M4M4Greek

Joe wasn’t worried about breaking lockdown.  After all, it wasn’t like his job allowed him to practice social distancing, and it was damn sure essential.  When the government needed him to do a job, there were no excuses.  But Joe didn’t use a gun and the only other was to neutralize a target silently and swift was to get up close and personal.

 

So the thought of venturing out for some R&R didn’t bother him.  And he was sure that there was some dumb fag out there who was just as willing to ignore his own safety to get some dick.

 

That was just what he wanted—young dumb fagmeat.  Much as he enjoyed getting paid to off dudes, he always appreciated the chance to do it on his own time so he could drain a load into the fucker as it died.  And it seemed the younger the homo was, the more it wanted cock.  Probably raging hormones, he figured.  Didn’t matter, as long as there was one available.

 

There was always one available.

 

He spun through the hookup apps on his stolen phone.  He’d have to remember to take the one belonging to his next cumdump; he’d been using this one too long.  It didn’t take him too long to find some prospective meat.

 

“Looking for hookup RIGHT NOW

–18, 5’10”, 132lbs.  Home alone @ Kappa Tau frat house, brothers at formal.  Want 2 get plowed but u gotta cum & go by 11”

 

It was accompanied by a torso shot, a lean, firm swimmer’s build with muscle but not overly developed.  A second photo showed a hard stiff boycock rising eagerly from a tangled mass of dark pubes.

 

Joe responded with a shot of his own chest.  Letting the image of his swollen pecs and ripped abs, covered with wiry fir, do its magic, he started to dress.  He’d just slipped into a tight pair of jeans, comfortably worn and faded, when the phone pinged.  The little homo slut had responded.

 

And he hadn’t been kidding; he wanted Joe to come to the frat house.  Seemed he was a pledge who’d drawn the short straw and was left to watch the house when everyone else went to the formal.

 

And he was a virgin.

 

Joe got the map location and slid his feet into his big black pair of Chippewa loggers, tucking the jeans into the wide, untied boot tops.  Over this, he pulled on a navy-blue compression t-shirt that emphasized his incredibly well-developed upper body.  Slipping the keys to the Camaro into his pocket, the last thing he did before he left was tie a bandanna around the lower half of his face.

 

It was jet black with a skull’s grin.  He strode to his car, dark erotic death stalking the night.

 


 

The frat house was two blocks from the college, over on Ramsdale Street.  Ramsdale was more or less the Greek Row for the local campus of the state college.  About half a dozen frat houses—and half as many sorority houses—were located on it, in what had once been large, upscale homes.

 

The Kappa Tau house was no different than the others, except it was dark and quiet.  A two-story white Colonial, from the front it bore a striking resemblance to the Cunningham’s house on “Happy Days.”  But Joe, who’d parked on the next street over and had slid noiselessly though the shadows, was to go around to the back.  The gate was open; once past it, he found himself in a paved area with a large swimming pool.  A wing of the house extended down one side of the pool area and wrapped around to the back—there was a lot of space inside.

 

He knocked at the rear door.  An overhead light flashed on and the door opened.

 

The boy who opened it was young and cocky.  Well, maybe he wasn’t, but he was unlucky enough to have full lips which formed a natural pout and large emerald-green eyes circled by long dark lashes.  With his prey’s dark bangs sweeping low across his forehead, his pert snub nose and smooth white cheeks with a faint down on the upper lip, barely visible, Joe felt his cock pulse and throb in his jeans.

 

On opening the door and finding Joe looming over him with his leering mask, the boy flinched.  Then he blushed and grinned embarrassedly.  “Nice mask.  C’mon in, my room’s this way…”

 

He led the way through a large kitchen fitted with industrial appliances.  Out in the hall, the were passing a dimly-lit game room when Stu paused at the doorway to dark, cavernous media room from which a deep bass hum was coming.

 

“Hang on, someone left somthin’ on,” he said, then darted in.  There was a click and the hum stopped.

 

“Assholes,” he muttered, emerging form the darkness, “I drew the short straw, so I gotta housesit while they go off and party…”

 

“Everything’s closed,” Joe said quietly as he followed the kid up the stairs.

 

“Yeah, they’re all over at Mikey’s.  His folks got a huge place over on Conover—you know, in that gated community?  And since the hotel cancelled the reservation, the bros decided to move it there.  Fuck, I bet they’re having a blast—his folks are in Colorado, y’know.”

 

Joe didn’t know and didn’t care, but it explained how bunch of fratboi douches could hold a formal in the middle of a lockdown.  And without any nearby authority figure to shut it down, the buff serial killer figured he’d have plenty of time for some nice brutal foreplay before he finally snuffed this bitch.

 

He kept close behind the kid, the boy’s ass at his eye level.  He glued his eyes to the tender rounded buttcheeks, tightly wrapped in denim, as they flexed in front of him.  The punk was in a bright yellow t-shirt and his jeans were so pale and worn they were a faint sky blue.  His Nike Air Force 1 hightops were nearly the same shade.

 

At the top of the stairs, the kid turned left and opened the first door on the left.  Flicking on the overhead light, he unapologetically led Joe into the most stereotypically filthy dorm room he’d ever seen.

 

He already knew that most of the assholes associated with the fraternity came from wealthy families; the detritus in the room confirmed that fact.  There were the usual piles of beer bottles pizza boxes, and dirty clothes—but the beer bottles were imports and craft beers, the pizza boxes were from local gourmet parlors, not the big chains, and the wadded-up clothing included designer jeans and expensive dress shirts.

 

Stu caught Joe’s glance and had the decency to blush.  “Yeah, since they cancelled classes, we ain’t done too much.  See, my dad says he’s spending enough for this place and I might as well stay here.  Most of the guys have heard something like that from their folks.  It’s fucking great—we eat and drink and party, an’ don’t even gotta go to class!”

 

The boy crossed the room, pulling his shirt off over his head as he did so.  He missed Joe’s contemptuous smirk behind his back, but by the time he turned and face his guest, Joe was taking his own shirt off, revealing his huge, hairy chest, so much more developed than Stu’s smooth, lithe torso.  The well-built sadist shook out his shirt—his bandanna had come off and gotten caught in it—before laying over the back of a chair.

 

Stu’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Joe’s chest; it was one thing to have seen a photo but for the virgin slut to have such a stud in his actual presence was more than he’d hoped for this evening, and he was willing to abandon all caution in his near-mindless lust.

 

“Well?” Joe barked gruffly, “Strip, fucker.  I wanna see what I’m gonna be stickin’ my dick in.”

 

The young homo damn near wriggled with pleasure at the command.  Joe’s disgust at the worthless cocksucker rose in proportion to his need for sexual release.  It was a combination that invariably had horrific consequences for the object of Joe’s attention.

 

Stu was on the verge of learning that, but he was too horny to pay attention to any red flags.  He kicked his Nikes off and shimmied his way out of his jeans, his long, thick boycock swinging ponderously from side to side as he did so.  He was generously endowed, six inches already and only semi-hard.

 

It was nothing compared to Joe’s meat, though, and the hardbodied fagkiller thought it was time for his prey to see that for itself.  He unzipped his fly and hauled out his throbbing, erect cock, maintaining eye contact with Stu the entire time.  The boy wanted to look but couldn’t bring himself to break the older man’s hypnotic gaze; he already knew he would do whatever the man asked of him.

 

Of course, he had no idea how much was to be asked of him.

 

Then Joe chuckled and blinked, letting the boy drop his eyes and behold the enormous tube of manflesh that was going to be rammed up his ass.  Stu gulped.  He reached a slightly shaky hand up and swept his dark chestnut bangs from his eyes.

 

“That’s—I, uh, I mean…” he faltered.

 

“What’s wrong, boy?” Joe asked, his deep basso silky smooth as he leered at his prey.  He reached down and began unbuckling his belt.  Stu hadn’t noticed the inch-wide strap of black leather circling the older man’s waist before, and there was something somehow sinister about the stud’s action.

 

“I, uh, I ain’t never had no one up in me before,” the fratboi said tremulously, his expression suddenly wary.  He took a step back.  “That, um, your—your dick, I mean, it’s, uh, it’s so big, and, and, I’m just not sure…”

 

“You backin’ out, boy?” Joe asked, giving his voice an edge.  Just a little one.

 

Stu gulped again, loudly this time, and blushed.  “It’s not that, it’s just…it’s, uh, it’s—”

 

“It’s what, faggot?” Joe asked.

 

The fratboi reacted to the word as if he’d been slapped.  Despite his own obvious desires and everything he’d initiated, he couldn’t acknowledge it out loud, especially not with that word.

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” he cried out, so angry he was almost in tears.

 

Joe threw his head back and laughed, a deep, manly vibrato of derisive amusement.

 

Something snapped in Stu’s head.  Had he been experimenting with someone similar to himself in physique who’d happened to call him a faggot, Stu might have become a sex murderer himself.  A red haze of anger filled his mind that focused his attention and his rage on Joe; he launched himself at the older dude he’d invited over for sex.

 

Joe was surprised the kid had it in him.  He wasn’t surprised in a literal way, his training prevented him from ever truly relaxing.  He was always prepared to be attacked—and to kill in self-defense—at all times.  He could kill coming out of a sound sleep.

 

A pissed-off rich little frat punk wasn’t a threat.  Joe had his belt off by now; as soon as Stu got within reach, he lashed out, cutting the boy across the face with the doubled-over leather strap.  The teen meat fell to his knees, clutching the dark angry welt on his cheek and squealing like a bitch.

 

“Wha—wha—” Stu moaned when suddenly he heard Joe laugh.  It was that same deep laugh of supreme satisfaction.  As the fratboi kneeled, his eyes downcast, Joe’s Chippewa boots came into view.  Reluctantly raising his eyes, Stu ran his gaze up the stud’s thickly-muscled legs in tight denim to the huge jutting tackle—he had to skip that; it led to imagining what it’d be like in him but there was no way that could happen without causing him permanent damage.

 

Above, though, those furry washboard abs and the broad hubcap pecs with the thick nipples standing out in silhouette, and then that cold, confident, masculine face leering down at him, obviously enjoying his pain…how had this happened?  He’d just wanted a little fun…

 

And then the older dude raised his arm again, the one with the belt.  Stu’s eyes kept rising, following the upward arc.  As it paused, he whimpered, but did nothing to protect himself.

 

It was a bad call.  Joe had no mercy in him; this blow was more vicious than the first.

 

Stu squealed like a pig as the thick leather belt slapped across the side of his head, knocking him to the floor where he lay cowering and cradling his aching skull.  Joe stood over the quivering pile of boymeat, leering and fondling his enormous rod.  He was anticipation plunging his swollen member into that tender young flesh when he noticed movement from his prey.

 

Stu was trying to crawl away.

 

Joe stood for a moment and let him go.  When he was about halfway across the room, the fratboi got up onto his hands and knees, the rounded, peach-like globes of his asscheeks pointed directly at the older man.

 

Joe couldn’t resist such a target.  Three quick steps and he was beating Stu’s ass mercilessly, the kid crying as his ass reddened and formed welts under the assault.  At some point it got to be too much; the punk rolled over and began to resist.

 

“Stop it!  Stop it!  Fucking stop it!!!” he screamed, when a well-aimed slash with the belt form Joe reminded the fucker that in rolling over, he’d exposed his balls to attack.  With a loud screech, Stu tucked back into a fetal curl, sobbing loudly.

 

Joe tossed the belt onto the bed.  His bloodlust, his need to dominate this little faggot, to force it to suffer and die for his sexual gratification, was rising to an uncontrollable point.  He approached the writhing teen.

 

In his pain and fear, Stu could hear the footfalls of Joe’s heavy boots get nearer.  He still didn’t know how things had gone bad, but it was obvious they had.  But he was a young and dumb homo with a limited imagination.  Stu had no idea that within minutes, if not seconds, what now seemed “bad” was going to appear as gentle as his mother’s caresses.

 

He got his first inkling when Joe began kicking him.

 

The Chippewa boots were steel-toed.  Everyplace they landed developed a huge black bruise—at the least.  Since the boy was curled up on his side, his back bore the initial brunt of the alpha’s attack.

 

“Ya fuckin’ little piece a’ shit faggot—how’s that feel, huh?  Goddam homos need to get kicked around a little, just to remind ‘em that they’re garbage.  Right, motherfucker?”  Every time his boot contacted Stu’s flesh, the boy jerked and cried out in pain.  Joe put a little more force into the next kick, catching the fratboi in the upper back, just left of the spine.  There was a muffled snapping sound and Stu’s next cry had a difference in tone and tenor that let the sadist know he’d succeeded in inflicting some internal damage to the pansy.

 

The kid rolled onto his back, his teen body heaving and covered in sweat as he panted, looking desperately up at his assailant.  “Pl-please, no…” he gasped, his dark eyes casting a beseeching gaze on the hardbodied killer.

 

“No?” Joe said with an evil smirk as he raised his boot, “Ya don’t like this?”  Driving his leg down with all the power his thick muscles could muster, he stomped Stu’s flat smooth belly, driving the sole of his boot down into the boy’s gut like a piston.  The sound the homo fratboi made as his lungs were violently and forcibly compressed was an extended, wheezing grunt, devoid of all consonants.

 

As he plunged his boot into Stu’s belly, Joe had leaned over, staring into the boy’s face, maintaining eye contact so he could enjoy not only the cunt’s pain, but his sudden, frantic fear as he found his diaphragm momentarily paralyzed by the sudden physical shock.

 

For about twenty seconds—the longest twenty seconds of Stu’s life, at least up to this point—the teen fag was unable to inhale.  He literally couldn’t breathe; it was the most terrifying thing he’d ever had to endure.  But it was more than a scare; it was an epiphany.

 

This dude could do this to him.  And if he could do this so easily and casually, what else could he do?

 

And it was at that point that Stu realized that he’d let the muscled stud do anything he wanted, anything, as long as he didn’t do that again.  Please, whatever happened, just let him keep breathing.  He clutched at Joe’s leg, one hand tightly gripping the unlaced Chippewa boot, the other higher up, clenched behind the stud’s knee like an embrace.

 

It wasn’t an embrace; it was desperate plea, and Joe recognized it for what it was.  He ground his boot into the cunt’s firm belly, leaving an exact image of the tread as a deep, black bruise.  Stu lay on his back, beating his curled fists on the floor as he tried to inhale.  Tears welled in his huge eyes as his face went red; then, in a loud and sudden gasp, his diaphragm stopped spasming and he was able to suck in air.

 

The muscled stud was laughing at him, standing over him with his huge jutting cock dripping with anticipation.  If it hadn’t been for the pain, Stu would have thought he was in a porno.

 

But he couldn’t ignore the pain; it hurt to breathe.  The sadistic alpha he’d invited over had kicked him hard enough to break one of his ribs, in the back.  The jagged edges of the bones ground against each other every time his chest expanded or compressed.

 

He’d been hurt.  This wasn’t some sort of mind game.  As Stu lay on the floor, looking up at the buff stranger, something else crossed his mind, something that he refused to recognize in full.  It wasn’t just that this scary motherfucker could do something as terrifying as stop Stu’s breath—it was that he might want to.  Blinking away his tears, the fratboi peered up at Joe with sudden terror in his eyes.

 

Joe was experienced enough as a killer to recognize the look; he pounced on the little fuck, clamping one hand around the boy’s neck like a claw and lifting the teen bodily from the ground, one-handedly, until the boy’s toes curled frantically in the air four inches above the dirty, scarred wood floor.  The cunt gazed in horror at the alpha, its hands clawing frenetically at Joe’s iron-tight fingers, to no avail.  He held it aloft, watching it choke.  It was time, he decided.  It needed to know its place.

 

“You know where this is goin’, dontcha.”  It was said as a statement, not a question.  “Yer gonna die.  Ya hear me, cunt?  You were put on this planet for me to use you.  The only value of your existence is in how hard you make me cum as you die.  You get it?  No?  Don’t worry, faggot, you don’t have to understand, you just have to convulse hard enough as you die to jack me off.”  With a grunt and a jerk of his massive bicep, he flung the fratboi into the wall hard enough to crumble and collapse a square yard of plaster.

 

Stu lay on the ground, not processing anything.  Part of him had known, of course; the scene had gotten too bad too fast for any other outcome.  This psycho couldn’t let him live, not after what had already happened.  But that part had also convinced itself that he’d be able to talk his way out it maybe.

 

Now he knew that there was no way to talk himself out of whatever what gonna happen next.  And then he heard the footsteps.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes.  He couldn’t bring himself to watch death approach.  And when Joe’s scuffed Chippewas strode into the narrow area of floor on which he’d focused his eyes, Stu snapped.  He tried to beg but started sobbing uncontrollably, then pissed himself.

 

“Christ, what a worthless goddam faggot,” Joe sneered, “I offed fourteen-year-old guards in South America who put up more fight than you, ya piece a’ shit.  Get up here.”  Grabbing Stu’s arm just above the wrist, he spun his shoulder and flung the punk onto the closest twin bed.

 

The privileged and entitled teen, now terrified and humiliated, saw Joe approach him, grinning malevolently and wielding his enormous shaft like a club, slapping it vigorously into the open palm of his other hand.  He knew that that huge rod was going to get shoved into his ass, and he would suffer, and he would die…and he suddenly felt something in his groin.

 

He was getting hard.  No, that wasn’t right.  It couldn’t be right.  But then Joe spoke.  “There ya go,” he chuckled malignly, “Fuckin’ homos always want the D, even when they know they’re gonna die.  Just can’t help it, can ya, cocksucker?”  Still in his jeans and boots, he climbed onto the bed and, planting his hands on the teen’s firm, smooth thighs, forced the boy’s legs apart.

 

“Here ya go, cunt,” he grunted, “This is whatcha want—fuckin’ take it, bitch!”

 

And suddenly Stu was full of cock.

 

It wasn’t like being stabbed or impaled; it was like being shot.  The massive, unlubed rod of manmeat had literally ripped open his sphincter and ramrodded its way through his colon and into his intestines before Stu even realized he’d been penetrated.

 

The teen’s eyes widen, huge dark circles of shock forming around them.  The circles were contrasted by the paleness of his face as the pain hit.

 

“Oh my FUCKING GOD IT—” [WHAM WHAM]

 

Joe cut off the meat’s scream with two quick punches to the face.  As it lolled and gurgled for a moment, shuddering in agony, he reached out and picked up the belt.  He looped it through the buckle, making a basic but effective noose.  Once he was done, he began plowing the teen’s fuckhole.

 

Stu, cowed by a black eye and bloody nose, had a sudden, vivid mental image of an industrial plumber’s snake up his ass, ripping out his guts.  He had no idea getting fucked could hurt so bad; this couldn’t have been what he’d wanted—but as his lithe young body was violently jerked by the brutal force of the rape, it was accompanied by the sound of flesh on flesh as his own hard boycock slapped against his belly and Joe’s.

 

Then Joe held the noose in front of his face.  “Time to die, fuckmeat.”

 

The fratboi panicked.  He knew what the noose meant; in an instant, his scrambling arms entwined with Joe’s as the punk tried to snatch at the instrument of his death.  Joe’s face twisted into an angry snarl; knocking the kid’s arms out of the way, he balled up his huge fist and raised it.

 

“Stop fightin’ me, faggot [POW]!  You want this [POW], you need this [POW] and goddam sure know you deserve it, you cumsuckin’ pile of fuckmeat [POW], so stop resistin’, motherfucker!”

 

As each roundhouse blow landed on Stu’s cheek or chest or jaw, his teen body jerked and went momentarily stiff, his ravaged colon clutching tightly at Joe’s engorged member.  The fratboi was responsive to the pain; it only made Joe more eager to begin choking the life out of the worthless little cumdump.

 

The worthless little cumdump was almost ready to allow it to happen.  The beating had broken Stu’s will; he surrendered.  His arms fell, twitching, to his sides and he didn’t react when Joe grabbed a handful of his long bangs to jerk his head up off the bed so the noose could be slipped over it.  He even felt the rough, rawhide-like sensation of the unfinished leather on the inside of the belt as it settled around his throat without reacting.

 

Then it tightened, and everything changed.

 

The pain of the sudden, crushing constriction of his esophagus was nothing compared to the terror provoked as his airway collapsed to barely a tenth of its former diameter, reducing Stu’s ability to breathe down to a laborious, drawn-out wheeze.  The punk’s eyes were huge with panic; he grabbed at Joe’s arms, his fingers clamped to his rapist’s biceps as if they were riveted, while his taut, smooth body arced and heaved under the stud’s weight.

 

As the fratboi jerked and spasmed, struggling tortuously to inhale, Joe leaned over, his rugged, unshaven face leering down at the helpless teen.  “I can feel my load about to boil over, bitch,” he grinned as his hard, taut body hunched and thrusted, plunging his huge shaft balls-deep into the virgin adolescent.  “Yer one lucky faggot, asswipe—you get to die so you can be my cumdump.  You want this; yer homo cock is hard as hell.”

 

And it was.  Stu’s long thick boycock was so stiff it ached; in his terror, he’d forgotten about it but, but now he could feel it again, being compressed between the firm flat bellies of two males locked in a violent embrace of sex, pain and power.

 

And death.  With a grunt and a brutal jerk, Joe tightened the belt around Stu’s neck and cut off his air completely.  The overprivileged fratboi found himself enduring his worst nightmare; something so horrifying he hadn’t considered the possibility of it happening to him before this terrible, surreal evening.

 

He lasted about thirty seconds.  Then Stu disappeared and the primitive animal emerged from the midbrain, engaging in the primal struggle for survival.

 

It might have been dangerous for Joe—if he hadn’t been a powerful, well-built, and highly experienced killer.  He knew what to expect from his fuckmeat; all faggots died pretty much the same way.  They fought it at first; they fought it hard.  It wasn’t till irreversible brain damage set in that they could let go of the desire to cling to their worthless little homo lives and work his dick like it deserved.

 

And in the end, they loved it.  Joe knew that.  Even the most useless cocksucker he’d ever snuffed had blown an enormous deathload as he ended its miserable existence.  This one wouldn’t be any different—but for now, it needed to be brought back under some control.  The stupid fuck wasn’t brain-dead enough to appreciate what Joe was doing for it and the kicking and clawing was getting annoying.

 

Time to remind the fucking cunt who was boss.

 

Jerking the belt noose tight with his left hand, the muscled mankiller began beating the fuckmeat’s face in.  As his huge right fist slammed into the punk’s once-handsome face, the faggot threw its arms up to block the devastating blows, to no avail.  As impact after brutal impact crushed the fratboi’s nose and knocked half his teeth down his throat, he was still suffering from oxygen deprivation.

 

It was more than the twink could handle.   His lithe young body wasn’t used to this level of abuse.  He continued to shudder and tremble, his velvety homo colon milking Joe’s gigantic, vein-sheathed rod, but the frantic panic-inspired thrashing slowly ceased under the vicious beating he was enduring.

 

Sweating and heaving, Joe finally stopped pounding on the meat.  He’d managed not to break the swift, rough tempo of his fucking even as he punched the living (just barely) fuck out of the spoiled rich kid.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he growled at the quivering, semiconscious pile of boymeat he was raping, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but a long dirt nap, motherfucker, so stop fightin’ and work my dick!”

 

The boy’s face was ruined, beaten to a pulp and swollen beyond recognition.  His skin was black and his bulging, horror-filled eyes were dilating as ruptured blood vessels turned the whites to dusky pink.  His entire body began to move in rhythmic spasms; each one was accompanied by a thick, sickening grunt from the kid’s sealed-off throat.  And with every grunt, a streamer of foamy drool trickled down the dying fratboi’s chin.

 

“I’m getting close,” Joe suddenly muttered in a choked voice.  “Ya ready, you little piece a’ shit?  Ready to die on my cock like yer supposed ta?  Fuckin’ milk me as you kick off, faggot; this is yer only shot.  You were put here to make me cum as you die, you worthless spunkpig; do yer fuckin’ job and I’ll let ya rot in a ditch with my load in yer guts, yeah?  So come on, cunt, earn my seed!”

 

The hard-bodied alpha dug his Chippewas in for traction as he fucked the boy to death, the deep tread of the boots digging into the mattress as the brutal assrape made the twin bed bump and creak.  On top of it, the sweaty male bodies slapped together in a frenzied combination of bloodlust and brain death.  The shuddering sack of boymeat that had been Stu had slipped past the point of conscious thought with Joe’s taunts ringing in his ears; he fell screaming into the cold vortex of death knowing that everything he was suffering was so that a complete stranger could cum.

 

But the body wasn’t dead yet.  The heart still beat—wildly and ever more erratically, but it still beat.  The nerves still functioned; there was still enough gray matter left alive to suffer.  The meat could still feel pain, and still respond to it.

 

That was all Joe needed.  He was so fucking close, but he had to hurt the faggot one last time.

 

As the dying teen homo jerked and convulsed on his cock, Joe placed his hand over the meat’s face, pressing down on it, covering those blank bulging eyes as he wrapped the end of the belt a couple of times around his other hand.  Pressing down on the cunt’s head, Joe pulled back on the belt.  He looked down at the adolescent’s sweat-slick lithe body thrashing under him and grinned.

 

And in that last moment, the part of Stu’s brain that could still register sensation went hyperactive.  Everything, from the rough, wiry chest hair scraping his skin like sandpaper, to each individual vein encircling his killer’s gigantic cock as it tore through his rectum, was taken in by the agonized, dying fratboi.

 

Then, his massive biceps bulging at the effort, Joe jerked the belt, violently.  It was quick, brutal, and very effective.  By pushing the meat’s head and body down as he pulled its neck up, Joe not only shattered the kid’s cervical vertebrae, he severed the spinal cord from the brain, literally pulling it out through the hole in the bottom of the skull with a thick, gristly, cracking sound.

 

The teen’s taut body reacted instinctively to the massive nervous system trauma.  Already fully erect from a combination of overabundant hormones, remorseless prostate stimulation, and basic faggot horniness, Stu wasn’t mentally present to enjoy the massive deathload that spewed involuntarily from his rigid form.  In fact, with his spine ripped from his brain, he couldn’t feel anything at all.

 

That didn’t stop his dying nervous system from responding to Joe’s massive load.  As the muscled, booted killer clutched the teen’s thrashing corpse, he cried out, hoarsely and inarticulately, and hosed the fucker’s guts with his sperm.  Thick, hot jets of semen coated the dead fag’s rectum and intestines, the sudden warmth setting off another blast of spunk from the dead boy—huge, pearly wads that splattered and matted Joe’s thick chest fur.

 

The heaving hardbodied fagkiller spent the next five minutes shuddering and gasping, his enormous tackle still buried in the corpse’s ass as he randomly spewed his DNA, pumping and thrusting until his aching balls were completely drained.  Then he felt composed enough to extract his manmeat from the dead fratboi and get off the bed.

 

He paced around, looking for a bathroom so he could clean the homo spooge off his chest.  He finally found one—a connecting bath, shared with the two punks in the next room.  Used by four adolescent boys with no supervision, no self-discipline, and minimally-paid housekeeping, the room was so filthy that Joe went back to the other bedroom and snatched the dead fuck’s yellow t-shirt off the floor.  Returning to the bathroom, he used it as a washrag to clean the cum off, then tossed it into the disgusting toilet.

 

Tucking his rod back into his jeans, the hulking stud strode back into the killing room and picked up his own shirt and his bandanna.  Remembering his need for a new phone for his next fag hunt, he swiped the dead punk’s iPhone off the dresser and pocketed it.  He was about to head out when he remembered his belt.  He liked that belt.  He didn’t want to leave it behind.

 

Retrieving it was a bit difficult; it had been tightened around the boy’s throat to the point that the dead fuck’s neck had been compressed to about three inches in diameter.  Even after Joe managed to get the belt back through the buckle, the part that was still actually wrapped around the neck was embedded too deep for him to easily pull it out.

 

In the end, he dragged the still-trembling corpse off the bed, letting it tumble face-first onto the floor.  Then, placing his big black boot on the homo’s back, he was able to get enough leverage to pry the belt loose.

 

Looping it back around his waist, he had a moment to admire his kill.  The fratboi was huddled on the floor like a sack of garbage, partly turned on its side, its ass was pointed directly at the door, the cum and blood seeping from the shredded sphincter clearly visible from across the room.

 

Joe felt great; he loved his work, but he had to be quiet and efficient.  He couldn’t linger over it and savor it, the way he could when he put down fags just for the fuck of it, like this.  As he slipped on his shirt and head out of the room, he was a very happy sadist.

 

And a careful one.  He didn’t forget to tie his bandanna back on before he left.  After all, it was dangerous out there…

 


 

It was Ben who raised the alarm; he was Stu’s roommate in the fraternity.  He’d been one of the last ones to arrive back from the “formal”, and was no more (or less) drunk than any of the rest of them, but unlike the others, he’d decided to go up to his room to divest himself of his uncomfortable rented tux as soon as he got in.

 

The sound he made couldn’t really have been described as a scream; nonetheless, it got everyone’s attention.  A crowd of elaborately-dressed boys clambered up the staircase, to be met by Ben, stumbling down it.  He was ashen-faced, trembling, and damn near incoherent.

 

“Stu!” he moaned, pointing upstairs, “He’s…oh, fuck!  And he’s…oh, Jesus, he’s, he’s been—”

 

Realizing they weren’t going to get more out of him, the majority of the members headed up to confront the gruesome scene awaiting them.

 

For some time afterwards, confusion reigned in the frat house, except for one small room where Sam, Mark, and Ronny met.  Sam was the fraternity president, Mark the veep and Ronny was the secretary.  By rights, the treasurer should have been there too—but Ben was the treasurer, and he wasn’t very useful at the moment.

 

“Shit,” Sam muttered, “This is gonna get us shut down.  Sure as shit, you just watch.  And for a fuckin’ pledge, too!”

 

“When are we gonna call the police?” Ronny asked querulously.  “The longer we wait, the worse it looks!”

