Trucker 10–Trucker v Birthday Boi

It was a Friday night, so of course the bar was full.  Dylan was thrilled—he knew, naturally, that it wasn’t all for him, but it still made him feel good.  The crowded bar wasn’t the only thing that was making him feel good; he’d already slammed three beers and smoked a joint before he’d left the house.  He was primed for a party.

 

Specifically, his eighteenth birthday party.

 

Legally, he never should have been let in the door, but he’d been selling weed inside the bar for over a year by a simple expedient—going to into the back with Don, the owner, and letting the older man bend him over his desk and fuck his ass.  He’d had a free pass ever since, even being allowed to buy alcohol, as long as Don got to plow his hole on occasion.

 

Tonight, Don was out.  That was fine with Dylan.  Even though he was attracted to older men, Don was a duty fuck.  Tonight, the boy wanted fun.  He wanted a real man.

 

Dylan had plenty of cash—he was also the main (but not the only) pot dealer for the county high school.  And looking around, he could see some of his classmates at the bar and another one on the dance floor.  He knew them; they’d gotten in with fake IDs.  Unless they wanted to buy some smoke, they left him alone and vice versa—they all already knew he wasn’t into twinks, despite being such a beautiful one himself.

 

Dylan was well-built and almost exactly six feet tall.  He had dark brown hair of moderate length.  It was styled in silky waves over his forehead, almost obscuring the long lashes surrounding his large dark brown eyes.

 

Since he wanted to be the center of attention on his birthday, he sported a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, white, with the famous logo across the chest.  It was thin, worn cotton, two sizes too small—it fitted his torso like a second skin, making obvious the twink’s large pecs, flat belly and hard, erect nipples.

 

Under the t-shirt, his legs were displayed in a pair of basic Adidas basketball shorts, black with red strips.  Long, slightly furred calves descended into a pair of ped socks, almost invisible deep inside his red Nike Jordan Horizon hightops.

 

Dylan had always looked younger than his age; even now, based on his appearance, most people thought he was no older than sixteen.  The Asian ideograms tattooed down the inside of his lower left arm (he had no idea what they meant, if anything; he just thought they were cool) and the small solid gold hoops in his pierced ears only added to the confusion regarding his age.

 

He didn’t complain, though—he could get laid anytime he wanted, by any guy he wanted; his model-like looks guaranteed his ability to pick and choose.  Shame he had no better place to bestow his charms than this dive; the highway nearby had a truck stop which lured in a few eligible prospects, but otherwise Dylan knew all the regulars—and wanted nothing to do with them.  He already knew he was too good for them.  But it was a Friday night and the pickings could be good.  He’d just have to see what showed up.

 

He didn’t have to wait long.  He’d already downed three rum and cokes at the bar before crossing back to the dance floor when he noticed the stud who’d just walked in the door—and froze.  It only took a single glance for the teen fag to realize that this dude would be the perfect birthday gift to himself.

 

As tall and well-built as Dylan was, this hot motherfucker was even taller and more buff.  Obviously a dominant alpha, the stud strolled in with a wide-legged stance that bespoke a massive set of tackle between his legs.

 

The older man wore a dark blue sleeveless t-shirt that emphasized not only his incredibly-sculpted chest but also his thick, bulging biceps.  His tight, faded jeans were worn so thin that the head of his huge cock was clearly outlined in his crotch.

 

The jeans were tucked inside a pair of dust-yellow construction boots.  Left laced but untied, the uppers, with a black leather band around the cuff, came halfway up the calves of the undeniably arousing stranger.

 

The stranger’s face seemed to be covered with a dark, wiry scruff, but it was hard to make out under his cap—a black trucker’s cap, mesh in the back with a solid fabric front and the word “Rogue” embroidered on it.

 

He already knew—this was it.  Dylan had decided that he was gonna have this hot fucking alpha inside him before the night was out.  Wasting no time, he struck out across the dance floor, anxious to hit the stud up before anyone else could.

 

For his part, the Trucker had already taken notice of the hot young slut.  Most of the dudes in the bar were in jeans and t-shirts or short sleeve button downs; there were a lot of caps and boots.  A few twinks writhed and undulated on the dance floor in skinny jeans and expensive kicks—but none of them stood out like the teen punk heading towards him.

 

And that was good.  It’d been a couple of weeks since he’d last had the chance to vent his sexual anger; even now, the thought of how the last meat had twitched and quivered as its life was choked out with a wallet chain made him horny.

 

The alpha killer was primed and ready to blow; all he needed was suitable prey—and that difficulty seemed to be surmounted already.  He stared down at the boy as the latter strutted towards him; the kid clearly thought he was hot shit.

 

“Hey, man,” the cocky teen drawled, posing with one hip jutted forward.  “It’s my birthday—I turn eighteen at midnight—and I deserve somethin’ special.  Whaddaya say—I’ll get us a room at that place down the street and you can plow my ass.  Think you can do that?”

 

The Trucker glared down at the arrogant little fucker, a slight smirk on his face—which actually took some control.  Jesus, this stupid twink bitch needed to be put down hard; just the thought of teaching the teenaged faggot his proper place made the cruel stud’s dick pulse and throb.

 

And his jeans were so tight, it was obvious.

 

Dylan saw it and blinked.  Fuck, the dude must be almost literally hung like a horse, the way his trouser snake—trouser python—wriggled in his crotch and down his leg.  And his own cock responded in kind, visibly tenting the groin of his black athletic shorts.  The boy’s lust was obvious, painting a bright gleam in his dark, nearly liquid eyes.

 

“I can do that, bitch,” the Trucker said in a low, cold monotone.

 

Suddenly cowed, Dylan found that he couldn’t look the stud in the face.  His eyes were naturally drawn to glinting reflections on the older man’s massive chest.  Keeping his gaze on them—they appeared to be dog tags—he stuttered, “O-ok, ma-man, let’s g-go.  I’ll, uh, I’ll get us room at the Shamrock Inn next door.”  Gulping deeply, he glanced up at the towering stud’s face, as if seeking approval.

 

The Trucker remained still, not moving a muscle.

 

“Ya-ya w-wanna go?” the punk quavered.

 

The alpha chuckled deeply, a bass note that vibrated along the root of Dylan’s dick.  “Ok, boy, I’ll bang yer boycunt if that’s what ya need.  Go get the room, faggot; I’m gonna grab a brew.”  And with that, the Trucker strode across the dance floor towards the bar, his hulking, powerful form parting the twinks like a bull moving through tall grass.

 

Staring after him, Dylan’s breath hitched with erotic anticipation.  His dick was pulsing in his shorts; he could already feel the precum oozing from the tip.  He headed out of the bar and crossed the gritty acre of asphalt that served both the bar and the motel as a parking lot.

 

Despite his drunkenness, the handsome young slut managed to successfully navigate the litter-strewn expanse.  He entered the dingy office and greeted the wizened old Indian clerk like an old acquaintance, as indeed he was.  “You again?” the old man asked in a clipped British accent.

 

“Hey, Anjit,” Dylan replied, “That one on the end open?  In the back—you know, 130?”

 

“No,” the clerk replied, “But the front wing is completely empty.”

 

“Gimme one in the middle,” the kid said, taking a moment to brush an errant lock of silky hair up out of his eyes.  “I got a live one tonight; want some privacy.”

 

The elderly Indian slid the key across the counter with an air of resigned dignity; he clearly didn’t care what Dylan had planned.

 

The teen turned to leave, but paused once he reached the door.  “Oh—and, Anjit?” he said, turning back, “I’ll probably wanna sleep in after this one.  If the lock works as bad as the one on 130, tell that stupid spic bitch that picks up the used rubbers to leave me alone, huh?  She can clean up once I check out.”

 

The clerk nodded and picked up a pen and pad of paper to note the request.  Once Dylan was out the door; Anjit put the blank, unused pad down and headed back into the rear office, already putting the transaction out of his mind.

 

After all, he’d be doing this for at least a dozen faggots on a Friday night.  He couldn’t keep track of them all and had no intention of trying.

 

The night was unusually warm for the time of year; it was very obvious to Dylan after the overly-chilled motel office.  The room was a couple of doors down on his left; as he waited, unsure of whether he should go to look for his birthday stud (and with a sudden pang of concern that perhaps he’d been dumped—not likely given his looks, he knew, but still…) when suddenly he heard the heavy measured tread of a muscular man in boots.

 

Glancing in the direction of the footsteps, he saw the hunk approaching and felt a thrill run through his groin.  Inadvertently, the Trucker had positioned himself between Dylan and the security lights of a used-car lot across the street; as a result, the hulking alpha’s phenomenal body was illuminated in silhouette, highlighting his powerful and perfectly-developed physique.

 

The well-built teen’s natural adolescent horniness had been enhanced by his chemically-altered mental state; between the bud and the booze, the punk was so ready to get laid that he could barely contain his excitement.  He gulped, then called out.  “Over here—number 103.”

 

 

Hearing the kid’s voice, the Trucker glanced up and ambled in his direction.  The room was in the front of the building, but the entire wing seemed to be virtually empty.  The vicious psycho smirked—it would do.

 

An adequate pit for slaughtering the little homo pig.

 

Dylan had already reached the room and opened the door.  Reaching in, he flicked on the light to reveal a dark and dingy room.  The towering alpha followed the twink in, shooting the deadbolt and setting the chain as the kid moved forward to turn on the bedside lamp.  More light revealed cheap worn furniture.  Cheap-ass particle board with peeling brass accents and papered veneer pocked with cigarette burns.  At least it was a matching set, the Trucker thought, and about thirty years old.

 

In his eagerness, Dylan was already turning down the thin scratchy polyester to reveal the old yellowed sheets underneath, reeking with an industrial bleach smell.  The cunt’s presumption amused the Trucker; hauling out his pack of Marlboros, he lit a smoke and wandered in to check out the bathroom.

 

His boots thumped loudly on the tile floor.  The bathroom was decrepit, with loose shower tiles and dripping taps, but it seemed to be reasonably clean.  Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink, the Trucker lowered the bill of his cap some—just enough to obscure his face, leaving only his strong, stubble-covered chin visible.

 

Walking back into the room, he saw that the bitch had stripped the bed—only the pillows and the fitted sheet remained.  The teen punk stood at the foot of bed, facing the bathroom door, massaging the extremely obvious bulge in his crotch.  The Trucker leaned in the doorway, this time with the deliberate knowledge of the impact his silhouette was having.

 

The muscled stud curled his lip.  “Strip, cunt,” he sneered, taking a drag of his cigarette, “Let’s see if yer faggot ass is worth my dick.”

 

Dylan moaned softly as peeled his Rolling Stones t-shirt off his smooth, strong torso.  His body wasn’t quite beefy enough to qualify for the football team, but it was close.  Not that Dylan was interested in football.  Football players, on the other hand…

 

“Did I stutter, bitch?” the Trucker snapped.  “I said strip.  That mean yer shorts too, boy.”  He grinned, feeling his own thick meat swelling and pulsing.  This kid liked to be dominated—that was good.  The Trucker had no problem with the thought of dominating him; his boiling rage was gonna dominate the little fucker to death.

 

Dylan dropped his shorts, freeing his thick tool to bob about and splatter precum everywhere.  Among other places, transparent drops of hot pre-ejaculate darkened the honeycomb pattern on his red Nike Jordans, all that he was left wearing.  Nude but for his footgear, the teen slut was ready and anxious to get fucked.

 

The meat’s eagerness and anticipation was obvious; the Trucker had no intention of satisfying it quickly.  The twink needed to suffer in all things, including its expectations.

 

As the kid stood trembling in front of him, the Trucker parked his smoldering butt in an ashtray on the dresser and pulled his own sleeveless T off over his head, maneuvering carefully so that his trucker cap remained placed exactly where he wanted it.  Stepping forward, he loomed over the teen by at least a good half-foot.

 

“You want my dick, faggot?” he demanded.

 

Dylan gulped, unable to catch his breath.  The Trucker’s face twisted in anger.

 

“I asked you a question, you stupid motherfucker,” he snapped and backhanded Dylan across the face, smacking the kid’s head sideways.  The young pansy gasped and moaned loudly; at the same time, his huge semi-soft cock got hard, spurting out more precum across the room before sinking back to drizzle the clear fluid on his expensive kicks.

 

The Trucker noticed—and barked out raucous laughter.  “Ya like that, do ya, faggot?  Ya like a good beatdown, you worthless cocksuckin’ fairy?  Fuck yeah, yer just the bitch I been lookin’ fer, fag—you like it rough, yeah?  Huh?  Answer me, ya queer-ass cunt!  Ya want me to ream ya like the whore ya are, right?”

 

“Yes—” Dylan had time to gasp before the Trucker unzipped his fly.  It took a bit for hulking top to excavate the entire length of his enormous, pulsating manmeat, but the teen homo’s attention was focused entirely on the spectacle unfolding in front of him.

 

The Trucker loomed before him, his massive chest darkened with wiry manfur except where the dogtags gleamed between the two huge hubcap pecs.  Below, his almost-frightening horse dick jutted proudly from the groin of the faded jeans that still clung tightly to his strong legs, bulging with muscles.  His open workboots, reaching to mid-calf, were planted wide apart in a domineering, open-legged stance.

 

“Ya want this cock, boy?  Ya think ya deserve it?” he jeered.

 

Dylan nodded blankly; he absently wiped his lips with the back of his hand—an instinctive reaction since he was utterly unaware that he’d been drooling.  His cocky young arrogance reasserted itself.  “Yeah, man, I deserve it.  Toldja it’s my birthday, didn’t I?” he slurred in drunken lust, “I deserve some nice dick on my eighteenth birthday, dude—and after all I paid for the room, yeah?”

 

The Trucker paused for tension-filled moment, picked up his smoke and found it nearly all burned to ash.  Taking a final drag, he ground it out and stepped forward.  The shadow cast by the brim of his cap cast hid the expression in his eyes, but the grim twist to his lips and the firm set of his chiseled jaw clearly showed the contempt he felt—not that Dylan was sober enough to recognize it.

 

“So ya paid for the room,” the Trucker said evenly, “So what?  Ya think ya bought me, boy, huh?  That what ya think, huh?”

 

The booze was flowing full strength through the teen’s bloodstream by this point; the beers he’d drunk before hitting the bar had been superseded by the four rum-and-cokes wannabe admirers had bought him at the bar.  Dylan had been both drinking and smoking pot for more than five years, but he was more tanked tonight than he’d been in a long time.

 

In other words, he felt both invincible and entitled.  And he was too fucked up to realize how dangerous that attitude was in his current situation.

 

“Yeah, dude, that’s what I think,” the handsome teenaged slut replied in a sarcastic tone.  “So c’mon and stick it in me, fucker.  Whaddaya waitin’ for; ya wanna give me my birthday spankings?”

 

And at that moment the Trucker straightened up, his cock suddenly starting to pulse.  Transparent beads of pre-ejaculate started to drip from the thick, mushroom-shaped head.  The cold, cruel mouth visible under the shadow on the alpha’s face curled into a malevolent grin.

 

“Yeah, cunt, that’s what ya want?  I can do that too…”

 

And with that, the Trucker stepped forward again, even closer to Dylan.  The young gay slut inhaled abruptly as the muscular alpha was suddenly within arms’ reach, an intimidating and threatening presence.  As his nostrils filled with the scent of pheromones and mansweat, laced with nicotine, the kid turned his dark eyes, the whites stained with red, up to the older hunk’s inscrutable face.

 

And that was when the Trucker’s powerful arm lashed out, diving his fist into the youth’s face and snapping his left cheekbone.

 

Dylan fell back directly onto the bed in shock.  He knew he’d been hurt badly.  Clutching the side of his face, he gaped at his attacker.  “Wh-wha—” he stuttered, the sharp pain in his cheek making it difficult to form the words.

 

“That was one,” the towering alpha sneered down at the boy cowering on the bed.  “How old didja say ya were gonna be—eighteen?  And look, it’s past midnight.  So ya got seventeen more coming, ya little sack a’ shit.  And unless you want the next one to break yer nose, ya better start gulping down my cock.  Now, faggot!”

 

Reaching out with his large, paw-like hand, the Trucker grabbed a hank of Dylan’s silky brown hair and jerk his head forward viciously.  The teen opened his mouth to cry out in pain only to find it plugged with a thick wad of throbbing flesh, oozing a stream of thick, salty fluid.  Before he knew what was happening, the monstrous tube of manmeat had been shoved past his tonsils and down his esophagus.

 

The pain in Dylan’s cheek became a piercing agony as his face was stretched out of shape; combined with the sudden cessation of oxygen as his air was cut off, the young slut was stunned both literally and metaphorically.  His birthday present was going horribly wrong and he didn’t know why or how—it made no sense, it couldn’t really be happening…

 

The Trucker knew the thoughts racing through the cunt’s sad excuse for a mind.  All these young cockpigs were the same; no concept of their own mortality until it was staring them in the face.  He chuckled deeply as he forced his enormous shaft down the punk’s throat; this evening was turning out better than it had started.

 

He’d left his rig at a truck stop on the other side of the interstate, then walked to the bar on the offhand chance of finding a decent fag on which he could work out his anger issue.  He’d actually been accosted by a hustler in the darkness of the highway underpass, a scrawny, cadaverous addict with missing teeth and a rancid odor.  He aroused nothing but disgust from the Trucker and putting the fucker’s lights out with a blow to the head didn’t provide him the vent he needed; it just served the purpose of shutting the skank up.

 

Now, though, he had this entitled, cocky-ass little fuck in his control.  Several long days in the driver’s seat had left him with a violent need to drain the built-up manseed in his balls.

 

Birthday boi was gonna suffer—bad.

 

And the worthless little fuck seemed to want to suffer.  It might simply have been a twitch in the muscles from having his jaw pried open so wide, but suddenly the Trucker could feel teeth.  And that was bad—for Dylan.

 

Using his handful of hair as a handle, he jerked the kid’s head back off his dick.  The moment his airway was clear, Dylan began gagging and coughing up his drool on the Trucker’s thick tool.    “Big mistake, you stupid motherfucker,” the muscular alpha hissed, “I guess that means you ain’t no good at givin’ head.  That means I gotta buttfuck ya to get off, cunt, huh?  Stand up.  Now, you goddam faggot!”

 

Stunned and shuddering the well-built teen climbed shakily to his feet, standing trembling at the foot of the bed.  His face was still beautiful but with his left cheek swollen and bruised, a little less perfect.  Tears leaked from his eyes and snot from his nose as he glanced up at older top.

 

Fear prevented Dylan from making eye contact with the Trucker; the cowed youth turned his gaze from the massive hog bobbing in the air in front of him, glistening with his own spit, up along the fur-covered ripples of the alpha’s buff abs.  Above that, the body hair widened out into a dark, wiry forest spread across the top’s broad chest.  In the declivity between the hubcap pecs a pair of dogtags caught both the light and Dylan’s eyes.

 

“Think yer due for another birthday bash, faggot?” the Trucker jeered.  “Need a little tenderizin’?”

 

Stunned and shocked, the twink’s attention was focused on the shiny objects; he could hear the words but the ominous meaning failed to penetrate his drug- and fear-clouded mind.  The killer noticed—unfortunately for Dylan, since it aroused his sadistic brutality.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ cunt,” he barked in rage, “Guess this’ll get yer attention!”

 

And with that, he slammed his fist into Dylan’s jaw with all the force of a train wreck, snapping it into three pieces.  The teen slut made an odd sound, a kind of gurgling shriek, and dropped like a sack of potatoes.  With a lightning-swift reflex, the Trucker reached out and snatched at the now-tousled brown hair again.  Grabbing a fistful, he pivoted and tossed the boy across the room.

 

He didn’t toss the slut at random, though. In front of the yellowed drapes covering the window was a round table flanked by armchairs; Dylan smashed into it just at waist level.  His torso smacked down onto the table, which tipped back, struck the AC unit under the window, and bounce back upright.

 

As the Trucker approached, the teenaged homo was bent over the table, chest down, quivering and helpless in agony, his legs hanging down with his red Jordan kicks just barely touching the floor.  His pink, pulsating fuckhole was clearly visible; the cruel alpha smirked as he aimed his huge dripping hog at the puckered hole in the twink’s bubble butt.

 

In a nightmarish haze of excruciating pain, Dylan clutched the edge of the table tightly, blubbering as blood trickled down his ruined chin.  Although he’d miraculously escaped losing a tooth, the slightest movement of his mouth slammed waves of agony into his head. He struggled just to maintain consciousness, barely noticing the sudden pressure on sphincter.

 

Then it wasn’t pressure anymore; it was an engorged, vein-wrapped tube of hard pulsing manflesh—and it was in him.  All the way.

 

The Trucker had thrust his cock deep into the kid’s ass, his thick precum the only lube.  The swollen purple head hadn’t hesitated at the resistance of the youth’s ass muscle; worn out with regular buttsex as it was, it still couldn’t accommodate the muscled alpha’s powerful tool.  With a faint grunt, the brutal rapist rammed his shaft home, tearing Dylan’s sphincter in two places.

 

The tsunami of sharp, glassy pain that tore through the teen’s ravaged fuckhole was too much; he passed out on the Trucker’s dick.  The sweating, heaving top spent the next few minutes pumping his shaft doggy-style into the unconscious punk’s torn and bleeding ass.

 

The hard-bodied boy awakened into the same universe of suffering that he’d left; his first sensation in the darkness of semi-consciousness was the searing pain in his torn colon and he instinctively started crying.  That triggered the second sensation—the agony of broken bone ends grinding together in his jaw.  He was forced to taper off to a faint, high-pitched keening noise.

 

Unluckily for him, the sound annoyed the Trucker.

 

“What the fuck is that, cunt?  Ya must be likin’ it, huh, faggot—yer squealin’ like a goddam pig!  If yer into that, you sick fuck, then yer gonna love this shit—check it, dude, I’m gonna make yer next birthday taps donkey punches, huh?  Bet ya know what that is; yer a stupid piece a’ shit, but yer a fucking sick-ass pansy slut too, right, boy?  You know all the disgusting homo perversions, dontcha?  Then ya know ya better buckle the fuck up, bitch, cause here it comes!”

 

Grabbing a hank of Dylan’s long (and now badly tousled) brown hair—reaching up to snatch a fistful near the forehead in front—he yanked the kid’s head back.  With no warning, he slammed his other fist like a piston into the back of the teen’s skull.

 

The idea behind a donkey punch is that the blow to the head makes the sphincter tighten.  The Trucker hadn’t actually tried it before; much to his surprise, it actually worked.  Ripped and bleeding, Dylan’s ass muscle still managed to cinch around the hairy base of the sadist’s shaft like a cock ring.

 

The stunned teen moaned as his body responded to the punch by clenching up; even his toes curled as his red Nike hightops kicked and scraped at the carpet.  Gripping the table tightly, he tried desperately to pull his head away but the alpha’s grip on his scalp was too firm; despite the horrific agony involved in moving his mouth, he began to sob and beg inarticulately, knowing that he was unable to escape the vicious assault.

 

And he was right.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, that really got yer sick homo ass off, dinnit?” the Trucker laughed cruelly, “Here—have another, birthday boi!”

 

With that, he popped the little shit in the back of head again, this time a little harder so the he was rewarded with even more tightening.  The young fag’s rectum gripped his huge vein-wrapped cock like a velvet glove, squeezing it and caressing it.  Not one to miss an opportunity, the Trucker shifted his muscular, denim-sheathed legs, planting his workboots further apart for better traction, and doubled the speed of his hard, driving buttfuck.

 

By now, Dylan was clinging to the table with his head pulled up, curled painfully backwards.  His pain-wracked face streaked with tears, his head was being violently shaken to the same tempo as his brutal assrape.  His attempts to beg had become random syllables of pain force from his mangled mouth along with a thin stream of drool, pink with blood.

 

“Shit, motherfucker, I’m gonna like puttin’ you down; I can control yer meat real good.  I don’t even need you to be alive for you jack me off, ya worthless faggot, ya hear me?”

 

Dylan heard words but no meaning; things were starting to go grey at the edges and there was a loud buzzing in his head; he welcomed the fuzziness, since it might make the pain go away…

 

The powerful, well-skilled sadist sensed he was losing his audience.  He wasn’t done with this one yet, not by a long shot.  The cruel serial killer still had a lot of rage to vent—and a lot of cum.

 

He pounded one more roundhouse into the fucker’s cranium.  The youth’s reaction was swift; he thrashed out with both arms and legs as he lost consciousness again.  The Trucker pumped the suddenly re-tightened fuckhole furiously, leaning forward, lowering his weight onto his victim’s limp form—

 

—and that was when the table gave way.  Tipping forward, it impacted the AC unit under the window hard enough to bend the metal vents out of shape; with a loud splintering sound, the circular top tore free from the metal base column.  Everything collapsed to the floor with a loud crash—top, base, the chairs on each side, and, of course, Dylan.

 

He went to the ground still impaled on the Trucker’s dick.  The experienced top had understood what was happening.  Even though it was too late to prevent it, he’d managed to turn and extend his arm, catching himself easily and breaking his fall; with his other hand, he’d caught at the boy, pivoted, and slammed him to the ground.

 

Reluctantly, though, the alpha knew he had to pull out; he needed to make a quick security check.  He’d just made a lot more noise than he liked in a public motel.  Withdrawing his long, pulsing shaft, he left Dylan slowly shuddering his way back to tortured awareness and glanced out the window from a chink in the drapes.  Nothing moved in the darkness beyond, but he still wanted to give it a minute, just to make sure everything had settled down.

 

Digging his smokes out of his pocket, he lit one and sat on the foot of the bed.  As he smoked, reassuring himself all was quiet, he could watch the meat slowly regain consciousness.  The cunt trembled and gasped before rolling over so the he now faced the bed, hid eyelids fluttering open to reveal his rolled-back eyes, white streaked with red.

 

As the kid painfully came to, the gray dimness of his vision was first pierced by a pair of bright glints of light; as he became more able to focus, he could see the dogtags buried the muscular stud’s chest fur.  Looking up, the coldly handsome face was still partially shaded by the trucker’s cap.  When he got out of the, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to ID a photo of his rapist.

 

Because he was gonna get out of this, Dylan knew; he was hurt but he wasn’t dead.  His birthday had turned into an unimaginable horror story—some deep pig part of him still wanted this violent, erotic dominant top—but the thought that he wasn’t going to survive this ordeal never seriously crossed his mind.

 

Then the Trucker spoke.

 

“That’s five, boy,” he drawled gleefully.  “It twenty past midnight, so yer, what—eighteen?  Only got thirteen more birthday beatings to go, bitch.”

 

The Trucker hit his cigarette again, exhaling in the kid’s direction as he waited for the words to sink in.  It took a bit for the youth to realize that this powerful psycho was gonna do a lot more of what he’d already done.

 

When he did realize it, the Trucker spoke again.  “Tell ya what, faggot, I’ll give ya a fair chance—you make it through yer birthday taps and I’ll let ya go.  Gotta tell ya, though, yer gonna hafta fight to survive, cause I’m gonna work ya over good—you faggot pigs feel so good when ya squeal and die on my dick.  But, hey, if ya live, ya live, and I don’t ever go back on my word.  Whaddaya say—sound like a deal?”  He ended the question with a deep, throaty chuckle.

 

The teenager’s eyes, already circled with gray rings of shock, widened in horror.  This hot, intensely masculine stud that he’d wanted so bad—the dude was gonna kill him.  He was gonna beat him and kill him.

 

Dylan panicked. Flailing wildly, he shrugged off the waves of pain from his broken jaw and began scrambling across the thin, dirty carpet towards the door on his hand and knees.  He didn’t go more than two feet before the Trucker swung out his foot.  The alpha’s powerful leg kicked forward, slamming the steel-toed workboot into the punk’s flank.

 

The kick was violent enough to flip Dylan into the air.  Smashing into the broken table, he slid to the floor, moaning in agony as the jagged ends of three broken ribs dig into his internal organs, one scraping against—but not puncturing—his lung.

 

Taking another drag from his Marlboro, the depraved killer stood up and walked toward where Dylan lay helpless and mewling on the floor.  As the high, loosely-laced boots filled his ground-level view, the teen winced at a brief singe on his cheek where the alpha had knocked off an ash.

 

“That was six, asswipe.  Wanna go for seven?”

 

The brutalized teen shuddered and wheezed; every breath cause a terrifying stabbing pain in his side.  Blinking blearily up at the grinning alpha towering over him, Dylan’s misshapen jaw moved feebly as he tried to beg for release from the torment.  Nothing comprehensible emerged from his mouth—and it wouldn’t have mattered it anything had.

 

The Trucker stooped and wrapped his large strong hands around the youth’s throat.  With a deep grunt, he heaved the struggling punk into the air with a single swift motion.  Dazed as he was, the injured slut began to flail frantically the moment his air was cut off, his red Nikes kicking vainly for traction a good six inches off the ground.

 

Holding the boy’s darkening face inches from his own, the Trucker sneered and spat.  As his phlegm trickled down to mingle with the cunt’s tears, he chuckled.  “Tell ya what, bitch, I won’t hit ya for number seven, huh?  I won’t even kick ya—how’s that sound?”

 

Deep in the shadows under the brim of his trucker’s cap, a bright glint of malicious glee illuminated his eyes.  “All I’ll do for seven it—this!”

 

He whirled and flung the well-built teen through the air with the ease of a stuffed toy.  Dylan flew across the room, smashing into the desk-dresser combo with his back.  The flimsy unit rocked back against the wall, breaking off the mirror.  As the hard-bodied homo fell face-down on the floor, the mirror crashed down over him, peppering his smooth skin with shards of glass.  Numerous small nicks and slashes were inflicted on his sweat-streaked flesh, but nothing even remotely fatal.

 

Dylan wasn’t getting out that easy.

 

The Trucker strode over and kicked the twisted wooden frame of the mirror aside.  “Tell ya what, ya pansy-ass piece a’ shit, I’ll be gentle with ya—seein’ as how it’s yer birthday an’ all—and I’ll count the mirror as eight.”

 

With a cold, braying laugh, he bent down and snatched bleeding, gasping teen fag—one hand grasping the right ankle and the other a sweaty mass of long brown hair.  From this position, the powerful alpha rose and spun, flinging the well-built meat into the wall above the bed’s headboard.

 

Dylan hit the wall and exhaled a loud, helpless bleat as he caved in the drywall and fell back onto the bed, bouncing onto his back with his legs spread.

 

The Trucker approached the bed slowly, the lower half of his face the only part visible in the dim light.  Above his strong, stubble-darkened jaw, a wicked grin had crossed his face.  “Of course,” he smirked, “Everything after eight’s gotta count for more, ya understand?  I mean, fair’s fair, yeah?”

 

And with that, the hulking alpha climbed onto the bed and grabbed Dylan’s legs by the ankles.  Spreading them back and apart he lowered his hairy, muscled form between them before repositioning the terrified teen’s red kicks up onto his own shoulders.  Then, in a single simultaneous movement, he buried his cock so deep into the slut’s ass that his pubes scraped the boy’s smooth asscheeks—and rammed his fist into the boy’s face with an unexpected violence, breaking the meat’s nose with a thick wet crunching sound.

 

“Nine, cunt,” the powerful sadist chuckled, spitting into the boy’s swelling face as he ran a hand down the punk’s smooth, muscled chest, slick with panicked sweat.  “Fuckin’-A, you really are a nasty pain pig, aintcha, faggot?  Yer dick is hard and drippin’, motherfucker, I can feel it slappin’ against, you sick perv—goddam, this shit is really gettin’ yer rocks off, huh?”

 

Moaning loudly, Dylan started to flail violently.  It was too much; the pain was too much.  His ass was split wide open, his guts were impaled with huge throbbing manmeat, broken ribs ground in his torso with each agonizing breath—and his face, oh fuck, his face hurt so goddam bad, he had to get out, he had to get away—

 

Less a thinking human than a desperate, trapped animal, the well-built teen let his desperation run wild, clawing viciously at his assailant.  His hooked fingers scrabbled at the Trucker’s face, but the skilled killer knew what to expect and was able to avoid the homo’s frantic, questing hands.  After scraping at the alpha’s chin a couple of times, Dylan suddenly threw one arm up and caught the brim of the trucker cap, knocking it off.

 

The Trucker’s reaction was immediate.  He wasn’t havin’ no fag meat fuck with his lid; with terrifying brutality, he slammed his balled-up fist into the boy’s face four times in a row, with the speed of a jackhammer.  Each blow landed with a loud, wet smacking sound—and each one made the little shit’s body jump and jerk like an electrical shock.

 

The Trucker’s grin widened; each powerhouse punch had resonated through the fag’s body and tightened his ass.  Each one had squeezed the sick top’s swollen shaft, massaging the dominant psycho’s pulsating hog.

 

Lowering his head, he hissed at the semi-conscious youth.  “Think yer gonna make it, bitch?  Can ya hold out?  Fight it, cunt, fight for yer worthless life.  Like I said, faggot, if ya survive the beatin’, I’ll let ya live—but I don’t think it’s gonna happen, you weak gay-ass cocksucker.  Yer gonna die here and now on my cock, aintcha?”

 

His face beaten to hamburger, Dylan could only gurgle his protest, his desire to live.  Even in the rising red tide of agony that had become his entire universe, he was still aware of his own straining, oozing dick, inexplicably erect despite the ongoing trauma.  But he was young and he was strong—he had every intention of surviving this horrific nightmare.

 

“Up to thirteen now, boy,” the Trucker grinned as he relentlessly shagged the punk’s bruised and bleeding fuckhole.  “Ya still with me, homo?  Ain’t been fucked to death yet?  Hang on, meat, we ain’t done yet!”  As the hypersexual alpha pumped and grunted, sweat oozed form his broad heaving back, filling the room with pheromones and manscent.

 

Dylan might have actually enjoyed it had his shattered nose not filled his sinuses with blood.

 

The teen’s slick body bent back in distress, his arms now flailing at the thin fitted sheet as he arched his back in agony.  Scrambling blindly, he managed to knock the pillows off the bed; the right one skittered across the night stand and took the clock and phone to the floor with it, accompanied by a loud crash.  The lamp was hit too, but didn’t fall to the ground—instead, it fell on its side, crushing the shade.

 

The top of the bulb threw an unaccustomed glare across the bed, casting lurid shadows of violent mansex onto the far wall.  The image was so crisp that the Trucker’s dogtags were clearly silhouetted as they dangled between the killer and his victim.

 

Deep within the recesses of his traumatized mind, Dylan felt a sense of betrayal at the way his body was responding to the vicious rape and beating; each pounding he took seemed to force more hot precum from his throbbing shaft.  Even now, as the older man lay on him, thrusting and penetrating him for his own pleasure, the teen could feel his thick rod poking into the fur on the alpha’s firm, flat abs, sliding around on a slimy film of sweat and pre-ejaculate.

 

“Shit, ya stupid fuck, yer goin’ loose on me again,” the Trucker snarled.  “Gotta tighten yer worn-out fuckhole, faggot—ya know what that means, dontcha?”

