Carlos and Nick 5: Teen Angst

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“I, uh, I don’t thin—AACK!  GURK!”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was just Jeff and Carlos for the moment.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Wh-wh-why—wha…” the youth sobbed.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

That ended now.  Jeff had pissed him off.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Don’t worry,” the muscle-bound sadist said with a grim smile, “Now that I got my blade into the fag, it ain’t nothing but a meat puppet.  Watch me make it dance.”

 

Jeff’s smooth, flat abdomen was already heaving as the Latino alpha pounded his ass; now, excruciating pain was making him sweat.  Each time their bodies slapped together in the throes of violent assrape, there was a loud smacking sound.  Without any warning, Carlos twisted the knife in the wound, shearing the blade around inside the teen’s guts and slicing open his transverse colon.  The rhythmic slapping sound of flesh on flesh suddenly became erratic as Jeff thrashed in agony and squealed like a stuck pig—which was exactly what he was.

 

Carlos was very good at what he did; it was what Nick admired about him.  Despite his nightmarish suffering, the kid’s internal wounds weren’t quite severe enough to let him bleed out to a quick, merciful death.  And Carlos felt the need to share the info.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid fuck?  Yeah?  Feels fuckin’ great on my dick, asswipe!  That’s what it’s gonna take to make ya work my dick the way a real man’s dick deserves, huh?  Then ya better saddle up, bitch, cause I can make ya hurt like that for a long, long time.  Yer gonna be fuckin’ beggin’ and pleadin’ to die long before I’ve make yer worthless sack a’ whoremeat milk the spunk outta my balls–and the longer you squirm an’ scream, the better it’s gonna feel on my cock.”

 

Still rigidly avoiding any movement that might cause the knife to hurt him any further, Jeff lay back on the bed, his legs pinned on Carlos’s shoulders so that even now he could see his red Nikes kicking in the air.  In a surreal way, he noticed that the laces of the left shoe had come untied; he’d have to remember to fix that or he might trip and hurt himself…

 

Then Carlos yanked all nine inches of sharpened steel out of his guts with a single violent jerk.  On the outside, all that could be seen was an inch-an-a-half slit with a slight trickle of blood.  On the inside, Jeff could feel still feel the glassy pain deep in his guts; it was like the blade was still there.

 

But it wasn’t.  Because now it was somewhere else.  Carlos had shifted the knife to his other hand and stuck Jeff higher up on his right side, the blade slipping easily in between the boy’s ribs.  The grooved steel shaft speared the punk’s liver.  Angled slightly toward the back, it sliced his gall bladder neatly in half, to end up embedded deep in his pancreas.

 

Again, massive organ trauma triggered electrochemical shock as Jeff’s adolescent body, already pumped full of testosterone, was flooded with adrenaline.  His face, already swelling from Carlos’s kick and the blow of his fist, was clenched in a rictus of agony as the older man took ruthless advantage of the boy’s horrific pain to pound his constricted asshole.

 

Nick stepped back for a moment to show how Carlos had stretched himself out, almost as if he was doing push-ups.  The toes of his tightly-laced lineman’s boots were dug into the mattress to give him the traction he needed to rape the fuck out of the dying teen. Then, by crouching down near the head of the platform and zooming in, Nick got a great shot of Jeff’s thick boycock, still helplessly and involuntarily erect, smacking against Carlos’s hairy ripped abs, keeping time to the assault.

 

“Hell yeah—now that’s how ya fuck a faggot!” Nick said, cheering Carlos on for the camera.  “Tighten it up, use it up, fill it up and toss it the fuck out!”

 

Jeff hadn’t known, hadn’t ever considered that such pain could exist.  The slashing pain of his torn rectum was long forgotten, a minor discomfort compared to the nine-inch shaft of solid steel that had impaled his torso, right to left.  He couldn’t breathe without his diaphragm and chest muscles contracting around the sharp edge and slicing themselves open even more.

 

He literally couldn’t breathe; it hurt too much.  Carlos smiled beatifically down at the boy’s soft, smooth face, so young and so almost innocent as it gaped, the mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish.  “You ready, cunt?  Ya want it to be over?  Ready to take my load and die?”

 

Jeff didn’t want to die; he still had delusions of somehow surviving this experience—but he knew he had to do something, he had to breathe for fuck’s sake, he needed that thing out of him for fuck’s sake GET IT OUT

 

Carlos obliged, withdrawing the blade slowly, lovingly, letting Jeff savor the icy sensation of the knife as it cut a new path through his organs on the way back out.  It hurt so bad the teen punk nearly passed out; his body trembled and convulsed for a moment as his eyes rolled back in his head.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Nick said, reaching down and backhanding the tortured youth across the face.  Illogically, the blow actually seemed to have some effect—Jeff inhaled deeply and opened his eyes.

 

“P-p-pl—” he sputtered, “Ple-please—”

 

“Please what?” Carlos sneered, “Please kill ya?  Hell no; you ain’t endured enough to make me cum yet.  And besides, we gotta give the audience a show, right?  There’s gonna be dudes payin’ to watch a worthless faggot suffer long and hard, the way it deserves.  And anyway, I just wanna hurt ya; I fuckin’ love doin’ it, cunt.”

 

He swung his right arm up, holding the knife with the tip pointing straight down.  Even though he was nearly out of him mind with pain and fear, Jeff was still entranced by the view—Carlos’s broad, hairy chest with large dark nipples protruding above the wiry forest of fur, the thick links of the alpha’s gold necklace hanging free in the air between them, the look of an experienced killer of the Latino skinhead’s face—it was all so masculine, so fuckin’ hot…

 

It wasn’t possible, Jeff decided.  He’d been slipped some bad acid or something; nobody this erotic could be so cold and cruel, could put him in so much pain…

 

…then his eye caught a glint of light reflected from the wickedly sharp tip of the Bowie knife and Jeff felt sick sense of despair that managed to rise over the torment he was already experiencing and he knew nothing could be worse…

 

…then the blade flashed down.

 

It hit the teenaged boy like a bolt of lightning; it was that fast and that traumatic.  Carlos had slammed the knife down in slightly diagonal direction, plunging it into the center of Jeff’s right pectoral muscle, ramming the blade in so deep the hilt pressed against the kid’s chest.  The steel blade punctured the youth’s lung and stuck a rib on the inside, taking out a chip of bone as the knife exited the kid’s back and sank into the mattress beneath him.

 

The boywhore’s face was a mask of pain and shock.  He gasped and whimpered uncontrollably, each movement dragging his muscles and fragile lung tissue against the sharpened steel edge and causing more damage internally.  The punk gave a loud gurgle and, as Nick closed in with camera, a bubble of blood arose in the boy’s open mouth and burst, leaving a crimson trickle down his smooth chin.

 

“Aw, fuckin’-A!” Carlos cried out at the adolescent’s lithe body clenched, the slut’s rectum gripping his killer’s massive rod like a velvet glove.  The vicious sadist pumped the suffering teen violently, the rough denim of his jeans scraping the boy’s smooth asscheeks.

 

Jeff was beyond such trivial annoyances.  Helpless under the weight of the heavily muscled psycho who was torturing him, the youthful rentboy was finally accepting the inevitable fact that he wasn’t getting off this bed alive.  Every breath, every single second of existence, was nothing but the most nightmarish agony that needed to end.   Even when the hulking ex-con yanked the knife back out of him, the youth was so traumatized that he was unable to react to the fresh blast of searing pain.

 

“Almost there, dude,” Carlos muttered breathily, his face taut with the strain of his impending orgasm.  He’d spoken to Nick, to make sure the older man used the camera to the best advantage during the money shot, but Jeff had heard him as well.

 

The hardbodied director took the hint and jumped up onto the bed.  He stood with his leather Converse kicks planted on each side of Jeff’s head, pointing the camera down as Carlos leaned slightly back.  Nick knew what was coming and was in the perfect place to record the teenager’s death agonies.

 

“This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you goddam faggot cunt,” Carlos hissed and clamped one hand over Jeff’s mouth, clutching it with the excruciating power of a bear trap.  Holding the knife in the other, he pressed the tip against the underside of the kid’s jaw.  “Fuckin’ fagmeat—remember as you scream yer worthless life out, you fuckin’ deserve this, ya sack of shit!”

 

And with that, he shoved the blade upwards.

 

It pierced the teen boy’s lower jaw. The blade sliced up through the tongue, impaling it and pinning it to the roof of the mouth as the sharpened steel shaft cut smoothly up though the soft palate.  The kid had literally been speared through his mouth.

 

Moving inexorably, the blade sheared upwards through the upper sinus cavity.  Trapped beneath his powerful killer, pinned to the bed by the stronger man’s dick in his ass, Jeff could only kick his legs as Carlos continued to drive the knife deeper into his skull.  For a brief moment, the agony reached a point that the punk was awash in nauseating vertigo; he seemed to smell the bloody shaft of steel tearing into him—and then the blade tore through the olfactory bulbs at the top of his sinuses and Jeff never smelled anything ever again.

 

By now, his lean young body was flailing uncontrollably.  The kid’s legs thrashed violently; he no longer needed to worry about tripping over his untied shoelace as he kicked the loose sneaker off, leaving his foot in nothing but a ped sock, his toes curling as he spasmed.

 

“Time to die, meatsack,” Carlos growled, “Fuckin’ faggot, all yer good for is soaking up my fuckin’ manspunk.  You ain’t nothin’ but a cumrag, ya stupid homo; now die like the worthless piece a’ shit you are, cunt!”

 

He shoved the knife home.

 

It punctured the base of Jeff’s cranium with a loud crunch that the dying teen felt as much as he heard.  In a split second, Carlos embedded all nine inches of solid steel in the boy’s head, the sharp tip of the Bowie knife gouging the inside of the top of Jeff’s skull.

 

There are no nerves in the brain; Jeff never felt the final slash of the blade through his cerebellum.  That wasn’t to say that he didn’t experience pain—his cringing cockpig soul slid screaming into dark eternity on a wave of mind-shattering agony.  And he never knew that his own deathload was the source of his pain.

 

Carlos’s gigantic balls had contracted, hosing the punk’s guts full off seething mansperm. The heat of the spunk and the pressure against his prostate had primed Jeff’s tool, but the way Carlos’s knife had lodged in the pleasure center of the teen’s brain and shorted it out was what led to the kid’s explosive orgasm.

 

Nick’s downward view of the snuff captured the geysers of boycum that erupted from Jeff’s cock as he died.  The kid spurted several times, each time sending a thick creamy jet of semen splashing against Carlos’s chest or Nick’s hairy, muscled legs, or his own blank dead face.  Carlos held on, grunting and rutting as he drained his rod.

 

Nick didn’t even have to touch himself; he recorded his own dick pumping huge wads of pearly manseed onto the corpse’s already-loaded face.  The same downward angle showed the dead kid’s cum trickling down Nick’s legs and spattered on his black leather sneakers.

 

Carlos collapsed, his bulked-out form falling heavily on the still-shuddering boymeat.  Nick jumped off the bed,  set the camera down, and crossed to the far wall to turn on the lights.  Carlos had recovered before he got back, separating himself stickily from the teen’s corpse.  He pulled his blade back out of the dead faggot’s skull and stuck it, smeared with blood and gray matter, back into his boot.

 

“You’re a mess,” Nick chuckled.  “Don’t worry, the bathroom’s stocked.  Go clean yourself up; I’m gonna take a finishing shot or two and then do the same myself.”  As the heavy tread of Carlos’s boots faded down the hall, Nick picked his camera back up and got a few quick close-ups of the dead boy’s convulsing body, zooming in on the way his feet, one missing a shoe, kicked and twitched in death.  He stopped once Carlos returned—knife and all cleaned—and went to wash himself up and put on his clothes.  The Latino stud had sponged the dead homo’s cum off his chest and had decided to remain as he was, in nothing but jeans and boots, to let his chest hair dry.

 

Nick was very particular about keeping things looking legit, and Carlos agreed with him completely on this; before anything else was done, they tidied the scene by the simple expedient of pulling the plastic fitted sheet off the bed and wrapping the corpse in it.  Nick looked at the hole in the mattress where Carlos’s blade had completely impaled the meat; there was a small bloodstain around the hole.

 

“Make sure nothing leaks from the hole in the sheet,” he said as he grabbed another plastic sheet from a shelf and re-covered the mattress.  By the time he was done, Carlos had confirmed that nothing had leaked from the slit in what was now Jeff’s burial shroud—or would have been if they intended to bury him.

 

Instead they tossed him into the bed of Nick’s pickup like a sack of garbage and headed towards the desert.

 

On the southwest side of town there was a plot of land that had been laid out for a subdivision ten years ago.  When the economy collapsed, building had ground to a halt, the developer had gone bankrupt, and now the ownership of the land was locked in a maze of impenetrable lawsuits.

 

In short, roads and sewers had been laid out, but no houses built.  No one ever went there—it wasn’t even suitable as a lover’s lane, since it was flat, with no cover at all.  What it did have, aside from crumbling streets and rusting stop signs, was a set of drainage ditches and culverts that weren’t being inspected by either Las Vegas or Clark County officials.

 

Nick had found it several weeks ago while out scouting locations—not for movies; for body dumps just like this one.

 

At the far end of the development, the road took a right-angle turn and crossed over a dry wash; the under the roadbed, three large concrete pipes allowed storm water to drain down the gully.  Nick parked the truck right over the dry wash and tossed the corpse over the side.  It fell into the arroyo with a loud, meaty thump like a side of beef.

 

“I got it,” Carlos said, and scrambled down the side of the gully, his high leather boots digging into the sandy soil.  At the bottom, he saw that the meat’s legs were sticking out of one end of the sheet, the red Son of Mars sneaker and the white ped sock both glaringly obvious against the beige sand.  He bent down, and, grabbing the corpse’s ankles, he dragged it to the culvert.  Shoving the dead teen inside the concrete tunnel was no strain for his powerful muscles; in no time, he was back in the truck beside Nick, heading back to the studio.

 

“That was incredible,” Nick chuckled as he accelerated onto the highway.  “We’re gonna make a shit-ton of money on this one, dude.”

 

And he was right.

 


 

Schweitz was pissed.  Here he was, out in the middle of the fuckin’ desert, sweatin’ his fat ass off, while Nuñez got to lay on his ass for a couple a’ weeks, just cause he got a case of appendicitis.  Bet the lazy Spic ain’t even sick…

 

“Ok, whadda we got?” he said aloud with a weary sigh.

 

“Caller lives in that apartment complex on the other side of the highway—the one that was just built,” the patrol cop said.  “He says he rides his bike over here for exercise—does it every other day.  He’s sure the corpse wasn’t here Monday.”

 

“That don’t mean nothin’; that storm yesterday coulda flushed it out from further up in the hills, for all we know.  What’s the ME say?”

 

“Uh, lessee here,” the cop said.  He was conscientious and organized; he’d taken notes and referred to them now.  “Um, young Caucasian male, late teens at oldest.  Been dead three-four days by the looks of it.  Really fuckin’ nasty, detective; he was stabbed several times but not in a way that was instantly fatal.  Looks like someone wanted ‘im to suffer.  Death blow was in the skull, seriously sick.  Oh, yeah—ME says he’d been violently fucked in the ass.”

 

“Aw, goddamit,” Schweitz exploded.  “You called my ass all the way out here for another faggot?  What, you don’t think we got enough real murders on our hands to worry about some useless cocksucker who’s better off dead?  Jesus Christ!”  He turned and started to head back to his car.

 

“Sorry, detective,” the cop called out, abashed.  “What, uh, whaddaya want me to do with my report?”

 

“Round-file it,” Schweitz snapped over his shoulder.  “Trash it.  Wipe yer ass with it, for all I care.  And remember this, boy, if ya wanna make it in this department: unless they’re rich or famous, don’t no one care about dead fags in this town, ya got me?”

 

“Yessir,” the beat cop said respectfully.  As he watched Schweitz stomp angrily back to his car, he erased the notes he so carefully made.

 

“Anything else ya need?” came a voice behind him.  Startled, the cop whirled, to find the morgue assistant laboriously dragging a collapsible gurney with the corpse zipped into a body bag.

 

“Naw,” the cop said, taking a cue from his superiors, “Get that fuckin’ piece of shit outta here.”

Trucker 16–Trucker vs Fratboi

The Trucker stood in the convention center parking lot, looking north.  He’d spent the last hour overseeing the delivery of his load at the center’s service entrance; by noon the next day, he was scheduled to pick up a trailer loaded with sugar at a refinery south of the city.

 

Tonight, he was free.  Since he was only in town overnight, he decided to leave his rig at the convention center; he could come back and sleep in it if no better option came along.

 

Despite the fact that it was the Trucker’s first time in New Orleans, he was sure that some better option would come along.  All he had to do was hunt it down.

 

He decided to head someplace he knew would be teeming with anonymous fags no one would miss.  Picking up the train at Julia Street across from the Port of New Orleans, he headed north towards the French Quarter.

 

It was a warm and sultry evening, the humidity a palpable presence that enveloped one like sopping wool blanket; windows everywhere were fogged with condensation.  In spite of his position in a corner of the train car (to avoid attracting attention), the glittering beads of sweat on the hardbodied alpha drew a couple of envious—and lust-filled—glances.  But given the way he was dressed, he knew to expect a certain degree of faggot focus anyway.

 

In deference to the warmth of the evening, he wore a dark gray short-sleeve mechanic’s shirt, unbuttoned.  It hung wide, exposing his broad, fur-covered chest and hairy ripped abdomen for all to see.  Those who did see, and kept watching, were occasionally rewarded as a sudden movement or gust of air flapped the shirt open even wider, exposing one of the stud’s thick, dark, rock-hard nipples.  For those who had allowed their attention to wander, the faint, flickering reflection of the dogtags nestled in the thick body fur between the huge mounds of his pecs was sufficient to make them look again.

 

The thick forest of fur that carpeted the Trucker’s hard flat belly lead down to—and past—the waistband of a pair of clean but very well-used jeans, the denim worn in places to the softness of velvet.  An inch-thick belt of black leather emphasized the tightness of the Trucker’s waist.  The jeans were also so tight that the softness ensured that every pulsing vein in the well-hung stud’s package was visible if one looked closely enough.

 

More than one were looking closely enough as the train began to accelerate out of the Toulouse station, rounding the curve past the Natchez’s dock.  The Trucker was on the left side, looking out the window on the side away from the river.  He saw the bulk of the Jax Brewery building go past and, drawing the brim of his camouflage-patterned trucker’s cap down low over his icy blue eyes, began to think it was time to explore a little.

 

Once he saw Jackson Square go by, he’d decided to get off; as the train came to a stop at the Dumaine station, he got out and soon the sidewalk of Decatur Street was thudding with the reverberations of his big black leather engineer boots as he walked north, looking around him.

 

Damn, there was so much meat scampering about.  So many vermin to be put down…

 

The bulge in his groin became even more pronounced.

 

He’d walked past Latrobe Park before turning east—well, northeast, actually—on Ursulines, heading away from the Mississippi and deeper into the French Quarter.  The further he went, the more faggots he saw.

 

The Trucker had heard of Southern Decadence; at some point, one of the homos he’d put down had bleated something about it.  Out of curiosity, he’d looked it up, but hadn’t thought much about it.  He had no idea that it was in full swing and that on this hot and humid September evening, he’d find the Quarter packed with faggot twinks.

 

It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.

 

He turned right on Chartres, passing that fortress of supposed chastity, the Ursuline Convent—darkened and locked, as was proper for that hour, but now it was because it was a museum, and past closing time.  Making a left on Governor Nicholls Street—again, just to wander and see what was on offer—the muscled stud ambled up to Royal Street.  On the way, a couple of fey twinks in short shorts and thick-soled sandals ogled him and giggled as he passed under a streetlight.  He sneered at them in disgust, his rage against the worthless little queers mounting within him.  Then he reached the corner of Governor Nicholls and Royal, and stopped cold in front of the Lalaurie house.

 

Delphine Lalaurie was yet another part of New Orleans lore of which the Trucker was already aware.  Not that there’d ever been much of a racial component in the sex killer’s general contempt for humanity—it was just that he’d admired some of ol’ Delphine’s methods.

 

He kept heading up Royal to the next intersection, which was Bourbon Street.  Figuring that he was pretty much in the heart of the Quarter—which he was—the Trucker decided that it was as good a time as any to begin the hunt in earnest.  He turned left, back towards Canal Street, and refocused his attention on the environment with the eyes of a predator stalking for a kill.

 

There was rainbow bunting strung across the street; rainbow flags hung from streetlights and from private balconies.  At St. Phillip Street, the next intersection, a preacher with bright red flag stood on a box, loudly denouncing the rampant sin around him to a few earnest acolytes in white short-sleeve shirts and dark ties; everyone else ignored him completely with the exception of a pair of large furry bears who laughed out loud at him, then embraced and kissed passionately in front of him and his disciples, all of whom blushed violently.

 

The Trucker grinned.  Stupid fuckers; that wasn’t how you handled faggots.

 

There was a small, low building to his right, covered in what looked like dingy white stucco; there was a sign—“Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar”—and it was packed with homos.  The Trucker had to stop for a moment to catch his breath; the sense of anticipation, of the soon-to-come pleasure of release was almost overwhelming.

 

Then he stepped inside.

 

It was a fucking smorgasbord of fuckmeat.  The inside was dark and packed with writhing male bodies.  The moment the Trucker planted his boots on the sunken brick floor, he realized the ancient building, with its forge still in place, was too overcrowded to offer much hope for successful hunting.  Immediately adjacent, though, was a small walled courtyard that opened onto the street.  The courtyard was far less crowded and had a few small metal bistro tables scattered about; most were occupied.

 

At the back of the yard was a small covered bar where business was surprisingly slow; aside from a couple of fairies whispering and sniggering as they sucked ghastly purple frozen drinks up through straws, there were no other customers at the moment.

 

“Gimme a Jack on the rocks,” the Trucker told the bartender.  “Make it a double.”  He flipped the dude some cash when he got his drink and leaned back against the bar, looking out at the crowd.

 

Dudes of all shapes and sized wandered past the arched doorway to the street, but inside the dimly-lit courtyard, the faces all clustered together around the candles on each table, faces lit from below and blurring together in their vacuous lust.  The Trucker felt rage and disgust rising in him again, the pressure forcing its way to his cock, making it pulse and ache…

 

And that was when he saw him.  The boy who was sitting by himself at a table to the right of the doorway—it wasn’t just that he was the only other person alone in the courtyard.  It wasn’t even that he was openly staring at the Trucker.

 

It was the naked hunger in the twink’s eyes; an almost imperious desire that somehow brought a look of vulnerability to the otherwise unpleasantly arrogant cast of the punk’s face.  This was the one, the Trucker decided on the spot.  This little cocksucker was gonna die on his dick tonight.

 

He walked slowly towards the table at which the kid sat; a faint stirring of the humid air flared his shirt out behind him like a cape.  The boy at the table had a perfect view of the alpha stud’s broad, hairy chest, as hard and as perfectly formed as if carved from marble, with a glint of metal in the middle from his dogtags.

 

There was a cold, metallic glint above, too, above the strong, scruffy jaw—glints that came from eyes hidden deep in the shadow cast by the brim of the trucker’s cap.   And that huge package, so tantalizingly displayed right out in front…

 

The kid was still sitting when the Trucker reached the table, his jaw literally hanging open.  His brown hair was cut short on the sides and back, but left long in front and combed back over his head.  His nose was long and straight, dividing a pair of murky hazel eyes and terminating just above a pair full lips that formed a natural pout when closed.

 

Not that they were closed at the moment.  “You, uh, y-you wanna sit?” the kid asked almost timorously, then immediately regained some composure.  “I mean, I ain’t expectin’ no one or anything.”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said evenly and lowered his massive form onto the tiny metal chair.  The delicate wrought iron of the bistro set only enhanced his aura of well-built power.

 

“I-I’m Trent,” the kid said suddenly, holding out his hand.  The Trucker looked at it silently.  Trent flushed and let it fall back to the table.

 

After an awkward pause, the Trucker looked at the boy, giving Trent the impact of his cold blue eyes for the first time.  “How old are ya, kid?” he asked flatly.

 

“I’m nineteen,” Trent replied, raising his chin almost defensively.

 

The Trucker, sipping from his glass, glanced significantly at the glass that was sitting in front of the boy; it was another one of those purple concoctions.  Trent flushed again.

 

“Well, ya know, they ain’t cardin’ nobody tonight,” he replied in a low voice. “You ain’t gonna narc on me, are ya, bro?”

 

“Naw,” the Trucker drawled, his lips curled into a sardonic grin, “I ain’t gonna rat ya out to the cops, dude.  You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that.”

 

 

Trent grinned and took a mouthful of the frozen drink.  “It’s called a Zombie,” he said, “Want some?”

 

“No thanks,” the Trucker said dryly and took another slug of his whiskey.  “Look, dude, I ain’t interested in bein’ yer friend.  I’m lookin’ for someone to fuck.  I’m lookin’ for a cumdump.  You gotta room?”

 

Once again, Trent sat and stared at the hulking stud with his mouth open.  It wasn’t that he was upset; it was just that the blunt nature of the demand startled him.  He had to clear his throat and chug another mouthful of the purple swill before he could stammer out a reply.

 

“Uh, y-yeah man, I, uh, I gotta place—AirBnB, y’know—whol-whole damn apartment.  Got the whole second floor looking down into a private courtyard—hot, huh?  Daddy’s payin’ for it, but he don’t know.  Told ‘im I needed to get away for the weekend cause my frat bros—I’ma Phi Alpha Gamma, y’know—told ‘im they made to much noise and I had an exam comin’ up.  Daddy’s a partner in a big law firm up in Baton Rouge, lotsa political pull, y’know, so he let me put it on his office credit card.  And ain’t no one gonna know I’m usin’ the place to get fucked—smart, huh, bro?”

 

Trent stopped gushing and looked at the Trucker, realizing he was drunk and had let his enthusiasm get out from under him.  The older man had polished off his drink and was looking around the courtyard in a bored manner.

 

“—Anyway,” the kid finished up lamely, “I gotta nice room.  Wanna go?  I got some Johnnie Walker, too.”

 

The Trucker finally turned his attention back to the fuckmeat.  “Sure,” he drawled, “Long as you gotta place I can plow yer ass, that’s all I need.  Let’s go, boy.”

 

They stood up.  Trent turned towards the arched doorway, then paused and turned back to the Trucker, a barely-discernable look of concern on his face.  “Trent,” he said, “My name is Trent.”

 

“Whatever,” the Trucker replied flatly, “Let’s go.”

 

Without another word, Trent wheeled around and led the way out onto the street, turning right.  Even in his alcohol-induced buzz, there was a slight misgiving at the back of his hormone-wracked mind…but the swelling in his groin was much less possible to ignore.

 

And glancing at the blue-collar muscle stud walking beside him, Trent knew damn good and well that he didn’t want to ignore it.  This hardbodied god was gonna bang him tonight; that was all that mattered.

 

Fuck the consequences.

 

At some point, Trent moved ahead; he had to—he was the one who knew where they were going.  They turned right at the first street and the Trucker drifted back a couple of steps so that it wasn’t obvious that he was following the kid.  Not that there was much chance of being noticed; despite the crowd on Bourbon Street, not too many dudes had ventured this far northeast.  There wasn’t much reason to; most of the buildings faced back onto Bourbon Street or forward into the next block.  The street was mainly lined with brick walls.

 

It was dim, but between the occasional streetlight and the orange glow cast off by and reflected back down to the city from the low-hanging clouds, there was enough light for the Trucker to scope out the boy’s ass.

 

The teen slut had dressed—or, rather, undressed—for the humid night air.  His chest, slimly muscular, was already streaked with sweat; perspiration outlined the kid’s pecs on the thin ribbed cotton of his gray wifebeater.  Just barely visible beneath the hem of the shirt was a pair of the shortest gym shorts the Trucker had ever seen, barely four inches from waistband to hem.  Trent’s smooth thighs and firm calves flexed with every step the teen took, his retro black and white Nike Jordan 10s stumbling occasionally on the pavement at the buzzed punk staggered from time to time.  But he kept heading forward purposely.

 

Finally, Trent turned left onto Burgundy Street.  “Jus’ a lil way longer,” he chirped happily, managing to sound even more drunk than he was.  Luckily, the Trucker was in the shadows at the moment or Trent couldn’t have failed to miss the look of contempt the alpha threw at him.

 

As it turned out, Trent’s rental was several blocks down Burgundy, which was better lit than the street they’d left, if just as empty—there were fewer businesses, and most had already closed.  When they finally reached the building, it was an old two-story townhouse.  The ground floor had been converted to a restaurant; it was closed—apparently not for the evening, but for good.  Above it was an apartment that the Trucker presumed wasn’t Trent’s—there was a huge party going on full blast; it was the only noise in the otherwise quiet street.  The place had three pairs of French doors opening out onto the cast-iron balcony; all were open and lit up.  There was crowd of kids of both sexes talking, drinking and dancing, both inside and on the balcony, their yammering nearly blotting out the blaring music.

 

Even intoxicated, Trent had enough presence of mind to duck back into the shadows—just in case any of his frat brothers was at the party.  The Trucker noticed the maneuver, following directly in the faggot’s footsteps as the kid pulled out a key and moved towards a metal gate blocking an arched passage on the right side of the façade.

 

Letting the kid lead the way down the passage, the Trucker closed the gate softly behind him, then headed into the courtyard.

 

The building was L-shaped, with the base of the L being the front, facing the street, and the upright of the letter running back from the street.  The rest of the space was a courtyard that seemed to be laid out as an arbor or pleasure garden.  In the dim light cast by a couple of muted lampposts near the back of the garden, the Trucker thought he could make out a gazebo.  The sides of the yard not surrounded by the building were blocked by high, blank brick walls; none of the neighbors had a window overlooking the yard.

 

Another cast-iron balcony ran around the second floor here, too.  Trent was already climbing a set of stairs immediately to the left of the arched entry.  The Trucker followed him up, the clanging of his big black boots on the iron steps almost inaudible over the sounds of the party.  They had to cross in front of the windows to the party suite in order to turn the corner and get to Trent’s place in the rear.  Looking across, the Trucker could see three darkened French doors, much like the ones on the front of the building; this was where the teen punk was leading him.  The party suite didn’t have doors to this balcony, just windows overlooking it, and shades had been pulled over them.  There was enough light to see their footing—and to make out occasion shapes silhouetted against the shades—but no one was looking out.

 

The Trucker was able to follow the twink into his place without being observed.  Even better, the noise and music from the next unit was so loud, no one could possibly hear anything going on anywhere else.

 

That was good.  That meant the Trucker could make the homo twink squeal a little before putting him down.

 

Inside, Trent turned on the lights as the Trucker closed a set of plantation shutters over the door, just to make sure they couldn’t be seen.  Looking around, the hardbodied alpha was somewhat surprised to see that the entire space had been converted into a single large room.  The center of the room was a living area, with a fireplace against the far wall.  To the left, an open area had been converted to a kitchen, to the right was the sleeping area.  In the far corner was a walled-off area that was evidently a bathroom.  The entire place was furnished with period antiques, giving the room the somewhat schizophrenic feel of a French Colonial loft apartment.  Even the walls had been taken down to the original brick.

 

“Hey, ya wanna drink?” Trent said.

 

“Sure,” the Trucker replied, “On the rocks.  It’s a hot night.”

 

As Trent headed to the kitchen, thinking that it was indeed a hot night, the Trucker pulled his cap off and tossed it onto the butler’s tray table that was in front of the antique settee.  Digging his pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, the older man lit one, then slipped out of his shirt and tossed it onto the table as well.

 

When Trent turned back around with two glasses of scotch in his hands, the Trucker was standing in the center of the room, wearing nothing but his skin-tight jeans and his black leather engineer boots.  The teen fratboi gasped and almost dropped the drinks; seeing the Trucker clearly under good lighting for the first time, he was almost frightened.

 

He’d certainly been able to see enough up till now to know that the older dude was a major stud, but he hadn’t perceived how truly huge the guy was.  Those huge pecs, bigger than any hubcaps he’d ever seen, that dark wiry fur covering his chest and his ripped abs, those thick jutting nipples…

 

He looked like he could literally fuck Trent in half—and that thought both scared and aroused the horny teen slut.

 

“H-here,” he stammered, shakily handing the Trucker a glass.  “Damn, y-you’re—I, uh, I…um, hang on, I’ll be ri-right back…”  Taking a hefty slug from his own glass, Trent crossed to a bedside table; a rather large piece of furniture meant to match the high four-poster bed.  After digging in a drawer for a moment, Trent came back with a lit joint.  Taking a deep hit, he proffered the jay to the Trucker.  “Want some?” he gasped breathlessly to avoid exhaling.

 

The Trucker shook his head silently and took another drag from his smoke.  Sipping his scotch, he stared at Trent for another few moments before speaking.

 

“Get outta those clothes, bitch,” he ordered.  Suddenly, Trent found himself obeying the iron tone of command in the alpha’s voice.  He peeled the wifebeater off over his head, revealing his smooth, lithe twink torso, slim but firm and strong.  With a quick shuck and shuffle, Trent had wriggled his way out of the shorts—they fell to his ankles and he stepped easily out of them, leaving himself nude except for his retro Jordans and no-show ped socks.

 

His thick twink cock swung free between his legs; while it was nowhere near as huge as the Trucker’s, it was still an impressive piece of meat for a teenaged faggot.  More than six inches long, it sprang semi-erect from a bushy mound of dark-brown pubes between Trent’s smooth, firm thighs.

 

The Trucker took another drag from his cigarette.  “Horny little fucker, aintcha?” he jeered, leaning back and slowly unzipping his fly.  The vicious alpha’s eyes never left the kid’s face; he watched as the boy’s eyes lit up with lust, the young punk panting as the Trucker’s zipper slipped further down his crotch.

 

Finally the Trucker decided the time had come to let the little homo see exactly what he was gonna be dealing with.  The older man had to reach into his jeans with both hands to extract the enormous tube of manflesh that he intended to ram into the twink’s asshole.

 

First, though, he had other plans.

 

“Get over here and suck my cock, you fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled.  Trent blinked; he’d known the dude would take over and turn dominant—he expected that.  But he also expected some kinda warning.  This sudden onslaught caught him by surprise.

 

“W-what?” he stammered, “I, uh, I—”

 

“Shut the fuck up and wrap yer faggot lips around my dick, asswipe!” the Trucker barked.  Again, the tone of command lashed Trent like a whip.  Before he was even conscious of his actions, the teen slut found himself on his knees, trying to take the biggest cock he’d ever seen down his throat without gagging.  It was a losing battle, and he knew it.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure as he felt the twink whore choke on his dick.  “Yeah, that’s it, ya fucking homo,” he said as he grasped Trent’s head with both hands and forced it violently into his crotch, “That’s what a real man’s cock tastes like.  Ya like it, faggot?  Yeah?  Choke on it, cunt, gag on a man’s dick, you fuckin’ pansy-ass queerboy!”

 

Trent would have protested the vile homophobic names he was being called—he was a bottom, but he had limits.  Unfortunately for him, he was too busy being a pansy-ass queerboy to call a halt to the proceedings.  And even as the massive rod of manmeat pinned his epiglottis closed, sealing off his windpipe as it plunged halfway to his diaphragm, his own tool was swelling and pulsing.

 

But as much as Trent reveled in choking down the hot blue-collar stud’s cock, he still couldn’t breathe.  And as horny as he was, at some point the need to inhale became imperative—and suddenly, just as he started to squirm, the teenaged cocksucker felt the older man’s denim-wrapped thighs press against the side of his head.

 

As Trent began—slowly at first, but with increasing desperation—to pull his head up off the hardbodied top’s dick, the pressure on the sides of his head increased painfully.  The Trucker wasn’t actually trying to use his incredibly powerful thighs to crack Trent’s skull like a walnut, but if the panicking fag thought that, so much the better.