 

“I know that, asshole,” Sam snarled, “We’re waiting to hear back from Mark’s dad, remember?  He said he’d help us with any legal trouble.”  Suddenly, he rounded on Mark.  “He did say that, right?  And he’s gonna return your call, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s gonna call me back,” Mark replied, obviously nowhere near as calm as he was desperately pretending to be.  “But y’know, he’s gonna be asking about a lotta shit…they always do when a frat’s involved…”

 

“What kinda shit?” Sam demanded nervously.  “Whaddaya mean?”

 

“Well, he’s a pledge, and, well, y’know, frats have a bad name nowadays because of hazin’, and shit like that…”

 

“Yeah, well—” Sam started out defiantly, then fell quiet.  They all did.  They were all trying very hard not to think about the fact that their hazing ritual involved inserting certain…items…into the pledges’ anuses.  Depending on the inserter, the insertee, and the item being inserted, things had gotten carried away on occasion in the past.

 

As they sat in the darkened room waiting for a call from the lawyer, it occurred to each of the young men that Stu had gotten hazed a little early–and had ended up blackballed.

Boot Blackened Bitch

Teddy leaned against the lamppost and reached down to his groin, adjusting his meat.  Goddam jeans were too tight; he made a mental note not to wear them again.  Displaying the goods on sale was one thing; highlighting them to the point of damage was something else.  Last thing he needed was to cut off the circulation to his dick so bad he couldn’t get it up for a john.

 

He hoped someone would come along soon.  This part of the park was known for its boywhores and Teddy usually did a good trade here, but it was a slow night and he was jonesing for a bump.  He needed money.

 

Plus, he didn’t want to be hanging out here all night.  It was unusually cool for this time of the year, and he hadn’t thought to bring a jacket.  His clothing wasn’t well-suited to the chill in the air either; his thin cotton t-shirt offered nothing but a chart of Pokémon characters across its front as protection against the cold.  And while his feet were fine in his black Reebok hightops, the skillfully-done slashes above the knees of his jeans reveal his smooth, firm thighs—and also let in the night air.

 

In short, Teddy wasn’t in the mood to be picky.  Coming from a broken, dysfunctional home, he’d been whoring himself out for years, quickly learning how to take dick from and give it to all sorts of men.  If they had the cash, he’d do what they wanted—and sometimes, he didn’t demand much cash.

 

Tonight was different.  Charlie had a big batch of the good stuff and Teddy was amped.  Someone had to come along soon, preferably some fat old fuck who’d cum in forty-five seconds and hand him a wad of cash out of guilt.

 

When Teddy first saw the dude approaching him, he briskly rubbed his eyes.  The man was a fucking stud; he damn sure didn’t look like the type who needed to pay for sex—which meant he probably wanted something beyond the realm of normal sex.  Well, that was fine—as long as he could pay for it.

 

He was an older man, perhaps mid to late thirties. He was on the far side of the next streetlight, just inside the circle of light, and Teddy could see the guy was wearing a black leather aviator’s jacket that hung open and showed he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath.  Even at this distance, the young slut could make out the stud’s washboard abs and huge pecs, dusted with dark, virile hair.

 

The man’s face was shadowed with scruff that faded back from a dark goatee around his full, yet somehow harsh mouth. He sported a black ball cap worn backwards; a hank of dark hair had escaped from under the brim and lay across his forehead.  His faded denim jeans were so tight that Teddy see that the dude was circumcised from nearly fifty yards away.  But the denim ended at the knee; below that, it was tucked into a pair of 20-hole Grinder Cs Derby leather boots, also in black leather.

 

Despite himself, Teddy found his dick getting hard.  That was a bad sign; this was business, not pleasure.  He’d charge the guy out the ass—literally—but damn, he hoped the john wouldn’t be into anything too weird.  He wanted to enjoy this.

 

The man kept coming.  He didn’t smile—in fact, his handsome face seemed hard and emotionless—but Teddy knew the dude was coming for him, wanted him.  Not that there was anyone else working this stretch of the street, but Teddy was pleased anyway.  Still, though, he better have money.

 

He paused four feet from Teddy; the slut had the chance to check him out and confirm his first impressions; the man was a serious stud, muscled and hairy.  This close, Teddy could pick up the heady odor of the john’s leather and the acrider scent of the dude’s testosterone, literally oozing form his skin.

 

“I wanna drain my load,” the guy growled abruptly, “You any good?”

 

“Make ya cum so hard you scream,” Teddy shot back, grinning insolently.

 

“How much?”

 

Teddy looked him over carefully, not from an erotic point a view but a mercenary one.  That jacket and those boots weren’t cheap.  “You c’n put it up my ass for two hundred.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“You got the cash?”

 

The older man reached in his pocket and pulled out a wallet—also in black leather, of course—and gave Teddy a quick peek at the wad of twenties tucked inside. “You gotta place?”

 

Teddy nodded his head to the right.

 

“What, up the alley?”

 

“Yeah, unless you wanna pop for a hotel room.”

 

“Naw—go on.”

 

Teddy turned and led the way into the dark alley, ignoring the dude’s muttered “Fuckin’ street whore…” comment.  He didn’t need to turn and see if the john was following him; the stud’s booted footfalls easily drowned out the faint sound made by his Reeboks on the filthy alley pavement.

 

About a third of the way down, behind a restaurant, was a dumpster.  Teddy had been here often.  Redolent of chicken scraps and rotting greens, it formed a perfect screen; the area on the far side got just enough light for johns to be able to find his asshole.

 

Unfastening his jeans, Teddy let them drop to his ankles, then turned to face the wall.  He bent forward slightly, placing his hands up against the rough bricks.  There was a pause as he waited for the fumbling at his buttcheeks that invariably occurred at this stage.

 

Except it didn’t.

 

“Take off your shirt,” the john growled.

 

Teddy sighed; he’d been afraid of something like this.  He reached down and pulled the t-shirt up over his head, then balled it up and stuck it down into the denim hammock formed by his jeans at his ankles; he didn’t want it on the disgusting alley concrete.  “Weird shit’s gonna cost ya extra,” he warned.

 

Sudden a pair of hand clamped Teddy’s hips tightly.  Without a word of warning or a sign of any kind, the john was suddenly deep in the whore’s ass, his enormous engorged head grinding relentlessly into the punk’s colon, tearing at its tender lining as it plowed its way into his guts.

 

Teddy had been fucked rough; he’d been fucked dry, too.  But it had never been by someone this incredibly well-hung.  The dude had a dick like a horse and the slut had been totally unprepared for it; the pain was shattering.

 

It took all his effort to keep from screaming.  He bit his tongue, savagely and deliberately, but he would not let himself cry out.  Part of it was professional; it was a bad idea to make enough noise to draw attention to yourself when a john was fucking you.  But for Teddy, there was also a matter of pride.  He was gonna show this stud he could take it, no matter what.  Even though he could feel blood trickling from his torn asshole, he wasn’t gonna let the fucker know he’d hurt him.

 

He could feel the hardbodied stud’s hot breath on the nape of his neck and hear the dude’s grunting as he pounded Teddy’s ass.  The teen’s toes curled inside his Reeboks as the thick spongy head of the john’s hog plowed roughly over his prostate, forcing his already-hard dick to stretch and throb until it ached.

 

To accommodate the massive shaft impaling him, Teddy shifted his legs out, as best he could with his jeans shackling his ankles.  But he could only go so far, his sneakers penned between the dude’s boots.  Try as he might, the teen whore wasn’t able to find a position that made taking the dick any less painful; he’d just have to ride it out.  But even though it hurt, it hurt good.

 

Teddy was surprised at the dude’s silence; he’d looked like he could get real verbal, but he hadn’t uttered a word since he’d started fucking.  That was ok; a little abuse would have been fun, but the way he was reaming teddy’s fuckhole was amazing.  The deeper he went, the less pain and more pleasure there seemed to be.

 

The teenaged boy might have been an experienced street whore, but he was still an adolescent whose lithe lean body had been pumped full of testosterone and other hormones by his over-revved nads with little way to control the reaction.  He could feel his orgasm building as he got fucked up against a wall in a dark, dirty alley and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it.

 

As the swift slapping sound of flesh on flesh echoed off the grimy brickwork, Teddy could feel his balls begin to contract.  Each plunge of the older man’s tackle into his anus forced a squirt of hot precum from the youth’s jutting, quivering shaft.

 

“Fuck, man,” he moaned as the john clutched his sweaty, heaving flanks in a vise-like grip, “I’m gonna blow…”

 

The muscled stud switched into overdrive; it was like a jackhammer had been jammed up Teddy’s ass.  The pain was phenomenal; he’d never had such a vicious, brutal assfuck—and he loved it.  He was surprised by his own reaction; the sheer agony of being violently used was getting him off.  Part of him wondered what it meant, but rational thought faded was fading.

 

“I’m cumming—fuck, aw fuck—”

 

And for the next forty seconds, there was no coherent Teddy, just a shuddering teenaged boy, inarticulate and helpless as it spasmed in the grip of an overwhelming orgasm.  As the boy grunted and jerked, a steady stream of hot boyseed splashed against the wall, spattering back down onto the kid’s hightops and the john’s boots.

 

“Aw, goddam,” Teddy moaned, gasping for air, “Fuckin-A, man—”

 

Suddenly, the dick was gone.  He’d pulled out, quickly and quietly, with no warning.  The trickling sensation he could feel wasn’t the john’s load, it was his own blood.

 

“What—” he began, and then he was on the ground.  He had no clue that the sharp pain he’d felt had been a kick from a steel-toed boot to the back of his knee.

 

Teddy found himself lying on his back in a nasty puddle, looking up at the john.  Something was very wrong.  The man leaned over him, his knee-high boots shiny and glinting in the dim light.  Above the massive cock, dangling over Teddy’s prone body, the stud’s huge chest and ripped abs could be seen under their haze of dark fur as the leather jacket swung open.  But the light faded at the neck; the hard, scruff covered face was hidden in the shadows.  Only a faint cold gleam hinted at the location of the john’s eyes.

 

“What the fuck?” Teddy demanded, his pleasure at getting reamed fading before his anger.  “What are you fuckin’ doin’?  Dude, you still owe me even if ya didn’t cum—”

 

“Goddam faggot,” the voice came out of the darkness, deep and icy in a way that chilled Teddy’s blood, “That wasn’t worth shit.”

 

Despite his fear, Teddy wasn’t about to give in.  It had felt fuckin’ great, but this was business, after all.  “You fuckin’ owe me.  You better fuckin’ pay!”  He tried to sound menacing; it came out as a whine.

 

The john took a step closer; the light bisected his face, leaving the top half dark but illuminating his strong, fur-covered chin and contemptuous smirk.  He raised his leg and suddenly Teddy found himself looking at the series of X’s that made up the tread of the heavy black boot.

 

“Oh, you’ll get paid, all right, cocksucker,” the dude said quietly, his manner still coldly composed, “I’m gonna make damn sure you get everything a fag whore like you deserves.”

 

With that, he slammed his boot down onto Teddy’s chest.  It hit the kid at the bottom edge of his ribcage like a piledriver, snapping two ribs and ripping his diaphragm muscle.  “HORG!!”  the teen slut cried inarticulately as air was forced violently from his lungs.  The john ground his boot into the flesh, putting his entire body weight onto that foot.

 

Teddy, his eyes bulging in pain and disbelief, reached up and desperately clutched at the john’s ankle, feeling the smooth leather and tight laces under his hands as he tried to lessen the intense, grinding pressure on his midsection.  The sadistic stud stood on the boy with that foot instead, using the other foot to kick the boy’s flank, hard, snapping another rib.  With a choking cry, Teddy let go of the alpha’s boot.

 

“You fuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the john snarled, spitting on Teddy.  The confused boywhore tried to wrap his mind around what was happening when suddenly the stud began kicking him brutally, driving his steel toed boots into the boy’s prone body.  Squealing like a piglet in his fear and pain, Teddy curled into a fetal position to protect his more vulnerable areas.

 

It didn’t slow the vicious alpha down.  Teddy’s exposed back offered plenty of flesh for the sick top to aim for.  He wasn’t able to break all the homo’s ribs, although he tried.  He scored a good shot on the cunt’s scrote, though; as Teddy brought his knees up to his chest, his balls dangled between his legs and were exposed on their back side when he rolled away from his attacker.

 

The impact between the hardbodied john’s Digger boots and the soft, pulpy tissue of Teddy’s gonads was so severe that Teddy’s left testicle was crushed like an overripe grape, blood and cum spurting over the whore’s taint and the alpha’s boot.  The pain was more traumatic than anything the teen slut had ever experienced—he literally shot up in the air, coming back down onto his back again, splashing the oil-scummed water pooling in the alley.

 

His scream was piercing but brief.  “Shaddup, cocksucker,” the top jeered, then kicked him again—this time in the face.  Teddy shut up.  He was too busy trying to maintain consciousness after having his jaw broken and three teeth kicked down his throat.

 

“Just another worthless faggot cunt,” the alpha growled, “Fuckin’ garbage that can’t even work the load outta my hog.  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya, pansy!”  He slammed his foot down on Teddy’s smooth bare chest and once again was rewarded with the splintering sound of breaking bones.

 

This time was different, as least for the teen slut.  This time, in addition to the breaking ribs, Teddy felt a horrible pain as something tore deep in his torso, a terrifying ripping sensation—and then he couldn’t breathe.

 

He tried to inhale and found that he could, but just barely.  It took all his effort to suck in air, and the pain was excruciating.  He had no idea that his right lung had been torn open by the jagged end of a broken rib and was slowly collapsing; he only knew that he was dying.

 

The john saw it too, and didn’t stop.  He kept applying his steel-toed boots to the mortally injured whoreboy, kicking him in the legs and hips, stomping on his arms.  As he pinned Teddy’s right hand to the pavement and ground it to a useless wad of flesh and bone shards, the adolescent cunt felt drops of hot liquid spattering his face.

 

Prying his eyes open reluctantly, Teddy looked up to see the john’s huge cock dangling directly over him, dripping precum.  The dude was watching intently as he inflicted physical damage on the teenaged punk, and he was getting off on it.

 

He hadn’t cum while fucking Teddy, but he was gonna cum while kicking him to death.

 

It wasn’t real.  He wasn’t lying here nearly nude in a puddle of filth in a back alley, being stomped to death by a rogue alpha john.  The pain was so intense, so severe, that Teddy was as disoriented as if he’d taken a huge dose of hallucinogens.  But the stud’s words penetrated his trauma-hazed mind, reinforcing the nightmarish reality.

 

“Fuckin’ scum—gonna hafta scrape what’s left of ya off my soles like dogshit, haw!  Does it hurt, cunt?  You deserve this shit, bitch.  I’m gonna kick you to death like a nigger, motherfucker!”

 

He kept his voice in control; the tone of joyous rage didn’t travel far down the alley, but it reached Teddy clear enough.  The alpha didn’t think so, though; he felt the need to drive his point home and punctuate it with his black leather footgear.

 

Teddy could see the muscled john raise his leg; cruelly, time seemed to slow down, extending his suffering and giving him a chance to see approaching agony that he was utterly unable to ward off or abate.

 

The black X’s on the dude’s heavy tread glistened darkly as the boot dangled over Teddy’s nude, shuddering body.  It was blood, the boywhore realized dully, his own blood.  He felt no surprise or shock at the discovery—he was far too full of pain and fear for there to be room for other sensations.

 

Then the john began pounding him.

 

“Fuckin’ [STOMP] piece a’ [STOMP] faggot trash [STOMP], die under my boots [STOMP STOMP]!!!”

 

The tearing feeling again, much worse.  The john had crushed Teddy’s other testicle, then slammed his feet so hard into the teen’s chest and gut that the punk had suffered severe injuries to his liver, stomach, and spleen and had punctured his other lung.  As he painfully coughed up a huge wad of blood, air was escaping from his torn lungs into his chest cavity.  In five minutes, the pressure would be enough to collapse both lungs and he would suffocate.

 

He didn’t live that long.

 

As he gasped and choked, expending more and more effort just to breathe, some part of Teddy wished he’d managed to get that meth; it would have made this so much easier to deal with…

 

Then the alpha kicked him twice in the face, the steel toes shattering his cheekbones and knocking four teeth out of his upper jaw.  Suddenly an acrid, sour stench filled the alley.  To far gone to maintain control, Teddy pissed himself.

 

The alpha chuckled.  Placing his boot on Teddy’s throat, he stood over the dying adolescent and started jerking his huge, oozing shaft.

 

“Guess yer finally gonna get my load, boy,” he said with a wicked grin, “Lights out, motherfucker.”

 

Slowly and intimately, he crushed Teddy’s trachea under his boot, increasing the pressure until it gave underfoot like a beer can.  As it cracked and crunched beneath his sole, the alpha grunted, a deep basso rumble, and spewed his hot jizz on the teen’s face.

 

Teddy felt his esophagus give way; as the older man’s boot destroyed his windpipe, the anguished youth jerked, his arms flailing and beating on the pavement until his hands were bloody.  His feet, trapped by his lowered jeans, were no help to him, and as his face darkened and his tongue protruded in choking agony, the alpha’s spunk spattered across his face.

 

The last sensation Teddy received as he died was the salty taste of his killer’s sperm on his tongue.  His cock pulsed and twitched but his faggot balls had been too irreparably damaged for the boywhore to experience a deathload.  He quivered and died in a puddle of oily water, blood,  and piss in in the foul-smelling alleyway.

 

Smirking, the top stuffed his still-dripping tool back into his jeans.  He was still zipping his fly as he turned and headed back down the alley, whistling “Turkey in the Straw”.  Behind him, as the tune and the heavy booted footfalls faded away, the body of the teen boywhore, battered and bruised beyond recognition, continued to tremble.

 

As the night wore on and the corpse cooled and stiffened, rats began to gather.

The Trucker 19–Trucker vs Plague Rat

The Trucker had a need for prey.  He usually took his time and enjoyed the hunt, but tonight was different.

 

The last few weeks had been insane, and it didn’t look like things were getting better anytime soon.  Constantly on the move and always in demand, his job qualified as an essential service.

 

Tonight, he needed some essential servicing himself.  He’d dropped a trailer full of supplies at the distribution warehouse for a small chain of grocery stores in central Texas this morning, then headed north and east in his unburdened cab.  Wanting to avoid the larger cities, he pulled over about forty miles south of Dallas in a small town well off the interstate.

 

He’d headed here specifically, based on an app he’d downloaded.  Just outside of town was a small roadside motel, and on the other side of the state highway, sitting in about two acres of crumbling asphalt, was a huge metal building housing a nightclub.  According to the app, the place wasn’t a gay bar, but it was known for the likelihood of faggots propositioning men from the bar in the parking lot.

 

The Trucker had also heard about the place from some of his fellow drivers.  Seems the fags got taken up on their offers enough for the place to develop a reputation.  Of course, it had another reputation—sometimes the homos hit on the wrong dude, and bad things happened.  Very bad things.

 

Tonight, the Trucker was full of built-up testosterone and rage.  He needed to do some very bad things.

 

He pulled into the motel parking lot and headed for the office.  His sleeper cab was his home, and he didn’t want to mess it up.  He needed a temporary killing pit.

 

There was a small Hispanic woman behind the counter with a bandanna over her face.  No shelter-in-place order had been given locally, so everything was still open, but she clearly wanted to avoid the Trucker.  She handled his cash gingerly and shoved the key across the counter at him as if he was visibly radiating plague germs.

 

Clearly no one at the honky-tonk was worried about physical contact; as his thick, heavy Timberland Pro Logger boots thudded on the cracked cement pavement, he could see the full parking lot across the street and hear the loud, raucous music.  He was in number fifteen, the next-to last on the right end of the ground floor.

 

The moment he opened the door, the overpowering reek of bleach hit his nose; the cleaning staff weren’t taking any chances.  The buff hardman quickly strode to the window and opened it; the atmosphere was damn near toxic.  As he waited for the eye-watering fumes to clear, he glanced around and took in his accommodations.

 

A queen-sized bed with a thin mattress, thin, flat pillows and a thin and scratchy comforter of quilted polyester.  A dresser/desk unit that had no legs; it was evidently bolted directly to the wall.  There was a small and battered chair for the desk and, on the other side of the room, a mismatched armchair that didn’t look sturdy enough to support his weight next to a small round table.

 

The bathroom, to one side, was small and white-tiled.  Very, very white.  Housekeeping had gone through a full gallon of bleach in here, at least; almost too much to be accounted for by the virus.  The Trucker wondered idly if the place had been used as a killing pit before.

 

Well if it hadn’t, it was about to be broken in.  He’d seen what he needed to—it’d suffice.

 

He flicked off the lights and headed out, a muscular man in a leather jacket and tight jeans tucked into laced but untied logger boots striding purposefully towards the bar.  Anyone seeing him would know that he was a man with a mission, but few would be able to guess at a distance what a violent and murderous mission it was.

 

There was movement in the club parking lot; he could sense the surreptitious mansex occurring all around him and grinned viciously.  If the stupid fags couldn’t stay in quarantine, what else could they expect but death?

 

He was about two thirds of the way to the main entrance when words caught his ear; he suddenly found himself listening to a couple of homos having an argument two rows over.

 

“—couldn’t even stay in Dallas, couldja?  Lemme guess—with everything shut down, you couldn’t find any cock to suck but mine, and that ain’t good enough, is it?”

 

“Aw, chill out, man; I’m just havin’ a little fun—ain’t no big deal.”

 

“No big deal?  Fuck you, Jay.  I’m done.  You’re a whore and you’re gonna get me sick, one way or another.  I’m leaving.”

 

“What?  C’mon, Chris, you ain’t going—”

 

“The hell I ain’t.  Go on and have your fun, Jay.  I won’t be there when you get back—if you get back.”

 

They parted, one climbing into a mid-size SUV and pulling out.  The remaining one headed towards the club entrance—directly towards the Trucker.

 

The moment they were able to get a clear view of each other, something filled the air between them like powerfully charged ions; thunder and lightning smoldered in their eyes.

 

The Trucker, with his jeans, jacket, and boots, was enough to entrance any twink cocksucker; his skintight white cotton t-shirt clung to the vast rise of his huge pecs and the rippled surface of his muscled abs.  His long dark hair showed under the black trucker cap he sported and the three-days’ growth of scruff on his face emphasized its somehow dangerous masculinity.

 

The kid also wore a leather jacket and a tight white cotton t-shirt, but that was where the resemblance ended.  His t-shirt bore an Adidas logo and below he had on a pair of skinny track pants in shiny black polyester.  For some reason, he’d pulled sport socks up over the hem of the trackies, perhaps to better display his white Adidas All Star hightops, which he wore with the ankle straps hanging loose.

 

His face was young—the Trucker doubted the kid would’ve been let into the club without a fake ID, but maybe they were less strict out here.  Little fuck sure didn’t look country, though; with his carefully-arranged hair with the faggy upsweep in the front, it was obvious he wasn’t from around here…

 

The fag was horny and alone.  It was perfect.  The Trucker had homed in on his prey; now he needed to get it back to the room.  That, it turned out, was relatively easy.

 

Jay’s eyed had locked in on the Trucker’s bulging crotch the moment he got close enough to see it.  Between the teen’s salacious grin—he was still three months shy of his twentieth birthday—and the Trucker’s evil leer, they didn’t need to bandy words coyly about intent.  Each one wanted to use the other for sex, and each one knew it.

 

“It’s dark enough over there in the corner, if ya wanna whip it out,” Jay began, jerking his head to indicate the back of the parking lot.

 

“Naw, not in public,” the Trucker drawled laconically, “Like to take my time.  Gotta room in the motel over there.  C’mon.”

 

Jay’s skinny trackies were tight enough for his long boycock to tent as it sprang to attention.  “Fuck yeah, bro, right behind ya.”

 

As they headed across the street, the Trucker’s boots again thudded heavily on the road surface.  Jay’s kicks, in contrast, made no sound at all, as if the young fag was already a ghost.  As he approached the motel and followed the Trucker across the threshold, he had no idea that he would never re-cross it alive.

 

He was about to find out, though.

 

Nothing was said as they entered the room; nothing needed to be said.  As the Trucker drew the curtains over the window and locked the door, Jay slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing it on the armchair, and peeled out of his t-shirt.  His smooth bare chest revealed, he turned and expectantly waited for the Trucker to respond.

 

The older man locked eyes with the kid, grinned, and turned back to slide the chain lock on the door.  He took off his cap and tossed it onto the table, then pulled off his jacket and threw it on top of the kid’s.  With a single, smooth motion, he grasped the hem of his own t-shirt and jerked it up and over his head, shaking out his long dark hair as he did so.

 

Jay stared, jaw sagging, at the stud’s muscled, furry torso. The metallic glinting of dogtags drew the slut’s eyes to the muscled stud’s chest.  The huge nipples, thick and erect, rose up over the forest of fur that covered the valley between the pectorals and ran down his hard washboard abs to disappear beneath the waist of his jeans.  Seeing the fagboy gaping in lust, the Trucker smirked and unzipped his fly.  As Jay’s eyes strayed down towards his crotch, the hardman slowly pulled his enormous tool free from its confinement, letting it spring forward, jutting and throbbing in the open air.

 

With his mouth still hanging open, Jay fell to his knees.

 

“Get over here and suck it, cunt.  Don’t get up, you stupid faggot.  On your knees, boy, crawl for it.”

 

Jay obeyed, creeping forward until he was in reach of the massive, pulsating shaft.  He leaned in and gingerly put his lips on the thick, spongy head.  Instantly, the Trucker’s hands clamped onto the back of his head.  Before Jay had the chance to react, his esophagus was full of oozing mancock.

 

“I said suck it, ya useless homo, not lick it!  Fuck, cantcha give decent head, dumbass?”

Jay had no issues with a little rough talk but between the verbal abuse and the forced throatfuck, his bottom pig nature was already finding the encounter to be humiliating, uncomfortable, and a little scary.  He’d have said as much, only he was gagging and grimacing, tears leaking from his eyes as his face became red.

 

He beat his hands on the Trucker’s legs; the fagkiller’s thighs were thick and hard, like denim-covered marble.  The kid moved his arms up, his fingers clawing the dark wiry fur on the alpha’s muscled gut.  The Trucker responded by shoving the kid so that he fell back, still on his knees, throwing his left arm down and behind to support himself while gasping and coughing, wiping spittle from his lips with his right hand.  Blinking the tears from his eyes, he glared up at the Trucker.

 

“Dude, what the fuck—” WHAM!

 

The Trucker stopped the cunt’s squawking by popping it in the face.

 

Jay huddled on the floor, clutching his bruised cheek.  This time, he slowly and carefully raised his eyes.  He could see the hulking stud’s logger boots, the smooth black leather rising to nearly mid-calf before the denim took over.  Just above, the gigantic dick, dripping precum and boyspit—Jay had felt the way every vein wrapped around it had pulsed in excitement as he gagged on it.  And then that belly and those huge pecs with the dogtags jingling cheerfully between them.  And above that…

 

Above that, a leering, masculine stud and something else, something moving, a blur—

 

The second blow caught Jay in the mouth.  There was sharp pain and the coppery taste of blood and then everything went nice and peaceful and dark and he didn’t have to worry about what the fuck was happening—for a bit.

 


 

When he awoke, his cranium ringing like a cathedral bell, the boyslut thought he was nude.  He was in pain and his mind was vague—he remembered an assault but not much else—but he had no clothes on.  It was only when he flexed his toes that he realized he was still wearing his socks and shoes.

 

His trackies had zippers running up a few inches from the ankles so that he could have slipped them off over his kicks if he’d wanted, but he couldn’t remember wanting to.  And why that fuck did his face hurt so goddam bad?

 

“You finally back, fuckwad?  Whadda fuckin’ pansy.  Can’t even handle a little foreplay—just wait till I start actually fuckin’ ya, faggot.”

 

The deep masculine voice brought it all back.  Jay forced his eyes open and sat up, slowly and groggily on the bed. The Trucker was leaning casually against the table, smoking a Marlboro and eyeing the boy with lustful contempt.  In a corner by the door was a wadded pile of shiny polyester—what was left of Jay’s track pants.

 

And as the Trucker flicked his smoke at an ashtray on the table, the cunt’s eyes followed the motion and saw his wallet on the table.  It was open and had obviously been rifled through.

 

No matter how much or little money Jay had, he was greedily possessive of it; the thought that someone else had their hands on his cash made him forget the fact that he was locked in a room with a powerful stranger who’d already punched him twice in the face.  The moment he noticed the wallet, he popped off the bed like he’d been launched, his long, thick boycock swaying between his smooth thighs as he lurched unsteadily across the room.

 

“My fuckin’ wallet!  Where’s my cash, you asshole?  I’m gonna—”

 

His ranting came to an instant halt the moment he stepped within arm’s reach of the Trucker.  The powerful hardman shot out his right arm, grabbed Jay by the neck—his hand nearly large enough to encircle the fag’s throat—and hoisted him straight up in the air.  As the teen gagged and kicked, his flailing Adidas sneakers swinging four inches about the thin carpet, the muscled killer turned and slammed him into the door.

 

Still holding the meat aloft, the Trucker closed in, face to face, his cold blue eyes staring mesmerizingly into those of his prey, like a snake’s.

 

“You ain’t gonna need money by the time I’m done with you, queerboy.  I brought you in here to waste yer worthless ass.  Yer gonna die on my dick, ya piece a’ shit; I’m gonna use yer dyin’ convulsions to jack off.  Ain’t no one gonna miss a cumguzzlin’ fag like you, cunt, so shaddup and take what you fuckin’ deserve!”

 

With that, the Trucker gutpunched the whore, making Jay gag and thrash, his heels drumming against the door.  The hypermasculine fagkiller chuckled, his enormous cock throbbing as he watched the punk suffer for a moment, then dropped him.

