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.”

Carlos and Nick 3: Keeping It in the Family

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What?  Why?”

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah?” Carlos leered, “Like what?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He was right.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And whispering.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Carlos Solo: A Little Time to Kill

When the light changed, Carlos eased off the brake and turned left off the Strip, heading east on Flamingo.  Even though it was past one in the morning, the crowds on Las Vegas Boulevard had diminished only slightly; it took several minutes to complete the turn while he waited for the idiots who’d decided to cross against the signal.

 

Finally the way was clear; Carlos gunned the Benz.  He’d gotten angry at the delay.  Given that he was already bored and horny, it was a lethal combination.

 

Someone was gonna die tonight.  Somewhere out there was a fag who was gonna soak up Carlos’s cum and die on his dick.

 

Nick was out of town.  He’d had a sudden offer to film a straight snuff flick in Tahoe; he’d packed his equipment in his truck and driven up yesterday.  Prior to that, though, they’d planned to go hunting this weekend.  With Nick gone, Carlos had decided not to alter his plans.

 

So here he was, heading east on Flamingo.  It was a pleasant night with the temperature in the mid-seventies, so the top was down on the bright red luxury car.  Inside, the hard-bodied convict displayed his broad, sculpted chest and flat ripped abs in a leather vest with no shirt underneath; a thick gold chain sparkled alluringly around his muscular throat.  His skin-tight black leather jeans were tucked into a pair of engineer boots.

 

And he’d found something while idly poking around the condo last night—likely left over from one of Nick’s earlier flicks.  A pair of thin leather gloves that fit Carlos’s powerful hands like a black second skin.  He was wearing them now, as his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

 

He turned right off Flamingo into what had been a decent middle-class neighborhood.  Now it was little more than a cluster of run-down cinderblock homes with dirt yards and questionable tenants.  There was still some activity on the street, most of it furtive and probably criminal, but Carlos couldn’t spot anything worth fucking.

 

Heading further south before turning east again, the leather-clad predator found the streets less well-lit—and less-populated.  After a couple of blocks, he no longer saw anyone at all, so he turned back towards Flamingo, fuming in frustration

 

That was when he saw the boy.

 

He had come to a stop at a stop sign.  The kid was on the sidewalk, leaning against the sign itself.  Late teens or early twenties—at the latest—the punk had a mane of sandy blond hair that came nearly to his shoulders.  Completely bare-chested, the youth wore a pair of denim shorts that stopped just above the knee.  On the feet were a shiny pair of black Adidas Originals X hightops.  Otherwise, the boy’s smooth, muscular body was as visible as meat on a butcher’s counter.

 

It seemed an odd place to find a trick, but the moment the convertible Benz came to a halt, the punk stepped off the curb and approaching the car, reached in.  “You can put it in my mouth for twenty or my ass for fifty,” he said, grabbing the enormous bulge in the crotch of Carlos’s leather jeans.

 

For a moment, the brutal sadist was actually surprised.  Prey was hunted; it didn’t just wander into the killing pit on its own—but this one had.

 

“How much for the rest of the evening?” Carlos asked, knowing that the amount the boywhore named wouldn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be in a condition to collect it anyway.

 

The rentboy’s eyes opened wide with surprised greed; he clearly hadn’t expected an offer of this magnitude.  The eyes in question were dark, dark brown, almost black, and the white were stained red as a result of drugs and/or alcohol.  “Two-fifty and you can do what ya want till morning,” the slut responded, its breath confirming the at least the alcohol part of Carlos’s estimation.  The killer chuckled inwardly—this was Vegas, for fuck’s sake; kid with a body like that coulda asked for at least double that.

 

Good.  Ain’t no one was gonna miss a cheap fucking fag whore.

 

“Get in,” Carlos said gruffly.  “I ain’t fuckin’ ya in public, cunt, I got class.  My place is a coupla miles north.”  Class had nothing to do with it; he was gonna destroy this cheap-ass hustler, and he didn’t want an audience while he worked the bitch over.

 

The rentboy obeyed, jumping into the passenger seat and buckling himself in.  As Carlos stepped on the gas, he noticed the kid sizing him up with sidelong glances.  He also noticed—he couldn’t help it, it was too obvious—that a tentpole was stretching the denim in faggot’s groin.  Little cocksucker was horny himself. Carlos headed out.

 

They were inside the condo in less than twenty minutes.  “Damn,” the meat said, looking around in awe, “This is some nice crib ya got, dawg.  Name’s Kris, by the way—Kris with a K.”

 

Carlos ignored the cunt and headed to the bedroom in silence.  He didn’t turn on the bedside lamp; instead, he opened the curtain on the picture window, allowing the bright neon of the Strip to reflect gaudily off the gold satin bedspread.

 

Kris staggered in, his booze- and meth-addled head reeling in the kaleidoscopic effect the spectacular view provided.  “Goddam,” he muttered.  His bleary eyes lit up; Carlos could almost see dollar signs in them like a cartoon character’s.  The muscle-bound sadist chuckled.  Wheeling around the kid, he locked the bedroom door behind him.  Kris was still too stunned by his surroundings to notice.

 

The boywhore was attuned enough to hear the stealthy sound of a zipper, though.  He turned and directed his entire attention on Carlos’s crotch as the tattooed stud extracted the full length of his horse-like dick from the confines of his tight leather jeans.  The glistening tube of meat fell out and slapped against the alpha’s thigh, throbbing and swelling as it bobbed in the air.

 

Kris gasped.  The whore had seen lots of cocks, but had never come across one quite this large.  Even as he watched beads of precum well up on the pulsing purple tip, he could feel his own boyjuice start to trickle from his straining, aching shaft.  Instinctively, he reached down and grabbed the bulge in his groin.  He gave his tight waist a quick jerk and his denim shorts slid to the floor.  Stepping out of them, Kris grabbed his cock and stood fondling it in nothing but his shiny black Adidas hightops.

 

“Get yer hands off yer dick, faggot!” Carlos barked.  “I bought you for the night, cunt, remember?  You’re here to serve me, got it, ya fuckin’ whore?  Now get over here; I wanna skullfuck ya!”

 

Kris staggered across the room towards Carlos.  He liked being used, and he was high enough to let anyone use him, but the combination of lust for this dominant hunk and chemical confusion led him to ignore any red flags—like the tattoos.  Despite his age—he was a couple of months shy of his twenty-first birthday, not even old enough yet to buy beer legally—he was no stranger to crime or convicts.  He knew the meaning of some of Carlos’s inks—and recognized the amateurish nature of others that indicated a prison origin.

 

It didn’t matter.  The dude had the body of a god.  And he was gonna pay him enough to stay high for three days straight, maybe more.  Maybe, if he played his cards right, this guy could become a regular customer—fuck, lookit this place, he must be fuckin’ loaded

 

“Suck my cock, faggot!” Carlos snapped, cutting through Kris’s reverie.  Before he could respond appropriately, Kris found that he couldn’t respond at all—Carlos had literally taken matters into his own hands by grabbing thick fistfuls of Kris’s hair and jerking the rentboy’s head forward until it was forced down onto the ex-con’s dick.

 

The well-used whore found his eyes watering as the massive flesh tube was thrust inexorably past his tonsils, the thick mushroom tip slipping into his esophagus on a lube of spit and precum.  The young homo was an experienced cocksucker; he knew how to control his breathing while sucking a pulsing, vein-wrapped hog down his throat—but this was manmeat of a different magnitude.

 

And Kris realized it once Carlos’s tool slid over his epiglottis and sealed of his airway.  Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all.

 

“Fuck, dude, is that all of me you can take?” Carlos sneered, “Whadda lousy cocksucker!  Shit, whore, ya gotta do a lot better than that if ya wanna get paid—now swallow my fuckin’ dick, you worthless homo slut!”

 

Kris’s hand’s reached out in from of him, looking for support, something to brace himself, as Carlos’s grip intensified and he plunged his iron-hard shaft further down the boy’s throat.  The hard-bodied alpha began to throatfuck the punk, but never drew his shaft out far enough for Kris to take a breath.

 

The helpless rentboy was too drunk and too high to fully understand what was happening; he just knew he couldn’t breathe.  His hands had finally made contact with the smooth, pumping firmness of Carlos’s leather-clad thighs, but no matter how hard he pushed back, all he seemed likely to do was tear open his scalp where the vicious sociopath still held a tight grip.

 

As the young faggot whore jerked and writhed under him, Carlos closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure.  “Choke on it, cocksucker, choke on my cock, you worthless motherfucker! That’s it, work my load out, bitch—take this one and if yer lucky, I’ll give ya another!”

 

Kris heard him.  His response was divided; his logical mind ignored the words and kept beating against those strong, thrusting thighs, wrapped in black leather, while his unconscious absorbed the full meaning, causing the slim but well-built young pansy’s own cock to swell painfully.

 

The kneeling slut could hear his pulse pounding in his head; the rapid, frenetic tempo seemed to match the speed at which the cruel, leering top was facefucking him.  His chest seemed to balloon up, swelling in agony as froth spilled from both nostrils.  Kris could feel his eyes bulge; his sight went dim and his panicked struggles slowed and became more rhythmic.

 

Just as Kris’s consciousness started to fade, the powerful convict, still holding him in an inescapable grip, began to shudder and grunt uncontrollably.  Even on the verge of asphyxia, the experience cumsucker knew an incipient orgasm; if he could only hold on a little longer…there!

 

The young faggot felt the thick, wide base of the alpha’s cock pulse as it pumped a solid stream of cum down his throat.  Kris had no choice but to swallow; he was literally just trying to stay conscious as the muscled stud unloaded a massive amount of spunk, jets of hot creamy sperm shooting into his belly as the huge shaft of manmeat continued to throb and pump.

 

Kris felt like he was drowning in cum.  His burning, heaving lungs seemed to be filling up with manseed as the brutally aggressive top emptied his massive, puckered balls.  Suddenly, the hot dude let go and Kris fell back into a huddled heap on the floor.  He gasped, choked, and coughed up an enormous wad of cum.  It dribbled down his chin as he panted and drooled, trying to regain his breath.

 

Finally, the shaken and cowed boywhore turned his paradoxically innocent face up to that of his assailant, his dark eyes wide with shock.  The well-endowed ex-con towered over him, his monstrous cock jutting out from the black leather darkness of his crotch.  Above, even in the semi-darkness, Kris could trace the amateur tattoos inked on the killer’s rippled abs and broad, sculpted chest, even under the latter’s body fur and leather vest.

 

The faint glitter of the gold chain was visible around the thick, bull-like neck.  And above that, the handsome, chiseled face—despite the trauma he’d just endured, Kris could feel his own shaft stiffen as he gazed on the john’s wiry black goatee and stared into those blue eyes, flinty with a cold rage.  The incredible stud wore a do-rag on his head; it seems to be shiny black satin.  In the back of his head, Kris wondered if this hot, scary-ass fucker was shaved like a skinhead…

 

Then the hard, cruel face broke into an open sneer.  “Don’t get comfortable, faggot,” Carlos snarled, “There’s a fuck of a lot more where that came from.  I got another load already churnin’ in my scrote, bitch.”

 

The words snapped the slut out of his reverie.  The meth he’d smoked and the Colt 45’s he’d drunk had dimmed his sense of danger, but not his sense of business.  Sadly for him, it led him to miscalculate and make a bad business decision.  He decided that there was enough demand to inflate his price.

 

“D-dude,” he coughed, still choking on Carlos’s spunk, “If yer gonna do that kinda shit—get all rough and shit—you gotta pay more.  At least four or five big ones, man.”

 

“You worthless piece of shit,” Carlos returned in an even, toneless voice.  “We had an agreement.”

 

“Yeah, and now I’m uppin’ the price, man.  I can take gettin’ used, dawg, but you gotta pay extra for that freaky chokin’ shit, see?”

 

Even in his drugged state, Kris could feel the tension in the room thicken like glue.  He half-expected the stud to explode in rage; he was somewhat disconcerted when the guy gave him a cold, shark-like grin instead.  “Sure,” the alpha replied, “I’ll go to five if ya want.”

 

There was something about his malicious chuckle that raised Kris’s hackles.  He suspected he was gonna get ripped off.  “Show me,” he said suspiciously, still sitting on the floor with his firm, buff legs curled under him.  “I wanna see yer cash, dude.  Course, if ya ain’t got it, I’ll take meth, or coke.  I mean look at this set-up—ya gotta have one of the three around here.”

 

The boywhore knew the value of his body and was trying to use it to get what he wanted.  What he got was something he feared—something he’d heard about often enough, since it was an occupational hazard.  He just never thought it’d happen to him.

 

His first clue was the flash in the older stud’s eyes; it was literally as if a light had shone momentarily.  Unfortunately for Kris, he didn’t see the glare of rage for what it was.  “So what’s it gonna be, dawg?  Cash or dope, dude, ya gotta pay up—”

 

And that was when Carlos said, again in his calm, toneless voice, “Naw, ya faggot cunt, yer the one who’s gotta pay.”  The second he finished speaking, he drove his foot forward, sinking the steel toe of his leather engineer boot deeply into the yielding, unprepared flesh of Kris’s belly.

 

“HOOOGH!!!” the boycunt cried as the swift, vicious kick forced all the air from his lungs; grabbing his midsection, the youth doubled over in agony, his sweet, innocent face twisted in pain.

 

“Fuck yeah, now yer talkin’” Carlos crowed as he stood over the shuddering, gasping youth.  “Ya like that, ya faggot cunt?  Huh?  That feel good, cocksucker?  Cause just like my load, there’s plenty more where that come from!”

 

Fighting against the physical trauma, Kris managed to inhale deeply enough to regain control of himself.  He knew now, beyond any drugged doubt, that he’d picked up a bad john.  He knew he’d let his defenses down and that his survival depended on his getting away from this psycho motherfucker as soon as possible.

 

So he bolted for the door.

 

He was already low to the ground so he lunged forward, below the grasp of the killer alpha—he hoped.  Scooting past Carlos, he grabbed the doorknobs for the double bedroom doors. He didn’t stop to notice that the hulking stud wasn’t coming after him.

 

He did notice that he couldn’t open the doors.