 

Rising up on his knees, the muscle-bound stud drew back his arm, tensed his thick, bulging bicep and drove his fist into Dylan’s smooth flat belly like a piston.

 

“HOOOG!!!” the fucked-up youth cried, expelling all the air in his lungs in one mighty yelp of pain.  He jerked up violently, trying to double over in pain, but the moment his torso rose off the bed the Trucker hit him again, this blow impacting the boy’s broad left pec, immediately knocking him back down onto the mattress.

 

Gasping and struggling, Dylan popped up again—a reflexive reaction caused by the agony that the punch had caused to his snapped ribs—only to be met with another belt in the chest.  Shuddering and whimpering, the brutalized teen fell back.  His face, twisted and covered with tears and snot, darkened as he fought to regain his breath.

 

The Trucker grinned; the last three hits had done as good a job as genuine donkey punches would have in terms of tightening the meat’s anus.  Grunting deeply, he hunched over the suffering teenager and rammed his enormous rod furiously into the boy’s torn and mangled colon.  “Where are we now, cunt?” he hissed at the stunned and traumatized adolescent, “Sixteen?  Gettin’ close, whore, gettin’ fuckin’ close.  It’s time to separate the men from the boymeat, and I’m willin’ to betcha can’t take it all the way, ya cumsuckin’ fag!”

 

As a thin trickle of air managed to painfully work its way back down Dylan’s esophagus, he heard and comprehended—and hoped.  The mauled youngster knew he was badly injured, but not fatally; if he could just get out of this room alive, he’d make it.  He’d survive.

 

But oh fuck, those last two blows…

 

The Trucker could tell what was running through the little cockpig’s head.  Even though his once-gorgeous face had been pummeled into hamburger, it was still easy to see the light of hope gleaming in the kid’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes.  Worthless little sacks of shit, they were all the same—it was so easy to manipulate them; the stupid fucks always walked right into the trap.

 

The sick sadist could also see the fear.  This meat knew it still had some suffering to endure.  As he pumped the oozing, engorged head of his cock deep into the homo’s guts, the Trucker smirked—asswipe had no clue how much suffering was on the way.

 

Maybe it was time to let him know.

 

“Ya like gettin’ hit, dontcha, ya disgusting painpig?” the alpha stud whispered, lowering his face so close to his victim’s that his dogtags rested on the kid’s heaving chest, “Ya sure seem to like my hairy balls slappin’ at yer gay-ass fuckhole, huh?  Well if ya like that, fuckmeat, yer gonna spunk with joy with this one—take it, bitch!”

 

This was a roundhouse punch that circled wide from the shoulder and smashed into Dylan’s face like a bomb blast, snapping facial bones and shattering the already-broken jaw.  The boy went rigid with shock.  “Fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  Goddam, cunt, that got yer meat good and tight—let’s do that again!”

 

The next blow came from the other side; the experienced killer was ambidextrous.  Even had the battered teen been in a positon to expect anything, he couldn’t have foreseen the fist rocketing towards him from the off side.  And after the impact, he didn’t see anything at all; a mountain of glassy pain fell on him, crushing his consciousness out.

 

Pain.  His first and most basic sensation as he came to was pain, overwhelming and all-encompassing.  Every part of his body, even his somehow still-erect cock and straining cock, was flooded with agony.  The second sensation was motion; combined with the searing, slashing pain in his rectum, he knew the hulking alpha was still raping him.

 

Opening his eyes, Dylan could see the Trucker sneering down at him.  One thought kept ringing in his mind: he was alive.  He’d made it through all eighteen.  He was gonna be ok.

 

The Trucker’s dick began to pulse even faster at the sight of hope pooling in those eyes, dark puddles in a ruined face.  This was his favorite part.

 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled malignly, “I forgot one—what is it they call it?  One to grow on?”

 

This blow was a rabbit-punch—swift, brutal, and intensely powerful.  In the blink of an eye, the experienced killer had slammed his knuckles directly into Dylan’s larynx, instantly smashing it back into the esophagus and crushing both with a horrifyingly loud crunching sound.

 

“We’ll call that one to die on,” the well-built psycho whispered with malicious glee, without missing a single thrust of his cock.

 

Dylan’s eyes widened in terror.  Throwing his arms out, he clutched at the bed first, arching his back violently upwards as he tried desperately to breathe.  It was useless.  His trachea had been compressed into a solid mangled mass of splintered cartilage.  There was nothing he could do; his airway was completely crushed.

 

He was suffocating.  He was gonna die.

 

No, that couldn’t be right.  He’d promised; the dude had promised him and he’d fought, oh fuck, he’d fought so hard to live—and his birthday wasn’t supposed to turn out like this; he was supposed to be having fun and getting laid—

 

As blind terror set in, the realization that he actually was getting laid never crossed Dylan’s panicked mind.

 

Again, the well-built, writhing teen pawed at the Trucker’s face, fingers clawing with no specific object in mind, motivated by mindless anguish.  The brutal top held the kid down, riding his ass as he died, feeling the boy’s smooth slick body flail underneath him.

 

Dylan’s flow of oxygen had already been seriously obstructed by earlier sinus damage.  He didn’t have any reserves left in his lung—the onset of brain death didn’t take long.

 

As darkness closed in on the teen faggot, his frantic scrambling became slower and calmer; soon, his hand settled on the Trucker’s shoulders, gripping them tightly just past where his own red Nike kicks rested.  At the same time, the youth’s strong, muscled body began undulating, a kind of rhythmic flow that the well-versed sadist knew to be a precursor to violent convulsions.

 

Now he just needed to hold on and ride the birthday boi into his grave.

 

As he expected, the kid began to shudder and twitch, jerking his head swiftly from side to side as bloody froth erupted from his lopsided, ruined mouth.  Although it was difficult to see at first, under the swollen, bruised flesh, the punk’s face soon darkened to a noticeable point, growing ever more purple as his tongue began to protrude.

 

Holding his killer tightly by the shoulders, his sneakers touching his hands, Dylan convulsively pulled the alpha to him as his hips began to buck uncontrollably.  Over the Trucker’s shoulders, the punk’s Jordan Horizons thrashed helplessly in the air; the left one, which had slowly come untied, suddenly flew off the boy’s foot, spinning into the far corner of the room with a clatter.  The punk’s foot was left to flex, curling his toes in the white ped sock.

 

Knowing what was coming, the hard-bodied stud repositioned his legs, planting his unlaced workboots wide apart for better traction on the slick sheet. Grinning, he felt the little fucker’s ass start to grip his shaft as it slid over the vein-wrapped tube of manmeat with increasing speed.

 

“That’s it, faggot,” the testosterone-laden muscled killer muttered, “Milk my load out as you get offed.  Yeah, die, motherfucker, die so I can blow my wad.  Fuckin’ work the cum outta my cock with yer convulsions, ya homo asswipe.  One less worthless fag in the world after tonight, but at least I get to use yer death to drain the spunk outta my hog, yeah?  Fair trade, huh?  Now die like the perverted subhuman cumpig you are, you fairy cunt!”

 

By the time he finished speaking, there wasn’t enough of Dylan left to hear him.  The gay teenager who had left the bar forty-five minutes ago looking for a good time on his birthday had slid screaming in terror and agony down a dark hole that led straight to death.  Technically his heart was still beating—a wildly irregular pulse—but the human spark had seeped out of the physical tissue.

 

The Trucker was left with a shuddering piece of meat that clutched amazingly at his swollen cock.  With an inarticulate cry, the powerful alpha jerked and sent a solid spray of semen deep into the boy’s guts, hosing down his prostate and flooding his intestines.

 

Whether or not Dylan’s brain was too dead for him to know what had happened, his dick responded as if he did.  He pressed his belly up to the Trucker’s; the latter could feel the kid’s cock suddenly swell and writhe like a garden hose on full flow.  Huge wads of thick oversexed boyseed spewed from Dylan’s pulsing rod, matting the older stud’s chest hair and coating the kid’s already slick, broad chest with another layer of fluid.

 

The Trucker and the teen continued to hold each other tightly, locked in an erotically fatal embrace, as each kept cumming, the Trucker using the kid’s death throes to jack off—the adolescent’s dying corpse made a phenomenal sex toy.  Dylan himself was unloading reflexively, an instinctive reaction to death by suffocation.

 

After what seemed like half an hour—but was likely no more than a tenth of that time—the Trucker pulled himself together, then pulled himself out of the dead, shuddering meat.  Getting back off the bed, he let the meat’s legs flop back off his shoulders, leave the dead fag splayed out on his back, arms and legs spread.

 

Turning away, the alpha fished out another Marlboro, lit it, and grinding shards of glass from the broken mirror into the carpet with the thick soles of his boots, crossed into the bathroom.  He needed to clean up; little homo cocksucker sure had been fulla spunk…

 

After wiping down with a wet towel—which his left under running water in the sink—the cruel stud leaned in the bathroom doorway and, taking another drag of his half-done smoke, surveyed his work.

 

The room was demolished.  There was a small cheap flat-screen TV on a flimsy stand on the far side of the room; it was the only thing not damaged during the rape and murder.  The AC under the window was making an odd noise; from this angle, the Trucker could see that the collapsed table had put a large dent in the front of the unit as well; likely it was impacting the fan blade.

 

The dead fag was the centerpiece, though, without a doubt.  Dramatically highlighted by the overturned lamp, the birthday boi—who could have had a modeling career if he hadn’t been a cumsucking druggie in a small town—was now nothing but a shuddering mass of meat, his once-stunning face reduced to bleeding pulp.

 

The Trucker approached the corpse, still jerking and kicking in the long-drawn-out death throes associated with asphyxiation, and tossed his smoldering cigarette butt at it; the glowing ember sizzled out in the congealing puddle of semen in the center of the meat’s chest.

 

The slut’s right foot, still laced into its Nike hightop, kicked and jerked on the dislodged and twisted fitted sheet.  The meat’s left foot had been kicking and scuffling too; in fact, it had worked the sock off, revealing the teen’s bare toes curling reflexively in death.

 

The condition of both the body and the room made the nightmarish violence of Dylan’s death obvious.  The Trucker felt purged and relaxed.  He slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on, then located his cap, halfway under the bed.  Taking one last glance backwards at the teenaged homo’s still-quivering corpse, spread out and lit like a selection of prime meat on a butcher’s slab, the cruel alpha felt a sense of pride in his work.

 

As he headed back towards his rig, he began to whistle.  Quietly, of course, so as not to attract too much attention—in fact, the thumping of his thick boot soles on the pavement nearly drowned it out—but the note of satisfaction was obvious to anyone who could hear it.

 

M4M4yung

It was the username that caught Joe’s eye—“yungboi4daddytop.”

 

That was all it took for him to pause.  He’d been scrolling through the users on a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior victims.  He’d just gotten done with an assignment that had kept him working for eight days straight, and now he wanted to enjoy himself.

 

Lounging in an easy chair, the muscular stud could feel his cock swelling in the crotch of the faded jeans wrapped around his thick, powerful legs.  It was late—about eleven-thirty in the evening.  He’d eaten and showered after he’d gotten home, now he was relaxing, half-dressed and horny, looking for prey.  Glancing back down at the phone, Joe read the posting.

 

”Btm boi looking for rough Daddytop.  I’ve been bad.  Punish me.  18, slim, smooth, look younger. Prefer muscular, hairy, over 30.”

 

The post was accompanied by a photo; a torso-only shot.  The kid had the slim, lean body of a young teen, with fair skin and large nipples on his smooth chest.  Joe threw his head back and laughed aloud.  He could snap this one like twig, and this kid was making it so easy…

 

Joe sent a response and included a shot of his own hairy, ripped abs.  He didn’t have long to wait for a reply.  “Hey dude ur hot wanna fuck?  I got a place.”

 

“ok when and where” Joe returned.

 

“Now.  U know diamond court motel?  On old smithfield hiway past the trailer park?”

 

“Yeah”

 

“Room 21.  Left side when u pull in ill be there in 15 mins”

 

“k.  omw”

 

Joe knew the place; at least, he’d passed it on occasion.  Another motel that had stopped being a viable concern decades ago when the bypass was built and was now only hanging on because there was zero demand for the property and the taxes were rock-bottom.  It was the kinda place that was known for drugs and prostitution—and occasional police raids—and Joe wondered how this skinny white twink was familiar with it.

 

Well, he’d soon find out.  He walked back to the bedroom and slipped on a black short-sleeve compression t-shirt that emphasized his broad, muscled chest.  Sitting on the bed, he next pulled on a pair of brown lace-up work boots that came halfway up his calves.  Standing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grunted in satisfaction at the image of hard, dangerous masculinity that he saw.

 

The motel was about twenty minutes away.  When he got there, Joe parked his vintage Camaro out of sight behind the building.  The thick soles of his boots thumped loudly on the pavement as he rounded the corner of the building and knocked briefly at the door of room 21.

 

 

The door opened and Joe found himself staring down into the face of a teenager.  The kid had short straw-blond hair and a pug nose.  His almond-shaped eyes were jade green and almost feline.  The boy broke into a broad grin as his eyes roamed over Joe’s well-built physique, and Joe decided the kid had the most punchable mug he’d ever seen, and he had restrain the urge to follow through on it.

 

“Damn, motherfucker, you the dude from the app?” the kid asked, his face twisted into a leer.

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied tersely.

 

“Fuck, you’re hot,” the boy gasped, “c’mon in, man.  Name’s Jon—no ‘h’—by the way.”

 

Joe walked into the room.  It had been remodeled sometime in the sixties and the furnishings would have been considered cool in a retro sense, if they had been in better shape.  As it was, the boxy blonde-wood dresser and nightstands were scarred and pocked with burns; on the other side of the door was a small round table of more recent date, but just as badly worn.  This was set with two armchairs with dark vinyl covering the padding; the vinyl had multiple tears covered with tape that didn’t quite match the shade.

 

In short, it was a cheap shithole.  Joe closed the door behind him, slipping the chain on and turning the lock in the center of the knob when Jon turned to the side and switched on the AC unit built into the wall under the window.  It came on with a grinding thrum that began to move the warm, fetid air.  Glancing up at Joe’s face, Jon seemed to notice the scorn there.

 

“Yeah, it’s nasty, but they don’t ask no questions when I rent a room here.  Other places think I’m too young, but they don’t care here.”

 

It wasn’t illegal to rent a room to an eighteen-year-old, but the kid did indeed look younger.  Of course he could show his ID and get a room anywhere with no problem—but Joe could imagine situations where he wouldn’t want to show an ID.  Like this one.

 

Jon provided more.  “You wouldn’t believe the dudes I met here.  I did a three-way with my swim coach and the assistant principal of my high school here in this room four months ago.”  His smooth, faintly freckled face blushed red.  Joe had finished reconnoitering the room, noting the queen bed opposite the door and the slightly ajar bathroom door on the far left wall.

 

Looking back now at the kid, he noticed that Jon was already completely nude, aside from a thin black strand of rawhide around his throat from which dangled a pentagram in beaten silver.  The boy wasn’t scrawny, but Joe’s thigh was almost as thick as Jon’s waist.  A fine gold peach fuzz covered the boy’s flat belly, thickening as it descended to a mass of golden curly pubes from which projected Jon’s enormous cock.

 

It was, in fact, somewhat smaller than Joe’s shaft, but in proportion to his slender form, Jon looked like he had a horse dick.  And it was already swelling and stiffening as the teen faggot slut reminisced about his adventures.  Shame that Mr. Adams, the assistant principal, had got caught banging that boy on the swim team and killed himself; he’d been an amazing fuck…

 

Joe smiled with cold contempt and began to peel off his shirt.  Tossing it on the floor, he noticed that he’d gotten the punk’s attention.  The kid was staring at Joe’s massive pectorals, his large dark nipples jutting above the dark, wiry fur that clustered tightly over the alpha’s chest and swept down his washboard abs.

 

Jon gave a faint moan as memories of past conquests were wiped from his shallow, lust-centered mind.  This dude was the shit.  He had to have him; he had to have him inside him…

 

“Fuck me,” he gasped, almost inaudibly, his eyes wide, “Fuck, dude, fuck me…”

 

Joe grinned evilly.  It was too easy.  The stupid little faggots always made it too easy.

 

And for that alone, if nothing else, they needed to suffer.

 

“Not yet, boy,” he sneered at the groveling teen homo, “Ya gotta earn this dick.  Get over here and work my nips, bitch.  Now!”

 

Jon stepped up placing his hands on the older man’s rock-hard pecs and running his fingers through the stud’s chest fur—so wiry, it felt like steel wool.  The twink put his mouth on Joe’s right nipple, licking the firm mound of flesh.  At the same time, his hand came up carefully gripped the other nipple between the thumb and forefinger, pinching it and twirling it.

 

As Jon worked Joe’s nips, the alpha stud could feel the kid’s long dick, bobbing about so that the oozing head occasionally slapped his inner thighs.  “Switch sides, cunt,” he snapped, and Jon obeyed, moving over and gently taking the stud’s left nipple between his teeth.

 

As he did so, Joe reached down and unzipped his fly.  He had to flex his knees and shift a bit to get the full, throbbing length of his huge manmeat out its tight denim confinement, but Jon followed him like a good pig, never letting the hard, erect nipple leave his mouth.

 

Jon felt Joe’s massive hog flop out and stood back.  Looking down, he was stunned to silence; fully limp, the dude was more than six inches long.  As he watched in horrified fascination, the enormous shaft began to pulse and swing as it started to get hard.  He could already tell, this was much larger than any cock he’d taken in the past.

 

This was gonna fuckin’ hurt.

 

And he wanted it so fuckin’ bad.

 

Joe could see it all, the way lust glazed the boy’s eyes as the kid stared at his dick, the way he panted excitedly.  He’d hooked his prey.  Whether he reeled it in gently or violently didn’t matter; it was hooked, and it wasn’t getting away.

 

“Suck it,” he commanded.  “Suck my fuckin’ dick, bitch.”

 

Jon hesitated.  “I—you’ll choke me, dude…”

 

Joe’s grin became more shark-like.  “Yeah.  Now get on it, faggot.”

 

Opening his mouth, Jon leaned forward tentatively, but the sadistic alpha wasn’t putting up with it.  The slim blond twink suddenly found his head, clamped in a vise-like grip, jerked roughly forward.  His open mouth was immediately plugged with thick, throbbing cockmeat as the older stud’s mushroom head forced its way into his esophagus.

 

“Swallow it, cunt, take my dick all the way down,” Joe grunted as he applied pressure to the back of the teen’s head.  Jon started to struggle as his air was cut off.  He beat uselessly on Joe’s muscles thighs, still tightly constrained in his faded jeans.  The youth’s eyes started to water as the massive vein-wrapped tube of flesh continued to sink further into his throat.

 

Even in his frantic airlessness, Jon couldn’t help the fuckpig thoughts from bubbling up: my god he’s so deep he’s gonna shoot a load straight into my stomach that’s so goddam hot…

 

But of course, after a while, the physical intervenes.  Jon had been breathing through his nose for as long as he could, but when Joe’s shaft slid over his epiglottis and sealed off his lungs, he literally started to suffocate.

 

“Worthless faggot twink, can’t even take a real man,” Joe sneered as he partially withdrew his rod—just enough to let Jon gasp for air.  Once.  After a deep inhale, the kneeling teen felt his head being forced inexorably back down onto the older dude’s dick.  He wasn’t ready; he hadn’t recovered enough.  “HORK!” he gagged as jets of foamy drool burst out around Joe’s cock and dangled off Jon’s chin in long streams; more foam shot from the boy’s nose and dribbled down his face.

 

“Choke on my hog, you stupid bitch,” Joe snarled, his handsome face twisted in contempt.  “You ain’t shit as a cocksucker, ya know that, cunt?  What kinda pansy twink are that ya can’t even suck a dick right, huh?”

 

Jon was flailing frantically, his mind awash in fear.  He liked a dominant older top, a daddy who would hold him down and fuck him as “punishment,” but this combination of hate-filled abuse and physical ruthlessness was unlike anything he’d ever experienced or anticipated–or hoped for…

 

The kid’s hands, clawing their way down Joe’s legs, hooked into the alpha’s nearly knee-high workboots, snagging on the laces.  The sadist jerked his right leg back and swiftly kicked Jon, the steel toe of the boot driving directly into the teen’s flat belly.  At the same time, he let go of the kid’s head.

 

Jon flung himself backwards with almost explosive force, ending up crouched on the floor at the foot of the bed.  His slim, nubile body was heaving and glistening with sweat as he coughed and gagged, one hand around his throat while he braced himself against the bed with other.

 

“D-dude,” he gasped, then coughed up more foam.  “I-I can’t. No-no m-more, man, y-you’re hot, but—”

 

“But what, ya fucking homo cunt?” Joe barked.  “Ya gonna back out now, bitch?  You stupid sack of shit, it’s way too late for that.  You wanted daddy to punish ya, boy, huh?  Yer gonna get punished, all right.  Yer gonna get exactly what queer-ass cumsucking punk kids like you deserve!”

 

Jon’s eyes rolled wildly, like those of a panicked horse; with a sudden effort, they focused on the door beyond his assailant.  His reaction was reflexive; almost mindless—he bolted.

 

His lithe body, with its lean swimmer’s build, was quick, but Joe—despite being well-built—was not so muscle-bound that he couldn’t reach out and snatch the teen as he sprang forward.  Clamping his hands around the boy’s upper arms, he jerked the slender twink up and held him, literally kicking in mid-air.

 

A familiar feeling of pleasure and power swept of Joe.  The kid was slender but not skinny; there were muscles attached to his slim frame.  His smooth skin stretched tautly over his pecs and delts, his biceps and thighs—and Joe could break him any time he wanted.

 

He was gonna enjoy this.

 

At some point, he realized Jon was begging.  “…please, man, don’t hurt me no more, oh fuck, lemme go, please, please…”

 

“Shut up!” Joe barked and spit in the kid’s face.  Jon gasped in shock; he’d never been treated with such utter contempt.  He’d met so many guys here—classmates, some of his friends’ dads, the Baptist youth pastor—and they had all worshipped his slim teen body.  They’d fucked him, but—but this relentless coldness, this complete disregard of him as a person—this degradation to a sex object—

 

Jon was a shallow hormone-driven faggot slut, but he wasn’t an idiot.  He didn’t know exactly what was about to happen, but he had no doubt it would be bad.

 

Joe was still holding the twink in the air by crushing his arms against his sides; the longer he was held there, the more Jon suffered.  The powerful sadist grinned and drew his prey in closer, peering into Jon’s face.  “You sure you’re eighteen?  Yer ad was right, ya do look younger.”

 

Jon had spent several minutes suspended by his arms; he was forced to lift his entire body weight with each breath.  He could only stare frantically into the icily handsome face of his attacker and gasp like a landed fish.

 

“Well, yer ad said ya were and that’s good enough.  After all, if yer old enough to die for the government, yer old enough to die soaking up my cum.  Ready, boy?”

 

Jon kicked out in blind terror, his bare foot making contact with Joe’s denim-wrapped inner thigh.  It wasn’t as bad as if he’d racked Joe, but it was still a mistake.  Joe was enraged.  He raised the boy up, then slammed him straight back down onto the floor.

 

The cheap, thin carpet provided little padding against the concrete slab underneath.  Jon hit the floor with enough force to stun him and drive the breath from his body.  His lithe, slim form writhed on the scratchy synthetic carpet as he tried instinctively to breathe.  Semi-conscious, his eyes rolled back as he jerked and flopped on the ground.

 

The quivering, moaning punk felt rather than heard the thump of Joe’s big boots on the floor; prying open one eye, he had the impression of the vicious stud standing over him, although all he could see was a ladder of bootlaces up the alpha’s leg.  Then he noticed that one foot was drawing back—

 

The teen faggot didn’t even have time to cower before Joe kicked him brutally in the chest, the steel toe of the work boot impacting Jon’s sweaty, heaving flank and neatly snapping two ribs.  The hulking sadist grinned as the boy squealed.

 

“There ya go, cunt, how’s that?” he sneered malignly.  “Ya like that, ya stupid piece of shit?  No?  Tough shit, ya worthless queer-ass bitch—you gotta learn what happens to whoremeat that tries to back outta the deal.  There’s a penalty, son, and you gotta pay it.”

 

Then he paused and let out a grim chuckle.  “And I don’t think you can pay, boy.  I think yer gonna run short.  And that means I’m gonna hafta take it outta yer hide.”

 

Jon stared up at his assailant.  Joe wasn’t a bodybuilder, but his recent workouts had enlarged his muscles and gave him a powerful, masculine presence that stirred the young slut’s balls despite the pain and overwhelming fear.  The twink shuddered in agony, but could still feel his cock throb treacherously, responding to the undeniable eroticism of the sculpted stud who was inflicting such shattering pain on him…

 

“Ha!” Joe cawed harshly.  “I can see yer fuckin’ cock, homo—goddam, fag, yer already oozin’.”  He bent over, leering into the teen’s pain-twisted face, knowing the kid’s dick was involuntarily erect.  Happened every time.  Little fucks always seemed to be surprised when he put them down; they all wanted it—they just didn’t know it until it actually happened.

 

“No—no…” Jon gasped weakly.  He writhed feebly on the floor as the cheap, thin carpet dug into his back and the silver pentagram danced on his firm chest.   His lithe, smooth body slick was with sweat.    His face, pale with agony, was wide-eyed in bewildered shock; it was obvious that the assault had taken the hot teen slut completely by surprise.

 

He flinched, instinctively and vainly, when Joe reached for him again.  The powerful alpha stooped, one-handedly grabbing the youth by his right arm and jerking him into the air.

 

The kid screamed as his right shoulder was twisted violently out of place, tearing tendons and ligaments.  “Quiet, cunt!” Joe barked, drawing back his free arm and driving a roundhouse punch straight into Jon’s jaw.  The slender blond fag grunted as his head popped back.  His teeth snapped closed violently, biting through his tongue; blood trickled from his swollen, split lips.

 

The sadistic top caught his slightly warped reflection in the mirror above the dresser; the glass was cheap but huge, visible from most of the room—including the bed.  He smirked at the image of his broad, hard body holding the twitching boymeat aloft.  His legs were spread wide, the tight denim jeans highlighting his muscular thighs and his strong calves making his tall laced workboots bulge.

 

Standing straight out from his crotch, his enormous tool was thick and dark.  It throbbed visible in time with his rapid heartbeat; each pulse forced viscous, translucent beads of precum to stand out on the hulking killer’s mushroom tip.  His left bicep was swollen with the strain of holding the kid up, but there was no strain in his hard, darkly-scruffy face.  In fact, the only sign of effort was the faint sheen of sweat on his broad, furry chest.

 

In his grasp, the smooth young boy dangled, his arm visibly twisted out of joint.  The semi-conscious teen was moaning, his eyes rolled back in his head and a thin trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

 

And even with all that, Joe noted with cold amusement, the little homo cunt’s cock was still hard.

 

Jon groaned loudly.  Joe smiled.  “You back, boy?” he whispered.  “You coming back?”

 

The teen moaned, responding to the gentle intonation.  “Good,” the alpha said, his voice suddenly hard and cold.  “Then you’ll feel this.”

 

Jon was flying through the air before he was aware of anything more than a sudden increase in the searing pain in his shoulder.  He realized that his buff, powerful attacker had hurled him at the bed; it flashed through his mind in the split second before he smashed into the headboard and vanished into a loud, painful darkness…

 

Joe looked down contemptuously at the blond youth’s unconscious body, face-down and twitching limply on the rumpled comforter.  the kid had landed on his right arm, managing to pop it back into its socket–the torn ligaments and stretched muscles severely limiting motion.

 

Joe paced around the bed, admiring the teen’s smooth form; the thought of plunging his huge stiff rod into the helpless boy’s fuckhole made his piss slit dilate to allow an almost steady flow of precum to seep out.

 

As he moved around the bed, Joe grabbed his thick, throbbing dickmeat and slapped against his palm, sprinkling his hot manjuice over the mewling cunt’s body.  Jon was slowly clawing his way back to consciousness.  Once he was sure his prey was awake enough to comprehend, the cruel alpha spoke.

 

“Hey, faggot—back just in time to get this party started!”  The cold lustful glee in his voice stung Jon’s confused, pain-wracked mind like a whip; the punk panicked, wallowing helplessly on the bed.  His right arm  was practically useless, nearly as bad as broken.

 

The terrified teen wasn’t able to actually gain any traction.  His bare feet slipped on the slick polyester comforter while his left arm grabbed at the sheets, yanking them into disarray.  He kicked and flailed uselessly, the icy fear that chilled his heart growing as the brutal sadist neared, slowly and deliberately.

 

Jon sobbed in terror, trying to understand what was happening.  The thin sheets scratched at his face; the feeling was familiar.  A single lucid inappropriate thought slashed through the emotional and physical shock in the teen’s mind—he’d been here, last Saturday.  Here, in this room, on this bed.

 

He’d buried his face deep in the mattress to muffle his own moans as Danny Helms fucked him.  Danny was the star of the high school wrestling team and had been since his freshman year.   He was incredibly butch and usually juggled several girls at once.  He also managed to come across as a serious douchebag as he publicly critiqued the skills of his various bitches.

 

No one knew that handling the writhing, sweaty, struggling bodies of other young men got Danny hard.  He’d been fucking Jon on the DL for a couple of years.  And last Saturday had been most recent—here.  Right here.

 

Somehow, the memory of that incredible fuck with a buff FWB added to the teen fag’s confused disorientation. Whatever was happening, it had to be a dream.  This couldn’t be real, not here, not for him.  If he fought hard enough, he might be able to wake himself out of this nightmare—

 

—then a hand clamped down on his shoulder, a large hand, hard as iron, and he knew he was awake.  Despite his inexplicable and downright painful erection, Jon still found himself pissing in terror.  He gulped and started hyperventilating, unable to speak or cry out as he was jerked roughly down the bed.

 

“C’mon, bitch,” the hard-bodied sadist growled as he manhandled the slim, smooth twink into position, “Time to take my shaft.  You know you want it, cocksucker, so quit actin’ like ya don’t.  You stupid cock pigs always squeal when ya get the dick, but deep in your worthless faggot soul, ya love it, dontcha, boy?  Yeah?  Ya want a real man to show ya exactly how worthless a faggot ya really are?  Fuck, asswipe, it’s yer lucky night, cause that’s what yer gonna get!”

 

Suddenly, before Jon realized what had happened, he found that he been maneuvered so that he was on his knees on the bed, his face down on the sheets and his ass in the air, vulnerable and exposed.

 

And then it wasn’t exposed any more.  At first, Jon had a hallucinatory flash, an image of a billiard ball being shoved up his ass.  But the alpha’s sharp hiss in his ear dispelled that notion.  “Does it hurt, homo?  It shouldn’t, you fucking whore—how many dudes you taken, cunt?  Huh?  How many?  I bet you been gettin’ fucked by all kinda horny teen fucks at school, yeah? How many, faggot?”

 

Joe’s thighs bulged briefly as he flexed his powerful legs and drove his engorged rod all the way in, burying himself balls-deep in the teenager’s torn, penetrated fuckhole.  As his wiry pubic hair abraded Jon’s smooth asscheeks like steel wool, his swollen, purple head probed deep into the kid’s intestines.

 

Jon screamed.  He’d been fucked rough before, but he’d never endured anything like this; no one else had been anywhere this huge—and no one had been this brutal.  They’d eased their way in, tenderly and lovingly; even Danny, while dominating him and pinning him to the bed, had gone in gently.

 

There was nothing tender or gentle about this and there sure as fuck wasn’t any love.  By the same token, the room was almost foggy with male pheromones given off by their slick, sweaty bodies…

 

And the searing pain continued.  He tried to escape; he really did.  His slim but muscled legs kicked back, entangling themselves helplessly in the sheets.  His left arm reached up, clawing at the headboard, but all he managed to do was dislodge the fitted sheet, revealing the stained mattress underneath.

 

Joe pulled out, leaving just the bulbous head of his cock still in the kid’s ass, allowing Jon’s shriek to taper off before he slammed it in again in a single brutal thrust.  The writhing teen punk screeched as the massive shaft tore back up through his colon.

 

“Shut up, cunt!” Joe barked but Jon wasn’t able to comply; the pain was too much.  Joe decided to make him obey.  He grabbed a fistful of the teen’s blonde hair, and using it like a handle, forced the weeping youth’s face down into the mattress, muffling the sounds of the sobs.

 

In addition to the horrible agony of getting his guts reamed out by this psycho alpha’s horsedick, Jon suddenly found himself being suffocated.  Even though the stud was only holding him down by gripping his hair, the dude was so strong, he was able to straight-arm the young fag’s head deep into the rough, lumpy mattress.  He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t turn his head, even slightly, to either side.

 

Joe knew exactly what he was doing.  He savored the way panic made the boy’s stretched-out sphincter retighten around the base of his dick.  It kept its grip as he pumped his swollen tool into the struggling faggot’s asshole.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” the muscled top grunted.  With one hand still forcing the teen’s face into the bedding, he ran his other hand over Jon’s trembling back, sliding smoothly along the film of sweat wrung excruciatingly from the kid’s body.  “Yeah, that’s what it takes, huh?  That what ya need, ya homo bitch?  Ya like it when ya can’t breathe?”

 

Over the panicked pounding of his pulse, Jon could hear his assailant’s taunts—but he didn’t understand them.  There was so much pain in his violated rectum that he was aware only of what was happening with his sphincter; the words made no sense.  But the lack of logic only made the aggressive rapist’s words even more terrifying.

 

And even though was happened next was even worse, it took Jon a moment to realize it.

 

At first, his only sensation was that of relief—the hulking stud let go of his head, allowing him to raise up and gasp deeply, coughing and groaning.  Simultaneously, the dude pulled out, leaving the teen homo quivering on the bed, feeling like he’d been raped with a baseball bat.   Jon’s abused body went limp like a doll with its stuffing torn out—which was more or less what Jon felt like.

 

Then grip closed on his shoulder again.  This time he was flipped, the brutal alpha spinning his body as easily as if it was a toy.  The teen found his self on his back, dizzy from the violent motion.  He was almost spread-eagled with his right leg sliding off the bed, the sheets still lightly wound about his right foot.

 

Glancing down between his parted legs, the terrified youth found his attention focused on two things.

 

The first was the towering form of the well-built top standing at the foot of the bed.  Jon’s attention would have been dragged to Joe in any case, the latter’s hairy, sculpted torso drawing the young fag’s gaze with a gravitational attraction.  The toned stud’s broad chest was heaving with exertion and slick with sweat; beads of perspiration glittered in his wiry fur.

 

But more than that—the dude’s cock, jutting out in front of him from the open fly of his jeans, seemed to be even larger that Jon remembered—although that could have been the pain talking; the helpless teen was still shuddering in agony from the vicious assrape.  But the threat implicit in that swollen, throbbing shaft, oozing a swiftly-dripping stream of precum, had a hypnotic effect on the slender young homo.

