Brody: Taking Out the Trailer Trash

Travis could hear the crunch of gravel out on the drive and could almost feel the rumbling throb of the huge engine as the 4X4 pickup lurched its way nearer.  The sound made him shudder and tense up; it meant Brody was home.  And that meant…

 

…well, there was no way to know what that meant tonight.  Some nights, it meant fantastic sex.  Brody was thirty, a good seven years older than Travis, and he was hotter than fuck.  That hadn’t changed in the two years since they’d met—Brody’s job as a construction foreman kept his towering, six-foot-four frame fit and incredibly muscular.  His dick was more than eight inches long and an inch and a half thick, and he knew how to use it.

 

But those nights were few and far between—and becoming fewer.  Some nights, Brody was half-drunk (at a minimum) and in a foul mood.  Those were bad nights.  If Travis was lucky, he might get slapped around or a black eye.  If he wasn’t lucky, Brody wanted to fuck.  And that wasn’t fantastic sex, it was punishment sex.  Brody wasn’t just a mean drunk, he was a mean fuck.  On bad nights, Brody would fuck Travis like he wanted to hurt him.

 

Lately, there were a lot more bad nights.  Lately, Brody was escalating the violence and inflicting more severe injuries.  Lately, Travis was scared.

 

He wondered what would happen if he told Brody no.  Tonight he was gonna find out.

 

It took all the nerve he could muster to remain sitting calmly on the couch as he heard the truck’s door slam.  He didn’t love Brody—probably never had—but he was still overwhelmed with lust every time he looked at the older man.  He simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave, but dammit, that was gonna change.

 

Completely left out of his calculations was the fact that he had nothing; Brody owned the aged mobile home they lived in and the plot of land it was on.  And Brody’s job paid all the bills; Travis worked twenty-four hours a week as a clerk at the convenience store three miles up the road.  Brody had to drive him there and pick him up.

 

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  Travis wasn’t gonna let himself be bullied into abusive sex anymore, no matter how much of a stud Brody was.  At least, that’s what he told himself as he pulled a cigarette from the pack on the battered and scarred coffee table in front of him and fumbled with his lighter.

 

The lithe young fag jumped when he heard the truck door slam.  He didn’t know if he had the courage to follow through on his plans.  He was fit but not overly developed.  He stood a good half-foot shorter than Brody did and at a hundred and twenty pounds was outweighed by his brutal lover by a good sixty pounds, all of it muscles.  His broad face and large blue eyes gave his face an innocence that was highlighted by his short, curly hair that shined like spun gold.  Across the lower part of his face was the bare beginning of a beard of the same color.  Just starting to grow in, the facial hair somehow made him look younger than his actual age.

 

Since he’d been off today, he hadn’t bothered to dress.  He sported a pair of white cotton briefs that cradled his firm, rounded asscheeks and barely contained his decently-hung package; otherwise, his lean, taut body was bare, his smooth skin uncovered.

 

Of course, it wasn’t just that Brody outclassed him physically—if push came to shove, Travis had no doubt he could get away before anything really serious happened—but the redneck homo knew how attracted he was to the aggressive top.  To put it bluntly, he just wasn’t sure he could give up Brody’s hot, hard body and his massive cock.  After all, tonight might be a good night…

 

There was no mistaking the thumping of Brody’s boots on the front steps, but once the door was slammed open, Travis would have known his lover was in the room even had he been blind and deaf.  Brody’s distinctive musk of sweat and pheromones filled the room.  Tonight, it was blended with the sharp tang of alcohol.

 

Tonight wasn’t gonna be a good night.

 

“Go get me a clean shirt,” the hulking alpha demanded.  “This one’s still damp.”  Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of the dirty, sweat-soaked t-shirt and pulled it off over his head.  It caught for the moment in the chain of thick gold links that hung around his neck.  It took a further moment for Brody to free his shoulder-length black hair from the collar of the shirt.

 

When Travis returned from the bedroom with a clean t-shirt, Brody was rummaging in the fridge.  “Long goddam day,” he grumbled, “Fuckin’ niggers and wetbacks don’t fuckin’ listen to a word I say.”  Grabbing a beer, he stood up, closed the door of the fridge and popped the top of the beer can.  He started guzzling it, the overhead fluorescent illuminating his awesome physique.

 

His broad hubcap pecs were covered with a forest of black fur that intensified as it ran down his hard ripped abs, the body hair almost seeming to flow in waves over the muscled abdomen only to disappear beneath the waistband of his distressed, faded jeans.  Around his tight waist was a thick black leather belt, with a huge oval belt buckle made of elaborately wrought silver, with a large agate in the center.  Below, the jeans were tucked into the wide shafts of Brody’s well-worn Red Wing construction boots, which were laced but left untied.

 

Travis laid the clean t-shit on the back of the couch, watching Brody gulp down the beer so eagerly some of it dripped from his chin, leaving white trails of foam in his chest hair.  Finishing his brew, the alpha crumpled the can, belched loudly, and opened the fridge again.

 

“Why dintcha restock the fridge so I’d have some more cold ones?” he demanded.

 

“There ain’t no more,” Travis replied sullenly.  Seeing Brody’s hard, masculine face start to scowl, the young man knew he’d made a mistake.

 

“And so why dintcha text me that, so I could stop and get some more, you dipshit?” Brody growled.  His eyes, already bloodshot with alcohol, narrowed with anger.

 

“I-I didn’t think about it,” Travis warbled nervously.  He could feel his nerve starting to slip.  If he didn’t do something now, he’d never do anything.  “Brody, I, uh—we need to talk—”

 

“You didn’t think about it?  You don’t ever think about jack shit anyway,” Brody sneered drunkenly.

 

“That’s enough, Brody,” Travis said sharply, mustering all his courage.  “You can’t keep hurting me or talking shit to me, or—or I’ll leave.”

 

If anger made Brody’s face intimidating, the way it darkened with rage now was positively terrifying.  “You think yer gonna leave if you don’t get your way, ya little sack a’ shit?” he hissed, his tone low and dangerous.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say you can go, you got that, boy?”

 

Travis gulped loudly but stood his ground.  “I’m serious, Brody.  You—you hurt me, man.  You can fuck me all night long, but ya don’t have to be mean.  You don’t have to hurt me.”

 

Brody stared Travis straight in the eyes.  “But I like hurtin’ you, ya stupid little faggot.  I like hearing you squeal.  I like seein’ ya in pain.  It gets me off, motherfucker.”

 

Drunk as Brody was, Travis was hit by the realization that he was speaking the truth.  The youth wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed so it took a moment for the full import of the alpha’s words to sink in, but once they did, he understood with stunning clarity that he needed to get out.  Now.

 

“I’m goin’, Brody.  I gotta.  I gotta friend I can stay with, but I need to go…”

 

Brody flushed, rounding on Travis with lightning speed.  “You gotta friend, huh? You been fuckin’ around on me, is that it?  I ain’t good enough for ya now?  You ain’t leavin’ me, faggot, till I get my money’s worth outta ya.”

 

“Brody, please, don’t make this any harder than it—”

 

Travis’s plea was interrupted by loud smack as Brody’s swift, vicious backhand made contact with the kid’s face.  Travis staggered back, holding his hand up to his throbbing cheek, noting with dismay the sly, malicious grin on Brody’s face—and the swelling bulge in the top’s groin.

 

Brody hadn’t been kidding.  He really did get off on hurting Travis.

 

The air was thick with menace. Travis, nearly nude as he was, couldn’t simply flee out the front door.  He needed clothes, or he needed to call for help.  Problem was, his clothes and his cell phone were in the bedroom—and Brody was between him and it.  Still, he needed to chance it.  Travis ducked down and shot to one side, trying to dodge Brody and get past him.

 

A violent impact to his flank told him he didn’t succeed.  Brody had punched him in the side as he went past.  “No ya don’t, cocksucker,” the alpha growled as Travis stumbled, groaning in pain.

 

Trying a new tack, Travis circled around into the living area, moving to the front of the couch as Brody slowly stalked after him, rubbing his swelling crotch.  “Good thing yer undressed, boy—I’m in the mood to plow yer ass good and hard.  Stand still, ya fucking twat so I can put my dick in ya—”

 

This was followed by a grunt of surprise as Travis launched himself over the sofa, stepping up onto the cushions, then leaping over the back.  As the younger man dashed for the wall-mount phone in the kitchen, Brody tried to follow over the back of the couch.  Travis was lucky; in his semi-drunk state, the aggressive muscleman misjudged how high the back of the sofa was and tumbled over it, slamming to the floor behind and momentarily knowing the wind out of himself.

 

It gave Travis enough time to reach the phone and dial 911.  “Hello?  Yes?” he cried into the mouthpiece,  “Yes, police—it’s 1805 County Road 83 west—the trailer at the end of the drive—please, get here quick, he’s gonna hurt me—for fuck’s sake, get someone here—”

 

With a roar of rage Brody leapt at him.  Travis hadn’t even realized the stud had regained his feet; with a screech of fear, the young punk jumped back and watched in stunned fear as the well-built construction worker grabbed the phone and wrenched it off the wall with the sheer power of his muscled arms.  The metal plate and wiring to which the phone had been attached was ripped out of place, leaving a gaping hole in the drywall.

 

“You dumbass,” Brody hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, in so many different ways…”

 

Travis, his never-robust courage now completely evaporated, began backing away, moving slowly down the hall to the rear of the trailer, where the back bedroom was.  He had no plans and was moving instinctively, but once he got the open door of the spare bathroom, he dived into it and locked the door behind him.

 

The door knob rattled.  “Let me in, Travis,” Brody said in low tone.  “Let me in or I’ll break the door down.”

 

“Leave me alone,” Travis said, trying to sound brave and despising the tremulous warble in his voice.  “I ain’t stupid.  I ain’t comin’ out till you go away.”

 

“Let me in, Travis,” Brody growled through the door, “Or I really will break the door down.  And I hafta do that, I’m gonna take the cost outta yer hide.”

 

Terrified by the sense of being caught in a trap, Travis whimpered.  He glanced at the window, but it was a tiny opening for ventilation, far too small for him to fit through.  If Travis actually came through the door, he couldn’t imagine what would happen to him…

 

That was when he heard the siren in the distance.  Faint, but getting increasingly nearing—and thus louder—each passing second, the sound brought instant relief to the trembling young fag.  And within seconds, Brody could hear them too.

 

“Damn you,” he muttered through the door, “You’re gonna pay for this, you little asswipe.  You’re gonna pay so fuckin’ bad.”

 

Within a few seconds, Travis could hear the crunching of the tires on gravel and the banging of car doors, followed by a loud knock at the trailer door.  “Police!  Open up!”  Still muttering beneath his breath, Brody went to let the cops in—he had no other choice.  Cautiously unlocking the bathroom door, Travis finally came out.

 

Brody was talking to two cops—sheriff’s men.  One looked like he was in his mid-forties, the other was about Brody’s age. Both were nodding as Brody tried to explain what was happening, but Travis knew if he didn’t say something, they’d leave—and he’d be in danger.

 

“He hit me,” the younger man said, interrupting the conversation and silencing it.

 

“Are you sure about that, son?” the older cop asked.  “That’s a serious charge, after all.”

 

“See the mark on my face?  Yeah, I’m sure.  Now what are ya gonna do about it?”

 

The older cop sighed, his face clearly indicating his displeasure at whiny little faggots who increased his workload.  “Do ya wanna file charges?” he asked wearily, already picturing the amount of extra paperwork that was going to be involved.

 

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Travis rejoined.  He kept his eyes averted from the look of smoldering rage that Brody directed at him.  If he could get the top arrested, he’d have at least the weekend free and clear to arrange for something else.

 

“Ok, let’s do this,” the older copy muttered, defeat dulling his voice as he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and approached Brody.  “Turn around, buddy.  Hand behind your back.”

 

Brody complied, still glaring at Travis.  “You’re takin’ me just on his say-so?” he asked, outraged.

 

The younger cop spoke up for the first time.  “Gotta do it, mac.  State law—gotta take in the aggressor in a DV case if the victim decides to file charges.  That way, she—er, he—ain’t beaten into withdrawing the charges.  After a cooling-down period, you’ll be allowed to post bail.”

 

“Son of a bitch!” Brody swore.

 

“C’mon, buddy, let’s get ya in the car,” the older cop said after securing the cuffs.

 

“What, just like this, half-dressed?” Brody demanded.

 

“Aw, it’s just to the county lockup,” the older cop said.  “Tell ya what, if it makes ya feel better—Bates, pick up that shirt there on the couch on your way out.  This guy can put it on when we get back to town.”  With that, he aimed Brody at the door and left, leaving the younger cop to take Travis’s statement.

 

It didn’t take long for the young homo to recount the evening’s events.  Travis practically gushed at the young, hard-bodied cop in his tight uniform.  “Y’all saved my life, man—how’d y’all get here so quick? He asked.

 

“We were pickin’ up some coffee at the Kum N Buy up the road when we got the call,” the cop said coldly, his disgust at dealing with fags obvious.  When he was done, the cop made a few follow-up notes and turned to leave.  Once he reached the door, he looked back at Travis.

 

“Don’t forget,” the cop said.  “You gotta come down in the mornin’ and sign the official charges.  Plus, if ya want, you can file a restrainin’ order.  Make it so he’s gotta stay at least five hundred yards from ya, legally.  I always think they’re more trouble than they’re worth, but the law says I gotta advise ya about it.”

 

Leaving Travis pondering on the possibilities of a restraining order, the cop descended the steps that lead to the front door of the trailer.  He got to the car just as his partner finished getting Brody settled into the back seat and closed the door on him.

 

“I tell ya, whole country’s gettin’ too damn liberal,” he grumbled as the younger man came up.  “Way I see it, if a man works a long, hard day, he’s gotta right to expect things to be a certain way at home and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with knockin’ a little sense into the bitch if she can’t keep the place right.  Not like I give a shit what these two fags were doin’ to each other, but it’s the principle of the thing, ya know?”

 

“Yeah, I hear ya,” the younger cop grinned.  “Had to tell that little cocksucker about gettin’ a restrainin’ order.  Fuckin’ makes me sick.  That little buttfuck back in the trailer could do with a good beatin’, if ya ask me.  C’mon, let’s go—I gotta fine piece of ass waitin’ for me when I get off shift.”

 

They climbed into the front seat of the car and headed out to the county road.  Travis watched them go out of the window, then retrieved his cell phone.  “Hey, Eric?  Yeah, man, I need a favor.  Can you give me a lift into town and back tomorrow mornin’?  Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but I gotta get to the police station.  Naw, nothin’ bad—I’ll tell ya about it when you get here.  Just text me when yer on the way.  Thanks, man.”

 


 

At eight-thirty on a Friday evening, the Plaza Bar & Grill was starting to fill up.  Not as busy as it would be later in the evening, there was still a good throng of locals getting tanked and loading up on burgers and the grill’s specialty—huge baskets of fries, cooked in peanut oil.  It was actually a crowded, dirty dive housed in what had once been a hardware store; it took its absurdly grandiose name from the fact that it was on the town square, facing the courthouse.

 

It was also within walking distance of the police station, which was how Brody got there without his truck.

 

Once he’d gotten booked, he called his boss, who showed up the next morning to post bail; he’d agreed to advance the money out of Brody’s pay.  It took several hours for the bond to go through and even longer for the police clerk to process it, since he was the only full-time staff the department bothered to hire.  As a result, Brody wasn’t actually let out until somewhere around four that afternoon.

 

That was when he learned that Travis had not only filed charges against him, he’d also applied for—and got, with surprising speed—a restraining order.  Reading the paper handed to him at the discharge desk, Brody couldn’t go back to the trailer.

 

That when he walked over to the bar and started drinking.  And kept it up all evening.

 

Brody was a hard drinker—it took a lot to get him sloppy drunk, and he wasn’t anywhere near that point.  But as the sun set and the lights came on in the bar, the buff, hardbodied redneck sat and stared at the cigarette burns and the circular marks of moisture where his numerous bottle of beer had been placed, and he simmered.

 

That goddam little cocksucker.  Think he could kick Brody outta his own property?  He’d see about that.

 

Over the past couple of years, Brody had experienced certain…desires.  His imagination had bubbled with things he’s wanted to do to Travis, things that would cause a lot of trouble, but would be so fuckin’ hot…

 

They all came back to him now, but this time was different.  The alcohol had lowered his inhibitions, but it was more than that.  Do them was right.  It was fitting.

 

It was justice.

 

Goddamit, he deserved justice, after all.

 

The waitress appeared suddenly beside him, collecting his empty bottle.  “Hey, hon, I think we’re gonna hafta cut ya off.  You had too many to drive safe, Brody.”

 

He glared at her.  “I ain’t drivin’, Darlene, I ain’t got my truck with me.”

 

“Ya need a lift?  Ol’ Earle over there is about to head out, he lives out past yer place, right?”

 

Brody thought for a moment.  “Yeah, he does.  I can get him to drop me at the foot of the drive.  That way he won’t hear me comin’.”

 

“Who won’t hear ya comin’?”

 

Brody shot her another look, his slightly bloodshot eyes glittering with malignity.  “No one, darlin’.  Just a bitch who’s gonna learn a major lesson the hard way.”

 


 

Travis signed off on his online chat with Eric.  Usually they communicated via texts, which Travis immediately erased so Brody couldn’t see them.  With Brody in jail, though, Travis felt free to sit at the desk in the spare bedroom and use the computer.

 

He’d made arrangements to meet Eric at The Well, a small dive on the west side of Main Street near the train tracks with a clientele split equally between a small group of gays and a group of shiftless white trash that came simply because it was the closet bar to their squalid homes.  Wilton, the guy who lived on the next plot of land east, was a regular every Friday and Saturday night.  Travis never could figure out why; he wasn’t gay and the Plaza was actually closer.

 

Not that it mattered—the point was that Wilton was there by midnight like clockwork, so all Travis had to do was walk down the drive to the road and hitch a ride with Wilton when he came by.  He’d done it several times before.

 

Travis slumped back casually in the desk chair, savoring his sense of freedom.  He’d already dressed to go out, his black t-shirt tucked into a new and very tight pair of jeans with boot-cut cuffs to display his dark-gray ropers.  The boots weren’t new, but he considered them dress wear and took as good care of them as anything else that captured his shallow fancy.

 

Travis’s indolent reverie was interrupted by a faint rattling sound from the living room.  He stood up and stretched, the deep blue denim of his jeans following the contour of his perfectly-rounded asscheeks like a second skin.  He grabbed his denim jacket from the back of the chair and, slipping it on, went to investigate.

 

The faint rattling had a familiar sound, but Travis couldn’t place it and it had ceased before he reached the living room.  Looking around, he couldn’t detect anything out of place.  He turned to go back when it started again behind him—it was at the front door.

 

He just had time to reach into his pocket and dig out his phone—which took a moment since his jeans were so tight—when he realized with horror that he knew exactly what that sound was.

 

It was a key in the lock.  And the only other person with a key to the trailer was Brody.

 

“No…” he whispered, his face ashen as he whirled to see the door burst open and Brody’s hulking, powerful form filling the doorway, rage emanating from the muscled alpha in almost visible waves.

 

He raised his hand so Travis could see the piece of paper crushed in his clenched fist.  “You fucked up, bitch,” he hissed, “You fucked up so bad…”

 

With a womanish screech, Travis pawed at his phone, frantically trying to dial 911.  He managed to get a 9 and a 1 input before Brody bore down on him.  The slim young fag resorted to his usual maneuver of diving over the couch, but he dropped his phone when he did.  As Travis sprinted for the master bedroom, Brody ground the heel of his Red Wing workboot into the phone, shattering the screen.

 

Then he turned and head towards the master bedroom.  His thick heavy footfalls were those of a hunter relentlessly stalking his prey.

 

The door to the bedroom wasn’t completely closed, but in his amped-up state of terror, Travis had managed to shove the dresser so that it partially blocked it.  As a desperate attempt to buy some time, it failed abjectly.  Brody shoved the furniture aside with ease, entering the room to find Travis popping the screen out of the bedroom window and trying to dive out headfirst.

 

Brody took two giant strides across the room, grabbed the young punk’s ankle and yanked him back into the room.  Stumbling backwards against the bed, Travis fell to his knees involuntarily.  Overcoming an obvious reluctance, he turned his large blue eyes up to Brody’s face, his pale face wincing at the sheer rage he could see there.

 

“B-Brody…” he whispered, “You-you weren’t sp-sp s’posed to b-be…”

 

“I wasn’t s’posed to be outta jail yet, huh?” the hulking redneck alpha growled.  “An’ you had plans to keep me out, yeah?”  He brandished the paper still clutched in his hand; despite the way it had been wrinkled in his fist, it was still obvious that he was holding the restraining order.

 

“You were gonna try to keep me off my property, were ya, you cocksuckin’ little faggot?” Brody snarled.

 

“No, Brody, no!” Travis cried in terror, “I wasn’t—but the cop said—an’ I was gonna leave, you coulda come back—”

 

Suddenly Brody’s anger seemed to implode from a roaring, red-hot rage into a quiet, focused point of white-hot fury.  “Oh,” he said quietly and calmly, “You were gonna leave, were ya?  That’ll all?  Nothing else?”

 

“No…no…” Travis whispered, partially in agreement with Brody’s comment and partially in an instinctive, almost totem attempt to ward off the danger that was literally palpable.  He’d never seen this cold, hard anger in Brody before.  He didn’t know what it meant—but he damn well knew it wasn’t good.

 

“Get up,” Brody demanded brusquely.  “Get up or I’ll get ya up.”

 

“Pl-please, Brody,” Travis began but was unable to complete his plea before the powerful top grabbed a handful of the kid’s golden curls and pulled upwards, his bicep bulging with inexorable force as Travis squalled in pain and came up off his knees, knowing his scalp would be torn off if he didn’t.

 

“Lemme tell ya somethin’, cunt,” Brody said with a sneer as he got Travis to his feet.  “Ain’t nobody leavin’ me till I’m done with ‘em.  You wanna leave?  Fine, bitch.  But yer leavin’ my way.  Ain’t like anyone gonna want ya now that I’ve reamed out yer fuckhole anyway.”

 

Travis had time to notice how the hem of the short sleeve on Brody’s white t-shirt was drawn taut around the circumference of his massive bicep as the abusive top pulled his arm back.  It mesmerized him to the point he almost didn’t notice the arm shoot forward again; he certainly never had time to try to block the vicious gutpunch that hit him like the kick of a horse.  The blow was so violent Travis was jerked back hard enough to pull his head free of Brody’s grip, at the painful cost of a handful of hair being ripped out.

 

Travis kicked as he fell, his ropers making contact with Brody’s legs—not hard enough to cause any pain, but in combination with the sudden shift in his weight once he was no longer holding Travis, the alpha staged backwards a few steps to regain his balance.  Unable to breathe, Travis nonetheless found himself doing an astonishingly stuntman-like tuck and roll across the bed.  Hitting the floor on the other side, he hurled himself around a corner into the master bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

 

Putting up a hand to brace himself against the wall, Brody dropped the restraining order; the crumpled piece of paper floated to the floor like a leaf.  Watching it, the muscle-bound hick felt the red flush of anger rising in his face again.  He turned towards the bathroom door, an expression of grim determination coalescing on his feature.

 

The little fuck had to learn.  Brody knew he was hot; he knew he could stick his dick in anything he wanted.  This lazy little homo leech brought nothing to the table; it needed to learn its place in the scheme of things.  And its place in Brody’s scheme had hit rock-fuckin’-bottom.

 

He started slowly, with an almost casual knock at the bathroom door.  “Travis?” he called gently.  “C’mon out, man, I wanna talk.”

 

The leech in question was huddled on the bathroom floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms clasped around them.  Tears were running down his face and despite the oppressive heat in the small room and his sweatiness from his recent acrobatics, Travis pulled the denim jacket tighter around his shoulders.  His abdomen was still throbbing from the punch and he’d just managed to get his breath back.

 

“B-brody?” he quavered, “Just—just let m-me go, dude.  Huh?  Ok?  Can I just go?”  He didn’t know what to make of this conciliatory tone, but he knew it’d be a very bad idea to go out there with Brody just outside the door.

 

“You filed this order,” Brody’s voice came silkily from beyond the thin, hollow-core door.  “We need to talk about it.  C’mon, man, open up the door.”

 

“I-I’m sorry, man.  P-p-please just lemme go,” Travis blurted, barely able to keep his incipient sobbing down.  “I’ll—I’ll do any-anything ya want, but please, Brody, for fuck’s sake, just lemme go.  Ok, Brody?  Huh?”

 

“Open the door, Travis.”  Brody’s voice wasn’t quite as smooth now.  “I wanna see ya.  How do the wetbacks always say it—mano a mano?  Yeah, face-to-face, like a real man.  C’mon out, Travis.”

 

“No, not-not yet, Brody,” Travis whimpered.  “Back off a bit, man.  Tell ya what—if you’ll go out in the hall and close the bedroom door, I’ll come outta here.”

 

“Ya know what?” Brody snapped, the softness in his voice replaced with a tone that seethed unmistakably with cold, hard rage, “I’m sick of fuckin’ with yer dumb ass, you worthless little faggot.”

 

There was a loud crunching sound and Travis saw to his horror that Brody had put his steel-toed construction boot through the door, smashing open a large hole in the center with a single kick.  The leg was withdrawn and was instantly replaced with Brody’s face.  The long-haired stud had the countenance of a god, but tonight he looked like the god of hell as he grinned at the terrified punk.

 

“Heeere’s Brody!” he shrieked with insane glee.  The remains of the hollow-core door were no obstacle to the powerful white-trash sadist; he tore the pieces out with his bare hands, the screws coming out of the thin wood fascia as easily as if they’d been screwed into butter.  In less than five seconds, Travis was face-to-face with the one person he’d hoped he’d never see again.

 

That was bad—very bad.  Cowering at the base of the toilet, the lean, lithe youth saw death in Brody’s eyes.  Travis screamed and pissed himself in terror, the hot wet warmth spreading over the crotch of his tight jeans.

 

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled malignantly.  “You scared, asswipe?  You should be.  Time for you to learn a lesson I should taught ya a long time ago—and learnin’ it’s gonna hurt bad, bro.  It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

 

With the feral grace of a tiger attacking prey, Brody lunged at Travis.  In a single, lightning-fast maneuver, he grabbed the terrified punk by the throat, whirled around, and flung him back through the open doorway into the bedroom.  Travis hit the ground on his back just short of the far wall, the impact driving his breath out and stunning him but not knocking him out.

 

As he shuddered on the floor in shocked pain, gasping for air like a dying fish, Travis could only watch helplessly as Brody strode out of the bathroom with a calm that belied his boiling rage.  The quivering homo stared as the hard-bodied stud towered over him.

 

His tight jeans tucked carelessly into his laced but untied construction boots, his wide leather belt with the huge metal belt buckle fastened just above the massive bulge in his crotch, his ripped abs and massive chest, emphasized by his too-small white cotton t-shit that was stretched so tightly across his broad pecs that his large firm nipples seemed about to tear through the fabric, above all his hard, almost arrogant face with two days’ worth of scruff darkening the cheeks and chin—even in his pain and fear, Travis was still mesmerized by Brody’s sheer masculinity.  The head mix of pheromones emitted in the alpha’s sweat added to the pansy’s confusing mix of lust and terror.  He wanted Brody so bad—no, that wasn’t right; he wanted to get away from Brody so bad…

 

In any event, he didn’t have a choice.  Before he could recover, the muscle-bound top bent down and clamped his hand around Travis’s throat again with a brutal vise grip.  Hoisting the writhing homo into the air, this time the vindictive sadist let the boy dangle, gagging and choking.

 

Travis’s mind was engulfed in terror like a solid sheet of flame.  He couldn’t breathe at all.  No matter how hard he kicked, his piss-filled ropers were flailing uselessly inches off the floor.  And Brody—Brody was more pissed than Travis had even seen him.  Brody was gonna hurt him worse than he ever had before.

 

Travis’s panic went nuclear when he realized it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d get over—it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d survive.  The rational part of his mind slipped away and he became a feral animal, scratching and clawing in his desperation to survive.  He realized—without any conscious thought involved—that he wasn’t making any headway clutching at the incredibly powerful hand Brody had clamped around his throat.

 

With nothing else to cling to, Travis began flailing wildly, his hands snatching at anything within reach.  The first thing he came into contact with was the collar of Brody’s t-shirt.  With a mighty (and completely instinctive) jerk, the thrashing youth tore the collar, yanking back until the thin cotton shirt was in shreds.

 

“You fuckin’ asswipe!” Brody barked, “Goddam shirt is new!”

 

Travis never saw the blow the hardbodied top aimed at his face; he only felt a phenomenal blast of pain and sank instantly into darkness.

 


 

Travis’s ascent back to consciousness was marked by a distinct ache that seemed generalized at first, throbbing throughout his body, but finally localized on his left eye.  He tried to open it, but it was swollen and he could only manage to peer out of a blurry slit.  There was nothing wrong with his right eye, though.  It popped open to see Brody looming over him.

 

He felt like he’d been out for hours, but it had been less than fifteen minutes.  In that time, Brody had managed to strip him nude and lay him out crossways across the bed.  Groaning, the twink raised his head, his shaggy blond hair glinting like gold under the bare overhead light.  Tenderly clutching his blackened eye, Travis watch Brody out of his good one as the stud tore the remains of the t-shirt off his back and tossed them to the floor.  His huge furry chest and washboard abs exposed, the alpha finally deigned to look down and notice the boy.

 

“Good, yer awake,” Brody said, almost conversationally.  “I was jist wonderin’ how to wake yer stupid ass up.  See, ya can’t learn if yer asleep—an’ it’d be jist like a dumbass motherfucker like you to sleep through the most important lesson of yer life.”

 

Brody reached down and unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, he extracted his tackle like he was hauling a bucket up out of a well.  Travis was already familiar with the top’s huge shaft, but there was something sinister about how hard the massive cock already was.  The slut was so focused on the pulsating rod of manmeat that it took him a moment to notice that Brody had undone his belt buckle and was slowly sliding the belt out from around his tight waist.

 

Travis knew he was trapped.  There was no way out; his only hope was to try to appeal to Brody, hoping for some mercy of perhaps memory of affection.

 

“N-no, please,” he begged, his right eye wide, blue and sparkling with tears, “For God’s sake, Brody, don-don’t do anythin’ yer gonna be sorry for!”

 

The moment he said it, the flash in Brody’s eye told his he could have phrased it better.  “Gonna be sorry for?” the vicious redneck hissed, “Is that some kinda threat, boy?  You think you can threaten me, you sorry-ass little cumsucker?  Here’s a threat for ya, faggot!”

 

Brody doubled his belt over and held it at the bend, leaving both ends—including the one with the huge metal buckle—free.  Travis saw him swing but didn’t even have time to wince as Brody brought the thick leather straps down across the tender flesh of the kid’s smooth, flat belly.  The loose end of the belt stuck the skin with a loud slap, leaving a wide red weal.  The buckle, on the other hand, slammed down violently and left a bruise nearly the size of a palm print.

 

Both hurt like all fuck.  Travis screamed and Brody grinned cheerfully.

 

“That got yer attention, huh?  That got yer mind off suckin’ dude’s dicks?  Yeah?  Good, cunt, cause there’s a lot more where that came from.  I’m gonna teach ya the same way I saw my pappy break a horse—with pain.  Only thing a dumb animal like you understands is pain, boy.  So saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to rodeo!”

 

Through his tears, the sobbing youth looked up at Brody.  The muscled stud had turned away for a moment; Travis heard the door latch, then a click.  Brody had closed and locked the bedroom door.  He returned and leaned over the writhing homo, his head momentarily eclipsing the overhead light, giving his black, shoulder-length hair a glowing aura as an arrogant, cocky grin crossed his unshaven face.

 

“Ain’t no way out, boy.  See, that’s what ya gotta learn—you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with yer ass.  Ya feelin’ me, son?  Ya catchin’ what I’m pitchin’ at ya?  Naw, I don’t think you are.  Like I said, it takes pain for a dumbass motherfucker like you to learn a damn thing.”