 

Kris jerked frantically on the doorknobs as he became aware that Carlos had finally turned and was moving towards him.  Whimpering in horror, the blond whore stopped trying to open the doors and beat on them mindlessly as death approached slowly and deliberately.

 

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and despite his hard dick, Kris was vaguely aware that he was pissing himself in terror.  The yellow fluid spurted from his erect shaft again when he felt the grip on his other shoulder.  When Carlos whispered, “Big mistake, asswipe,” a flood of urine splashed from Kris’s cock, splattering his black hightops, but before he knew what he was doing, he was flipped in the air up over Carlos’s shoulder and slammed back down flat on the floor face-down with rib-shattering violence.

 

Kris’s breath was driven from his muscled frame with a loud, agonized grunt.  As he moaned and writhed on the floor, the killer’s big black boots stepped into view.  Suddenly, Carlos squatted down.  Grabbing a fistful of long blond hair, he pulled the kid’s head back, twisting it to the side so he could look into the slut’s pale, terrified face.

 

“You wanna see how yer gonna get paid, you sack of shit?” the powerful convict hissed, his eyes narrowed into rage-filled slits.  “This is how—pain.  Yer getting paid in pain, bitch, and ya just asked for double, right?  Yeah?   Don’t worry, ya stupid homo fuck, yer gonna get paid real good.  It’s yer lucky night, cunt; I’m feelin’ generous!”

 

Carlos let go of Kris’s hair and stood back up, then, with a swift kick, slammed his boot into the weeping punk’s face and snapped a cheekbone.  The handsome blond whore squealed, grabbing at his injured face and groveling on the floor.  “Shaddup, ya worthless cockpig,” the hypersexual alpha snarled, his thick tool still erect and dripping as he bent down and jerked Kris by the hair yet again.

 

This time, he forced the trembling youth upright and up against the wall in the corner of the bedroom.  Finding himself trapped with the well-built powerful body of the vicious killer in front of him, Kris began babbling.  Tears streaked down his bruised, swelling face as he begged for his life.

 

“P-please, man, d-d-don’t do th-this,” the young, drugged whore pleaded, “Don-don’t hurt me, d-dude, oh please, oh fuck, don’t kill me I’ll do any—URK!”

 

His shrill pleas were suddenly cut off when a hand encased in a tight black leather glove closed around his throat.  Kris opened his eyes wide, just in time to see the other gloved hand, balled into a fist, drawn back then rocketing towards him with blinding speed.

 

The blow landed on Kris’s nose, smashing it with a wet, squelching sound.  The hot young slut jerked, his howl of pain managing to escape Carlos’s grip on his neck.  The vicious stud cut the cry off with another swift punch; this one caught the bitch on his jaw, snapping his mouth shut so fast and so hard that the boy bit through his bottom lip.  After that, the succession of belts and bashes to the face were brutally regular.

 

Kris was stunned, his head rocking back under the hail of blows that were slamming against it.  As blood flowed from his split lip and bruises bloomed on his young, smooth face, the whimpering cunt could just barely make out the words his assailant was hissing with malevolent glee.

 

“Enjoyin’ the pain, motherfucker?  Ya must be, ya worthless pig bottom bitch, lookit the way yer dick’s throbbin’ an’ oozin’ every time I pop ya one!  Fucking sick-ass pansy piece a’ shit, yer just lovin’ this, aintcha?  Yeah?  Ya like gettin’ put in yer place, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ shown what a useless cocksuckin’ pervert like you deserves, huh?”

 

Carlos paused, his large, muscled body heaving and slick with sweat.  Kris focused his blackened, swollen eyes on the powerfully-built alpha.  It was drawn first to the thick gold chain around the convict’s neck, glinting and highlighting the buff killer’s neck tats.  But then he shifted to Carlos’s balled fist, drawn back to shoulder level and waiting, ready to spring into action in the blink of an eye, inflicting even more agony and more damage.

 

During the tension-laden pause in the violence, Kris had time to notice that the skin-tight glove looked wet.  His already drugged and now brutalized brain didn’t have time to realize that his own blood was too dark to show on the black leather.  Then his attention was drawn back to the cold, hard masculine countenance of his killer.

 

“You wanted money,” Carlos whispered, his eyes narrowing with a piercing, ice-cold rage.  The expression would have made Kris piss himself again if anything had been left in his flaccid bladder.  “How much was it, cunt?  How much didja want me to pay?”

 

Kris blinked dazedly and moaned.  With unbelievable speed, the sadistic alpha drove his bulging, inked arm into the rentboy’s face with the force of a jackhammer; after an intense, bright-red explosion of agony, the hard-bodied young whore shuddered and coughed up a bicuspid.

 

“Answer me, you cumsucking cunt, or I’m gonna knock out yer teeth one by one, ya hear?  How much?  How much didja want, faggot?”

 

“T-t-two h-hundr-dr-dred…” Kris muttered, barely afloat in a sea of pain.  There was a slight whistling sound caused by the gap in his teeth.

 

Carlos’s face twisted in anger.  “Lyin’ homo bitch!” he snarled, slamming another right hook into the youth’s jaw.  “It was two-fifty, yeah?  That’s what ya think yer worth, you piece of shit?  You stupid cumsuckin’ motherfucker, didja really think I was so desperate to fuck your worn-out asshole that I’d spend that much for ya?”

 

He punctuated his contempt with another blow.  Kris could sense this one coming and tried to turn away but the hand of the buff sadist was gripping his neck too tightly for him to move.

 

Not that it mattered.  Carlos went low this time, delivering a devastating and excruciating gutpunch.  His gloved fist smacked into Kris smooth, flat belly; despite the kid’s firm abs, the jab sank in deeply.  The whore’s throat wasn’t closed off and the gutbash drove the air out of him in a loud, deep grunt.

 

“And now you want more, you fucking pervert?  Ya want more money cause you ain’t enough of a faggot to take my cock?  Fuck, bitch, if I’m gonna pay that much, I wanna free trial.  Ha!  Yeah, cunt, I think I’m gonna try before I buy—you gonna guarantee my satisfaction, huh?  Fuck no you ain’t, you reamed-out pansy-ass whore; ain’t no way a little queer pain pig like you gonna satisfy a real man!”

 

The well-built ex-con let go of the young rentboy’s neck; reaching up, he grabbed the punk’s mouth, the tight leather glove sealing off Kris’s mouth as Carlos’s hand clenched his jaw painfully.  “You do know what happens, dontcha, fuckwad?  You know how this is gonna end.  I’m gonna fuck ya now, and I’m gonna make it hurt—ya like that, huh, dontcha?  Fuck yeah, yer cock is all hard an’ drippin’—ha!  Holy shit—you really want this, huh?  You wanna go all the way?  Saddle up, cumslut, I’m about to make your deepest painpig desires come true!”

 

What happened next happened so quickly that Kris wasn’t even aware that it happened at all.  With one hand around Kris’s jaw, Carlos bent down and, reaching under the whoreboy’s oozing cock, grabbed his ass.  Standing back up, the muscled convict pivoted and tossed the youth onto the bed.  He was standing near the foot of the bed so that Kris landed on his left side, head toward the headboard.

 

Rolling onto his back, Kris gurgled and gasped, still trying to recover his breath.  His bruised and swollen eyes were difficult to open but when they did, he had a blurred view of the hulking form of Carlos towering over him at the foot of the bed, his amazingly sculpted torso glistening with sweat in the reflected light that also glittered on the gold chain at his throat.

 

With exaggerated slowness, the aggressive sadist slipped off his leather vest.  His massive cock dangled over Kris’s fit and nubile body, hot precum dripping onto the kid’s flesh and burning it like melted wax.  The panicked whore tried to beg, to plead for forgiveness or mercy or something—it didn’t matter—but was so terrified that nothing emerged from his trembling lips beyond a shuddering moan.

 

Stooping down, Carlos grabbed Kris’s legs and pulled them up as he climbed onto the bed so that the boy’s shiny Adidas kicks were resting on his shoulders.  Bending the rentboy double, he slapped the swollen purple head of his cock against the slut’s puckered fuckhole.

 

Then all the pain Kris had experienced faded to the intensity of love taps compared to what he had to endure—it was as if someone had suddenly and unexpectedly shoved a baseball bat up his ass without warning and without lube.  If the hot young boywhore had been able to breathe, he might have screamed; as it was, all he could do was flap his jaw and gasp like a dying fish.

 

The pain was so mind-shattering that Carlos had pumped his enormous shaft up Kris’s ass half a dozen times before the latter realized he was getting buttfucked.  While his rectum was being brutally shredded, the well-built rentboy writhed on the smooth satin bedspread and tried desperately to inhale.  He succeeded—but not for long.

 

His mistake was screaming.  Deep in his pig soul, Kris knew that it was a mistake, but he was in too much agony to control himself, and he was too terrified to try.  The whore was well aware that he was trapped, pinned helplessly under his muscle-bound rapist.

 

He was also aware of the stories that circulated among the hustler crowd—horror stories of boys who’d gone off with the wrong trick, only to be found tortured, raped and murdered when they were found at all.  He’d always listened to the tales with a sort of amused contempt, not fully believing them, and certain that he was far too smart to be caught in such a situation should it occur.

 

But tonight he’d been drunk and high and horny.  He’d mixed business and pleasure and had been too fucked up to recognize any red flags.  It was his own fault but if he could just survive this night—

 

—and then the panic bubbled over and the welling scream finally burst from Kris’s swollen, bleeding lips.

 

“Goddam, ya stupid sack a’ shit, shut the fuck up!” Carlos bark, his face twisted in rage.  He rested more of his heavy, buff body on the flailing punk, pinning the cunt to the bed with his cock.  Kris’s own swollen, throbbing cock was pressed between their two flat, firm bellies; his hightops jerked and kicked on his rapist’s shoulders  As Carlos leaned in, his hard, handsome, cruel face filling Kris’s field of vision, the boy inhaled the deep masculine scents of pheromones and mansweat.

 

“I’m sick of yer squealin’, pig,” Carlos hissed, “And it’s time for you to die anyway.  Beatin’ the fuck outta yer fag ass got me all kinda hard, bitch, huh?  Yeah, ya like that idea?  Ya like gettin’ worked over by a real man, faggot?  Fuckin-A, I think I’m blow a load here soon—ya know what that means, dontcha, ya homo cumdump?  It means I’m gonna put ya down like a fuckin’ dog—fuck, I hope this hurts.  I hope ya die in horrible fuckin’ agony, dude—it’s so goddam hot!”

 

With a quick shift of his arms, Carlos wrapped one leather-gloved hand around Kris’s neck and clamped the other over the whore’s face, sealing off his mouth and nose.  Just before his air was cut off, Kris got whiff of musky leather scent from the black glove.

 

Then he realized he was suffocating.

 

Carlos hunched down over the helpless youth, their torsos pressed together in hot sweaty mansex, fur scraping over skin on a lube of testosterone-spiked perspiration.  Kris’s battered, blackened eyes bulged in terror as the convict sneered and spit in his face.  The whore closed his eyes but couldn’t turn his head—Carlos was putting a lot of his weight on his arms; his hand was literally crushing the cunt’s nose and lips.

 

Some part of his mind, walled off from the agony of the brutal assrape, was able to discern a faint jingling sound amid the grunting of the rutting top and the noise of violent sex.  Feeling the killer’s spittle slide down his cheek, Kris opened his eyes again, catching sight of Carlos’s gold chain.  The boy knew what the jingling sound had been.  The thick chain seem to be dancing in the air with malicious glee, coming to life with each of its owner’s deep, repeated thrusts.

 

Each penetrating plunge of his killer’s cock brought searing agony to Kris’s rectum, but every part of his body was flooded with pain.  Beyond the shiny dark do-rag covering Carlos’s head, Kris could see his own hightops kicking feebly in the air; he had no idea that the slashing pain across his midsection was from being doubled-over.  Carlos’s ferocious gutpunch had torn the slut’s liver; this position was tearing it even more.  Left untreated, the injury was large enough to cause Kris to bleed to death internally with about forty-five minutes…

 

But there was other pain.  His once-adorable face had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp out of which his large brown eyes now protruded grotesquely, tiny hemorrhages popping up in the whites.  His long blond hair, dark and matted with sweat, was spread in tangles across the gold satin comforter.  And the excruciating pressure that the muscled and tattooed convict was now exerting on his already-broken nose and torn lips made him claw frantically at the killer’s hands—only to find the leather gloves so smooth and tight he was unable to catch a grip.

 

And then the pain got really bad.  It got bad because Kris had been without oxygen for almost a minute; reflexively, his body fought for survival by dumping a shitload of adrenaline into the dying rentboy’s bloodstream.  When it hit his brain, it triggered a tsunami of panic.

 

Kris was suddenly very, very aware that he was dying.

 

He jerked and kicked desperately, his hands flailing against Carlos’s rock-hard body.  One hand reached up to the sadist’s grinning face, scraping at the rough stubble on his face; the other hand, grabbing at Carlos’s chest, managed to snatch the gold chain and yank it, but the thick metal links didn’t give way.  The kid let go, reaching around to beat fruitlessly against the stud’s steel-like bicep.

 

Carlos stopped thrusting, giving his powerful thighs a break.  He didn’t need to pump any more anyway; the meat was doing the work for him now.  It was something he’d learned from Nick—at a certain point, the fuckmeat loses its shit and starts bucking like a bronco.

 

“All ya gotta do then,” Nick had said, “Is pretend like yer breakin’ a horse, ya know?  Ya gotta stay in the saddle and ride it till it tires out.  If ya work it right, you can hold the fag in that position and make it milk your cock until it’s down for good and you can let those fuckin’ hot-ass anal convulsions jack ya off…”

 

That was exactly what Carlos was doing now.  His huge, powerful arms were clamped onto Kris’s face and neck and locked like iron bars.  His monstrously engorged shaft was buried deep in the youth’s guts.  His leather-clad legs were spread wide, his engineer boots secure on the floor, giving his hunched-over posture the stability to keep the struggling rentboy pinned into place.