 

Joe’s handsome, chiseled face was lit with lust and cruel glee as he looked at Jon’s crotch.

 

And that was the second thing Jon noticed—his own thick shaft, glistening and slick.  It was softening but was still at least six inches above his flat, smooth belly.  He vaguely wondered why he’d been hard…

 

Jon was right, Joe was looking at his cock.  He knew the answer to Jon’s question—and he knew that Jon would be asking it.

 

“See, ya stupid motherfucker?” he chuckled grimly, “I toldja ya liked gettin’ choked, yeah?  Right?  Fuckin-A, dude, I knew you were a worthless little pansy pig the moment I set eye on your twink ass, bitch.  Can’t even keep it up unless I squeeze ya some, huh?  Yeah?  Ya like that, cunt—my cock up yer ass while I wrap my hands around yer throat and slowly squeeze the life outta ya?  Well goddam, boy, it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night!”

 

Again, Joe grabbed his massive tool and slapped it into his other hand, splattering the fuckmeat’s firm, smooth thighs with a sprinkle of glazed manjuice.  As the kid whimpered, the cruel alpha smirked and glanced at his face.

 

The boy’s green eyes were wide and desperate; his blond hair was matted and several shades darker with sweat.  Each panicked gasp the punk took was labored; his two broken ribs had not punctured a lung but his lean swimmer’s abdomen still shuddered with pain every time his chest moved.

 

And then the alpha was over him.  Not in him, not yet, but on the bed over him.  Jon opened his eyes and saw the huge muscled form poised above him.  The sudden realization of his utter helplessness washed over the teen like an ice-cold tide.  No one would miss him for several hours yet; even then, no one knew where he was.

 

That was plenty of time for this dude to hurt him bad.  And he didn’t know anything about the guy except that he was hot as fuck—and he got off on hurting Jon bad.

 

The blond youth stared up into his tormentor’s face, his green eyes rimmed with tears and wide with desperate appeal.  “P-please, no…” he whispered in horror as Joe’s cold, hypnotic gaze held his focus.  “D-d-don-don’t hurt-hurt me, m-man, please, n-no, fu-fuck no, p-please…”

 

“Yeah,” Joe whispered back, “Beg, you fucking fag.  Beg for your worthless pig life.”  Sneering, he cleared his throat and spat on Jon’s face.  The boy obeyed; he instinctively knew that it was useless to resist.

 

“Please, sir,” Jon gasped, his voice quavering, “don’t hurt me, sir, I-I’ll do whatever you want, dude—anything.  I won’t tell nobody, I been fucked by older dudes before, sir, lots of ‘em—”

 

“Oh holy shit,” Joe grunted impatiently.  He flashed a quick rabbit-punch straight from his shoulder to Jon’s jaw, knocking out the kid’s left canine.  “Shut the fuck up, cunt, I’d rather hear ya scream.”

 

He got what he wanted right away.  As the slender homo twink shuddered in pain and coughed up his tooth, Joe grabbed his legs and pushed them back, all the way over until Jon’s knees were nearly touching his ears.  Lean and limber as he was, Jon cried out as his body was bent double—but it was nothing to the shriek of agony the kid emitted as the alpha plunged his swollen, throbbing tool in full-length.

 

There was no warning.  There was no preparation.  Jon had been too dazed by the blow to his face to realize what having his fuckhole so exposed meant—until it was plugged, stretched beyond capacity by an enormous, pulsating tube of manmeat.

 

Joe grunted and planted his tightly-laced workboots far apart on the bare mattress, making sure he had enough traction for his bulging thighs to support him while he powerfucked the faggot cunt.  The fuckmeat coughed and gagged as its chest was compressed into an unnatural position, but the violent ass-pounding soon forced another loud screech from it.

 

“Shaddup, ya sack a’ shit,” Joe snarled viciously.  “Yer gettin’ too loose to fuck, faggot—and if ya ain’t good fer fuckin’, you ain’t good fer nuthin’, huh, cunt?”

 

He spit into the teen’s swollen face; Jon felt the hot spittle slide down his bruised, aching cheek.  He opened his mouth to scream again; it was reflexive, tied to the pain.  What rational mind the tortured blond youth had left realized that more sound would bring more pain, but could do nothing to intervene.

 

Something did intervene, though.  Suddenly, large, strong hands wrapped around Jon’s neck and tightened relentlessly.  Jon’s large green eyes, already wide with fear, opened to an extent that was almost comical.

 

At least, the smirking sneer on the sadistic alpha’s face indicated he found something amusing in the situation as he slowly crushed the boy’s throat.

 

Jon didn’t—wouldn’t—recognize the glitter in the buff stud’s eye as the gleam of homicidal lust.  He clawed at the vise-like grip at his throat as his firm, smooth body jerked and flailed beneath the muscled mass of Joe’s furry torso.  His bare feet kicked the air over Joe’s shoulders as his air was cut off.

 

He still refused to believe he was dying.  He hurt so bad—oh fuck he hurt so bad, he was being fucking impaled holy Christ it hurt so much—but his craven pig soul still clung to its youthful sense of immortality.  Jon was simple incapable of conceiving of his own death.

 

And Joe knew it.  He grinned in erotic anticipation, and knowing that seeing is believing, gave a sidelong glance at the large mirror.

 

He was gonna be able to show the teenage fuckmeat its own snuff.

 

He clenched his hands, feeling the punk’s esophagus give under the pressure.  The boy grimaced and thrashed, his ruined ass sliding along Joe’s huge, vein-wrapped shaft.  The buff killer didn’t even have to pump…

 

“That’s it, cunt.  Work my dick like a good fag.  An’ all it took to turn ya into a cockpig was gettin’ choked a little, huh?  Guess what, ya worthless piece of homo shit, I’m just gettin’ started.  I’m gonna use you like a cumrag and leave yer corpse like the garbage it is.  Ya like that, boy?  That get ya off?  I guess it does, you sick motherfucker, yer dick is hard as a rock.  Fuck, I’m gonna do the world a favor, puttin’ a pervert like you down—ain’t that right, fuckwad?”

 

Again, Jon heard the words but there was a disconnect from reality.  His guts were being reamed out by a huge throbbing mantool; his colon was being wrecked beyond repair, but it was the grinding, squeezing pressure that circled his throat like an iron band of ever-diminishing diameter that claimed his attention.

 

The teen slut was slender but strong; he kicked and jerked violently in his frantic attempt to break free.  He stopped trying to pry Joe’s hands from around his neck and moved higher, feeling the powerful sadist’s knotted biceps bulge as he literally wrung the kid’s neck.  Jon was nowhere near strong enough to knock Joe’s arms aside; his questing hands scrabbled even further along the stud’s arm.

 

Joe was pumping his rod into the meat’s fuckhole swiftly, grunting with each thrust as he grinned down into the kid’s twisted, agonized face.  “See, I toldja—”  He was abruptly interrupted by the cunt’s fingers, clawing in his face, scratching at the bristles of dark scruff that covered Joe’s cheeks.  Sheer terror had overridden pain enough for Jon to force his maimed right arm up as well, but the searing agony as torn tendons finally split and separated was nightmarish.

 

The dominant alpha grunted; it’d been a while since any fuckmeat had caught him off-guard.  His grip loosened for a moment as the kid’s hands slipped down his hard, sweaty body and grasped at his broad torso, tearing out several strands of wiry chest hair.

 

Jon wasn’t really aware of what he’d done; despite the pain, his clawing had been panicked and unconscious.  He was aware of the results, though—the iron band relaxed; he could breathe.  Exhaling the foul air in his lungs, he inhaled deeply, sucking in lots of fresh oxygen—

 

—then his air was cut off again—swiftly, brutally, painfully.

 

Joe had withdrawn one hand, but had thrown himself forward, straight-arming his other hand directly into the punk’s larynx.  He gripped the fucker’s windpipe and squeezed while resting his entire body weight on that hand.

 

The other hand, clenched into a fist, was pummeling the meat’s face.  Joe provided commentary, accompanied by the smacking sound of flesh on flesh.

 

“You stupid fuck, (SMACK) you must really wanna get hurt, huh (SMACK)?  Gettin’ choked (SMACK) ain’t enough for ya (SMACK), ya worthless cocksuckin’ queerboy (SMACK)?  Ok, you disgusting (SMACK) cum-drinkin’ (SMACK) pansy (SMACK), take what ya got comin’ (SMACK)!”

 

Each blow landed with the force of an industrial piledriver; Jon’s head rocked back onto the mattress, his entire body flinching as his face was beaten mercilessly and his jaw and cheekbones broken.  And at no time did Joe’s pulsing shaft ever ease off Jon’s traumatized asshole; in fact, the meat reacted to each individual blow as if he’d been donkey-punched, his stretched-out sphincter contracting involuntarily—and excruciatingly.

 

When Joe had finally worked off his excess rage, he clamped both hands back around the meat’s neck.  This time, instead of leaning over his prey, he rose up on his knees, still gripping the teen up tightly by the throat.  The light was better like this; Joe could see the thin strand of black rawhide snaking out under his hand and the silver pentagram bouncing on the boy’s sweat-slick chest.

 

More importantly, he could see both of them in the mirror.  As he kept his young victim impaled on his enormous dick, he forced the slut’s head to the side, slowly and inexorably, until the fucker could see his own reflection.

 

And Jon had to.  Even though the lids were bruised and swollen, his eyes were still bulging too much for them to close.  He literally couldn’t close his eyes.

 

The lean, smooth teen was forced to watch himself get raped and strangled.

 

Joe was hunched over the slim, lithe form; Jon’s legs were still wrapped around Joe’s neck and held by his arms.  Pinned on his back by Joe’s muscular weight—and a gigantic shaft of manmeat sunk into his intestines—the young fag was helpless.  Dominated and controlled, he had no choice.  He had to look in the mirror.

 

At first, he didn’t recognize himself; that grotesque, distorted mask couldn’t be him.  But as the pressure built in his chest and the painful buzzing intensified in his dying brain, he could see his eyes swelling, the green irises barely visible as hemorrhages bloomed like red poppies in the whites of his eyes.

 

It wasn’t true; it wasn’t happening.  If he didn’t believe it, it wasn’t happening.  He could fight it off.  He flailed hysterically, his strong smooth arms beating at Joe’s flanks and chest as vainly as if they had been beating marble–at least one was; the other was weakly jerking and twitching in a pathetically futile attempt at self-defense.   And anyway, the alpha stud’s muscled abs were impervious to what feeble force the dying teen could generate.

 

The kid tried to scream; all he succeeded in doing was forcing his bulging, purple tongue further out between his split and bloody lips, accompanied by a thick gagging sound.  But Joe knew the words echoing in the deafening chaos of the youth’s oxygen-deprived brain.

 

“Scream, faggot,” he whispered—not to the struggling pansy choking in his hands, but to the mirror, using the mirror to look Jon in the eyes.  “Pray to yer god, beg for yer mommy—ain’t nothin’ gonna save yer stretched-out fag ass, cunt.  Yer gonna die with my cock buried in yer fuckhole, boy, and you like that, dontcha?  Lookit yer dick, motherfucker, yer homo shaft is hard as steel—ha!” he laughed triumphantly.  “Goddam choke pig, you fuckin’ love this shit!  The harder I squeeze yer neck, the harder yer ass squeezes my hog—fuck, dude, you’re really gettin’ off on dyin’, aintcha?”

 

He turned back to Jon and spit in his face.  The shuddering teen couldn’t feel it, but his fading vision managed to capture the glitter of the saliva as it trickled down his blackening face and mingled with the thick white foam oozing from around his dark protruding tongue.  Even in his final moments of life, his shallow mind was still attracted to bright, shiny things.

 

Joe could tell the kid was almost gone.  The boy’s arms no longer thrashed wildly against him; now, the lean youth was caressing him, the movement of his limbs, even the damaged arm, became more rhythmic as the slut’s brain died.  There was no sense in making the meat watch anymore; it was likely blind by now anyway.  But its sphincter was still responding, and that was the important thing.

 

Joe was close.  He could feel the semen building in his balls; he was gonna blow soon.  The speed of his thrusts increased unconsciously; he could feel the young cunt’s cock slapping moistly against his furry, ripped abs, splattering them with a continuous rain of precum.  The meat was so fucking close itself…

 

Jon was past conscious thought; his body only responding to the random nerve stimuli caused by progressive brain death.  In a final instinctive fight for life, the convulsing youth clawed at his throat again.  This time, his left hand clutched at his silver pentagram unawares, jerking and snapping it free.  A connected chain of electrochemical energy fired in the teenmeat’s failing grey matter; a last flash of Jon’s personality that was somehow aware of pain—crushing pain in the throat, burning pain in the chest, searing pain in the ass—and a straining, frustrating pain in the cock…

 

And then there was a loud crunch that ended everything.  All the teen’s hopes and fears, all his suffering and pleasure, vanished in a moment as his esophagus was crushed in Joe’s powerful hands, his hyoid bone shattering in his throat as his neck collapsed in the sadistic killer’s vise-like grip.

 

Rutting and grunting like a bull in heat, Joe felt the teenaged faggot’s moment of death as the homo kid’s fuckhole tightened frantically at the final moment of brain death, forcing a violent spasm from the dominating alpha.  The sweaty, muscular stud’s skin pumped out pheromones as his thick, pulsating rod pumped out a solid stream of cum with such force it flooded the fairy slutboy’s guts…

 

And Jon’s cock was still erect and throbbing, full of his deathload even after death.  The end had come upon him too quickly for him to enjoy his final orgasm, but the meat still needed release.  Joe obliged.

 

Tightening his grip even more, Joe dug his thumbs into the base of Jon’s jaws and applied pressure.  His biceps swelled and his deltoids bulged as he squeezed and popped Jon’s head off the top of his spine, shattering the young faggot’s neck.

 

There was another loud crunching sound, different in timbre.  It was the shattering of the meat’s topmost vertebra;  as bone shards sliced into the the teen’s spinal column,  there was another clenching of the meat’s ass—and as Joe spewed another hot load of manspunk into the homo punk’s ass, the boy’s dick finally gave way to the convulsions that wracked his entire smooth slender body.  As it bucked like a bronco, the purple, pulsating shaft began to unload long ropy strands of cum that splattered onto Joe’s broad, well-defined chest and matting his fur.  The meat was already dead, long past being able to enjoy his deathload, but the convulsions in his rectum milked several more hot wads out of Joe’s engorged tool…

 

After a while, Joe slowed to a stop and looked over into the mirror.  He saw two bodies, still intertwined—his own, sweating and heaving in exertion, but slowly coming under control, and the meat’s, still impaled on his cock, quivering and trembling spasmodically.  The boymeat’s death throes were slowing almost imperceptibly as Joe withdrew his cum-slathered rod from the homo’s ravaged asshole.

 

The kid ended up flat on his back, spread-eagled, with cum and blood leaking out his ass and a sprinkling of his own cum backsplashed across his smooth chest and flat belly.  His arms were lying slightly out from his sides and his hands were balled into fists; blood leaked from the left on where cadaveric spasm had made him clutch his pentagram pendant so tightly he’d cut his skin.  The cold dead hand still tightly grasped the useless decoration.

 

Standing over the trembling corpse, Joe sneered contemptuously down at the boymeat.  Stupid little sack of shit had gotten what it deserved.  He glanced around for something he could use to wipe off his dripping cock and spied a sky-blue bikini thong lying on the floor next to the bed.

 

What a fucking whore, he thought as he stooped to snatch it up and use it to wipe the oozing cum off his shaft.  Tucking his thick tool back into his jeans, he zipped his fly and collected the compression t-shirt he’d worn on the way in.  The alpha killer could feel the boycum drying to a sticky glaze in his own chest fur.

 

Slipping the shirt on, he took one last backward glance at the still-convulsing corpse, covered in glazed manjuice.    He knew this one was young; he hoped he wouldn’t have too much trouble with it.  When he left, it was nearly a quarter past one in the morning; he made sure he locked the door behind him.

 

The next day, though Joe was cursing himself and deciding to lay low for a bit.  He needed to vet his prey better.  The news was full of the disappearance of the seventeen-year-old son of a Republican state senator…

Interlude: Adam 1

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then he turned around and walked away.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then he crossed the threshold and changed his life forever.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Nor was the throbbing of his hard shaft.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

On the other hand, he did know a killer.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then he returned to the locker room.

 

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

 

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

 

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

M4M Bathroom Break

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“DTF Dude—

25 yo/WGM/5’9”/145 lbs

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

 

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

 

Grinning, he favorited the profile.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

Now, it was later.

 

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

 

“Hey man—

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “you Brad?

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You take it up the ass?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

—and then the door to the rest room opened.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Brad shut up.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

Convict 4–Sin City Snuff

Carlos was horny and impatient, an explosive combination.  Worse, it didn’t seem like he’d moved the Mustang more than thirty yards in the last fifteen minutes—he’d never seen traffic this bad.  Of course, it was understandable; there was a lot to look at on the Vegas Strip.

 

His decision to head to Las Vegas was sudden but the desire behind it wasn’t; he’d always wanted to be in Sin City.  He’d never really thought it through until last week, though.  The motivation had been provided by his last snuff; he’d gotten off on the media coverage for the first few days—until the police started asking questions about a red convertible Mustang.  That was too close for comfort.  He got out.

 

It made sense, anyway.  He’d knew he’d find lots of deserving fags to waste there; more importantly, he could find rich fags to waste and rob.  Fuck, some dudes in Vegas could have lots of cash on them.  He could be livin’ large, keeping his tight body in shape during the day, raping and snuffing worthless cumsuckers at night.

 

It took several days to drive across country but he had plenty of cash already.  Gas, food, cheap motels—he didn’t spend much.  The only other thing he wanted to spend was his sperm; rage and lust built up in him and he ended up relieving the pressure one night in a tiny fleabag in the middle of nowhere on I-44 south of Springfield, Missouri.

 

After that, he was able to maintain control until he got to Nevada.

 

But it had built up again.  He needed release—now.

 

He’d taken I-40 all the way to Kingman, Arizona and then gone north on 93; he ended up driving into Vegas from the south, coming up the Strip past the iconic “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign.  His thrill at recognizing the landmark was topped by the overwhelming awe of the glittering towers in front of him.

 

And then he hit the traffic.  It was Saturday night.  Worse than that—although Carlos had no way of knowing it—it was Fight Night.  Saturday night on the Strip was always a mess; thousands of vehicles and tens of thousands of pedestrians congealing into a thick ooze. Fight Night amped it up by a factor of a hundred or more.  The next light north was Tropicana; on the northeast corner, a major boxing match was taking place at the MGM Grand.  Not only was traffic totally gridlocked but it seemed as if every cop in the county was out.  Fight Nights were notorious for spawning violence.

 

It took Carlos three hours to drive three miles.

 

It was a warm night; even this early in the year, the temperature was hovering just under ninety degrees as it approached midnight.  Naturally, Carlos had kept the top down on the Stang.  Now he found himself getting a fair amount of appreciative attention from the folks on the sidewalks.

 

As always, he was dressed to lure; the simple leather vest that stretched across his hard tattooed pecs highlighted his muscled, inked arms.  His furred chest glistened with sweat, but only slightly—it was a dry desert heat.

 

The boys on the street ogled and leered; they’d have been even more impressed if they could have seen him below the waist; the skin-tight black jeans he had on did nothing at all to hide the enormous bulge running down his thigh.  The sadistic ex-con was already so horny that his massive hog was throbbing visibly beneath the restraining denim.

 

Well above the ankles, the tight jeans disappeared into the cuff of a pair of combat boots, untied and loosely laced.  Carlos found that tucking the jeans into the boots made concealing and transporting his knife easier; the massive Bowie blade was hidden against his leg.  To reach it, all he had to do was slip his hand inside his boot and pull up on the cuff of the jeans.

 

He was impatient, ready for a kill.  And here he was, stuck in fuckin’ traffic.

 

His frustration mounted as he inched along, but he noticed a change ahead; large islands of darkness amid the intense, elaborate lighting.

 

The north end of the Strip was less densely populated; there were fewer open casinos.  Circus Circus still squeaked along, but the Riviera across the street was closed down and fenced off, in the process of demolition.  South of Circus Circus was a huge dark construction project that had been sitting idle for several years after running out of money.  To the north of the Riviera was a similar property, the vast 68-story Fontainebleau Tower—also unfinished for years.

 

There was little to tempt pedestrians along this part of the road; traffic eased off some and allowed Carlos to change lanes.  He decided to take the next right and get off the Strip for a while.

 

The next light turned out to be Riviera Boulevard, a short street that ran east from the Strip to Paradise Road.  There were some occupied office buildings and convenience stores at the eastern end, but most of the block was dominated by the dark, deserted hulks of the Riviera on the south side and the Fontainebleau on the north.

 

Carlos turned the red Mustang convertible onto the side street; as the beam of the headlights swung down the dim-lit pavement, the muscled killer felt his dick stir.  The street wasn’t empty; there was a boy walking away from him.  The figure wasn’t clear; the kid was nearly three hundred yards ahead of him.  Before Carlos could size him up properly, the dude turned a corner and vanished.

 

The horny ex-con sped up, finally reaching the same spot.  There was a drive leading south from the street, past the rear entrance of what had been the Riviera convention center. It connected with some open parking lots for the businesses that faced Paradise and other lots associated with the defunct casino that now contained demolition equipment.

 

The closest lot to the convention center entrance had some cars in it; all of which seemed to be occupied.  Carlos switched off his headlights, realizing he’d wandered into an impromptu cruising spot hidden behind the deserted resort.  He didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself, even though he knew that the guys in the cars wouldn’t notice anything—they were otherwise engaged.

 

To the right was the covered portico entrance for the convention center; Carlos could make out the slim figure of his prey sauntering in the dark driveway.  Wasting no time, the sadistic killer turned in and pulled up to the kid.

 

The boy approached the car with the feigned nonchalance and suppressed eagerness of an experience whore.  He was young, too, no more than nineteen; it was clear he’d gotten an early start at renting his firm, lithe body out.  He wasn’t dressed colorfully or flamboyantly but his tight, worn clothes emphasized his slender but muscled form.  His tawny hair was long, almost shoulder length, not entirely straight but by no means curly.  In the front, the sandy blond bangs were spiked exuberantly over brown eyes, large and deceivingly soulful.

 

Carlos already knew the little cunt didn’t have a soul.  The rentboy was just meat.

 

But he was sexy meat.  His chest, broad without being overly developed, was covered with a film of sweat that rendered the skin-tight thin cotton of his white wifebeater nearly transparent.  Around the boy’s throat there glittered a long chain made up of heavy gold links.  Carlos doubted the fucker bought it for himself (he was right on that; the boywhore had stolen it from a trick earlier that night)—and he damn sure wasn’t gonna need by the end of the night.

 

Below the cunt’s flat firm belly and narrow waist, seductively wrapped with a black belt with large metal studs, a pair of faded skinny jeans clung to his hips; tears in the denim showed the smooth pale flesh underneath. Under the ragged cuffs, the boy had on a pair of simple while leather Adidas hightops.

 

As the kid leaned over the car door, his face was dimly lit by one of the parking lot lights further to the east that was still working; Carlos could see faint glitters of gold hair in the barely-visible goatee around the teen’s mouth.  The kid grinned impishly and batted his long lashes.  “Whassup, man?” he drawled, letting his eyes caress the older man’s brawny form.  “Ya lookin’ for some fun?”

 

With an easy grin on his own face, Carlos replied.  “Yeah, dude, I gotta load I need to blow.  How much to help me out?”

 

The boy stood up, thrusting his shoulders back and his chest out.  It was a purely involuntary reaction—the whore was utterly unaware of the way he was presenting the flesh on sale.  “Man, I don’t get less than fifty an hour—but you can do what ya want with me in that hour.  Fair enough?”

 

Carlos paused for a moment as if considering the financial aspect.  “Sure—hop in.”  He’d drag the kid out somewhere, rape, snuff and rob him, and use any cash the kid had to get a cheap room.  All he had left now were Franklins and he’d be sure to be remembered if he flashed one at the desk clerk in the kinda place he was looking for.  Cheap and sleazy was cheap and sleazy, even in Vegas—especially in Vegas—and his plan was to lie low for a few days to take stock of the situation.

 

The boy obeyed Carlos’s instruction literally, hopping over the door and into the passenger seat.  He was slightly shorter than Carlos was, probably about five feet ten.  He seemed to weigh about a hundred and fifty pounds; not scrawny by any means but slender when compared to Carlos’s powerful mass of toned muscle.

 

The young punk buckled himself in as the alpha pulled out of the lot and turned left, the way he’d come in.  As he got closer to the Strip, his hand crept down towards his boot, feeling its way down towards the knife.

 

“Hey, man, you gotta place yet?  No?  Turn right up here.  I live a few blocks up; you can park behind my building.   It’s dark back there; no one can see us in here if you put up the top.”

 

Carlos’s hand froze and withdrew.  “You got a place close?  I need a place tonight.  How about this—I’ll pay ya two hundred for the night.  I’ll leave by dawn.  And it’s already past midnight.”

 

The rentboy jumped on the offer—fifty an hour was wishful thinking for him; two hundred for the night was more than he could have hoped for.  It not only paid the weekly rent (due on Monday), it left him enough to get good and high Sunday.  He’d let this stud bend him over and breed him, if that’s what the hot buff Hercules wanted; he found himself getting excited at the thought.

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” the teen slut moaned, “for that kinda money, you can do what ya want all night long.  Turn left at the next light—there, in front of the Stratosphere…”

 

Carlos relaxed—all of him but his cock.  This was perfect; the little faggot had his own place nearby.  He’d let the little cockpig lead him back into his own killing pit.  He made the left onto Sahara as directed and soon found himself in what looked like a war zone wedged between the Strip and the highway.

 

In the shadow of the massive Stratosphere Tower lurked an intensely squalid neighborhood; a small grid of streets (all named after cities) that had once been major thoroughfares before Las Vegas Boulevard developed on the east side and I-15 put through on the west.  The tiny roadside motels had been cut off from traffic decades ago; even before the massive resorts went up, these places had folded into rent-by-the-week efficiency apartments.

 

“There,” the whore said, pointing down a dark street due east of the casino.  Only a single block long, it ended at a cinderblock wall, tagged with gang signs, blocking access to Industrial Boulevard to the west.  One side was a group of squat square buildings, surrounded by an iron fence.  Clearly a former motel, each small square structure housed four rooms per floor, each with a single rectangular window (also covered with iron bars), underneath which was an AC built into the wall.

 

A gap in the fence led Carlos to an open lot behind the buildings.  He pulled to the far end of the space, up against the fence that evidently circled the entire property; beyond was a disused, crumbling alleyway and another graffiti-tagged wall.  The alpha glanced around, taking in the dismal sight.

 

“C’mon, dude,” the teen piped up, “I’m right over there, number 208.  Name’s Shaun, by the way.”  Releasing the seatbelt, he tensed his lithe young muscles and popped up out of the seat and over the car door, just as he’d jumped in; he seemed to take a childish, almost innocent pleasure in it.

 

He paused, waiting for Carlos to follow.  “By the way…”  Here the young punk stopped, as if embarrassed.  But the thought of two hundred bucks overcame any delicacy the reamed-out slut possessed.  “I can get kinda loud.  But it’s ok, most of the neighbors are out nights like me.  And it ain’t like anyone round here hasn’t heard me get plowed anyways.”

 

Carlos got out of the car with a wolfish grin, his rubber-soled combat boots silently hitting the pavement.  As he stepped to the front of the car, a flickering security light intermittently lit his strong, well-developed body.  For the first time, Shaun got a full-body glimpse of the masculine alpha.  He gasped aloud at the huge throbbing ridge plainly visible through the black denim, running down the stud’s leg.

 

“F-fuck, man,” the teenaged rentboy gulped, “I, uh—I…I get the money, whatever happens, right? I-I mean, even if I can’t take it?”  The pleading look in his face was as erotic as the whining, begging tone in his voice was annoying.

 

“Hell yeah, cunt,” Carlos said in a low, guttural tone as he chuckled grimly. “I promise ya, no matter what happens, you’ll get paid.  Maybe even more than you deserve.  I’m generous that way.”

 

Resuming his cockiness, Shaun smiled and brushed his blond bangs from his forehead.  “Cool.  C’mon, stud, I’m up here.”  He turned and headed toward the closest building to the left, his Adidas hightops slapping on the broiling pavement.  Carlos followed the lean, lithe youth up the stairs to the covered exterior walkway.  Two doors opened out onto it; Shaun stopped at the first.  A sheet of paper, pinned to the door, fluttered in the wind.  The boy snatched at it, muttering something about a rent notice.

 

“The dude next door is out turnin’ tricks,” the rentboy said in a confidential tone as he jabbed his key questioningly into the dark doorway; the entire complex was sunk in an almost Stygian blackness.  “Lucky bitch got himself hooked up with a gay bachelor party—he’s gonna be gettin’ banged all night.”

 

Carlos was barely able to suppress a contemptuous snort.  “You make a lot of noise, boy?  Are ya a screamer?”

 

Even in deep shadow, the sadistic alpha caught the blush on the teen whore’s face.  “Well—not usually,” the kid admitted sheepishly, “but I ain’t sure I can take yer hog without yellin’.  The unit that backs on to me is empty, though, and the one downstairs is too damaged to rent.  So it’s ok, dude, I can make as much noise as I want and ain’t no one gonna hear.”

 

“That’s good, punk, that’s real good,” Carlos said with a leer, “cause yer damn sure gonna be squealin’ by the time I’m done with ya.”

 

The young boywhore giggled, the sound of a horny teenage faggot about to get laid.  Carlos’s grin widened into a shark-like leer as Shaun got the door open.  The hard buff killer slipped into the room behind his prey, locking the door behind him as the slut switched on the light.

 

The room, unsurprisingly, was small and dim.  It had been a decent motel room at one point, but that point was half a century ago.  The conversion to an efficiency apartment had been piecemeal and clumsy.   The bathroom had the tub and toilet only; the sink had been built into a vanity in the bedroom proper.  This had been expanded to include a two-burner electric stove, a mini-fridge and a microwave.  There was no oven.  The closest thing to a dining space was a tiny bistro table onto which the teen cunt tossed the rent warning.

 

There was window next to the door that looked out over the balcony/walkway, and a small window across from the bed with the AC in the wall underneath.  Shaun crossed to it and turned it on.  Starting with an asthmatic wheeze, it pushed the air around with a loud grinding noise but did little to cool the almost uncomfortably warm room; the place must have been literal hell in high summer.

 

The sheets on the double bed were twisted and wadded; the only part of the nightstand that wasn’t covered with beer bottles and soda cans was reserved for an overflowing ashtray.  The closet was beyond the bed; it was jammed so full of dirty clothes that the door couldn’t be closed.

 

Shaun noticed Carlos looking at the closet and blushed with embarrassment.  “Yeah,” he admitted shamefacedly, “I know, but it’s kinda hard to get to a laundromat without a car.”

 

The vicious, sadistic killer smiled at his prey in a gentle, reassuring manner.  “If ya work my cock good enough tonight, I’ll make sure that that ain’t a problem for ya anymore.”

 

Shaun’s eyes lit up; his adolescent body stiffened with an influx of hormones and greed.  A hot stud who could take care of him financially and fuck the living shit out him at the same time—

 

The slim but firm teen exhaled, shuddering in ecstasy.  “F-fuck, man, you can do what ya wanna to me…you can hurt me if ya wanna, as long as ya take care of me…”

 

Carlos’s handsome, hard face twisted with a sneer of contempt; the stupid fuck was makin’ it too easy.  “Shit, boy, I can take care of ya.  I’ll take care of ya good.  Tonight.  Now get yer faggot ass over here.”

 

Shaun approached the hulking killer like an eager puppy; if he’d had a tail, he’d have been wagging it.  He moaned erotically as he felt Carlos’s large strong hands fondling his firm body; he gasped as the powerful alpha gripped the punk’s collar and, with a single jerk of his muscled arms, ripped it open, shredding the thin white cotton.

 

Shaun stood in front of Carlos with his chest bare, the smooth skin tautly clinging to the pecs and biceps on his slender build only marked with a faint peach-skin fuzz on his flat belly; it clustered around his navel.  The young whore looked up into the eyes of the man who was about to rape and murder him, reading the hot flame of homicidal lust as the feeble glow of mere desire.

 

Silently, the buff older man bent down and hooked his fingers in a tear in Shaun’s skinny jeans, a frayed rip in the faded, skin-tight denim, high up on the thigh.  With a rough jerk, Carlos tore the material clean through, shredding the jean leg and baring the teenager’s smooth thigh and calf down to the white athletic sock that peeped out above the white Adidas hightop.  Another brutal yank, slightly lower down, revealed the other leg.

 

Shaun seemed somewhat stunned at the way he’d been abruptly and violently stripped; all that was left to him was his shoes and what now looked like ineptly-made jean shorts, held up by his thick, metal-studded belt.  But the horny youth took the hint and slipped out of the remains of his pants.

 

Standing nude, wearing just his hightops and his thick gold chain in front of the burly ex-con, the teen whore’s cock jutted stiffly in front of him.  Just over six inches of throbbing boymeat, what it lacked in girth was compensated for by the huge mushroom-shaped head, pulsing and oozing clear precum.  It sprang proudly—almost arrogantly—from a tangled mass of sandy-blond curls.

 

The young slut peered up impishly at the muscular man who was planning on murdering him.  “So,” he chirped winsomely, “whaddaya think—ya like?”

 

Carlos maintained his silence for a little longer.  Staring coldly down at the punk, he shrugged his broad shoulders, dislodging the leather vest and letting it slip off.  Even though Shaun had a good idea of Carlos’s physique, tattoos, and massive furry chest, he still gasped at the reveal of the killer’s hubcap pecs, crawling with ink.

 

The sadistic top grinned and reached down to his crotch.  Grasping hold of the zipper, he lowered it slowly, almost like a stripper.  And after all, he did have the complete attention of the kid, breathless and sweating in anticipation.

 

Once he got the zipper down…nothing happened.  He had to reach in to grab ahold of his enormous tubesteak; luckily it was only semi-hard, since he had to bend it nearly double to get it out.  Once it was out, it dangled between the alpha’s legs, jerking and dripping.

 

Shaun paled.  Even soft, it was more than eight inches long and two in diameter.  That wasn’t a human cock, that was a horse dick.  A cold chill washed over his body; his own shaft wilted slightly.  “Man, th-that—“ he stuttered, trying to formulate his concern, “I-I ain’t g-gonna be a-able to take that…”

 

“Shut the fuck up, faggot, and get on yer knees,” Carlos barked roughly.  “Open wide, you worthless homo, cause it’s time to suck my cock!”

