeater didn’t hide a single detail of his powerful, heavily inked arms.  His close-shaven head with its broken nose and expression of merciless hate filled the niggers with cold despair.

 

He approached the first coon on the far right—an older one, mid-twenties, well-built, with a simple black leather moto jacket, a white t-shirt, and tight jeans of black leather over white Adidas hightops.

 

“Ya good with yer mouth, faggot?” Ed demanded as the leather-clad jigaboo flinched, “Fuckin’ nigger cocksuckers oughtta get put right the fuck down if they can’t work their tongues right.  Lessee if yer worth the air yer breathin’, ya piece a’ homo shit.  Lick my boots clean.”

 

As the other Sambos huddled together, quivering with fear, the nigger hesitantly bent its head down towards Ed’s red Doc Marten boot.  “Goddam it, ya useless coon faggot, lick it!” Ed snarled, cracking the jigaboo on the back of its head with the gun.  It cried out, a hopeless bleat of despair, but it obeyed, loudly slurping the oxblood leather.

 

Ed watched for about thirty seconds, then hocked up a wad of phlegm and spit on the kneeling nigger.  Reaching down, he unzipped the fly of his tight faded jeans and pulled his huge, pulsing manshaft out, sighing loudly with relief as the massive tube of flesh was allowed room to expand.

 

Then he suddenly and swiftly drew back his foot and kicked the nigger in the face, his steel-toed boot knocking out three of the cunt’s teeth.  As it whined on the floor, its hands clasped over its mouth, Ed brandished the pistol.

 

“You suck, ya fuckin’ porch monkey, an’ not in a good way.  Get up here and wrap yer thick niggery lips ‘round the barrel of my .45.”

 

The coon looked up, bewildered and horrified.

 

“C’mon, nig boy, pretend it’s yer master’s cock and start suckin’.  Let’s see if yer good enough to suck anythin’ outta this long hard shaft.”

 

The nigger, tears streaming down its glistening ebony face, closed its eyes, opened its mouth and took in the gun.

 

“Yeah, that’s it, ya punk-ass bitch,” Ed jeered, “Suck it like a white man’s cock an’ maybe I’ll let ya feel the pure power of a white load.”

 

Then he pulled the trigger.

 

There was a loud click as the hammer came down on an empty chamber.  The nigger jumped and squealed, pissing inside its leather pants in terror and collapsing to the floor as Ed guffawed loudly and massaged his erect cock.

 

“Guess what?” he chortled.  “We’re gonna play a game.  I know you jigaboos prob’ly ain’t even able to read, but even yer dumbass ape brains should be able to figure this one out—it’s real simple.  You darkie dicksuckers are gonna take turns gobblin’ my gun like it’s a cock.  An’ if yer lucky, you get the prize of sucking a big blast of white power from my hot, hard barrel.  Sound like fun?  Fuck yeah!”

 

Grinning viciously, he turned to the next nigger in line.  “Open wide, faggot,” he smirked.

 


 

Mike had already slipped on his brass knuckles by the time he entered the upstairs restroom.  This one was smaller, with two stalls, two urinals and one sink.  The stalls had no doors—but that didn’t stop the coons from trying to hide there anyway.  Mike found two crouched in the doorway and silently motioned them out with the gun.

 

From the next stall came a series of beeps someone activating a cell phone.  Mike flung himself into the stall to find a jig in a blue satin jersey, baggy jeans and Nike Air Precision kicks on its knees, desperately trying to dial 911 through its streaming tears.

 

Without needing to think, Mike punched the nigger in the mouth, shattering its jaw.  It crumpled to the floor, whimpering as Mike ground the big black heel of his engineer boot onto the phone, crushing it before the call could be completed.  The other two Sambos hadn’t moved—they were frozen with fear—so getting them zip-tied was quick and easy.

 

The buff young Aryan pulled his thick, vein-wreathed cock out of his jeans, stroked to for a moment, then strolled into the toilet stall and beat the semi-conscious nigger to death.

 

He crouched over the coon, grinning, then rolled it onto its back.  “Fuckin’ niggerboy thinks it’s gettin’ away?  Looks like I’m gonna hafta mark it.  Ain’t gotta brandin’ iron, but these here brass knuckles will do just fine.”  Then he started swinging.

 

Each powerful impact of the hardbodied, rage-filled youth’s fist resulted in a wet pulpy crunch as the Nazi rained agony down onto the thrashing, helpless nigger.  “Hell yeah, ya fuckin’ jigaboo, ya tastin’ yer own blood?” he jeered as he punched the coon’s teeth down its throat, “That’s what white-fuckin’-power tastes like!  Have some more, boy!  Tastes just like fried chicken an’ watermelon, don’t it!”

 

As the yard ape’s face caved in, Mikes repeated blows splattered the walls of the stall with blood.  By the time the skinhead came shudderingly to a stop, the coon was still twitching, its Nikes scraping on the floor tiles, but its face was an unrecognizable ruin and it had suffered catastrophic brain damage.  As Mike exited the stall to turn his attention to his remaining targets, the bleeding inside the nigger’s shattered skull was slowly but surely becoming fatal.

 

“Ok,” he said with a demonic grin on his blood-spattered face as he pulled the claw hammer out of his belt, “Who’s next?  Don’t both y’all volunteer at once, now!”

 


 

“Oh fuck, no, please, sir, don’t—”

 

Jack laughed cruelly.  “Yeah, bitch, ya better fuckin’ call me sir!” he jeered as he forced the coon’s head down over the trough, feeling its tight wooly curls under the iron grip of his hand.  This time, Jack had taken the time to haul his enormous throbbing mancock out; it was resting on the jigaboo’s shoulder as the Nazi stud brought his knife around to its throat.  He started slicing and the coon started screaming.

 

“Ohgoddon’tnonoMOMMAMOMMAMOMMaagghurrghh…” There was a high-pitched hiss as Jack sawed his way into the trachea, then the nigger gargled its own blood for a couple of minutes as its lithe, jean-clad legs flailed and its Nike Jordan Tattoos kicked in the pools of nigger blood and piss on the floor.  Then it lay still for a moment, blood splashing into the piss trough and its hands randomly clenching as it died.  Suddenly, with a final convulsive spasm, it flipped back out of the trough.

 

Jack left the dead monkey to bleed out on the restroom floor.  He turned his attention to the remaining jungle bunny—and the fuckin’ nig bolted, sprinting for the door.

 


 

The next nigger fag in line had on a bright red t-shirt a size too small, tight black jeans, and gray Ugg Hannen boots.  Ed smirked as he slowly and deliberately thrust his gun between its lips.

 

“C’mon, cocksucker,” he chuckled, “Lessee ya get a load outta this.  Work it, you nigger fuck, suck it like it’s yer master’s dick.”

 

Closing his eyes tightly, the jigaboo worked the gun barrel with its tongue.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ed sneered, “Now deep-throat it, you cunt.”

 

The dark-skinned ape did as it was told.  It took as much of the gun barrel into its mouth as it could.  Ed pulled the trigger and the back of the jigaboo’s head vanished in a spray of red mist.  A Jackson Pollock splatter of blood, brain tissue and bone shards spread over the wall behind it.

 

Ed jerked the gun out of its mouth.  It remained upright on its knees for about another five seconds, its dead eyes wide, smoke drifting from its open mouth and the crater in the back of its head, then it collapsed into a pile of jigmeat.

 

“Oops,” the sadistic Aryan muscleman chortled, “Guess I need to reload.”  He replaced the spent casing with a live round and turned to the next darkie homo in line.  “Your turn, motherfucker.  Suck it.  Suck it hard, faggot.”

 

This one was wearing a St Louis cap backwards, a white wifebeater identical to Ed’s, showing off its large sweaty ape-like muscles and a pair of Diesel jeans with untied Timberlands.  And this one didn’t want to play the game.  It turned its head and kept its mouth shut.

 

“Aw fuck yeah,” Ed barked out happily, “I was hopin’ I’d have an excuse to do this.”

 

He grabbed the nigger, jerking it up out of its kneeling position and threw it face down over the arm of one of the sofas.  Before it could recover, he’d yanked its jeans down past its knees.  The faggot was freeballing, of course.  Ed just smiled viciously.

 

“Man, I been wantin’ to do this shit to a nigger for a long time,” he chuckled gleefully, “I been wonderin’ how bad this’d fuck up a jungle bunny.  Stupid fuckin’ piece a’ shit!”

 

On the last word he violently shoved the barrel of his .45 up the coon’s ass and pulled the trigger three times.  The first chamber was empty—but the second one wasn’t.  Nor the third.

 

The first bullet traveled up through the street ape’s innards at a slightly upwards trajectory.  It pierced the intestines multiple times, holed the spleen, liver, and left lung, then tore its way upwards, smashing a rib and tearing an exit hole out of the coon’s back, near its left shoulder blade.

 

The second bullet moved in a straight line up the center of the body mass, ripping open the pancreas and stomach, missing the nigger’s heart but puncturing the esophagus and lodging in the cervical vertebrae, instantly paralyzing the rebellious Sambo.

 

As is lay face-down on the sofa, blood tricking from its nostrils and piss tricking into its Timberlands, slowly, agonizingly suffocating as it lost the ability to inhale, Ed turned back to the two remaining coons.

 

“Anyone else wanna get a good hard white power fuck?” he snarled, brandishing the pistol and reloading it.  His question was met with silence.  “Yeah, I thought not,” he sneered, “Worthless faggot cowards.  Get over here, you fuckin’ nigger waste, and lick yer boyfriend’s shit outta my gun!”

 


 

The two nigs flattened themselves against the far wall as Mike approached with the hammer in his hand.  One of them, a young ape in a Raiders cap, white t-shirt, black jersey gym shorts and a pair of Puma Ferrari hightops, kept darting its wide eyes about in panic.  It was sporting lots of bling around its neck, multiple thick gold chains which it kept fingering.  The other coon was older, a lean, muscular buck with a black do-rag on its head and a dark goatee.  It was in obvious fear as well but seemed to have better self-control.

 

As expected, the darkie in the Oakland cap suddenly feinted right, signaling an obvious move to the left.  Mike shifted his weight to one side, letting it begin its sprint for the door, then swung the hammer, neatly striking the coon on the side of its head, sending it into a boneless, unconscious sprawl on the floor.  The young skinhead turned to the other nigger.

 

This one, seeing the score, chose not to run.  It was a buff young thug, its black muscle shirt revealing its smooth, dark skin, glistening with nigger sweat.  It swung its arms up in a defensive posture, revealing a nice pair of biceps; its feet, in a pair of LL Bean duck boots, shuffled over the floor tiles as it tried to move into an advantageous position.

 

“C’mon, ya white-ass motherfucker!” it shouted.

 

“That’s about right, boy,” Mike sneered, “This white man’s gonna fuck yer momma right into the ground, and yer daddy too.  But let’s start with you, ya fuckin’ jigaboo.”

 

The nigger roared and lunged at Mike in a fog of fear-crazed rage.  Again, the young Aryan was able to dodge his attacker and swing the hammer—this coon got it in the face.  There was a faint pop as its cheekbone shattered, then it squealed, holding its hand up to its face as its left eye began to blacken and swell shut.

 

“Goddam,” it moaned, “Oh, fuck…”

 

It glanced up just in time to see Mike looming over it, his “These Boots Were Made for Stomping” t-shirt pulled tautly across his huge, muscled chest and his long thick manshaft drooling precum, and his powerful arm raised over his head.

 

And in his hand, the hammer had been reversed.  The head was pointed to the rear, with the claw forward.

 

“Oh fuck no—” the coon had time to gasp before the snarling Nazi swung the hammer like a pickaxe, smashing the thick steel claws through its skull and sinking them deep into its brain.  As the yard ape shuddered violently with massive cerebral trauma, Mike cranked the hammer down as if he was yanking out a nail, and peeled back the top of the nigger’s cranium, exposing the mangled gray matter.

 

“Only way to get somethin’ into a nigger’s head is by rammin’ it through its thick monkey skull,” Mike chuckled, jerking his hammer back out of the dead coon’s brain and letting the convulsive sack of jigaboo meat slump to the floor and shit itself.  Then he turned his attention to the moaning nig he’d knocked out, just now starting to stir.

 

The Aryan killer strode over to the prostrate jungle bunny.  “Hey, fuckwad,” he hissed as the spade began to blink and open its eyes, “Wakey, wakey.  I got somethin’ for yer pansy nigger ass.  Look up here, coon.  See it?  It’s my boot.”

 

As soon as the nigger focused its eyes on the upraised engineer boot hanging over its face, Mike stomped it.  Hard.

 

His erect cock pulsed with the electric sense of white power as he felt the jigaboo’s face cave under his boot and heard the crunching and squelching noises of brutal facial trauma.  It felt so good, he did it again.  And again.  And again, ramming his boot into the cunt’s face, kicking out its teeth, dislocating, then shattering its jaw, splintering the orbits of the eyes…

 

And all the time blood was flying from the Sambo’s face and precum was flying from Mike’s hard cock.

 

By the time he’d regained control of himself, the young, hardbodied skinhead had managed to avoid orgasm, but the nigger hadn’t avoided death.  There was still a faint gurgling from the ruined crater that had been its face, but that was post-mortem.  The coon was meat.

 

Having heard the popping of Ed’s gun from the smoking lounge, Mike decided to saunter in that direction to see what we going on.  Behind him, piles of ape flesh twitched randomly on the bathroom floor.

 


 

The last coon in Ed’s batch was very young—just a niglet.  It didn’t look old enough to be in the club, but it was clearly a fag.  Hair in an expensive fade, each ear pierced multiple times with diamond studs inserted, a retro denim jacket over a green t-shirt with the words “Ride Me Cowboy” in yellow, skin-tight skinny jeans faded to the same shade as the jacket and a pair of white Converse trainers.

 

It was also sobbing uncontrollably, so terrified it didn’t hear Ed’s words.  It had already pissed itself and its jeans had dark streaks down each leg that originated at the crotch.  It made no resistance as Ed forced the gun into its mouth and pulled the trigger.

 

There was a loud click.  The nigger flinched and sobbed louder, but had no other reaction.  Ed pulled the gun out and turned back to the first nig.

 

“Looks like it’s back to you, boy.  Suck my rod, you fuckin’ faggot.”

 

The nigger shuddered inside its leather gear, closed its eyes and opened its mouth with no protest—having been beaten, its spirit had been shattered.  It was ready to obey.

 

It didn’t have to obey long.  There was a muffled pop inside its mouth and a sudden jet of blood and bone out the top of its head.  The older coon in the moto jacket fell dead to the floor with the grace of a sack of dirty laundry, and Ed was alone with the baby fag.

 

“Man, yer cryin’ is annoyin’,” he snarled as he pointed the gun at it and pulled the trigger repeatedly.  Two shots were fired, aimed randomly, and hit the coon in the torso, one a through-and-through shot that pierced the spleen, stomach and liver and one that shattered a rib, punctured a lung and lodged in the spinal column.  Suddenly paralyzed from the chest down, the teenaged niglet fell forward.

 

“Comin’ in,” Mike called from outside as a heads-up, then entered the room.  Each Nazi grinned fraternally at the sight of the other’s hard, oozing cock.

 

“Check this one out,” Ed said, indicating the baby homo, “C’mere an’ watch it die.”

 

The teen coon was looking at the muscle-bound skinheads in horror as it slowly suffocated, blood pooling in its non-functioning lungs.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid ape?” Mike jeered as he stroked his dick, “Hope it hurts like fuck, dumbass.”

 

Its eyes bulged and drool leaked over its thick lips as it spent its last moments on earth listening to the taunts of its sadistic, sexually aroused killers.

 

“Yer dyin’, ya sack a’ nigger shit,” Ed smirked, “Gettin’ a start on wipin’ all you fuckin’ useless jigaboos off the planet.  Burn in hell, nigger.”

 

The teen coon died, Ed’s voice ringing in its ears.

 

“Let’s go see if Jack’s offed all of his yet,” Mike suggested.  “I ain’t wasted near enough coons yet.”  They headed for the stairs.

 


 

“You fuckin’ cunt,” Jack growled, his deep bass voice vibrating with rage and suppressed lust as he stood over the sprawled nigger, “You fucked up so fuckin’ bad…”

 

The coon moaned and rubbed its head; the Lakers cap had fallen off when the monkey went down.  It looked up to find itself staring down the barrel of Jack’s Glock.  The Nazi motioned the nig into the toilet stall.

 

“In there, faggot.  You like gettin’ cocks shoved down ye throat?  You like drinkin’ piss, you fuckin perverted jigaboo?  You make me sick, you sack of shit.  Lick that toilet, nigger.  Get down on yer cocksuckin’ knees and run yer fuckin’ tongue all over it, you disgustin’ homo!”

 

The spade shuddered and closed its eyes but it had no choice; it knew that it’d end up with a slug in its brain if it didn’t obey.

 

What it didn’t know was how much more merciful as slug would have been.

 

After several minutes of loud slurping, Jack suddenly spoke up: “Bite it.”

 

The coon paused, confused.  Jack bent down and whispered.  The terrified jungle bunny could feel the skinhead’s goatee brush its face and his hot breath on its ear.  “Open yer fuckin’ nigger mouth and put yer fuckin’ nigger teeth on the edge of the lip like yer gonna bite a chunk out.”

 

The thug wanna-be tried to control its sobs, but it did as it was told.

 

Behind it, Jack stood up.  He raised his knee-high green Doc Marten boot and with no warning, power-stomped the back of the cunt’s head with such force he drove the nigger’s face through the bowl, shattering the porcelain.  Coon teeth scattered across the floor like a handful of dropped coins as the toilet was flowed out over the stunned nigger’s torn and mangled face.

 

Without a paused, Jack bent down, grabbed a handful of woolly hair and dragged the jigaboo out of the stall and over to the piss trough.  He bent it roughly over the edge; there was a loud snap and the faggot went limp in his arms—he’d broken its neck.

 

But it wasn’t dead.  And it could still sense things—like the nightmarish agony of Jack’s serrated knife slowly slicing its neck open like roast beef.

 

Satisfied, Jack pocketed his knife again and left the restroom.  Behind him, the last nigger still hadn’t been luck enough to die.  The angle of its head down in the trough and the fact that the carotid artery hadn’t been pierced meant that blood didn’t reach the wound until after it had reached the spade’s brain.  It hung in the piss trough, helpless, paralyzed, blood tricking down its face and its own piss pooling in its Timberlands.

 

Jack met Ed and Mike just as they were coming down the stairs. All three Aryan grinned at the sight of each other, manfully erect and spatter with nigger blood.

 

“Off to a good start?” Ed asked

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Jack grinned and gave the boys fist bumps.

 

There was a sudden scraping noise off to the side but a quick look reassured them that it was just the brain-damaged spic bar back having a seizure.  Its eyes were rolled back in its head, blood trickled from its nose and ears and its boots scuffled on the floor.  Nothing to worry about; the wetback had been neutralized.

 

“C’mon, let’s get back to the others,” Jack said, “Time to get the real fun started.”

 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Ed asked, “You never did say what you got planned.”

 

Jack grinned and slapped both Mike and Ed on the shoulder.  “Boys,” he said, smiling, “We’re gonna have us an ol’-fashioned nigger auction.”

 

—End of Part One

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

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

 

Fuckin’ cameras ruin a good hunt.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Whatcha need, bro?” he asks cautiously.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Hey, uh—” I call out to gingerfuck.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

News item, dated next day:

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

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

The Road Best Not Taken

“A shortcut?  Down here?  Naw, I don’t think it’s safe.”  Ben peered down the dark alley that Ethan had indicated.

 

“C’mon, man, what—are ya chicken?” Ethan teased.

 

They were walking home from Club 69, their favorite bar.  Ethan was eighteen and Ben was a little older at almost twenty.  It had been lust at first sight between the two twinks and they were inseparable.  They were walking back to small apartment they shared since Ben was unemployed and couldn’t afford a car—and Ethan had lost his license due to a DUI when he was still living with his parents.

 

In other words, they were typically heedless young faggots, more concerned about style than substance.  They made sure they had decent clothing and enough money to pay the cover fee at the club; after that, they always managed to get other guys to buy them drinks.

 

Ethan was slim and lithe, not scrawny.  His lean body was dressed to attract attention, from his cropped t-shirt that read “Daddy’s Boy” and revealed several inches of his smooth, flat belly above the waistband of his black skinny jeans, to his Steve Madden Riot black and gold hightops.  Even his sculpted, ash-blond hair seemed to draw the eyes.

 

Ben was slightly taller than Ethan and had a more average build.  He had a clear oval face and large dark eyes under a carefully disheveled mass of chestnut curls.  He sported a short-sleeve t-shirt hoodie in a shiny, tight-fitting material over a pair of skinny jogger pants in pale blue denim, with a white stripe down the sides.  On his feet were a pair of Chuck Taylor “Hidden Heart” Converses.

 

With their eye-catching gear and “fuck-me” looks, neither twink had encountered any resistance in getting others to buy them drinks.  By the time the bar closed, neither one was really sober enough to make good decisions.

 

Which was why Ben made the worst—and last—mistake of his life and overrode his objections to Ethan’s short cut.  Not that he didn’t bitch about it, of course.

 

“Man, this place is nasty,” he whined as they picked their way through the alley, “Smells like piss, too.  How d’ya know it’s ok?  You been down here before?”

 

“Sure,” Ethan replied nonchalantly, “Gave a dude a blowjob down this way last year.  They wouldn’t let me into the club–said I was too young, so I hadta wait outside.  So this one dude comes out—”

 

“Where’s this lead to?” Ben broke in nervously.

 

“Well, lessee, we turn this corner here, and there’s another alley for a coupla hundred feet, then another turn an’ yer out on Anderson Avenue. What’s wrong with you, dude?”

 

“There are stories about this neighborhood, man—ain’t you heard ‘em?  Some kinda Nazi gang or some shit like that.  Like gay-bashin’ an’ shit.  I just don’t like it, that’s all.”

 

“Aw, I know what you need,” Ethan grinned and grabbed Ben’s hand.  “C’mere,” he said, dragging Ben around the corner.  This stretch of alley was dimly lit; the view down its length was impeded by dumpsters and trash piles.  The blond twink pushed the dark-haired one up against the wall and kissed him deeply, their soft lips pressed together as their tongues explored each other’s mouths and Ethan’s hands fondled the steadily-stiffening bulge in the crotch of Ben’s jogger pants.

 

“What the fuck do we got here?  Coupla faggots?  On our turf?”

 

The harsh, jeering voice froze the twinks’ blood; it was simultaneous with the blinding beam of a flashlight pointed straight in their eyes.

 

“Hey, Jack, whatcha think?”

 

Jack stepped forward into the circle of light; it took some blinking, but Ethan and Ben were able to focus on him.

 

Jack was older than the boys; it wasn’t clear by how much, but it didn’t matter.  He was buff and athletic, his broad chest stretching out the cotton “Gold’s Gym” t-shirt he wore.  His muscled forearms and massive biceps were covered with tattoos, far too many to take in at once, but Ben noticed several swastikas and his heart sank.

 

Jack’s Levis were tight and torn, showing that he had thick, powerful legs to match his arms.  Below the knee, the jeans vanished into a pair of green 20-hole Doc Martens.  But it was it was Jack’s shaved head that confirmed the image.  Except for the fringe of a dark beard across the hard line of his jaw, the man standing before the twinks was a skinhead.

 

He crossed his arms and sneered at them.  “Oh yeah, they’re faggots, all right.”

 

“Look, man, we were just takin’ a shortcut!” Ethan cried out.

 

“Yeah, dude, we-we don’t want any trouble,” Ben stammered.

 

Jack’s sneer grew broader.  “Wee-wee?  Yer gonna fuckin’ wee-wee when I get done with you.  You two faggots made a big mistake.  We’re takin’ this neighborhood back from worthless fucks like you.”

 

“Aw, man, cut us a break—” Ben started, when, with no warning at all, Ethan whirled and bolted.

 

“Ed!  Frankie!  On ‘im!!” Jack barked and two fit, burly dudes shot out of the dark, grabbing Ethan—one by the arm, the other by the hair—and dragging him back into the light.

 

Ed was the oldest of all of them, with buzz-cut hair the same ash-blond shade as Ethan’s.  His large nose had a noticeable hump showing that it had been broken in the past and was a legacy of the decade the Aryan thug had spent on the semi-pro boxing circuit.  His hard, powerful torso was barely contained in his white cotton wifebeater, but he’d otherwise gone with the traditional skinhead look of rolled-up acid-washed jeans over oxblood Doc Martens.

 

Frankie hadn’t jumped on the Doc Marten bandwagon; he’d kept his military-issue combat boots when he was discharged.  He’d also kept his fondness for camo utility pants, tight khaki t-shirts, and his crewcut hair, his one concession to civilian life a carefully-shaped goatee.

 

Between them, the muscle-bound Nazis held the twink helpless.

 

“Hank, you and Mike set that light down so we can see what’s goin’ on—then grab that other one, got it?”

 

The flashlight was settled somewhere nearby, illuminating a broad swath of filthy alley pavement and graffiti-covered brick wall.  Two buff men, one in a plain white cotton t-shirt, jeans with suspenders and red 8-hole DMs and the other in a black t-shirt with the legend “These Boots Were Made For Stomping”, tight, stained jeans, and black steel-toed engineer boots.

 

All of them had tattoos on both arms.  Neither Ethan nor Ben noticed, but Hank and Mike had a teardrop tattoo by their eyes.  Ed had two.

 

Hank and Mike dragged Ben to one side.  One of them—Ben wasn’t sure which—grabbed a handful of his thick chestnut hair and jerked back, forcing his head up so he had to watch what was happening in front of him.

 

And what was happening was nightmarish.