 

“That’s it,” he murmured quietly, barely above a whisper, “That’s it, bitch, fight it.  Keep fightin’ you useless faggot whore, keep fightin’ for yer worthless life—it ain’t gonna do you no good, but it’s doin’ me plenty good right now, cunt!  Fuck yeah, keep it up, motherfucker, yer working my tool so fuckin’ good right now—aw, fuck, dude, is that yer tongue?  I can feel it through the glove, cocksucker, yer tongue is stickin’ out!  Ya know what that means?  It means yer dyin’, asswipe, yer gonna die here and now with my hog up yer guts—ain’t that so fuckin’ hot, ya cumsuckin’ fag?”

 

Trembling on the verge of brain death, Kris heard the words and understood them but wasn’t able to process them fully through the roaring, pulsing silence that was darkening his pain-wracked existence.  Pressure was building in too many places—his head, his ass, his chest, his scrotum—that he couldn’t focus on anything.

 

His frenetic clawing had stopped; his hands were now gripping Carlos’s upper arms tightly in what could have been mistaken for the acquiescent clutch of an eager, willing bottom.  His wild thrashing slowed to a more rhythmic movement.  As silent explosions burst in his head and dimmed his vision, Kris was still aware of his painfully-erect dick.  It had been—and still was being—massaged between his flat, smooth, sweat-slick belly and Carlos’s hard, ripped, furry abs and had not stopped throbbing and oozing throughout Kris’s ordeal.

 

Carlos had noticed it too.  “You fuckin’ disgustin’ faggot pig,” he sneered, hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it into the whore’s tear-streaked face.  “You deserve this, you piece of queer shit, dontcha?  Ya know it, too, cocksucker—that’s why yer dick is hard, innit?  Fuckin’ homosexual scumbag pervert, ya know ya need to get put down like a cock-worshippin’ pig!  This is what ya needed, huh—a real man to take ya out?  You were just waiting for the right dude to come along, weren’t ya—someone man enough to treat ya like the worthless piece of garbage ya are?”

 

The sadistic killer’s cruel words faded to a ringing echo in Kris’s mind as more and more of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation.  His hands slid up Carlos’s arms and over his shoulders, past his own sporadically quivering black Adidas hightops.   As death approached swiftly, Kris’s hands clutched Carlos’s muscular back.  Jerking his arms involuntarily in his final few moments, the young boywhore held his murderer in an embrace tighter than any lover’s.

 

As a result, their faces were close together at the end.  Kris was being crushed in the grip of an icy, all-consuming darkness, but he could still feel parts of his body—and he could hear.

 

“Ok, faggot, I’m gettin’ bored with yer ass—you done worn out yer welcome, bitch.  I got shit to do; I ain’t got all night waitin’ for you to get me off.  I’m a busy man, dude, time for me to drain my load and move on.  Yer a suck-ass whore, by the way—hope ya got cash in yer wallet, cunt; you owe me for the time I’m takin’ to waste yer useless ass.  So ya ready to get this done?  I sure the fuck am, scumbag.  Die, you worthless motherfucker!”

 

It was a single swift movement that was utterly spontaneous; in the blink of an eye, Carlos had let go of Kris’s mouth, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of as much of the kid’s hair as he could.  Wrapping it around his right hand, he yanked that arm back with a might jerk that made his inked bicep bulge even more; at the same time, he threw himself down with all his weight on his left arm.

 

Kris’s head snapped forward and, with the splintering sound of shattering vertebrae, popped off the top of his spinal column.

 

The whore’s last experience in his pathetic, wasted existence, was an electrical shock that ran through his entire body, holding him momentarily in an agonized paralysis as his balls exploded and released a raging flood of semen through his rigid shaft.  His boiling deathload spewed in a solid stream of cum that lasted for a good fifteen seconds, hosing the dead slut’s belly and splattering up along Carlos’s chest.

 

Instinctively, Carlos bent his head back as a final wad shot between them, splashing against the picture window and smearing the view.  Carlos’s reaction was instinctive because he was cumming so hard himself that his eyes rolled back in his head.  His massive, well-built body bent back, rigid with extreme stress as the hulking alpha injected the dying boycunt with his load, pumping what felt like a dull quart of manseed into the dead kid’s convulsing fuckhole.

 

Carlos’s huge puckered scrote wasn’t empty, though—bending forward to send his second jet of spunk into the youth’s guts, the sadist was so lost in his bloodlust that he leaned too far forward over his victim.  His boots had good deep tread, but they could only go so far.

 

Carlos fell forward, full-length on his victim’s trembling corpse.  He ended up spewing his final wad into the dead boy with his face in the mattress, cheek-to-cheek with that of the corpse, now doubled over into a position that would be impossible for a living person.

 

And there they stayed for at least three minutes while Carlos regained control of himself.  Heaving and panting, he finally straightened up, withdrawing his still-throbbing purple cock from his victim’s ruined anus. Heading for the bathroom, he kept one hand wrapped around the head of his shaft to avoid having any cum drip onto the carpet.

 

After all, he already had enough of a problem figuring out how to clean the bedspread and take out the garbage before Nick got back; he wasn’t afraid of Nick, but he wasn’t sure how the dude who paid the bills would react to something like this, so he wanted to keep it on the DL…

 


 

Carlos didn’t watch the videos Nick made of him; his interest was in the doing, not the viewing, for which Nick was grateful.  The experienced snuff producer had known that the cameras he’d hidden in the condo—more than twenty in the bedroom itself—would come in handy with Carlos around.

 

He’d seen the video within an hour of returning from Tahoe; it was edited and posted online at a very high premium by that evening; it had returned a record profit by morning.

 

No, Nick was not angry about Carlos’s solo adventure.  Not at all.

Trucker 9–Trucker vs Trucker

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

What he needed, he decided, was privacy.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And ta drink?” she drawled.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Dave never got the chance to exhale.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Carlos and Nick 2: Lawyering Up

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What about later?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But this all passed in a fraction of a second.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 


 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then, they could have some fun.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Where’s that?” he asked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Carlos smirked.  Little homo was oozing already.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Luke hastened to obey.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Someone was knocking at the condo’s front door.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Does he suck dick good?” Nick asked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He had no idea it was all being recorded.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But first, he was gonna get fucked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And then he wasn’t able to breathe anymore.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And his killers made sure he knew what was happening.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

Like a stiffening corpse, the case soon went cold.

Convict Finale/Carlos and Nick 1

The ad was short and simple; it just said that a local film company wanted well-built actors for male-on-male videos, some wrestling involved.  It damn sure didn’t take a genius to read between the lines; at the very least, it would be soft-core porn.

 

Carlos considered it carefully.  He wasn’t out of money yet, but he was running low.  He needed some steady source of income.  He’d loved the Mustang, but the car was probably way too hot to keep; he had to buy another car.

 

And he damn sure wasn’t gonna stint himself.  He ended up spending more than half of the ten grand he’d managed to acquire on his new ride, but it was worth it.  And he’d made a potential contact.  The salesman, a friendly young man with a shaggy mop of sandy-blonde had hit on him repeatedly.  At the end of the sale, Carlos drove off with the kid’s business card in his wallet.  He was well aware that the boy had written his personal cell number on the back.

 

Maybe later.  A little time would need to pass; most of the staff had noticed him that day.  After all, he’d bought a burgundy Mercedes SL 300 convertible.  Yeah, it was a 1990 model, but it looked great.

 

He’d spent a little more money renting a 10 X 15 storage space not far from his apartment—and hidden the Mustang there.  He didn’t own it, so he couldn’t sell it, and he was worried that it was too full of evidence to abandon.  He’d deal with it later.

 

The apartment he’d rented was in North Las Vegas, an ancient two-story fourplex, built of cinderblock covered in cracked babyshit-yellow stucco.  The neighborhood made the area where he’d offed that last whore look like fuckin’ Candyland, but Carlos could take care of himself.  It was a cheap, furnished, bills paid shithole that the muscular serial killer planned to escape as soon as he could get a guaranteed source of income.

 

Which brought him back to this ad.  It’d be a start.  His “Sin City High” had evaporated in the brutal Vegas heat; there was no way he could rob and steal his way into lifestyle he wanted.  As an ex-con, convicted of felony manslaughter, his options were limited—but there were things he could do.

 

And whatever he did, nothing was gonna stop him from having fun putting down fags.  Maybe this ad was a way to do both.  Yeah, it was unlikely—but what the hell, why not?

 

The address was unfamiliar; Carlos had to look it up.  It turned out to be north of town, off I-15 near the Craig Road exit.  “Walk-in auditions today, 2-6pm.”—great.  It was almost five thirty now.  He just barely had time to make it…

 

With a vague idea of what he was in for, Carlos dressed for the part.  First on was a pair of electric blue Under Armour compression shorts that reached to mid-thigh.  They clung to Carlos’s groin so tightly that his huge package was outlined in vivid, intimidating detail.  His thick, muscled calves descended into a pair of red Air Jordans, the laces the same shade of blue as the shorts.  Above the waist, his powerful, sculpted abdomen was wrapped in a red compression t-shirt with white piping on the seams; it highlighted his well-developed chest.  The tattoos writhing on his bulging biceps could be seen below the shirt cuff; similarly, the tight neck of the shirt did not obscure the inked designs on his throat.

 

Admiring himself in the mirror, the buff killer decided he looked both menacing—and powerful enough to carry through on the menace.

 

Turned out to be a good thing, too.  The moment he stepped out his front door, he could see his car.  Parked in the paved-over yard between the house and the street; open to the sidewalk, it had evidently attracted some attention.  It was surrounded by a crowd of rowdy young cholos who were staring at it in envy and murmuring among themselves, probably about the best way to part it out.  Suddenly, one of them reached out to the driver’s door handle.

 

“Hey, vato, keep yer fuckin’ hand off my ride if ya wanna keep yer fuckin’ hand!” Carlos snapped.

 

The greaser kid took one look at Carlos’s imposing form and jumped back.  “No daño, señor, no daño!” he cried in a panicked voice as the others took the hint and rapidly backed from the car.

 

“Better not be any harm, you worthless punk, or I’ll make you pay,” the hulking psycho growled, “Now get the fuck outta my way.”

 

They scattered like startled deer.  Carlos jumped in the car and headed towards the highway.  Damn, he was gonna have to find something soon.  The Benz was a target in that hood and he couldn’t watch it all the time.  It’d be nice if this worked out…

 

The neighborhood in which he found himself after he exited the highway was an industrial park, full of large buildings of cinderblock or corrugated steel.  At least a third had large wooden billboards plastered with the words “for lease” visible somewhere on the property.   He finally found the right address, a long, low warehouse building with a small lobby section.

 

There were three vehicles in the lot; one a dark green ford F250 pickup.  Just as Carlos pulled in, a pale, freckled twink wearing nothing but shorts and a pair of skate shoes came out.  He was thin and had a couple of bruises; his expression was one of discouragement and exhaustion.  He got into a beat-up old Nissan and left.

 

Stepping out of the oven-like heat, Carlos felt the refrigerated air of the lobby wrap around his slightly sweat-soaked body.  The room was empty except for an easel with a placard reading “Auditions this way”; there was an arrow pointing to a hallway on the right.  The hallway itself was dark and lined with doors, all closed—except the fourth on the left, from which flowed a rectangle of light.

 

Carlos approached slowly and warily.  Peering around the corner, he found himself looking into a large room, possibly a conference or meeting room at one time, brightly lit by overhead fluorescents.  In the far left corner, a wrestling ring had been set up.

 

It was a basic setup, a sixteen-by-sixteen foot square ring with skirting and a canvas mat.  The turnbuckle covers were of canvas, the same color as the ropes.  On one side was a small platform for mounting and accessing the ring.

 

There were two dudes in the room.  On the far left, some folding tables had been set up.  Covered with monitors and video editing equipment, they were being operated by a large dude with long black hair; he was sitting with his back facing the door and hadn’t seen Carlos in the doorway.

 

At the very back of the room, to the right of the ring, was another folding table.  This had what looked like a makeup case, some indefinable personal effects—and a twink dressed in nothing but a pair of briefs and knee-high boots.  The boy was smaller than Carlos but still surprisingly well-built; even from across the room, Carlos could see his thick muscles.

 

The boy was bent over the table, concentrating intently on something.  Carlos approached quietly until he was close enough to hear the sniffing sounds.  Little fucker was snorting coke.  Probably thought he was too high-class for crack or meth.

 

The muscled alpha snorted in contempt.  The kid evidently heard him; visibly startled, he jumped and whirled around.  Carlos got a good look at him.

 

Young—he looked like he was in his mid to late teens.  In fact, he had the build of a high-school wrestler, smooth, fit and muscled without being stocky or over-developed.  He was wearing a pair of bright red briefs which on closer inspection turned out to be Speedos.  They left nothing to the imagination; the kid was hung like a horse—not as well as Carlos, perhaps, but damned impressive in its own right.  Or it would have been had it been hard.  On his feet were a pair traditional knee-high wrestling boots, red with white laces.

 

The kid swiftly wiped the white powder of the end of nose and sniffled, the color of his wide eyes almost impossible to discern through cocaine dilation; his pupils were huge.  His face was innocent and boyish, with a slightly snub nose.    His hair was dark brown and cut short.

 

Grinning, the boy approached, holding out his hand.  This close, Carlos could see the hard lines in his face—kid was older than his teens and had been living hard for a while.  “Heya,” the coked-up punk chirped, “here for the video shoot?  Cool.  Name’s Brody La Roc—ya mighta heard of me.  No?  Most popular escort on the Strip, man.  Hey, when we’re done, take one of my cards.  I’ll make sure ya have a good time—if you can afford it.  Ha!  Hey, Nick, ya got another one!”

 

This last was to the dark-haired dude on the other side of the ring.  The guy had been engrossed with a video monitor, evidently doing some editing.  As soon as he heard his name, he jumped up and crossed to join them.

 

Nick was huge.  He was both taller and better-built than Carlos himself—not by much, but enough for Carlos to notice.  He was simply dressed in faded jeans, well-worn but clean work boots and a dark red sleeveless t-shirt but the clothes clung so tightly to his sculpted body that there was nothing left to the imagination.  The buff Hercules greeted Carlos genially, his broad, handsome face breaking out into a blinding grin.

 

“Hey, man, you just made it!  This is gonna be the last shoot of the day.  So—what’s your name?”