 

The hard-bodied top’s stinging words struck the boywhore like a blow; his face flushing pleasurably, he obeyed instantly, dropping to his knees.  He turned his face up to his dominant trick, his trepidation belied by the erotic anticipation in his puppydog-like eyes.  Crouching on the floor, the teen moved one hand to his groin; as Carlos stepped up to him, Shaun started jerking his cock.

 

The boy opened his mouth and Carlos didn’t bother to give him a chance to speak.  Lunging forward, he shoved his engorged tool down Shaun’s throat with a single, swift plunge.

 

The teenage cocksucker had already given two other BJs earlier in the evening—one of whom was the dude from whom he’d stolen the gold chain—but he still wasn’t prepared for the huge onslaught of manmeat that plugged his esophagus and cut off his air.

 

The punk stopped playing with his dick, his hands flailing momentarily in the air before he groped blindly at Carlos’s legs.  Pawing at them, Shaun placed his palms flat on the alpha’s thick, muscular thighs and tried to push away; he was coughing and gagging but unable to draw his breath.  In his frantic fear, he tried harder to push Carlos away, forcing him out of his mouth, but it was like trying to topple Stonehenge with his bare hands.

 

Carlos’s hands clamped his head in a vise grip, strong fingers tangled in the boycunt’s long blond hair, which left him unable to pull back and free himself.  Tears flowed from his large, dark eyes as his hands fumbled down the aggressive top’s legs.  At one point, Shaun was gripping Carlos’s combat boots tightly, unconsciously.  As his questing hands searched futilely for a vulnerable spot, the gagging, cock-stuffed teenager felt a long hard shaft running up the stud’s leg from his boot.

 

He was too focused on trying to breathe to wonder what it was.  Later, when he found out what it was, he wasn’t in a position to appreciate the irony.

 

At the moment, he could only appreciate Carlos’s huge, pulsing hog, mainly because it was choking him to death.  He was aware of the hard stud’s curses and mutterings as he hunched over and brutally skullfucked the nineteen-year-old fag.  “Take it, ya fuckin’ cunt,” the tattooed ex-con grunted as he reamed Shaun’s mouth, “ya want my load?  Huh?  Ya ready for my hot wad?”

 

Shaun could only squeak and beat his hands aimlessly against his assailant’s immovable thighs, but he had years of experience as a cumsucker and felt some relief as he recognized the symptoms of impending orgasm.  Carlos’s breathing quickened along with the tempo and depths of his thrusts into Shaun’s darkening, swelling face.  Then the thick, vein-wrapped shaft pulsed violently; as the buff sadist grunted and clamped down excruciatingly on the punk’s head, Shaun could feel on his tongue the cum channel that ran along the underside of Carlos’s cock as it started to swell and pump.

 

And then, a burning, boiling heat.  “Fuck!” Carlos snarled, “Fuck!  Goddam!  Fuckin’ homo cunt!” He clamped down on Shaun’s head as the blond boy found his mouth full of hot smoky seed, a steady stream that forced him to gulp it down—and even so, it overflowed from his mouth and ran down his face, dangling off his chin in long, ropy strands.

 

Carlos stepped back, his phenomenal rod still completely hard and oozing a pearly thread.  He chuckled contemptuously as Shaun, on the floor on all fours, heaved and coughed, struggling to breathe as he vomited up the older man’s sperm.  After several minutes the boywhore finally regained enough control to speak.  “D-dude…” he gasped, his voice ragged and pleading, “I-I earn-earned my money, r-right?  Huh?  P-please?  Yer h-h-hot as fu-fuck, man, but I…I can’t take any more…”

 

“You stupid little fuck,” Carlos said coldly, “ya think you drained all my spunk?  Hell no, ya sack a’ shit, we’re just gettin’ started—you ain’t come close to earning yer pay yet, you fuckin’ faggot-ass whore.”

 

Shaun looked up at the top, his weary, well-used face already glazed with manseed.  He’d bitten off more than he could chew, so to speak, and he knew it.

 

“Get on the bed, boy.  On yer back with yer legs in the air like the useless goddam whore you are.  Do it.  NOW!”

 

The young slut had no choice but to implicitly obey the ring of command in the ex-con’s voice.  He was afraid; this was gonna hurt and this dude didn’t have any boundaries.

 

But he wasn’t afraid enough.

 

Shaun did was he was told, easing himself back onto the double bed, sweeping one arm behind him to shove the wadded mass of blanket, top sheet and pillows to the floor.  He lay full-length on the mattress, bare but for the fitted sheet, and raised his legs in the air.  An experienced professional, the teen whore reached down hooked his hands up under his knees to full spread his legs and allow plenty of access to his fuckhole.

 

Carlos stood, smirking, at the foot of the bed, looking at the slut like he was appraising a piece of meat—which was more or less exactly what he was doing.  The rentboy’s shoes hung in mid-air; below, his firm smooth legs were splayed, forming a V that pointed directly at the youth’s pink quivering asshole.  Between them, the kid’s long swollen cock pointed straight towards his flat belly, beyond which, taut, smooth skin rose and fell over the teen’s pectoral muscles.  The boy’s nipples were sharp and erect.

 

Carlos towered over him, his inked body shiny and glistening with sweat in the warm room.  The menace of the killer’s hardened body was accented by his cold face and closely-shaven head—and, of course, the massive, erect, dripping horse dick jutting out from the open fly of his tight jeans.

 

Shaun had been taking dick up his ass for years; he’d fled a sexually abusive stepfather in his early teens and headed to Vegas.  At one point he’d actually managed to get a part as a dancer in a show in a cheap off-Strip casino by lying about his age—not that anyone had really cared—but his drug use and general whorishness ensured it didn’t last long.  Ultimately, he’d been selling his body to survive for at least three years.

 

And even so, he’d never seen a cock that huge.  He loved to deepthroat, but he hadn’t been able to get more than a third of that enormous hog down his throat without damn near passing out.  His sphincter had been stretched and strained, but he was still afraid that this dude was gonna be more than he could take.  Part of him wanted to beg and back out, just tell the dude to go, no harm, no foul, just go…

 

Part of him, though needed the money.  It was Saturday—well, Sunday morning now—and rent was due Monday.  He’d pawn the gold necklace he’d swiped, of course, but combined with what this dude was offering, he’d have enough to pay the rent and still spend the rest of the week cranked out of his skull.  And meth killed his appetite, so he didn’t need to worry about buying food…

 

Plus, the older stud was so fucking hot.  Yeah, it was gonna hurt, but Shaun felt a certain pride in knowing he was gonna take this incredibly sexy gangbanger’s shaft.

 

Lust and greed won out.  The stupid young whore, despite his experience, disregarded the red flags.  He pulled back his knees, spreading his legs, offering his tender, vulnerable rosebud up to the murderous parolee.  Knowing that he was about to endure intense pain, Shaun braced himself, consoling his fears with the thought that it’d be worth it in the end (and not recognizing his own pun).

 

“C’mon and stick it in me, stud,” he muttered through gritted teeth.  It was the last specifically conscious action he took for the next few minutes.  Carlos pounced on him so swiftly that his preparations were derailed; before he could so much as gasp, the tattooed, hulking ex-con had placed his huge mushroom tip against the kid’s ass.  Shaun felt the pressure—and then his world exploded in agony.

 

It was far worse than he’d imagined.

 

He was being torn inside; he could feel it.  It had happened before—the pain was like getting raped with a razor blade.  Last time, he’d ended up shitting blood for a month and a half.  And this was much worse.

 

The thoughts passed through his mind in a split-second of lucidity; the pain itself hit him with force of an industrial piston.  So did Carlos’s dick.  Even before his mind processed the agony he was experiencing, his lean teenaged body erupted in a fury of self-preservation.  Scrabbling at the alpha’s hard body like a feral cat, Shaun found his hand slipping uselessly over the top’s sweat-lubed skin.  His legs, forcibly kept apart by Carlos’s mass between them, jerked in the air, the white leather Adidas kicks bobbing uselessly.

 

It had all happened so quickly that the young slut hadn’t had the chance to scream yet; as soon as his brain recovered from the initial shock, he shrieked—an ear-splitting falsetto that triggered an innate rage response in the ex-con.

 

“Shut the fuck up, you worthless cocksucker,” the powerful killer roared, backhanding Shaun across the face hard enough to split his upper lip.  “What kinda homo whore are ya, you stupid motherfucker?  I thought ya liked gettin’ fucked in the ass, queerboy; ya get paid for it, right?  So shut yer cumhole and take my goddam cock!” Spitting angrily into the kid’s befuddled, pain-wracked face, he reared back and bitchslapped the teenaged rentboy again.

 

A light came on inside Shaun’s head—a dim one, to be sure, insufficient to light the vast empty space around it, but nonetheless he did have enough brightness to realize that he’d asked for far too little money for what was gonna happen tonight.  But that was as far as he could go with the implications—the hot dude liked to hit; he was just getting his freak on.  As soon as Shaun could get this fucker off of him—and out of him—he’d demand more cash.  But that was easier said than done; the dude was huge, and strong, and Shaun’s efforts to free himself were completely futile.

 

Carlos was tired of wrestling with the little punk, though.  The stupid sack of shit kept trying to pull himself up off Carlos’s throbbing dick.  Enough was enough; the sadist’s hot Latino blood was boiling over in rage and lust.  It was time to make some meat.

 

Carlos had laid himself flat on the boy, full-length, keeping one hand free to fend of the kid’s frantic flailing while he humped his inhumanly long rod up the wailing teen’s ass.  He slowly dropped the other hand down his side until he could reach the cuff of his jeans.  Pulling it up, he was able to grasp the hilt of his combat knife and slip it up out of the boot sheath.

 

Shaun never saw it coming.  He was too busy struggling, trying to break free from the iron grasp of intense pain that clamped him to the bed—and too busy trying to think of the terms he’d negotiate to accept the pain.

 

That was when everything changed.  That was when he saw the knife.

 

At first, for a single moment, the whored-out youth that it was joke, a novelty item, a movie prop.  It was just too big to be real.  Then Carlos, smiling faintly, laid it on his chest, and Shaun could feel the cold steel edge resting against his flesh.

 

His tender, exposed vulnerable flesh.  This was no joke.  The knife was real.

 

“You’re making too much noise, asswipe,” Carlos snarled menacingly at Shaun.  “You make any more, I’m gonna stick ya, you got it?”

 

Shaun was silent, staring at the hard, inked face of a killer—the word “Revenge” across his neck—mere inches from his own.  He knew it now; this hot stud whose massive dick was even now shoved into his guts, was a stone cold killer.  He’d heard about dudes like this, dudes who got off on hurting—or killing—other dudes.  As a rentboy, it was something of an occupational hazard, but it was more legend than reality.  Things like that didn’t happen, and the certainly didn’t happen to Shaun.

 

Except it was happening now.

 

“Guess ya won’t be needing this; I can use it,” Carlos chuckled.  The young slut winced as the powerful alpha reached out, but Carlos was only grabbing the gold chain.  A swift yank and it parted at the clasp, twisting it slightly.  Nothing that couldn’t be fixed.  He tossed it to the floor; he’d pawn it tomorrow.  Right now, it was time to make some meat.

 

Shaun’s shocked whimperings began to build, a torrent of pleas.  “Please, dude, don’t kill me,” he begged breathlessly.  “I’ll do anything—anything, seriously, man, hurt me as much as ya want, just don’t kill me…”  The teen boywhore’s voice, already cracking with adolescent hormones, was driven by panic into a high-pitched, sniveling whine.  “Please, dude—oh fuck, no, don’t do this—“

 

Carlos sneered, spitting into the horrified kid’s face.  He picked up the knife and silently began running it down Shaun’s lean, heaving torso.  He kept the cutting edge on the skin, applying just enough pressure to break the surface.  It didn’t even hurt, but the scratches bled slightly, the red ooze mixing with the sweat forced from the boy’s pores by physical and mental distress.

 

For Shaun, though, it was the beginning of the end.  He could feel the blade and he lost it.  Carlos felt a warm splash across his furry belly.  Looking down, he realized that the terrified teen had pissed on him—the kid had lost control of his bladder.  At the same time, the punk’s panicked mewlings reached their maximum annoyance level.  “Oh god oh fuck don’t please don’t you can take my money the chain whatever you want please don’t kill me please no oh god please fucking don’t oh shit oh please…” the helpless boycunt babbled mindlessly, hoping somehow to appease his assailant.

 

It had the opposite effect.

 

“I told you what would happen if ya didn’t keep yer cumsucking mouth hole shut!” Carlos snarled as he rammed the blade into Shaun’s sweaty, heaving flank.

 

It took no more than a second for the full foot of sharpened carbon steel to penetrate all the way into the young kid’s strong but lean body.  That can seem like a long time when it’s your body getting penetrated.

 

For Shaun, it took forever.  The blade tore through his intestines and impaled both his liver and his spleen.  He went rigid instantly, his lithe form clenched tight in excruciating pain.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, the tortured youth noted the grunt of pleasure from Carlos as his sphincter involuntarily tightened on his killer’s cock.  Wracked with agonizing shudders, Shaun inhaled deeply; he had no control over the scream that was about to erupt from his lips.

 

Carlos did, though.  He clamped his huge, strong hand across the helpless slut’s mouth, sealing off his cries and reducing his nightmarish screams to muffled grunts and moans.

 

From experience, the sadistic alpha knew he had to shut down the meat’s ability to cry out, and this time, he was grateful for his knowledge of torture and murder almost immediately.  As Carlos lay on top of the trembling boycunt, he yanked the knife back out, placing it back on Shaun’s chest so the dying fag could admire his own blood.  He’d taken care to avoid major blood vessels—by now, he was damn near an expert on anatomy; who says ya can’t learn anything useful in prison?—and while the teenaged rentboy had suffered a serious injury that would eventually cause him to bleed out, his death was not imminent.

 

Carlos was just settling in to enjoy his prey a little more when the sound of footsteps reverberated on the outside staircase.  The apartment was so old, the whole place shook with the footfalls, which became more intense as they rose higher on the stairs.

 

Carlos already knew—it was the next-door neighbor returning.  So did Shaun; Carlos could tell just by the look in the youth’s eyes.  The way a light of hope sparked deep within them, the way they broke their fearful stare at Carlos’s face to turn with anticipation towards the door past which the unknown manwhore would momentarily pass, these showed Carlos that Shaun had not yet accepted his fate.

 

The boy’s muffled grunts and groans increased in both intensity and volume; he was frantically trying to attract the attention of his neighbor.  The guy was passing right in front of the door; as Carlos struggled to keep his dick up Shaun’s ass and his hand over his mouth simultaneously, he could feel the flimsy floor of the unit bobbing up and down in time to the footsteps along the walkway outside.  This place really was a shitty little dive.

 

Perfect place for this whore to die.  Carlos was tired of fighting him. Time to make sure he couldn’t call for help, no matter what.  The husky stud drew himself upright, his powerful, chiseled form silhouetted the grim light of the single nightstand lamp .  His strong right arm, bulging with muscles and writhing with tattoos, brandished the blood-streaked Bowie knife.

 

From the corner of his eyes, Shaun could see the viciously serrated blade hovering in the air.  Danny was home next door; if he could scream now, Danny would call the cops, they could save him, he’d be ok…

 

Then then blade slashed forward, moving with the speed of lightning.  Shaun tried to scream, but his throat was blocked.

 

With steel.

 

Carlos had slammed the blade into the side of Shaun’s throat.  Without striking a single major blood vessel, he’d expertly speared the unfortunate teen’s larynx, slashing the vocal cords as the sharp serrated blade gutted the bitch’s voicebox, leaving him coughing and gagging in unimaginable pain, made even more intense by the fact that it was utterly mute.

 

Shaun could gasp and wheeze, gurgle and moan, but he couldn’t cry for help.  He was gonna die mere inches away from his oblivious neighbor, helpless and alone with a cruel killer.

 

Whatever sins he might have committed, he atoned for them in a protracted welter of pain, blood and sex.  The last few minutes of his life were a literal living hell, and they dragged out nightmarishly; for all the agony Shaun was in, none of his wounds were immediately fatal.

 

Left as he was, he’d bleed out eventually, but it’d take time.  Carlos, though, had no intention of leaving the thrashing rentboy as he was.  He drove his swollen shaft brutally up the punk’s ass, his powerful, heaving body pinning the terror-filled teen to his own bed.  Glaring down into the slut’s twisted, tear-stained face, he spat on the cunt and snarled, “I told ya you’d have to work to get a second load outta me, you stupid homo fuckwad—you ain’t doin’ it for me, bitch!  Only time I can get yer worn-out fuckhole tight enough around my hog is when I’m stickin’ ya; guess ya like it, huh?  That what gets ya off, you disgusting pervert, gettin’ reamed with a long, hard shaft?  Fuckin’-A, cumsucker, why didn’t ya say so?  Saddle up, faggot, cause I’m gonna stick ya lots more—yer gonna love this shit!”

 

The anguished youth gurgled desperately, his mouth full of the nauseating coppery taste of his own blood.  He could hear and understand the words being spoken but had no capacity for further reaction.  His entire existence was full of pain and cock.  Even in the deepest pit of panic, Shaun was aware of Carlos’s angry, pulsing shaft impaling his guts; the searing, stabbing pain in his rectum was every bit as intense as that in his side, or his throat.

 

The tortured boywhore barely noticed the sensation when Carlos ran the tip of his combat knife down the center of the kid’s chest, the razor-sharp point barely scratching the surface of the boy’s silky-smooth skin.  He stopped at a point several inches below the sternum.

 

Glancing down at the teenaged hustler, Carlos sneered, then slowly began shove the blade into Shaun’s flat, quivering belly.  He counted it out allowing ten seconds to penetrate a quarter-inch into the kid’s writhing body.

 

As the length of sharp steel was being inserted into his guts, Shaun screamed—or would have, if he’d been able.  His head was thrown back, eyes almost impossibly wide and ringed with black circles of shock.  His face distorted in agony, the boywhore’s mouth was stretched wide to scream but the only sound that came out was a grotesque wheezing noise.

 

“Hell yeah, you fuckin’ faggot pig!” Carlos crowed in triumph as he forced the knife forward relentlessly, “enjoy it, ya useless homo cumdump!  Enjoy the pain, ya sack of shit!”

 

The ex-con was an experienced fag-killer by now; he knew that when the resistance to the blade lessened that he’d hit a void—he’d shoved the knife in far enough to penetrate the stomach.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered gleefully at the shuddering boymeat wallowing beneath him, “I’m fuckin’ yer guts good now, cunt, and damn if it ain’t got yer ass all nice and tight.”

 

Tensing the bulging bicep in his killing arm, Carlos drove the knife in even deeper.  Slicing through Shaun’s firm, slender abdomen with a loud squelching noise, the twelve-inch steel blade tore through the thrashing, gurgling youth’s back and into the mattress beneath.

 

The teen rentboy was now pinned to the bed with a Bowie knife through his gut and a killer’s cock up his ass.  His smooth white body was marked by blood flowing from his wounds, but most of the bleeding was internal.  The exception was his face; his futile gasping had caused an occasional bubble of blood to form on his lips; they’d spattered his cheeks when they burst, streaking the pale blond hairs on his cheeks.

 

Shaun was no longer capable of rational thought; his entire awareness was focused on physical sensation, on the tsunami of torture being inflicted on his body.  The violent assfuck he was enduring made his slim form buck and jerk on the bed—but the knife was stuck in the mattress; it remained still.

 

It was sawing him open from the inside.

 

The worst thing of all was that, above the terrible agony of brutal buttrape and repeated stabbings, Shaun could also feel his own erection.  And somehow, that seemed to hurt more than anything else…

 

Carlos could see that the whore was almost meat.  “Fuck yeah,” he whispered, more to himself, since he was damn well aware the cunt was no longer lucid.  “Die, you goddam faggot piece of shit…motherfucking cumpig…”

 

With a single vicious jerk, Carlos yanked his knife up out of Shaun’s belly.  The writhing punk gasped as the razor-sharp steel slashed up out of him.  He didn’t have time to exhale before the buff, aggressive sadist slammed the blade back down into his chest.

 

It was the death blow.  But it wasn’t clean; the knife hit a rib on the way in, shattering it.  Bone fragments exploded like shrapnel, riddling the unfortunate youth’s viscera as the blade itself penetrated the heart, puncturing it like a large, wet, pulsing balloon.  Even then, it didn’t stop, slashing its way through the torso, emerging below the clavicle—and, again, pinning the kid to the bed.

 

Shaun stiffened, every muscle in his body going rigid with trauma-induced shock.  His torn, bleeding sphincter closed down on the thick root of Carlos’s dick like a cockring.  At the same time, the hormone-swamped teen’s shaft snapped to attention, smacking against his killer’s muscle-rippled belly.

 

Instantly, the rentboy began convulsing—and so did his dick.  It swelled and pulsed visibly as it shot a solid stream of semen in an intense, steady jet.  While the teenager slutboy’s heart ruptured and flayed itself to hamburger against the blade that impaled it, his dying body expelled a desperate geyser of genetic material, a final, reflexive, useless attempt at self-preservation.

 

It was the full-body convulsions, though, that milked the cum out of Carlos’s tool.  He held on to the flailing, kicking teen as the boy died, letting the cunt’s violent death throes jack him off.  The powerful alpha grunted in pleasure, then roared out curses as he pumped multiple hot wads of spunk into the bitchboy’s mangled intestines.

 

At some point, Carlos regained control of himself.  He was heaving and shuddering, his engorged rod still buried deep in the ass of Shaun’s corpse.  Sweating and gasping, he remained there for a few minutes, feeling spasms still flowing down his shaft, forcing the last few drops of seed out of him.

 

He pulled out, his massive hog bobbing up once it was free of the dead boy’s fuckhole.  The fag whore was still quivering and trembling, pinned to the bed like an insect.  Grinning with pleasure, Carlos leaned forward and jerked his knife out of the meat.  The youth’s mangled corpse convulsed violently as the blade was withdrawn, the white leather Adidas kicks tearing and scuffling at the sheets, before one last violent spasm squeezed a teaspoon of semen out of the meat’s semi-erect dick.  Then it went still.

 

The hard-bodied ex-con stood triumphant over his victim, bloody knife held out in one muscled, inked arm.  His enormous cock jutted out in front of him, dangling over the prone corpse of his prey, still dripping pearls of manspunk onto the mute, helpless form.

 

Carlos’s attention was caught by a glint of light on the floor near his boot.  Bending down, he noticed it was the thick gold chain.  Chuckling, he picked it up and pocketed it, then looked around and located his leather vest.  Snagging it and reaching into an inside pocket, he retrieved his pack of Marlboro Reds.

 

It was hot in the room; the powerful ex-con felt uncomfortably warm.  He was gonna need more money to get a decent place in the heat; he had enough for the moment, and the chain in his pocket would certainly help—but for tonight, he was staying here, in this miserable sweatbox.

 

And it stank of blood and mansex.

 

Whirling around in disgust, Carlos strode to the bed and shoved Shaun’s cooling, stiffening body to the floor on the far side.  He switched off the light on the nightstand and opened the door.

 

The buff alpha, still half-nude, stepped out on the walkway.  He was pleasantly surprised to find a cool desert breeze blowing.  Taking another drag off his cigarette, he looked up at the garishly-lit Stratosphere Tower only a few blocks east.  To the south, he could see the glittering, blinking towers of the Vegas Strip.

 

Standing in the darkness, he knew he was where he was meant to be.  So many rich homos to fuck, rob and slaughter—cheap whores, high-priced escorts, tourists looking for fun—he couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

 

His cock, still dangling out of his open fly, grew stiff again.

Trucker 8–Trucker v Loose End

Mark was livid.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Where the fuck was this guy?

 

————————————————————————–

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Either way, the insects died horribly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The kid was taking the bait.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

As he expected, this aroused the kid even more.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Time to take the fish back and clean it.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The Trucker handed one of the cups to Zach.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The muscle-bound alpha pressed himself against Zach’s back, leaning in to whisper.  “Gonna frisk ya, bitch—and if I find anything, I’m gonna do a cavity search.”  With that, he placed his large, strong hands on the teen and began to fondle him.  He wrapped one arm around the boy’s chest, holding him in place like an iron bar while he shoved the other hand down the front of the kid’s jeans.

 

The Trucker grabbed hold of Zach’s long, throbbing cock and began to twist it and squeeze it, slowly increasing the force until the youth was whimpering in pain.  Floundering in a haze of lust and alcohol, Zach found himself unable to break free; with each brutal wrench of his scrotum, he could feel his tormentor’s huge pecs bulging in effort, pressed against his back.

 

The young cockpig loved it.

 

“F-fuckin’-A,” he slurred, moaning ecstatically, “yeah, dude, I’ll be yer fuckin’ prison bitsh.  Use me, you fucker…”  He broke off in a breathy gasp, shuddering with pleasure.

 

Without saying a word, the Trucker let go of the boy’s dick and withdrew his hands.  With a sudden, practiced movement, he jerked Zach’s hands around behind his back and had them cuffed before the boy even realized what had happened.  Even when he did realize, he was too incapacitated by the booze to do much.

 

He stood and swayed, staring blearily at the Trucker as the latter slowly unbuttoned the cop’s tan dress shirt and tossed it on the floor.  Next, the older stud unbuckled his thick leather belt and unsnaked it from his tight waist, hanging it over the headboard of the bed.  Only after all this was complete did his pull off the thin white cotton t-shirt.

 

If Zach had been less drunk, he might have recognized that amazing chest, broad and muscled with dark wiry hair; it had certainly drawn his attention the last time he’d seen it.  Unluckily for him, the alcohol was interfering with his sense of danger to such an extent that even the sight of the dogtags nestled between the alpha’s hubcap-like pecs didn’t send up a red flag.

 

“C’mere, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  “C’mere and work my chest, you jailyard cumslut.”

 

Zach approached the brawny sadist slowly, almost hesitant to touch the Trucker for fear that his fantasy would pop like a bubble.  The Trucker grunted with impatience.  He reached out and snagged the teen by one of his ear studs and brutally yanked him closer, making Zach cry out in pain.  But before he could yelp again, his face was being ground into the alpha’s chest; the older man’s fur scraping at his skin like steel wool.

 

“Work it, cunt, get yer tongue out and work it!” came a vicious hiss.  Zach did as he was told, running his tongue along the dude’s skin, slurping up a heady salty mix of mansweat and pheromones.  The teen’s adolescent body, already in a ferment of hormones, went into overdrive.  He felt the hard metallic edges of the dogtags slicing against his face—painful, but too dull to break the skin.

 

As Zach knelt to run his tongue down the length of the Trucker’s rippled abs, his own young, slim body was flooded with testosterone and adrenaline.  When the buff alpha pulled the boy back up to his feet and forced the kid’s face into his pits, the youth was pressed against him and he could feel the hot rigid shaft in the punk’s crotch.  “C’mon, ya fuckin’ jailbait, work my pits good,” he growled, “show me how ya keep yer cellie clean.”

 

The Trucker abruptly stood up straight and, grabbing Zach by the upper arms, threw him down onto the bed on his back.  The boy drew a sharp, surprised intake of breath.  His eyes opened wide as the Trucker loomed ominously over him and, bending down, grabbed the fly of Zach’s jeans.  A single rough, swift jerk undid the button; the loose zipper came down immediately.

 

Another couple of jerks and the Trucker had peeled the jeans off the kid completely, turning them inside out as he shucked the boy like corn.  There was a slight ripping sound as the cuffs were forced over the heels of Zach’s Kobe X’s, but a little extra tightening of his bicep was enough to power through the resistance.

 

Zach didn’t protest the damage to his pants; he was both too drunk and too horny to care.  Despite the former, he was able to demonstrate the latter with no doubt; his own dick had bobbed up ecstatically the moment it was free from the confining denim, slapping against his flat belly and spattering precum like a fine rain, the drops of which were caught on the soft brown fur surrounding his navel.

 

“Fuck, man,” the horny young punk moaned, “you got me in cuffs, you can lock me up and do what the fuck you wanna do to me…”

 

Nude but for the Nike hightops laced above his ankles, Zach’s smooth skin gleamed with the slight film of sweat worked up by his sexual ecstasy.  He writhed in erotic helplessness as the heavily-muscled stranger towered over him.

 

“Do me,” the teen gasped, almost involuntarily.  “Stick it in me…”  It was obvious that his rational mind was shut down, overpowered by the hormones rampaging through his slender but firm body.  The adolescent faggot wanted dick.  He wanted it rough, and he wanted it now.

 

The Trucker was only too happy to provide.  But not yet.  He’d left a pack of Marlboro Reds on the dresser.  Wheeling abruptly on the heel of his boot, he walked across the room and took a moment to light one up, completely ignoring the desperately randy youth shuddering on the bed.

 

Turning back, he could see that the little fuck had raised his head.  Whimpering faintly, the kid was gazing at him with a look of raw sexual hunger.  Zach was actually right—the Trucker could do whatever he wanted to the teenager.  No one could stop him.

 

His grin deepened, giving him a predatory, carnivorous look.

 

The Trucker approached the bed again slowly, his incredible body rippling with menace.  He exhaled a cloud of smoke over the boy before placing the cigarette, still lit, on the nightstand. Reaching down to his groin, he lowered his own zipper.  His massive dong was too large to fall out of the trooper’s tight beige chinos on its own; the Trucker had to reach in with both hands to extract the thick, pulsing tube of meat.

 

Drunk and horny as he was, Zach blanched when he saw the monster cock emerge, throbbing and dripping.  Things were long past the point of him having the power to object, though, even if he hadn’t been swamped in teenage horniness.  But when the older man bent down over him, the youth lost whatever trepidation had penetrated his whiskey-fumed haze.

 

His large dark eyes greedily drank in the alpha’s broad hairy pecs as they got closer.  For a moment, he was distracted by the jingling dogtags before looking up to the stud’s scruffy face, hard and handsome, with icy blue eyes…

 

The punk’s reverie was shattered as the Trucker grabbed him by the arms and yanked him roughly, positioning him so that his head was at the head of the bed.  Instantly, the sadistic strongman was on the bed on his knees, his large callused hands pressed against the boy’s smooth, firm thighs and forcing them apart, then lifting them.

 

Before Zach knew it, he was staring fuzzily at his Nike Kobe Xs, kicking the empty air over the Trucker’s shoulders.

 

“Yeah, cunt, ya liked gettin’ fucked in juvie, huh?” the Trucker sneered, gripping his dick in one hand like a club and slapping it into the palm of the other, spattering as much precum on Zach as the randy teen had himself.  “Ya liked bein’ backed into a corner and gettin’ raped?  Hell yeah, boy, I’m gonna shag ya like a prison bitch, you fuckin’ sack of shit!”  Zach laid his head back on the bed, shuddering in bottom pig pleasure.  He never saw it coming; he didn’t see the Trucker aiming his gigantic cock right at the kid’s tender pink fuckhole.

 

He damn sure felt it.

 

The adolescent felt pressure against his sphincter—a pressure that swelled to excruciating pain in the blink of an eye.  It happened so fast that Zach couldn’t breathe.  The slim youth looked up at the Trucker with tormented, watering eyes as he gasped like a dying fish, unable to catch his breath from sheer agony.

 

The searing, white-hot pain of ripped flesh and torn muscles slashed through the mist of alcohol in his brain.  His desperate hyperventilation seemed to go on forever; he was forcing his air out with a high-pitched panicked whine that didn’t give his lungs enough time to absorb oxygen.  As darkness mercifully closed in on the nightmarish physical shock he was experiencing, Zach seemed to see, without quite registering it, a cold, cruel light of lust illuminating the alpha’s eyes without thawing their cold steel-blue tint.

 

The Trucker spent the next couple of minute raping the kid’s motionless ass.  Unconsciousness caused the boy’s muscles to relax; his sphincter, torn and bleeding, gave way at last, allowing the Trucker to penetrate deep into the punk’s colon.

 

Zach came to slowly, moaning and blinking.  The horrible spearing pain in his ass was still there, but now he could feel the pulsing immenseness of the muscled stud’s rod plugging his rectum.  The powerful man was bearing down on him with each vicious thrust of his hips; the handcuffs binding the slut’s hands painfully crushed between his back and the stripped bed.

 

“Dude—“ Zach managed to wheeze out.  “Y-yer hurtin’ me…please stop, man, lemme just…just…”

 

“Shut up,” the Trucker snarled, “ya wanted to get fucked like a prison bitch?  You got it, cunt.  I’m gonna use you like fresh meat and the more ya squeal, the more I’m gonna ream out yer hole like the jailyard pig you are.  Trust me, you worthless piece of shit, I know how to make you hurt.”

 

Tightly gripping the youth’s slim hips, the sadistic killer held him down on the bed and drilled the kid’s mangled fuckhole, his powerful thigh muscles flexing and bulging with each excruciatingly deep pump of his shaft.  Zach tried to protest but the violence and pain of the assault left him unable to speak; he could only stare beseechingly into the cold, contemptuous face of his tormentor.

 

The cruel alpha smirked at the pain-wracked adolescent writhing on his dick.  “Guess what, faggot?” he hissed malevolently.  “You’re locked in with a killer—just like prison, huh?  Ya got what ya want; is that fuckin’ hot or what?”

 

Zach was still trying to figure out how his greatest fantasy had morphed into an excruciating nightmare.  The actual meaning of the Trucker’s words took some time to sink in.  When they did, they hit a brick wall of deliberate incomprehension.

 

“No…you c-can’t…you haven’t…” the teen squeaked in a high, terrified pitch.

 

The Trucker leaned down and rested his body full length on top of the boy, sweat-streaked skin to skin, full length.  The punk’s legs twisted painfully to the side as the weight of the older man’s well-built body crushed him; the dogtags digging into the kid’s heaving chest.

 

From this position, the Trucker’s hard-edged, masculine face, twisted with rage and sick lust, filled Zach’s field of view.   “Yes I can,” the sadist whispered icily.  “And I have.  Right here.  Look around ya, boy—you ain’t gonna be the first homo cunt I wasted in this room.”

 

Again, Zach’s face was blank; the teenager was either too frightened or simply too stupid to understand the allusion.  Not that it bothered the Trucker—he was looking forward to enlightening the cunt.

 

“I knew you were a worthless pansy slut the first time I laid eyes on ya,” the brawny, powerful sadist growled.  “Or the first time you laid eyes on me.  Just another disgusting faggot who wanted my body.  And since ya couldn’t keep yer homo trap shut, you’re gonna get my body—all up in your guts.”

 

A dim light of recognition glinted in Zach’s shocked, terrified eyes.  That face, that broad hairy chest—he had seen them before; in fact, he’d gone home that night and jerked off until he was sore over the memory of them.

 

This was the hot guy from the truck stop; the one who’d asked about the bar.  He’d come back in a couple of hours later, bare-chested, sweaty, hot as all fuck…

 

…and that was the night that cheap-ass rent boy got the shit beat out of him.  Kid was raped and strangled, in this motel…

 

The Trucker watched the horrifying realization dawn on the boy. The panic in his victim’s face made his dick, sunk deep into the teen’s rectum, pulse and swell.  He knew exactly what thoughts were running through the punk’s head.