 

 

Travis shrank back as Brody brandished the belt again, raising it up over his shoulder.  Throwing up his hands, Travis had time to shout, “Please, no!” before Brody swung.  It turned out putting up his hands to block the blow was an extremely bad idea; while the belt lashed his right arm painfully, the buckle struck his left hand squarely, snapping all but Travis’s index finger and thumb.

 

The agony was as sudden and unexpected as it was searing.  Travis immediately rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, cradling his wounded hand.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Brody growled.  Grabbing Travis by the shoulder, he rolled the kid onto his back again.  The weeping punk saw with horror that the alpha’s huge cock was dripping precum.  Raising his eyes slowly from the erect, straining rod, Travis scanned Brody’s furry abs and the wiry mass of body hair that spread over his chest, the large dark nipples jutting from the swelling pecs like volcanic peaks above a dark forest.

 

Above that, the look in Brody’s handsome, masculine face told Travis what he already knew but was afraid to admit to himself—inflicting pain was getting Brody aroused.  The unmistakable glint of lust in his eye, normally a turn-on on its own, was transformed in something terrible and disturbing when it was combined by the grimace of contempt and hatred that twisted Brody’s face.

 

And that was when it finally sank in for Travis.  For a brief moment, lucidity cut through the pulsing agony in his hand and the sharp ache radiating from the bruise on his belly, and he understood the symbolism of Brody closing and locking the bedroom door.

 

It was because he was gonna die in here tonight.

 

“Oh god, no,” he protested, but fear had frozen his voice into a barely-audible croak.  “No, Brody—for fuck’s sake, don’t…”

 

“That’s it, you stupid sack a’ shit,” the cruel alpha chuckled, “Beg for yer worthless life, cunt.”

 

Some perverse corner of Travis’s mind sealed his lips, not wanting to give Brody the satisfaction—not that it mattered.  With a convulsive grunt, the muscled top swung the belt again, the edge of the oversized buckle slashing a long gash across the kid’s smooth chest.  This time, though, Travis didn’t get the chance to react to the cold, sharp pain of torn flesh before the belt struck him again.  And again.

 

Brody was working himself into a frenzy, his face contorted with hatred and rage as he lashed the slim young boy with the leather belt.  Each agonizing blow that landed forced a scream from Travis; suddenly, the blows were landing too fast for him to separate them.  It was like he was in a hail of knives—he simply couldn’t tell where the welts from the belt were forming or if the buckle had struck him on the leg or on the elbow.  All he knew was that he was in an unholy grip of pain that clutched his entire body remorselessly.

 

At one point, Travis was aware of a single blow of the buckle—it hit his right knee edge-on, shattering the kneecap.  That sensation tore right through him, a flash of agony that would have seared his soul had the shallow youth possessed one.

 

The brutal whipping lasted for almost twenty minutes before Brody, sweating and panting with exertion, tossed the belt to one side.  Travis kept screaming, his cries deafening—to himself.  In reality, his voice had cracked five minutes earlier and all that was coming out of his gaping mouth now was a hoarse gasping sound.  He was rolling about and jerking on the bed as if he was still being whipped—an involuntary reaction to the pain.  His smooth skin was no longer unblemished; barely an inch was visible that was not marked with the brutal violence he’d just suffered.

 

“Like I said, dumbass, you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with ya,” Brody panted, stepping back from the bed a moment to admire what he’d done to the writhing kid.  “An’ all this fag-bashin’ done got me horny.  Tell ya what—lemme drain my balls and I’ll be done with yer useless ass.  I’m gonna load ya up with my hot mansperm and then I’ll let ya take a nice long dirt nap.  How’s that sound, asswipe?  Ya cool with that?  No?  Tough fuckin’ shit, ya goddam motherfucker.”

 

Before Travis could process the words that had been spoken to him, Brody had climbed on top of him and forcibly spread his legs apart.  His pain- and fear-stunned mind moved slowly; it wasn’t until cue-ball-sized head of the muscled alpha’s dick pressing against his sphincter that Travis realized his murderous lover was treating him to one last fuck.

 

The young fag had worshipped Brody’s monstrously huge cock and had loved the sensation of being filled with manmeat—it had hurt, but it had hurt so good.  But Brody had always gone in slowly, and with lots of lube.  This time it was different.  This time it hurt bad.

 

Wrapping his large hands around Travis’s smooth thighs, Brody rammed his shaft deep into Travis’s rectum, his oozing precum the only lube.  Despite the nightmarish level of agony wracking the punk’s lean body, the sudden, searing pain of having his sphincter literally torn open  took Travis’s breath away.  He could only lie still, his body rigid and trembling, his eyes, wide and circled with gray rings of shock, riveted on the figure of Brody.

 

The hardbodied redneck grinned.  He brushed a lock of his long hair out of his face; his bulked-out torso glistened with a slight sheen of sweat under the overhead bulb.  The beating had been a good workout; Brody’s muscles tingled and he felt energized.  His big throbbing cock was buried balls-deep into boymeat—the sadist was pumped and primed, ready for a good time.

 

Still overwhelmed by the pain in his rectum, Travis’s jaw had clenched closed tightly, forcing him to breathe loudly and deeply through his nose.  His close proximity to Brody’s sweaty, masculine body meant that the unfortunate youth was more or less huffing the overabundance of pheromones that were being emitted in the musky tang of Brody’s mansweat.

 

The impact of the adrenaline and testosterone on the always-horny homo was as involuntary as it was immediate—Travis’s own six-and-a-half inch dick began to stiffen and rise above the kid’s flat, badly-bruised belly.  He was in too much pain to notice it at the moment…

 

Brody noticed it.

 

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled.  “All I gotta do is shove my cock into ya and yer homo ass gets all horny—even though I toldja yer gonna die tonight.  Ya like that idea, huh?  I shoulda offed ya a long time ago.  In fact—”

 

Before Travis could blink, Brody’s arms had darted forward and clamped around the boy’s throat.  As the buff top leaned over, the weight of his bulked-out body pressing Travis down into the mattress, he began to squeeze, his grip intensifying slowly but inexorably, as he cocked his thumbs and pressed them remorselessly into the kid’s larynx.

 

“—every time I came in yer worn-out asshole, it was cause I was fantasizin’ about snuffin’ ya, you useless pansy.  Remember Tuesday night?  I was thinkin’ about huntin’ you through the woods like prey, seein’ the terror on yer stupid fag face when I finally blocked yer path and blew ya away with my shotgun.  But you wouldn’t suffer enough—I’d want ya still alive while I gutted ya like a deer…”

 

Travis croaked loudly, his hands gripping Brody’s wrists but the broken fingers on his left hand flopped limply, utterly powerless to move the top’s hands a fraction of an inch from his compressed throat.  His air was completely cut off.  This couldn’t be happening yet, he thought; knowing he was going to die, he still refused to recognize the imminence of death.

 

“Remember how good I fucked ya on your birthday?” the alpha whispered vindictively to the choking youth, “You said it was the best fuck you’d ever had.  I was dreamin’ about cuttin’ yer throat and fuckin’ ya as you bled out and died.  That get ya off, you sick fucker?  Yeah?”

 

Travis shook his head frantically, as much in denial of the entire situation as in denial of Brody’s words.  His face was starting to swell and darken and the crushing pain in his throat was a strong new sensation in the kid’s overpowering wave of suffering.  But it wasn’t alone—there was a pounding, too, a hot, burning pounding in his head and his chest…

 

“I even planned out how to dump yer body, fuckwad,” Brody chuckled cruelly at his dying bitch.  “I’m just gonna drive ya out and dump ya in the swamp.  By the time yer corpse floats up outta the muck, it’ll be so bloated and rotten, ain’t no one gonna know who you are.  If anyone finds it in the first place.  Ain’t no one gonna be lookin’—I’m gonna tell ‘em you ran off with some rich dude who was passin’ through.  Everyone knows what a lazy whore ya are—and no one’s gonna care.”

 

Travis could still hear Brody speak, but the words seemed to have an odd echo effect inside his head.  It was cloudy in there and it was only with difficulty that the choking faggot could focus his attention.  He was still lucid enough to realize that pulling at Brody’s wrists wasn’t helping and tried clawing at the alpha’s fingers instead.  His entire body seemed to be pulsing with pain; some part of him wondered how he could still be conscious while suffering such agony—and why his cock was so strainingly erect it hurt as well…

 

When Brody spoke again, Travis absorbed the words.  They seemed to melt into the relentless, overwhelming pounding in his head and his chest; the rapid jackhammering of his pulse that beat out the last few moments of his wasted life in double-time…

 

“Die, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit!” the heaving, pumping top growled, his hulking form, covered with sweat-matted fur, enveloping the kid’s slim, lithe body.  “Choke and fuckin’ die, you goddam sack of cum-gobblin’ scum!”

 

Brody could feel his hot manseed seething in his balls; he knew he was gonna erupt into a boiling geyser of sperm at any moment.  Even now, trembling on the edge of orgasm, he was so pissed at the worthless little fairy he was bangin’ that he didn’t want the cunt to enjoy his hot manload.

 

Brody’s hands tightened, his fists clenching closed in his rage.  His thumbs pressed forward inexorably, shoving Travis’s larynx out of place.  As the cartilage of his voice box reached the point of ultimate stress, the lithe young faggot kicked and flailed frantically, the terror of knowing that he was gonna die if he couldn’t stop the powerful sadist overriding the nightmarish agony he experienced every time he bent his shattered knee.

 

And he couldn’t.  He simply wasn’t strong enough to prevent the alpha’s muscles from clamping down on him and ending his life.  The point was driven home painfully as Brody crushed his larynx, the fragile cartilage construction shattering loudly into mangled gristle.

 

Travis’s swelling, blackening face assumed a horror-stricken expression, but the kid’s features were so bloated and congested with asphyxia that it was hard to tell the difference.  The grotesque, excruciating agony in his throat was just the latest in a long line of horrific sensations that were wreaking havoc on his nervous system.  The pounding in his chest was so intense the dying homo was sure his body was pulsing visibly in the same tempo.  Deep inside, he was still painfully aware of how full of manmeat his guts were; the horny faggot corner of his mind that still kept track of such things held no memory of Brody’s cock being so thick or buried so far inside him.

 

And as some part of him screamed inwardly at his missed chance to flee, another part acknowledged that he’d have missed this insanely intense fuck—and that part seemed to be the one in control of his cock as it swelled and oozed, its tender flesh viciously abraded by Brody’s rough, wiry belly fur as the swollen member slid between the writhing, intertwined bodies.

 

Things were fading for Travis, and growing cold.  Was the heat on?  He couldn’t remember.  All he could remember was that there was pain beyond the icy chill, pain and cock.  He was full.  Brody had filled him with manmeat.  Beyond that, the pounding in his head was too much; it was like he was being beaten by a prizefighter…why?  What—his dick, his ass, his entire lean smooth body—it had given him such pleasure; now there was nothing but pain everywhere…

 

“Yer dyin’, faggot,” Brody jeered.  “How’s it feel, huh?  Does it hurt?  It don’t hurt bad enough, fuckwad.  No matter how bad dyin’ hurts, it ain’t anywhere near as bad as you deserve, asswipe.  C’mon and start kickin’, boy.  Lemme feel yer hot lean body jerk an’ kick under, motherfucker; lemme feel yer asshole convulse and jack me off.”

 

The hardbodied top gave the dying youth one last squeeze, feeling with profound satisfaction the cracking sensation as he crushed Travis’s trachea into a bloody pulp, permanently sealing off the punk’s airway.  In the shock of mortal pain, Travis literally lost his mind; the animalistic mid-brain took over and Brody found himself dealing with a wild, clawing beast that beat at his chest and ripped his chest hairs unconsciously.  Not that that got any pity from Brody; having his chest fur pulled out hurt.  With a loud grunt, he drove two roundhouse punches straight into Travis’s face, breaking the fag’s nose with a pulpy sound.

 

“Ain’t you dead yet?” Brody snapped.  “Fuck, I ain’t gonna need yer worthless ass once I use it as a cumrag.  Fuckin’ die, motherfucker!”  He placed his right palm on Travis’s chin, feeling the wispy golden curls of the homo’s blond facial hair.  At the same moment, Travis’s hands were fondling Brody’s harsh scruff, the dying boy’s fingers–the unbroken ones–involuntarily caressing the rough, steel-wool-like growth covering the alpha’s hard, masculine cheeks and strong chin.

 

Brody shoved.  With a loud cracking sound, Travis’s skull was forcibly separated from his spine, the thick spinal cord shearing apart at the second cervical vertebra with instant, violent, and traumatic impact.

 

As Brody recalled it later, it was like Travis suddenly developed a moist, pulsing suction in his ass, solely devoted to swallowing the vast load of sperm that the top had built up in his balls.

 

The dying faggot wrapped his arms and legs around his killer and squeezed—everything.  His limbs, his chest, his rectum; it all contracted as a searing bolt of agony swept like lightning through Travis’s central nervous system.

 

At literally the same moment his brain was shorting out and dying, the battered and abused youth shot a stream of hot semen from his hyper-stimulated scrotum.  Brody grunted and screamed “Fuck!” repeatedly as Travis’s lean form writhed and jerked under his weight, milking his sensitive, engorged shaft.  For Travis, the world ended in a searing blast of agony and cum.

 

As the dead kid kept pumping out his death load, reflexively smearing and matting Brody’s chest fur with pearly white boyspunk, the muscled alpha hosed the cunt’s guts with his boiling wad.  It took a moment for Brody to regain control, but when he did, he found himself staring down into Travis’s face.  The young slut’s bulging, half-lidded eyes had a thousand-yard stare and thick, white, foamy drool trickled down his chin, soaking the golden curls.  He head was bent backwards at a grotesque angle.

 

Brody slowly withdrew his throbbing tool, pulling against the suction that somehow remained in the corpse’s rectum.  With a loud sucking sound, his massive rod came free, swaying and bobbing, dribbling pearly drops of spunk on Travis’s smooth, flaccid thighs.  Standing up, the cum-covered alpha passed his hand across his brow to keep sweat from trickling in his eyes and admired the scene.

 

Travis had learned a lesson he damn sure wouldn’t forget—the little fuck wasn’t ever forget anything ever again.  His smooth lean body shuddered in its death throes, his bare toes curling and uncurling as random nerves fired along the shredded remains of his spinal column.  A thick, glutinous wad of semen was slowly seeping from his still semi-erect dick.

 

“Now you can go,” Brody whispered, grinning, at the trembling corpse.  “Now I’m done with yer worthless ass.”

 

After cleaning himself up a little—washing the sweat and cum off his torso and his dick, then stuffing the latter back into his tight, worn jeans—the buff alpha took some time to take what was left of the ruined bathroom door off its hinges.  He’d get a new door tomorrow.  After dumping the splintered pieces of wood into the bed of his truck, Brody turned back to the trailer.  He’d finished clearing away the door, but he hadn’t finished taking out the trash yet.

 

Striding back into the bedroom, he leaned over the bed and picked up Travis’s body.  The dead kid was still quivering and since Brody hadn’t bothered to clean the corpse, he suddenly found himself covered with the homo’s cum again.

 

Well fuck that, he thought and decided not to bother with putting on the shirt; he was dumping garbage and would need a shower once he was done anyway.

 

The hulking, muscled redneck threw the dead boy over his shoulder, Travis’s head and hands hanging down Brody’s back.  As he left the trailer, the alpha’s boots sounded thick and heavy on the wooden steps and the extra weight he was carrying made the gravel crunch loudly under his heels.  Jerking his shoulder, he tossed Travis into the bed of his pickup; the corpse landed face-up with a thick, meaty thump.

 

Brody hopped into the cab and threw the truck into gear.  Twenty minutes later, he was pulling off the county road onto a trail that would have been impossible to see if he hadn’t already known where it was.  The rutted mud track he was following put his 4X4 through a workout, but eventually he reached the edge of swamp, pulling over beside a large pool of sickly water, dotted with tree stumps and covered with slimy green algae.

 

Climbing out of the driver’s seat, Brody walked around to the rear, opened the tailgate, and dragged Travis out by the feet, letting him fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes.  Standing over him, Brody looked down at the murdered corpse of his lover of two years.

 

“Y’know, fuckwad,” Brody mused speculatively, “That fuck was the best one yet.  Ever.  I shoulda done that to ya the first day I met ya…”

 

His Redwing construction boots sank deep into the soft ground as he dragged the faggot’s body to the water and rolled it in, watching bubbles rise up under the green film on the surface.  The he headed back to the truck.

 

On his way back to the trailer, Brody kept the windows down; it was a chilly night, but he was warm from exertion and the cool breeze across his chest kept his nipples achingly erect.  His mind was still running on the last thing he’d said.  If he’d offed Travis right away, he’d have gotten some great sex—and he wouldn’t have had to deal with the whiney little bitch for two years.

 

That was it, man.  That was how to do it.  Work ‘em out, use ‘em up and get rid of ‘em before they start to rot.  Fuck yeah.

 

Brody had a sudden sensation that he had experienced a major sexual revelation.  He knew now what he wanted to do, what would get him off, and get him off right.  He just needed a victim.

 

Wondering if there was anything on the computer back home that would lead him to the faggot cunt that have been helping his bitch try to run away, Brody grinned and turned on the radio.  His dick was getting hard again…

Camping with Chris By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

 

Chris is a real person who reads this site and sent me an email.  It turns out his fantasies are as fucked up as mine, so I wrote a story for him about how it all might turn out.  I had some “happy endings” as I wrote it, and he reported a large one as he finished reading it.  So, mission accomplished.  I hope others have the same reaction.  Let me know your thoughts, and remember that feedback and ideas are always welcome.  (BTW, I’m the character “Matt” in the story, as with many of mine, which is my real first name.  Loki I leave to your imagination.)

 

The Eagle Bar in Pittsburg had changed a lot since Loki purchased it a few years ago, remodeled it, and started hanging out there.  But in many ways, it had returned to its heritage, the days when it was the premier gay S&M bar in Pennsylvania.  There are lots of gay leather bars named “The Eagle,” but Loki had turned this one into something special, something exceptionally kinky and extreme.  It was a commercial success he was proud to own, attracting patrons, both masters and slaves, from all over the Northeast and beyond.

 

Of course, Loki was always proud, and he had a lot to be proud of.  He was especially proud of his pure Nordic heritage, believing it to be the master race.  He was named after the smartest of the Norse gods, and the one who was often evil, and he viewed himself in many ways as the god Loki.  It started with his gorgeous, muscled, Nordic body.  He was 23, recently finished with college, and recipient of a massive inheritance.  Buying and fixing up the bar was a trivial expense to him.  Loki was into extremely dominant gay sex, so the bar was primarily a way to attract other guys he could dominate, torture, and fuck, and to show off his phenomenal blond physique.  He also attracted a group of like-minded masters who shared his lust and joined in the fun. But he only associated with those who were also rich, fit, and good looking.

 

Loki always wore leather, but he was usually shirtless, sometimes with a masters’ leather harness to highlight his dominance.  Unlike other leather bars, nudity and public sex were encouraged, and sometimes he wore nothing but his steel-toed leather boots, especially when he was but-fucking one of the slaves.  That way he could show off how utterly massive his cock was.  The boots were the etiquette at the bar – dominant males wore at least leather boots; submissive fags were barefoot and naked except for a possible slave collar, cock ring, nipple clips, or weights attached to their balls.  There was a fully equipped torture chamber in the back complete with fuck stations, whipping posts, a rack, slings, and lots of other fun equipment with which a submissive could be restrained, tortured, and gang-raped.  There was also no rule against having a slave bend over a bar stool to get its ass pummeled, which happened a lot, often with Loki doing the initial drilling before the rest of the bar joined in.  All this required an “understanding” with the local cops, who got free drinks and admission along with the use of the subs of their choice.  Loki had struck gold in the market and was attracting gay S&M enthusiasts from near and far.  He charged a bundle and had already recovered his investment along with a tidy profit after only a couple of years.  His bar was now well known nationally as the best place for intense gay S&M, with no limits.  Loki wasn’t into limits.  If a patron damaged one of the slaves Loki kept available as waters and sex objects, the patron just had to pay Loki a fine and cover the veterinary bill to get the animal repaired.    The fine was a lot larger if it had to be replaced.  Loki viewed himself as a deity entitled to punish his subjects however it pleased him to do so.  And it pleased him a lot.

 

On this night, Loki was holding forth to some of his favorite fellow leather masters.  He’d been gone for a few days and was describing a camping trip he’d especially enjoyed.  He signaled to a nearby waiter, who knew the signal and quickly brought Loki a large stein of beer.  At a second signal, the “waiter,” who was a sex slave named Matt (one of the ones Loki kept naked and confined to the bar) knelt under the table and unbuttoned the fly on Loki’s leather pants.  The slave used its mouth to gently remove Loki’s hardening cock from his pants and swallow as much as it could of the giant penis.  As soon as Loki felt the slave’s tongue on Loki’s dick, Loki released a load of piss down the slave’s throat, commenting to his buddies, “gotta make room for the next load of beer.”  Everyone laughed, and the slave was soon occupied draining piss and getting beers for Loki’s audience.  As each master finished his load, he kicked the slave in the nuts with his steel-toed boots to signal that the slave should now service another master.  The slave’s balls were swollen from the multiple kicks, but it still maintained the required erection.  Matt liked being kicked in the balls and used as a human urinal.  Later, they’d get around to using Matt sexually, enjoying how utterly appreciative the animal was for the pain and humiliation it received – and deserved.  But for now, they wanted to hear about Loki’s adventure.

 

“So. Master Loki, what were you up to?  We know this was your annual renewal retreat, and we’re all dying to hear your story.  From the way you’re celebrating, I am guessing it’s a good one.  They always are.”  (Loki’s buddies had long ago learned that flattering him helped keep them in his circle of sycophantic favorites.  And, in fact, he was a great storyteller and his S&M activities were extreme and awesome.  They inspired his entourage to some intense public orgasms.)

 

“Well, you’re not dying as much as the guy I just finished with. His name was Curtis, or Carl, or Chris or something like that.  I think it was Chris.  But it doesn’t matter.  He didn’t really deserve a name.  He was a total loser, but an entertaining and eager one.  I’ll go with Chris.  Or cum-slut.  It actually began a couple months ago.”

 

Loki described how he had met Chris at the bar of a hotel in New York City.  Chris was in New York marketing some product or other, and Loki had just closed a deal to buy the hotel.  “The Eagle is really profitable, but I have a lot of money to invest, and renovating medium-quality hotels is a terrific investment.  I’m going to turn that one into the best gay S&M hotel in the world, complete with a no limits bar modeled after this one.  I was in the existing hotel bar having a drink with some fellow investors after we closed the deal, and I noticed this geeky-looking young dweeb staring at me.  I get that a lot from gay guys, given my body and command of the room, so I wasn’t surprised or offended.  I like being admired, and so do my buddies, who are all also major studs.  We deserve it.  The twink looked kind of interesting.  He wasn’t a movie star or anything, but he wasn’t altogether bad looking and those geeky types frankly appeal to me as prospects for torture and sex.  I invited him to join our group, which he did.

 

“I noticed you were staring at me and my buddies.  Are you some sort of fag?”

 

“Sorry., sir.  I didn’t mean to offend you.  I am gay and yes, I think you guys are amazing looking, especially you.  I was fantasizing about you tying me up and fucking me.”

 

That started a conversation Loki especially enjoyed.  He interrogated Chris as to what he liked to do in terms of sex, and learned that the fag was very submissive and, at 28, a bit older than Loki.  But he was not very experienced other than at sucking cock.    Loki unzipped his fly and invited Chris to strip naked in front of everyone at the bar, kneel in front of Loki, and suck his dick.  A bit to Loki’s surprise, Chris did so immediately and quite expertly, fully accepting Loki’s giant cock in his mouth all the way to its base and after a great suck session eagerly swallowing Loki’s gushing load of cum.  It didn’t seem to bother Chris at all to have people staring at him while he degraded himself.  Indeed, Chris quickly achieved a full erection.  (Loki owned the bar, so he didn’t have to worry about rules.  After all, this would soon be the norm for conduct there.)  As Chris used his tongue to clean Loki’s dick and then thanked him for the honor of serving him, Loki asked what sort of limits Chris had. “I don’t think I have any, sir.  For someone like you, I’d let you do whatever you want with me.  I’d be happy to suck off your buddies, or if you prefer I could bend over a table and you could all butt-fuck me.”  Loki was now truly interested, getting a full view of the dweeb’s body.  It really wasn’t bad, and included a very appealing butt.  Chris might be his kind of frag.  He clearly had a promising attitude and sure knew how to suck cock.  Loki ordered Chris a whisky without asking what Chris wanted, and continued the conversation with his naked guest.  He learned that Chris was staying in room 558 in what was now Loki’s hotel, and that he was heading back to central Pennsylvania, near Pittsburg, after making some sales calls the next day.

 

“That’s probably bullshit about no limits, but I’ll give you a test and an offer.  I’m staying in my penthouse, and my buddies and I are going to head there and have an orgy.  We’ll want some slave fags to play with, and it will be very rough.  We’ve arranged for some, but you can join the fun as a slave if you prove yourself obedient enough.  So, stay naked and stay hard, put on this slave collar (Loki handed one to Chris),  and go back to your room.  Pack your shit and leave it in the room.  Walk out with nothing but the collar, not even your room key, and be sure to maintain an erection.  Then go to the elevator by walking completely around the floor so lots of people see you and ride to the penthouse.  If you get arrested or thrown out of the hotel for being naked, that’s your problem.  If someone asks what you’re doing, tell them you’re a worthless slave reporting for punishment and invite them to punish you.  There will be a blindfold on the table by the door to enter the penthouse.  Put that on and ring the doorbell.  You’ll be used by my friends, including some very important people.  I don’t want you able to blackmail them for the awful things I and hey will do to you.  You also won’t know what is about to happen to you as you get tortured and fucked.  I’ll decide what to do with you and your shit after I’m done with you.  Understood?”

 

Chris was shocked, and a little afraid, but he was mostly excited and turned on, so he quickly agreed.  He had lots of extreme fantasies and this fit perfectly with some of them.  He couldn’t hide his reaction anyway, as his cock was now intensely hard, pointing toward the ceiling from all the pressure of his arousal.  One of Loki’s buddies commented and they all laughed at Chris as he put on the slave collar.  That made him blush but turned him on even more.  He returned to his room and did exactly as instructed.  He encountered about two dozen guests during his naked stroll, and was yelled at and threatened by all of them.  He responded as instructed, and several of the guys decided to start the slave punishment early. Two punched him in the nuts, one spat on him, and another kicked him in the butt as he passed, sending Chris sprawling on the floor.  Chris thanked them, offered to let them hit him, kick him, or spit on him again, and continued on his way when they were finished.  (They all accepted a follow-on that involved punishing his exposed genitals.).  To his surprise, none of this made him lose the erection.  The humiliation and pain made it stronger.

 

After he put on the blindfold and rang the doorbell, Chris was dragged into the room and participated in an amazing orgy that lasted through the night.  He had no idea how many guys were in the room, but he was sure each of them raped him at least once.  He did know Loki had been the first, not only from comments being made but from the intense pain in his asshole as Loki brutally rammed him, laughing at the fact Chris was bleeding from his torn flesh as Loki enjoyed raping him.  He was bent over the back of a low chair with his wrists and ankles tied to the chair’s legs to make it more convenient for them to enter his butt-hole and to highlight his vulnerability.  That also made it easy to whip his butt and back, which were severely lacerated by early morning.  He could feel the whip laying on his back between beatings, inviting the next tormentor. He also had lots of cocks inserted in his mouth, some to clean off after he’d been fucked, some to relieve themselves with a load of piss (no point leaving the room to use a toilet when a human urinal was available right there), and many were after a blow job – Chris’s favorite thing to do and his best skill.  He loved sucking cock, especially in public.

 

Chris heard others screaming besides himself, so he knew he was not the only sex slave.  But he also heard Loki encouraging the guests to be especially brutal to Chris.  Chris felt honored.  Late in the evening, one guest, who sounded particularly drunk, asked Loki if it would be OK to drag Chris to the balcony and throw him off so he could watch him fall to his death on the street below.  Loki considered the idea, and acknowledged that would be fun.  But he pointed out the death would be very quick and scum like Chris deserved longer and more painful sessions.  Loki finally decided against the idea because it was too dark to get a clear view of the fall and the broken body on the street, and it might be bad press for the hotel. The conversation was another turn-on for Chris, which Loki noted.

 

After the rapes, Loki thrust a large, electrified dildo up Chris’ torn ass, which sent a stream of electricity through his body.  It was astonishingly painful, and Chris provided very satisfying screams to entertain Loki and his guests.  Loki had a remote control to vary the voltage, but soon grew tired of that and just left it on full power.  They laughed as they watched Chris’s body writhing in pain.

 

Eventually Chris was released from the chair and tied to a rack.  The guests took bets on which setting of the rack would result in Chris’s arms being pulled out of the shoulder sockets, and there was lots of cheering when that happened, after very slow increases to make sure Chris felt all the pain.  This also allowed easy access to whip his chest and torture his nipples and genitals.  The electrified dildo up his ass assured there were no breaks in the pain inflicted on the group’s newfound sex toy.  The constant writhing from the dildo and other sources of torture assured everyone had a chance to enjoy his suffering, but they also noticed and some were even impressed with his continued erection.  Loki thoughtfully helped keep in hard by inserting a metal rod down the piss-slit, although he also attached the rod to an electrical source that heated it up and burned the inside of Chris’s cock.  The screaming from that caused Chris to go hoarse.

 

The evening ended for Chris after he was released from the rack and ordered to masturbate for the guests.  That was nearly impossible with his dislocated arms pretty much useless, but he was eager to do so.  As he began his orgasm he felt a massive pain in his balls.  He had been hit hard by Loki, who used a pair of brass knuckles to enhance the effect.  Loki was exceptionally strong as well as exceptionally beautiful, and Chris’ orgasm turned to agony.  He vomited form the pain, which was followed by a succession of beatings that left him unconscious and covered in his own cum and vomit, along with his own piss that was released as he passed out.  The guests cheered Loki and most added their own piss and/or cum to further drench Chris’ body in waste.

 

When Chris awoke later that morning, he was still naked and realized he had been dumped in a trash bin on the street, as had been his luggage.  His arms were still mostly useless form the dislocation, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to climb out.  Worse yet, he realized he had been dumped on top of another naked young male, but this one was dead.  The corpse had been emasculated and was a mess of broken bones and ripped flesh, with a gaping wound in its belly.  Chris was now not only covered with the vomit, cum, and piss from his own torment, but with the blood of his trash-mate.  He further realized that someone had taken a shit on him.

 

Loki had made sure there was a videographer to record the fun of watching Chris deal with his situation, and a cop to arrest Chris for indecent exposure and sleeping on the streets.  Loki later arranged for the photos and video, clearly showing how messed up Chris’ body was, to be sent to Chris’s Facebook friends (there weren’t many) and to his boss.  Loki had had one of his assistants go through Chris’s stuff and get all his personal data.  These included Chris pissing and masturbating.  Chris desperately needed to empty his bladder, but being stuck in the dumpster he wound up mostly pissing on himself.   Chis also needed to release some of the sexual tension he still felt.  The sight and touch of the mutilated naked corpse had done nothing to turn that off.  He correctly concluded that the party had indeed wound up with a fag being dumped over the side of the penthouse balcony, and he found that sexually exciting, if messy.  A part of him wondered why he had not been selected.  It took him a long time to stroke himself to orgasm, given the dislocation, but his cock was super hard and he added fresh cum to the fresh piss, which spewed over his body and added to the dried waste with which he was covered.

 

The cop waited before arresting Chris to enjoy the show and allow for a longer and more embarrassing video.   The photos and video featured the welts on Chris’s body along with the fact he was covered in vomit, cum, shit, blood, and piss.  They also showed his rock-hard cock, which remained hard after he had the orgasm in the trash bin, reflecting his sexual arousal even after all that had happened – or maybe because of it.

 

As Loki had requested, the cop did not let Chris dress before taking him to the police station, although he did use a nearby garden hose to wash Chris off so the cop wouldn’t have to smell him.   Once Chris was out of the dumpster the local garbage service picked it up and hauled it away.  The corpse would never be found, nor its disappearance likely noticed. Who would possibly give a shit about a dead fag?  Chris remained naked through the brief hearing, after which he was put in jail.  There were a dozen or so other guys in the holding cell, who gang-raping him as the cop invited them to do.