 

Jay sank to his knees, both hands clutching his now-open throat as he choked and coughed between racking sobs.  Now that he could breathe again, he was aware of how the reek of bleach had become overpowered by a mixture of cigarette smoke, mansweat, and a musky smell that he couldn’t identify but that his cock recognized as testosterone and responded in kind.  This…this wasn’t happening.  He had to get out of here.  Maybe Chris hadn’t left yet, maybe he could find him in the parking lot or at least someone, anyone to help him—

 

In blind panic, the teen slut turned and scrabbled at the door, clutching desperately at the knob, fingers fumbling at the lock.  Behind him, the Trucker looked on in scorn, smirking at the meat’s noticeable relief when it managed to get the knob unlocked and open the door—only to find it had forgotten the chain.  He stepped forward, slammed the door, and grabbed the cunt by the faggy hairdo, dragging it back into the room.  As it moaned and bleated in terror, he bent down to its crotch and reaching one hand under its taint to its taut adolescent asscheeks, picked the homo up bodily and flung it across the room.

 

The kid slammed into the desk/dresser unit, rolling up on top and smacking into the wall behind hard enough to shatter the mirror and dent the drywall.  The unit had been poorly installed and had never been intended to hold much weight to begin with.  With a loud ripping sound, the entire unit tore free of the wall and fell forward onto the floor, projecting Jay halfway back across the room in the process.

 

When it was done, the sheetrock had been torn from half of the far wall.  The dresser/desk lay facedown on the floor and half the room was littered with dust, pieces of drywall and shards of glass.  In the middle was the huddled nude teen whore.

 

The Trucker walked casually over to him.  Lying on his face and groaning in pain, the youth reached out his left hand pathetically, as if pleading for help.

 

Bringing his big black boot down on the homo’s hand, the Trucker ground it into the floor, grinning with pleasure as he heard and felt the boy’s bones snapping and crunching under his heel.  The kid’s squeals of agony make his cock drip.

 

He was a long way from being done.  The fag needed to suffer more—a lot more—before the muscled killer planned on ending its useless life.

 

“Does it hurt, asswipe?” he muttered so softly that the agonized teen could barely hear him, “Not enough, it doesn’t.  Not yet.”

 

He knelt beside the boy.  For a brief moment, there was something in the way the older man was beside him, something about the Trucker’s movement and position the stirred some childhood memory inside Jay and made him think of a time when someone—his grandpa, maybe, had gotten down on his knees to help him.

 

But as the Trucker placed his knee on Jay’s left arm, just below the elbow, and grabbed his hand, pulling it up and back, the boywhore realized that the muscled stud wasn’t trying to express tenderness—he was breaking Jay’s arm.

 

The realization hit the cunt’s mind just as his arm bent upright at a ninety-degree angle, halfway between the wrist and the elbow.  The loud, wet snapping of the radius and ulna was almost, but not quite simultaneous—Jay heard as well as felt the Trucker break both bones with the ease of cracking a wishbone.

 

He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.  He lay on the floor, nude but for his kicks, staring at his mangled left arm and gasping loudly.  As the Trucker stepped back for a moment, the strong, smooth youth began to rise to his feet.  It was a painful and laborious process, since he only had one arm to brace himself with.  He used it to grab at the table, painfully clinging to the furniture as he pulled himself upright.

 

As he stood, swaying, his hair dark with the sweat that trickled down his lean body, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized at the last second that the process of getting up had been so intense, he’d lost sight of the Trucker.

 

The Trucker hadn’t lost sight of him.  Just as Jay turned his head in his direction, the Trucker swung the upright wooden desk chair he’d picked up.  The slut didn’t have time to duck; the chair struck him with such violent force that it shattered to kindling.  The impact knocked the young onto and over the table; since he was still tightly clutching the edge, he managed to pull it with him, flipping it over on top of himself as he fell on the far side.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad, and Jay was scared to the point of panic, but his young, strong body served him cruelly, refusing to let him lose consciousness.  He was forced to endure, to feel everything happening to him.  And through it all, he was constantly aware of the Trucker’s hulking, intimidating presence.  Like now, when the older man suddenly jerked the table off him, sending it skittering halfway across the room as easily as if it had been made of balsa wood.

 

The Trucker bent down and lifted the meat by the throat again; he liked this hold–this way, he knew he had the fag’s attention when he spoke to it.  Jay gagged and kicked, but not as violently as he had the first time.  He’d been pretty well tenderized; his right arm was clawing at the Trucker’s grip on his neck, but the left dangled and twitched uselessly.

 

And yet, beneath all that, the Trucker saw the teen’s thick boydick swell and stiffen.  Even as he choked, tears of pain and terror running down his face, he was getting hard.

 

He knew.  He expected it.  Fuckin’ homos screamed and cried and fought, but they all died with hard cocks, shooting their final load in gratitude as he fulfilled their destiny and gave them their final purpose on this planet—to be used as a cumdump and tossed aside like the garbage they were.

 

Deep down, they all knew they wanted it.  Ya just had to beat some sense into ‘em sometimes.

 

“Ready, motherfucker?” he hissed, grinning with malevolent glee at battered punk slowly choking in his hand, “Foreplay is over.  I’m ready to cum.  Wanna know how I’m gonna get off?  I’m gonna stick my cock balls-deep in yer ass and strangle you so yer convulsions jack me off.  Yer gonna die just so I can have a fucktoy.  And ya better work my hog good, fuckmeat—I can make this as long and as painful as I hafta.”

 

As he spoke, he crossed the room accompanied by loud crunching and cracking sounds as debris was crushed under the thick soles of his logging boots.  Jay was kicking with a bit more spirit now; the Trucker hadn’t held him this long before, and he was seriously starting to choke.  As they approached the bed, a certain reality set in; stupid as Jay was, he realized that what he was experiencing now was what he’d be feeling as he died.  True panic set in; he began thrashing like a fish on a line.

 

The Trucker, for once caught somewhat by surprise by a meat’s struggling, grunted and braced himself to keep his hold on the cunt.  It flailed about vigorously, its hand beating fruitlessly at the older man’s broad chest, legs kicking so violently that one caught the bedside lamp, shattering it and sending the pieces flying into the wall.  With another grunt, the Trucker tossed the kid faceup onto the bed; before Jay could rise, the fagkiller was there beside him.

 

He didn’t have a chance, not that he could truly believe that yet.  Even as he peered up at the hardbodied, hairy-chested stud towering over him, eyes glaring, nipples jutting and cock oozing, he still could not accept that he wouldn’t survive the night.

 

The Trucker knew it, too.  These teen homos were all the same; unless they were hardcore whores or users, the young ones hadn’t seen enough of life to understand how brutal it really can be.  And those who had seen it thought they were smart enough to avoid the worst—until they crossed paths with the Trucker.

 

Now it was time for this cunt to learn.  The alpha stud’s cock was beginning to ache; it needed release.  He climbed onto the bed, feeling the thin scratchy comforter under his knees as he pried open the punk’s legs and brandished his massive erect member like a spear, aiming it directly at the kid’s fuckhole.

 

Jay saw it coming and braced himself, but it didn’t help.  He’d been taking it up the ass for four years but had never experienced anything this bad.

 

It didn’t just hurt, he was being damaged.  From the moment the enormous head of the Trucker’s cock ripped his sphincter open so wide that flesh and muscles were torn, Jay realized that things were being done to him that would require massive medical intervention to fix, if it could be fixed at all.  The horrible sensation of a huge alien impalement continued as the older man’s rod probed deep in the boy’s guts, ripping at the tender lining of his colon and grinding relentlessly over his prostate.

 

Jay screamed and kicked, thrashing as violently as he had when he was getting choked.  This wasn’t the panic caused by asphyxiation, though; the fucker was wailing in sheer agony, trying desperately to get off the huge shaft that was tearing him open on the inside.  His right arm beat again at the Trucker’s chest, his fist thudding dully against the wiry, sweat-matted fur and making the dogtags jump.  His legs flailed, his feet dragging and kicking to the point that the sneaker on his left foot was pulled off; it fell unnoticed to the floor with a faint thump.

 

It was the noise the Trucker fund most annoying; the meat was squealing like a stuck pig.  “Aw, shaddup, motherfucker,” he snarled and punch the boy twice in the face.

 

With his left eye blackened and his lips split, Jay lowered his cries to a faint mewling that still abraded the sadist’s nerves.  “Goddamit, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, I said shut the fuck up!!”

 

Three blows strait into the fag’s belly, punctuated by the teen’s grunts as air was forced from his lungs by the impact: WHAM!  “Grk!” WHAM! “Hagk!” WHAM! “Guh!”

 

The Trucker went for the adolescent’s face again, before he could inhale, putting an end to the boy’s loud cries by dislocating, then breaking his jaw.  The entire time he was beating the cunt, his dick was still balls-deep inside it.  The killer could feel the fuckmeat take the brunt of every blow as it twitched and jerked on his cock.

 

And through it all, the faggot was hard too.  Jay had sunk into a near-trance state as an instinctive defense against the brutal mental and physical trauma he was suffering.  The pain alone was almost too much to endure in a conscious state.  He didn’t know the Trucker had beat him hard enough to tear his diaphragm and break his jaw; he only knew that he was in horrific agony—but despite all the other sensations overwhelming his brain, he was still aware of his own erection as it was compressed between his smooth flat belly and the Trucker’s muscled, furry abs.

 

Above him and inside him, the hardbodied fagkiller grunted and pumped, but he was getting diminishing returns.  The meat was tenderized enough.  Time to finish it off.

 

He leaned forward so that his huge muscled pecs rested on the punk’s chest.  His dogtags jingled as they struck the boy’s chest, then slid up and off to one side, by his left shoulder.  Wrapping his huge hand around the cunt’s neck, he started squeezing.

 

Jay opened his eyes—as much as he could open them—and his look of utter terror was what the Trucker had been waiting for.

 

“This is it, motherfucker.  This is why you were put on this earth, cunt—to milk my load out as you ride my cock while I choke ya to death.  Ready to justify yer faggot existence?  C’mon, bitch, fight it.  Struggle, asswipe, I wanna feel ya die.  Make yer mama proud, homo; she went through labor to give me a fag corpse for a personal cumdump.  Now fuckin’ die, meat!”

 

He tightened his hands; they clutched Jay’s throat with the cruel intensity of a steel trap, remorselessly constricting the boy’s windpipe.  The teen slut was panicking again; his air hadn’t yet been cut off as long as it had before—but the simple fact that he couldn’t breathe had pulled him out of his trance state.

 

He’d heard every word the Trucker had said.  This was it.  He was gonna die.  He’d end up beaten, raped, and strangled to death like a street hustler.  He was gonna fuckin’ die.

 

No he wasn’t.

 

In a Hollywood movie, his newfound courage and the way it rallied his strength to fight back against his cruel fate would have had a happy ending.  In reality, all it did was piss the Trucker off and cause Jay new trauma and horrible suffering before he died like a bitch.

 

Putting his one good hand to use, the gagging homo clawed desperately at his rapist’s face, his fingers seeking a grip on the older man’s unshaven cheeks and chin.  The Trucker angrily jerked his head away; feeling his target slip from his grasp, the dying teen transferred his attention elsewhere, beating and pawing at the Trucker’s massive, rock-hard chest.

 

The fur here was longer and wirier; Jay was able to hook his fingers in and jerk.  The hardbodied killer grunted in irked discomfort as the punk pulled some of the hair out, but it was the kid’s next handful that set the stud off—the kid managed to snag his dogtags.  That was unacceptable.

 

The Trucker wrapped his thickly-muscled left arm around the meat’s good right arm and began pulling and twisting.  The action began putting stress on the joints at the shoulder and the elbow; the harder the Trucker pulled, the greater the stress became.

 

Jay was worse off than he’d been before; the Trucker was easily strong enough to choke him out one-handed while ripping his arm out of it socket, and that’s exactly what he was doing. As his reamed-out, bleeding colon continued to suffer brutal punishment from the older man’s huge cock, he could feel the sinews and tendons in his shoulder and his elbow being stretched past the point of endurance.

 

“You stupid cunt,” the Trucker remarked calmly, “Hope this hurts like fuck.  You deserve it, bitch.”  Twisting his face into a snarl, he gave a might jerk.  With a sickening gristly crunch, Jay felt his muscles tear open and his ligaments snap like overstretched rubber bands.  The arm rolled sickeningly out at the shoulder and bent backwards at the elbow.

 

He would’ve screamed if he could have.  Some small part of him that had walled itself off from the agony felt a dull surprise that he could even feel the pain after already enduring so much—but he damn sure could feel it.

 

Able to return his right hand to the fucker’s throat, the Trucker applied more pressure. Letting go with one hand hadn’t allowed the meat to get any air; its swollen face was black and congested, physical proof of the sheer physical agony of strangulation.  The half-lidded, bloodshot eyes were starting to bulge, an expression of abject horror glinting deep with them.

 

Jay’s legs were kicking and flailing; by now, it was utterly involuntary.  His arms lay useless and twitching, twisted into odd shapes at his sides, but his thrashing legs showed the youth’s frenetic fight to hang onto his swiftly-fading life.  His boyfeet flexed in his death agonies; as he drummed his heels helplessly against the mattress, the sock on his shoeless foot was pulled off, leaving his toes curling in the open air.

 

The Trucker could feel the boymeat heaving under him, lubed by the cold deathsweat forced from its body in the last few moments of its life.  But Jay was experiencing a whole new level of tactile sensations.  As his brain began to die off, his nervous system kicked into overdrive, developing a hypersensitivity which amped up his susceptibility to physical sensation.

 

He could feel the polyester threads of the comforter, cold and wet with his sweat, as they scratched at his back.  He could feel the Trucker’s chest hair, also matted with sweat, as it scraped and ground like sandpaper against his smooth, slick flesh.  The weight of the stronger, more powerful man was unendurable as it pressed him into the cheap, nasty motel bed…

 

But these were side notes, flickering at the edge of his awareness.  What he felt most was the enormous, bludgeon-like cock that some seemed to be larger that his asshole, so that his lower intestines clung to its veined cylindrical length like a condom.  What he felt most was the slow, inexorable crushing of his windpipe, as the cartilage was distorted past the point of its ability to recover.

 

What he felt was the pain and the pounding, the confusion and the terror of being raped and choked to death by a powerful serial killer—that, and the way his own cock was responding, pulsing and aching excruciatingly, in a way he’d never experienced before.

 

Jay had no way of knowing that deep in his teenaged balls, his deathload was brewing—that final, ecstatic, agonizing burst as his spasming body desperately tried to save some of its DNA before it died.

 

Spunk was building in the Trucker’s huge, hairy scrote as well.  The meat was obviously near death; a thick white foam oozed out of its mouth past the swollen purple tongue and ran down its darkened cheek.  The eyes had rolled back into the head so that only the whites showed, blood vessels bursting like fireworks deep within them.  The real clue, though, was the easing of resistance.

 

Since the alpha had snapped both the teen homo’s arms, judging the intensity of its struggles required the in-depth knowledge of an experienced fagkiller.  The meat was nearly ripe for seeding; its brain was dying.

 

The firm, smooth adolescent body began to move rhythmically.  The convulsions were slow and gentle at first, but the Trucker knew enough to hang on.  This was the whole point of tonight’s wild ride; this was the destination, the payoff.  There was no sensation the Trucker wanted more, nothing else that felt so incredible, as young fag boymeat convulsing on his cock as it died, and he wanted to savor it.

 

As the cunt’s brain shut down, it began sending faulty signals through the nervous system.  As a result, its rectum began to clench and spasm, massaging the Trucker’s massive swollen member.  Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward.  Spitting in the punk’s black and congested face, he started plowing its ass mercilessly as he relentlessly increased the pressure on its esophagus.

 

His cock was so huge, and Jay’s fuckhole so collapsed around it, that the muscled sadist’s brutal thrusting literally shredded the unfortunate boy’s rectal lining.  The teenaged slut may have been in an irretrievable state of brain death at this point, but it could still feel.

 

All it could feel was agony as its asshole was torn apart.

 

As the aching pressure in his balls grew, the Trucker growled, a deep, guttural sound, and dug his thumbs into the dying faggot’s larynx.  There was a distinctly satisfying crunch as the delicate structure was pulped to a wad of bloody gristle under the inexorable pressure, sealing the bitch’s throat off for good.

 

The collapse of his trachea was the physiological trigger for Jay’s deathload, as if on some deep, instinctual level, the teen’s body knew it was lost and tried to expel its DNA.  The firm young body, warm and slick with sweat, arced up in a final, bone-wracking convulsion.

 

The meat couldn’t clutch at the Trucker, the way other meat had in the past; its arms were twitching violently and fruitlessly on the bed, but its legs wrapped tightly around the older man’s waist, the firm thighs squeezing him in death agony.

 

“Fuuuuck…” the hardbodied psycho moaned as the boy’s guts clutched and jerked at his engorged, oozing rod.  This was it, he couldn’t hold it back any longer—

 

—and that was he and the meat shot their loads together, the alpha crying incoherently, completely unaware that he’d started beating the punk’s face in as he hosed its guts with his hot potent mansperm.

 

The meat spewed thick gobs of boycum all over the Trucker’s ripped abs and broad, muscled chest, spattering it into the dark wiry fur.  The last sensations Jay experienced as he unceremoniously exited his short, wasted life were the Trucker’s seething load filling him like molten lead and his own spunk jetting from his body with a mortal pain, as if taking the last remaining shreds of his life with it.

 

And it did.  Jay was dead before he stopped cumming, his black, grotesquely-swollen head lolling on top of his compressed neck.

 

By the time the Trucker stopped shooting, he was a heaving, sweaty, spunk-covered mass of muscles, gasping for air after the intensity of rough sex.  It took him a moment to recover—and another moment to extract his massive tool from the corpse’s collapsed rectum.  A flow of blood-stained cum leaked from the dead boy’s ravaged asshole after the Trucker’s hog was out.

 

The fagkiller crossed to the bathroom, debris again snapping and crunching under his logger boots.  Once there, he took a few moments to tidy up, wiping off his still-oozing shaft and tucking it back inside his jeans before turning his attention to the larger task of cleaning the meat’s deathwad off his chest.  After cleaning himself, the buff serial killer returned to bedroom to retrieve his clothes and admire his work.

 

What was left of the adolescent homo wasn’t easy to identify.  The face was beaten to hamburger; the smooth flesh of the chest and belly was black with bruises and the arms were just—wrong.  They were twisted and bent in ways that hurt to look at.

 

The legs were spread, the one Adidas hightop the meat had retained still twitching as the corpse cooled.  Between the smooth boyish buttcheeks, blood and sperm continued to ooze from its well-reamed ass.

 

The room itself was devastated; the bed and the armchair the only pieces of furniture that survived the vicious assault intact.  There was easily several thousand dollars worth of damage

 

The Trucker slipped his leather jacket on over his bare chest, wadding up his t-shirt and shoving it his pocket.  Putting on his cap, he unlocked the door.  After taking one last satisfied look back, he opened it.

 

He was immediately greeted with the sound of sirens.

 

For a split second, he hesitated on the threshold.  But he realized they weren’t heading for the hotel; they were heading for the honky-tonk on the other side of the road.  There were two local cruisers in the lot already; as he watched, another pair of cars—these belonging to the state troopers—pulled in, sirens blaring.  There seemed to be a large crowd gathered in the parking lot, and from what the Trucker could tell, some sort of fight had broken out.

 

It was a perfect distraction.  He headed for his cab.  Climbing in and starting it up, he began to pull out of the parking lot when he noticed the desk clerk coming out of the office.  But she didn’t notice him at all; her attention was focused on the commotion across the street.

 

He chuckled and headed into the dark night, his thick cock still warm and happy with a job well done.

 

 


 

Pendleton had been on the force for six years.  He’d seen some shit in that time; shit that would’ve scarred a lesser man.  Appalling cases of domestic abuse, drug- and booze-induced fights, horrifying car accidents—but this was on a whole new level.

 

He waited outside the room for the ME to show up.

 

“Hey, Pendleton; who’s the lead on the case?”

 

“Hey, doc.  Ain’t one.  I’m the only one here.”

 

The ME, a wizened, gray-haired man in his fifties, frowned in concern.  “Whaddaya mean, you’re the only one?  I can’t wait around all day for a detective to show up; I need to get the body out of here!”

 

“They’re all workin’ on that fight from last night…”

 

“Oh yeah, across the street—what was the count?  Three stabbed and four shot?  I understand the chief wants see about getting some kind of lockdown order enforced…but anyway, I still don’t have time to wait.”

 

“Don’t think you’ll need to.  Take a look inside.  Pretty fuckin’ clear what happened.”

 

When the ME came back out of the room, his face was a gray as his hair.  “Jesus wept.  Kid was fucking beat to a pulp.  Looks like a goddam bomb exploded in there.”

 

“Didja see that shit leakin’ outta his ass?” the patrolman asked morosely, “Boy was raped.  Raped bad.

 

“Yeah, raped and strangled.  No detective work needed there, I admit, but won’t the chief want to have the scene processed?”

 

“You kiddin’?  You know the chief.  Some out-of-town faggot gets offed, he won’t wanna arrest the dude; he’ll wanna shake his hand.  Hell, the chief would lift a lockdown order for him—after all, by keepin’ the down the fag population, he performin’ an essential service.”

 

The ME sighed.  “I suppose so.  Things have changed since my day, when homosexuals knew their place.  Still, I don’t think it’s fair that my office has to clean up this mess.”  Grumbling under his voice, the disgruntled medical examiner pulled out his phone, calling for transport as he walked to his car.

 

Pendleton smirked.  “Whaddaya bitchin’ about, old man?” he muttered too quietly for the ME to hear, “I feel sorry for the maid.  Not only did she find the faggot this mornin’, she’s gonna hafta clean the room, too.”

 

Shaking his head, he scuffed the sole of his boot on the parking lot surface and idly considered his options for lunch as he watched the ME pulled a folded body bag from his trunk.

Meat Chronicles 22–Any Way You Slice It

He tells me his name’s Shawn.  He’s young and sweet, but he was stupid enough to climb into my van, and that means he’d gonna die.

 

I picked him up at the mall.  I’d been there legitimately but when I left, there was a knot of teenagers not far from my van.  I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.  They’d all gone to see a movie together and now that it was over, they were heading their separate ways.  One boy, though, didn’t have a car and couldn’t find anyone who was heading where he needed to go.

 

He was about seventeen, with wavy dark hair.  Tall and well-built, his broad friendly face radiated the kind of innocence that I love to destroy with my cock.  He wore a white button-down shirt, left unbuttoned halfway down his smooth muscular chest, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow so that I could see a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm, without being able to tell what it was.

 

His faded jeans were tight enough to show the exact dimensions of his thick boycock; on his feet, he sported a pair of white leather DC skate shoes.  And as his friends hopped into their cars and pulled out, he was left, forlorn, sexy, and helpless, in the parking lot.

 

I moved in, offering him a lift.

 

It was easy enough; he was looking for something specific for his mother’s birthday and it wasn’t in stock here.  One of the stores on the other side of town had it, but none of his friends had the time to go all the way out there.  All I had to do was tell him I had an errand on that side of town, and he hopped right into the passenger seat, grinning.

 

I glance at him as I head for the highway. He’s not wearing an undershirt; I can see enough through the thin material of his button-down to get a good idea of his well-built chest and his ripped abs.  For a teen punk, he’s pretty buff.

 

I can take him, of course; as well-muscled as he is, I can break him like a twig.  That’s not what I’m gonna do to this one, but it’ll come in handy when I have to establish dominance over the little fucker.  And that’s gonna be soon.

 

The store he wants is in center that was recently built on the edge of town; I deliberately miss the highway exit, telling the meat when he points out my mistake that I’ll take the next exit and loop back.

 

Thing is, there’s a building site just down from the next exit—a development going in just off a county road.  There’s nothing around it, and on a golden Sunday afternoon like this, it’ll be completely ended.

 

It’s the perfect place to waste this teenaged cunt.

 

I head down the road and pull into the lot.  There’s a chain link fence around the site, but no gate to it.  There’s a construction shack on the left with a couple of earth movers parked next to it.  I think they’re building a new office park, with several high-rises going in.   It’s gonna be a nice, pleasant place for a dirt nap.

 

“Wha-what are we doing here?” Shawn asks, his deep dark eyes peering at me quizzically from under his mop of wavy bangs.

 

“Whaddaya think of the place?” I ask him, smiling cheerfully.  He blinks, surprised by the question, and glances out the window.

 

“I, uh, I dunno,” he says hesitantly, “I-I mean, it’s kinda a mess.  Can, uh, can we go?”

 

“Aw ain’t that a goddam shame,” I say, commiserating, “He don’t wanna stay.  Tough shit, motherfucker; yer gonna stay here forever.  This place is gonna be your grave.”

 

I’m itching to strike, but not yet.  I have to see it register.  I have to see the shock and confusion in the adolescent’s face first.

 

And there it is.  “Wh-” he starts, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in bewilderment, “Wh-wh-wh-”

 

“This is what, dumbass,” I say and drive my fist into his face.  His head flies backwards, bounces off the van’s window, and rolls forward again just in time to meet my second sucker punch.

 

The teen may be strong and well-built, but he’s got a glass jaw.  The only thing preventing his buff young body from slumping into the floorboards is his seat belt.  He lolls limply in the nylon harness, waiting for me to come release him.  And I am.

 

I’m gonna release him from so much.  His restraints, his clothes, his virginity.  His life.

 

I open the door and jump out of the van.  The prints of my boots in the dirt blend in with those of the site workers; in the morning; no one will be able to tell I was here.  I open the side door first, then the passenger door, unbuckling the seatbelt and manhandling the unconscious punk out of the seat.

 

His firm teenaged body feels good in my arms.  It’s gonna feel so much better thrashing on my cock.

 

I sit him on the door sill, slumped forward and leaning on me as I rip his shirt open, tearing off the buttons and revealing the boy’s toned and muscled chest.  I run my hands over his smooth pecs for a moment, stopping to twist and yank the taut nubs of his nipples, before I slip the shirt back over his shoulders, where it falls off behind him.

 

I kneel down, letting the cunt slip forward, bent over me, as I pull his kicks off and toss them over my shoulder, then unbutton and unzip his jeans.  It takes a little more effort to drag the fucker upright so that his jeans slip down to his ankles, but he starts to moan as I do it.  I let him flop back onto the cold bare metal floor as I pull his jeans off the rest of the way, then his briefs.

 

He’s got a nice thick boycock, almost five inches soft.  Nude except for his ped socks, the teen’s lithe, smooth body is sprawled out on its back on the floor of my van, mine to use and abuse.  And goddam, am I gonna use it.

 

I position him properly, lengthwise on the floor.  To his right, just about face level, I’ve placed a two-foot square section of mirrored glass.  At a certain point, the cunt’s gonna have a nice view of the festivities.  As he starts groaning and fluttering his eyelids, I peel off my muscle t-shirt and unzip my fly.  Once I haul out my thick stiff rod, I’m ready to rock ‘n roll.  One last item, and then we wait for full consciousness.

 

The last item, of course, is my knife.  Seven inches of razor-sharp carbon steel, serrated, with grooves to channel blood away from the poly molded grip, it’s wicked and potent.  It’s as long and as hard as my cock, and just as eager to penetrate the adolescent fuckmeat.  Clutching it tightly, I spread the boy’s firm thighs and kneel between them, waiting for him to waken.  I don’t wait long.

 

“Hey dude,” I say casually, grinning at the kid as his big brown eyes open and gaze around bewilderedly, “Ya look like ya need to get fucked.”  Smiling gently, I slam my blade down into the punk’s belly with such force as to completely impale his body; the tip impacts the van floor beneath him.

 

The teen gasps as the sharpened steel slashes its way through his guts, his coiled intestines offering no resistance as the blade slides easily through him.  His young face is taut and gray with shock, his eyes wide with agony and disbelief as his body goes rigid.

 

This is what I’ve been waiting for.  Before the physical shock lets go and the kid relaxes again, I ram my huge erect tool into his ass.

 

He’s a virgin, of course.  No one’s ever been up his fuckhole before.  And now, his unstretched sphincter is clenched tight in physical agony.  I plow into it with the force of a wrecking ball, the only lube the slick coat of precum glistening on the massive engorged head of my rock-hard tool.

 

I tear him open.  I can feel it, I can feel the tissues parting and the blood flowing.  Even better, the meat can feel it too, and he screams.  Jesus, how he screams and shrieks as I completely wreck his asshole, shoving my rod deep into his guts with the same viciousness that I used with the knife.

 

Except this seems to hurt him more.  Even better, his dick starts to harden almost immediately.  His adolescent body, already overflowing with sexual hormones, is responding involuntarily to the pounding his prostate is receiving from my fat cock.

 

“Fuck yeah, bitch, lemme hear ya scream.  Tell me how much it hurts, motherfucker, yer sufferin’ is so goddam hot!”

 

I’m not sure he can hear me; he’s too focused on avoiding the pain.  I can feel it on my cock; he’s shifting his tight young ass, trying to minimize the pain when I go balls-deep up his mangled fuckhole.  The knife is bobbing back and forth in his belly; each thrust of my hips rams the kid’s body, moving it while the knife is pinned against the floor of the van.

 

Must be fuckin’ painful, but not painful enough.  I wanna destroy this boy.  He ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it but be in my way when I felt the urge to unload in some fuckmeat.  Sucks to be him, heh.

 

He’s clutching me tightly, his boyish face clenched and grimacing as he tries to endure the pain.   I can see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.  Suddenly, he seems to hit a breaking point and his eyes open, large and dark and full of tears.  Sobbing brokenly, he speaks.

 

“Oh god, oh fuck,” he wails, loosening his grip on my arms and raising his head to stare in horror at the molded grip of my knife rising from his heaving guts.  “Wh-wh-why?” he moans breathily as he reaches for the blade.

 

“No ya don’t, fuckwad,” I snarl, knocking his fumbling hands away and grabbing the hilt myself, “That’s how I get yer fag teen ass to work my cock.  Like this.”

 

I twist the knife in the wound, swinging it around like a pestle in a mortar, carving his intestines into tripe.  He howls loudly and raggedly, his voice cracking and rasping into near silence as I pull the knife out of him, pink strings of guts still dangling from the serrations.