 

The teen’s face began to darken.  Tears streaming involuntarily from his wide, bulging eyes, Trent looked desperately up at the Trucker’s face, his eyes pleading silently for air.  The sense of control, of power over the teenaged faggot was almost too much for the Trucker…

 

…he had to let the kid go.  He hadn’t suffered anywhere near as much as he needed to.

 

Relaxing his legs, he let Trent jerk himself backward out of the older man’s groin and fall backwards onto the floor.  As the lean, lithe punk lay gasping and gagging on the floor, the Trucker stood up and polished off his drink.  He took a final drag off his smoke and tapped the ash onto the prone youth before stubbing the butt out in an ashtray.

 

“Awright, bitch, enough foreplay.  Get yer ass on the bed.  I’m gonna show ya how faggot cunts like you need to be fucked.  Ya hear me, asswipe?  Get yer goddam homo ass up, clear them pansy sheets off the bed, and get yer legs in the air, ya hear me?”

 

Still coughing, Trent rose shakily to his feet, then turned and grabbed his drink off the coffee table.  He took a big slug of the booze, snatched his still-smoldering joint from the ashtray and took a deep, lung-busting hit.

 

“What the fuck are ya waitin’ for, cocksucker?” the Trucker snarled, “Get over there an’ clear that goddam bed off!”

 

This time, Trent obeyed, snuffing his jay in the ashtray, unaware of how soon his own life would be so easily snuffed.  Shoving the pillows off the far side of the bed, he grabbed the comforter, blanket and flat sheets in a single handful and jerked the bedding down to the foot of the bed.  All three pieces were tucked in deeply at the foot; Trent gave up trying to pull them off and left them draped over the footboard and dragging on the floor.

 

The Trucker watched the lithe teen’s muscles flex and bulge under his smooth skin.  A rather large one bulged in front—the little faggot punk evidently liked being verbally abused.  His dick was swollen and erect, a purple staff that bobbed and weaved in the air with Trent’s every motion.

 

Then the kid climbed up onto the bed, rolled onto his back, and raised his Nike Jordans in the air.  His cock rose straight up from his groin, curving slightly up towards his smooth flat belly.  Trent nestled himself into position, then reached around and grabbed his own asscheeks, spreading the fuzz-covered peachlike globes and exposing his pink puckered asshole.

 

Almost before Trent realized it, the Trucker was on the bed with him, still in his jeans and boots.  The stud had his cock in both hands, rubbing the huge engorged head of his tool against the boy’s fuckhole, the alpha’s precum smearing over the orifice—it was the only lube the hapless bitch was gonna get.

 

To Trent, it felt more like the business end of a Louisville slugger.  As the Trucker hovered over him, the teen looked up at the older man.  He felt something touch him directly between his pecs and heard a faint clinking sound—they were close enough for the stud’s dogtags to settle onto his chest.  All sense of caution and self-preservation evaporated as the bottom boy drank in the view of hairy muscled manflesh about to pump his ass.  His bleary pot-reddened eyes sought out the Trucker’s icy blue glare.

 

“I know it’s gonna hurt like fuck,” Trent said softly, nearly in a whisper.  “I’ll probably scream.  Don’t stop.”

 

The Trucker’s lips twisted into a knowing leer.  “Don’t worry ‘bout that, faggot,” he chuckled, “I ain’t gonna stop no matter how much ya scream.”  Without another word, he shoved his massive rod into Trent’s ass, not waiting for the teen’s sphincter to relax.

 

Trent was right.  He screamed.

 

The Trucker stiffened with pleasure as he felt the youth’s colon clench in resistance to the searing pain, tightening up on his cock.  “Fuck yeah, that’s it,” he grunted, “Keep fightin’ it, faggot, keep workin’ my shaft.”

 

Trent liked getting fucked, and he liked it to hurt—but now a whole new dimension of agony was opening up in front of him.  He’d never been so full of cock before. It wasn’t just the pain of split skin and torn muscles in his rectum; he could feel the Trucker’s enormous, club-like rod prodding deep into his viscera and his head filled with images of horrific internal injuries.

 

The punk was howling with pain, but his own cock was not only hard, it was slapping against the alpha, spattering clear viscous drops of precum over the latter’s firm hairy belly.  Trying to endure the brutal assfuck, Trent clutched the Trucker with desperate strength, his fingers digging into the stud’s biceps and his smooth thighs wrapped tightly around the alpha’s waist.

 

Trent’s Nikes kicked in the air as his toes curled involuntarily with every thrust of the Trucker’s hips.  The kid’s swollen shaft pulsated at the same tempo as the top’s massive, vein-sheathed rod ground its way relentlessly over his prostate.  Already overloaded with teen hormones, the boy didn’t need much stimulation—no matter how much pain he was in, he was gonna stay hard.  It wasn’t something he could control.

 

Suddenly the music coming from the party suite stopped; the cacophonic rumble of overlapping human voices continued, but the volume level dropped dramatically.  Problem was, Trent was still squealing—and now it might be heard.

 

The Trucker put a stop to that real quick.  “Shaddup, cunt,” he barked, and popped Trent in the face.

 

The force of the blow slammed the kid’s jaws together, making him bite his tongue painfully.  The alpha hadn’t even needed to slow the tempo of his fucking; he’d simply pulled one powerful arm back and plowed it into the teen’s face while still supporting himself with his other arm.

 

It worked.  Trent shut up, his bloodshot eyes, large and vulnerable, looking accusingly up at the Trucker before they started to fill with tears.

 

“Aww, whatsa matter?” the Trucker sneered.  “Is de wittle faggot gonna cry?  Man up, ya little motherfucker—you said ya wanted it to hurt, remember?  Cause I sure the fuck remember.  You ain’t even started to hurt yet, asswipe.  I’m gonna use yer homo ass up, you piece of fag garbage.  By the time I’m done with ya, you ain’t ever gonna need to get fucked again—ever.”

 

As the Trucker reared himself up on his knees, looming over the lithe young boy, he maintained control over the situation physically, keeping the kid pinned to the bed with his dick.  Trent watched—as best he could; despite his best efforts, he was crying—with a growing sense of surreal horror as the older man unbuckled his thick black leather belt and slipped out from around his waist.

 

The Trucker doubled the belt and held it in his right hand and suddenly, somehow, Trent’s vision cleared.  He looked up at the older man’s powerful chest, his broad hubcap pecs carpeted with a mass of dark wiry hair, his thick nipples jutting proudly at the crest of each mound.  And above that, the dark, scruff-covered face, so masculine and so cold, with that icy heat in those blue eyes…

 

And while Trent was almost hypnotized with lust for the man who was hurting him so badly, the Trucker swept his arm down, slashing Trent across the face with the doubled end of the belt.

 

It didn’t break anything or even draw blood, but it left a terrible welt across the kid’s soft fuzz-covered cheek.  Trent shrieked.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” the Trucker roared and hit him with the belt again.  This time it was a backhand blow, and this time it was harder.

 

The teen sobbed openly but managed enough self-control to avoid screaming aloud.  He was in considerable pain and utterly bewildered by what was happening.  All he knew for a fact was that he was still getting violently fucked—and he was still hard…

 

“Wh-why?” he gasped out between sobs, “Hit-hit m-me—wh-why?”

 

“Because it feels good, you worthless piece of fuckmeat,” the Trucker grinned.  “Every time I hurt you, your horny little faggot teen body gets all nice and tight on my dick.  Hurting you gets me off—you feel me, cumdump?  Yer gonna feel me, I fuckin’ promise.  The more pain you’re in, the better you work my cock.  Here, I’ll show ya!”

 

Trent lay back on the bed with the older man’s shaft still buried deep in his guts.  His fragile young psyche was starting to disintegrate in the face of sheer terror; it was as if what was happening to him was part of a movie he was watching.  He wondered if it was past midnight yet; he really did have an exam on Monday—Bio 101 and he was gonna flunk but who gives a shit, he didn’t need Bio to get into Daddy’s law firm and make it big—

 

And then there was one single moment of lucidity, like a flash of lightning illuminating an unknown landscape for a fraction of a second—just enough time for Trent to see that the Trucker had looped the belt through its buckle, forming a simple noose.  The hairy musclestud was holding it up and showing it to the boy, his face twisted with malevolent glee.

 

Trent was shallow and unintelligent, but even he understood what was gonna happen.  He snapped back to reality instantly.

 

“N-no—” he begged, “For G-god’s sake, no—please, oh dear God, please d-don’t—”

 

The young kid broke down sobbing.  The Trucker looked down at him and laughed aloud, coldly and cruelly.

 

“The meat always begs,” he said with an amused tone in his voice, almost as if he was speaking solely to himself.  “Like it has any worth until it’s full of my seed.  You need to learn that the only reason you exist is to be my cumrag, faggot.  Once I pump my load into ya, you’re done.  You’ve served your purpose on this planet.  All that’ll be left is a pile of boymeat.”

 

Trent’s eyes, wide with stunned horror flashed up at his killer.  The teen still wasn’t able to think of the Trucker in that way yet, but his desperate denial was crumbling.

 

“Y-you’re kiddin’—ha!  A’course, that’s it—it’s a joke, right?  Huh?  Cause I asked for it rough, huh?  Right?”  Fear drove the boy’s pitch higher with each work; the final question was a squeak.

 

“Time to die, cocksucker,” the Trucker said complacently as he reached out and lowered the belt around Trent’s head.  The lithe young fratboi tried to fight the older man off, but the alpha knocked the kid’s flailing hands away like so many annoying mosquitos and, taking advantage of an unguarded moment when Trent lifted his head up off the bed, managed to get the belt around the punk’s neck with minimal effort.

 

“There,” the buff killer said in a self-satisfied tone, “Now we’re ready for business.”  He shifted himself, keeping his huge rod embedded in the teen’s ass as he dug the thick soles of his engineer boots into the mattress.  He was gonna need a lotta leverage to make the meat milk his shaft right.

 

“Oh fuck no please don—urk!” Trent cried out, his final useless plea cut off as the hardbodied psycho tightened the belt and cinched the kid’s windpipe off with a single jerk.  From then on, the only sounds the fratboi could make out loud were thick gagging noises as he was slowly choked to death.

 

Inside, though, he was screaming.  The inability to breathe had refocused the worthless little punk; now he had a purpose—to keep alive as long as possible, to stave off death to the last of his strength.

 

And that was exactly what the Trucker wanted, too—to feel the young faggot struggle and die on his cock.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered seductively to the panicking teen, “Keep fightin’ it, fuckmeat.  Fuck yeah, boy, just like that.  Work my dick, you sack a’ shit, fuckin’ milk my shaft as you go under.”

 

Trent fought it, all right; he fought and thrashed like a landed fish.  His hands, curved into claws, came flying at the Trucker, digging and scratching for any vulnerable spot—anything to relieve the crushing agony in his throat.

 

It had taken long enough for the shallow young homo to understand that this was really happening to him, that he’d used his smooth young body to lure in something much more dangerous than a hot anonymous fuck.  Even now, as his guts were getting reamed and his pulse pounded swiftly and deafeningly inside his skull, he refused to accept the fact that death was imminent.  His fear at the moment was getting hurt so bad his father had to be called; what the fuck would he do then?

 

“Am I losin’ ya, asswipe?  You findin’ something more entertain’ than my cock to think about?  Ok, cunt, I’ll make yer sorry goddam ass pay attention to what matters most in yer useless life—working the spunk outta my dick.  Here, this’ll help ya focus—”

 

The Trucker wrapped the loose end of the belt around his thick, hairy wrist, grabbing the end of it in his right hand.  Placing his left hand on Trent’s chest, he began to pull backwards with his right.  He started off slowly, almost gently, but kept increasing the power.  Within a matter of seconds, his right bicep was bulging, a visible manifestation of the sheer strength the older man was using to snuff the teenaged faggot.

 

Trent clawed frantically at the Trucker’s chest, clutching and releasing handfuls of wiry hair like steel wool.  As his esophagus began to deform under the crushing pressure and his face started to swell excruciatingly from lack of oxygen, it finally began to dawn on the fratboi that he wasn’t going to survive this encounter.

 

That was what it took to trip the trigger.  Panic set in, ensuring that Trent’s actions were no longer aimed at a rational attempt to free himself—he was thrashing and flailing in blind terror, his desperate attempts to free himself punctuated by the jangling music of the alpha’s dancing dogtags.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted in ecstasy.  “Goddam, I love how twink meat kicks as it dies!”

 

The shuddering, sweating pile of teen boymeat was no longer a lucid human being.  Trent had relapsed to the state of a terrified animal caught in a trap. He clawed and dug at the thick leather strap that was wrapped so tightly around his throat that it had sunk in; his fingernails shredded the flesh of his neck as he tried vainly to get them up under the belt.

 

The Trucker felt the teen’s smooth skin sliding against his, lubed with an oily film of panicked deathsweat that was literally being squeezed out of the kid’s body.  He looked down with sick lust at Trent’s grotesque, blackened face, swollen and distorted out of recognition.  The fratboi’s tongue, huge and purple, had pushed its way past the thick blue lips and was protruding amidst a steady stream of white, foamy drool that leaked down Trent’s peach-fuzz-covered cheeks.

 

“I’m gettin’ close, fuckwad,” the Trucker hissed hoarsely, “Ya want my load?  Ya want to end it, to stop the pain?  Die, faggot, die on my cock.  Fuckin’ kick and die an’ jack me off.  C’mon, you worthless little pansy, make yer fuckin’ faggot life mean somethin’.  Drain my balls an’ I’ll let ya rot with my hot manseed in yer guts.  Die, you piece of shit, so I can use you as a cumrag.”

 

The pounding in Trent’s head was overwhelming; it drowned out everything else.  It drowned out the razor-sharp agony of the brutal buttfuck; in fact, Trent was almost desensitized to that pain by now.  It also drowned out the horrific pain of his collapsing trachea and the fiery sense of intense pressure radiating from his oxygen-starved lungs…

 

…but it didn’t drown out the burning sensation that ran the length of his swollen, aching cock.  Even as his sense faded and he began to slip convulsively into progressive brain damage, the teen slut could still feel his own painfully erect and throbbing cock pressed against the Trucker’s belly–and was somehow till sensitive enough to feel the older man’s muscled form hunched over him, working and pumping, using his body as a sex toy, to be tossed aside after orgasm.

 

And as his brain shut down, Trent began to want it.  He began to accept death, to accept that his best, his only purpose in life was to receive this stud’s semen, to accept his sperm in a mighty gush.  That was all he was, a receptacle for hot mancum, and if he had to suffer like this to achieve it, it was ok…

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, huh, bro?” the Trucker whispered, “Now ya like it, yeah?  Now ya want it, right?  Fuck you, ya goddam worthless faggot!”

 

Pulling up violently on the belt, the Trucker took his left hand off Trent’s chest and drove it as hard as he could into the dying teen’s face.

 

Several things happened at once.  Trent was too far gone to hear the words, but he certainly felt the Trucker jerking the belt—it would have been difficult for him to miss, since his trachea was crushed into a bloody mass of cartilage, his larynx reduced to a mangled wad of tissue.

 

That sudden blast of nightmarish pain proved to be too much for the near-dead punk; his traumatized nervous system went into overload and he began to spunk uncontrollably.  The dying fratboi shot an interminable, high-pressure jet of semen onto the Trucker’s body, splashing up his chest and splattering on his dangling dogtags.

 

Less than half a second later, the Trucker’s blow drove Trent’s nose into his face, shattering the bridge like glass and sending bone shards flying into what little part of the teen’s brain was still alive.  It also ruptured the kid’s cervical vertebrae, tearing open the spinal column and mangling the spinal cord itself.

 

As the kid went rigid with massive nerve trauma beneath him, the Trucker felt his seething balls erupt in an explosion of pure manseed.  In his final death agony, Trent clung tightly to his killer, his firm smooth thighs tightly wrapped around the Trucker’s waist and his retro Nike Jordans kicking and flailing mindlessly in the air behind the Trucker’s back.  His arms had shifted as well; now he held his killer in a tighter embrace than any lover ever dared.

 

The Trucker cried out, a long inarticulate cry of orgasm and male dominance.  He spewed load after load uncontrollably into the human cumrag he’d snuffed, letting the corpse’s convulsions milk the last drop of spunk from his aching, overfilled scrotum.  At some point, he realized he was pounding his fist again and again into Trent’s defenseless face.

 

The teen was long past caring.  He was dead.  His body hadn’t quite realized the fact, though; the smooth young fratboi was still quivering and spunking, jet after jet of cum shooting from his convulsing corpse.  It took more than a minute for both Trent and the Trucker to stop unloading.

 

Finally, the Trucker shuddered to a stop.  He paused for a moment, gasping and sweating, his leaking cock still buried deep in the corpse.  Almost from outside himself came the awareness that the music from the part suite had started again; he suddenly realized that he’d shot his entire wad to the background music of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” by Activator.  Well, at least it was appropriate.

 

Slowly and regretfully, he pulled his tool out of the dead kid.  His boots hit the wood floor with a loud thump as he crossed to the bathroom to clean up; wiping the boyspunk out of his wiry chest hair took some effort.  When he was done, he tossed the wet towel into the bathtub and walked back out.

 

It was a shame to let a nice room like this go to waste, he thought, but he had to get going.  After all, that sugar waiting for him tomorrow wasn’t going to deliver itself.  Still, there was a romantic appeal to the scene that presented itself to him—the old brick walls, the antique French provincial furniture, the tight, hot teen corpse lying spread-eagled on the bed with damn near a pint of creamy mancum leaking out of its ass and what looked like a quart of teen boyspunk congealing on its chest and a thick black leather belt embedded in its neck, its black and white Jordan 10s still twitching against thecum-soaked mattress…

 

 

The Trucker smirked.  Well, someone was gonna have some fun finding it.

 

Tucking his shirt into his back pocket so that some of it hung out, swinging against his taut ass like a hankie, he left the same way he came in.  Once past the party suite windows and down in the courtyard, the Trucker took a deep breath of fresh air, inhaling the heady scent of jasmine from somewhere nearby.  Yeah, he thought, he could come to like the Big Easy…

 

The sound of his boots on the pavement echoed through the French Quarter as he headed back to the train.

 


 

“Mr. Boudreaux?  I gotta call for you…”

 

“Dammit, Marcie, can’t you see I’m busy?  I’m about to start this conference call with the governor and Senator Boileau about gettin’ this Religious Freedom bill passed; can’t it wait?

 

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s the New Orleans police.  It’s your son.  They say—they…oh, sir, you really need to take this call!”

 

“Oh gawd, what’s the little bastard done now?  Another one of those stupid fraternity pranks?  I swear to God, if he wasn’t mixin’ with the right types down there, I wouldn’t be payin’ his dues.  Oh well, as long as it ain’t too serious.  But he better not be costin’ me any more money.  Go ahead an’ put ‘em though, Marcie.”

 

Ten minutes later, Trent Boudreaux, senior, had fled his office for the parking garage.  By the time he was on the road for New Orleans, his conference call was forgotten, not to be recalled to mind until he learned every last nightmarish detail of his son’s murder—after what was obviously consensual gay sex.

 

The funeral was private; family shame prevented any public announcement.  His frat brothers struck his name from the roll and never admitted they had allowed a faggot in their midst.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dinner Celebration By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

I enjoy writing and reading gay snuff stories, and I like to imagine an awesome world run by Alpha Males, where environmental issues are addressed, nations are at peace, prosperity is the norm, and there is a positive, stable social order.  A select group of Alpha Males achieve total dominance, with a large beta class of citizens who live productive, fulfilling, but controlled lives.  Supporting both groups would be a vast, disposable class of male slaves.  We would be naked animals assigned dangerous and degrading tasks to support the needs and desires of our owners. Our bodies would be tortured, used sexually, and destroyed at the whims of our masters, with zero limits on what is done to us or what we are ordered to do.  Gladiatorial contests among us are far more brutal and fatal than ancient Rome, providing entertainment and releasing tensions that otherwise might lead to conflict among citizens.  Medicine would advance rapidly with us as experimental lab animals that would be plentiful and totally disposable. (For example, new drugs would enable intense, satisfying orgasms as often as citizens wanted, complete with impressive loads of sperm, while slave orgasms become incidents of searing pain, not pleasure, since pain is more fun to watch and what we deserve.)  We would replace methane-emitting cattle as the prime source of meat, reducing global warming and giving citizens a fulfilling sense of power as we are butchered alive and express our appreciation for the honor of being part of their meal.  Our pathetic lives would comprise only pain and humiliation, and would mean nothing; our bodies would be food, turned to shit in the bellies of our masters.  We would be bred and trained to understand that this is what we deserve.

 

This is a celebration story from that glorious utopia.  Sadly, it’s all fiction, including names of characters.

 

 

Chris was excited about the evening’s dinner party.  It was a big event for someone as shy as Chris to host, with most of his best friends and colleagues from work attending.  He had hired a professional party planner for the occasion, and ordered a prime live specimen from Zambian Meats to assure his guests would enjoy dining on the best quality slave neat.  It all cost a lot of money, and Chris wasn’t rich, but it was worth it to impress his friends and assure they had a terrific evening.  He had also researched a new recipe that he was anxious to prepare.

 

Both the meat source and the planner were due at his condo at 10 am, and Chris was doubly excited when the doorbell rang at precisely on time.  He liked punctuality.   There were two young males at the door, one smartly dressed in a tux and the other totally naked.  Both were unusually handsome, and the naked male had a fantastic build with a solid erection that showed off the size of its awesome cock.  Zambian Meat had a reputation for quality, but it looked like they had outdone themselves Chris eagerly invited them in.

 

“Hi, my name’s Evan,” the guy in the tux introduced himself.  “You must be Chris.  I’ve brought the live meat, and look forward to helping you prepare for and enjoy your party.  I saw on the order that you’re up for a major promotion – executive assistant to a member of the Alpha Council – so I realize how important this is to you.  You can count on me to make sure it goes exactly how you want it.  Are there any questions I can answer to start with?”

 

Chris was ecstatic, and as he looked at the two males he realized his own cock was getting hard.  As a young gay guy himself, he enjoyed the sight of other attractive young males -especially naked ones with a hard-on.

 

“Welcome.  I’ll admit I’m excited about the party.  This is a big endeavor for me and I want it to go great.  My guests are people I really like and care about.  So, I’ve pushed my budget to the limit, and am delighted to see how appealing the meat seems to be.  And you’re amazing looking yourself.  As you can see, I’m getting pretty turned on.   But I do have a preliminary request.  You look sexy in your tux, but I wonder if you’d be OK taking it off and stripping naked.  My boss is Dr. Gordon Stuart, a senior member of the Alpha Council, and he is attending.  Like most of the Council he is a gay nudist, as am I.  Out of respect I’ve made the party a nudist event.  All the guests are also gay males, so I plan for the party to start with a fun orgy.  You might be out of place with a tux on, but I’m open to your planning ideas.”

 

Evan had no problem with the request, explaining that he too preferred to be naked, and immediately starting to strip.  He said Zambian’s party division didn’t presume everyone wanted it that way.  He did suggest he leave on the tux bow tie as an identification of his role, which Chris thought was a good idea.  In no time at all Evan was naked, and had a nice hard cock illustrating his interest in the event.

 

Chris next turned his attention to the meat slave, using his iPhone to read the information contained in the microchip implanted in the animal.  The information was interesting and useful.  Had the animal been scheduled to remain alive instead of being harvested for its meat, it would have turned 19 years old the next day.  Its body-fat ratio was low but not extremely low, which meant the meat would be flavorful but still lean.

 

“Are you excited to make the trivial contribution of your body and your worthless life to help entertain and feed my guests?” Chris asked.  “And are you aware that one of the people eating you will be a member of the Alpha Council?”

 

The slave was clearly not aware of the guest, and appeared almost shaken with the news.  “I am deeply honored, sir, and worry that my body is not worthy of such an honor.  As human cattle I know this is my highest and only even remotely useful use, and I am very excited at the prospect of being killed and eaten as I deserve to be.  But the thought of being eaten by such a distinguished person is overwhelming.”

 

Chris was pleased with the answer, and Evan interjected.  “At Zambian we take pride in all the meat we breed and raise, but we are very careful to make sure only the best quality meat, with the best attitude, is served to Council members.  So, I chose this meat slave personally to be sure it would meet our standards and help assure the success of your party.”

 

Chris again addressed the meat slave.  “I see you would have turned 19 tomorrow, and I see you’ve been used as a sex toy for the past two years.  What were you used for?”

 

“Zambian stresses making sure its meat slaves are adequately degraded before we are harvested.  In my case I was rented to a large shopping center to serve shoppers sexually.  I wore only a metal collar, which was attached to a wall with a long chain.  That way guys could fuck me in any position they wanted, either up my ass or in my mouth.  I’d spend the day getting fucked, with lots of cum and piss going into my two openings.  I would also entertain the shoppers by having orgasms whenever told to do so, which meant they could enjoy watching my body shoot loads of cum while I endured the appropriate, severe agony that an orgasm causes for slaves.  As you know, we are now able to shoot loads of cum almost continuously, as citizens can do, but we have been drugged so the experience is one of extreme pain, not pleasure.  Shoppers could enjoy laughing at my gyrations as the pain shot through my body.  But since I was scheduled to be used as high-quality meat, shoppers were not permitted to torture me for fear it would damage the meat.  Of course, there were other slaves available for that purpose, and they were replaced frequently as they were tortured and killed.  My purpose for the two years was to provide sexual pleasure and entertainment, and to be conditioned to realize just how worthless I am and how much I deserve to suffer.  When the mall was closed I did janitorial work, personally licking clean the toilets and urinals.  Then I would exercise for several hours to keep the meat lean and fit.”

 

Chris checked the chip readout on the slave, and saw that it had been butt-fucked 36.950 times during the prior two years – about 50 times per day.  It had also had about the same number of pain-inducing orgasms.  There wasn’t a record of the amount of cum or piss it had swallowed or had been sent up its ass.  Chris raised a concern with Evan:

 

“That certainly seems a suitable use for a slave, and I know Zambian needs to get a little return on its investment prior to selling the meat for harvest.  But I worry whether its asshole is in good, tight shape.  Also, I have read about the impact of the pain from orgasms having driven some slaves insane and not mentally functional given how extreme it is.  It’s obvious the exercise was effective a to its appearance, but is this meat still in good shape internally and mentally?”

 

“Great questions,” Evan responded.  “I can see why you have been up for such a big promotion.  But I can assure you the meat’s condition is still prime quality.  We made sure to repair the asshole as needed at the end of each day, restoring its tightness, and I can personally assure you it’s very tight.  But obviously you should test it yourself, and maybe that’s the next thing we should do.  As for the mental part, we’ve found slaves respond in several ways.  True, some go insane and need to be harvested right away.  But most respond as this animal has done – reacting to the pain by recognizing how appropriate it is for them to suffer, and often seeking out more pain so they can provide more entertainment to people by suffering more.  They achieve a level of masochism that is essentially total.  So, this slave is quite sincere when he tells you how much it’s anxious to be killed and eaten.  It knows that’s its only way to make any contribution.  Having its body spend its 19th birthday in the bellies of real people, providing nutrition and being processed into shit is the only reason it was bred and allowed to exist this long.”  The look of acceptance, even joy, on the slave’s face convinced Chris of the accuracy of Evan’s analysis.

 

“Well, it’s been an hour since I last had an orgasm, and I’m pretty horny, so let’s see what its ass feels like.”  Chris signaled to the slave, who immediately knelt in front of Chris and sucked his cock.  At a further signal, it leaned forward and grabbed its ankles so Chris could insert his cock into its asshole.  Chris was quite pleased, as the ass tightened nicely around his cock, providing satisfying pleasure while Chris pumped, at first slowly and then with increasing motion as he neared climax.  Chris had also instructed the slave that it, too, should cum, and the two of them did so simultaneously, bringing powerful pleasure to Chris and extreme pain to the slave.  A part of Chris’s pleasure was enjoying the slave’s obvious pain.  This animal would do nicely to start the orgy, before it was officially turned into a main course for dinner.

 

“I am extremely pleased,” concluded Chris as he emptied a load of piss down the slave’s throat.  “You’ve done well and I will make sure you get a large tip for your efforts.  But feel free to fuck it yourself if you’d like.  I wouldn’t mind watching you shoot, and watching it suffer a bit more humiliation and pain.”  Evan thanked Chris for the promise of a big tip, and took advantage of the offer, putting on a nice show while Chris masturbated as he watched, sending this load down the slave’s throat as Evan sent his up its ass. And the slave once again provided an entertaining demonstration of its painful orgasm.

 

“By the way, does the slave have a name?” Chris asked.  Evan laughed out loud.  “Of course not.  That would be a waste.  Who would want to name a piece of meat?”  Chris joined in the laughter, having gotten the answer he expected.  The slave looked confused, since the concept was beyond his understanding.

 

Chris and Evan had enjoyed a fun hour chatting and fucking the dinner entree’.  But now it was time to get to work setting up the party.

 

Chris had rented a free-standing glass oven in which to cook the meat, and they started by having the slave lie in the oven so they could adjust it for a good fit and view.  Chris wanted the guests to be able to watch as their dinner baked.    The slave, of course, cooperated fully and thanked them for the honor of being chosen to be part of their meal.

 

Next, Evan guided Chris as he started to prepare the meat.  The slave lay on its back while Evan selected a gutting knife form a set of tools he’d brought.

 

“The recipe you found is promising, and not one I’ve tried myself.  So, this should be fun.  I think the key is getting the stuffing well situated so it can cook along with the meat itself.  We can make room for a lot by getting rid of some of the organs the meat no longer needs.  I suggest we start by opening its belly – which has the added advantage of being a lot of fun to do and exceptionally painful for the slave.  Being gutted alive really hurts given all the nerve endings in that area.”

 

Chris was concerned: “Won’t that kill it?  I want the meat alive when the guests arrive so they can fuck it and then enjoy watching me snuff it.  That’s part of the fun.”

 

“No worries.  If we do a careful job, it will stay alive for hours, and do so in severe pain.  The key is to remove the organs that are not needed short term, and tie off the arteries and veins.   I’ve learned how to do it so there’s no internal bleeding, which means the juices of the stuffing will permeate the cavity we create and season the meat.”

 

Chris was reassured and eager to begin.  Evan let him do the initial cutting, starting just above the genitals and slowly brining the knife up to the base of the rib cage.  Evan had injected the slave with drugs that assured it would remain awake to endure the pain and humiliation.  As Chris finished the initial gutting, using the knife to cut horizontally under the rib cage so they could easily peel back the skin of the slave’s belly, the slave thanked its tormenters once again for the honor of being used. But its screams as it was gutted were the more pleasing sounds.

 

Once Chris peeled back the skin to reveal the slave’s inner organs, Evan supervised more closely and they worked as a team.  Evan pointed out the needless organs, including the stomach itself, kidneys, bladder, and intestines.  Chris cut them off with a sharper knife, tossing them into a container.  They would be used to feed other slaves, consistent with the focus on environmental recycling even of the waste from slaves.  As each was removed, Evan carefully cauterized the arteries and veins that had been attached, so that there was no internal bleeding.  He also cleaned out the cavity form the blood that had flowed during the initial fun, and drained all the body fluids that were present in the belly cavity.  Of course, he was careful to leave the nerve endings exposed since they transmitted the pain that was generated by the organ removals.

 

“We haven’t done anything that disables the heart or lungs, and experiments proved that slaves will stay alive, awake and in pain for at least 8 hours in this condition.  There was a ton of research that went into the drugs and procedures we just used.  That’s yet another benefit of having millions of lab animals to experiment on, where we don’t have to worry about any limits on what we do to them.  Moreover, we also haven’t done anything to the genitals and we’ve left key sex organs like the prostate in place.  So, our research also shows the animal is still able to achieve orgasm.  And there’s no reason your guests can’t enjoy fucking it, maybe a gangbang depositing a bunch of cum into the ass that can add to the flavoring.  With its intestines and other obstacles gone, the cum will mix nicely with the stuffing.”

 

Chris was now thrilled, and expressed his appreciation and enthusiasm.   He had clearly hired the right party planner.  The two of them then did the stuffing, filling the slave’s belly with a flavorful mix of fruits, vegetables, and croutons that featured a strong pineapple compote.  The meat would be flavored by this as it cooked, and the flavor of the meat would in turn enhance the stuffing.  The guests would enjoy an outstanding meal.

 

Chris had one other question: “How do you think I should do the actual kill?  I’d like it to be as entertaining and painful as possible.”

 

Evan had the answer for this as well.  “We have completed some new research I think you’ll appreciate.  As you know, slaves are given drugs at birth that turn orgasms from pleasure to pain.  In terms of great medical research, it’s right up there with eliminating diseases and extended lifespans of citizens, and enabling males to have essentially constant orgasms when we feel like it (which of course is always!).  We’re constantly working on new ways to increase the pain, and have come across a new option that I think words well for your party.  We have a new drug that can be injected into the slave prior to its final orgasm.  The drug increases the intensity of the pain by at least ten times the normal level.  And as you know the normal level for orgasmic pain for slaves is near the top of what an animal can survive.  So, this means the final orgasm is fatal.  Better still, however, the death spasms last for at least 10 minutes and we get to watch the animal die in unbelievable agony, gyrating and screaming throughout.  It’s pure fun to watch and is a sure bet to bring everyone to their own awesome orgasm of pure pleasure.  It’s brand new and I doubt even your guest of honor has seen it in action.

 

Chris couldn’t believe his good luck.  This was going to be a great day!  He of course accepted the offer, and he and Evan finished their planning.  Once the slave finally died, shooting its last load over its belly and chest, Evan would do some quick cutting and remove the heart and lungs, adding some more stuffing to the dead animal’s innards.  He would also drain the blood that was flowing to keep other limbs alive, and remove the head.  That would be drained and passed around among the guests for those who wanted to fuck it, which was a popular pastime at parties.  While this was underway, Chris would thank everyone for coming (and Cuming) and introduce Dr. Stuart.  That would start the ceremony about promotion to be his special assistant, and the official celebration would get underway while the room was filled with the aroma of the slave cooking in the oven.  When the meat was ready, Evan would invite the guests to take a seat and Evan would carve and serve the meat.  It was an outstanding plan.

 

Chris and Evan had several hours to wait until the guests started to arrive, during which they enjoyed each other’s great bodies, and shot a few loads each up the ass of the slave.  They got to know each other, sharing stories about their careers.  Chris filled Evan in on the process of the job promotion, adding a lot of background that would help Evan in his role of party manager.  When it got to be time for the party to start, they fucked each other one more time, showered together and waited by the door.

 

The guests were prompt and arrived right on schedule.  Chris wasn’t surprised, since it would be very rude for anyone not to have arrived prior to when Dr. Stuart arrived (which was 15 minutes exactly after when the party was scheduled).  After all, being at a party with a member of the Alpha Council was a great honor for members of the beta class like Chris and his guests.

 

Dr. Gordon Stuart was one of the most senior members of the Council.  He was in his mid-30s, and handsome even for an Alpha leader.  Even surrounded by two dozen young, fit gay guys averaging in their early 20s, he was the most impressive and fit person there.  Unlike some members of the Council, he was also known for his kindness and thoughtfulness for members of the Beta class of citizens, feeling a responsibility to assure their lives were positive and productive.  It was not unusual for him to attend functions with lower class citizens, as he was doing this evening at Chris’ invitation.

 

Chris introduced Evan, who took the lead in explaining the plans for the evening, adorned only in his tux bow tie.  The two dozen guests were all naked and all exhibiting rigid hard-ons.  So Evan suggested they start with a gang rape of the evening’s meat, a suggestion that was quite well received.  Dr. Stuart went first, of course, and complemented Chris on obtaining such an obviously high-quality specimen.  Chris beamed with appreciation.  The evening not only started will, but as guests enjoyed their drinks it seemed to get even better.