 

“This room, dude,” the Trucker whispered with malicious cruelty as one hand crept towards the head of the bed.  “That spot on the wall where I frisked ya?  They fixed it good—I threw that cunt into it so hard he went through the sheetrock.  Slammed the motherfucker through the TV, too.  Thieving queer-ass cocksucker tried to steal my wallet, so I fucked him to death.”

 

He drew back his hand, now clutching the belt he’d left over the headboard, without once allowing Zach’s wide, shock-rimmed eyes to escape from his own terrifyingly hypnotic gaze, at once white-hot with lust and ice-cold with killing rage.

 

“It took him a long time to die.  And it hurt—I made sure of that.  When he finally died, he was grateful to escape the agony.”   The Trucker lowered his face down to Zach’s, so close that his dark scruff scraped against the boy’s cheek as the alpha whispered into his ear.  “And all he did was to try to steal my wallet.  You squealed about me to the cop.”

 

He pulled back and raised himself up so that he was kneeling over Zack, his enormous shaft still jammed up inside the frightened teen’s smooth body.  He held the belt now in both hands, letting the import of both his words and the leather strap sink in.

 

“The cop, yeah?  You remember him?  I raped and tortured him to death, too.  I took my time with him and left his baton jammed up his ass.  You’re the last loose end—and the one with the biggest lesson to learn.”

 

Zach understood.  He knew what was about to happen, and why.  He also knew that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to evade the brutal violence he was about to endure, but this didn’t resign him to his fate.

 

In a moment, the teenager went into full reflex mode, his lean but muscled body thrashing and flailing in blind panic.  He wrapped his legs around the Trucker’s firm, hard flanks and squeezed; the alpha responded by slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and hoisting them back onto his shoulder, where the punk’s Nike kicks flailed uselessly in the air.

 

Zach was in too much fear to be able to cry for help or even scream effectively; he gibbered and squealed like a stuck pig, spittle flecking his thick lips.  As his sweat-streaked body writhed on the bed, his terror was so strong that a stream of piss was shot out of his long cock, even though it was still semi-erect from the adolescent hormonal overload.

 

The Trucker glared down at the helpless, fear-maddened teenager.  “Stop squealin’, you stupid motherfucker,” he barked in anger.  “You don’t even deserve to die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit; I shoulda just offed ya.  But I wanna drain my balls, and since I gotta snuff ya anyway, I might as well dump my load in yer ass as I take ya out.”

 

Zach’s first panic had faded, simply because he didn’t have the energy to sustain his frenzied thrashing.  “No…no…you…no…” he moaned quietly.

 

“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the Trucker said evenly as he drove his fist into Zach’s jaw.  The boy gave a deep, instinctive grunt of pain as his mouth slammed shut and he bit through his tongue.  The vicious alpha spit into the face of the suffering youth, the phlegm sliding down the kid’s smooth cheeks and mingling with the blood leaking out of his mouth.

 

Stunned, awash in agony and sheer terror, Zach inhaled deeply.  He’d found his voice again; even though no conscious thought was involved, his animal midbrain realized that the only way to survive the next hour was to get help by alerting others.  He didn’t know he needed to scream; it was going to happen anyway.

 

The Trucker knew he needed to scream, though, and he wasn’t gonna have it.  Zach had stopped inhaling and had opened his mouth wide to shriek, when it all came to sudden halt.  Instantly, a thick band of crushing pain circled his throat, and he couldn’t scream.  He couldn’t breathe.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Nothing.  Nothing he could do.  He wrung his hands in the cuffs underneath him, the sudden panic overriding the pain as the case-hardened steel tore cruelly into the tender flesh in the small of his back and bloodily flayed the skin from his wrists.  Nothing.  That pain around his throat—it was the belt…

 

Still fucking the boy’s torn asshole, deeply and intently, the Trucker focused his eyes on Zach’s face and watched him start to die.  The kid continued to kick and writhe as he fought for his short, wasted life; all that the youth’s frantic struggles accomplished was to give this killer’s cock a nice, vigorous massage.  As he twisted and jerked, he burnt though his oxygen even faster.

 

His face swelled and darkened, turning purple—and so did his dick.  The teen could feel his own erection, but the sensation was lost in the horrifying agony of strangulation.  As his throat was compressed, Zach’s eyes, wide with terror, started to bulge.  He could feel his tongue swelling, too—it seemed to fill his entire mouth.

 

The worst pain of all was still in his ass, though—that was the truly nightmarish part of Zach’s situation; he wasn’t only forced to suffer the pain and violence of a slow murder, he also had to endure the pain and violence of a vicious rape.  It was too much.  It was overwhelming.  His weak adolescent psyche crumbled under the onslaught of the attack.

 

The Trucker had no intention of letting him slide into a catatonic haze, though.  He wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot.  “You stupid motherfucker,” he contemptuously taunted the dying teenager, “this is what happens to dumbass squealin’ cocksuckers.  Only reason yer still alive, faggot, is cause you ain’t milked my cum out.  Does it hurt, you worthless cunt?  Ya want me to stop it?  I’ll end your useless homo life the second I fill your guts with sperm.”

 

He gripped the belt forcefully, straining his biceps as he tightened the strap around the boy’s neck.  Bending down, he spit into the kid’s distorted, blackening face as he sneered, “When it hurts bad enough, you’ll wanna die.  Make me cum, slut, and I’ll stop the pain and the fear.  C’mon, you worthless fag, drain me and die”

 

The helpless, choking youth could feel the rigid stiffness of his own dick.  Even as his lithe, smooth body convulsed and kicked, he was still gruesomely aware of his own throbbing erection.  As Zach twitched beneath him, the Trucker could see that the teen was swiftly going under.  He kept up the tension in the belt; the room filled with the musk of sex and sweat, forced out of his bulging muscles by the effort.

 

Suddenly the punk went rigid, his stiff dick bobbing up, its oozing head smacking wetly against the alpha’s rippled abs.  His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but blood-streaked whites under fluttering lids.

 

He was edging—literally.  Zach was trembling on the brink of irreparable brain death.

 

The Trucker grunted in anger.  He wasn’t even close to cumming.  Worthless little faggot couldn’t even make him shoot as he died.

 

Ok, so it wasn’t time for him to die.  The Trucker slackened the belt; after a couple of convulsive gurgles, Zach began to cough uncontrollably, blood-spotted mucus from his damaged throat splattering his cheeks.

 

The powerful sadist, his hard, heaving body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, remained looming over the gasping adolescent, his monstrous shaft still jammed deeply into Zach’s guts.  He stopped pumping, though, taking a moment to let the boy wake up.  The Trucker wanted him conscious again before starting the next round.

 

And anyway, the fuckmeat was still desperately trying to catch his breath; in his struggles, he was working his killer’s shaft pretty damn good on his own.

 

The traumatized youth slowly clawed his way back into consciousness; the pain flooded in as he gradually came to.  The dark lividness of Zach’s drool-smeared face drained away while his breathing slowed slightly—it was still rapid and ragged, but he was no longer gasping violently in an attempt to stave off brain death.

 

The kid’s fuckhole was still gripping the Trucker’s thick tool like a fist in a velvet glove, but it was no longer jacking him off.  On his shoulders, the hard-bodied top could feel the high fabric tops of Zach’s Nikes, resting now as opposed to flailing in the air, but still trembling perceptibly.  With his arms still wrapped around the boy’s legs, the silky-smooth flesh of the latter’s inner thighs was pressed against his rapist’s sweaty, powerful flanks.

 

Finally, the boycunt recovered his voice—barely.  “P-pl-please…” he croaked, “I-I can’t…don’t…”

 

“You stupid piece of shit,” the cruel, hulking brute sneered in reply.  “I ain’t done with ya yet, cunt; you ain’t made me cum yet.  Ya know what that means, meat?  It means you ain’t learned your lesson yet.  You ain’t suffered enough yet.”

 

The belt was still wrapped around Zach’s neck; no longer crushing his windpipe, it was still sunk into the skin.  With a deliberate intent to cause pain, the Trucker viciously jerked it free from the punk’s throat, flaying the skin underneath.  Zach was still too weak to do more than shudder and make faint mewling noises, as much in fear as in agony.

 

The Trucker passed the end of the belt through the buckle, making a loop, and slipped it back over the boy’s head.  Now he had a slipknot leash to pull the kid up with one hand.

 

He did so.  The other hand he used to deliver a driving roundhouse punch to Zach’s face; the immediate result was a wet smacking sound, a deep involuntary grunt of pain and the faint crunching sound of the teen’s cheekbone breaking.

 

“Fuck yeah, you worthless cocksucker, that felt good, dinnit?” the muscle-bound alpha chuckled gleefully at his helpless prey.  “Ya musta really liked it, cumpig; yer reamed-out ass worked the head of my shaft great—that what it’s gonna take, huh?  You a pain pig, cunt?  Damn, fag, ya shoulda said so!  Hell, I’ll give ya all ya want!”

 

Zach was wedged into an excruciating position—his slim, firm torso brutally yanked up by the loop of leather around his neck, his arms twisted agonizingly behind his back while his expensive kicks had slipped from the Trucker’s shoulders but were still caught in the latter’s arms.  The only part of the boy still touching the bed was his ass—and the Trucker’s huge, rigid cock was still plugging it.

 

Zach retreated mentally; the sheer horror that the knowledge of his helplessness, his utter inability to prevent or evade whatever nightmarish torture this sexual psychopath wished to inflict on him, plunged him into a state where he was capable of little more than response to stimuli.  His fogged attention, like an animal’s, focused blearily on bright, shiny objects, which was how Zach found himself staring at the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling against the latter’s hard furry chest, as the tortured teen homo wallowed in agony.

 

The Trucker could see the blank, stunned look in the eighteen-year-old kid’s eyes; it was the look of a youth who had been subjected to an unexpected and shockingly violent assault.  The sadist’s powerful body was filled with a strong urge to overwhelm and destroy the boy, to literally fuck him to death.

 

He braced himself by extending one leg, planting the glossy brown boot on the floor and tensing his thighs, making them bulge visibly in the tight beige chinos he still wore.  He channeled his sexual rage into his fist, driving it into the side of the kid’s head with such explosive savagery that he lost his grip on the belt—he’d literally knocked the little fuck right out of his own hand.

 

Zach’s head whipped to the side, flinging his dark ponytail behind as his skull hit the nightstand with a loud crack.  The impact toppled both the lamp, which fell to the floor and broke, and the bottle of Jack, which stayed on the stand.  The amber-colored fluid splashed across the flat surface, drenching Zach’s hair and adding a distinct smoky scent to the pheromone-laden air.

 

“Goddam it,” the Trucker muttered in the deep, guttural growl of a predator, “that shit cost more than you’re worth, you miserable pansy.”  He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the semi-conscious teen, so close that even in his deep, pain-wracked haze, he could feel the killer’s wiry scruff as it grazed his cheek.  “You owe me, cunt; how ya gonna pay?  Huh?”

 

Then the Trucker paused.  At this distance he could see the studs in the kid’s ear much more clearly; there were three—and the top one had a slight sparkle.

 

“Motherfuck—ya been holdin’ out on me, boy.  Bad mistake.  If that tiny chip is real diamond, it might cover the cost of my booze.  Maybe.  Lemme take a look.  If it’s real, I’m gonna take the other one too.”

 

He spread his huge hand out and placed it on the side of Zach’s head; placing all his weight on that arm, he forced the kid’s head down onto the nightstand with such power that the unfortunate youth was already mewling with pain when the Trucker started fondling the top stud.  He held the ear between two fingers, one looped about the stud, the other around its back.

 

Then, with a single tremendous jerk, he tore the stud out of the teen’s ear.

 

The sharp agony of ripped flesh snapped the tormented adolescent out of his catatonic state; he tried to scream but could only push out a high, thin shriek that spiraled into a croak.  His bloodshot eyes, huge and darkly ringed by shock, were riveted on the Trucker, who was examining the stud under the light on the other nightstand.

 

The pain in his ear, now throbbing with his pulse as blood flowed from the wound, was so severe that he even managed to forget the gigantic rod that even now was still skewering his torn colon.  But what he couldn’t forget was his own erection; his dick was so stiff as to be downright painful.  He didn’t know how it could still be so hard after all he’d suffered.

 

It never occurred to him that he liked it.  On some level, he wanted and deserved it, but he could never have admitted it.

 

And whatever he desired, pain overrode the physical and fear the mental aspects.  No matter how hard he got, how close he came to shooting his wad, he was still going to fight death to the very end.  He wouldn’t submit, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

The Trucker didn’t give him the choice.

 

Repositioning his big cop boot on the thin carpet, he shifted his muscled mass and pulled Zach back upright on the bed by the belt around his neck.  Reaching around to the other side of the punk’s head, he ripped the top stud on that side out too.

 

This time, the response was much stronger.  This stud had been torn from the side of the punk’s head that had been drenched in whiskey; the alcohol burned like fire as it trickled into the open wound.

 

Zach screeched like an ape, twisting and shuddering violently.  His black Nikes kicked the air behind the Trucker’s head—until the kid made the mistake of jerking one leg in and kicking the Trucker right in the side of the head.

 

“Ok, meat, that’s it.  Yer done.”  Enraged, the powerful alpha yanked the belt in a whip-like motion, unexpectedly snapping Zach’s head down and to the side so that it smashed back onto the nightstand.  Except it didn’t—it smashed into the half-empty whiskey bottle and shattered it, shards of glass slicing open the skin at Zach’s temple.  A jagged edge left on the base of the bottle left a shallow—but long and painful—slash across his cheek.

 

Instantly, the teen was jerked back up into position, his rectum rotating on the Trucker’s engorged tool.  Scrambling his pricey kicks, Zach drew his legs up and, planting his feet on the older man’s rippled washboard abs, pushed himself off the bed—and off the Trucker’s cock.  The smooth young teen, half-insane with fear, threw himself on the thin, cheap carpet, bleating in terror as he tried to wriggle away from his killer.

 

The Trucker had grunted with surprise at the blow, but otherwise didn’t make a sound.  He simply stood up and strode towards Zach, his powerful muscled form looming over the nude youth.  Flat on his back with his arms twisted behind him, the kid was still erect despite the pain from his mangled ears, and slashed head, all still bleeding.

 

But as the Trucker towered above, Zach shot another golden stream of piss involuntarily across his firm, smooth chest, already glittering with sweat.  The teenager was lost in a rising tide of doom; turning his head to the side, he could see the shiny finish on the tall cop boots.  His eyes traveled up the legs, muscles visibly bulging through the skin-tight sand colored chino trousers…

 

…and above that, a huge shaft of meat, dark, throbbing and oozing—and streaked with blood.  His blood.

 

The heaving, furry chest above, dogtags lying between the broad, hubcap-like pecs…and above that, the face…that face.  That hard face, the cold, cold rage in those eyes that showed there would be no mercy, no remorse, nothing but the desire to inflict as much pain as possible.

 

In his mind, Zach screamed; what came out of his mouth was a feeble gurgle.

 

The Trucker trembled with rage as he glared down at the worthless fag who dared to defy him, to try to escape the consequences of his actions.  The tall, well-built killer bent over slowly at the waist, extending his hand and reaching out to the helpless boy who cowered and sniveled in terror.  The muscle-bound stud grabbed the end of the belt that was still looped around the kid’s neck.

 

Standing up, the half-nude alpha continued to raise his arm as if he was doing curls with a set of weights.  As the bicep on his arm flexed with the strain, the Trucker lifted Zach up off the ground and held the slim young teen dangling in the air.

 

The boy kicked weakly, his Nike hightops dancing in the air as his own weight tightened the leather strap around his neck and cut off his breath.  Struggling uselessly as the incredibly powerful older man literally hanged him by holding him in the air, the sweaty, shuddering punk was nonetheless aware of his own dick slapping wetly against his firm, flat belly as he thrashed and choked.

 

The red-tinted blackness that filled Zach’s bewildered mind had the effect of focusing his attention on the hard, chiseled face of his assailant.  It was somehow getting him even hornier; he could feel it even as he felt consciousness slipping away.  That strong, hard jaw, that jet-black goatee surrounded by fainter fuzz—a five o’clock shadow of gunmetal blue that darkened the sadist’s cheeks—and those eyes.  Again, those eyes—so blue, bright with a light that curiously combined the heat of lust and rage with the calculating coldness of an experienced killer.

 

And then Zach was snapped out of it.  In fact, he was damn near snapped out of life forever.  With the loud, snarling growl of a vicious predator, the Trucker whipped his arm to the side.  The belt popped like a whip as the teenage boy flew through the air and slammed into the wall so hard he blacked out for a moment.

 

But it was just a moment; as he blinked and tried to breathe—the impact hadn’t loosened the leather noose enough for him to inhale—he could feel death approach in the heavy tread of the boots on the floor behind him.  He was lying near the far wall of the room, facing it, his back to the room.  Turning his bulging eyes up, he could see the huge dent his body had made in the drywall.

 

As the boots paused, directly behind him, Zach had a brief flash of clarity—and memory.  Something this hot, erotic, cruel, brutal psycho…something this dude had said…the other guy.  That whore.  He’d been killed in this room—but he’d been beaten into hamburger first.

 

And part of that beating had put him through the wall too.

 

Once again, despite his huge and painfully throbbing erection, Zach lost control of his bladder to such an extent that the stream of urine that shot out of him hit the wall and splashed the teen with his own piss before he was hoisted into the air again, his slender young body jerking and kicking.

 

The Trucker sneered contemptuously at the choking boy.  The muscles in the powerful alpha’s arm were knotted with the strain of holding the kid up off the ground, but it was worth the effort to watch his expensive Nike kicks flail as they desperately sought some support to relieve the crushing pain in the suffering punk’s throat.

 

Then, in a lightning-swift motion, the strongman flung his helpless young victim across the room again.  In his suffocating haze, Zach felt a brief giddiness but was mostly unaware of his flight.  He was aware when it was interrupted, though, the impact of smashing headfirst into the flatscreen TV piercing through his dying fog.

 

This time, when he landed on the floor on his back, the belt noose loosened.  His lungs, full of useless carbon dioxide, emptied immediately with a loud sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt.  Much like before, his esophagus had been so badly crushed and traumatized that the expelled breath was accompanied by bloody mucus.

 

The Trucker approached.  He stood over his victim, his cold, stony gaze taking in the sight of the raped and tortured youth.  While his prey stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed shock, gasping violently, the vicious sadist took pleasure in letting his enormous cock jut out over the shuddering, sweating teen.  Large clear drops of precum welled from the slit in the center of his purple, engorged mushroom tip; they fell at random, sprinkling the writhing adolescent with his killer’s bodily fluids.  “Stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker said in his steely bass voice, his cold even tone more frightening than any screaming or ranting could have been.

 

He bent down.  Zach saw him coming.  He was completely and utterly unable to prevent whatever was coming; all he could do was gasp and try to inhale as much oxygen as possible in case it was cut off.

 

It was.  Instantly.  The Trucker snatched the belt again.  This time, there was no admiring, gloating dangle for the meat; the teenager experienced swift motion and terrible, slashing pain, but was too traumatized to realize he’d been thrown into the dresser and had shattered the mirror.   The glass slashed at the smooth, soft skin on his back but, like his encounter with the whiskey bottle, the injuries were agonizing but not serious.

 

When he fell to the floor this time, he landed face down.  The majority of Zach’s attention at this point was absorbed in trying to breathe; it was few seconds before the faint crunching sound of boots grinding glass into the carpet seeped into his awareness.

 

The Trucker was stepping on the remains of the mirror as he moved towards writhing prey.  Without a word, his huge muscled body moving with startling swiftness, the older man snatched the lithe, trembling teen, not by the belt this time, but by his long black ponytail.  For a single horrifying moment, Zach was suspended by his hair and felt his scalp starting to tear before the Trucker threw him on the bed.

 

Actually, threw him at the bed.  Zach smacked face-first into the headboard before rebounding and rolling back; he ended up nearly in the center of the mattress but turned ninety degrees to the orientation of the bed.  His long, smooth legs hung over the side, hightops not quite touching the floor.

 

On his back again now, he could look up and see the hulking form of his torturer towering implacably over him.  The powerful stud’s vicious sadism was obvious in his massive, throbbing cock, jutting proudly over the trapped youth and oozing a steady stream of transparent precum.  Above that, the psycho’s furred and heavily muscled torso was heaving, a faint sheen of sweat making his hard body glisten.  The stony, merciless look of cold masculinity on the handsome face was accented by the icy glitter in the eyes.

 

Zach looked into those eyes and he knew—no matter what type of personal hell he was gonna endure in the next few minutes, there would be no return from the silent darkness this time.  Death was staring him in the face.

 

But Death was gonna fuck him first.

 

Hoisting the kid’s legs, the Trucker dropped the punk’s Kobe X Elites on his shoulders and shoved the thick purple head of his shaft against the boy’s torn, quivering sphincter.  At the first hint of pressure, Zach moaned in terror and writhed, trying to wriggle away from the huge tool about to penetrate him.

 

And yet, with all the pain and the fear, the hormone-fueled adolescent still felt the overwhelming physical lure of the hard-bodied older man.  The funk of mansex and pheromones that pervaded the room so densely that it nearly coagulated into a visible fog that intensified the young slut’s sexual dilemma.  Zach’s own dick was hard and pulsating and he didn’t know why.  But as the Trucker lunged at him again, the boy couldn’t spare the time to worry about it.

 

“P-please…” the battered youth gasped faintly, “I-I’ll do any-anything…use me…hu-humiliate me, I w-won’t tell anyone…”  Here the slender kid gave way.  Stupid little piece of shit that he was, even he could figure out that tonight was gonna end with him taking a dirt nap.  He burst into tears.  “D-don’t kill me, man, p-p-please, I won-won’t tell anyone but don’t k-kill me, please, man, oh fuck, oh please—“

 

The Trucker’s sole response was an evil grin that spread slowly across his sexy masculine features. Zach saw it and understood, instantly breaking into loud, hysterical sobs as he went into panic mode.  The older stud decided that the meat needed something else to think about than becoming meat.  With a single powerful, brutal thrust, he plunged his monstrous vein-wrapped cock all the way up the teenager’s ass, tearing the sphincter and mangling the colon.

 

Eyes so wide with pain and shock that they seemed about to pop out of his head, Zach’s sobbing spiraled up into a frenetic shriek of agony.  “Shaddup, faggot,” the Trucker barked, popping the unfortunate punk in the jaw one last time before cinching the belt down on his neck.  The cunt’s scream was instantly throttled off into a wet gagging sound.

 

Wrapping the thick leather strap around his hand—so he could control the tightness of the noose while keeping one hand free—the Trucker flopped forward, his heavy, powerful body crushing the slender youth beneath him.  Zach’s legs, propped up on his assailant’s shoulders, were compressed back towards his body until his knees were resting on his chest.  And the weight of both males on his arms, still cuffed around his back, was excruciating.

 

The last few minutes of Zach’s short, wasted life were filled with unimaginable pain and terror.  He was pinned under the sheer physical bulk of his killer, feeling the alpha’s hard muscles flexing against him on a light lube of sweat as the older man continued to plunge his enormous shaft deep into the boy’s torn, bleeding guts.  The alpha’s wiry body fur scraped against the teen’s soft, silky flesh like steel wool.

 

The Trucker jerked the belt tightly.  His dogtags, laying on the meat’s smooth firm chest, were dislodged by the violence of the fucking; they slid up to Zach’s neck and slipped, jingling, into the depression circling his throat, caused by the leather garrote.

 

At this distance, the twisted sadist could enjoy the effects of the strangulation in detail.  As the slim, dying teen writhed beneath him, the cunt’s cock stayed hard as it slid on oily sweat between two flat, firm bellies pressed together in desperate, brutal sex.  His confusion was obvious, even on his swelling, darkening face.

 

“Ya don’t get it, do ya, you stupid cumsuckin’ fag?” the cruel, powerful top sneered.  “Yer lovin’ this shit.  You fuckin’ bottom pain pig, you love gettin’ plowed, dontcha?  Yeah?  Ya fuckin’ love gettin’ put down like the cheap cockslut you are—fuck, dude, lookit how hard ya get when yer gettin’ snuffed like a useless homo cunt!”

 

Zach’s body, slender but strong with youth, was wracked and contorted with pain.  The thick leather strap embedded in his neck was a constant source of agony—and the wretched punk, twisted in the nightmarish pain of slow, tortuous death, found the crushing torment in his windpipe less painful than the tearing, rending pain in his colon as his cruel, evil killer fucked him swiftly and brutally.

 

Zach’s black Nike kicks were twitching in the air behind the Trucker’s head; his current helpless position rendering them impotent as weapons.  As his bloodshot eyes bulged grotesquely, forced from their orbits by the pressure building inexorably inside his skull, he could just barely make out the crimson trademarked swoosh jerking and twitching in the distance.

 

Inches away, the Trucker admired the teen’s black face, swollen and distorted beyond measure.  He found the adolescent slut’s suffering erotic and, determined to draw out the torture as long as possible, let a little slack into the leather strap around the young whore’s neck.  Zack was allowed a single brief gasp of fresh oxygen to momentarily clear the death fog clouding his mind before his throat was clamped off again.

 

“You stupid cumsack,” the powerful alpha whispered into the ear of the dying teen, so close that the teenager writhed involuntarily with pleasure at the scrape of his killer’s scruff across his cheek, despite all the pain and horror.  The screaming, pounding silence that was filling the empty spaces of his pathetic cumslut soul was not yet loud enough to drown out the cruel taunts of his killer.

 

“You made me do this,” the psycho strongman hissed at his helpless young victim.  “You talked, you pansy-ass cunt.  You did this.  Does it hurt?  Good!  I want you to hurt.  I want you to die in fuckin’ agony on my cock, you disgusting faggot.  You wanted a prison fuck, you punk-ass bitch?  Fuck, dude, you got death fuckin’ row!  Now die, you fuckin’ homo meat; milk me and suck up my spunk like a sponge.  Best thing anyone can do to yer worthless fuckmeat is use ya as a cumrag and throw ya in the dump like the fuckin’ garbage you are, motherfucker!”

 

With a snarl, he jerked his arm, making the thick leather strap squeeze the queerboy’s throat shut.  Zach was sinking back into the stimulus-response phase of imminent death, but this time there would be no recovery.  The quivering youth hadn’t been able to take much advantage of the brief respite he’d been given; his contorted position—bent double with his killer’s muscled bulk crushing him into the mattress—had made it difficult for the semi-conscious punk to suck air.  He’d gasped and slobbered in panicked asphyxiation, but he hadn’t been able to get enough oxygen to stave off brain damage.

 

Zach had heard the Trucker and understood him, but just barely; the sadistic stud’s cruel taunts were the last words the brutalized teenager would hear in his life.  As his brain died, the universe contracted into a cold darkness.  Zach’s last five minutes of life slowed to a crawl.  Rational though all but ceased; the suffering boy was sunk in a pit of sensation—of pain.

 

He was vaguely aware of the powerful alpha pressing down on him; he could still feel the hairy thrusting form on top of him.  He could hear—without understanding what he was hearing—the deep, ragged breathing and strained grunts of the dude who was fucking him and killing him.  A faint memory of start of the evening flickered like a guttering candle in the dying kid’s mind…the hot cop, the booze—even now, he still reeked of whiskey—the erotic click of the cuffs behind his back…

 

The last truly conscious emotion to pass through Zach’s mind a fleeting sense of despair, like the plaintive bleat of a slaughtered sheep. Then the physical took over and the teenaged faggot was submerged in a crimson wave of pain.

 

It hurt.  The young punk’s smooth, slim body was wracked with agony, with an excruciating torture that shorted out his nervous system to the point that it was unable to discern pain from pleasure.

 

From inches away, the Trucker watched the face of the adolescent cumslut swell and darken.  Blood still leaked from his mutilated ears and his cheek, but it was sluggish and too thick to flow much.  Zach’s battered face was twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable mask.

 

Wrapping the belt around his hand for greater control over the meat, the Trucker jerked the strap brutally, causing it to sink deeply into the boy’s neck.  The gay bottom boy went rigid, his swollen purple lips parted by his protruding tongue, forced out on a lube of foamy drool that trickled down the teen’s smooth cheeks.

 

The indefatigable power top continued to plow the dying kid’s ass.  Even as he murdered his victim, the timing of his thrusts wasn’t thrown off by a single thrust; his huge horse dick kept plunging deep into the meat’s fuckhole like it was being rammed by a piledriver.

 

It was getting a good workout, too.  The Trucker was vaguely aware of the Nike basketball shoes flailing randomly in the air behind his head as he kept the cunt’s legs propped up on his shoulders, but the little fucker, his body pinned into position by his larger, stronger killer was convulsing violently on the inside.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure; he realized the stupid piece of shit must be suffering nightmarish intestinal cramps for the punk’s guts to polish his knob so vigorously.  Zach’s own dick didn’t give the impression of pain; quite the opposite—it slapped, oozing and throbbing, between the two heaving, writhing male bodies, smearing precum over the teen’s flat smooth belly as well as the Trucker’s furry rippled abs.

 

The dogtags bounced off Zach’s flat, firm chest repeatedly before slipping off to the side where they occasionally added a faint jingle to the quiet, desperate sounds of sex and death.

 

Zach’s youth worked against him, prolonging his suffering until  the oxygen had been completely wrung from his quivering body.  In the end, even the physical started to fade.  The teenaged faggot no longer felt the pain from his limbs, twisted agonizingly in their sockets.  He couldn’t feel his eyes, bulging and rolled back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites showed under his fluttering lashes.

 

By a cruel neurological twist, though, he could still feel his rectum being savaged.  The erratic electrochemical bursts in his dying brain conveyed nothing more than a long thick hard shaft viciously impaling his innards; there was nothing left to process the concept of rape, of a throbbing vein-wrapped cock plunged up his boycunt.

 

In a way, it was a shame.  Zach was getting fucked exactly as he wanted; roughly, by an amazing muscled alpha who bound him and mounted him ruthlessly.

 

By the time the end came, Zach was past all sense of the irony of the where and how of his murder, past all fear—in a sense, past all pain.

 

The Trucker had a lot of experience of putting sluts down; he recognized the way the adolescent’s convulsions had lost their rhythmic tempo and slipped into spasms that were more intense but also more erratic.

 

Fuck, it felt wonderful.  The silky flesh of the teen’s guts sliding over his engorged mushroom tip while the motherfucker’s colon gripped his shaft like a fist—the worthless squealing cumpig was finally learning his lesson.  He was getting exactly what he deserved, the disgusting piece of homo shit.

 

The Trucker could feel the sperm boiling in his balls.  He was close; he just needed one last thing—he needed to know that the firm, smooth, slender teen had truly died on his cock.

 

One last brutal yank on the thick leather belt and the sociopathic sadist was rewarded.  The young kid’s esophagus collapsed with a loud cracking that was instantly followed by an even more intense and erotic snapping sound, like the splintering of green wood.   With a single powerful movement, the Trucker had crushed Zach’s windpipe and broken his neck.

 

The very last thing Zach experienced in his useless cumslut life before the searing electrical blast of bone shards slicing into his spinal cord sent him into screaming cold eternity was an eruption of searing heat in his groin.  In an instant, his existence shrank to the white-hot wire of pain/pleasure that ran along the underside of his cock; almost immediately, a similar agonizingly hot feeling, akin to molten lead, was pumped into his ass and up his guts, a last scorching sensation of heat as he slipped into frigid dark death.

 

The Trucker spent the next minute shuddering and spunking, filling the dead teen cunt with his sperm.  As his hulking muscled body jerked and shuddered in violent orgasm, he was vaguely aware of the teen’s thick, ropy cum splashing across his broad, hairy chest.  The hormone-laden adolescent was so full of semen that his corpse spewed a steady stream of pearly jizz for at least thirty seconds straight, catching both shuddering, sweating male bodies in a rain of glistening spooge.

 

Long after he’d emptied his balls of seed, the Trucker found himself still fucking and cursing at the convulsing sack of boymeat.  Regaining a measure of control, he took a deep breath and pulled his still-pulsing cock out of the corpse.  Getting quickly off the bed, he let Zach’s legs flop back, spread wide, one landing on the bed.  The other leg hung off the side, the Nike hightop just barely touching the floor.  As the body twitched, the expensive kick scuffed a ragged furrow in the thin cheap carpeting.

 

The Trucker felt a little rubbery after his explosive release of anger and semen; he staggered back to the dresser for his smokes, finding the pack undamaged from the earlier violence but surrounded by glass.  Lighting up a Red, he turned back and admired the gruesome scene.

 

Zach was still trembling; erratic spasms rippled the muscles under his smooth, sperm-glazed flesh.  Above the splayed legs, the teen’s long dick was still semi-erect, a faint trickle of pearly ooze leaking from the head onto his flat belly.  A pool of cum was congealing in the shallow smooth valley between the slight mounds of the youth’s pectorals.  The arms, of course, were still twisted behind the corpse’s back.

 

Taking another drag on his cigarette, the Trucker vaguely wondered if keys to official law enforcement handcuffs were universal across states or agencies or some other way.  If not, the coroner was gonna have a fun time; the keys had gone out the cab window somewhere on the other side of the state line.

 

Above the chest, things got ugly.  The thick leather belt was sunk so deeply into the boy’s throat that the Trucker had no intention of trying to retrieve it—something else for the coroner to enjoy.  And above that, the face was still swollen and congested with blood; the lividity would slowly drain away but that process had not yet begun.  As a result, Zach’s face bore no trace of his usual expression of slack-jawed adolescent lust.  Instead, it spoke eloquently of the torture the kid had endured, the agonizing pain and nightmarish terror in which the teenager had died.

 

The rolled-back eyes gave a blank white stare while the tongue, livid and swollen, still protruded from between blue lips.  The punk’s smooth cheeks were streaked with drool, snot and blood, but none of the wounds were bleeding anymore; even his mangled ears had stopped seeping.  At least one wasn’t; the other was hidden by the youth’s ponytail coiled beside it.

 

Even the room attested to the horrific violence of the teen’s murder.  The broken lamp and the shattered whiskey bottle—still adding its heady scent to the musky, smoky atmosphere of the room—were just the start of the physical destruction; the Trucker had deliberately targeted his violence towards the parts of the room he’d destroyed on his earlier visit.

 

After all, that was why he’d placed his clothes in the dresser drawer.  This time, they wouldn’t be covered with glass.

 

The buff older man picked his way across the debris-strewn floor and got the bag containing his clothes.  Snatching his pack of smokes as well, he crossed to the bathroom.  Soaking a hand towel in warm water, he wiped the dead teen fag’s spunk out of his body fur.   Wadding the towel up, he tossed it into the toilet before sitting down, pulling off the knee-high boots and stripping himself from the beige chinos trousers.  Just for the fuck of it, he rolled the latter into a ball and dropped it in the toilet as well, first fishing the diamond-chip studs out of the pocket.