 

Chris had a lot of explaining to do when he paid his fine after a night in jail (where he again got gang-raped this time also including the guards) and finally returned home.  Bad as all that that had happened was in so many ways, however, Chris knew he’d make the same choice all over again.  Indeed, his main regret was that he had no idea who Loki was or whether he’d ever see him again.

 

“I enjoyed torturing and fucking Chris, as did my friends.  He was the most submissive fag I’ve seen in a long while – even more pathetic than Matt here.”  Loki had just gotten another refill from his bar slave.  As Matt left the table Loki kicked him in the butt, causing Matt to stumble and drop the tray of empties he was holding.  Loki made it clear to Matt that he’d be severely punished later for being so clumsy.  Matt sincerely apologized and acknowledged he deserved severe punishment. That began immediately as one of the other patrons amused himself by whipping and kicking Matt as he cleaned up the mess.  But that would only be a start.

 

“I left the little shit alone for a month or so, so his cuts and shoulder would heal.  I don’t like using damaged goods.  But I kept track of him and was amused to see his life fall apart.  He lost his job, of course, and his friends all “unfriended” him.  He had about two months’ savings, and I arranged to ruin his credit rating to get his credit card cancelled and keep him from getting loans.  I waited until his money was gone.  I also made sure that any employer he applied to got a copy of the video.  He was totally broke and isolated.  I’d even managed to fuck up his ability to get unemployment payments, so he was down to nothing.  He had to sell his car, and sell the cool electronic gadgets he owned on eBay.  About all he had left was some clothes and his phone, and he was at the point where he had to vacate his apartment in a day or so.  I’d read his medical records and knew he tended to get depressed, which is what I wanted.  Then I texted him an invitation to contact me, telling him the next encounter would be a lot worse for him.  I was pretty sure he would respond right away, and the dumb-shit did.  That’s the encounter I just returned from.”

 

Loki turned philosophical.  “There are lots of submissive scum out there, like this parenthetic bar slave.  I enjoy torturing and fucking them, but the problem is they enjoy it too much.  I’ve provided a wonderful place for Matt at the bar.  He likes being beaten and humiliated in public, and he loves sucking cock and getting butt-fucked.  Piss and cum are his favorite drinks these days, and he gets to drink a lot of each.  Being displayed naked in public is another turn-on, and it’s in my best interest to let him work out a lot so he stays attractive and fit.  I let him eat left-overs from what he serves at the bar, although I piss and shit on it to be sure it’s disgusting.  He even accepts that as his due, eating and drinking from a dog dish.  When I decide to snuff him, he won’t resist at all, knowing it’s my right and he deserves as horrible a death as I can dream up.  I’m starting to plan that, by the way, since he’s not able to hold an erection as long as he could before we all started kicking his nuts.  They are now damaged and the vet says it would cost a lot to repair them.  He also is showing the scars from all the whipping.  And that’s also part of what I provide him.  He has no decisions to make.  He doesn’t have to worry about whether it’s worth it to repair his nuts; I do that for him.  And he doesn’t have to worry about his career, or what to wear (the group laughed as Matt’s naked body came into sight), what to eat, where to sleep, when to piss or shit, or how to make or keep friends – he isn’t permitted any so it’s simple.  And all I ask in return is total obedience and the right to do whatever I want with him while he’s alive, and to snuff him whenever and however it amuses me to do so.  Oh, and I get to fuck his dead body and use it for food or fertilizer, or both.  For a worthless piece of shit like Matt, it’s a great deal.  In fact, sometimes I think I’m too generous to these slaves, but that’s just how I am.

 

“But Matt has a flaw.  He’ll shoot a great final orgasm as he dies, which we’ll all enjoy watching.  But he doesn’t YEARN to be killed.  He has a place and purpose in the world.  It’ll be fun to torture him to death, of course, but it’s more fun when a scum-bag begs for it.  That’s what I saw as a potential with Chris.  He deserved to die a horrible death, he knew it, and he desperately wanted it.  I just pushed him along a little faster to those realizations by destroying everything in his life that might matter to him.  I was doing him a favor.  Like I said, sometimes I’m just too generous.

 

“That’s why I didn’t let my buddies throw him over the edge at my party.  Chris not only had the right potential attitude, but he’d showed some courage in pursuing it.  It’s a rare twink who will strip naked in a public bar, let alone accept the challenge of my invitation.  I liked the look of his body, and he intrigued me.  So, I vetoed throwing him off the edge.  That would have been a waste.  My buddies weren’t too happy about my decision, as we all had a whole lot of blood lust as we kept partying.  By early morning, as it started to get light, I realized the party wouldn’t be a success unless my guests and I got to snuff one of the fags.  So, we played a variation of “Non-Survivor” where the slave fags vote to decide which of them literally gets thrown off the island – that is, the balcony.  They get into it big time, and it’s fun to watch them maneuver to not be selected.  They’re all prostitutes who know each other well, and old grudges surface fast.  And since the alternative is that we’ll throw them all off the balcony, they enthusiastically play along.  It was fairly soon when one of the fats was selected, despite all his begging for mercy.  So, we beat the shit out of the “winner” and then I cut off his cock and balls.  He was still alive, but not by much.  The point was that he was alive and aware enough to scream wonderfully as we carried him to the edge of the balcony and tossed him into thin air. It was light enough to give us a pleasant view of him flaying wildly as he fell 15 stories.  The most fun, though, was the fact he hit the top of the flag pole in front of the hotel, which impaled him right in the belly.  When we remodel I’m going to add some sharp spikes at various points so we can play target practice.  The goal will be to impale the fag in the butt or nuts.  That will be a lot of fun.

 

“Chris responded to my text as I expected, saying he wanted to see me again, no matter what was planned.  He said he was at the end of his rope and he really didn’t care what I did to him.  I found that pretty amusing my plans – and promising.”

 

Loki had texted back, telling Chris about a secluded camp ground 7 miles out of town that Loki owned and enjoyed.  “I am sending an Uber to pick you up.  Once again, you must be naked.  It adds to your humiliation.  The Uber will arrive in 14 minutes.  Be out front.”

 

Chris was thrilled and did as instructed, not even bothering to bring the keys to his apartment.  It wasn’t his anymore, and he sensed he would not be returning.  The Uber driver made fun of him being naked, especially since Chris had developed an erection thinking about Loki and what might be in store for Chris.  Being ridiculed didn’t bother Chris.  He was excited sexually and emotionally.

 

When Chris was dropped off at the designated spot he saw Loki standing at the trail head next to his Lamborghini.  Loki was naked except for his signature steel-toed leather boots, and Chris literally gasped at the sight of him.  Chris was aware Loki had been named to a god, but now realized that Loki was indeed a god.  No mere mortal could have a body that spectacular, or that dominant.  Every aspect of Loki’s blond frame was perfect, from his chiseled Aryan face to his broad, sculpted shoulders, massive chest, exceptional abs, and powerful legs.  But it was Loki’s manhood that generated the gasp.  Chris had realized its size when he sucked Loki off, and felt it when he was raped.  But now he saw it in its full splendor.   He had assumed stories of 12 in cocks were just bragging fiction, but this was a weapon at least that long, and equivalently think.  No wonder Chris’s ass had hurt so much after the orgy and was still bleeding the next day.  Loki’s balls were similarly huge, with a scrotum that hung halfway to his knees.  As Chris recovered from encountering this male deity, he did what seemed natural to him. He knelt in front of Loki and begged him to take and use Chris however Loki wished.

 

Loki said nothing.  He pointed to the hood of his car, and Chris instantly understood what he was to do.  He quickly went and bent over the hood so that his ass would be conveniently available.  The hood was very hot from the recent journey and burned Chris’s chest, but that obviously didn’t matter.  When Loki rammed his hard dick into Chris, Chris was in ecstasy with both pain and pleasure.  He had no doubt his innards were again ripped open, but that was what he wanted.  Anything to please Loki, and the more pain Chris endured the better.  Loki was in no hurry, and the fucking lasted for over 30 minutes before Loki shot a massive load into Chris.  After emptying his load, Loki inserted the electrified dildo into Chris that he’d used during the orgy.  This time Chris did not scream, recognizing that he deserved to be in constant, extreme pain.  Chris was then permitted to again kneel in front of Loki, who used his boot to kick Chris hard in nuts.  Chris was then permitted to use his tongue to clean the dick and his mouth to accept a load of piss.  Chris was struggling not to shoot his own load, but knew he was not permitted even to ask permission to do that.  Loki was in control of all aspects of Chris’s body.  Chris had become the totally dominated animal he always knew he should be.

 

Loki spoke for the first time, pointing to a large backpack on the ground next to the car.  “You are to carry that and follow me.  It cantinas the implements I will use to restrain and torture you, plus what I wish to have for my comfort for the night.”

 

The two men hiked silently for about six miles to a beautiful campsite next to a pristine river.  There was a supply pf wood next to the campsite, among other implements, and Loki pointed to it as where Chris was to put the backpack.  It was late afternoon and Loki took a flint form the backpack and used it to start a fire.  He also instructed Chris to bathe in the river to clean off his sweat and properly prepare is body for Loki’s use.  The water was ice cold, but even that did not dampen Chris’s erection.  After Chris was done, he next fetched water in a pail that Loki then placed over the fire.  In due course, Loki bathed himself with fresh, warm river water.  Both men were refreshed form their hike.

 

Loki next reached into the backpack and pulled out a series of implements, including a rope with a noose tied at one end.  “Put this around your neck and toss the loose end over the branch on that tree.”  Chris did as instruct, and Loki then grabbed the loose end of the rope and pulled on it slowly until Chris’s feet were slightly off the ground.  The noose did not tighten so it did not completely cut off Chris’s breathing, although in time the pressure on his neck would strangle him.  Chris realized this, but also knew it was OK so long as that is what Loki wanted to have happen.  He only hoped Loki would get more use out of him than just a simple hanging.

 

Loki was not ready for Chris to die yet.  “I do not plan for you to die tonight, although I may change my mind.  But I do plan for you to suffer.”  With that Loki picked up a whip and sued his great strength to brutally began lash his victim, starting with the chest and abs so he could enjoy the look of pain on Chris’s face, but proceeding to the back and butt to be sure every part of Chris was in pain.  As the body swayed back and forth under the whip strokes, it had the desired effect of making it even harder for Chris to breath.  Loki was expert at torture, and made sure Chris did not suffocate.  He also monitored the lashing so that he did not break the skin.  He had other uses for this body.

 

Loki noted with satisfaction that Chris remained erect.  Part of that was, of course, the effect of being hanged, but mostly it was Chris’s sexual needs being met. Loki approved, since having the cock stick out like that made it more fun to whip.

 

“What do you have to say for yourself, slave?”

 

“Thank you for using me, Master.”

 

“What do you want me to do with you?”

 

“Whatever you want, Master.  I have no will of my own any more.  I am your property to use and dispose of as you wish.”

 

“And does that include killing you?”

 

“Yes, Master.  Being killed by you would be an honor.  It is more than I deserve.”

 

“That is correct.  I will consider your fate.  But tonight, you must prepare yourself.  As you know, I am Loki, and Loki is a god.  You are but a piece of meat.  But you may achieve the wisdom to fully embrace your fate as the great God Odin once did.  To achieve wisdom, he allowed himself to be tied naked to a tree and endured the elements.   That is your task between now and tomorrow morning, and you are to consider how great the honor would be if I take your life to enhance slightly one of my orgasms during my annual contemplative retreat.  I return to this place each year to reconnect with my heritage and with Odin, and I sacrifice male meat as Odin requires.  You are to beg for that honor, realizing how utterly worthless your life is.  And you are to suggest ways in which I might make use of your body before and after you die.”

 

“But first, you must be labeled for what you are – my property.”  Loki proceeded to the fire, where he had placed a branding iron.  It was now red hot, and he retrieved it and approached the beaten body hanging by its neck.  The lettering was small and the message was simple: “Property of Loki.”  He branded Chris in two places, enjoying the aromatic smell of burning flesh and the inhuman screams of his victim. One was on his right pec just above the nipple, and the other was on his back just below the neck.  Despite the extreme pain, Chris was thrilled and grateful.  “Thank you, Master.  It is generous of you to accept my body as your property.  I know this includes your right to end my life as you wish.”

 

Loki continued to torture Chris for several more hours, enjoying not only whipping him but also using his brass knuckles to once again attack Chris’s balls, which swelled considerably from the blows.    “I want you to remain in pain throughout the night.  Some of that can be achieved through the dildo, which I will leave inside you at full power.  But I want your whole body to suffer.”  With that statement, Loki lowered Chris to the ground and released the noose.  He had observed the youth was starting to lose his ability to breath, and didn’t want Chris to die so easily.  The twink collapsed, choking.

 

“I have worked up a sweat punishing you.  And so, have you.  Once again cleanse yourself in the river, and fetch me some water so I can heat it up and cleanse myself.  Then you may have the honor of sucking my cock and drinking my piss.”  Chris, of course, did exactly as instructed, and greatly enjoyed sucking the massive cock.  He choked on it a few times, of course, and Loki kicked him in the balls for doing so, but he was overall very successful, and the hot cum streaming down his throat was totally satisfying, as was the piss that soon followed it.

 

“Stand by that tree with your back to it.  Then spread out your arms and legs.”  Loki approached Chris with long strands of rope.    He tied both the hands and the feet so that the rope reached around the tree and firmly held each in place.  Chris was now spread-eagled, firmly fastened to the tree.  Loki next attached a rope around Chris’s neck, which was also strung around the tree to further secure his body.  Loki was quite pleased with the arousing site of this young willing victim standing naked, fastened to a tree, branded for what he was, with his cock massively erect.  Loki at times believed himself to actually be one of the Norse gods, and felt this is what his father Odin would want by way of sacrifice.

 

But there was not yet enough pain.  Loki approached Chris and reminded him that he was to spend the night in extreme pain throughout his body.   Chris understood and once again thanked Loki for assuring he suffered adequately.  As he finished, Loki again used his great strength, this time to bend Chris’s right arm so that he completely broke the elbow. Chris screamed, but again expressed his thanks.   He did so again three times, as his left elbow and both knees were also rendered forever useless.  The body was now in total pain as Loki had planned.

 

“It is now time for my dinner, and for you to begin your night of pain and contemplation.  You will contribute here as well.  While I have brought other meat to cook, I wish to start with something entirely fresh.  You have no further need to produce sperm, so I am removing your testicles.  You will watch me eat them.  If I decide to let you have a final orgasm, the sperm you already have in your body will suffice.”

 

Loki cut very slowly into Chris’s scrotum to prolong the pain.  He removed each testicle slowly and had Chris lick it clean.  Then he consumed it in front of its prior owner.  Loki finished by cauterizing the wound so Chris would not bleed to death overnight.  But that was only to keep his victim alive for further tortures.

 

Chris was mostly overcome by pain at first, but as the evening turned into night he recovered enough to contemplate what was happening.  He was now castrated and his limbs were broken.  He had anticipated meeting with Loki would be fatal, but had no idea there would be this much pain.  But he also had no idea it would be this thrilling.  He was fulfilling Loki’s need to dominate, and that was far more important than Chris’s life and a wonderful use for Chris’s body.  He genuinely looked forward to completing his contribution the next morning by dying some sort of horrible death, hoping it would meet Loki’s expectations.  As he watched Loki finish his meal and settle down for a good night’s sleep on a comfortable air mattress under the stars, the sense of gratitude was far greater than the sense of pain.

 

. . . . .

 

Chris was unable to sleep that night due to the combination of pain and excitement, so he had the thrill of watching Loki wake up as the sun rose.  The human deity stretched his beautiful body and stroked his enormous cock.   He rose, pleased to see his human sacrifice still alive but clearly without any rest.  That was how he wanted it.

 

Loki left Chris tied to the tree while he enjoyed a hearty breakfast he retrieved from the backpack and from several coolers that had been placed near the fire pit before the two men had arrived.  Only then did he turn his attention to the broken animal he was enjoying so much.  So far, this piece of meat had greatly exceeded his expectation, and he felt confident it would also do so as it died.

 

“So, meat, what have you to propose for the use of your worthless body?  And are you still anxious to forfeit your pathetic life for my fleeting pleasure?”

 

“I am, Master.  I am just hopeful you will inflict a death that fully pleases you through its length and cruelty.  As for my body, I suggest you consider me as food.  And there is no reason you should not enjoy fucking me after I’m’ dead and before my flesh cools.  Perhaps, by way of an ongoing use, you might find use for my skin as a source of leather for you attire.  But perhaps that is too forward on my part.  I know I do not deserve that level of honor.”

 

Loki was completely pleased.  This was exactly what he wanted to hear, and it was also how he had planned to use the twink.

 

“you finally got something right, slave.  You will have the great honor of me torturing you to death this morning, And I will use your body as you suggest, since that is what I planned.  Indeed, from the time you stepped naked in the bar to get to suck me off, I concluded that your skin would convert nicely to leather.  You will be preserved as my new leather jacket, something vastly more important than your life.  The branding I did yesterday was strategically placed and will survive the leathermaking process, and everyone will know the jacket is mine.”

 

Loki untied Chris from the tree and led, or mostly carried, the body over to the branch where it had been hanged the afternoon before.  He attached a different noose around Chris’s neck, but this time didn’t raise Chris above the ground.  The noose just held him upright, as this was one designed to tighten under the weight of a body, which meant it and that would fatally choke Chris when Chris was lifted by the rope.  Loki needed the youth to breath, at last for a while.  He didn’t bother to tie Chris’s wrists behind his back as is traditional for a hanging.  He knew there would be no resistance.  And even if Chris tried, his arms were no longer functional.

 

Loki began by gutting Chris just above the cock, inserting the knife deeply and slowly cutting upward.  This was a favorite method of torture for Loki as he knew how amazingly painful it was for the victim.  Chris was no exception and Loki especially enjoyed the screams as they took on more of the sound of a n animal than a person.  After all, that’s what Chris always was.

 

“I like to start by opening up the guts and removing some of the innards that aren’t very eatable,” Loki explained as he slowly cut upward toward the base of the rib cage.  He made a sideways cut at the top and then peeled back the skin to reveal the organs inside.  Loki cut out and removed various organs, showing them to Chris as he pulled them out.  But he was careful to tie off the arteries and veins to keep the bleeding to a minimum.  Loki was quite expert at this, having majored in human anatomy in college so he could be a more effective torturer.  He put the organs in one of two coolers. Things that could be prepared for a delicious meal, like the liver, were in one cooler.  Other parts that weren’t suitable went into the other cooler.  “I personally like liver, and I’m confident yours will be delicious,” he explained.  “But I don’t want to be wasteful, and I’ll feed parts like your intestines and stomach to the slaves who work in my bar.  It will be fun to watch, and it’s probably even nutritious.”

 

Loki next turned to skinning Chris alive, which was a skill and task Loki also enjoyed and was very good at doing.  His knife continued to Chris’s chest, but this time not at all keep.  Loki peeled off the young skin he’d admired so much, and in a brief time Chris’s chest and belly were skinless.  His back, legs, and arms soon followed, with Loki carefully assuring the skin came off in large sections to make it easier to prepare the leather.  It was a tribute to Loki’s remarkable skill that Chris remained alive, albeit missing a lot of his insides and all the skin on his body.

 

But now it was time for Chris to die.  Loki pulled on the rope so that Chris was now off the ground, with the noose tightening as he continued to writhe in utter agony.  But there was no sudden fall of the body to break the neck as in a traditional execution.  Loki wanted Chris to die as slowly as possible, and this would happen due to being suffocated as the noose tightened around his neck.  While the vivisection and the skinning were enough to prove fatal, Loki enjoyed the look of terror on the face of a victim who was slowly deprived of oxygen.

 

“you’ll be dead pretty soon, and I’ll enjoy watching you suffer until then.  When you die, by the way, you will have an orgasm.  I didn’t let you cum earlier while you were alive not only because I don’t want you to feel pleasure, but because you wouldn’t have had any sperm stored up after I ate your balls.  No one knows if there’s any sexual satisfaction form an orgasm that is triggered by death, as it’s mostly a bodily function of blood flow to the cock.  I hope there isn’t any, as you don’t deserve it, but I am confident the agony and terror of death will be the greater reaction.  I do know it’s a whole lot of fun to watch a young male body cum and go at the same time.

 

The blood loss form being gutted, skinned, and robbed of internal organs meant Chris did not last much longer.  But there was some entertainment as his survival instinct kicked in and his useless arms tried to reach the noose.  Loki hadn’t expected that and laughed out loud.  It was really amusing.  Chris also didn’t disappoint on the orgasm front.  His cock had remained hard, as usually happens with guys getting hanged, and as his body began the final death spasms the cock erupted, squirting out a massive and powerful load of cum.

 

Loki was quite pleased.  He was also thoroughly aroused, and quickly cut down the body for its sexual use.  He entered the asshole for the last time, enjoying the warmth and the pressure generated as the fag completed its final death convulsions.  Fucking guys as they died was Loki’s favorite sex act.  The intensity of his orgasm more than justified the trivial sacrifice of Chris’s young life.

 

. . .  .

 

Loki finished his story to the appreciation of his audience just as dinner was served.  As the group began their meal there were lots of questions.

 

“So how did the jacket turn out?”  Loki reached down and showed off his new attire.  It was expertly done, and he pointed out how well the branding had worked out.  Chris was now clearly “property of Loki.”  And Loki also pointed out a feature he’d added.  “I thoroughly enjoyed watching the meat burst into its final orgasm, so I kept the cock, and used it as the pull for the zipper.”  Everyone admired the preserved cock hanging down from the zipper, the only part of Chris that would generate a memory.

 

“And what about the meat?  Did the slaves enjoy the intestines?  And did the choice parts cook up well?”

 

“We’re going to feature a ‘feast’ of the slaves eating the loser’s innards right after dinner as a start to tonight’s sex and torture fun.  We can add some piss and shit to enhance the flavor.  As for the prime cuts, please let me know.  Personally, I think the meat did indeed turnout to be delicious.”  And with that, Loki cut himself a second large piece of twink breast meat.

Adam Anew

Toby glanced down at Mike’s thick, swollen cock.  Turning his long-lashed, emerald green eyes back to Mike’s face, he grinned happily, then lowered his head and began to suck the oozing shaft.

 

“Fuck,” Mike moaned, running his hands over Toby’s smooth, firm body.  He clutched the cocksucker’s arms, feeling the biceps moving under the sleeve of tattoos decorating both arms.  One of the things that had attracted Mike to Toby when they met at the gym was the latter’s skater punk look.  Not that Toby wasn’t as into working out as Mike; but Mike’s was a more conventional buff fag attractiveness.

 

If it wasn’t love, it had been immediate lust at first sight for both.  Within a month, they’d moved in together; that had been more than nine months ago—and the sex was still as hot as ever.

 

Mike grunted, his sweat-streaked face twisting into a grimace.  “Fuckin’-A, dude, I’m gonna unload in yer mouth,” he panted and Toby, anxious for that hot spurt down his throat, redoubled his efforts.

 

Neither one of them had any idea they were being watched.

 

They’d left the blinds open; no reason they shouldn’t have—the window looked out onto a small yard surrounded by a privacy fence.  Powerful as he was, Adam had been able to vault himself over the fence and land silently on the inside.  Now he crouched outside the window, watching, his muscled body inflamed with desire for the young well-built bodies of the twinks and overwhelming disgust for the pathetic homos having sex in front of him.

 

Mike and Toby still had a daily routine at the gym, but they varied the times they went.  Unluckily for them, two weeks ago, they’d been spotted there by Adam.  He’d had an idea, a desire, a need—but he also needed a couple to help him fulfill it, and he felt like he’d just discovered the perfect pair.

 

The idea of pollution had been building in the back of his warped mind.  He’d already accepted that fucking a living fag would tarnish him as a homo himself; he needed to purify the meat by snuffing it first.

 

Recently, though, he’d worked out his necro philosophy in more detail and decided that there were levels of purity.  The meat that suffered the most was the most pure; suffering purged the faggot taint out of whatever boycunt he fucked.

 

That being said, how could he know how pure the meat was unless he offed it himself?  Restlessly, his mind turned back to all the corpses he’d plowed that he hadn’t killed.  There was no way to know how much they’d suffered—well, except for that last one, the one in the pool locker room; he’d witnessed that snuff and knew he had nothing to fear there.

 

And that was when he’d had the idea.  It rose up in him, a great urge that had to be satisfied if he was going to feel cleansed again.

 

He needed to recreate those kills—but this time, he’d be the killer.  That was the only was he could purge himself of the infection of faggotry.  And this time, he’d make goddam sure the meat suffered.

 

His first necro fuck had been the two dudes in the condo; the day after coming to this conclusion, Adam had been on the hunt for a couple of pansies that he could snuff simultaneously.  And the day after that, while finishing up some squats at the gym, his eyes lighted on Mike and Toby, the former doing some bench presses and the latter spotting him.

 

At one point, Mike had set the barbell back on the rests and, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, reached his hand up the leg of Toby’s shorts and fondled the smaller dude’s cock for a moment.  Despite his careful scoping, Mike never caught sight of Adam’s eagle-eye stare; from then on, he and Toby were marked for death.

 

They appeared to be about the same age—Mike was twenty-three and Toby twenty-one—but Mike was the larger and better-built of the two, by quite bit.  At six-foot-one and a hundred and sixty pounds, he certainly wouldn’t have been Adam’s equal in any physical contest, but he was still muscular enough to turn some heads.  His short strawberry-blond hair capped a broad, good-natured face which lodged a pair of deep, emotive brown eyes, a short straight nose, smooth cheeks and full, red lips.

 

Toby was more of a twink at 5-foot-nine and just over a hundred and forty.  His long brown hair was straight and shoulder-length; beneath his green eyes and slightly humped nose (evidence of a skateboard mishap that had broken it), he sported a soul patch of thick brown fur on his chin.

 

After that, Adam started tracking them, stalking the two fags as his prey.  He managed to catch them in the locker room a couple of times, giving him the chance to get a better look at the meat he wanted to fuck.  The skater punk maintained him image; the writhing patterns and designs of both tattooed arms continuing over his shoulders and down to the tops of his pecs, leaving his small brown nipples free.  There was a very faint brown haze of body hair on his flat belly that vanished under his waistband, but otherwise, his lean, lithe body was smooth.  Despite the elaboration of the tattooed sleeves, Adam was amused to note that a single open star had been rather inexpertly inked on the back of Toby’s right calf.

 

Mike’s muscled body was almost as smooth; his bulging pecs and ripped six-pack glistened with sweat under the gym’s fluorescent lights.  The size of his hog was obvious in the skimpy shorts he chose to wear, as was his near-constant state of semi-erectness.  Again, Toby followed him in this, but the skaterboy’s six inches couldn’t compare with his buff buddy’s long, thick cock.

 

And again, Adam smirked contemptuously.  Neither one of them had a dick as big as his—but then, that was only to be expected from faggots.  Might as well put ‘em outta their misery and put their meatsacks to some good purpose.

 

All of which was why Adam was crouched outside their rented condo.  He wasn’t going in tonight; he’d simply been taking a look at the layout and hadn’t actually expected them to be home—they usually went out on Thursday nights.  And Adam wanted them both together in the bedroom they shared, not down here.  But despite having to watch their vile homo sex, the evening hadn’t been a total washout; the sick necro killer had learned that none of windows looking into the private fenced yard were kept locked.  When he was ready, he wouldn’t have any problems gaining access to the interior of the unit.

 

Two days later, he was ready.

 

Mike and Toby had plans to go clubbing with some friends on Saturday night but the moment they’d paid their cover charge, Tyler had gotten into a bitchfight with his latest trick and it was easier to just split than listen to the squabbling.  Besides, Mike would have preferred to stay home and lay pipe up Toby’s ass all night anyway; it was the latter who’d wanted to go out.

 

At any rate, they were home by about eleven that night.  Half an hour later, both were in the bedroom.  Mike was seated on the unmade bed wearing nothing more than a pair of American Eagle boxer briefs and a pair of Nike Vandal hightops.  Both the kicks and the briefs were gray; the latter had a thick black waistband that stretched tautly around Mike’s narrow waist and black seams down the front that outlined the muscle twink’s huge package.

 

He was leaning back against the headboard, his left leg drawn up with the sneaker on the sheet and his right leg dangling.  With one arm bent back behind his head as a sort of cushion, Mike toked on a freshly-lit joint and ogled Toby, who stood the center of the room.

 

The slim, tatted skaterpunk had slipped out of all his clothing.  Completely nude except for his black Adidas Baseline kicks, he was returning from the attached bathroom, his own dick hard and bobbing in front of him as he approached Mike.

 

Reaching the bed, he stood next to it.  “Here, gimme a hit,” he grinned, reaching out for the joint.  Mike relinquished it but reached out himself, grabbing Toby’s shaft and jacking it as the younger punk inhaled deeply.

 

“That’s it,” Mike said approvingly as Toby exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, “Get yourself nice and high.  You’re gonna need it before your ass goes off duty for the night.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” Toby replied with stoned grin, “I know you’re—”

 

With a loud crash, the bedroom door was kicked open, a single, powerful kick that literally broke the door in half.  A hulking masculine figure, dressed in black, strode into the room, raw power obvious in every step he took.

 

Adam had given up his usual gym attire for this one.  He’d wanted to take the pansies by surprise and anyway their condo wasn’t a public place—he’d have no excuse for being seen near the place, so it was best not to be seen at all.

 

To that extent, he’d made sure that his long-sleeve t-shirt and tight-fitting cargo pants were matte black, nearly impossible to see under the cover of night.  His bright copper hair was likewise covered with a close-fitting black knit cap.  And he’d forgone his sneakers.  While he’d been able to clear the fence the other night, his feet had nearly slipped; he wanted better traction.

 

He’d found it in a pair of Magnum Response III tactical boots, custom ordered with steel toes.  He’d bought them for another reason, but thought they’d work perfectly for what he had in mind.  He’d been right.  He planted his big black lace-up boot in the middle of the door and kicked his way into the homos’ bedroom with almost no effort at all.

 

For Mike and Toby, the violence seemed to explode like a bomb.  Their different personalities were obvious by their actions once the “fight or flight” instinct kicked in.  Toby shrank back into a corner in fear as Mike leaped off the bed and came at the intruder.

 

He never stood a chance.  Adam, seeing him coming, drew back his powerful arm and swung wide, driving his balled-up fist into Mike’s face with the force of a semi hitting a brick wall.  The unlucky faggot spun in a half-circle, staggering back and falling, stunned, against the bed.

 

Filled with rage and lust, Adam turned to Toby, who crouched whimpering in the corner of the bedroom.  Seeing that he’d attracted the intruder’s attention, the lean skater punk began babbling.  “No, man,” he whined, holding up his hands, “Whatever you want, dude, just take it—please don’t hurt us, man, please don’t!”

 

Striding towards him with a homicidal gleam in his eye, Adam laughed coldly.  “Yeah, I’m gonna take what I want, you fuckin’ pansy.  I’m gonna take the fag right outta you, cunt.  When I’m done with you, you ain’t ever gonna suck another cock again, cunt.”

 

By now, he was standing in front of Toby, looming over quaking homo.  From behind, he could hear the long, slow groans of Mike regaining consciousness, but he wasn’t particularly worried about him.  He’d handle the stronger fairy when he needed to.

 

Toby looked up at Adam, trying to understand his words.  He was still terrified; this huge, powerful stranger had burst into the room and punched out Mike with a single blow—what the fuck was going on?

 

“Is-is this some kinda hate crime?” the long-haired punk quavered, his eyes starting to tear up.

 

“Hah!” Adam spat out, “Lookit the little queerboy, already startin’ to cry.  You bet it’s a hate crime, you punk-ass bitch.”  And here he reached down, unzipped the fly of his black cargo pants and hauled his enormous, dripping dick out.

 

Toby gasped at the size of Adam’s member; even Mike, big as he was, wasn’t that well-hung—this dude was some kinda freak.  Despite himself, he could feel his own cock respond—limp with fear, it was now stiffening and standing erect.