 

He loses it.  I don’t know if he knows that given enough time, that wound is fatal.  He acts like he still has a chance to survive this; once I regain control, I need to make sure he knows he’s gonna die.  In the meantime, I just hang on as the little cunt thrashes under me, his lithe, lean teenaged body pressing against mine.  I can feel his smooth skin sliding on mine, moistened by the cold sweat forced from him by severe trauma.  His hands beat uselessly against me, clawing at my beard and thumping against my hard, muscled chest.

 

I don’t even have to pump my rod up his ass.  I just stay still and let his terror bounce him on my cock.  He’s workin’ it good, but it won’t last long—and I’m gettin’ kinda bored anyway.  Time to remind the meat who’s runnin’ this show.

 

Two love taps to the jaw—one of which knocks out a canine tooth—and the cunt is, is not still, as least back under control.  His face is swollen, bruised and purple, but he’s more focused on me than his pain, which is where I want him at the moment.

 

“See that mirror there?” I ask him, nodding off to the left.  He slowly turns and looks at it, silently, every motion hesitant form fear.  “Yer gonna hafta keep an eye on that, cause yer gonna see somethin’ sexy as all fuck in the in a second.  Wanna know what it’s gonna be?”

 

His eyes snap back to mine in a flash, wide with terror.  It’s almost as if the adolescent punk knows what’s coming, but it doesn’t.  It’s gonna be worse than the meat could ever imagine.  I hold the blade back up in front of it.

 

“Remember this?  That little tickle in yer guts was just foreplay, bitch.  I’m gonna cut yer throat open and make ya watch yerself bleed out while I fuck ya to death.  Hot as fuckin’ hell yeah?  Fuckin-A!  Time to saw yer trachea open, asswipe.  This is gonna hurt like all fuck!”

 

He doesn’t try to fight; he paralyzed in absolute terror.  He does try to scream, his handsome young face distorted and swollen, but only a faint high-pitched croak comes out.  I place the razor-sharp blade across his smooth throat and begin slicing.

 

Slowly.

 

Oh holy fuck, the way his smooth teen body clutches at me in agony, holding me tight as I plow his torn virgin rectum and carve into his esophagus like I’m slicing lunch meat.  The look in his eyes, the bewilderment and horror, are so goddam erotic…fuck, it takes all my effort not to cum right now.  But the meat ain’t dead yet.

 

I place my hand on the cunt’s face and force it to the side—facing the mirror.  The punk’s neck twists, so I have to angle the blade a bit, but that’s not a problem.  With one hand on my knife and the other on fucker’s head, I force the teen to watch his own throat being cut open.

 

The adolescent meat shrieks as I cut into it, but not for long.  The moment I open up the trachea, the screams suddenly dissolve into a high-pitched wheeze.  As blood spurts from the huge gash in the teen’s throat, I can see the rubbery trachea, clenching open and closed in exactly the same tempo as the cunt’s ass is working my rod.

 

Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot.  This is why.  This is why the boy has to die on my cock, so I can feel his body convulse and react to my weapon.  So I can control his agony and jack myself off with his convulsive death throes.

 

And it ain’t like the little fuck ain’t enjoyin’ itself on the way out.  At that age, they’re all so horny and full of hormones that they’re all practically fags anyway.  Its thick teen cock is pulsin’ and strainin’ so fuckin’ hard as it slaps against my ripped six-pack abs that I’m surprised the slut hasn’t already unloaded.

 

It will, though, before it dies.  They always do.  I know when it reaches the critical point; I can tell by the sound.

 

“How’s it taste, bitch, huh?” I ask it as it gazes in terror at the pink foam bubbling in its open esophagus—I knew that mirror would come in handy.  “I can hear ya garglin’ yer own blood.  Can ya taste the salt and iron?  Tastes like fuckin’ death, don’t it, cunt?”

 

It’s still writhing under me, its skin growing colder as it bleeds out, when sudden I feel its final death struggle start.  It begins jerking and wheezing under me, straining desperately to suck in enough oxygen to keep the brain alive only to have it spill back out in the spurting blood, its hands clutching my shoulders as if that alone could save its worthless life.

 

“Yeah, that’s it, motherfucker,” I tell it as it convulses, its hard teen cock splattering my chest with precum, “Fuckin’ milk my hog as ya bleed out.  Die, ya piece a’ fuckin’ teen meat, die on my cock and make me cum!”

 

In the end, it seems to know.  It seems to hear and understand that its one purpose on this planet was to die so I can spurt inside it.  There’s one last despairing gurgle and suddenly a shudder goes through the adolescent meat that I can feel all the way to the base of my dick.  At the same time, I feel the hot spatter of its deathload across my chest—burning wads of hormone-filled semen striking my skin as I unload huge wads of manseed into the punk’s shredded fuckhole.

 

It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath afterwards.  The boy is dead and the back of my van is a bloody mess, but it was worth it.  And both those problems are easy to resolve; since the back of this van is uncarpeted, it’s easy enough to hose out.  And as for the quivering pile of boymeat, well, there’s a reason I picked this building site.

 

There’s a large square hole not fifty yards from here where they’re about to pour a foundation post.  It takes me no time to drag the teen slut out of the van and across the dirt lot.  I dump the twitching corpse into the hole, where it lands with a thud—must be a good thirty feet down.

 

Heading back to the van,  I pick up the the kid’s clothes and toss them down on top of it.  Peering down into the hole, I can barely see anything of the corpse, but I don’t want the workmen to notice anything before they start pouring concrete down the hole.  Grabbing a nearby shovel, I dump enough dirt down the hole to cover the dead teen.

 

Monday morning, they’ll crush the fucker flat with several tons of liquid concrete.

 

S’pose his family will wonder what happened to him.  Shame I can’t tell ‘em what a great fuck he was.  Might make his mom feel better about him missing her birthday.

Brotherly Love, part 2

Bound to a chair in a puddle of his own piss, Ross could only gaze on in abject horror as Eddie manhandled the corpse of his younger brother.  The buff ex-Marine took the dead teen’s wrist in one hand and grabbed a hank of his hair in the other and proceeded to drag the still-twitching body off the bed and along the floor toward the older adolescent.  Josh’s ped socks were peeled back and off, first the right, then the left.

 

In a moment of utter calm, Ross noticed that his brother’s toes were curling in their death throes, then wondered if he was losing his mind.  In the next two minutes, it became obvious that that was the more preferable alternative to accepting what was happening as reality.

 

“I’m gonna drain ya first, faggot,” Eddie chuckled, looming over him with his huge throbbing cock almost directly at eye level.  Even after everything that had happened, some part of Ross still wanted that massive, oozing, vein-gnarled shaft.  But he was able to break the spell long enough to glance hesitatingly upwards, taking in Eddie’s full physique as the muscular psycho hulked over him.  The stud’s bulging biceps and thick hubcap pecs were ample proof of the physical power the fagkiller was able to bring to bear on his helpless teenage victims.  Dogtags?  He hadn’t noticed the dogtags before.  His attention had been on other things, but there they were, dangling between the twin mound of his chest—

 

“There ya go,” Eddie said, snapping Ross back to reality, “Gonna milk ya dry first, so you can pay attention to milkin’ me when I waste ya.”

 

As he spoke, he lowered Josh’s head into Ross’s crotch, letting the teen’s stiff boycock project into the gaping mouth of his dead brother.

 

Ross gurgled in horror as Eddie forced the corpse further down onto his shaft, shoving Josh’s limp head forward until the dead kid was deepthroating his brother.  He titled the head back so that the eyes were staring straight up at Ross.

 

“Look at it,” the powerful sadist sneered, “Ya got a dead fag on yer cock.  Only good for one thing—use it, motherfucker, make it yer cumdump.”

 

And with those words, he began to bob the head up and down on Ross’s involuntarily erect boycock.  Looking into Josh’s vacant, starting eyes, the teen moaned in horror as the psychotic hardman started jacking him off with his brother’s skull—but part of the horror was that he’d jacked off himself, at one point, at the thought of his brother sucking his dick.

 

And this felt better than he’d imagined.  So much better, he couldn’t admit it to himself.

 

Eddie noticed, and laughed harshly.

 

“I thought so—you sick faggot fuck.  Yer fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?” he crowed, his clenched fist forcing the dead boy’s head repeatedly into Ross’s crotch.  The older teen shuddered and tried not to think about what was happening and how much it hurt that the words spoken by this cruel psychopath were right.  It did feel good—holy fuck, it felt fantastic the way Josh’s throat willingly engulfed Ross’s throbbing, hormone-primed cock—and that was wrong.

 

But the musclebound ex-Marine, spurred by an overwhelming sadistic impulse, kept jacking the adolescent punk off using his brother’s corpse.  The mere mindfuck alone was making Eddie’s massive tube of manflesh swell and pulse.

 

“Stop,” Ross moaned in a weak voice. In his pain and fear and confusion, he had a dim idea that what was happening now was some kind of challenge, or test.  If he blew a load down the dead boy’s throat, it meant, in some undefined way, that he was acknowledging the vicious stranger’s right to do what he had done, and was doing—and was going to do.

 

Ross stopped thinking at that point.  Or, rather, he closed his eyes tightly and tried desperately to think about anything else.

 

Eddie noticed his attempt and smirked.  “Tryin’ to ignore me, asswipe?  Haw!   Pansies don’t have any self-control.  That’s what makes ‘em so easy to snuff—it’s like they already know what they deserve.  This lil’ punkfuck here that’s milkin’ yer shaft, now, it knew it wanted a good hard exit.  It got so hot n’ horny about blowin’ its deathwad, it couldn’t even work my spunk out. That’s why I’m usin’ it to drain ya first.”

 

Here he bent down, grinning, his hard, handsome—and frighteningly jovial—face inches from Ross.  The hardman’s dogtags clinked as they bounced off Josh’s bobbing head.

 

“See, when yer time comes, ya piece a’ shit, I’m gonna make goddam sure that the last few seconds of yer useless life are devoted to making me cum.  Yer gonna go out like a fuckin’ dog, bitch, so hurry up and spunk.  C’mon, motherfucker, the sooner ya shoot, the sooner you can start dyin’ on my dick!”

 

And as Eddie pumped Josh’s head faster and faster on Ross’s cock, the teen turned his tear-streaked face away, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.  He couldn’t give in.  He couldn’t cum.  He’d die if he did.

 

He was gonna die anyway, but he didn’t know that.  Or, rather, his mind wasn’t capable of harboring that idea yet.  That would come later.  Ross was focused on not cumming now, but it was getting more and more difficult.

 

He could feel the precum seeping out of his hard teen cock, adding to the lubrication of Josh’s still-slick esophagus.  His younger brother had only been dead a few minutes; it was almost as if Josh was still there, deliberately giving him a blow job—no, he couldn’t think that; he’d shoot his wad…

 

“Yer gettin’ off, aintcha?” Eddie asked with an abrasive, mocking laugh as he continued to pump Josh’s skull onto his older brother’s shaft.  “Don’t matter if the faggot’s dead—it can still give head, huh?”  The powerful ex-Marine reached out and grabbed a handful of Ross’s hair, forcing the boy’s head down.

 

Having both brothers by the hair, Eddie manipulate the corpse even faster, keeping up an even stroke, making sure that Josh’s immobile throat was perfectly aimed for plugging by Ross’s oozing rod.  “C’mon, motherfucker, shoot.  Ya know ya wanna.  How many times you beat off thinkin’ about this pansy wrappin’ its lips around yer meat, huh?  Now ya got it, an’ it’s the best kinda fag to cum in—a dead one.  C’mon, you goddam punkfuck, unload a wad down its throat!”

 

Ross couldn’t hold back.  His eyes were clenched, his jaw was clenched even tighter; his teeth hurt.  The swollen bruise on his chin where Eddie had decked him was throbbing and his lithe adolescent body was slick with sweat as he vainly tried to stifle his orgasm.  Suddenly he cried out, a hoarse, inarticulate shout of visceral physical release.

 

As Ross hunched over his dead brother’s head, spewing hot jets of hormone-packed teen semen down Josh’s unresponsive throat, Eddie broke out in loud, cruel laughter.  Ross continued to grunt and spasm, but tears were trickling down his smooth cheeks.

 

He’d never cum this hard before, ever.  Why couldn’t this have happened before Josh was…before he’d been…

 

And as the boyseed kept streaming out of him, Ross knew he’d been defeated.  He’d fight whatever was coming next; he’d have to, but the hot hardbodied man to whom he’d been willing to freely give his body earlier in the day was now going use his body in unspeakable ways.  And there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.

 

Eddie knew it, too.  He let go of Ross’s hair and stood up, jerking Josh’s head up off Ross’s still-leaking boymeat.  The dead kid’s jaw hung limply open, white trails of sperm leaking from both corners of the spunk-filled mouth.  Without glancing at it, Eddie forcefully jerked his arm, flinging the corpse down to one side like disposed garbage.

 

Ross looked at Josh in a kind of blank despair, then raised his eyes and met Eddie’s gaze.  The look of cold, cruel triumph twinkled in the fagkiller’s eyes like stars in a summer’s twilight.  Reaching into a pocket of his camo pants, he pulled out a set of handcuff keys.

 

“Now yer ready to ride my fuckin’ manhog all the way down into yer grave, fucker.  Buckle up, bitch, this is gonna be long and painful.  But remember, you better work my dick good, ya faggot asswipe, or I’ll make it hurt worse.  Milk my shaft or you’ll be fuckin’ beggin’ to die, yeah?”

 

The keys jingled as he bounced them in his palm, slowly striding to Ross’s rear.  “Time to get the show on the road,” came the low and somehow still-sexy voice from behind, “I got some business tonight.  Need to start wastin’ yer ass so I can drain my nads and get goin’.”

 

Ross’s hands were suddenly pulled painfully up behind him, but even as he cried out, there were some metallic clicks and suddenly his arms were free.

 

The “fight-or-flight” response is strong in the young; it kicked in the moment Ross felt the cuffs released.  Directly from his sitting position, he lunged toward the door, completely forgetting that his legs were still strapped to the chair legs.  The panicked homo toppled forward, falling across his brother’s still-quivering legs and stunning himself as his forehead hit the floor simultaneously with the high wooden back of the chair striking the back of his head.

 

In a deep fog, Ross felt his legs being untied and the chair being removed, all to the sound of a deep rumble that he was too dazed to recognize as Eddie’s sardonic chuckling.  He came abruptly out of his haze, though, when the hulking sadist bent down, grabbed a hank of his dark hair, and jerked him up onto his knees; Ross had to cooperate with the movement to avoid having his scalp ripped open.  As he knelt, panting, Eddie grasped his upper arms form behind, the ex-Marine’s hands completely encircling the teen’s biceps.

 

With no more effort than if he was tossing a pillow, Eddie flung Ross onto the bed; the kid hit face-down, but his momentum rolled him up and over so that he ended up diagonally across the bed, on his back.

 

Ross raised his head to see Eddie approaching the bed, grinning ominously.  The psychotic ex-Marine’s well-defined body glistened in the dim light under a thin sheen of sweat.  The boy allowed the jingling of the dogtags to pull his eyes from Eddie’s cold deadly gaze, but in letting them drift down, he found himself confronted with the sadist’s enormous shaft, dripping in anticipation—

 

—and Ross, knowing what it was dripping in anticipation of, began whimpering.

 

Eddie reached the bed and climbed up on it, slowly parting Ross’s smooth, firm thighs like a lover; only the vicious smirk on the hardbodied top’s face showed that this wasn’t gonna be a romantic scene.  Bringing Ross’s legs up until they rested on his shoulders, Eddie nestled himself in and began slapping his huge rod on Ross’s dick and balls as if he was beating them with a club.  Ross moaned loudly, partly in pain and partly in pleasure.

 

Ross would have denied the pleasurable aspect if he’d had the chance, but Eddie beat him to it—literally, with a sudden powerful backhand the split the teen’s lip.  “Ya like real mancock, faggot?  Good.  Take it, cunt, take my thick meat all the down to its root!” he snarled.  Ross felt a sudden pressure against his sphincter, and then his virgin asshole was torn open.

 

“Aw fuck yeah!” Eddie grunted, “Nice and tight.  Caughtcha just in time, didn’t I, you and the other one?  Gonna waste yer faggot ass before ya can breed.  Yeah, bitch, ya feel that in ya?  That’s the dick of a real man, a man who knows how to put down the baby fags before they can spread their perversion.  Enjoy my cock, ya worthless homo; it’s too goddam good for the likes of you!”

 

He spit in Ross’s grey, taut face, then leaned back and started pounding the teen’s fuckhole in earnest, whaling on the kid’s ass like a jackhammer.   It was more than Ross could take; the initial penetration had been agonizing, but this was unendurable.  The thick, engorged head of Eddie’s tool was scourging the tender lining of the kid’s colon.

 

Ross shrieked, high and shrill, like a girl.  Eddie chuckled and reamed him even harder.  It was a big house, and the neighbors weren’t close.  The teen boy screamed for more than three minutes straight, to absolutely no avail, before Eddie got bored with the noise and put an end to it by punching Ross hard in the face, twice, breaking his nose.

 

“Goddam, cunt,” he growled, “Yer fuckhole gets a real nice flutter when ya scream, but it ain’t worth that shit.  Keep it down or I’ll do it for ya.”  All this was said with an even tone as the muscular ex-Marine fucked the teen relentlessly.

 

Ross hadn’t completely shut up, but he managed to back it down to a low, snuffling sob, made nasal by a crushed nose and sinus passages blocked with blood.  But the remorseless, machine-like pounding in his ass was painful, it was agonizing, it was…starting to feel good.

 

Pumped full of adolescent hormones, Ross realized with dismay that his cock was getting stiff again.  It was happening outside of his control, as his rectum slowly relaxed around the huge shaft that was impaling it.  His moaning was starting to subside, too, as his ass began to stretch to fit the shape of Eddie’s cock.

 

The sadistic fagkiller knew what was happening, and why.

 

“You know yer gonna die,” he said, looking down into Ross’s face a he fucked the teen inexorably, his dogtags resting on the kid’s smooth chest, “Fuckin’ faggots are all alike.  I wasted yer worthless little shit of a brother and I’m gonna waste you too—and yer still fuckin’ hard.  Love the D so much yer willin’ to die for it, huh, cocksucker?”

 

Ross responded by struggling.  He didn’t stop to consider if it was physically possible for him to escape the older, stronger man’s grasp; he began writhing and flailing as soon as Eddie’s words seeped into his consciousness.  He’d refused to acknowledge the obvious outcome of the situation, despite watching Josh get slaughtered in front of his eyes, but Eddie’s voice drove it home.

 

He fought hard.  Eddie chuckled as the teenaged punk thrashed beneath him, the way the boy’s smooth, sweat-slicked skin slid against his chest and belly like suede…not that he was a fag, of course.  But the homos needed to learn their place, and it felt so fuckin’ good teachin’ ‘em.

 

Ross curled his fists and beat at Eddie’s massive, rock-hard chest.  The kid was punching as hard as he could—harder, even, as fear and adrenaline amped up his power—but for all the effect he was having, it might as well have been a cinderblock wall.  He reached for Eddie’s face, but the powerful psycho knocked the boy’s hand’s away with ease.

 

Nothing was working, and Ross was wearing himself out.  He stopped struggling and lay back on the bed.

 

“Given up, huh?” Eddie sneered, “Figures.  See, there might be a reason to let ya live if you were a good fuck, but you dumbass fags can’t even do that right.  So now I’m gonna hafta make ya work might shaft, and work it right.”

 

He bent down and thrust his cold, hard face right into Ross’s, grinning maniacally.  “This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  Goddam, I love this shit!”  He clamped his big left hand around the punk’s throat and began squeezing.

 

His grip had a steel-like strength, instantly narrowing Ross’s windpipe to a point where it nearly closed.  Not quite, though.  The sadistic hardman wanted to watch his prey struggle a bit.

 

Ross had exhausted himself into complacency, but that all changed when his air supply was cut.  He could still breathe, but it took effort—a lot of effort—to get oxygen; every strain was accompanied by a faint wheeze as a few cubic inches of air entered his lungs.

 

“How’s that feel, faggot?”  Eddie jeered, “Ya likin’ that?  No?  Better start workin’ my dick, ya little slut, cause the moment I get bored with yer homo ass, I’m gonna crush yer fuckin’ throat and let ya die on my cock.  Now move yer ass, motherfucker!!”

 

His right hand was still free to make the fist that he drove into Ross’s face.  The first one came so suddenly, so fast, that the kid didn’t have time to flinch.  Eddie pounded the boy six times, half a dozen meaty thuds reverberating in the room as the ex-Marine blackened the teen’s eyes and knocked three teeth down his throat.

 

And with each blow, Ross’s ass squeezed Eddie’s dick tightly.

 

And with each blow, Ross’s hard boycock lurched up off his flat smooth belly, a transparent bead of precum sparkling like a jewel on the head of his dick.

 

“That’s it, asswipe, just like that.  Ya need more?  Ya like bein’ a punchin’ bag, ya goddam homo?  Fine with me, ya sick fuck!”

 

Ross sobbed incoherently, his tears mingled with snot and blood, as Eddie turned his attention lower and sent two roundhouse punches into the boy’s chest, one landing on each firm pec with a loud, hollow thump.  “Hoog!” Ross cried out, not so much a spoken word as the inarticulate sound of air forced violently past the vocal cords.

 

Grinning, Eddie then plowed his fist like a piledriver into the teen’s flat belly, three powerful blows in succession, driving every last inch of reserve air from the bottom of the boy’s lungs.

 

Ross raised his head up off the bed.  His eyelids were swelling but they stayed open, and the look of horror and despair in the adolescent’s eyes was what Eddie wanted to see.  The faggot was starting to learn its real place in the world.

 

Time to finish the lesson.  He tightened his grip.  The movement was easy, nonchalant, barely noticeable—and it completely cut off Ross’s air.  The kid’s expression didn’t change; his body was still rigid and stunned by the battering it had endured.  And then he began to convulse.

 

It wasn’t a genuine convulsion, but he was trying violently to inhale.  Nothing was happening, no air was coming in, so the lithe teenaged fag began to spasm, almost as if he was drowing.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Eddie grunted, “Work for it.  Work for that air, ya stupid bitch.  Just keep tryin’, dumbass, it feels so good on my shaft.”

 

Ross heard the ex-Marine’s harsh taunting voice; he didn’t know what was happening to him, but he knew it was Eddie’s fault.  It gave him somewhere to focus his panic—and his hands.  He tried to pry off the vice-like hand that was squeezing his airway shut with no effect at all.  As the pressure inside his skull began to mount, the teenager was swiftly losing control.

 

Suddenly, Eddie found his face full of scrabbling, clawing fingers.  He quickly jerked his head to the left, dodging enough that Ross’s gouging fingernails ended up scraping across the buff killer’s broad, rock-hard chest.  The long red scratches weren’t painful, but Eddie was pissed.

 

“Don’t you fuckin’ fight me, faggot!” he roared and began pounding his fist into the boy’s face…but this time he didn’t stop.

 

It felt too good; every time his wrecking-ball fist plowed into the boymeat, it jerked and twitched, giving his huge throbbing rod an extra squeeze as it reamed out the cunt’s rectum.  “That’s it,” the muscular killer grunted, “That’s what fags are good for.  Gotta make fuckin’ meat puppets outta ‘em first, though, yeah?”

 

By some cruel quirk of fate, Ross was still awake.  His face was being caved in—with occasion blows to the chest and stomach to change things up—but he hadn’t lost consciousness yet.  The pain of the beating was terrible, but it was fading.  Even the unbearable burning in his chest was fading.

 

The pain in his head, though, that wasn’t fading.  The pressure and the pounding within his cranium were nightmarish; he could feel his eyes bulge excruciatingly despite swollen blackened lids.  The horrible sensation in his mouth was his thick purple tongue slowly protruding past his split, bleeding lips.  The pain below, where he was getting raped—

 

—but that wasn’t his ass.  He knew he was still getting fucked; he could tell Eddie’s tool was buried deep in his guts, but the pain, the intense aching pain he was feeling was from his own cock.  It was literally so hard it hurt.

 

“I gotta go; time to unload,” Eddie announced.  “Say goodnight, motherfucker; time to make ya into meat.”  He slammed his fist three times into Ross’s jaw, breaking it in several places.  Then, before the tortured adolescent could react, Eddie leaned forward and put his weight on the hand around the boy’s throat.  With the meat pinned into place, Eddie placed his other hand behind its head.  His next movement was so fast as to be nearly invisible, but it was effect.

 

He jerked the head up while pressing the neck down in one single, swift, and very powerful movement.  The loud wet cracking sounds of the fag’s vertebrae shattering were what triggered Eddie’s orgasm.  He’d done what he needed to.  He’d shown the faggot that he was a real alpha male.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!  Yeah!  Die, ya faggot scum! Fuck! Fuck!”

 

All of Ross’s existence was compressed into the final nightmarish seconds of his life as his spinal cord was ripped out of his brain and a cataclysmic shock tore through his nervous system.  His entire being was distilled into that final blast of searing agony where his soul was stripped from its moorings and expelled from his body in jets of hot semen.  His deathload hollowed him out; as thick streams of boycum spewed from his erect shaft and covered both Eddie’s chest and his own, the teenaged faggot slid into the cold void of death.

 

Eddie shuddered and shot, grunting and punching the meat.  The homo was dead; it was shuddering and kicking in its death throes.  Even its sphincter flexed in death, milking Eddie thoroughly.  Finally, with a satisfied sigh, he extracted his mammoth shaft from the corpse and got off the bed.

 

Looking around, he spotted a door in the corner that evidently led to a bathroom.  He was right; the rich bitch had an attached bath.  Inside, he contemptuously swept aside bottles of cologne and scented body wash to soak a face towel in the sink.  Once wet, he used it to clean off his dick and wipe the dead boy’s cum off his chest before tossing it into the toilet.  Heading back to the bedroom, he paused in the doorway to admire the tableau.

 

Two dead baby fags—not a bad day’s work.  One was huddled on the floor, the thick red lines of blood that had leaked from the multiple holes in the body were now coagulated, thick and viscous.  From the way it was curled on its left side and partly rolled forward, its torn and bloody asshole was visible from the hall door.

 

The other was splayed on the bed, its face an unrecognizable mass of bruised and bloodied flesh, its lithe lean body covered with the evidence of a horrific beating—and with cum.  Its thick boycock, going limp in death, still oozed an occasional drop of semen.

 

It was perfect.  The parents should be grateful he put the worthless little homos outta their misery.  Even as he looked at the still-warm corpses, Eddie massive rod twitched.  He grinned, but reluctantly tucked it back into the combat fatigues.  After all, he did have other things to do tonight.

 

The tread of his boots echoed across the tiled entryway as he strode to the table where he’d tossed his shirt.  Slipping it on, he headed to the back door, stopping to exam the alarm.  He noticed it was set for internal alarm only; there was no central or police monitoring.  When he opened the door, it went off.  It was loud and shrill, but when he closed the door behind him, it became muffled.  As he headed deeper into the back yard it became inaudible.

 

He climbed back over into the vacant property and strolled back to his truck the way he came.  It was a weekend evening in upscale suburbia, and everyone was indoor, blinds closed, watching TV.  Not one of them noticed the well-built psychotic murderer casually walking their streets.

 


 

Following its programing when set for internal mode, the alarm sounded for four hours straight, then shut itself off.  It was still armed, though, so it went off the next time a door was opened—in this case, the front door.

 

“Goddammit, I’m gonna kill those kids!” Roger snarled as he dove for the keypad.

 

“Ross!  Josh!  What are you two doing?” his wife bawled up the stairs.  “Just look at this!  Josh left his shoes on the stairs!”  She headed up the stairs herself, not bothering to pick her son’s boots up.  “You answer me now!  I’m not your goddam maid that you can leave your shit lyin’ around for me to pick up!”

 

Roger dug his fingernails into his palms, tying to control his temper as his wife’s abrasive voice trailed off overhead.  For a brief moment, there was calm in the house.

 

Then she shrieked at the top of her voice.

 

Roger could feel his temper slip from his grasp as he raced for the stairs.  Dr. Stone of the First Baptist had practically promised him the vote of the congregation for the city council position.  He mounted the stairs, his anger rising with his elevation.

 

If either of those two little bastards did anything that could damage his election campaign, he’d tear them new assholes…

 

 

 

 

 

Brotherly Love, part 1

Eddie was angry.

 

Of course, that wasn’t unusual; Eddie was always angry.  But his anger, most of the time, was general and unspecific.  Today, it was focused on and a single burning point.

 

The kid was about eighteen.  He’d been walking with some of his buddies from the local high school past the gas station where Eddie was filling the tank on his truck.  The psychopathic fagkiller hadn’t seen him at first; it was only when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up that he realized he was being looked at that way.

 

He glanced around—sure enough, his homo detector was on point.  One of the boys in the passing group was scoping him out.

 

The boy had a mop of dark hair.  His build was firm but wiry; he certainly wasn’t any challenge for Eddie in terms of power.  The little fagboy was wearing a pair of low-rise white denim jeans so tight his pansy cock was outlined down to the last detail; Eddie could damn near see then veins around it.  The punk’s tight chest was wrapped in a black t-shirt with a retro Led Zeppelin logo on it, all just visible beneath a thin black nylon jacket with a hood and white stripes down the sleeves. The lid sported a pair of black and white Nike Motion 2 kicks on his feet.

 

Eddie memorized every detail as he and the boy stared at each other.  As the bulge in his groin pulsed visibly, the teenager turned and walked quickly down the sidewalk, catching up to his friends.  He had no idea he’d just been marked for death.

 

Eddie finished fueling up and climbed into his truck.  He was positively grinning in incandescent rage.  The way his psyche converted self-hatred into predatory homophobia was similar to a solar furnace, capable of keeping up unimaginable amounts of heat for a very long time.

 

He stoked the fires and headed left out of the gas station, the direction in which the kid had been walking.

 

By now, the boy was about a half mile down the road.  Eddie could easily make him out—his white jeans practically glowed in the late afternoon sunlight, and none of the other little punks he was with was wearing white.  Just as he spotted the boy, though, Eddie saw the kid split off, turning again to the left, down a side street.  There was a brief pause as he spoke a bit to his buddies, but then they continued down the avenue while the fagboy walked on alone.