 

It took just a minute to wriggle back into his familiar tight jeans and snug cotton t-shirt; it took even less to slip the trucker cap back onto his tousled black locks, slick with sweat.  Since his tube socks had never come off, he simply stepped into his scuffed work boots and left them loosely laced and untied. He pocketed the studs, picked up his bag and the cop’s boots and walked out of the bathroom.

 

Approaching the bed, he decided to add one bit of artifice to the naturally-posed scene.  He left the still-trembling corpse with one boot placed upright on the face and one on the groin.  He had no doubt they’d topple and perhaps dislodge before the body was found, but it didn’t matter.

 

It was dark and still outside.  The Trucker moved slowly along the pavement to the edge of the property, where he could walk along the edge of the blacktop.  That way, his boots wouldn’t thump with each footfall until he reached the street.  Not that there was anyone watching, of course, but avoiding attention immediately after a snuff was innate to the experienced sexual sadist by now; it was how he avoided capture for so long.  But loose ends like that little piece of shit needed to get what they deserved—which was sliding down the Trucker’s cock into their graves.

 

The muscled hardman grinned coldly.  He started whistling as he strode back to his rig.

Convict 3–No Trace of Mercy

As Carlos merged back onto the highway from the Winterbourne Road onramp, he became aware of a loud whistling sound accompanied by a jet of cold air.  Glancing up, he realized that the strip of duct tape covering a tear in the convertible roof had peeled off.

 

His broad, tattooed chest was still glistening with sweat from his revenge fuck.  Even though it wasn’t that cold outside, it was chilly enough to be uncomfortable against his bare skin.  He abruptly made up his mind to head back to his motel room for a moment.

 

He wasn’t done for the night, fuck no.  His adrenaline and testosterone were flowing; he was flush with cash—and he was hard again.  A quick stop to pick up a couple of things, and he’d be back on the street.

 

Another unlucky fag was gonna get snuffed tonight.  He was out there somewhere, right now, trolling the streets for dick.

 

Carlos put the pedal down.  He was unaware of the ugly leer that twisted his hard, handsome face into a sadistic grimace; he just knew he was in a hurry.  He was riding a high fueled by lust and endorphins, and he was gonna take advantage of it.  The twenty minutes it took to get back across town to his motel seemed endless.

 

He was in the room for only about five minutes.  After hiding the cash, it only took seconds to cross to the closet and pull a jacket off a hanger.  He’d gotten it at a pawn shop earlier that day, after he’d bought his other clothes.  It was a heavy leather biker jacket, a brand named “American Armor”.  Slightly worn but in excellent shape, it had zippered sleeves, wide double-breasted lapels with snaps and a thick quilted lining; it was legitimately made for a biker.

 

And used by one, to judge by the smell.  It was rank with sweat and smoke, but above all, the dense, heady scent of leather emanated strongly from it; one whiff would get the fag pigs running.

 

Laying the jacket across the back of a chair he dug in the closet for another purchase he’d made that day, this time in an army surplus store.  Taking the box to the bed, he opened it to reveal a new pair of black nylon combat boots with thick rubber soles and—the real selling point for Carlos—a boot sheath in each one, for right- or left-handed action.

 

The brawny convict sat on the bed and slipped his engineer boots off, noticing a stain of Will’s blood on the right toe.  He quickly wiped it off with a tissue before carefully setting the boots to the side.  They were still his favorite, but the new pair would hold a knife better.

 

He laced them tightly up his calf, making sure they were snug.  In the future, he’d use the zippers on the sides, but he needed to ensure the fit the first time.  He also needed to test the fit of his knife; he wasn’t sure the sheath was designed to handle his foot-long blade.

 

Carlos paused on the way out the door, admiring his hard, lightly-furred body in the mirror.  He was still all in black, from his combat utility boots to his tight jeans to the musky jacket hanging open and giving a tantalizing glimpse of his broad pecs and ripped abs.  Even the shiny black do-rag was still knotted onto his shaved head.

 

 

The hard-bodied convict grinned.  He looked hot, and he knew it.  What’s more, he looked dangerous.  The bulge in his jeans several inches below his knee caused by the handle of his knife wasn’t obvious enough to cause comment, but it might cause some interest.  No true bottom pig faggot would be able to turn him down, and he was counting on it.

 

His earlier prey had been specifically targeted for money, but now Carlos was flush with cash.  When he stalked out of hotel room, he wasn’t out to find a victim with cash.

 

A demon of sexual rage still burned in his chest. This time, he was just out to make a homo slut suffer.

 

Back in the stolen Mustang, back on the prowl.  Carlos was looking for meat on the hoof and he knew where to find it—back at his old cruising grounds.  Actually, he’d had several, all notorious pick-up spots in disreputable areas on the edge of the gay ghetto, several of which had been redeveloped while he was in the pen.

 

River Oak Park hadn’t, though.  It was still dilapidated and dark; the trails that wound under the eponymous oaks had large areas of zero visibility where the pathway lights were out.  At least it had the oaks; the “river”—more an embanked storm culvert than a natural waterway—was dry with the lack of recent rain.

 

It wasn’t a place most people chose to use for relaxation, so it became a place a few people chose to use for sex.  Carlos had met the fag he’d whacked—the one he got sent away for—in this park; then they’d driven elsewhere.

 

He’d put out his headlights even before pulling into the parking lot; his car a dark shape gliding among several others.  Drifting slowly into a space, he shut the vehicle off and glanced around.

 

Even in the dim light—only three of parking lot’s sixteen light poles were working—he could see several dudes.  Some were hanging out in the parking lot itself; as he watched, he saw one boy, barely out of his teens, so fucked on booze or drugs—well, it must have been something to make him crawl in through an open window instead of just opening the car door.  Whatever the case was, the car started up and left the park immediately.

 

Carlos wondered idly if the boy would be seen alive again. If it had been his car…

 

Other dudes seem to emerge out of and melt back into the darkness of the park.  Carlos decided it was time to get out; he wasn’t gonna do anything in the car, at any rate.

 

As his broad, muscular body slipped into invisibility under the bare, interlocking branches of the oaks, he moved forward silently.  The rubber soles of his combat boots had been designed for stealth; it emphasized the intensity of the hunt.

 

Carlos was horny, hard, and ready to kill again.  Time to take down another worthless cocksucking pansy.  His black eyes, wide and sparkling in the darkness, peered around eagerly.  So many disgusting fags; who was gonna be the lucky cunt to taste his sperm and his steel?

 

Just under a mile away, the creek bed made a sharp turn south.  The path, running along the north side of the creek, bent as well.  The inside of the bend, on the south side of the path between it and the creek, was actually a flat peninsula screened by brush—very popular and currently in use by several couples.

 

North of the path the land was also covered with low-lying underbrush, but rising to the north as it did, it was less congenial to immediate public buttfucking; one had to hike some ways up a hill to reach a level but secluded clearing.  Still, that side of the path wasn’t unpopulated.

 

Trace stood alone in the dark, in the bushes on the north of the path, angry and impatient.  The teen shifted, his long, lean body stiff and uncomfortable.  Jimmy shoulda been there almost an hour ago; Trace wasn’t gonna wait for him much longer.  After all, he’d sneaked out of his house that night just so Jimmy could skullfuck him.

 

If Jimmy wasn’t gonna show, Trace was sure he could find other dudes to ream his throat just has hard as Jimmy did.

 

Trace was just six weeks past his eighteenth birthday; his wide blue eyes made him look even younger.  His black hair was long and carefully negligent, with long bangs spread over his forehead, almost hanging into his eyes.  In the back, it was longer and layered.  Combined with his smooth cheeks and wide, easy-going grin, he had a look that ensured he got what he wanted in terms of sex.

 

Trace could have had any girl in the senior class, but what he wanted was Jimmy, tight end on the football team.  It wasn’t that Trace was pining for a sports hero to take his virginity—he’d been with half the football team and a third of both the basketball team and the wrestling team before he got out of his junior year—but there was something about Jimmy…

 

Jimmy was straight.  If he wasn’t, he was good at playing it—he’d only meet Trace in the park after dark, in a pre-arranged location so no one would know.  And it was hard to believe that his contempt for homosexuals was role-play, given the way he slapped Trace around while ruthlessly breeding his mouth.  One day, if he thought he could take the pain, he’d let Jimmy up his ass…

 

Trace had loved every fucking second of it.  And tonight, Jimmy wasn’t here.  Even worse, Trace could hear the sounds of sex all around him in the darkness.  He couldn’t see anything, but his teenage body was responding to the outpouring of semen and testosterone around him.

 

It was maddening.   It was an itch he couldn’t scratch—and it was centered deep in his balls.  The lean, well-built youth was as randy as a cat in heat.  He was done waiting for his top.

 

The lust- and hormone-fueled teen decided he couldn’t wait any more.  He followed his hard dick out into the darkness to meet his fate.

 

He was certainly dressed to meet someone.  Trace had a slim swimmer’s build—lean and firm, not scrawny—and he knew how to accentuate it.  Tonight, his smooth chest was covered with a simple white cotton t-shirt at least one size too small, looking as if it had been painted onto his low, broad pecs and his flat belly.

 

Since the night was chilly, he wore a blue denim button-down shirt open over the t-shirt.  His equally-revealing jogging jeans were less faded, but the way they clung to his tight ass and highlighted his package left nothing to the imagination.  The jeans had elastic gathering the ankles, so they appeared to be bloused into Trace’s red canvas Converse hightops.

 

The young fag hadn’t specifically dressed like a slut—but he was a slut, and a good-looking one at that, and he felt no need to hide his light under a bushel.  In fact, he wanted all the hot dudes to see just how much he was flaming.  Not that he was particularly effeminate.

 

But he did love dick.

 

Stepping out onto the path, the horny teen followed his eager, throbbing cock into the darkness.  The new moon, thin as a fingernail paring, shed little light and the occasional working light within the park itself didn’t do much to dispel the blackness.  Trace could sense other men just off the path, but couldn’t see exactly what they were doing—or if they were interested.

 

He walked on, the white soles of his canvas hightops almost silent on the paved footpath.  The ground to his left sloped down to the creek, while that on his right rose gently into a heavily wooded section of the greenbelt.  He’d wandered just over half a mile when he realized that he hadn’t seen anyone for a while.

 

Shrugging, Trace decided that dudes looking for a hookup didn’t go this far into the park.  He turned, deciding to try his luck in the parking lot, when he heard footsteps behind.

 

Instead of leaving, the young slut made the worst mistake of his life and paused to listen.  The footfalls were faint and the path curved around a bend in the creek five yards ahead—he couldn’t see anyone.

 

And then suddenly, there he was.  A tall, muscular stud, appearing out of the murk and looming over him.  Thirty feet back was a light pole; the glow wasn’t bright, but it was good enough to see the hot dude who’d come out of nowhere.

 

Just a single glance at the teen he stumbled across told Carlos all he needed to know.  After all, the little fuck wasn’t dressed to hide his assets; even in the dim lighting, he could see the punk’s thick junk through his tight jeans.  It was the eyes, though—the way lust illuminated them. Cat-like, they almost glowed in the dark.

 

The little faggot wanted it bad, Carlos realized.  Well, he was ready to give it—bad.  Real bad.

 

Trace gazed up in wonder at the muscled cholo looming over him.  The well-built dude was all in black, practically camouflage in this part of the park, but the aroused teen could still make out the older man’s huge pecs.  Even in the dim light, he could see the tattoos half-hidden under the leather jacket, the dark treasure trail undulating over the stud’s ripped abs as it disappeared beneath the waistband of the tight black denim.

 

Carlos had read the signs right.  A single look at the strapping con had driven all thoughts of Jimmy out of the youth’s mind.  This dude—this was a real man.  Trace wanted this guy inside him.  Deep.

 

Carlos could see the boy’s mouth open and silently mouth the word “wow” before his tongue darted quickly across his lips.  He knew the little fag was thinking about gagging on Carlos’s fat hog; the kid’s worthless pig lust was radiating palpably from his tight, hormone-filled body.

 

Time to make his move, he decided.  This was gonna be easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

 

It was just gonna be a lot, lot slower.

 

“Ya want my dick, boy?” Carlos grunted in a low voice, already knowing what the answer would be.

 

“Uh-huh,” Trace muttered, barely audible.  Tentatively, he reached his hand out toward the swollen bulge he could just barely discern in the top’s groin.

 

“Not here, puta,” Carlos snapped.  “I ain’t pluggin’ yer face on the path.  I don’t give no free shows, vato, got me?

 

Wide-eyed, the teen slut nodded; the gruff bass of the alpha’s hoarse voice seemed to vibrate along his spine and the root of his dick.  “Up there,” he gasped, jerking his head to the right where the ground sloped up to more dense woods.

 

As they turned and silently made their way uphill, Trace found himself walking stiffly.  His cock was so hard it hurt.

 

In a moment, they were picking their way through the trees.  The thick carpet of dead leaves crackled under the soles of the kid’s Converse sneakers.  Carlos’s military-style combat boots made much less noise.

 

Not that it mattered; they were too far back into the greenbelt to see the path.  Five yards further on, a high chain link fence marked the edge of park land.  Beyond, the tree line dwindled down to a swath of waste ground that bordered a landfill a mile away.

 

They were completely isolated, for all intents and purposes—even Carlos’s.

 

Trace’s hands fumbled hurriedly in his groin as he unzipped his fly to give some release to the aching six-inch cock trapped in his tight jeans.  Carlos stood and watched him in silent contempt—stupid little homo couldn’t even control his disgusting urges.

 

Well, then—Carlos was gonna have to control them for him.  Reaching down to his own groin, he hauled his huge tube of meat out, letting it dangle and drip in the night air.

 

The teen froze.  He was mesmerized by the older dude’s tool.  Fuck, Jimmy was hung, but this guy put Jimmy to shame.  He wanted this cock inside him, fuck, he wanted it so bad…

 

He swiftly shucked off his button-down shirt, tossing it negligently onto the ground before pulling off his tight t-shirt and tossing it on top of the other.  As he stepped toward Carlos, a thin sliver of faint moonlight illuminated his soft, flat belly and smooth chest, firm but not overly developed.

 

He approached the towering cholo stud, hesitantly but eagerly.  His huge blue eyes, framed by long lashes that added an extra hint of vulnerability to his beautiful, youthful face, turned expectantly up to those of the erotic, mysterious alpha.

 

Like a good bottom pig, he was awaiting orders.  He didn’t have long to wait.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” Carlos snarled abruptly.  “Down on your knees and gag on it, you worthless homo—now!”

 

Trace jerked, startled by the suddenness of the order, but he obeyed.  Falling to his knees on the soft flooring of leaves, he opened his mouth wide and took the swollen, oozing head into his mouth, tasting the salty drops of precum trickling from the tip.

 

Carlos grunted as the teen slowly began deepthroating him.  He felt the boy’s esophagus wrap tightly around his shaft as the kid buried his face in the alpha’s crotch, grinding his nose voluntarily into the stud’s pubic hair.

 

“Goddam, puta, you mother fuckin’ cocksucker,” the grinning killer hissed, “fuckin’ punk gobblin’ down my dick—you a natural born faggot, aintcha?”

 

Trace made the mistake of trying to answer, gurgling on the shaft of flesh jammed down his throat.  He was rewarded with a hard bitchslap across his face.  “Shaddap!” Carlos growled.  “Lick under my head, cunt.  Run your tongue down my tool.”

 

The boy obeyed, wrapping his arms around the stud’s thick, muscled legs.  As he chugged down the convict’s cock, he ran his hands up and down the taut denim, feeling Carlos’s hard, chiseled thighs and calves.  His hands sank lower and lower, down towards the alpha’s combat boots…

 

…and encountered the hilt of the knife.

 

“What?” Trace muttered in surprise as he pulled his head up off Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “What was that?”  He peered up into the stranger’s face, obscured in the darkness.

 

He couldn’t see the look of cruel anger building in the brawny convict’s face, but he could hear the menace in the older man’s cold whisper.  “It was gonna be a surprise for ya, boy.  See, vato, you’re broken.  I’m gonna fix ya.  When I’m done with ya, you won’t be a faggot no more.”

 

Trace scrambled backward across the dead leaves, trying to get to his feet.  “Wh-whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, man?” he quavered as the realization of impending danger began to percolate through his haze of lust and hormones.

 

“I’m talking about stickin’ you like the useless fag pig you are, punk.  And the first thing I’m gonna stick you with is my cock.  Shame ya didn’t give me more head, fairy, cause that’s all the lube yer gonna get.”

 

“What? No!” the youth squealed in fear.  “Dude, I just give head—ain’t no one been up my ass!”

 

“Tough luck, cunt,” the vicious convict sneered.  “Guess that means this is gonna hurt like a bitch, huh?  Good.  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you ain’t too tight.”

 

“M-man, I th-think I gotta go,” Trace whispered as cold fear stole over his smooth slim body, trembling in the pale moonlight.  “I-I gotta be-be somewhere…”

 

He had time for just one yelp of terror as Carlos sprang at him and slammed him sideways into a tree.  Unluckily for the randy, adventurous teen, there was no one close enough to hear it.  As he slumped unconscious to the ground, there was no hope of rescue.  And Carlos knew it.

 

It only took a moment to bind the punk’s hands behind his back, using his own button-down denim shirt, twisted into a band.  That done, Carlos flipped the boy onto his back, making sure the boy’s bound hands were bent up into an agonizing position under his own body weight.

 

Carlos was gonna teach the teen homo a thing or two about the pain he felt all faggots deserved, before “fixing’ him for good.

 

He started by parting the slut’s legs, leaving his jeans and hightops still on.  Shrugging off his leather jacket, he laid it between the boy’s spread legs.  As he did, the kid began to moan.  The fluttering eyelashes in his gorgeous face signaled the slow, reluctant return of consciousness.

 

Carlos grunted in contempt.  Little fuck hadn’t even hit the tree hard enough to break the skin.  If that was all it took to lay him low, he realized, he was gonna hafta be careful or he’d fix the fag before he got to have any fun with him.

 

The strapping convict stood over the prone, helpless teen.  Stripped to the waist, his powerful, tattooed torso gleamed in the faint sliver light in the small clearing.  The teen swam back to a stunned awareness to see the ominous muscled silhouette looming over him—and he realized just how isolated and alone he was.

 

Trace began to blubber, jerking and yanking his arms helplessly against the tight binding.  “P-please, man, no,” he sobbed, “I’ll do anything ya-ya want, dude, you can stick it up my ass, I w-won’t tell anyone—“  He trailed off into incoherent weeping.

 

Carlos just stood silently over the cowering, helpless boy.  He didn’t say a word—he just held up the knife.

 

It was the same one he’d bought his first day out.  The razor-sharp edge, all twelve inches of it, glinted wickedly in the faint light, as did the deep, evil serrations on the other side.  The hilt ended in a handle with a handguard; Carlos could be assured of a secure, well-balanced grip whether he was slashing through organs or slicing through bone.

 

Tonight, he was planning to do both.  But he needed to be careful.  Little queer-ass pansy was fragile; he’d have to make sure he was only hitting non-vital areas to start.  Good thing he’d learned all about inflicting nightmarish but non-fatal pain in prison.

 

But to start with, he wanted to fuck.  His throbbing shaft needed care and a warm, moist sheath.  This teen’s ass would work perfectly, but he knew it’d take time, effort, and some slight discomfort to pop the cherry hole.

 

He had a better idea.

 

“So you ain’t never had anyone up yer fuckhole, huh, you worthless slut?  What kinda fag are ya, bitch?  We’re gonna fix that right now.  Don’t worry, cunt, my shaft ain’t gonna hurt ya.  Well, not after I open ya up with this.”

 

Dropping to his knees on his jacket between the kid’s legs, Carlos leaned forward over the prone youth and held his knife up in front of the boy’s face.

 

Trace already knew that things were bad, that he was in more danger than he’d ever been in before, but he wasn’t able to absorb the implication of the knife.  For one thing, at seventeen inches with a twelve-inch double-sided stainless steel blade, it was both larger and incomparably better designed to inflict pain and death than any blade he’d ever seen before.  He simply couldn’t imagine it being used on him.

 

That changed the moment Carlos lifted the helpless youth’s legs and rammed the knife straight through the tight denim cradling his ass up into his rectum.  The sadistic killer hadn’t just cut himself a fuckhole through the jeans, he forced the blade up into the unfortunate kid’s colon, slicing his sphincter suddenly and brutally.

 

Carlos paused for a moment, his biceps bulging as he forced the blade in deeper.  Then he twisted it viciously deep in Trace’s guts before yanking it out again in a swift, cruel, slicing motion.  Holding the bloody blade up for a moment, the evil killer admired the evidence of his own malignant sadism.

 

Beneath him, the teen writhed in agony, experiencing an entire spectrum of pain he’d never known existed.  The cold, glassy slashes deep inside his tender fuckhole were too intense for him to scream; he could only gurgle and spray saliva as he tried desperately not to vomit in pain.

 

Carlos could see the amount of agony he’d inflicted on his victim.  “Fuck yeah, cunt, looks like you’re finally ready to take my dick.  ‘Course, even after slittin’ ya so it won’t hurt so bad, I’m still gonna tear ya some, but you like the pain, right faggot?”

 

As the bound, helpless teen writhed and mewled in pain, the brutal convict grabbed his club-like cock and plunged it into the kid’s mangled ass.  The only lube was the boy’s warm blood as Carlos proved true to his word; the slashes he’d cut in the cunt’s sphincter weren’t enough—his thick, pulsing shaft tore Trace’s ass open even more painfully than the knife had.

 

The young virgin had reached a snapping point; the pain was too much.  He shrieked in a shrill cry of agony, fear and despair.

 

It was music to Carlos’s ears.  It was proof of the pain he was able to inflict on this worthless little faggot—but it could also draw the attention of others.  He wasn’t done torturing this motherfucker, not by a long shot.  He needed to keep the meat quiet.

 

He brought his blade into play again.

 

For a few months, he’d shared a cell with a straight serial killer.  The guy had had lots of useful tips; Carlos had learned a lot from him.  Like how to silence a fucktoy while still keeping ‘em alive.  It caused unimaginable pain—but who cared?

 

He used it now.  “Stupid pansy piece of shit, guess I gotta shut you up, your fuckin’ pig squeals are goddam annoying, motherfucker,” he snarled as he stuck the tip of his blade into Trace’s Adam’s apple.

 

Tightening his strong bicep, he drove the sharp steel tip down into the boy’s larynx.  He had to apply some force when he felt the resistance of the cartilage, but he was able to slice through the voicebox and slit Trace’s vocal cords with ease.  Once the knife was inserted far enough to do the appropriate damage, the cruel killer abruptly yanked it back out.

 

He’d rendered the helpless teen boy mute and wallowing in unimaginable agony, without endangering a single major blood vessel.  Trace wasn’t dying; he only wished he was.

 

The pain was far beyond anything he’d ever imagined; in him mind he was screaming in horrific agony.  The fact that all he could hear was a wet gurgling sound accompanied by a faint spray of blood scared him so bad he was barely coherent, but the grotesque blood-gargling sensation in his throat was nothing compare to the red-hot iron shaft being shoved up his ass…

 

At some point, Trace wished devoutly he’d stayed in the bushes and waited for Jimmy, but it was a fleeting thought in the whirlwind of slashing agony that was enveloping him.  As he gasped frantically, he heard air whistling through the slash in his neck.

 

“Yeah, that shut ya the fuck up, dinnit,” sneered the dark-skinned cholo sadist.  “Now take my dick, homo, make me cum.  I’m gonna give ya exactly what you deserve, you useless cocksucker; I’m gonna stick ya like a fuckin’ pig.”

 

Sitting up on his knees with the boy’s feet on his shoulders and his arms wrapped around the helpless youth’s legs, Carlos held the knife in front of Trace’s pale face.  He saw its icy glint reflected in the teen’s wide, shock-ringed eyes as he continued to taunt his terrified victim.

 

“Look at it, cunt,” he whispered sharply.  “Lookit how sharp it is.  You already felt it, bitch—didja like it?  Sure the fuck hope so, ya cumsuckin’ fairy, cause you’re about to get a whole lot more of it.”

 

Bending down, he snarled in Trace’s weeping, gurgling face.  “Quit whining, you stupid fuck.  You’re out here cause you love ta get all kinda shafts stuck in ya, right?  So here ya go, you fag piece of shit, I’m givin’ ya one that’s longer and harder than any you’ve ever had—or ever will.  Now shut the fuck up and get ready to blow your load as I fuck ya to death with both my dick and my blade—two shafts at once, huh, ya cock pig?”

 

Holding the blade upright, he pointed the tip down and rammed it into Trace’s soft, flat belly, the knife penetrating the smooth skin with no resistance at all.  It sliced through the punk’s tender guts, slashing through the intestines.  Grunting forcefully, Carlos applied pressure with his arm, causing the tattoo on his bicep to bulge visibly as he forced the blade all the way through the teen’s slim, writhing body and pinning him to the earth underneath.

 

Trace’s struggles were involuntary; he was embedded in a fiery wall of pain like an insect in amber.  He wasn’t rational—he only knew that he must not move, the slightest movement made the horrible burning slashing in his guts much much worse…

 

He didn’t have much luck remaining motionless.  Carlos was ruthlessly raping his ass.  As the twisted convict pumped his enormous tool up the teen’s slit, bleeding fuckhole, the force of his thrusts jerked the kid along the ground.  Unfortunately for the young slut, the knife that was impaling him didn’t move; it was buried in the ground.

 

Every time Carlos shoved his cock deeply into Trace’s ass, the boy’s body was forced against the blade, widening the wound as he got fucked.

 

Mewling silently, the panicked boyslut jerked his head from side to side.  The slit in his neck was small and barely visible; aside from a fine mist sprayed with each desperate breath, there was very little bleeding.  He was trying frantically to scream, his beautiful face twisted in pain and terror, smeared with snot and tears.

 

But it was the hurt, bruised expression in his eyes that tripped a switch in Carlos.  There was something about the vulnerability of the hot young teen’s face that sent his sadistic anger into overdrive.

 

With another deep grunt, he yanked the knife back up and out of the kid’s abdomen.  Trace flailed in agony, his red chucks kicking the air just over his killer’s broad shoulders as the wheezing and gurgling increased in his damaged windpipe.

 

“Fuck, ya like that dontcha, ya sick fuck?”  Carlos grinned maliciously at his young, helpless victim.  “Goddam pig, yer ass sure grabbed hold of my dick when I stuck ya.  Shit, lookit yer cock, you disgusting queer-ass bitch, you’re gettin’ hard—you disgusting fuckin’ piece of shit, gettin’ banged by a real man gets ya all stiff even when yer gettin’ snuffed!”

 

Trace heard the words but they meant nothing to him; his mind was a chemical stew of adrenaline and testosterone that was incapable of coherent thought—but it was able to process the sensation of bewildering and somehow painful erection.

 

It didn’t have long to process it, though.  Carlos leveled the blade at the waist on the boy’s left side, then rammed it in at an upward angle.  This time, stabbing diagonally into the unlucky teen’s torso, the brutal killer was able to shove the knife in up to the hilt, all twelve inches of sharpened steel buried deep inside the punk’s firm, quivering body.

 

The powerful cholo groaned in pleasure as massive organ trauma caused involuntary spasms in Trace’s colon and esophagus.  As the viciously serrated blade sliced through the kid’s liver, spleen and stomach before puncturing his right lung, his rectum grasped Carlos’s thick, throbbing rod and began milking it in long, rolling convulsions.  At the same time, the boy started vomiting; there was nothing in his stomach to come up, but the cruel, excruciating internal injuries he’d endured triggered an uncontrollable retching that only intensified his agony.

 

“Now yer gettin’ it, huh, puta?” the fag-hating alpha hissed at the dying teen.  “Now yer gettin’ what all you fuckin’ queers deserve—a long hot shaft in your ass and a long cold shaft in your guts.  Told ya I’d fix ya, you stupid homo—you ain’t gonna be no faggot by the time I’m done with ya; you’re gonna be fuckin’ meat!”

 

Gripping the long handle-like hilt of the military knife, Carlos twisted and ground it in the wound, slashing the boy’s tender innards into ribbons of bleeding flesh.  Then he yanked the blade out in a sing, swift, brutal jerk.  Grinning malevolently, he spit in the cunt’s vacant, stunned face before holding the dripping knife in front of it.

 

“Look at it, fag,” he whispered evilly.  “See those strings of meat hanging off the serrations?  Those are your guts, you worthless cock-gobblin’ pussyboy.  And as much I as keep guttin’ ya like a fish, you’re still hard and drippin’ on my dick.  Ain’t no way to help ya, motherfucker; yer a natural-born homo.  So I guess you’re just garbage, huh?  Ain’t no one gonna miss garbage.”

 

The convict’s muscular, inked body heaved with lust and rage, his broad back and tatted chest glistening with hot reeking mansweat.  Trace’s smooth, flat swimmer’s chest was also covered with sweat, but his was a clammy, cold sweat wrung agonizingly from the teen’s lithe dying body.  But the strong, strapping body of the enraged alpha hunched over him, driving his thick swollen cock up the convulsing teen’s ass, gave off so much heat he was steaming slightly in the chill night air.

 

The kid’s jeans rasped against Carlos’s pubic hair as the hulking alpha’s huge, hairy balls slapped at the slash he’d cut in the denim to access the pansy’s ass.  The killer’s own tight jeans massaged his tight, taut ass as his muscled legs planted his combat boots firmly on the ground, guaranteeing plenty of traction for powerful thrusts.  As the slashed, sliced teen thrashed in mindless agony, his Converse hightops quivered and flailed over Carlos’s broad, heaving shoulders.

 

Raising the knife up over his head, Carlos brought it back down, slamming it home in Trace’s broad, shallow pectoral on his left side, slipping it between two ribs just below his heart.  It was a smooth, swift stab right into the chest, completely puncturing the left lung and—like the belly stab—completely impaling the tortured teen and pinning him to the ground.

 

The force of the blade through his lung rippled through his body, forcing his breath out with a long, ragged groan, whistling through his mangled vocal cords.  Convulsions flowed down his once-virgin body, each one causing his cock to rise up and smack wetly against his killer’s furry belly and his rectum to stroke the cruel con’s engorged tool.

 

Now, Carlos realized, the clock was running.  He’d taken care of the teen fag; the disgusting little pervert wasn’t gonna suck no more cocks—but Carlos still demanded his orgasm of rage.  The punk bitch was meat but he still hadn’t drained his righteous killer’s cock.

 

The homo whore needed to suffer more.  That was always the answer.

 

Carlos lay full-length on top of the dying young boy.  Trace was barely alive; as his lungs slowly collapsed, all his attention was now focused on being able to breathe.  He wasn’t able to comprehend that he was enduring the last few moments of his life—he only knew that he had to keep breathing.  It was hard; there was a heavy weight on his chest, sliding around on a film of sweat and compressing his somehow stiff and oozing cock…but breathe, ignore the pain, ignore the warm soft flesh sliding on your dick as you writhe in agony, just breathe…

 

And the sadistic cholo chuckled.  “Time to die, vato.  Just fuckin’ die on my cock like ya deserve, you fucking pervert punk!”

 

With that, Carlos held the knife across Trace’s neck and began to slice through his throat.  This time, he went below the larynx.  The esophagus itself was, he knew from experience, a rubbery piece of tissue.

 

It took him a little while to saw through it.

 

The ultimate agony of fatal trauma managed to focus the boy’s attention, gruesomely ensuring his full awareness of the final nightmarish horror of his last few seconds alive in a sadistic quirk of physiological fate.

 

Trace gasped and gurgled louder than ever as his throat was slashed.  He could feel each back-and-forth cut of the razor-sharp blade through the flesh and tendons of his neck.  As unimaginable pain rocked his nervous system, his swollen, purple dick pulsed with each slice of the blade.

 

So did his eager fuckhole.  “Yeaaahhhh…” grunted Carlos.  “Fuck yeah, you fucking fag cunt, ya like gettin’ put down by a real man, huh?  Then take, this, cocksucker!”

 

His powerful arm bulging, Carlos flayed the teen slut’s trachea open, listening with erotic glee as the young boy gagged and choked, gargling his own blood.  “Fuckin’ die, fag!” the angry, lust-driven alpha cried as the slim, sweaty sack of meat under him milked a massive boiling wad of  manspunk out of his almost painfully-swollen cock.

 

As the handsome teen hacked and drowned in his own blood, the screaming icy darkness that descended on him was held back by a single jolt of hot fluid flooding his mangled guts.  Somehow, it seemed to be accompanied by another in his groin; a single, white-hot wire sounding his long, thick, agonizingly hard dick…

 

Coughing up one last gout of blood, the gay teen kicked his chucks on his killer’s shoulders as a solid ropy stream of semen spurted out of his cock and was immediately smeared with his blood against his belly and that of his vicious, dominant killer.  The shuddering meat pumped a continual flow of DNA for more than twenty seconds but by that time, the teen’s blood pressure had dropped so low that brain death was occurring.

 

There wasn’t enough of Trace left to enjoy his death load.

 

Gasping, Carlos remained in place for a good two minutes as he caught his breath, his pulsing, oozing rod firmly sheathed in the corpse’s warm, moist, quivering colon.  Every few seconds the hulking, sweating convict shuddered violently and spat another stream of pearly seed into the boy’s mangled fuckhole.

 

Finally feeling his pulse return to normal, the burly killer pulled his still-dripping shaft out of the dead teen’s ass and rose to his feet.  Bending down, he retrieved his biker jacket and fished his pack of smokes out before slipping into the warm embrace of the leather.  He lit one up, inhaling deeply as he let his huge purple hog swing free and drip-dry, the cum swiftly drying to a white glaze in the cool night air.

 

Clenching the cigarette in the side of his mouth, Carlos knelt over the kid’s body, still trembling and spasming randomly in death.  “Toldja I’d fix ya, you cumsuckin’ homo,” the muscled killer chuckled vindictively.  “Ain’t gonna suck no more cocks, huh?  Unless the folks at the morgue or the undertaker’s wanna have some fun, but you still ain’t gonna be suckin’, huh, you worthless piece a’ shit pervert?”

 

Picking up his knife, Carlos looked around for a cloth.  He spied Trace’s t-shirt, a pile of white fabric easily seen in the darkness.  Grinning, he grabbed it and used it to wipe down his blade. He make sure to clean all the dangling strings of flesh trapped in the serrations, leaving the punk’s own t-shirt to be found smeared with the victim’s blood and meat.

 

Taking a final drag off his smoldering butt, he ground the glowing tobacco ember out in the very center of the dead youth’s forehead.  Rising to his feet, Carlos glanced around carefully.  There was no need; there was no one within sight or earshot.

 

And the few that Carlos encountered on his way back to the parking lot were too intent on their own activities to notice him.  Silently, he slipped back into the Mustang and had pulled out of the lot and onto the street before turning on the headlights.