 

The kill was a highlight, and Chris invited Dr. Stuart to do the honors by masturbating the slave.  But consistent with his typical courtesy, Dr. Stuart deferred to Chris and Chris had the pleasure of jerking off the meat while also fucking it. They both came together, and as the slave put on its amazing final show, screaming and gyrating wonderfully as it shot a giant load of cum all over its belly and chest, Chris enjoyed continuing to pump its tight ass.   Everyone else also enjoyed an added orgasm as they watched, massively turned on by the length and intensity of the slave’s fatal orgasm.  In fact, they were a bit spent once the show was over.  That worked well with the timing, as Chris thanked everyone for attending, especially Dr. Stuart, and turned the ceremony over to him.

 

“Thanks, Chris.  I think you have put on an amazing party and I’m pleased to be here.  As you know, I enjoy mingling with all our citizens, whether Alpha or Beta class.  And Chris and indeed all of you are great role models for our betas.  Now, as you also know, I am taking on a new executive assistant, since my existing one, Chad, has caught the eye of another member of the Council, who has decided to make him his official consort.  This is of course a great honor for Chad, being the husband of a Council member, and I am always delighted when my staff get a promotion.  But this time I’ve decided to choose someone from the beta class.”  A cheer went up from the grateful betas in the room.  “It’s an extremely helpful and prestigious role – the highest available to any beta – so I have been careful in making my choice.

 

“I finally got it down to two finalists, Chris and Marcus.  And I notice Marcus is also here, which is thoughtful on Chris’ part.  But that’s how Chris is.

 

“I let Chris know my choice several days ago, and he suggested this party to celebrate.  But before I make the official announcement, I want to clarify my reasons.  Both Chris and Marcus have all the skills needed for the job and either would have been an excellent choice.  But part of the job involves always being available for my sexual use, and therefore my sexual tastes are quite relevant.  Let’s have the two finalists stand side by side so I can explain.”  Marcus came forward and stood next to Chris, both facing the rest of the guests and both with extreme erections that were dripping pre-cum.  Marcus looked nervous and was sweating a bit.

 

“As you can see, these are each terrific male specimen.   I’d enjoy fucking either of them – and I’ve done that a lot of times, by the way, as part of my selection process.  I also know they are both more than willing to act as a human urinal if there is not a slave nearby, although that is rarely needed.  And I enjoy watching them jerk off.  So it’s been a tough choice on that criterion as well.  Fuck, as you can see even their cocks are the same size!  When all is said and done, it ultimately came down to which body turned me on the most.  The only real difference is that Chris is a bit older and more mature, at age 23 v. Marcus’ age 17.  And that’s why I have chosen Marcus.  I find him a total turn-on, and he is at his amazing sexual peak.  He will be my new assistant.  Congratulations Marcus.”

 

Everyone was startled, especially Marcus.  But Chris was not, standing next to Marcus and congratulating him after thanking Dr. Stuart for the honor of being considered.  The other guests quickly recovered, cheered, and added their congratulations.  But Dr. Stuart had one more point to make.

 

“I realize you’re all surprised.  Chris and I have accomplished our little joke and I’m pleased at the reactions.  So let me explain further.

 

“When I told Chris that he was not my choice, he responded with total class.  He suggested a party to surprise Marcus, and that has obviously gone amazingly well.  But Chris also realized there would be possible tension on Marcus’s part if Chris stayed on my office staff.  He could be perceived as a threat and he did not want to have anything get in the way of my enjoyment of Marcus’ body or with Marcus’ success at his job.  Chris has an announcement of his own.”

 

“Thank you. Dr. Stuart.  I am overwhelmingly honored that you agreed to join our party.  Your kindness toward members of the Beta class is deeply appreciated by all of us.”  The crowd again cheered.

 

“I do want Marcus to succeed and I do not want to get in the way.  I don’t think I should remain on your staff.  Also, I do not want to violate protocol on hosting a member of the Alpha class, which this party risks doing, and with Dr. Stuart’s permission I’ve come up with a solution.  The standard is to offer Council members a choice of cooked meat or live meat.  I have not yet provided the live meat for Dr. Stuart to enjoy, and I know he prefers it.  He has often commented that he thinks it’s healthier, and it gives him the added pleasure of making the meat suffer a bit more and be humiliated by watching itself be eaten alive.  I have decided that I should be the live meat.  I encourage all of you to enjoy my body as part of your evening feast.  Evan will help you know where to cut into me so you get the best meat and don’t accidently kill me too soon.  To that end, I will relinquish my status as a citizen and become a slave.  That removes me as an impediment to Marcus, fulfills the meat choice protocol, and will add to your enjoyment as you destroy my body.  I trust none of you will be confused by my prior status as a citizen, and will be as brutal and vicious as possible.  No one should ever hold back in torturing a slave.  But before I become one, and while I can still make my own decisions, I do have one small gesture I’d like to make.   I want to be the first to facilitate Dr. Stuart bonding with Marcus in his new role, and I know Dr. Stuart is always gracious about that sort of thing.  So, I suggest they share a token of my respect.  Well, actually two tokens.”  With that, Chris picked up a nearby knife that he had conveniently positioned, and cut into his scrotum.  Chris then cut out his testicles, rinsing them off and offering his man-seeds to Dr. Stuart, who ate one of them and shared the other one with Marcus.  As the two enjoyed the first donation from Chris’ body, the room cheered wildly.  Evan quickly cauterized the wound so Chris would not lose consciousness or bleed to death.  Then Chris officially relinquished his citizenship, an act accepted by Dr. Stuart as a member of the Council.  The citizen named Chris was now dead.  Evan handed the slave a microchip to swallow, registering it as a meat slave ready for harvest.  There was now a nameless meat slave to be dealt with that needed an owner.  Evan asked Dr. Stuart if he would accept ownership of the new slave, but Dr. Stuart declined and pointed to Marcus, who eagerly accepted his new property and spoke next.

 

“Thank you, Dr. Stuart.  This is an amazing honor to be your assistant and I will do everything I can to fulfill your every desire.   That includes whatever you might want to do with or to my body, which is always yours to command and use.   And I invite you, and then everyone, to make use of my new slave.  Once Evan gets it prepared I suggest we start by torturing it, although I do want to be sure it stays alive while Dr. Stuart, and then all of us, enjoy its living flesh.  I also recognize that it’s now a eunuch and only has one last orgasm it will be able to provide for our amusement.  So I’m asking Evan to inject not only the drugs that turn slave orgasms into events of pain, but to inject the added dosage used to make the orgasm fatal and provide us with such great fun watching.  Clearly this slave, like all slaves, deserves that added pain and humiliation.”  Marcus had totally bought into the transition from citizen to slave, made easier because he never had liked Chris the citizen.  After all, they were competitors and Marcus was not nearly as gracious as his deceased adversary had been.

 

On cue, Evan roughly dragged the slave to the middle of the living room, with guests kicking it as he did so, and turned a switch on the wall.  This caused a set of metal shackles to drop form the ceiling, and a large metal pan with a drain to slide out from the wall.  Evan attached the slave’s wrists to the chains that now hung from the ceiling, adjusting the height with another switch so the animal dangled with its feed slightly off the ground.  That way the body could swing free as it was beaten.  The apparatus was a standard feature of homes in the world of Alpha Males, so citizens could conveniently enjoy torturing slaves.  The pan and drain were to catch the fluids that would be flowing from the slave’s body soon, making clean-up easy.  There was of course no resistance, and Evan also distributed appropriate implements for the guests’ fun like whips, knives, and electric dildos.  The final prep was the shot to induce the final fatal orgasm, and a dousing with a “skin cleaner” that depilated the slave’s skin so that the torso and limbs were completely hairless (no one wants to deal with body hair on their meat) and the nerve endings were more sensitive to pain (adding to the fun).

 

Dr. Stuart took the lead by cutting off and eating a generous helping of live, raw meat form the slave’s thigh and then fucking its ass as he enjoyed the meat.  As he finished his first helping, Evan made sure the bleeding was controlled and Marcus cut off more meat, offering it to his new Boss as Dr. Stuart kept pumping the tight slave ass.  After Dr. Stuart had his fill and shot his load, the orgy of torturing and fucking the new slave began in earnest.  At that point Dr. Stuart excused himself, having accomplished his goals and enjoyed a terrific party complete with delicious live meat.  But he told Marcus not to report for work until late the next morning. He wanted Marcus and his friends to enjoy their orgy and dinner without having to defer to him, characteristic of Dr. Stuart’s generosity.  Everyone expressed their gratitude for his attendance and thoughtfulness, realizing how fortunate they were to have such Alpha Males ruling them.

 

The torture and orgy session lasted quite a while, and the slave was in severe pain throughout.  Oddly, however, its sexual level was enhanced compared to what the animal had experienced before.  The freedom of turning over all control, and knowing its body was being used for such an apocopate purpose was somehow exile rating and liberating.  Several of Chris’ closest friends had started a contest to see who could do the most damage with a whip, and the slave was quite sincere when it expressed its appreciation for the honor of being the target, as it was when it also thanked guests for the opportunity to watch as they cut and ate delicious parts of its body.

 

The other slave was done cooking in due course and the two meat sources were laid side by side for the guests to choose.  Evan carefully guided the guests as they cut into the live meat, which proved the more popular, to be sure it stayed alive.  Once everyone had enjoyed the delicious dinner, commenting on how good the recipe for baked slave had tu8rned out, Marcus masturbated the dying animal and they all enjoyed watching it shoot an amazing load, using up all the sperm that would never be replaced for lack of testicles and lack of life, putting on a show every bit as amusing as the original slave had done.

 

After everyone left, well into the early morning because of another satisfying orgy, Evan chopped up the two bodies and tossed the remains into the container used earlier for the organs of the cooked slave.  The undesirable remains of the slaves would be used to keep other slaves alive until they were themselves harvested.

 

The dinner celebration had played out exactly as Chris had hoped.

M4M4Schoolboi

Joe had been on the clock for five days straight; he’d gotten home near dawn after working twenty hours in a row.  He ate, showered, and fell sound asleep.  He was exhausted.  There had been a problem at work that required a little extra effort.  Most of the time they were too surprised by Joe’s stealth approach to fight back.

 

When he awoke twelve hours later, his dick was stiff and aching.  The hardbodied stud grinned in pleasure at the thought that he had some time to kill—because that was exactly what it would be.  The sun had gone down, darkness had closed in and it was time to go find a cumdump so he could drain his balls.

 

He’d manage to pocket the phone of the last cunt he’d snuffed—that little faggot with the poppers—and was scrolling through the hookup apps looking for something interesting.  There were several apps; the fairy had evidently been a serious whore…

 

Joe paused for a moment.  A wry grin twisted his hard, handsome face with grim pleasure as he replayed that last snuff in his mind.  He was proud of that kill.  And the swelling bulge in his crotch showed that other motives had been involved as well.

 

And now they were back.  He needed to find a good n’ worthless homo, a pansy-ass sack of shit that he could enjoy killing.  He was looking for one that would give him the satisfaction, not just of a job well done, but of a job worth doing in the first place.

 

Flipping to the second screen on the phone, he found an app he’d never seen before—“Twinke”.  Curious, he opened it and started exploring.  It seemed to work by using the phone’s locator function to post messages from within a geographical range set by the user; the current setting was “w/in 10 miles.”  The app would post anonymous messages from members in that range, in the order they were received.

 

Intrigued, Joe scanned the list.  Nothing really caught his eye; the most recent message was an hour ago.  Must be a slow night.  Annoyed, the restless stud was about to close the app when a new message suddenly popped in at the top of the list.

 

Attached to the message was a photo; an amateur torso pic showing a boy’s chest, the gentle rise of his pectorals smooth and clean up to the peaks of his dark, stiff nipples.  There was a faint dark fuzz on the kid’s flat belly; it rippled over the faint hint of ab muscles above the navel.  Below was the text:

 

“NEED A POWER DADDY—

 

18yo WM, 5’9”, 130 lbs, blond hair blue eyes—I graduate next month and I wanna get my cherry popped before then.  Buff older men only, looking for someone who knows when to be gentle.  Ain’t gotta ride—you gotta come to my place.  420 friendly.  Reply w/ pic for details.”

 

Joe grinned with wild delight.  This one was fresh meat.  And Joe could be gentle.  He could be so gentle, he’d put the little faggot to sleep.  Forever.

 

The photo he sent back was enough to entice any fairy; it was a torso pic as well, showing every sculpted detail of Joe’s furry chest—the thick mounds of his pecs surmounted by hard, jutting nipples, the waves of wiry dark body hair covering the ripped six-pack abs…

 

…and below the waist, something special.  He’d left his fly partially unzipped, exposing the head of his dick, purple, engorged, glistening with pre-ejaculate.  Joe knew he was the first responder to the kid’s post—but even if he hadn’t been, he knew his pic would settle matters in his favor.  The virgin fagmeat would be his, to do with as he wanted.  And what he wanted was so very cruel…

 

He got dressed as he waited for the reply.  Zipping up his jeans—skin-tight and worn soft as velvet—he sat on the edge of the bed.  He grabbed his boots—a pair of Corcoran ten-inch leather field boots with steel toes—and had just laced the left one up around his calf, tucking the leg of the jeans inside, when the phone alerted.  The meat had responded.

 

“Hey man damn ur hot.  cum fuck me.  parents not home.  come to door on left side of house I got basement to myself”  This was followed by an address in a working-class neighborhood.

 

Grinning, Joe laced the other boot up tight.  He was gonna need some traction to put this little fucker down right.  Standing up, he caught his reflection in the mirror.  His heavily-muscled body, hairy and almost visibly oozing with testosterone, was his greatest asset in luring fuckmeat, and he took care of it as ruthlessly as he took care of all his business.

 

The hard-bodied alpha glanced around the room, looking for something else to wear.  It was a warm and humid evening; he didn’t want anything too clingy or sticky…

 

There it was—his leather vest.  It’d been a while since he’d worn it, but it’d be perfect for tonight.  Add a little dazzle to the teen punk’s last hour on earth, so to speak.  Hell, if the schoolboi was a virgin like he claimed, he’d probably blow his load just at the sight of Joe’s hyper-masculine, leather-clad body.

 

That was ok, though.  Joe knew from past experience that teen meat was so full of hormones, its balls would quickly refill with spunk.  No matter how hard the little motherfucker shot his wad, the experienced killer knew he’d be able to squeeze more boycum outta the fag when he was finally done with it and ready to blow his own load.

 

Joe stood up and headed briskly for his car.  When he got to it, he had to slide carefully into the driver’s seat—his dick was still hard at the thought of breaking in the schoolboi.  The drive itself took about twenty minutes, but after cruising by the given address, Joe took the precaution of parking the champagne-colored Camaro several streets away; it took another few minutes to walk to the house.

 

The neighborhood was and older one, the houses smaller and less well-kept than those near Joe’s address.  Half the streetlights were out, making the walk treacherous; the sidewalk slabs were broken and raised—some by nearly half a foot—by overgrown tree roots.  On the other hand, the hardbodied alpha was able to keep in the shadows—his powerful form, so erotically displayed in denim and leather, would have certainly drawn notice if anyone had happened to see him.

 

When he reached his destination, Joe quickly slipped around the side of the house and found the ground sloped down on that side, exposing enough of the basement wall that only a couple of steps down were needed to accommodate a door.  There was a light above the door, but it was off.  Joe stepped down and knocked.

 

The boy was already nude when he opened the door.  He stepped back, into the light, and allowed Joe to enter.  For a moment the kid said nothing, goggling the hulking stud, his jaw agape.  Then he gulped loudly and spoke.

 

“Fuck, man,” he aspirated breathily.  “Goddam, you’re so fuckin’ hot…”

 

He gave a curiously supplicatory smile.  “I, uh, I’m Colby,” the boy said, just barely managing to get the words out.

 

Colby was slight and slim, but not scrawny.  His gold-blond hair was only a few inches in length; the bangs had been styled so they stood up from his face.  The look was trendy, but it utterly failed to give him the illusion of being any taller; the top of his head barely reached Joe’s shoulder.

 

The boy’s face was broad, with smooth, clear cheeks and very pale eyes the might have been light blue or light green, depending on the lighting.  His lips were thick and full, giving him a somewhat petulant look; in fact, despite his obvious awe at his guest’s physique, there was an overwhelming impression of arrogant cockiness in the kid’s expression and manner.

 

“You a virgin, boy?” Joe grunted.

 

Colby’s silky-smooth chest with its small but erect nipples descended to his flat belly; below that, six inches of boycock jutted from a mass of gold pubes in which his thick, spunk-filled balls nestled like eggs.  At the sound of Joe’s voice, the kid’s dick spasmed visibly.  The sadistic killer smirked; he didn’t even need to play this one—the fish was already on the hook.

 

“I sucked dick before,” Colby said, eyeing Joe almost defiantly, as if challenging the stud’s tight to question him.  “But I ain’t never taken it up the ass.”

 

“Then bend over, bitch, an’ I’ll plug yer hole,” Joe jeered.

 

“Whoa there, sexy,” Colby replied nonchalantly after making a visible effort to overcome his mindless lust, “I want my first time to be special.  I want it rough, but that don’t mean it’s gotta be ghetto.  Take your time, dude.  Do me right.”

 

“Oh, I’m gonna do you right,” Joe growled, “Don’t worry about that, boy.  I’m gonna do ya so right you ain’t never gonna want another man after tonight.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

Colby grinned, the expression giving his face a mischievous, elfin look.  “Fuck yeah, man, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  C’mon in.”

 

The nude twink preceded Joe into the dark beyond the entryway, turning on the lights.  The basement was large and only half-finished, with carpet and painted cinderblock walls.  The overhead lighting was grim and stark, but sufficient to show that the area was partitioned off, not into separate rooms but into bays.  One contained a desk with a computer, another had a couple of cheap leather recliners facing a large-screen TV attached to a game console.  In the center of the basement, under the light, was a queen-sized bed.  The top sheet was intertwined in a pile with the blanket and pillows, but the full design of its gaudy floral pattern could be easily seen on the taut fitted sheet still stretched over the mattress.

 

Colby strode to the mismatched nightstand on the right side of the bed.  There was an ashtray on it; reaching into it, the teen pulled out a small wooden pipe and a lighter.  Taking a deep toke form the pipe, the boy sat on the bed, silent for a good thirty seconds before exhaling a thick blue cloud of sweetly pungent smoke.  He noticed that Joe was looking at a door in the opposite wall.

 

“That’s the bathroom, dude,” Colby said in a boastful tone, “And look around that corner—it’s a complete kitchen.  Well, the oven don’t work, but who fuckin’ cooks anyway, y’know?  Anyway, it’s all my own place.  The folks don’t come down here, so I can do what I want.  Not like they’re here tonight anyway—some kinda award dinner at Dad’s work.  I told ‘em I gotta test tomorrow I gotta study for.  I do, but it ain’t no biggie if I fail.  Hey, wanna hit?”  The boy took another hit from the pipe before offering it to Joe.

 

“Sure,” Joe said, accepting the pipe, then glancing significantly at the pile of twisted bedding.  “So you want it hard, huh?  Then clear that shit off the bed, boy—I’m gonna ride you like a fuckin’ bronco.”

 

The weed was sweet and strong; the little fuck had a good source.  While Colby’s back was turned, Joe unzipped his jeans and extracted his long, thick tube of manmeat from down inside his pants leg.  When Colby was done—it hadn’t taken him long; all he’d done was shove the bedding and the pillows off the other side of the bed onto the floor—he turned around and was confronted by Joe’s enormous cock, stiffening and throbbing.

 

“Goddam,” the punk gulped breathlessly, his pale eyes huge.  “Jesus, yer hung like a horse—d-on’t, uh, don’t hurt me, okay?”

 

Joe said nothing.

 

“So whaddaya want?  Want me to start suckin’ ya off?” the kid asked, his arrogance beginning to reassert itself.  Joe decided it was time to take control of the situation; he just wanted an opening.  That should be easy enough to find with this cocky little faggot.

 

Slowly shifting his thick muscled arms, Joe shrugged off the black leather vest.  He held it in one hand, allowing Colby to take several minutes letting his eyes wander over the older man’s bulked-out chest, tracing the contours of Joe’s massive furry pectoral muscles surmounted by the thick jutting tabs of his nipples.  The schoolboy’s gaze slipped down the alpha’s torso, taking in the ripped abs covered with a dark trail of hair that led down to the waistband beneath which his gigantic cock was dripping precum onto his glossy black combat boots.

 

The little homo was succumbing in awe to the sheer physical power of Joe’s body.  The experienced killer smirked and, holding out his leather vest, shoved the kid.  “Here,” he said gruffly, “Take care of this for me, dude, and I’ll treat ya right.”

 

Colby took the vest and wandered to the side of the room as if lost in thought.  There was a dresser next to the bathroom door; it was covered with what looked like dirty underwear.  The teen tossed the leather jacket casually on top.

 

It was the opening Joe had been looking for.  He waited for Colby to cross back to him.

 

“That’s yer idea of takin’ care of my fuckin’ leather?” he growled.  “Bitch, I’m gonna hafta teach you that you don’t ever disrespect a dude’s leather.  Down on yer knees, faggot, and start lickin’ my boots.  Put yer useless mouth to work, cunt—now.

 

The teen seemed taken aback by the sudden command.  Joe didn’t give him time to adjust his emotional bearings; grabbing the boy by the back of his head, the alpha forced him down.  “Lick that precum off my fuckin’ boots, boy,” Joe hissed.

 

Tentatively, Colby obeyed, sticking out his tongue and lapping up the salty smears of transparent pre-ejaculate.  “Keep goin’, ya little homo,” Joe demanded, “I wanna see you work the whole boot.”  Doing what he was told, Colby found his dick getting painfully stiff as he worked the older man’s combat boot, feeling the texture of the leather uppers and the nylon laces with the tip of his tongue.

 

“Fuck, man,” Colby gasped, raising his head, “Dude, I love yer boots.”

 

“Yeah?” Joe said.  He drew his right leg back, then kicked it viciously forward, catching the teen on the right side of his chest, up under the pec.  It wasn’t hard enough to do any permanent damage, but it had sufficient power to leave a bruise—and flip the punk onto his back.  “How about now?” the sadist jeered, “Ya likin’ ‘em now?”

 

“Wh-what’d ya wanna go an’ do that for?” Colby whined, blinking and rubbing the sore spot on his side.

 

“Cause it gets me off.  Anyway, you said you like it rough.  Whassa matter—you chicken out?”

 

“This isn’t what I wanted when I said I liked it rough,” the boy bitched, his entitled arrogance creeping back into his voice.  There was something about that tone of privileged complaint that set Joe on edge.

 

And Joe’s edge was razor-sharp.

 

“This ain’t about what you want, you worthless faggot,” he snarled, looming over the prone youth.  Lifting his left foot, he placed his boot in the center of Colby’s chest, right between the low rises of the boy’s pecs, his heel resting on the sternum.  Leaning forward very slightly, the older man put just enough weight on his left foot to make it difficult for the lean young punk to breathe.

 

Colby wheezed and grasped at Joe’s boot, trying to pry it off.  He was suddenly and painfully aware that he’d let in an incredibly powerful stranger, someone who might easily hurt him—and he didn’t think he’d be strong enough to stop him.  The impression grew much deeper as his eyes ran up the dude’s body.

 

His gaze had naturally started down at the black leather Corcoran boot that was grinding uncomfortably into his chest, from there it slowly traveled up the left leg.  Joe’s firm calf muscle and thick thigh were visible through the skin-tight faded denim.  From there, the massive jutting cock, a viscous drop of precum dangling from the tip—

 

“Aah!” he cried as the hot pearl of manjuice plunged down, splashing into his right eye with a burning sensation.  Joe smirked.

 

“Did that hurt, ya little pansy?  Fuck, you ain’t gonna like what I got planned for ya tonight, then.  Too fuckin’ bad.”

 

The alpha lifted his boot.  Colby inhaled deeply, feeling a moment of relief before the hardbodied sadist brought the boot back down again, this time on his face.  The teen squealed as he felt the deep tread grinding into the right side of his face.  His left eye stared frantically upwards, seeking the face of his assailant.

 

His view was almost vertical now, but past Joe’s narrow waist, the teen could still make out the bulging, fur-lined pectorals of the muscle-bound predator—they were hard to miss, with the large hard points of his nipples protruding.  Above, the alpha’s strong, hard jaw was obscured by the shadow of dark facial scruff that spread from cheek to cheek, split in the center by a contemptuously amused grin.  The older man’s eyes were lit from within by a sardonically malevolent grin.

 

Joe was not only enjoying this, he was making his enjoyment obvious to Colby.  He put more of his weight on his left foot, sinking the boot deeper into the kid’s face.  Colby’s hands scrabbled frantically over the smooth leather boot, trying desperately to pry it off, when there was a loud snap and the schoolboy cried out in pain.

 

Lifting his foot, Joe bent down to inspect the damage, but the broken cheekbone had left no external mark and hadn’t had enough time to cause swelling yet.  Disappointed, the alpha stood back up, considered for a moment, then raised his left foot high and stomped on Colby’s solar plexus, hard enough to leave the details of his tread as a bruise.

 

The crushing pain seemed to force the air completely out of the youth’s lungs, then lock them up.  As he curled instantly into a fetal position and tried desperately to inhale, he could hear Joe speaking, but he didn’t take the words in.  He was too busy trying not to pass out.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, bitch.  See, raw meat like you needs to be tenderized a little.  Just lay back and relax, ya stupid cunt, and I’ll make damn sure you’re prepared for a real man’s cock.”

 

Colby managed to force air back into his lungs with a huge gasp.  He hadn’t followed the import of Joe’s words, but he’d vaguely understood the gist.  “D-don-don’t w-want—” he mumbled.  Joe kicked him in the left flank, hard.   Colby, still unable to regulate his breathing, could only moan.

 

“I already toldja this ain’t about what you want, you stupid fuckin’ fairy,” the alpha snarled.  Bending down and clamping a single hand around the kid’s throat, Joe hoisted him, kicking and struggling, into the air.  “It’s about what you need.  You need to know your place and purpose in this world, you little sack a’ shit, and I’m the man to teach ‘em to ya.  Saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to learn.”

 

With a powerful lunge of his arm, Joe tossed Colby onto the bed.  The teen landed flat on his back, coughing and stunned, his long shaft of boycock lying limply between his spread legs.  His breath had only been cut off for about forty-five seconds, but it had seemed to be a terrifying eternity; the youth was still in too much pain and shock to process the words that had been spoken.

 

Colby still wasn’t sure what was happening.  The hot older stud had so perfectly suited his fantasy top, right down to the leather vest and the boots, that any premonition of danger that the kid might have had (not that he’d had any) would have been ignored.  In his natural arrogance, the teen had presumed that his smooth twink body would be treated with due reverence.

 

It was obvious that he was wrong; he was just too stupid to realize it until Joe suddenly appeared on the bed, forcibly parting his legs.  “W-wait—” Colby moaned, surprised at how much it hurt to speak.  He hadn’t realize how badly the right side of his face was swollen.

 

“I ain’t waitin’ for shit, faggot,” Joe snarled as he grabbed the schoolboy’s ankles and hoisted them into the air.  He leaned forward and Colby felt something warm, moist, and very large pressing against his asscheeks.  Realizing what was about to happen, he tensed in physical fear.

 

“N-no, man, don-don’t, not like oh dear fuckin’ god it hurts get it out getitoutGETITOUT!” he screamed as Joe plowed his massive tube of manmeat into the punk’s fuckhole, driving his shaft as deeply into the teen’s guts as he could.

 

With a vicious swipe of his strong hair forearm, Joe backhanded Colby across the face.  “Shaddup,” the older man barked, “This is whatcha fuckin’ wanted, ain’t it, boy?  Shaddup and take a real man’s dick, ya whinin’ little faggot!”

 

Unused to any kind of self-control, the teen kept moaning loudly.  The searing sense of impalement, of his tender asshole being torn open, kept virtually all rational thought at bay; the boy was operating on response to stimuli.  Every now and then, a fleeting lucid thought was spun up by the vortex of pain and fear that had become his reality.  One of them was a quick visualization of himself, seated over at the table, bent over an algebra textbook.

 

Another was the realization that in spite of everything, his own cock was hard; he could feel it, straining and oozing, slapping wetly against the alpha’s firm furry belly with every deep thrust up his ass.  He didn’t know that it was the inevitable result of Joe’s thick tool massaging his prostate—he didn’t need to know.  It just was.

 

Joe knew.  He also knew that the punk wasn’t going to be quiet.  “You goddam cockpig, I toldja to stop fuckin’ squealin’,” he muttered through ominously clenched teeth, “I swear to fuckin’ God, I’ll give ya something to squeal about.  Yer gonna die tonight, right here in yer fuckin’ bed, ridin’ my cock.  You feelin’ me here, asswipe?  No?”

 

Again, Colby heard the words, but could only stare blankly into the hard, scruff-covered face of the hardbodied top.  He hurt, oh God, he hurt so bad, he was so full of cock…

 

Then Joe wrapped his hands around Colby’s throat and began to squeeze, and everything changed.

 

The words Joe had spoken hit home; even the searing agony and psychological trauma of violent rape couldn’t compete with shock of sudden cessation of air.  Joe had told Colby he was gonna die; suddenly, Colby comprehended him.

 

Joe could see the comprehension in the schoolboi’s eyes, too—the way they widened, the desperate spark of terror flashing into existence like a newly-lit beacon.  “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely as he bent he face closely to Colby’s, grinning erotically, “Now yer feelin’ me, faggot.”

 

Then all he had to do was hold on and let the teen do the work.  The young ones were always good at this; they fought it hard, their strong bodies milking his shaft vigorously as they struggled vainly to stave off a long, slow death.  And as Joe had expected, the virgin cunt was especially talented in this.

 

Colby was too busy trying to breathe to appreciate his guest’s enjoyment of his body—something that he would have taken great pleasure in, in other circumstances.  As it was, the schoolboi was being crushed in the iron grip of claustrophobic panic.  He was trapped, inexorably trapped under a heaving, pumping mass of muscle and fur.

 

The irony was lost on Colby—he’d wanted so badly to be pinned under a hot stud, getting relentlessly fucked, and now that it was happening, he was doing everything within his power to stop it.  Problem was, of course, that his power was nothing compared to that of the hot stud’s.

 

As the strong hands remorselessly crushed his windpipe, the teen boy clawed frantically at Joe’s arms.  His nails abraded the strongman’s skin, but did little other damage.  Joe merely smirked.  “G’wan, ya little fuck,” he jeered, “Keep fightin’ it.  Maybe if ya try hard enough, I’ll let ya breathe.  If ya make me cum, I might even let ya live.  How’s that sound, ya sad little piece a’ shit?  Milk a load outta my cock and I might not snuff ya.  Whattaya got to lose?”

 

If the youth had been able to control his fear, he might have tried to take Joe up on his facetious offer.  Of course, if the spoiled teen punk had had that kind of self-control, he wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.  As it was, he continued to thrash violently, his colon spastically clenching Joe’s throbbing shaft.

 

The sadistic alpha tightened his grip on the kid’s throat, feeling the esophagus bend and distort beneath his fingers as he applied pressure.  The deeper his fingers sank into Colby’s airway, the more energetically the kid flailed.  His bare heels drummed on Joe’s taut, denim-covered ass, doing little damage but providing a brisk rhythmic beat to his own murder.

 

“Y’know,” Joe murmured, almost philosophically, “Yer parents are probably gonna be the ones to find your splayed-out, reamed-out corpse.  That turns me on, faggot.”

 

It had been almost two minutes since Colby had last inhaled.  He was wracked with pain, but not the pain of the boot-stomping he’d endured or even the pain of brutal assrape; these had faded as the mortal pain of asphyxiation had gained ground.  There was a desperate burning sensation in his chest, as if his lungs were being sucked inside-out into a vacuum.  The crushing agony in his throat was horrific—worse, the inability to breathe had triggered an uncontrollable urge to retch; his entire torso was wracked with vomitous spasms that ended futilely in his closed-off throat.

 

The worst, though, seemed to come from two different and widely spaced sensations that somehow seemed inextricably linked.  The terrible pounding pain in his head, the jackhammering of his frenetic pulse inside his skull, felt as if it was on the verge of literally blowing his head wide open.  And pulsing, swelling and subsiding excruciatingly at the same tempo, the teen’s balls were sinks of unbearable heat that radiated up his aching dick.

 

As his face darkened and swelled, violent black explosions began to blot out Colby’s field of vision.  He didn’t know that blood vessels were rupturing as his large pale eyes bulged grotesquely from their sockets.  Sections of his brain were starting to die at an accelerated rate; he could still feel his painfully throbbing cock, but not the drool being forced out past his black protruding tongue.

 

His frantic, desperate clawing was purely instinctual at this point; he was unaware of the fact that he was slapping ineffectually at Joe’s massive pecs—it was as useless as beating a marble statue.  As another section of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation, the teen’s fingers curled and locked involuntarily; he raked them through Joe’s coarse, wiry chest hairs, his nails leaving vivid red streaks on the skin underneath.

 

And throughout the entire ordeal, he continued to buck his hips and clench his sphincter and colon on an increasingly rapid tempo.  Joe’s hard muscled body glistened in the bleak overhead light as he held on, feeling his sperm seething in his balls, feeling the dying schoolboy sweating and shuddering beneath him, the way the teen’s smooth skin slid erotically beneath his flesh—

 

—and tensing his body automatically, he felt a sudden give beneath his hands, accompanied by loud and instinctively satisfying crunch as he crushed Colby’s trachea into a bloody mangled mass of cartilage.

 

It was as if a switch had been flipped for them both.  Too much of Colby’s brain was dead for him to realize consciously that his throat had collapsed and that death was inevitable; even if it hadn’t been, he’d already suffered massive brain damage.  There was enough of him left to suffer, though; the nerve endings were still intact, as was the pain center deep in the cerebellum.  And there was a tiny corner in which what was left of the teen’s cocky, vain personality screamed into the agonizing darkness.

 

For Joe, the simmering stew of manseed in his scrotum finally boiled over.  Gripping the schoolboy’s throat tightly, he jerked his hands in opposite directions, literally wringing Colby’s neck as he pumped his load into the dying kid’s guts.

 

As dark fireworks overwhelmed his vision and his mind, Colby felt the heat flowing into him.  Despite the fact that he was exiting his short, useless life in a howling nightmare of pain and terror, there was something somehow—satisfying—about the sensation.  The dying spark of his craven faggot soul felt a brief sense of relief as his aching, hormone-filled teen balls drained spontaneously, thick ropy strands of boycum erupting convulsively from his jutting cock and spewing wad after wad of teen spunk over his smooth, slick belly and into Joe’s sweat-moistened body fur.

 

It took Joe a few minutes to regain some composure; after a bit, he stopped shuddering and gasping and was able to pull his still-hard cock out of the teen’s corpse.  It had taken him a little longer than usual because the schoolboy’s body had continued to convulse and tremble after death, milking the last drop of manseed from Joe’s engorged member.

 

Joe stepped into the bathroom and wetted a hand towel at the sink; the bathroom was filthy, but the hand towel didn’t seem to have been used.  Based on the state of the bathroom, the lazy little homo probably didn’t even know what it was for.  Once he was done with it, he dropped it in the toilet and flushed it.  The towel vanished from sight before getting stuck; Joe watched the bowl start to overflow before leaving the room, having already tucked his potent manhood back into his jeans.

 

Back in the bedroom area, he grabbed his leather vest.  As he slipped it on, he admired his kill.  The schoolboi was sprawled in the center of the bed, his legs spread wide with a dark stain between them where Joe’s cum had overflowed the slut’s ass.  The kid’s belly and chest were covered with his own spunk—it literally looked like quarts of it, already sticky and drying to a glaze—and his ghastly black face, swollen and staring blankly at the ceiling, showed clearly the horrible slow torture of his rape and murder.