 

As Jack stood with legs spread and arms folded, Ed and Frankie forced Ethan down onto his knees.  After some swift maneuvering, Frankie was left crouched behind Ethan, holding him down.  Ed stood up and, after some pre-arranged signal with Jack, stepped off to the left, out of the light.

 

“See, you sick fuckin’ perverts are pollutin’ our pure American way of life,” Jack said, his contempt dripping from his words.  “We’re gonna waste all a’ you worthless fucks—niggers, spics, chinks, faggots, libtards—all a’ ya, hear me?  Fuckin’ sick-ass motherfucker!”

 

Ed had returned by now, handing a long, narrow object to Jack.  It took Ben a moment to comprehend what he was looking at: a baseball bat wrapped with rusty barbed wire.

 

Ben almost lost control of his bladder.  Ethan did lose control.

 

“Hey, lookit—the little fag pissed himself!” Jack guffawed; he was joined by all the Aryans.

 

On his knees, Ethan began crying.  “Please,” he sniveled, “please don’t hurt me, man.  I’ll leave, I swear, I’ll go and never come back—” His voice dissolved into broken sobs.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, beg for yer worthless life,” Jack jeered.  Like all the gang, he was straight—but like all the gang, he knew the erotic rage of completely owning a faggot.  They had plans to get some pussy later on—but fuck, here was some fag pussy, theirs for the taking; why not drain a load?

 

He massaged his stiffening dick with one hand as he looked down at the overpowered fairy.  With the other, he hoisted the bat.  “Sick goddam fuck,” he growled, “Don’t fuckin’ deserve to live.”  He swung the bat at Ethan’s side like he was aiming for a triple play.

 

Ethan’s shriek of agony as barbs of rusted steel shredded his smooth silky skin echoed in the close confines of the alley but was lost in the background of general city noise.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” Ed cheered; Frankie’s “Aw right, man!” was followed up by expressions of approval from Mike and Hank.  Ben turned beseechingly to the hardbodied Nazi thugs pinning him down, but there was no trace of mercy.  On the contrary; both men were obviously getting sexually around by their sheer dominance and ability to inflict pain on the faggots.

 

Ethan sobbed and cried, clutching his damaged flank.  The blow had been hard enough to break two ribs; they ached, but the slashes from the barbed wire hurt more.  “Hey, cocksucker, look up here,” Jack called out.  Ethan glanced up just in time to see him swing the bat again.  This time, he made the mistake of holding up his right arm to ward off the blow.

 

The impact of the bat broke Ethan’s arm with a loud snap; the teen queer gasped in shock but before he could react, the barbed wire, slashing across the arm, flayed his skin to the bone.

 

Holding his right arm in his left, looking at his wounds with wide, shocked eyes, Ethan screamed.  Frankie let go and backed away, letting the mauled youth rise shakily to his feet.

 

For a moment, Ben thought he was going insane.  Jack had reached down and unzipped his fly, letting his thick tube of manmeat fall out.  Then the Nazi spoke.  “So ya like dick, do ya, motherfucker?  You only had fag dick, cocksucker.  I’m gonna letcha see what real mandick feels like before you die, asswipe.”

 

As Ethan gaped at him, Jack swung the bat again, catching the eighteen-year-old fagboy directly on his left knee with a crunching sound.  Ethan shrieked in agony again and crumpled to the ground, a heap of bleeding boyflesh.

 

And that was exactly what the gang of predators was looking for.  Gender didn’t matter, what mattered was proving their physical superiority over their victims.  They’d have done the same to, say, a group of Asian schoolgirls.  They were men, they were hard, and they were gonna prove it, literally.

 

“Strip him,” Jack commanded.  Ed and Frankie, both with visibly erect cocks, stepped forward and began jerking Ethan’s clothing off.

 

“Stop it!” Ben cried, finally summoning the strength to overcome his fear.

 

“Shaddup, ya homo sack a’ shit!” Mike snarled and punched Ben in the stomach.  Ben couldn’t see the brass knuckles Mike had managed to slip on, but he damn sure felt them.  Both men tightened their grips on the young pansy as he shuddered in pain.

 

When his vision cleared again, Ben was looking on a scene straight out of Bosch painting.  Ethan, stripped down to his black and gold hightops, was getting stomped repeatedly by three muscle-bound Nazi thugs with big boots.

 

The teenaged faggot thrashed and jerked on the grimy concrete, desperately trying to avoid the continuous pounding of thick boot soles on his tender skin.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” Frankie spat out, his erect cock already oozing with his sense of power, “Ya like rough trade, ya cum-sucking fag, huh?”  He slammed his combat boot into the kid’s solar plexus, making the boy curl up reflexively around his foot.  “That fuckin’ rough enough for ya?”

 

“Naw,” Ed jeered, “But this is.”  With his big thick cock swinging wide, he kicked Ethan in the jaw, breaking it with a loud crack.  The punk was splayed out on his side with the impact, moaning incoherently.

 

“How’s that feel, ya fuckin’ homo pervert?” Jack asked as Ed chuckled and stroked his hard shaft.

 

“Stop!” Ben yelled again, his voice quavering with tears, “You’re gonna kill ‘im!”

 

All five booted thugs laughed derisively.  Hank grabbed Ben’s chin and twisted the boy’s head to face him; the fag could smell the beer that came off the Nazi’s breath in thick, yeasty waves.  “That’s right, motherfucker.  Best way to make sure you stupid faggots don’t ferget yer lesson is to beat it into ya!”

 

As he and Mike laughed, he kneed Ben in the groin.  The kid groaned and tried to collapse but the vicious thugs held him up and continued to force him to watch Ethan’s suffering.

 

By now, the nearly-nude teen homo had rolled onto his belly and was crawling on the pavement, attempting to escape his punishment.  “No you don’t, you little asswipe,” Jack snarled and slammed his boot down on Ethan’s back.  Before Ben realized what was happening, Jack, Ed and Frankie had all surrounded Ethan and were brutally stomping him.  “Fuckin-A!” Frankie barked, grinning and erect with white pride, “Ya worthless piece a’ shit!”  Ed, his fists gripped tight, pounded his red DMs on the boy’s bare back.

 

Ben hadn’t realized he’d lost track of Jack until the latter appeared, rearmed with the baseball bat.  Still unable to catch his breath, the dark-haired cocksucker could only moan his protest as the hardbodied Aryan gripped the handle, took a wide-legged stance, and swung the barbed wire-wrapped bat as hard as he could—which was pretty fuckin’ hard, as Ethan learned to his cost.

 

The bat hit Ethan across the small of the back, instantly slashing the smooth skin.  Ben, some ten yards away, heard the crunching sound as several of the pansy’s vertebrae shattered, instantly paralyzing his legs.  Despite the horrific pain of his broken jaw, Ethan screamed; he couldn’t help it.  The sound was more like a squeal, and it clearly enraged Jack.  He shoved the toe of his boot under Ethan’s left shoulder and rolled the sobbing kid over.

 

“Shut the fuck up, faggot,” he sneered, then bent over and spat in Ethan’s face.  Blinking the phlegm out his eyes, the teen peered up at his assailant, his bewildered eyes seeking some clue to this sudden explosion of terror and agony into his life.

 

All he saw was a tall muscular skinhead looming over him, his cock protruding from his fly, erect and pulsating.  And that tall laced green leather boot he was hoisting; at any other time, Ethan would be aroused, but now, looking at the deep, grime-filled tread of the Doc Marten hanging over him—

 

It happened so fast he didn’t see it coming.  “Suffer, ya fucking cunt!” Jack roared and stomped Ethan’s face, driving his boot into the homo’s mouth.  Then he turned away and tossed the bat to the side, gripping his hard shaft and brandishing it proudly like a club as Ethan thrashed, his hightops drumming on the pavement as he gagged on his own blood and teeth.

 

“These baby fags ain’t never had no real mandick,” he chuckled, looking around at the grinning thugs, who all knew what was running in his mind.  “Whaddaya say, boys—wanna show ‘em what real men feel like ‘fore we show ‘em how real men handle faggots?”

 

Given that every one of them already had their dicks out—and there wasn’t one that wasn’t rock-hard and already oozing—the answer was obvious.

 

“Bring him,” Jack said.  Without another word, Ed and Frankie bent down, each one grabbing one of Ethan’s arms.  Following Jack, they dragged the beaten and bleeding sack of fagmeat down the alley.  Mike and Hank came right behind, jerking Ben along in a painfully tight grip.

 

Fifteen yards down the alley, under a dim security light, was a stack of pallets about three feet tall or so.  The thugs threw Ethan onto it face down, his already-slashed chest and belly scraping along the rough, splinter-strewn wood, his young, smooth asscheeks and pink fuckhole splayed out for easy access.

 

Frankie went first.  Planting his combat boots wide, he shoved his thick, glistening tool inside Ethan’s still-clenched asshole.  As Frank’s hard, goateed face snarled with physical pleasure, Ed held Ethan down and Jack rained blows on his face.  Frankie’s thrusts up the comatose fag’s ass were timed by the repeated smacking sound of flesh on mangled flesh.

 

Ben wasn’t left out of the fun; as Hank, his broad chest straining his thin cotton wifebeater, held the slim, boyish homo upright, Mike hunched over and delivered a devastating series of punches to his mid-section in sets of three.

 

“Fuckin’ (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) goddam (WHAM, pause to re-adjust brass knuckles) piece (WHAM) a’ (WHAM) shit! (WHAM)”

 

The Nazi emphasized his hate with an impact so hard it tore Ben’s liver.  Hank suddenly let go and the gasping, moaning twink sank to the pavement, clutching his battered abdomen, feeling, but not understanding the mortal ache inside.  Just past the Aryan in the jeans and black leather boots, he could see that Frankie was finishing up with Ethan.  The hulking skinhead gave a loud, inarticulate cry and shuddered violently.  He remained bent over the trembling form of the limp homo, then withdrew his still-leaking shaft.  Stepping quickly to one side, he let Ed in.

 

The older man’s cock wasn’t quite as long as his predecessor’s had been—but it was considerably thick.  He smirked, his masculine face, with its broken nose, betraying a kind of malicious triumph as he spat into his hand and smeared the spit onto the head of his dick.  He kicked at the boy, his steel-toed DM’s leaving dark bruised on the kid’s calves, but there was no response from Ethan.

 

The eighteen-year-old twink had suffered too much head trauma.  The bleeding in his brain was too severe.  Ed sank his fireplug dick into a human vegetable.

 

Ben knew what was happening.  He knew how this was gonna end.  In a way, he envied Ethan—the lucky fucker wasn’t feeling any pain.  Reaching behind him, he clutched at the brick wall and tried to pull himself up.

 

That was when Hank showed back up with the bat.  To Ben it seemed to happen in slow motion, but he couldn’t stop it.  The Nazi strongman swung low, like he was teeing off a golf swing, and took out Ben’s left knee with a sickening crunch.

 

As Ben fell shrieking to the ground, Hank lifted his boot and pounded it down into the kid’s face, hard, twice.  There were a couple more crunching sounds, but Ben stopped screaming.  He was too busy coughing up blood and teeth.

 

As Ed kept grunting and pumping on one side of the alley, Hank and Mike quickly stripped Ben of his jogging pants and peeled off his tight shirt; like Ethan, except for his Converses, he was left nude and bleeding on the other side of the dark, reeking passageway.

 

Unlike Ethan, Ben was still conscious.  He was aware of being dragged over to the stack of pallets and being tossed across it.  Turning his head and opening his eyes—reluctantly—he found he was looking directly into Ethan’s face—upside down.  He’d been placed on the opposite side from his boyfriend.

 

There was nothing left that Ben could recognize; he was looking into bloody pulp.  Even those beautiful eyes were gone, rolled back into the skull so that only blood-streaked white slits showed under the bruised, swollen lids.

 

Then there was a dick inside him.  That sudden, that fast.  No preparation, and especially no lube.  Despite a broken jaw and multiple missing teeth, Ben squealed like a stuck pig.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” he heard Mike grunt behind him, and he knew whose swollen manhood was plugging his colon.  Through tear-streaked eyes, he looked past Ethan’s face and saw that of Jack, who was still pinning the brain-damaged teen down across from him.  “Now yer gettin’ ta see what a real man feels like, motherfucker—you should be fuckin’ thankin’ us!”

 

At that moment, a shudder ran through Ethan’s limp body.  Ed, his hard, muscle-bound body glistening with sweat, cried out, “Fuck!  Gonna cum—FUCK!”  As he snarled and unloaded, there was a sudden acrid scent and a trickling sound.  Ethan had lost control of his bladder, piss spattering his hightops.

 

Ed pulled out, gasping and shaking as Frankie took over from Jack and Jack stepped back to fuck Ethan.  He went last because his dick was the largest.  He was notorious for it; after he banged a chick, she was too reamed out for anyone else.

 

“Hey, man,” Ed warned, “I think that one’s dead.”

 

“So what?” Jack leered, “A hole’s a fuckin’ hole.”  Closing in on the corpse, it took him a moment or two to mount it; despite being slack in death, Ethan’s sphincter was still too tight to handle Jack’s cock.  The skinhead had to apply some pressure; then he felt the dead flesh tear and sighed with pleasure.

 

“Aw fuck yeah,” he grinned, looking Ben directly in the eyes, “Best kinda faggot there is—a dead one, servicin’ my rod.”

 

Behind and inside him, Mike was pumping faster and faster; despite being barely conscious from pain and terror, Ben could feel the constant grinding on his prostate—and how it was slowly forcing an erection on him.  He wasn’t the only one.

 

“Hey, bro, th’ little fuckin’ faggot likes it!” Hank jeered loudly.  “Lookit this shit—he’s fuckin’ hard!  Hey, Mikey, you a fag?  Cause it looks like yer doin’ it right—haw!”

 

With a roar of rage at the taunt of his sexuality, the powerful thug grabbed a handful of Ben’s hair, jerked his head back and slammed it down onto the pallet.  As he did, he suddenly hunched over and spasmed, then filled Ben’s rectum with searing manseed.  Another jerk and another slam, this one rewarded with the squelching sound of Ben’s nose being broken, brought another hot jet of semen coating the homo’s innards—and then Mike pulled out.

 

Even now, Ben was still awake and lucid.  He knew he shouldn’t be, but he was.  And he felt somehow empty inside, without the Aryan strongman brutally raping him.   It was the last submissive act of despair of a bottom faggot trying to stave off death—and he needn’t have worried anyway.  No sooner was Mike out than Hank was in.

 

Compared to Hank, Mike had been loving and gentle.  Mike needed a hole to fuck so he could cum.  For Hank to cum, someone had to suffer.

 

“Gimme yer knuckles, bro,” he said gruffly as he stuffed his massive tool inside the twink’s violated asshole.

 

The pain in his colon had faded into the background by now, but the sudden hail of blows on his back damn sure didn’t.  With every thrust of his powerful hips, Hank hit Ben, cursing him with each blow.  The fleshy impacts echoed in the alley, along with grunts of “Faggot!  Goddam cocksucker!  Take it, you worthless sack a’ shit, fucking take my dick!”

 

“Aw yeah, fuck that faggot,” Jack grunted, the handsome skinhead’s face twisted with demonic lust and rage, as he plowed his shaft into Ethan’s still-convulsing corpse, “Fuck yeah, dude, beat the fuckin’ homo garbage to death and fuckin’ unload in the cunt’s gut’s!”  As he heaved and pumped, his “Gold’s Gym” t-shirt clung tightly to his sweat-slicked chest, highlighting his massive pecs and large, jutting nipples.

 

Some sick little part of Ben’s mind found itself cravenly attracted to Jack, even as Hank raped him and beat him so badly that his kidneys failed—not that Ben lived long enough to suffer much by it.

 

He did manage to live long enough to take the Aryan’s load, though; the smooth, wiry teen was still conscious and suffering as the skinhead shuddered and moaned, hosing Ben’s guts with hot squirts of semen.  At the same time, Ben became aware that he was alone on the pile of pallets.

 

Jack had pulled out of Ethan.  The teen fag’s body, with nothing to support it, slid off the pile and fell into a filthy puddle like a sack of pigshit.

 

“Hey, Jack, this one’s still alive,” Mike said.

 

Jack, his enormous manshaft still swinging wide and free in the air between his powerful legs, said evenly, “Not for fuckin’ long.  Hand me that bat; I gotta idea.”

 

Grinning with malignant hate, Frankie quickly handed Jack the barbed-wire-wrapped bat.  He watched with almost reverent awe; this was gonna be good.  Jack knew how to fuck faggots up good; that’s why he was the leader.

 

And good, in this case, meant real fuckin’ bad.

 

“Get ‘im up on there,” Jack commanded, indicating the pile, “Up on his back with his legs spread.”

 

Ben’s eyes, wide with terror, vainly sought those of Jack as Ed grabbed a handful of the twink’s hair and his left arm, Frankie the right, and Hank and Mike each of his smooth, firm legs.  Even though they’d all—except Jack—cum within the past few minutes, their hard, strong bodies had enough stamina—and sick hateful lust—for them all to start getting hard again.

 

“Ya like takin’ it the ass, do ya, faggot?” Jack jeered at Ben.  The nineteen-year-old prettyboy—no longer so fuckin’ pretty—tried to beg for his life but was able to force no more than a croak from his ruined mouth, at the cost of excruciating pain.  “Then it’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, cunt, cause I got somethin’ to stick up yer ass that you ain’t ever gonna forget!”

 

Ben didn’t see it coming, either literally or figuratively; it wasn’t till Jack started forcing the bat up his ass that he realized what was happening.

 

It took a while, and a lot of effort.  Ed let Frankie take hold of Ben’s hair and went to help Jack shove.  The pain of his mangled mouth was suddenly nothing; Ben’s nightmarish screams echoed down the alley but the only response they brought was to make his assailants harder.

 

“Fuckin’ suffer, you goddam cocksuckin’ piece a’ shit!” Jack barked, “Scream and die, ya worthless faggot fuck, ya motherfuckin’—aw, fuck!  FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCK!

 

As he ground the wire-sheathed bat into Ben’s ass, twisting it deliberately to shred the homo’s rectum, he suddenly shot a thick ropy geyser of spunk over the nude twink’s body, his pearly manseed splattering across the tortured teen’s heaving form.  Then it was as if someone had set off a signal; as Ed and Jack continued to destroy Ben’s ass, the lithe young fuck was showered in cum by the burly hate-filled thugs surrounding him.

 

If he’d been in a position to enjoy it, it would have been a dream come true for Ben.  As it was, the nightmare went on far too long.  The Nazi thugs managed to get the bat eight inches up Ben’s ass before the fag died of shock, trauma and blood loss.

 

Tucking their dicks back inside their jeans, the boys in the gang slapped each other on the back and complimented each other on their prowess.  There was nothing surreptitious or shameful in their actions; they’d done a good deed by offin’ a couple of baby fags who had no right to exist in a White (real) Man’s world.

 

They left the corpses where they were—Ethan’s, barely recognizable, a huddle mass of fagmeat marinating in a puddle of piss and rainwater, and Ben’s, splayed out on the pallets, the bat still jammed up his ass.

 

They didn’t bother to take the bat.  Bats and barbed wire were cheap, and this one had been up inside a faggot.  They could wash their dicks, but ya don’t wash a wood bat.

 

“Hey, Frankie,” Jack said musingly, “Next time, get two bats—and some long-ass nails.”

Carlos and Nick 6–No Thanks for the Memory

Even in Vegas, it can get cold.  A winter front had moved down from the north, its strong winds sweeping across the Strip and blowing candy wrappers and strip club ads along the gutter.  Carlos was glad it was chilly out; for one thing, it was a break from the constant, oppressive heat.  For another, it gave him a good excuse to wear his leather jacket.

 

The jacket was a black biker jacket; he wore it open, with no shirt underneath, his ripped, furry abs and thick inked pecs on display for anyone who wanted to look.  With his skin-tight black jeans tucked into a pair of Corcoran jump boots—laced halfway up but untied, the tongues hanging out—there were a lot who wanted to look.  The buff, well-built skinhead attracted a lot of covert (and some very obvious) glances as he strolled south down Paradise, a block off the Strip.

 

The aggressive sex killer was alone, horny and restless.  Nick was involved out at the warehouse tonight, editing the video from the last faggot Carlos had snuffed. But the hardbodied Latino knew how to fix his problems, though, and the first step of the cure had him out on the street, literally dressed to kill.

 

It was already past dark, but even on the back side of the huge resorts that face Las Vegas Boulevard, there were still plenty of plenty of bright lights.  Certainly bright enough for Carlos’s muscular form to be seen and admired.  But when his lure was finally bitten at, the nibbler turned out to be an unexpected, and unwelcome, source.

 

“Carlos?  Hey, Carlos, that you, bro?” came a smooth tenor voice, “Hey, man, over here.”

 

The dude was standing no more than five feet away from him, but Carlos didn’t recognize him for a moment.  Then the guy stepped forward, into better light, and Carlos locked onto his eyes.

 

That did it.  Carlos would never forget those eyes.

 

They were beautiful, large and bright emerald green, with long, lush eyelashes and a darkening at the ends of lids as if eyeliner had been applied.  But the last time Carlos had seen those eyes, he was in prison.  Eyeliner isn’t impossible to procure in prison, but this dude wasn’t wearing makeup.

 

He was younger than Carlos, but not by much—about twenty-four.  He was only about five-eight in height, but there was no slackness in his firm, fit body.  His hair was dark and cut short—almost a buzz cut—except for a thick clump of hair on the left side, left long, dyed auburn, and combed back over the top of his head.  His ears were pierced and plugged with black discs—not too big, about 2G in gauge.  Those were new, Carlos noticed.  Under a gray hoodie, half-unzipped, he sported a white cotton t-shirt with a large graphic image on it; it appeared to be an elaborate skull, off-kilter.

 

The punk’s firm, muscled legs were highlighted by a pair of tight camo print cargo pants.  Like Carlos’s they were tucked into his boots, but his were Vasque Arrowhead boots, black and orange.  The overall effect was as eye-catching as Carlos’s own outfit was.  But the eyes, the glittering green eyes, were all the Hispanic psycho needed to see.

 

“Bryan?” he asked blankly.  The dude grinned.

 

Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan.  Bryan was in prison for manslaughter as well; he’d convinced the jury that he’d killed the other drug dealer in self-defense—then boasted about it in prison, laughing about how he’d wasted the motherfucker for coming onto his turf.  But that wasn’t why Carlos remembered him.

 

Bryan had raped Carlos.  He’d been one of four guys who’d backed the outclassed Latino into a corner and run a train on him.  Bryan had gone last.  As the other men went before him, he held Carlos down and clamped his hand over his victim’s mouth, jeering and goading the others on.

 

Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan.  But he’d forgotten that the asshole had said he was from Las Vegas.

 

“Been back for a coupla months,” the younger man said cheerfully.  “Never thought I’d see you again, dude.  But damn, talk about good timing.”

 

“Huh?” Carlos said stupidly, his brain more or less short circuiting as it tried to find the right was to react to the situation.  As it so happened, Bryan himself sliced right through Carlos’s Gordian knot.

 

“You free right now?” the grinning hipster asked.  He went on as Carlos nodded.  “Gotcher own place, too, yeah?  Cool.  Damn, dude, it’s been two days—I gotta lay some pipe…”  He reached down and grabbed his rod, already tenting the taut fabric of his camo pants.

 

“…and I know you take it up the ass.” He finished up with a jeer in his voice and a leer on his face.  He was making it clear that he hadn’t forgotten Carlos either.

 

And that was all it took to clear Carlos’s troubled mind.  “Sure, I gotta place.  Condo, right back there.  C’mon, bro, I’ll treat ya right.”

 

The leer that had twisted one side of Bryan’s boyish face widened to the other side.  “Fuck yeah, man, I knew it.  Don’t matter if yer a chick or a dude, once ya had summa my cock, yer gonna want more—har!  Happens every fuckin’ time.  G’wan, buddy, I’ll be right behind ya—an’ then I’ll be right in yer behind!  Har!

 

Carlos swiveled around and started walking back up Paradise.  He had the sensation of physically feeling Bryan’s eyes focusing intently on his ass as he walked.  The rage induced by his violent denial of his sexuality was at a boiling point already; the thump of the Latino skinhead’s boots on the pavement drowned out the sound of his grinding teeth.

 

The one thing that gave him any comfort was the pressure he could feel inside his right boot—something long and hard and unyielding.  It was his Bowie hunting knife, the nine-inch carbon-steel blade tucked as usual into its hidden boot sheath.  Just knowing that it was there allowed Carlos to respond to Bryan’s erection in kind.  One of them was damn sure gonna get fucked tonight.

 

Neither one of them said a word on the way back to the condo.  Nothing needed to be said.  The sheer volume of pheromones given off by two physically fit, hypersexed young males filled the elevator with an intoxicating musk.  The silence between them wasn’t broken until they got inside the condo, and even then, the first words said weren’t to each other.

 

The moment Carlos opened the door, he knew that Nick was there—the lights were on.  Nick had a key to the place—he paid for it, after all—but he usually let Carlos know he was coming by.  The only times he didn’t was when he had a new project and was too excited to wait.

 

Nick had been sitting on the sofa, checking his phone, when the door opened.  The moment he heard it, he popped up and started speaking.  “There you are, man!  I been waitin’…anyway, I got this new commission—”  He broke off as Bryan entered the room.  “—uh, you got company…”

 

“This yer, uh, partner?” Bryan asked insinuatingly.

 

“Nick, Bryan—Bryan, Nick,” Carlos mumbled inanely, wondering what the fuck was wrong with himself—he needed to get control of this situation before Bryan told Nick about…about…he didn’t even want to imagine it himself.

 

“I, uh, I guess I can come back later…” Nick said, his voice uncertain.