 

Trailing the homo the rest of the way home took a little skill.  Eddie couldn’t drive at the kid’s walking speed; that was too obvious.  And if he kept circling and passing the boy too often, eventually the little shit would recognize his big black truck and become suspicious.  In the end, he darted ahead, turned down a cross street and waited for the kid to pass, then went over to a parallel street.  Heading up two blocks, he did it again.  Eventually the kid didn’t walk by.  Eddie pulled out onto the boy’s street, heading back the way he came, and was just in time to see the fucker entering a house.  Eddie noted its particulars and then parked three blocks down and two over.

 

The sun was setting as the thump of Eddie’s combat boots on the sidewalk echoed down the suburban street.  Inside the houses on either side, families were settling in for the evening.  Some were eating, some were arguing, some were watching TV—and all of them were utterly unaware of the muscle-bound young man stalking just outside in a khaki tank top and camo fatigue pants held tightly to his narrow hips by a wide meshed nylon belt.

 

If they had noticed him, at least some would have called the cops.  His intent to kill was literally visible, writ large across his hard, masculine face and his somehow aggressive manner of movement.

 

The kid’s house was larger than most of the others in what was already an upscale community.  The house to the right was no slouch, either, but it had an attribute that immediately drew Eddie’s attention—it was empty.  There was a for sale sign from a high-end realty firm planted in the slightly overgrown lawn.  The blinds and curtains had been removed and large front windows displayed empty rooms, writhing with carved molding and elaborate paneling.  And even more interesting, the backyard gate was wide open.

 

After a quick and reassuring glance around him, Eddie dove into the dim twilight of the tree-shaded yard.  A long open lawn stretched back to the property line; to his left, the house hulked, a darker mass in the blue dimness of the evening.  He crossed quickly to the fence on the other side of the yard—it was the one next to the kid’s.  It was nearly seven feet high, but that wasn’t a problem; the fence was lined with all kinds of trees.  As agile as he was strong, the obsessed fagkiller was soon ensconced in branches overhanging the next yard, from which vantage point, recon was easy.

 

A deep-set covered patio was attached to the back of the house and two boys were sitting in chairs on it.  For a moment, Eddie thought he was looking at twins, they were so much alike.  He soon recognized one as the punk who’d been scoping him out, though, noting that the other was slightly shorter and perhaps a year younger.  The fact that they were brothers was obvious in the physical similarities between the two.

 

Peering into the twilight, Eddie focused his eagle-sharp eyes on the boys.  They were chatting and the older one was doing something with his hands, bent over a side table.  Eddie wasn’t close enough to see what, be he soon rectified that.

 

He dropped form the tree into the darkened yard, his boots making no sound on the soft, lush turf.  This property was much more landscaped than the one next door, and Eddie used it to his advantage, concealing himself behind it as he approached close enough to see and hear what was happening on the patio.

 

The older kid, he saw, was rolling a joint.  He was speaking just as Eddie came into earshot.

 

“…and if I hadn’t been with some of the guys from school, I mighta gone and hit him up,” he said.

 

“Bro, if Dad heard ya talkin’ about picking up a strange dude at a gas station for a hookup, he’d shit a brick,” the younger one replied.  “You better watch out—if he ever even thinks you like guys, it’s gonna get ugly.”

 

“Like I don’t already know that,” the other answered, “Don’t worry, I’m careful enough—and I can take care of myself.”

 

“Shit, hide the weed,” the younger brother blurted, “Here he comes now!”

 

The older youth just managed to shove the baggie of pot back into his jeans pocket when the back door opened and a tall, square-jawed man in a button-down shirt and dress slacks strode out, his hair perfectly combed and an expression of disapproval on his face that seemed somehow innate.

 

“What are you two doing out here?” he demanded.

 

“Just talking,” the older boy said casually.

 

The man glared balefully at the boys.  “Listen up, you two.  This weekend is critical to my city council reelection campaign.  I’m the keynote speaker at the First Baptist’s “Pray for Trump” retreat, and if either of you does anything to embarrass me while we’re gone, so help me, I’ll—”

 

“Roger!  We’ve got to go!” came a woman’s voice from inside the house.  “Tell Josh he can’t bring that Annabelle slut over; he’s seventeen, but she’s not.  God only knows what they’ll get up to.  Ross, you hear me?  Watch your younger brother!  And NO parties!”

 

“Yes, ma!” Ross shouted, smirking at his kid brother.  Their father grimaced.

 

“Remember,” he growled, “Don’t fuck anything up, or kill you little shits.”  He turned and re-entered the house, slamming to door behind him.

 

“Fuckin’ big man,” Ross sneered.

 

“Yeah, he just loves this city council shit,” Josh muttered, “Runnin’ our lives ain’t enough for him.  And ma—”

 

“Aw, don’t get started on her,” Ross said as he fished the joint and handed it to his younger brother.  “Here, light it up.  I’m gonna go make sure they’re gone.”

 

As the younger teen fired up the blunt, the older headed into the house.  Eddie considered making his move, but, like the boys, he wanted to know the coast was clear too.  After all, he had plenty of time, by the sound of it.

 

That was good.  He was gonna need to figure out how to waste two fags at once.  It would be easy enough to take the younger one out quick and quiet, commando-style, but that wasn’t what Eddie wanted.

 

The younger one was a fag too.  He might be fucking around with girls, but if one was, they both were.  Stood to reason.  Older one probably corrupted the younger long ago, made his kid brother his bitch.  Raped his ass one night, muffling the kid’s cries with a pillow.

 

It’d what Eddie would’ve done if he’d had a younger brother.

 

Both of ‘em were perverted fuckin’ homos, and both needed to die.

 

Ross reappeared at the back door.  “It’s cool.  They’re gone; c’mon in, we’ll fire up my PS4.”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Josh said, bouncing happily up off his chair, “That’s my idea of a Friday night—gettin’ high and playin’ Mortal Kombat!”  He followed his older brother into the house.  Once he got into the light, Eddie could see Josh was wearing an oversized white t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans tight enough to cradle his teen asscheeks snugly.  The hems of the jeans were casually caught up on what looked like a pair of Timberland eight-inch workboots, except these seemed to be made of black suede.  He wore them loosely laced and untied

 

As the boys disappeared deeper into the house, Eddie swept across the patio, a dark shadow in the twilight, and slipped inside the back door.  He found himself in the kitchen.  It was dim, with only the light over the stove on.  To his right was a dark doorway; the square, bulky shapes of the laundry appliances loomed in the murk.

 

Directly ahead, on the far side of the kitchen, was another doorway.  It was from here that Eddie heard Ross call out, “Hang on a sec!  I gotta go set the alarm.  If mom and dad sneak back early, it’ll warn us.”

 

The keypad for the alarm was directly behind Eddie, next to the back door.  There was no time for anything elaborate; the psycho boykiller darted into the laundry room as the older kid came and secured the house.

 

From less than five feet away, Eddie could see the boy more clearly than he had yet.  There was a fine shadow of dark haze on the punk’s upper lip—a mustache just starting to grow.  Eddie’s eyes roved over the adolescent’s firm, lean form, taking in how large the denim-wrapped bulge in the groin was.  Yeah, he needed to waste this little homo before it matured into something dangerous.  His huge cock began to stir and swell, just at the thought.

 

Four feet away, Josh finished locking down the house for the evening, totally oblivious to the fact that he was being sized up for the kill.  He turned and headed back the way he’d come, his Nikes padding quietly across the tile floor.

 

Eddie followed at a distance, down a hall that led to the front.  The house was large; dark cavernous rooms opened on each side—a formal dining room, a study, a formal living room.  The staircase was an ornate, meandering affair that wound its way up to the second floor.  As Eddie waited for the kid to ascend, he noticed that the staircase seemed to back up on a media room; the room had a well-stocked bar that had been built partially under the stairs.

 

Once the boy got upstairs, the psycho stalker felt safe enough to follow.  He managed to make it up quick enough to note the punk going into one of the doors that opened off the upper gallery.  He’d closed the door behind him; silently, Eddie stole forward and pressed his ear to the door.

 

“You got another one rolled?” Ross was asking. “Oh, cool.  Here, lemme fire it up.  You ain’t got the game started yet?”

 

“Well, fuck, man, I was waitin’ for you to get back,” the younger one replied.  “So anyway, you saw some dude today…”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Ross muttered in the breathless squeak of someone who’d just taken a lung-busting hit of weed.  He exhaled audibly, then coughed for thirty seconds straight.

 

“Ya don’t cough, ya don’t get off,” Josh chuckled.

 

“Aw, fuck you,” his older brother muttered.

 

“Naw, man, I only like chicks.  But you saw some dude you’d let pop your cherry?”

 

Ross laughed, “Yeah, man, like I’d be lucky enough to have had this guy be my first—ya know, the first to really fuck me.  Speakin’ a’ which, remember our bet.  Fifty bucks to the first one to get laid, right?  So how’re ya makin’ out with Annabelle?”

 

Josh began, “Well, I got a lil’ somethin’-somethin’ planned Friday night if I can—”

 

Eddie burst through the door and stood before them, his massive, muscular form filling the doorway.  Both boys stared at him, slack-jawed and stunned.  Ross had just enough presence of mind to recognize the intruder.

 

“That’s him!” he said excitedly, “That’s the guy!”  His face lit up, hope radiating from his youthful countenance—and then he saw Eddie’s expression.

 

“Lookit this shit,” the powerful sadist growled, “Coupla little fuckin’ fairies havin’ a tea party.  Sorry to break it up, girls, but you two need to learn how a real man disposes of homo garbage like you.”

 

“Wh-what?” they both said, almost in perfect unison—Josh, starting to flush with anger and Ross, hopelessly confused, his erotic fantasy instantly crumbling.

 

“I said, I’m gonna teach y’all yer proper place, ya stupid sacks a’ shit.  Think I’ll start with the little one.”

 

By now even Ross had made the mental switch from love interest to potential antagonist; this threat was all it took for him to go on the attack in defense of his brother.  With an inarticulate cry, he darted forward.

 

Eddie had been expecting it; in fact, he’d deliberately provoked it.  As the older teen rushed him, the older and stronger man swung his arm, casually and easily, punching the punk in the jaw and dropping him to the floor in a senseless, ungainly sprawl.

 

The ex-Marine stared the younger teen dead in the face.  “You wanna try anything, motherfucker?”

 

Ashen and trembling, Josh shook his head.

 

Getting the older boy secured wasn’t going to be too much of a problem.  Eddie had started carrying a pair of regulation police handcuffs some time ago; he’d found them at a military surplus store.  But he wanted to make sure he could cuff the kid to something fairly immobile.  For the first time, he looked around and took in the detail of the room.

 

It was clearly the room of an adolescent male, but beyond that, any trace of the occupant’s personality was smothered with the same kind of bland décor that Eddie had glimpsed on his trek through the house.  The queen-sized bed was an expensive piece of furniture, and the sheets seemed to be of a high quality.  It was difficult to tell, the way they were wadded up on the floor.  But the fitted sheet that remained had the shimmer of expensive material.

 

Beyond the bed was a large alcove with a window.  In the wall adjoining the window was a desk with a computer and a sizeable monitor.  Directly behind the desk, against the opposite wall, was a set of shelves containing the peripheral—among other things, a nice laser printer and a musical keyboard with a USB cord.

 

On the wall opposite the bed, immediately to the left of the door Eddie came in, was a huge LCD TV on its own stand, with the game system and a sound bar underneath.  The desk chair and a second chair had been set up in front of the TV with a couple of TV trays next to them.  It was the second chair that attracted Eddie’s eye.

 

It appeared to be one of the dining room chairs, ornately wrought, but sturdy.  If he could bind the fucker’s legs to the chair legs…the little shit’s clothes were scattered over the floor; there had to be a belt or two…there.

 

Striding over to the heavy wood chair, Eddie lifted it easily with one arm and carried it over to where he’d dropped Ross at the side of the bed.

 

“You!  Boy!” he barked at Josh.  The younger brother had not recovered from the emotional shock of Eddie’s entry and was still standing at the foot of the bed.  He flinched violently at the sound of the older man’s voice, then turned and looked at him, his face almost blank.

 

“Go get me those belts,” he demanded, pointing to a pile four feet beyond where Josh was standing where the pile of clothing was almost two feet high.  On top were a couple of pairs of jeans with belts still in them.  One belt was black and ordinary; the other was white with a series of small metal plates along its length.

 

Josh turned and looked at the pile, then turned and looked back at Eddie, the same blankness in his face.  But he turned and headed towards the jeans.

 

Eddie, in the meantime, hoisted Ross and sat him in the chair, holding the limp homo upright as he circled around to cuff the kid’s arms behind the back of the chair.  He clicked the steel bracelets on so tightly they dug into the boy’s flesh.  He looked up just as Josh arrived with the belts.

 

“Here,” he grunted, “Give’m to me.”

 

Josh dropped the belts, turned quickly, and bolted out the door.

 

By the time Eddie got to the doorway, the boy was halfway down the stairs.  He knew what the kid was aiming for—the alarm keypad next to the front door.  The little fuckwad was going for the panic button.

 

Not if Eddie could help it.  His strength and build didn’t mean he was too musclebound to move; like any good hunter, he was swift and sure-footed.  He made it down the stairs much faster than Josh would have thought possible.  Just as the terrified adolescent reached out for the keypad in relief, Eddie caught up to him.  Before the punk could touch a single button, the powerful ex-Marine had clutched the back of the kid’s head and, using his own forward momentum against him, slammed Josh’s face into the wall next to the keypad.

 

The boy slumped to the floor, stunned, leaving an oval-shaped hole in the drywall.  As the kid groaned and ran his hand over his face, Eddie kicked him in the head, his steel-toed combat boot putting the cunt’s lights out.

 

Pausing for a moment, the sweating, heaving stud reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it up over his head, tossing it onto a table at one side of the entryway.  Much more comfortable without his shirt, Eddie bent down and grabbed the unconscious teen by his wrist and began dragging him towards the stairs.

 

As he reached the foot of the staircase, Eddie noticed a tray on the bar tucked under it.  On the tray was an ice bucket, ice pick, and four tumblers.  Without breaking his stride, the sadistic killer snatched the ice pick off the tray.  He continued up the stairs, dragging Josh along behind him like some nightmarish version of a child dragging its teddy bear off to bed.

 

As the boy was pulled up the staircase, his feet caught on every riser.  His left boot came off about halfway up, landing upright on the next step down.  Near the top, the other boot came off; this one tumbled down the stairs past its mate, coming to rest about three steps from the bottom.  The punk was wearing white ped socks underneath.  They stayed on as Eddie dragged the kid back to his brother’s bedroom and tossed him on the bed.

.


 

Even after Ross regained consciousness, he still wasn’t sure he was awake.  The scene in front of his eyes was too surreal too much like a nightmare, to be real.

 

Josh, nude and limp, was stretched across the bed in front of him.  Ross was a horny young fag; he’d lusted after his younger brother’s smooth, firm body for years—but he loved the kid and would never force himself on him.  Seeing the boy sprawled out in front of him was a shock—

 

—but not as much of a shock as the image of the hardbodied stud standing directly in front of him, shirtless, in the camo pants and combat boots only, with an enormous erection jutting out from his open fly and a malicious grin on his face.

 

“Glad ya decided to join the party,” the well-built man said, his cold, handsome face lit with an unsettling manic glee.  “You’re just in time to watch me ream out yer little bitchboy here.”

 

That was when Ross realized that he himself was nude, except for his kicks.  He didn’t remember his clothes being removed, but they had been, and he’d been bound to a chair.  This crazy dude had stripped him and Josh both and was talking about raping Josh—and he couldn’t move.

 

“Wha?” he muttered groggily, still stunned from the blow to the head he’d received and barely remembered.  “Wha—why?  Whya doin…”

 

Eddie smiled even more broadly and bent down in front of Ross.  He held out something; it took the teen a moment to focus on it and realize it was an ice pick.  “Yer askin’ why?  I thought all you faggots wanted a real man to stick something long and hard into yer worthless asses.  It’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, homo—you get to watch me stick all kinda things into that little cocksucker there on the bed.  A hot porno to get ya into the mood before it’s your turn, see?”

 

Ross didn’t see.  He wouldn’t let himself see.  But he had no choice but to see what happened next.

 

Josh was still out.  He was on his back, his lithe, smooth adolescent body sprawled and helpless on the bed, which had been swept clean of all but the fitted sheet.  Under the indirect lighting Ross had used in his room, Josh looked as if he’d been laid out on an altar.  Or, rather, a stage—for an audience of one.

 

Slipping the ice pick into his waistband, Eddie climbed onto the bed, brandishing his huge cock like a club and smiling malevolently down at the unconscious teen.  Kneeling on the bed, he bent down and scooped Josh’s legs up, placing the kid’s ankles on his shoulders.  With easy access to the boy’s ass, the serial killer began to probe the punk’s sphincter with the engorged head of his cock.

 

“Dude,” Ross began, his words still slightly slurred as he spoke, “Whatcha doin’?”  Ross knew damn well what it looked like they guy was doing, but that couldn’t be right.

 

“I’m gonna show this little cocksucker what a real man’s cock feel like,” Eddie replied nonchalantly.  “You might wanna pay attention, cunt—your turn’s next.”

 

Ross struggled furiously with his bindings.  He couldn’t see what was holding him back; the sound and sensation behind his back told him his hands were in cuffs, but he had no clue what was on his legs.  Whatever it was, nothing was giving—not that that stopped the well-built adolescent from trying.

 

“Keep yer fuckin’ hands off him!” the teen snarled viciously, “If he don’t kill ya when he wakes up, I will!”

 

Eddie grinned happily and plunged himself balls-deep into the younger boy’s asshole.

 

Both Josh and Ross cried out simultaneously; Josh screaming in pain as the agony of having his sphincter torn apart like wet paper pulled him violently form his semi-conscious state.  His older brother yelled inarticulately in rage and sympathy.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Eddie crowed, “That’s what I’m taking about.  Nice tight little baby fag—ya like that, dontcha?  All ya little boyfags crave mancock, yeah?”  He turned to Ross.  “Don’t get jelly, bro—I’m gonna be layin’ pipe up yer fuckhole soon.  The little one here’s just foreplay, a little somethin’ to get my meat nice and hard.”

 

As he spoke, the muscular ex-marine continued to plunge his freakishly large member as far as he could into the adolescent boy’s rectum.  His pelvis bounced off Josh’s ass, the rounded pink globes of the boy’s asscheeks quivering with each thrust.

 

Josh’s pain and fear were blatant; it was obvious—at least to anyone who wasn’t a psychopathic, sadistic serial killer—that the kid was a virgin.  Even Eddie could feel the blood that tricked from the punk’s ass as a kind of warm lube.  The teenager had gotten his cherry popped and was bleeding just like a chick.  He was also shrieking like one.

 

“Goddam, got me a screamer,” Eddie said, carrying on his casual commentary with his victim’s horrified older brother.  “Bitch fuckin’ loves ridin’ the D but ain’t got no volume control.  I know how to fix that.”

 

And in front of Ross’s horrified eyes, Eddie punched Josh twice in the face, hard and brutal roundhouse swings from the shoulder.  The boy grunted viscerally as each of the blows landed, his entire body clenching to ward off the impacts.  And even from where Ross was strapped down, he could see his little bro’s dick flop up, semi-erect, each time he was hit.

 

Ross didn’t understand that, and for some reason, it scared more than anything else.  After all, some part of him still hadn’t accepted that any of this was happening.  Maybe it was a hallucination; maybe the weed had been laced with something…

 

“Aw hell yeah!” Eddie grunted.  “Goddam faggot knows what it wants!”  He turned back to Ross, his happy grin somehow making his masculine face breathtakingly handsome and soullessly evil at the same time.  “Hey, asswipe, you like pain as much as this one?  It tightens its fagpussy around my shaft when I hit it—maybe I need to hurt it more, yeah?  Think that’ll make it work my dick real good?  Let’s find out!”

 

And as Ross looked on in terror and Josh moaned and coughed up two teeth, Eddie pulled the ice pick out of his waistband.  “Don’t worry, I’m gonna start slow,” he said to Ross, “Let the whore get used to it first.  But it’s gonna hatfa work my dick good to earn my seed.”

 

And without breaking eye contact with Ross, Eddie moved the ick pick down to Josh’s smooth, heaving flank and began shoving the nine-inch steel shaft into the teen boy’s side.

 

Despite being stunned by the blows to the face, Josh was still sufficiently conscious to feel pain.  He reacted immediately, wailing in pain and trying to wriggle out form under his rapist’s bulky form.  Eddie just grinned and continued to slowly push the pick into the kid.

 

Suddenly Josh gasped and went rigid.  “Yeah, that’s the spot,” Eddie grunted, then turned back to Ross.  “Gotta love combat trainin’.  Stick yer target in the kidney, and he’s helpless.  Organ trauma gets ‘em all nice and tight, too.”  He withdrew the thin steel shaft a couple of inches, then rammed it back in brutally, timing the jab with a powerful thrust of his hips.

 

Suffering from the double agony of his attacker’s cock in his guts and weapon in his kidney, Josh’s instinctive reaction, as Eddie had said, was to go stiff, in an effort to prevent the foreign objects in his body from doing further damage.  It was also an instinctive act to brace himself—when he reached out and grasped Eddie’s arms, his hands clamping tightly on, but not able to encircle, the killer’s huge biceps, it was an action of pain, not pleasure.  His bruised jaw tightly clenched, the agonized teen’s s breathing was harsh and fast, whistling through the gap form by the knocked-out teeth.

 

Eddie pulled the ice pick back out of Josh with an exquisite protraction, then held it up and admired the way the metal shaft was red with blood up to the handle.  It was too much for Ross.

 

“Stop it, you psycho!” he screeched.  Eddie turned slowly and smirked and Ross felt terror wash over him—not for himself, but for his brother.  “I said stop it, motherfucker!  Let him go!!”

 

“Stop it?”  Eddie asked innocently, the cold sneer on his face unchanging, “Stop stickin’ the fag in the kidney?  Sure—that was gettin’ old anyway.”  Leaning back, with a sudden motion almost too fast to be seen, he whipped the ice pick around and brought it down on the boy’s stomach, puncturing his smooth, flat belly and driving it in up to the hilt.

 

Again Josh gasp and clenched in agony.  “That’s it,” Eddie grunted, “Just like that.  Work my cock, faggot!”

 

Josh moaned and mewled in desperate pain.  He and his older brother were in tears; Ross too horrified to speak, at least for the moment.

 

“Aw, yer goin’ loose again,” the buff ex-Marine said.  Josh was in too much pain to pay attention, but Ross heard him.  By now he knew what to expect.

 

“No…no…” he whispered.

 

“Shaddup,” Eddie snapped, “Yer little homo bro likes this shit.  See?”  He managed to twist his waist and tilt Josh’s still-rigid form slightly towards Ross.  The older couldn’t help but see his baby brother’s thick, erect cock.  It was surreal; it made no sense—but, bewildered and despairing, some part of Ross began to think this sadistic stranger was right.  Josh wanted to be hurt.

 

But no, that wasn’t right.  He wasn’t going to think about that.  And he damn sure wasn’t gonna think about the fact that his own tool was getting stiff.  It meant nothing; getting out of this situation meant everything.

 

Eddie plunged the pick back into Josh’s belly four times in lightning-fast succession, savoring the sensation of resistance, as if he was puncturing the head of a drum, with each one.  And the sobbing teen clenched everything—including his sphincter and rectum—with each stab.

 

Eddie turned back to Ross, his lips wreathed with a happy smile.  “Dude,” he said, “It’s like his fuckhole is jackin’ me off.  Fuckin’ fantastic.”

 

“…you sick fuck…” Ross gasped, barely audible.  But Eddie heard him and leered evilly at the compliment.

 

“Motherfucker, you ain’t seen shit yet,” he replied, jerking the steel shaft back out of the moaning teenager’s gut and plunging it into his chest, two inches southwest of his heart.

 

Josh cried out in agony as the ice pick penetrated his pectoral muscle—a massive steel needle that was suddenly and brutally driven through his body with such force that it pierced his lung and ended up lodged in the inside of one of his ribs, near the spine.

 

Eddie turned away from Ross; the taunting was fun, but this was getting good. The young fuckmeat stared up at him, its huge dark eyes ringed with gray circles of shock, its mouth open and moving, but no sounds coming out.  Suddenly, it heaved beneath him, a single spasm, and coughed, a fine trickle of blood leaking from the corner of its mouth.  The injury wasn’t fatal, but the punk’s lung was bleeding.

 

Josh remained loose; he didn’t go rigid.  Eddie was furious.  The faggot wasn’t cooperating.

 

“Boy, you ain’t workin’ my dick,” he growled.  Josh kept staring at him blankly, his lips making the motions for words he wasn’t voicing.  His hard cock kept jabbing against Eddie’s belly; the vicious fagkiller could feel the hot spongy warmth of its swollen purple head against his smooth ripped abs—but the cunt wasn’t moving its fuckhole.  “Only damn thing you fucking fags are good for is a cumdump, and you ain’t even good at bein’ that!  Hope yer bro over there is a better fuck than you are, ya worthless piece a’ shit.  Time to put you outta my misery, fuckwad.”

 

Slapping his huge strong paw of a hand on Josh’s face, he forced it to the left, towards where Ross was sitting, and pinned it there.  With the other hand, he pulled the ick pick out of the boy’s chest.  It took a little effort; the tip was tightly embedded in the rib.

 

Holding it aloft, he turned to Ross.  “Hey, asswipe, watch this.  Watch this close.”  He didn’t need to threaten, he knew the adolescent homo was compelled to see what was happening to his little bitchboy cuntbrother; he wouldn’t be able to turn away.

 

He was right.  Ross watched in growing horror as Eddie lowered the ice pick into Josh’s ear—and then kept right on inserting it, very slowly, into the boy’s skull.

 

Josh came out of his stupor almost immediately.  The terrible pain of the chest wound receded far into the background as a whole new universe of agony opened up to the buff young adolescent in the final two minutes of his life.

 

Two minutes is a long time.  The next two minutes that Josh and Ross endured lasted eons.

 

For Josh, it began with the pain of a punctured eardrum, to be suddenly replaced with a faint but distinct “crunch” inside his head as the steel shaft crushed the tiny bones of the middle ear.  Then the true nightmare began.

 

As Eddie continued to slide the pick slowly and lovingly into the boy’s ear canal, it ripped through the semicircular canals and Josh spent the rest of his life in unimaginable vertigo and nausea.  As Ross watched, frozen in shock, his younger brother began to kick and retch.  His smooth teen body was soon covered in sweat as the unfortunate youth dry heaved uncontrollably.

 

“Too late for that shit now, cunt!” Eddie crowed, speaking to Josh—but looking at Ross, who held his gaze helplessly.  “Too late to save yer useless ass by workin’ my cock, dumbass—time for ya to take a nice long dirt nap!”

 

Needless to say, all this motion didn’t help Eddie’s aim much—not that he cared.  Josh might have, since it prolonged his life, and hence his agony, for a few more seconds, but he was long past being able to control his actions in any case.  Nothing he’d suffered yet had been a truly mortal wound, but that changed in the next moment, when Eddie finally drove the sharp-tipped steel tool into the teenager’s brain stem.

 

Ross could see it in Josh’s eyes.  He didn’t know the details, didn’t know that Eddie was grinding the pick around in his brother’s ear, sending the long rigid shaft ripping through the brainstem—but that part of the brain controls facial muscles.  The look on his dying brother’s face was seared into Ross’s mind.

 

Josh arced his back.  Eddie pulled himself up as well, letting Ross see that despite everything, the kid’s rod was not only erect but pulsating.  Again, the older teen felt a sense of despair, not understanding his brother’s physical reaction.  How could he be hard now?

 

And then Eddie slashed through something important.  He’d angled the ice pick downwards and had badly damaged the medulla oblongata, which controls both the heart and the lungs.

 

Josh began to breathe hard.  As Eddie lay on top of him to get full enjoyment from his kill, the dying teen began to writhe, his sweat-slick skin sliding smoothly against Eddie’s own.  His breathing became faster and shallower, his empty eyes staring into his brother’s as his blood from his injured lung blew out of his mouth in a faint pink mist.

 

“Faggot’s close,” Eddie said with a grin.  “Wanna see it?  Wanna watch yer brother’s deathload?  Sure ya do, ya little sicko, yer already hard yerself.  Ok here ya go!”

 

And with the same motion he’d used earlier, he pulled himself off Josh and tilted him towards Ross, making one last dig in the boy’s brain with the ice pick.  Josh’s last sound on earth was a deep, mortal grunt, and it was accompanied by a solid jet of thick, abundant, adolescent semen that spewed forth out of the punk’s cock.

 

Ross watched it, his mind blank with horror.  Josh was dead.  He could see it in his face.  He was dead, but he kept on cumming.

 

As the corpse’s convulsions began to slow, the stream of sperm tapered off and slowed to an ooze.  Eddie slowly pulled himself upright and got off the bed.  Josh lay on his back, his legs splayed, his thick boycock slowly shriveling, and a tapioca-like puddle of spunk pooling on his flat belly.  The ice pick jutted grotesquely from his ear.  His eyes were wide open, and he had died with the expression of someone who had stared into Hell.

 

Ross stared at his younger brother’s raped and murdered corpse.  Tears trickling down his face, he seemed to be sinking into a fugue state when Eddie’s raucous, taunting voice hit him like a slap in the face.

 

“You’re next, fucker,” he growled, advancing towards the bound teenager, his enormous cock jutting out from his camo pants, “I ain’t shot my wad yet.  You better be better than he was.”

 

“In fact—” he paused and looked back at Josh’s quivering body, the turned to Ross again, “—I got an idea.  Looks like we got something here for you to practice on.”

 

Ross could follow the musclebound psycho’s line of thought as he advanced. He burst into tears and pissed himself.  He already knew there was nothing he could do to stop whatever it was that was coming next.