 

It was hot as fuck.  He couldn’t help admiring it, even as the carpet under his boots became sodden from water leaking out of the bathroom.

 

Suddenly there was sound from around the corner.  A light appeared there, showing the silhouette of someone standing at the top of a staircase.  “Colby?” a woman’s voice called out, “Are you down there?  We’re back.”

 

Joe pressed himself against the wall, keeping silent.

 

“It’s a shame you couldn’t come, Colby—your dad got a twenty-year service award.  It’s a twenty-five dollar gold piece!  Once he’s out of his suit, I’ll have him come down and show it to you.”

 

The door closed.  It took Joe no more than thirty seconds to locate Colby’s phone and pocket it, and another thirty to get out of the house by the basement exit.

 

As he turned onto the highway acceleration ramp, he caught a glimpse of a police car in his rearview mirror, heading in the direction in which he’d left.  He grinned—those people would never realize the favor he’d done for them, offing that worthless leech.  Oh well, no true artist was appreciated in his own time.

Ride-along with Captain Dan

Pete sat quietly in the front seat of the pickup.  He’d been hired as a deputy by the county less than a month ago and while he’d had a chance to ride along with some of the older, more experienced deputies, tonight was his first pairing with Captain Dan.

 

Pete, like everyone else in the small staff that comprised the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department, idolized Captain Dan.  Tall and broad-shouldered, with buzz-cut blond hair and sky-blue eyes, the muscular and powerful Dan was the epitome of macho law and order.  Everyone wanted to be like him; even Sheriff Waites was intimidated by the man.  But then again, the Sheriff was getting old and fat.  Ever since Major Barrett had passed away three years ago, the county had decided to let the rank of Major lapse, meaning that Dan was the highest-ranking officer under the Sheriff.

 

It wasn’t a good idea to cross him.

 

Pete knew he’d been honored by being chosen for the ride-along.  All new recruits were being trained by Captain Dan, of course, but no one had yet been selected to go out on patrol alone with him this soon after hiring.

 

They’d circled around town a few times, but little had been happening on this chilly Tuesday evening.  Come Friday night, the town would be hopping as all the outlying farm workers came in and got drunk—but now there was nothing.  Dan, wasn’t discouraged, though.

 

“There’s a spot I know,” he said as he aimed the truck out of town, “One of the county roads has an exit on the interstate.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Pete said, “CR 451.  It crosses the county line to the grain mill, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, “But that ain’t the point.  Lotsa drug trafficking along that section of the interstate.  We don’t really have the funds to do much of an interdiction but Taylor County does.  They’re doin’ a roadblock tonight at the Hopewell Street exit—which means if the traffic backs up enough, anyone who’s carrying will turn around at the county line and take the first exit, looking for a way cross-country.  And the first exit heading west from the county line—”

 

“—is CR 451,” Pete finished up triumphantly.

 

“Right!” Dan replied.  “I dunno if we’re gonna be lucky enough to take down one of them fuckers, but I’d damn sure like to give it a try.  You on board?”

 

Pete glanced over at the Captain.  There was something so powerfully masculine about the muscle-bound figure in tight khaki chinos, glossy knee-high boots and a khaki shirt so tight, the buttons strained to keep it closed across the broad chest—Pete would be on board with anything the older man wanted.

 

It wasn’t just the cop’s overwhelming physique—Dan trained relentlessly, honing his control skills to the point that he seemed to naturally take command in any situation.  There was never any question—when he gave an order, it was obeyed, almost mindlessly.

 

Pete was only twenty-one, and at exactly six feet tall was still several inches shorter than Dan.  His body may not quite have been in Dan’s class, but he was well-built and strong, with short brown hair and clear dark eyes.  His broad, youthful face, covered with a dark shadow of scruff, was a striking contrast to the Captain’s hard, set face with its high cheekbones.  The deputy was wearing the same khaki outfit as his superior, but his chinos were tucked into a tightly laced pair of Danner 8” Tachyon combat boots.  As much as he admired the tall leather boots that Dan sported, Pete knew there was no way he could keep a pair that glossy.

 

Ten minutes after turning off onto the county road, the Captain pulled off onto a gravel path and reversed the truck.  He’d managed to have enough county funds diverted to allow him to purchase a huge 4X4 pickup—for the department, he said, not that anyone else would be stupid enough to take it out—that had come in handy while he was raiding meth labs and pot fields out in the far-flung sections of the county.  It took a moment to maneuver the truck to his satisfaction, but when he was done, it was pointy out towards the road but was far enough back in the brush to be hidden.

 

Leaving the engine running, he killed the lights.

 

“Now we wait,” he muttered.  “I betcha we pop at least one of these little druggie faggots tonight.”

 

Pete tuned in to the contempt for both criminals and homosexuals that dripped from the Captain’s voice.  It was a good thing to know, to help stay on his superior’s good side.

 

“That’s all they are,” Dan continued.  “You’ll see soon enough, boy.  Ain’t none of the fuckin’ thieves and drug dealers real men.  Fuckin’ cocksuckers, that’s all they are, every last one of ‘em.”

 

“You sound like my uncle Bill,” Pete said.

 

“Bill?  Bill who?”

 

“Bill Traster, my mom’s brother.”

 

“Naw!  Ol’ Bill Traster?  Used to be in homicide in Oklahoma City?”

 

“Yeah, that’s him.  He’s retired now; took a bullet to the hip.”

 

“Well whaddaya know.  I remember Bill from the Academy.  Yeah, he knew a thing or two about handlin’ these fuckin’ pansy scumbags.  One time he told me—”

 

But the reminiscence was cut off as green motorcycle roared past their concealed truck.

 

“That was a Kawasaki Ninja,” Dan said with a fierce grin on his face.  “Now, who do we know in town with a green motorcycle like that?”

 

It was a rhetorical question; they both knew well that there was only one person in town with a green Kawasaki—Robbie Clebbs. Pete wasn’t surprised when the Captain flipped the lights and floored the truck, heading out after the bike; Robbie was notorious.  He was a bit surprised that they had to be chasing the punk at all.

 

“Didn’t you bust Robbie last month?” Pete asked.  “Just before I got hired—I’d heard you got him after that meth lab out on the Ellis place blew up.”

 

The pickup’s cab was only illuminated by the dashboard lights, but they were enough for Pete to see the way the older man’s face drew taut, his lips compressed in a determined line.  “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice cold as death, “Yeah, I got him—and daddy’s money got him off.  Dunno who got paid where, but it never even came before the grand jury.”

 

Nothing further needed to be said about daddy’s money; even Pete knew that Robert Clebbs, Sr. owned two of the three car dealerships in the county.

 

“Little homo fucker’s been lyin’ low for a few weeks,” Captain Dan went on.  “Haven’t seen him around at all—which means he’s been up to no good.”

 

Dan radioed the stop back to dispatch, reporting it as a speeding vehicle.  Despite the fact that they didn’t have a radar gun with them, Pete said nothing—after all the Captain was the kinda guy who’d be able to tell how fast a vehicle was going just by looking at it.

 

But still, they’d managed to overtake the bike relatively soon after lighting it up…

 

The motorcycle pulled over onto the wide level shoulder at a curve; the pickup crawled in over the gravel behind it.  The high-intensity headlights lit up the kid on the bike clearly.  Pete leaned in for a better look; it had been a few years since he’d seen Robbie.  His kid brother had pointed Robbie out as the one everyone in the county high school went to for drugs.  Eventually, the punk had dropped out and gone to dealing full time.

 

Ol’ man Clebbs was reportedly disgusted with his son’s behavior and didn’t allow Robbie to live at home—but all the kid’s bills got paid somehow, despite the fact that he’d never worked a legitimate job in his short, wasted life.  The bike had been a present for his eighteenth birthday and the fact that he hadn’t trashed it yet was a minor miracle.  Pete had been sure that Robbie’s involvement in the meth lab explosion would have finally earned him some prison time.  Kid wasn’t nineteen yet, but time in the joint would do him some good.

 

Robbie turned back as Captain Dan slowly opened the door.  “Driver, face forward!” he barked.  Pete didn’t get a glimpse of his face, but he could see that the closest the punk had bothered to come to a helmet was a red bandanna tied around his head; under it, long, slightly curly black hair fell nearly to his shoulders.  The boy had twisted his lean, firm torso around far enough for Pete to have noticed that under the kid’s leather biker jacket, his smooth but strong chest was covered by a cheap white t-shirt with a Rolling Stones logo printed on it.

 

A punk-style belt made of gear link chain circled his narrow waist, supporting a tightly-fitting pair of well-worn skinny jeans.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of motorcycle boots—Icon 1000 Elsinore boots, in black leather, the left one up on the bike’s heel rest, the right one on the gravel, steadying bike and rider.

 

As Dan slid out of the truck’s driver seat, he reached down and drew his side-handle baton.  “Hey, Cap!” Pete said softly, but urgently, nodding at the older man’s holster, which was still snapped shut.

 

“Naw,” Dan said, a cold light glittering in his blue eyes like ice crystals, “This little cocksucker ain’t worth the ammo.  C’mon with me, boy, an’ keep yer eyes peeled.  No tellin’ what the strung-out faggot might try.”

 

They marched towards the youth on the motorcycle, the crunch of their boots in the gravel loud in the clear night air of the isolated county road.

 

Holding the baton in one hand, Dan pulled a heavy, oversized flashlight out of a loop in his belt.  He flicked it on just as Robbie turned to face him.  Like Pete, the punk’s youthful face was covered with scruff, but Robbie’s was the result of lack of shaving, where Pete’s was carefully trimmed to an exact appearance.

 

As the bright light shone into to the boy’s red eyes, he blinked blearily and threw his arm up across his face.  “A’right!  Enough!” he called out.  “Whatcha tryin’ to do, blind me?”

 

“Shaddup, punk,” Dan barked, “Get that hand down and look at me.”

 

As ordered, Robbie brought his hand down and squinted up into the light.  Recognizing Captain Dan, he unconsciously groaned aloud.  This asshole had it out for him, and given what he was carrying tonight, things could get seriously unpleasant.  While he wasn’t too worried about the baggie with his personal stash of weed—some of it already rolled into joints—that he had tucked down inside his left boot, the solid gram of fentanyl next to it was worth a fortune, and he still owed that dude back in Dallas for most of it.  If it got confiscated and he couldn’t repay, his life might literally be over…

 

He began to reach for what was tucked inside his right boot—a Marine combat knife, seven inches of serrated carbon steel.  As long as the cops didn’t draw on him, he should be able to take the Captain down.  That dumbass deputy would panic and Robbie’d have the Captain’s gun by then.  But he needed to move fast.

 

Robbie bent swiftly, diving for the knife—but he didn’t move fast enough.

 

Dan whipped around, spinning the baton by its side handle, and clubbed the boy on the side of the head, hard enough to dislodge the bandanna.  Robbie’s eyes rolled back in his head and, already half off his bike, he collapsed face-down into the gravel with loud grunt.

 

As Robbie groaned in semi-consciousness, Dan knelt beside him and began frisking him.  The older man ran his hands along the kid’s body, reaching under his leather jacket and fondling his slim, firm torso inside its t-shirt.  Finding nothing there, Dan moved lower, his questing hands prying through the denim at the long, thick bulge in the boy’s crotch.

 

“Wha’ th’ fuck…” Robbie muttered vaguely in response to the hard, clutching grip on his dick, but Dan had already released it and was now probing Robbie’s tight buttocks.  Pete watched with a strange, tingling excitement as the Captain took his time on the boy’s thick, muscled thighs and calves, coming eventually to the boots.

 

Dan’s expression changed subtly as he patted down the black leather biker boots—a triumphant light came on in his eyes as gripped the left boot and said, “There’s something down here.  C’mere, boy, make sure he’s restrained.”

 

Hurrying eagerly to Dan’s side, Pete pulled the cuffs off his belt.  Kneeling next to Dan, he swiftly cuffed Robbie’s hands behind the still-stunned punk’s back, then turned to watch as the Captain reached down inside the snugly-fitting boot and extracted the long, vicious-looking knife.

 

“Fuck, man,” Pete gasped, “You could do some serious damage with that thing.”

 

“Hell, yeah,” Dan grunted, an odd smile on his face.  He tucked the knife carefully into his belt, trusting the inch of black leather to hold it even without a scabbard.  Turning back to the prone figure, he reached for the right boot.  “Let’s see if this piece a’ shit is carryin’ anything else.”

 

Robbie managed to regain full consciousness just as Dan pulled the elaborately-wrapped package of fentanyl and the baggie of pot out of his other boot.  He began to struggle in the gravel.  “Lemme up, you bastard!” he yelled.

 

Dan knelt on the prone youth instead, placing one booted foot on the middle of his back and one knee on the kid’s ass.  Pocketing the weed, he held up the package and shone the flashlight on it; there were words stenciled on.  “China white,” he read aloud, then stood up.

 

“Fuckin’ police brutality!” Robbie shouted.  “”Y’all had no reason to hit me!  I’m gonna sue!”

 

Dan lashed his foot out suddenly.  Robbie’s awareness that the Captain’s knee-high glossy boots had steel toes was indicated by a loud, painful grunt.

 

Dan looked at Pete.  The younger man saw an intense smoldering heat in the Captain’s glance.  “China white,” he repeated to Pete, ignoring Robbie’s outburst, “You know what this stuff is?”

 

“Naw, Cap—that’s a new one on me.”

 

“We don’t get it much here.  Street name for fentanyl.  It’s an opiate that’s several hundred times more potent that heroin.  People die from this stuff on a daily basis—and this motherfucker wants to bring it in here.  C’mon, help me get the fuckin’ waste up on its feet.”

 

They bent over Robbie, each running an arm under the boy’s armpit and forcibly dragged him up to his feet.

 

“Gonna sue,” Robbie mumbled, “Dad’ll get me off…won’t spend a day in jail…county’s gonna pay out the ass for you two fucks…”

 

“Want me to call for a cruiser to come pick ‘im up?” Pete asked.  With no rear seat, they couldn’t haul him in in the pickup.

 

The Captain didn’t answer.  He was looking at Robbie, his clenched face somehow allowing a wide play of emotions on it—rage, contempt, frustration…and something else.  Pete couldn’t quite make it out.

 

“Cap?” he asked again, “A cruiser?”

 

Dan paused, a half-step ahead and turned to Pete in such a way as to silhouette his profile.  “Naw,” he said.  “I got a better idea.”

 

Highlighted as it was in the clear light, the huge bulge erecting a tent pole in the Captain’s tight chinos was obvious.  And as soon as he saw it, Pete realized what that other emotion had been, the one he couldn’t identify.

 

“This faggot’s got enough drugs to kill everyone in the county.  He’s got—and went for, you saw it—a dangerous weapon.  Now the little pansy is gonna run back to daddy and get away scot free.”

 

Dan stepped ahead and turned to face them both, the headlights of the truck illuminating his massive, muscle-bound form from behind.  “I think it’s time this little homo learned what real men do to strung-out little cocksuckers.  And I think he needs to learn to good and long and hard, so he don’t forget.  Whaddaya think, Pete—you in?”

 

Pete grinned; there was no need for him to answer aloud.  The visible swelling in his crotch spoke for him.

 

Dan saw it and grinned back.  He shoved Robbie brusquely, making him stumble and fall face-down in the gravel.  With his hands still cuffed behind him, the handsome, leather-clad teen was unable to protect his face; he cried out in pain as sharp-edged rocks abraded his face.  “You fuckin’ sonovabitch!” he shouted angrily as he writhed in the gravel, trying to regain his feet, “I’m gonna have yer badge for that!  Daddy’ll make the Sheriff give it to me so I can use it for target practice!”

 

Dan chuckled and glanced at Pete.  “You hear that?  Little queer fuck just threatened us.”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Robbie screeched.

 

Dan’s next words were spoken to Pete in a calm, detached tone, as the older man stared the younger steadily in the eyes.  “C’mon, son, time to step up.  Time to be a man.  Get this piece a’ shit cocksucker into the back of the truck and we’ll show ‘im what happens to pansy-ass little fuckwads in my county.”

 

It hit Pete suddenly—he was being tested.  Dan wanted to make sure the rookie was a well-built mentally as he was physically.  Pete knew they had already gone too far; the kid would clearly accuse them of brutality.  And Dan was right, the punk’s old man would buy the little fuck’s way off the drug charges.  There was really only one way out.

 

Pete nodded at Dan and advanced toward the figure struggling on the ground.  He was totally unaware that his reflections on what was going to happen had caused the bulge in his tight chinos to swell, but the Captain noticed it.

 

“Get up, assfuck,” Pete snarled as he bent down, caught Robbie under the arms, and dragged him to his feet again.

 

“You too!” the enraged teen screamed shrilly.  “Gonna get yer badge too!”

 

Pete lifted the thick sole of his size eleven Danner boot and, planting it on Robbie’s ass, shoved hard.  The boy stumbled five steps towards the back of the pickup, managing to remain on his feet.

 

“Good,” Pete said.  “If you fall, my boot ain’t goin’ upside yer ass; it’s goin’ upside yer head.  You hear me, boy?  Get yer worthless ass to the back of the truck, now!”

 

Somewhat intimidate, Robbie mumbled defiantly, but kept moving.  Pete was right behind him, with Dan following.  At the rear of the truck, Pete opened the tailgate.

 

“Now what, pig?” Robbie sneered.  “Can’t climb up that high without my hands.  You gonna help me up, cop?  Gonna protect and serve me, huh?”

 

Silently, without a word, Dan stepped forward, reached out a huge hand and wrapped it around Robbie’s throat.  With a single jerk of his massive, heavily muscled arm, the Captain lifted the kid straight up.  Gagging as he choked, Robbie flailed his legs aimlessly, his Icon boots kicking in the air a good four inches above the gravel.

 

“You want me to serve you, you cum-guzzlin’ faggot?  Here, have a nice big serving of whoop-ass, dickhead!”

 

As Dan drew his arm back, Pete could see how the bicep and the tricep bulged and the huge deltoid swelled.  When his fist launched forward again, the enormous power packed into his muscles exploded with the force of an industrial piston.

 

He punched the teen straight in the jaw, nearly breaking it.

 

Robbie’s mouth sagged misshapenly open as he passed out, stunned into unconsciousness by the single blow.  Dan flung the lean, limp form into the bed of the truck with a contemptuous flick, as if we was tossing out litter.

 

“C’mon, get in,” the older man said, closing the tailgate.  “I know the perfect place to, uh, dump some garbage after we get done teachin’ this cocksucker the error of his ways.”

 

Pete opened the passenger door, but paused before getting in.  “Uh, Cap—” he began before awkwardly stopping.  The older man looked at him, his sky-blue eyes focused on the rookie with laser precision.  Pete started again.  “Cap, um, how many times you done somthin’ like this before?’

 

The hardbodied blond alpha froze for a moment, then relaxed slightly.  “I haven’t.  But I’ve been planning it out for a long time.  See, this county is bein’ flooded by these deviant punks.  All of ‘em, all the troublemakers and speeders and dope-smokers.  Problem is, their daddies didn’t teach none of ‘em right.  They didn’t teach ‘em that you gotta obey Authority, no matter what.  No matter how much it hurts or how scared you are, if Authority wants to put its dick up yer ass or use your body as a punching bag, you gotta obey.”

 

A broad, almost beatific smile spread across Dan’s face, giving his hard features a masculine charm that somehow unaccountably pulled something deep inside Pete.

 

“So we gotta teach the fuckers ourselves,” the older man continued.  “And since it’s the most important lesson in their useless lives, it’s gotta be driven home, ruthlessly, relentlessly.  Even if it’s the last lesson they learn—so long as they learn it.”

 

Pete knew that much of what he’d just heard didn’t make sense, but he also knew that all of what he’d heard made his dick leak.  “Cool,” he replied, returning the Captain’s smile.  “Just asking.  Let’s get goin’ before the biker boy wakes up.”  He climbed into the passenger seat.

 

“Yeah,” Dan remarked as he settled into the driver’s seat, “That’s a good clue right there.  If ya pull over a dude on a bike, check out his crotch.  More’n likely, his dick’ll be hard.  Faggots love motorcycles; somethin’ about the way it vibrates their assholes or somethin’.”

 

The pickup rumbled into life and Dan pulled off the shoulder.  Darkness had fallen, a hazy, almost glowing darkness as a heavy mist thickened in the chill night air.  It lay like a blanket over the isolated rural countryside, muffling what faint sounds were present.

 

After a couple of miles, they drove out of the mist; several miles further from town, Dan veered the truck to the left.  Pete, who hadn’t noticed the dirt track, winced, but soon found himself bouncing in the cab as the 4X4 jolted down a little-used dirt track.

 

“Never even knew this was here,” he remarked.  “Where’s it go?”

 

“There’s an old quarry back down here,” Dan replied.  “Very isolated—it’s a great dumping ground.”

 

Pete was quiet, letting his imagination soar and his thick cock throb.

 

Eventually they came to the end of the track, a wide, barren circle of dirt beyond which was a low rise of rocks.  When Dan killed the truck, Pete got out and took a look.  Beyond the rocks was a huge gap in the earth, at least a quarter-mile across.  It was deep, too.  Pete shined his flashlight into the depths; the reflection came back to him scattered from a watery surface some three hundred feet below.  It was a perfect place to dump unwanted garbage.

 

Dan, in the meantime, had opened the tailgate and was trying to drag Robbie out.  Torn between fear and outrage, the teen was resisting the Captain valiantly, fighting as if he knew his life was at stake.  He couldn’t do much in the way of damage with his hands still cuffed behind his back, but he was pissing Dan off.

 

“C’mon, boy, I could use some help!” Dan called.  Pete obediently switched off the flashlight, slipped it back into his belt, and headed for the truck.  The young cop helped grab hold of the writhing, squirming youth in the bed of the pickup, feeling the muscles in the kid’s lean, strong body moving underneath his leather jacket.

 

Between them, the two powerful adults had no problem manhandling the punk out of the truck and standing him on his feet.

 

“Now what?” Pete asked.

 

“Now you hop up in the back of the truck yourself,” Dan grinned.  “We gotta lesson plan to stick to.”

 

“You fuckin’ psychos!” Robbie bawled, his voice tremulous with fear.  The little fucker wasn’t very quick on the ball even when he wasn’t higher than a kite, but he knew that these dudes had gone too far, even for these oo-rah hyper-martial types.  They’d gone way past the point of losing their jobs and were into federal pen time now.  He had the feeling that something was happening that even daddy might not be able to fix.

 

Dan spun Robbie around, making him face Pete as the latter scrambled up into the bed of the pickup.  “Here,” Dan said, bending the teen over the opened tailgate, his huge hand splayed over the back of Robbie’s head, forcing his face down into the bed, “Keep ‘im down.  Pin his shoulders.”

 

An electrical thrill, almost sensuous in nature, jolted through Pete’s strong, hardbodied form as he knelt with his knees on the kid’s shoulders.  He brought his legs together, the leather of his Danner boots pressing snugly against Robbie’s temples.  “All right, teach,” he said, smiling happily, “What’s lesson number one?”  He was liking this.

 

Dan stepped up, grabbed Robbie’s chain belt, and with a single jerk, yanked the boy’s jeans down as far as the tops of his boots.  It made for an effective set of shackles; the kid couldn’t spread his legs farther apart than eighteen inches in any direction; there was no way he could run.

 

It also made for an effective display of Robbie’s bare ass.  Too lazy to care about underwear, the punk invariably went commando.  Tonight, it put him at a distinct disadvantage.

 

Dan pulled his baton back out of his utility belt.  “Lesson Number One,” he said, with a wide, sharklike grin, “Is that when Authority says ya gotta take one up the ass, it means you gotta take one up the ass.  At least the little faggot came dressed to learn.”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Robbie screeched over their coarse, brutal laughter.  And he wasn’t.  What little part of his wasted life hadn’t been devoted to the pursuit of drugs had been devoted to the pursuit of pussy.  But Robbie was about to experience an entirely new set of sensations, both physically and mentally.

 

“Shaddup and take it, motherfucker,” Dan snarled and shoved the baton into Robbie’s smooth, tight, and utterly vulnerable asshole.

 

The teen’s scream was loud and piercing, with a lingering echo from the other side of the quarry.  The cold, rigid metal shaft tore roughly past his sphincter as it was jammed viciously into his tender colon.  He went stiff with sudden, searing pain, the smooth rounded globes of his buttocks tensing visibly.  He rose up on his toes in an instinctive attempt to climb off the impaling rod in his ass; his boots scuffled in the dirt but it did him no good.

 

Pete felt the lithe young body twist and jerk in pain beneath him.  Bending forward, he put his hands on the punk’s back, feeling the kid squirm beneath the leather jacket.  The well-built cop shuddered with pleasure.

 

“Scream all ya want, cocksucker,” Dan laughed cruelly, “Ain’t no one around to hear ya.  We can do what we wanna with ya out here, you fuckin’ fairy, and no one will ever know.  So keep screamin’, asswipe.”

 

He stopped and bent forward, whispering into Robbie’s ear.  Since Pete was bent over Robbie as well, their large muscular bodies were pressed together and Pete could hear every word.

 

“Keep screamin’, you homo piece a’ shit,” Dan murmured huskily into the wailing kid’s ear.  “I like hearing you scream.  I like it a lot.”

 

Pete suddenly became aware he could feel a hot trickle of precum leaking from the pulsing head of his own cock.

 

Dan shoved the baton in again.  “Get it outta me!” Robbie howled, his lean body shuddering in pain.  “I’ll do whatever ya want me to, I swear, just stop!”

 

The alpha cop pulled the nightstick out of the teen’s ass, then smacked him across the buttcheeks with it.  “Ya hear that?” he asked Pete with malicious glee.  “He’ll do anything we want.  Ain’t that nice?”

 

Bending back down over the punk, Dan said, “What we want is for you to learn yer lesson.  The first lesson was to take it up the ass when Authority tells ya to.”

 

Dan stepped back a couple of paces and unbuttoned his khaki shirt.  He bared his furry chest to the cool night air, his large dark nipples hardening at once in the chill.  As he reached down and unzipped his fly, the moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the Captain in three-quarters profile.

 

It was an image Pete would never forget.  The moonlight gave a sliver tint to Dan’s golden flattop hair.  His massive pecs threw dark shadows across his hair-covered chest like mountains shading a forested valley.  The glossy, knee-high boots gleamed brightly, but it was what was dangling in the air above them that caught Pete’s attention.  Dangling—and dripping.

 

Pete had never seen a dick that big before.  He stared at it, then looked up, his wide eyes catching Dan’s bright blue ones.  “G’wan,” the older cop said, grinning, “Pull it out.  You know you wanna.”

 

And he did.  Still kneeling on Robbie’s back, Pete reached down and hauled his own throbbing shaft up out of his chinos.  Like Dan’s, it was erect and oozing, transparent drops of precum splattering on the teen’s leather jacket.

 

“Lesson Number Two,” Dan said calmly, “Is that when Authority tells ya you gotta take it up the ass again, you gotta take it up the ass again.”  Lunging forward, he rammed his huge, engorged tool all the way up into the kid’s asshole, tearing the already-traumatized sphincter on its way in.  Robbie’s piercing shriek reached an octave Pete hadn’t thought possible in a male.

 

“Fuck yeah, faggot,” Dan sneered, “Keep that shit up.  I could feel that scream all the way down to the base of my cock.”  The huge, hulking alpha looked up and Pete was held entranced by his blazing blue eyes.

 

“See, this is how ya gotta get ‘em to learn who’s boss.”  Turning back down to the squealing youth riding his enormous hog, he jeered, “Ain’t that right, boy?  You gonna listen now, huh?”

 

Pinned down by the powerful rookie with the Captain plowing his ass mercilessly, Robbie was being crushed in the twin grip of pain and fear.  Sobbing and whimpering, he wasn’t lucid enough to realize he’d been asked a question and he needed to answer it.  Dan thought he needed to learn that, too.

 

“Hey, Pete, he ain’t answerin’,” the Captain called out as he continued to pump his cock up the kid’s ass without throwing off the tempo of his deep, gut-fucking thrusts.  “Show ‘im what a bad idea it is not to pay attention in class.”

 

Pete scooted backwards off of Robbie.  He reached down and grabbed a hank of the teen’s long black hair and pulled his head up off the bed of the truck, bending his neck back until the terrified punk was looking Pete directly in the eyes.  Robbie’s face was taut and strained, a mask of agony, while his wide eyes darted wildly, fruitlessly seeking any form of succor.

 

“You’d better answer the Captain when he asks you a question, asswipe,” Pete said calmly and, balling up his free hand, smashed it into Robbie’s face.

 

Afterwards, Pete was never able to explain precisely in words the sensations that ran through his sharp warrior brain or his young, muscular form.  There was something about the sensation of breaking the kid’s nose with a single blow, the soft, crackling, crunching sound of the cartilage collapsing under his fist that reverberated through his whole body but seemed to center in his dick.

 

It was his first taste of power over another male, the first time he was able to deliberately use his strong young body to make a young worthless punk suffer, and it was…indescribable.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Dan cried, “Now yer gettin’ it, dude!  Now yer makin’ ‘im learn!”

 

With a wide, goofy, lovable grin and an intoxicating swell of lust, he punched Robbie in the face again.  And again.

 

As the rape continued unabated, Robbie mewled in pain and spit out three teeth.  The effort almost made him scream; both his cheekbones were broken and his face was already bruised and swelling.  But the real agony was in his reamed-out asshole; with every thrust of Dan’s huge dick, the firm, lean youth could feel the thick swollen veins individually as they plunged past his excruciatingly enlarged sphincter.  Worse, the constant battering and grinding his prostate had to endure resulted in an unwanted and entirely involuntary erection.  Robbie’s dick wasn’t as big as either Pete’s or Dan’s, but it wasn’t small, either.  The fact that it was stiff and throbbing as it slapped against his belly—his t-shirt had ridden up during the sexual assault—was clear to all three of them, audibly as well as visibly.

 

Dan, his blond hair dark and his chest fur matted with the sweat of rough physical exertion, looked at Pete with an almost leering grin.  “Lookit the homo’s cock.  Toldja he was a faggot—they all are.  Disgusting fuckpig,”—this last was to Robbie—“yer daddy shoulda shoved his cock up yer ass years ago and showed ya how to obey a real man with Authority.  Maybe ya wouldn’ta ended up a worthless drug-dealin’ cum-drinkin’ sack a’ shit, huh?”

 

As terrified as the traumatized kid was, he was still just barely lucid enough to hear and understand the words of the two muscle-bound cops who were torturing him.  Given how the alpha cop’s tool was plunged deep into his guts, Dan’s next comment, though, blew what little was left of him mind.

 

“Motherfucker’s gettin’ loose,” he said to Pete.  The rookie could see a gleam in the Captain’s cold blue eyes—a gleam of murderous insanity that sent another thrill through Pete’s hard, powerful body.  It was a sensation of both mental and sexual anticipation, the sense of being on the verge of discovering a whole new world of pleasure, the more exciting for its being utterly taboo.  The young cop’s breathing became deep and intense, almost erratic.

 

“Problem is, little cocksucker don’t know how to pay attention,” Dan drawled.  “So that’s Lesson Number Three—payin’ attention.  Lessee now, whadda we got to make a faggot pay attention?  Oh—fuck yeah, I know!”

 

He reached down to his belt and pulled out the combat knife he’d taken off Robbie.  Holding it up, he displayed it to Pete, still wearing his impishly malicious grin.

 

As the moonlight glinted off the razor-sharp blade and the vicious serrations, Pete found himself quickly looking away—his dick was pulsing a little too hard; beneath it, his hairy scrotum was drawing up, preparing to be emptied…he needed to calm down for just a moment; wherever this was heading, he wanted to be in at the end so fucking bad…

 

Robbie hadn’t seen the knife and probably wouldn’t have reacted if he had.  The spoiled teen punk was being brutally violated; he instinctively knew that worse was to come, since there was no other way out—these dudes weren’t just gonna let him go.

 

His response was to shut down completely; aside from the cries of pain forced involuntarily from him, the terrified boy said nothing.  He clenched his eyes closed, forcibly shutting out the image to Pete’s grinning, joyful face, his dark eyes lit from within by a slowly strengthening gleam of sexual sadism.

 

The mist had caught up to them, a heavy cloud that surrounded the trio at the back of the truck and isolated them even further from reality.  The refracted glare of the headlight made it bright enough for them to see, but it intensified the feeling that Dan and Pete were alone in a universe of their own making, where Robbie was no more than a thing to be used…

 

…because that’s exactly what he was in reality.

 

The pinned, cuffed youth was still in his t-shirt and biker jacket; the thick chill mist didn’t touch his upper body.  It wrapped moist tendrils around his long erect dick, but since he was resolutely ignoring all tactile sensations, he was unaware of either the cold or his cock—that, especially; he wasn’t gay, the was no way he had an erection while getting raped.

 

Dan could feel his huge balls swelling, overloaded with hot manspunk.  Looking at Pete’s face and seeing the sweat trickle down the rookie’s cheeks to be lost in the young cop’s thick dark facial scruff, he knew Pete was feeling the same thing.  This was it.  This was why he’d brought the boy out here.  Fuck, this was why he’d brought both boys out here.

 

Tightening his powerful ass muscles, Dan brought his legs together, his knee-high glossy boots pressed against Robbie’s calf-high biker boots.  Driving forward with extra force, he shoved his cock further up the teen’s ass than ever before.  His thick tool ground mercilessly against the punk’s prostate; the pressure, added to the adrenaline and the sheer raw testosterone flowing in the kid’s lean, randy body, made Robbie’s dick throb—but the boy made no sound other than a faint grunt.

 

“Time for yer final lesson, faggot,” Dan jeered.  “Ya hear me, boy?”

 

In full mental retreat, Robbie said nothing.  He never heard the words.

 

Dan glanced up at Pete.  The rookie was still crouched in the bed of the pickup, holding Robbie’s head up so he could look in the punk fucker’s battered and bruised face.  Below, and pointing right at Robbie, Pete’s enormous shaft was pulsating visibly.

 

“Yer right, the asshole ain’t payin’ attention, Cap,” the younger cop said huskily, with a catch in his breath.

 

Dan grinned.  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I can get the motherfucker’s attention.  Watch this.”

 

Raising his arm, he slammed it back down, driving the into Robbie’s body.  Seven inches of razor-sharp steel pierced the teen’s black leather jacket like it was butter, then the serrated blade punctured the kid’s back and sliced smoothly and cleanly through flesh and muscle into the center of his right kidney.

 

Robbie was a master of denial, but sudden massive organ trauma was too much for the teen to ignore.  His body went rigid in the remorseless grip of instant shock; the muscles in his colon clenched involuntarily, clutching at Dan’s throbbing, cum-filled shaft like a hand in a velvet glove.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” the alpha cop yelled, the thick fog dulling the sound after a few yards.  “Now the faggot’s ready to learn!”  Twisting the knife violently in the wound, he made Robbie scream in pain.

 

Pete, still clutching a fistful of the boy’s hair, looked deeply into the teen’s wide, almost crazed eyes, ringed with dark circles of shock, and yet another thrill.  It was—it was—no, he couldn’t quote place it, but he was almost there…

 

Dan stabbed Robbie in the back again.  This time he angle the knife upward near the previous wound, driving the cold hard shaft up through the kid’s liver and diaphragm into his right lung.

 

The pain was worse than anything Robbie could imagine.  He struggled forward, digging his Icon Elsinore boots in, trying vainly to pull himself off the knife that was lodged deep in his smooth, slim torso.  Breathing irregularly, his eyes wildly sought those of Pete, but without any recognition of who he was looking at—it was merely the instinctive reaction of a human in mortal agony to seek another human face.

 

Not that any of the faces around Robbie had any human pity.