 

“Yeah, maybe ya better,” Bryan quipped, “Unless, ‘acourse, ya wanna stick around and watch me fuck yer boy here.”

 

Nick paused at this and glanced at Carlos.  “Should I—should I get my camera set up?”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “Do that.”

 

“Yeah,” Bryan said, “Do that.  But I wanna copy.”

 

“Ok, I’ll get it set up,” Nick said, heading towards the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, then turned back.  His large, powerful body was framed by the open space behind it, his broad, hairy torso admirably displayed by a bright red cotton tank top with the Champion logo across the chest.  His elastic-cuffed jogger pants did little to hide his thickly-muscled legs.  On his feet were a pair of bright red Nike Air Force 1 Utility sneakers, the same color as his tank top.  “Gimme five minutes.”

 

“So who’s this Nick?” Bryan asked.  “You didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout him.”

 

“Didn’t know he was gonna be here,” Carlos mumbled.

 

“Who is he, yer boyfriend?  He bangin’ ya when you can’t find no other dick?  Lissen up—he can film but I don’t do no three-ways with dudes.  That shit ain’t cool—”

 

His self-rationalization about gay sex was cut short when Nick re-entered the room.

 

“It’s ready,” the older stud said, brushing his long dark hair out of his eyes.  He hadn’t heard the conversation, but he had no trouble reading the searing light of sexual hatred glittering in Carlos’s eyes.  The sadistic skinhead was already having difficulty maintaining his composure, but he headed towards the bedroom.  “Inside,” he said at the door.  Bryan took it as an invitation to follow, but Carlos had been looking directly at Nick when he said it.  The latter realized it was the ex-con’s explanation for how he knew the guy.

 

The obnoxious punk shrugged off his jacket as he passed through the bedroom doorway.  Tossing it onto the floor, he paused and noticed the view from the huge window.  “Damn, dude—nice!” he said, “Must be some good money in filmin’ dudes fuckin’.  You gotta let me in on some a’ that!”

 

Bryan looked over and saw that Carlos was out of his jacket as well, his elaborate tattoos visible on his broad furry chest.  Grinning, he pulled his t-shirt up over his head and dropped it on top of his jacket, showing off his own ink.  The Iron Cross on his left pec was detailed, but the Confederate flag with the motto “Die, Motherfucker, Die” on his right bicep was clearly an amateur job.

 

The punk was muscular—not in Carlos’s class, but well-built.  He wasn’t as hairy as the Latino skinhead; a single line of fur ran down the center of his chest and his flat, firm belly to vanish below the waistband of his camo cargo pants.  He sat on the bed and began loosening the few laces of his Vasque Arrowhead boots.

 

Neither he nor Carlos knew that Nick had already started recording.

 

“Always wanted video of me fuckin’ a dude—the bitches love that shit,” Bryan boasted as he kicked his left boot off, “Gets ‘em all horny when they see I’m such a stud I c’n dick down both chicks and guys.  ‘Course, Carlos here knows all about that, dontcha, dude?”

 

Carlos stiffened.  No matter what it took, there was no way he was gonna let Nick know what Bryan had done to him in prison.  He could barely admit it to himself—the thought that some other male had cum inside him…

 

“See, yer, uh, friend here and I were prison buds,” Bryan said, smirking at Nick as he slid the other boot off and unbuttoned the waistband of his cargo pants.  “An’ there was this one time me an’ these other dudes got holda him an’—GACK!!”

 

Later, Nick had to replay the video in slow motion to see exactly how smoothly Carlos had squatted, retrieved the Bowie knife from his boot sheath, then whirled and sprung forward, thrusting the tip of the blade into Bryan’s throat.  The razor-sharp steel, held vertically, pierced the unlucky punk’s larynx straight through from front to back, the cartilage that formed his vocal process parting like butter under a hot knife.  The tip of the blade lodged in one of Bryan’s cervical vertebrae for a moment, then Carlos jerked the knife back out.

 

He’d managed to avoid all the major blood vessels and most of the major nerves.  The wound wasn’t fatal, but it was excruciating, horrifyingly traumatic—and left the victim permanently unable to speak.

 

“Goddam, man, what the fuck?” Nick asked, shocked, as Bryan, his eyes huge, clutched at his throat and sank back down onto the bed, making thick, desperate gagging sounds.

 

“Aw, his voice was gettin’ on my nerves,” Carlos said, his expression visibly more cheerful than it had been since he’d gotten home.  “Don’t worry,” he continued, making certain that Bryan could hear his words, “He’ll still put on a good show when I fuck ‘im and finally snuff ‘im.  Gonna take my time with this one.  Hear that, ya sick faggot?  You’re gonna die slow, with my cock up yer ass.”

 

By now, Carlos was standing beside the bed, towering over Bryan as the latter pulled his hands from his neck and stared in horror at the blood on them.  Without warning, the muscular Latino backhanded the youth.  “You thought you were gonna fuck me?!?  Naw, motherfucker, I’m gonna fuck you.”

 

Bryan turned his dazed, uncomprehending eyes up to meet Carlos’s icy gaze.  Their beautiful emerald green, ringed by long and lush eyelashes, set something off in the skinhead’s warped psyche.

 

“No one fucks me!  Ever!!”  He punched Bryan three times in the face, repeated jackhammer blows that Nick caught on camera—not the impacts, but the flexing of Carlos’s thick, powerful deltoid and dorsal muscles and the bulging of his trapezius.  He was still clutching the long Bowie knife in his hand as he pounded the punk’s face.

 

Finally, breathing heavily, he stepped back, leaving the bruised fuckmeat sprawled unconscious on the bed, still in its socks and camo pants, its face swelling and air gurgling in its open trachea.  Nick adjusted the camera, re-centering the field of view on the wounded and trembling ex-con.  He loved it; this was hot as fuck.  It’d bring a nice inflow of cash if Carlos continued to abuse the unlucky motherfucker as brutally as he’d started.  “Damn, dude,” he said appreciatively, “What’d he do to you?”

 

“Nothin’,” Carlos said sullenly, “He din’t do nothin’.  Fuckin’ faggot just thought he was gonna be smart, is all.  But this asswipe needs my dick bad.  An’ he needs it to hurt.  Go get yer handheld, cause when this fuck wakes up, he’s gonna know what it feels like to have a real man inside ‘im.  Get a close-up of his face as he cries like a fuckin’ pussy, huh?  Yeah?”

 

Nick’s huge shaft was already tenting his jogger pants; noticing it, Carlos grinned, then bent forward and began cutting Bryan’s pants off with his knife.  The horny little fuckmeat was commando, of course; Carlos was already expecting it.  Piece a’ shit was ready to stick his cock into anything that came along—it was time to see how well he performed on the receiving end of the proposition.

 

And if he needed a little prodding to perform well—the nine inches of razor-sharp steel that jutted from the hilt grasped tightly in Carlos’s hand would ensure he got the point.

 

By the time Nick got back with the hand-held, Bryan’s camo pants lay on the floor, a pile of shredded fabric.  The Latino skinhead already had his massive dick out, its thick, vein-wrapped girth already pulsing and dripping.

 

“Aw hell yeah, man, time to rock ‘n roll,” Nick chuckled enthusiastically.  “This is gonna be a serious money-maker, right here.  C’mon, dude, lemme see ya make this piece of fagmeat scream.”

 

Carlos didn’t need any encouragement.  As Bryan began to moan and squirm, faint trickles of blood still leaking from the hole in his throat, the buff ex-con serial killer climbed up onto the bed.  Planting his thick-soled jump boots to get the best traction, he grinned maliciously and started to force the engorged purple head of his cock into Bryan’s asshole.

 

Bryan liked to fuck other dudes as a show of dominance; much like Carlos, he in no way thought of himself as gay.  Unlike Carlos, though, he’d never been fucked in the ass.  His fuckhole was tight; despite the slick coating of precum acting as lube for the Hispanic stud’s shaft, it was still a struggle for Carlos to mount and fully penetrate his semi-conscious victim.  He had to force it, brutally, and the horrific, searing pain of his sphincter being torn forced Bryan back to full awareness.

 

He screamed.  It was nightmarish; he was being forced down by this muscular dude and couldn’t escape the agonizing sense of being impaled, so he screamed and screamed—but no screams came out.  All Bryan was able to do was croak and gasp as his severed vocal cords fluttered uselessly in his punctured larynx.  A fine mist of blood was aspirated from the wound with each attempt; Carlos noted it with pleasure.

 

“Hey, Nick!  Dude, you gettin’ his neck?  See that?” he asked, then spoke to Bryan directly.  “Hey, ol’ friend, ol’ buddy, you tastin’ yer own blood yet?  Huh?  How’s that taste?”  He thrust his hugely swollen member deep inside the prison rapist’s guts, grinning maniacally as Bryan’s face twisted with excruciating pain.

 

“Hurts, don’t it?” he whispered—not so quietly that Nick couldn’t hear him— “Hurts when you don’t want a fuckin’ dick up yer ass, yeah?  Guess what, bitch, it’s about to hurt a lot fuckin’ more.  You’re gonna die ridin’ my cock, an’ I’m gonna make goddam sure you die hard—and slow.  Yer gonna be praying I cum in yer guts, motherfucker, cause snuffing yer worthless faggot ass is what’s gonna make me blow my load—and death is the only thing that’s gonna end yer sufferin’.  Get it now?  Ready to get fucked to death?”

 

The question was rhetorical; even if Bryan had been physically capable of speaking, his beautiful eyes, wide with blank fear and ringed with gray, showed his state of insensibility.  As Nick zoomed in on the young punk’s face, it was clear that the kid was going into shock.  His struggles slowed; his perfect bubble butt ceased to flex erotically on Carlos’s rod.

 

“No ya don’t,” Carlos snarled, “Stay awake, motherfucker!”

 

Raising his knife up, he drove it straight down like a pile driver, plunging all nine inches of sharpened steel into Bryan’s hard, flat, fuzz-covered belly.  Carlos forced it in up to the hilt, powering through the faint resistance of the punk’s rubbery intestines.  The blade sliced between the floating ribs in the back and completely penetrated the pain-wracked youth, its tip embedded in the mattress beneath him.

 

As Bryan kicked and writhed in agony, Carlos grunted with sexual pleasure.  “Fuck yeah, that’s it—clench that ass and work my fuckin’ dick!”

 

The ex-con hipster screamed silently, his muscled body suddenly going stiff with excruciating pain as the powerful Latino began to withdraw both his knife and his cock.  Tears trickled from Bryan’s eyes as he felt the hot hard dick and the cold hard blade being extracted from inside his body—slowly…oh, so slowly…

 

Carlos waited into just the tip of each remained inside the quivering punk.  “Watch ‘im,” he told Nick, his face lit with sadistic glee, “Get a shot of the fucker’s face here, when I give it to ‘im good.”

 

Bryan heard him speak, but was suffering too badly to understand what they meant.  Some part of his mind was lost in bewilderment, trying to understand how what should have been an easy fuck had turned into this searing nightmare.  He was totally unprepared when Carlos slammed his huge swollen shaft home, burying it balls-deep inside his former rapist.  Simultaneously, he powered the Bowie knife back in, twisting it in the wound, slashing at Bryan’s soft, tender guts.

 

The boy clutched at Carlos, his fingers gripping the Hispanic skinhead’s broad shoulders as his strong, thick legs, already involuntarily wrapped around Carlos’s waist, tightened like a wrestling move—but it was all done unconsciously, in reaction to the phenomenal torture he was enduring.

 

Bryan screamed and screamed, the wheezing, gurgling sound coming from the gash in his throat making a mockery of his efforts.  Nick had positioned himself to the side of the bed and had zoomed in on the dying convict’s face over Carlos’s shoulder while the latter tormented his prey.  “Lookit that—I think he wants t’ stop!  That right, ya little bitch?  Ya don’t wanna get fucked?  All ya gotta do is say no!”

 

Knocking Bryan’s arms away from his shoulders contemptuously, Carlos rose up on his knees so Nick could get a better view.  He left the knife embedded in the kid’s belly, blood leaking from the wound and the hilt bobbing in the air as Bryan’s sweat-slick abdomen heaved in agony.

 

“Well?  I ain’t hearin’ ya say no—guess that means yer enjoyin’ my dick, huh?  Yeah?  Fuckin’ knew it, ya worthless faggot cockwhore!”  The buff, domineering psycho spat in the suffering youth’s face, then punched him again, splitting his lips.

 

“Damn, dude, yer really gettin’ medieval on his ass,” Nick chuckled; he’d seen Carlos lose it with the meat before, but never right away like this.

 

“Wanna see him suffer,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, his inked skin glistening with sweat as he rhythmically pumped the tortured youth’s ass, “Wanna make goddam sure the faggot knows what it feels like when a real man gets hold of his worthless meat.”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, rubbing the dark moist spot at the top of the huge bulge in his pants, “Dudes are gonna be lovin’ this shit, man—fuck ‘im up man; tear that cunt up!”

 

It was obvious that Bryan, wallowing in terrified agony, was till able to understand Nick’s words.  Seeing the fresh wave of horror sweep over the punk’s bleeding, swelling face, the buff cameraman grinned and winked maliciously at him, then leaned in over Carlos’s shoulder for a close-up.

 

“Naw, man, c’mon round the side and show ‘em how much the fuckin’ sicko’s gettin’ off,” Carlos jeered, “Bitch likes it rough—hah!”

 

Circling around, Nick saw that Carlos was right.  The muscular Latino was up on his knees with the fuckmeat’s thick, firm legs wrapped around his tight waist, steadily pumping his huge tool into the kid’s traumatized asshole.  The hilt of his knife still protruded from Bryan’s taut, flat belly.  In between Carlos and the knife, Bryan was sporting an erection—an impressive one, given his obvious agony and terror.

 

“Watch this shit,” Carlos smirked.  As Nick zoomed in, the hairy, tatted ex-con grasped the hilt and yanked it out of Bryan’s guts.  As he did, he twisted it slightly so that the viciously sharp serrations carved new channels in the suffering punk’s flesh.

 

Bryan stiffened in horrible torment his face contorted with agony, pink foam bubbling from the wound in his throat as he shrieked, inaudibly and futilely—but at the same time, his hard half-foot of vein-wreathed cockmeat pulsed visibly.  Nick made damn sure his viewers missed no detail as the tortured youth’s erect, throbbing penis started oozing precum voluntarily.

 

“Toldja the fucker was a goddam faggot,” Carlos said, looking Bryan straight in the eyes.  “Aintcha, ya piece a’ motherfuckin’ shit?  Ya want this, dontcha?  Fuckin’ love finally havin’ a real man fillin’ yer guts with all kinda long hard shafts, yeah, you sick fuck?”

 

The nightmarish pain in his guts and his ass had pushed Bryan over the edge; even as his former victim pumped his colon full of cock, the strong young punk was beating on Carlos’s chest, his fists uselessly pummeling the Latino’s broad hairy chest.  He was only barely aware that his own dick was hard, hard and bobbing stiffly with every powerful thrust of Carlos’s hips.

 

“Goddam,” Nick moaned, steadying his camera in one hand as he unzipped his fly with the other, “Fuckin’ meat sure looks like it’s workin’ yer tool good.”

 

“Naw it ain’t,” Carlos sneered.  “Worthless cunt can’t even stroke my dick right.  Think it’s time to tighten up its fuckhole the hard way.  Hear that, bitch?  Know what that means?”  Grinning evilly, the buff, inked ex-con brandished the blade to the panicked, pain-crazed youth flailing desperately beneath him.  “Means it’s time to die, fucker.”

 

Suddenly the muscle-bound serial killer threw himself down, the wiry fur on his hard chest scraping Bryan’s smooth skin like steel wool.  The youth felt the weight of the larger man compress his straining cock between their flat, sweat-slick bellies as his legs, still wrapped around Carlos’s waist, squeezed together involuntarily.

 

Carlos grabbed a hank of Bryan’s long, dyed section of hair, holding the boy’s trembling head still.  He bent down so close that his scruffy facial growth scraped Bryan’s smooth, silky cheek—so close that neither Nick nor his camera could pick up the words the skinhead muttered into his prison rapist’s ear.

 

“You fucked up so bad, dude, so fuckin’ bad,” he whispered, managing to fill his low voice with venom, “Think you hurt now?  Yer gonna die in so much pain, fuckwad.  Get ready, cunt, clench up on my thick hog an’ fuckin’ suffer!”  Then he rose up to give Nick view.

 

The cameraman stroked his own cock as he closed in on the tip of Carlos’s knife, now placed under Bryan’s jaw, then opened the camera’s view back out to get the tatted Hispanic’s cocky, malicious grin.  “Watch this shit, dude,” Carlos said, ostensibly to Nick, but looking directly at the camera, “This is what a real man does to a fuckin’ prison faggot.”

 

With that, he began to slowly, incrementally, shove all nine inches of the blade up into Bryan’s head through the underside of his jaw.

 

What Bryan had endured before was nothing compared to this new agony.  His punctured larynx, his stabbed gut and impaled ass were all but forgotten as sharpened steel slid up through his jaw, parting the tissue like butter until it hit the underside of his tongue.  That was muscle; Carlos had to apply a little extra pressure to pierce it.

 

The hardbodied cameraman was as affected by the near-visible haze of sweat and pheromones as the two males locked together in fatal intercourse on the bed.  Nick’s long, pulsing shaft began to ooze as he captured a visual of Carlos’s right bicep bulging as he powered his knife through Bryan’s tongue, inflicting horrific pain on the writhing punk.

 

Bryan went utterly rigid with agony, his hands helplessly clutching Carlos’s broad shoulders and his tight, firm thighs scissoring the ruthless Latino’s waist.  Carlos shifted his powerful body forward, digging his shiny jump boots into the bed for better leverage as he continued to force his knife into Bryan’s skull.

 

All the unfortunate youth could do was hold on and suffer.  His own strong young body was no match for that of the sadistic skinhead; he’d only been able to rape Carlos as part of a group.  In his single-minded lust, he’d put himself at the mercy of his one-time victim solo.

 

Problem was, there was no mercy, only unimaginable pain.

 

It seemed to take forever.  The knife inched its way up through the roof of Bryan’s mouth, spearing the soft palate.  Carlos had to press hard to force the tip of the knife through the palatine bone; with a satisfied grunt of effort, he cradled Bryan’s head in his free arm and shoved.  He was rewarded with a loud crunching sound as the carbon-steel blade penetrated the agonized punk’s cranium and sliced up through his sinuses.

 

Bryan was conscious throughout the whole process.  There was little space for lucid thought within the echoing confines of his mind; there was nothing left but screaming and soul-searing physical suffering.  And during it all, he held his killer tight, pressing his firm, smooth, shuddering body against Carlos’s, the toes on his sock-covered feet curling in the air.

 

“Oh fuck yeah, that’s it,” Carlos moaned, his hard handsome face taut and sweaty with physical pleasure, “that’s how ya make fuckmeat tighten up—milk my fuckin’ cock, faggot.  Die, so I can fill yer worthless corpse with cum!”

 

The frame of Nick’s camera was filled for a moment with Bryan’s face, filled with anguish and smeared with tears, snot, and blood—the latter trickling from his nose and his split lips.  As the pointed tip of Carlos’s knife speared its way up through his skull, it sliced through the boy’s optic nerves; his bulging, bloodshot emerald eyes suddenly rolled back in his head as permanent darkness swept over him.

 

His ears still worked, though.

 

“Hey, Bry,” Carlos whispered huskily, “I’m ‘bout to fuck yer brain with my blade.  Just a little “fuck you” from our days inside.”

 

With a snarl on his face, the muscle-bound skinhead drove his knife up into Bryan’s head until the tip ground into the inside of cranium.  In a split second, the punk’s frontal lobe had been impaled by a thick steel shank.

 

And in that second, Bryan became meat.  Shuddering, sweating, clenching meat that spent its last few living moments on earth using its colon to stroke Carlos’s long, fat dick to orgasm.

 

“Aw, yeah!” the hairy, inked ex-con yelled, “Fuck! Goddam, gonna blow—FUCK!!”  His powerful, glistening body went rigid as hot manseed boiled over in his balls and was pumped in huge spurts deep into the dying meat’s ass.  The image recorded on Nick’s camera turned out pretty well after a little stabilization editing; the buff, leering cameraman shuddered a little as he spewed thick creamy jets of semen directly into Bryan’s slack, gaping face.

 

Between the entwined males, the quivering boymeat began to spunk uncontrollably.  Despite being in the depths of ejaculation, Carlos felt his one-time rapist’s cum splattering into his belly fur—and the memory of the last time he’d felt Bryan’s jizz, it was inside him.

 

It was too much.  Even as he unloaded in his victim’s helpless corpse, it was still too much.

 

Carlos pulled his dick out of the fuckmeat.  Still shooting, he yanked his knife out of Bryan’s head in a single brutal jerk.  Grabbing the dead boy’s package—still spunking as well, an automatic physiological response to the massive brain trauma—the enraged Latino sliced it all off.

 

Even as he held Bryan’s severed dick and balls aloft, the convulsing organ continued to shoot semen.  “Holy fuck!” Nick cried, sending a solid stream of jizz into the air like geyser.  Incredulously, he recorded Carlos jamming Bryan’s still-leaking dick into the kid’s own mouth, balls-first, so that the livid head protruded from his parted lips, letting the spunk still oozing out trickle down the dead punk’s chin.

 

Carlos shot two more jets of thick, ropy manseed over the mutilated remains of his prey, his chest heaving, the gold chain around his neck glinting in the light as he steadied himself over the kicking corpse.  Breathing heavily, Nick allowed the hardbodied ex-con to slide off the bed; recovering his breath, he lowered the camera for a moment.  For a moment, he centered it involuntarily on the cum-spattered tops of his Nike Air Force 1s, then raised it again, letting it linger over Bryan’s smooth, muscular corpse, trembling in its death throes, blood leaking from the gaping wound between the legs.

 

“And…scene!”  Nick cried enthusiastically, shutting the camera off.  “Jesus, dude, that was fuckin’ intense!  What, did he piss you off?  Bad cellie?”

 

Carlos had managed to catch his breath.  Standing at the foot of the bed, he gazed contemptuously down at the mangled, abused body.  “I didn’t bunk with the asswipe,” he said quietly, his rage momentarily dispersed via orgasm.  “Fucker wouldn’ta lived this long if I had.”

 

He turned and headed towards the bathroom, leaving Nick to plan the clean-up.

 


 

The lugubrious grin on Nuñez’s face let Schweitz know this was gonna be a good one—as in, this was gonna be really bad.  He wasn’t disappointed.

 

“It’s another faggot—” Nuñez started.

 

“Aw, jeez, whyd’ja hafta call me out here on this one?  You know we ain’t got time for this bullshit!”

 

“Thought you’d like this one,” Nuñez grinned.  “As a connoisseur, so to speak.”

 

Schweitz rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress an amused smirk.  “Ok, show me whatcha got.”

 

“This way,” the slim Hispanic cop said, leading his sweating, obese partner to a dumpster at the end of the alley; it belonged to a small-time local casino, whose staff had reported the find.  The body had already been removed from the garbage and was on a gurney, bagged, by the time Schweitz got there.

 

“Open it,” Nuñez said.  The tech obeyed, letting Schweitz get a good view of Bryan’s bulging mouthful.

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the heavy-set cop muttered.

 

“Ex-con,” Nuñez said, “Hasn’t been in town long.  We found his parole officer’s card in his wallet; he ID’d ‘im from the tattoos.”

 

“Ok,” Schweitz sighed, “That puts you ahead.  I admit it, that one’s fucked up.  But I still think I can find one even worse before the end of the year.  The faggots do some seriously sick shit to each other.  Now sign off on that worthless cocksucker—haw! —and let’s go grab some lunch.  There’s a new Chinese buffet over on Charleston I wanna try.”

 

“Always thinkin’ of yer gut, aintcha?” Nuñez jeered coarsely.  “Naw, I don’t need no ident number for that motherfucker”—this was to the coroner’s tech, referring to the corpse— “Ain’t like anyone give a shit about some faggot jailbird.”

 

As the cops headed back up the alley, the tech re-sealed Bryan’s stiffening corpse.  He banged it around a bit as he got it back to the van, but, after all, he wasn’t paid to care about some faggot’s abused body, either.

Adam In Control

Adam was pissed, and it was getting his dick hard.

 

The kid was openly leering at him, and that was infuriating enough; Adam hated being stared at by fags, feeling their eyes running over his hard, muscular body—it always kindled his lust/rage.  But there was something about this particular boy…

 

He was lean and tall, not quite Adam’s height, but close.  He was leaning back against the wall, one knee out with the foot on the wall behind him, watching the people entering and leaving the gym; it was almost as if he was cruising for a fuck.

 

Forget the “almost”, Adam thought, the little whore wants dick; lookit the way he’s dressed.

 

The boy’s black Adidas Chile 62 tracksuit had an eye-catching shininess similar to leather; the way it clung to the slut’s lithe young body was the first thing Adam had noticed. The jacket was open; under it was a white t-shirt with an Adidas logo just barely visible.  The little punk hadn’t been brand-loyal all the way down to his feet, though, Adam noticed—he was sporting a pair of black and white Nike Vapormax 97’s.

 

It was the faggot’s face that aroused Adam’s ire the most—handsome, arrogant, topped with a wavy mass of hair almost identical to Adam’s own shade of copper.  It drew the sexual sadist’s attention.  He had no idea what a homo dressed like a scally punk was doing here coming on to him, but he wanted to see that face, terrified and suffering, as it died.

 

So he swallowed his anger, the bitter taste somehow making his cock swell, and approached the homo scum with a smile on his own strikingly masculine face.

 

“Hey there,” the kid said once Adam was closer.  “I been scopin’ ya out for a coupla days.”