 

Adam noticed it too.  He laughed coldly.  “Ya want it, dontcha?  You think you deserve this cock?  Fuck you, faggot.  You’re fuckin’ scum.  You want this shaft, this real man meat, you gotta earn it.”

 

Reaching down, Adam clamped one large strong hand around Toby’s throat and lifted him bodily off the ground.  Holding him out at arm’s length, he chuckled as the skaterboy gagged and jerked, his black Adidas kicks swinging helplessly a foot from the ground.

 

Looking directly into Toby’s eyes, Adam smiled—a thin smile, sharp as the edge of a knife—and said, “Only one way to earn my cock, faggot—you gotta suffer.  And you don’t know the meaning of that word yet, but don’t worry—I’ll teach ya.  And yer little fairy boyfriend there too.  You’ll both learn how to suffer real good.”

 

Staring into the cunt’s eyes, Adam caught a flicker of movement.  Slamming Toby into the wall and dropping him like a sack of potatoes, the muscular killer wheeled around and caught Mike full in the face with another powerful punch, just as the buff young homo had regained his feet and launched himself for an attack.

 

With a loud grunt, Mike fell to the floor, bleeding from the corner of his mouth.  Dazed by this second impact, he stared dully up at Adam.  “Stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” Adam sneered.  “Don’t know when to stay down, do ya?  Here, maybe this’ll learn ya.”  Stooping, he punched Mike in the face yet again.  This time he was rewarded with the satisfying crunching sound of the faggot’s nose breaking, the cartilage crushed under the force of his fist.

 

Pausing for a moment, Adam unzipped one of the pockets on the left thigh of his cargo pants and withdrew several long zip ties.  “You win the grand prize, you lucky cocksucker,” he smirked.  “You get to watch.  Pay attention, asswipe, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

 

The well-built homo was flipped onto his belly; he could feel a thin plastic tie cinch inexorably around his wrists and another around his ankles, but the two powerful blows to his face had rendered him incapable of any physical activity for the moment.  By the time he recovered enough to attempt any resistance, it was too late.  Strong as he was, Mike wasn’t able to stretch the zip ties so much as a quarter of an inch, much less break them.

 

Adam kicked the faggot’s prone body viciously, using enough force to roll him onto his back.  Much like he’d handled Toby, the hulking, muscle-bound killer bent down and grabbed Mike by the throat, lifting him into the air.  Gagging, his Nike Vandals kicking uselessly inches above the carpet, the hardbodied twink was manhandled back to the bed, where Adam tossed him down.  Snatching a handful of hair, the sadist dragged Mike upright, propping him into a seated position where he could take in the entire bedroom in a single glance.

 

Mike was gonna have a perfect view of Adam snuffing Toby.

 

In the meantime the long-haired fairy had crawled back into the corner, his young face etched with bewildered terror.  He’d always expected Mike to defend him if the need arose, but this huge, bulked-out psycho who’d burst in on them so unexpectedly had overpowered Mike like he’d been a little girl.  Now the man was rounding on him, and he was helpless.  Whatever was gonna happen, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

“Oh God, no,” he sniveled, cowering as Adam loomed over him.  Glancing hesitantly up at his attacker, he watched mesmerized as the towering madman unexpectedly gabbed the hem of his own t-shirt and pulled it off over his head in a single, fluid motion, revealing his hard, furry torso that descended in a V-shape from his broad shoulders and firm, rounded pecs to his narrow waist.  The knit cap had come off, tangled in the shirt, and revealed a slightly tangled mass of bright, coppery hair.

 

The dude was a serious stud.  Toby felt himself getting hard.  But that was despite of his terror, not because of it, and even though he could see a large translucent bead of precum oozing from the piss slit of the intruder’s cock, fear was taking more of his attention at the moment than horniness.

 

The fear was well-deserved.  Adam bent down and grabbed a hank of Toby’s long hair.  Wrapping it around his palm he jerked the squalling twink up onto his feet.

 

“C’mon, faggot, let’s get started,” he growled, grabbing Toby by the throat and hoisting him in the air again, “I gotta load to drain and I can already tell it’s gonna take a while to beat the queer outta a pathetic little homo like you.”

 

Toby only kicked in Adam’s grip for a moment before his face and his world exploded in pain.  Adam punched him vicious in the face, then hurled him across the room.  The skater’s lean body slammed into the front of the dresser. The force of the impact rolled him up over the top of it, scattering everything—their cell phones, their wallets, piles of loose change and receipts, all of it went flying as Toby smacked into the wall, then rolled back forward off the dresser and onto the floor.

 

Groaning in pain, the tattooed twink opened his eyes.  To hurt to move, all he could see of his assailant as he approached were his laced-up boots.  They came nearer, then one drew back.  By the time Toby realized what it meant, it was too late to avoid it.  With one single brutal kick from his steel-toed boot, Adam broke Toby’s jaw.

 

The lean, lithe punkboy spent the next minute or so writhing on the floor, gurgling and mewling in agony as Adam watched him with erect, throbbing satisfaction.  The buff killer didn’t get to enjoy the view in peace for long, though—the other faggot began to squawk.

 

“You sonovabitch!” Mike screamed, “I’m gonna fuck you up!  You hurt him, I’m gonna fuck you up bad!”

 

Adam looked around the room and soon saw what he’d expected to find.  Ambling over to a pile of dirty laundry near the closet door, he bent down and picked up a reeking, stained jockstrap, stiff with cum.  Turning back to Mike with a grin, he said, “You’ll get yer chance to squeal like a pig yerself later, cunt, for all the good it’ll do ya.  In the meantime, keep your fuckin’ trap shut and enjoy watchin’ yer bitch suffer.”  Rolling the jock into a ball, he forced it into Mike’s mouth, leaving the muscled top gagging and mute, but still able to see everything that happened.

 

While Adam’s attention was diverted, an instinct for self-preservation kicked in deep inside Toby’s craven soul.  Even though the slightest movement of his head caused him terrible agony, he managed to rise to his hands and knees and crawl.  By the time Adam had silenced Mike and turned back to Toby, the latter was halfway to the door.

 

“Oh no you don’t, asswipe,” Adam growled and headed for him.  Toby could hear him approaching from behind; desperate tears leaked from his eyes as he realized he’d never make the door before the powerful psycho had reached him, but he had to keep going, he had to try…

 

When Adam got to him, he merely stood over the cringing, crawling twink for a moment, chuckling gutturally.  Then he delivered another vicious, lightning-fast kick, this one connecting with Toby’s left elbow.

 

The force behind the steel-toed boot didn’t just dislocate the joint, it snapped the ball end off the humerus, tore the tendons and completely severed the ligaments.  Despite the pain in his jaw, Toby screeched involuntarily as he collapsed and rolled onto his left side.  Adam walked around the sobbing, trembling punk until he was facing him.

 

“Didja really think you were gonna get away, you stupid sack of shit?  Fuck, dude, here I was tryin’ to make ya worth my dick, and now it looks like I’m gonna hafta kick the dumbass outta ya, you worthless faggot bitch.”  Still sobbing incoherently, Toby didn’t even notice Adam raise his foot up.

 

He damn sure noticed when Adam stomped on his chest, the deep tread of his thick-soled boot grinding into Toby’s soft flesh.  The loud snapping sound that accompanied it, like the splintering of a green limb, showed that one of the punkboy’s ribs had caved in under the sudden force—and if it didn’t show it, the sudden, high-pitched squeal forced from between Toby’s split, bleeding lips did.

 

“Fuck yeah!  That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Adam crowed, his huge, stiff cock pulsing visibly while he drank in the image of the tattooed skate punk writhing in nightmarish agony.  He was really getting off on hurting the little homo, seeing the fear and pain in his eyes.  And he still had another fucktoy in reserve—tonight was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…

 

Toby was wrapped in torment like a flaming blanket.  Every part of him was throbbing with pain, from the dull ache of bruised flesh to the glassy torture of broken bones.  He’d stopped trying to think; he could only endure.  An involuntary muscle jerk had pulled his head slightly to the side—from where he lay on the floor, he could clearly see Mike on the bed.  The idea that Mike might rescue him was long gone.  Mike was on the other side of the room, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world.  Toby could see that his boyfriend was crying, but it meant nothing.

 

Pain was the only thing that had meaning for Toby anymore.  And Adam knew it.

 

The relentless sadist sneered at his prey.  “Does it hurt, bitch?  Yeah?  It ain’t enough, you worthless sack of faggot shit; you ain’t hurt anywhere near enough yet to deserve my grade-A manmeat.”  He raised his boot again.  This time, Toby knew what was happening.  As Adam stomped, the fit, lean youth swung his right arm up and knocked the alpha’s foot away with all the force he could muster.

 

“You stupid pansy,” Adam barked and planted his foot in the middle of the kid’s right forearm, his big black boot covering a large section of inked flesh.  With a swift, smooth motion—so casual it almost looked rehearsed—the powerful psycho bent down, grabbed Toby right wrist, and pulled it violently upward.  There was a quick double-snap as both the radius and the ulna splintered; when Adam let go, the kid’s arm flopped uselessly back to the floor.

 

Toby didn’t react to this new source of pain.  Deep in sensory overload, he was starting to go into shock.  Lying on his back with his smooth chest heaving in shallow, irregular gasps, the tortured twink stared the ceiling, his bright green eyes wide and vacant.  His short, thick cock had gone limp, but that didn’t bother Adam.  He knew the punk would get hard again by the time he was done with him.

 

After all, the meat would be even more pure if the worthless fag sperm was drained out of it before Adam fucked it.

 

“Hey, queer-boy,” Adam called out to Mike, “It’s time.  Watch this shit, dude.  Watch me waste your cocksuckin’ homo boyfriend.”

 

As Toby continued to shudder and tremble on the floor, Adam waked around him until he was facing Mike on the bed.  With a wide, deliberate grin, he raised his right foot and planted his boot on the young faggot’s neck.  The sadistic killer stared directly into Mike’s disbelieving, tear-filled eyes.  “Look, ma,” he whispered.  “No hands.”  The hulking stud slowly began shifting his weight onto the foot on Toby’s neck.

 

The tattooed skaterpunk could only stare helplessly up at the huge, muscle-bound figure towering over him; there was no way for Toby to defend himself.  His broken arms jerked and flopped aimlessly, like dying fish; he had no way reach for the heavy black boot that was slowly—oh, so slowly—crushing his throat.  If he kicked, he bent his abdomen, causing his snapped rib to dig agonizingly into his guts, threatening to puncture his lung and pancreas.  If he tried to cry out, the jagged ends of his broken jaw ground together, causing hellish pain in his mouth…

 

Every movement bristled with torture, but Toby’s air was gradually being cut off.  He couldn’t keep still.  The tread on the killer’s sole was deep and intricate; as it sank into the tender flesh of his throat, what little lucidity the long-haired power bottom still possessed began to melt away in the face of impending asphyxiation.

 

Adam bent his head and spat in Toby’s face.  “Gettin’ harder to breathe, ain’t it?” he chuckled.  “See, as you choke an’ die, yer dick is gonna get all hard—and then yer gonna cum.  Happens almost every time I choke out a faggot.  You perverted little pansies empty your fuckin’ balls every time I waste ya—nothin’ turns ya on like gettin’ put down hard.  You wanna suffer even more than I wanna fuck you up.  Disgusting sack a’ shit—I gotta squeeze your load out and drain your sick fag seed outta yer meat to make it worthy of my cock.  Don’t worry, motherfucker—I’ll fill yer worthless corpse with my sperm.  I’ll baptize yer guts with hot manspunk before I leave you to rot.  And best of all, your fairy-ass boyfriend gets to watch you die!”

 

The words hit Toby’s ears like a dull ache, utterly swamped in the rising tide of instinctive terror as his oxygen was cut off.  He began to shudder and kick, helplessly flailing his firm, smooth legs and jerking his broken arms aimlessly.  Air.  He needed air.

 

And that was when it finally hit the lean twink—the realization that he was gonna die finally sank through the multiple layer of pain that had wrapped him like a cocoon.  Panic set in, a terrifying white panic the left him conscious and aware but still unable to control his actions.  Smirking, Adam watched Toby lose his shit as the boy choked under the alpha’s booted foot.  The pathetic little homo thrashed, his Adidas Baseline kicks carving furrows in the carpet as his inked arms flailed limply and helplessly.

 

As he struggled, Toby’s long hair became tangled and dark with sweat.  His entire body, in fact, was slick with sweat, the cold rank sweat of physical suffering.  The brutalized faggot’s smooth firm flesh glistened in the light, even as his face began to swell and grow dark.  “Hey, man,” Adam called out to Mike, “Lookit this shit.  See how his eyes are bulgin’?  That’s cause pressure’s building up in his head.  Damn, motherfucker, that’s gotta hurt like shit.”

 

Staring coldly into Mike’s bottomless brown eyes, the cruel alpha laughed, the sound slashing at Mike’s soul like a knife.  “Remember that, asswipe,” Adam hissed viciously.  “Dying hurts.  It hurts like nothing you’ve ever suffered in your useless faggot life.  Remember that when it’s your turn.”

 

From his position on the floor, Toby found that he couldn’t look away from his killer’s tall, powerfully-built form—quite literally.  As Adam had pointed out, his eyes were bulging; he couldn’t close them.  Toby had no choice but to stare up at the stud who was snuffing him.

 

The most immediate part of Adam in Toby’s field of vision was the shaft of his boot, the black leather rising from the bottom of his line of sight—he could clearly see how the extra-long laces circled the top of the shaft and were tied in front.  Above it, he could trace the line of the alpha’s thick calf and thigh muscles, outlined in the leg of his cargo pants.

 

Then there was the cock–the huge, throbbing shaft, jutting arrogantly in from, clear precum oozing in an almost steady stream…but Toby had to block that out, he couldn’t follow the link of pain and death and lust…

 

Beyond the webbed nylon belt circling his tight waist, the curly, golden fur that rose above the waistband, running up the killer’s ripped abs, spread out lushly on his broad, jutting pecs.  Heaving with exertion, Adam’s chest glittered as he moved and beads of sweat caught in his body hair caught the light.

 

Above that, there was a face, a beautiful, cold, contempt-filled face surmounted by red-gold curls like a copper nimbus, but it was too far away.  Toby was starting to have trouble seeing; darkness exploded in his sight light the blooms of huge black flowers.  His tongue was swelling, causing the dying twink horrible pain as it forced aside his broken jaw, but there was nothing he could do.  White, foamy drool leaked from his swelling lips, running down his chin and pooling around the treads of Adam’s utility boot.

 

The pounding in his heat was swift and intense; Toby could feel that it coincided with his speeding, panicked heart.  Despite the pounding and loud ringing in his ears, the slowly choking youth could hear the sadistically mocking words of his killer.

 

“How’s it feel, dying like a fuckin’ insect, havin’ yer useless life ground out under my boot, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ put down like the garbage you are, huh?  Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, I toldja you’d get hard again.  Disgustin’ little pervert, you just fuckin’ love it when a real man finally ends yer worthless existence.  C’mon, homo, time to drain yer sick faggot sperm so I can fuck some clean meat.”

 

With a snarl, Adam leaned forward, throwing all his weight on his right foot.  There was a loud crunch and the steel-toed boot suddenly sank a good two inches into Toby’s throat as the punk’s windpipe collapsed.  The young fag’s attention, momentarily diverted to the bizarre phenomenon of his throbbing, painfully erect cock, experienced the blast of horrifying agony that accompanies a mortal injury.

 

Adam steadied himself as the lean, lithe body beneath his feet began to shudder violently.  Toby’s huge green eyes, stained red by numerous ruptured blood vessels, rolled back into his head as he convulsed, his legs drawing up, then straightening as he kicked his life away with such force the Adidas sneaker was pulled off his left foot.  The buff alpha knew what was happening; shifting his body to one side, he applied more pressure to the boot embedded in the twink’s neck, twisting his foot sideways.

 

With a loud cracking noise, Adam snapped Toby’s neck like a dead twig.  As the sudden electrochemical shock flooded the dead kid’s nervous system, his erect shaft pulsed visibly and sent a solid stream of boyjizz up in a four-foot geyser.  Disgust on his face, Adam managed to dodge the fountain of spunk, letting it splash back on Toby body as it continued to jerk and flail in its death throes.

 

“Fuck yeah, man, there we go,” the sick top gloated at the dead boy’s sobbing boyfriend.  “Once that worthless fag spunk is unloaded, I’ll fill the meat with real manseed.  Finally givin’ this useless pansy a purpose—it died so I can have a cumrag.”

 

Adam stalked across the room, retrieving a chair that was standing behind the closet door.  As he did so, Mike, aflame with panic and anger, writhed violently on the bed.  Unable to loosen the zip ties binding him, the muscle twink increased his efforts until he managed to rise up vertically on the bed.  Once he was upright, though, he had no way of balancing himself and instantly felt himself falling over sideways.

 

His thick, muscular body hit the nightstand with a crash, causing him to start bleeding again from his already-broken nose.  He fell to the floor, accompanied by the lamp.  The bulb didn’t break; still lit, the light cast surreal shadows across the room from its low angle on the floor.

 

Adam had watched it all happen.  He wasn’t worried about Mike; there was no way for the meat to break free of its bonds.  And the dude had landed on the floor in a great position for a close-up of the next act.

 

The buff killer placed the chair upright in front of Mike, a few feet away.  Then he bent down and grabbed Toby, manhandling the still-quivering corpse until he’d draped it face-down over the back of the chair.  Then, without another word, he brandished his huge, dripping cock, grinned at Mike, and mounted the dead kid, his shaft penetrating Toby’s sphincter and sinking deeply into the meat’s guts.

 

“Fuck yeah, nice and smooth, just like I like ‘em,” Adam smirked as Mike burst anew into hot tears of outrage and terror.  The bound punk struggled to protest, but the soiled jock had been shoved too deeply into his mouth for him to be able to force it out; all he could do was watch the violation of his boyfriend’s corpse in silence.

 

The chair creaked loudly as Adam gripped the meat’s narrow waist and plowed its still-spasming asshole.  His furry, sweat-streaked flesh slapped loudly against Toby’s cooling skin as the alpha brutally pumped his shaft into the dead boy’s rectum.  As he fucked the corpse, Adam reached up and grabbed a handful of the punk’s long hair and jerked it back, raising Toby’s head.

 

“Look at him,” the vicious sadist hissed at the crying, struggling boy on the ground, “Look at his face.  See the pain and terror he endured?  See how the horror of his last few seconds of life are etched into his face?  Disgustin’ little faggot deserved to suffer so much more but he was weak.  You ain’t.  You can take what I’m gonna give ya—and it’s gonna be so much worse than what he went through.”

 

Adam never missed a single stroke of his brutal necro fuck as he spoke, slamming his gigantic rod into the corpse with a virulent power that was equal parts lust and hatred.  Through his tears, Mike watched Toby’s body jerk and flop with every intrusive thrust of Adam’s hips.

 

Suddenly Adam’s face tightened.  He gave a loud grunt, ramming his shaft home as his hulking, muscle-bound form went rigid.  There was a loud crack and the chair began a slow-motion collapse under the weight of Adam’s orgasmic thrust.  The killer had time to slide one booted foot forward and keep his balance as the chair bent forward and fell to the floor.  Toby’s body fell with it, slowly sliding off the alpha’s still-shooting cock.  Adam finished up by spraying his load onto the corpse’s back.

 

Snorting with contempt, Adam glared at Mike.  “Fucker was totally worthless.  Even dead, he couldn’t take a real man’s load.   My balls are still fulla cum, motherfucker—now it’s yer turn.  He was just the appetizer—you’re the main course, fuckwad.  And I like to linger over my meat.  Ready to dance, asswipe?  Yer gonna die clawin’ and pissin’ yerself in agony, faggot.”

 

Mike shook his head frantically, the stained jockstrap protruding from his mouth.  His already large brown eyes were huge with stunned shock; the sheer horror of watching his boyfriend’s snuff and necro-rape was reflected in his taut, pale face.

 

Bending down, Adam wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  Hoisting the jerking, struggling youth into the air, he slammed him against the wall on the far side of the dresser.  The terrified fag had a brief lucid moment to comprehend the sheer power of his assailant as Adam drew his right arm back, keeping Mike pinned with his back to the wall, several inches off the ground, with just one hand—and this with a loose enough grip to allow the beefy punk to breathe.

 

The he noticed that Adam’s hand had curled into a fist.  He saw the dude’s massive bicep twitch—and then his world exploded in pain as Adam drove his fist into the pansy’s face with the force of a steam hammer.

 

Mike’s head rocked backwards, punching a hole in the drywall as his left cheekbone and the thin bone behind his left eye shattered.  His hands, uselessly bound behind him, clawed at the wall, peeling off strips of paint with his fingernails.  His loud cry was muffled by the reeking fabric shoved into his throat.

 

He didn’t need to worry about the gag for long.  The bruised, battered homo was so stunned by the blow to his head that he never saw Adam’s thick arm draw back again.  He felt it, though; the muscular sadist pounded his huge fist straight into Mike’s solar plexus, at the base of his sternum.

 

The writhing fag’s diaphragm spasmed, his well-built chest collapsing in as the air in his lungs was expelled violently enough for him to blow the jockstrap out of his mouth; it dropped to the floor in the few inches of no-man’s-land between the vicious killer and his helpless prey.  Mike was unable to take advantage of his sudden freedom to speak—his entire attention was focused on being able to breathe.  For several terrifying seconds, the buff young queerboy was unable to inhale, his lungs refusing to inflate.  His eyes, wide and round, the left one blackening and swelling, were dulled over in sheer panic as he savored a foretaste of suffocation.

 

Suddenly the bulging groin of his American Eagle boxers darkened.  Struggling and terrified, the well-built youth had pissed himself in terror, the yellow urine running down his legs and flowing into his Nikes.  His one lucid thought was that however he was gonna die, he didn’t want to choke or suffocate.  Anything but this, he begged silently in the dark empty corners of his mind.  Anything but this.

 

Adam read the terror in the kid’s eyes and his grin widened and became shark-like.  His thick, swinging dick stiffened as he contemplated the bound, helpless faggot in his grasp.  The fucker was his do with as he pleased—and what pleased him damn sure wasn’t gonna please the homo.

 

Jerking and sweating, Mike suddenly inhaled deeply, managing to force oxygen back into his lungs.  With no warning, Adam delivered a brutal gutpunch to the suspended boy, sinking his fist deep into Mike’s firm, flat belly and driving out the air again.  This time, he released the kid, letting Mike fall back to the floor, shuddering and gasping like a landed fish dying on the deck of a trawler.  As the fag’s face went purple, Adam stood over him, sneering.

 

“Lookitya, you pathetic piece a’ shit,” he drawled contemptuously.  “Got yerself all buff an’ muscular, but yer still a worthless fuckin’ fairy.  Your muscles ain’t no match for mine, asswipe; they ain’t gonna help ya now.  I’m gonna fuck you up even worse than I did yer pansy-ass little boyfriend.  Hey, remember when I did this to ‘im?”

 

With a swift kick of his powerful leg, Adam’s steel-toed boot smashed into Mike’s flank, shattering two ribs into multiple pieces.  Once again, the handsome young homo had just regained his air, only to suffer a brutal impact that drove it back out.  This one was worse, though.  This one did major damage.

 

For the rest of Mike’s life—that is, for the next few minutes—the fit young punk desperately tried to breathe, never knowing that bone shards from his broken ribs had punctured his left lung, causing it slowly to deflate.  He only knew the creeping terror of slow advancing suffocation—and pain.  He became very familiar with pain.

 

Leaving one boot planted firmly on Mike’s chest, Adam leaned down and casually spit in the youth’s strained, agonized face.  “Naw, man, I ain’t gonna kill ya with my feet like I did yer fucktoy,” he jeered.  “That was fun, but I got somethin’ more…intense planned for you.  But first, I wanna know—did he ever fuck you?  Or were you always the top?”

 

Mike looked up at the alpha, his eyes running from the tightly laced boot on his chest up along the well-fitted black cargo pants to the huge, engorged shaft of manmeat that jutted out in front of Adam.  Huge and oozing, it added an emphasis to the sadist’s questions that intimidated the fuck out of Mike.  Wallowing in pain, he looked away, gasping and heaving.

 

“I asked you a question, motherfucker,” Adam said, a cold, hard tone in his voice.  “You got three seconds to answer it.  One.  Two…”

 

Mike opened his mouth, but in his panic, he could only croak incoherently.

 

“Three,” Adam concluded, with evident satisfaction.  “Ok, fuckwad, guess I gotta beat it outta ya.”

 

“…no…” Mike gasped faintly.

 

“What was that, fuckmeat?” Adam grinned.  Bending down, he clamped his left hand around Mike’s throat.  The bulked-out psycho was strong enough to hoist the buff young homo into the air single-handedly.  His windpipe was almost completely closed off this time and his left flank burned with pain where his ribs ground together but the attractive young punk unfortunately managed to remain somewhat lucid.  Lucid enough to comprehend the sheer power of the man who had him so completely at his mercy.

 

He needed a way to fight back.  Despite the pain, he needed to fight back or the same thing would happen to him that happened to Toby.  Toby—oh fuck, Toby, what the fuck happened…they were just gonna have a fun evening and this fucker showed up…

 

With a lightning-fast lunge of his arm, Adam snatched at Mike’s piss-soaked briefs and tore them off him, the elastic at the waist snapping back painfully on Mike’s bare flesh.  Nude except for his Nike hightops, the queer hunk dangled in mid-air, slowly choking as he struggled and squirmed, causing the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to dig even deeper into his skin.

 

“Did that dead piece a’ shit lyin’ over there ever fuck you, asswipe?” Adam demanded.  “Ever had a cock up yer boyhole?  Answer me, fuckwad!”  Adam punctuated his demand with another blow to Mike’s face, this one splitting his lips and knocking out one of the kid’s canines.  “Can’t talk, motherfucker?  Ok, just nod or shake yer head.  Or I’m gonna beat ya to death right fuckin’ now.”

 

Mike’s lucidity was fast drowning in a rising tide of terror; he knew the hulking stud wasn’t kidding.  Eventually, he forced himself to shake his head—not very well, but enough for Adam to feel it.

 

And when he did, he grinned.  “Excellent.  Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than fuckin’ a virgin corpse.”

 

Mike would have pissed himself again at the words if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder—and if his dick hadn’t grown unaccountably hard.

 

Adam noticed it too.  “Fuckin’ fag pervert,” he snarled, “Ya like that, dontcha?  You want my fuckin’ rod in ya so bad yer willin’ to die to get it, aintcha?  Disgustin’ piece a’ shit—see, this is why I gotta waste ya.  Doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor, I am, by clearin’ it of sick fucks like you.”

 

Mike could feel his pulse racing—it pounded in his temples and in his rigid cock.  His eyes felt like they were gonna pop right out of his head; tears streamed down his cheeks.  Pain and terror fought for control within him and he wondered if he was going to die like this, suspended in mid-air, shuddering and jerking.

 

And then he was sailing through the air.  It happened in the blink of an eye; there was no warning—Adam simply tossed him across the room with no more effort than if he was a rag doll.  The buff homo slammed violently into the wooden headboard.  It broke in half vertically with a loud crack as a hundred and sixty pounds of muscled boymeat smashed against it and fell back limply onto the tangled pile of sheets covering the bed.

 

Barely conscious, Mike rolled onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling as well as his swollen eyes would allow—particularly the left one.  His entire face was bruised and puffed up, aching horribly from the broken bones in his face.  It hurt bad, but his side, where the snapped ribs were grinding against each other, hurt worse.  His wrists and ankles were raw and nearly bleeding from the way the zip ties had cut into his flesh during his useless struggles.  Fuck, it all hurt so bad…and then there was Toby…

 

The hardbodied young punk was losing his will to live.  Mike had endured a ruthless mindfuck.  Despite his impressive build, he wasn’t emotionally strong; he simply couldn’t handle the combination of mental and physical trauma he’d been forced to endure.  Adam could see it in his eyes; the homo was starting to check out.  He needed to move fast.

 

Suddenly Mike felt a weight on him.  Adam was climbing onto the bed—and onto him.  His blank stare no longer focused on the ceiling; now his killer filled his field of vision.  Seeing the hard face, so cruel and so handsome, topped with copper curls, Mike knew he was looking into the face of the man who was gonna kill him.  For the first time, he really knew it.

 

The power of the muscle-bound sadist was obvious; it was expressed in everything about him from the wiry, sweat-matted fur covering his broad hubcap pecs to the powerful tang of adrenaline and testosterone that was blended in with his musky perspiration.  Mike knew he was strong, but he was helpless before this bulked-out hypermasculine stud.

 

Adam knew the score.  He lowered himself down, letting his massive cock make contact with Mike’s flat, smooth belly.  The thick, engorged head was oozing precum steadily; it acted as lube, letting the pulsing shaft of manmeat slide up Mike’s abdomen.  As Adam lay full-length on Mike, belly to belly, their erect dicks were pressed between them, side by side.

 

“Look at me, faggot,” Adam whispered quietly, almost seductively, as he wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  “Look me in the eyes as I put yer worthless ass down.  I wanna watch your wasted life drain outta ya.  I wanna see death in yer eyes.  You feel me, bro?  Last thing yer ever gonna see is my grinnin’ face as I wipe yer fag ass off the face of the earth.”

 

And then he started squeezing.

 

Mike had panicked as he’d been held up and dangled but Adam hadn’t been trying to strangle him then.  This was different.  This hurt a fuck of a lot more.  He was low on oxygen as it was, his left lung having slowly collapsed over the last few minutes, but Adam was literally crushing his esophagus.  The cruel killer had wrapped his fingers behind the boy’s neck but had placed his thumbs in front, right on the larynx.  As he clamped his hands down with the force of steel trap, Mike’s voicebox was remorselessly shoved back into his throat, the cartilage deforming past its limits.

 

It hurt, Jesus, it hurt so fuckin’ bad.  But as bad as it hurt, the pain receded into a loud buzzing in the background as white, blinding tide of terror rose within Mike.  He was suffocating.  He couldn’t breathe.  Worse, he couldn’t fight it.  He was helpless, pressed under the heavy mass of his killer’s muscles, his hands and legs excruciatingly bound.  This was it, oh fuck, this was for real, no, no, he wasn’t gonna die, not now…

 

Adam knew the faggot was too far gone in fear to pay attention to anything he said.  And while that was a good thing—fear was excellent for purifying faggotry—the little (compared to Adam) fuckwad needed to be brought back into the now.  Applying some pressure, he swiftly and viciously dug his thumbs in and was rewarded with a loud crack.

 

Mike instantly stopped thrashing and stared with horror into Adam’s face.  His larynx had just been crushed into a useless mass of mangled cartilage.

 

Adam grinned.  “Ya know what, faggot?  Yer dick’s still hard.  I can feel it.  That’s gotta hurt like all fuck.  You gotta know yer dyin’ by now, you gotta feel like yer dyin’ by now—but yer dick’s still hard, you sick little fuck.”

 

As his gorgeous but abused body went rigid in horrific agony, some dark corner of Mike’s mind-raped psyche knew the brutal sadist was speaking the truth.  Even in the midst of overwhelming suffering, Mike could feel his own shaft, achingly erect, rubbing against his killer’s ripped, hairy abs.

 

“Time for lights out, asswipe,” Adam continued.  “You’re almost clean enough for my cock.  I just need to squeeze the defective homo sperm outta yer nutsack and you’ll be ready to receive the load of a real man.  Time to die.”  He paused, with a faint chuckle.  “Ain’t like anyone’s gonna miss another faggot, anyways.  Only one who mighta cared is already dead.  And he was a damn lousy fuck.”

 

He squeezed even harder.  Mike’s tongue, already thick, swelled to the point it forced his mouth open.  The near-black tip parted the cunt’s blue lips as white foamy drool trickled down the youth’s cheeks.  As the weight of asphyxiation crushed his chest, Mike’s tremulous sanity succumbed to remorseless hammering in his head.  A screaming pitch-black vortex of sheer terror opened in his mind…

 

…but he wasn’t too far gone to hear—or to feel—the loud crackling, crunching sound as his trachea collapsed into a bloody mass of gristle under Adam’s relentless, vise-like grip.  And in the utter shock of fatal injury, Mike shot a death load of epic proportions.  His bulging eyes were looking directly into Adam’s as he felt an agony he’d never know could exist—it felt like his entire self, his life essence, had been violently ripped out and was being expelled in his hot, ropy jizz.