 

“Final lesson, you motherfuckin’ faggot,” Dan snarled, sweat running down his huge furry chest as he pumped himself closer to orgasm, “Is, you pull a weapon on Authority, Authority’s gonna fuck you up.  You got me, you homo garbage?”

 

Dan looked up, with an expression Pete hadn’t seen before.  The alpha cop held up the blood-stained knife.  “Here,” he said, tossing the weapon to the rookie, “Fuck ‘im up.”

 

Agilely snatching the knife out of the air, the young hardbodied cop looked at it, almost wonderingly.  He glanced back up at Dan, his face an open question.

 

“Go on,” the older man said, still thrusting his cock relentlessly up the teen’s ass, “We ain’t got all night.  I know you wanna.  You know you wanna.  Do it, man.”

 

Pete stared back down at the blade, knowing a line was about to be crossed.  Did he want to really cross it?

 

Yeah.  Fuck yeah.  He want to cross it so bad he was about to cum.  He jammed the blade sideways into Robbie’s throat.

 

It went through smoothly at first, until it hit the larynx.  Pete had to apply a little pressure to saw through the vocal cords and the trachea, but his tight grip on Robbie’s hair helped him finally shove the tip of the blade out the other side of the teen’s neck.

 

Then he let go, leaving the knife embedded in the kid’s neck.

 

It was the look that Robbie gave him—the teenager’s pleading, despairing look, the way his tongue protruded, having been forced out by the sawing action of the blade at its base, the gurgling syllables of sheer terror coughed out by the dying punk, “Gah!  Ng!  Guk!”…

 

Pete suddenly understood the sensation he’d been unable to place before.  The hidden thrill was power, not just over the kid’s suffering, but over his life.

 

Well, actually, it was the power to end it that Pete found so fucking hot.

 

As the agonized kid gargled and drowned in his own blood, he was given something to swallow.  Without having to touch it, Pete’s dick suddenly exploded, sending a solid stream of searing hot manseed directly into Robbie’s face.  As the boy shuddered in his last few moments on earth, a jet of thick creamy sperm was shot into his open mouth.

 

Grunting and rutting uncontrollably, Dan found release for the pressure in his scrote, hosing the punk fuck’s innards with his spunk.  Robbie jerked and trembled as he died; every shudder and convulsion seemed to milk more cum out of the alpha’s pulsing shaft.

 

Neither of them noticed that as Robbie’s throat was cut, his dick had spewed his death load all over the rear bumper of the pickup.  Robbie had noticed it though; as he died, the horrific pain in his throat and his back was nothing compared to the way his life seemed to be ripped out of him through his cock.  As his semen shot uncontrollably from his body, it seemed to take him with it.  And his mouth was filled with the taste of blood and cum…

 

His lean, lithe body went limp, spunk still trickling from his dick.

 

Dan had pulled out and stepped back a couple of paces.  His massive, engorged cock was still pulsating, pushing out pearly beads of jizz.  Gasping deeply, he gave Pete an admiring glance.

 

“Passed yer test, son.”

 

Pete was sitting in the bed of the pickup, a somewhat dazed look on his face.  He perked up a little, hearing Cap’s words, and grinned sheepishly.  He reached down into his lap and shoved his still-erect shaft back into his chinos, seeing that the Captain was doing the same thing.

 

“C’mon down an’ help me get rid of this piece of trash,” Dan said amiably, buttoning his khaki shirt back up,  “And we’ll head back to the station to get cleaned up.”

 

Pete scrambled out of the truck as Dan bent over the still-trembling corpse and removed the handcuffs.  Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the package of fentanyl and shoved it into the inside breast pocket of Robbie’s leather biker jacket.  “Just in case,” he said to Pete.  He could see that the rookie didn’t get it but was playing along anyway, which was good enough.  He’d learn.

 

The two hulking, muscle-bound men picked up the corpse of the slim young teen like a rag doll.  At Dan’s direction, they carried it the edge of the quarry and tossed it into the mist-filled pit.  There was a thick, wet thump after a few seconds, but not the sound of a splash.

 

“I don’t think it hit the water,” Pete said.

 

“It don’t matter,” Dan replied, “That’s why I put the China White back.  You’ll see.  Trust me.”

 

And Pete did.

 

They climbed into the cab of the truck and within a few minutes were heading back towards the county road.  As they approached it, Dan slowed to a stop and dug something out of his pocket.  In the faint glow of the dashboard lights, Pete could see it was the bag of weed.  Dan fished one of the already-rolled joints out of the baggie and grabbing a lighter out of the cab’s console, fired it up.  After taking a huge hit, he offered it to Pete.

 

Gingerly, the rookie took the joint.  He looked questioningly at Dan as the alpha cop exhaled a thick blue cloud of pungently sweet smoke.  “G’wan, son,” the Cap said in his deep bass voice, “It’s been an intense evenin’ and we deserve to chill out.  After all, there are some benefits to actually bein’ Authority.”

 

As Pete took a huge, lung-busting hit off the joint, Dan laughed aloud.  Putting the truck in gear, he pulled out onto the county round and head back to the station.

 

 


 

It was late the next morning when the Captain got the call; by rights, he should have been off, but his dedication was such that he was known to pull doubles when he felt like it.  No one else in the department complained; it gave them more time off.

 

The body had been found by a couple of teenagers; by the time Dan got out to the quarry, Deputy Rand had already managed to run a couple of lines down and retrieved it; it had landed on a large boulder near the bottom.

 

Dan didn’t like Rand; he hung out with Eddie Phelps, that fat idiot.  Dan had always wondered how Eddie  had gotten hired by the department, but he’d been there longer than Dan, so there was little the latter could do about it.  At any rate, Rand had been on duty and had gotten the call first.

 

Dan approached the other cop, who was crouched over a body bag.  “Whatcha got?” he drawled nonchalantly.

 

“Coupla kids said they were down here to go swimmin’ and saw the body—”

 

“It’s a mite too cold to go swimmin’,” Dan interrupted.  “Might wanna check into that.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Rand said dubiously, “But this is really kinda a big fuckin’ deal.  Lookee here,” the deputy said, opening the body bag.  “It’s Robbie Clebbs—and he’s been fucked up bad.  Real bad.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Dan said.  “You got anything to go on?”

 

“Well, his bike was found back on CR 541.  Hard to tell, but looks like there mighta been a fight.  Kid’s been stabbed.  They left the knife stuck in his throat.  It’s his own—I recognize it.  And, well…”

 

“And what?”

 

“And the kid’s been, uh…he’s been sexually assaulted.  This is some seriously sick shit, man.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Yeah—he had fentanyl on him.  Big ol’ fuckin’ wad.  Kinda surprised the kid had enough cash to get it.”

 

“Maybe he didn’t,” Dan said, thoughtfully.  “Maybe this is some kinda gang payback for a drug deal gone wrong.”

 

Rand considered the suggestion.  “Yeah, that makes sense.  It’d explain this level of violence–they wanted to make an example of him.   I take you’ll head the investigation?  You know old man Clebbs is gonna raise holy fuckin’ hell about this.”

 

Dan sighed.  “Yeah, make sure I get all the files on it.  I’ll see what I can find out, but I suspect the guys who did this are back in the city by now.”

 

As he headed back to the cruiser, Rand called back out to him.  “Hey, am I crazy, or did I see that new guy Pete at the car wash, hosing out the back of yer 4X4?  I thought you wouldn’t let anyone else touch that thing—are ya fallin’ for the kid?”

 

“Naw,” Dan replied with a boyish grin.  “Got a little dirt on it last night is all.”

 

“Yeah, but I also heard you requested him as a partner.”

 

“I see somethin’ in that kid.  He’s goin’ places, I tell ya.”

Meat Chronicles 18–Boy Toy Destroyed

I almost missed him.  I was heading west on Roman Boulevard and he popped out of one of the side streets on his skateboard; I had a split-second glimpse of him, then I was past.  That glimpse was enough to make me turn around, though.

 

It’s been a while since I’ve been out hunting.  I never got back to my last meat; the used van I’d bought threw a rod the next morning.  Took me a couple of days to get a new ride—by the time I got back out to the abandoned warehouse, there was a chain-link fence around the entire property and a large sign that announced a new construction project.

 

I turned around and left; the meat woulda been too overripe to hold my dick anyway.  Wonder what they’ll do when they start tearing the place down and find what’s left of him.  In this summer heat, I bet it there won’t be much left to find—just his bones and his kicks.

 

At any rate, I gotta load that needs release.  I need to find a punk to dump my seed in, and it looks like I just spotted one.  I ease into the left lane and pull a U in my van—it’s a nondescript gray Chevy Astrovan—heading back towards the boy I’d seen.

 

He’s ahead on the left, about half a block up from a shopping center and heading towards it.  I speed up, overtaking the kid and turning into the strip mall’s parking lot.  Pulling into a spot facing the street, well away from the stores, I wait for the kid to approach.  Soon enough, he glides into view.

 

Young—no more than eighteen or nineteen, at most.  Long sandy-blond hair, almost shoulder length.  His lean, firm chest is wrapped in a black Nirvana t-shirt, and he’s sporting skinny jeans so tight it’s impressive the little shit can move at all.   His feet, in a pair of gray and white Adidas Top Ten Hi’s, cling tenaciously to his board as he rounds the corner into the parking lot, leaning into the turn.  He passes within ten feet of me, allowing me to see the large bulge in his crotch in greater detail.

 

Yeah, this one would work.  This meat would be acceptable to soak up my cum.  Now I just need a lure.

 

I watch him for a while; I got plenty of time.  He navigates the parking lot in decreasing circles that centers on the convenience store to my left.  After about fifteen minutes, he slows to stop about thirty feet away from me.  Bending down and flashing his bubble butt at me, he snags his board and heads into the gas station’s store.

 

Ten minutes later he comes back out with a pack of cigarettes and an agitated expression on his face.  He walks to the end of the store closest to me and lights a smoke, looking around for a minute of two.  Suddenly he moved towards a dude who’d just exited the store carrying a twelve-pack of beer.  The kid approached and had a conversation with the guy, at one point pulling out his wallet and offering money.  The other dude shook his head in clear refusal, then got in his car and left.

 

The long-haired kid looked dejected and continued to suck on his smoke.  Five minutes later, he was approaching someone else leaving the store—a Mexican laborer with a six-pack of Modelo.  Again, a brief conversation, an offer of money, and the kid gets shot down.

 

Took me a minute to get it, but once I did, I knew I had my lure.  The little fucker was trying to get someone to sell him beer; he was too young to buy it himself.

 

I waited till he left the store’s lot, morosely heading back in my direction on his board.  I let him get about ten feet away, starting his turn back out onto the boulevard, before I rolled down the window and called out to him.

 

“Yo!  Brah!  Hey, I ain’t from ‘round here—you know where there’s a liquor store?  I wanna get some decent booze, none of this gas station crap.”

 

His hair fanned out behind him briefly as he whipped his head in my direction.  His face was smooth, with full lips, a large nose.  He had huge puppy-dog-brown eyes ringed with lashes so long they were almost effeminate; they lit up at the word “liquor”, as I knew they would.

 

These little suburban kids; they’re so stupid, so predictable—and so much fun to play with.

 

“Sure, I know a great place,” he said, somewhat unsure of himself.  They got all kinda stuff.  But ya gotta do somethin’ for me if I take ya there.”

 

“Like what?”  I ask, as if I don’t already know.

 

“Buy me some beer.  I’ll pay for it; I mean just go in and actually buy it.  They won’t sell it to me—” he broke off and blushed embarrassedly.

 

“How old are ya, dude?” I ask.

 

His blush deepens.  “I turned eighteen two months ago,” he admits shame-facedly.  Suddenly he recovers himself, though, shaking his head so that his long hair spun out.  He looks up and grins; his face is youthful and eager and I want to slam my fist into it so badly I can barely control myself.

 

“Hop in, dude.  I’ll get ya fucked up—don’t worry about it.”

 

With a cheerful smile, the punk makes the worst mistake in his life and opens the door to my van.  Tossing his board to the floor of the passenger seat, he speaks as he climbs in.  “Hey, man, I’m Timothy.  Well, no, only my mom calls me that.  You can call me T-Money.”

 

What a tool.  I snort derisively and the kid gives me a suspicious side-eye.  Then, noticing my physical presence for the first time, he gives me a longer look-ever.

 

I’m dressed for the hunt.  It was hot enough outside that I had no qualms about dispensing with a shirt altogether, but I didn’t want to have my skin up against the cloth seat of the used van, so I’d slipped on a thin leather vest, leaving it unbutton to show off my massive pecs and flat ripped abs.  My jeans were tight, but they were old, with a number of tears, and faded to a pale sky-blue.  Halfway down my claves, they were tucked into a pair of worn black combat boots that I’d laced but left untied.

 

As he looked at me, I could see his dick start to get stiff; his jeans were so tight it was kinda hard to miss.  I eyed it rather pointedly and grinned at the boy; he flushed beet-red and turned away.  Interesting reaction.

 

“Ya see anything ya like?”  I asked in a low voice.

 

The punk turned back to me, more embarrassed that ever.  “I, um, I—wh-what’re ya talkin’ ‘bout, brah?” he mumbled, not looking me in the face.

 

I pulled over into the parking lot of a church.  In the middle of a weekday afternoon, the lot was empty.  I turned to face the kid.  “My dick.  You want it,” I said matter-of-factly.

 

What?” he cried.  “Dude, I ain’t gay.”

 

“The fuck you ain’t,” I snapped, “Yer cock is hard right now.  You want me to fuck you good and hard.  You know it and I know it, so stop pretendin’.”

 

The kid unbuckled his seat belt and inched toward the door.  “Man, I done told ya I ain’t no fruit.  Ain’t no way yer gonna fuck me, ya psycho.”

 

“The fuck I ain’t, cunt,” I hiss with an expression to match his last word.  His eyes wide with sudden fear, the punk snatches at the door handle but in his haste is unable to grasp it properly.  Not that it would’ve mattered; I’d’ve caught him before he exited the van.

 

Shit!” he yells in desperation just as I grab a hank of his long dirty-blond hair and slam his face brutally into the dashboard.  With his hair as a handle, I jerk his head back up again swiftly.  “Uhhh…” the boy moans dazedly as I ram his head forward, smashing his face a second time.  This time, when I pull his head back up, he’s silent.  I let go and he slumps limply into the seat, unconscious.

 

I head out of the church lot.  I know a place to go; I’ve been there before.  It’s not that far from the last place I dumped meat.  It’s been a couple of years since I was on the property; at that time, there had been an operating business in the building, so I’d gone there at night.  Now, it was abandoned like much of the rest of the neighborhood.

 

I could park in the back and shove the meat out into the drainage ditch behind the property in broad daylight.  And it won’t matter that it hasn’t rained in weeks; no one goes back there.  By the time anyone finds him, there won’t be anything left beyond a bloated, unrecognizable corpse.

 

A car whips out of nowhere as I start to pull out of the lot, forcing me to slam on my brakes.  The kid slides off the seat and slumps on the floorboards like a pile of dirty laundry.  Good place for him; I leave him there as I head to the east side.

 

I cruise slowly through the industrial neighborhood, tracing my way back to the kill site.  Most of the buildings around here are empty if not downright abandoned; there’s no traffic and the parking lots are empty.  I’ll have plenty of privacy while I play with my meat—at least urban blight is good for something.

 

Finally, I turn onto a side street.  Just past the next intersection is the long, low one-story building that has the strip of parking in the rear, up against the drainage canal.  It takes less than three minutes to whip around the building and back into a parking space up against the canal’s low guardrail.

 

One of the reasons I chose this van was because it had been a utility or cargo van at one point; the rear section was sealed off from the cab.  Nice and private; the only windows were the polarized ones on the rear doors.  Of course, it’s a pain to have to drag the meat out of the passenger seat, but it’s worth the effort.

 

I exit the cab and walk around to the passenger side.  Opening the sliding door to the back first, I then reach for the passenger door.   I reach down and jerk the kid up off the floorboards.  He isn’t very big; only about five-eight.  And while he’s not scrawny—I can feel some firm muscles under his smooth skin—he can’t weigh more than a hundred twenty.  I’m pretty built myself; I can lift him like a sack of potatoes and easily toss him into the back of the van.

 

Like the last one I had, I’ve made my own improvements to create a mobile killing pit.  The floor is covered with Astroturf, and the walls are bare metal.  I can hose the whole thing out with ease—and that’s a good thing.  This one is gonna get a little…messy.  The one touch I’ve added is a mirror, about two feet square, propped against the front barrier that blocks off the cab.

 

I’m gonna do this kid doggie style, but I still wanna watch his face as he dies.

 

I close the door behind me; the interior is dim but not dark.  It’s hot, though, and my chest is already slick with sweat; I slip out of my leather vest and lay it carefully by the rear doors.  As I do, I hear a loud groan behind me—the little shit is starting to wake up.  I stand up—not fully, I have to slouch some to avoid hitting my head against the roof—and dig in my pocket for the zip tie I’d brought with me.  My jeans are tight enough that it takes me a moment to retrieve it.

 

He’s still groaning as I approach him, his long eyelashes fluttering as he starts to awaken.  I flip him over onto his belly and secure his hands tightly with the zip tie.  He starts trembling.  “Whu—” he mutters thickly, “Wh-whas happen…”

 

“Shh,” I whisper, patting him gently on the back of the head.  “I got somethin’ that’ll explain everything.  Lemme go grab it.”

 

What I have is located in the large lower compartment of the center console in the front of the van.  Now that the whoreboy is bound, I can retrieve it.  I open the side door again and go into the cab. I’m gone no more than fifteen seconds, but it’s enough for the kid to be fully awake and trying to roll over when I get back.

 

Time to put the stupid little punk in the picture.  Sliding the door closed behind me, I smile sweetly at him.  “I got somethin’ for ya, darling’,” I drawl.  “I got somethin’ long and hard, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ sexy when I stick it in ya.”

 

He looks up, and I notice a crusty trail of dried blood extending from his left nostril.  He’s still in some discomfort from having his face slammed into the dashboard, but it’s nowhere near overwhelming enough to cause him serious distress.  His face is flushed again—but not with embarrassment; this time he’s angry.

 

“I told ya I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot!” he yells.  “Keep yer fuckin’ dick away from me, ya pervert!”

 

I allow my smile to grow broad.  “Oh, I wasn’t talkin’ about my cock.  I mean, yeah, I’m gonna fuck ya in the ass, but that wasn’t what I was talking about.”  I’d kept one hand behind my back the entire time’ now I brought it around to show the cunt what I was holding.  “I was talking about this.”

 

The moment T-Money sees my knife, the color drains from his face and his eyes open so wide they look like they’re in danger of falling out.  It’s an eleven-and-a-half inch long hunting knife with a seven inch serrated steel blade and a wood grip.  Ideal for gutting, flaying, and general mayhem on all kinda fuckmeat.

 

The kid gulps in fear like a cartoon character; I laugh aloud at his fear.  “Aw, this is gonna be all kinds of fun,” I grin, “Especially if you fight my cock.  Cause if ya do, I’m gonna start usin’ this on ya nice and slow.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  You better be down with my D, dawg, or I’m gonna jack ya up.”

 

The boy whimpers and seems to shrink into himself, cowering.  His arms are jerking frenetically, but there’s no way the teenaged dickwad is gonna break free of that zip tie; all he’s doing is digging deep, painful furrows into his wrists.

 

He blinks and looks up at me but the moment his puppy-dog eyes meet mine, he looks away and gives another comic gulp.  “You, uh, you don’t need the knife, man.  You—you can p-put yer dick in me.  Just put away the blade, dude, please…put it away and you can do what you want to me…”

 

I can do what I want to him anyway, and will, but I go ahead and play along with it.  After all, it’s his suffering that gets me off, and if I can mindfuck him and assrape him at the same time, that just makes it so much hotter.  “Sure, bitch,” I chuckle, “But I gotta cut myself some access first.”

 

“Hey, man, wait!” he cries out as I come nearer, but I’m not going to hurt him yet.  I kick him back over onto his belly, then bend down and slip the knife under his t-shirt and start cutting.  The thin cotton parts at the slightest touch of my sharpened steel blade.  A couple of well-aims slashes and the punk’s Nirvana shirt slides off him, a mass of black shreds.  Over the kid’s protests, I cut open his jeans too.  The denim is tougher than the shirt hard been, but it’s still no match for my knife; I’m even able to saw through his leather belt in less than seven seconds.

 

I’m pleased.  I’ve honed this blade to a razor sharpness; my work is about to pay off.

 

Within about a minute, the kid is lying nude—of course the little fucker is commando; despite his denials, he’s been lookin’ for dick—on the Astroturf, only his Adidas hightops left to him.  “That shirt cost me thirty-five bucks!” the teen wails.

 

I squat beside him, fondling the silky-smooth skin of his back and his thighs.  This boy is small but strong; I can feel the muscles moving under his flesh as he squirms and kicks and tries to evade my touch.  “Get yer hands off me, ya fuckin’ sicko!” he yells as squeeze the firm, tender mounds of his asscheeks.

 

“Ok,” I say, pulling my hands back, “After all, puttin’ my hands on you ain’t anywhere near as much fun as what I’m gonna be puttin’ in ya.”

 

He goes quiet for a moment as I place the tip of the blade against the back of his neck and slide it, slowly and sensually, down the center of his back, following his spine down to the crack of his ass.  My touch is light; there’s not enough pressure to break the skin—just enough to remind the fuckboy why he’s in this position.

 

After a moment, he speaks with a sob.  “You—oh god, go slow, please—you-you’ll be the first, just d-don’t hurt me.  Okay?  Please?”

 

There’s a crack in his voice as he pleads that makes my cock throb.  I stand up and grin.  He rolls on his side to look up at me with hope and fear in his eyes.  I reach down, unbutton and unzip my jeans and let my hog flop out.

 

Once T-Money sees my dick, his demeanor changes.  The latent little faggot had been willing to get fucked in theory, as long as he could convince himself that he was forced into and didn’t really want it.  Once he sees the size of my tackle, though, he knows that this is gonna hurt—bad.  Real bad.  I don’t like to boast, but I’m hung like a stallion.  When I fuck a bitch, he stays fucked.

 

For good.

 

“Shit, dude, I can’t take that,” the helpless teen whispers, his wide eyes focused on my pulsating rod.  I step behind him, planting my combat boots on each side of his legs and lowering my jeans to my knees.  Kneeling, I slap the huge purple head of my schlong against the boy’s ass, spattering it with hot precum.

 

“No,” he begs, “For fuck’s sake, get some lube, man, yer gonna make me bleed!”

 

“Fuck yeah I am, you stupid cunt,” I whisper, mounting him like an animal and inserting my shaft into his ass.  I shove as hard as I can, encountering such stiff resistance from the kid’s clenched sphincter that for a moment I’m almost worried that I’m gonna bend my dick.  Then I can feel the flesh tear in his rectum and my cock slams home, penetrating the full length of his colon and sinking the head of my tool deep into his intestines.  I chuckle when I feel my wiry pubes grinding against those smooth buttcheeks of his.

 

“Guess you were right about one thing,” I jeer, “Damn sure made ya bleed.”

 

The teen is unable to enjoy my taunt; he’s screaming in pain—loud shrieks that end in sobs.  I laugh at his pain.  “G’wan, scream like a little girl, ya fuckin’ pussy.  Ain’t no one around for miles.  Every time ya scream, yer ass tickles my dick, so keep it up, cunt—it feels fuckin’ great!”

 

I know he heard that one, because he tries to stop.  He can’t be completely quiet; he’s in far too much pain, but he does manage to subdue his outburst to low sobbing moans.  “Aw, you spoilsport,” I whisper, “Here, lessee if ya like this, then.”

 

All I’d done so far was to merely mount and penetrate the teen.  Now I started fucking him, reaming my thick, vein-wrapped shaft in and out of his asshole.  Each brutal pump of my hips tore his sphincter fractionally more; as he bled internally, I could feel the warm liquid flow on my cock.

 

This fresh new source of pain drew an immediate reaction.  “Fuck, no!” he screeched, “Get outta me!  Oh God, no, yer tearin’ me open!  Get the fuck outta me!”

 

I reach one hand down under him, jamming it up under his flat belly and working my way down to his dick.  It ain’t huge, but it’s respectable—and it’s hard.  I knew it would be; my rod is grinding against his prostate like it’s drillin’ for oil, so the motherfucker can’t help his erection.  I grab hold of it and start jacking.

 

“Shaddup, ya dumbass little homo,” I hiss in his ear.  “You fuckin’ love it, dontcha?  You worthless teenage faggot—so full of hormones and sperm; all you needed was a real man to come along and drain it all outta ya, right?  You young pups are all the same—you just need a genuine alpha to load you up with manseed and put you in your place.”

 

“Uhhh…” the punk moans, still sobbing.  His legs are thrashing, his Adidas kicks scrabbling against the Astroturf, seeking purchase, but he can’t get any traction.  I’m lying on top of him, my chest against his back, and I can feel the fingers of his bound hands clenching and clawing at the coarse, dark hair on my abs.

 

I pump the slut’s ass like a steam piston.  He’s starting to accommodate himself to my rod; that’s a shame.  I want it to hurt him.  It doesn’t feel as good if he’s not in pain, and the more pain he’s in, the better it feels.  Then I remember—in all the swiftness of the rape, the kid hasn’t noticed the mirror.

 

“Hey boy,” I whisper, “Look up.”

 

Moaning and crying, the fucker ignores me—so I grab a handful of his hair and jerk his head back.  “I said look up, asswipe.”

 

His head bent back, he opens his eyes and finds he’s looking himself in the tear-stained, snot-streaked face.  Looking up a little higher, he meets my eyes and I grin cheerfully at him.  “Hey there, cunt,” I smirk, “Ya feelin’ me yet?”

 

I squeeze his dick hard, feeling the thick, erect shaft of flesh pulse moistly in my hand.  He moans loudly, a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain, and I know he’s starting to submit.  He’s starting to relax, accepting my cock and letting it plunge deep into his guts with less resistance.  He’s starting to enjoy getting fucked.

 

And I’m starting not to enjoy fucking him.  The resistance it what feels good.  I like it when the meat’s ass clenches in agony on my tool.  Once the little pansy starts accepting my cock, it means I’ve reamed him out and I need to find a way to re-tighten his fuckhole.

 

“Oh…oh…oh, yeah…” the adolescent faggot is moaning as I plow his hole.  In the mirror, I can see that his face is still taut and pale with pain, but there’s a hint of a smile in his expression.

 

“Goddam, I knew you were a cumguzzlin’ queer-ass fairy,” I sneer at the kid; he opens his eyes wide and stares at me in the mirror, bewilderment written on his face.  “I’m the real man who’s gonna give you exactly what you deserve—and what you deserve is a nice long dirt nap.  I’m gonna put you in yer place, and yer place is dead and rottin’ in a ditch.  Now don’t that sound fuckin’ hot as hell?”

 

“Wha—what?” he asks, his huge brown eyes focused on mine with sudden laser intensity.  “What’re ya sayin’?  Wh-what’s goin’ on?”

 

“It ain’t what’s goin’ on,” I reply, “It’s what’s goin’ in.  You’re getting loose, asshole.  Yer fuckhole’s wearin’ out.  How many cocks you had up there, you fuckin’ whore?  What—didja bang the whole football team at yer school?  Only one way to tighten up a reamed-out fag hole, ya sperm-suckin’ homo, and that’s with pain.  I’m gonna hurt you, asswipe.  I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad yer gonna pray for death—but you ain’t gonna die till ya milked the load outta my shaft.  Remember that, boy.  You can end it any time ya want, but ya gotta make me cum to do it.”

 

And without another word—or any warning whatsoever—I stick the knife into the punk’s back.

 

I know what I’m doing; I’ve done this before.  I can have a lot of fun with my meat and a sharp implement as long as I avoid the vital areas.  And there’s a surprisingly large number of excruciatingly sensitive non-vital areas on the human body—I’ve kept meat alive for over an hour, screaming itself hoarse.

 

In this case, I’ve inserted the knife just below the ribcage and angled it upwards.  If my aim is correct—and it is—the razor-sharp steel slices through the kid’s right kidney and impales his liver.

 

The reaction is exactly what I’d hoped.  The meat screams, his voice rising to a pitch he’d not yet achieved, as his body goes rigid with trauma and shock, gripping my engorged dick life a tight velvet fist.  “Oh fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” I grunt with a satisfied sigh as the teen faggot shrieks in agony.  He buries his face in the floor as his entire body shudders rigidly—but I still have one hand on his cock, and I felt it pulse as I stuck him.  Little fuck can say he don’t like it, but we both know the truth.

 

It doesn’t matter how much he screams and cries and begs, he wants this.  And I’m the man to give it to him.

 

I leave the knife embedded in his back as I pump my erect shaft into his torn and bleeding rectum.  The punk howls in pain, thrashing under my weight.  It’s hot in here and I’m sweating—so is the kid, but his is a cold rank sweat forced out of his smooth young body by suffering.  But I only get about a half-dozen good deep thrusts before his ass starts to go loose again.

 

“Jeez, you’re a worthless assfuck, you bitch,” I sneer, drowning out the boy’s wailing.  “Yer ass muscle goes as limp as a flat tire in five minutes.  Guess I gotta keep tighten’ you manually, huh?  That what it’s gonna take to keep you workin’ my shaft right?  Goddam, yer one sick-ass painpig, aintcha?”

 

I jerk my blade out of his back and, transferring it to my left hand, slip it into his flank, as smooth as a hot knife into butter.  The vicious serrated barbs rip their way through the boywhore’s pancreas and into his spleen and again, he stiffens instinctively with massive internal organ trauma.

 

“Does that feel good, ya sack a’ shit?” I whisper erotically into his ear as he shudders and gasps, too far gone in shock to scream.  “Yer a lucky faggot, y’know?  You get to have two long hard shafts stuck in ya today, hah!”  I rub my free hand down his smooth, slick back; there’s very little blood from the wound I’ve made there—most of the bleeding is internal.  His lithe teenage body writhes and kicks and I can feel each shudder as it resonates in his colon and down my thick, engorged cock.

 

“No…” he moans shakily, his voice thick and slow with agony, “P-please…no…stop…”

 

“Stop?” I guffaw.  “I’m just gettin’ started.  Dude, I’m gonna jack up yer ass so fuckin’ bad they’re gonna have to use DNA to ID yer rottin’ meat.”   I look into his eyes but the little fuck lowers his head and sobs; I can’t see his face.

 

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, you dumbass motherfucker,” I snarl and twist the knife in the wound, gouging out huge chunks of his pancreas.  It gives me the reaction I want; the meat raises his head and squeals like a stuck pig—which is exactly what he is.

 

“Learnin’ yer lesson yet, boy?” I growl.

 

“F-fu-fuck you,” he moans between teeth gritted in agony.

 

“Wrong answer,” I say.  And it is.  I show him just how wrong by jerking the knife out of his side with a flourish that spatters blood on the side wall of the van.  Switching the wickedly sharp blade between one hand and the other, I poke his back with the tip—just enough to break the skin and elicit a tense yelp from the cunt, but doing no real damage.  Yet.

 

“Where’s it gonna go, boy?  What part of ya is gonna be lucky enough to feel the cold sharp bite of my blade?  What area of yer flesh do ya want ripped open by my serrated steel blade, you teenage fuckwad?”  I make damn sure that as I’m poking him with the knife, his boyhole is getting all the attention it deserves from my dick.  “Make up yer mind quick, you cumsuckin’ shit, cause yer ass is gettin’ loose again.  Where do ya want me to stick ya and make ya tight again?”

 

The kid is groaning sluggishly; he’s bleeding internally, but not badly enough to be in imminent danger of dying.  On the other hand, shock is setting in.  That makes it hard to keep his attention.  He needs more pain, and I need to make it drastic.

 

I reach around, down and behind, and place the tip of the blade against the punk’s taint, just behind his scrotum.  I can feel his puckered balls—pulsating sacks of sperm, shifted into overdrive by relentless adolescent hormones.  There’s a lot of things going on in a very small space in this part of the body; I had to do a bit of research to get this move down right.  I wanna see how this will work on live meat.

 

I did practice, once, on some fuckmeat that was already dead.  But that’s a story for another time.  At any rate, I’m fairly certain I know what I’m doing here.  With a loud grunt and a powerful flex of my large bicep, I shove the blade up into the scumbag’s body, behind his balls.

 

The angle of the blade is the most important thing.  It slides up between the prostate and the pubic symphysis, a mass of cartilage in the front of the groin.  The serrated steel slashes the kid’s vas deferens, separating his seminal vesicles from his penis but leaving the testicles intact.  When I yank the blade out, tearing the wound even wider, there’s a gush of warm yellow fluid—the tip of the knife had punctured the little shit’s bladder.  The muscles at the base of his cock, clenched tight due to the crushing pressure my monster hog was exerting on his prostate, had blocked the flow of his urethra at that point.

 

Now I’d cut an alternate path through his taint.  The teen was pissing himself though the knife wound.

 

This is a pain that he’d never imagined existed.  Soft suburban meat, learning the true meaning of suffering.  His head is up, his eyes meet mine in the mirror, but he’s not looking at me.  He’s looking at Hell.  I know he can see it burning in my eyes; the expression on his face tells me so.  Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot—he’s so cute and he’s suffering so horribly, so erotically, I just wish I could keep torturing him for eternity.

 

His mouth is open; he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out.  The pain is too great to be released that way.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I moan in his ear, “Now you’re gettin’ it, faggot.  Now you’re working my cock right.  All I had to do was hurt ya in the right way to make ya nice and tight.  That’s it, ya worthless homo cunt, milk my shaft.”

 

His body is trembling uncontrollably; his white kicks knocking against my combat boots and his bound hands still clutching uselessly at my belly fur.  He’s making gasping and grunting noises as the flow of bloody piss from his mangled taint slows to a drip.  Suddenly, he inhales in a great shuddering breath.

 

“K-kill me…” he gasps, his tormented face white and taut in the mirror.  “P-please, n-no more, man…just-just kill me, dear God, just end it…”  He looks at me, a silent plea for mercy—those puppy-dog eyes are begging for euthanasia.

 

“You worthless faggot,” I sneer, riding his thrashing ass like a bucking bronco, “You wanna die?  Ok, cunt, I’ll waste yer useless as, but first I’m gonna make it my own personal cum dumpster.  Get up, bitch—on yer knees!”

 

I lean back and pull myself up onto my knees; grabbing a hank of the kid’s long hard, now darkened and slick with sweat, I drag him up too, keeping my thick engorged tool buried in his guts as I change position.  When we’re both on our knees in front of the mirror, I keep one hand in his hair, pulling his head back with his chin slightly raised.  The other hand still has the knife.  I hold it up in front of him.  This is the first time he’s seen it up close.

 

“Look at it, you piece of shit,” I whisper to the shuddering, sobbing teen.  “That’s your blood dripping off of it.  See those shreds of flesh caught in the serrations?  That’s part of yer guts, brah; ain’t that hot?  Sure ya wanna end the fun now?  I mean, lookit how hard yer cock is, faggot.”

 

His brown eyes, ringed with great black circles of shock, look up at mine with an almost insane intensity.  His dick was slapping rapidly against his belly in time to his frantic, pain-maddened pulse.  The little shit must be bleeding heavily inside by now, but my huge dick plugging his ass kept his cock rock-hard and throbbing.

 

Suddenly I can feel the electric tingling in my balls, and I know I’m about to shoot my wad.  “Ok motherfucker,” I growl at the dying kid, “Here’s what’s gonna happen.  I’m gonna take this long sharp blade and I’m gonna cut your throat.  I’m gonna slice open the tender flesh of your neck, but when I get to your trachea—that’s the windpipe, you stupid little fuck—well, that’s made out of gristle, and I’m gonna have to saw it open.  Think I’ll cut ya so I have to saw open your larynx, too—that’ll take some time, so you’ll get to enjoy it longer.  Sound like fun?  Fuck yeah, bitch, let’s get rockin’ and rollin’!”