 

“Yeah?” Adam replied nonchalantly.

 

“Yeah,” the boy said, “And I think you’d be perfect.”

 

“For what?”

 

“A little breath control play.”

 

Adam paused for a moment.  “Yeah?  Sounds like faggot shit to me.  That what ya into, boy?”

 

The punk grinned, giving Adam what was supposed to be a come-hither look; it made the youth look somewhat moronic.  “I like a little danger—and Master’s away, so the pup will play…”  He leered hard at the muscle-bound stud.

 

Adam was intrigued and enraged.  Fuckin’ cunt was such a homo he needed a master.  “That explain yer getup?” he asked, giving the slut’s Chile 62 tracksuit a once-over.

 

“Hell yeah,” the kid said proudly, “Sir’s a skinhead; he likes to see me in this.  Likes to use me and abuse me while I’m wearing it.  Think you can do that to me too?”

 

Again, Adam paused.  He was used to hunting down and snuffing his own fuckmeat; even the stupid cunts who came onto him didn’t want more than an assfuck.  The psycho killer hadn’t had anyone begging to be hurt—this could be downright fun.

 

Or would be if it didn’t involve a cocksuckin’ fag pervert.  Little motherfucker wanted abuse?  It deserved it and Adam was more than willing to comply.  He hadn’t been trolling for meat, but he wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to rid the world of another useless queer.  Especially one asking to be abused.

 

Still, he needed to be careful.  “Why me?” he asked.

 

“Cause you look like you’d enjoy it,” the kid said.  “See, Sir’s good—fuck, when he makes me lick his boots, I wanna cum—but that don’t mean I don’t wanna play sometimes…”

 

“So you want someone new to get ya off,” Adam finished the sentence.  “How long you been watchin’ me?”

 

“Since the beginnin’ of the week—once I found out Sir was gonna leave town today.”

 

“Didn’t waste any time, didja, ya horny little fuck?  Didja tell anyone about me, about yer plans?

 

The kid writhed happily.  “Nossir,” he said breathily, ginning wildly in pleasure.  He’d picked the right dude, no question.  Just the verbal abuse was getting him off; the bulge in his trackies was obvious to anyone within fifteen feet.

 

This might work.  Adam was suspicious of a situation which he hadn’t set up himself, but this looked legit—the punk fuck was seriously coming on to him.  “You got someplace to go?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” the kid said, “We can go back to our place.”

 

“Whaddaya mean, ‘our’ place?”

 

“Well, Sir’s place.  But I live there too.”

 

Not for long you won’t, Adam thought.  “And what’ll happen if ‘Sir’ finds out you been playin’?”

 

“Aw, he’ll probably beat the fuck outta me.  But he ain’t gonna find out.  I’ll clean up good after.”

 

Adam had his own opinions on that as well, but he kept them to himself.

 

“Ok, cunt.  You wanna get treated like fuckin’ garbage, I can damn sure do that.”

 

“Fuckin’-A, dude!  C’mon, follow me.  I’m parked next you; I know which car is yours.”

 

“Lead the way, little boy,” Adam said contemptuously; the kid picked up on the tone.  Despite his desire for abuse, there was something in the alpha’s cold voice that momentarily disconcerted him.

 

“Connor,” he said decisively, “My name is Connor.  And I may be a pup, but I ain’t no kid—I’m twenty.”

 

“Yeah?” Adam said flatly, emotionlessly staring directly at him.  “So what?”

 

Connor’s dark hazel-green eyes widened slightly, but his cock twitched so hard it rustled the shiny polyester tent over his crotch.  Adam grinned and the kid relaxed somewhat.  “I’ll pull out first—the car, I mean, heh, heh—and you can follow me.”

 

Adam followed him back to where he’d parked.  He noticed the silver 2017 Mercedes E400 parked next to his car; it certainly hadn’t been there when he pulled in—he wouldn’t have parked next to it.  His doors and its were too long to be side-by-side in the gym’s narrow parking spaces.

 

He let Connor pull out of his space before getting into his own car, then got into his own and followed.  Once out of the parking lot, the kid headed east; it took about twenty minutes to reach his destination, a loft condo in a refurbished warehouse near the train tracks.

 

There was an open parking lot in the back of the building; Adam went to the far end to park.  He approached the building slowly, carefully scanning the entryway and the façade to confirm there weren’t any cameras.  There was surprisingly little security, although the door could only be opened by a chip card; it had to be used to activate the elevator, too.

 

Adam took note. That piece of info would come in handy later.

 

The condo was on the fourth floor—and it seemed to be one of only two on the entire floor that was occupied.  Inside, the place was very Urban Modern—brick walls, concrete floor, exposed piping and ductwork—and very new.

 

“You haven’t been here long,” Adam said; a statement, not a question.  Connor answered anyway.

 

“No—Sir’s, uh, not from here.  He’s got a job to do, then he’s goin’ home.  And he’s takin’ me with him.”

 

Adam knew better.  Connor had been turning on a lamp as he spoke; when the dim light flashed across the open space, the smile on Adam’s face was barely visible.  The kid was simply too far away to see the wicked glint in the killer’s cold blue eyes.

 

What he could see, even in the semi-darkened living room, was Adam’s phenomenal physique.  If Connor’s shiny Adidas tracksuit had been eye-catching, Adam’s own workout gear was not far behind.  He sported a white Lycra V-neck tank top that appeared to be painted onto his broad chest.  The deeply-cut neck allowed his abundant red-gold chest hair to spill out, while his powerfully muscled arms were admirably displayed.

 

Below the waist, Adam had on a pair of black polyester gym shorts that hung to just above the knee; Connor couldn’t see the stud’s thighs, but the thick slabs of muscles in his calves were obvious enough.  On his feet were a pair of Nike Air Max2 kicks in a bright, almost neon, yellow.

 

It wasn’t that Connor hadn’t noticed how Adam had been dressed earlier; he’d just been too wrought up by the anxiety of approaching the stud in person to take in the details.

 

Adam, in the meantime, glanced around the room.  He’d already assimilated what he needed to know about Connor—just another fuckin’ homo perv that thought it was worthy of his cock.  All he needed now was the right place to teach it its lesson.  A place where they could have…a little alone time.

 

“This y’all’s shit?” he asked abruptly.  Startled, Connor jerked.  “Uh, uh—no, not the furniture or the…well, the personal stuff is ours.  Sir ain’t gonna be here long.  This is one of the model units, I think…”

 

“So where’s the bedroom, faggot?”

 

Connor flushed, but his expression made it clear that it was with pleasure.  “This way,” he chirped happily, leading his killer to the place where he was going to die.

 

The bedroom—there was only one, it seemed—was partitioned off from the main living space by a series of pseudo-Japanese sliding screens.  Made of flimsy black plastic inset with squares of glossy translucent polyester and running on a track, they managed to connote an aura of cheapness while providing no privacy whatsoever.  Adam started to realize why so few units were occupied…

 

But that didn’t matter.  The room itself was surprisingly small, with a double bed against the far wall.  The right wall was solid glass, looking out onto the train tracks and the river beyond, sluggish, shallow, and stinking with algae in the summer heat.  The sun, finally setting after a sweltering day, glinted greenly off the thick organic stew.

 

To the left was a dresser; next to it was a closet with mirrored sliding doors.  In the far corner was a small desk with an empty laptop docking station and an adjustable high-backed desk chair on casters.

 

Connor had flicked on the lights when he came in.  There was a small lamp on the single nightstand, another one on the dresser, and the overhead lights in the ceiling fan.  The bulbs were evidently fluorescent; everything was dim at first but gradually became brighter.

 

The punk fucker took the initiative, his presumption stoking Adam’s psychotic rage.  Connor had already snagged something surreptitiously from a drawer in the nightstand; the dumbass cunt thought that Adam hadn’t seen it, but the clinking of metal alone was enough to tell the experienced sadist that the kid had brought out a pair of handcuffs.  Now, he grabbed the chair from the desk and wheeled it to the only open space in the small room, between the bed and the closet, which were separated by about six feet.

 

Sitting in the chair, Connor extended his right hand, the cuffs dangling from his index finger.  “You c’n put these on me if ya want…” he led off.  Adam waited, savoring his rage; he knew there was more to come.  The pansy was gonna suffer for this, big time.

 

“…but I gotta see whatcha got first.  Pull off those shorts, big boy; I’d bet my life yer commando under there.”

 

If he’d been less of a horny cockpig, Connor might have noticed the somehow chilling look of satisfaction that crossed Adam’s face.  He lifted his Lycra shirt just enough to grasp the waistband of his shorts and, jerking them down, kicked them to one side.

 

Underneath, he still wore the lining, also Lycra, in black and yellow—the same shade of yellow as his Nikes.  As Connor stared in awe at the massive shaft of manmeat so clearly outlined in every detail in Adam’s crotch, the sex killer grinned.

 

“You lose yer bet, asswipe,” he chuckled.  Approaching the eager slut, he grabbed the handcuffs and secured the homo’s arms behind the back of the chair.  Slowly turning the chair to face the mirrored closet door, Adam stood behind it and grinned at their reflection.

 

“Wait, wait!” Connor cried out, “I almost forgot—over there, top desk drawer…”

 

Adam wasn’t one to give into requests, but since this piece of meat was damn near snuffing itself, his curiosity was aroused.  Opening the desk drawer, he found a pair of leather gloves, thin, tight and smooth.

 

“Put ‘em on!”  Connor’s tone was more a plea than a command.  Smirking maliciously, Adam complied, slipping the tight, supple gloves onto his powerful hands.  Turning around, he stalked ominously back to the helpless kid.

 

The faggot was staring at Adam’s crotch again, his large dark eyes sliding up and down the length of the Lyrca-covered shaft and lingering over the well-defined cock head.  The hardbodied psycho felt the familiar bloodlust welling up within him, the desire to put this little fuck down, hard, and then own its corpse by filling it with cum.

 

But of course, before that happened, it needed to be made worthy to receive his cock.  All the faggotry had to be purged from the meat’s soul, and the soul could only be purged by suffering.

 

“Damn, dude, I can’t wait to service that dick,” Connor gasped breathily, “Sure hope a little breath control play will make you as hard as it does me!”

 

That was it; that was all that was needed to flip Adam’s switch.

 

“You wanna earn my dick, cunt?” he jeered.  “You ain’t worth it, ya fuckin’ faggot.”

 

“Nossir!” Connor chirped happily; he loved this kinda abuse.

 

Taking his place behind the chair again, Adam used the mirror to maintain eye contact with the fuckmeat.  “Ya wanna know what ya gotta do to earn it, bitch?”

 

“Yessir!  Please, sir!”  Connor squealed.

 

“You gotta die,” Adam said flatly, and slapped one of his big, strong hands over Connor’s face, closing off the boy’s nose and mouth simultaneously, the smooth leather making an air-tight seal.

 

It took no great effort to stand there and hold the kid’s head; the punk didn’t even start to struggle until near the one-minute mark.  His dick responded long before that, though; almost instantly, it was throbbing visibly beneath the shiny trackies.  After about two minutes, though, Connor’s muffled grunting increased and he began to jerk his head about.  Adam let go.

 

The meat wasn’t suffering; it was enjoying itself.

 

“Le-lemme go a s-sec,” Connor gasped out as he recovered his breath, “Th-that was so fuck-fuckin’ hot…”

 

“I’m gettin’ tired of you orderin’ me around,” Adam growled in a deep bass tone, but he unlocked one of the cuffs, leaving the set to dangle off the boy’s left wrist.  Connor wriggled with pleasure at the rough rumble of the top’s voice.  Swiftly pulling his hands around to his lap, he whipped out his long, pulsing boycock and began stroking his shaft.

 

“Call me ‘Ghost’,” he moaned, “That’s what Sir calls me…”

 

“You goddam piece a’ faggot shit,” Adam said coldly.  He reached down and grabbed Connor’s right wrist and jerked it violently upward, then back towards himself, bringing up his knee at the same time to use as a lever.  The sadistic alpha felt his own cock swell as he broke Connor’s arm; it happened so fast that the punk heard the wet splintering sound of his radius and ulna snapping before the pain hit him.

 

The kid’s pale face went even whiter as the shock hit him; he opened his mouth and automatically inhaled—but before he could scream, Adam punched him twice in quick succession.  This first blow landed in his soft flat gut and drove all the air out of his lungs with a loud squeak.  The second punch popped him in the face, splitting his bottom lip and bruising his cheek.

 

As the meat slumped back in the chair, moaning and stunned, Adam reached down and grabbed the collar of the kid’s t-shirt.  Twisting it tightly, he used it to single-handedly hoist Connor of out the chair.  Holding the dazed youth up to his face, his Vapormax kicks dangling in mid-air, the killer stared directly into the boy’s wide, scared eyes.

 

“Ghost, huh?  That’s about right, fuckmeat.  That’s exactly what the fuck you are—a ghost.  Yer fuckin’ dead, man—that’s what it takes to get my dick.  I gotta torture the faggotry outta ya before I can fuck yer meat, see?  So, yeah—yer gonna get ghosted.  ‘Ghost’ is fuckin’ great!”  He laughed, a deep, hearty sound.

 

Connor found it chilling, but he was in too much pain to know why.  He didn’t even know what the fuck had happened, but this fucker had broken his arm oh my god it hurts so goddam bad—

 

There was a shearing, ripping sound and Connor’s Adidas t-shirt gave way, the thin cotton unable to support the youth’s weight any longer.  As it tore open, the kid tumbled to the ground at Adam’s feet, still in his track jacket but now bare-chested under it.  The muscle-bound killer tossed the shredded piece of fabric aside.  Straddling the prone youth, he bent down, clamped a hand around his neck, and lifted the punk back up.

 

Connor screamed as his broken arm flopped about.  “Shaddap!” Adam snarled, backhanding the kid brutally, blackening his left eye.  “You need this, asswipe.  Pain’s good for the soul, remember?  An’ by the time I’m done with ya, yer soul is gonna be so pure it’ll even be worthy to receive my seed.”

 

He jammed the boy back down into the chair.  Stepping behind it, he again faced the reflection of the two of them in the mirror.  This time, he used both hands to seal off the punk’s nose and mouth.  Connor’s frantic eyes could just barely be seen over the top of his gloved hands.

 

This time, the kid’s reaction was much more immediate—as Adam expected; after all, this time the meat knew it wasn’t a game.  Connor twisted and writhed in the chair, trying to slip out of Adam’s crushing grip on his skull, but it was useless.  His legs kicked and drummed on the floor, the heels of his Nikes leaving scuff marks on the wood.

 

“Hey, fuckwad,” Adam whispered in the boy’s ear, “See how yer cock is twitchin’?  Means there’s still too much faggot left in ya, so we gotta keep going.”

 

Connor was long familiar with the erotic sensations of oxygen deprivation; he knew that as the crushing pain in his lungs and the pounding pressure in his head intensified, his dick would only get harder and harder.  This motherfucker was seriously gonna kill him—

 

Adam smiled as he heard the faint muffled squeaks that were the only outward signs of Connor’s screams.  “What’s that—ya wanna safe word?” he chuckled maliciously, “Ok, cocksucker—yer safe word is ‘die’.  Once ya do that, I’ll let go.”

 

The fuckmeat still hadn’t its proper position as Adam’s cumrag.  The room was filled with a loud jangling sound as Connor’s left hand, with the handcuffs still attached, clawed helplessly at his face, his scrambling fingers not finding any purchase on the smooth surface of the black leather gloves.  In panicked desperation, he slung his hand around to the right side of his face, where Adam was bent by his ear.  Adam was too far away for Connor’s hand to reach, but the handcuffs, swinging out with momentum, managed to clip the alpha on the chin.

 

The impact wasn’t severe; it didn’t even break the skin, but it startled, then enraged the psychotic killer.  Releasing Connor’s head, he stood up.  As the boy coughed and heaved, sucking in lungfuls of air, Adam grabbed his left hand and bent his index finger all the way back, snapping it at the first joint.

 

“WHA TH’ FUCK?!?” Connor screeched, lack of oxygen making his voice high and reedy.  Adam calmly popped him in the face, a single sucker-punch right from the shoulder into Connor’s nose, breaking it with a loud crunch.  Turning his attention back to the unlucky youth’s hand, he grabbed the middle finger and wrenched it brutally backwards.

 

Connor screamed again—no words this time, just a loud, inarticulate wail of agony.  “Ya still likin’ it, faggot?” he hissed, his cold eyes slitted in anger, “Does the thought of bein’ close to death still get ya off?  Cause you’re close, ya worthless human cumdump, you’re so close to death I betcha can taste it, cantcha?”

 

The boy opened his eyes and turned his strained face, gray with shock, towards his tormentor.  This wasn’t what he’d wanted at all; he just wanted a little play…Sir wouldn’t have actually hurt him…

 

“P-ple-please…” was all he could get out.

 

“Please what, homo?” Adam sneered.  “Already toldja, the meat don’t call the shots.  Looks like you ain’t as ready to be honored by my load as I’d thought.  You got faggotry rooted deep down in yer soul, motherfucker, an’ I’m gonna make damn sure I get it all out.”

 

He paused for a moment, then smiled grimly.  “This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me, son.”

 

He took hold of Connor’s left arm in the same way he had his right, except this time, he placed his knee right on the kid’s elbow joint and bent the arm backwards from there.  There was a gristly snapping sound, like tearing a chicken leg form a carcass, and the arm hung limp at an awkward angle while Connor’s shriek spiraled into the upper registers, making his voice crack and leaving him to wheeze and gasp almost soundlessly.

 

Adam stepped in front of the chair, crossed his arms, and contemplated the meat.  Connor writhed impotently in the chair, utterly defenseless with two broken arms.  The meat’s slim, smooth torso glistened with sweat; the air was rank with testosterone and manscent.  As Adam watched the kid’s slick, flat abdomen heave with pain, he noticed a tattoo on the kid’s belly.  It looked like a robot, or maybe a cactus with a face.

 

Whatever, Adam thought dismissively; maybe it’d help ID the corpse later.  His own cock was pulsating on a regular basis, and that meant that it was time for the final act of purification.  He smiled broadly, a pleasant and friendly expression on his face.

 

“Hey, Ghost?  Ya still with me, man?” he asked kindly, stepping forward and patting the boy on the cheek.  Connor had stopped writhing and remained slumped in the chair, moaning quietly, his head hanging forward.  His bright copper hair was now dark with sweat—but so was Adam’s, so they still matched.  “Almost there, fucker.  But not yet.  Still too much of a fag, Ghost; my cock tells me so.  We ain’t done yet, asswipe.  Lessee—yer into gettin’ choked, huh?  Ok, motherfucker, lemme see if I can choke the homo right outta ya.”

 

Locked in a vise of physical pain, the lean pup in the trackies could only shudder and sob as the hulking alpha stud searched the room for something appropriate.  Connor tried to get up, but without his arms to brace himself, he inevitably began to roll off balance as he moved—and as he started to roll to one side or the other, the arm on that side began to flex at the break, grinding bones together.  It just hurt too much.

 

In the meantime, Adam had opened the closet and rummaged around in it.  It didn’t take him long to find something that suited his needs; when he returned, he was holding two items.  One was a straightstick baton, about eleven inches long.  The other was a belt of webbed nylon.

 

“Ya ready?” he asked as he approached the traumatized youth, “Ready to live up to yer name and get ghosted?”

 

Connor’s battered and swollen face was barely recognizable; the arrogantly handsome punk had been beaten to hamburger.  It hurt even to speak, but frantic self-preservation drove the cunt on in a vain attempt to plead for his useless life.

 

“O-oh god, p-please, n-n-no…j-us-just lemme go…wo-wo-won’t say noth-nothin’…te-tell S-Sir I got-got mu-mu-mugged…”

 

“Y’know,” Adam said reflectively as he stepped behind the chair and wrapped the belt around Connor’s neck, “Sir is probably gonna be the one who finds your corpse after I’ve given it the honor of bein’ my personal cumrag.  Wonder what he’s gonna think; don’t you?”

 

Laughing, he slipped the baton under the belt and began twisting.  It took a few seconds for him to twist it enough to tighten the belt around Connor’s neck, but once he had, it made a perfect garrote.

 

“Ok, ya worthless asswipe, only one way to get ya free of yer disgustin’ faggot lusts.  Only one way to make your dead fuckmeat clean enough to be my cumdump.  It’s buried deep in yer DNA, faggot—I gotta squeeze the spunk outta ya so I can replace it with my own manseed.”

 

As the tightly-webbed black nylon sank into Connor’s tender neck flesh, Adam leaned forward and hissed “Time to die, Ghost.  It’s gonna hurt, you worthless piece a’ shit; it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  I promise, cunt.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

The boy whimpered in fear.  He’d always loved being controlled by someone else, the hot erotic danger of having another man bring him to the point of death was what made him cum.  But he’d always known in the back of his mind that it wasn’t the real thing—no matter who it was, his Master or a casual hookup, he’d always known he wasn’t really gonna die.  Until now.

 

The glassy, white-hot pain of broken bones made it obvious that playtime was over.  Connor was young, healthy, and full of cum.  He didn’t want to die; as bad as the pain was, he still couldn’t quite believe it—until he heard Adam’s words.

 

And then the belt tightened further around his throat, the nylon digging deeply into his skin, and his windpipe was squeezed closed.  That tripped the trigger; as often as Connor had experienced the sensation before, this was different.  This time, it wasn’t coming off.  He panicked.

 

The lean youth attempted to lunge forward, his firm legs tensing in the glossy track pants as he tried to find leverage, in vain.  His hands flopped limply, utterly useless except for increasing the amount of agony the punk was experiencing.  He could hear Adam talking behind him; worse, he could see the sexy, gleeful face of his killer leering over his shoulder in the mirror.

 

And worst of all, he could see his face, already purple and swollen with the beating he’d endured, starting to go black.  He knew the stages, he knew what to expect.  And he’d see it all in the mirror; he was gonna watch himself die.

 

It was too much for the lithe young pup.  A dark haze of terror swept over him and somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a moist warmth spread over him as well—or at least down his legs.  He wasn’t able to register the fact that he’d lost control of his bladder and that warm boypiss was trickling down inside his trackies and pooling in his Nike kicks.

 

As Connor struggled and thrashed, lubed by his own urine, he slid lower in the chair.  “No ya fuckin’ don’t,” Adam muttered.  Flexing his powerful biceps, he lifted the kid by the garrote and resettled him in the chair.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, fuckmeat.  Yer gonna watch the whole show, all the way to the end.”

 

Sweat trickled down Connor’s face and his ginger locks, rank with perspiration, plastered his forehead.  The slightest movement brought on nightmarish agony, but sheer asphyxia-induced panic was starting to overwhelm the young faggot; he grimly clung to rational thought—not in a brave attempt to figure a way out of his situation, but almost by mere instinct, as if he as subconsciously aware that he was doomed the moment he lost control.

 

Lucidity was a double-edged sword, though; it would take effort to avoid recognizing that he was doomed in any case—but Connor’ efforts were devoted to the most intense struggle in his life.  It was also the last.

 

The times Sir had bagged him had been nothing like this.  The tight, erotic feel of the rope or the cuffs, sometimes in his track suit, sometimes in footy gear and boots—the way he’d been left alone on occasions, Sir just watching and grinning, sometimes until he pissed himself, sometimes until the raging thumping of his pulse in his skull was overtaken by the swift pulsing of his thick boycock, pumping out gobs of cum—

 

—oh dear fuckin’ god no, this was nothing like that, so why the fuck was his dick so hard—

 

Adam gave the baton a half-turn; the belt sank in a little deeper.  Not much, but it didn’t need to be; even though his trachea had been compressed to the point that air could no longer pass through it, it was by no means incapable of being compacted further.

 

And it damn sure wasn’t numb.  In another of those moments of lucidity, Connor felt a dull surprise that he could feel the pain of the taut nylon digging into his throat and deforming his esophagus; he was in a bottomless pool of agony, but it didn’t merge, he could feel it all separately his neck his face his fingers his arms oh fuck my arms how’m I gonna get out oh shit oh fuck—

 

And with the realization of how seriously he’d been injured, terror swept back over him in a dark wave, leaving him to thrash and flail about in the desk chair, his piss-soaked legs kicking wildly.  Panic had flooded his body with adrenaline, overriding the pain impulses—for the moment, he was numb.  His legs kicked and flailed; he managed to scape one of his Nikes off, flinging it across the room, as his foot flexed and his toes curled in agony, still encased in a pair of piss-sodden no-show ped socks.

 

Again, Adam jerked the meat upwards and resettled it, holding in place until its struggles began to weaken.  He kept a careful eye on it, wanting to make sure that there was still enough of the fag left to understand his words.  The buff psycho caught a faint spark of light in the dying cockpig’s bulging, bloodshot eyes.  It was just barely there, but it was enough.

 

“Watch yerself die, faggot,” Adam hissed with vindictive glee, “Watch yerself choke and drool—an’ remember how much you need this, ya fuckin’ pansy.  You know it.  You want it.  You fuckin’ asked for it, cunt, so enjoy the pain, ya worthless pile of meat.”

 

Connor could barely see; his eyes were bulging horribly from his head, huge black explosions forming in his field of vision as blood vessels hemorrhaged, turning the whites of his eyes red.  The frantic pounding of his pulse in his ears nearly drowned out all other sounds.  But “barely” and “nearly” didn’t mean completely.

 

There was still enough of Connor left to recognized his own form in the mirror, jerking uncontrollably.  A long streamer of foamy drool had oozed from his mouth, past his bulging black tongue, and trickled down his chin, where a long strand had trailed down to his smooth, flat belly.  His face was congested and swollen, a thick puffy caricature of his arrogantly handsome countenance, with grotesquely protruding eyes.

 

And even though his vision was rapidly fading, the homo cunt could still see the trickle of precum oozing from the purple, pulsing head of his achingly erect cock.