 

Three minutes later, he was back on the highway.  He headed back to his motel room, finally feeling that he’d earned a rest for a job well done.

 

Not that his job was done.  They all needed to be put down—all of them.

 

Carlos felt renewed; the well-being derived from a sense of purpose filled him with excitement.  This was what he was here for—to put fags in their place.  And their place was taking his cock, then taking a dirt nap.

 

But he needed money.  Some homos had money—a lot of money.  Carlos could have all the fun he wanted, but with a little judicious hunting, he could be living good.

 

As he slowed the ‘Stang for the exit for his motel, the twisted convict began to laugh out loud.  He knew he was on the path of righteousness; being wrong couldn’t feel this good.

 

Fags needed to be taught a lesson.  He was just the man to learn ‘em.

 

 

Trace’s desperate parents reported him missing the following morning but his slaughtered corpse wasn’t found for another four days.  One of the local street whores met his dealer in the park; he got his fix for a discount if he gave the dude free sex.  Looking for somewhere to do their transactions in private, they inadvertently stumbled across the mangled body.

 

That night, Carlos beat off watching the news coverage.

M4M4Christ

Joe rolled over in bed, his hard, hairy body sluggish in sleep.  The phone on the nightstand was beeping an alert.  Instantly, he was awake—albeit reluctantly; less than eight hours ago he’d been engaged in vigorous physical activity.  But this might be work.  In his line, he didn’t have a regular schedule.  He was always on call.

 

Sitting up, he glanced down at the phone and realized it wasn’t his.  The details of last night came flooding back to him.  The little daddy’s boy faggot he popped.  This was that kid’s phone.  He’d taken some good shots of the corpse but hadn’t sent them to daddy yet.  He’d planned to do that once he got home, but he was so worn out, he’d fallen asleep before he got it done.

 

Of course, he might have had time to get the pics sent if he hadn’t played around on the cunt’s phone, posting a couple of ads on the fag sex apps the little homo had on his phone.  Stupid piece of shit hadn’t even bothered with any passwords, either.  Joe was free to post whatever he wanted under the dead kid’s login.

 

That was what was happening now.  There’d been a response.  The original post had been a generic “looking for sex” note giving nothing more than physical stats and neighborhood (one a good half-hour from Joe’s actual residence).

 

Despite Joe’s lack of rest, his dick slowly swelled and jutted as he read the reply.

 

“hey man i aint been with a dude but I wanna try    just turned 18   cant do anything at home  HMU if you wanna meet but its gotta be public I don’t want no pervs”

 

Joe tamped his hypersexual excitement down and sent back a response, asking about the boy’s appearance.  The teen sent back a selfie, showing a broad, grinning face with a large nose, big brown eyes with long lashes and curly hair nearly the same shade of brown.  Only the top of the kid’s torso was visible, but it showed a smooth chest, lean but broad.

 

The alpha suggested a meeting in the area he’d mentioned in the post, at a coffee bar he’d passed on occasion.  The kid agreed to the location, but asked that they meet that evening.

 

It seemed that over the holiday break, his parents had enrolled him in a draconian vacation bible school.  Any absence would be reported to them.  Afterwards, however, he could sneak out…

 

Joe grunted in frustration.  He wanted the tender young cunt now—but there was nothing he could do about it.  Stifling his anger, he agreed to meet the boy at ten o’clock that night.

 

But the little bible-thumping cumsucker was gonna pay for making him wait. In the meantime, he eased the sadistic beast within him by sending SWAT daddy the pics of his raped and murdered son…

 

————————————————————————————————-

 

Joe was in the parking lot at half-past nine, scoping the place out and waiting for the kid to show up.  He wanted to see how the teen arrived—if he came by car, if he came alone—anything to let him know if it was safe to continue with his plans.  Based on the punk’s response, Joe expected him to be alone, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

 

Laying the seat back, the buff alpha lit a cigarette as he waited.  He cracked the window and exhaled the smoke, his thick black leather jacket letting him ignore the winter chill.  The white thermal shirt stretched tightly across his broad chest helped insulate him as well, but he could feel the cool air descend over his legs.  His black jeans were faded and worn, and skin-tight as they were, did little to keep out the cold.

 

He didn’t care.  The heat welling angrily from his swollen crotch was enough.

 

He shifted his feet, his heavy leather engineer boots making scuffling sounds as the thick soles dragged on the floor mats.  As his cigarette dwindled and he lit another, his impatience built.  He’d fully expected the kid to show up at least a couple of minutes early, but it was just past ten now and the little piece of shit hadn’t shown up yet.

 

That didn’t bode well for the cunt’s immediate future.

 

Joe was just about to light yet another smoke when he saw the boy, walking quickly as he turned the corner from a side street.  He was alone—stupid motherfucker, he was gonna regret that—and wore a gray fleece hoodie zipped up with the hood tightened around his head.  Only his face was visible, with a few sandy locks on his forehead, but it was enough for Joe to recognize him.

 

He couldn’t see what the kid was wearing under the hoodie, but he had a taut pair of skinny jeans below, the pale brown material—almost the same color as his hair—cradling his rounded asscheeks.  White, firmly-laced hightop sneakers completed his outfit.

 

Even from a distance, there was something in the kid’s face—or maybe it was something that wasn’t there…

 

He got out of the car, his black boots striding quickly across the asphalt as he intercepted the youth before he could get inside the crowded coffee shop.  The odd impression of the boy’s face increased as he approached; after a moment, he recognized what he was noticing.

 

Innocence.  The boy was sexually curious, but was utterly inexperienced in sex.  The powerful sadist struggled to stifle an evil grin, but was unable to control the enlarging bulge in his groin.  He was gonna enjoy destroying the unlucky kid.  The punk had no idea what he was about to suffer.

 

“Hey,” he called out softly, “you’re late.  Thought you were gonna be here at ten.”

 

The boy stopped and sized him up.  The kid clearly liked what he saw.  His jeans were just as incapable of hiding his erection as Joe’s were in his own case—two hard throbbing dicks visible as they looked at each other.  Joe could see lust lighting the twink’s hazel eyes as they followed the contour of the older man’s thick hog, outlined in his crotch in tight denim.

 

The boy blinked. “Name’s Noah,” he gasped throatily before gulping nervously and holding out his hand.

 

Joe grinned easily.  “I’m Trevor,” he replied.  It didn’t matter if the punk new his real name or not, but Joe didn’t want anyone to overhear; there was a couple getting into a car a few feet away.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” Noah said sheepishly.  “We were late getting back from bible study and it took my folks a while to get to sleep.”

 

“You had to sneak out?” Joe asked, careful to keep the contempt out of his voice.

 

“Yeah,” Noah admitted, blushing with embarrassment.  “See, my folks are real strict and they’re real religious, too.  I’m not allowed out alone after nine at night.  And Dad takes the car keys with him when he goes to bed, so I had to walk.  I mean, they don’t let me have a license, but I can drive.”

 

Joe chuckled silently to himself.  “You couldn’t get a friend to give you a lift?”

 

Noah was horrorstruck.  “Dude, all my friends are in the same church as me—they’d rat me out to my parents in a heartbeat!  And if they knew I was meeting a strange man…”  He broke off, the thought making him shudder.  “Y’know, maybe I shouldn’t do this…”

 

“C’mon, man, you’re already here and no one knows,” Joe cajoled.  “And I damn sure ain’t gonna say anything.”

 

Noah winced at the curse but seemed to consider the idea.  Joe upped the ante.  “Besides, I got a room at a motel halfway across town where nobody’s gonna know either of us.”

 

He had, too.  It was a cheap, run-down place out on what had been the highway until the bypass was built.  Now it was a rent-by-hour/day/week/month joint that served more as a flophouse to the locals.  It was full of whores and drunks—but not, at least, bedbugs.

 

Before coming to the coffee bar, he’d driven there and given a tweaker forty bucks to rent a twenty-dollar room for the night.  After, Joe pocketed the key, secure in the knowledge that the meth addict would take the change and get so wasted that within a couple of hours he’d be unable to remember who gave him cash for a room.

 

Noah hesitated, glancing uneasily through the window, as if making sure no one inside had recognized him.  The kid was deep in the closet and scared as hell.  Joe recognized the symptoms.  He’d have to coax the little fuck gently, at least for a while.  Once they got to the room, he’d have the cunt in his control.

 

The powerful alpha smiled charmingly at the skittish teen, his rugged, scruffy good looks adding irresistibly to the lure of his muscled body.  Noah fought within himself, his fundamental Christian upbringing battling ferociously with his pure pig lust.  The hormones pumping through his lithe teen body decided the issue.

 

“Ok, dude,” he muttered thickly as desire fogged his brain, “If no one’s gonna know, I guess it’s ok.  But…but, y’know…I…I ain’t done anything like…well, like this, y’know?”

 

“It’ll be ok,” Joe grinned cheerfully, “after all, a little fun never killed anybody.  C’mon, my car’s over there.”

 

The parking lot was empty by this time.  No one saw the teen in the hoodie and the powerfully-built dude in leather and jeans get into the same car.

 

As his car headed north, then east through town, the buff sadist was surprised to feel the teen’s hand fumbling between his legs.  The boy was anxious to fondle the older dude’s shaft.  As Noah gripped the thick, denim-wrapped shaft, he inhaled shakily in lust and amazement; the strapping, mysterious stud was hung like a horse.

 

The naïve youth was enthralled; he had no actual experience with other men—not even in terms of porn; he’d had no unrestricted internet access.  He had little with which he could compare the massive tube of flesh his hands were now massaging; only his own cock seemed adequate.

 

The latter was smaller, but not by much.  Noah wasn’t unendowed himself; his own vein-wrapped tool was almost a good seven inches long and two in diameter.  And while Noah hadn’t seen any porn, he’d seen his classmates in the locker room at his private religious school.  He’d treasured up the images of smooth naked teen bodies for his beat-off sessions, but he’d also noticed that he was better hung than any of the other boys.

 

Now he’d met someone even bigger.  And even though he knew it was not just disgusting and sinful but downright dangerous, he couldn’t help being drawn in, hoping to be introduced to dark, hidden pleasures he hadn’t dared to fully acknowledge, even to himself.

 

Joe was already aware of what was running through the boy’s mind; it really wasn’t that difficult to figure out.  He reveled in anticipation of his control over the kid’s emotions as he lulled the religious youth into taking his cock before unleashing an explosion of violence.

 

Noah had been too preoccupied with dick to notice his surroundings, but he looked up as Joe pulled into the motel parking lot.  He tightened the drawstring of his hoodie, craning his neck as he looked around concernedly.  “Uh, Trevor?” he quavered, “uh, is this place ok?”

 

Joe chortled deeply.  “Yeah, man, it’s safe.  No one’s gonna see ya here.  C’mon, man, follow me and I promise you’ll blow your most intense load ever.”

 

Noah’s cock was still erect and pulsing within the tight confines of his skinny jeans; he jumped out of the car, his white hightops padding along silently in the footprints of Joe’s thick black boots.  The sadistic alpha had already switched on a light in the room by the time the kid reached the doorway.

 

The privileged, protected youth looked around at the rented squalor in despair.  He’d only ever experienced squeaky-clean households and sanitized thoughts (except for those dark sinful ones that gave him wood).

 

The room was dim and hazy, still reeking of smoke.  Not just cigarettes (he’d recognized that illicit scent on the mysterious stud and it made him start to ooze from his mushroom tip) but the sweet and unfamiliar scents of weed and crack.  The rickety furniture was marked with dark lines—burns, actually, spots where cigarettes had burnt down and hot crack and meth pipes had been set down.

 

The dank, fetid air was being pushed lazily around by an ancient window AC unit that was not in a window but had been placed in a hole cut in the rear wall; it looked like garbage but the heat certainly worked—the room was over eighty degrees.  The double bed had a cheap iron headboard and a thin polyester cover; the pillows, also thin, were covered with yellowed, stained linen.

 

But then he looked back at the bulging muscles of the handsome top and decided to shelve his objections.  After all, he’d been right—no one Noah knew could possibly be in this neighborhood.  The place was filthy, but so was the act.  And the desire.  Filthy, all of it.

 

And he wanted to be so fucking filthy…

 

“C’mon, boy, lessee what ya got,” Joe smirked as he rubbed the massive bulge in his groin.  He leered suggestively at the innocent teen, knowing that the young faggot would have to respond.

 

He was right.  Noah gulped again, his Adam’s apple slipping up and down his smooth neck.  His hands shook as he reached for the zipper of his hoodie; they shook not in fear but in excitement.  He slipped off the grey jacket, revealing a slate-gray long sleeve button-down shirt tucked into his beige skinny jeans.

 

At the same time, Joe took off his thick leather jacket, the clinging material of the white thermal shirt revealing the full breadth of his massive pectorals.  The shirt was open at the neck, displaying a V-shaped wedge of dark wiry chest hair.  Rolled up as they were, the sleeves did nothing to hide the alpha’s muscular, hairy forearms.

 

Joe stood over Noah and slipped off the shirt, his powerful torso glistening with sweat in the hazy light of the overheated room.  The room wasn’t the only thing to get overheated; Noah found himself literally aching with desire as his eyes slid down the stud’s sculpted body, the lower half still wrapped in jeans.

 

Noah tried amateurishly to add a seductive strip-tease effect as he undressed, but his hands were trembling so much he had difficulty in getting the buttons of his shirt undone.  Joe watched and smiled patiently as his rage flared inside at this delay in his gratification.  He managed to control the desire to reach out and tear the shirt right off the bitch, buttons popping everywhere.  And after all, why not?  The kid was right where Joe wanted him…

 

But just then Noah managed to get the last button undone and slipped out of the shirt.  A thin white cotton t-shirt was underneath.  The boy smiled hesitantly, still uneasy, as he pulled it off over his head.

 

Underneath, his young teen body was smooth and slim but not scrawny.  Even at a distance, Joe could see the soft, silky texture of the youth’s skin.  Tender flesh waiting to be used and tortured—Joe’s lust was getting harder to restrain.  He needed to take a moment.

 

Abruptly turning his back on the slut, he strode across the floor to the table where he’d left his jacket, his leather engineer boots leaving little impression on the soiled, threadbare carpet.  Reaching into one of the pockets on the jacket, he fished out his smokes and lit one up, slipping the pack and lighter back into the jacket.  He didn’t carry them in the jeans—they were truly skin-tight and would have crushed the pack.

 

Noah looked on, half in fascination and half in concern.  He didn’t know many people who smoked—and those he did, his parents never failed to point out, were going to burn in Hell for various sins, cigarettes only one of them.

 

The thought of what they’d say if they could see him was strangely appealing.  This was forbidden and that made it so much more erotic…

 

“W-won’t that make my clothes smell?” he asked shakily as he leaned against the bed and crossed one leg over the other so he could untie his sneakers.

 

“Don’t worry, man,” Joe drawled with a friendly grin.  “I got ya covered.  Time we’re done here, you won’t need to worry about how your clothes smell, I promise ya.”

 

Noah nodded mutely.  The enormity of what has happening had hit him.  He was about to lose his virginity—with an anonymous older man in a motel room.  There was no going back after this.  Whatever else happened in his life, it would be stained by this night.

 

But in the battle between piety and hormones, the latter was the natural winner.  After all, his young, healthy body was at its sexual peak.  Noah rarely jacked off; that was a sin, too—worse than cigarettes, by far.  And he had almost no privacy at home anyway.

 

Lust, aided by the thick musky scents of sweat and smoke, stifled the tritely moralistic murmurings in Noah’s mind.  Having pulled off his hightops, he dropped his jeans first.  He stood across from Joe, his lithe young body nude except for his thin white briefs and his calf-high athletic socks.  Joe took another drag from his cig and leered at the kid’s groin; it looked like he’d stuffed a sausage in his underwear.

 

Little cunt was hung, that was for sure.

 

Still keeping the easy-going, charming grin on his handsome, chiseled face, Joe exhaled a bluish cloud of smoke.  “Lessee what ya got, boy.  Show me your dick.”

 

Noah looked away, shifting awkwardly.  “I-I dunno, man, I ain’t never done anything with-with a guy…”

 

Joe knew damn good and well the cringing little faggot hadn’t done anything with anybody ever.  But tonight, he was playing for effect.  Tonight wasn’t just assrape—it was mindrape too.  So the cunt had to be cajoled.

 

And besides, the punk wanted it.  “Fuck, dude, don’t back out now.  Lookit yer dick, man—even from here I can see how hard it is.  You want my shaft, don’t ya, son?  It’s ok—you can take my rod up your virgin hole tonight and no one will know.”

 

Noah moaned in erotic lust as a dark spot appeared on the white cotton briefs.  Joe chuckled, noting that it was right at the tip of the slut’s cock.  Motherfuckin’ homo was already oozing.

 

“Drop ‘em,” the hulking sadist whispered, pitching his voice seductively low.  “Drop yer drawers, boy, and get on the bed.”

 

Noah trembled, but he obeyed, slipping out of the briefs.  His flat belly fell smoothly to his groin where curly sand-colored pubes framed a thick, semi-erect tube of pulsing meat.  Clear drops of fluid were dripping out of the dark mushroom tip.

 

The naked teen backed up onto the bed, his beautiful, lithe body gingerly avoiding the stains on the cheap bedspread.  Joe dropped his cigarette and casually crushed it out with his big black boot as he moved towards the bed.  The burn was unnoticeable among the others darkening the carpet.

 

The powerful alpha towered over the punk and leered down at him.  Instinctively, the youth cowered in the shadow of the older man, but glanced up immediately when he heard the dude open his zipper.  The older man had already unbuckled his belt; the thick leather strap dangled loosely on each side of his denim-bound hips.

 

The biggest dick Noah had ever seen was his own.  That changed now.

 

Joe pulled out his cock slowly and expertly, appreciating the effect he was having on his prey.  The kid gaped openly as inch after inch of the stud’s swollen, throbbing shaft emerged from his open fly.  The flesh was so dark, it was almost black, fed by the ropy veins that tightly circled the pulsating rod.  The thick dark trail of fur leading down the stud’s muscled chest and over his firm abs seemed to be designed to direct attention to the groin.

 

Noah gulped in astonishment.  He was scared, but not as much as he should have been, even without knowing Joe’s plans for him.  He’d never so much as played with his ass before—the boy was impressed with the older man’s penis but had no concept of how much it would hurt jammed up his colon.

 

Even so, the alpha’s dick was intimidating.  “Wh-what ya gonna do with that?” he asked tremulously.

 

Joe spoke quietly, the deep bass of his voice seeming to vibrate the root of Noah’s cock.  “Look at it boy,” he muttered, “look at my dick.  You want it, dontcha?  G’wan, put it in yer mouth.  Do it, boy, you know ya wanna.”

 

The alpha was right.  Noah did wanna.  He looked confused and timid, but he leaned forward and took the spongy purple tip into his open mouth, working his tongue over the oozing head and teasing the tender rosebud on the underside.  He slurped loudly, enjoying the salty taste of the precum leaking into his mouth.

 

Joe grinned.  “Fuck yeah, dude,” he moaned, “damn, that’s good.  Work it, boy, work my hog with your mouth.  Slurp it down, cocksucker.”

 

Noah was both shocked and thrilled with the abuse.  Leaning even father forward, he opened his jaw as wide as he could to deepthroat the dominant stranger, his right hand a blur as he jacked his own tool wildly.  Even more erotic was the way the muscular stud clamped his hands on the back of the boy’s head and forced it down onto his throbbing tubesteak.  Deep in the grip of overwhelming lust, the teen had shed his trepidation and succumbed to his long-suppressed desires.

 

The top’s thick column of meat slid into the youth’s throat, plugging it thoroughly.   The kid gagged and choked as Joe’s dick sealed off his airpipe, anxiety rising in his lust-fogged mind as his breath was blocked.  As his eyes started to water, he braced his hands against the alpha’s legs and tried to shove him away. It was like trying to topple a large tree by pushing it over; he could feel the power in the taut denim-covered muscles flexing against his palms.

 

Then, with a sardonic chuckle too subtle for the horny teen to interpret, Joe pulled out.  The hardbodied sadist admired his dick, bobbing in the air and dripping long streamers of boyspit as Noah retched, trying not to puke up the dinner his momma had made him.  The shuddering youth coughed up drool that flowed off his chin, straight down onto the engorged head of his own cock.

 

He’d liked it.  It’d been scary—terrifying, for a moment—but he’d liked it.  He’d liked how the larger, stronger man had taken control and used his face as a fucktoy.  Not that the innocent little faggot virgin would have expressed it in those terms, of course, but the lust motivating his warped pig soul was the same.

 

The fact that it was a disgusting sin that would instantly damn him to Hell only made it sexier.  He was ready to be bad.

 

Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, Noah looked up at the strapping, broad-chested alpha.  He was suddenly entranced with the stranger’s black chest hair, as if noticing it for the first time.  Timorously, he extended a hand.

 

It was only with a great deal of patience and an almost superhuman suppression of rage that Joe allowed the boycunt to touch him.  He stood tall and erect next to the bed, letting the punk run his hands over his huge pecs and fondle his nipples before the greedy, desire-driven fingers sank lower down his body and curled in the fur coating his rippled abs.

 

His anger was expressed through his cock, which pulsed visibly, pumping out a steady stream of clear precum.  Noah noticed the effect but had no clue as to the cause.

 

That thought made Joe’s dick throb even more.  Even if the stupid little shit had a clue, there was no way he could conceive the nightmare in store for him.

 

Then again, maybe he could.  There were some imaginative deaths in the Bible. Joe’s grin came back, more evil than ever.  He looked down at the teen with a cold, appraising contempt.  The cunt would do; he’d be an acceptable meatsack to soak up Joe’s seed.

 

Time to get biblical on his ass.

 

He started slow.  “Ok, boy,” he said, just a hint of menace in his husky voice, “get on your back.  Time to go whole hog.”  He grinned and thrust his hips slightly so that his huge dick swung between his legs.  “And believe me, punk, you’re gettin’ the whole hog.”

 

Trembling with both fear and desire, Noah moved back, his smooth skin crawling from contact with the thin polyester bedspread.  He managed to wriggle to one side, pushing the cover away, only to find the cheap sheets underneath no more comfortable.

 

It didn’t matter.  Tonight, he was gonna explore his darkest dreams; tomorrow he’d be back to being the good little choirboy his family thought he was.  And even if he ultimately went to Hell for it, it’d be worth it.

 

The slim, handsome youth stretched out on his back and raised his legs in the air, presenting his fuckhole like a bitch in heat.  He was gonna get fucked.  A little discomfort wouldn’t matter.

 

The icy gleam in the alpha’s eyes should have been a warning, but the teen had nothing by which to judge it.  Legs spread, he waited eagerly for his first—and unknown to him, his last—sexual experience.

 

Joe climbed on the bed, kneeling between the kid’s smooth, trembling legs.  Grasping his huge oozing tube of manmeat, he rubbed his dick across the punk’s ass, smearing it with precum.  He smiled gently as he placed the thick purple head of his cock against the boy’s buttcrack, the fine hairs tickling his swollen mushroom tip.

 

Noah felt the pressure and uttered a nervous, breathy moan.  This was it.  Everything he’d dreamed of, a hot hard powerful stranger who was gonna fuck the shit outta him.

 

And then he was gonna go home and pretend it never happened.  He was gonna go on with his life and no one would ever know.  His folks would never, could never know how he’d spent the night; it was something they were simply incapable of imagining.  And that was all to Noah’s benefit.  It meant he’d get away with it—so he quashed his anxiety and readied himself for intense physical pleasure.

 

But that wasn’t what he got.

 

Joe was ready.  He knew the little motherfucker was a virgin and wouldn’t be able to handle his tool; he expected it.  He didn’t even need to know the kid’s name to know how the pig would respond.  He didn’t start forcefully, though, there was something he was waiting for, something the slut would ask for.  So he applied pressure slowly, easing the head of his dick into the youth’s tight, intact fuckhole.

 

At the start, Noah shuddered with pleasure.  As he felt the iron-hard shaft start to penetrate him, he inhaled deeply.  The closeness of the muscular alpha flooded his sinuses with sweat and pheromones. The inexperienced teen’s impatience to have the handsome hulking stud buried deep inside him, marking him as his own, outweighed any other concern.

 

Fuck his parents, fuck the bible, fuck it all.  He gave the Joe the invitation he’d been waiting for.  The kid was ready to be a complete faggot pig.

 

“Fuck me, man,” he moaned in a mind-numbing fog of lust.  “Do what you want to me, dude, fuck me rough.  Make me yours tonight…”  His plea trailed off in a gasp of desire.

 

Joe chuckled malignly.  “Ok, cunt,” he sneered, “you asked for it.”

 

Even in his erotic frenzy, the curt, cold tone managed to cut its way through to the center of Noah’s awareness.  By the time it did so, however, there were more pressing matters demanding his attention—like the horrible agony in his ass.

 

The cruel sadist had jammed the entire length of his massive, blood-engorged cock into the boy’s ass.  The phenomenal girth of his member ripped open the youth’s sphincter, making the kid bleed like his cherry had been popped—as it had, brutally.

 

Noah couldn’t scream.  He wanted to, badly, but he couldn’t—fuck, he couldn’t even breathe.  It hurt too much.  It hurt too much to breathe, to move, to think…

 

Move.  He needed to move.  He needed to get of this fucking rod that was impaling his tender rectum, oh fuck he needed to move—

 

Later, Joe was pissed at himself.  He’d let his guard down and it almost backfired on him.  Of course, when it happened, he’d been more pissed at the little homo teen.  And so it was the young cocksucker who ultimately took the brunt of his wrath.

 

At the time, though, Noah thought he was achieving redemption, not damnation, as he clawed his way up off Joe’s enormous dick, kicking and flailing like a wild thing.  Joe was momentarily taken aback—not long, but long enough that the writhing punk was able to scramble free towards the head of the bed.

 

In the next moment, the kid had rolled to the floor and bolted for the bathroom.  In a blood-red rage, Joe lunged after his prey, only to have the boy evade him at the last moment and lock himself in.

 

As Noah slammed the door and turned the lock in the doorknob, he shuddered in relief—and started praying.  He’d been wrong.  He’d sinned, badly, and he’d been punished.  It had hurt; only sinners could want pain like that, Jesus had shown him the way and he wasn’t ever gonna do anything like this again—

 

And that was when Joe’s big black boot kicked through the flimsy hollow-core door, punching out a huge hole.  Squealing with fear, the terrified teenager threw himself on the floor and wrapped his arms around the base of the toilet.  He babbled promises to behave to his God, pleading for salvation in air rank with piss.

 

The enraged alpha had gotten the bathroom door open.  Noah kept his eyes squeezed shut; if he didn’t see what was happening, maybe God wouldn’t let it happen.  He clung to that belief desperately as he heard the muscled sadist approach.

 

Joe was done playing.  He bent down and wrapped one hand clean around the boy’s upper arm.  With a powerful jerk, he pulled the punk free of the toilet and stalked back to the bedroom, dragging the helpless, sobbing youth across the floor behind him.  With a swift, brutal yank, he flung the boy onto the bed.

 

Noah cowered, weeping in abject fear.  He wasn’t curious anymore.  He wanted to go home, go back to safe quiet bible study and beating off secretly in the bathroom.  This—this was too scary, this stud, sexy as he was, was gonna hurt him.

 

The naïve teen glanced up into the face of his tormentor and flinched instantly.  This time, there was no question of mistaking the formidable look of hot rage and cold lust.  No, he wanted no part of any of this.

 

So why was his dick so fucking hard?

 

It was almost painfully erect, throbbing fiercely.  An almost steady stream of clear fluid was leaking out.  He didn’t understand.  This wasn’t happening.

 

Then Joe made it happen.

 

He lunged forward in a lightning blast of violence, driving his fist into the punk’s soft, smooth belly with the force of an industrial piston.  Noah gave a deep, loud grunt and instantly curled into a fetal position as a hard ball of pain tore through his midsection.  The next few seconds seemed an eternity as the kid clutched his abdomen and writhed, trying to get air back into his lungs.

 

“Ya made a bad mistake, motherfucker,” Joe hissed, a frightening glint of psychotic glee dancing in his eyes.  “I was only gonna kill ya before, you worthless cumsucking fag, but, see, now I gotta make it hurt.”

 

He sat gently on the bed next to Noah and softly stroked the boy’s tearstained face.  Brushing away a lock of the kid’s soft brown hair, he leaned so close that Noah could feel the older man’s facial scruff scratch his ear.  As he whispered, his breath was warm on the youth’s neck.

 

“That means I gotta make it slow…”

 

Still struggling for air, the closeted churchboy wasn’t able to comprehend what was being said to him; his attention was focused elsewhere, Joe observed with displeasure.  Time to reorient the queer-ass bitch.

 

Joe rolled the kid onto his back and spread his legs.  Noah realized what was going on just before Joe slammed the full length of his cock up the teen’s virgin ass.  The pressure at the start was tremendous but Joe shoved his rod forward with renewed force, ripping new tears through the kid’s already-mangled sphincter the way his boot had ripped through the door.

 

It got Noah’s air back.  His body contracted involuntarily in distress, stimulating him to inhale.  The pain—this was Hell, he was being punished…this kinda pain could only come from Hell…

 

He shrieked in agony—once.  The shrill screech was cut off when Joe balled his fist and sent a piledriver straight from his shoulder into the boy’s face, blackening his eye and snapping his cheekbone.  “Shaddap!” he barked gruffly as he gripped the punk’s heaving torso in his huge hands, clamping down to hold the smooth lean body still as he penetrated it further.

 

Lost in a dark haze of pain, Noah had limited awareness of anything beyond his own suffering.  His whole body seemed to be consumed in a flame of nightmarish agony from his ass to his face to his cock…

 

As his body shuddered under the violent sexual assault, Noah realized that his cock was not only still hard, it was so hard it hurt.

 

No, this couldn’t be.  This couldn’t be him.  This was wrong.  He had to get away, this wasn’t going to happen to him…  As the panic welled up inside the inexperienced teen, his struggles and cries began to intensify.

 

He hadn’t learned his lesson, Joe realized.  Well, that was ok.  The little fuck was young and healthy; he’d probably last for a while.  Plenty of time for learnin’.  But he needed lesson one all over again.

 

“I said shaddap!” Joe roared, throwing a feral growl into his voice that terrified the youth in the half-second before another donkey-punch landed, splitting his lips.  “You keep your goddam mouth shut while I’m fuckin’ ya, you sniveling faggot, ya feeling me?  Huh, you pansy bitch?  You get what I’m sayin’?”

 

Noah’s eyes opened wide with shock; even in this nightmare anticipation of Hell, the alpha’s words had sunk in.  No, this was wrong…he wasn’t a faggot…please, if he could just get away he’d never look at another dick again, he’d never—

 

And even as he pled silently, he realized it was a bargain he could never keep.  High above the wave of pain swamping his nervous system, the hormone-flooded teen could still feel his own swollen shaft stabbing into the alpha’s rippled abs. An ineffectual weapon of defense, it left trails of clear slimy precum matting the muscled sadist’s dark belly fur.

 

Suddenly, Joe stopped.  He was fully inserted, his long thick rod buried up to the root, his wiry pubes interlocked with the youth’s soft downy fuzz like Velcro.  Sweating and gasping, the powerful top loomed over his victim, the helpless teen who was now pinned to the bed like an insect on his assailant’s cock.

 

The boy opened his eyes hesitantly—at least, he opened his right eye.  He was shuddering in pain, barely able to breathe.  The left side of his face was black and swelling, with blood leaking from his busted lips.

 

The image the suffering teenager saw stuck with him for the rest of his life—approximately another thirteen minutes.

 

The coldly handsome face of the older man hung just inches from his, but the expression on the hard, unshaven face was unlike anything the innocent youth had ever seen.  A somehow erotic mixture of contempt, rage, and desire that offered no hope of compassion or common humanity.  It was the expression of a sexual sadist.

 

Noah was too sheltered to have heard of such a thing, but he got an idea when Joe hocked up a huge wad of phlegm, grinned at the boy, and spit it into his face.  “Fuckin’ faggot,” he sneered.

 

It triggered a desperate rebellion in Noah—unfortunately.  “No!” he shouted in his mind, the reality being a guttural protest pushed out inarticulately between puffy lips.  But it was enough to get the attention of the brawny psychopath.

 

“Goddam it, you piece a’ shit, you really are fuckin’ stupid, aintcha?” he snarled viciously.  “I toldja to shut the fuck up and here ya are tryin’ to whine about somethin’!  I said to shut the fuck UP!”  As his voice rose in rage on the last syllable, he swung back and delivered a massive roundhouse punch square to the boy’s jaw.

 

The punk’s head rocked back as his body flailed from the force of the blow.  Poised on his knees, Joe grunted in pleasure as the involuntary movements worked the cunt’s guts around the sensitive head of his shaft.  The slut’s own tool, violently bobbing with the rest of his body, spattered them both with a fine rain of precum.

 

The sadist observed with sick erotic pleasure the way the faggot’s eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered as he trembled on the edge of consciousness.  As the traumatized teen struggled to stay awake, he coughed up a gout of blood; he was too stunned to realize that he’d spat out one of his canine teeth.

 

When Noah finally came back to himself, he’d had his epiphany.  He was saved.  He was truly ready to give up sin in all its forms and surrender himself to his Lord.  He was convinced of the error of his ways and deeply repentant of them.

 

Problem was, it was a little too late.  Joe made that perfectly clear.

 

Leaning forward, he wrapped his huge strong paws around the teen’s pale, fragile throat and began to squeeze—slowly at first, but inexorably nonetheless.  “G’wan and pray, you useless little bible-thumping faggot—it ain’t gonna help ya, you disgusting cumsucker.  Time to die, cunt.  You ready to meet yer maker?  Cause when ya do, you’re gonna be full of cum!”

 

In a deep red sea of pain, Noah heard the words but didn’t comprehend them.  He was just a soft suburban teen; he hadn’t had the chance to recover from the brutal assault before his air was cut off—utterly and completely.

 

Instinctively, the lithe punk began to struggle violently, his hands clawing at Joe’s, trying to pry them away from his neck while his slim, firm legs kicked and flailed wildly.  His heels drummed on the bed, his flexing feet scraping at the sheets and twisting his white socks.

 

Noah opened his eyes—well, his right eye; the left side of his face was battered and swollen beyond recognition—and with tears welling out, tried to beg and plead for mercy.  He’d never do it again, dear lord, please save me I’ll never look at another boy again I promise…

 

But no words were coming out.  And somewhere in the throbbing drumbeat of torment that had become his world, he was slowly becoming aware of a new pain—that of choking to death.

 

Now his movements weren’t instinctual.  They weren’t necessarily controlled; they were born out of the frenzied panic that seized the little faggot’s soul.