 

Now that he’s been told what’s gonna happen to him and he can see the weapon that’s gonna be used, he changes his tune.  I’ve been expecting it; even in nightmarish agony, the young ones hesitate when push comes to shove.

 

“Oh my fuckin’ God, no…” he whispers, a catch in his strained, pain-filled voice as he begs.  “Please don’t, just make it end, I don’t wanna hurt no more, please, just make it stop…”

 

“Even when it stops, I’m still gonna be fuckin’ yer ass,” I jeer.  “Now shaddup and die, you worthless shit.”  Yanking his head back, I place the blade up against his throat and start slicing.

 

His flesh parts swiftly, almost eagerly, as it seems to open up at the merest touch of the knife.  Blood flows from the wound—a small trickle at first but soon becoming a hot, coppery gush.  The kid’s taut, lean body is rigid, tightly clenched in mortal pain.

 

“Oh hell yeah, cunt, milk my shaft as ya die,” I grunt, my physical pleasure ringing in my voice— he knows as his life blood jets from his throat in time to his panicked pulse that his pain and death are bringing me to orgasm.  The little asswipe should appreciate the honor.

 

As I’d told him, I had to slow down once I hit the esophagus; it’s a stiff and rubbery piece of tissue.  He starts shrieking as I begin to cut in.  “Oh God no Jesus Christ help me fuckin’ stoAAAGGHHH—”

 

At the last second, his scream spirals up an octave as I pierce his windpipe, allowing his breath to whistle out of the hole I’ve cut in his throat.  The thrashing teen can’t scream anymore; all he can do is make thick gargling sounds as he coughs up his own blood.

 

His body is still so stiff and hard it’s quivering; his ass has my dick in a deathgrip, squeezing it and jerking it like it’s deliberately trying to make me cum. His fingers are clutching at my hard flat abs in agony, unable to get a purchase on my skin, slick with sweat.  All he can do is grasp at my wiry body fur.  His smooth, firm legs are kicking and shuddering, the Adidas Top Tens knocking against my black combat boots.

 

I’ve got a teenaged boy dying in horrible pain in my arms and on my cock and it feels fuckin’ fantastic.

 

I toss the knife down; I don’t need it any more.  He’s bleeding heavily from his throat but I’ve managed to do no more than nick either the jugular vein or the carotid artery—which means he’s gonna remain conscious for maybe another forty-five seconds before his heart starts going into arrhythmia from overwhelming blood loss.

 

I’m still gripping a handful of his hair, more to keep him upright than anything else.  I put my free hand to good use—reaching around his sweaty, heaving torso, I grab his thick cock, still amazingly erect, and start jacking him.

 

“C’mon, motherfucker, just fuckin’ die,” I whisper in his ear as he trembles and gargles his blood.  “You want this.  Deep inside, you needed a man to fuck you and put you down like the piece of shit you are.  I’m about to blow, cunt.  Last thing yer gonna feel in your useless faggot life is my hot manseed hosin’ down yer guts—”

 

He doesn’t give me a chance to finish.  His body jerks violently in my arms and I can feel a powerful throbbing spasm in his dick. It erupts in a geyser of teen boycum, sending a jet of sperm up almost to the roof of the van before falling back to spatter viscously on the mirror.

 

I can’t control it anymore; the pressure in my balls is too intense.  Howling and cursing, I pump my spunk up the meat’s ass.  I’m still holding the kid’s dick; I jerk it and crank it mercilessly.  As powerful as my ejaculations are, I’m still able to notice something in the mirror—a puddle of milky fluid under the meat’s scrote.

 

It takes me a minute to realize that I’d severed the kid’s vas deferens when I jammed my blade into his taint; the seminal vesicles were behind the cut, and they produce the fluid in semen.

 

The kid wasn’t just cumming outta his dick, he was cumming outta the hole I’d sliced in him.

 

The meat is gone.  His eyes have rolled back into his head and his body jerks as he strains to breathe, air wheezing sickeningly through the gash in his windpipe.  Pearly beads of cum are oozing from his hard cock as I let him go, the rank sweaty boymeat slumping lifelessly to the floor.  One of his legs twitches randomly, his hightop sneaker scuffling momentarily on the Astroturf, then he’s still.

 

T-Money is cashed out.

 

I pull out and roll over on my back.  Fuck, that was so fuckin’ good.  I just need a little nap…

 


 

It’s still warm in the van when I wake up, and the sun is still up, so I haven’t been asleep for long.  I grab the shredded remains of the punk’s Nirvana shirt and use it to brush off the dried smears of blood on my chest from the boy’s back wounds.  He’s still laying on the AstroTurf, hunched over with his ass in the air, his legs spread with his kicks splayed out, forming a perfect V leading to his fuckhole.  His face is buried in the floor; his long sandy blond hair fanned out around his head.

 

From the rear, I can see that the dead kid’s taint is completely crusted with dried cum—some of his that leaked from the hole I’d cut and the rest is mine, leaked from his torn asshole.

 

Goddam, I’m hard again.

 

I’ve already reamed out the meat’s ass; I need a new hole to fuck.  I give the corpse a good hard kick, my boot making contact with its belly and flip it over onto its back.  From here I can see the pale face and blue lips, the gruesome slash that opened the throat, exposing the severed trachea—

 

—a nice firm hole just waiting for my shaft.  Fuck yeah.

 

I squat over the dead boy’s head, facing his feet, and feed my erect tool into the mangled esophagus.  The flesh is still warm and pliant, almost moist, and it seems to cling to my thick, throbbing rod.  I sit on the corpse’s face and throatfuck it for another seven or eight minutes, my hands fondling the smooth limp body.  The dead punk jerks with every pump of my hog, his Adidas kicks scraping as his legs twitch.

 

This time, I have no warning.  Suddenly, I find myself hunched over in orgasmic spasm, shooting a load down the kid’s windpipe and into his lungs.  I remain straddling the corpse for another couple of minutes, regaining my breath, before I pull my dick back out of the cut throat.  Standing up, I pull up my jeans and tuck my shaft back into ‘em.

 

Time to dump the meat.  I open the rear doors, flooding the interior with the bright golden light of late-afternoon summer.  The drainage ditch is only a yard away, beyond the foot-high guardrail.  The ditch is deep, too; it’s a good fifteen feet to the bottom.

 

The kid is laying splayed on his back, his hands still bound behind him, naked but for his kicks.  I’m still not satisfied.  I owned this little motherfucker, and I want everyone to know it. And then an idea comes to me.

 

I grab the knife in one hand and the meat’s scrotum in the other and start cutting.  It takes less than sixty seconds to completely remove the dead fag’s cock and balls.  I bend over the corpse and grin.  “Stupid little homo, all ya wanted was some beer.  Hope it was worth it.”

 

Then I shove the severed genitalia into the throat wound, tucking the kid’s cock into his trachea, where it slid in smoothly on a lube of my cum.  If they find him before he rots, they’ll find him choking on his own dick.

 

I drag the meat out and over the guardrail, dropping it unceremoniously and watching it tumble down the embankment into the trickle of muddy water at the bottom.  I return to the van and gather up the remains of the clothing, then toss them over the rail as well.  I notice that one of the slut’s Adidas sneakers had evidently caught on the rail and been jerked off; it was sitting upright at the edge of the concrete.

 

I left it there and climbed into the van.  Fifteen minutes later, I was merging onto the highway, heading for a DIY car wash over on Third that I’d used before; I still needed to hoes out the back of the van.  Just as I entered the highway, I heard a rattling sound from the floorboards on the passenger side.  I shot a quick glimpse over there and realized I still had the fuckmeat’s skateboard.

 

It was probably dangerous to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge across the cab, keeping one hand on the wheel, but I managed to snag the board without any major repercussions.  Just as I reached my exit, I rolled down the window and tossed the skateboard out onto the highway.  I kept an eye on it in my rearview mirror as I headed down the exit ramp; it bounced across two lanes before being run over by a semi.  It was destroyed, crushed to pieces.

 

It makes me feel even better.  I’m still tingling with afterglow as go to wash out my killing pit.

Trucker 13–Trucker vs Teen Runaway

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker growled, shoving harder.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Outside, Erik’s screams were swept away on the hot night wind, becoming inaudible mere yards from the darkened cab.  There was no one around for miles.  There were just the two males, alone together, entwined in a painful, erotic embrace of violence and lust.

 

Inside, the kid’s ragged shrieking reverberated in the small space.  “Shut yer goddam mouth,” the Trucker barked, “You’re givin’ me a headache, ya worthless piece of fuckmeat.  Shaddup or I’ll shut ya up myself.”

 

Again, Erik heard the words, but they seemed to come from some other world, some place beyond the glassy bubble of pain he was inhabiting.  They had no bearing on his reality, which—like his ass—was full of cock.  Enormous, agonizing cock, plumbing the furthest depths of his guts.  Part of his mind that managed to remain insulated from the pain and fear of the brutal rape held a mental image of him at the moment as nothing more than a human sheath, wrapped around a gigantic dick.

 

He couldn’t understand why his own shaft was fully erect; pain had always made him go limp.  He had no way of knowing that he was being stimulated internally by the intense pressure of the Trucker’s tool against his prostate.  All the unfortunate runaway knew was that his own dick was traitorously stiff, bobbing in the air as he was being brutally assraped.  And it hurt so fucking bad.  And it was probably gonna hurt worse if he couldn’t stop screaming…

 

…but he couldn’t stop screaming.

 

 

The Trucker leaned forward, his handsome, erotically masculine face lit from within by an unholy, frightening rage.  There was a faint clinking sound as the top’s dogtags danced on the boy’s heaving chest.  Erik could feel the older man’s breath hot on his face.

 

“I said shut the fuck up,” the Trucker hissed between clenched teeth; despite his intense anger, he never mistimed a single thrust of his hips as he continued to drive his shaft mercilessly up the punk’s ass.

 

“No!  Get outta me!  Fuckin’ hell, get it out, it hurts fuck AAAHHHH!” Erik screeched.  His balled fists drummed uselessly against the Trucker’s broad, rock-hard chest.  Suddenly the Trucker twisted away; keeping the kid impaled on his erect rod, he managed to bend down and snatch something up off the floor of the cab.  He made sure to hold it up in front of Erik’s face.

 

It was Erik’s white cotton wifebeater.  At first, the shrieking teen didn’t understand.

 

“I toldja I’d shut you up, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  He started twisting the shirt into a three-foot length of fabric, and Erik understood.  He stopped screaming, but it was too late.

 

“Was gonna off yer worthless ass anyway, punk,” the Trucker sneered, breaking the sudden silence, “But yer screamin’ like a fuckin’ pansy and it’s gettin’ on my nerves.  So ya get to die a few minutes early.”

 

Erik shook his head, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide with fear.  He didn’t want to acknowledge the purpose of the twisted shirt in the alpha’s hands, but he wasn’t permitted the luxury of denial.  The Trucker lunged; Erik tried to block but the alpha knocked his arms away as easily as swatting a fly.  Before he could prevent it, the scared teen realized the cotton band had been wrapped around his throat—and pulled tight.

 

The fabric was still damp and rank with hormone-laden boysweat.  Just before his air was cut off, Erik inhaled a deep, heady musk; the mix of his own sweat and that of the powerful alpha filled his lungs with pheromones before they were permanently sealed.

 

“There ya go,” the Trucker jeered, “Now shaddup and die, fuckmeat.”

 

It was worth it, the alpha thought as he jerked the wifebeater brutally tight, it was worth it, just to see the look of panic in the young faggot’s eyes, just to feel the teen’s fuckhole clench his dick in involuntary spasms.

 

Terror welled up in Erik.  This stud, this muscle-bound god—this wasn’t supposed to be happening.  He hadn’t hit the jackpot, he was being hurt, being raped…being murdered.  Frantically, he jammed his hands up under the Trucker’s jaw, trying futilely to push the alpha away.

 

The powerful sadist easily shrugged the kid’s flailing hands away.  “Die on my dick, you cumsuckin’ pervert,” he sneered, then hocked a wad of phlegm into the boy’s panic-stricken face.  “It feels so fuckin’ good when little homo fucks like you kick and die with my cock inside ya.”

 

Erik kicked and writhed in horrific agony; the tensile strength of the damp cotton band allowed it to sink deeply into the kid’s smooth, soft neck flesh without stretching or tearing.  The frantic youth clawed desperately at the shirt, but once it sank in, he could no longer get his fingers around it—and he turned his panic on his assailant.

 

The Trucker had snuffed at least two dozen faggots—he didn’t keep count—and by now knew the stages of terror, submission and death better than the meat experiencing them did.  He recognized the impending explosion of fear and braced himself as the cunt lashed out like a feral cat.

 

 

The slim young teen scrambled with a frenetic strength that would have surprised anyone not experienced with the true fear of death; the meat was awash in cold terror and stuck blindly at the Trucker’s muscled mass.  His hands, crabbed like claws, clutched at the older man’s bulging biceps before slipping off the sweat-slick skin.

 

Still mindlessly seeking some way of stopping the choking pain, the clutching, grabbing hands soon landed on the Trucker’s broad chest—and dug in.  The kid’s fingers curled in the wiry, almost steel wool-like chest hair and yanked painfully.

 

Then, inadvertently, Erik opened the door to a whole new universe of pain.  He raked his fingernails over the Trucker’s chest, scraping off fur and drawing blood.

 

Only one person had made the Trucker bleed before, and that wasn’t a good memory.  It triggered a heightened rage response.

 

“Goddam fuckin’ piece of fag shit!” he roared, twisting the cotton shirt so he could maintain the excruciating tautness with a single hand.  The other hand he drew back into a fist, then used it to punctuate his speech with the emphasis of a wrecking ball.

 

“Worthless [BAM] little [BAM] motherfucker [BAM], you still don’t fuckin’ get it [BAM], do ya [BAM]?  Only thing yer good for is milkin’ my shaft [BAM] and soakin’ up my load [BAM].  Looks like I’m gonna hafta beat it into ya [BAM], huh, cunt [BAM]?  Know what I’m gonna do [BAM] with yer used-up boymeat [BAM] when I’m done with ya [BAM]?  Huh?  I’m gonna throw ya out [BAM] like a used cumrag [BAM]—yer gonna end up rottin’ in a ditch like garbage, hah [BAM]!”

 

The third blow was accompanied by a snapping sound as Erik’s cheekbone broke, the fifth with the squelching sound of split lips.  On the seventh or eighth—neither predator nor prey was keeping an accurate count—the boy’s nose broke, the cartilage collapsing with a loud crunching noise.  And on the thirteenth impact, the orbit of the teen’s left eye fractured into multiple pieces, causing the white of the swelling, bulging orb to hemorrhage blood-red.

 

Unfortunately for Erik, his youth worked against him; his adolescent body, fueled by raging hormones, was unable to succumb to unconsciousness.  He was awake and aware of every blow, and every word.  He knew exactly what was happening to him; he just couldn’t understand why.

 

Even the sex had gone bad; it felt like a massive ingot of white-hot steel had been shoved up his ass, searing his guts out as it reamed his fuckhole.  The intense pressure against his prostate was reflected in the intense pressure in his cock; it felt so achingly hard and swollen that it seemed about to burst.  And the pressure of the ligature around his throat was reflected by the pressure in his chest, which felt like it had already burst in a fiery explosion that still raged within him.

 

It was his head that hurt the worst, though; his smashed face was flaming agony, but on the inside…oh my fuckin’ god my head is swelling my tongue I can’t close my mouth I can’t close my eyes…

 

Taking the shirt back in both hands and tightening it further, the Trucker lowered himself down until he was lying full-length on top of the kid.  The lean, smooth teen body writhed and jerked under the weight of the muscled hardman, skin sliding against furry skin on a lube of deathsweat that was being squeezed out of the boy.

 

The older man bent his head down to whisper in the punk’s ear; as he did so, the stiff black stubble on his cheek grazed the kid’s face, scraping painfully against the boy’s bruised, swelling skin.

 

“Ya feelin’ me now, boy?  Ya findin’ out what it feels like to die, aintcha?  Fuck yeah, cunt, I’m gonna cum so hard when you die.  Been too long since I wasted a fag—you came along just in time, asswipe.  Stupid young fuckmeat, ready and waiting to suffer and die on my dick.  Just needed a little tenderizin’ to learn how to accept death from the hands of a real man.”

 

Erik hadn’t learned to accept his own death yet, but at the moment the terror was overwhelmed with sheer physical pain; as his nervous system slowly began to die of oxygen deprivation, the nerve endings underwent a common paradoxical reaction—they became more sensitive.  The slighted touch against Erik’s skin was magnified to the intensity of agony.

 

Without even breaking the skin, the sharp edges of the Trucker’s dogtags, pressed as they were into the boy’s chest by the heavier man’s weight, felt like knives piercing his flesh.  His thick purple cock, already painfully erect, was also pressed between the entwined male forms; as the underside rasped up and down on the Trucker’s large metal belt buckle, Erik felt unimaginable pain that he pictured mentally as the skin being flayed off his dick.

 

“Does it hurt?” the Trucker asked, grinning.  “Good.  Yer gonna die in fuckin’ agony, just like you deserve, ya cockpig sack a’ shit.”

 

Beneath him, the once-arrogant teen was unrecognizable in the battered, blackened mass of swollen flesh above the cotton band—the latter sunk so deep in the kid’s throat it was almost invisible.  Erik’s face was dark and congested, the eyes—both now blood-red with hemorrhages—bulging grotesquely from their sockets, the left one off-center from the shattered orbit.  They were swollen to the point he was unable to close them; he was forced to watch his own Nike Air Ring Leaders, just past the Trucker’s shoulders, as they kicked and flailed helplessly in the air.

 

The boy’s split, purple lips had parted, letting the monstrously swollen tongue to emerge in mass of thick white foam that drooled down the youth’s smooth cheeks.  His black hair, stiff in gelled disarray, was wet with the same cold deathsweat that soaked his pits and lubed his smooth young body.

 

The cruel alpha grinned viciously at the dying boy.  “Still fightin’ it, cocksucker?    Keep tryin’, ya stupid fuckwad.  Fuck yeah, the younger the fag the longer it takes ‘em to die—and the longer I get my hog worked.  Gotta remember that, huh?  Next time I wanna get my dick milked real good, I gotta find me a dumbass piece of teenage homo meat!”

 

Erik heard the words—barely, and understood them—barely, but they no longer carried an immediacy about them.  His brain was dying, cerebral cells going dark by the millions as his body shudder helplessly in the grip of a death that was swiftly approaching—but not swiftly enough.

 

The teen slut was ready to die.  The pain was too much; he just wanted it to end, but the Trucker was right—his youth worked against him; his healthy system had been full of oxygen when his air supply had been cut off.

 

He could feel—oh fuck, he could still feel everything.  This wasn’t supposed to be happening; he’d just wanted a lift and some dick.  Now—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, his throat, he could feel is collapsing—

 

“Ya likin’ that, fuckpig?  I can feel yer dick leakin’ all over my belly, queerboy.  Fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?”

 

No, no he wasn’t enjoying it, but his cock was so hard it hurt and he didn’t know why, the pressure and the pounding in his head in his cockhead and behind his eyes, that frantic percussion—was that his pulse?—his head was gonna explode and his dick was gonna explode the pressure was too intense—

 

“Goddam, boy, I ain’t had no one’s ass grab my shaft like this—yer really gettin’ into this, cunt!  Fuckin’-A—gonna ride yer ass till ya die, faggot!”

 

The enormous cock that had roused such lust and desire in the oversexed teenager was now being wielded as an instrument of nightmarish torture, tearing him open on the inside.  With the heightened sensitivity of his dying nervous system, Erik was suffering the pain of impalement in an almost medieval sense as the alpha’s inhumanly massive shaft pounded its way through his torn, inflamed colon and repeatedly embedded itself deep into his tender guts.

 

The Trucker held on to the twisted wifebeater with both hands, feeling the teen dying on his engorged cock.  Tracing the progression of the kid’s brain death was relatively easy for the proficient serial killer; he knew the symptoms from long experience.  The meat was nearly gone, but the way the little fuck was gagging and slobbering meant that there was still a spark of human mentality left—

 

—and the Trucker was so fucking turned on at the thought of abusing and tormenting that spark until it finally flickered out.

 

“Does it hurt to die?” he hissed, “Good.  You earned this, you faggot slut.  Only thing you’re fuckin’ good for is catchin’ my spunk, and you’re good for that once—maybe twice. And after I’m done usin’ ya, all that’ll be left it rottin’ meat that I’m gonna dump on the side of the road.  Not like anyone’s gonna miss ya, right, fuckwad?”

 

The boy heard the words, at least the start, but had lost the ability to react.  Lack of oxygen had inflicted massive trauma to his central nervous system; he no longer had control over his physical movements.  As the Trucker spoke, the kid began to convulse, slowly at first but with a swiftly-increasing intensity.

 

The sick, sadistic top grinned and grunted with pleasure; this was the best part, the way the meat stroked and milked his shaft as it writhed in its death throes.  And this boy seemed to last forever; the slick, lithe, smooth body wriggling and shuddering beneath his hairy weight, the kid’s thick, pulsating dick pressed between two flat, firm bellies.  The youth’s arms had stopped flailing; now, they clutched rigidly at his killer’s shoulders.  The Trucker could feel the heels of the punk’s kicks digging into his denim-wrapped ass as the boy’s legs tightened involuntarily around his waist.

 

Erik was gone and what little was left of Louis was encased in a hard red ball of agony—the fiery pain that seared his chest and head, his throat and his ass and especially his dick, had somehow managed to merge into a solid mass of suffering as his body twisted and contorted itself convulsively.

 

“Oh fuck, fuck yeah,” the Trucker grunted, his face grimacing as he tried to hold back the explosive orgasm boiling up in his tight scrotum.  Deep in his boots, his toes curled in an instinctive attempt to brace his hard, powerful body. His arms jerked back almost involuntarily, veins popping out on his thick, swollen biceps; the white cotton ligature sank into the kid’s neck to a grotesque depth.

 

Suddenly, there was a loud wet cracking sound; the boymeat’s throat had been crushed into a wad of blood, phlegm and mangled cartilage.  It was a special kind of pain and it merged seamlessly with the last sensation that the unfortunate youth had to endure—the razor-sharp agony of his own ejaculation.

 

As the teen spewed a massive deathload over the Trucker’s chest and belly, the boycum matting the older man’s fur, the Trucker gave one last, deep grunt and let go, his hot potent manspunk hosing the boy’s guts and filling his rectum.

 

The hot wind still swept out of the night, whipping around the silent cab where a man remained locked in a tight, trembling, orgasmic embrace with the corpse of a seventeen-year-old boy.

 

A few minutes later, when the Trucker was sure he’d drained every drop of sperm out of his huge balls, he disengaged himself from the dead punk.  Taking a moment to stuff his still-oozing dick back into his jeans, the sweaty, cum-covered alpha looked down with contempt at the corpse.

 

There was little left that was recognizable of the cocky teenager.  The smooth young face was now a puffy blue mask with a thick purple tongue protruding from the middle of it.  The nose was bent and broken with blood trials from both nostrils and the eyes were nothing but slits of white streaked with red under swollen lids.

 

The dark gray Nikes were quivering as the fag’s nervous system continued to fire random nerve signals; the Trucker knew from past experience that the meat would twitch and kick for an hour or so longer.  The little fucker’s dick was going soft, expelling the semen that had remained in the shaft at death.

 

 

 

The Trucker sneered at the dead boy.  “Fuckin’ faggot,” he muttered, “Shoulda hurt ya more.”

 

Grabbing a washcloth from a small set of drawers on the left, the heaving, sweat-slick alpha slipped past the privacy curtain and exited the cab.  Walking quickly across the empty parking lot, he headed into the rest room.  Under the glaring fluorescent light, he soaked the washcloth and used it to give his torso a brief sponge bath, wiping the teen’s crusty jizz out of his body fur.

 

Even though his boots thumped just as loudly on the pavement on his way back to the truck as on the way in, the Trucker’s steps were lighter.  He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the workout he’d gotten snuff the young homo.  Even his dogtags jingled cheerfully on his chest.

 

The young ones could take a good, hard beating and still let him work out some while bangin’ and offin’ them—he’d remember that.  Oh fuck yeah, he’d remember that.

 

He was on the highway within fifteen minutes, cruising along with the window down, letting the warm night air dry the dark curly hair on his chest.  As the miles flew by, his mind kept turning back to the incredibly erotic way the adolescent slut had died on his cock.  The way the motherfucker’s asshole clutched his throbbing shaft, milking it desperately, convulsively as life was choked out of the little punk…

 

The Trucker found that he had to reach into his crotch and shift his stiffening rod.

 

He began eyeing the side of the road, wanting to dump the meat before sunup.  He was near the center of one of the most godforsaken sections of highway in the state—in the entire country for that matter—but there was no sense taking chances.

 

He’d seen no other vehicles for an hour when he pulled off the two-lane road onto a wide, level section of shoulder.  Beyond the shoulder, the land dipped down into a deep, narrow gully, shadowed with the dry, brown remains of whatever dank vegetation managed to grow when there was water present.

 

It’d be a long time before anyone found anything tossed down there.

 

Taking one last look in the rearview mirror to ensure he was alone, the Trucker made his way past the privacy curtain into the sleeper section of the cab.  Somewhere in the past hundred miles, the dead boy had rolled off the bunk; the corpse was splayed out face down on the floor.

 

Standing over it, the Trucker admired the smooth, lean meat, the tender, rounded ass that seemed designed for fucking, the firm, lithe legs spread invitingly apart, with the grey Nikes still on the feet.  His cock was straining painfully in his jeans.  The feelings were conflicting; he didn’t fuck corpses, but this little fuck still seemed to be asking for it.

 

“Fuck it,” the Trucker muttered, “Why not?”

 

Bending down, he grabbed the dead teen and tossed the corpse onto the bunk, still face down.  He positioned it crossways with the legs hanging off, as if the boy was kneeling at the bunk and bent down over it.  In that position, the ass was perfectly set up for penetration.

 

As usual, it took the hulking alpha a moment or two to extract his gigantic shaft from its tight denim confines.  When it was finally free, it was as engorged and oozing as if he hadn’t just emptied his sack a little over an hour earlier.

 

Lowering himself down, he inserted his throbbing member into the cadaver and was pleasantly surprised.  The meat was cool, but not cold, and rigor mortis had set in just enough to make the mangled dead asshole comfortably firm enough to grip the Trucker’s cock just right.

 

With a sigh of pleasure, the sick killer inserted his manhood into the boy’s fuckhole until he was balls-deep in the dead teenager.  The sigh was soon replaced by deep lusty grunts at the older man plowed his cock into the depths of the cooling carcass.  The meat was still limp enough for the dead youth’s limbs to jerk and shift in response to each and every thrust of the Trucker’s huge, pulsating shaft.

 

It had been years since the Trucker had violated the corpse of one of his kills; he’d forgotten the sweet, easy sensation of a victim unable to resist—and this one, such young smooth flesh, so supple, even in death…

 

It was too much.  The Trucker shuddered violently as he pumped another massive load into the dead boy’s guts, giving the cold meat one last burst of warmth with his scalding geyser of semen.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Goddam faggot!  Dead piece a’ shit!” he cried in a gruff, constricted voice that echoed of the metal walls of the tiny sleeper compartment.  Involuntarily, he grabbed the punk’s jaw and twisted it, his arms jerking roughly in orgasmic intensity and snapping the meat’s neck with a gruesomely loud shattering sound.

 

The only other noises to accompany the perverted desecration of the teenager’s corpse were the joyous jangling of the Trucker’s dogtags and the desolate whistling of the pre-dawn breeze.

 

For the second time, the Trucker disengaged himself from the dead kid; this time, he used the boy’s shorts as a rather unsatisfactory cumrag to wipe off his dripping cock.  As he tucked his fully-drained member back into his jeans, he pulled back the privacy curtain and looked outside the cab—there was still obviously no one within miles.

 

So there was no one to see him yank the dead teenager out of the cab by his arms; there was no one to see the channels carved in the dirt by the corpse’s Nikes as it was dragged across the shoulder to the gully.  There was certainly no one to notice when the muscular hardman, in tight jeans and boots, but shirtless, dumped the dead meat into the ditch; in fact, it was three months before the skeletal remains were found.

 

It was finally ID’d by dental records.  The kid’s mama had made sure her Louie had good teeth.

 

There was someone to notice that one of the fucker’s Nikes had come off as he was being dragged—the Trucker.  When he drove off, he made sure one of his rig’s wheel passed right over the sneaker, grinding it into the gravel on the side of the road.

Thrill Kill Live:  Kevin’s Retirement by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

A few years ago I posted a story with this theme on Zambianmeat.com, and several guys requested a sequel.  M3Mayhen was kind enough to let me post it here a few weeks ago as well, and I also got some positive feedback.  One reader suggested maybe celebrating the host’s retirement show.  I thought that was a good idea, so here’s the result.  Let me know if you have thoughts or other suggestions.  My aim is to write stuff guys can get off on who enjoy snuff and torture themes, I do fantasizing myself as the willing victim.  I’m always appreciative of feedback – positive or not.

 

 

 

 

The opening credits began to run for a special episode of the hit series Thrill Kill Live!  The show was celebrating ten years at the top of every rating, whether traditional TV or internet.  It was the ultimate cash cow for the Fox network, and its creator and host, Kevin Strand, was a major celebrity.  But after ten years of hosting, Kevin had announced his intention to retire, and the network had heavily promoted this final episode under Kevin’s leadership, including the promised introduction of an as yet unnamed new host.  Viewership was massive, the studio was packed, and everyone had great anticipation for a terrific presentation.  Kevin’s simple formula of interviewing, torturing, killing, and ultimately selling the meat of good-looking young male losers, all on live TV, was a proven hit.  Clearly, the show would continue.  It was the ideal combination of entertainment and public service.

 

The stage was set to feature a large wrestling mat, and as soon as the credits finished two extremely athletic males walked onto the stage.  They appeared even younger than their 17 years, but were exceptionally muscular and attractive.  Each was naked, and each sported a decent-sized erection.  They walked to the two sides of the mat and stood still, facing each other.  Both looked very serious as they stared at each other, ignoring the audience.

 

Once the young males were in place the announcer began his usual introduction:  “Welcome everyone!  It’s that time of the week, and it’s another exciting show.  But this one is even more amazing than usual, a two hour episode to celebrate ten years of Kevin’s great creativity and leadership and to introduce our new host for the next ten years.  So, with no further ado, HERE’S KEVIN!”

 

The audience went nuts as Kevin walked on stage.   While he usually started the show wearing one of the expensive leather outfits he loved, which were made from the skin of some of the show’s “participants,” this time he was completely naked.  Kevin was 31 years old, having dreamed up and started the show when he turned 21, but his body looked much younger.  He kept himself fanatically fit, and had the benefit of an extraordinary body to work with.  It was no wonder he was so popular, and he had used his popularity, and the show, to become very rich.  The line of clothing made from the skin of young males he’d killed was just one of many cross promotions, and the meat sold after the show each week went for a huge premium.  Moreover, he had started related enterprises to increase his source of meat, with local contests designed to promote the show and also provide lots more young male “participants” whose bodies could be butchered and sold after their 15 minutes of fame (and their worthless lives) were over.  It was profitable local entertainment that served the moral good of reducing the population of these young troublemakers.  That’s why he had decided to retire, so he could focus more time on the ever-changing cadre of young male volunteers, prisoners, and slaves he owned and loved to torture, kill, and turn into a useful combination of meat and other byproducts.  His plan was to continue those highly profitable and worthwhile endeavors, but he had grown tired of the public spotlight.  It was practically impossible for him to even go to a restaurant without some depressed, cowardly, male asshole asking Kevin to kill him on the spot or to be selected for the show.  While Kevin enjoyed turning losers into meat, and always obliged the requests (with a knife thrust into the gut, since that would be quite painful, relatively slow, but always fatal), it was very intrusive of his privacy and got in the way of his own priorities.

 

“Welcome everyone,” Kevin began, “and I hope you all enjoy this very special show.  As you know, I have sold my rights to the show and I am turning over the hosting duties to someone else.  You will meet him shortly – and so will I.  My producer, Robert Gray, and I thought it would be more fun to keep everyone in suspense as to the identity of the new host, even including me.  So we’ll all be surprised to learn who the new host turns out to be, and to watch as he and I work over whoever tonight’s main attraction turns out to be – that’s also a surprise.

 

“But let’s start out with an extended version of our usual opening set, and this one is really special.  My guests are Tony and Mike, and they are both 17 years old.  Many of you have asked for younger meat, and we’re here to meet your desires!  But what’s really exciting is that we have combined with our colleagues at Fox Sports to provide a combination event.  You see, Tony and Mike are high school wrestling champions, and had been set to compete for the state championship even though they are only juniors in high school.  These are really talented athletes, and they are very aggressive.  Better yet, they have grown up in the same schools and they have come to hate each other.    So my friends on the sports side came up with a terrific suggestion.  Instead of the usual boring high school wrestling contest, why not feature them as our opening act, letting them fight to the death, with the winner fucking the dead body of the loser and getting to eat his cock?  We paid their parents a little money and got their permission, and the proceeds from this part of the show will help their high school build a much-needed new gym.  Each of the boys expects to win, and given their intense hatred for each other they were both immediately on board with the proposal.  It was an “everybody wins” idea that just makes too much sense not to pursue.  OK, maybe not everybody wins.  We’ll have a dead body here pretty soon that we will butcher and sell for meat, but by definition the dead kid will have been a loser and his body will be better used as meat snacks for our audience and maybe some leather boots.”

 

Kevin turned to the two boys, who were still glaring at each other, and stroking their cocks to keep them aroused.  Besides being exceptional young athletes, they were also exhibitionists who loved showing off their beautiful young bodies.  In fact, they had often persuaded the principal to let them wrestle nude during the regular season, and that was always approved once they agreed to suck him off and let him fuck their cute young assholes.

 

“OK guys, let’s start by getting a little more info on you.  I understand you really dislike each other, and wonder why.  Tony, let’s start with your side of the story.  What’s you beef with Mike?”

 

‘Mike ruined my relationship with my boyfriend Larry.  Larry is 19 and wants to be with me, so I can serve him, but Mike turned Larry in for fucking a minor and now Larry has to stay away from me or get arrested.  Mike is just jealous, since Larry prefers fucking me over fucking Mike, and I want vengeance.”

 

Kevin next handed the microphone to Mike.  “That’s bullshit.  If Larry had any taste in guys he’s prefer making out with me over Tony.  I know he really enjoyed himself when I let him fuck my ass and drink his cum.  But Larry is just an egotistical college kid who likes to throw his weight around and take advantage of his status.  I don’t give a shit about him or Tony, and once I finish killing Tony in this match I think I’ll figure out a way to capture and torture Larry to death just for fun.  And I’ll eat his cock too.”

 

“Wow,” observed Kevin.  “You two have a great grudge going, and I have no doubt you’ll finish it tonight.  So let’s get at it.

 

“You know the rules.  You have to stay on the mat, and if you step off it I get to whip you until you get back on.  There is no referee, and there are no limits on what you can do to each other while you fight.  The match ends when one of you is dead.  But to be victorious, the winner ahs to fuck the loser, sending a load of cum up the ass of the carcass.  The winner also has to chew the cock off the dead loser and swallow it.  We know both of you are gay, so I doubt those requirements will be much of a problem.  And we’ve pumped a lot of Viagra into your oversexed bodies, so you will likely keep those hard-ons during most of the match.  We think that will make it more fun to watch, and we hope you try to rip them off.  If the survivor has lost his cock during the match he won’t be able to fuck the dead meat, so he’ll die too.  Our rules are strict.  Finally, we want you each to drink the bottle of water on the table near you.  When one of you dies, we want to watch the animal piss all over himself. Our viewer surveys tell us that’s really a popular feature of the show.