 

And he could see the buff alpha as well; some little corner of his faggot brain still lusted over that muscle-bound torso wrapped in white Lycra so tight his large hard nipples cast shadows over his broad pecs.  Wiry strawberry-blond hair spilled over the deeply-cut neck, but Connor’s eyes were drawn to the thick biceps, glistening with sweat and bulging with the effort of ending his life…

 

He knew he was dying and Adam knew he knew it.  “I hope it hurts, Ghost,” the fully-erect, hardbodied killer hissed, “Hope it hurts a lot.  You thought you deserved my dick, ya perverted piece a’ shit?  This is what cocksuckin’ pansies like you deserve!”  With that, he gave his improvised garrote a swift, vicious full 180-degree turn.

 

Connor was young and healthy; his lean and lithe body could endure a great deal of trauma, but there is a point beyond which human tissue can’t be stressed without enduring permanent damage.  Up to now, the boy’s windpipe had been squeezed shut.  Now, it collapsed completely, crushed beyond repair.

 

There was a loud wet crunch.  “Fuck yeah!” Adam crowed triumphantly as the punk slut shuddered in nightmarish agony, his slim body wracked with excruciating pain.  The searing pain of having his trachea and larynx crushed into a bleeding mass of mangled cartilage was too much; it would have shattered whatever was left of the pup’s mind—but nothing was left.  He’d been without air too long; the brain damage was too severe.

 

This was the point Adam had been waiting for.  He wanted to try something.  He’d always like his meat fresh…

 

The hulking alpha quickly spun the baton in the opposite direction, loosening the garrote.  He had to grab a hank of the kid’s slick coppery hair with one hand so he could jerk the embedded belt out of his neck with the other hand.   Ghost—there was no Connor left anymore—convulsed rhythmically, his limbs flopping limply as his muscles responded to the erratic signals of a dying brain.

 

Adam tossed both the belt and the body to the floor.  He looked down at the shuddering fuckmeat, considering it calmly, despite the way his huge manshaft throbbed visibly beneath the Lycra shorts.  He bent down, picked the meat up, and dragged it to the bed.  Tossing its torso face-down across the mattress so that its knees were on the floor and it was bent forward at the waist, Adam reached out and pulled the track pants down, exposing the smooth golden globes of the corpse’s ass.  As he watched, the meat continued to shudder and tremble, the convulsions twitching and puckering Ghost’s pink fuckhole.

 

Now the meat was acceptable.  The faggot was dead.  Whatever happened, Connor wasn’t coming back—but Ghost was worthy of receiving Adam’s manhood.

 

He didn’t even bother to take the black and yellow Lycra shorts off.  Adam just reached down and whipped out his cock and balls, stuffing the latter into the dead punk’s quivering asshole.  He felt some resistance at first, a pressure on the engorged, precum-slick head of his cock, but his enormous shaft tore open the dead boy’s sphincter with minimal effort and was soon buried deep in Ghost’s warm and still-convulsing rectum.

 

His fluorescent yellow Nike Air Max 2’s tensed on the laminate wood floor, one on each side of Ghost’s feet, keeping the homo punk’s from slipping and spreading.

 

The hyper-masculine sex killer fucked his prey deeply and brutally, synching the timing of his thrusts to the rhythm of the slowly-dying meat’s convulsions, letting the pup’s death throes milk the hot sperm out of his pulsating tool.  As he felt his seed starting to seethe in his puckered balls, Adam began increasing the tempo of his pumping until he knew he was within seconds of unloading; he’d saved this next move for the very end.

 

Placing one hand on the meat’s shoulder, he reached down and grabbed the chin with the other.  Without missing a single perfectly-timed thrust of his hips, Adam jerked Ghost’s chin around backward until he was staring directly into the dead punk’s black, swollen face.

 

There was a loud popping sound as the first five cervical vertebrae in Ghost’s spine shattered like glass under the inexorable strength of Adam’s muscles.  The abrupt trauma inflicted on the youth’s spinal column as razor-sharp shards of bone sheared through it at random sent a massive electrochemical shock throughout his entire nervous system.

 

It all happened at once. Ghost’s body went rigid as its muscles locked in a violent convulsive spasm.  The torn sphincter was still able to tighten around Adam’s pulsating rod; in fact, the muscles in Ghost’s lower rectum collapsed in a cascading rhythm, rippling along the thick, cum-filled channel that ran up under the thick swollen shaft to the velvet-soft head.  At the same time, the ginger fag’s own cock began to spasm uncontrollably as the penile muscles convulsed.

 

They both spewed simultaneously; Ghost, unconscious, unknowing, literally brain-dead, pumping his faggot boycum uselessly into the thick duvet cover as the overpowering alpha hosed him down internally with scalding manspunk.  Adam could feel the meat’s involuntary orgasm as the muscular spasms rippled though the body and tightened the sphincter around his cock again.  The sudden tightness triggered him.  “FUCK!” he screamed, “Goddam fuckin’ CUNT!!”

 

As his huge scrotum clenched and his massive shaft spasmed, gushing out his manload in a solid spurt of cum, Adam drove his fist into the corpse’s face twice in quick succession, rendering the once-handsome boymeat even less recognizable.  He felt himself pumping and cumming and cursing and pounding the meat over and over again, caught in the depths of a violent sexual release.

 

Once he shuddered to a pleasurable release, he slumped, shuddering and sighing, onto the meat’s still-trembling back, taking a moment to catch his breath as the last few pearly drops of cum oozed from his receding cock.  When he finally disengaged from the pile of quivering boymeat, he felt relaxed and refreshed; finding his way to the bathroom, he moistened an ornamental handtowel at the sink and wiped down his dick.  Tossing it into the toilet, he grabbed the matching towel off the rack and used it to swab out his reeking pits before reuniting the pair in the commode.

 

Adam stepped back into the bedroom and observed the scene with the satisfaction of an artist.  Ghost was on his knees, bent over the bed.  One foot was still tightly laced into its Nike Vapormax 97; the other seemed kind of exposed in its thin, piss-soaked knit ped sock—even now, the toes were still twitching, helplessly and vulnerably.

 

It didn’t matter.  The thick wads of spunk leaking out of Ghost’s ravaged asshole told the story—and if they didn’t, the look of horror on his gruesomely twisted face certainly did.  Adam shoved his enormous tackle back into the Lycra shorts and slipped the polyester gym shorts back over them.

 

As he left the room, the plastic sliding door jammed on its track.  Adam kicked it out, snapping it off and shoving it to the side.  The last thing he did on his way out of the condo was retrieve the magnetic card that operated the elevator and the front door.  He kept the card in his hand as he got into his car and drove off, heading in a different direction that he’d arrived, just in case.  His route took him over the river; as he crossed the bridge, he tossed the card out the window and had the satisfaction of seeing it wafted in his wake over the railing and into the murky depths below.

 


 

Sir arrived back much earlier than expected; the deal had fallen though and he’d seen no need to stay on.  He made good time; given what he’d paid for his Ducati Panigale V4, he’d expected to. The constant vibration in his crotch had him stirred up, though; he had a lot of energy to work out on his pup when he got back.  Ghost better be up for some play…

 

He parked in an empty space not far from the Benz; that was a good thing—it meant the kid was home.  He strode across the lot, his hard, firm body tightly encased in a one-piece black leather motorcycle suit that fastened directly to his black leather AMU long riding boots, and a black helmet with a dark visor over his head.

 

He crossed the lobby and accessed the elevator; there were no issues with his key card.  The fourth floor was quiet—as was usual—and when he opened the door, there seemed to be nothing out of place, at first.  It was only the silence in the unit that seemed odd.

 

“Ghost?  You here?  You better get yer gear out; yer ass is mine tonight, cunt!”

 

His voice seemed to echo in the dim flat.  That was when he noticed the broken sliding panel lying on the floor.  Darting into the bedroom, he was brought up short by the sight of Connor’s corpse.

 

Part of him had always expected this; the immature punk hadn’t known how set the proper limits to his play, and his Master had felt that one day the cunt would take it too far on his own—but this wasn’t on his own.  Even from here, Sir could see that the Ghost had been strangled and raped, probably in that order.

 

And the only way in was with a card.  There were no signs of forced entry.  The stupid motherfucker had gone out to play and brought home a killer.

 

The thing that pissed Sir off the most was that someone else had fucked his property.  It was obvious that the worthless little fuck had suffered for his wandering lust, but that still didn’t erase the fact that Sir’s property had been violated.

 

He needed to take it back.

 

Without removing his helmet, he reached up under it to the zipper at the collar and pulled it down—all the way down to his crotch.  Reaching in, he pulled out his thick purple manshaft and with no hesitation at all, started fucking Ghost’s corpse.  His leather-clad body bent over the dead boy, heaving and pumping, as his thick-soled motorcycle boots gave him the necessary traction.

 

As Sir grunted and thrust, his face, inscrutable behind the darkened helmet visor, stared directly into Ghost’s.  Even though the dark purple lividity had drained, leaving the kid’s face a pale violet color, the sheer agony and suffering of the kid’s death were still clearly marked in his face.

 

“Ya fuckin’ deserved it, didn’tcha,” Sir grunted, knowing what a slut the boycunt was, “But yer mine, ya worthless fuck, mine, ya hear me?  I’m the one who gets to use ya up and throw ya out like fuckin’ garbage!”

 

His taut, muscled body jerked and shuddered inside his leather biker gear as he unloaded again and again, marking the dead boy as his property.

 

Walking into the bathroom to clean himself up afterward, he noted with disgust the towels in the toilet.  He got a clean one from the linen closet to wipe himself down before returning to the bedroom.

 

After a moment of contemplation, the hardbodied biker skinhead dragged Ghost off the bed and wrapped his corpse in the duvet cover.  After all, it wasn’t like it was his property anyway.  Lifting it in his arms, he carried it out of the condo and managed to make it down to the lobby and out to the Benz without being seen.

 

His first idea had been to drive over the bridge and drop the corpse in the river, even though he recognized that its sluggish flow left it less than ideal for body disposal.  But the same bridge also crossed the train tracks, and that inspired him.

 

Pulling over to the side, Sir hoisted Ghost’s corpse out of the trunk and lifted it over the parapet.  He let it go, keeping hold of the duvet cover as it unrolled and left the trackie-clad corpse to drop unceremoniously into an uncovered coal car.  In the dark, it was almost invisible.

 

Sir headed over the bridge, but he did stop one more to toss the stained duvet cover into the scum-covered river before turning back and heading to the condo.  He needed a good night’s sleep.

 

The next day, he changed his flight so that he’d be out of the country by evening.  It wasn’t difficult.  He’d only ever purchased one ticket anyway.

Carlos and Nick 5: Teen Angst

The outside temperature was hovering somewhere around 110 degrees when Carlos strolled into the office area of Nick warehouse film studio.  He was dressed for the heat; forsaking his usual jeans and boots, he was sporting a black and white pair of Adidas Varial IIs and a pair of bright red workout shorts.  The shorts were a cut in a football style, with a lace-up crotch—the contrast of the black lace on the red shorts was extremely eye-catching, as were Carlos’s thick, muscled legs, revealed from mid-thigh down to where they vanished into the ped socks in his kicks.

 

Nick, sitting at the computer, lifted his head and glanced admiringly at the hulking ex-con.  “That’s a good look for you,” he said, raising his eyes from the white cotton tank-top, so wet with perspiration that it was no more than a transparent screen over the stud’s hairy, inked chest, up to the killer’s hard, masculine face, his shaved head shaded from the intense sun by a black satin do-rag.  “Gotta remember that outfit someday; it’d look great on camera.”

 

Carlos stood in the doorway, looking his snuff flick partner.  “Ya said ya had somethin’ lined up?” It was a statement, but he ended it on a questioning note.

 

Nick grinned, giving his handsome face a boyish look.  “Fuck yeah, bro, look here.  Just got another commission in by email.  Remember that dude who paid us a big wad of cash for the father/son snuff?  He’s back.”

 

Carlos settled into one of the black leather chairs in front of Nick’s desk.  “Yeah?” he asked, a slight hint of eagerness in his voice belying his assumed nonchalance.  “What’s he want this time?”

 

“Someone young,” Nick replied.  “According to this, no older than eighteen.  And—you’ll like this—he wants to see the kid suffer.”

 

Carlos perked up, throwing off his air of indifference.  “Cáspita!  I been wantin’ to carve up some fagmeat.  Been too damn long!”

 

Nick leaned back, smiling thoughtfully, his long dark hair gleaming in a reflected ray of sunlight.  He knew exactly how long it had been; the cameras he’d hidden in the condo had caught every detail of the night Carlos had slaughtered the blackjack dealer.  In fact, it was likely that the video of that brutal snuff that he’d edited and posted that had drawn them this commission.  Not that Carlos needed to know about that.

 

He just needed to keep ruthlessly snuffing homo scum, and their fortunes were assured.

 

Standing up, the older and slightly more muscular filmmaker headed to the studio space in the rear.  Pausing at the door, he turned back to the buff Latino stud.  “You got anyone in particular you wanna work over, or should I put out an ad?”

 

He was slightly taken aback to see Carlos flush, a look of outrage crossing his face.  “Hell no, I ain’t got nobody!” he barked.  “I ain’t looking at no other dudes—I ain’t no fag!”

 

“Chill out, man, I didn’t say ya were,” Nick replied.  “I just wanted to know if ya had anyone ya specifically wanted to snuff.  I’ll put out an ad; it ain’t a problem.”

 

Heading back into the open area of the warehouse, Nick was smiling as the thick heels of his ropers thudded on the concrete floor.  Carlos’s anger hadn’t scared him; in fact, it had thrilled him.  He’d always know the psychological motives behind the ex-con’s extreme hatred towards faggots, and he did his conscious best to stoke it.  After all, it was the extreme masculine brutality that rage unleashed in Carlos that was the main selling point of the videos.

 

As a director, Nick felt is was his duty to coax the best performance possible form his actors.

 


 

It was another three days before Carlos got another message to come to the warehouse; Nick had found him some meat to tenderize.  Since there was no word on if this was an initial meet-and-greet or the actual snuff shot, the hardbodied Hispanic stud dressed for an on-screen appearance.

 

He knew what Nick wanted: skin-tight jeans, preferably well-worn but clean, and a pair of big black boots.  Carlos had gotten a new pair recently and was anxious to try them out.  It had taken some specialized searching to find what he was looking for, but when they arrived, he was perfectly satisfied.

 

They were a pair of vintage lace-up lineman’s boots, seventeen inches tall, and—what had been Carlos’s main interest—had a knife sheath hidden in the right boot.  Today, he slipped on the jeans and eagerly laced up the boots, his blade in place.

 

It was a thirteen-inch Bowie hunting knife, with a black rubber handgrip and a nine-inch carbon-steel blade with grooves down each side to channel blood away from the wielder’s grasp.  Secured inside the boot, he only had to slip his fingers into his boot and the whole thing slid out smoothly and easily.  Carlos was happy with it; the thought of reaming that long, hard blade into some helpless faggot’s vulnerable flesh made him hard…

 

He slipped on a leather vest but was otherwise bare-chested.  By the time he got to the studio, his muscle-bound torso was glistening under a faint sheen of sweat.  The moment he hit the chill air in the lobby, though, his body reacted, his nipples instantly hardening into large knots of flesh.

 

He strode straight into the warehouse, where Nick and a teen boy were waiting.  Nick was working on his camera but stopped and looked up as the hot Latino ex-con walked in, his new boots thumping loudly on the concrete floor.  “’Bout time ya showed up,” he told Carlos with a mischievous grin and a hot glint of bloodlust in his eyes, “This is Jeff—he likes to be tied down.  Once I finished this, I was gonna start it myself, but now that you’re here…”

 

Jeff was young, almost achingly so.  He was eighteen but there was an innocent arrogance about him—the arrogance of someone who hasn’t yet learned that life doesn’t owe him a living—that, added to his smooth, soft skin, gave him the appearance of being at least two years younger, if not more.

 

And he traded on it. He’d only been in Vegas for about a year, but it was totally different from his life before.  Waco had offered him sex, sure, but he’d felt an intense compulsion to leave the emotionally claustrophobic confines of his hometown.  As much fun as it had been, getting banged by half his high school football team had gotten dull, and in such a heavily Baptist town, he had little chance to brag and get the recognition he felt his exploits deserved.

 

Plus, he couldn’t make decent money whoring himself out in Waco.

 

And so, at seventeen, Jeff headed west, hitchhiking and “working” his way across the country.  His initial destination had been California, but a stopover in Vegas had convinced him that he was in the right place to make good money.  And he’d been right, to an extent; he certainly found richer johns willing to pay more here than Waco—but he just couldn’t seem to get into anywhere that had clientele with the kind of wealth he was looking for.

 

Part of the reason was his appearance—his very youthfulness, the way he had of brushing the silken bangs of his sandy blond hair up out of his eyes, the full, red lips continually parted in an almost petulant pout—all combined to keep him out of the casinos and bars.  He’d gotten a fake ID but was continually challenged on it.  And since he wasn’t actually twenty-one, he had to back down.

 

And that was when he’d seen the online ad, and he knew—knew—that things were gonna change for him.  An adult film, something that would get him noticed—and he was exactly what the ad said was needed!  Young, discreet, into rough role play and bondage…well, for that matter, Jeff would do damn near anything if the money was right, but this was shit he liked.

 

Once he responded to the ad, he was even more eager.  This dude Nick was gonna give him five fucking grand to get fucked by some hot stud—and a percentage of the residuals!

 

This was it.  This was the big time.  And now here he was, and kinda surprised at the set.

 

This guy Nick, though—he was a serious hunk.  That shoulder-length black hair and that huge, well-built body…and the dude wasn’t shy about showing it off, either, not in those tight black Nike running shorts or that black compression t-shirt.  Even the dude’s Chuck Taylor Converse hightops in black leather turned the kid on; as he shook Nick’s hand, he found himself hoping the hot stud was more than just the director—and said as much.

 

“Well, I may step in and lend a hand, so to speak,” Nick replied with a knowing leer, “But the real star is gonna be Carlos—speak of the devil, here he is now.”

 

Jeff had whirled and found himself staring at an overpowering, almost scary-looking Latino who’d just come through the door.  He and Carlos spent a brief moment sizing each other up.

 

Jeff noted that Carlos was slightly more compact than Nick, and perhaps a little younger, but there was something about him—his shaved head, his black goatee, the sleeve of ink that writhed over his muscle-bound arm—that made him seem inherently dangerous.  Jeff could see Carlos’s broad, furry chest under the leather vest he wore—he couldn’t help it; the gleam of the thick gold chain half-buried like treasure in the dude’s body fur drew his attraction as it would any good whore.   The Hispanic alpha’s jeans were tight enough for Jeff to be somewhat intimidated by the massive bulge in his crotch.  But he was fascinated with the dude’s high lace-up boots.

 

And above all else, Jeff was hard.  His red knee-length Under Armour gym shorts weren’t terribly tight, but his seven-inch boycock was still able to prominently tent the crotch.  He shuffled his long, smooth legs nervously, his Nike Jordan Son of Mars kicks—in the same shade of red as his shorts—scuffling on the concrete.  His lean, firm torso was well-wrapped in a white cotton tank top that left a lot of his pale, smooth skin exposed.

 

Jeff wasn’t quite dressed to whore himself out, but then again, he didn’t need to be.  He’d already agreed to the act; he had no need to sell himself again.

 

“Jeff, this is Carlos,” Nick said by way of introduction.  Jeff held his hand out.  Carlos stood and stared at it for a moment—lengthened just to the point of discomfort—before reaching out and taking it.  He didn’t shake Jeff’s hand so much as crush it in his huge muscled paw.

 

“So, uh, so how’s this gonna work?” Jeff asked as he massaged his aching hand, his uncertainty making his voice rise in pitch.

 

“Yer here to get fucked, aintcha?” Carlos asked.  “So get on the bed, faggot.”

 

Nick looked sharply at his partner; Carlos was still in a bad mood.  That’d make for a great scene—but not if he scared the meat off before they started filming it.  “Anytime you’re ready,” he followed up in a soothing tone, “You can lay your clothes over there on that table, if you want.”

 

Jeff approached the table and wriggled out of his shorts, letting them drop to the floor and stepping out of them without bothering to remove his Nike Jordans.  As he did, he glanced at the set—nothing but a bed up on a platform, with several small video cameras on tripods surrounding it.  The bed was bare except for what looked like some kind of weird fitted sheet; the headboard, consisting of vertical brass bars, seemed unusually ornate compared to the stripped-down feel of the rest of the set.

 

As he peeled off his t-shirt, Jeff noticed that Carlos approached the bed, unbuttoning and casually slipping off his leather vest.  The Hispanic stud tossed it so that it draped over the headboard of the bed, then turned back to face Jeff, letting the latter see the full glory of his hairy, massively muscled and tattooed chest.

 

Jeff had been commando under his shorts; at the sight of Carlos’s bare torso, the kid’s dick began to drip.  He caught his breath, swallowed, and approached the platform.

 

This was it, he thought again, this is the big time…and nude except for his Nikes, he climbed up onto the bed.

 

“How—um, how do you want me, uh, positioned?” he asked hesitantly.

 

“Hold it a sec,” Nick demanded, and crossed the room to the light switches.  There were a couple of clicks and suddenly everything vanished and Jeff found himself sitting on the bed, swathed in a circle of brilliant overhead light while the rest of the vast warehouse space remained in darkness.

 

From the darkness, there were footsteps—the heavy, measured tread of a man in thick boots.  Carlos loomed suddenly out of the black, stepping into the light.  “On yer back, boy,” he commanded.  “Nick’s payin’ ya good, right?  So yer prepared for it to get rough, right?”

 

“Uh, yeah…” Jeff replied tremulously.  He was prepared to take a fuck of a lot if he could get fucked by this stud on camera—fuckin’ hell, it’d make his career, to have this in his portfolio—but there was still something so menacing about the tatted Latino that he felt needling pangs of fear.  But the game was worth the candle, as they say—Jeff didn’t know why; candles were useless unless you’d lost your dildo—so he stifled his unease and lay on his back.

 

He was instantly uncomfortable.  “What is this, a plastic sheet?” he squawked.

 

“Yeah,” Nick’s voice came laconically out of the darkness, “Film a lotta shit in here.  Some dudes are into watersports.  Don’t worry; it’s sanitized after each use.”

 

“C’mon, boy, raise yer arms over yer head,” Carlos said.  For the first time, Jeff noticed a glint of metal in the alpha’s left hand.  As he raised his arms in almost instinctual obedience to the alpha’s command, Carlos reached over and Jeff realized the metal items were handcuffs.  Before he could react, Carlos had cuffed his right hand to the brass headboard.

 

“Hey, man, whatcha doin’?” the kid demanded.

 

“Whassa matter, punk, ya ‘fraid of a little bondage?  Thought a whoreboy like you was up for anythin’,” Carlos jeered and Jeff shut up and lay back, again disregarding the obvious red flags in favor of a rosy view of his financial future.

 

Carlos, who knew the Jeff’s future was more likely to have a blood-red view, smirked as he cuffed the boy’s left hand as well, making sure the kid wasn’t going anywhere.

 

“Hey Nick,” he called, “Think we’re ready.  Lemme know when ya wanna start.”

 

“Gimme a sec; I’m preppin’ the hand-held now,” came Nick’s deep, masculine voice from the outer darkness.  A moment later, he too stepped into the circle of light, holding the video camera.  He’d also prepped himself for the filming.

 

Just like Jeff, the hardbodied older man was nude except for his leather Converse sneakers.  His towering form, his wide, furry abdomen, ripped abs and narrow waist were all slightly better developed than Carlos’s, but somehow seemed to exude less danger—or at least so Jeff felt.  Nick’s cock was terrifying, though; it was at least eight inches long and an inch and a half thick.  In a way, Jeff was relieved; the thought of how bad that enormous shaft would hurt made him shudder.  The man was a freak; surely Carlos wasn’t hung like that.

 

Then a slow scratching sound reached Jeff ears; looking towards the source, he saw that Carlos was unzipping his fly.  The ex-con grinned maliciously at Jeff—as if he knew what the boy was thinking—as he reached into his crotch with both hands and slowly began extracting his shaft.

 

It just kept coming and coming.  Jeff’s eyes widened with disbelief as the Hispanic alpha pulled nearly ten inches of manmeat out of his jeans—and then it began to stiffen.  Consciously, Jeff began to think five grand might not be enough for what he might have to endure tonight.  Unconsciously, he began jerking at the handcuffs.

 

Both Carlos and Nick noticed and exchanged grins.  “Time to saddle up,” Nick said.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Carlos replied, “I been needin’ to wreck a fag bigtime.”

 

Jeff watched in silent fascination as Carlos mounted the bed and straddled him, knees by Jeff’s sides and his legs behind him.  In this position, his enormous cock was dangling directly over Jeff’s face.  From here, the teen whore had an extreme close-up of every vein that wrapped around the huge throbbing tube of manmeat.

 

Carlos was determined that he was gonna get an even better view.  “Open yer mouth, cunt,” he snarled.

 

“I, uh, I don’t thin—AACK!  GURK!”

 

Jeff learned that opening his mouth to protest meant opening his mouth.  Carlos wasn’t waiting for an invitation—he rammed his tool in at the first opportunity.  Before Jeff knew what had happened, he had a three-inch-thick cock wedged nearly half a foot down his trachea.  Carlos had leaned forward and grabbed the headboard for a better angle to throatfuck the helpless punk.

 

Suddenly, all the red flags Jeff had ignored flashed back to his notice; he couldn’t breathe, and he hadn’t been prepared for that, physically or emotionally.  He began to struggle, but he couldn’t do a damn thing.  His hands jerked frantically, the cuffs jangling loudly against the brass bars of the headboard as his Nikes kicked and scuffed on the slick cold plastic sheet.