Meat Chronicles 21—Homo for the Holidays

Goddamn, it’s hard to maintain control sometimes.  There’s a pile of teenage fuckmeat lying on the floor in front of the passenger seat of my van and I wanna drain my distended, over-pressurized balls into it right away.  Can’t let myself go yet, though—I need to tenderize the fucker first; it’s a tough piece of meat.

 

I’d marked this one for prey some time ago, but he’s eluded me each time, mostly by proximity.  I first saw him about five weeks back, outside the liquor store.  Too young to buy his own booze, he was lurking in the parking lot and pouncing on anyone who seemed likely to make purchases for him.  I ignored him—for one thing, I’m known there, and for another, every square inch of the place, inside and out, is recorded on video.  You don’t shit where you eat.

 

I’d seen him there on a number of later occasions, but nowhere else.  As long as he stayed there, he was safe from me.

 

Today, I happened to spot him on the side of the road, three blocks from the liquor store.   Luring him in was so goddam easy; stupid fuckin’ cunt was looking to get fucked up.  I’d offered to give him a lift to the store, knowing he’d ask me to get him something, but he kept going on about wanting anything—from weed to meth to coke.

 

He said he was twenty, but he was barely eighteen, if that; his skin was too clear and his teeth were too intact for him to have experienced such heavy drug use for too long.  He had dark wavy hair and dark eyes, the wide oval lids ringed with long lashes.  He wore a black t-shirt with a Wu-Tang Clan logo in gold; the sleeves were ripped off showing his muscled arms.  The punk wasn’t badly built—nowhere near as powerful as I am of course; the little fucks I waste can never hope to compete—and the shirt was stretched tightly across his chest, highlighting his pecs.

 

His skin-tight brown jeans were very old and worn; they were tucked into a pair of brown leather harness boots that came almost halfway up the cunt’s calf.  It was the same outfit I’d seen him in each time.

 

He hopped in my van the moment I offered him a lift.  When talking about what he was looking for, he put his hand on my thigh; I could feel the warmth of his skin through the tight denim.  “You hook me up, bro,” he said, grinning lecherously at me, “And I promise you a good time.”

 

I grinned right back.  “Aw, dude, I’ll getcha so fucked up you won’t know what hit ya.”  I always try to keep my word.

 

As usual, the meat started babbling; it always does.  It can be about different things—its boring past, its dumbass desires or worthless ambitions—but as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t help picking up a thing or two.  He called himself Mikey, like I cared, and said he’d left home at the age of fifteen and had been on the streets ever since (I knew he was younger than twenty).

 

I drove past the liquor store and pulled into the parking lot of a half-empty strip mall.  “Whatcha got for me?” the cunt asked.

 

“A sucker punch,” I replied, driving my right fist straight out into his jaw with the speed and power of a pneumatic piston.  His head hit the window so hard I thought the glass had cracked.  It hadn’t, but the meat had.  It slumped forward, sliding limply off its seat, still and unconscious on the floorboards.  Stupid bitch had a glass jaw.

 

And now I get to make it die on my dick.  I just need to find the right spot to snuff out its worthless life.  Shouldn’t be too hard.

 

It takes me longer than I expected to find the right place, but I do find it.  Elmhurst Avenue, south of downtown—an old neighborhood, the side streets are lined with sixty-year-old apartment buildings and ninety-year-old houses cut up into apartments.  The avenue itself is lined with low brick buildings and empty lots; perhaps one out of every five buildings shows some hint of occupation.  It’s a place where the rents are cheap and yet still overpriced, a neighborhood reeking of failure and despair.

 

I find what I’m looking for at a corner formed by one of the side streets.  It looks like its most recent used had been as a car lot; the whole corner was paved flat.  In the middle of the lot is a cinderblock building with a canopy that may or may not have been a gas station in a past incarnation; at any rate, it had been gutted by fire at some point—above the gaping black holes of the windows and door, black cones of soot mar the peeling white paint.

 

The entire lot is surrounded by a high chain link fence topped with barbed wire; the fence is rusted and bent but it still stands.  The gate, which rolls parallel to the street on a track, had been forced and is still ajar.  I can’t see any other vehicle on the crumbling concrete pavement, so I cautiously pull in and head for the structure that first caught my eye—the sheet-metal garage in the back corner.  It’s got two overhead doors on the left and some sort of reception/office area on the right with a door and windows.  Well, doorways and window openings; the only thing intact is the overhead door on the extreme left.  The rest of the building has been gutted—not by fire this time, but by vandalism.

 

I slowly back my van in, making sure no one’s around to notice.  Luckily the building next door, a furniture clearance warehouse, had expanded at the back; the garage was up against two blank brick walls.  Shifting into park, I roll down the window and cut the engine, listening carefully.  A car goes by on the Avenue.  There’s a rustling in the corner that’s likely a rat.  Otherwise, there’s nothing.

 

It’s a perfect place to snuff the fag.

 

I get out, letting my combat boots hit the oil-stained cement with a thud, and casually stroll around to the passenger door.   Opening it, I bend down and grab the meat’s boots and pull them off his feet.

 

They might fit me.  I’m keeping them.

 

I open the back the van and dump the meat on the floor; he’s easier to strip that way.  I sit him up and pull off his shirt, tossing it over my shoulder to land on the filthy floor.  The kid has a great torso, with hard smooth pecs displaying large and jutting nipples.  I take a moment to squeeze and twist the firm mounds of flesh, pinching and pulling at them.

 

The cunt must like it.  He starts moaning and the long soft lashes ringing his large eyes begin to flutter.  He blinks blearily a few times, trying to focus—and then he comes to, all at once.  It’s easy to recognize.  He has the hard edge of a street slut faggot, but he’s still too young and naïve to be able to cover his fear.  And he is afraid.

 

Just not enough.

 

“Wha—?” he started, but I don’t want him awake yet.  It’d ruin the surprise.  A little love tap does it; I don’t clock him hard, just enough to split his full red lips and make them bleed a little.  But his lights go out and I’m able to peel his tight jeans off without further interruption.

 

He’s freeballin’ underneath, six and a half inches of uncut boycock lolling along his smooth thigh.  Underneath it, he’s endowed with a decent sack, covered with a forest of dark curly pubes.

 

Good enough for me.  I’ve been wearing a button-down flannel shirt, left open; I slip out of it and sling it over the back of the driver’s seat.  After unzipping my fly, it takes a minute to haul my tackle up out of my crotch, but it’s rigid and rarin’ to go them moment it hits the open air.

 

And so am I.  A quick glance around to confirm that no one was gonna spoil my playtime, and I hop in the van and close the door.  Next time I open it, this stupid little motherfucker ain’t just gonna be dead, he’s gonna be glad he’s dead.

 

It’s dim in the back of the van, but not too dark.  I can see the whoreboy; he’s starting to stir again.  That’s good—I want him awake for this.  I wanna see the pain and fear in his face.

 

Speaking of pain, it’s time I inflicted some on him.  I’ve got a number of random items in my kill van—things I’ve picked up from time to time that might come in handy.  Let’s see; what will fuck this cunt up…ah, that’ll work.

 

It’s a length of sixteen-gauge jack chain, about three and a half feet.  I kneel over him, slowly winding it around my fist.  The teen slut blinks and gazes up at me; I can see the glint of lust in his big faggot eyes was they scan my body, from my erect, jutting shaft along my ripped abs to my broad, furry chest.  They never make it to my face, thought; they stop dead at the chain around my hand.

 

Already scared and confused, the runaway punk turns gray.  “Wha—what’s goin’ on?”

 

Dumbass piece of shit can’t figure it out; in fact, he doesn’t even seem to realize he’d been stripped nude yet.  But I don’t suffer fools gladly; I gladly make fools suffer.

 

“Remember when I toldja I was gonna get ya so fucked up you wouldn’t know what hit ya?” I leer down at him.

 

“Uh-huh,” he nods, his face drawn with trepidation.

 

“Well, I lied.  Yer gonna know,” I say and hold up my chain-wrapped fist.  “It’s this.  This is what’s gonna hit ya.”

 

I slam it into his face as hard as I can, feeling his left cheekbone snapping under the impact.  The chain digs deep, tearing into his skin.

 

The cunt squeals and cries out, clutching his face.  I shift downward and land two rapid-fire blows in the center of his smooth, vulnerable belly.  They strike with the heavy slapping sound of flesh on flesh, the chain giving an added impetus to the force.

 

The kid rises up with an anguished expression, his face taut as the gutpunches violently expel the air from his lungs.  His cheek is already black and swollen, but he seems to have forgotten about that little bit of foreplay in his sudden inability to breathe.  Gasping futilely, he rolls onto his side in a fetal position.

 

The cunt doesn’t get to long to comfort himself.  I dive between his legs, forcing them apart as I roll him onto his back.  He squirms away, kicking his legs blindly.

 

“Don’t fight me, faggot,” I snarl.  As he twists to the side again, I pound on him again, this time nailing his kidney.  He instantly flops onto his back, gasping, and I can part his writhing teen legs with ease.  “You know ya want this dick, so shaddup and take it, cunt!”

 

I rub the thick oozing head of my dick over his ass, leaving a trail of precum through the soft down covering those firm rounded cheeks.  He’s still struggling, but not so much that I can’t easily overpower him.

 

He’ll fight later, when the panic sets in.  I can tell; he’s the type.  At some point I’m gonna hafta ride him hard and rough.  For right now, though, the only thing he’s afraid of is getting raped.  He has no clue how much worse it’s gonna get.  He gets a hint, though, when I suddenly plunge in balls-deep, with no warning and my precum the only lube.

 

I dunno if he’s a virgin, but I can tell instantly that anyone who’s been up his hole before me wasn’t anywhere near as hung as I am.  My massive erect tool punches through his asshole like an awl; I can feel it when his strained sphincter give way and tears open under my relentless cock.

 

His eyes grow huge and his face is a mask of pain and shock as my shaft plunges deep inside him.  He’s gripping my arms, each of his hands tightly clutching my powerful biceps while his guts are relentlessly pounded by my dick.

 

Well, the cunt damn sure ain’t a virgin now.

 

He’s finally getting enough air back into his lungs to speak.  “St-stop…no, fuck no, stop!”

 

I punch him again, this time landing one on his broad smooth chest, hitting the left pec with a satisfying thud.  Again, just a love tap—didn’t even break the skin with the chain.  “Shaddup, bitch, and take my cock.”

 

Dumbass motherfucker doesn’t shut up.  Goddam, I’m really doin’ a service to the planet by riddin’ it of stupid pieces of faggot fuckmeat.  Even worse, this one’s startin’ to struggle.

 

“Wh-wh-what? What?  Help! HELP!!!  HEL—”

 

Ok, so I make it shut up.  One hand on its throat, my chained fist emphasizin’ my point to the cunt.  Makin’ sure I drive it into its head, so to speak, though I’m specifically aiming for its face.

 

“I toldja [WHAM] to shut [WHAM] yer fuckin’ [WHAM] face!! [WHAM]”

 

Oh fuck, I can feel every individual impact reverberate through his firm adolescent body, his pain communicated directly to my dick, his traumatized colon milking and massaging it with every agonized muscle contraction.  It feels so good, I wanna keep goin’…but I can’t.  It’ll kill the meat, and I ain’t done with it yet.

 

And even now, I’ve reduced the left side of its face to hamburger.  The eye is swollen shut, the cheek is flayed, the lips swollen and bleeding, and the nose is listing badly to starboard.  It occurs to me that offin’ the homo will be a mercy killing—sparing it from a lot of painful reconstructive surgery.

 

Of course, by the time I’m done with it, it’ll be a mercy killin’ anyway, ha!

 

At the moment it’s still conscious; it turns its head and coughs up a gout of blood and a couple of teeth.  It’s lying back, gasping, with its mouth open and eyes—well, eye—closed.

 

And during the entire beating I never once even slow the tempo of the assrape.  Man, it felt so fuckin’ good, pounding the teen’s ass and face at the same time. The boy’s a natural painpig; the way his fuckhole worked my rod it all the proof I need.

 

The fact that he got hard as I whaled on his face just adds to the evidence.

 

“You fuckin’ pervert faggot,” I snarl, “Lookit this shit.  Goddam, I was right again.  All you little boyfags are lookin’ for is a real man to come along and make ya suffer like you deserve.  Tell ya what, motherfucker, if this kinda foreplay gets yer little homo dick hard, yer gonna blow yer pansy wad at what’s comin’ next!”

 

He looks at me, opening both eyes so wide that even the left one opens up a narrow slit—but since it’s leaking tears, I doubt it’s helping him.  He’s trying to speak, but the left side of his jaw is swollen and misshapen.  Wonder if I broke it—damn, I hate to have missed that.

 

Oh well. I can make up for it before I’m done with the kid.

 

He gurgles and bleats; it’s not incomprehensible—I just don’t care enough to try to figure out what he’s sayin’.  As long as his ass keeps grippin’ my hog, he can start singin’ the national anthem, for as much as I give a shit…

 

…except he ain’t grippin’ quite as tight as he was.

 

Well, goddamn.  Guess I gotta tighten the meat up again.  I start unwinding the chain from my fist.  I think I’m gonna start a rebellion here, and I need a little somthin’ to help me put it down.

 

“You know where this is headin’, dontcha, cunt?” I say, smiling down at him.  His fear is palpable, almost tactile.  Just a tiny spark to set it off.  “This kinda shit happens all the time.  Dumbass faggot picks up the wrong dude, ends up a pile of well-used homo meat.  Guess what, motherfucker—I’m that wrong dude.”

 

I was right.  He has the wiry athleticism of youth, keyed up to extremes by panic.  There’s no way he’s gonna be able to overpower me; as hard as he thrashes and beats his balled fists against my fur-insulated chest, he ain’t doin’ me any damage.

 

Still don’t mean I gotta put up with this shit, though.  Rising up on my knees without pulling my rod out of his ass, I start lashing him brutally with the chain.

 

The pansy screeches like a pig gettin’ its throat slit; I’m leaving welts in the shape of chain links on his smooth, tender boyflesh.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I jeer at him, spitting in his twisted, agonized face, “You just fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha?  Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  Hell yeah, bitch, keep screamin’—the more it hurts, the more ya work my dick.”

 

He squeals and throws up his arms to block the blows.  Big mistake.  Ever seen what a well-swung chain’ll do to human fingers?  His snap like toothpicks.

 

For a moment, he shuts up.  The only noise in the van is the slapping sound of a brutal assfuck.  The adolescent fagwhore stares, silent and agape, at the mangled remains of his right hand, splayed out like a crushed starfish.  I slash again with the chain, catching him across the left forearm with enough force to wrap the chain completely around it.  I grab his left hand with my free hand and stare him dead in the face.

 

“You deserve this, you motherfucking piece of faggot shit,” I sneer and jerk the chain, breaking both of the bones and ripping off a strip of flesh that completely encircles his arm.  He sputters and drools as his arm folds over, but I’m just about done with him.

 

“Yer a boring fuck, bitch, and I got shit to do today.  ‘Bout time to waste yer fag ass.  Hope ya kick a lot as ya die, motherfucker; it really helps get me off.”

 

Raising my hand in front of his bruised, terror-filled face, I let him watch me partially unwind the chain from my hand until I have a good two feet stretched in front of him.  “Ready to die, cocksucker?  Ready to choke to death so you can be my personal cumdump?  Not like you got any other reason for bein’ on this planet, ya useless cumguzzler; might as well work my shaft as ya get what’s comin’ to ya.”

 

He moans and shakes his head wildly as I lean forward and wrap the chain around his throat.  “Shh, shh,” I whisper, “Don’t worry—I promise, it’s gonna hurt. I promise.”

 

I yank the metal chain tight, so tight I can see his flesh welling up in the open spaces in the links.

 

The lithe teen body goes rigid with agony beneath me.  It feels so fuckin’ good, the smooth, soft flesh, taut with nightmarish suffering, pressed firmly against my hairy, muscular body.  The cunt doesn’t know how lucky he is; so many of his faggot buddies crave and yearn for the ultimate fuck.  Just like this stupid fucker, they deny it and fight it to the end, but I can see the gratitude in their eyes as they start to glaze over.  They stare into eternity with the knowledge that they’ve taken my load and thus achieved their greatest and highest use.

 

And they invariably blow a thick deathwad.

 

“That’s it, asswipe,” I grunt as I whale on his ass, “Fuckin’ die on my cock.  Ride my shaft right into yer grave, homo.  Ya know ya want this; that’s why yer teen dick is hard, right?  Fuck yeah, even a dumbass like you knows baby fags need to be put down by a real man.”

 

The meat’s eyes open wide—even the swollen one manages, a little—and it give me a look that tells me I need to hang on tight.   The boycunt is starting to panic; it’s not yet in a mindless frenzy of fear, but it’s coming soon.

 

And holy fuck does it feel good when the meat flails in mind-searing terror, its rectum sucking on my tool as if that’s what it was designed for.  On with the mindfuck.

 

“Yer gonna cum when ya die,” I casually remark to the meat, “Won’t be able to help it.  Shit, you shoulda seen the last teen cunt I offed; fucker musta shot damn near a quart of spooge.  Couse, he held out for a while.  Took him a long, long time to die…”

 

The meat’s close; there’s a developing glint in its one good eye reminiscent of insanity.

 

“You ain’t as good as he was, though,” I go on, “In fact, you’re a boring fuck.  Yer even useless as a faggot.  Hurry up an’ die, motherfucker, so I can toss yer worthless cumdump corpse out there in the filth and get outta here.  I’m a busy man, asshole—”

 

That did it.  The meat thrashes violently, as if its being electrocuted.  It can’t kick me, since I’m already between its legs, but they flail in the air behind me, feet and toes curling in agony in midair.  The cunt beats at my face with its right hand, slapping me since in can’t form its shattered fingers into a fist.  Its left arm flops and jerks uselessly at its side, the broken forearm limp and helpless.

 

And the entire time I hold the boyfag close to me, letting its ass milk my throbbing, oozing rod as I incrementally tighten the chain around its throat.

 

It’s obviously dying at this point.  Its face is congested and black, so distorted as to be almost unrecognizable.  Drool has bubbled out beside the engorged, protruding tongue and flows down both cheeks in white, foamy streams.  The slut is slick with sweat; the beads standing out on its forehead trickling painfully into its bulging eyes, now too swollen for mere bruised eyelids to hold them in.

 

“Now yer learnin’ yer place, cocksucker,” I tell the grunting, shuddering bitchboy, “You been needin’ this for a long time.  Die, fuckwad, choke and kick and die in agony!”

 

The cunt is arching its back, pressing its firm, flat belly against my furry ripped abs.  I can feel its hard thick boycock pressed firmly against me; the perverted little shit is so aroused by asphyxiation that its oozing precum as it dies.  Fuck, ain’t nobody gonna miss this disgustin’ babyfag.

 

Catch ‘em and take ‘em out while they’re still young so they do as little damage to society as possible.  And deep inside, the fuckers want it anyway.  They know gettin’ put down by a real man is the best thing that can happen to a fuckin’ useless pussyboy.

 

This one’s on its way out.  Its flailings are getting weaker and more uncoordinated; I brace myself and tighten the chain with as much force as I can.

 

The loud crunch of the teen’s larynx echoes in the confines of my van.  There’s a brief lull—the kid is shuddering beneath me, its blackened and drool-soaked cheeks distending with some final vain effort at exclamation, but no air is getting past the mangled wad of cartilage blocking its windpipe.  I can see one last gleam of consciousness left in its good eye, and in it I can recognize the true horror of a stupid faggot finally experiencing the brutal death it deserves.

 

And then the convulsions begin.

 

Once the convulsions start, the meat has reached a tipping point.  Too much brain damage has set in; whatever miserable excuse for a human once animated the body is gone and isn’t coming back.  But adolescent boys have a lot of stamina.  As the meat rhythmically writhes and kicks under my muscled weight, I realize it may be possible that there may still be some deep inner spark of personality still lit.

 

I let go of the chain and punch the thrashing cunt in the face.  Still pounding its ass, I lay at full length, my powerful form restraining its thrashing, and grab its head with both hands, forcing it back and to the side.

 

One hand is gripped around the jaw and the other around the back of the skull.  Slowly and inexorably, I force the fuckmeat’s head past its normal point of rotation.  I can feel “twangings”—the only way I can describe it—as the cervical tendons and sinews begin to snap. Suddenly, bone meets bone and I reach a hard stop.

 

The faggot is still convulsing beneath me.  It feels good, but my cock needs more.  And I know how to get it.

 

My biceps bulging with the effort, I twist the homo’s head with a might jerk and am instantly rewarded with the crunchy, popcorn-like noise of shattering vertebrae.

 

As bone shards tear through its spinal cord, the meat finally responds properly, its colon clutching tightly to my engorged shaft, milking the swollen, throbbing member desperately.  Fuck yeah, that’s it—don’t back off now…

 

With a primal grunt, I force the fucker’s head further.  More popcorn, the ass gets tighter—

 

Fuck fuck fuck I’m cumming take it you sack a’ shit, take my load ya worthless faggot scum, feel my hot manseed scald yer guts as you slide into cold death, motherfucker—

 

In the back of my mind I register the hot gooey splash of the teen’s thick and seemingly endless deathload.  The slut has stopped thrashing and is rigid from sudden massive nervous system trauma.  I’m locked into the corpse, almost helpless myself as I pump wad after wad of manspunk into the quivering cumdump.

 

After a moment, I realize I’ve finally emptied my huge aching sack.  The dead whoreboy has stopped unloading, too, only a slight pearlescent trickle oozing from the semi-soft dick.  Pulling my shaft out of the trembling corpse, I remain on my knees as I use the bitch’s t-shirt to sponge its death wad out of my chest fur.  After I wipe my tackle off, too, I stuff it back into my jeans, then open the van door.

 

I climb out and toss the cum-soaked t-shirt onto the floor.  Walking warily to the open doorway, I peer out and make sure the coast is still clear.  As I expected, no one is out in the middle of a muggy gray weekday, and close as it is to the holidays, this neighborhood damn sure isn’t considered a shopping area for anything but drugs and sex.

 

In other words, no one’s around, and if they were, they wouldn’t care.

 

I drag the dead punk’s body to the edge of the van and unceremoniously dump it out onto the filthy, oil-stained concrete floor, not bothering to remove the chain from around the throat of the the badly beaten corpse.  Some homeless bum or cheap whore looking for a quick pump-n-dump will find it sooner or later, but I don’t give a shit.  I toss its jeans out, too, after rifling the pocket and taking the wallet.  It’s got a driver’s license in it, but again, I don’t care.  I’ll take the three bucks in cash though; every little bit helps.

 

Easing the van out of the garage, I’m still carefully scanning to make sure no one’s noticing me.  I turn left onto Elmhurst and realize how good my timing is; half a block down is a city street crew attaching some forlorn-looking holiday decorations to alternate light poles.  Given the surroundings, the cheap and tattered tinsel isn’t so much a mockery as a final touch of sordidness.

 

Well, no one can say I didn’t do my part.  I left them a nice dead faggot with a creamy cum-filled center.  And my gift?  This nice pair of brown leather harness boots.  Think I wear ‘em on my next kill.

Young, Dumb and Full of Cum

Eddie was angry again.  In fact, he was angrier than he could remember being for a long, long time.  He didn’t know why or at what; he never did.  All he knew was that a titanic roiling rage filled his soul.

 

Well, he knew one other thing.  He’d figured out how to control it, to vent it so that life became bearable again.

 

That was why he was out cruising for faggots.

 

He was dressed for the hunt, in a khaki muscle shirt and tight battle fatigue pants tucked into his high laced combat boots.  His dogtags gleamed from deep within the valley formed by his huge pecs.  It was late in the afternoon; he was sporting a pair of polarized aviator sunglasses to ward off the slanting orange rays of the sun that glinted in his sandy buzzcut hair.

 

He’d liked to have been able to swing by the skate park again, but it was too soon to go there.  He’d somewhat underestimated the vehemence of the public outcry when the nude corpse of a raped and strangled teenaged boy had been found there.  The place was still attracting attention; there was even some kinda fuckin’ memorial growing up in the back where he’d dumped the meat.  A big pile of cards and flowers and fuckin’ stuffed toys and shit.  One night when things calmed down, he’d go out, douse the whole shitpile with gas and burn it right the fuck down.

 

But that was for later.  Right now, he needed prey.  Right now.

 

And that was when he spotted Hank.

 


 

Hank was eighteen and well-built.  Star of his high school wrestling team, his buff, muscled body turned heads every time he got into his tights, and he knew it.  He also knew that every time he grappled with other hardbodied young dudes, his dick got hard.  Sometimes theirs did too.

 

He wasn’t about to tell anyone that other guys made his shaft grow rigid; his father was the head of staff for the Lieutenant Governor, a powerful right-wing evangelical.  They attended the same church, where his mother ran the ladies’ auxiliary.  The thought of being gay horrified Hank, just as much as it would his parents, but there were times his hormones got the upper hand.

 

He’d always been able to calm himself down, closing his eyes, praying, reminding himself of his youth pastor’s exhortations against temptations.  But lately it was taking him more and more time to master the overpowering desire that radiated up from his balls into his thick, eager teenaged cock.

 

And then today, it hadn’t worked at all.

 

He’d left school early; no one was home when he got there.  He changed his clothes, leaving the house in his workout gear—black shorts with the drawstring dangling loosely in front, a black t-shirt with Pokémon characters printed across the front, and a pair of gray Nike Air Max 1 trainers.  Maybe some exercise would help exorcize the demon of lust living in his huge hairy scrote.  He set out walking more or less at random, with no fixed destination.  He didn’t want to go to the gym at school; his shorts did nothing to hide his stiff seven-inch boner, and he didn’t want anyone he knew to see him like this.

 

He succeeded; the person who saw him like that didn’t know him and didn’t need to.

 


 

There was something about Hank that snagged Eddie’s attention immediately.  The muscled teen with dark wavy hair, tousled with careful negligence, drew the psycho ex-Marine eyes off the road long enough for him to pull over into a fast-food parking lot and turn around.  The way the boy seemed to be deliberately displaying his smooth, hard build and his long erect dick screamed “faggot” inside Eddie’s dark and twisted mind.

 

The kid was a homo, and he needed to be put down.  All Eddie had to do was figure out a way to lure the faggot in.  But it wasn’t gonna be sex; Eddie wasn’t no pansy.  He was here to put the pansy in its place—taking a dirt nap.

 

But first it needed to learn what happened to fucking homo perverts.

 

He pulled up next to Hank and lowered the window of his truck.  “Hey, dude,” he called out, inspired by the kid’s workout gear, “Ya know a good gym around here?”

 

It was a measure of how deeply immersed Hank was in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear Eddie’s truck pull up.  The Dodge pickup had a deep throaty rumble that almost literally shook the ground.  But the young punk was too busy trying to come to terms with his rampant horniness to notice Eddie’s presence till the latter spoke—and even then, the hardbodied homo hunter had to repeat himself, loudly, startling Hank and making him jump.

 

The boy approached the jacked-up Ram, craning his neck to see inside.  All he could make out was the head and part of the upper torso of an incredibly fit young man with shades and a buzzcut.  It was more than enough to make his already-straining cock twitch and pulsate.

 

And that sealed his fate.  Eddie saw it, and saw red.  He’d been right, the little fucker was a faggot.  Faggots had gotten him kicked outta the Marines; they’d even thought he was one, for fuck’s sake.  But he wasn’t.  And he’d show ‘em—he’d show ‘em all.

 

By wasting every fucking homo he could lay his hands on with extreme prejudice.  Starting with this one.

 

“Uh, naw, man,” Hank replied diffidently.  He tried to force himself not to think of the stud’s hard firm body.  “I, uh, I was just tryin’ to find a place myself.  See, the, uh, the color squad is usin’ the school gym right now, and…well…”  He trailed off uncertainly.

 

“Yeah, there’s a Gold’s around the corner,” Eddie came back, “But I don’t like the clientele.  And anyway, my weight set is better that theirs, even if it ain’t all fancy and computerized.  Whatcha lookin’ for, my man?  Squats?  Curls?”

 

Hank blushed, feeling even more awkward, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a huge erection.  “Well, uh, whatever.  Y’know, just lookin’ to work off some energy.”

 

“I’ll bet,” Eddie said.  Hank was taken aback slightly by the cold edge in the older man’s voice, but the next time Eddie spoke, it was gone.  “Well if that’s all ya want, you c’n come back to my place if ya like.  Plenty of ways to burn some energy with my set.”

 

The hint was unmistakable, and Hank had to go to some effort to avoid panting with excitement.  “Sure, dude!” he chirped, then dialed it back a little.  “I mean, yeah, that’d be cool.”

 

Eddie unlocked the passenger door.  “Hop in,” he said, “It’s just a couple streets down.  Name’s Mike, by the way.”  He had no intention of letting the little fucker know his real name, just in case.

 

“Thanks,” the buff, naïve teen said as he climbed up into the cab, “I’m Hank.”

 

“Hank?”  Eddie asked.  The kid blushed again.

 

“Actually, it’s Horace.  Named after my grandpa.  But nobody calls me that.  I’m just Hank.”

 

“No problem,” Eddie replied, glancing over at his passenger.  When Hank sat down, the lower hem of his shorts rode up, exposing a good two and a half inches of his cock, including the thick, spongy purple head.

 

Yeah, the cunt was a fuckin’ fag.  The sight made Eddie hard himself—at the thought of wasting the queer motherfucker.  He was silent for the rest of the drive, trying to control his psychotic hate and lust.  Luckily, he didn’t have long to wait before he could satisfy himself; they were at his place in less than five minutes.

 

The parking lot was mostly empty at Eddie’s place; there was no one to see the boy climb out of the truck and follow Eddie into his apartment.  There were no witnesses to Hank’s last public appearance—well, his last live appearance.