 

After the preliminary introductions, they got down to business.  Nick was doing what he called a film test, but he dropped some random comments that clued Carlos in.  The individual clips would be edited together as a bonus “screen test” feature on another porn flick, probably already shot.  This was a quick-and-dirty shoot for the purpose of padding out a video.  But it paid $150 and probably wouldn’t take an hour.  And Nick held out the possibility of further work.

 

“After all, man,” he said, “I got a wide distribution network.  I do all kinda videos.  Who knows?  I might be able to find something for ya.  Let’s see what you can do.”

 

Gazing over Carlos’s well-built bulk, Nick nodded with critical approval.  “Ok, shuck off that shirt.  The shorts can stay; I like them.”  Carlos obliged, peeling off the red compression shirt and tossing it onto a folding chair off to one side.  “And the shoes.  That’s a real canvas mat; those soles will lose traction.  You wear what—eleven, eleven and a half?  Lessee here, I got some extra gear just in case…”

 

After rummaging through a heap of boxes and bags piled in the corner, Nick returned triumphantly, holding a shoebox.  “Your lucky day, man,” he chuckled, “I got these new and ain’t come across anyone big enough to wear ‘em—you’ll be the first.”

 

It was a pair of Adidas Adizero Varner wrestling kicks, black with white laces.  Carlos slipped them on, tightening the laces until the shoes wrapped around his feet like socks.  He stood up and faced Nick, now clad in nothing more than his skintight blue shorts and the black Adidas shoes.

 

This time, Nick pulled out his hand-held camera and sighted it on Carlos.  “Fuckin’ excellent, stud.  Totally hard-core rough trade; this lighting shows your tats perfectly.  Let’s get y’all in the ring.”

 

The kid—Brody—made his way up the steps to the mounting platform.  Carlos followed, with Nick bringing up the rear, carrying his camera.  Carlos glanced around as Brody bent down and slipped between the ropes.  He noticed small cameras—from a distance, they looked like GoPros—mounted on each of the corner posts, just above the topmost turnbuckles.

 

As Carlos parted the ropes and entered the ring, Brody called out, “Hey, Nick, where ya want me?  Gonna run this one like the last one?”

 

Nick paused, his dark eyes running contemplatively over both Carlos and Brody.  “No,” he said after a pause, “I don’t think you’re gonna be the top here.  Don’t get me wrong, dude, ya know I love ya, but look at this guy.  Ain’t no one gonna believe you can take him down.”

 

Brody nodded and fidgeted but didn’t speak; he was too coked up to be completely still.  Carlos, waiting to see where all this was going, stood quiet and impassive—on the outside.

 

This was a mistake.  He’d made a terrible mistake.

 

Rage had welled up within him at the first sight of the cocky boywhore; Carlos had known from that moment that he would need to maintain the utmost control just to make sure he didn’t go too far.  He wasn’t going to be able to make it; he was gonna end up fucking up this little piece of shit on video.

 

The homophobic sadist was abruptly pulled from his reverie by the sudden awareness that Nick was eyeing him keenly.  Nick spoke first, a shark-like grin flashing across his face.  “I got it—dude, what’s your name?  Carlos?  Ok, Carlos, this is the plot—it’s a battle to be the top.  Got it?  Winner gets to fuck loser, and neither of ya wanna get fucked, so it’s gonna be a real struggle.  And since you’re the first guy we’ve had in today who looks like he could take down this guy”—this with a nod towards Brody—“you’re gonna be the winner.”

 

“What happens when I win?” Carlos asked.

 

“We’ll figured that out when we get there,” Nick replied, “but let’s get some good struggling on camera first.”

 

Getting down on one knee, the buff porn producer squared his subjects on the screen.  “Ok, let’s get y’all into the center, facing each other—great!  Now start with a grapple and let’s see who gets thrown down first.”

 

Chuckling maliciously, Nick zoomed in as Carlos closed in on Brody.  The young punk feinted to the right before breaking left; he was just barely able to dodge Carlos’s lunge.  The buff, inked alpha stumbled, digging the black kicks into the mat to recover his balance.  Enraged, he whirled and faced the sniggering escort.

 

“Gotta be faster than that,” Brody smirked.  “Want some coke?  It’ll get ya movin’, stud.”

 

“Naw, bitch,” Carlos snarled, “I don’t need no help to take ya down.”

 

His massive, muscled chest heaving, the hard-bodied sadist turned away and walked to the corner.  He needed to get control of himself; he was making stupid mistakes.  This wasn’t like him.  There was something about this obnoxious little piece of shit—

 

Or was there?  Was that really what was going on?

 

As his firm, heaving torso, slightly slicked with sweat, slowed in tempo with his breathing, Carlos threw a sidelong glance at Nick and the camera in his hands.  Goddam, the thought of snuffing the fit little faggot on video made him get hard.

 

And given how tight his shorts were, it was obvious.

 

But this other dude, this Nick—there was something about him.  Some kinda vibe he was giving off…

 

As if maybe he was into that too.

 

Carlos regained control.  An evil grin crossed his handsome—a grin he made sure was visible to the camera.  “Ok, you little motherfucker, get ready.  I’m comin’ for ya.”  Slowly and carefully, he moved to the center of the ring, his muscled form crossing the canvas with the lithe grace of a jungle cat.

 

Brody hadn’t been paying much attention to anything until Carlos spoke again.  “Well, it’s about time,” he muttered petulantly as he stomped his way towards his hulking opponent.

 

In the view screen of the camera Nick was holding, it was clear that Brody, buff and fit as he was, was still outclassed by Carlos to what would be a ridiculous extent in a genuine match.  The sculpted ex-con towered over the cocky high-priced rentboy; if the latter hadn’t been high as fuck, he might have had some well-grounded fears.

 

They stood facing each other, silently, for a moment.  Brody, of course, was the first to break.  “Ok, so now fuckin’ wh—“

 

This time, Carlos lunged so fast the Brody never got the chance to finish his sentence.  Clamping his huge hands around the kid’s thick biceps, he pivoted and hurled the punk across the ring with no warning whatsoever.

 

With a loud, inarticulate cry, the boywhore struck the padded ropes and was flung down to the mat, flat on his back.  As he lay there desperately gasping with the wind knocked out of him, he turned his head to the side.  Carlos’s tight black Adidas shoes suddenly swam into his vision; before he was able to catch his breath, he was flying through the air again.

 

He hit the ropes again, but this time it was closer to the corner post where there was less give.  It was a violent impact that left him face down on the canvas, wondering what the fuck had happened.  Before he could figure it out, though, something even worse happened.

 

Stunned by the swiftness of the assault, Brody was unable to protest when Carlos’s powerful arm, knotted with muscles, wrapped around his neck.  Once it tightened up, he tried frantically to protest, but by then it was too late.

 

Nick inched forward into the ring, closing in on the scene.  It was fantastic—Carlos was sitting on the canvas, his thick legs spread out directly in front of him.  Between them, practically sitting on his lap, was Brody, his face darkening as Carlos applied pressure to the sleeper hold he’d locked on the boy’s throat.

 

“Ya like that, ya little faggot?” Carlos jeered in a loud tone.  “What, ya think you can stand up to a real man, you piece a’ shit, huh?”  As he spoke, the aggressive alpha made sure his eyes made direct contact with the camera lens—and then with Nick.

 

Yeah, it was there.  The light of a predator.  This guy wouldn’t care if he wasted this worthless fairy right now.  As for the video—

 

Carlos decided to see how far Nick would go.

 

With a grunt, he jerked his powerful arms, tightening the hold even more.  Brody, with a purple, swollen face and bulging eyes filled with fear, clawed helplessly at the empty air in front of him.

 

His smooth, muscled legs, pinned between Carlos’s, began to kick and thrash, the heels of the red wrestling boots beating a desperate drumbeat that echoed hollowly on the canvas mat.

 

Carlos knew his own cock was stiffening and would be instantly visible one he stood up, but he was interested to see a bulge developing in Nick’s groin as well.  He was even more interested to see how long it took for Nick to break it off—he got a good thirty seconds of chokeout footage before he spoke up.

 

“Ok, man, cut—that’s enough for now,” he said, powering down the camera.  Carlos kept the pressure up.  Nick noticed after a particularly loud gagging sound from Brody.

 

“Hey, hey, hey!” he protested.  “C’mon, dude, time out.”  Carlos relented, letting Brody fall limply to one side, teetering on the edge of consciousness.  The punk gasped and coughed as his assailant climbed to his feet.  With a concerned look on his face, Nick approached the kid.

 

Kneeling down, he gave the boy a bit to stop coughing and gagging before pulling his chin towards him and smiled down into his fear- and tear-streaked face.  “Hey, man, you ok?  Sorry about that, I’ll go have a talk with him.  Go do another coupla lines; you’ll feel better—and I’ll give ya an extra three hundred if we finish this one, ok?  Ya good with that?”

 

Snuffling, the subdued rentboy nodded sulkily and slowly pulled himself up with the ropes, casting a baleful glare back at Carlos.  Nick stood up and strode quickly to the platform.  “C’mere,” he snapped at Carlos, gesturing him to follow as he descended the stairs and walked out the door.  Bemused, the ex-con trailed along, his raging hard-on pointing out the way.

 

They were halfway down the darkened hallway when Nick whirled and faced Carlos.  “What were ya doin’ back there, man?  Were you tryin’ to kill him?”

 

Carlos paused, uncertain how to answer—when he noticed Nick’s hand.  It was rubbing a noticeably growing bulge in the crotch of his tight jeans.  Glancing up into the well-built videographer’s face, the buff ex-con saw a gleam of lust in his cold blue eyes and was not really surprised.

 

Carlos played along.  “Sorry,” he said with grin more wolfish than sheepish, “I get carried away sometimes—but these fags need to be taught their place, y’know?”

 

Nick seemed to consider a moment before he spoke again.  “Ok, then.  You might be exactly what I’ve been looking for, and if it works out, you’ll end up making a lot of money.  But the important thing is—how far are ya willing to go?  On camera?”

 

The hardbodied sadist wasn’t dense, but it took a moment for him to work it out.  “Money?  On camera?  Y-ya mean people will pay to watch?”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, his boots scuffing the carpet as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.  “I’ve already done several—I got a great way to make a profit off ’em.  The income is phenomenal but I keep it in an offshore account since a large part of it is in foreign funds.”

 

Carlos laughed aloud.  His enormous dick was now fully erect, and indicated his acceptance of the offer more eloquently than any words could.

 

At any rate, it was clear to Nick.  He said, “Tell ya what, man let’s go back in there and you do what ya want to that worthless little cunt.  And here’s an incentive—I already have the cash to pay him.  So if I don’t have to pay him—well, let’s just say I’m not comfortable walking around with that much cash; I’ll have to give it to someone…”  He abruptly strode back down the hall back to the room, leaving Carlos somewhat stunned at his luck.  He didn’t know how much had been promised to the slut, but the bonus of three hundred was itself twice what he’d been offered for the shoot.

 

Re-entering the room himself, Carlos couldn’t help but notice that Brody was already back in the ring, pacing, jittery, and obviously coked to the gills.  “Hey, dude,” the punk piped up shrilly as soon as he saw his opponent, “If you bruise me up, yer gonna hafta pay!  Ain’t no one gonna hire me if I get marked up—I’ll sue ya for loss of income!”

 

“Calm down, Edgar,” Nick said, “Carlos and I had a talk and he’s gonna treat you right from now on, we promise—right, Carlos?”

 

The buff escort blushed an angry red.  “Brody!” he screamed, enraged.  “Goddamit, my street name is Brody!  You better get it right in the credits!”

 

“Chill, dude,” Nick replied in a somewhat exasperated tone.  “I guarantee that everyone who sees this video will know the name Brody La Roc, ok?  Now get to your mark and lemme get this damn thing finished!”

 

Smirking grimly, Carlos mounted to the ring quickly and quietly.  He scanned the ring to see if there was anything he could use to his advantage, silently taking note that the turnbuckle on the top rope to the left of the far corner post had lost its padding, the threaded metal buckle glinting brightly under the harsh fluorescent light.

 

The impassive look on the alpha’s face was belied by the predatory gleam in his dark eyes, but the obnoxious boywhore was too drugged-out to notice.  It was clear that it wouldn’t be difficult to take the useless cunt out; the kid was obviously too high to put up an adequate defense.

 

This was gonna be fun.

 

As Carlos stepped to the center of the ring, his body bulked over that of his prey.  The shaven-headed alpha with his sculpted, tattooed chest and ripped abs was an intimidating opponent; the skin-tight blue compression shorts obscenely emphasizing his massive, straining cock.  If Brody had been more aware of his surroundings, he might have noticed the large dark spot right at the tip of the protruding shaft; he might have wondered what such an outpouring of precum might portend.

 

Brody himself was still jumpy; his thick, muscled body seemed to quiver with electric shock, but the dilated pupils of his bleary eyes spoke to the true cause of his symptoms.  His taut, smooth body, barely obscured by his knee-high red wrestling boots and matching Speedos, was glistening with a light coat of sweat, also generated by the coke.  And the Speedos gave yet more proof of his drug use.  Brody actually had a long, thick cock, nearly the equal of Carlos’s—but the tight briefs showed it curled limply in his groin.

 

Cocaine kills erections.  Carlos wondered how the kid made a living as an escort if he was doing that shit constantly—then it hit him.  The little motherfucker was a bottom. A complete, utter fag.  The burning rage began to swell in his chest again.

 

Nick could see what was happening simply by observing the way Carlos’s tool began to pulse rhythmically, and the way the dark circle of precum grew rapidly.  It was time to start the show.

 


 

The camera was centered on two buff, muscled men, one of them older and obviously more powerful than the other.  From behind the camera came a voice.  “Well, c’mon you two, whaddaya waitin’ for—an invitation to dance?”

 

The two men lunged towards one another, the larger tripping up the smaller.  “That’s it, Carlos!  Good!”

 

Carlos leaned down and grabbed the firm, half-naked youth.  Twisting the kid’s right arm behind his back, Carlos brought the mewling boy to his feet.  “Fuck!” the kid screamed, “That hurts!  You’re too fuckin’ rough!  Stop!”