 

“Damn, yer a terrible fuckin’ cocksucker,” Carlos jeered and leaned back, pulling his tool out of Jeff’s throat.  It bobbed in midair between them, glistening with the kid’s spit halfway back form the tip.  “Can’t even take a real man’s dick, can ya, you little assmunch?”

 

Jeff was too busy coughing and gagging to take in much of what Carlos was saying and his eyes were blurred by tears.  He knew something was wrong, though, something besides the fact that he’d just damn near been suffocated.  This was taking a dark turn—and then Carlos got off him.  As the scared teen tried desperately to blink his eyes clear, he could hear the hardbodied Latino walk around the bed to where Nick was standing.

 

“Dude, I don’t feel like fuckin’ round with this meat.  This piece a’ shit needs to be tenderized now—ya get me?” Carlos growled loudly.

 

“Dude, you can go to town on it; you can stick it like a fuckin’ pig, as long as I get it on camera.  Make the meat suffer bad—hell, it’s what we’re gettin’ paid for, right?” Nick replied jauntily.

 

By now Jeff’s eyes were clear.  He had an impressive view of Carlos as the latter approached him with a grin that glittered as coldly as the gold chain around his thick neck.  “Hey, dude,” the ex-con said quietly, almost seductively, “Time to get down to business, yeah?  Time to give yer worthless faggot existence some purpose, huh?”

 

“Wh-what?” Jeff blinked, looking deeply into the Hispanic’s large dark eyes but seeing nothing more than his own confused face reflected back.

 

“See, yer only here for one reason, right?  I mean, you know that.  Yer here to die, right?”

 

Jeff pulled himself backwards by his arms, trying to sit up but failing, his red kicks scrambling uselessly failing to find traction on the slick plastic sheet.  He wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard Carlos correctly but somehow, he knew he had.  “Wait—wait, what?  No!  I’m here—no!

 

“Sure ya are, ya useless pansy.  Ain’t no one gonna care if we snuff some fuckin’ cock-gobblin’ homo pervert, now are they?  But there are dudes who’ll pay us for doin’ it, as long as they get to see it—and as long as it’s long.  Ya feelin’ me, fuckwad?”

 

Jeff was panting, almost hyperventilating.  His smooth, lithe body was suddenly slick with sweat as fear overstimulated his adrenal glands, pumping his system full of adrenaline.  Combined with the overabundant adolescent testosterone already flooding him, the chemical stew kept his thick shaft still jutting stubbornly from the tangled nest of his pale pubes despite his terror.

 

“Y-you—he—he was g-gonna pay me…” Jeff turned his head desperately from one side to the other, seeking out Nick, but the director had faded into the darkness beyond the circle of light.

 

It was just Jeff and Carlos for the moment.

 

“Wanna know what’s gonna happen, dude?  Wanna know what I’m gonna do to ya?  Huh?”

 

The powerful ex-con stood next to the head of the bed, looming over him.  Suddenly, the inked stud lifted his right leg and planted his boot on the bed, right next to Jeff’s head.

 

The young boywhore looked up. From the corner of his eye his peripheral vision was filled with the tight lacing of Carlos’s lineman’s boot; it seemed to go up and up forever—but above that, bending over him he could see the top’s grinning face.

 

“I’m gonna stick somethin’ in ya, faggot, somethin’ long and hard—yer gonna like that, aintcha, ya disgustin’ piece a’ homo meat?  Fuck, lookitya squirm at the thought a’ gettin’ reamed out by my dick.  Well guess what, queerboy?  Yer gonna be massagin’ my cock all right, but I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout that.”

 

Carlos kicked Jeff in the face.  It happened in a flash; the older man lashed out and the thick sole of his boot impacted Jeff’s face hard enough to snap his cheekbone.  The boot was back in place as if nothing had happened before Jeff had the chance to cry out.

 

“You payin’ attention, boy?” he jeered, and spit in Jeff’s face.

 

“Wh-wh-why—wha…” the youth sobbed.

 

“Yeah, I thought so.  Here, fag, here’s somethin’ to catch yer eye.  This is what I meant when I said I had somethin’ long and hard to stick into yer punk-ass body…”

 

Carlos slipped his fingers into the boot and whipped out the knife so effortlessly it seemed like a magic trick.  He held it in front of Jeff’s wide, terrified eyes.  “Look at it, you stupid sack of fagmeat,” he hissed maliciously.  “That’s nine solid inches of carbon still.  Sexy as hell, huh?  Whaddaya think it’s gonna feel like when I pump it into ya?”

 

The sadistic convict had certainly been right—the blade had attracted Jeff’s notice; in fact, the teen slut seemed fixated on it, whimpering and unable to look away.  Nick had come back in closer now, using the handheld to zoom in on the boy’s face.  “Fuck, this is good shit,” he whispered to Carlos, “This is gonna make a fuckin’ fortune.   Keep it up, dude, keep mindfucking the meat.”

 

“Look at it, cunt,” Carlos snarled, “Look at the blade—see how sharp it is?  What’s that gonna feel like when it splits your tender flesh and sinks deep into yer fagmeat body, huh?  Fuck, man, I can’t fuckin’ wait to find out.  Ya see these grooves on each side of the blade?  They’re there to channel blood away from my hand.  Your blood, bitch.  I can carve yer worthless ass up without losin’ my grip; ain’t that cool?”

 

Jeff moaned, almost delirious with terror.  This couldn’t be happening—it wasn’t happening; he’d been drugged, he was having a bad trip, something, but shit like this didn’t happen to him.  This happen to street whore and needle junkies not cute white boys like him.  Whatever he was on needed to wear off fast, though, cause this was gettin’ hairy, man, real hairy—

 

—and then the tears cleared momentarily from his eyes and he could see Carlos standing at the foot of the bed, his muscular, inked torso glistening with perspiration from the heat inside the metal warehouse building. Jeff watched, fascinated, as a bead of sweat trickled down the Latino’s neck, to be buried in the thick forest of chest fur.  Deep within that fur was a sparkling glint—light reflecting off the stud’s thick gold chain.

 

For a moment, Jeff had been so caught up in admiring the top’s physique that he’d almost entirely forgotten about the imminent danger, but a flash of reflected light that didn’t come from Carlos’s necklace drew his attention—it was the knife.

 

Fuck, this was for real.  His face, which had lit up with lust again, fell into despair—but this time, Nick was on hand to record it, zooming in on the teen’s anguished expression as the hardbodied director chuckled.

 

“Whaddaya think, asswipe?” Nick jeered.  “This is gonna make us a fuck-ton of money.  Course, you won’t see a fuckin’ dime.  You’re gonna end up a pile of dead boymeat left to rot in the desert, but Carlos and I, we’re gonna make a fortune.”

 

“No…” Jeff whispered, staring directly into the camera, “P-please let m-me go, I won-won’t tell anyone…”  His voice trailed off and he broke down into sobs.  Nick was delighted—the shot of the teen punk’s horrified pleading was perfect; he couldn’t have directed it better himself.

 

“Yeah, keep begging, ya piece of shit,” Nick chuckled and turned the camera to Carlos, zooming in on his hard, well-developed body.  The camera ran over the ex-con’s tattooed chest, then closed in on the blade before panning back out to catch the action as Carlos mounted the bed.

 

Suddenly, Jeff’s legs were parted forcibly and his ankles were propped on Carlos’s shoulders.  There was a sudden pressure against his sphincter and Jeff had a brief lucid moment in which to wonder how he could possible have forgotten the Latino’s monstrous rod before it tore into his rectum with the force and violence of a pneumatic jackhammer.

 

The teen’s screams echoed back off the warehouse walls but the entire district was otherwise deserted at this time of night.  There was no response to his frantic shrieks of agony other than an intensity of tempo as Carlos plowed his shaft deeply and brutally into the teenager’s guts.  Jeff thrashed his head from side to side, but when he turned to the left, there was something lying on the bed next to his head.

 

He wasn’t trying to see what it was—he didn’t want to see anything; he just wanted to escape from this living hell—but he couldn’t help it.  It was right there—the knife.  The razor-sharp blade, so brutal, so inexorable, was inches from his face.  No, he couldn’t think about that—

 

—then a deep thrust from Carlos, much more penetrating than any before it, gave Jeff a new source of agony to focus on, and for the moment he forgot about the knife.  He was getting ripped open on the inside; he’d never been fucked so relentlessly, so painfully before.  It was like getting raped by some sort of beast; Carlos’s cock, so long, so thick and so powerful, was tearing at his guts; disemboweling him from the inside out.

 

Jeff didn’t know if it was possible to be fucked to death but if it was, it was happening to him now.

 

“O-oh g-g-god, stop!” he cried out, his lean young body jerking violently each time Carlos plowed his unhuman shaft into the boy’s torn rectum, “St-stop!  You-yer fuck-fuck-fuckin’ killin’ me!”

 

Carlos turned and grinned at the camera, his handsome face with its trimmed goatee twisted into an evil malevolent leer.  “Hey, Nick, ya hear that?  The fuckin’ meat thinks it’s dyin’!”

 

They both laughed at that, a cold cruel sound that forced its way into Jeff’s panicked mind and wrapped icy tendrils around his pounding, overwrought heart.  God, this dude was so hot, he thought–but his dick was too much even for the well-used boywhore, who could only sob jerk his arms, straining painfully and uselessly against the unyielding steel that circled his wrists.  His red Nikes, propped on the stud’s shoulders, thrashed uselessly in the air.

 

Nick, in the meantime, had circled the platform with the camera.  He’d paused for a moment and zoomed in on a shot of Carlos’s taut, well-rounded ass pumping as the stud raped the living fuck outta the teenaged rentboy.  He lingered long over the way Carlos’s jeans were glued to his strong, firm buttcheeks like they’d been painted on.  The large dimples that formed on his ass as he thrust his tool ever-deeper into Jeff’s guts were clearly visible to the camera lens.

 

Once on the other side of the bed, Nick panned out for a moment to take in the full scene of the hulking, hardbodied Latino stud mercilessly whaled on the cunt’s fuckhole, taking time to zoom in occasionally on Jeff’s own thick cock, kept involuntarily erect by the unremitting grinding pressure Carlos’s dick was putting on his prostate.  Despite his pain and terror, there was already a glittering hint of moisture oozing from the kid’s piss slit on the kid’s rod.

 

Nick swung the camera back onto Jeff’s strained, tear-streaked face.  This time, he stood right next to the bed and pointed the camera straight down; his own semi-erect shaft appeared in the shot, more than eight inches of manmeat hanging out over the punk’s head, in between his face and Carlos’s.

 

“Hey, dude,” he drawled laconically, “I don’t think this piece of faggot shit is sufferin’ enough—in fact, I think the sick fuck is enjoyin’ it.”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos sneered.  He looked at the camera and winked, then spit in Jeff’s face.  “Figures; fuckin’ whore’s gone loose on me.  Ya hear me, ya worthless homo garbage?  You ain’t even a good fuck, ya goddam punk-ass bitch!”

 

Jeff was overwhelmed by confusion, terror, and pain; that might have been some sort of excuse for his actions, but when he thrashed violently before jerking suddenly to the left in a feeble and utterly hopeless attempt to both get out from under the heavily-muscled stud and off his Louisville Slugger of a dick, he made a serious mistake.  Up to this point, Carlos had been more or less playing along with the idea of being recorded again—he had no idea how many times Nick’s hidden camera had allowed his solo activities to be broadcast to thousands—and had been mugging for the camera.

 

That ended now.  Jeff had pissed him off.

 

Carlos drew his arm back and the young homo had just enough time to notice how the Hispanic top’s bicep swelled with power under its ink sleeve before Carlos’s fist was driven into his face so hard his head rocked back into the mattress.  Jeff let out a loud grunt, then blinked and shook his head, dazed by the impact to his already-injured face.

 

“Wha…wha…” he moaned, looking up at the ex-con’s hard face, so twisted Jeff couldn’t tell if he was grinning or snarling.  Then Carlos held up the rubber-handled Bowie knife.

 

“This is how I get fucked-out faggots like you to tighten back up on my dick.  Ya feel me, cunt?  No?  How ‘bout now, motherfucker?”  He rammed the knife into Jeff’s left flank.  The razor-sharp tip pierced the teen’s smooth flesh like it was butter, the blade slicing deep into the tangled mass of the boy’s small intestine without meeting the slightest resistance.

 

Jeff’s face went gray and his eyes widened with shock.  As Carlos had anticipated, the sudden trauma made the youth’s lean, firm body go rigid, his muscles momentarily locked in an unrelenting stiffness.  That included his sphincter; it tightened around the base of Carlos’s engorged dick like a cockring. “Fuck yeah, pussyboy, that’s it,” he had time to grunt before Jeff’s piercing scream filled the air.

 

The shrill sound echoed off the metal walls; the effect on the recording was something like reverb.  Nick chuckled gleefully, pointing the camera down the front of his own incredibly-built body so that the lens got a full view of his erect shaft dripping translucent beads of precum onto Jeff’s strained, agonized face.  “Keep on screamin’, cocksucker,” Nick jeered, “Ain’t no one gonna hear ya—and it’s makin’ my dick drip.  Fuck, dude,” he turned to Carlos, “That was hot—ya gotta make ‘im scream some more!”

 

“Don’t worry,” the muscle-bound sadist said with a grim smile, “Now that I got my blade into the fag, it ain’t nothing but a meat puppet.  Watch me make it dance.”

 

Jeff’s smooth, flat abdomen was already heaving as the Latino alpha pounded his ass; now, excruciating pain was making him sweat.  Each time their bodies slapped together in the throes of violent assrape, there was a loud smacking sound.  Without any warning, Carlos twisted the knife in the wound, shearing the blade around inside the teen’s guts and slicing open his transverse colon.  The rhythmic slapping sound of flesh on flesh suddenly became erratic as Jeff thrashed in agony and squealed like a stuck pig—which was exactly what he was.

 

Carlos was very good at what he did; it was what Nick admired about him.  Despite his nightmarish suffering, the kid’s internal wounds weren’t quite severe enough to let him bleed out to a quick, merciful death.  And Carlos felt the need to share the info.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid fuck?  Yeah?  Feels fuckin’ great on my dick, asswipe!  That’s what it’s gonna take to make ya work my dick the way a real man’s dick deserves, huh?  Then ya better saddle up, bitch, cause I can make ya hurt like that for a long, long time.  Yer gonna be fuckin’ beggin’ and pleadin’ to die long before I’ve make yer worthless sack a’ whoremeat milk the spunk outta my balls–and the longer you squirm an’ scream, the better it’s gonna feel on my cock.”

 

Still rigidly avoiding any movement that might cause the knife to hurt him any further, Jeff lay back on the bed, his legs pinned on Carlos’s shoulders so that even now he could see his red Nikes kicking in the air.  In a surreal way, he noticed that the laces of the left shoe had come untied; he’d have to remember to fix that or he might trip and hurt himself…

 

Then Carlos yanked all nine inches of sharpened steel out of his guts with a single violent jerk.  On the outside, all that could be seen was an inch-an-a-half slit with a slight trickle of blood.  On the inside, Jeff could feel still feel the glassy pain deep in his guts; it was like the blade was still there.

 

But it wasn’t.  Because now it was somewhere else.  Carlos had shifted the knife to his other hand and stuck Jeff higher up on his right side, the blade slipping easily in between the boy’s ribs.  The grooved steel shaft speared the punk’s liver.  Angled slightly toward the back, it sliced his gall bladder neatly in half, to end up embedded deep in his pancreas.

 

Again, massive organ trauma triggered electrochemical shock as Jeff’s adolescent body, already pumped full of testosterone, was flooded with adrenaline.  His face, already swelling from Carlos’s kick and the blow of his fist, was clenched in a rictus of agony as the older man took ruthless advantage of the boy’s horrific pain to pound his constricted asshole.

 

Nick stepped back for a moment to show how Carlos had stretched himself out, almost as if he was doing push-ups.  The toes of his tightly-laced lineman’s boots were dug into the mattress to give him the traction he needed to rape the fuck out of the dying teen. Then, by crouching down near the head of the platform and zooming in, Nick got a great shot of Jeff’s thick boycock, still helplessly and involuntarily erect, smacking against Carlos’s hairy ripped abs, keeping time to the assault.

 

“Hell yeah—now that’s how ya fuck a faggot!” Nick said, cheering Carlos on for the camera.  “Tighten it up, use it up, fill it up and toss it the fuck out!”

 

Jeff hadn’t known, hadn’t ever considered that such pain could exist.  The slashing pain of his torn rectum was long forgotten, a minor discomfort compared to the nine-inch shaft of solid steel that had impaled his torso, right to left.  He couldn’t breathe without his diaphragm and chest muscles contracting around the sharp edge and slicing themselves open even more.

 

He literally couldn’t breathe; it hurt too much.  Carlos smiled beatifically down at the boy’s soft, smooth face, so young and so almost innocent as it gaped, the mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish.  “You ready, cunt?  Ya want it to be over?  Ready to take my load and die?”

 

Jeff didn’t want to die; he still had delusions of somehow surviving this experience—but he knew he had to do something, he had to breathe for fuck’s sake, he needed that thing out of him for fuck’s sake GET IT OUT

 

Carlos obliged, withdrawing the blade slowly, lovingly, letting Jeff savor the icy sensation of the knife as it cut a new path through his organs on the way back out.  It hurt so bad the teen punk nearly passed out; his body trembled and convulsed for a moment as his eyes rolled back in his head.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Nick said, reaching down and backhanding the tortured youth across the face.  Illogically, the blow actually seemed to have some effect—Jeff inhaled deeply and opened his eyes.

 

“P-p-pl—” he sputtered, “Ple-please—”

 

“Please what?” Carlos sneered, “Please kill ya?  Hell no; you ain’t endured enough to make me cum yet.  And besides, we gotta give the audience a show, right?  There’s gonna be dudes payin’ to watch a worthless faggot suffer long and hard, the way it deserves.  And anyway, I just wanna hurt ya; I fuckin’ love doin’ it, cunt.”

 

He swung his right arm up, holding the knife with the tip pointing straight down.  Even though he was nearly out of him mind with pain and fear, Jeff was still entranced by the view—Carlos’s broad, hairy chest with large dark nipples protruding above the wiry forest of fur, the thick links of the alpha’s gold necklace hanging free in the air between them, the look of an experienced killer of the Latino skinhead’s face—it was all so masculine, so fuckin’ hot…

 

It wasn’t possible, Jeff decided.  He’d been slipped some bad acid or something; nobody this erotic could be so cold and cruel, could put him in so much pain…

 

…then his eye caught a glint of light reflected from the wickedly sharp tip of the Bowie knife and Jeff felt sick sense of despair that managed to rise over the torment he was already experiencing and he knew nothing could be worse…

 

…then the blade flashed down.

 

It hit the teenaged boy like a bolt of lightning; it was that fast and that traumatic.  Carlos had slammed the knife down in slightly diagonal direction, plunging it into the center of Jeff’s right pectoral muscle, ramming the blade in so deep the hilt pressed against the kid’s chest.  The steel blade punctured the youth’s lung and stuck a rib on the inside, taking out a chip of bone as the knife exited the kid’s back and sank into the mattress beneath him.

 

The boywhore’s face was a mask of pain and shock.  He gasped and whimpered uncontrollably, each movement dragging his muscles and fragile lung tissue against the sharpened steel edge and causing more damage internally.  The punk gave a loud gurgle and, as Nick closed in with camera, a bubble of blood arose in the boy’s open mouth and burst, leaving a crimson trickle down his smooth chin.

 

“Aw, fuckin’-A!” Carlos cried out at the adolescent’s lithe body clenched, the slut’s rectum gripping his killer’s massive rod like a velvet glove.  The vicious sadist pumped the suffering teen violently, the rough denim of his jeans scraping the boy’s smooth asscheeks.

 

Jeff was beyond such trivial annoyances.  Helpless under the weight of the heavily muscled psycho who was torturing him, the youthful rentboy was finally accepting the inevitable fact that he wasn’t getting off this bed alive.  Every breath, every single second of existence, was nothing but the most nightmarish agony that needed to end.   Even when the hulking ex-con yanked the knife back out of him, the youth was so traumatized that he was unable to react to the fresh blast of searing pain.

 

“Almost there, dude,” Carlos muttered breathily, his face taut with the strain of his impending orgasm.  He’d spoken to Nick, to make sure the older man used the camera to the best advantage during the money shot, but Jeff had heard him as well.

 

The hardbodied director took the hint and jumped up onto the bed.  He stood with his leather Converse kicks planted on each side of Jeff’s head, pointing the camera down as Carlos leaned slightly back.  Nick knew what was coming and was in the perfect place to record the teenager’s death agonies.

 

“This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you goddam faggot cunt,” Carlos hissed and clamped one hand over Jeff’s mouth, clutching it with the excruciating power of a bear trap.  Holding the knife in the other, he pressed the tip against the underside of the kid’s jaw.  “Fuckin’ fagmeat—remember as you scream yer worthless life out, you fuckin’ deserve this, ya sack of shit!”

 

And with that, he shoved the blade upwards.

 

It pierced the teen boy’s lower jaw. The blade sliced up through the tongue, impaling it and pinning it to the roof of the mouth as the sharpened steel shaft cut smoothly up though the soft palate.  The kid had literally been speared through his mouth.

 

Moving inexorably, the blade sheared upwards through the upper sinus cavity.  Trapped beneath his powerful killer, pinned to the bed by the stronger man’s dick in his ass, Jeff could only kick his legs as Carlos continued to drive the knife deeper into his skull.  For a brief moment, the agony reached a point that the punk was awash in nauseating vertigo; he seemed to smell the bloody shaft of steel tearing into him—and then the blade tore through the olfactory bulbs at the top of his sinuses and Jeff never smelled anything ever again.

 

By now, his lean young body was flailing uncontrollably.  The kid’s legs thrashed violently; he no longer needed to worry about tripping over his untied shoelace as he kicked the loose sneaker off, leaving his foot in nothing but a ped sock, his toes curling as he spasmed.

 

“Time to die, meatsack,” Carlos growled, “Fuckin’ faggot, all yer good for is soaking up my fuckin’ manspunk.  You ain’t nothin’ but a cumrag, ya stupid homo; now die like the worthless piece a’ shit you are, cunt!”

 

He shoved the knife home.

 

It punctured the base of Jeff’s cranium with a loud crunch that the dying teen felt as much as he heard.  In a split second, Carlos embedded all nine inches of solid steel in the boy’s head, the sharp tip of the Bowie knife gouging the inside of the top of Jeff’s skull.

 

There are no nerves in the brain; Jeff never felt the final slash of the blade through his cerebellum.  That wasn’t to say that he didn’t experience pain—his cringing cockpig soul slid screaming into dark eternity on a wave of mind-shattering agony.  And he never knew that his own deathload was the source of his pain.

 

Carlos’s gigantic balls had contracted, hosing the punk’s guts full off seething mansperm. The heat of the spunk and the pressure against his prostate had primed Jeff’s tool, but the way Carlos’s knife had lodged in the pleasure center of the teen’s brain and shorted it out was what led to the kid’s explosive orgasm.

 

Nick’s downward view of the snuff captured the geysers of boycum that erupted from Jeff’s cock as he died.  The kid spurted several times, each time sending a thick creamy jet of semen splashing against Carlos’s chest or Nick’s hairy, muscled legs, or his own blank dead face.  Carlos held on, grunting and rutting as he drained his rod.

 

Nick didn’t even have to touch himself; he recorded his own dick pumping huge wads of pearly manseed onto the corpse’s already-loaded face.  The same downward angle showed the dead kid’s cum trickling down Nick’s legs and spattered on his black leather sneakers.

 

Carlos collapsed, his bulked-out form falling heavily on the still-shuddering boymeat.  Nick jumped off the bed,  set the camera down, and crossed to the far wall to turn on the lights.  Carlos had recovered before he got back, separating himself stickily from the teen’s corpse.  He pulled his blade back out of the dead faggot’s skull and stuck it, smeared with blood and gray matter, back into his boot.

 

“You’re a mess,” Nick chuckled.  “Don’t worry, the bathroom’s stocked.  Go clean yourself up; I’m gonna take a finishing shot or two and then do the same myself.”  As the heavy tread of Carlos’s boots faded down the hall, Nick picked his camera back up and got a few quick close-ups of the dead boy’s convulsing body, zooming in on the way his feet, one missing a shoe, kicked and twitched in death.  He stopped once Carlos returned—knife and all cleaned—and went to wash himself up and put on his clothes.  The Latino stud had sponged the dead homo’s cum off his chest and had decided to remain as he was, in nothing but jeans and boots, to let his chest hair dry.

 

Nick was very particular about keeping things looking legit, and Carlos agreed with him completely on this; before anything else was done, they tidied the scene by the simple expedient of pulling the plastic fitted sheet off the bed and wrapping the corpse in it.  Nick looked at the hole in the mattress where Carlos’s blade had completely impaled the meat; there was a small bloodstain around the hole.

 

“Make sure nothing leaks from the hole in the sheet,” he said as he grabbed another plastic sheet from a shelf and re-covered the mattress.  By the time he was done, Carlos had confirmed that nothing had leaked from the slit in what was now Jeff’s burial shroud—or would have been if they intended to bury him.

 

Instead they tossed him into the bed of Nick’s pickup like a sack of garbage and headed towards the desert.

 

On the southwest side of town there was a plot of land that had been laid out for a subdivision ten years ago.  When the economy collapsed, building had ground to a halt, the developer had gone bankrupt, and now the ownership of the land was locked in a maze of impenetrable lawsuits.