 

His powerful, sweaty body entwined with that of the dying muscular twink, Adam felt the faggot’s spunk splattering over his abs and soaking into the wiry fur that forested his bulked-out torso.  It infuriated him—nasty homo seed contaminating his well-cared-for body.  With a roar, he let go of Mike’s neck and grabbed the unlucky pansy’s ankles.

 

In the last five seconds of his life, Mike suffered one last time from the sadistic stranger’s hate and lust.  Enraged, Adam jerked the kid’s legs apart.  As ice-cold darkness closed in on him, Mike saw Adam’s huge, sweaty biceps flex awesomely—and then, with a loud snap, Adam broke the zip tie.  The thin plastic dug through Mike’s flesh down to the bone, but it finally gave way before the sheer power of the hardbodied killer.

 

The cuts had severed an artery in Mike’s right ankle, but since his heart had stopped beating almost simultaneously, blood merely seeped from the wound instead of spurting.  Adam wasn’t done with his victim, though.

 

Enraged, the psychotic stud brandished his hard, club-like cock and plunged it into Mike’s fuckhole.  Even though the corpse’s sphincter was flaccid in death, it still wasn’t elastic enough to accept a shaft of the size of the one now being brutally rammed into it—Adam tore the dead kid’s ass open.  “You worthless queerboy fucker,” he snarled, “Thought you’d make me a fag by squirtin’ yer diseased homo cum on me, huh?  You ain’t the first faggot to try it, cunt, but ain’t none of ya ever man enough to turn me!”

 

His hips thrusting swiftly, Adam nailed the dead kid’s butthole.  Sweat trickled down the small of his muscled back as he fucked the corpse, every pump of his cock violently expressing his hate and disgust for the fag he was banging.  He became aware that his balls were drawing up as his semen started to boil over.  And then orgasm hit him, almost like a violent cramp.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, “Fuck!”

 

It was almost involuntary, the way his right arm drew back and then pumped forward like a steam piston, smashing into the corpse’s face.  Adam didn’t try to stop it, though—it felt so fuckin’ right.  As his cock swelled and spurted again, his fist shot forward again.  And again.  With every spurt of hot manseed from his engorged dick, Adam punched Mike’s swollen, blackened face as hard as he could.

 

This was what Adam had wanted, had hoped for—had worked for.  It felt right.

 

He came a lot.  A lot.  By the time he was done, Mike was unrecognizable.  Adam had beaten his face to hamburger.

 

With a deep sigh, Adam pulled back and sat on the bed, his dripping cock resting on the tangled sheets.  He glanced around the room, noting the position of a couple of items, then got up and headed for the bathroom.

 

After spending a few minutes cleaning the drying semen off his torso, he tucked his dick back into his cargo pants.  Grabbing a clean towel, he headed back to the bedroom.  Once there, he used the towel to pry the Nike Vandals off Mike’s feet.  They were soaked with the dead kid’s piss, but they could be cleaned.

 

Then he collected Toby’s Adidas kicks, pulling one off his foot and simply picking the other up off the floor.  He’d seen a gym bag on the far side of the dresser; he used it to collect his trophies, picking up his long-sleeve t-shirt and his knit cap as he passed them.  It was a cool night, but Adam was still warm and sweaty; he decided not to put either on at the moment.

 

Bag in hand, he paused at the door and looked back.  Toby was still lying belly-up on the floor, his limbs and head all at grotesque angles to the body.  Mike, his hands still bound behind him, was also lying belly-up on the bed, his legs spread, white spunk oozing from his ravaged asshole.

 

It wasn’t complete.  He needed to recreate that first necro fuck for it to be right.

 

Leaving the bag at the door, Adam returned to Toby and rolled him over, off the broken remains of the chair, burying his dead swollen face in the carpet.  With a quick step to the bed, the psycho killer grabbed Mike’s corpse under the arms, dragging it over to Toby’s.  Tossing it down on top of the long-haired dude’s body like a sack of dirty laundry, Adam bent down and manipulated Mike’s still semi-erect penis into Toby’s ass, then adjusted the legs.

 

Stepping back, Adam admired his posing.  It looked like a perfectly natural fuck.  Well, except that Mike’s hands were still zip tied behind his back.  And the fact that both punks had suffered major physical trauma.  And that both were obviously dead.

 

As far as Adam was concerned, it was perfect.  He’d erased any possible homo contamination from his first necro fuck.  Picking up the bag, he headed out the door.  Within six minutes, he was off the property, walking bare-chested down the street to where he’d parked his truck a safe distance away.

 

While he walked, Adam found his thoughts—and his cock—drawn to public restrooms.

M4M4RightNow

“Cum fill my hole—looking NOW

It’s a warm wet night and I need to be bred right now

R U man enough?  Send pic”

 

The photo attached to the post was only a torso shot; it was difficult to determine the dude’s age.  But the pic showed a lean, boyish chest with broad smooth pecs.  Large dark nipples weren’t the only thing to stand; a large tattoo was inked across the left pectoral—the anarchy symbol, a letter A made of three crossed lines, with a circle around them.

 

There was a faint haze of brownish fuzz across the guy’s flat belly; there was nothing else distinguishing about the pic—but it was enough for Joe.

 

He’d been off work, but it had rained all day.  Now, long after the sun had set, he sat listening to the pattering of raindrops against the window.  He was bored and horny, and that meant one thing.

 

Some lucky faggot was gonna spend the last few minutes of his life with Joe’s huge cock buried in his ass.

 

He’d trolled through the app he’d downloaded to an earlier victim’s phone.  Nothing stood out, so he’d held off until later in the evening.  The really sick homos, the ones who most deserved to be put down like dogs, tended to crawl out from under their rocks under the cover of darkness.

 

And he’d been right.  This fucker right here was just beggin’ to get whacked.

 

He sent a reply—a dick pic, full erect.  “U bitch enough to take me all the way?”

 

The response was quick and detailed.  An address, and the info the door was unlocked.  The pansy wanted Joe to come right in, head for the bedroom where the queer would be on the bed on his hands and knees.  He wanted Joe to walk in and stick his dick right up his ass.  No foreplay, no talk—just plug his hole and start banging him.

 

Joe could do that.  He let the dude know.

 

“Cool can you make it quick—got more dudes cummin later gonna be a serious cum dumpster—Cliff ”

 

Joe smirked as he padded off to put some clothes on, his hard, muscled body moving like a panther’s in the dark.  No, it wasn’t gonna be quick.  No matter how much Cliff begged, it wasn’t gonna be quick at all.

 

The hardcore sex killer selected his outfit with care.  It was warm and humid outside; the rain was the last of the summer showers, but it hadn’t cooled off quite yet.  He pulled a black sleeveless t-shirt over his hairy chest; it displayed his well-developed biceps and furry forearms perfectly.  Next, he slipped into his favorite pair of jeans well-worn and skin-tight, cinching them around his narrow waist with a wide belt of black leather.  Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of engineer boots, also of black leather, with a buckled strap across the ankle and another at the top of the shaft.  It was easier just to pull them on over the legs of his jeans…

 

Dressed to kill, Joe stood up and headed for the door, his dick already tenting the crotch of his jeans in anticipation.  He needed to drain his huge, hairy balls badly, and that meant he needed a cumrag—a human cumrag.  Time to head out.

 

Within fifteen minutes, Joe had arrived at the address given to him, a gated apartment complex in a decent part of town.  Cliff had already sent him the gate code; Joe drove into the complex, looking for the right apartment.

 

It took a while.  The rain had stopped-or, rather, the air had become so saturated with water that everything was wrapped in a warm, soggy mist like fog.  The apartments were three-story units in long rows down alleyways; the ground floor of each unit was a garage and an entryway.

 

Finally locating the right unit, Joe parked in front of the garage door.  He glanced up and down the alley, but no one was out on a wet night like this.  Trying the front door, he found it unlocked as promised and entered the unit.

 

He found himself in a small entryway with a tiled floor.  To his immediate right was a door to the garage; straight ahead were the stairs.  The slutboy had informed him that the bedroom was on the third floor, so Joe headed up the steps.  Halfway up, they turned and doubled back and Joe found himself in a dimly-lit living/dining area; off to his left was a dark space that was obviously the kitchen.  The stairs continued up, and so did Joe.

 

There were three doorways on the third floor; two of them—presumably leading to a bedroom and a bathroom—gaped blackly at the landing at the top of the stairs.  The third one, though, was illuminated by a faint flicker of light.  Joe entered the room.

 

Dark shapes of furniture lined the walls.  Joe had to maneuver around what appeared to be a club chair—it was difficult to make out, but there appeared to be clothing draped over the back of the chair.  A fragment of color caught briefly in the faint light—a silk tie lay on top.  As he passed by, the bulked-out alpha snatched the tie and stuffed it in his pocket; no telling how it might come in handy at some point in the evening.  The motion had been too quick and subtle to be seen.

 

But in any case, the only thing that could be seen clearly was the bed.  It was king-sized and had a mirrored headboard with a built-in shelf; the flickering light—the only light in the room—came from three LED candles sitting on this shelf.  The bed itself had been stripped down to the fitted sheet, but it wasn’t bare.  Crouched on his hands and knees on the bed with his ass in the air, the fag was staring into the mirror, trying to get a better look at the dude who was gonna breed him.

 

Cliff was twenty-eight but with his lean, lithe body and nearly shoulder-length tousled dirty-blond hair, he looked younger.  He worked as an account manager at a bank, where he got by with a button-down look and a quiet demeanor; there was no hint of his wild, sluttish sex life at the office.  Once he got home, though, the whore came out to play—and played hard.

 

The youth was a serious power bottom; he loved to get fucked by anyone anytime—as long as he was off work.  “You don’t shit where you eat,” was his motto, and he stuck by it, but his sex drive was so intense, he was usually trolling for tops on his phone as he sat at stoplights on the way home.

 

The room was dim—he liked a sense of anonymity, of danger—and it was difficult to see, but it looked to Cliff like he’d scored big-time tonight.  Yeah, he had other dudes lined up later on, but this hulking muscular stud damn sure looked like he knew how to handle a hot bottom boy.  Cliff couldn’t see the guy’s face in the mirror, but he didn’t really care.  What he could see of the body was hot as fuck; what he really wanted a look at was the dude’s dick.

 

He got it soon enough.

 

Standing at the foot of the bed, Joe grinned at how easy the horny faggot was making it.  This pansy wanted a thick tubesteak up his ass bad, and Joe was just the man to give it to him.  Unzipping his fly, he reached down into his crotch and slowly extracted his massive cock like a handler pulling a python out of a cage.  He heard a faint gasp and realized the homo had caught sight of it.  The punk had seen it before, when Joe sent his dick pic, but it had been a close-up without a good sense of scale.

 

Now Cliff could see the full size of Joe’s shaft, the impressive length and frightening girth obvious as the thick rod of manflesh throbbed and swelled.  The dark veins wrapped around it practically writhed as they pulsed with blood.  Eager as he was, Cliff had never seen a cock that big and wasn’t sure his asshole could take it.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of dicks up inside him before, but this…this was something different.

 

Good thing he had a fresh bottle of poppers.

 

Joe climbed onto the bed and moved forward until he was up on his knees directly behind Cliff.  Pulling up his cock, he let it fall back down onto the homo’s bare backside where it landed with a loud, meaty slap.  Cliff moaned and quivered like a bitch in heat and Joe’s grin got wider and more shark-like.

 

“Ya want that, do ya, cunt?” he jeered, grabbing his dong and steadily slapping it against Cliff’s smooth, rounded asscheeks.

 

“Go easy, dude,” Cliff gasped his breath shuddering in erotic anticipation, “I ain’t—I mean, you’re—Jesus, that thing is gonna hurt.  Just go slow, man, ok?”

 

Since Cliff’s face was closer to both the mirrored headboard and the sources of light, Joe could make it out much better than Cliff could his.  The long-haired queer’s eyes were large and dark, with long lashes.  His nose was long and straight, and around his mouth was a sandy-brown stubble, a goatee just a shade darker than his hair.  Joe could also make out the small dark bottle clutched in the cunt’s hand.  So the faggot liked his poppers?  Good.  Joe could make use of that.

 

He decided to give the slut something to look at.  It was warm up on the third floor and Joe was sweating a little.  He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head, bending back slightly.  While still unable to make out Joe’s face, Cliff could make out his incredibly well-developed torso very well, drinking in the details of the dominant stud’s thickly-muscled chest—broad pecs with large dark nipples jutting out, seemingly hard enough to cut glass.  Thick, dark, abundant fur spread across the alpha’s abdomen and ran down his ripped abs, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans, demarcated by the wide leather belt.

 

“Oh fuck it,” Cliff muttered.  “Fuckin’ hell, lookit that bod.  Put it in me, man.  It’s gonna hurt, but I want you in me so fuckin’ bad…”  He opened the bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply, holding first to one nostril and then the other.

 

Joe wasn’t waiting for an invitation.  And he wasn’t waiting for lube either; he was going in dry.  The little fuck needed to feel it.  He pressed the thick, swollen head of his cock against Cliff’s pink puckered sphincter and pressed slightly.  Cliff moaned loudly.

 

Then Joe rammed his shaft home, shoving it all the way in until his pubes were rasping on Cliff’s baby-smooth asscheeks.  His enormous shaft speared the pansy’s colon, ripping open the clenched ass muscle and tearing at the tender lining of the rectum.  Cliff screeched in pain as the huge rod sank deep in his guts, further than anything had ever penetrated before—

 

—and could also feel an electric shock run through his own dick as Joe’s cock rode over his prostate like an out-of-control semi.  He’d been right, it hurt so bad, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…but he was still getting hard.

 

“Damn, man, no,” he whined, “Pull out, dude—jeez, I toldja to go slow, lemme get used to it!  Goddam, I think ya tore somethin’…” Digging his hands into the mattress, Cliff tried to pull himself off Joe’s dick.

 

“No ya don’t, bitch,” Joe said calmly, and grabbing Cliff’s right bicep, pulled that arm around behind the boy’s back.

 

 

“Wha—?” Cliff asked in bewilderment.  “What the fuck ya doin’?”

 

Joe didn’t both to explain.  Fishing the tie out of his pocket, he brought the slut’s left arm around in the same way—expending a little more effort this time since Cliff was disposed to resist—and with the ease of an expert soon had the gay youth’s hands bound securely behind his back.

 

Cliff’s fear started to override the horrible pain of torn flesh in his anus. There was always the possibility of something going wrong in these blind anonymous hookups—but nothing ever had before.  Now, though…this guy was hurting him, and he couldn’t get away.

 

“Get off me!” he yelled.  “I don’t wanna do this anymore!”

 

Without saying a word, Joe hunched over the cunt’s lithe, smooth body and began pumping his cock fast and hard, plunging all the way into Cliff’s ass.  As often as he’d offered his fuckhole up to anyone who’d use it, Cliff had never been fucked all the way up into his guts before.  There was something horrible about the searing pain—something that made it feel like he was being badly fucked up on the inside.  And yet despite all that, his own cock was so hard it actually hurt…

 

“Stop!” Cliff cried.  “Goddammit, no!  This is fucking rape—stop!!”

 

“Shaddup, faggot,” Joe said evenly, “Ya know ya want it.  You like it like this, dontcha, ya worthless cocksucker?  This what ya been looking for, huh?  A real man to come in and pound the shit outta yer ass?  So quit squawkin’ and enjoy the ride, motherfucker, or I’m really gonna make ya hurt.”

 

Laying his head back down on the mattress, Cliff realized he had no choice.  He couldn’t free himself; he was pinned to the bed as if the alpha’s enormous shaft had impaled him on the mattress.  “Oh god,” he moaned tearfully, “Oh god, oh god, oh god…”  His lean, straining body was wracked with pain with every thrust of Joe’s long, thick rod; his long brown hair darkening as sweat was forced from his smooth skin.

 

Hearing a clinking sound behind him, the humbled and submissive youth glanced in the mirror.  It took him a moment to notice the glint of light winking off to the power top’s side.  It was a belt buckle, he realized; the rapist had unbuckled his belt.  It had no significance for him.

 

What did have some significance was that he was still lucid despite the increasingly nightmarish nature of the evening.  After all, some part of his bottom pig soul reasoned, all that was really happening was he was getting a good rough fuck, right?  And that was what he’d been looking for anyway, right?

 

But for all the times he’d whored his ass out, he’d never endured so much pain—and even worse, somehow, he’d never been made to feel so trapped and helpless.  This dude was not only rough, he was incredibly powerful and Cliff was utterly at his mercy.

 

And it wasn’t long before he learned Joe had no mercy at which to be.

 

“Yer gettin’ loose on me, asswipe,” the hulking alpha growled.  “Tighten up that fuckhole boy, or I’m gonna tighten it for ya.”

 

“I—I ca-can’t…” Cliff said, his body and his voice jerking with Joe’s deep, powerful thrusts.  He looked pleadingly at the top in the mirror.  As he spoke, Cliff could see the alpha’s hands moving at his waist.  The dude was slowly and menacingly removing his belt, but the boyslut was too full of cock to care why. “Dude, you-you’re reamin’ me ow-out…”

 

“So ya wanna play it the hard way, faggot?” Joe sneered.  “Figures.  You worthless fag cunts always hafta have some sense beaten into ya.”

 

He drew his right fist back and slammed it down onto Cliff’s kidney with the force of a piledriver; the thick, meaty slap of flesh on flesh sounded like someone hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat.  The sudden agony of the kidney punch made Cliff squeal, a loud, high-pitched sound almost identical to that of a pig.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Joe grunted, “Felt that one in my cock.  That what ya like, fag?  You need to be hurt to get off?  Fuck yeah, homo, can do.  I’ll put yer worthless ass down so hard you’ll cum for joy, ya disgusting little assfuck.”

 

Moaning and gasping for air, Cliff wallowed in a small dark cloud of pain.  He could hear Joe speak; he could even make out the words, but he was too busy trying to deal with the agony in his ass and his guts and his back to bother to comprehend what was being said to him.  He could only writhe in abject fear and pain, which worked Joe’s cock even better—and caused Cliff even more pain in his traumatized rectum.

 

Glancing up at the mirrored headboard, the dazed youth could see the buff older man’s torso shifting in the dim light as the alpha brutally plowed his hole.  The fur on Joe’s chest started to darken and mat with sweat; the room was hot and stuffy and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly more charged with male pheromones with each passing moment.  In horror, Cliff could see Joe’s thick, strong arm draw back, bicep swelling with latent power, and he knew he was gonna get hit again.

 

Joe timed the blow with the thrusting of his cock so that he was balls-deep in the kid’s guts when his fist impacted Cliff’s back like a cannonball, fracturing a rib.  The slut grunted in pain and the entire length of his smooth, slim body, slick with sweat, went rigid.

 

“Hell yeah, work my cock, you fuckin’ pansy,” Joe muttered as Cliff’s colon clamped down on his swollen shaft in agony.  “Now I got yer number—abuse gets ya off, huh, ya disgustin’ pervert?  Huh?  Ya like gettin’ a beatdown from a real man?  Well it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night, asswipe, cause I’m the man to put ya in yer place and make ya stay there!”

 

Grinding his hips at an incredibly swift speed, Joe powerfucked the bound, helpless homo as he spoke, reaming the kid mercilessly.  “Ya wanna know where yer place is, you dumbass sack a’ shit?” he sneered, “It’s ridin’ my cock down into yer grave and then takin’ a nice long dirt nap.  You ain’t no good to me or anyone else once you’ve soaked up my manspunk.  Like any other cumrag, yer just gonna end up another piece of garbage.”  Another blow, this one totally unheralded, struck Cliff’s other kidney, the sudden organ trauma literally taking the slut’s breath away.

 

“Course, ya gotta milk my load outta me first,” the sadistic killer drawled casually as the long-haired punk shuddered silently beneath him, desperately trying to draw a breath.  “Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you work my dick right.  I got a sure-fire means of inspiration.”

 

With that, he tossed his belt down onto the bed in front of Cliff.  The lean young man, already suffering under the brutal blows to his back and the violent assfuck, stared dully and uncomprehendingly at it.  Wrapped tightly in an aching haze, he could only tug his hands feebly at the silk binding and endure the pain.

 

The gay punk had retreated into a mental fugue state once the assault had begun, hearing the words that were spoken to him and suffering the pain of the beating and the rape, but not allowing anything to sink any deeper into his psyche.  His body was responding automatically; the heady funk of testosterone and mansweat in the air would have kept his dick just as hard even if Joe’s gigantic hog wasn’t crushing his prostate under its huge, vein-wrapped girth.

 

The youth had whored out his twink body on hundreds of occasions; while he’d always known that the danger of running into someone like Joe was out there, he also knew that it was the kinda thing that would always happen to someone else—never him.  After all, he just wanted to get fucked.  What was wrong with that?

 

But Cliff’s need for dick had increased.   Getting fucked led to getting bred multiple times a night by anonymous strangers—which led to Joe.  To the extent that Cliff allowed himself to think, he wondered vaguely how this had happened.  He could feel the top’s strong, muscled thighs press against his own with every thrust of the dude’s cock and felt a faint sense of shock that this should have been the best fuck ever—such a fuckin’ stud—and had turned out so bad.

 

Joe sensed the boy going slack beneath him and knew immediately what was happening.  He’d offed enough fuckmeat by now to know that the kid was withdrawing; he was minimizing his psychological damage by submitting to the physical rape without processing any mental input.

 

Joe didn’t like that.  He wanted the kid to suffer mentally as well.  He wanted to rape Cliff’s mind as well, to fuck and abuse and destroy the useless fag’s entire being.  And he knew exactly how to do it.  He started by leaning forward, stretching out and laying full-length on top of his writhing victim, feeling the slim youth’s smooth back writhing under his chest.

 

Cliff, likewise, could feel Joe on top of him, the wiry, sweat-matted chest hair scraping and scouring the tender skin on his back every time the unlucky punk shuddering in pain.  He looked up, quite by accident, and for the first time, got a look at Joe’s face in the mirror—and froze, his blood running ice-cold in terror.

 

The man fucking him was brutally handsome, his face composed of hard, sharp angles and deep shadows.  Some of the latter, the ones that ran across the alpha’s chin and cheeks, were blue and scratchy, shadows of scruff.  Dark, slightly curly hair, a long straight nose and full lips curled into a sneer of disgust completed the face of what could have been a portrait of masculinity in the abstract.

 

But it was the look in the eyes—the beautiful, long-lashed, ice-blue eyes—that instilled such fear in Cliff.  It shifted and changed, with rage and lust and disgust chasing each other, but the glint of homicidal glee never faded.  Without another word being said, Cliff realized this guy wasn’t just gonna kill him—this guy was gonna get off while killing him.

 

Then Joe clamped one big strong hand over Cliff’s nose and mouth, completely cutting off his air.

 

“You’re startin’ to bore me, faggot,” the cruel alpha said quietly, the wiry scruff on his cheek scraping the bound cunt’s ear ash he bent his head down to whisper.  “Time for me to blow my load and split.  Time for you to die, you homo trash.  You need to massage my rod good and hard, and I got an idea.”

 

Joe had spoken softly and calmly, taking his time as Cliff, squirming and kicking beneath him, slowly suffocated with the top’s powerful hand clutching his face.  When he judged the fuckmeat desperate enough, Joe brought up the bottle of poppers which he’d picked up off the bed after binding Cliff hands.

 

With one hand, Joe unscrewed the top of the small dark bottle.  With the other, he released the fag’s left nostril only.  As Cliff inhaled deeply and desperately, Joe applied the bottle. The slutty young homo found himself involuntarily taking the largest hit of poppers he’d ever done in his short, wasted life.  Joe closed his air off again and held on for sixty seconds as the meat, riding on its rush, bucked and jerked frantically beneath him, Cliff’s smooth back sliding along Joe’s muscled chest and ripped abs on a film of slick boysweat.

 

Joe suddenly released Cliff’s face, letting the kid exhale.  This close to his meat, Joe could smell the chemical fumes on the cunt’s outgoing breath.  Before the slut could breathe in again, Joe closed off everything but his right nostril and reapplied the bottle.   Lack of oxygen meant that Cliff had no choice but to inhale another lung-busting hit of poppers, deeply and lengthily.

 

The young homo felt himself losing it; his head spun and there was a loud throbbing in his ears.  His cock was so fuckin’ hard and his ass was getting plowed and he wanted it to go on all fuckin’ night—

 

—and that was when Joe released his head again, picked up the belt, and wrapped it around the fuckmeat’s neck.

 

Leaning back, Joe pulled on the thick strap of black leather, forcing Cliff’s head up off the bed.  The boy slowly bent backwards as Joe continued to pull; for every fraction of an inch that the kid’s head moved back, the pain in his twisting spine grew geometrically.  The force caused the belt to sink deeply into Cliff’s neck—not completely cutting off his air but impeding the flow down his trachea enough to cause the bitch to wheeze frantically.

 

Cliff’s hands jerked and pulled at the silk tie binding his wrists; Joe could feel the boy’s fingertips desperately twining in the fur on his ripped abs.  Nothing the kid could do would loosen the knot; he was as helpless as if he’d been caught in a steel trap.  Cliff looked up involuntarily—and caught sight of his own image in the mirror.

 

Somehow, that was the worst thing of all.    His mind was still fogged with an intense chemical haze from the forced poppers; it only seemed to intensify the horror.  He’d been pulled so far backwards that his chest was off the bed.  His face was already starting to turn blue and his painful, labored attempts to breathe deeply had forced saliva out of his mouth where it ran down his chin in a foamy drool.  It was grotesque and sickening—and he wasn’t actually even being strangled yet.

 

But it was coming.  He knew it was coming.

 

The most surreal aspect of the whole thing was his cock.  He was being raped and murdered, but—as he could see very well—the biggest, most intense erection he’d ever experienced was flopping around between his smooth thighs and slapping against flat, sweat-beaded belly.

 

“Don’t,” he cried out, “Please stop…”

 

At least, that’s what Cliff heard in his head.  What came out of his mouth was more of a choking, gagging sound, accompanied by more streamers of drool trailing from his chin.

 

“Shaddup, faggot, and work my dick,” Joe growled.  He wrapped the belt around both palms and, grinning sadistically, rode Cliff’s ass like a bucking bronco, using the belt to control the meat like reins.  Joe’s thick cock, plugged up the kid’s fuckhole like a baseball bat, could sense whenever the homo’s jerking and kicking slowed; the alpha lost that sensation of moist velvet caressing the swollen, leaking head of his shaft.

 

To get it back, all he had to do was pull on the reins and cut off a little more of Cliff’s air.

 

The next fifteen minutes—the last fifteen minutes of Cliff’s life—were a pit of nightmarish horror as the smooth young faggot was slowly and incrementally choked to death.

 

Every jerk on the belt made it that much harder to breathe, to pull air into his lungs.  Cliff no longer paid attention to the searing pain in his ass; he could still feel the alpha’s enormous cock reaming out his rectum, but his entire being was focused on the effort of breathing.  And again, another pull on the belt, and this time Cliff both heard and felt something crack in his neck.  Against his will, he tried to look in the mirror again.  It took a little effort—his head was tilted back now, so he had to point his eyes downward but they responded slowly, and it took a moment for him to see himself.

 

Joe’s cock was still smashing Cliff’s prostate, keeping the slut in an erect state, which is why Cliff wasn’t able to piss himself when his eyes focused on his image.

 

For a moment, he refused to recognize himself.  That couldn’t be him, that gargoyle in the mirror.  Cliff was rapidly aging out of the twink category, but he prided himself on his youthful, boyish appearance.  He’d always looked younger than his actual age, and that alone had gotten him lots of dick.

 

But that thing in mirror was a caricature.  His face, yes, but swollen and purple, his full lips now blue and parted by his thick, protruding tongue.  His face burned and felt hot, so very hot—and that thing was sweating, its near-black skin smeared with clammy perspiration—but no, not him, not him…

 

Joe had glanced up and noticed the direction of the dying pansy’s stare.  “Oh fuck yeah, watch yerself die, you piece of queer-ass shit,” he chortled cruelly.  “You like that, yeah?  You sick fuckin’ pervert, this is what you been lookin’ for, ain’t it?  You been layin’ here night after night, lettin’ any dude who walks through the door fill you with cum, hopin’ that one of ‘em would put you outta yer fuckin’ misery and waste yer sorry ass, yeah?  Well I’m here, boy, and you’re done.”

 

The muscled killer bent forward, not allowing any slack in the remorseless leather strap.  His head nearly nuzzled Cliff’s, his hot breath disturbing the meat’s long hair, now damp and stringy with agonized boysweat.  “See the way yer eyes are buggin’ out?” he whispered, the stubble on his cheek scraping Cliff’s left ear.  “Watch the whites turn red as blood vessels pop.  You can hear it, cantcha?  That pounding in yer empty fuckin’ head?  It’s yer pulse—you’ll be able to hear your heart start to fail.  Damn, fag, yer droolin’ some pink foam now, see?  Know what that is?  That’s blood.  We done jacked up yer windpipe real bad, boy—and yer dick is still hard as a fuckin’ brick!”

 

The pain was clawing at Cliff like some vicious living entity.  The front of his throat had been squeezed so far back by the belt that ran around it that the cartilage of his trachea had cracked.  Every drawn-out and desperately-fought-for cubic inch of air that the cumslut drew into his burning lungs was accompanied by a searing pain in his fractured windpipe.  And even though the pounding and dark buzzing in Cliff’s head made rational though difficult, the struggling homo had no problem feeling Joe’s massive shaft still plowing his hole, a relentless, unstoppable reaming that he had never known could exist—it was like he was getting fucked to the depths of his sick little faggot soul.

 

Joe could see that the meat was just barely hanging on.  The little fuck’s ass was starting to spasm weakly; it felt good—but not good enough.  Time to kick this shit into high gear.

 

“Looks like it hurts,” Joe chuckled, his lips inches from the side of Cliff’s head.  “Looks like it hurts like fuck.  Does it?  Does it hurt, fag?  I hope the fuck it does.  The more it hurts, the more you work my tool.  And I gotta tell ya, cumdump, you ain’t workin’ it good.  You ain’t givin’ me no satisfaction, boy.”

 

Still trembling on the edge of functionality, Cliff heard and understood every word, but his entire being was engaged in the struggle of just staying conscious.  The battered and abused youth knew that if he blacked out, he’d never wake back up.

 

The alpha’s cold, dry chuckle would have made Cliff’s blood run cold if he could have spared the attention.  “Guess that means I gotta hurt ya some more,” Joe whispered seductively.  “Ya like that, dontcha?  Sure you fuckin’ do, you pig fuck; lookit how yer little faggot dick is droolin’ precum.  Guess what, dude—I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser, cunt.  Know how I’m gonna do it?  Huh?  Know what hurts bad enough to do that, bitch?”

 

Joe’s head hovered beside Cliff’s, his breath hot on the punk’s ear as he whispered.  “Death, motherfucker,” he hissed.  “Death is the ultimate pain.  You’ll never suffer more agony that what you’re about to experience.  And your dying convulsions are gonna suck the sperm right outta my balls.  I’m gonna pump yer stupid fag ass full of cum and leave your dead meat to rot.  Don’t that sound hot as fuckin’ hell?”

 

The struggle to live was wearing Cliff down, but he wasn’t ready to die.  Some arrogant part of his weak, sputtering personality simply refused to believe that he was gonna die; the part that regarded him as the main character in his own story couldn’t accept that the story was about to have a dark ending.

 

And some part of his sick pig soul didn’t want to die because it felt so good—the sharp, searing pain in his torn rectum, the shattered sensation in his crushed throat, the blooming bruises on his back…the searing, throbbing agony of his forced, involuntary erection…it all hurt so fuckin’ good.  At the very end of his short, wasted life, some part of Cliff embraced the pain, wallowed in it, fetishized it—because on a deeply subconscious level, the reamed-out and used-up fag knew that pain was the last thing he’d feel.  Only death would release him from pain, and he didn’t want to die.