 

“Shaddup, Edgar—oh, sorry, Brody,” came the cold, placid voice from off screen.  “You’re supposed to be an actor—fuckin’ act, bitch!”

 

Carlos swiveled his body, forcing Brody around so that the punk’s face was directly in the camera.  The handsome, well-built boywhore was flushed with rage.  Shaking violently, he tried to free himself from Carlos’s hold, his short brown hair fanning out as he struggled.  “What?!?” he screeched.  “Goddamit, I told ya—“

 

But was he told was never revealed.  With brutal swiftness, Carlos spun the cunt into the far corner and slammed him face-first into the exposed turnbuckle.  Gripping his fingers tightly in the slut’s hair, Carlos dragged his head back and smashed it forward again repeatedly, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as he beat the shrieking, screaming hustler’s face to hamburger against the metal buckle.

 

Finally, he dropped the mewling boy onto the mat with a loud, hollow thud.  As he tried feebly to crawl away, it was clear that Brody was in complete shock from his sudden, violent assault.  The once-beautiful whore, his face beaten and bloody, squirmed across the canvas mat, squealing like a stuck pig.  A deep, guttural gurgling was emitted from the battered face; it seemed to be a plea for mercy but was utterly unintelligible.

 

“Where the fuck ya goin’, faggot?” Carlos jeered as he relentlessly stalked the brutalized fuckmeat.  Brody blubbered in panic, plainly aware of the fact that Carlos intended to inflict more pain on him.   The soft sound of Carlos’s Adidas wrestling shoes padding inexorably across the mat towards him were almost inaudible, but unnecessary in any case; the ruthless, implacable vibrations of Carlos’s tread on the taut canvas told Brody of the approach of death.

 

“What’s that, you worthless homo slut?  I can’t understand a thing you’re sayin’,” Carlos mocked the stunned punk as he loomed over him.  “Hey, I gotta great idea!” he chortled cruelly, driving his foot forward to deliver a strong kick directly into the smooth youth’s heaving ribs.  “I know exactly how to figure out what yer tryin’ to say, ya cocksucker—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

This was accompanied by another kick, this one much more powerful.  This kick was rewarded with a loud crack of bone as one of Brody’s ribs shattered.  The writhing hardbodied boy wailed in pain as Carlos shoved his foot under him, then with another kicking motion, rolled Brody onto his back.  Grinning evilly down into his victim’s blood- and tear-stained face, the hulking sadistic psycho said in an even tone, “I know how to find out what yer sayin’, fag—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

The camera came in for close-up as Carlos knelt over sobbing, mewling escort and spat into his face.  “Goddam, ya whiney-ass pussy,” the brutal alpha taunted, “Listen to ya squealin’ like a fuckin’ pig.  Here, you cumsucking faggot, here’s something for ya to whine about!”  And with that, Carlos plunged straight down, his arm stiff like a pile driver and his full body weight thrown into the blow that hit Brody dead in the face.   The force was great enough to snap the whore’s cheekbone; the violent rebound bounced his head roughly on the mat.

 

The frame was centered on the boy’s battered face.  Even under the blood and trauma, the expressions on the kid’s face were readable—the pain, the fear, the paralyzing bewilderment generated by an unexpected explosion of violence.  All were captured on the video.

 

It wasn’t the only thing the camera captured—Brody begged for his life.  His bruised and beaten body, taut and sweat-soaked in physical defeat, twisted in agony as the rentboy reached his arms out towards the camera—and the cameraman.  “N-n-ni—“ came from between his swollen, split lips.  “Ni-ni-n-n-ni—“

 

He could get no further than that one syllable.  “Hey, Edgar,” came a grim chuckle from behind the camera, “I’m gonna give him yer bonus after he wastes ya, cunt.  I don’t pay whores.”  The kid’s eyes, already wide and ringed with dark circles of shock, grew huge with panic at the words.  His pupils, though, were no longer dilated; the intensity and brutality of the assault had flushed his system with adrenaline and testosterone, neutralizing the effects of the cocaine.

 

He no longer had any anesthetic.  He was suffering every single moment of the beating.

 

Carlos didn’t let up.  He continued to draw his fist back, then slam it down with all the force that his thick, knotted biceps could deliver.  The wet, smacking sounds of the repeated blows echoed in the empty room as Brody’s sobbing and gurgling began to fade.

 

The whore was on the verge of consciousness; he knew that he was being beaten to death and it was obvious just by looking at him.  The desperate, panicked look haunting his eyes had faded, now replaced with a dull, dim look as the light of life flickered and ebbed within him.  An extreme close-up of his face recorded the resignation that took hold of the high-priced rentboy in the last few moments of his life.

 

Carlos suddenly broke off the beating.  Panting and heaving, his sculpted torso slick with sweat, he turned abruptly to the camera.  “Hey, man, this little homo sack of shit still hasn’t learned what happens to faggots who think they can seed real men.”

 

“Why don’t ya tell us what happens,” the off-screen voice drawled with malicious glee.

 

“They get offed by a real man, that’s what happens.  But first the little cocksuckers gotta get seeded themselves; that’s how they know it’s a real man wastin’ them.”

 

With a wild grin, Carlos flipped Brody back over onto his face and roughly jerked the Speedos off him.  Peeling himself out of his blue compression shorts, Carlos stood with his massive tool fully erect; a camera zoom revealed the full details of the pulsing, vein-wrapped shaft pumping out a steady stream of precum.  “Yeah,” Carlos’s voice come from off-screen as his throbbing cock filled the frame, “Time to show this worthless sack of queer-ass shit exactly what a real man does to homos…”

 

Lunging forward in a nude body slam, the hard-bodied alpha dropped his full weight on the smaller whore, who responded by moaning hoarsely and scrabbling frantically at the canvas mat.  Placing one hand in the small of Brody’s back, Carlos pinned the shuddering youth, angling his massive shaft for deep penetration.

 

“You like cock, you worthless pansy?” the ex-con sneered in a tone of cold rage that was contradicted by the glitter of lust in his eyes—a glitter of which he seemed to be unaware, but which was perfectly captured on camera.  “Then yer gonna love this, cunt, this is what a genuine fag-snuffin’ grade-A male feels like!”

 

And with that, he reamed his entire swollen tool into the whore’s ass, in a single powerful thrust.

 

Brody had taken plenty of cock up his hole in the last six or seven—was it eight?—years since he’d been selling his young, smooth body, but none of them had been quite this big.  And those that had been close had also been slow and well-lubed.

 

Even with his face beaten to a pulp, he could feel every moment of this fresh new torment as he was skewered on a gigantic dick, one that tore his sphincter open without waiting for it to relax and accept.  After that, it all dissolved into a sheet of white-hot agony as the engorged mushroom tip plunged the depths of his colon, scraping and tearing at the rectal lining.

 

And all his horrific pain was recorded in loving detail.  The camera pulled back enough to show Brody, squealing and thrashing, impaled on Carlos’s cock.  The tattooed killer, his muscled back moving rhythmically with his thrusts and covered with a glistening film of mansweat, reached up and grasped the battered rentboy’s chin, clutching it tightly, painfully in one powerful hand.  Brody gave one final high-pitched squeal before Carlos clamped his mouth shut.

 

Looking up with an insanely gleeful grin, Carlos spoke directly to the camera—he was speaking to Nick.  “Whaddaya think, dude?  Time to waste this useless faggot?  Yeah?  Fuck, I’m about to pump his guts fulla hot manspunk, man—goddam, I’m gonna mark this bitch as mine and snuff his worthless ass—fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!”

 

Jerking violently, Carlos began spraying a solid jet of sperm deep into Brody.  As he did, he grabbed a huge handful of Brody’s brown hair.  Feeling the cumdump meat kicking his wrestling boots in fear and pain, the cruel sadist gave a loud grunt, shot a boiling wad of spunk into the cunt’s ass and jerked his arms reflexively in orgasm.  As his bulging biceps tightened he jerked Brody’s head around a full ninety degrees or more.

 

It sounded like popcorn, the noise of shattering vertebrae.  The expression in the boywhore’s bloodied face showed that despite his shredded spinal column, death was not instant.  His entire body was immediately wracked with violent convulsions.  “Fuck yeah,” Carlos moaned, “Milk my cock, fag, drain my cum as ya die…”

 

The camera closed in on Brody’s face, zooming in to capture his eyes as life drained out of them.  The beautiful high-price escort was almost unrecognizable in the twitching pile of damaged and bleeding meat centered in the frame.  The image was held for a few seconds before widening again.

 

Shuddering and gasping, Carlos withdrew his still-engorged member and stood up.  Stepping to the far side of the corpse, he faced the camera, smiled, and ground his foot into the still-quivering face, the sole of the Adidas shoe flattening the already-broken nose.

 

“Yeah, bitch,” Carlos said proudly to the camera, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  That’s what us straight dudes do to worthless faggot fucks!”  There was no trace of irony in his words; as he spoke, large drops of semen were still oozing from his erect cock, splattering onto the dead punk’s smooth, bruised chest.

 

“Ok, that’s a wrap,” said Nick.

 


 

After cleaning himself up and re-dressing in the bathroom down the hall, Carlos came back to the large room and joined Nick.  The latter was sitting at one of the tables along the wall; he was editing video, just as he’d been doing when Carlos first saw—but now it was Carlos himself on the screen.

 

“Sit down, kid,” Nick said evenly.  With a loud metallic clang, his iron-toed work boot kicked an empty chair out as an invitation.  “Ya did really good. Not great, but really good.”

 

Anger rose in Carlos’s well-developed chest.  “Whaddaya mean?  What’d I do wrong?”

 

“Chill out, man,” Nick said with a deep chuckle.  “I been doin’ films like this for a long time.  Both sides of the camera—ya feel me, dude?  I know what I’m talkin’ about here.”  He cued up a section of video.  “See here, where you’re bashing his face into the turnbuckle?  It woulda been a lot more effective if you’d stopped in the middle to taunt him, especially if you’d forced him to face the camera.”

 

The buff filmmaker forwarded the video on the screen before he continued.  “And here, where you kicked him—that was hot, man, but you coulda done more.  You coulda made the slut suffer a lot more—and same thing at the end.  You got too excited and shot your bolt too soon.  But I can’t complain too much; the biggest mistake was my own.  I shoulda told ya to strangle him.  Mighta gotten him hard despite the coke.”

 

And suddenly, the rage-filled convict did chill.  He’d been right, Carlos thought, he had been getting a vibe from this guy.

 

Carlos was in the presence of a master.

 

“So here’s the deal,” Nick continued calmly.  “I like your work, but you’re gonna have to be able to take some direction—and to stick to it in the excitement of the moment.  Do you have that kinda self-control?”

 

It was a good question.  Carlos had to stop and think; he could sense that this was an important moment for him and he wanted to answer honestly.  “Yeah,” he finally responded, “Yeah I think I can.  But that’s on camera.  Sometimes I hafta just go and waste a homo cunt, and if there ain’t a camera around, tough shit.”

 

Now it was Nick’s turn to consider.  “Ok, fine.  You go do your own thing, but you’re available whenever I’m ready to film.  We’ll start ya at a grand per video and see how they gross; if you turn out to be as popular as I think ya will, you’ll soon be earning a lot more.”

 

Carlos could hardly believe his luck—then a question occurred to him.  “A grand per vid?  How often are we shooting?”

 

Nick laughed, a loud braying guffaw.  “Man, there ain’t no regular schedule for this kinda work!  I’m hopin’ for two a month to start; we’ll see how many hits ya get.  But I’ll need to be able to reach you at any time.  Lessee, I got your cell and if something comes up I can send a car if you’re too fucked up to drive—where ya stayin’?”

 

The older, larger stud recoiled in surprise when Carlos gave him the North Las Vegas address.  “Shit, man, you’re in the fuckin’ war zone.  Ya know what—I gotta high-rise condo on Paradise, right off the Strip.   Use it for bedroom sets.  Used to rent it out for all kinda porn shots too, but haven’t had any offers for a while.  Why don’t you stay there till we see what kinda revenue you can generate?”

 

Carlos was overwhelmed.  Nearly everything he’d wanted from Vegas had just been dumped right into his lap.  And as eager as he was to accept, he was suspicious.  “Why are ya doin’ all this for me, jefe?  You ain’t gonna get all fruity on me too, are ya?”

 

Nick laughed again, deeply.  “Carlos—that is your name, right?  Carlos, the reason I’m doing all this is because I can make a shitload of money offa ya—and, incidentally, make you a shitload of money, too.  I told ya, I got a great snuff porn network from my last partner—these dudes will cum all over themselves watching you.  Now c’mon and gimme a hand.  Actors gotta pitch in and lend a hand breaking the set.”

 

“What?” Carlos asked, startled, “You want me to help take down the ring?”

 

“Fuck no,” Nick replied, “I got a crew comin’ in in an hour or so to take it down and haul it out.  Get that tarp over there.  We’re gonna go dump the corpse.”

 

In a hazy sense of excitement, Carlos grabbed the folded tarp and climbed into the ring one last time.  Nick was already kneeling near Brody’s body—now still—and unlacing the knee-high wrestling boots.  “Might be able to return these if the cunt hasn’t damaged them too much.”

 

A couple of sharp tugs and the red boots were flung over the side onto the floor.  Then Nick motioned Carlos to approach.  They unfolded the tarp on the mat next to the body, then rolled the corpse over, wrapping the tarp around it until it was fully encased.  Without being asked, Carlos bent down, picked the limp form up and slung it over his shoulder.  “I got this,” he said, “where do ya want it?”

 

“Thanks, dude,” Nick smiled.  “Worthless cunt pissed on the mat when he died; I gotta get that cleaned.  We’ll go toss that meat in the back of my truck and run it down the street to the factory compactor.”

 

Walking down the hall towards the front door with the dead weight of Brody La Roc resting on his shoulder, Carlos couldn’t help asking one last question.  “Hey—uh, Nick, you said something about a partner in this porn network.  Is he someone I need to worry about?”

 

From the darkness behind him came a grim chuckle.  “Tony?  Naw, man.  I took care of him.  Ain’t no one gotta worry about him anymore…”

M4M Bathroom Break

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“DTF Dude—

25 yo/WGM/5’9”/145 lbs

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

 

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

 

Grinning, he favorited the profile.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

Now, it was later.