 


 

The living room was small and dark, with an intensely sweet smell that seemed to be covering something ranker.  If Hank hadn’t been so randy, the odor might have raised some red flags; as it was, the subtle scents of testosterone and death stimulated the teen’s primitive midbrain, sparking a form of nervous energy that was easily converted to sexual energy.  By the time they made it back to Eddie’s bedroom, Hank had developed tunnel vision—he was focused directly on the military stud’s powerful, thickly-muscled body.  He didn’t even notice the poster-sized photos of dead bodies on the walls.

 

Eddie walked to the far corner, peeled off his shirt and tossed it into an open hamper next to the closet door.  It was one of his favorites, and he didn’t want to ruin it.

 

And what he had planned would definitely ruin it.

 

When he turned back, Hank’s jaw dropped.  The man had the body of a god—huge smooth pecs with thick, hard, dark nipples rising like sharp tall peaks of low, broad hills.  Between them, his dogtags dangled, silvery gray under the bleak overhead light.  Below the chest, the ex-Marine’s torso tapered to his waist, his amazingly ripped abs making Hank both horny and envious.  And below, that massive bulge in his camo-patterned crotch…

 

“So,” Eddie said nonchalantly, “Whatcha into?”

 

The hormone-addled teenager was so distracted by Eddie’s body that he couldn’t make a coherent reply.  He just stammered, his gaze riveted on the stud’s groin.

 

Eddie leered.  “Or maybe yer into this,” he growled and unzipped his fly.  With Hank’s utter, rapt attention, the hardbodied psycho pulled his gigantic tube of manmeat out of his pants, letting the boy admire it in all its pulsating, vein-wreathed glory.

 

Hank had never seen so big a cock—and he’d damn sure been looking; every kid he’d wrestled with had gotten “inadvertently” groped at some point during the match.  No one he’d encountered had been this hung.

 

“Yeah?”  Eddie said with a suggestive grin, coming closer, “This what ya like?”

 

He was almost close enough to touch.  Hank reached out, almost involuntarily; he felt compelled to have that enormous piece of meat in his hands.

 

“This whatcha, been looking for, faggot?”

 

The word and the change of tone made Hank look up, but not fast enough to be able to react to the sudden, vicious jab that Eddie planted in the center of the teen’s smooth flat belly.

 

Expelling the air form his lungs in a mighty wheeze, Hank doubled over.  His knees buckled but he didn’t have time to hit the floor before Eddie’s next blow caught him in the jaw with the force of a train wreck, putting his lights out quite effectively.  The boy collapsed with a boneless thud, like a sack of potatoes, leaving Eddie standing over him, grinning, and preparing to give the young homo exactly what it deserved.

 


 

As he was coming to, Hank was aware of a throbbing pain in his gut, a pain that pulsed so relentlessly that he was having trouble breathing.  Even before he regained full consciousness, he realized that he’d been brutally attacked by the muscle-bound stud he’d followed home.  When he finally opened his eyes, he was—in some slight measure—prepared to find himself in an unpleasant situation.

 

He was totally unprepared for the reality.

 

Above him, Eddie loomed intimidatingly.  From his near-vertical viewpoint, Hank could see the older man’s massive jutting cock hanging over him, somehow both arousing and ominous.  Above that, Eddie’s huge pecs swelled out in front, with the ex-Marine’s evilly leering face pointed down at him with contemptuous amusement.

 

“Thought I was gonna hafta wake you up the hard way,” the fag-killer jeered.  “Glad I didn’t need to.   Cunts don’t scream when they’re out.”  He reached down and stroked his enormous glistening shaft.  “And I like it when they scream.  You ready to scream, boy?  Ready top scream like a good little faggot?  Ain’t nobody gonna hear ya, asswipe, so G’wan ahead and scream yer bitch lungs out, haw!”

 

Hank didn’t react; his lithe firm body was struggling to inhale and his young hormone-flushed psyche was in vapor-lock, unable to process the sadistic input it was receiving.  He could only lay inert on the floor and goggle wordlessly as his hardbodied assailant towered over him.

 

Eddie knew how to get a reaction, though.

 

“Looks like yer havin’ a little trouble breathin’ there, little buddy,” he chortled, “Here, lemme help.

 

Lifting his right leg, Eddie leaned forward slight and drove his knee down, stomping on Hank’s torso with enough force to crack three ribs.

 

‘HOOG!!!” the kid cried as what little air he’d managed to accumulate in his lungs was violently forced back as if he was a bellows.  Eddie kept his foot planted right in the center of Hank’s chest, grinding his boot into the boy’s t-shirt.

 

Hank’s head came up off the floor, but the rest of his body was pinned down.  As a result, the pain-wracked teen found himself staring directly at the ex-Marine’s combat boot as it continued to crush his abdomen. Inches away from the glossy black leather, Hank realized that the boot wasn’t tied and was only loosely laced.

 

And then he saw why.

 

Rising up from the boot along the outside of the sadist’s leg was a huge knife, evidently held in place by a boot sheath.  Even as Hank looked on, Eddie bent down—incidentally throwing more of his weight onto the kid’s solar plexus and amping up his agony—and grasped the wooden handle.  He withdrew it slowly, letting Hank see the weapon in close detail.

 

The blade was so sharp it almost literally hurt to look at it.  The other side of the blade was serrated so sharply it could saw through a four-by-four post with ease.  Near the hilt, it was engraved with the brand name Master.  And it was long.  The blade—not including the handle—was nearly a foot.

 

Then Hank looked up and caught Eddie’s eyes and sudden terror swept over him so completely that a pool of piss began to form on the floor under him.  The look in those eyes—rage, lust, excitement, hatred, and unreasoning insanity—told him that the knife was meant for him.

 

Eddie laughed—a harsh, cold sound—as he saw the effect he had on the kid.  “Not yet, ya stupid homo.  That’d be too easy.  Naw, you gotta learn yer place before you die.”  He held the knife in front of Hank’s bulging, horror-filled eyes.  “An’ believe me, faggot, by the time ya learn it, yer gonna be beggin’ me to waste yer worthless punk ass.”

 

Lifting his leg, the muscled killer swooped down on the writhing, gagging teen.  Eddie swung the blade forward with seeming carelessness but somehow managed to snag the hem of Hank’s t-shirt.  Before the kid could literally blink an eye, Pikachu had been sliced in half from stem to stern, the blade neatly cutting the collar.  The cheap, thin cotton fell back, revealing Hank’s slim but well-developed torso, with just the barest hint of peach fuzz covering the boy’s smooth, silky skin.

 

Reversing the blade, Eddie made a quick downward slash at Hank’s shorts—this time specifically pulling the kid’s waistband up to let the knife get underneath.  Once he did so, the elastic parted easily.  It took two swings of the blade to cut the shorts open down both legs, but once it was done, the revealed that the teenaged cunt was freeballing.  His spunk-filled balls nestled in a bush of curly brown pubes from which his long, thick boycock sprang.

 

And it was semi-hard, despite the fact that Hank was terrified and could barely breath.  Yeah, Eddie realized, the motherfucker really was a sick, worthless faggot.

 

It needed to fuckin’ die.

 

“You disgustin’ piece a’ shit,” Eddie growled at the prostrate youth, “Fuckin’ homos like you fuck it all up for men like me.  Got me kicked outta the Marines…you wanna real man?  That what yer worthless ass was out trollin’ the streets for?  Bro, ya goddam sure got one.  An’ it’s time show yer pansy little fuckhole exactly how real men treat perverted little pansies.”

 

He crouched down, leaning over Hank so that his dogtags jingled mere millimeters above the boy’s heaving, panicked chest.  “You wanted real mandick?  Yer gonna get some, right now.  I’m gonna ream out yer tight little boycunt like a goddam roto-rooter.  I’m gonna fuck yer guts so deep my cum’ll leak out yer fuckin’ nose.  C’mon, fuckwad, it’s time to get whatcha came for.”

 

He reached out and grabbed Hank by the throat, his huge hand clamping on the punk’s neck and completely cutting off his air.  In a moment, Hank found himself choking and gurgling, his hands clutching desperately at Eddie’s forearm while the toes of his Nikes flailed uselessly four inches above the worn bedroom carpet.

 

He didn’t remain dangling long.  Eddie slammed him down athwart the bed, so that his head impacted the drywall on the far side, but his legs below the knees were still bent down to the floor.  Hank groaned, raised his head and looked down the length of his own body to see Eddie standing at the side of the bed between his legs.  The ex-Marine’s cock was jutting out over the bed like the prow of a ship; all he had to do was bend down, scoop up Hank’s legs and expose his ass, and the rape would begin.

 

Except it didn’t.  Eddie stood there for a moment, looking down at Hank’s own throbbing shaft, getting more rigid by the second.  “Ya want my thick hog in ya, dontcha?” he asked with a sly smile.  “A’course ya do.  Fags always like havin’ somthin’ long and hard shoved into their guts, right?  Yeah?  Fuck yeah.  So here ya go faggot, here’ something long and hard buried in yer guts!”

 

Whipping his right arm up and over in a flash, he buried the knife in Hank’s smooth, flat belly to the hilt.  The razor-sharp blade pierced the abdominal muscle, slashed instantly through multiple coils of the teen’s intestines, and came out through his back, embedding itself over two inches into the mattress.

 

Hank’s screech was shrill and loud, finally tapering off into a guttural moan as his taut, firm frame went rigid and trembled in agony.  The boy clenched his fists, desperately trying not to move—with the blade embedded in the mattress, he was pinned to the bed and any movement forced his tender innards against the viciously sharp blade impaling his guts.  It might’ve worked—but Hank wasn’t calling the shots.

 

Grabbing the punk’s smooth, strong legs, Eddie wrapped his powerful arms around them and hoisted them so that Hank’s Nikes rested on his shoulders.  The motion this caused made Hank squeal in pain.  “Fuck yeah,” Eddie jeered, “Ya think that hurts, ya stupid cunt?”  He bent his legs just slightly and pressed the thick, spongy head of his cock against the teen’s fluttering asshole.  “See how ya like this, faggot!”

 

With a single monumental thrust, Eddie instantly drove his massively swollen manshaft balls-deep inside the adolescent virgin.  He had to tear flesh to do it, sighing with pleasure as the boy’s sphincter ripped open like wet paper against the sudden, inexorable pressure.  On the inside, the huge rod, unlubed except with its own precum, caught and tore the highly sensitive lining of the kid’s colon.

 

Hank had often fantasized about getting assfucked, and he’d suspected it might hurt—but he had no idea this kind of glassy, razor-sharp pain could happen.  For a moment—only a split second, but still a moment—he forgot about the blade sunk in his belly.

 

Then Eddie reached down and pulled the knife out.  Slowly.

 

Hank looked down in horror as inch after inch of the sharp bloody blade was extracted from his guts.  He could feel it moving inside himself, slashing at his intestines on the way out.  His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell limp.  The teen had passed out from sheer physical trauma.

 

It was ok.  He’d wake up again.  And in the meantime, Eddie continued to pound his ass, using him like a fucktoy—all the young fag was good for, after all.  The buff ex-Marine tossed the knife onto Hank’s heaving, sweat-slick chest and spent then next five minutes deep-plowing the teenager’s fuckhole as a thin stream of blood trickled from the gash in his belly.  The wound was deep, not wide, so the vast majority of the bleeding was internal.

 

For the second time in a half hour, Hank found himself waking to pain, but this time was worse.  After having both a dick and a blade shoved into his guts, regaining consciousness was a cruel experience.

 

Eddie recognized the boy’s fluttering eyelids as a sign that he was coming to and decided to make the experience even crueler.

 

“Hey motherfucker,” he hissed them moment Hank’s eyes were fully open, “See this?”  He held the knife directly in front of the kid’s face.  “See those little strings of meat hangin’ from the back?  That’s yer innards, fag.  That’s what yer goddam intestines look like. Ya like that shit?”

 

Hank could see it; he couldn’t understand it.  His youthful face, pale with shock, turned up to the older man.  “Wh-why?” he gasped, his breathy voice taut with agony, “I d-don’t…why?”

 

Eddie’s hard, masculine face twisted with hate and disgust.  “Cause yer a fuckin’ faggot cunt, that’s why” he roared, spittle flying from his lips as he spewed his rage.  “Fuckin homo scum like you needs to fuckin’ die!  Y’all goddam cocksuckers out there tryin’ to lure me in…make me a sick pervert like you…got me kicked outta the service—fuck you!!!”

 

Even as he lost it, Eddie still managed to keep perfect time with his hips, thrusting his huge rod into Hank’s rectum.  But the rant was over as suddenly as it started; the psycho fagkiller seemed to regain some measure of control.

 

Not a lot, though.

 

“Naw,” he smirked, “I could gut ya like a fuckin’ pig and you still wouldn’t suffer as much as you deserve.  Don’t mean it ain’t a good place to start, though.”  Without telegraphing his movements in the slightest, he whipped the knife around and drove it into Hank’s left flank.  The agonized adolescent felt the blade slicing through his organs before he even realized he’d been stabbed again.

 

This one was bad.  Penetrating between the eighth and ninth ribs, nearly twelve inches of razor-sharp steel bisected the punk’s torso.  The knife tore through Hank’s liver and gall bladder, slashing his stomach and pancreas and ended up impaling his spleen.  By the time the hilt was flush with the skin on the boy’s left side, the tip of the blade was less than an inch below the surface of the skin on the right side.

 

Eddie leaned over the suffering teen, his eyes glittering with lust at his ability to inflict unbearable pain.  “Say ‘thank you’, motherfucker,” he commanded.  “All you pansies ever say you want is to have somethin’ long and hard shoved inside ya; well, now ya got it.  And I’m the one that gave it to ya.  So say ‘thank you’, ya fuckin’ pigfag!”

 

Hank’s eyes were closed and his face twisted into a grimace of indescribable agony; he was past the point of being able to obey Eddie’s orders—unluckily for him.

 

“Say it, motherfucker, say it or I’ll make ya!!!” he screamed.  To his credit, Hank tried to speak, but could only emit a weak squawk of pain.  It wasn’t enough for Eddie.  Without inserting or removing the knife by even a fraction of an inch, he slowly twisted the blade inside the wound, rotating the handle so that the viciously sharp serrations and cutting edge carved a cylindrical wound all the way across Hank’s midsection.

 

The teen punk hadn’t imagined that pain like this couldn’t exist.  It was almost too much to handle; he was cruelly unable to pass out again, but he thought he was gonna throw up.  Every time his body tried to retch, though, his stomach was pressed against the blade’s edge, which only made it hurt worse.  He went rigid, his firm muscles locking his smooth young body stiffly into place to avoid bringing any more of his tender innards into contact with that vicious cutting edge.

 

“Aw, fuck,” Eddie moaned at the kid’s sphincter clamped around the base of his dick, “Fuck yeah, see, I knew this was how to treat you goddam cocksuckers.  You worthless pervs want this, dontcha?  All a real Alpha’s gotta do to make a faggot work his dick is fuckin’ gut it and it’ll massage his cock good and hard on its way out, haw!”

 

Eddie leaned forward.  Bracing himself with one hand on Hank’s smooth, firm chest, he jerked the knife back out of the kid’s side with a single, swift jerk, like he was checking the oil level in a car.  And in the dim light, there was some resemblance.  The blade was covered nearly to the hilt with dark, sticky liquid.

 

The kid was nearly full—at least, full of cock.

 

The extraction of the blade caused more damage than the insertion, including slicing open Hank’s stomach.  The adolescent was trembling on the edge of shock with massive organ trauma; the wound to the stomach alone would eventually be fatal—but right now, Hank’s guts were so compressed by his body’s doubled-up, easy-access-to-the-ass position, that even the internal blood lose was relatively minimal.

 

Death would take the teenaged homo, but not yet.  Not soon.  He still had a long time to enjoy his suffering, and Eddie knew it.

 

Hank didn’t know it; he could only endure and try not to think.  Thinking was just as painful as moving, because he’d be thinking about why this happened when all he wanted was to try to see if he could get a little dick for once on the DL.  He’d be thinking about death.  And some tiny part hidden deep in his brain would be thinking about the fact that he had a raging erection.  He damn sure didn’t want to think about any of that.

 

Eddie did, and he wanted Hank to as well.  With his free hand, he reached down and grabbed the teen’s thick, pulsing cock and wrenched it painfully to one side.  “Fuckin’ faggot, this kinda shit is why you perverts gotta die.  Ya like gettin’ hurt, dontcha?  Yer fuckin’ sick, bro, and the best way to use yer worthless ass is to let it soak up my cum when I put ya down like a dog.  Ya hear me, boy?  Ya feelin’ me?”

 

He let go of the seven-inch boycock, allowing it to slap back and forth between his rock-hard abs and Hank’s firm, flat belly with a loud smacking sound.  Then the sound was muffled as he hunched forward, laying his heavy muscled form down directly onto the writhing adolescent, feeling Hank’s smooth, sweat-lubed skin pressing and sliding against his own.  The humid friction made the hardbodied psycho’s nipples almost painfully erect; they dug into the kid’s pecs like fingers.

 

He was face-to-face with his prey now, savoring the look of confused terror and anguish in the teenager’s face.  His ability to cause suffer, to cause that look in the boy’s eyes, was part of what proved he was a true Alpha.

 

The other part was his ability to mark the fuckmeat as his by spraying its guts with his strong hot manseed.  He was almost ready to do it, too—but faggot was goin’ loose.  He’d reamed Hank’s virgin hole out so brutally, its torn sphincter could no longer clench his tackle.

 

Well, not without some stimulation.  A strong shock to the system, say.

 

He grinned evilly down at the helpless, pain-wacked youth, his eyes glittering and his dogtags lying on Hank’s heaving chest.  “Time to die, motherfucker.  You ain’t gonna see yer mommy an’ daddy no more, cunt; yer gonna die on my dick, right here and now.  Ya ready, bitch?  Ready to ride my fat he-man hog all the way down into yer grave?”

 

Hank finally found his voice.  His parents, oh fuck, what would they think?  “No, please dear God no, don’t do this, I’ll pay ya, my dad’ll pay ya, he’s rich, we got money, please anything—”

 

The hoarse, breathy quality of the teen’s voice was the result of blood loss.  Hank refused to acknowledge that he was already dying, but his body was betraying him.  Especially his hard, throbbing cock.  The kid was panicking, but his shaft didn’t seem to notice.

 

“—I swear, sir, please, sir, please don’t I won’t tell you don’t have to kill me just let me go somewhere I’ll never tell—”

 

Even as he begged, the teen punk shuddered and trembled with his lithe young form firmly compressed under the Eddie’s powerful body.  But all that did for the sadist was remind him of how useless Hank’s gaping boycunt had become.  As his grin became more shark-like, he raised the knife up above the kid’s shoulders—making sure that Hank saw it.

 

“—swear I’ll never oh god no please don’t no PLEASAAGGHthbbtpfft—”

 

Eddie drove the blade completely through Hank’s throat, from right to left, spearing the unfortunate boy’s larynx, easily slicing through the cartilage and the vocal cords—and the glottis, which seals off the lungs.  As Hank’s dark, puppy-like eyes bulged in horror and agony, blood trickled into his airway and he instantly found himself coughing it up, his mouth filled with a terrifying copper taste.

 

It was the shock Eddie had been looking for.  Involuntarily, the strong teen homo clutched at Eddie’s shoulders, his fingers digging in as he embraced his killer more closely than any lover could.  Simultaneously, the boy’s body went rigid again, this time with the added intensity of mortal agony.  As Hank’s rectum collapsed on Eddie’s straining, pulsating rod, the kid’s own long, glistening shaft suddenly swelled and spewed out thick creamy jets of boycum.  The abundance of hormones in the dying adolescent’s body seemed to ensure an endless supply of spunk—Hank kept shooting and shooting.

 

And it hurt.  It all hurt.  Pain was the only thing he could still feel—the way Eddie’s massive tackle tore cruelly at his colon, the way the sick ex-Marine had left the knife lodged in his throat so he didn’t bleed to death, the gaping holes carved deep into his vitals—and the way he just couldn’t stop blowing his deathwad.

 

“Uh—uh—aw—AW FUCK YEAH!!” Eddie screamed suddenly, feeling his hot semen boiling over and his dick swelling inside the kid’s ass.  “DIE YOU FUCKIN’ FAGGOT, DIE!!!”

 

As he’d done before, he twisted the knife in the wound, carving deeply into Hank’s throat before jerking the blade back out.  The presence of the blade in the wound had prevented heavy bleeding; Eddie made sure there was nothing to stop Hank from drowning in his own blood.  He’d been coughing it up before; now he was gargling it.

 

And still the muscular teen continued to cum.  As his life drained out through the gash in his throat, the only bit of warmth left of Hank to feel in the face of cold death was the engendered by Eddie’s potent manseed flowing into his guts.  Hank ejaculated his DNA into the void and Eddie filled the fagmeat with his own.

 

Hank’s eyes began to lose focus and to glaze over.  The stream of spunk from his hyper-sexed boydick slowed to a trickle and his body began to jerk and strain.  A wheezing, gurgling sound came from his damaged neck—the sound of human misery, of sodden lungs aspirating blood.  The kid was unconscious; in a way he was already dead, but his body was just now realizing that.

 

Even as the punk’s fingers lost their grip and fell from Eddie’s shoulders, the military stud still held on and erupted twice more, sending long jets of sperm into the corpse.  Only then did he back himself up, slowly extracting his enormous cock from the dead boy.  He headed for the bathroom, leaving the teenager gasping in extremis, but still with a heartbeat.

 

By the time he got back from cleaning off his dick and stuffing it back down his pants, even that was gone.

 

There’d been surprisingly little exterior hemorrhaging—given what the teenager had been forced to endure—but the sheets were an unsalvageable mess.  That was okay; he could get new ones.

 

Slipping his muscle shirt back on, Eddie approached the bed, staring down at the punk’s splayed form.  One of the kid’s Nikes twitched against the stained sheet as random nerves fired in the newly-dead corpse.  Leaning forward, Eddie planted one hand directly on the boy’s vacant, staring face, using it as a brace with he slowly pulled the blade from Hank’s throat with the same tender care as he’d pulled his cock from the teen’s ass.

 

Retrieving the sliced remnants of the faggot’s clothes, the ex-Marine used them to carefully clean the blood off the knife, then tossed them in the middle of the corpse’s chest, where they began to soak up the dead kid’s spunk that had pooled there and not yet begun to crust over.  Eddie then gathered the corners of the bedding, making certain that the meat was fairly well centered, so he could gather it all up like a bundle of dirty laundry.  As he bent over to grab the sheet on the far side of the corpse, he could see the youth’s dick slowly start to wilt in death.  It had still been full of cum when he died; as it shrank, it left behind pearls of semi-coagulated semen.

 

Fuckin’ faggot died too soon.  He’d make the next one suffer more.

 

Wrapping a tattered old blanket around the bundle to hide the bloodstains, Eddie carried the whole thing out to his truck and tossed it into the bed.  Five minutes later, he was heading down one of the main drags in town, heading for the Atopco factory.

 

Atopco was the largest manufacturer of custom tools and machine parts in this part of the state—until 1992, when the company went bust and the plant was padlocked.  It still was, which made it a great body dump.  Down on the south side of town, it was on a semi-abandoned block with no occupied buildings near.

 

The site itself was fenced in and locked, but that didn’t matter.  Just outside the fence, a drainage ditch, rank and overgrown with weeds, ran along the front of the property.  Eddie pulled up at the side of the road, quickly checking to make sure no one was around.  No one ever was; even the bums didn’t hang out down here—there was no real shelter, and no one to beg from.  It was perfect.

 

Eddie lifted the bundle out of the truck and carried it to the edge of the ditch.  Swiftly undoing it, he rolled the dead teen out of the sheet and down into the dank, scum-covered trickle of water flowing in the ditch.  He gathered the sheets up again; he’d get rid of them elsewhere.  Getting back in his truck, he felt satisfied with how he’d disposed of the faggot.  He figured didn’t need to take any more effort to hide the corpse; after all, he didn’t intend that it never be found.  It just needed a little time to ripen.

 

Let’s see what rich daddy has to say about that.

 

He felt his malicious grin creeping across his face as he headed away—but he also felt the anger brewing inside him again.  Yeah.  The next one would really fuckin’ suffer.

Alpha Male Eddie

Eddie was pissed, but that was nothing new.  It was what had got him kicked out of the Corps after three years; he still seethed with rage at the memory of the Marine shrink’s diagnosis: fragmented personality with psychotic breaks trigged by latent homosexuality.  That motherfucker.

 

Eddie was ALL man, and he damn sure knew how to show it.  Every facet of his image, from his chiseled, rock-hard body to his military gear and clothing, to his jacked-up matte-black Dodge Ram picked, was specifically designed to show that was a true Alpha Male.  Nothing—nothing—would ever disprove that.

 

But every now and then, something slipped.  And when that happened, things got—

 

Well, for example, there was JJ.

 


 

It started one summer evening just as the glaring sullen heat of the day was fading into a swift dusk.  Eddie just happened to be driving by the Hudson Street Skate Park when he saw the boy.  He didn’t know why he pulled over, but he did.

 

The boy was heading out, walking away from the park with his skateboard under his arm.  He seemed to be headed for the bus stop at the corner—that was when Eddie decided to make his move.  He quickly pulled to the curb and asked if the kid needed a lift.

 

“Sure, man,” the kid grinned, adolescent hormones giving the teen’s voice just enough depth to prove that he was sexually mature.  “Name’s Jeremy,” he said, opening the door and climbing up into the cab, “But my friends call me JJ.”

 

JJ was in fact seventeen—and was sexually mature.  Two years ago he’d managed to get Amy Schneider from down the block to give him a handjob and just lately he’d talked her into blowjobs.  He wasn’t going steady with her or anything, but none of the other girls he went with would suck his dick yet.  He was supposed to see Amy tonight and was anxious to get home.

 

For a brief moment, the two males sat and scoped each other out.  JJ’s face was smooth, with just a hint of youthful fullness; his hair was short and dark, but it was mostly hidden under a black ball cap—with, Eddie noted with interest, a Marine Corps logo.  Maybe the boy’s daddy was enlisted on the base.

 

The teen’s gear was nothing special—a gray t-shirt and black mid-thigh shorts covered his lean, lithe body but showed his smooth, firm legs to advantage.  A pair of black Converse Play hightops with a red heart logo completed the skatepunk look.

 

For his part, JJ was almost mesmerized by Eddie; he’d never seen such a perfect male form.  And Eddie wasn’t dressed to be ignored.  His military affinity was clear from the way he kept his dark blond hair buzzcut and his facial hair trimmer in a razor-straight line.  His khaki utility pants, bloused into a pair of black leather combat boots, wrapped tightly around his thickly muscled legs.  The pair of dogtags dangling against his skintight olive-drab t-shirt drew attention to his huge sculpted pecs and his almost-perfectly ripped abs.  But there was something both compelling and repellant about his face—JJ couldn’t say what.  Maybe it was the cold hard lines of his cheeks, or the grim set of his mouth…or maybe the unnerving glare of those piercing green eyes, icy and fiery at the same time…

 

It was Eddie who broke the silence.  “So, where ya goin’, man?” he asked, the friendly, open tone of his voice making the teen relax visibly.

 

“Aw, I’m headin’ out to Jupiter Road—over where it crosses Adams, y’know?  Gotta meet my girlfriend…”

 

Eddie chuckled and JJ blushed boyishly.  “Well, she ain’t my girlfriend…I mean… well, she kinda—”  He lapsed into a confused silence as Eddie continued to grin.

 

“Yeah?  What, she letcha dip yer wick, huh?” the older man laughed coarsely, making the teenager blush even harder.  Finally, Eddie decided to relent.

 

“Yeah, I gotta head out that way for business—ya mind if we stop at my place on the way?  Need to pick up something.”

 

“Naw,” JJ said, “And lissen, about Amy—”

 

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Eddie said tersely.

 

“No, but seriously, man, I get to thinkin’—see, maybe I could get a real girlfriend—one a’ them hot senior bitches that won’t even look at a junior like me—if I had a hard body.  Like yours.  Man, how do I do that?  Whadda I gotta do to look like you?”

 

Eddie glanced at the teen covertly, noticing the boy’s wide-eyed, innocent look.  The little fuck wanted to pretend to be an Alpha Male?

 

“Ya wanna get swole?  C’mon, boy and I’ll show ya some of my routine if ya want.”

 

Of course JJ wanted.  Eddie shut off the loud rumble of the truck’s huge engine; from his vantage point in the jacked-up cab, he could see that there was no one about.

 

“You c’n leave yer board here,” he said and jumped from the truck, his combat boots crunching loudly in the gravel lot.  JJ followed, but his lean teen body made far less noise when he hit the ground; he watched the well-built older man enviously as he trailed him into the apartment.

 

Half of Eddie’s bedroom was devoted to weights; in the center was the standard inclined bench, now laid flat, with a rack of barbell weights on the left and one of dumbbells on the right.  All the weights, including the hex dumbbells, were metal—the set looked old, but was obviously still functional.

 

The other half of the room also caught JJ’s notice—not so much the twin bed and the inexpensive dresser as the posters on the wall.  For a moment, the kid thought they were movie stills—then he realized he was looking at blown-up photos from war correspondents across many wars.

 

They were almost all photos of corpses.

 

On the far wall was a large flag with a grinning skull superimposed over a pair of crossed daggers.  Chains of roses frames the image; a motto, split to appear above and below, read “Die, Motherfucker, Die”.

 

Eddie noticed JJ looking at it.  “I’m gonna get that tattooed,” he said proudly, “Right here, on my right bicep.  Already got the money for it, too.  But the guy I wanna do it is in prison; I gotta wait till next year for him to get out.”

 

JJ took all this in with the silent reverence of a teen who feels he’s in the presence of a serious badass.  His admiration for the red-blooded male in front of him overpowered any sense of unease the gruesome photos had generated—after all, the dude was in the military, just like his dad.  Mighta even had to kill someone.  If he got to know him better, he’d ask, JJ decided.

 

“So anyway, I’m up to pressing three hundred and twenty-five right now, but I like to start down at two seventy-five for a few reps before adding the final fifty,” Eddie explained.