 

In short, roads and sewers had been laid out, but no houses built.  No one ever went there—it wasn’t even suitable as a lover’s lane, since it was flat, with no cover at all.  What it did have, aside from crumbling streets and rusting stop signs, was a set of drainage ditches and culverts that weren’t being inspected by either Las Vegas or Clark County officials.

 

Nick had found it several weeks ago while out scouting locations—not for movies; for body dumps just like this one.

 

At the far end of the development, the road took a right-angle turn and crossed over a dry wash; the under the roadbed, three large concrete pipes allowed storm water to drain down the gully.  Nick parked the truck right over the dry wash and tossed the corpse over the side.  It fell into the arroyo with a loud, meaty thump like a side of beef.

 

“I got it,” Carlos said, and scrambled down the side of the gully, his high leather boots digging into the sandy soil.  At the bottom, he saw that the meat’s legs were sticking out of one end of the sheet, the red Son of Mars sneaker and the white ped sock both glaringly obvious against the beige sand.  He bent down, and, grabbing the corpse’s ankles, he dragged it to the culvert.  Shoving the dead teen inside the concrete tunnel was no strain for his powerful muscles; in no time, he was back in the truck beside Nick, heading back to the studio.

 

“That was incredible,” Nick chuckled as he accelerated onto the highway.  “We’re gonna make a shit-ton of money on this one, dude.”

 

And he was right.

 


 

Schweitz was pissed.  Here he was, out in the middle of the fuckin’ desert, sweatin’ his fat ass off, while Nuñez got to lay on his ass for a couple a’ weeks, just cause he got a case of appendicitis.  Bet the lazy Spic ain’t even sick…

 

“Ok, whadda we got?” he said aloud with a weary sigh.

 

“Caller lives in that apartment complex on the other side of the highway—the one that was just built,” the patrol cop said.  “He says he rides his bike over here for exercise—does it every other day.  He’s sure the corpse wasn’t here Monday.”

 

“That don’t mean nothin’; that storm yesterday coulda flushed it out from further up in the hills, for all we know.  What’s the ME say?”

 

“Uh, lessee here,” the cop said.  He was conscientious and organized; he’d taken notes and referred to them now.  “Um, young Caucasian male, late teens at oldest.  Been dead three-four days by the looks of it.  Really fuckin’ nasty, detective; he was stabbed several times but not in a way that was instantly fatal.  Looks like someone wanted ‘im to suffer.  Death blow was in the skull, seriously sick.  Oh, yeah—ME says he’d been violently fucked in the ass.”

 

“Aw, goddamit,” Schweitz exploded.  “You called my ass all the way out here for another faggot?  What, you don’t think we got enough real murders on our hands to worry about some useless cocksucker who’s better off dead?  Jesus Christ!”  He turned and started to head back to his car.

 

“Sorry, detective,” the cop called out, abashed.  “What, uh, whaddaya want me to do with my report?”

 

“Round-file it,” Schweitz snapped over his shoulder.  “Trash it.  Wipe yer ass with it, for all I care.  And remember this, boy, if ya wanna make it in this department: unless they’re rich or famous, don’t no one care about dead fags in this town, ya got me?”

 

“Yessir,” the beat cop said respectfully.  As he watched Schweitz stomp angrily back to his car, he erased the notes he so carefully made.

 

“Anything else ya need?” came a voice behind him.  Startled, the cop whirled, to find the morgue assistant laboriously dragging a collapsible gurney with the corpse zipped into a body bag.

 

“Naw,” the cop said, taking a cue from his superiors, “Get that fuckin’ piece of shit outta here.”

Adam Anew

Toby glanced down at Mike’s thick, swollen cock.  Turning his long-lashed, emerald green eyes back to Mike’s face, he grinned happily, then lowered his head and began to suck the oozing shaft.

 

“Fuck,” Mike moaned, running his hands over Toby’s smooth, firm body.  He clutched the cocksucker’s arms, feeling the biceps moving under the sleeve of tattoos decorating both arms.  One of the things that had attracted Mike to Toby when they met at the gym was the latter’s skater punk look.  Not that Toby wasn’t as into working out as Mike; but Mike’s was a more conventional buff fag attractiveness.

 

If it wasn’t love, it had been immediate lust at first sight for both.  Within a month, they’d moved in together; that had been more than nine months ago—and the sex was still as hot as ever.

 

Mike grunted, his sweat-streaked face twisting into a grimace.  “Fuckin’-A, dude, I’m gonna unload in yer mouth,” he panted and Toby, anxious for that hot spurt down his throat, redoubled his efforts.

 

Neither one of them had any idea they were being watched.

 

They’d left the blinds open; no reason they shouldn’t have—the window looked out onto a small yard surrounded by a privacy fence.  Powerful as he was, Adam had been able to vault himself over the fence and land silently on the inside.  Now he crouched outside the window, watching, his muscled body inflamed with desire for the young well-built bodies of the twinks and overwhelming disgust for the pathetic homos having sex in front of him.

 

Mike and Toby still had a daily routine at the gym, but they varied the times they went.  Unluckily for them, two weeks ago, they’d been spotted there by Adam.  He’d had an idea, a desire, a need—but he also needed a couple to help him fulfill it, and he felt like he’d just discovered the perfect pair.

 

The idea of pollution had been building in the back of his warped mind.  He’d already accepted that fucking a living fag would tarnish him as a homo himself; he needed to purify the meat by snuffing it first.

 

Recently, though, he’d worked out his necro philosophy in more detail and decided that there were levels of purity.  The meat that suffered the most was the most pure; suffering purged the faggot taint out of whatever boycunt he fucked.

 

That being said, how could he know how pure the meat was unless he offed it himself?  Restlessly, his mind turned back to all the corpses he’d plowed that he hadn’t killed.  There was no way to know how much they’d suffered—well, except for that last one, the one in the pool locker room; he’d witnessed that snuff and knew he had nothing to fear there.

 

And that was when he’d had the idea.  It rose up in him, a great urge that had to be satisfied if he was going to feel cleansed again.

 

He needed to recreate those kills—but this time, he’d be the killer.  That was the only was he could purge himself of the infection of faggotry.  And this time, he’d make goddam sure the meat suffered.

 

His first necro fuck had been the two dudes in the condo; the day after coming to this conclusion, Adam had been on the hunt for a couple of pansies that he could snuff simultaneously.  And the day after that, while finishing up some squats at the gym, his eyes lighted on Mike and Toby, the former doing some bench presses and the latter spotting him.

 

At one point, Mike had set the barbell back on the rests and, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, reached his hand up the leg of Toby’s shorts and fondled the smaller dude’s cock for a moment.  Despite his careful scoping, Mike never caught sight of Adam’s eagle-eye stare; from then on, he and Toby were marked for death.

 

They appeared to be about the same age—Mike was twenty-three and Toby twenty-one—but Mike was the larger and better-built of the two, by quite bit.  At six-foot-one and a hundred and sixty pounds, he certainly wouldn’t have been Adam’s equal in any physical contest, but he was still muscular enough to turn some heads.  His short strawberry-blond hair capped a broad, good-natured face which lodged a pair of deep, emotive brown eyes, a short straight nose, smooth cheeks and full, red lips.

 

Toby was more of a twink at 5-foot-nine and just over a hundred and forty.  His long brown hair was straight and shoulder-length; beneath his green eyes and slightly humped nose (evidence of a skateboard mishap that had broken it), he sported a soul patch of thick brown fur on his chin.

 

After that, Adam started tracking them, stalking the two fags as his prey.  He managed to catch them in the locker room a couple of times, giving him the chance to get a better look at the meat he wanted to fuck.  The skater punk maintained him image; the writhing patterns and designs of both tattooed arms continuing over his shoulders and down to the tops of his pecs, leaving his small brown nipples free.  There was a very faint brown haze of body hair on his flat belly that vanished under his waistband, but otherwise, his lean, lithe body was smooth.  Despite the elaboration of the tattooed sleeves, Adam was amused to note that a single open star had been rather inexpertly inked on the back of Toby’s right calf.

 

Mike’s muscled body was almost as smooth; his bulging pecs and ripped six-pack glistened with sweat under the gym’s fluorescent lights.  The size of his hog was obvious in the skimpy shorts he chose to wear, as was his near-constant state of semi-erectness.  Again, Toby followed him in this, but the skaterboy’s six inches couldn’t compare with his buff buddy’s long, thick cock.

 

And again, Adam smirked contemptuously.  Neither one of them had a dick as big as his—but then, that was only to be expected from faggots.  Might as well put ‘em outta their misery and put their meatsacks to some good purpose.

 

All of which was why Adam was crouched outside their rented condo.  He wasn’t going in tonight; he’d simply been taking a look at the layout and hadn’t actually expected them to be home—they usually went out on Thursday nights.  And Adam wanted them both together in the bedroom they shared, not down here.  But despite having to watch their vile homo sex, the evening hadn’t been a total washout; the sick necro killer had learned that none of windows looking into the private fenced yard were kept locked.  When he was ready, he wouldn’t have any problems gaining access to the interior of the unit.

 

Two days later, he was ready.

 

Mike and Toby had plans to go clubbing with some friends on Saturday night but the moment they’d paid their cover charge, Tyler had gotten into a bitchfight with his latest trick and it was easier to just split than listen to the squabbling.  Besides, Mike would have preferred to stay home and lay pipe up Toby’s ass all night anyway; it was the latter who’d wanted to go out.

 

At any rate, they were home by about eleven that night.  Half an hour later, both were in the bedroom.  Mike was seated on the unmade bed wearing nothing more than a pair of American Eagle boxer briefs and a pair of Nike Vandal hightops.  Both the kicks and the briefs were gray; the latter had a thick black waistband that stretched tautly around Mike’s narrow waist and black seams down the front that outlined the muscle twink’s huge package.

 

He was leaning back against the headboard, his left leg drawn up with the sneaker on the sheet and his right leg dangling.  With one arm bent back behind his head as a sort of cushion, Mike toked on a freshly-lit joint and ogled Toby, who stood the center of the room.

 

The slim, tatted skaterpunk had slipped out of all his clothing.  Completely nude except for his black Adidas Baseline kicks, he was returning from the attached bathroom, his own dick hard and bobbing in front of him as he approached Mike.

 

Reaching the bed, he stood next to it.  “Here, gimme a hit,” he grinned, reaching out for the joint.  Mike relinquished it but reached out himself, grabbing Toby’s shaft and jacking it as the younger punk inhaled deeply.

 

“That’s it,” Mike said approvingly as Toby exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, “Get yourself nice and high.  You’re gonna need it before your ass goes off duty for the night.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” Toby replied with stoned grin, “I know you’re—”

 

With a loud crash, the bedroom door was kicked open, a single, powerful kick that literally broke the door in half.  A hulking masculine figure, dressed in black, strode into the room, raw power obvious in every step he took.

 

Adam had given up his usual gym attire for this one.  He’d wanted to take the pansies by surprise and anyway their condo wasn’t a public place—he’d have no excuse for being seen near the place, so it was best not to be seen at all.

 

To that extent, he’d made sure that his long-sleeve t-shirt and tight-fitting cargo pants were matte black, nearly impossible to see under the cover of night.  His bright copper hair was likewise covered with a close-fitting black knit cap.  And he’d forgone his sneakers.  While he’d been able to clear the fence the other night, his feet had nearly slipped; he wanted better traction.

 

He’d found it in a pair of Magnum Response III tactical boots, custom ordered with steel toes.  He’d bought them for another reason, but thought they’d work perfectly for what he had in mind.  He’d been right.  He planted his big black lace-up boot in the middle of the door and kicked his way into the homos’ bedroom with almost no effort at all.

 

For Mike and Toby, the violence seemed to explode like a bomb.  Their different personalities were obvious by their actions once the “fight or flight” instinct kicked in.  Toby shrank back into a corner in fear as Mike leaped off the bed and came at the intruder.

 

He never stood a chance.  Adam, seeing him coming, drew back his powerful arm and swung wide, driving his balled-up fist into Mike’s face with the force of a semi hitting a brick wall.  The unlucky faggot spun in a half-circle, staggering back and falling, stunned, against the bed.

 

Filled with rage and lust, Adam turned to Toby, who crouched whimpering in the corner of the bedroom.  Seeing that he’d attracted the intruder’s attention, the lean skater punk began babbling.  “No, man,” he whined, holding up his hands, “Whatever you want, dude, just take it—please don’t hurt us, man, please don’t!”

 

Striding towards him with a homicidal gleam in his eye, Adam laughed coldly.  “Yeah, I’m gonna take what I want, you fuckin’ pansy.  I’m gonna take the fag right outta you, cunt.  When I’m done with you, you ain’t ever gonna suck another cock again, cunt.”

 

By now, he was standing in front of Toby, looming over quaking homo.  From behind, he could hear the long, slow groans of Mike regaining consciousness, but he wasn’t particularly worried about him.  He’d handle the stronger fairy when he needed to.

 

Toby looked up at Adam, trying to understand his words.  He was still terrified; this huge, powerful stranger had burst into the room and punched out Mike with a single blow—what the fuck was going on?

 

“Is-is this some kinda hate crime?” the long-haired punk quavered, his eyes starting to tear up.

 

“Hah!” Adam spat out, “Lookit the little queerboy, already startin’ to cry.  You bet it’s a hate crime, you punk-ass bitch.”  And here he reached down, unzipped the fly of his black cargo pants and hauled his enormous, dripping dick out.

 

Toby gasped at the size of Adam’s member; even Mike, big as he was, wasn’t that well-hung—this dude was some kinda freak.  Despite himself, he could feel his own cock respond—limp with fear, it was now stiffening and standing erect.

 

Adam noticed it too.  He laughed coldly.  “Ya want it, dontcha?  You think you deserve this cock?  Fuck you, faggot.  You’re fuckin’ scum.  You want this shaft, this real man meat, you gotta earn it.”

 

Reaching down, Adam clamped one large strong hand around Toby’s throat and lifted him bodily off the ground.  Holding him out at arm’s length, he chuckled as the skaterboy gagged and jerked, his black Adidas kicks swinging helplessly a foot from the ground.

 

Looking directly into Toby’s eyes, Adam smiled—a thin smile, sharp as the edge of a knife—and said, “Only one way to earn my cock, faggot—you gotta suffer.  And you don’t know the meaning of that word yet, but don’t worry—I’ll teach ya.  And yer little fairy boyfriend there too.  You’ll both learn how to suffer real good.”

 

Staring into the cunt’s eyes, Adam caught a flicker of movement.  Slamming Toby into the wall and dropping him like a sack of potatoes, the muscular killer wheeled around and caught Mike full in the face with another powerful punch, just as the buff young homo had regained his feet and launched himself for an attack.

 

With a loud grunt, Mike fell to the floor, bleeding from the corner of his mouth.  Dazed by this second impact, he stared dully up at Adam.  “Stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” Adam sneered.  “Don’t know when to stay down, do ya?  Here, maybe this’ll learn ya.”  Stooping, he punched Mike in the face yet again.  This time he was rewarded with the satisfying crunching sound of the faggot’s nose breaking, the cartilage crushed under the force of his fist.

 

Pausing for a moment, Adam unzipped one of the pockets on the left thigh of his cargo pants and withdrew several long zip ties.  “You win the grand prize, you lucky cocksucker,” he smirked.  “You get to watch.  Pay attention, asswipe, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

 

The well-built homo was flipped onto his belly; he could feel a thin plastic tie cinch inexorably around his wrists and another around his ankles, but the two powerful blows to his face had rendered him incapable of any physical activity for the moment.  By the time he recovered enough to attempt any resistance, it was too late.  Strong as he was, Mike wasn’t able to stretch the zip ties so much as a quarter of an inch, much less break them.

 

Adam kicked the faggot’s prone body viciously, using enough force to roll him onto his back.  Much like he’d handled Toby, the hulking, muscle-bound killer bent down and grabbed Mike by the throat, lifting him into the air.  Gagging, his Nike Vandals kicking uselessly inches above the carpet, the hardbodied twink was manhandled back to the bed, where Adam tossed him down.  Snatching a handful of hair, the sadist dragged Mike upright, propping him into a seated position where he could take in the entire bedroom in a single glance.

 

Mike was gonna have a perfect view of Adam snuffing Toby.

 

In the meantime the long-haired fairy had crawled back into the corner, his young face etched with bewildered terror.  He’d always expected Mike to defend him if the need arose, but this huge, bulked-out psycho who’d burst in on them so unexpectedly had overpowered Mike like he’d been a little girl.  Now the man was rounding on him, and he was helpless.  Whatever was gonna happen, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

“Oh God, no,” he sniveled, cowering as Adam loomed over him.  Glancing hesitantly up at his attacker, he watched mesmerized as the towering madman unexpectedly gabbed the hem of his own t-shirt and pulled it off over his head in a single, fluid motion, revealing his hard, furry torso that descended in a V-shape from his broad shoulders and firm, rounded pecs to his narrow waist.  The knit cap had come off, tangled in the shirt, and revealed a slightly tangled mass of bright, coppery hair.

 

The dude was a serious stud.  Toby felt himself getting hard.  But that was despite of his terror, not because of it, and even though he could see a large translucent bead of precum oozing from the piss slit of the intruder’s cock, fear was taking more of his attention at the moment than horniness.

 

The fear was well-deserved.  Adam bent down and grabbed a hank of Toby’s long hair.  Wrapping it around his palm he jerked the squalling twink up onto his feet.

 

“C’mon, faggot, let’s get started,” he growled, grabbing Toby by the throat and hoisting him in the air again, “I gotta load to drain and I can already tell it’s gonna take a while to beat the queer outta a pathetic little homo like you.”

 

Toby only kicked in Adam’s grip for a moment before his face and his world exploded in pain.  Adam punched him vicious in the face, then hurled him across the room.  The skater’s lean body slammed into the front of the dresser. The force of the impact rolled him up over the top of it, scattering everything—their cell phones, their wallets, piles of loose change and receipts, all of it went flying as Toby smacked into the wall, then rolled back forward off the dresser and onto the floor.

 

Groaning in pain, the tattooed twink opened his eyes.  To hurt to move, all he could see of his assailant as he approached were his laced-up boots.  They came nearer, then one drew back.  By the time Toby realized what it meant, it was too late to avoid it.  With one single brutal kick from his steel-toed boot, Adam broke Toby’s jaw.

 

The lean, lithe punkboy spent the next minute or so writhing on the floor, gurgling and mewling in agony as Adam watched him with erect, throbbing satisfaction.  The buff killer didn’t get to enjoy the view in peace for long, though—the other faggot began to squawk.

 

“You sonovabitch!” Mike screamed, “I’m gonna fuck you up!  You hurt him, I’m gonna fuck you up bad!”

 

Adam looked around the room and soon saw what he’d expected to find.  Ambling over to a pile of dirty laundry near the closet door, he bent down and picked up a reeking, stained jockstrap, stiff with cum.  Turning back to Mike with a grin, he said, “You’ll get yer chance to squeal like a pig yerself later, cunt, for all the good it’ll do ya.  In the meantime, keep your fuckin’ trap shut and enjoy watchin’ yer bitch suffer.”  Rolling the jock into a ball, he forced it into Mike’s mouth, leaving the muscled top gagging and mute, but still able to see everything that happened.

 

While Adam’s attention was diverted, an instinct for self-preservation kicked in deep inside Toby’s craven soul.  Even though the slightest movement of his head caused him terrible agony, he managed to rise to his hands and knees and crawl.  By the time Adam had silenced Mike and turned back to Toby, the latter was halfway to the door.

 

“Oh no you don’t, asswipe,” Adam growled and headed for him.  Toby could hear him approaching from behind; desperate tears leaked from his eyes as he realized he’d never make the door before the powerful psycho had reached him, but he had to keep going, he had to try…

 

When Adam got to him, he merely stood over the cringing, crawling twink for a moment, chuckling gutturally.  Then he delivered another vicious, lightning-fast kick, this one connecting with Toby’s left elbow.

 

The force behind the steel-toed boot didn’t just dislocate the joint, it snapped the ball end off the humerus, tore the tendons and completely severed the ligaments.  Despite the pain in his jaw, Toby screeched involuntarily as he collapsed and rolled onto his left side.  Adam walked around the sobbing, trembling punk until he was facing him.

 

“Didja really think you were gonna get away, you stupid sack of shit?  Fuck, dude, here I was tryin’ to make ya worth my dick, and now it looks like I’m gonna hafta kick the dumbass outta ya, you worthless faggot bitch.”  Still sobbing incoherently, Toby didn’t even notice Adam raise his foot up.

 

He damn sure noticed when Adam stomped on his chest, the deep tread of his thick-soled boot grinding into Toby’s soft flesh.  The loud snapping sound that accompanied it, like the splintering of a green limb, showed that one of the punkboy’s ribs had caved in under the sudden force—and if it didn’t show it, the sudden, high-pitched squeal forced from between Toby’s split, bleeding lips did.

 

“Fuck yeah!  That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Adam crowed, his huge, stiff cock pulsing visibly while he drank in the image of the tattooed skate punk writhing in nightmarish agony.  He was really getting off on hurting the little homo, seeing the fear and pain in his eyes.  And he still had another fucktoy in reserve—tonight was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…

 

Toby was wrapped in torment like a flaming blanket.  Every part of him was throbbing with pain, from the dull ache of bruised flesh to the glassy torture of broken bones.  He’d stopped trying to think; he could only endure.  An involuntary muscle jerk had pulled his head slightly to the side—from where he lay on the floor, he could clearly see Mike on the bed.  The idea that Mike might rescue him was long gone.  Mike was on the other side of the room, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world.  Toby could see that his boyfriend was crying, but it meant nothing.

 

Pain was the only thing that had meaning for Toby anymore.  And Adam knew it.

 

The relentless sadist sneered at his prey.  “Does it hurt, bitch?  Yeah?  It ain’t enough, you worthless sack of faggot shit; you ain’t hurt anywhere near enough yet to deserve my grade-A manmeat.”  He raised his boot again.  This time, Toby knew what was happening.  As Adam stomped, the fit, lean youth swung his right arm up and knocked the alpha’s foot away with all the force he could muster.

 

“You stupid pansy,” Adam barked and planted his foot in the middle of the kid’s right forearm, his big black boot covering a large section of inked flesh.  With a swift, smooth motion—so casual it almost looked rehearsed—the powerful psycho bent down, grabbed Toby right wrist, and pulled it violently upward.  There was a quick double-snap as both the radius and the ulna splintered; when Adam let go, the kid’s arm flopped uselessly back to the floor.

 

Toby didn’t react to this new source of pain.  Deep in sensory overload, he was starting to go into shock.  Lying on his back with his smooth chest heaving in shallow, irregular gasps, the tortured twink stared the ceiling, his bright green eyes wide and vacant.  His short, thick cock had gone limp, but that didn’t bother Adam.  He knew the punk would get hard again by the time he was done with him.

 

After all, the meat would be even more pure if the worthless fag sperm was drained out of it before Adam fucked it.

 

“Hey, queer-boy,” Adam called out to Mike, “It’s time.  Watch this shit, dude.  Watch me waste your cocksuckin’ homo boyfriend.”

 

As Toby continued to shudder and tremble on the floor, Adam waked around him until he was facing Mike on the bed.  With a wide, deliberate grin, he raised his right foot and planted his boot on the young faggot’s neck.  The sadistic killer stared directly into Mike’s disbelieving, tear-filled eyes.  “Look, ma,” he whispered.  “No hands.”  The hulking stud slowly began shifting his weight onto the foot on Toby’s neck.

 

The tattooed skaterpunk could only stare helplessly up at the huge, muscle-bound figure towering over him; there was no way for Toby to defend himself.  His broken arms jerked and flopped aimlessly, like dying fish; he had no way reach for the heavy black boot that was slowly—oh, so slowly—crushing his throat.  If he kicked, he bent his abdomen, causing his snapped rib to dig agonizingly into his guts, threatening to puncture his lung and pancreas.  If he tried to cry out, the jagged ends of his broken jaw ground together, causing hellish pain in his mouth…

 

Every movement bristled with torture, but Toby’s air was gradually being cut off.  He couldn’t keep still.  The tread on the killer’s sole was deep and intricate; as it sank into the tender flesh of his throat, what little lucidity the long-haired power bottom still possessed began to melt away in the face of impending asphyxiation.

 

Adam bent his head and spat in Toby’s face.  “Gettin’ harder to breathe, ain’t it?” he chuckled.  “See, as you choke an’ die, yer dick is gonna get all hard—and then yer gonna cum.  Happens almost every time I choke out a faggot.  You perverted little pansies empty your fuckin’ balls every time I waste ya—nothin’ turns ya on like gettin’ put down hard.  You wanna suffer even more than I wanna fuck you up.  Disgusting sack a’ shit—I gotta squeeze your load out and drain your sick fag seed outta yer meat to make it worthy of my cock.  Don’t worry, motherfucker—I’ll fill yer worthless corpse with my sperm.  I’ll baptize yer guts with hot manspunk before I leave you to rot.  And best of all, your fairy-ass boyfriend gets to watch you die!”

 

The words hit Toby’s ears like a dull ache, utterly swamped in the rising tide of instinctive terror as his oxygen was cut off.  He began to shudder and kick, helplessly flailing his firm, smooth legs and jerking his broken arms aimlessly.  Air.  He needed air.

 

And that was when it finally hit the lean twink—the realization that he was gonna die finally sank through the multiple layer of pain that had wrapped him like a cocoon.  Panic set in, a terrifying white panic the left him conscious and aware but still unable to control his actions.  Smirking, Adam watched Toby lose his shit as the boy choked under the alpha’s booted foot.  The pathetic little homo thrashed, his Adidas Baseline kicks carving furrows in the carpet as his inked arms flailed limply and helplessly.