 

“So, do you understand the rules?”   Both boys nodded, not saying anything.  Kevin then signaled for them to drain the bottles of water, which they quickly did, and then directed them to the center of the mat.  There was no shaking hands, or other civilities.  At Kevin’s signal, the two naked young animals went after each other with a ferocity that surprised even Kevin and that delighted the audience.  They especially tried to get to each other’s cocks, which obediently protruded in front of each boy and presented a great target.  While neither was able to rip off the other guy’s cock, they each landed very effective blows to the genitals, which resulted in loud cheers from the audience.  Bets had been placed both in the studio and at home, so the audience cared who own.  And, of course, that meant more money for the show and for the network.

 

It quickly became clear the two boys were very evenly matched.  As they wrestled, first one and then the other would be pinned on the mat, but then he would quickly recover and the fight would continue.  Of course, pinning didn’t matter – there was only one scoring criterion.  Also, the boys realized the mat was not quite as large as the usual wrestling area, so they sometimes landed off its edge.  That added to the fun, as Kevin was very athletic himself and able to use his whip to inflict some pain on the errant athlete.  That’s why he had decided to be naked for the match.  And Kevin had selected his favorite whip, which was designed to draw blood as it lacerated its victim’s skin.  Thus, as the fight preceded both boys suffered lacerations that were bleeding nicely and adding to the entertainment.  The blood and sweat, in turn, made the mat more slippery and meant they were more likely to slide off, again adding to the fun.  Their anger at each other now also included anger at Kevin, which naturally added to his personal enjoyment.  He was not only sporting a somewhat harder erection, but his own beautiful naked body was sweating almost as much as the two boys.

 

As the fight went on, it appeared Tony began to fade a bit.  Clearly, he had slipped off the mat many more times than Mike, and bore the resulting scars from the whippings.  The turning point of the fight happened when he slid off the mat on his back, and an unusually brutal stroke from Kevin’s whip hit his chest squarely on his left nipple, distracting him with the pain.  As Tony moved back onto the mat it gave Mike the chance he needed, and Mike was able to grab Tony’s right arm and bend it backwards to break it at the elbow.  Tony screamed in pain to the delight of the audience (especially those who had bet on Mike), and a look of fear came over his face.  But Mike didn’t move in for the kill just yet.  He first maneuvered so that he could reach Tony’s left arm, and without the use of his right Tony was unable to stop him.  Mike saw his opening and in no time had also managed to break Tony’s left arm.  Tony was in severe pain and now very distracted.  He was a superb wrestler, but not used to this kind of pain or the loss of the use of his arms.  Mike moved in again and tripped Tony, grabbing his leg as he fell.  Mike’s strength was impressive, and with a quick sidestep he was able to break the leg at the knee.  Tony was now pretty much helpless, and Mike had no trouble managing to break the other leg. Tony was screaming, and begged for mercy.  That was music to Mike’s ears (and Kevin’s), and Mike took a moment to spit in Tony’s face.  The hatred was indeed intense, and Mike wanted to prolong Tony’s agony and humiliation.

 

Mike did not yet finish off his enemy.  Instead, he focused on more of Tony’s limbs, and enjoyed himself breaking bones.  Mike broke both wrists, yanked the arms from the shoulders to dislocate them, and particularly seemed to enjoy further breaking the legs at the knees and ankles.  Mike then turned to Kevin:

 

“I want to make a wish and then break his legs at the crotch.  Would you like to help by grabbing one leg while I grab the other?”

 

The result of the fight was clear, and Kevin was more than happy to oblige.  So he and Mike each grabbed a leg, and Tony’s body was broken like a wishbone at Thanksgiving.  But Mike wasn’t done yet.

 

“May I borrow your whip?” Mike asked politely, his anger at Kevin replaced by his sense of triumph.  Once again, Kevin was delighted to oblige, and soon Mike was vigorously lacerating Tony’s back and butt as he lay on the mat, his body a bleeding contorted caricature of the beautiful young male he had been.  Mike then turned him over so he lay on his back and then applied the whip to the chest and belly.  It was a testament to Tony’s youth and fitness that he was still alive, let alone conscious.  But he was, and Mike was making sure his pain and humiliation were total.

 

What happened next surprised even Kevin, and thrilled the audience.  Mike put down the whip and knelt in front of Tony’s genitals, taking the doomed opponent’s cock into his mouth.  Despite all the pain, and aided by the sex drugs, Tony began to restore his erection – as did Mike.  Mike stroked his own cock, and expertly sucked off Tony.  To everyone’s amazement, Tony actually produced a load of cum, which Mike allowed to shoot straight up in the air, catching and swallowing it with his well-trained tongue.  Mike loved getting sucked off and sucking off other guys, and as he demonstrated he was very good at it.

 

But now it was time for Tony to die, and Mike once again showed some creativity.  While Tony’s cock was still hard, Mike again took it into his mouth.  But this time, instead of sucking it, he bit down hard at the base.  As Tony emitted an inhuman scream of ultimate shame and agony, Mike bit off his cock, letting the blood that was inside it drip form his mouth while he conspicuously chewed his victim’s manhood – being sure Tony could see what has happening.  As Mike finished and swallowed, his hands moved up Tony’s chest to his neck, and Mike’s strong hands choked the last remaining life from Tony’s broken body.  Kevin was so excited that even his normal self-control failed him, and he shot a load over the two boys as Tony finally stopped struggling and lay dead on the mat.  Mike dutifully licked up Kevin’s cum, which was his favorite liquid.

 

Mike had one more task to do, and he enthusiastically turned Tony’s body over so he could insert his cock into the asshole of the carcass that had once been his enemy.  The body was still warm, of course, and Mike was surprised how much he enjoyed fucking someone who was dead.  He made a mental note to himself to remember to fuck Larry after he killed him, and to find other occasions to do so, having no compunctions about the fact this would mean he would have to kill them first.  He was, indeed, a severe and total sadist with no limits.

 

Once Mike had erupted into Tony’s body he looked up at Kevin in total triumph.  “I believe I have won the match and done as instructed,” Mike casually stated.  “I want to claim the body as part of my prize, so I can finish eating him.  The cock tasted really good.”

 

A sly smile came across Kevin’s face.  “Yes, the body of the loser was part of the deal.  But unfortunately you broke the rules so you have not won.”

 

Mike was shocked and angry.  He knew he had put on a fantastic show.  And there was a mutilated, fucked dead body in front of him to prove his victory.

 

“You see,” Kevin continued, “the rules were to chew off the cock after Tony died, not before.  You deprived us of the fun of watching him piss all over himself once he died.  While I sure enjoyed watching you eat the cock while he was still alive – that was a nice touch that triggered a very satisfying orgasm for me – it broke the rules.  So you lose too.”

 

Now Mike was not only angry, but nervous.  “What do you mean?”

 

“The contract for the match not only allows us to make it a fight to the death, it also provides that if the winner doesn’t follow the rules we get to torture him to death also, in any way we want.  You should have read the fine print.”

 

Mike was horrified.  This was clearly not fair.  “No one showed me any contract,” he literally screamed at Kevin, “so you can’t hold me to anything like that.”

 

“Well, you’re under age so we showed it to your principal and your parents.  No one had any problem with it.  After all, they get some extra money as a result.”

 

Mike lunged at Kevin, but he was spent and in any event no match for the larger, stronger man.  Kevin handled him easily, and dragged him over to the other side of the stage.  There, as was customary, stood the Wheel of Death that, like the Wheel of Fortune that inspired it, was designed to be spun to land on a random selection.  But the selections here were a variety of ways for one of the show’s participants to be killed.  Kevin reminded Mike how it worked, and asked if Mike wanted to spin it.  Mike was still stunned, and didn’t respond.  So Kevin spun it for him, enjoying not only the amusement of how the young boy had been tricked, but also the knowledge that this gorgeous hunk of meat would soon be his to torture, kill, and enjoy.  Mike’s anger would make it just that much more fun.

 

The wheel spun for a while, building suspense as it was designed to do.  But it soon stopped, and to Kevin’s delight it had landed on “skinned alive.”  That was probably Kevin’s favorite way to torture and kill an animal, and it would also mean there would be a great source of new leather for one of Kevin’s popular outfits.  He loved wearing leather that was made from the skin of his victims, and this would be a special jacket since it would be from his final session as host of the show.  Best of all, Mike’s skin was extremely smooth, as befit his 17-year old youth, and it would make an especially nice piece of clothing.

 

It took very little time for the stage crew to set up the stage for the skinning, but Kevin wanted a little fun with Mike first.  There was a sawhorse-style fuck bench already nearby, and Kevin forced Mike onto it, tying his hands and ankles so Mike couldn’t resist and his terrific young ass was presented to Kevin for Kevin’s pleasure.  After all, the show had been on for nearly 20 minutes and Kevin had only shot one load of cum.  He needed some release, and Mike was the perfect target.  Kevin took his time, as the audience watched and enjoyed the show, thrusting slowly and deeply for quite a while before accelerating his pace and reaching his next climax.  He shot over Mike’s back so the audience could see the cum, and then he pissed all over the boy to clean off the cum and some of the sweat and blood from the fight.  A member of the stage crew showed up with a hose, and finished the job of cleaning up both Mike and Kevin with warm water for Kevin, cold for Mike, so that they would look fresh for the skinning.

 

Kevin then took the microphone, standing in front of Mike so he could watch.  “We now have another guest to introduce.  You’re already heard all about him, so with no further ado, let me introduce Larry – the cause of all this bad feeling.”

 

Yet another Adonis walked onto the stage.  His nude body was even more gorgeous than the other two, and he was as fit and impressive as anyone Kevin had ever invited on stage.  While a bit older than Tony and Mike, he nonetheless had the look of a very young male with terrific sex appeal.

 

“Welcome to the show, Larry.  As I told you, once Mike won the match it would not mean he would live through the show.  We rigged the match so Tony would lose, by putting some drugs into his water bottle that he drank before the fight.  And I made sure to focus my whip on him more than Mike.  I’m really happy about that since now I’ll get Mike’s smooth young skin without any scars.

 

“We also had it rigged so that we would have an excuse to torture and kill Mike, although he made it easy for us.  So, as we agreed, you would be allowed to fuck him and to administer the final torture that will result in his death.  Do you still want to do that?”

 

Larry nodded his head, and as he surveyed Mike’s vulnerable and available flesh Larry’s cock began to harden.

 

“Great.  The first thing I want you to fuck is his mouth.  But since he has a pattern of biting off cocks, and we want yours to stay attached, let’s do a little prep.  Here’s a pair of pliers.  How about if you take this plastic piece to keep his mouth open, and then use the pliers to remove his teeth?  It’s really fun to do, and astonishingly painful.”

 

As Larry eagerly agreed, to Mike’s horror, Kevin turned to the audience.  “And for the benefit of the audience, I want to let you know that we’ll turn the teeth into a nice bracelet, and that will be for sale once we’re done with the festivities.”  Kevin never missed a chance at a profitable promotion.

 

It turned out Larry had very sadistic tendencies of his own, and he took his time removing Mike’s teeth so that he could safely fuck his mouth.  He slowly used the pliers on each one, and placed the tooth into a nearby tray.  Mike’s pain was wonderfully obvious, and he screamed loudly.  Once Larry was done with his first task, he was quick to thrust his rock hard cock into Mike’s defenseless mouth and began pumping away.  Mike, however, couldn’t help himself.  He loved sucking cock so much that he actually cooperated, giving Larry an excellent blow job.  After all, it was Mike’s lust for Larry’s amazing body that had been the key to the grudge with Tony.  Kevin had moved to stand behind Mike’s ass, and amused himself by re-inserting his cock into the boy’s butt.  He watched Larry carefully, and when Larry shot his load all over Mike’s face, Kevin shot a load once again all over his back.  It was another crowd pleaser.

 

“Nice load,” Kevin congratulated Larry.  “Want to shoot one into his ass too?  I don’t think he’s going to be able to object.”

 

Larry was of course delighted to comply, and he soon added a plentiful supply of his cum to the sperm already shining on Mike’s exposed backside.  He finished by walking back in front of Mike’s face and pissing all over his face and down his throat.  Larry felt very satisfied and was now really enjoying himself.

 

Next, Mike was led to the special table Kevin had designed for the task of skinning a victim, and by this point he was too weak and shocked to resist.  The table was much like a rack, and had that added capacity, so Kevin stretched Mike, spread-eagled, on his back to the point his arms and legs were in pain.  To Kevin’s delight, Mike began to beg for mercy, offering to do anything in order to avoid his fate.  Kevin knew that always helped with audience enjoyment and that, in turn, improved ratings.

 

Kevin next put some attention to Mike’s smooth young cock, which he took in his mouth and soon got to a full, impressive erection.  Mike was too young and oversexed to resist the arousal, much as Tony had been when Mike sucked him off before biting off his cock.  This was another reason Kevin really liked torturing and snuffing boys in their late teens – they were like little cum-gushers he could always count on.

 

“Would you like to cum one last time before I skin you?” Kevin politely asked.  The answer wouldn’t matter, but he thought it would be fun to ask and get the reaction.

 

“Please, let me go.  I’ll do anything you want.  This isn’t fair,” was all Mike would say.

 

“OK, I’ll take that as a yes,” Kevin laughed in reply.  “Let me tell you how this will work.  You see the skinning knife I’m holding?  It is very sharp, which is important for getting a good clean separation of the skin form the meat and bone.  But first, since even you won’t be able to function sexually once I start in earnest, I am going to have Larry suck you off.  When you shoot, he’ll use the knife to cut off you cock and balls as a single unit.  They don’t’ represent much skin, and I Larry and I will eat them in front of you.  You can try not to watch, but you won’t be able to stop yourself.  It’s really pretty amusing how fixated male animals like you get when forced to watch your prized manhood being eaten while you’re still alive.”

 

Larry was delighted with this idea, and took his time sucking off the boy, but in due course Mike shot his final load.  Larry let it shoot over the smooth belly, and then licked it up for his enjoyment.  He also found cum his favorite liquid.  And as promised, as soon as the cock gyrated and began to shoot, Larry slowly cut away the scrotum and cock, so that by the time the cock was done shooting its load Larry was holding the manhood apparatus in his hand.  He and Kevin moved to where Mike could see them better, and very slowly they proceeded to enjoy the man-seed treats, starting with each eating a part of the penis and finishing with each enjoying a freshly detached testicle.  As Kevin predicted, Mike could not turn away – making for another instance of great TV.

 

The skinning itself was fairly routine, as Kevin had done it so many times before.  He started just under Mike’s chin and cut down to where his cock had been.  He slowly and expertly parted the skin, removing whole sections so that the resulting leather would be more seamless.  The specially designed table lifted the body up as needed so Kevin could pull the skin from the back as well as the chest, and once he had performed similarly on the arms and legs Mike was simply a bleeding pile of meat and bone – but, thanks to Kevin’s skills, not yet dead.  So Kevin was able to cut off a delicious piece of breast meat while Mike was still able to feel the pain and humiliation, and he ate that as well in front of the boy, who was once again fascinated and unable to turn away. When Kevin invited Larry to cut off another piece of boy tar-tar, however, it was too much for Mike’s system and everyone enjoyed the last convulsions of pain as Mike finally died and Larry concluded his snack and his task.  The camera had covered the proceedings expertly, and now canvassed the dead body for the enjoyment of the audience.

 

But there was one more use for Mike before he would be butchered in order to provide expensive treats for the studio audience (as Tony already had been).  Kevin adjusted the table so that there was an opening that allowed him to spread Mike’s skinless legs and approach the crotch that had once featured his young manhood.  The table then raised up Mike’s legs and positioned his butt so that Kevin could reach Mike’s ass.  Kevin also loved fucking his victims right after they died, while they were still warm and pliable.  He was again hard as a rock, and he thrust his cock into the well-lubricated asshole for Mike’s final fucking.  Kevin then invited Larry to do the same – the table had positioned the carcass ideally for a double fucking, and Kevin and Larry each pumped their cocks into the warm, moist flesh for Mike’s final humiliation.  (Of course, Kevin suspected the butchers would have a little fun before they started cutting Mike up, so maybe this was just the final time Mike would be fucked in public.)

 

Kevin and Larry simultaneously shot their loads into Mike this time, concluding what had been an exceptional opening segment.

 

Once they were sexually spent, Kevin turned to Larry.  “You have done really well, and I’ve enjoyed co-fucking this meat with you.  You’re not only a terrific stud, but you seem to be the brightest of the three of you.  So can I assume you know what happens now?”

 

“I can guess,” Larry replied.  “Since I technically killed Mike, I suppose you have the right to torture and kill me, and since that is what this show’s all about I figure that’s what you’ll do now.  I also assume you tricked me into signing something to that effect.  You do that a lot, and I think anyone who comes on the show should expect it.  I also recognize that once someone signs something, it’s final and binding.”

 

“Exactly right,” Kevin replied, impressed with the young stud.  “Shall we see what the Wheel of Death decides as to how you die?  Personally I can hardly wait, and while I like you I do hope it’s something very slow and painful so our audience can enjoy it.”

 

Larry did not resist.  He walked over with Kevin, and unlike Mike he was willing to spin the wheel to determine his fate.  He gave it a hard thrust, so it was a little longer before it slowed down and landed on one of the fatal options:  “crucified.”  The audience cheered loudly, realizing how truly long and painful that would be, but Larry did not complain.

 

The crew quickly showed up with a specially designed cross.  It was wooden, and very traditional in most ways.  But halfway down the vertical shaft was a very large dildo that pointed up at about a 45 degree angle.  Kevin explained the feature to Larry.  “This is actually a characteristic that dates way back to Roman times.  The idea is to have the victim fucked by the dildo, which adds a nice sexual touch and makes it a little more humiliating.  The Romans enjoyed mixing sex with death.  But it also has the advantage of supporting the body to some extent, and that is a great advantage since it means the animal will last days longer on the cross.  Instead of dying in just a few days, I’d guess that a strong, light young body like yours might make it close to a week.  So we’ll start by nailing you to the cross and positioning the dildo, and then we’ll turn our cameras on you so that our web audience can watch as you struggle, suffer, and eventually die – probably the longest and most painful option of all the wonderful choices on the Wheel.  Personally, I’m really pleased.  I’m sure you’ll provide lots of amusing entertainment for lots of days to come, and we’ll make a bit more money as people bet on how long you will last.  Oh, and it is also likely the dildo will keep you hard for a while, which will be an amusing touch given the agony you will be enduring.”

 

Larry listened, but stoically did not comment or resist.  He simply started to walk toward the cross, when a voice interrupted from off stage.

 

“Just a moment guys,” the voice interrupted.  “I have a couple of adjustments to announce.”  And with that Robert Gray, the show’s producer and Kevin’s long time business partner, walked on stage.  Like everyone associated with the show he was an awesome physical specimen, very fit and handsome.  He was wearing an outfit of the TKL leather that was so expensive and popular, and he turned to address Kevin.

 

“Before we proceed, I think it’s time to let everyone know who the new host is.  So maybe Larry can stay there and contemplate the cross while we chat on the couch for a moment.”

 

Kevin was surprised, but had come to expect surprises form the producer, who was the purchaser of Kevin’s interest in the show and a frequent sexual partner for Kevin.  They had met when Robert provided one of his male slave whores as the featured “guest” on the show, and the two men often enjoyed joint torture sessions and had similar preferences for the best recipes for young male meat.  Kevin knew his sometimes partner was very creative.

 

“Sure, Robert.  I’ve been really curious whom you’ve hired.”  With that Kevin walked over to the talk-show style desk and couch that was always on the side of the stage.  But instead of sitting at the desk as he usually did, both men sat on the couch.

 

“I think you’ll find this really amusing,” Robert began, smiling broadly.  “Remember the fine print you pointed out to that piece of meat formerly known as Mike?  And how you did pretty much the same kind of trick on poor Larry over there?  Well, I’ve got a fun little fine print report for you.  It’s in the contract you singed when you sold me your interest in the show.  Actually, I not only bought the show, but I also bought you – as a participant in the show.  I purchased the right to torture and kill you as part of the transition to a new host.”

 

Kevin was astonished.  “But I read the contract, and there was nothing like that in there,” he protested.  “And my lawyer read it too.”

 

“That’s actually where you made your mistake,” Mark informed him.  “I bribed your lawyer by arranging for him to inherit a third of your wealth.  I am very content with two-thirds, since I have so much I really don’t need any more.  He also gets a third of your meat and other body parts once you’re dead, with me again getting the rest.  So he agreed that he’d substitute a version of the contract that gives us your body and your assets at the last minute, so you would not realize what you were signing.   Given all the times you’ve pulled that sort of trick on participants on the show, I think that’s pretty funny.  Don’t you?”

 

Kevin was horrified, but knew he was doomed.  There were tens of millions of people watching, and he was very focused on his reputation.  He did not want to appear to be a coward or a bad sport.  He also knew that there was literally no way out, since the stage crew would enforce the contract.  He had frequently snuffed crew members when they made a mistake, or when he wanted their flesh, and that had built up a lot of resentment.  They would enjoy whatever was scheduled to happen next, and make sure it happened.  So he became resigned to his fate.  “Well, what the hell.  I know there’s no way out, and there is a little irony to it.  So I guess we go over to the Wheel?”

 

“Nope, you fate is already determined,” Mark informed his victim.  “I’ve also been researching a lot of potential replacement hosts, and frankly I have found that Larry has an unusual and unrecognized flare for both sadism and exhibitionism – just like you do.  And as he’s just demonstrated, he shares your amazing ability to shoot load after load of cum, especially when the cameras are rolling.  So he is the new host.  Once he and I finish double-fucking your ass, like you and he did to Mike’s dead body, you’ll just take Larry’s place on the cross.  As you had pointed out to him, it’s the longest and most painful means of death on the Wheel, and that is obviously appropriate for your snuff scene.  I had the Wheel rigged to land on that option.  Larry and I have timed it so you’ll die just about as we start filming next week’s show, and we’ll start the show by enjoying your best cuts of meat.”

 

Once Robert stripped naked to join in the fuck with Larry, the two of them had a rousing and enjoyable time jointly filling Kevin’s beautiful hole with their cum.  They then led him over to the cross, which lay on the stage so he could lie down on it, arms outstretched.  Kevin was a good sport, and didn’t resist as Larry and Mark each grabbed a hand and nailed it to a cross beam.  They then positioned the dildo up Kevin’s recently fucked ass, and proceeded to each nail a foot to a little platform near the base of the cross.  That, too, was designed to make it easier for Kevin to keep breathing, in order to prolong his suffering and their entertainment.  The whole process got Kevin aroused, and as the cross was raised to a vertical position his cock became quite rigid.  Larry and Robert looked forward to sharing the testicles that hung just below it, once Kevin finished dying and they started their new partnership as the new hosts of Thrill Kill Live!  As the cameras rolled with the closing credits, they headed over to the couch for more sex, a dinner featuring fresh cuts of meat form Mike’s body, and the arousing view of Kevin’s body starting its long torment.  It had been a great show, with many more to come.

Arcade Game by Gay Slavemeat

The beautiful 17-year-old male lay naked, on his back, with his hard cock just starting to erupt.  The blade of the guillotine above him sliced through the boy’s neck as if there had been no resistance at all.  The severed head plopped neatly into the little basket under the shelf, and the beheaded body gushed forth with a torrent of blood and gore while gyrating its final death throws.  As the severed head dropped, it was clear that its final expression was one of sexual satisfaction and relief.  Simultaneously, a smaller blade sliced through the young cock and ball set that had been starting to erupt with sperm just as the blades began their fatal journeys.  So the target’s life fluids gushed from that opening as well.  Above the device a scoreboard rated the performance electronically, giving it a .1 – an outstanding rating.  The onlookers were impressed, and several cheered the expertise of Justin, the aristocratic young operator who was not all that much older than his victim.  But no one cheered as much as Justin cheered himself, raising his arms with a resounding “Yes – I win.”

 

The trick of the game was to time the release of the two blades so that each severed its target at exactly the same time, and a gage measured and reported precisely when each blade completed its task, and how much time elapsed between the two amputations.  Justin looked down with pleasure at his handiwork, enjoying the final gyrations of the boy he had just killed, and releasing a load of piss over the dead body that was now motionless in front of him, missing two of its appendages.  It was an appropriate sign of Justin’s lack of respect for the carcass – before or after its amusing death.  But Justin did take the time to pass a nearby electronic bar-code reader over the chest of the victim, confirming its identify.  He then pressed the readout button that read “killed” and entered his name so that he’d be sure to get credit for the kill.  He wanted to be recognized for all the animals he was helping eliminate, and maybe get a medal from the city at some point for his service.  It was a service he was happy to perform.

 

“Great shot, man,” shouted Cory, one of Justin’s buddies, who was shooting a load of cum into a slightly older teen as he watched Justin take his turn at the bar arcade game they were playing,  Cory had used the time of Justin’s turn to reach climax inside he guy he was butt-fucking.  As Cory host his load, he finished tightening his grip around the guy’s throat, completing the process of strangling his victim and emoting the wonderfully satisfying feeling of the guy dying as Cory filled his asshole with cum.  “You got both targets within a tenth of a second of each other,” complemented Cory, now slowing his thrusts somewhat but still enjoying the pressure on his hard cock from the tight ass of what was now a dead body.  “That clearly beats my best effort, and it might be a new record.”

 

“Yeah, but I think I can do even better if I keep practicing,” Justin replied.  “How about if you keep playing with your little fuck-toy while I take another turn?  He’ll stay worm for a while and you always enjoy fucking them again right after you kill them.”  That’s exactly what Cory had in mind, and proceeded to do, so Justin signaled to another youth who was standing nearby, his naked body sporting a credible but not yet impressive erection.  As the boy nervously approached Justin to be evaluated as the next victim, Justin realized that he actually knew him.

 

“Didn’t you used to be Albert Withers?” Justin asked, reaching for a nearby wand to scan the bar code branded just above the boy’s right peck.  The boy nodded silently, and Justin confirmed the readout.

 

“Yeah,” Justin mused, turning to Corey.  “Remember when we raped this guy at high school graduation?  He had a really tight ass and had never been double-fucked before.  I still think his body is way above average and I’m getting horny just looking at him again.  I’ve been waiting for him to get processed.  It seems a shame to waste him with only a few minutes of entertainment.”

 

“I completely agree,” Cory responded, now fully into fucking the corpse in front of him, but always willing to multi-task if there was another good-looking victim available.  He was close enough to stroke the gorgeous smooth skin of the boy who had once been Albert.  “Let’s pull him out of line for the arcade game and have some fun with him.  He was a great little fuck when we were in school.  I’d hoped he’d fail the post-high school placement test and we’d have another shot at him.”

 

“I did more than hope,” laughed Justin, turning to the terrified youth.  “I bribed the principal to make sure he’d fail, and that he’d be assigned to this bar for execution and disposal.”  He turned directly to the youth, who was now both terrified and visibly angry.  “Actually, you passed the test with flying colors.  I just wanted to have the fun of torturing you to death since you tried to resist when Cory and I raped you last year.  True, it made the rape more fun, but animals of your social rank should not resist serving your superiors.  So now you’re mine.”

 

The “test” was administered to all high school males after they graduated from high school.  It was physical, psychological, and academic, determining if they were worthy to be workers or managers in the New Order, or would be relegated to the status of property.

 

The results were announced in an annual assembly with the graduates lined up on the gymnasium floor and the rest of the school looking on.  One by one, the principal would read their names, with a simple “citizen” or “property” after each name.  If they passed, they would go on to college and very pleasant and productive lives.  If they failed, they were required to strip naked on the spot, leave all their clothes and other belongings where they stood, and proceed to line up on stage.   After everyone’s status was announced, those who passed joined the rest of the students, helping themselves to anything they wanted that had belonged to their former classmates, and the principal would start an auction of the boys who failed.  The audience included not only fellow students, but also local business owners of establishments such as farms, factories, and restaurants.  There were no rules on use of the new slaves, so they were great sources of labor and of meat.  Other bidders included male brothels that would provide the young bodies for the sexual pleasure of their customers, again enhanced by the complete lack of any limits on use or disposal.  Once sold, the audience also got to watch as the terrified young animals were branded on stage with a bar code for identification as property and their intended purpose – “sex toy,” “farm animal” and “meat” were particular favorites that elicited cheers and jeers from the audience.  Listening to the screams of pain and humiliation as the indicia of their new status was burned into their tender young flesh got the audience very excited, and from that moment onward the animals no longer had names – just a bar code number that was registered with the city and reused once the animal’s death was confirmed.  The auction was a great fund-raiser for the school, so the principal was anxious to make sure as many kids failed as possible.  He therefore had no problem accepting bribes from wealthy aristocrats like Justin, and some of the “failed” kids were herded off separately to prearranged assignments rather than being auctioned off to the highest bidder.  Of course, the test didn’t apply to students like Justin and Cory, who were of the elite class and automatically passed.  It was a very efficient system, providing an inexpensive source of labor while controlling the population and assuring that only the best young males were permitted to breed – improving the quality of the race while enjoying their rights as worthy citizens.  Albert had been unlucky enough to get Justin’s interest, and so he was no longer a person at all, just property ready to be processed for the enjoyment of the patrons of Justin’s favorite bar. He had foolishly thought that by studying hard and working out daily he could earn a place as a citizen rather than becoming a slab of meat.  Justin and Cory laughed at his obvious anger and frustration as reality sank in.  It added to their fun.  “It looks like you’ve pretty much used up that piece of shit you were fucking,” Justin commented to Cory, who was again nearing orgasm.  “Why not finish fucking his dead ass and let’s replace him with our new piece of shit.  I want to fuck him right away, even before I take another turn at the arcade.”

 

Corey didn’t need any encouragement.   Regretting that his victim wouldn’t feel the pain, Cory reached down and cut off its testicles, popping one of the fresh treats into his mouth and tossing the other to his buddy Justin, just as he shot a second load into the still-warm piece of meat that had once been a young, vibrant male.  Corey ran a bar-code wand over its chest, registered the kill, and took credit.  He and Justin had a friendly contest going to see who could get the most civic points.

 

Justin signaled to the bartender to send over another candidate for the arcade game, and when that boy arrived he turned to his two new victims.

 

“Each of you is to replace the dead animal with yourself.  You get to be suspended from the ceiling for fucking and lashing for a while,” he said.  Pointing at his former schoolmate, he explained:  “I want everyone to enjoy a nice fuck at your expense, and we’ll see how long that ass of yours stays tight.”  He directed the other boy to the arcade game he had just completed.

 

“Replace this meat on the rack with yourself, and signal another animal to stand by.  After I fuck my classmate-turned-meat-slab here I want to get really good at this game.  Don’t worry, I’ll get to you fairly soon.”

 

The teen assigned to the game did not say anything, but nodded obediently and began his task.  First, he dumped the head into a larger container that included a fair collection of Justin’s and Corey’s targets.  Next, he picked up the severed cock and balls, removing the testacies and offering one each to Justin and Corey.  They casually consumed the second set of man-seeds, almost not noticing the fresh meat as they also chugged on the beers they were nursing while they enjoyed their games.  Fresh boy-oysters were just another snack, much like the chips and salsa that was laid out on a nearby table.  And it was another way a slave could add value and be degraded.

 

The cock was the only part of the process that had a little ritual to it.  The new victim picked that up, put it into his own mouth, and chewed and swallowed it.  The idea was some continuity from victim to victim, which was of course silly.  But the players liked to watch the slaves eat each other’s cocks, which were not at all tasty, so it added a bit to the fun.

 

The cock ritual also helped the slave victims recognize their very limited utility, even among the millions of teens who were being processed as property.    The arcade game added a bit of sport to the processing, and a crowded bar might go through well over 500 victims a night, given how popular the games were.

 

The slave now raised each of the guillotine blades back to its starting position, wiping off the blood and gore that had stained them.  The blades were kept incredibly sharp, and the slave ran a hand against each one just to demonstrate their sharpness, drawing blood as he did.  Players liked to see the victims suffer pain right away, so this was also part of the ritual.  The only real flaw of this game was the fact the deaths were so quick.  But that was balanced against the large number of males that could be processed.

 

The bench on the device was set at an incline, so that the head was placed several feet higher than the cock.  This was done to add to the challenge, requiring the player to time the release of each blade separately, realizing the one aimed at the head had a shorter distance to travel.  When the blade finished its task and connected with the metal sheaf below, an electric current was completed and the device measured that exact time compared to the same event with the other blade.  Scoring was based on the amount of time between strikes, with the lowest core winning.

 

The new victim now removed the body of its predecessor, which was put on a conveyor belt for transmittal to the butcher shop in the back of the bar.  Some of the meat from the victims was of course used to supply the bar with great steaks and slaveburgers, but there was so much that the bar could resell it and make a tidy profit from that activity as well.

It was now time for the victim to mount the game bench, which it did willingly.  As it lay on its back, ready for processing, it stroked its cock to help assure it remained erect.  It then pushed its genitals through the “door” of the cock guillotine, so that the blade could get a good, clean slice.  The operator would lose points if the animal’s cock and ball set were not completely severed.  The young male then leaned back and rested its head on the upper end of the bench, adjusting the location of the larger blade to assure that this, too, would be a clean and effective slice.  Still stroking his cock to assure its readiness when needed, the youth waited patiently for its turn to be snuffed.  It was grateful for such a quick event, especially as it watched the fate of the animal formerly known as Albert.

 

With the help of one of the bar waiters, Justin and Corey quickly attached the wrists of their victim to a chain suspended from the ceiling, and hoisted him so that his feet were dangling just above the floor.  He was now perfectly positioned for being whipped or fucked, or both.

 

“Let’s start by whipping him,” suggested Cory.  “I want to see him twist around a little.  And you can even start with his chest and belly, since I know you like that side best.  I’ll be just fine with this nice ass of his.”

 

Justin had no problem with that idea, and the two friends stood on either side of their target and leveled stroke after stroke onto the smooth young flesh suspended between them.  It took hardly any time to get the animal screaming, and to draw deep welts that bled profusely.  Indeed, after a while Justin expressed a concern.  “I’m afraid we might accidently let him die too soon if we keep this up, fun as it is.  Let’s cut him down and fuck him.”

 

“Sure, good point,” agreed Cory.   “But who gets to go first?  I know you were the one who set him up, but I want to feel his nice tight ass before you ruin it with your oversized dick.”

 

“OK, let’s double-dick him again.  There’s not enough room for both our dicks in there now from what I remember, but I’m sure we can once again tear a little more room if we work at it.  Let’s see if we can shoot at the same time.”

 

This was clearly a sensible solution, and Cory quickly agreed.  They liked to double-dick other guys, and were pretty good at it.  They released their prey from his shackles, and Cory lay on his back over a bar table, with the target sitting on his dick.  Cory entered the asshole first, but was quickly followed by Justin, who sat on the table and wasted no time thrusting his rock-hard weapon into the vulnerable asshole.  He was right – the hole was not nearly large enough to take their dicks at the same time, but the hole did indeed expand as they pushed, much to the humiliation and pain of the screaming youth whose insides they were ruining.  As they began their thrusts toward orgasm, another friend also climbed on the table and thrust his hard cock into the animal’s mouth.  “I’ve heard enough complaining from this thing,” the friend said.  “Might as well make use of all his holes, and shut him up in the process.  Let me know when you guys get close to shooting, and let’s see if we can make it a three-way shot.”

 

Corey and Justin knew each other’s bodies very well not only from lots of experience double-dicking other guys, but from their own sexual play with each other.  They could almost always make a 69 scene a nearly simultaneous orgasm.  So they clued in their buddy as they got close, so he could thrust a bit faster into the unwilling mouth servicing his eager cock.  They were quite successful, and the boy received two loads of cum up his ass as he received a third down his throat.  The onlookers at the bar were impressed, and the orgasms were accompanied by lots of laughter at the plight of what had once been a very beautiful body.