 

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

 

“Hey man—

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “you Brad?

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You take it up the ass?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

—and then the door to the rest room opened.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Brad shut up.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

Convict 4–Sin City Snuff

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It took Carlos three hours to drive three miles.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But he wasn’t afraid enough.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was far worse than he’d imagined.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Except it was happening now.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It had the opposite effect.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

With steel.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The anguished youth gurgled desperately, his mouth full of the nauseating coppery taste of his own blood.  He could hear and understand the words being spoken but had no capacity for further reaction.  His entire existence was full of pain and cock.  Even in the deepest pit of panic, Shaun was aware of Carlos’s angry, pulsing shaft impaling his guts; the searing, stabbing pain in his rectum was every bit as intense as that in his side, or his throat.

 

The tortured boywhore barely noticed the sensation when Carlos ran the tip of his combat knife down the center of the kid’s chest, the razor-sharp point barely scratching the surface of the boy’s silky-smooth skin.  He stopped at a point several inches below the sternum.

 

Glancing down at the teenaged hustler, Carlos sneered, then slowly began shove the blade into Shaun’s flat, quivering belly.  He counted it out allowing ten seconds to penetrate a quarter-inch into the kid’s writhing body.

 

As the length of sharp steel was being inserted into his guts, Shaun screamed—or would have, if he’d been able.  His head was thrown back, eyes almost impossibly wide and ringed with black circles of shock.  His face distorted in agony, the boywhore’s mouth was stretched wide to scream but the only sound that came out was a grotesque wheezing noise.

 

“Hell yeah, you fuckin’ faggot pig!” Carlos crowed in triumph as he forced the knife forward relentlessly, “enjoy it, ya useless homo cumdump!  Enjoy the pain, ya sack of shit!”

 

The ex-con was an experienced fag-killer by now; he knew that when the resistance to the blade lessened that he’d hit a void—he’d shoved the knife in far enough to penetrate the stomach.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered gleefully at the shuddering boymeat wallowing beneath him, “I’m fuckin’ yer guts good now, cunt, and damn if it ain’t got yer ass all nice and tight.”

 

Tensing the bulging bicep in his killing arm, Carlos drove the knife in even deeper.  Slicing through Shaun’s firm, slender abdomen with a loud squelching noise, the twelve-inch steel blade tore through the thrashing, gurgling youth’s back and into the mattress beneath.

 

The teen rentboy was now pinned to the bed with a Bowie knife through his gut and a killer’s cock up his ass.  His smooth white body was marked by blood flowing from his wounds, but most of the bleeding was internal.  The exception was his face; his futile gasping had caused an occasional bubble of blood to form on his lips; they’d spattered his cheeks when they burst, streaking the pale blond hairs on his cheeks.

 

Shaun was no longer capable of rational thought; his entire awareness was focused on physical sensation, on the tsunami of torture being inflicted on his body.  The violent assfuck he was enduring made his slim form buck and jerk on the bed—but the knife was stuck in the mattress; it remained still.

 

It was sawing him open from the inside.

 

The worst thing of all was that, above the terrible agony of brutal buttrape and repeated stabbings, Shaun could also feel his own erection.  And somehow, that seemed to hurt more than anything else…

 

Carlos could see that the whore was almost meat.  “Fuck yeah,” he whispered, more to himself, since he was damn well aware the cunt was no longer lucid.  “Die, you goddam faggot piece of shit…motherfucking cumpig…”

 

With a single vicious jerk, Carlos yanked his knife up out of Shaun’s belly.  The writhing punk gasped as the razor-sharp steel slashed up out of him.  He didn’t have time to exhale before the buff, aggressive sadist slammed the blade back down into his chest.

 

It was the death blow.  But it wasn’t clean; the knife hit a rib on the way in, shattering it.  Bone fragments exploded like shrapnel, riddling the unfortunate youth’s viscera as the blade itself penetrated the heart, puncturing it like a large, wet, pulsing balloon.  Even then, it didn’t stop, slashing its way through the torso, emerging below the clavicle—and, again, pinning the kid to the bed.

 

Shaun stiffened, every muscle in his body going rigid with trauma-induced shock.  His torn, bleeding sphincter closed down on the thick root of Carlos’s dick like a cockring.  At the same time, the hormone-swamped teen’s shaft snapped to attention, smacking against his killer’s muscle-rippled belly.

 

Instantly, the rentboy began convulsing—and so did his dick.  It swelled and pulsed visibly as it shot a solid stream of semen in an intense, steady jet.  While the teenager slutboy’s heart ruptured and flayed itself to hamburger against the blade that impaled it, his dying body expelled a desperate geyser of genetic material, a final, reflexive, useless attempt at self-preservation.

 

It was the full-body convulsions, though, that milked the cum out of Carlos’s tool.  He held on to the flailing, kicking teen as the boy died, letting the cunt’s violent death throes jack him off.  The powerful alpha grunted in pleasure, then roared out curses as he pumped multiple hot wads of spunk into the bitchboy’s mangled intestines.

 

At some point, Carlos regained control of himself.  He was heaving and shuddering, his engorged rod still buried deep in the ass of Shaun’s corpse.  Sweating and gasping, he remained there for a few minutes, feeling spasms still flowing down his shaft, forcing the last few drops of seed out of him.

 

He pulled out, his massive hog bobbing up once it was free of the dead boy’s fuckhole.  The fag whore was still quivering and trembling, pinned to the bed like an insect.  Grinning with pleasure, Carlos leaned forward and jerked his knife out of the meat.  The youth’s mangled corpse convulsed violently as the blade was withdrawn, the white leather Adidas kicks tearing and scuffling at the sheets, before one last violent spasm squeezed a teaspoon of semen out of the meat’s semi-erect dick.  Then it went still.

 

The hard-bodied ex-con stood triumphant over his victim, bloody knife held out in one muscled, inked arm.  His enormous cock jutted out in front of him, dangling over the prone corpse of his prey, still dripping pearls of manspunk onto the mute, helpless form.

 

Carlos’s attention was caught by a glint of light on the floor near his boot.  Bending down, he noticed it was the thick gold chain.  Chuckling, he picked it up and pocketed it, then looked around and located his leather vest.  Snagging it and reaching into an inside pocket, he retrieved his pack of Marlboro Reds.

 

It was hot in the room; the powerful ex-con felt uncomfortably warm.  He was gonna need more money to get a decent place in the heat; he had enough for the moment, and the chain in his pocket would certainly help—but for tonight, he was staying here, in this miserable sweatbox.

 

And it stank of blood and mansex.

 

Whirling around in disgust, Carlos strode to the bed and shoved Shaun’s cooling, stiffening body to the floor on the far side.  He switched off the light on the nightstand and opened the door.

 

The buff alpha, still half-nude, stepped out on the walkway.  He was pleasantly surprised to find a cool desert breeze blowing.  Taking another drag off his cigarette, he looked up at the garishly-lit Stratosphere Tower only a few blocks east.  To the south, he could see the glittering, blinking towers of the Vegas Strip.

 

Standing in the darkness, he knew he was where he was meant to be.  So many rich homos to fuck, rob and slaughter—cheap whores, high-priced escorts, tourists looking for fun—he couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

 

His cock, still dangling out of his open fly, grew stiff again.

Convict 3–No Trace of Mercy

As Carlos merged back onto the highway from the Winterbourne Road onramp, he became aware of a loud whistling sound accompanied by a jet of cold air.  Glancing up, he realized that the strip of duct tape covering a tear in the convertible roof had peeled off.

 

His broad, tattooed chest was still glistening with sweat from his revenge fuck.  Even though it wasn’t that cold outside, it was chilly enough to be uncomfortable against his bare skin.  He abruptly made up his mind to head back to his motel room for a moment.

 

He wasn’t done for the night, fuck no.  His adrenaline and testosterone were flowing; he was flush with cash—and he was hard again.  A quick stop to pick up a couple of things, and he’d be back on the street.

 

Another unlucky fag was gonna get snuffed tonight.  He was out there somewhere, right now, trolling the streets for dick.

 

Carlos put the pedal down.  He was unaware of the ugly leer that twisted his hard, handsome face into a sadistic grimace; he just knew he was in a hurry.  He was riding a high fueled by lust and endorphins, and he was gonna take advantage of it.  The twenty minutes it took to get back across town to his motel seemed endless.

 

He was in the room for only about five minutes.  After hiding the cash, it only took seconds to cross to the closet and pull a jacket off a hanger.  He’d gotten it at a pawn shop earlier that day, after he’d bought his other clothes.  It was a heavy leather biker jacket, a brand named “American Armor”.  Slightly worn but in excellent shape, it had zippered sleeves, wide double-breasted lapels with snaps and a thick quilted lining; it was legitimately made for a biker.

 

And used by one, to judge by the smell.  It was rank with sweat and smoke, but above all, the dense, heady scent of leather emanated strongly from it; one whiff would get the fag pigs running.

 

Laying the jacket across the back of a chair he dug in the closet for another purchase he’d made that day, this time in an army surplus store.  Taking the box to the bed, he opened it to reveal a new pair of black nylon combat boots with thick rubber soles and—the real selling point for Carlos—a boot sheath in each one, for right- or left-handed action.

 

The brawny convict sat on the bed and slipped his engineer boots off, noticing a stain of Will’s blood on the right toe.  He quickly wiped it off with a tissue before carefully setting the boots to the side.  They were still his favorite, but the new pair would hold a knife better.

 

He laced them tightly up his calf, making sure they were snug.  In the future, he’d use the zippers on the sides, but he needed to ensure the fit the first time.  He also needed to test the fit of his knife; he wasn’t sure the sheath was designed to handle his foot-long blade.

 

Carlos paused on the way out the door, admiring his hard, lightly-furred body in the mirror.  He was still all in black, from his combat utility boots to his tight jeans to the musky jacket hanging open and giving a tantalizing glimpse of his broad pecs and ripped abs.  Even the shiny black do-rag was still knotted onto his shaved head.

 

 

The hard-bodied convict grinned.  He looked hot, and he knew it.  What’s more, he looked dangerous.  The bulge in his jeans several inches below his knee caused by the handle of his knife wasn’t obvious enough to cause comment, but it might cause some interest.  No true bottom pig faggot would be able to turn him down, and he was counting on it.

 

His earlier prey had been specifically targeted for money, but now Carlos was flush with cash.  When he stalked out of hotel room, he wasn’t out to find a victim with cash.

 

A demon of sexual rage still burned in his chest. This time, he was just out to make a homo slut suffer.

 

Back in the stolen Mustang, back on the prowl.  Carlos was looking for meat on the hoof and he knew where to find it—back at his old cruising grounds.  Actually, he’d had several, all notorious pick-up spots in disreputable areas on the edge of the gay ghetto, several of which had been redeveloped while he was in the pen.

 

River Oak Park hadn’t, though.  It was still dilapidated and dark; the trails that wound under the eponymous oaks had large areas of zero visibility where the pathway lights were out.  At least it had the oaks; the “river”—more an embanked storm culvert than a natural waterway—was dry with the lack of recent rain.

 

It wasn’t a place most people chose to use for relaxation, so it became a place a few people chose to use for sex.  Carlos had met the fag he’d whacked—the one he got sent away for—in this park; then they’d driven elsewhere.

 

He’d put out his headlights even before pulling into the parking lot; his car a dark shape gliding among several others.  Drifting slowly into a space, he shut the vehicle off and glanced around.

 

Even in the dim light—only three of parking lot’s sixteen light poles were working—he could see several dudes.  Some were hanging out in the parking lot itself; as he watched, he saw one boy, barely out of his teens, so fucked on booze or drugs—well, it must have been something to make him crawl in through an open window instead of just opening the car door.  Whatever the case was, the car started up and left the park immediately.

 

Carlos wondered idly if the boy would be seen alive again. If it had been his car…

 

Other dudes seem to emerge out of and melt back into the darkness of the park.  Carlos decided it was time to get out; he wasn’t gonna do anything in the car, at any rate.

 

As his broad, muscular body slipped into invisibility under the bare, interlocking branches of the oaks, he moved forward silently.  The rubber soles of his combat boots had been designed for stealth; it emphasized the intensity of the hunt.

 

Carlos was horny, hard, and ready to kill again.  Time to take down another worthless cocksucking pansy.  His black eyes, wide and sparkling in the darkness, peered around eagerly.  So many disgusting fags; who was gonna be the lucky cunt to taste his sperm and his steel?

 

Just under a mile away, the creek bed made a sharp turn south.  The path, running along the north side of the creek, bent as well.  The inside of the bend, on the south side of the path between it and the creek, was actually a flat peninsula screened by brush—very popular and currently in use by several couples.

 

North of the path the land was also covered with low-lying underbrush, but rising to the north as it did, it was less congenial to immediate public buttfucking; one had to hike some ways up a hill to reach a level but secluded clearing.  Still, that side of the path wasn’t unpopulated.

 

Trace stood alone in the dark, in the bushes on the north of the path, angry and impatient.  The teen shifted, his long, lean body stiff and uncomfortable.  Jimmy shoulda been there almost an hour ago; Trace wasn’t gonna wait for him much longer.  After all, he’d sneaked out of his house that night just so Jimmy could skullfuck him.

 

If Jimmy wasn’t gonna show, Trace was sure he could find other dudes to ream his throat just has hard as Jimmy did.

 

Trace was just six weeks past his eighteenth birthday; his wide blue eyes made him look even younger.  His black hair was long and carefully negligent, with long bangs spread over his forehead, almost hanging into his eyes.  In the back, it was longer and layered.  Combined with his smooth cheeks and wide, easy-going grin, he had a look that ensured he got what he wanted in terms of sex.