 

As he struggled, Toby’s long hair became tangled and dark with sweat.  His entire body, in fact, was slick with sweat, the cold rank sweat of physical suffering.  The brutalized faggot’s smooth firm flesh glistened in the light, even as his face began to swell and grow dark.  “Hey, man,” Adam called out to Mike, “Lookit this shit.  See how his eyes are bulgin’?  That’s cause pressure’s building up in his head.  Damn, motherfucker, that’s gotta hurt like shit.”

 

Staring coldly into Mike’s bottomless brown eyes, the cruel alpha laughed, the sound slashing at Mike’s soul like a knife.  “Remember that, asswipe,” Adam hissed viciously.  “Dying hurts.  It hurts like nothing you’ve ever suffered in your useless faggot life.  Remember that when it’s your turn.”

 

From his position on the floor, Toby found that he couldn’t look away from his killer’s tall, powerfully-built form—quite literally.  As Adam had pointed out, his eyes were bulging; he couldn’t close them.  Toby had no choice but to stare up at the stud who was snuffing him.

 

The most immediate part of Adam in Toby’s field of vision was the shaft of his boot, the black leather rising from the bottom of his line of sight—he could clearly see how the extra-long laces circled the top of the shaft and were tied in front.  Above it, he could trace the line of the alpha’s thick calf and thigh muscles, outlined in the leg of his cargo pants.

 

Then there was the cock–the huge, throbbing shaft, jutting arrogantly in from, clear precum oozing in an almost steady stream…but Toby had to block that out, he couldn’t follow the link of pain and death and lust…

 

Beyond the webbed nylon belt circling his tight waist, the curly, golden fur that rose above the waistband, running up the killer’s ripped abs, spread out lushly on his broad, jutting pecs.  Heaving with exertion, Adam’s chest glittered as he moved and beads of sweat caught in his body hair caught the light.

 

Above that, there was a face, a beautiful, cold, contempt-filled face surmounted by red-gold curls like a copper nimbus, but it was too far away.  Toby was starting to have trouble seeing; darkness exploded in his sight light the blooms of huge black flowers.  His tongue was swelling, causing the dying twink horrible pain as it forced aside his broken jaw, but there was nothing he could do.  White, foamy drool leaked from his swelling lips, running down his chin and pooling around the treads of Adam’s utility boot.

 

The pounding in his heat was swift and intense; Toby could feel that it coincided with his speeding, panicked heart.  Despite the pounding and loud ringing in his ears, the slowly choking youth could hear the sadistically mocking words of his killer.

 

“How’s it feel, dying like a fuckin’ insect, havin’ yer useless life ground out under my boot, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ put down like the garbage you are, huh?  Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, I toldja you’d get hard again.  Disgustin’ little pervert, you just fuckin’ love it when a real man finally ends yer worthless existence.  C’mon, homo, time to drain yer sick faggot sperm so I can fuck some clean meat.”

 

With a snarl, Adam leaned forward, throwing all his weight on his right foot.  There was a loud crunch and the steel-toed boot suddenly sank a good two inches into Toby’s throat as the punk’s windpipe collapsed.  The young fag’s attention, momentarily diverted to the bizarre phenomenon of his throbbing, painfully erect cock, experienced the blast of horrifying agony that accompanies a mortal injury.

 

Adam steadied himself as the lean, lithe body beneath his feet began to shudder violently.  Toby’s huge green eyes, stained red by numerous ruptured blood vessels, rolled back into his head as he convulsed, his legs drawing up, then straightening as he kicked his life away with such force the Adidas sneaker was pulled off his left foot.  The buff alpha knew what was happening; shifting his body to one side, he applied more pressure to the boot embedded in the twink’s neck, twisting his foot sideways.

 

With a loud cracking noise, Adam snapped Toby’s neck like a dead twig.  As the sudden electrochemical shock flooded the dead kid’s nervous system, his erect shaft pulsed visibly and sent a solid stream of boyjizz up in a four-foot geyser.  Disgust on his face, Adam managed to dodge the fountain of spunk, letting it splash back on Toby body as it continued to jerk and flail in its death throes.

 

“Fuck yeah, man, there we go,” the sick top gloated at the dead boy’s sobbing boyfriend.  “Once that worthless fag spunk is unloaded, I’ll fill the meat with real manseed.  Finally givin’ this useless pansy a purpose—it died so I can have a cumrag.”

 

Adam stalked across the room, retrieving a chair that was standing behind the closet door.  As he did so, Mike, aflame with panic and anger, writhed violently on the bed.  Unable to loosen the zip ties binding him, the muscle twink increased his efforts until he managed to rise up vertically on the bed.  Once he was upright, though, he had no way of balancing himself and instantly felt himself falling over sideways.

 

His thick, muscular body hit the nightstand with a crash, causing him to start bleeding again from his already-broken nose.  He fell to the floor, accompanied by the lamp.  The bulb didn’t break; still lit, the light cast surreal shadows across the room from its low angle on the floor.

 

Adam had watched it all happen.  He wasn’t worried about Mike; there was no way for the meat to break free of its bonds.  And the dude had landed on the floor in a great position for a close-up of the next act.

 

The buff killer placed the chair upright in front of Mike, a few feet away.  Then he bent down and grabbed Toby, manhandling the still-quivering corpse until he’d draped it face-down over the back of the chair.  Then, without another word, he brandished his huge, dripping cock, grinned at Mike, and mounted the dead kid, his shaft penetrating Toby’s sphincter and sinking deeply into the meat’s guts.

 

“Fuck yeah, nice and smooth, just like I like ‘em,” Adam smirked as Mike burst anew into hot tears of outrage and terror.  The bound punk struggled to protest, but the soiled jock had been shoved too deeply into his mouth for him to be able to force it out; all he could do was watch the violation of his boyfriend’s corpse in silence.

 

The chair creaked loudly as Adam gripped the meat’s narrow waist and plowed its still-spasming asshole.  His furry, sweat-streaked flesh slapped loudly against Toby’s cooling skin as the alpha brutally pumped his shaft into the dead boy’s rectum.  As he fucked the corpse, Adam reached up and grabbed a handful of the punk’s long hair and jerked it back, raising Toby’s head.

 

“Look at him,” the vicious sadist hissed at the crying, struggling boy on the ground, “Look at his face.  See the pain and terror he endured?  See how the horror of his last few seconds of life are etched into his face?  Disgustin’ little faggot deserved to suffer so much more but he was weak.  You ain’t.  You can take what I’m gonna give ya—and it’s gonna be so much worse than what he went through.”

 

Adam never missed a single stroke of his brutal necro fuck as he spoke, slamming his gigantic rod into the corpse with a virulent power that was equal parts lust and hatred.  Through his tears, Mike watched Toby’s body jerk and flop with every intrusive thrust of Adam’s hips.

 

Suddenly Adam’s face tightened.  He gave a loud grunt, ramming his shaft home as his hulking, muscle-bound form went rigid.  There was a loud crack and the chair began a slow-motion collapse under the weight of Adam’s orgasmic thrust.  The killer had time to slide one booted foot forward and keep his balance as the chair bent forward and fell to the floor.  Toby’s body fell with it, slowly sliding off the alpha’s still-shooting cock.  Adam finished up by spraying his load onto the corpse’s back.

 

Snorting with contempt, Adam glared at Mike.  “Fucker was totally worthless.  Even dead, he couldn’t take a real man’s load.   My balls are still fulla cum, motherfucker—now it’s yer turn.  He was just the appetizer—you’re the main course, fuckwad.  And I like to linger over my meat.  Ready to dance, asswipe?  Yer gonna die clawin’ and pissin’ yerself in agony, faggot.”

 

Mike shook his head frantically, the stained jockstrap protruding from his mouth.  His already large brown eyes were huge with stunned shock; the sheer horror of watching his boyfriend’s snuff and necro-rape was reflected in his taut, pale face.

 

Bending down, Adam wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  Hoisting the jerking, struggling youth into the air, he slammed him against the wall on the far side of the dresser.  The terrified fag had a brief lucid moment to comprehend the sheer power of his assailant as Adam drew his right arm back, keeping Mike pinned with his back to the wall, several inches off the ground, with just one hand—and this with a loose enough grip to allow the beefy punk to breathe.

 

The he noticed that Adam’s hand had curled into a fist.  He saw the dude’s massive bicep twitch—and then his world exploded in pain as Adam drove his fist into the pansy’s face with the force of a steam hammer.

 

Mike’s head rocked backwards, punching a hole in the drywall as his left cheekbone and the thin bone behind his left eye shattered.  His hands, uselessly bound behind him, clawed at the wall, peeling off strips of paint with his fingernails.  His loud cry was muffled by the reeking fabric shoved into his throat.

 

He didn’t need to worry about the gag for long.  The bruised, battered homo was so stunned by the blow to his head that he never saw Adam’s thick arm draw back again.  He felt it, though; the muscular sadist pounded his huge fist straight into Mike’s solar plexus, at the base of his sternum.

 

The writhing fag’s diaphragm spasmed, his well-built chest collapsing in as the air in his lungs was expelled violently enough for him to blow the jockstrap out of his mouth; it dropped to the floor in the few inches of no-man’s-land between the vicious killer and his helpless prey.  Mike was unable to take advantage of his sudden freedom to speak—his entire attention was focused on being able to breathe.  For several terrifying seconds, the buff young queerboy was unable to inhale, his lungs refusing to inflate.  His eyes, wide and round, the left one blackening and swelling, were dulled over in sheer panic as he savored a foretaste of suffocation.

 

Suddenly the bulging groin of his American Eagle boxers darkened.  Struggling and terrified, the well-built youth had pissed himself in terror, the yellow urine running down his legs and flowing into his Nikes.  His one lucid thought was that however he was gonna die, he didn’t want to choke or suffocate.  Anything but this, he begged silently in the dark empty corners of his mind.  Anything but this.

 

Adam read the terror in the kid’s eyes and his grin widened and became shark-like.  His thick, swinging dick stiffened as he contemplated the bound, helpless faggot in his grasp.  The fucker was his do with as he pleased—and what pleased him damn sure wasn’t gonna please the homo.

 

Jerking and sweating, Mike suddenly inhaled deeply, managing to force oxygen back into his lungs.  With no warning, Adam delivered a brutal gutpunch to the suspended boy, sinking his fist deep into Mike’s firm, flat belly and driving out the air again.  This time, he released the kid, letting Mike fall back to the floor, shuddering and gasping like a landed fish dying on the deck of a trawler.  As the fag’s face went purple, Adam stood over him, sneering.

 

“Lookitya, you pathetic piece a’ shit,” he drawled contemptuously.  “Got yerself all buff an’ muscular, but yer still a worthless fuckin’ fairy.  Your muscles ain’t no match for mine, asswipe; they ain’t gonna help ya now.  I’m gonna fuck you up even worse than I did yer pansy-ass little boyfriend.  Hey, remember when I did this to ‘im?”

 

With a swift kick of his powerful leg, Adam’s steel-toed boot smashed into Mike’s flank, shattering two ribs into multiple pieces.  Once again, the handsome young homo had just regained his air, only to suffer a brutal impact that drove it back out.  This one was worse, though.  This one did major damage.

 

For the rest of Mike’s life—that is, for the next few minutes—the fit young punk desperately tried to breathe, never knowing that bone shards from his broken ribs had punctured his left lung, causing it slowly to deflate.  He only knew the creeping terror of slow advancing suffocation—and pain.  He became very familiar with pain.

 

Leaving one boot planted firmly on Mike’s chest, Adam leaned down and casually spit in the youth’s strained, agonized face.  “Naw, man, I ain’t gonna kill ya with my feet like I did yer fucktoy,” he jeered.  “That was fun, but I got somethin’ more…intense planned for you.  But first, I wanna know—did he ever fuck you?  Or were you always the top?”

 

Mike looked up at the alpha, his eyes running from the tightly laced boot on his chest up along the well-fitted black cargo pants to the huge, engorged shaft of manmeat that jutted out in front of Adam.  Huge and oozing, it added an emphasis to the sadist’s questions that intimidated the fuck out of Mike.  Wallowing in pain, he looked away, gasping and heaving.

 

“I asked you a question, motherfucker,” Adam said, a cold, hard tone in his voice.  “You got three seconds to answer it.  One.  Two…”

 

Mike opened his mouth, but in his panic, he could only croak incoherently.

 

“Three,” Adam concluded, with evident satisfaction.  “Ok, fuckwad, guess I gotta beat it outta ya.”

 

“…no…” Mike gasped faintly.

 

“What was that, fuckmeat?” Adam grinned.  Bending down, he clamped his left hand around Mike’s throat.  The bulked-out psycho was strong enough to hoist the buff young homo into the air single-handedly.  His windpipe was almost completely closed off this time and his left flank burned with pain where his ribs ground together but the attractive young punk unfortunately managed to remain somewhat lucid.  Lucid enough to comprehend the sheer power of the man who had him so completely at his mercy.

 

He needed a way to fight back.  Despite the pain, he needed to fight back or the same thing would happen to him that happened to Toby.  Toby—oh fuck, Toby, what the fuck happened…they were just gonna have a fun evening and this fucker showed up…

 

With a lightning-fast lunge of his arm, Adam snatched at Mike’s piss-soaked briefs and tore them off him, the elastic at the waist snapping back painfully on Mike’s bare flesh.  Nude except for his Nike hightops, the queer hunk dangled in mid-air, slowly choking as he struggled and squirmed, causing the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to dig even deeper into his skin.

 

“Did that dead piece a’ shit lyin’ over there ever fuck you, asswipe?” Adam demanded.  “Ever had a cock up yer boyhole?  Answer me, fuckwad!”  Adam punctuated his demand with another blow to Mike’s face, this one splitting his lips and knocking out one of the kid’s canines.  “Can’t talk, motherfucker?  Ok, just nod or shake yer head.  Or I’m gonna beat ya to death right fuckin’ now.”

 

Mike’s lucidity was fast drowning in a rising tide of terror; he knew the hulking stud wasn’t kidding.  Eventually, he forced himself to shake his head—not very well, but enough for Adam to feel it.

 

And when he did, he grinned.  “Excellent.  Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than fuckin’ a virgin corpse.”

 

Mike would have pissed himself again at the words if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder—and if his dick hadn’t grown unaccountably hard.

 

Adam noticed it too.  “Fuckin’ fag pervert,” he snarled, “Ya like that, dontcha?  You want my fuckin’ rod in ya so bad yer willin’ to die to get it, aintcha?  Disgustin’ piece a’ shit—see, this is why I gotta waste ya.  Doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor, I am, by clearin’ it of sick fucks like you.”

 

Mike could feel his pulse racing—it pounded in his temples and in his rigid cock.  His eyes felt like they were gonna pop right out of his head; tears streamed down his cheeks.  Pain and terror fought for control within him and he wondered if he was going to die like this, suspended in mid-air, shuddering and jerking.

 

And then he was sailing through the air.  It happened in the blink of an eye; there was no warning—Adam simply tossed him across the room with no more effort than if he was a rag doll.  The buff homo slammed violently into the wooden headboard.  It broke in half vertically with a loud crack as a hundred and sixty pounds of muscled boymeat smashed against it and fell back limply onto the tangled pile of sheets covering the bed.

 

Barely conscious, Mike rolled onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling as well as his swollen eyes would allow—particularly the left one.  His entire face was bruised and puffed up, aching horribly from the broken bones in his face.  It hurt bad, but his side, where the snapped ribs were grinding against each other, hurt worse.  His wrists and ankles were raw and nearly bleeding from the way the zip ties had cut into his flesh during his useless struggles.  Fuck, it all hurt so bad…and then there was Toby…

 

The hardbodied young punk was losing his will to live.  Mike had endured a ruthless mindfuck.  Despite his impressive build, he wasn’t emotionally strong; he simply couldn’t handle the combination of mental and physical trauma he’d been forced to endure.  Adam could see it in his eyes; the homo was starting to check out.  He needed to move fast.

 

Suddenly Mike felt a weight on him.  Adam was climbing onto the bed—and onto him.  His blank stare no longer focused on the ceiling; now his killer filled his field of vision.  Seeing the hard face, so cruel and so handsome, topped with copper curls, Mike knew he was looking into the face of the man who was gonna kill him.  For the first time, he really knew it.

 

The power of the muscle-bound sadist was obvious; it was expressed in everything about him from the wiry, sweat-matted fur covering his broad hubcap pecs to the powerful tang of adrenaline and testosterone that was blended in with his musky perspiration.  Mike knew he was strong, but he was helpless before this bulked-out hypermasculine stud.

 

Adam knew the score.  He lowered himself down, letting his massive cock make contact with Mike’s flat, smooth belly.  The thick, engorged head was oozing precum steadily; it acted as lube, letting the pulsing shaft of manmeat slide up Mike’s abdomen.  As Adam lay full-length on Mike, belly to belly, their erect dicks were pressed between them, side by side.

 

“Look at me, faggot,” Adam whispered quietly, almost seductively, as he wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  “Look me in the eyes as I put yer worthless ass down.  I wanna watch your wasted life drain outta ya.  I wanna see death in yer eyes.  You feel me, bro?  Last thing yer ever gonna see is my grinnin’ face as I wipe yer fag ass off the face of the earth.”

 

And then he started squeezing.

 

Mike had panicked as he’d been held up and dangled but Adam hadn’t been trying to strangle him then.  This was different.  This hurt a fuck of a lot more.  He was low on oxygen as it was, his left lung having slowly collapsed over the last few minutes, but Adam was literally crushing his esophagus.  The cruel killer had wrapped his fingers behind the boy’s neck but had placed his thumbs in front, right on the larynx.  As he clamped his hands down with the force of steel trap, Mike’s voicebox was remorselessly shoved back into his throat, the cartilage deforming past its limits.

 

It hurt, Jesus, it hurt so fuckin’ bad.  But as bad as it hurt, the pain receded into a loud buzzing in the background as white, blinding tide of terror rose within Mike.  He was suffocating.  He couldn’t breathe.  Worse, he couldn’t fight it.  He was helpless, pressed under the heavy mass of his killer’s muscles, his hands and legs excruciatingly bound.  This was it, oh fuck, this was for real, no, no, he wasn’t gonna die, not now…

 

Adam knew the faggot was too far gone in fear to pay attention to anything he said.  And while that was a good thing—fear was excellent for purifying faggotry—the little (compared to Adam) fuckwad needed to be brought back into the now.  Applying some pressure, he swiftly and viciously dug his thumbs in and was rewarded with a loud crack.

 

Mike instantly stopped thrashing and stared with horror into Adam’s face.  His larynx had just been crushed into a useless mass of mangled cartilage.

 

Adam grinned.  “Ya know what, faggot?  Yer dick’s still hard.  I can feel it.  That’s gotta hurt like all fuck.  You gotta know yer dyin’ by now, you gotta feel like yer dyin’ by now—but yer dick’s still hard, you sick little fuck.”

 

As his gorgeous but abused body went rigid in horrific agony, some dark corner of Mike’s mind-raped psyche knew the brutal sadist was speaking the truth.  Even in the midst of overwhelming suffering, Mike could feel his own shaft, achingly erect, rubbing against his killer’s ripped, hairy abs.

 

“Time for lights out, asswipe,” Adam continued.  “You’re almost clean enough for my cock.  I just need to squeeze the defective homo sperm outta yer nutsack and you’ll be ready to receive the load of a real man.  Time to die.”  He paused, with a faint chuckle.  “Ain’t like anyone’s gonna miss another faggot, anyways.  Only one who mighta cared is already dead.  And he was a damn lousy fuck.”

 

He squeezed even harder.  Mike’s tongue, already thick, swelled to the point it forced his mouth open.  The near-black tip parted the cunt’s blue lips as white foamy drool trickled down the youth’s cheeks.  As the weight of asphyxiation crushed his chest, Mike’s tremulous sanity succumbed to remorseless hammering in his head.  A screaming pitch-black vortex of sheer terror opened in his mind…

 

…but he wasn’t too far gone to hear—or to feel—the loud crackling, crunching sound as his trachea collapsed into a bloody mass of gristle under Adam’s relentless, vise-like grip.  And in the utter shock of fatal injury, Mike shot a death load of epic proportions.  His bulging eyes were looking directly into Adam’s as he felt an agony he’d never know could exist—it felt like his entire self, his life essence, had been violently ripped out and was being expelled in his hot, ropy jizz.

 

His powerful, sweaty body entwined with that of the dying muscular twink, Adam felt the faggot’s spunk splattering over his abs and soaking into the wiry fur that forested his bulked-out torso.  It infuriated him—nasty homo seed contaminating his well-cared-for body.  With a roar, he let go of Mike’s neck and grabbed the unlucky pansy’s ankles.

 

In the last five seconds of his life, Mike suffered one last time from the sadistic stranger’s hate and lust.  Enraged, Adam jerked the kid’s legs apart.  As ice-cold darkness closed in on him, Mike saw Adam’s huge, sweaty biceps flex awesomely—and then, with a loud snap, Adam broke the zip tie.  The thin plastic dug through Mike’s flesh down to the bone, but it finally gave way before the sheer power of the hardbodied killer.

 

The cuts had severed an artery in Mike’s right ankle, but since his heart had stopped beating almost simultaneously, blood merely seeped from the wound instead of spurting.  Adam wasn’t done with his victim, though.

 

Enraged, the psychotic stud brandished his hard, club-like cock and plunged it into Mike’s fuckhole.  Even though the corpse’s sphincter was flaccid in death, it still wasn’t elastic enough to accept a shaft of the size of the one now being brutally rammed into it—Adam tore the dead kid’s ass open.  “You worthless queerboy fucker,” he snarled, “Thought you’d make me a fag by squirtin’ yer diseased homo cum on me, huh?  You ain’t the first faggot to try it, cunt, but ain’t none of ya ever man enough to turn me!”

 

His hips thrusting swiftly, Adam nailed the dead kid’s butthole.  Sweat trickled down the small of his muscled back as he fucked the corpse, every pump of his cock violently expressing his hate and disgust for the fag he was banging.  He became aware that his balls were drawing up as his semen started to boil over.  And then orgasm hit him, almost like a violent cramp.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, “Fuck!”

 

It was almost involuntary, the way his right arm drew back and then pumped forward like a steam piston, smashing into the corpse’s face.  Adam didn’t try to stop it, though—it felt so fuckin’ right.  As his cock swelled and spurted again, his fist shot forward again.  And again.  With every spurt of hot manseed from his engorged dick, Adam punched Mike’s swollen, blackened face as hard as he could.

 

This was what Adam had wanted, had hoped for—had worked for.  It felt right.

 

He came a lot.  A lot.  By the time he was done, Mike was unrecognizable.  Adam had beaten his face to hamburger.

 

With a deep sigh, Adam pulled back and sat on the bed, his dripping cock resting on the tangled sheets.  He glanced around the room, noting the position of a couple of items, then got up and headed for the bathroom.

 

After spending a few minutes cleaning the drying semen off his torso, he tucked his dick back into his cargo pants.  Grabbing a clean towel, he headed back to the bedroom.  Once there, he used the towel to pry the Nike Vandals off Mike’s feet.  They were soaked with the dead kid’s piss, but they could be cleaned.

 

Then he collected Toby’s Adidas kicks, pulling one off his foot and simply picking the other up off the floor.  He’d seen a gym bag on the far side of the dresser; he used it to collect his trophies, picking up his long-sleeve t-shirt and his knit cap as he passed them.  It was a cool night, but Adam was still warm and sweaty; he decided not to put either on at the moment.

 

Bag in hand, he paused at the door and looked back.  Toby was still lying belly-up on the floor, his limbs and head all at grotesque angles to the body.  Mike, his hands still bound behind him, was also lying belly-up on the bed, his legs spread, white spunk oozing from his ravaged asshole.

 

It wasn’t complete.  He needed to recreate that first necro fuck for it to be right.

 

Leaving the bag at the door, Adam returned to Toby and rolled him over, off the broken remains of the chair, burying his dead swollen face in the carpet.  With a quick step to the bed, the psycho killer grabbed Mike’s corpse under the arms, dragging it over to Toby’s.  Tossing it down on top of the long-haired dude’s body like a sack of dirty laundry, Adam bent down and manipulated Mike’s still semi-erect penis into Toby’s ass, then adjusted the legs.

 

Stepping back, Adam admired his posing.  It looked like a perfectly natural fuck.  Well, except that Mike’s hands were still zip tied behind his back.  And the fact that both punks had suffered major physical trauma.  And that both were obviously dead.

 

As far as Adam was concerned, it was perfect.  He’d erased any possible homo contamination from his first necro fuck.  Picking up the bag, he headed out the door.  Within six minutes, he was off the property, walking bare-chested down the street to where he’d parked his truck a safe distance away.

 

While he walked, Adam found his thoughts—and his cock—drawn to public restrooms.

M4M4RightNow

“Cum fill my hole—looking NOW

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

R U man enough?  Send pic”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Joe could do that.  He let the dude know.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He got it soon enough.

 

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

 

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

 

Good thing he had a fresh bottle of poppers.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But it was coming.  He knew it was coming.

 

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

 

“Don’t,” he cried out, “Please stop…”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Carlos and Nick 4: Tommy’s Lucky Break

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh god,” the kid gasped, “No…don’t…”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

For the first time that evening, Tommy was right.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Goddam, I needed that,” Nick muttered.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“So?” he asked laconically.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah,” Schweitz agreed, garrulous as ever.

 

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

 

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

 

 


 

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

Carlos Solo–Down for the Count

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah?” Carlos questioned nonchalantly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah, I-I guess…”

 

“Ok, we’ll go again.”

 

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

 

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

—and Cody immediately lost the count.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He was right.

 

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

 

Carlos wasn’t done yet.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Did ya call the crime scene techs out?”

 

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

 

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

 

“And the fag?”

 

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