 

The kid wasn’t heavily muscled, but he was no weakling and the fear of death gave an extra impetus to his desperation.  Clawing madly at his own throat, he soon realized the futility of the gesture and began tugging at Joe’s strong, burly arms.  As the youth’s legs thrashed, they slapped wetly against the alpha’s pumping, sweat-streaked torso.  His left foot caught in the a fold of the fitted sheet and pulled it away from the mattress; as his leg recoiled involuntarily, the sock came off in the fold, leaving the boy’s bare foot exposed, toes curling as he died.

 

“Yer gonna die on my motherfuckin’ cock, you homo cunt,” Joe growled like a feral beast as he raped and strangled the teen.  “How’s it feel?  Does it hurt?  Huh?  Does it, you worthless sack of shit?  Go on and pray, little boy, but I’m your God now.  I’m the one who decides when you die and how much it’s gonna hurt.”

 

He paused for a moment to admire the look of stunned shock on the punk’s face (at least, what was left of it).  He knew the meat had heard—and more importantly, had understood.  He spat another wad of phlegm into the youth’s mauled face and spoke again, this time in a low whisper, cold and sharp like a steel blade.

 

“Here’s a secret, fag—it’s gonna hurt.  A lot.  More than you can possibly imagine.  And the more it hurts you, the more I’m gonna spunk when you finally die, you useless cumdump.  Just so you know, you sick homo scum.  Just so you know you’re getting exactly what you deserve.”

 

And with that, he squeezed harder, feeling the cunt’s flexible esophagus constrict beneath his hands.  He dug his fingernails into the tender flesh on the back of the unfortunate boy’s neck, so he could get better traction with which to throttle the punk-ass queerboy.

 

Noah knew now beyond any doubt that he was experiencing Hell—he was being given a literal foretaste of the torture he’d endure for eternity.  The burning in his head, the excruciating visehold on his throat, the pounding anguish in his ass…oh God…he’d wanted to get fucked and was gonna be sodomized by the Devil forever…and worse, he was gonna be found like this!

 

Everyone was gonna think he was a disgusting pervert, a child-molesting sodomite—Momma, Daddy—oh God, Daddy—even Archie, the youth minister…he’d been at Archie’s today and seen the way Archie’d started at his crotch; oh fuck he shoulda stayed there…

 

The once-virginal teenage slipped in and out of coherence in his terror, but never slackened his struggle to break free.  His frantic, questing hands continually sought some sort of hold on his killer’s rock-hard body in an attempt to have some kind of impact.

 

Everywhere Noah’s hands landed, though, they slid across sweaty, hard, firm flesh; the only thing the flailing kid was able to grab ahold of was the stud’s thick, wiry chest hair.  Without even thinking, Noah snatched a handful and yanked it out in a paroxysm of terror and pain.

 

“Goddam motherfucker!” Joe howled in pain-ignited anger.  Clenching his huge left hand around the boy’s throat, he freed his right hand and drove it three more times into the dying faggot’s face, each blow landing with a wet thudding sound—the last one with a moist crunch when Noah’s nose was broken.

 

Without missing a single rhythmic stoke of his long shaft, Joe wrapped his hand back around the meat’s neck and kept squeezing.    He could feel the head of his dick deep inside the thrashing youth’s guts.  The way the slut’s innards had stroked the swollen, sensitive head of his tool while the boy was being beaten had been fantastic.

 

“Yeah, dude, that’s what ya need, huh?  You like it to hurt, huh, you fuckin’ pig?  Was that the problem, you weren’t in enough pain to work my cock?  Fuck, man ya shoulda said so—we can fix that right now, fuck yeah!”

 

With that, Joe slowly increased the pressure on Noah’s neck, this time digging his thumbs into the miserable boy’s Adam’s apple.  The sadistic stud grinned as he felt the cartilage start to give way under the force he applied.

 

Noah was beyond thought.  He was in a world of physical sensations that had been previously unconceivable to him, as much as he’d heard of the torments of Hell.  This pain couldn’t last for eternity; there’d be nothing left of him but a hollow screaming shell.  He was being split open from the inside out; he was still aware of the alpha’s cock reaming his rectum, pulling and tearing at his intestines like a plunger.  His face was black and swollen; between the beatings and the choking, it looked like a rotten gourd.  He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, pulpy and pulsating with pain.

 

The excruciating agony of his throat was the worst, though.  His windpipe was crushed almost completely flat and the way the top’s thumbs were grinding into his vocal cords hurt so bad Noah began convulsing involuntarily as his stomach tried instinctively to retch.

 

“Oh fuck yeah, cocksucker, that’s it,” muttered Joe in response to the boy’s rhythmic, undulating movements, “that’s it, jack me off as you die, you queer-ass bitch.  Yeah, cunt, I know how to keep ya going—just gotta ramp up the pain, huh, you sick fucking faggot scum?”

 

The grinning sadist tightened his grip yet again as his strapping, powerful body bore down on the helpless teen.  The sleazy overheated motel room was redolent with a miasma of sweat, smoke and mansex, making an almost visible haze in the air.  The sounds of mansex filled the air, too—the increasing tempo to the creaking of the bed, the swift slapping sounds of hardcore fucking, the deep, vital grunts of two males locked bodily together in intensity and lust.

 

The fact that one of the males was dying only added to the intensity.  And the lust.

 

Even Noah felt the lust.  He felt it as a hitherto-unknown source of agony.  His dick had been hard enough to hurt before, but now it was electrifying—it seemed as if a white-hot rod of steel had been jammed up through his ass into his cock, extending it in flaming agony the further it penetrated.

 

Joe felt the lust, too, both his own and Noah’s  He felt the meat’s deathpig lust as the cunt’s thick purple cock slapped against his belly, still leaving a thick trail of erotic slime in his fur, even during the throes of death.

 

He felt his own lust as the homo’s thick bloodied lips parted, releasing a torrent of foamy drool.  He felt it as the choking teen’s tongue, as swollen and purple as his dick, slowly emerged from his blackened, distorted face.

 

For Noah, there was no heaven, no Hell anymore.  There wasn’t even any Noah; too much of his brain had been starved of oxygen for too long.  The brain damage was irreversible.  Not everything was gone, though.

 

The brain stem remained, able to feel sensation and basic emotion.  What emerged was the primal submissive beast, submitting to and being marked by the dominant alpha.

 

The brain-dead teen was convulsing violently, his colon clenching the cruel killer’s shaft in an instinctive attempt to milk out the testosterone and be marked as belonging to the alpha.  The hormones flooding the queerboy’s body overstimulated this response.

 

Joe had never had a dying cumdump stroke his rod so vigorously; he’d been right to go for the virginal churchboy; they always wanted dick in the worst way.

 

And Joe specialized in giving dick in the worst way.

 

He held onto the bucking teen like he was breaking a bull, letting the natural rhythms of convulsion and death beat his swollen shaft to orgasm.  The young homo’s cock was still erect and visibly pulsing as Joe felt intense, overflowing pressure building in his puckered sack.

 

He was gonna unload.  “Guess you were an ok cumrag, faggot,” he grunted as his body jolted in violent release.

 

The hulking, muscular killer clenched his hands tightly in his first instinctive reaction to shooting his wad; the loud crunching sound of crushed cartilage filled the room.  The quivering boy also reacted involuntarily—it was the final blast of pain needed to override the teen deathpig’s nervous system and trigger an unnaturally prolonged orgasm.

 

The youth’s overabundant hormones had swamped his body in excess testosterone.  It had led him to seeking its release in dangerous situations—and now, it led his dying body to ejaculate for nearly ninety seconds straight, the last spark of his life fading with an awareness of white-hot molten steel flooding his anus and pumping out through his erect shaft; he was merely a conduit for the boiling seed of life…

 

As thick, ropy strands of semen splashed across Joe’s broad, furry chest, he cried out in rage and hate, pumping his thick, creamy jizz as deep into the worthless kid’s body as he could.  Shifting his powerful hands up Noah’s crushed neck, he clamped down again, this time where he could place his thumbs under the angle of the kid’s jaw.

 

“Ok, motherfucker, time to go,” he grunted.  As another orgasm wracked his powerful body, his hands clenched, driving his thumbs upwards.

 

There was a loud cracking sound as the brawny sadist popped the teen fag’s head off his spine, snapping the topmost vertebra and sending bone shards slashing into the spinal column.

 

Noah had already emptied his balls and his mind; there was nothing left but a sweaty cum-filled meatsack until the sudden blast of massive trauma to his central nervous system sent random signals thought his taut, shuddering corpse.

 

One of these hit the scrotum and, even in death, contracted the muscles and caused the young queer’s cock to send up a final jet of spunk, the hot pearly liquid splattering on the underside of Joe’s jaw as the older man grunted and cried out, spewing his last boiling wad into the kid’s torn and slashed rectum.

 

Even after he’d pumped his last drop of semen into the corpse’s shuddering guts, Joe continued to fuck the quivering body, his massive shaft still erect and tearing into the convulsing pig’s colon.  “Fuck yeah, dude, I’m your God now, huh?  I gave you everything ya ever wanted, huh, ya faggot?  I gave ya hot fuckin’ mansex, I gave ya pain and death—who’s yer daddy now, huh, cunt?”

 

Spitting in contempt on the twitching corpse, Joe pulled himself out of the boy’s well-worn fuckhole.  His dick slid out in a slimy pool of cum and blood that instantly stained the sheets under the slut’s quivering anus; it was obvious that the dead boy had been violently fucked.

 

Still sweating and shaking with pleasurable exertion, Joe staggered back across the room to his jacket.  He fished the smokes and lighter out of the pocket and lit one as he leaned back and took a moment to chill.

 

On the bed, Noah was chilling too; in fact, he was cooling by the minute.  But his corpse was still fresh and limber; random nerves still fired down the mangled spinal column, making the body continue to shudder and twitch.  Even now, the toes on the teen’s bare foot continued to curl and spasm in death.  The other foot, with the white athletic sock wrapped tightly around it, kicked jaggedly across the rumpled, stained sheets.

 

The punk’s smooth, flat abdomen still heaved convulsively, smeared with coagulating pools of semen, all his own.  Some of it was glazing his grotesquely distorted face.  His black, swollen cheeks were stained with a white scum where his foamy panicked drool had dried to a crust as he’d died.

 

Joe inhaled the nicotine deeply.  Even though he’d completely emptied his balls, the teenage faggot’s corpse was so hot, his dick was still throbbing as he looked at it.

 

He knew he had to go, though.  This cunt had made a lot of noise.  He needed to get away fairly quickly.  Tossing his smoldering butt onto the boy’s smooth chest (where it hissed out in a puddle of jizz), he stepped into the bathroom and cleaned himself up, using a wet washcloth and soap to remove all traces of the dead pansy’s spunk.  Tossing the towel he used, along with the washcloth, into the toilet, he returned to the bedroom after fastening up his fly and slipped on his thermal shirt and leather jacket.

 

He was vaguely aware that the teen homo was still twitching, but he didn’t really give a shit anymore.  A quick glance outside showed that no one was around, and he made it to his car and out of the motel lot unseen.

 

The corpse was found the next morning, but without ID (since Noah parents hadn’t allowed him a driver’s license yet), it went to the city morgue.  Later the same day, Noah’s folks frantically reported him missing, out in the suburb where they lived.

 

It was the better part of a week before anyone connected the reamed-out, cum-soaked corpse found beaten, raped and strangled in a cheap motel with the straight-A bible school virgin Noah.  When the connection was made, the outcry in the media was loud and shrill, demanding vengeance from every corner.

 

By that time, though, Joe had already wasted his next victim.

Cut Throat Sex

The boy is starting to wake up. Damn, I thought I’d knocked him out harder than that. He’d smoked the doctored joint quickly enough, that’s for sure.

I think he’s about eighteen or so. I found him in the parking lot of a big box in the ‘burbs; he was looking to score some weed. I’d already rolled a “sample” joint with some trank tabs ground in. The kid was out cold after a couple of hits. I drove him back to my killing pit.

He was still out when I stripped him and tied him to the framework around the bed. He’d been wearing all white, for some reason. White baseball cap worn backwards, white t-shirt, white satin sports shorts and white canvas high-tops. I let him keep his shoes and his cap.

He has a tight, smooth body that I fondle as I strap him into the steel frame I’ve built around the bed. It’ll keep him still at the end; makes less of a mess. This abandoned house is perfect. It’s far enough from any neighbors that no one will hear any sounds that manage to escape. And when I’m done with my fucktoy, I can torch the place. It’ll be a while before anyone notices—much less before the fire department actually gets here. Any evidence will have gone up in flames.

But that’s for later. Time for fun first.

The fuckmeat is strapped face down, his hands and ankles are tied to posts at the corners of the bed. He’s immobile and completely helpless. And still out, at this point. I stuff my hard dick into his virgin ass. He doesn’t need to be awake for this part; I’m just priming my pump.

Oh god, that tight hole…no one’s been up there before. Smooth and sweet. While my cock is spearing the kid’s ass, I reach around and fasten a ball gag onto his mouth. It’s secluded here, but there’s no sense taking any chances.

And by the time I’m done with him, he’ll be screaming his little punk life out.

The drugs are wearing off faster than I thought they would. He’s starting to groan and struggle. I don’t think he’s awake enough to realize he’s being raped. He’ll figure it out soon enough. I’m tearing his tender asshole with every thrust and can feel his blood on my meat.

He’s awaking in agony. Really starting to moan and yell. I love it when he screams; it makes his rectum clench and vibrate.

His muffled voice begs and pleads for me to stop. Like that’s gonna happen. His boymeat just feels too good around my cock.

He struggles violently but all it’s doing is massaging my dick more. I lie down full length on top of him and whisper in his ear.

“Shut up and take my cock, you little fuckin’ bitch. The more you squirm, the more I tear you open. Just lay there and enjoy my tool deep inside you.”

He squirms and moans, but he’s listening.

“Yeah, this is what you want. Little fuckin’ punk wanted to get taken down by a hard man. You like my rod rippin’ you apart? Enjoy it now, faggot, ‘cause you’re gonna be screaming and bleeding out your last few seconds on earth. You’re gonna die on my dick.”

He doesn’t like hearing that. Even with his mouth gagged, his cries and screams are getting me hot. Little teen punk, dumb and full of cum, spending the last moments of his life trying to escape my cock. Each panicked spasm grips the swollen purple head of my cock tightly.

I’m getting close. Gonna blow my load soon. Time to amp up the terror. I can feel the muscles in the fuckbitch’s smooth calves tighten against my legs. The boy is tensing up; on some level, he may know what’s coming.

Time for show and tell. I show him my knife and tell him how I’m gonna kill him with it.

It’s a huge hunting knife with a viciously serrated blade. I hold it directly in front of the kid’s eyes so he can’t help but see it.

“See this?” I whisper. “In a few minutes I’m gonna cut your throat with it. You’re gonna feel each one of these jagged serrations rip into your throat. It’s not gonna be a neat little slit; I’m gonna tear your fuckin’ windpipe open. You’ll feel the gaping gash in your trachea but you won’t be able to cry out. You’ll just moan and start gurgling as you inhale your own blood. You’re gonna die, choking and gagging, your mouth full of blood and your ass full of cock. Your death throes will clamp your hole down hard on my dick. I’m killing you because your death will make me cum, fucker. You’re just here to die on my dick and get thrown out like rotting meat.”

Oh yes, there’s the panic I was looking for. The ball gag muffles the teen punk’s cries but I can make out the words. It’s the usual. Begging for his life, pleading for mercy. He doesn’t get it yet. I’m only interested in him as fuckmeat and that means he has to die. That’s all the bitch is good for.

I’m lying on top of him full length, not moving, not thrusting. I won’t need to; once I cut his throat, all I’ll need to do is hold on while his thrashing body works my cock for me.

As I lie there with the kid impaled on my rod, I reach around with one hand and pull the boy’s chin up. The knife is in my other hand; I press it into his tender flesh and start sawing his neck open.

The shriek that erupts from his blocked-off mouth ends in a high-pitched squeal as I puncture his trachea.

He backs his ass up on my cock. The sound of gushing blood can barely be heard over the kid’s labored breathing—each bubbling gasp accompanied by a moaning sound that escapes convulsively from the boy’s severed windpipe. I hold his violently jerking body down on the bed by placing a hand on each of his shoulders.

“That’s it,” I whisper into the dying teen’s ear, “just ride my cock as you bleed out. Feel it, punk; this is what a real man feels like inside you as you die. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted a hard man to take you and breed you and waste you. Don’t worry, you fucking cumdump pig, the last thing you’ll feel as life drains out of you is my load burning in your ass and then your job will be done, bitch.”

“MMMM-hmmm!” He gives a deep moan. There’s almost a sound of pleasure in it; he’s finally getting it. Getting me off is the last thing he’ll do in life and the best use of him. He wants it. He wants to feel my spunk in him before he fades out.

“Work it, you dying faggot bitch. Work my dick. Make me cum before you die, you useless punk.”

There’s a gurgle. “MMMMmmm!” His rectum clamps down and stokes my tool. He gurgles and moans a second time and a third; each time his tight virgin hole gasps my rod like a hand, jerking my meat in the agony of death.

The kid’s fourth moan is faint and despairing; it’ll be his last. His heart is spasming irregularly with the loss of blood; his consciousness is fading into a white haze. In a final, intense twitch his body grips my dick and I blow a hot geyser of cum deep into his quivering intestines. As his corpse goes limp in death, I fill his rectum with semen.

Still deep in his ass, I lie on top of him for a while, loving him now more than ever. I’d love to stick around and fuck his cold meat again but my phone tells me there’s already an alert out for him. Time to get a little fire going.

“Killer Party, Dude!”

Todd stumbled unsteadily on a root and staggered into a tree. He was very drunk and very high. He was drunk and high most nights; tonight, on his eighteenth birthday, the only difference was in degree. He was shitfaced.

The sounds from the clearing behind him had grown faint. He was far enough away to take a leak. Eddie and Jimbo and Mario were back there around the fire, partying without him. He wanted to get back quickly.

Todd grinned goofily, remembering Jimbo pulling up in his truck and telling him to climb in. “C’mon, dude,” he’d said, “We’re gonna go get you completely fucked on your birthday. I got a whole half-ounce of wicked weed here”— he slapped the half-laced construction boot his jeans were tucked into—“and some shrooms in the other boot. Gonna be a killer party, dude.”

On the way out of town they’d picked up Eddie and Mario. Each of them had snagged a case of cheap beer. The beer was warm, but none of them minded. It was a chilly night; the beer would cool. Besides, warm beer never stopped any of them from getting their drunk on.

Jimbo was the oldest, at twenty-one. He’d known Todd for years—in fact, when Todd had been thirteen, Jimbo had gotten him high for the first time and taught him how to jack off. Eddie and Mario were both nineteen and hung around with Jimbo a lot, so Todd had gotten to know them as well. They were always the ones with alcohol—if one of them couldn’t get it, the other could.

They spent all their free time together—they were worthless little punks, so they had plenty of free time. They had lots in common—they dressed similarly, they all lived in basements and converted garages because their families didn’t want them in the house, and their highest ambition was to get as wasted as possible on whatever they could get hold of.

Todd, who idolized Jimbo, tried to dress just like him. He wore the same tight jeans tucked into boots—but Todd’s boots were ropers. He wore the same black ball cap, white t-shirt and leather jacket—but Jimbo’s jacket was black and plain, while Todd’s was brown with black fabric cuffs.

The resemblance ended there. Todd was short and slim, with curly brown hair. Jimbo was taller and more muscular with shoulder-length black hair and a faint black moustache.

Eddie was muscular as well, but slightly less developed than Jimbo. He wore the same unofficial “club uniform” with his own individual touches. His jacket was denim and his cap was white. He had combat boots on. He had dirty blond hair and a tuft of down on his chin that he pretended was a goatee.

Mario had a lean swimmer’s build like Todd but was more than six inches taller. His boots were ropers, too, and his cap was dark blue. His black leather jacket was identical to Jimbo’s—they’d actually gone out together and stolen them at the same time. Mario was Mexican and his hair was black and short. He’d gelled and spiked it (and had taken shit from the others for doing so).

Another thing they had in common—they were all well-hung and knew it, the same way they knew Mario’s thick tool was uncut. They made a lot of noise about the chicks they’d banged, but all the girls in town knew that they were useless and spent whatever money they could grab on booze and drugs. Despite their tough talk and hard bodies, they were shunned.

For release, they turned to circle jerks. A lot. There would undoubtedly be one tonight, more likely two. They were horny boys full of testosterone and semen and the thing they wanted to do most was get their rocks off while tripping balls.

They drove to a place they’d partied at before. Off the state highway south of town was a dirt road. It was actually a maintenance road that ran alongside a line of electrical towers that marched across the landscape. They pulled over at the fourth tower and went north into the woods. After about a hundred yards, they came to the spot they were looking for. It was a clearing about thirty feet across. There was a large fire pit in the center, ringed with stones, with logs laid around it as a kind of seating.

They’d found it several months ago—they damn sure weren’t smart enough to build something like this. They’d come back several times and had seen no sign of use, so they felt it was a safe place to get high and beat off. They didn’t want anyone else around—they might get the wrong idea. It’s not like they were faggots or anything, just having a little fun…

They dragged in brushwood and lit a fire. Ben passed out beers and Jimbo pulled the pot out of his boot. “Best place to hide it—who’s gonna look in your smelly boots?” He rolled a joint for each of them—Todd first, for his birthday—and the party got started.

They knew what was coming—they’d talk some about the latest action movie and how they’d waste the villain if they ever ran across him. Then the conversation would swing around to chicks. They talked longingly about the chicks they wanted to bang and told elaborate lies about chicks they had banged. Their cocks would be throbbing and straining in their jeans the entire time. At some point Jimbo would give the signal by rubbing his hand on the bulge in his jeans. They would all do the same for a few minutes, looking back and forth at each other in silence.

Jimbo would be the first to pull out his rod. Then they would sit together gipping the cock of the one to the right while their own was grabbed by the person to the left.

Since it was Todd’s birthday, he would get to sit on Jimbo’s left. Jimbo would have assaulted anyone who said he was queer, but it was an open secret among them that they all wanted his dick and sitting on his left was an honor.

And it had all gone as planned until Jimbo began rubbing his crotch. They’d already worked through one case of beer and Todd realized he had to piss. This was the first time he’d been allowed to jack Jimbo and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. He muttered “gotta take a leak” and sprinted into the woods. Mario had been to his left and would be “handling” Jimbo till he got back. He wanted to return before Mario finished Jimbo off.

Todd was happy and severely intoxicated, but like his friends, his dick was painfully erect and would remain so until release. It was too hard for him to piss. He stood facing the tree, staring down at his hard cock with a blissful grin on his face. The savage blow that slammed him face-first into the tree took him completely by surprise.

Todd reeled back, bruised and bleeding. His upper lip was split. His dick was still hard despite being scratched from contact with the rough bark of the tree. A gloved hand tightly gripped his mouth and he felt the edge of a blade against his throat. A harsh voice whispered in his ear.

“Make a sound and you’re dead, motherfucker. Nod if you understand that.”

Todd, stunned and terrified, didn’t move. The hand clenched his face viciously and the knife was pressed to his throat, just breaking this skin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

“Do you understand?” The voice was slower and colder this time. Todd nodded.

“Ok, here’s what’s gonna go down. I’m gonna ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them very quietly. If you make any other sound, I’m gonna rip your throat out and leave you to die like a dog. You got that?”

Todd nodded again. The hand was slowly removed from his mouth but never moved more than two inches away from his face.

“Ok, bitch, how many of your friends are back there and what the fuck are you doing?”

Todd replied in a tear-choked whisper, “Please, sir, there’s only four of us sir. It’s my birthday and we’re just having some fun. Please don’t hurt me, sir, please!”

The hardman holding him gave a grim chuckle. “A birthday party, yeah—that’s why your fly’s open and you got a hard-on. Bad place for a party, punk. I got some business here tonight and you’re in the way.”

The hand clamped down hard on Todd’s mouth but the knife was withdrawn. For a single second, Todd thought he was safe.

Then the knife was slammed into the side of his throat, the tip puncturing through and out the other side with one blow.

The blast of pain caused Todd’s muscles to go rigid. At the same time, a flood of adrenaline was dumped into his bloodstream. The combined result was that Todd’s engorged cock began spurting out thick, ropy stream of cum.

Todd could feel the knife being violently twisted inside him, the razor edge carving and slicing his larynx and esophagus. With each twist came another burst of agony and another blast of sperm.

The pain of his death orgasm was so completely overwhelming that Todd never realized that the knife had been removed from his throat and his killer had left. He was coughed up a great gout of blood. It ran down his chin, splattered down his leather jacket and onto his boots. He stared in horror at the blood on his hands, not comprehending what was happening to him. It spilled on his still-spurting cock. Blood and semen covered the tree trunk in front of him.

Todd sank to his knees as he bled out. His mind had shut down; the only sensations he was aware of were pain and orgasm. He pitched face first onto the ground, struggling to rise again, not knowing that he was a dead man. For a few seconds, his boots scuffled in the dirt. They slowed to an occasional spasmodic kick as life ebbed out of him. Then there was nothing but a quivering corpse with its face in a muddy puddle of blood and sperm. Todd had died without getting his chance to beat Jimbo off.

Back in the clearing, the circle jerk was in full swing.

Jimbo moaned softly. Sweat ran down his face as he looked down at Mario’s hand working his thick shaft. The cholo punk was tugging his meat hard and his balls had drawn up close to his body. Mario’s uncut cock was being yanked by Eddie, whose dick was throbbing in Jimbo’s grip.

Jimbo was close to shooting his wad but something was off. He let go of Eddie and knocked Mario’s hand away. “Lay off, dude,” he snapped, “Todd needs to be here. Dude, it’s his birthday and we need to get him off.”

“We’ll get him the next time round, when you break out the shrooms,” said Mario.

“Nah, I want him here for both.” Secretly, Jimbo had been waiting for this day for a while. He felt it was a rite of passage to let Todd handle his enormous rod. Todd was becoming a man.

He had no idea Todd’s cooling, stiffening corpse was less than a hundred feet away.

“I got an idea,” Eddie said suddenly. “Let’s split up and look for him. Keep your dicks out. If you find him first, you get to make him beat you off.”

“He’s gonna beat me off whether I find him first or not,” growled Jimbo. His hormones were in full flow and he had gone into full alpha-male mode. “All right, let’s go find the little fuck. Stay here, Mario; if he comes back first, he can jack you till we get back. Eddie, go that way; I’ll look over here.”

They vanished into the underbrush, leaving Mario at the fire. He dug down into his boot and pulled out the butt of his joint. He lit it and inhaled deeply, idly stroking his erection.

A gloved hand gripped his chin, another clamped on the top of his skull and his head was jerked violently. Mario gave an involuntary grunt as his cervical vertebrae splintered and shattered with explosive cracking sounds. His body felt a massive shock, as if he was being electrocuted. A stream of liquid fire ran the length of his uncut cock and erupted in a single massive spurt of cum.

He collapsed in a nerveless heap, his dazed eyes staring across the clearing into the treeline. Mario never heard his killer approach or leave. Someone out of nowhere had snapped his neck like a twig—he hadn’t even had time to exhale his smoke.

But Mario wasn’t dead yet. His head was propped against a log, which kept it raised above the ground. He was paralyzed from the neck down. His heart was still beating and his lungs were still working—but breathing was difficult. Every gasp of air was a struggle; a rasping, choking sound accompanied the white foam that emerged from his gaping mouth. As it oozed down the side of his face, the foam was tinted pink by the small trickle of blood that leaked from his nose. He couldn’t feel the semen drying in his coal-black pubic hair, but he could smell the piss and shit that had flooded out of him when he lost control of his bowels.

With immediate medical attention, Mario would live—as a quadriplegic on respirator, only able to communicate by moving his eyes. Without it, he was dying slowly and painfully by respiratory paralysis. Each breath was a little shallower and the awareness of impending death grew stronger.

The single thought in his brain was that Jimbo would find him. Jimbo would fix things; he could fix anything. Paralyzed and dying, Mario could finally admit his worship of Jimbo to himself. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. Jimbo would save him. Jimbo wouldn’t let him die.

There was a rustling in the bushes just beyond Mario’s line of sight. His sprits rose, thinking that Jimbo had returned, but it was Eddie who staggered into view, blinking blearily at the fire. His dick was still out, preceding him like a flagpole, but since he too had stashed a joint down his combat boot and had hotboxed it in the two minutes it took to convert Mario into a helpless pile of meat, he was too stoned to see his buddy’s quivering body lying next to the log.

Mario could see him, though. And Mario could also see the shadowy figure dressed in black that had slipped from the treeline behind Eddie. His vision was starting to fade, but he clearly saw the firelight glinting on the long serrated knife in the figure’s hand. He tried to call out to Eddie, but he was losing control of his diaphragm muscles. His entire will to live was focused on breathing; speaking was too great an effort. Mario realized he was going to watch helplessly while Eddie got dropped.

Eddie never saw death coming for him. The knife that ended his life was inside him before he could react. His scream of pain was an automatic response, and the gloved hand over his mouth stifled it effectively.

Mario saw it all.

The knife had swung up in a swift arc and slammed sharply upward at a point just below the angle of Eddie’s jaw. The hitman had pulled Eddie’s head down to the left to allow the blade to slice a straight line into the brain through the opening at the base of the skull by which the spinal cord entered. The blade was so long that its tip struck Eddie’s cranium near the back of his head just above his left ear—from the inside.

Eddie’s world ended in a blast of agony. The physical reaction to massive brain trauma was instantaneous. He went up on his toes, spunk flowing out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. He began to convulse violently, each spasm flinging his cum out in a wide semicircle.

The killer shifted Eddie’s body to get a better grip. He brutally ground the knife inside Eddie’s skull, hacking his brain into quivering chunks and slashing away the spinal cord. The body went as limp as a rag doll, the flaccid penis still a good five inches long, semen glazing the head. The killer lowered Eddie to the ground as a gush of piss soaked the corpse’s jeans.

The silence of death was broken by Mario’s labored breathing. The killer looked straight at him, but all Mario could see of his face was a cold stare, calculating the level of threat. The rest of the face was hidden by camouflage paint.

Before anything could happen, the sound of a branch snapping burst from a point behind the hitman’s left shoulder. He quickly dragged the pile of meat that had been Eddie off in another direction, disappearing into the woods fifteen yards from the point where the sound had originated. Mario was alone again.

Not for long. It was Jimbo who came out of the woods next, pausing like Eddie had done when he entered the clearing. The swelling of hope that Mario felt was punctured by the fear that Jimbo would be attacked too. But Jimbo approached him without interference.

Jimbo was higher than any of the others had been—as unacknowledged leader, he’d kept the bag of weed tucked down inside his boot and had dipped in numerous times. The fact that Mario was lying on the ground in a twisted heap had no significance in his drug-fogged mind. He grinned foolishly as he walked towards Mario.

“Has that little faggot come back yet? Shit, I bet Eddie found him and is getting’ whacked off right now. Fuck, dude, when he gets back, I’ll make him lick my dick. Make a man of him,” growled Jimbo, massaging his dripping pole. He blinked and peered at Mario’s face.

Mario was facing away from the fire and Jimbo was unable to see the tears of relief which oozed from Mario’s eyes. But he could see—uncomprehendingly—the look of horror that came over Mario.

He couldn’t see the thin wire that had descended in front of his face, but he could damn sure feel it.

The slicing pain that circled his neck was excruciating but the inability to breathe that accompanied it was terrifying. Jimbo struggled to free himself like a fish on a line. The garrote tore into his flesh—the leaking blood made Jimbo’s hands slick as they scrambled frantically at his throat. It was no good. He couldn’t get a grip on anything.

Jimbo’s mind was aflame with panic, trying to understand what was happening to him. The concept that someone had just walked casually out of the woods and started killing him never occurred to him The world was fading and it hurt so bad, it hurt worse than anything else this is what death feels like it’s slow and it hurts Mario help me…

Mario watched Jimbo die, knowing that he was watching his own death. Jimbo was going to save him. But Jimbo was dying and Mario couldn’t help. He could only watch as Jimbo was slowly strangled.

Mario watched for a long time. Jimbo was young and hard and fought viciously for his life. But he was an ignorant redneck punk who spent most of his time stoned and drunk and he was in the hands of a professional killer. He never had a chance.

The hitman forced him to his knees. Jimbo could feel the killer’s strong, thickly muscled legs at his sides. He could feel something long and hard against the back of his head as his head was forced back into his killer’s crotch.

“On your knees, kid,” Jimbo heard whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna let your friend watch you get snuffed before I put his lights out for good.”

Mario looked up into Jimbo’s blackening face and his mind snapped in terror. He had never seen anyone strangled before. In all the action movies he’d seen, the victims had gone limp in thirty seconds and looked like they’d fallen asleep.

Jimbo didn’t look like that at all.

His eyes bulged horribly. It was impossible to tell if they were red because if bust blood vessels or because he was utterly baked. His face was a livid purple color and his tongue protruded grotesquely. Spittle leaked from the corners of his mouth and dangled from his chin. His hands, bloody from clutching his throat, grasped weakly at Mario, just out of reach. Jimbo was dying like a dog, his life being mercilessly choked out, slowly and painfully.

The last conscious thought in Jimbo’s failing brain was questioning. He was aware that he was being killed, killed by someone stronger and more bad-ass than himself. But who? And why? All he’d wanted to do was have some fun, to get fucked up and then get his rocks off…

And then, as the darkness dragged him down, he could feel that he’d done both. The most painfully intense orgasm he’d ever experienced overwhelmed him as death overcame him.

Jimbo’s spunk sprayed directly into Mario’s face. Mario, catatonic in terror, didn’t blink as cum splashed into his eyes and open mouth. Jimbo’s death cum splattered into Mario’s black spiked hair. It so completely covered his face that it ran down the back of his neck.

As Jimbo lost the battle for his life, he shot one last enormous wad of cum directly into Mario’s mouth. The hitman released the wire and Jimbo collapsed. Mindless spasms jerked in the legs, scuffling Jimbo’s loose construction boots in the dirt. Then all was quiet.

Mario stared blankly at the killer. There was nothing left inside him now. He had seen his savior, his idol die horribly in front of him and knew that he was next. So his mind simply stopped functioning.

He didn’t feel the hitman’s boot on his head, grinding semen into his hair with the tread. He didn’t smell his killer’s ripe combat boot that clamped his head into place while he bent down and grabbed Mario’s arm. He did feel a blast of pain when the hitman jerked his arm, causing his spinal cord to completely sever and a small trickle of cum to leak from his dick. Then there was nothing else to feel. Mario’s eyes stared dully, clouded by Jimbo’s spunk.

The killer crouched over Mario’s body, listening intently to make sure no one else was around, before he dragged the corpses into the woods. No one would find them for months, especially if he went back and moved the truck. He needed to hurry, though. He had business to attend to.

Todd spent the night of his eighteenth birthday rotting in the woods. It had been a killer party, dude.