 

Trace could have had any girl in the senior class, but what he wanted was Jimmy, tight end on the football team.  It wasn’t that Trace was pining for a sports hero to take his virginity—he’d been with half the football team and a third of both the basketball team and the wrestling team before he got out of his junior year—but there was something about Jimmy…

 

Jimmy was straight.  If he wasn’t, he was good at playing it—he’d only meet Trace in the park after dark, in a pre-arranged location so no one would know.  And it was hard to believe that his contempt for homosexuals was role-play, given the way he slapped Trace around while ruthlessly breeding his mouth.  One day, if he thought he could take the pain, he’d let Jimmy up his ass…

 

Trace had loved every fucking second of it.  And tonight, Jimmy wasn’t here.  Even worse, Trace could hear the sounds of sex all around him in the darkness.  He couldn’t see anything, but his teenage body was responding to the outpouring of semen and testosterone around him.

 

It was maddening.   It was an itch he couldn’t scratch—and it was centered deep in his balls.  The lean, well-built youth was as randy as a cat in heat.  He was done waiting for his top.

 

The lust- and hormone-fueled teen decided he couldn’t wait any more.  He followed his hard dick out into the darkness to meet his fate.

 

He was certainly dressed to meet someone.  Trace had a slim swimmer’s build—lean and firm, not scrawny—and he knew how to accentuate it.  Tonight, his smooth chest was covered with a simple white cotton t-shirt at least one size too small, looking as if it had been painted onto his low, broad pecs and his flat belly.

 

Since the night was chilly, he wore a blue denim button-down shirt open over the t-shirt.  His equally-revealing jogging jeans were less faded, but the way they clung to his tight ass and highlighted his package left nothing to the imagination.  The jeans had elastic gathering the ankles, so they appeared to be bloused into Trace’s red canvas Converse hightops.

 

The young fag hadn’t specifically dressed like a slut—but he was a slut, and a good-looking one at that, and he felt no need to hide his light under a bushel.  In fact, he wanted all the hot dudes to see just how much he was flaming.  Not that he was particularly effeminate.

 

But he did love dick.

 

Stepping out onto the path, the horny teen followed his eager, throbbing cock into the darkness.  The new moon, thin as a fingernail paring, shed little light and the occasional working light within the park itself didn’t do much to dispel the blackness.  Trace could sense other men just off the path, but couldn’t see exactly what they were doing—or if they were interested.

 

He walked on, the white soles of his canvas hightops almost silent on the paved footpath.  The ground to his left sloped down to the creek, while that on his right rose gently into a heavily wooded section of the greenbelt.  He’d wandered just over half a mile when he realized that he hadn’t seen anyone for a while.

 

Shrugging, Trace decided that dudes looking for a hookup didn’t go this far into the park.  He turned, deciding to try his luck in the parking lot, when he heard footsteps behind.

 

Instead of leaving, the young slut made the worst mistake of his life and paused to listen.  The footfalls were faint and the path curved around a bend in the creek five yards ahead—he couldn’t see anyone.

 

And then suddenly, there he was.  A tall, muscular stud, appearing out of the murk and looming over him.  Thirty feet back was a light pole; the glow wasn’t bright, but it was good enough to see the hot dude who’d come out of nowhere.

 

Just a single glance at the teen he stumbled across told Carlos all he needed to know.  After all, the little fuck wasn’t dressed to hide his assets; even in the dim lighting, he could see the punk’s thick junk through his tight jeans.  It was the eyes, though—the way lust illuminated them. Cat-like, they almost glowed in the dark.

 

The little faggot wanted it bad, Carlos realized.  Well, he was ready to give it—bad.  Real bad.

 

Trace gazed up in wonder at the muscled cholo looming over him.  The well-built dude was all in black, practically camouflage in this part of the park, but the aroused teen could still make out the older man’s huge pecs.  Even in the dim light, he could see the tattoos half-hidden under the leather jacket, the dark treasure trail undulating over the stud’s ripped abs as it disappeared beneath the waistband of the tight black denim.

 

Carlos had read the signs right.  A single look at the strapping con had driven all thoughts of Jimmy out of the youth’s mind.  This dude—this was a real man.  Trace wanted this guy inside him.  Deep.

 

Carlos could see the boy’s mouth open and silently mouth the word “wow” before his tongue darted quickly across his lips.  He knew the little fag was thinking about gagging on Carlos’s fat hog; the kid’s worthless pig lust was radiating palpably from his tight, hormone-filled body.

 

Time to make his move, he decided.  This was gonna be easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

 

It was just gonna be a lot, lot slower.

 

“Ya want my dick, boy?” Carlos grunted in a low voice, already knowing what the answer would be.

 

“Uh-huh,” Trace muttered, barely audible.  Tentatively, he reached his hand out toward the swollen bulge he could just barely discern in the top’s groin.

 

“Not here, puta,” Carlos snapped.  “I ain’t pluggin’ yer face on the path.  I don’t give no free shows, vato, got me?

 

Wide-eyed, the teen slut nodded; the gruff bass of the alpha’s hoarse voice seemed to vibrate along his spine and the root of his dick.  “Up there,” he gasped, jerking his head to the right where the ground sloped up to more dense woods.

 

As they turned and silently made their way uphill, Trace found himself walking stiffly.  His cock was so hard it hurt.

 

In a moment, they were picking their way through the trees.  The thick carpet of dead leaves crackled under the soles of the kid’s Converse sneakers.  Carlos’s military-style combat boots made much less noise.

 

Not that it mattered; they were too far back into the greenbelt to see the path.  Five yards further on, a high chain link fence marked the edge of park land.  Beyond, the tree line dwindled down to a swath of waste ground that bordered a landfill a mile away.

 

They were completely isolated, for all intents and purposes—even Carlos’s.

 

Trace’s hands fumbled hurriedly in his groin as he unzipped his fly to give some release to the aching six-inch cock trapped in his tight jeans.  Carlos stood and watched him in silent contempt—stupid little homo couldn’t even control his disgusting urges.

 

Well, then—Carlos was gonna have to control them for him.  Reaching down to his own groin, he hauled his huge tube of meat out, letting it dangle and drip in the night air.

 

The teen froze.  He was mesmerized by the older dude’s tool.  Fuck, Jimmy was hung, but this guy put Jimmy to shame.  He wanted this cock inside him, fuck, he wanted it so bad…

 

He swiftly shucked off his button-down shirt, tossing it negligently onto the ground before pulling off his tight t-shirt and tossing it on top of the other.  As he stepped toward Carlos, a thin sliver of faint moonlight illuminated his soft, flat belly and smooth chest, firm but not overly developed.

 

He approached the towering cholo stud, hesitantly but eagerly.  His huge blue eyes, framed by long lashes that added an extra hint of vulnerability to his beautiful, youthful face, turned expectantly up to those of the erotic, mysterious alpha.

 

Like a good bottom pig, he was awaiting orders.  He didn’t have long to wait.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” Carlos snarled abruptly.  “Down on your knees and gag on it, you worthless homo—now!”

 

Trace jerked, startled by the suddenness of the order, but he obeyed.  Falling to his knees on the soft flooring of leaves, he opened his mouth wide and took the swollen, oozing head into his mouth, tasting the salty drops of precum trickling from the tip.

 

Carlos grunted as the teen slowly began deepthroating him.  He felt the boy’s esophagus wrap tightly around his shaft as the kid buried his face in the alpha’s crotch, grinding his nose voluntarily into the stud’s pubic hair.

 

“Goddam, puta, you mother fuckin’ cocksucker,” the grinning killer hissed, “fuckin’ punk gobblin’ down my dick—you a natural born faggot, aintcha?”

 

Trace made the mistake of trying to answer, gurgling on the shaft of flesh jammed down his throat.  He was rewarded with a hard bitchslap across his face.  “Shaddap!” Carlos growled.  “Lick under my head, cunt.  Run your tongue down my tool.”

 

The boy obeyed, wrapping his arms around the stud’s thick, muscled legs.  As he chugged down the convict’s cock, he ran his hands up and down the taut denim, feeling Carlos’s hard, chiseled thighs and calves.  His hands sank lower and lower, down towards the alpha’s combat boots…

 

…and encountered the hilt of the knife.

 

“What?” Trace muttered in surprise as he pulled his head up off Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “What was that?”  He peered up into the stranger’s face, obscured in the darkness.

 

He couldn’t see the look of cruel anger building in the brawny convict’s face, but he could hear the menace in the older man’s cold whisper.  “It was gonna be a surprise for ya, boy.  See, vato, you’re broken.  I’m gonna fix ya.  When I’m done with ya, you won’t be a faggot no more.”

 

Trace scrambled backward across the dead leaves, trying to get to his feet.  “Wh-whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, man?” he quavered as the realization of impending danger began to percolate through his haze of lust and hormones.

 

“I’m talking about stickin’ you like the useless fag pig you are, punk.  And the first thing I’m gonna stick you with is my cock.  Shame ya didn’t give me more head, fairy, cause that’s all the lube yer gonna get.”

 

“What? No!” the youth squealed in fear.  “Dude, I just give head—ain’t no one been up my ass!”

 

“Tough luck, cunt,” the vicious convict sneered.  “Guess that means this is gonna hurt like a bitch, huh?  Good.  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you ain’t too tight.”

 

“M-man, I th-think I gotta go,” Trace whispered as cold fear stole over his smooth slim body, trembling in the pale moonlight.  “I-I gotta be-be somewhere…”

 

He had time for just one yelp of terror as Carlos sprang at him and slammed him sideways into a tree.  Unluckily for the randy, adventurous teen, there was no one close enough to hear it.  As he slumped unconscious to the ground, there was no hope of rescue.  And Carlos knew it.

 

It only took a moment to bind the punk’s hands behind his back, using his own button-down denim shirt, twisted into a band.  That done, Carlos flipped the boy onto his back, making sure the boy’s bound hands were bent up into an agonizing position under his own body weight.

 

Carlos was gonna teach the teen homo a thing or two about the pain he felt all faggots deserved, before “fixing’ him for good.

 

He started by parting the slut’s legs, leaving his jeans and hightops still on.  Shrugging off his leather jacket, he laid it between the boy’s spread legs.  As he did, the kid began to moan.  The fluttering eyelashes in his gorgeous face signaled the slow, reluctant return of consciousness.

 

Carlos grunted in contempt.  Little fuck hadn’t even hit the tree hard enough to break the skin.  If that was all it took to lay him low, he realized, he was gonna hafta be careful or he’d fix the fag before he got to have any fun with him.

 

The strapping convict stood over the prone, helpless teen.  Stripped to the waist, his powerful, tattooed torso gleamed in the faint sliver light in the small clearing.  The teen swam back to a stunned awareness to see the ominous muscled silhouette looming over him—and he realized just how isolated and alone he was.

 

Trace began to blubber, jerking and yanking his arms helplessly against the tight binding.  “P-please, man, no,” he sobbed, “I’ll do anything ya-ya want, dude, you can stick it up my ass, I w-won’t tell anyone—“  He trailed off into incoherent weeping.

 

Carlos just stood silently over the cowering, helpless boy.  He didn’t say a word—he just held up the knife.

 

It was the same one he’d bought his first day out.  The razor-sharp edge, all twelve inches of it, glinted wickedly in the faint light, as did the deep, evil serrations on the other side.  The hilt ended in a handle with a handguard; Carlos could be assured of a secure, well-balanced grip whether he was slashing through organs or slicing through bone.

 

Tonight, he was planning to do both.  But he needed to be careful.  Little queer-ass pansy was fragile; he’d have to make sure he was only hitting non-vital areas to start.  Good thing he’d learned all about inflicting nightmarish but non-fatal pain in prison.

 

But to start with, he wanted to fuck.  His throbbing shaft needed care and a warm, moist sheath.  This teen’s ass would work perfectly, but he knew it’d take time, effort, and some slight discomfort to pop the cherry hole.

 

He had a better idea.

 

“So you ain’t never had anyone up yer fuckhole, huh, you worthless slut?  What kinda fag are ya, bitch?  We’re gonna fix that right now.  Don’t worry, cunt, my shaft ain’t gonna hurt ya.  Well, not after I open ya up with this.”

 

Dropping to his knees on his jacket between the kid’s legs, Carlos leaned forward over the prone youth and held his knife up in front of the boy’s face.

 

Trace already knew that things were bad, that he was in more danger than he’d ever been in before, but he wasn’t able to absorb the implication of the knife.  For one thing, at seventeen inches with a twelve-inch double-sided stainless steel blade, it was both larger and incomparably better designed to inflict pain and death than any blade he’d ever seen before.  He simply couldn’t imagine it being used on him.

 

That changed the moment Carlos lifted the helpless youth’s legs and rammed the knife straight through the tight denim cradling his ass up into his rectum.  The sadistic killer hadn’t just cut himself a fuckhole through the jeans, he forced the blade up into the unfortunate kid’s colon, slicing his sphincter suddenly and brutally.

 

Carlos paused for a moment, his biceps bulging as he forced the blade in deeper.  Then he twisted it viciously deep in Trace’s guts before yanking it out again in a swift, cruel, slicing motion.  Holding the bloody blade up for a moment, the evil killer admired the evidence of his own malignant sadism.

 

Beneath him, the teen writhed in agony, experiencing an entire spectrum of pain he’d never known existed.  The cold, glassy slashes deep inside his tender fuckhole were too intense for him to scream; he could only gurgle and spray saliva as he tried desperately not to vomit in pain.

 

Carlos could see the amount of agony he’d inflicted on his victim.  “Fuck yeah, cunt, looks like you’re finally ready to take my dick.  ‘Course, even after slittin’ ya so it won’t hurt so bad, I’m still gonna tear ya some, but you like the pain, right faggot?”

 

As the bound, helpless teen writhed and mewled in pain, the brutal convict grabbed his club-like cock and plunged it into the kid’s mangled ass.  The only lube was the boy’s warm blood as Carlos proved true to his word; the slashes he’d cut in the cunt’s sphincter weren’t enough—his thick, pulsing shaft tore Trace’s ass open even more painfully than the knife had.

 

The young virgin had reached a snapping point; the pain was too much.  He shrieked in a shrill cry of agony, fear and despair.

 

It was music to Carlos’s ears.  It was proof of the pain he was able to inflict on this worthless little faggot—but it could also draw the attention of others.  He wasn’t done torturing this motherfucker, not by a long shot.  He needed to keep the meat quiet.

 

He brought his blade into play again.