 

Joe knew it all.  He knew what the meat went through when he snuffed it, and he didn’t give a shit.  He was doing the homo a favor—taking a worthless pansy and giving it a purpose as his personal cumrag.  Little fucker should be thanking him.  Instead, the stupid cunt wasn’t even able to give his thick oozing shaft the intense stroking it needed.

 

“I’m done with you, ya worthless asswipe,” Joe snarled, his voice dripping with menace.  “You’re even useless as a faggot—ain’t even a good buttfuck, huh?  I’ll be doin’ the planet a service by takin’ out a waste of space like you, bitch.  You think someone’s gonna care how much you’re sufferin’?  Fuck that—no one’s gonna give a shit that you’re dead, motherfucker.  No one cares.  Time to die like the garbage you are, queermeat.”

 

Joe’s next move was so swift that Cliff never noticed it—not that the bound, struggling homo was in enough control of his sense to note anything at all.  The muscle-bound alpha brought both ends of the belt together, looping the loose end through the buckle—a simple slip knot.  Then, with a single brutal jerk of his powerful biceps, he cinched the belt around Cliff’s neck, sinking it in even deeper than it had been before.  As the leather strap whipped into place, it moved so fast it flayed the tender flesh around the punk’s throat in a neat circle.   The slashing pain was so intense, for a brief, horrific moment Cliff thought his throat had been cut.

 

It would have been no more horrific than what happened next.  Joe had only given the belt a casual yank, but his brute strength had been enough to tighten the belt to the point that it completely crushed Cliff’s trachea.  The lean, long-haired bottom pig was still alive, but no matter what happened, he’d be dead within five minutes.

 

His bulging, bloodshot eyes locked on the mirror, the choking, dying faggot could see the depths of his own suffering in the grotesque and distorted mask his once-handsome visage had become.  Black and swollen, his cheeks smeared with snot and foamy drool, Cliff’s face was etched with strangled agony.  His legs were useless, pinned under him as his killer’s weight bore him down onto the bed.  His arms still struggled against the silk binding, to no avail.

 

He could feel it all, though—from his crushed and mangled larynx to Joe’s wiry pubes scraping his smooth asscheeks with every balls-deep thrust, to his own erect and oozing cock–even as he died, Cliff continued to suffer.  Well past rational thought, he caught motion in the mirror and could see Joe draw his powerful arm back, but this time he wasn’t able to follow the idea to its logical conclusion.

 

“Die, motherfucker,” Joe snarled and unleashed the ultimate rabbit punch on his victim.

 

The muscle-bound killer’s fist struck the back of Cliff’s head with the force of a sledgehammer.  Simultaneously, Joe jerked back violently on the belt.  The combined impact drove Cliff’s head forward while his neck was pulled backwards.  There was a loud, wet crunching sound and the top three vertebrae of Cliff’s neck exploded into tiny shards of bone, tearing through his spinal column like shrapnel.

 

Unluckily for Cliff, the damage to his nervous system was catastrophic but not instantly fatal.  His spinal cord was severely damaged but hadn’t been completely severed.  The pain was beyond anything in the young homo’s imagination.  It was a searing electrical shock that tore through every nerve fiber in his body, completely filling the lean punk with burning agony. As his head lolled forward limply on his broken neck, his muscles contracted involuntarily, his slick, smooth body trembling with rigidity.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” Joe grunted with pleasure as he hunched forward and unloaded a steady stream of cum into Cliff’s guts.  The nearly-dead meat felt the splash of manseed deep inside, but his traumatized nerves could only record the boiling heat of Joe’s load, as if the killer had pumped his victim full of molten lead.

 

At the same time, the shattering of his spine had also triggered the fag’s straining cock.  Cliff’s dangling head no longer allowed him to look in the mirror, but he had a perfect view of the long, ropy strands of semen that were being violently expelled from his own purple, engorged shaft.

 

It hurt.  He was cumming so hard it hurt.  It felt like his innards were being ripped out and expelled from his body in a squirt of boyspunk.  Unable to look up, he never saw his cum splatter and smear on the headboard mirror.

 

Joe held the corpse close to him for a few moments, his powerful, bulked-out body shuddering as the fag’s death throes continued to milk his swollen, sensitive shaft.  Finally, he withdrew his still-oozing rod from the punk’s mutilated asshole and let Cliff drop to the bed.  The randy young fag spent his last seconds on earth suffocating face-down in puddle of his own sperm.

 

Standing up, Joe turned to the chair with the clothing piled on it and extracting a pale blue button-down shirt, used it to wipe the sweat and cum off his hard, hairy torso still-erect cock before tossing it onto the floor.  Tucking his long shaft back into his jeans, Joe then grabbed his own shirt from the floor beside the bed and put it back on.

 

The last thing he did was retrieve his belt.  It took a moment to pry it from around Cliff’s loose, shattered neck.   It had sunk so deeply into the flesh of the throat that Joe had to sit on the bed for a moment with the head of the trembling corpse in his lap so he could dig the leather strap out.  Once he’d clawed it free, he stood up, dumping the pile of dead manmeat onto the floor with a loud thump.  Treading on the dead body with a contemptuous sneer, the muscled alpha threaded the belt back around his waist and left the room.

 

In the silent darkness, broken only by the faint flickering candlelight, Cliff’s body began to cool and stiffen.  Long minutes later, there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and someone walked into the bedroom.

 

Joe hadn’t been the only dude Cliff had been intending to trick with that night; he’d had multiple appointments.  The next guy in line had arrived.  It took a few minutes of confusion for him to locate the corpse, but once his did, he backed away in horror and fled the apartment, not stopping to alert anyone—or to wonder why the sight of the murdered slut had left him hard.

 

Over the next six hours, three more dudes arrived ready to fuck Cliff, only to leave hurriedly—in in terror, one in frustration, and one curiously stimulated and more eager than ever to find someone to fuck.  None of them called the police.

 

The body wasn’t officially found for another two days, after the mail had backed up and one of the neighbors complained about the smell.

Terminal Therapy by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

I had a particularly satisfying orgasm recently while re-reading Den’s “Joe & Skyler Take a Captive” – imagining myself as the willing victim and also thinking about the comment Master Mac made to my “Bus Stop” story about a slave he owns.  As I enjoyed the cum I’d spewed over my belly and chest, it occurred to me that his reference could be a potential story for this site.  So, thanks Den and Master Mac.  I hope you (and others) enjoy it.

 

Mac opened the door and greeted the large, muscular man on his doorstep.  “Welcome.  I’m Master Mac, and you must be Ashton.  Do you go by Ash?”

 

“I go by Mr. Schmidt,” the man replied coldly, ignoring the offered handshake and brushing past Mac as he entered the room.  “Do you have the money?”

 

“I do.”  Mac ignored the rudeness and handed the visitor $2,000 in $100 bills.  After some negotiation, it had been the agreed fee.

 

“Where’s the fag slave you want off’d?”  Mac pointed at a young man standing naked in the living room.  He was in his mid-twenties, fit, and quite good looking., his body nicely tanned and devoid of any body hair.      The youth knew full well what was planned, but did not move or speak.  His head was slightly bowed.

 

“This is Jimmy.  If you’d like to sit down, we can finalize the details.”  Schmidt grunted and proceeded to the only nice chair in the rather dingy living room.  “Might as well get this over with.  I don’t know what you’re master of, but this place sure is a dump.”

 

Mac again ignored the slight, and walked over to his guest carrying a bottle of whisky and two glasses.  “I understand you like good Kentucky Whisky, and I inherited a 20-year-old bottle of Boundary Oak that I just opened for this occasion.  Would you like to share some?

 

This presented a dilemma for Schmidt.  He did indeed like high quality whisky, and he knew that this was probably the most expensive brand there was.  Much as he was disgusted by the drab surroundings and unimpressed with his host, he did figure the whisky would be good, and he’d never had any of this brand.  “OK, I’ll have some.  Make it a double.  Neat.  And the price just went up – you don’t get any and I get to keep the bottle as part of my fee.”

 

Mac remained obliging, agreed to the new term, and put one of the glasses back on the shelf.  He poured a generous double shot into the other one and handed it to his guest.  Schmidt reached out and also took the bottle.  It appeared to be the real thing, and that meant he had nearly doubled his fee.  He knew an aged bottle of Boundary Oak would fetch at least a couple thousand dollars at auction.  Maybe this job wouldn’t be a total loss after all.

 

“I covered a little of the situation in our email exchanges, but obviously didn’t lay out all of it.  You see, when Jimmy was almost 18 he was caught shop-lifting and resisted arrest, punching a cop.  The Judge decided to make an example of him, had him tried as an adult, and sentenced him to 7 years.   It was a severe sentence, but the local police chief had been really pissed at Jimmy and he’s quite powerful in these parts.  So Jimmy went to prison, where he was regularly and  brutally raped by a bunch of the other prisoners and guards.  Jimmy was a straight kid, so it not only fucked him up physically it really fucked him up sexually.  What put him over the edge was one night when some of the more brutal inmates and guards joined forces to torture another young prisoner, not only beating him severely and gang-raping his ass but ultimately chocking him to death.  Then they cut him into pieces and bar-be-cued the meat for their dinner.  Jimmy was forced to watch all of this and suck off the perpetrators while they waited their turn to rape the victim.  He’s never been able to get that scene out of his mind, especially the part when the kid finally died, shooting a large load of cum as he was simultaneously butt-fucked and strangled.  As the dying cock shot out the load, the guard who had won the draw and was doing the fucking and killing cut into the kid’s genitals, pulling out the cock and a bunch of intestines.  Two other guards ate the kid’s balls, since those are a delicacy, but Jimmy was forced to lick up the cum and eat the cock and the intestines attached to it.  He was also gang-raped while they waited for the kid’s meat to cook.  It was traumatic.

 

“I met Jimmy when I was serving some time in prison myself, and in due course I persuaded him to become my slave.  I rent him out as a prostitute for a good fee, which supplements what I can make from this farm I inherited last year.  You’re right – it’s not impressive, but it’s mine.

 

“I actually have grown very fond of Jimmy, and I used some of  the extra money he earns as a whore to get Jimmy therapy.  He’s no longer straight, and OK about being gay, and he accepts his proper role is as a slave.  The therapy had the results I was after.  But he still can’t get over the scenes in prison.  He visualizes himself in the scene, and his therapist said he won’t ever be able to get over it, I’ve tortured him severely, but it’s not enough.  Jimmy has accepted that too, so he is ready to encounter death., almost eager.  He wants to do it by re-enacting that scene.  Given my affection for Jimmy, I don’t want him to live his life constantly in emotional pain.  So he and I agreed we’d have to act.  That’s where you come in.”

 

Schmidt had been focusing on the whisky, and showed no reaction to the story.  “That’s pretty pathetic.  I really don’t give a fuck about your problems.  And I hate fags.  But I do kill people for a living, and I’m willing to kill Jimmy if I get paid to do it.  By the way, the whisky isn’t all that great – you’re full of disappointments.

 

“But why don’t you kill him yourself if you “love” him so much?  It’s easy.  You’ve probably got an axe around here, and you could have him kneel over the tree stump I saw out front.  If you whack him in the back of the neck he probably won’t even freak out much and you can get a nice, clean cut.  It’s fun to watch the head tumble onto the ground and the body gush out a torrent of blood and such from the severed neck.  Or if you want to watch him die a little more slowly, which I recommend for a worthless piece of shit like him, then just stab him in the heart.  Here, you can even use my Bowie knife.  Just aim a little to the left of his chest and you should enter the heart directly.  He’ll be dead pretty quickly, but it’ll be more entertaining.”  Schmidt was disgusted with Mc’s reluctance, and his tone showed it.  He took out a large Bowie knife from a sheaf attached to his belt and placed it on the table with the sharp end pointing at Jimmy.

 

“I understand, and those are excellent suggestions.  You’re clearly a professional.  But Jimmy wants the scene in the prison, complete with torture, strangulation, and an orgasm timed to coincide with the point of death.  I’m just not capable of killing someone I care about, especially that brutally.   I really need for you to do it.”

 

“OK.  If you’re a coward as well as a fag, I’ll take care of the job.  You’re obviously no ”master.”  But if I’m only getting two  grand and some expensive booze that isn’t all that great, I get to do it the way I want.  And that won’t be quick.  It will be a lot worse than what happened to the kid in prison.  That’s the only reason I’m willing to consider this at such a small fee.  I normally get a whole lot more.”  Schmidt had had several shots of the booze, even though he claimed not to like it, and it made him a bit talkative.  Given his personality, that also meant he was into bragging about his exploits.  “When I do a typical job, I get at least $10,000 and usually more.  My clients are very wealthy and powerful people who need someone taken out quietly and permanently, with no risk of the event being blamed on them.  So most of the time it’s poison that isn’t traceable, or “accidents” that I arrange.  Every now and then it’s a vengeance killing, and those are more fun.  I get to be personal with the victim, making sure he knows who ordered his death and making sure it’s very painful and slow.  In those cases, I almost always include fucking the guy, which adds a lot of humiliation and some fun for me.  I’m no fag, but I’ll fuck fags when it’s part of the process of snuffing them – like you all deserve.

 

Mac ignored the homophobia, which he was used to in his part of the world, but he was curious.  “Don’t you worry that they’ll have you killed to keep you quiet?  Aren’t they at risk of being blackmailed?”

 

Schmidt was in a mood to brag some more.  ” I got that covered.  First off, most of them are repeat customers, so they’ll need my services again.  Havin someone killed is a great permanent solution to a problem.  Second, I always create clear evidence of what I did, pointing to the person who hired me.  But it also deliberately points to me as well.  So it’s a mutual threat.  If they have me killed, I’ve arranged for all that to be revealed.  But if I blackmail them, I’d be exposed as well.  So my clients and I can “trust” each other.  It’s worked well, and I’ve never turned on anyone who hires me.  After all, I’m a professional.”

 

Mac responded to the descriptions and the terms gratefully.  “I fully understand, and you made that very clear in our exchanges.  Besides, what Jimmy apparently needs is to replay the horrors of the scene he saw in prison.  The kid who got snuffed had lots of bad things done to him before he died, like having bones broken and being subjected to electricity on his genitals.  Whatever you decide will probably be an important part of the experience for him.  But at the end, as he died, the kid shot a big load that the rapists responded to by cutting off his cock as it spewed its final orgasm, as I described.   Jimmy wants that to be part of what he experiences, and I think it would be fun to watch, so that’s the only real constraint on the scene.  I suspect you’d enjoy doing that.  Otherwise there are no limits.  I’ll butcher the dead body, and if you want to join me for dinner you’re welcome to do so.”

 

Schmidt considered what Mac had said, and now took a careful look at Jimmy.  The kid was remarkably good looking.  Schmidt never admitted, even to himself, that he was turned on by young males so long as he could dominate them, ideally killing them.  Somehow that didn’t constitute being gay.  Nor did the fact he enjoyed watching young guys cum, which usually generated an orgasm on his part as well.  He especially liked it when they shot their final load while he choked them to death, his cock up their ass, so he could feel the wonderful pressure as the male’s death spasms caused the sphincter to tighten on his cock and sent him into wild sexual ecstasy. That’s obviously what happened in the prison scene.   So, he figured this might be a fun afternoon after all.

 

“You’ve got a deal.”  And with that Schmidt described in detail what he planned to do to Jimmy.  To his surprise, as he did so Jimmy got an erection.  He wasn’t stroking himself, still standing naked and mute with his hands at his sides.  But his cock grew nicely as he listened to the horrible things Schmidt planned.  And that, in turn, got Schmidt turned on, having never had a cooperative victim before.  Mac could see Schmidt’s own erection, which was not concealed by the tight jeans the muscular killer wore, and could also see the tightening of his nipples under the T-shirt that was deliberately too small for his torso in order to show off his impressive physique.

 

“But one more condition. While I’m ripping your little boy-toy into pieces and fucking his ass, I don’t want you getting all sentimental, changing your mind,  and interfering.  So you can watch – it’s going to be  quite a show – but only if you’re handcuffed in place.  Understood?”  And with that Schmidt pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and tossed them to Mac.  He had no intention of letting Mac live after he killed Jimmy, and was already planning how to snuff him too.  He was sure he could overpower Mac, but figured having victim #2 already handcuffed would make it easier.  Schmidt planned ahead.  But Mac did not object.

 

“Understood.  I think we have everything worked out.  Is this all OK with you, Jimmy?”  Jimmy still didn’t speak, but nodded affirmatively.  His rock-hard cock had already made his positon clear.

 

Mac had one final question.  “I am glad we have a deal, and frankly getting the money was a challenge for us.  But I’m curious why you’re willing to do it for so much less than you usually charge.”

 

By now Schmidt had had a fair amount of the whisky, and he was more than willing to brag further about his exploits.  He told Mac that he had just completed a very lucrative job in the same county, so he was already in the area.  It had been a long and complex kill, ordered by a right-wing minister who hated homosexuals.  He had a campaign going to make homosexuality illegal again, as it should be, but also to require that gay males be publicly castrated.  They would then lose their citizenship and work as slaves, required to stay naked so that citizens could see the results of their sin.  Since the pastor viewed homosexuality as a choice, he reasoned that this would eliminate the evil form society.

 

The problem was that a nearby rabbi had been leading efforts in opposition, and needed to be neutralized.  Schmidt had figured out a great way to do it, and the job was now complete.  He had spent a year setting up evidence to frame the rabbi as a pederast.  Schmidt identified young males in the area and sodomized them himself, after knocking them out, blindfolding them, stripping them, and taking them to a room he’d fixed up to look just like the rabbi’s bedroom.  The youths had no idea who raped them, but Schmidt played a recording he’d doctored from some of the rabbi’s sermons, in which they heard the rabbi’s voice saying he was sorry.  Then he threatened them if they told, which none did.  Once he had raped a dozen or so victims during the past year, he went to the rabbi’s house.  He forced the cleric to strip naked, and then castrated him.  After that, Schmidt hacked into the personal diary the rabbi had kept online (which Schmidt had discovered earlier) and edited it to include vivid descriptions and photos of the rapes.  He also added lots of self-loathing, telling how the rabbi couldn’t help himself because he was gay and decided the only solution was to castrate himself.  Schmidt made it appear the rabbi died from a botched self-castration.  Schmidt even showed Mac pictures of the rabbi lying naked on the floor of his living room, his hand holding a knife and his balls lying nearby in a pool of blood.

 

“But I wasn’t able to fuck the guy.  If I did that, there would be semen inside him and that would put the positioning as a suicide at risk.  I’m very careful about details – it’s essential in my profession.  Sniffing this kid standing here, and fucking him as I do it, will make up for that, and the fact I’ll have to stop sodomizing those other kids so it confirms that it was the rabbi.  It will be worth it if the preacher is successful in his crusade, which is now gaining lots of support after the news of the rabbi broke.  And I got a HUGE fee from the preacher.”

 

Mac listened appreciatively, congratulating Schmidt on his professionalism.  And, as Schmidt put down his drink, they proceeded to the task at hand.

 

. . . . .

 

Schmidt awakened the next morning.  He didn’t recall falling asleep, and was even more surprised to realize he was now naked, lying on a hard cot in a prison cell.  His cock was rigid with what he assumed was his morning pee-erection, although he didn’t feel a need to piss.  He next realized that his body had been completely shaved from the neck down.  His hands were cuffed behind him, and both Mac and Jimmy were looking down at him.  He also realized he had a serious headache, a foul taste in his mouth,  and pain in his right hand.

 

“Welcome back, Ass.  You don’t mind if I call you Ass, do you?  It can be short for Ashton, but it’s so much more appropriate for an asshole like you.  And enough of that Schmidt stuff.  Let’s go with something that’s also more appropriate.  How about “Shit”?  Mac smiled broadly, and so did Jimmy – his first expression since their guest had arrived.  “Ass-shit seems like a perfect name.  It’s now morning, by the way, and we want to thank you for an afternoon of fun and for inspiring some great fag sex last night between Jimmy and me.  As you might be starting to figure out, I spiked the whisky, and you spent the afternoon extremely drunk.  But you were drinking so much while you bragged about all your exploits I probably didn’t need to do that.  I knew you were an asshole from what we’d researched, but didn’t realize you’re also an alcoholic.  We let you entertain us during the afternoon and then let you sleep it off.  We’re both still pretty horny, but we did have fun with you and we have waited a long time for this, so we figured we could wait another day. But it’s time for your morning piss.”  With that, Mac unzipped his pants and pissed all over Ass.  Jimmy did the same, but didn’t need to unzip since he was still naked.  Ass swore and protested, calling them names and making all kinds of threats.

 

Jimmy, why don’t you lead our guest to the whipping station in our playroom while I explain things to him.  I’m sure he’s curious.”

 

Jimmy unlocked the jail door and grabbed “Ass” by the shoulders to get him up off the cot.  Their guest resisted and started swearing even louder at his hosts.

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mac commented, as he touched an icon  on his iPhone.  Ass immediately felt a massive pain erupting inside his guts, and screamed in shock.  He had never felt that level of pain, and it quickly spread throughout his body.  “You see, Ass, I can send electricity into your body from my iPhone app, and I can adjust the amount from a light reminder to a level that would be fatal.  You don’t have to worry about the latter, as we have other plans, but you seem to have felt the level I picked for this morning.  It’s one of my favorite toys, and something I invented in my role as Master Mac.  It’s all from a microchip I had you swallow, which is now embedded in your belly.  It won’t move from there, but I’ll retrieve it later.  I let Jimmy test it, so I know it works well.  I make a nice return on my S&M inventions.”  With that he touched a different picture, and Jimmy jerked with obvious pain, but did not scream.  “Thank you Master,” he approximately responded when Master Mac ended the demonstration.

 

Ass stopped screaming and cursing, and cooperated while he sized up the situation.  He still had no respect for the two smiling fags, believing they were amateurs who would make a mistake and whom he would overcome when they did.  But he was now very worried and starting to develop a little actual fear.  He’d never had that before.  He was always the one in charge.

 

“You see, the story I told you is true, but you misunderstood one part of it.  What Jimmy needs in order to have a great orgasm is indeed reenacting the prison scene.  Seeing that kid tortured and snuffed, and eating his cock and innards,  really did screw him up sexually and emotionally.  And reliving that scene is the only true relief for him.  But in his re-enactments he’s the one doing the killing, not the victim.  I figured that out shortly after I met Jimmy.  The part about me being in prison is also true, but it was for killing a guy in a bar fight.  He’d pissed me off, and I beat the shit out of him.  He turned out to have some weird condition, died, and then I got stuck with a manslaughter charge.  The DA’s a friend of mine, so we agreed I’d just do 30 days since he completely understood that I had every right to beat up the dead guy.  He even arranged for the warden to assign Jimmy as my cell-mate, so I’d have someone young and cute to fuck.  The DA and I are part of a gay S&M club, where we have lots of fun torturing and fucking guys like Jimmy, and we take care of our fellow masters.  The room we’re in is where we meet, and I think you’ll agree it’s very well equipped.

 

“Jimmy turned out to be a great fuck, and I listened to his story while I was pumping his ass.  Part of the problem for him was that he had gotten totally turned on during the snuff party.  He had no problem with the guards and other prisoners torturing and killing the punk kid, and his only objection to having to eat the kid’s intestines was that he would have preferred a bigger helping of boy-meat.  He loved eating the cock and licking up the um from the dead body.  He felt guilty about how he reacted, which fucked him up even more.  Jimmy had gone from being a straight kid chasing pussy to a gay kid massively turned on by extreme gay S&M.  He is now my slave, and I fuck him and torture him as I wish, but he seems to need periodic opportunities to be the ultimate top, and I’m very OK with that.  It’ a lot of fun for both of us, as you’ll see – the three of us are going to spend some true quality time together.    Jimmy gets amazing orgasms when he gets to viciously snuff some guy.  And I do as well when I get to watch and then butt-fuck the nice warm corpse while Jimmy watches.  We’ve hunted down and tortured to death all 10 of the guys who snuffed the kid, so we were wondering where to get more targets.  Then we heard about you and figured we’d give it a try.  We really don’t have all that much money, so getting the two grand in cash was a stretch.  But we figured that had to be real to get your interest.  And I did inherit the bottle of booze and the farm, although you don’t need to worry about having wasted the booze.  I decanted the real stuff into another container, and I filled what you drank from with spiked cheap bourbon that I’d peed into.  I also spiked it to make you get more drunk.  For someone who claims to be such an expert, I was surprised you didn’t realize it was fake.  But your arrogance and rapid consumption solved that problem.”  Jimmy had now guided his target into the main room as Mac turned up the lights.  Ass could now see that this was a very large room, and the cell was positioned in a corner of what was clearly a torture chamber.  As Jimmy led him to a whipping station, Ass was distracted by another jolt of electricity that kept him from effectively resisting as Jimmy unlocked the handcuffs and fastened Ass’s wrists to shackles attached to the ceiling.  At that point Ass could tell that his right index finger was missing, explaining the pain in his hand but confusing him even further.

 

“I see you noticed your missing finger.  Let me explain while Jimmy starts the fun with a long and intense whipping session.  The station is designed so he can get to both your back and your front, so it will also be comprehensive.  Once you’ve been whipped long enough we figure you’re going to be a lot easier to deal with.

 

Jimmy, now smiling broadly and becoming talkative as he assumed his new role of a torturer, piled o: “I’m going to focus more on your back, and I’ll remove all the skin.  That way, when we put you on your back on the torture table it will hurt a whole lot more.  It’s sort of the reverse of you having skin in the game.  But Master will have fun with your chest, belly, and genitals.  He’s really expert at that.  Trust me, I know.”  Both Jimmy and Mac chuckled at Jimmy’s banter.  Mac was delighted to see Jimmy so happy.

 

“So let me explain the missing finger.  It’s simple.  Both Jimmy and I are great internet researchers and software hackers.  That’s how we found what you like to drink.  And while you were out we wanted to  use your cell phone to break into your Facebook page and to find the records on your various kills.  We didn’t want you in the way, so we left you in the prison cell for a bit while we did our work.  It was easier to use your index finger to allow us to  unlock your phone and get past the security blocks you set up.  We just cut it off and took it with us.   We now know where all the evidence you created about your kills was located and have transferred it to our computers.  You did a sloppy job protecting it and you’re lucky one of your past employers didn’t try to break the deal.  The more I learn about you, the less impressed I am.  I think you’re basically just a thug, not a professional at all.   We also figured out how you tried to assure the evidence would be released if you were killed, and we’ve disabled all that.  We’re in complete control of all of it.

 

“We have a great plan.  First, we’ll release the evidence about you and the anti-gay preacher.  That will get his vile campaign stopped, and put him in prison until he’s executed.  Second, we’ll contact your prior employers and blackmail them.  They won’t know who we are, but the evidence and all the publicity around you killing the rabbi will convince them we’re for real. And that we don’t care about exposing you as the actual killer.  At that point we’re going to have no problems blackmailing all the others.  So thanks to you, Jimmy and I are going to be very rich.  Oh, and thanks for all the funds you had in your accounts.  That’s the one thing I’ve learned about you that’s impressive, and it’s now it’s now converted to bitcoins I control.  Totally untraceable. So I’m already rich, with all your money, and don’t have to wait for the blackmail money to start flowing in.  You’ll be pleased to know I plan to use some of it to fix up the place so it’s not so dingy.”  As Mac had continued talking, Jimmy had selected a bullwhip and started working on Ass’s back.  The whipping was intense and Jimmy soon broke into a sweat form the efforts.

 

Ass could not help but listen to what Mac was saying.  He was horrified, and now he was truly afraid.  He was in intense pain as the whip lacerated his skin, and to the delight of both Jimmy and Mac he started screaming.  It turned out Ass wasn’t nearly as tough as he’d appeared to be.  The screams were mixed with curses and threats that further delighted his captors, and gave Mac an excuse to play with his electricity toy to punish the cursing.    Ass was far exceeding the expectations they had when they decided to make him their next target.

 

“A couple more things while we get underway.  I like sex to be not just naked, but REALLY naked – which is enhanced by removing all body hair.  So I had Jimmy remove all yours, as he does with his own and mine, Clearly that also offends your macho nature, and there’s no body hair to cushion the blows.   I think I’ve explained the physical stuff we did to you so far, with one exception.  We like it when the victim’s cock is hard.  I gave you a series of  shots while you were out that will keep it hard until we cut it off.  Maybe you’ll get that death orgasm we chatted about!  You won’t feel it if we leave your cock attached that long, since it happens as you die, but it will entertain us, which is, after all, the whole point.  We probably will not cut it off until after your final ejaculation, and that will be once you’re dead and I fuck your corpse.  You see, if you know how to do it you can get a dead male to have an ejaculation, and I really enjoy doing that. Jimmy’s OK waiting until then to eat it.”  Jimmy had paused to stroke Ass’s cock as Mac explained the drugs, and he did indeed have a solid erection despite the brutal whipping.  He screamed that he was no fag, which got responses of a vicious cut with the bullwhip from Jimmy and an electric shock from Mac.  They both laughed as Ass let out a particularly pitiful scream.  Jimmy and Mac exchanged comments on how pretty Ass’s body was now that it was shaved and naked, complete with an erection that Mac could enjoy whipping.  Mac was now planning on doing just that, and Jimmy laughingly reminded his Master not to get so carried away that the whip cut it off.  Mac responded by sending an electric shock through Jimmy’s body, for which Jimmy once again expressed his appreciation.  They had a wonderful relationship.

 

Mac put down the iPhone he was using to control his guest and his slave, and took the time to strip naked himself.  It was time to move from timid and helpful host to sexual predator, and Mac’s cock was already hard and ready for action.  His body was also hairless, and if Ass had been able to focus he would have had to admire how handsome Mac was, his muscles toned and strong.  His looks and demeanor now fully justified his title of “master.”  Both Jimmy and Mac were totally turned on sexually, even leaking a little pre-cum.   There would be multiple orgasms during the sessions, but they were careful not to erupt too soon.  They had special plans for their first loads of cum.

 

Mac joined in the whipping, and enjoyed focusing on Ass’s vulnerable cock.  As predicted, it stayed hard despite the pain and adrenalin flowing through its owner.  Mac explained further to Ass that the level of drugs he’d injected would be fatal in due course, but keeping the cock hard was important, and Ass would be dead before the impact of the drugs on the rest of his body took effect.  That did not seem to reassure Ass, who continued his screams, curses, and threats.

Mac and Jimmy kept on with their morning aerobics.  Ass was soon no longer screaming, but had started crying.  That pleased his tormentors immensely.  Even better, he actually started to beg.

 

“Please guys, let me go.  I’ll do anything.  I know you’ve won.  But please don’t kill me.  You can keep all my stuff and I’ll keep quiet.  I’m sorry I was an asshole.  Please!”

 

Mac was now beyond delighted.  “That’s very generous of you, Ass, but you don’t have anything to give us.  We’ve taken it all.    We’re going to take your life next, slowly and quite painfully.  That will keep you quiet.  Besides, even if we did let you go, at this point you don’t have a life to go back to.  You see, while you were drunk we had a lot of fun.  We stripped you naked, and as I mentioned Jimmy shaved you so you’d be more pretty and I made sure you’d have a hard cock while we played with you.  To ruin your macho image, Jimmy put you in panties, a bra, and a dress, and then had you kneel in front of him and suck him off.  He came in your mouth, and followed that with a load of piss.    Then you did the same for me.  To our surprise, you drank both and didn’t even gag.  I’m betting your mouth taste pretty weird as a result.  I do think you should come to terms with your own homosexuality, but there might not be much time for that now.  After you swallowed all that cum and piss, Jimmy  took off the dress and had you lie down on your back, pulling the panties down a bit so your cock stood out.  Then he had you jerk off.  You shot quite a load, which sprayed up onto the bra.  So he had you take that off and suck the cum from the bra.  Then you peed all over yourself – which was a nice surprise courtesy of the fact you were so drunk – and you licked that up too.  That’s when you fell asleep for the night and we put you in the cell.  Oh, by the way, thanks for the handcuffs.  We used yours on you.  I hope you didn’t think I was so stupid that I didn’t know you planned to kill me too?  I think you’re the only one dumb enough to fall for something that obvious.