 

JJ looked at him questioningly.  “You don’t use a spotter?” he asked.

 

“Fuck,” Eddie sneered, “Spotters are for pussies.  Real men don’t need no help to lift.  Watch.”  And with that, he pulled his shirt off in one smooth sweep, letting the dogtags fall jingling back to the center of his broad chest.

 

And even though neither of them realized it, the sight of Eddie’s smooth hubcap pecs and erect, jutting nipples got JJ hard.  Eddie wasn’t in a position to notice it and JJ was used to the spontaneous erections of adolescence without thinking about what caused them—although he did find it odd how his breath caught was he eyed the older stud’s six-, or fuck, eight-pack abs, so taut and ripped.  As Eddie stood before him, booted, in tight pants and with that amazingly sculpted torso, JJ realized he’d never seen a more perfect male form.  He was overwhelmed with desire, but in his mind, it was desire to be Eddie.

 

If he’d come right out and said that, it might have prevented what happened next.  But probably not.

 

“Ya gotta get yerself positioned right,” Eddie was saying as he settled back on the bench, sliding under the already-loaded barbell, “Yer gonna fuck up yer back if ya don’t…” he trailed off, his face going blank.  He was looking at JJ, but his gaze seemed to be miles away.

 

Only seemed.  His head was right at the level of the kid’s crotch.  Eddie had suddenly realized the little punk was hard.  He’d gotten hard while looking at Eddie.

 

The kid was a faggot.  A little fuckin’ faggot tryin’ to act like a real man.  A little fuckin’ faggot who’d wormed its way in, wantin’ to make him a homo too.

 

The break was swift and silent.  Eddie blinked, smiled, and sat up.  “But for you, dude, I’d suggest building up those arms first.  Try some daily reps with a five-pound dumbbell, like one of these.”  He picked one of the hex weights up off its rack and strolled over to the skatepunk.  “In fact, these are good for lotsa things.  Like puttin’ fags’ lights out.”

 

“Huh?” JJ asked, his youthful face full of innocent confusion as Eddie smashed it with the dumbbell, knocking the teen senseless to the floor.

 


 

JJ was climbing.  He didn’t know to where, but it was a long and painful climb, and the higher he went, the more painful it got.  It had started as a general agony but seemed to be devolving to a specific ache.  Just as he regained consciousness, he located it in his jaw.

 

The pain ballooned in severity as he blinked and groaned.  His eyesight was blurry, and he was utterly unable to comprehend the change of circumstances he’d undergone since his last memory.  He vaguely recalled the buff shirtless dude who was standing over him with a look that could be either a hate-filled snarl or a vicious grin.  And the teen couldn’t place the significance of the blood-smeared dumbbell the guy was holding.

 

“Www…wwh…whaa—” he tried to speak, but there were hard lumps in his mouth.  He spit them out and saw two of his teeth tumble down his own chest, leaving faint bloody streaks on his smooth skin.

 

That was when he realized he was nude.  Well, he still had his Converse kicks on; he could feel them, but otherwise he’d been stripped nude.  And he was—he was on the military dude’s workout bench, evidently.  It had been raised from a flat to an inclined position, and he was on it on his back, completely nude.

 

He didn’t try to move; it was useless.  he could see hid hands–hinging above his head, they’d been handcuffed separately to the barbell, one on each side of the bench.

 

As he looked at the barbell in confusion, Eddie spoke.  “G’wan and try it, cumsucker.  I got four hundred pounds on that thing.  Yer fag ass ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  His voice was filled with a cold glee that sent chills down the teen’s back.

 

“Ay…ain’t no fag…” JJ managed to mutter, rolling his head to the side and spitting out blood.

 

“Course ya ain’t, you fuckin’ lyin’-ass fairy.  I saw yer boydick get all stiff when ya saw a real Alpha Male.  That’s why ya came here, yeah?”

 

JJ couldn’t think.  His head hurt.  In a way, it was why he was here, but not that way—but he couldn’t think.

 

“Fuckin’ luring me in from the side of the road—betcha could barely keep from grabbin’ my cock right there in fuckin’ public, huh, ya goddam homo?  Ya wanna see what Alpha Male meat looks like?  Here ya go, asswipe.”

 

His eyes blazing with psychotic fury, Eddie jerked his zipper down and dug inside his tight utility pants.  And as dazed and bewildered as JJ was, he couldn’t help but be in awe of the massive tool the buff young stud pulled out.  Over eight inches long, nearly two in diameter, wreathed in pulsating veins and with a huge purple head—it was as terrifying to the trapped teen punk as any deadly weapon would have been.

 

And in its own way, that was exactly what it was.

 

The captive youth gaped at the erect member that dangled directly over his face.  With terrifying speed, the malicious grin on Eddie’s face was replaced with an enraged snarl.  “You fuckin’ pervert!!” he screamed, and before JJ could even flinch, the hardbodied ex-Marine began pounding him in the face with the blunt metal dumbbell.

 

The sounds in the next few minutes were unbelievable—the wet squelching sound of flesh beaten until it splits, the crying and bleating of the teenager as he was forced to submit to the brutal violence of the older, more powerful man, the rattling of handcuffs and jingling of dogtags, the crunching and snapping of facial bones…

 

When Eddie finally stood up and tossed the bloody dumbbell aside, his massive, well-defined torso glistened with a film of sweat.  He paused to catch his breath and admire his progress.

 

The faggot was still conscious, but not coherent.  It gurgled and coughed up some blood and a few more teeth before lying back, gasping—it couldn’t breathe through its crushed nose.  The eyes were dark and swollen shut, the lips were split, the jaw was fractured and both cheekbones were broken.

 

It wasn’t enough.  The faggot hadn’t suffered enough.  Eddie still needed to show what an Alpha Male did to impudent skatefags who tried to sneak in for gaysex.

 

He needed to fuck it, to plant his potent manseed deep inside the boymeat.  That’d show the fucker, all right.  Show it just what the fuck was up.

 

As he wandered in and out of dark clouds of pain, some small part of JJ’s mind that wasn’t cowering in a corner wondered exactly what the hell had happened.  This major stud had offered him a lift, had offered to show him how to get swole, and then just—

 

The kid’s thoughts were interrupted by a sensation of movement.  He could feel the Marine dude grab his ankles and yank; with a supreme effort, the youth managed to pry open his swollen eyes—to watch in horror as the buff psycho placed JJ’s Converse hightops on his shoulders.  Even then, his terrified psyche wouldn’t let him go all the way—he could see the huge pulsing shaft that was pointed right between his legs, but he refused to acknowledge what it meant.

 

But reality could be denied only so long.  Even with his eyes closed again, he could feel the pressure starting to build against his anus as the huge thick spongy head of Eddie’s dick probed the tiny opening.   Suddenly Eddie muttered, “Ya know what a real Alpha Male is? He’s a man who can make anyone submit to his cock.”  JJ braced—but it wasn’t enough.

 

This pain wasn’t like the pain of the brutal beatdown his captor had administered.  It was much, much worse.  His adolescent sphincter could only stretch so wide; it was a virgin hole utterly unused to external penetration and lacked the flexibility to handle the older man’s enormous tackle.

 

Eddie literally tore the teenager a new fuckhole.  JJ’s cry of outraged discomfort spiraled into a shriek of terrified agony as his ass muscle split open and Eddie’s gigantic throbbing member pounded its way relentlessly up his ass, tearing at his rectal lining as it went.  Nothing in the young skatepunk’s life had prepared him for this—this nightmarish pain of impalement, of being torn open from the inside—

 

To Eddie, he was just a tight fuck.  And a noisy one.  “Aw, shaddap and take it like a fag, ya cunt!!” he roared, spitting in JJ’s face.  He then drove his point home by driving his fist into the kid’s face, cutting his scream off abruptly.  As the skatepunk lolled listlessly on the narrow bench, the buff ex-Marine took a savage joy in using the virgin boymeat as his own personal fuck toy.

 

Drifting in and out of consciousness, JJ was still aware that his ass was being pounded with relentless fury; he couldn’t help but be aware of it. The thick pulsing veins that sheathed Eddie’s massive tool rode roughshod over his prostate, massaging the hormone-filled adolescent until his own boycock rose up stiffly, as if in defiance of the vicious assrape.

 

He could only moan in bewildered agony, but it was enough for Eddie to hear.  It was enough to trigger another break.

 

“Ya like that, ya fuckin’ piece a’ shit fairy?  Moanin’ like a goddam whore with a dick in ya—cocksuckin’ pansies like you need to fuckin’ die!”

 

Leaning over JJ, Eddie wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and began squeezing.

 

Nothing in the teen’s short, useless life had prepared him for this level of trauma and abuse; the entire attack had left him stunned and defenseless—not just physically, but in a profoundly psychological sense as well.  Despite the pain, he still simply couldn’t believe that what was happening was real.

 

That all changed now, instantly, with the cessation of breath.  Whatever his failings, whatever he’d suffered, JJ still had the lithe, lean body of a fit and active teenager.  That body sprang into action, instinctively, in a frantic attempt at self-preservation.

 

For his part, Eddie was taken by surprise.  He’d been heavily trained in the art of the hand-to-hand kill, but he’d never actually killed anyone before.  He didn’t expect such a violent reaction—but his training enabled him to retain control of the situation.

 

As JJ thrashed and kicked, Eddie leaned forward, pressing down on the boy and pinning him under the weight of his muscles.  He could feel the teen’s smooth, firm belly and strong pecs flexing valiantly under him, sliding against his own massive chest on a film of sweat.  His dogtags dropped onto the punk’s swollen, blackening face, then slid to the side.

 

The muscle-bound stud endured the aimless frenetic buffetings of the boy’s hands; he’d already wrapped his powerful arms around the kid’s legs as a grip to fuck him, so all the gagging youth could do with his legs was squeeze at Eddie’s waist.

 

“That’s it,” he hissed psychotically into JJ’s pain-twisted face, “Yer dyin’, homo.  Does it hurt?  I hope so, ya sick fuck.  Goddam piece a’ shit—yer dick is hard!  You deserve to die, ya disgustin’ pansy.  Fuck you, ya fuckin’ faggot!!”  And having worked himself into a frothing anger, he spit in JJ’s dark, congested face and dug his thumbs into the teen’s larynx.

 

JJ had been going on for nearly a minute with no oxygen; he should have been starting to black out, but some perverse physiological anomaly was enabling him to remain conscious.  It wasn’t a benefit.  He could hear and comprehend everything being said to him.  He didn’t understand why he was being called a faggot, but he knew his dick was hard and he knew he was dying.

 

And he knew when Eddie crushed his larynx.  He could feel the older stud’s thumbs slowly gouge the thick mass of cartilage out of place; he could hear as well as feel the gristly crunch as his voicebox was pulped.  Again, it was pain of a kind he hadn’t realized could exist and his physical reaction was innate, and instant.

 

Eddie had never experienced anything like it—the way the teen’s virgin rectum clenched up on his swollen member, squeezing it vigorously, almost desperately, as if it knew that making him ejaculate was the only way to stop the agony.  The boy’s thrashing ceased; he gripped his murderer tightly, sensually—an instinctive response to minimize movement and hence pain.   But to the homicidal ex-Marine, it seemed to be a drawn-out moment of intimacy—of him finally proving, and the worthless faggot finally understanding, exactly how Alpha Male Eddie truly was.

 

Now that Eddie had asserted himself as Alpha, he still needed to mark the meat as his.  He still needed to pump it full of his potent manseed, to neutralize its faggotry.  It needed it.  The faggot needed his cum.

 

And it hadn’t suffered enough.  It was still alive.

 

“Ain’t dead yet, faggot,” he grunted, pounding his shaft into the twink’s ruined fuckhole, “Ain’t dead yet.”  The hardman tightened his hands remorselessly around JJ’s neck, feeling the erotic sensation of the rubbery esophagus being crimped shut by the sheer force of his powerful hands.

 

JJ could feel it too, in a way.  The pounding in his head was worse than the pounding in his ass; the pressure that had built up in his skull felt like it was shoving his eyes out of their sockets.  In spite of the way they bulged grotesquely, he still couldn’t see much—but the great black explosions in his field of view weren’t just blood vessels rupturing in his eyes.  The oxygen deprivation was catching up to him.

 

He’d been a healthy little punk, and it betrayed him physically.  He’d managed to stay conscious long enough to still be awake as brain damage set in.  So he was unlucky enough to be able to feel his windpipe being crushed but was totally unaware that a long stream of drool was oozing out past his protruding tongue and was trickling down his left cheek.

 

Reason and meaning ebbed from the dying teen but sensation and pain remained.  The thrashing boymeat could still feel its own erection.  Eddie could feel it, too.

 

“Still hard, ya fuckin’ pervert?” he snarled, “Fuck you, faggot—fuck you!!”

 

Jamming his thumbs under the angle of JJ’s jaw, on each side, the ex-Marine, his phenomenal strength amped up by psychotic rage, squeezed his hands with all the power he could muster while simultaneously wrenching them in opposite directions.  In a fraction of a second, Eddie totally destroyed the major anatomic structures of JJ’s neck.

 

The collapse of the trachea yielded the same viscerally satisfying crunch that had accompanied the mangling of the unlucky youth’s larynx.  This was enhanced by a loud snapping sound that came from a deeper location—by the placement of his thumbs and pressure applied to the right way on the back of the neck, he’d managed to pop the kid’s skull right off his spine, shattering the first cervical vertebra and sending bone shards slicing into JJ’s spinal cord.

 

Whatever the punk’s screaming terrified adolescent brain wanted to do after that was moot; the electrical signals coming from the cerebellum shorted out.  The adolescent body responded to its damaged nervous system in the way it was most primed to: it went into instant convulsive orgasms.

 

It was the convulsions that got to Eddie, too; the way the smooth, lithe teen body suddenly clutched him tightly and shuddered beneath him—it was almost as if it was deliberately milking his swollen, pulsating rod.  He felt the hot splash of the boy’s cum on his chest and realized that the faggot was spewing a steady stream of boymilk all over him; it was being smeared across his chest as their bodies pressed together in a frenetic coupling of semen and death.

 

“Aw, fuckin’ faggot!” he screamed, pounding his right fist into the dead boy’s already-ruined face, and felt his balls draw up beneath him.  Then he had to hold on tight as his own ejaculation rendered him powerless, clutching the trembling corpse as he spunked, again and again, pumping what felt like quarts of searing hot manseed into the worthless homo cumrag.

 

Eddie lay on top of the teenager’s dead body for nearly ten minutes, feeling the corpse quivering beneath him until it finally lay still.  When he disengaged himself, he had to peel his chest from the twink’s; the boy’s cum had already started to dry.  His thick shaft, still engorged and leaking, came out of the kid’s ass with an audible pop.

 

Eddie left the room and took a shower.

 


 

When he returned, he paused in the doorway to admire his work.  He was proud of himself; he’d taken a worthless faggot out of the world, and he’d shown it he was full Alpha Male as he did it.

 

It had fallen off the bench while he’d showered, but it was still handcuffed to the barbell, so it hung by its arms, resting on its left hip.  The smooth chest was covered by a crusty glaze.  One of the Converse sneakers still twitched every few seconds, but otherwise it was still.  The face couldn’t be seen; with its neck broken, the dead kid’s head was slumped forward.  Only the boy’s sweat-matted black hair was showing.  And its softening cock, pearls of semen dripping from the tumescent head.

 

Eddie had put his pants and boots back on after the shower; now he slipped the t-shirt back on as well.  Then he stepped up to the weight bench and unlocked the cuffs that held up JJ’s corpse, letting it slump to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.  Stowing the cuffs in his nightstand drawer, he paused and considered for a moment; then, picking up the teen’s clothes and cap, he left the apartment.

 

At his truck, he opened the bed.  He used an old section of carpeting as a bedliner, cut to fit; he rolled it back and tossed the clothes into the bed.  Retrieving the skateboard from the cab, he placed it in the bed, too.  Then looking around to make sure no one was observing him, he darted back into the apartment.

 

When he came back out, he was carrying the meat.  He placed it in bed of the truck, then rolled the carpet back over it—not perfect camouflage, but good enough in the dark.  Hopping in the cab, he started the huge beast up and headed out.

 

The front part of the skate park was still brightly lit and in active use; most of the punks out now were older, probably late teens or early twenties, but there were a few who looked younger—some much younger.  Eddie ignored them; if they weren’t faggots after his dick, he had nothing against them.  But now he knew that fags hung out at this park, and he intended to send a message.

 

The rear part of the skate park backed up to the interstate and wasn’t used after dark; this was enforced not so much by chains or fences as by the simple expedient of keeping the place unlit and as dark as possible.  The few daredevils who regarded it as a challenge had already injured themselves enough to serve as a warning.  One boy had died; another had suffered massive brain damage and was still on a respirator.

 

The back end of the park was left alone at night.  Tonight, though, it wouldn’t be.

 

All Eddie could see was a pit; he couldn’t tell its shape or form, and he didn’t need to know.  He tossed the reamed-out boymeat, nude except for its sneakers, into the darkness and heard it hit the concrete below with a boneless thud.  It was followed momentarily but its clothes, hat, and board, the latter of which clattered noisily down into the pit before evidently landing on its wheels and rolling some distance away.

 

An unexpected breeze picked up, ruffling Eddie’s buzzcut hair.  He glanced over at the lighted part of the park, his steely gazing sighting on the heedless youths darting about.  Yeah, this place was infested with faggots.  He’d have to keep his eyes peeled.

Meat Chronicles 20–Transformation of a Twink

He says his name’s Derek and he can’t be any older than eighteen.  He’s got glossy black hair and a brownish skin tone that makes me think he’s Latino, but there’s no trace of an accent.  And with that name; well, maybe he’s just really tanned.

 

Whatever.  He’s also completely fucked; he just doesn’t know it yet.

 

I spot him on the side of the road beside an ancient, beat-up Ford Probe.  He’s leaning back against the car, surreptitiously trying to toke on a joint as he eyes the passing cars.  His firm, lithe young body is more than adequately displayed in a navy-blue muscle shirt that shows his smooth bulging biceps.  His long, thick legs are highlighted by a pair of worn and pale jeans, skintight, that he’s tucked into his kicks—an expensively tacky pair of Nike Air Force 1 boots, bright red.

 

Of course I have to pull over.

 

He stubs out the joint shiftily and approaches the passenger side of my van.  I roll down the window.  “Need some help?” I ask, keeping my face open and friendly.

 

He brushes some stray hairs out of his face and grins up at me, his dark eyes bloodshot.  The punk is high as a fuckin’ kite.

 

“Yeah, dude, th’ POS fuckin’ died,” he replies dreamily.  “Was gonna call up some homies to come get me but m’ phone is dead too.”

 

“That’s a lotta shit to die at once,” I riposte with a wicked grin, “Get in and I’ll give ya a lift.  You can re-fire that jay, if ya want.”

 

And that’s all it takes to lure the stoned fuckmeat into my van.

 

He tells me his name and where he’s going—something about picking up booze for a party with his bros, but I’m not listening to the details.  I’m busy maneuvering through traffic towards a certain abandoned warehouse I know of, where I can find the necessary privacy.  Luckily, the teen is too fucked up to notice where we are until I actually pull into the warehouse lot and head for a secluded loading bay.

 

“Hey, man,” Derek says with a cough as he exhales a thick haze of blue smoke, “Where are we?  I was gonna have ya go by Bart’s Liquor over on Adams, it’s kinda my favorite—”

 

“Shut up, motherfucker,” I bark.  He starts, his eyes opening wide.  Then he laughs; a boyish sound, almost endearingly goofy.

 

I pull out my blackjack.  Actually, it’s just a pair of socks, one inside the other, filled with marbles.  He stops laughing and focuses blearily on it.

 

“What-what’s that for?” he asks hesitantly.

 

“It’s to put yer lights out, asswipe.  An’ once I do that, I’m gonna rape yer ass and kill ya.  Yer about to die, cocksucker.”

 

I love this part.  There’s something so erotic about the look of stunned confusion in a teen’s face as he realizes what I’m about to do to him.  And this one is no different—in fact, he’s better.  He’s so stoned it takes him some time to process my words.  I can watch him working it out, his smooth features twisting with the unaccustomed effort of thinking.

 

He’s a stupid little fuckwad.  My dick is so fuckin’ hard at the thought of putting him in pain…

 

He’s finally caught on.  “Wha—wha—wait, wha’d you say?”

 

“Time to die, twinkie.”

 

The blackjack makes a deep, solid “thunk” sound as it connects with his right temple.  Kid’s too fucked up to even flinch.  He goes limp in the seat.

 

I get out of the driver’s seat and slip into the rear to check my gear.  I don’t need much, just a box cutter for access and a pair of thick industrial zip ties.  Then I unbuckle his seatbelt and drag him into the rear—and at that point the transformation is complete.

 

Derek no longer exists.  There’s no more “he”; there’s only an “it” that exists for my pleasure.  And I’m gonna make goddam sure it pleasures me.

 

I could simply pull the clothes off but I like cutting them off.  Well, not fully cutting—I just nick the collar of the fucker’s shirt, then rip it off its smooth torso, rubbing my hands over its pecs, pinching and twisting the large dark nipples…

 

…it starts moaning.  I decide to leave the jeans and boots on.  Quickly rolling the semi-conscious boymeat over, I slice its jeans open—a straight slash down the crack of the ass that I pull wide to reveal two golden globes, covered with a faint peach fuzz and no underwear at all.

 

Having cut myself access to the teen’s fuckhole, I flip it back over.  Just as its eyelids start to flutter, I unzip its fly and pull out the punk’s long tube of dickmeat.  Motherfucker has an impressive cock—nowhere near as thick or long as mine, as it’s about to find out, but not bad.

 

I like a nice stiff piece of meat as much as the next dude.  I place one of the zip ties around the meat’s rod and scrote, tightening it past the pain of pleasure—well into the tissue damage zone.  Instantly, the teen’s shaft begins to turn purple and go rigid.

 

I don’t need any help for my own dick.  I pull off my t-shirt, and whip out my hog—but like the meat, I keep my jeans and boots on.  The treaded soles of my combat boots help me to maintain traction on the floor of the van as I raise the fuckmeat’s legs and expose its ass.

 

It’s just waking up as I plow my swollen, engorged rod into its tight teenage asshole.

 

It starts squealing and squeaking; the meat always does.  Stupid little punks are getting the best fuck of their lives, and they never appreciate it.  At least, not this early on; they need encouragement.  Time to give this kid some.

 

“Shaddap, ya worthless sack a’ fuckmeat,” I snarl and pop it in the face, hard.

 

The impact knocks the breath out of it momentarily; it can only moan and gasp, looking at me with eyes wide with fear and pain.  Well, one eye—the other is already swelling…

 

I plunge my erect cock into the kid’s colon again, the huge purple head probing deep into the fucker’s tender guts.  The virgin asshole feels so goddam good around my hard, unyielding manshaft; I can feel my tool tearing remorselessly at the boy’s fragile innards.

 

The meat shudders and sobs; it’s in fucking agony.  Good.

 

“Ya think that hurts, ya fuckin’ cocksucker?  You ain’t felt nothing yet; by the time I’m done, you’ll be in so much pain you’ll be begging to die!”

 

I lean down closer, letting my rough stubble scrape the fucker’s cheek while I whisper in its ear, “Only, ya won’t have to beg.  See, I’m gonna keep hurtin’ ya till I cum, and the only thing that’s gonna make me cum is watchin’ ya die.  Got it, fuckwad?  Then let’s get goin’; I gotta a huge wad to unload today.”

 

It starts beating at my chest.  It’s so cute, the way the twink’s fists thump helplessly against my massive pecs; it’s almost as if my fucktoy is giving me a nice chest massage.  I laugh in its tear-stained face.

 

Deep inside the red Nike boots propped on my shoulders, I can feel the little cunt’s toes curl in sexual agony as my huge, vein-wreathed manshaft reams its fuckhole like I’m snaking a drain.  The fucker’s shrieks and screams rise in pitch with every deep thrust of my powerful hips; the sound is grating on my nerves.

 

“Why is it every motherfucker I bang ends up bein’ a screamer?” I ask the meat conversationally, then punch it in the face again.  I plowed into the teen’s jaw mid-squeal, slamming its trap shut and causing it to bite its lip.  Its eyes rolled back momentarily in its head; blood trickled down its chin as it moaned groggily.

 

“Fuck, I can feel that shit all the way down on my dick,” I tell the stunned teen, “Goddam, cunt, your fuckhole gets nice an’ tight each time. Ya like that, dontcha, ya sick motherfucker?  Yeah?  Ya like a real man beatin’ yer teen face to a fuckin’ pulp?  Well, why didntcha just say so, asswipe?”

 

Like a coiled spring, my strong bicep flexes three times in quick succession, bashing the adolescent punk viciously in the mouth and nose.  The latter breaks with a wet squelch; the meat coughs up its left incisor and gurgles incoherently.

 

“Ok, cunt,” I tell the heaving teen fuck, “Enough foreplay.  I wanna shoot my load; I got other shit to do today.  Time to die, asshole.”

 

Before it can make another sound, I loop the remaining zip tie around its neck and cinch it tight.  I have to place one hand on the cuntboy’s throat and pull hard—real hard—with the other to get those last few notches through the clasp.

 

When I’m done, it’s so deep, it can’t be seen.

 

I’m kinda surprised; the teen meat reacts right away.  I thought I’d beat it down enough to accept its death and milk me with some nice convulsions, but it begins to struggle with renewed vigor.  The eyes open wide and almost immediately begin to bulge, even the blackened one.  After a few seconds, though, it becomes difficult to tell which eye had been blackened—the entire face is darkening to the same shade.

 

I hadn’t bound its hands; I like feeling my prey struggle.  At the moment, the punk’s clawing uselessly at its throat; even as the cute adolescent visage begins to distort in agony, I can still see the abject terror in the meat’s eyes.  Its smooth chest is slick with an ice-cold sweat squeezed from the pores as the nervous system begins to malfunction.

 

“Yer dyin’, motherfucker,” I jeer, staring hard into the huge dark panicked eyes and watching blood vessels burst into starburst shapes in the straining whites, “Does it hurt?  Didja expect this ta happen today when ya slipped on them expensive kicks and tight jeans—that ya’d be gettin’ fucked and snuffed while wearin’ ’em?  Fuck, dude, I knew I was gonna use yer corpse like a cumrag the moment I laid eyes on ya!”

 

My voice seems to cut through the meat’s mortal torpor.  It seems to focus on me—and then the hands come up, spastic, frantic, desperate.

 

My head bobs and weaves as I dodge the clawing fingers.  Goddamit, I thought I’d busted this fuckin’ bronco, but it keeps tryin’ to throw me.  Looks like it needs re-breaking.

 

Let’s start with the jaw.

 

Now that I’m pissed, my blows land with the force of a sledgehammer.  My build is enough to lure in any fags I wanna snuff, and the dumb cunts never stop and think about how easy it is for me to overcome them and waste their pansy asses.  Now this one is learning that lesson the hard way.  The first slug only knocks two teeth out; it’s the second that gives me that nice satisfying snap that I only get by breaking a bone.

 

It works, at least to an extent; the boymeat clutches my shoulder, wallowing in excruciating pain, a thick, choking, gurgling sound seeping from its misshapen mouth.  Without a clenched jaw to hold it in place, the punk’s swollen, purple tongue, lubed by a froth of drool, begins to protrude from between the twisted blue lips.

 

The motherfucker’s tongue isn’t the only swollen, purple appendage generating its own lube.  The twink’s long dick is not only oozing precum, it’s pulsing visibly and rapidly—it seems to be in sync with the cunt’s pulse, which is speeding as it hurtles towards asphyxia.  It’s hot, too; the kid’s dick feels like a bar of heated iron as it smacks against my ripped abs with each brutal thrust of my cock.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, bro,” I tell the meat reassuringly, “Ya know it now, dontcha?  Ya know the only thing yer worthless fag ass is good fer is milking out my hot thick potent manseed as you kick and die, yeah?  An’ it’s gettin’ ya hard as a rock.  Stupid faggot teenagers, yer all alike—I gotta beat some sense into ya before you accept the inevitable.  But then, ya like gettin’ beat, right, assfuck?”

 

I’m fairly certain it can still understand me.  It’s taking it a long time to die, and it feels so fucking good on my throbbing shaft—the boymeat is writhing, almost undulating, as it rides me.  The hands are still on my shoulders but the grip is loosening.  The cunt is drooling heavily now; irreversible brain damage is setting in.  It gives me one last despairing look.

 

I punch it in the face again and that’s all the fucker is waiting for.  The convulsion is violent; the orgasm even more so.

 

At some point the teen’s feet had slipped off my shoulders and were now around my waist.  I’d thought nothing about it at the time but now the firm adolescent thighs tighten around my waist in a vise grip.  The arms, with a sudden jerk, encircle my neck, and before I know it the fuckmeat has me in the mindless, intense embrace of violent muscle spasm.

 

Fuck yeah, man, this is it.  This is what I was waiting for–dead smooth young boymeat milking my rod.  As it shudders, clutching me tight, I can feel its thick rigid pole suddenly pulse and spurt; an intense liquid warmth spreading over my belly oh fuck yeah dude fuck yeah FUCK FUCK FUCK

 

I cum again and again, vaguely aware that I’m raining blows on the dead kid’s face with each wad I blow up its ass.  It seems to go on forever. I cum so hard it hurts.

 

Damn, this one was good.  And it feels good to be back on the hunt again.

 

I use the meat’s shirt to wipe all the cum off me, then open the back doors of the van and toss the shirt out.  Tucking my dick back in and putting my own shirt back on, I roll the shuddering fagmeat out of the van, letting it hit the ground like a sack of garbage.  After all, no one saw me pick the cunt up, and the face is damn near unrecognizable anyway.  And I really do have things to do this afternoon.

 

One of the teen’s Nike AF boots is still twitching as I close the doors and drive off, leaving the dead adolescent sprawled on the hot, cracked asphalt under the baking sun.

 

Anyone know how long that bank over on Fifth is open on Wednesdays?  I wanna ask about financing for a new van…