 

For a few months, he’d shared a cell with a straight serial killer.  The guy had had lots of useful tips; Carlos had learned a lot from him.  Like how to silence a fucktoy while still keeping ‘em alive.  It caused unimaginable pain—but who cared?

 

He used it now.  “Stupid pansy piece of shit, guess I gotta shut you up, your fuckin’ pig squeals are goddam annoying, motherfucker,” he snarled as he stuck the tip of his blade into Trace’s Adam’s apple.

 

Tightening his strong bicep, he drove the sharp steel tip down into the boy’s larynx.  He had to apply some force when he felt the resistance of the cartilage, but he was able to slice through the voicebox and slit Trace’s vocal cords with ease.  Once the knife was inserted far enough to do the appropriate damage, the cruel killer abruptly yanked it back out.

 

He’d rendered the helpless teen boy mute and wallowing in unimaginable agony, without endangering a single major blood vessel.  Trace wasn’t dying; he only wished he was.

 

The pain was far beyond anything he’d ever imagined; in him mind he was screaming in horrific agony.  The fact that all he could hear was a wet gurgling sound accompanied by a faint spray of blood scared him so bad he was barely coherent, but the grotesque blood-gargling sensation in his throat was nothing compare to the red-hot iron shaft being shoved up his ass…

 

At some point, Trace wished devoutly he’d stayed in the bushes and waited for Jimmy, but it was a fleeting thought in the whirlwind of slashing agony that was enveloping him.  As he gasped frantically, he heard air whistling through the slash in his neck.

 

“Yeah, that shut ya the fuck up, dinnit,” sneered the dark-skinned cholo sadist.  “Now take my dick, homo, make me cum.  I’m gonna give ya exactly what you deserve, you useless cocksucker; I’m gonna stick ya like a fuckin’ pig.”

 

Sitting up on his knees with the boy’s feet on his shoulders and his arms wrapped around the helpless youth’s legs, Carlos held the knife in front of Trace’s pale face.  He saw its icy glint reflected in the teen’s wide, shock-ringed eyes as he continued to taunt his terrified victim.

 

“Look at it, cunt,” he whispered sharply.  “Lookit how sharp it is.  You already felt it, bitch—didja like it?  Sure the fuck hope so, ya cumsuckin’ fairy, cause you’re about to get a whole lot more of it.”

 

Bending down, he snarled in Trace’s weeping, gurgling face.  “Quit whining, you stupid fuck.  You’re out here cause you love ta get all kinda shafts stuck in ya, right?  So here ya go, you fag piece of shit, I’m givin’ ya one that’s longer and harder than any you’ve ever had—or ever will.  Now shut the fuck up and get ready to blow your load as I fuck ya to death with both my dick and my blade—two shafts at once, huh, ya cock pig?”

 

Holding the blade upright, he pointed the tip down and rammed it into Trace’s soft, flat belly, the knife penetrating the smooth skin with no resistance at all.  It sliced through the punk’s tender guts, slashing through the intestines.  Grunting forcefully, Carlos applied pressure with his arm, causing the tattoo on his bicep to bulge visibly as he forced the blade all the way through the teen’s slim, writhing body and pinning him to the earth underneath.

 

Trace’s struggles were involuntary; he was embedded in a fiery wall of pain like an insect in amber.  He wasn’t rational—he only knew that he must not move, the slightest movement made the horrible burning slashing in his guts much much worse…

 

He didn’t have much luck remaining motionless.  Carlos was ruthlessly raping his ass.  As the twisted convict pumped his enormous tool up the teen’s slit, bleeding fuckhole, the force of his thrusts jerked the kid along the ground.  Unfortunately for the young slut, the knife that was impaling him didn’t move; it was buried in the ground.

 

Every time Carlos shoved his cock deeply into Trace’s ass, the boy’s body was forced against the blade, widening the wound as he got fucked.

 

Mewling silently, the panicked boyslut jerked his head from side to side.  The slit in his neck was small and barely visible; aside from a fine mist sprayed with each desperate breath, there was very little bleeding.  He was trying frantically to scream, his beautiful face twisted in pain and terror, smeared with snot and tears.

 

But it was the hurt, bruised expression in his eyes that tripped a switch in Carlos.  There was something about the vulnerability of the hot young teen’s face that sent his sadistic anger into overdrive.

 

With another deep grunt, he yanked the knife back up and out of the kid’s abdomen.  Trace flailed in agony, his red chucks kicking the air just over his killer’s broad shoulders as the wheezing and gurgling increased in his damaged windpipe.

 

“Fuck, ya like that dontcha, ya sick fuck?”  Carlos grinned maliciously at his young, helpless victim.  “Goddam pig, yer ass sure grabbed hold of my dick when I stuck ya.  Shit, lookit yer cock, you disgusting queer-ass bitch, you’re gettin’ hard—you disgusting fuckin’ piece of shit, gettin’ banged by a real man gets ya all stiff even when yer gettin’ snuffed!”

 

Trace heard the words but they meant nothing to him; his mind was a chemical stew of adrenaline and testosterone that was incapable of coherent thought—but it was able to process the sensation of bewildering and somehow painful erection.

 

It didn’t have long to process it, though.  Carlos leveled the blade at the waist on the boy’s left side, then rammed it in at an upward angle.  This time, stabbing diagonally into the unlucky teen’s torso, the brutal killer was able to shove the knife in up to the hilt, all twelve inches of sharpened steel buried deep inside the punk’s firm, quivering body.

 

The powerful cholo groaned in pleasure as massive organ trauma caused involuntary spasms in Trace’s colon and esophagus.  As the viciously serrated blade sliced through the kid’s liver, spleen and stomach before puncturing his right lung, his rectum grasped Carlos’s thick, throbbing rod and began milking it in long, rolling convulsions.  At the same time, the boy started vomiting; there was nothing in his stomach to come up, but the cruel, excruciating internal injuries he’d endured triggered an uncontrollable retching that only intensified his agony.

 

“Now yer gettin’ it, huh, puta?” the fag-hating alpha hissed at the dying teen.  “Now yer gettin’ what all you fuckin’ queers deserve—a long hot shaft in your ass and a long cold shaft in your guts.  Told ya I’d fix ya, you stupid homo—you ain’t gonna be no faggot by the time I’m done with ya; you’re gonna be fuckin’ meat!”

 

Gripping the long handle-like hilt of the military knife, Carlos twisted and ground it in the wound, slashing the boy’s tender innards into ribbons of bleeding flesh.  Then he yanked the blade out in a sing, swift, brutal jerk.  Grinning malevolently, he spit in the cunt’s vacant, stunned face before holding the dripping knife in front of it.

 

“Look at it, fag,” he whispered evilly.  “See those strings of meat hanging off the serrations?  Those are your guts, you worthless cock-gobblin’ pussyboy.  And as much I as keep guttin’ ya like a fish, you’re still hard and drippin’ on my dick.  Ain’t no way to help ya, motherfucker; yer a natural-born homo.  So I guess you’re just garbage, huh?  Ain’t no one gonna miss garbage.”

 

The convict’s muscular, inked body heaved with lust and rage, his broad back and tatted chest glistening with hot reeking mansweat.  Trace’s smooth, flat swimmer’s chest was also covered with sweat, but his was a clammy, cold sweat wrung agonizingly from the teen’s lithe dying body.  But the strong, strapping body of the enraged alpha hunched over him, driving his thick swollen cock up the convulsing teen’s ass, gave off so much heat he was steaming slightly in the chill night air.

 

The kid’s jeans rasped against Carlos’s pubic hair as the hulking alpha’s huge, hairy balls slapped at the slash he’d cut in the denim to access the pansy’s ass.  The killer’s own tight jeans massaged his tight, taut ass as his muscled legs planted his combat boots firmly on the ground, guaranteeing plenty of traction for powerful thrusts.  As the slashed, sliced teen thrashed in mindless agony, his Converse hightops quivered and flailed over Carlos’s broad, heaving shoulders.

 

Raising the knife up over his head, Carlos brought it back down, slamming it home in Trace’s broad, shallow pectoral on his left side, slipping it between two ribs just below his heart.  It was a smooth, swift stab right into the chest, completely puncturing the left lung and—like the belly stab—completely impaling the tortured teen and pinning him to the ground.

 

The force of the blade through his lung rippled through his body, forcing his breath out with a long, ragged groan, whistling through his mangled vocal cords.  Convulsions flowed down his once-virgin body, each one causing his cock to rise up and smack wetly against his killer’s furry belly and his rectum to stroke the cruel con’s engorged tool.

 

Now, Carlos realized, the clock was running.  He’d taken care of the teen fag; the disgusting little pervert wasn’t gonna suck no more cocks—but Carlos still demanded his orgasm of rage.  The punk bitch was meat but he still hadn’t drained his righteous killer’s cock.

 

The homo whore needed to suffer more.  That was always the answer.

 

Carlos lay full-length on top of the dying young boy.  Trace was barely alive; as his lungs slowly collapsed, all his attention was now focused on being able to breathe.  He wasn’t able to comprehend that he was enduring the last few moments of his life—he only knew that he had to keep breathing.  It was hard; there was a heavy weight on his chest, sliding around on a film of sweat and compressing his somehow stiff and oozing cock…but breathe, ignore the pain, ignore the warm soft flesh sliding on your dick as you writhe in agony, just breathe…

 

And the sadistic cholo chuckled.  “Time to die, vato.  Just fuckin’ die on my cock like ya deserve, you fucking pervert punk!”

 

With that, Carlos held the knife across Trace’s neck and began to slice through his throat.  This time, he went below the larynx.  The esophagus itself was, he knew from experience, a rubbery piece of tissue.

 

It took him a little while to saw through it.

 

The ultimate agony of fatal trauma managed to focus the boy’s attention, gruesomely ensuring his full awareness of the final nightmarish horror of his last few seconds alive in a sadistic quirk of physiological fate.

 

Trace gasped and gurgled louder than ever as his throat was slashed.  He could feel each back-and-forth cut of the razor-sharp blade through the flesh and tendons of his neck.  As unimaginable pain rocked his nervous system, his swollen, purple dick pulsed with each slice of the blade.

 

So did his eager fuckhole.  “Yeaaahhhh…” grunted Carlos.  “Fuck yeah, you fucking fag cunt, ya like gettin’ put down by a real man, huh?  Then take, this, cocksucker!”

 

His powerful arm bulging, Carlos flayed the teen slut’s trachea open, listening with erotic glee as the young boy gagged and choked, gargling his own blood.  “Fuckin’ die, fag!” the angry, lust-driven alpha cried as the slim, sweaty sack of meat under him milked a massive boiling wad of  manspunk out of his almost painfully-swollen cock.

 

As the handsome teen hacked and drowned in his own blood, the screaming icy darkness that descended on him was held back by a single jolt of hot fluid flooding his mangled guts.  Somehow, it seemed to be accompanied by another in his groin; a single, white-hot wire sounding his long, thick, agonizingly hard dick…

 

Coughing up one last gout of blood, the gay teen kicked his chucks on his killer’s shoulders as a solid ropy stream of semen spurted out of his cock and was immediately smeared with his blood against his belly and that of his vicious, dominant killer.  The shuddering meat pumped a continual flow of DNA for more than twenty seconds but by that time, the teen’s blood pressure had dropped so low that brain death was occurring.

 

There wasn’t enough of Trace left to enjoy his death load.

 

Gasping, Carlos remained in place for a good two minutes as he caught his breath, his pulsing, oozing rod firmly sheathed in the corpse’s warm, moist, quivering colon.  Every few seconds the hulking, sweating convict shuddered violently and spat another stream of pearly seed into the boy’s mangled fuckhole.

 

Finally feeling his pulse return to normal, the burly killer pulled his still-dripping shaft out of the dead teen’s ass and rose to his feet.  Bending down, he retrieved his biker jacket and fished his pack of smokes out before slipping into the warm embrace of the leather.  He lit one up, inhaling deeply as he let his huge purple hog swing free and drip-dry, the cum swiftly drying to a white glaze in the cool night air.

 

Clenching the cigarette in the side of his mouth, Carlos knelt over the kid’s body, still trembling and spasming randomly in death.  “Toldja I’d fix ya, you cumsuckin’ homo,” the muscled killer chuckled vindictively.  “Ain’t gonna suck no more cocks, huh?  Unless the folks at the morgue or the undertaker’s wanna have some fun, but you still ain’t gonna be suckin’, huh, you worthless piece a’ shit pervert?”

 

Picking up his knife, Carlos looked around for a cloth.  He spied Trace’s t-shirt, a pile of white fabric easily seen in the darkness.  Grinning, he grabbed it and used it to wipe down his blade. He make sure to clean all the dangling strings of flesh trapped in the serrations, leaving the punk’s own t-shirt to be found smeared with the victim’s blood and meat.

 

Taking a final drag off his smoldering butt, he ground the glowing tobacco ember out in the very center of the dead youth’s forehead.  Rising to his feet, Carlos glanced around carefully.  There was no need; there was no one within sight or earshot.

 

And the few that Carlos encountered on his way back to the parking lot were too intent on their own activities to notice him.  Silently, he slipped back into the Mustang and had pulled out of the lot and onto the street before turning on the headlights.

 

Three minutes later, he was back on the highway.  He headed back to his motel room, finally feeling that he’d earned a rest for a job well done.

 

Not that his job was done.  They all needed to be put down—all of them.

 

Carlos felt renewed; the well-being derived from a sense of purpose filled him with excitement.  This was what he was here for—to put fags in their place.  And their place was taking his cock, then taking a dirt nap.

 

But he needed money.  Some homos had money—a lot of money.  Carlos could have all the fun he wanted, but with a little judicious hunting, he could be living good.

 

As he slowed the ‘Stang for the exit for his motel, the twisted convict began to laugh out loud.  He knew he was on the path of righteousness; being wrong couldn’t feel this good.

 

Fags needed to be taught a lesson.  He was just the man to learn ‘em.

 

 

Trace’s desperate parents reported him missing the following morning but his slaughtered corpse wasn’t found for another four days.  One of the local street whores met his dealer in the park; he got his fix for a discount if he gave the dude free sex.  Looking for somewhere to do their transactions in private, they inadvertently stumbled across the mangled body.

 

That night, Carlos beat off watching the news coverage.