 

“Once we had you put way for the night, we went into your Facebook page and made an entry of “coming out at last” in which you say you wanted your friends to know that you were actually a gay transvestite.   You had fallen in love with a young man who was now also your master, and you were going to live as a gay slave serving him, moving to the Caribbean.  We figure that will explain why you will be disappearing, and it was a lot of fun to write.  The video we posted of Jimmy’s fun with you turned out pretty nicely, if I do say so myself.  It shows Jimmy’s cock in your mouth and the fact his buttocks are those of a young man.  That supports the story without risking him being identified.  Given all that, it’s best if we just keep killing you, which, by the way, we’re really enjoying.  If you want an update, though, I did check your Facebook page  little while ago.  Pretty much all your “friends” have defriended you already.  Some of them had very nasty things to say about you, and there was sure a lot of gay bashing.  No one offered any support or sympathy.  I also noticed that a lot of them have posted shirtless pictures of themselves on their own Facebook pages.  Some of them are pretty good looking and fairly young.  I’ve made a list of who they are and this will give us a promising selection of new victims.  We think snuffing gay bashers who are sexually hot is a great service to society.  Maybe you guys can have a reunion in hell.”

 

Ass said nothing.  His world was destroyed, he was totally humiliated, and now he was going to die a painful death.  His anger and hatred boiled over, but there was really nothing to say.

 

After about an hour of arousing exercise, Mac decided it was time for a break.  He and Jimmy had worked hard, and were very sweaty.  Ass’s back was now effectively skinned by the whipping, making it a great source for further torture.  Mac wanted to shower up so they’d be fresh for the next session, and then take a short nap holding each other.  He also figured Ass was at risk of premature damage.  They sprayed alcohol on Ass’s lacerations, generating some satisfying screams, and walked over to a shower area in the dungeon.  Jimmy washed Mac, as was appropriate, and then washed himself.  They two embraced and kissed, pleased with their efforts and eager for more.  They then went over to Ass and hosed him off, admiring how their handiwork had left the once-pristine flesh terribly scarred or completely gone.  It was just a start, but it was a good start.  They left Ass hanging at the whipping post and lay down in a bed that gave them a great view of their suffering victim.  The two lovers, master and slave, then dozed peacefully and briefly after they enjoyed admiring their handiwork.  For Ass’s benefit, they played the video of the prior afternoon’s fun on a large screen he could view.  They fell asleep fulfilled by the sound of his sobbing.

 

Mac woke refreshed about an hour later, and awakened Jimmy with an electric shock.  He and Jimmy walked over and released Ass from the whipping station.  He had passed out, and they carried him over to a torture table, where they fastened his wrists and ankles so that he was spread-eagled on his back.  The surface under Ass’s back was sandpaper, designed to keep him in constant, ongoing pain especially when his body moved.  The table had gutters along the sides for draining blood and other body fluids, and was on an incline so that the upper body was somewhat higher than the legs.  That way blood would flow downhill after the heart stopped, which would keep the cock hard even then and help generate the desired orgasm.  There was also a split designed so that the torturer could stand between the legs of the victim, making it easier to attack the genitals and fuck the ass.  Mac had designed and built. It himself, using Jimmy to test his ideas.  He was rightfully proud of how well it had turned out, and the others he built were a big hit within his “Master Mac” line of S&M products.

 

They woke Ass up and Mac explained a little of what was coming next.  “You had some very creative ideas yesterday when you described how you planned to torture Jimmy.  It was the thought of doing those things to you that got him hard.   Thanks for those, and we’ll do our best to follow your script.  But we think they weren’t painful or humiliating enough and have added other ideas like whipping to the list.  You also assumed a willing victim, which is an assumption we can’t make.  We’ve planned for that too.

 

“One added area of fun is that we are going to cut off some of your meat before you die.  That way we can make you watch parts of yourself being eaten.  You’ll be dead by the time we fully butcher you for dinner tonight.  Our new hobby has made us realize how tasty male meat is, and we greatly enjoy our cannibal treats.  If there’s a part of your body you especially recommend and would like to watch us eat, please feel free to let me know.  Also, we do hope you continue to scream a lot.  We’re in the middle of nowhere so no one will hear.  We’ve found we especially enjoy listening as the screams become more those of an animal instead of a human.  It helps us realize that’s exactly what you are – meat ready to be killed and eaten.  It’s quite an added turn-on.  Jimmy will take over now.”

 

And Jimmy did indeed take control, speaking to Ass as the one in charge for the first time.  This was his fantasy now, and he was fully into it and, with his Master’s blessing,  in control.  The first thing he did was hold a pair of pliers in front of Ass.  “Now that you’re an official fag, you need to learn to suck cock.  You didn’t do that great a job yesterday, although I think you have potential.  I’ll teach you, and you can suck mine.  But I don’t trust you not to bite me now that you’re no longer drunk.  So, just to make sure, I’m going to use these pliers to remove your teeth.  Slowly, one by one.  It is amazingly painful, apparently.“  With that statement he inserted a device to hold Ass-Shit’s mouth wide open, and started to approach his target.  He paused briefly, however.  “Do you have a preference if you lose your uppers or lowers first?  I do want to be accommodating.”  Both Jimmy and Mac laughed, but Jimmy didn’t wait for an answer before using the pliers to slowly remove Ass’s teeth, enjoying the gurgled scrams and curses.  Better yet, there was no way Ass could lie still, so the sandpaper added another source of pain to his skinless back.  Jimmy had also inserted dentist-style suction tube so that the bleeding would not choke his victim.  “We don’t’ want you to die too soon, do we?  Actually, the whole process of snuffing you will take hours, so be patient.  You’ll be dead before we have you for dinner, but you ought to know we like to eat late.  It’s all just part of the process, and the fun.  By the way, that invitation from Master Mac yesterday to join us for dinner is still open, and we’ve accepted on your behalf.  But you probably didn’t realize you would be the main course.”

 

Jimmy kept talking as he worked.  Once in charge, with the prospect of being able to relieve his sexual tension by snuffing another male, he had a very outgoing personality.  “You might notice the cameras that are all around the room.  We’re filming this, like we did the fun I had with you yesterday during your coming out party, and we’ll send an edited version of the film – one that doesn’t show us – to your former employers.  It will feature you sucking cock and getting butt-fucked, among other things.  We want them to conclude that you were a fag all along, which I think you actually are.  Having a seriously erect cock while you suck another guy’s dick is pretty strong evidence.  We don’t just want to torture and kill you.  We want to humiliate you as well.  And, of course, we want your employers  to know you’re dead so they understand the reality of being blackmailed.  Once I’ve strangled you and Master Mac has enjoyed fucking your corpse and making you cum, I’ll cut off your head to make it clear.  Then we’ll finish butchering you and toss whatever’s left into the chipper Master Mac has out back.  We love the movie Fargo and will probably watch that tonight.”

 

Once Jimmy was done with his first task, he climbed on top of Ass and inserted his cock into the bleeding mouth.  Ass tried to resist, but couldn’t.  Jimmy began thrusting his cock in and out of the new fag he was creating.  There was also an elaborate system of mirrors, so both Jimmy and Ass could see that Ass’s cock was dripping pre-cum, an observation Mac was delighted to point out as he watched.

 

But Jimmy did not let Ass bring him to orgasm.  He had other plans first, so he ending the sucking and just loosed a load of piss down Ass’s unwilling throat.  “It’s time for some breakage, so we can release you form the restraints.  We’re going to fuck your ass next and it’s easier if we can lift you a little.”  Jimmy climbed off Ass and signaled to Mac, who approached the strapped victim from the side opposite to Jimmy.  “We think you’d try to attach us, and that would interrupt our fun.  So we’ve decided to prevent that.  You’d mentioned parts of me that you wanted to break, and we’re going to follow your advice.”

 

At Jimmy’s signal, Mac grabbed Ass’s left elbow with one hand and administered a professional karate chop to it with the other.  Jimmy did the same with the other elbow, and both blows were successful.  Ass now had two broken arms, and he would not be able to use them to try to attack his torturers or defend himself.  Mac and Jimmy now released his wrists from the restraints, and, just to be safe, administered similar blows that broke each wrist.  Ass passed out, but was quickly revived.

 

“We’re going to cut off your hands now,” Jimmy announced with glee.  After we dispose of you, I’m going to drive your rental car down to Florida and abandon it.  I’ll wear gloves so I don’t leave any fingerprints, then I’ll use your hands to make sure yours are all over the place.  Then I’ll dispose of them by burning them up in order not to leave a trace.  Pretty clever, huh?”

 

Mac couldn’t help piling on.  “Jimmy dreamed that idea up himself, and I approved so long as he stays naked.  That’s a condition of his status as my slave.  But it will work out OK since I’m going to fly down and meet him.  I’ll get a rental car and we’ll go to a S&M bar I particularly like.  Slaves are always naked there.  The coolest part is that one of your former Facebook “friends” is actually gay and hangs out there too.  I recognized him from when I was there before.  I’ll arrange to meet him, and offer him Jimmy to whip and fuck.  When we go back to his place to do that, Jimmy and I will knock him out and fake his decision to move away or something like that.  We’ll drive him back here and he’ll be our next victim.  The first thing he’ll see will be the full film of your adventures, so it will be fun to share that with him before he starts his own.”

 

 

 

Jimmy took a slightly different approach in terms of destroying Ass’s knees.  He and Mac first took sledge hammers and pulverized Ass’s ankles.  They released the restraints, and next bent each leg forward until it broke at the knee.  This required once again reviving their target, who was now completely incapable of any action they would consider threatening.  And they could maneuver him on the table to suit their fatal plans for the body.

 

“I do admire your physical shape, especially your great chest and pecs.  So let’s take care of them next.”  Jimmy once again picked up the pliers, washing off the blood in a nearby sink.  “We want to keep things clean.”  He placed the pliers over each tit, and squeezed them tightly.  Then he twisted them, causing the tits to be crushed and twisted off the handsome chest.  There was a little breast-meat that came with each one, and after he was done he offered one to Mac and took one himself.  They made sure Ass was watching and ate them raw.  It wasn’t very good meat, but it did make sure Ass knew they were serious about what was ultimately going to happen to his body.  That body was now a ruined mass of pain.

 

“Time for a good fuck and our first orgasm of the session,” announced Jimmy.  He explained to Ass that they had not butt-fucked him the day before because they wanted him to feel that sensation and humiliation while he was sober.  He also explained that they resolved the issue of who got to do the first fuck by agreeing to do a double-fuck.  With both their dicks up Ass’s ass, his pain would be a lot greater, as would their pleasure.  They loved the feel of the asshole being torn, and of each other’s dicks erupting together.  They had gotten quite good at their timing, he assured Ass.  And once he was double-fucked by two guys, Ass would officially be initiated as a total fag.

 

Mac positioned himself underneath Ass, and Jimmy lifted the broken legs (delighted at the obvious pain that caused Ass).  They both inserted their cocks at the same time, not bothering with any lube that might have reduced Ass’s pain.  This was when the screams took on the despairing tone of an animal that they so much enjoyed hearing.  Ass had lost all hope, all his fight, and was simply wallowing in the incredible agony being inflicted on him.  Being double-fucked by two fags was the worst thing he could imagine.

 

But Ass had another problem.  As painful as the fucking was, it also gave him considerable sexual pleasure.  The pressure on his prostate enhanced his erection even more, and he was aghast to realize he was getting major sexual pleasure from being raped by guys.  Both Jimmy and Mac recognized his reaction, and made sure to point out that he was in fact just a fag who, under his own standards, deserved to die a terrible death.  This was what Ass himself believed he deserved.  His humiliation was total.

 

Mac and Jimmy took their time fucking, wanting it to last as long as possible.  They were turned on by feeling the tear in the asshole itself, and they were beyond turned on by the feel of each other’s hard cocks in the tight hole.  They guessed (correctly) that the hole was in fact a virgin as Ass had claimed, and took satisfaction being the first (and last) to rape it.  They managed to stretch out the rhythmic thrusts for nearly an hour, but their sexual excitement had to be dealt with.  They kissed each other and picked up the pace, moving toward orgasm.  As they did so, Jimmy started stroking Ass’s cock, which was also clearly aroused even beyond the drugs that kept it hard no matter what.  It all worked perfectly, and all three males shot loads at the same time.  Jimmy’s however, was more like an explosion, as he got not just the physical release of a great fuck but the psychological release of knowing the guy he just fucked would soon be dead, and that Jimmy was the one killing him.  It was a phenomenal release, second only to the anticipated death itself.  Mac’s orgasm was also intense, in his case amplified by knowing his beloved slave was on his way to sexual and psychological fulfillment.  For Ass there was no joy, although he did feel the physical pleasure of shooting a load.  That pleasure was overwhelmed by the immense pain he was in, and by his humiliation.  But his lack of appreciation was made up for by how much Mac and Jimmy enjoyed watching him shoot and laughing at his agony.

 

It was now early afternoon and Jimmy declared it was time for lunch and another nap.  He was worried that Ass was fading faster than he wanted, and he was hungry.  They left Ass on the table and washed up, cleaning off what was a considerable amount of Ass’s sweat, blood, and gore as well as their own sweat.  Once they were freshened, Jimmy approached Ass and announced that he had decided what to have for lunch.  “I don’t want to risk you dying too soon, so I am not going to cut into your core.  But there’s enough meat for lunch on your lower legs, and they’re already pretty much destroyed.”  With that Jimmy picked up two hand saws, giving one to Master Mac.  They were deliberately slow as they first sawed off Ass’s feet, then used a butcher knife to cut off the meat on the lower legs, and finally sawed off his lower legs at the knees.  Doing it in that order had the advantage of assuring Ass felt all possible pain in the process.  Jimmy expertly cauterized the wounds so that Ass wouldn’t bleed to death.  And he revived him so that he could watch them eat his flesh.

 

Lunch was delicious.  They made it sort of a picnic, with grits and baked beans, eating Ass’s meat raw.  “Ass tar-tar is sure delicious,” Mac declared. “And it will in due course turn into shit as we digest it.  You are aptly named, Ass-Shit.”  Both Jimmy and Mac laughed, but Ass was not amused.

 

“We’re going to take a break and relax, so you don’t react too strongly to what we’ve done so far.  After all, the next round will be a lot more intense.  We don’t want you to get bored, however, so we’re going to turn on a vibrator in the table that will cause your body to shake and make sure the sandpaper does its job of assuring your back is in constant agony.  Master Mac will also turn on a low level of electricity to assure the rest of you is also in pain.  That way we can rest without shirking our duty of torturing you completely.  But I promised to teach you how to suck cock, so first I’ll let you suck me off.”  After Jimmy shot his load down Ass’s throat, the two lovers again embraced and kissed, and lay down for a well-deserved nap, which began with Jimmy sucking off Master Mac.

 

It was late afternoon when Jimmy awakened.  He awakened his Master by lovingly sucking on Mac’s erect cock cone again, and after a little 69 action they returned to their task of the day.

 

Ass had passed out from the pain, but was quickly revived.  Jimmy turned off the vibration feature and Mac turned off the electric shocks.  They had more intense and more painful ideas in mind for this session.

 

“We especially want to thank you for the Bowie knife,” Mac commented.  “I’ve never owned one quite this nice.  I think it will make Jimmy’s next actions much more satisfying for him., and you’ll have the honor of having been helpful.  You see, this is where he really takes over.  This is when you get ripped apart and die.”  Mac handed the knife to Jimmy and moved away from the table so Jimmy had free range to satisfy his needs.  Ass could only hope it would be quick, but knew it would not.  He had laid out too much of the scenario he now anticipated would happen to him, not to Jimmy.  And he was right.

 

Jimmy stood in the space between what was left of Ass’s legs, and positioned the knife so Ass would involuntarily focus on it.  “I’ve never gutted another guy before, but your description makes it irresistible.  Thanks for the great idea.”

 

Jimmy now positioned the knife just above Ass’s still-rigid cock, and inserted it into the vulnerable flesh.  He went deep, and he went slow.  At the same time, he inserted his own rock-hard cock into Ass-Shit’s asshole, which was still bleeding from the double-fuck Jimmy and Mac had enjoyed inflicting.  The fuck-hole was nicely lubricated with Ass’s blood and the torturers’ cum, and Jimmy began a slow fuck – in and out, in and out – thrusting deeper with each motion.

 

The knife kept pace, staying deep in Ass’s guts and very slowly moving up his torso.  But Jimmy paused once the knife reached the belly button, leaving it in place, continuing his thrusts with his cock, but picking up another knife that Mac had paced on the table.  “You won’t be needing these, even for your last orgasms, and they look tasty.”  With the handle of the Bowies knife sticking up from the middle of Ass’s belly, and with Jimmy’s cock going in and out of his asshole, Ass saw in the mirror, and felt, as Jimmy carefully cut off the skin around his scrotum and then individually removed each testicle.  Ass was officially no longer a male, and in his pain and humiliation he could not help but continue to watch as Jimmy handed the two prize man-seeds to Mac, who quickly cleaned them off and handed one back to Jimmy.  They put them in their mouths and kissed each other as they chewed and swallowed the sources of Ass’s manhood.  They were delicious and remarkably satisfying.

 

Jimmy returned to the knife and continued its journey up to the base of Ass’s rib cage.  He then took it out and used it to cut into the skin a bit more so he could easily reach into Ass’s innards.  He first reached in and pulled out Ass’s liver, which he handed to Mac.  “We’re very fond of liver and onions, and we hope your alcoholism hasn’t ruined yours.  That would be a shame.”  Jimmy next pulled out stings of intestines, cutting off a piece for himself as a token of the experience that had so inspired him.  It tasted terrible, but he swallowed it as his cock got even harder.  He would need to cum soon, but that was OK.  He didn’t have a whole lot left to do.  Ass was near death, and Jimmy wanted to control how that happened.

 

Jimmy next reached into the body cavity and pushed his hand up into the chest area, reaching Ass’s heart.  It was still functioning, but not by much.  Jimmy squeezed it until it stopped, causing Ass to gasp in agony.  Jimmy quickly withdrew his hand and grabbed Ass’s neck, which he now squeezed until no oxygen could pass through it.  He achieved his goal, feeling Ass die from both a crushed heart and a crushed windpipe.  As Jimmy saw the death-throws starting, he could also feel the pressure on his cock as the sphincter failed and the pressure increased.  Jimmy shot a massive load that was even more intense than the one he’d pumped into Ass’s body earlier that day.  It was beyond explosive, and made even more satisfying as he watched Ass’s own cock erupt, driven in part by gravity generated on the cock from the slight elevation that put the heart at an angle.  The blood had to go somewhere, the heart was no longer pumping, and the cock was the lowest point.  Jimmy admired just how creative his master was as he enjoyed watching Ass’s cum stream out onto his open guts while feeling his own cum fill them from within.  It was spectacular.  This was the greatest orgasm and the greatest psychological release he’d ever had.

 

The balance of the evening was highly enjoyable for both Mac and Jimmy.  Mac enjoyed fucking Ass’s dead body right after Jimmy was done, and he succeeded in getting Ass to shoot one last load courtesy of how he had positioned the body on the table.  It intensified Mac’s own orgasm, and Mac had the pleasure of cutting off the dead man’s cock as it erupted, handing it and some attached innards to Jimmy to enjoy eating.  Ass was now totally emasculated and gutted, and Jimmy finished the scenario by decapitating him.  The cameras aught all the action, and they knew they’d have wonderful memories as they watched the film time after time.  Jimmy was content to return to his role as a slave, grateful to his master for the release.  Master Mac made it a point to use Jimmy even more brutally that evening to drive home the point – and Mac’s own need to dominate and torture.  All in all, it was a wonderful day, capped off by a great meal featuring Ass’s lean chest meat.  With their newfound wealth and all the info on Ass’s handsome young fag-hating friends, they knew there would be many others to enjoy.

Trucker 14–Trucker vs Bar Bitch

It was almost midnight and Wes was ready to rock out.  He was higher than fuck and horny as hell.  He’d need money soon if he wanted to wanted to keep the high going, but there were ways of getting it—even ways of combining the two.

 

And combining the two was something Wes was good at.  Just two months past his twenty-second birthday, he was slim and lean, with a perfect twink body that managed to attract a lot of dudes.  The ugly ones, the ones who were fat or old, were usually willing to pay, and Wes would whore himself out if he needed—but he preferred to play a different game.  After all, why bargain when you can steal?

 

It was the ice, of course—whether he smoked it, snorted it or shot it up, it got him too amped up to be controlled.  Aside from the rampant horniness, it made him crave danger.   Things could get ugly if the guy bangin’ him caught him in the act, but that didn’t happen often.  And anyway, he was getting a lot better a rifling through wallets whenever his fuckbuddies’ backs were turned.

 

He was just under six feet tall with a broad face darkened with the faintest hint of facial hair under his turned-up nose and across his cheeks.  His smooth, clear skin was not yet tainted from the meth use, although the dilation of his large dark eyes hinted at it.  His brown hair was cut short on the sides of his head, but left longer—about three or four inches—on the top, carefully arranged to look casually tousled.

 

He was looking to take a dick up his ass and had dressed to make sure he got it.  He wore a gray long-sleeve t-shirt that clung tightly to his lean, boyish chest.  His black skinny jeans, even though they were tight enough to highlight the muscles in his long legs and the drug-enhanced bulge in his groin—and were held up by a thick leather belt clasped shut by a buckle with a black-on-black Superman logo—still sagged enough to show a couple of inches of the colorful boxers underneath.

 

His feet padded quietly in a pair of Under Armour Jet Express hightops; the kicks were a bright shade of blue that contrasted nicely with the black jeans.  Since the jeans rode so low on Wes’s hips, the hems caught in the uppers of the sneakers, making it look like he’d deliberately tucked them in.

 

In short, Wes looked exactly like what he was, a hot little twink on the lookout for cock.  The fact that he was also on the lookout for cash was probably a bit more obvious than he’d have liked. But it was Friday night and the gay bar was packed and raucous; the noisy crowd even managed to explain away some of the noticeable signs of Wes’s meth use, like his sweating and jitteriness.

 

The bar was only part of the large nightclub; it was teeming and dark, but it opened out onto a huge dance floor that dazzled the eyes with strobes, mirror balls, and smoke machines.  The dance floor occupied at least half the building, while the bar only took up about a quarter.  The other quarter was taken up by offices, bathrooms, and a game room with some arcade games and a couple of pool tables.  Tonight, all the rooms were filled to capacity.

 

Wes had already cadged a drink of an old fat guy with a long beard and was leaning back against a wall and surveying the crowd for a likely mark when his eyes were drawn to a dude who’d just entered the bar from the game room.  The guy was huge, at least six and a half feet, with black hair and stubble on his face; the hair was mostly hidden under a red trucker’s cap.  He sported a white cotton wifebeater, too small and tight to leave any details of the stud’s muscle-bound and fur-covered chest to the imagination.  The dude’s powerful build was obvious in every movement he made; the way his biceps and deltoids flexed as he turned and set his pool cue into a rack by the door made Wes drool with lust.

 

The stoned-out hustler moved away from the wall and approached the hot stud.  As he got closer, he could see the guy’s tight jeans, faded to sky-blue and worn to the point of softness, with a tear on the inside of the left leg that teasingly revealed a firm, hairy inner thigh.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of brown Justin Wyoming pull-on workboots.

 

The closer he got to the hulking stud, the more certain Wes was that this was the guy he was looking for.  This guy was capable of feeding him dick the way he wanted, the way he so desperately needed tonight.  And someone this hot had to have cash; the moment the stud looked away, Wes would pocket his dough.

 

Wes had no way of knowing it—and would have been too high and horny to pay attention if he had had a way—but he was very unlikely to catch this stud with his guard down.  There was little the Trucker missed, especially when he was dealing with fagboy fuckmeat.

 

It’d been a couple of weeks since the Trucker left his last fucktoy dead in a ditch; he was back on the hunt and looking for a kill.  He was familiar with this place; he’d stopped off here on his last haul through this town.  On that occasion, he hadn’t found anything worth sticking his dick into; he’d ended up offing a street punk in an alley, but it had left him feeling unsatisfied.

 

Of course, that had been on a weeknight.  This was Friday night—almost Saturday morning—and the place was full.  The Trucker was sure he’d find someone tonight; in fact, he’d though he already had.  The boy had been small and dark, hairy with olive skin.  The Trucker had followed him into the game room and picked up a game of pool with him, but within minutes, the kid’s friends had shown up.  The Trucker finished the game, but deep inside, he was raging with frustrated desire.  The little punk never knew how lucky he was that his friends showed up.

 

Wes wasn’t lucky, and he didn’t have any friends.  He approached the Trucker head-on, brazenly grinning up at the well-built hunk.  “Hey, man, wanna buy me a drink?”

 

The Trucker glanced down incuriously at the boy, as he would at an insect crawling on the pavement.

 

“I’ll make it worth yer while,” the boyslut said.

 

“Yeah?” the Trucker inquired impassively.  “How?”

 

Wes was too high for subtlety.  “In the sack.  I’m a great fuck.”

 

The Trucker sneered.  “Yeah, heard that before.”

 

The DJ on the dance floor changed the music; the new shit was loud and cacophonous.  Wes didn’t even try to make his voice heard over it; he just reached out and grabbed the massive ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran down the older man’s thigh.  He didn’t expect it to be real; it was way too big.  And he was used to guys padding out their groins; it’d get a lot of looks in the bars, even if it did lead to eventual disappointment.

 

With this type of fake enhancement in mind, Wes openly slipped his hand into the tear in the Trucker’s jeans.  His fingers slid across the firm, thick thigh—and then stopped as they came into contact with an enormous shaft of semi-soft throbbing manmeat.

 

He looked up into the Trucker’s face, his eyes wide with amazement.  He couldn’t believe the dude’s cock was really that big.  “Forget the drink,” he said with an audible gulp during a lull in the music, “My apartment is three blocks from here.  Put it in me, bro.”

 

The Trucker smirked.  “Sure, faggot.  I could use a good workout.  Lessee if you can go the distance.”

 

This was what he’d been waiting for—meat that provided its own death pit.  The Trucker was tired of cleaning out his cab after every fresh kill.

 

For his part, Wes was thrilled.  He was stunned by how easy it was to lure his mark; the thought that he was the mark being lured never crossed his mind.  What did flash across his mind was that if this dude was so eager, even if he did notice Wes had gone through his wallet he probably wouldn’t mind.

 

Ice had made Wes make bad decisions and jump to wrong conclusions before, but this was far and away the worst.

 

“C’mon, man, just follow me,” he said and started making his way through the crowd.

 

The Trucker was tall enough that he didn’t have to follow on the punk’s heels to see which way he was headed, and that suited him just fine.  He left a little space between himself and the meat so that later on, nobody would associate the two of them together.  Not that it was likely they’d be noticed in the randy, gyrating crowd anyway, but there was no sense in the Trucker taking chances.

 

After all, the meat was taking enough chances for them both.

 

Wes made it outside first.  The Trucker ambled along, not worried about losing the kid; he knew he had this faggot already hooked.  He took his time to cross the dance floor and walk nonchalantly out of the building in front of the bouncer—obviously alone.  Nothing to connect him with the stupid little fuck who stood waiting under a streetlight halfway down the block and across the street.

 

The Trucker could see him the moment he exited the door.  He walked towards him but kept to the opposite side of the street.  The footsteps of his thick-soled workboots echoed off the nearby walls, but otherwise the side street was relatively quiet.  Nobody hung out in front of the bar; most of the action was in the back, where there was parking and a patio with an outside bar.  There was no one about to see him quickly cross the street and join the kid.

 

Wes was tweaking and impatient.  He was afraid the hot musclestud had changed his mind until he saw the dude come out of the bar.  He relaxed as much as the meth would let him, watching the tall, masculine figure stroll towards him, his legs swinging wide to accommodate the massive tackle that hung between them.

 

Without the noise and commotion of the bar to distract him, Wes was able to notice a few details that had escaped his attention before, like the jingly bits of metal that bounced on the dude’s broad chest and dangled from a chain around his neck; as the Trucker got closer, the slut realized they were dog tags.  He also got a better look at the stud’s face.

 

He was aroused not only by the strong jaw and cheeks covered with just enough jet-black stubble to cast a shadow, but by the cold, hard expression on the handsome face and the icy glint in the pale blue eyes that he glimpsed momentarily under the brim of the cap.  The last two were obvious danger signals; if Wes was less fucked-up, he might have heeded them.  As it was, they just fed into his horniness, his craving for sexual danger.

 

“C’mon, man,” he grinned happily, “Right down here.  We’ll go down the alley, it’s faster.”

 

The Trucker followed silently, his heavy footfalls the only sign he was keeping up.  Wes’s Under Armour kicks made no sound on the gritty, cracked pavement as he dodged litter and reeking puddles in the alleyway, helped by an occasional overhead light.  They crossed a couple of side streets, sticking to the alley, and suddenly came to a residential block.

 

“Over here,” Wes said and headed to the left towards a small two-story brick apartment building.  The place was old and run-down; the windows were tiny and some of the ones upstairs had AC units precariously dangling from the sills, droning into the warm night.  There were cracks in the brick from settling; none had been repaired and some of them were old and alarming large.

 

There was an oil-stained patch of asphalt in the rear that served as a parking lot; at the moment, it was mostly empty—no surprise, on a Friday night—with just a couple of broken-down pickups and a huge late-80’s Chrysler that belonged in a museum.  Down the side of the building was regular pattern of a doorway followed by two windows; it looked like there were about four apartments down this one side.

 

Wes and the Trucker crossed the cracked, weed-choked asphalt to the rear-most door on the side.  It was thin and painted a dingy, weathered white; it took Wes a moment to get it unlocked since the rusted light fixture above the door had no bulb and probably wouldn’t have worked if it had.

 

Once inside, Wes flipped on the light switch, revealing a tiny, barely-furnished efficiency apartment, a single room with a kitchen nook jutting off to the rear and a small bathroom.  The barren, sterile light of a single overhead bulb was enough to illuminate the small space.  The harsh overhead light shed no softening shadows on Wes’s bed—a mattress and box spring set sitting on the floor with no frame.  The fitted sheet—once white, now with a sickly yellow tinge—still clung tenaciously to the mattress, but the flat sheet and the pillows were in a tangled mass halfway on the floor.

 

There was a large flat-screen TV against one wall (far and away the most expensive thing in the entire apartment), but no other furniture at all.  The kitchen sink was piled with dishes and glasses; the only reason they didn’t litter the counter as well was that Wes didn’t have any more.  Not to say that the counter was bare; on the contrary, it was cluttered with lots of empty booze bottles—most of them the cheap plastic kind.

 

The Trucker took it all in as he silently locked the door behind him.  Wes never noticed.  “Here, lemme open a window,” he said evidently embarrassed by the almost visible funk of cigarettes, meth, weed and boyspunk.  And the room was stifling—Wes had hocked his AC months ago.

 

“Naw, boy, leave ‘em closed,” the Trucker drawled, “I like to sweat.  And I wanna make you sweat.”

 

The boy turned to the towering stud, the bulge in his crotch pulsing visibly.  For the first time, he got a good look at the Trucker’s chest—the muscled hunk was already perspiring enough to make his thin cotton wifebeater transparent.  Wes could see details that had been invisible before, the thick, wiry chest fur, the large erect nipples surrounded by dark circles of flesh…

 

With a deep, shuddering inhale, Wes gasped, “Fuck, brah, stick it in me.  Fuck me, man, cum in my ass.  I want yer fuckin’ load.”

 

The Trucker leered, a cold, shark-like grin spreading across his handsome face.  “Gonna hafta see if you deserve my wad, boy.  Yer gonna hafta work for it—and if you ain’t workin’ hard enough, I got way to make ya.  Think you can handle that?”

 

In response, Wes peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, lean, boyish chest, already glistening with sweat himself.  “Dude, I can handle whatever you got,” he boasted.

 

The Trucker’s grin got even wider.  He was gonna have so much fun proving the stupid little faggot wrong.

 

Digging into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros, he lit one up before reaching up and taking off the red trucker’s cap and tossing it on the floor.  His hair was short but not shaved, a pure black that gleamed in the overhead light like silk.  Wes, noticing the lit smoke, pulled back a small pile of dirty clothes near the mattress to reveal an ashtray on the bare wood floor; next to it were a phone charger and a small metal lamp, both plugged into the wall and within easy reach of the bed.  The boywhore fished his own cigarettes out of his pocket, but didn’t get the chance to burn one.