 

After the three buddies were done with their fun, Justin made it clear that everyone in the bar was welcome to enjoy this new piece of meat, but he didn’t want it so damaged that he couldn’t have more fun with it later.  Justin was very popular, and while everyone enjoyed themselves there was no permanent damage to the flesh – for now.

 

Justin next turned his attention to the arcade game, and the young male patiently waiting to be snuffed, grateful for the speed of the process and enjoying a final chance to stroke his nice hard cock.   One of the rules was that Justin could not release either of the blades until he caused the victim to reach orgasm, starting to shoot a load of cum.  Justin took pride in the fact he also maintained his own cock with an impressive erection, and played the game naked to show off his great body and massive penis.  Most of the guys in the bar were also naked, since all the arcade games tended to involve at least some aspect of male sex and being naked made it more convenient.  Besides, as males who had been found worthy, they all had fantastic bodies worth showing off.  Nudity had become pretty much the norm.

 

Justin took over stroking the young cock he was about to sever, using both hands as required by the rules of the game.  Being 18 and eager to please so that it could at least provide some value with its otherwise worthless existence, the young male quickly approached orgasm and began the convulsions that signaled the arrival of a large load of sperm.  Justin stroked just a bit harder to assure completion of the process.

 

When the victim began to release its load, with a string of thick cum starting to stream from its cock, Justin quickly grabbed the two blade controls.  He released the one aimed at the cock first and intensely watched as it began its plunge.  At precisely the right second he released the larger blade, watching it, too, as it plunged downward.

 

The two blades worked their magic, and the head and the cock were perfectly severed.  Most important, and even to Justin’s surprise, the game emitted a loud “clang” and a siren went off briefly.  Justin had made his goal – the two blades had connected at precisely the same time, yielding a perfect score of zero.  No one had ever done that before, so the reaction from the machine was a great surprise, but one that helped celebrate Justin’s triumph.  Even though he had just shot a load minutes before, he couldn’t help shooting another one as he realized what he had accomplished and as he watched yet another inferior male finish dying for his entertainment.  He loved this game.

 

Justin and Cory continued playing the arcade game, as the other patrons of the bar looked on, and played other arcade games or just enjoyed their beer.  Some were fond of the archery games, with young males standing at attention while customers shot arrows into their bodies, or hurled axes that mutilated the young flesh.  Others suspended animals for severe, usually fatal whipping sessions.  And still others just enjoyed fucking some of the guys tied up for their use.  It was a friendly and convivial place, with lots of cheering and laughter, which was why Justin and Corey enjoyed it so much.  Besides, they knew the meat was always fresh, and they could even specify a particular cut of meat from an animal that interested them, and then watch the cook as he cut if off the living body and cooked it in front of both the patron and the dying source of the meat.

 

As this particular evening drew to a close, Justin and Cory decided that it would be most fun to crucify their former classmate, and they enjoyed nailing his hands and feet to one of the crosses that adorned several of the walls.  There were no pictures in the bar, since it was more satisfying to look at the animals displayed in various stages of suffering – what was known jokingly as “dying art.”  Being very light and fit, their schoolmate would almost certainly last until the next evening, suffering horribly as he gradually lost the strength to breath.  A huge electrified dildo built into the cross gave victims a little support, extending the time of their suffering and adding the pain of being fucked and shocked as they died.  So Justin and Cory were quite sure they’d have a chance to continue the fun the next afternoon.  They could decide whether they wanted him to die on the cross, or whether they would cut him down and play with him a bit more – maybe skin him alive, or at least disembowel him.  But that was tomorrow’s task.  Justin and Cory were tired from all their efforts, and they headed home to enjoy each other, quite satisfied with a great evening of arcade fun combined with sex and civic contributions.

Thrill Kill Live! by Gay Slavemeat–Gsmeat2@gmail.com

The camera began to pan down the inviting flesh of the first participant even before the show’s credits began to roll across the screen. The camera revealed nicely formed shoulders, a smooth back, and fairly muscular arms, which were raised above the head. The hands were shackled to the top of a frame, spread-eagling the participant. Below the shoulders the back was slightly shiny, with a thin layer of perspiration causing a reflection on the exposed flesh. Even from the back it was obvious that the participant had a fit, muscular torso. The obliques were solid, and the deltoids showed the results of dedicated workouts. The camera finished its initial journey with a pause at the buttocks. The cameraman knew that the audience would want to view this very enticing feature of the young male animal, and the meat was firm and extremely well shaped. This was the best feature of this particular animal in the view of the director, and he wanted others to enjoy it as he did. His job was not just to film the action as a passive observer for the benefit of the home audience, but to accentuate the most interesting and entertaining aspects of what was underway. He had won many Emmy awards for great camera work, and he was considered the best in the business.

The camera finished its tour of the young male by revealing that the feet were also shackled, so that the participant was nicely secured and spread within a wooden frame. Whatever was in store for him, he was not in any position to resist, and he was fully available and vulnerable.

As the credits rolled, identifying that this was another broadcast of the hit show “Thrill Kill Live!” on the Fox network, and beginning to list the various people who were involved with the show, the camera now focused on the front of the “participant.” His face was not overly handsome, but not badly formed. He wore a trim haircut above blue eyes and a thin set of lips. He was now moving in the frame, swaying slightly within the constraints that held him, and he was sweating a lot more.

“Please,” he cried. “This is all a mistake. I didn’t agree. I was drunk. Let me go. Don’t let him do this to me.”

The entreaties went on, but no one paid any attention. Even the camera didn’t pause for long, and soon worked its way down the front of its target object, showing a decent set of chest muscles and fairly nice abdominals. Nothing was really awesome, but it was all in nice shape and the animal was very much in his physical prime.

As the camera approached the genitals, its view was somewhat blocked. Another face was in the picture now, using his mouth to arouse the shackled complainer.

And he was having the desired effect. The victim’s cock was now fully aroused, and his complaints were more ambiguous.

“No, I don’t want to cum. I know what will happen. Don’t let him do this to me.”

The participant’s cock put the lie to his protests. As it got more and more attention from the naked young male kneeling in front of it and providing an expert blow job, the cock got more and more hard.

The cameras now split the views into multiple shots. One view focused on the rising cock, with a close-up that included the eager tongue of the kneeling cocksucker and the pre-cum juice that was starting to leak out. Another view was of the cocksucker himself, showing a second well formed young male who was himself both naked and aroused. He was using his free hands to masturbate himself while he used his mouth to arouse his stage companion. Both youth were getting close to orgasm, as revealed by the increase in pre-cum leaking from each hard penis.

A third camera shot was from the back of the victim, between his legs. It got a bit of his balls in the shot, but was mostly focused on the cocksucker, showing his body from the chest down to his cock – sort of an artistic view. And there was even a fourth camera that caught the full scene, including the undulation of the restrained victim as he tried to resist and continued to complain even as he got increasingly aroused.

The credits finished just as the two youth reached climax. The kneeling cocksucker was apparently good at his task, having achieved a nearly simultaneous orgasm. That got a cheer form the studio audience, which up to now had been very still.

But then things got interesting. As the shackled youth shot his load, which traveled a good distance across the stage, his partner struck. He picked up a knife that had not been visible to the audience or the camera, and carefully sliced off the erupting cock. The initial moans of pleasure form the victim instantly turned to creams of agony.

The cocksucker held up his prize for the camera, to the cheers and applause of the audience, and he was clearly pleased with himself. His own cock was finishing its load, which had been aimed effectively at the belly of his victim.

But the cocksucker’s satisfaction didn’t last. Just as his cock stopped shooting cum, a swishing noise was heard along with the subsiding screams of agony, and an arrow appeared as if out of nowhere. It traveled with utter accuracy and entered the ball sack of the cocksucker. The camera shot from between the legs of the emasculated victim caught the flight of the arrow and its entry into the soft flesh with perfect artistry. The cocksucker was clearly astonished, and even more so when another arrow pierced his chest. He now uttered his own screams, of both agony and shock, as he fell to the ground – bleeding and dying like his companion. The cameras caught all the action, and continued to roll as the two animals writhed in deathly pain and ultimately lay still. The show was now ready to begin.

“Good evening viewers!” welcomed a familiar voice. The camera now revealed a truly handsome young male, who was standing to the side of the stage, looking at the remains of the two naked youth. He was dressed in leather clothing, which fit quite tightly and suggested a very muscular frame and a very generous set of genitals. It was obvious that he had a hard-on under the skin-tight leather pants.

“As you know, unless you just arrived on planet Earth, I’m Kevin Strand and I’m your host and the creator of “Thrill Kill Live!” I hope everyone enjoyed our little opening fun?”

The audience cheered, with thunderous applause. The host was extraordinarily popular, and the opening scene had been well received.

“I want to thank our intro staff for that little vignette. So, how about a round of applause for Johnny and the gang?”

The audience applauded yet again.

“Incidentally, I really liked the look of surprise on the second guy’s face when the arrow nailed him in the nuts. Tell me, Johnny, how did you pull that off?”

“Thanks, Kevin. This one was actually kind of fun. The short story is that these two guys were once lovers. But the guy in the frame fell in love with another guy, and the cocksucker wanted revenge. So he got his former lover drunk and tricked him into signing the application to appear on our show. His proposal was that he’d suck off the former lover and then cut off his cock as he shot his last load. He promised that he could get them both off at the same time – which he did. I said that was OK, but he’d have to finish the task before we finished the credits. If not, we could do whatever we felt like to either of them. The idiot agreed. We had done a little background research on each of them, and they were both clear losers. So, we just ran the credits a little faster than usual, he missed his timing, and we got him right in the balls. The chest shot was just to make sure he died quickly enough to not slow down the show. These are decent looking participants, but obviously nothing special in either case. But now they’ve at least provided a little entertainment – a few minutes is all they’re worth – and we’ll get some use out of the bodies. As always, the studio audience is welcome to buy some fresh treats during commercials. And they can cut them off themselves once we get the carcasses strung up, or have our cooks do it for them.”

Johnny’s explanation of the story and the joke on the dead cocksucker got another round of applause, and a little laughter. A couple of audience members ducked out to get the first choice on the fresh treats. Tricking losers into agreeing to be killed on the show was a part of the show’s culture and yet another reason it was so popular. Recycling the dead losers as snacks was part of the show’s commitment to not wasting anything and further enhanced its profits. The treats were not cheap.

“Well done, as always,” complemented Kevin. “But now we have a much better looking loser for us to process. Let’s welcome tonight’s featured solo participant. Here’s Marcus.”

A young male walked onto the stage, and shook hands with Kevin. Kevin led him to a couch and chair that were set up on stage, and they both sat down.
Kevin was in the chair, with Marcus on the couch. Marcus was very neatly dressed, wearing a collared shirt, nice slacks, and dress shoes. He had a thoroughly clean-cut appearance. His face was striking in its beauty. He was at least movie star quality, and the audience approved, anxious to see events develop.

Marcus’ arrival was greeted with a polite round of applause.

“Don’t worry, Marcus,” Kevin explained as they settled in. “That wasn’t much of a welcome, but the audience will get a lot more enthusiastic in a while once we start working you over. But let’s start by getting to know you a little bit.

Why don’t you tell me what you do, how old you are, and why you decided to apply to be on our show in order to get tortured and snuffed in front of all our millions of viewers?”

Marcus was obviously nervous, but he rose to the occasion.

“Well, I’m 19 years old as of today, and I am a sex slave. I flunked out of high school during my first year, and my master was kind enough to let me live in his home. In return, I agreed that he would own me and I’d do whatever he wanted me to do. I have had a few jobs here and there that he arranged, but I’m not really good at much. As I’ve watched your show over the years, I realized I’m one of the losers you process. Since I’m not going anywhere in life, I figured I’d at least provide other people with some entertainment, and maybe finally add a little value. It won’t pay for what was wasted on me trying to get me educated, but at least it’s something.”

“That’s really well said, Marcus. And it’s pretty perceptive. A lot of young guys don’t realize they’re losers until later in life, and then they’re not interesting enough to be on the show. We still process them in our meat factories, but there isn’t much entertainment value. You’re doing this at a nice young age when everyone can enjoy watching you suffer and be humiliated physically and sexually. This should be a lot of fun for everyone. You’re right that you’re still a waste, and we have no doubt of your status as a real loser – we’ve checked – but at least it’s something. If you do a good job being turned into a slab of meat, you can take satisfaction in the fact millions of people will have been entertained and amused.”

“That’s my hope. I will try to do everything you tell me to do. My master agreed that it was time to dispose of me, and I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“That’s very important,” counseled Kevin. “Have you been able to provide him any value at all? It sounds like he’s owned you for about 4 years.”

“He has. I was just 15 when I flunked out and was sent to him by the principal. He is in his early twenties, and likes very young males, so one thing I did was to provide him sexual service. He also rented me to other guys who would use me however they wanted. So I’m sure he made money off me, which is good. And the other guys seemed to enjoy fucking me and using me as a sex toy or a urinal or whatever.

Probably the only real good I did, however, was shortly after I left school. The principal wanted to make an example of me for the other kids, and my master agreed. So I returned to school to tell them what had happened, and how I had become a sex slave and a whore. They made me do it standing naked in front of the class, and everyone laughed at me. As I described some of the things other guys did when they rented me, I am afraid I got aroused and developed an erection. So the class laughed even harder. Then they made me kneel down in front of my former teacher and suck him off. After that, some of the guys on the football team were invited to administer some punishment, and they hit me until I passed out. I think they fucked me while I was unconscious, since I was pretty sore in my ass when I finally woke up. They had just let me lie on the floor passed out for the rest of the class.

So, maybe some other kids worked harder to stay in school. But it actually seemed like a few flunked out on purpose to be able to satisfy their sexual desires, since there were several more in my master’s harem within a few weeks after I was presented to the class. I guess I blew that too.”

“Yeah,” Kevin responded. “Even by the low standards of the kinds of animals we snuff on the show, it sounds like you’d be a loser among losers. But at least you’ll be dead soon and you won’t be a burden any more.

“Do you have all your affairs in order? We don’t want to leave any lose ends, after all.”

“Yeah, it didn’t amount to much. I gave away what little I owned to my master years ago. He’s the one that helped me realize this is the best choice for a guy like me. And I understand you guys take care of disposing of the body. So all I’ve got left are the clothes I’m wearing.”

“Excellent. We do take care of the bodies, and you don’t have to worry. We are very environmentally conscious, and nothing will go to waste. Depending on what happens to your cock and balls during the session, they are sometimes sold as souvenirs. If your skin isn’t damaged too much, we use it to make leather clothing, and we have our own line of designer togs made from the flesh of the guys we snuff, which are very popular. That’s what I’m wearing, for example. Our studio audience gets to choose the best cuts of your meat from what’s left, and we turn the rest of you into hamburger and bone meal for fertilizer. There will be nothing left. And everyone will soon forget you ever existed, which is just as well.

“That sounds good. I especially hope people find me good to eat. Having other guys eat me is a sexual fantasy I’ve developed as I’ve been used over the past few years. My master has kept me very trim, so I should be a nice lean source of protean, for what that’s worth.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Kevin. “It sounds like your master coached you really well. Obviously someone like you couldn’t have figured that out all on your own.”

“Oh, no. I really owe him. He helped me a lot.”

“That sure sounds right to me. But there’s one last question to ask. Have you given some thought to how you think we should kill you? Your opinion is irrelevant of course, but we usually find it amusing and every now and then someone adds an aspect to the torture that we like. So we’re always curious to know.”

“Well, once again my master roommate has helped me on this. I know it’s a question you always ask, so I asked him what he thought. And he told me that I should stress that I don’t deserve a quick death. So things like hangings and strangling don’t seem appropriate. I should suffer for as long a time as you have on the show for this segment, so that I can provide as much amusement to the audience as possible. I’m not vain enough to think I’d deserve something that lasts beyond the show, like a crucifixion, but I shouldn’t be let off too easily or quickly.

Also, my master stressed that I should be humiliated. I know I’ll get sodomized and pissed on, since that’s pretty standard. But he thinks I deserve to be thoroughly debased, making me understand how worthless I am and thereby adding to the humor for the viewers. I’m sure he’s right about all that, and I’ll do my best to cooperate. I really want people to enjoy watching me get what I deserve.”

“Great. He really did train you well. And I have no problem assuring you will be tortured and kept alive and suffering as long as we can, given our time constraints. But you’re hardly special and we do have our limits. It’s important that losers like you don’t get delusions of relevance. I can also assure you you’ll be treated like the piece of shit you truly are.

“Now it sounds like we should finish up your preparations. Do you want to give away what you’re wearing? I think the audience would like to see what you really look like.”

“Sure,” came the response. “What do you want me to do?”

Kevin gestured for Marcus to stand up, and escorted him to a round pedestal that had been brought on stage where the earlier scene had occurred. The two introductory animals had been removed and the stage had been cleaned up while Kevin and Marcus had been chatting.

“Stand here, so people can look at you. And you can hand me your clothes as you take them off. Take your time. We’re not in a hurry, and I think we’ll all enjoy watching you strip.”

Marcus did as instructed. The nice collared shirt came off first, and revealed a very tight undershirt that featured Marcus’ well defined chest. The audience became more interested as they anticipated what would be revealed next. They were also impatient, but they were not disappointed when the undershirt was quickly removed. Marcus had a fantastic body. His shoulders, pecks and abs were astonishingly handsome. The audience now began to cheer loudly, calling to Marcus to finish the strip show.

“Hold on, folks,” interjected Kevin. “I know there’s more to see, and I’m anxious too. But let’s make sure we get these shirts into the right hands first.”

And with that, Kevin invited members of the audience to bid for the two pieces of clothing. They went quickly. He next had Marcus remove his shoes and socks, so that he was standing bare-chested and barefoot on the pedestal. The shoes and socks were sold off as well.

“Now we can finish the task.

“OK, Marcus, time to show the audience all you’ve got.”

Marcus slowly removed his slacks. This time there was no follow-on. He was not wearing any underwear, so his body was quite naked when he stepped out of them.

That got yet another cheer from the audience, and Kevin was quick to dispose of the trousers. All the attention was now on Marcus’ fully exposed masculinity.

Marcus not only had a fantastic upper body, he had a great butt, well formed legs, and a truly impressive set of genitals. He was already rock hard, the prospect of being displayed naked in front of millions of people having turned him on a lot. His cock was huge, but not disproportionate to the rest of his body. It thrust out in front of him, smooth and straight. The balls were also ample, and hung down in a larger than usual scrotum. And, as the pedestal turned, the audience got a good view of Marcus’ back and buttocks. Here too he was a wonderful specimen. Marcus was well beyond handsome. He was beautiful.

“Well, Marcus’ body speaks for itself. I think we can all see why we accepted his application. This should be a very good segment of tonight’s show.

“Marcus, I want you to stay on the pedestal and keep yourself aroused. Is that clear?”

There was a bit more authority in Kevin’s admonition, but it didn’t affect Marcus. At this point he was very excited, and he nodded agreement. His hands went to his cock, caressing it to assure it stayed hard. He had never had so much attention.

“And now, my wonderful viewers, it’s time to introduce my next guest. He’s not a loser. He’s a major winner, and a friend of the show. So please welcome Marcus’ master, Mr. Robert Gray.”

The next person to walk out was almost as beautiful as Marcus. And he was almost as young. However, Robert was more of a muscular stud, like Kevin, than a twink like Marcus. He was both tall and powerful in his appearance.
And he was naked, revealing a massive penis that was fully erect and swaying in front of him as he walked. However, he did wear a pair of leather boots. He walked confidently on stage, and went to the couch where Marcus had sat earlier. As Kevin approached the chair, he gestured to Robert to sit, and Robert did so. He also began to stroke his massive cock, casually playing with himself as if oblivious to the millions of viewers. Clearly, like Marcus, Robert enjoyed the attention. But unlike Marcus, Robert enjoyed being in charge.

“Frankly, it’s an honor to have you here,” said Kevin. “You’ve sent some wonderful meat our way over the past few years, and I’m really glad to have you on the show in person. And you’re obviously quite a stud. I’ve gotten rather rigid looking at you and Marcus, so let me get a little more comfortable.”

With that, Kevin slowly stripped off his leather clothes. He couldn’t resist a little sales pitch for the “Loser Leather” line that he had been wearing and that the show promoted, but he didn’t dally too long. He knew the audience was anxious for things to get physical.

“Well,” started Kevin, now both naked and hard. “You and I have a fun task ahead of us. But why don’t’ you quickly tell us a little about yourself and how you got Marcus to be aware of his best use before we start? I do think the audience would enjoy a quick history. It’s your views that matter, not the meat rotating on the pedestal over there.” Kevin pointed at the beautiful young volunteer, who was still obediently massaging his cock and still quite erect as he slowly rotated on the pedestal to reveal ass aspects of his body.

Marcus took no offense. He knew what he was. Robert had explained it all to him many times.

“To start with, I have a deal with some of the local high school principals to alert me to good looking losers who are not going to make it to graduation. The principals make sure they flunk out early on, usually during their first year, and send them my way. When I get hold of them I offer them an alternative – live with me as slaves and provide sexual and other services to make up for their failures.

One of the many companies I own is a male brothel and escort service, so I turn them into obedient young whores. It takes a little training to get the attitude right sometimes, but they always come around.

“I own guys of various ages, but there’s more profit in the really young ones. Lots of guys like to use them, and it was a problem for our society for quite a while. But this way, they use boy-meat that is of no value or interest to anyone. They satisfy their urges and no one gets hurt who matters. Also, I don’t set any limits, so they can do anything they want to the whores. They just pay a premium if the animal is damaged or killed. I pick up the body, ship it nice and fresh to you guys for processing, and have one of the other whores clean up the mess and continue servicing the customer. So, again, there’s no harm done.

“Marcus is obviously a lot better looking than most kids, so I took him into my house for my personal use and that of my guests. It turns out he’s not only really pretty, but he’s really horny and a natural masochist. So he’s been a lot of fun to train and use. For the record, he’s been used a lot.
That’s no virgin ass we’re looking at, and I’ve enjoyed the training process. I keep him in good shape physically, feed him very healthy dog food, and let the staff play with him whenever they want. I’ve owned him exactly four years, since he arrived on his 15th birthday. He’s gotten so much use it seems time to finish him off, and it seemed more fun to make it his birthday present now that he’s just turned 19. After all, it’s much more fun to snuff these animals while they’re still attractive and their cocks are still functioning well.”

“That’s a wonderful service you provide. Incidentally, what’s Marcus’ best sexual trait?” asked Kevin.

“The little fuck will do absolutely anything you want him to do. He really has no limits and no inhibitions. He wasn’t kidding when he told you he’s turned on by the fact he’ll be eaten – he’d like it to be while he’s still alive, for that matter. My buddies and I had considered snuffing him ourselves at a private party, which is what we do with the other whores when they’re no longer profitable enough, but he seemed too appealing. It would be selfish not to share the fun with your audience.”

“We appreciate your consideration. I think he’s going to be a hit. And he’s gotten even harder as you have described him. His cock is now pointing straight up and there’s a little pre-cum.”

“Yeah, this will be fun. I do think we should take our time, as I instructed him to say during your interview with him. And I think you’ll enjoy how far he can shoot a load of cum. He should do a lot better than that miserable complaining fucker you started the show with. The key is to be sure he’s in serous pain with a dick up his ass when he shoots. It has a nice effect on him.

“I usually use a cattle prod on the balls cranked up to full voltage, but you probably have some even better ideas.”

“We’ll give it our best. As a matter of fact, why don’t we go over to the wheel of torture and pick an ending for him? We’ve removed all the quick deaths like hanging and suffocating, so you can be sure it will be prolonged – like we all want.”

“Great. If we do this right, he should last quite a while. I’m pretty horny and anxious to start the fun,”

Robert concurred.

“Me too,” agreed Kevin. “I’m sure our audience here and at home is as well. So let’s get this show into action.”

With that, Robert and Kevin walked over to Marcus, and led him to the other side of the stage. There was a huge wheel that had been brought out, with various “choices” printed on the spokes. It had been modeled after the old
“Wheel of Fortune” but this was a “Wheel of Deaths.” There were lots of choices, and Kevin reminded the audience of a few of them.

“OK folks, in just a moment Marcus will spin the wheel to determine what kind of torture we’ll inflict for the final part of the snuff. But don’t worry; we’ll get lots of fun out of him before we finish him off. And there are lots of fun choices for the finale. The wheel could land on vivisecting, instructing us to cut him into little pieces while trying to keep him alive as long as possible.

“Or maybe we’ll get to cook him. Here’s a fun one (pointing at the wheel) – we might skin him alive. I might like that one, since I need a new coat.”

With that introduction, Kevin gestured toward the wheel, and Marcus gave it a spin. The wheel was designed to spin for a while to build suspense, and it did so. It eventually slowed down, and finally stopped. The selection was made and Marcus’ fate was sealed. The final torture would be for Marcus to be whipped to death.

“Well,” laughed Kevin. “There goes my coat! His skin won’t be in any shape to use once we’re done. But I really enjoy whipping these worthless pieces of shit like Marcus, so I’ll get over it. He’s got really beautiful skin, so it will be fun to use the whips to cut into him. He’ll be pretty shredded when we’re done – and he’s done.

“But first, my friend,” looking at Robert, “I think we should do a little fucking. Don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” came the reply. Robert had been stroking Marcus as the three were standing on stage. It wasn’t a stroke of caring – it was of pure lust. Robert wanted sex, and Marcus was a great sex object.

The three naked males, all fully aroused and obviously horny, now returned to where the coach had been. That set had been replaced during the spinning of the wheel, and it now contained a huge mattress, a table with lots of “tools” for Robert and Kevin to use, and various devices that they could use to restrain and display Marcus. It was a fully equipped torture chamber.

“Since you were kind enough to send Marcus our way, why don’t you do the first fuck?” Kevin generously offered.

Robert didn’t need a second invitation. He pushed Marcus onto a frame that functioned like a saw-horse, and quickly attached Marcus’ wrists and ankles to restrain him. It wasn’t that he thought Marcus would resist, but it added to his sense of power over the boy. The eager young victim was now nicely positioned to be butt fucked, belly side down, arms and legs extended, with his inviting bubble-butt positioned conveniently for the attack. There even were side poles for Robert to use to get better traction as he thrust his huge cock into the helpless target.

There was no foreplay, and Robert was utterly focused on his sexual needs as he pushed his large penis into Marcus and then commenced an intense fucking session. Meanwhile, Kevin went over to Marcus’ face and thrust his own cock into that opening. Marcus took it enthusiastically, and showed that he was a very talented and experienced cock sucker. He was now being fucked at both ends, and his own cock was near eruption. But Robert had trained Marcus with some success, and Marcus made sure not to erupt himself unless permitted to do so.

The two executioners took their time, and as the studio and home audiences watched they vigorously used Marcus as a sex toy. Yet, amazingly, they didn’t shoot their loads. They were both very disciplined, and they had more fun in mind before giving up heir cum.

After a while, Kevin signaled to Robert and they both withdrew their manhood from Marcus’ body. They released Marcus, and ordered him to stand between them.

Meanwhile, Kevin had grabbed a baseball bat and Robert a studded paddle. When Marcus stood, they began to beat him.

The first blows were to the buttocks and the chest. But there were no parts of Marcus’ exposed body that were off limits. If a blow to the belly caused internal damage, so what? If Marcus was bruised and no longer quite so pretty, that was part of the idea. And it was particularly satisfying to connect with that spongy pouch of man-flesh that was Marcus’ scrotum. Blow after blow hit there, smashing his balls and eliciting animal-like screams of pain.

Marcus collapsed, falling to the ground and writhing in agony from the blows.

But that didn’t get him off the hook. In fact, it got worse. Each of his torturers was wearing metal-tipped boots, and now they added kicks to the other blows. Kevin landed a particularly strong kick right on the suffering ball sack, and Marcus fainted from the pain. The audience applauded loudly.

The two muscular studs looked down on their handiwork. It would be a few minutes before Marcus could be revived to continue the entertainment, so they decided to take a break while the veterinarians worked on getting Marcus back to a conscious state. Robert and Kevin caressed each other, kissed, and began a major love-making scene on the cushioned stage. While Marcus had been the prettiest of the three, Kevin and Robert were more masculine and more muscular.

They used their wonderfully formed and fit bodies to excite each other, sucking in a passionate 69, then turning and embracing. Each allowed the other to enter his backside, but it was done with care and affection, not the way they had simply used Marcus as an object. Each brought the other’s cock to an even higher degree of excitement with careful attention from mouth and tongue. And each shot several loads of thick man-juice over the other’s body. This was a sex scene as good as any porn flick, and the audience was thrilled.

In due course the lovers were alerted that Marcus was once again available. He was now strung up by his hands, feet slightly off the floor, swinging freely.

And, amazingly, he was once again erect. The fucking and beating had actually aroused him even more, and watching the sex show had assured another nice hard-on. But his body showed the bruises from the prior episode, and he was clearly still in pain. So their efforts hadn’t been wasted.

“Shall we masturbate him before we get into the rough stuff?” asked Robert.

“You’re the expert, but I think the audience would enjoy watching him shoot, and he might not be very functional once I get going on his balls – which are my next target.”

“Sure,” responded Kevin. “You said he’s a pretty good shooter, and I know I’d enjoy the performance. I hate to let him have any pleasure, but I suppose there’s no way to avoid it.”

“Yeah, there sort of is. I trained him to respond to pain, and he’ll usually shoot a good load while I apply electricity to his balls. It took a while to train him, but that was a fun task for me. It doesn’t always work, but let’s give it a try. Oh yeah, it also helps if there’s a big dick up his ass. Interested?”

Kevin didn’t need a second invitation. Even though he and Robert had shot several loads, they too were already erect and ready to go again. Kevin stood behind Marcus, and being a bit taller he was able to thrust his large cock straight into the defenseless youth. He wrapped his arms around Marcus’ beautiful chest and started pumping.

Meanwhile, Robert had picked up a nearby cattle prod and turned it to full strength. He didn’t go immediately for the balls, but started with Marcus’ thigh and then his chest. He particularly let it rest on the nipples, which had hardened nicely with Marcus’ sexual excitement and were a tempting target. To the satisfaction of the audience, Robert used the probe to essentially burn each nipple, slowly, into oblivion. Marcus was now not quite so pretty, his beautiful nipples replaced by a small stream of dripping blood. Marcus jerked and screamed, but obviously had no recourse. Kevin pumped even harder.

Now Robert turned to his main prey. He placed the charged end of the cattle prod between the little spongy balls nestled in Marcus’ dangling sack of manhood. Marcus’ scream of pain was barely human. He writhed and jerked in his agony, trying to get away from the source of the pain. But to no avail.

And then Marcus shot his load. Robert had not even touched his cock – Marcus had been set off by the intensity of the pain and the realization of his fate being final that came with having part of his body burned off – the very nipples Robert had always loved to torture. It was a great shot – cum was fired well into the air and across the stage. As the camera recorded the event, several more waves shot from Marcus’ gyrating cock. Kevin too unloaded, placing his seed inside the doomed boy.

“That was a great show, Robert.” Kevin was clearly impressed. “You did a really good job training this guy. He makes a very entertaining circus animal.”

“Thanks. I do think he was one of my better efforts. But now I’m all horny again. Mind if I fuck him?”

And, of course, that was perfectly OK with Kevin and the audience. So Robert took a turn with his own huge cock in Marcus’ backside, shortly adding his seed to Kevin’s. It would be the last time Marcus would be fucked, just as his orgasm would be his last load of cum.

“I think we’re done with his asshole,” mused Kevin. “Shall we close it up?”

The torturers considered their options, and then decided that Kevin would focus on the used-up ass while Robert focused on the balls. Robert was quite anxious to remove them, and Kevin was hardly going to object to such an entertaining idea.

Kevin picked up a thick metal poker from the nearby table. The device had a cord, and he plugged it into an outlet. Turning it on, he explained that it would become red hot after it was thrust into Marcus’ butt hole and that it would not only cause massive pain but it would literally cook his intestines.

Robert, meanwhile, had focused on a metallic bowl shaped to fit around a guy’s scrotum. This, too, was electrified. The idea of this handy toy was to cook the balls while they were still in the sack and attached to the victim’ body.

Robert explained that it was also designed to activate the many nerve endings in the scrotum to send pain signals to the brain.

“The cool thing about this little cooker is that it still causes lots of pain even after the balls are nearly cooked and ready to be removed.”

It didn’t take long for the two torturers to finish their tasks. Kevin thrust the poker up Marcus’ ass and generated a torrent of screams of agony. As he slowly removed the instrument, Marcus’ ass was sealed, with much of his insides nicely cooked.

But Robert’s toy was even more entertaining, since the audience could watch the cooking as it happened. After a while a little light went off and the device let out a “ping” to indicate it was done. As Robert removed it, the two perfectly prepared testicles dropped into his hand. The device had literally cooked away the scrotum, so there was nothing left of it. With his balls removed, Marcus was no longer a functioning male.

“Care for a snack?” offered Robert, holding out one of the trophies. “It’s nice and fresh.”

“Thanks,” replied Kevin, popping the remnant of Marcus’ manhood into his mouth while Marcus looked on in fascination.

After their snack, Robert took the lead in finishing off Marcus’ genitals. There was still the cock itself to deal with, and they had assured it would remain hard even after the balls were destroyed by tying it off. So it still flopped loosely in front of Marcus. Robert’s approach was a bit more dramatic than the electricity they’d used to start the process of turning Marcus from a slave to a serving of meat. He took a small firecracker and stuffed it into the cum slit at the front of the penis. He went slowly so that it would be a bit more dramatic and painful, but he had no trouble getting it in. After all, it hardly mattered if he inflicted permanent damage. He was about to do a lot worse.

Then, with a bit of showmanship, he lit a match and slowly brought it to the fuse of the firecracker. The fuse was somewhat long, so this too took a little time. Marcus continued to watch in horror, understanding what was about to happen.

The firecracker did its job perfectly. There was a loud explosion, and Marcus’ cock literally blew apart. There was nothing left of what had been his most prized possessions – his beautiful cock and his impressive balls.
He was now a eunuch. Kevin used a nearby blowtorch to cauterize the opening so he wouldn’t bleed to death.

But now it was time for Marcus to die. After all, Robert and Kevin had worked hard and were getting a bit tired. They wanted to save some energy for another fuck-fest after the show, and they were turning each other on as they worked over their mutual victim. Besides, Marcus wasn’t nearly as interesting as he had been. He had screamed so much that he really couldn’t make any more sounds. His genitals were gone and his asshole was seared shut.

The bruises from his earlier beating took away a bit of the glamour of his young body, as did the lost of his nipples.

Robert and Kevin each selected a whip and began the final task of their entertainment. The wheel had selected whipping as the finale for Marcus, and they honored the selection. Standing on each side of Marcus they began to flog him. There was no place that was not a target, and the whips were designed to draw blood as they lacerated his delicate flesh. Stroke after stroke found its target, and he gyrated nicely in response to the blows.
Both Kevin and Robert were massively turned on by the exercise, and they were eager to finish in order to satisfy their lust for each other. So the strokes got harder and harder.

And, in fairly short order, Marcus stopped reacting. He was now a piece of meat, ready for the butchers to cut him into steaks, chops, and hamburger. His bones and sinews would be fertilizer. And no one would ever remember him.

As Kevin and Robert admired their handiwork and began to suck each other, the camera focused on the dangling carcass. It showed Marcus’ pretty face dropped down on his bleeding chest. It showed the pecks where he had once had nice hard nipples. And it showed where he had once displayed his proud manhood. But as the credits completed their roll across the screen, Marcus was cut down for dissection and sale, and “Thrill Kill Live!” completed yet another successful show.