 

“Get over here,” the Trucker commanded.  “You want my dick?  Work for it.  Pull my shirt off.”

 

Eager as a puppy, Wes dropped his pack of generic smokes and darted across the room.  He instantly ran his hands over the rippled muscles on the Trucker’s hard, furry abs, feeling them through the thin fabric of the wifebeater.  He stuck his hand down inside the Trucker’s jeans, reaching for the hem, but he made the mistake—or perhaps it was deliberate—of going in front and center, like he was reaching for the alpha’s dick.

 

The Trucker knocked his hand away.  “Uh-uh,” he said, “You ain’t earned the right to feel my cock yet.”  The stud grabbed the shirt and pulled it up out of his waistband before he let Wes continue.

 

Wes paused for a moment, unsure of himself.  The Trucker took a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of bluish smoke into the punk’s face.  “Whatcha waitin’ for, boy?” he growled, “I toldja to pull my shirt off!”

 

Responding instinctively to the hard edge of command in the Trucker’s voice, Wes grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up.  The hard-bodied alpha raised his arms to let the shirt come off over them; he knew damn well that the whore wasn’t tall enough to pull the shirt up over his head, but he kept the pretense up.

 

Wes has risen up on the toes of his electric-blue hightops in his attempt to raise his arms high enough when the Trucker suddenly planted his big hand on the back of the kid’s head and rammed Wes’s face into his hairy, reeking armpit.  The kid gasped as the alpha ground his face into the warm, wiry pit hairs.

 

Before he could react, Wes’s face was pulled back, then forcibly rubbed against the Trucker’s chest.  The powerful top was clutching a handful of the cunt’s hair, using it like a handle to maneuver Wes’s head.  The boy could feel the alpha chest fur, moist with sweat, scratching at his face, when suddenly there was an erect mound of flesh in his mouth.

 

“Work my nipple, faggot,” the older man hissed roughly.  Wes obey, slurping eagerly at the large knot.  For a moment, he dug his teeth in and leaned back, stretching the dark flesh out, then the Trucker cuffed him in the head.

 

“That’s enough, cunt,” he snapped, pulling his shirt off himself and tossing it on the floor.  “I gotta take a leak.”  Walking to the bathroom, he bent down momentarily and tapped his ash into the ashtray beside the bed.  It wasn’t a characteristic move for him.  Usually, he just let the ash fall on the floor—after all, with the hour, the meat would be long past caring if the floor was dirty—but he had a gut feeling this time.

 

He was right.  From the corner of his eye, the Trucker caught the whoreboy’s eyes glued to his ass.  While that in itself wasn’t unusual—faggots always stared at the way denim cradled his firm, round asscheeks—there was something odd about the way the homo kept his eyes on one spot like a laser.  The experienced mankiller knew exactly what was going on—the kid was fixated on his wallet.

 

The alpha turned back and retrieved his shirt.  He removed the wallet form his hip pocket, rather ostentatiously, wrapped the shirt around it, and tossed it back down into his upturned cap lying on the floor.  Satisfied, he headed to the bathroom.

 

It was a trap, of course.  As he stood at the toilet, pounding out his piss, his blood boiled at the thought of the cheap hustler trying to steal from him.  At the same time, the thought of what he’d do to the punk if he actually did try anything was starting to get him stiff.  He let the stream of piss slow to a stop and listened, but heard nothing.

 

The kid was waiting.  The Trucker could play that game, too.  He kept still and silent for a good five minutes before he heard a faint rustle form the bedroom.  When he threw the door open, he was already prepared for what he found.

 

Wes had already stripped.  His gear was tossed onto the pile of dirty clothes; the belt with the black Superman logo was coiled on top.  The slim youth was crouched, nude but for his ped socks, over the Trucker’s cap on the floor.  He’d already managed to unwrap the shirt from the wallet and had just opened it up when the bathroom door opened and the Trucker emerged.

 

The room was so small the large, muscled killer was standing over Wes before the thieving fagboy even knew he was there.  His pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, Wes slowly turned to look at the Trucker’s brown, scuffed workboots next to him, then raised his eyes.

 

The homo punk’s gaze crawled up the Trucker’s thick legs, noticing almost for the first time how the tight denim barely contained the firm calf muscles, how the tear on the left thigh revealed the power of the thick thigh behind it.  Then he raised his eyes further to the groin and gasped involuntarily in shock.

 

Wes, despite his youth, had taken a lot of dick in his life, but this…this was as intimidating as fuck.  The Trucker’s erect member, huge and swollen, jutted from the unzipped fly out over the kid’s head; as he watched, a large transparent bead of precum welled out and fell on him—Wes could feel the moist potent heat of the drop on his scalp.

 

The thick veins writhing across the surface of the enormous cock expanded as the dark shaft pulsated.  Wes was transfixed, both horrified and attracted by the massive rod of manmeat—it was too big, it would literally tear him a new asshole, but it was such hot fucking proof of manhood that the young power bottom couldn’t help getting hard himself, despite the inherent danger of the situation.  The meth still circulating in his system went some ways towards explaining this—but not all the way.  Stone cold sober, Wes still craved cock to the extent that he’d have walked into a bear trap to get this hot hardbodied stud’s tool.

 

It was hard to tear his gaze away from that mesmerizing rod of glistening, pulsating manmeat, but Wes’s eyes were drawn upwards, along the dude’s ripped, hairy abs to the dark forest of body hair covering the alpha’s broad, bulked-out chest.  The glint of metal indicated the presence of the top’s dogtags, nestled in the dark, furry valley between the twin peaks of his thick hubcap pecs from which the large dark nipples protruded.

 

Again, the instant impression was of overwhelming masculine power.  There was something about the alpha’s muscle-bound torso that suddenly reminded the lust-distracted faggot that he’d just been caught stealing.  In his sudden fear, he raised his eyes to the Trucker’s face.

 

He took one look at the expression of unholy rage and triumph on the Trucker’s face and went pale in fear.

 

“No, man,” he started, “It ain’t what ya think—”

 

The Trucker bent down and slammed his fist into Wes’s temple.  The blow to the head didn’t completely knock the whore out, but it sent him sprawling dazed onto the floor.

 

The muscled killer had tossed his first butt into the john.  He pulled his pack out and lit another as he walked around the stunned, moaning youth.  “So ya thought it was smart to go for my wallet, huh?” he sneered.  “Guess I’m gonna hafta teach ya what a bad fuckin’ idea that was.”

 

Wes groaned tried to rise, placing his right hand flat on the floor to brace himself.  Before he could move, the Trucker was there, grinding his bootheel onto the back of Wes’s hand.

 

“AHH!  Wha—wha—” Wes cried out as the Trucker crouched down, keeping the cunt’s hand pinned to the wood floor.

 

“Ya see,” the Trucker said in an almost conversational tone, “I was just gonna fuck ya and snuff ya, but now I’m gonna hafta make ya suffer.  You were gonna die tonight anyway, faggot, but now yer gonna die in agony.  I gotta teach you a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your worthless life—which I’m guessing is gonna be about another half hour at most.”  He paused and took a long, searching look at Wes’s lithe, lean body.  “You’re young; you might make it to forty minutes.  It don’t matter, as long as you learn what a huge fuckin’ mistake you made.”

 

Wes was about to reply that he already knew he’d made a mistake bringing this huge sexy psycho home when the Trucker reached down, grabbed one of the boy’s splayed fingers—the index finger—and jerked it up, violently.  The snapping of bone wasn’t very loud but it echoed in the small room.

 

Wes’s scream was even louder.

 

“Good thing all yer low-life neighbors are out partyin’,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Ain’t no one around to hear ya scream, asswipe.  Not like they’d bother to help a worthless cumguzzlin’ fag like you anyway.”

 

The middle finger was next.  It was larger, so the snapping sound was louder.  “Are ya learnin’ to keep yer homo hands off my shit?” the sweat-slicked muscular killer asked, flicking the ash from his smoke into the cunt’s hair.  Wes couldn’t answer; he could only moan and sob.  “No?” the Trucker grinned.  “Fuck, yer a stupid sack of shit.  Guess I gotta keep learnin’ ya, huh?”

 

When the Trucker broke Wes’s ring finger, the cheap rentboy reacted, beating on the Trucker’s leg with his left hand and drawing his knees up under himself, trying to unbalance the sadist kneeling on his hand.  The sadistic alpha laughed cruelly and leaned forward to put his entire body weight onto the bootheel that was crushing Wes’s hand.

 

“See, that’s the problem with you dumbass faggots,” he jeered, “Ya don’t even appreciate a good education.  Gotta make ya learn the hard way, no matter how long it takes.”  Wes’s howls of pain as his pinkie finger was shattered made the cracking of the bone almost inaudible, but they were nothing to the noise the cunt made when the Trucker went to work on his thumb.  The muscle-bound killer didn’t break it; he wrenched it out of its socket, dislocating it, and wrung it around in huge circles, tearing the ligaments and tendons until it was useless.

 

Abruptly, the Trucker stood up and stretched.  He stepped away from Wes and headed towards the kitchen.  “Might as well make myself comfortable while I’m educatin’ ya, boy.  Got anything decent to drink in this place?”  He opened the cabinets and fridge.  “Shit, all ya got is a coupla Buds?  Figures.  Worthless asshole.”  There being no other alternative, he grabbed one anyway.

 

Wes had curled into a fetal position, cradling his broken and useless right hand.  “You—you—” he sobbed, “You fuck—fuckin’ psycho…”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” the Trucker drawled as he opened the beer and took a swig.  He walked over to the bed and placed the can on the floor next to the mattress, then returned to Wes.  The whoreboy was just rising to his knees when the Trucker approached, grabbed a handful of the kid’s brown hair and dragged him, kicking and squalling, over to the bed.

 

Seating himself on the mattress at what would be considered the foot of the bed, the Trucker pulled Wes’s head into his crotch, and with his dick running across the wailing homo’s face, wrapped his leg around the kid’s neck to hold him in place.  The well-built sadist then bent down and, grabbing the youth’s left arm, brought his hand up and continued the lesson.

 

This time he started with the little finger, a quiet snap that added no more to the agonized bleating that the pansy bitch was already making.  “See, the best way to learn somethin’,” the Trucker said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling into Wes’s face before taking another swig of beer, “Is to make sure it’s associated with somethin’ you ain’t gonna forget.”  He went for the index finger this time, slowly bending it backwards until it cracked like a green twig.  “Like pain.  Ya feelin’ me, faggot?”

 

Wes screeched, his right arm flailing against the Trucker’s restraining leg, his mangled fingers slapping uselessly against the tight faded denim.

 

The cold, sadistic killer chuckled and knocked the ash from his smoke into Wes’s tear-streaked face before settling it back between his lips and causally breaking the ring finger on his left hand.  The frantic fagboy jerked and kicked, his legs scrambling vainly on the wood floor, unable to find a purchase.  “Stop!  Help! Stop!” he screamed suddenly as he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this by himself—and that this was turning out far worse than he’d ever thought possible.

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker snapped and punched him in the face.

 

Wes grunted, stunned by the impact that was so hard, it had broken the thin bone behind his left eye, which instantly began to swell and darken.  His head lolled as the Trucker bent his index finger past the breaking point, the loud snap heard easily over Wes’s semi-conscious moans.

 

The Trucker chugged the rest of the beer, then jammed the smoldering butt of his smoke into the can and tossed it aside.  Standing up, he let Wes slump to the ground, wallowing in pain.  “Fuck,” the alpha grunted, “Got yer fuckin’ horse piss beer on my hands.”  He headed to the bathroom and ran them under the sink.

 

It had taken him less than sixty seconds, but when he came back out, the Trucker found that Wes had managed to regain his feet and was trying to escape.  Even though there was no possibility of that, the Trucker growled malignantly as he watched the panicked whoreboy’s futile attempts to work the doorknob of his own front door with all his fingers and one thumb broken and useless.

 

“Get back here, you stupid sack of faggot shit,” he snarled crossing instantly to him, “I ain’t done with you yet, asswipe. You still gotta lot to learn before you take yer dirt nap, cunt.”

 

Wes looked up at him, his youthful, once-arrogant face gray with shock and despair, and had a sudden realization of the nightmare he was about to endure.  Blubbering mindlessly, he lost control of his bladder, his piss running down his legs and soaking his socks—and spattering on the Trucker’s boots.

 

Incandescent with rage, the sadistic powerhouse grabbed the desperate punk with both hands—one hand clamped around his throat and the other hand snapped shut on his scrotum like a steel trap, shutting off the flow of urine—and hoisted him in the air.

 

“Piss on me, will ya, you goddam faggot scum?” the Trucker roared and flung Wes headlong into the kitchen.  Flying across the counter and stove, Wes barely had time to fling his arms over his head before he slammed excruciatingly into the far wall and fell to the floor with a clatter of pans and dishes.

 

The dazed, semi-conscious found himself flailing helplessly on the kitchen floor as the heavy, ominous tread of the Trucker’s boots came closer.  Aside from the horrible pain wracking his lean, firm body, his sensations were vague.  He knew that those approaching footsteps meant unrelenting suffering and torment, and that it had something to do with some imagined idea of hot intense sex he’d hoped for, but everything else was confused and distorted.  He wasn’t even entirely sure where he was; this kinda pain couldn’t be happening in his own room…

 

The Trucker stood over the mewling boycunt writhing on the floor and kicked him in the gut, his steel-toed workboot sinking deeply into Wes’s smooth, soft, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the faggot grunted as the impact knocked the air out of him.  Wes looked up at the Trucker, his face soundlessly expressing his horror as he tried desperately to inhale.

 

The hardbodied alpha knelt down by Wes’s head.  He grabbed the fuckboy’s carefully sculpted hair—now a tousled mass—and jerked his head up.  Staring into the kid’s eyes, he spit into Wes’s face, the frothy spittle splattering on the punk’s forehead and trickling down into the boy’s left eye, which had turned black and swollen shut by now.  The older man radiated violence and cruel power in the same way his slick mansweat filled the air with an acrid mix of testosterone and adrenalin, and some dim part of the whore’s mind was aware of his own traitorous, involuntary erection—

 

“Ya know I’m gonna kill ya, right?” the Trucker leered.  “Ya know I’m gonna use you as a cumdump and snuff yer sorry faggot ass, huh?  No, ya don’t.  I can see it in your dead soulless eyes, you worthless homo; you don’t think yer gonna die.  I’m gonna hafta teach it to ya.  I’m gonna hafta hurt you so bad you’ll finally appreciate what a huge fuckin’ favor I’m doin’ ya by wastin’ ya.”

 

Wes heard the words but couldn’t process them.  Out of his good right eye, he could see the Trucker’s handsome, scruff-covered face just inches from his—such a hot fucking dude couldn’t be trying to kill him, this was some kinda nightmare or he’d gotten hold of some bad ice and was freaking out—

 

The Trucker stood, pulling Wes up with him, one hand still clutching a hank of the boy’s hair and the other locked around his throat.  This time, the alpha held the kicking pansy aloft for a moment, letting the boy choke and gag as his own body weight crushed his throat.  Then he flung the slut across the room as hard as he could.

 

Wes hit the wall next to the window, collapsing the drywall and leaving a massive dent as he fell limply back to the floor with a thump like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground.  He was still trying to catch his breath when the Trucker was on him again, hoisting him up by the throat.  “You still want my cock, fag?  Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m still gonna stick it in ya.  You’ll get my load, cocksucker.  ‘Course, you may have too much brain damage by then to enjoy it—but I’ll fuckin’ enjoy it enough for both of us.  Sounds like a fair deal, huh, motherfucker?”

 

The frantic youth instinctively tried to claw at the Trucker’s arm.  Every single contact of his hands on the brutal stud’s bicep and tricep was agony as his broken fingers twisted excruciatingly with the impact.  But the crushing pain in his throat was swiftly overtaking his notice—his entire body weight was collapsing his esophagus in the Trucker’s vise-like grip.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Panic bubbled up in his fear-frozen pansy brain; lack of air had triggered a subconscious terror of asphyxiation.

 

Wes had never spent a moment of his shallow, drug-addled life speculating on what would be the worst way to die; now he knew, without any thought being involved.  He didn’t want to choke to death.

 

The nude queerboy tried to plead wordlessly with the Trucker.  A less experienced killer wouldn’t have been able to read the desperate expression on the swelling, blackening face, or understand the depths of sheer horror behind the tears leaking from the one eye not already swollen shut—but the Trucker did.  He laughed aloud, a hard, cruel sound that drowned out the thick grunting noises coming from Wes’s closed-off throat.

 

“Don’t worry, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” he chuckled.  “Trust me, motherfucker, you’ll know when I’m offin’ ya—I’ll make goddam sure of that.”  Then he gut-punched Wes twice in swift succession, his rock-hard fist first sinking into the kid’s belly as before.  The second blow landed squarely on the solar plexus and Wes forgot all about the pain in his fingers and almost forgot the pain in his throat.

 

The Trucker laughed again as he watched the suffering faggot shudder limply in his grip.  “Looks like yer about to go to sleep, boy,” he drawled.  “Am I borin’ you, fuckmeat?  Here, you stupid piece of fag shit, maybe this’ll teach ya to pay attention!”

 

He slammed the kid headfirst into the TV, holding him by the neck and throwing him like a dart.  Wes’s head cracked the screen; his chest hit the TV stand.  The stand was cheap particle board, but the boywhore hit it hard enough and at just the right angle to break two ribs on his left side.

 

The punk hit the floor and didn’t move.  The Trucker lit up a smoke and sat back down on the bed, keeping an eye on the heaving, gasping pile of boymeat.  He knew he needed to pace himself or he’d whack the motherfucker before he’d had a chance to fuck ‘im.  And as much as he wanted to make the kid die, he particularly wanted to make the kid die while riding his cock.

 

Wes was lying inert, wrapped in a tight, throbbing blanket of pain.  It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe; it even hurt to think.  Especially if he thought about what the Trucker had said to him—so he didn’t think, at least not for a while.  But he could still hear the breath of his sadistic assailant, long inhales and exhales as the alpha calmly smoked his cigarette and watched Wes suffer.

 

After a while, a cloudy sense of self-preservation began to stir in the craven twink’s mind.  He was in a dangerous situation—he wouldn’t let himself recognize the true extent of the peril—and he needed to find a way out.  There was no way he could physically escape; maybe he could talk to the guy, work something out with him.  The fact that his thought process shied away from the real reason behind his inability to escape—the hot stud had casually and cheerfully broken his fingers, one by one—showed his distorted his thinking was.

 

There wasn’t anything to work out with the Trucker except how slowly and how painfully Wes was gonna die.

 

The Trucker wasn’t a mind reader, but he had enough experience offing worthless rentboys to have an accurate, if general, idea of the flow of the whore’s thoughts.  The kid just couldn’t fit the idea of his own death into his shallow brain.  The intensely cruel alpha smiled grimly and stood up.

 

“Recess is over, dickhead,” he growled.  “Time to start learnin’ again.”

 

Wes had rolled over, about to try reasoning with the Trucker, but the tone in the muscle-bound stud’s voice stopped him cold.  It took about four steps for the Trucker to reach him from the bed.  As the helpless punk stared up at the hulking figure towering over him, his words dried up on his cracked lips.

 

That amazing furry body, muscles glistening with sweat in the dim light, the enormous hog—thick, purple, pulsing in vein-wreathed lust—it was everything he wanted in a top, but this was too much, the dude was too aggressive…

 

…and then Trucker bent down to grab him again.  “Wanna play, little boy?” he whispered with an evil grin, and Wes lost it.

 

“Oh please no,” he gasped, amazed at how painful it was to speak; every breath he took shifted the sharp, jagged ends of his broken ribs inside his abdomen.  “Do…do what ya wa-want, but pl-please don’t hurt me anymore, oh please sir, dear god don’t hurt me no more…I’ll, I’ll do whatever you want, please, sir, I’m so sorry, take anything ya want, just, just…just no more pain…”

 

His entreaties became more frantic as the older man reached out to grab him again.  “No!  Fuck, please, no!  Oh god, oh god, please fuck please no don’t fuck no—”

 

Again, the Trucker grabbed him in two places—by the throat and by the scrote.  This time, though, there was no dangling.  The hardbodied killer whirled around, flinging Wes on the bed at full speed.  The homo slut hit the mattress and bounced up off it, smacking into the wall at the head of the bed and falling back, toppling the bedside lamp and knocking the ashtray across the room, leaving a trail of sooty ashes in its wake.

 

Before Wes could recover—it was taking him longer and longer to come back with each new bout of abuse—the Trucker had laid him flat on his back on the bed and had climbed between his legs, propping the kid’s socked feet on his shoulders.  The sick top waited until Wes seemed to be conscious enough for comprehension.

 

“Know what, faggot?” he jeered at the dazed, agonized youth, “All this exercise is gettin’ me horny as fuck.  Think it’s time to drain my load.  Time to say yer prayers, motherfucker, cause once I use you as a cumrag, I’m gonna be done with ya.  The hot squirt of my manseed deep in yer guts is gonna be the last thing yer fag ass feels before I put you down, ya piece a’ shit.”

 

And before Wes could even blink, the Trucker slammed his gigantic shaft balls-deep into the twink’s raw, unprepared fuckhole.

 

If he had been capable of rational thought, Wes would have felt betrayed by the way his young, form body refused to let him lapse into blessed unconsciousness under this new onslaught of excruciating pain.  The searing agony of a ripped sphincter and a torn colon shot through his lithe form, forcing him into involuntary rigidity that only increased his suffering—his body no longer flexed to accommodate the huge thick rod of manflesh spearing his innards.

 

And greatest betrayal of all—in spite of his fear and pain, his own seven-inch cock went rigid itself with a painful stiffness as the Trucker’s cock ground its way over Wes’s prostate.  He could feel it, over all the other stimuli.  The badly-beaten punk was still struggling to breathe—he couldn’t scream, but a high-pitched squeal was forced out of him by sheer agony.

 

“Shaddup, meat, no one fuckin’ cares,” the Trucker barked and sucker-punched Wes in the face.  There was a thick wet crunch as the whoreboy’s nose was crushed, and the Trucker achieved his purpose.  It damn sure got Wes to stop squealing; the stunned youth’s wide eyes, circled with gray rings of shock stared at the alpha in abject horror as blood trickled from both nostrils.

 

The Trucker bent over, his massive hog plugging the kid’s ass.  The dogtags around his neck hit Wes’s smooth chest with a clink and slid to one side as the muscled top lowered himself until their faces were inches apart.  “Worthless fuckin’ faggot, can’t even take a real man’s cock,” the alpha growled, his expression a terrifying mix of rage and demonic glee.  “You’re about to ride that cock right into your grave, fucker, and if you don’t stop squealin’ like a pig, I’ll break yer fuckin’ jaw.”

 

He gave his hips a sudden, single pump, ripping his swollen rod out of the kid’s ass—not completely; he left the billiard-ball-sized head inside the rectum—and driving it all the way back in.  Wes’s entire face went gray with agony as the gigantic horsedick reamed out his colon; he strained until sweat coursed down his face but was unable to suppress a loud, bleating whimper.

 

The Trucker was as good as his word.  He leaned forward, putting his left hand around Wes’s throat to support his weight and driving three hard, swift blows into the fag’s jaw, wielding his right fist like a sledgehammer.  The punches were delivered with the force of a steam piston and by the time they were done, the boy’s jaw was broken and he’d had three teeth knocked out.

 

Best of all, the whore’s body had jumped and jerked with each impact; the Trucker had felt each blow reverberate in the whore’s asshole, making it squeeze his dick.  The kid was gonna be a nice, responsive fuck.

 

Wes wallowed in pain; his face, his ass, his hands…there was a loud humming in his head that seemed to distort things.  Was he on a bad trip?  There was an incredibly hot stud fucking him; he could feel the top’s broad, muscular chest pressing against his own, the wiry body fur scraping painfully across his smooth, soft skin…too much pain, something was wrong.  Maybe more ice would fix it…

 

“I need a hit,” Wes mumbled, not fully aware that he was speaking aloud, his broken jaw barely moving, his speech slurred.  “Comin’ down—gimme another hit…”

 

“What, another one?” the Trucker jeered, knowing damn well what the boywhore meant.  “All you fuckin’ faggots are pain pigs.  Sure, asswipe, here ya go!”

 

Another three blows in rapid fire, striking the cunt’s torso.  The Trucker had aimed with frightening precision at the spot where the kid’s ribs had broken.  Wes screeched, ignoring the agony caused by the sudden, violent motion in his snapped jaw, as the jagged ends of the ribs were driven inwards, puncturing his left lung in two places.

 

The Trucker grinned and began fucking the suffering fuckmeat brutally.

 

Wes was beaten, in more ways than one.  He could only lie on his back, arms and legs outspread, and try to breathe while the muscle-bound alpha hunched over him and raped him viciously.  His left lung was collapsing; every breath of air was a desperate, agonizing struggle that taxed the diaphragm and tore the lung open even further.  The weight of the older man’s heavy, hulking form pressing down on him only made it worse.

 

All in all, it was a blessing for Wes—the frantic attempt to breathe, to merely draw air into his one working lung drew his focus from his pain.

 

But pain was what made Wes work the Trucker’s dick.  The Trucker was not happy.  The meat was supposed to spend the last few minutes of its life pleasuring him; it needed to be reminded of its duty.  He looked around and noticed the small bedside lamp lying on the floor right next to him.  He reached out his left arm and grabbed it, then rose up on his knees.

 

The sudden lifting of the pressure on his chest gave Wes a chance to inhale enough oxygen to regain full awareness.  Even as the tide of nightmarish suffering rose up around him, he looked up at the Trucker looming over him, holding the lamp.

 

As he watched, the powerful hardbodied older man held the lamp in one hand, wrapped the power cord around the other hand and pulled them apart.  There was a quick bugling of his biceps and the cord came away with deceptive ease—it had taken a lot of strength to pull it out.

 

The alpha threw the lamp over his shoulder; it clattered off on the far side of the room.  He held the cord up in front of Wes’s face and grinned.  Nothing needed to be said; the boy knew what it meant and tears welled from his blackened eyes.

 

A glittering light, refracted from the surface of the Trucker’s dangling dogtags, danced hypnotically in front of Wes’s eyes; the panicked whoreboy his focus to be drawn from the cord to the light, steadfastly denying the obvious implications of the former until the Trucker bent forward.  The icy glint in the alpha’s cold steely blue eyes broke the trance; his hot breath on the boy’s face brought Wes back to his excruciating, terrifying reality.

 

“Are you scared, little boy?” the Trucker mocked, “You should be.  Yer gonna die now.  It’s gonna take a little while and it’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna be worth it cause yer gonna jack me off as you kick and struggle.  Your death throes are gonna milk the cum right outta my cock.  That’s why ya gotta die, homo—so I can shoot my wad.  Stupid motherfuckin’ faggot; all yer good for is catchin’ my load in yer dead asshole.”

 

The lamp cord was long.  The Trucker was able not only to wrap it around both hands to ensure his grip, he was able to loop it twice around Wes’s neck, lifting the cunt’s head up by the hair.  The slut was past begging or pleading by this point; pain and terror had paralyzed his ability for positive action of any kind.  All Wes could do was submit as his mind spun in a benumbed circle—he’d just wanted a good hard fuck, he’d found the perfect stud, what the fuck had happened?  He’d totally forgotten his attempt at theft; he was the helpless and innocent victim of…of…

 

In the course of wrapping the cord around Wes’s neck, the Trucker had shifted to one side slightly.  As Wes peered up at the alpha, now silhouetted in front of the overhead light, the battered fuckmeat’s swollen and tear-filled eyes could only perceive a looming, hulking outline of pure masculinity, the quintessential maleness of the muscular top emphasized by the adrenaline and testosterone escaping from the alpha’s sweat and overwhelming the small room with the atmosphere of mansex.

 

This was what Wes had wanted, what he’d craved and had been driven to seek night after night in seedy bars and back alley.  Now he had it—and it was torturing him and killing him.

 

The Trucker tightened the cord, grinning sadistically as it sank into the tender flesh of Wes’s throat.  He could see that the meat was sinking into mental shock; nothing like a little breath control to stop that shit.  The cruel stud wanted his fucktoy in the here and now as it died.  And, of course, the experienced killer was right.

 

The moment his air was cut off, Wes was brought back to reality, abruptly and involuntarily.  He had a cold, clear moment of lucidity and remembered the instinctive, gut-wrenching horror he’d felt when his powerful tormentor had held him aloft by the throat and choked him.

 

Oh fuck.  Oh fuck no.  Not this.  He couldn’t die like this, no, no, no no no nononono…

 

Panic descended on the helpless sack of fuckmeat in a black mist that clouded his eyes; the Trucker recognized the glazed look of terror.  It always happened somewhere around this stage of the game; despite everything it was told, the fagmeat was usually too stupid to fully comprehend its impending death until it was actually in the process of dying.

 

Which, of course, was exactly why it had to die—it needed to be brought to this level of emotional intensity to properly work the Trucker’s cock.  The muscled alpha tightened the cord further and braced himself for the first spasm of panicked struggle.

 

And even though Wes’s life expectancy was approximately five minutes, he did manage to learn some things in the last few nightmarish moments of his short, useless life.

 

He learned that panic only briefly numbed the pain, and that there was a terrible price to pay for his mindless flailings in terms of sheer agony.  He kicked wildly, his heels drumming on the Trucker’s back with as much impact as if they were pillows; as his feet flailed, one of his ped socks slipped off and feel to the floor.

 

He slapped his hands repeatedly against the Trucker’s wrists in an instinctive and utterly futile attempt to wrest the killer’s implacable, relentless hold on his throat, his snapped fingers splaying and flopping limply.  The excruciating pain of the jagged ends of the broken bones grinding into tissue and each other wasn’t alleviated, merely delayed.  When it hit, Wes went rigid, shuddering with neural overload.

 

The fingers weren’t the only thing contributing to the punk’s mental short circuit.  The complete collapse of his left lung was kinda moot at this point, but the way his broken ribs tore into the deflated organ with every twist of Wes’s lean, smooth torso was another, much more painful matter.

 

And then there was his cock—never truly unheeded even during his darkest moments, it had remained hard involuntarily throughout his sufferings merely by the grinding, remorseless pressure exerted on his prostate by the phenomenal girth of the Trucker’s massive rod.  Now, though, it was actively swelling and throbbing in tempo with his racing, terrified pulse.  And every single individual throb seemed like an electrical shock running the length of his shaft and churning in his balls…

 

The Trucker paced himself, holding still, letting the meat massage his dick as it thrashed in terror, wrapping its smooth strong legs around his waist and squeezing tight.  Once it settled down into neural shock, the cruel alpha began speaking again, knowing the meat was still conscious and able to hear him.

 

“Are ya grateful to me, faggot?  Do ya appreciate what I’m givin’ ya?  Yer gonna get the honor of bein’ my cumdump.  All ya gotta do is convulse nice and hard as I choke ya to death, an’ I’ll hose yer guts with my spunk.”

 

The Trucker found the expression of absolute despair on Wes’s swelling, blackening face incredibly erotic; jerking the cord even tighter, he spit on the trembling cunt pinned helplessly under his powerfully-muscled body.  “That’s it, motherfucker,” he hissed, “Die on my dick.”

 

Thick black blossoms were popping open in Wes’s field of vision as blood vessels ruptured in his eyes.  His entire body was awash in pain; the pressure in his mangled chest cavity was unendurable.  His hypersensitive cock was rubbing against the Trucker’s firm, flat belly, the alpha’s body fur scraping the long, cum-filled ridge on the underside of the dick like a power sander.

 

And above the nightmarish agony of death, the beaten and raped whoremeat could still feel drops of precum oozing from the head of its own dick—it felt hot, like magma…

 

The Trucker realized that the meat was very close to death.  His seed began to boil, his balls began to contract, forcing his white-hot cum on its journey up his huge, erect shaft.  “You ready for my load, cunt?” he whispered into Wes’s dark face.

 

Foamy drool trickled down the whore’s face and his bulging eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving only the blood-streaked whites visible, but there was still a tiny fragment of Wes’s personality left, desperately straight-arming death in sheer terror.  It was sinking under the relentless torrent of pain and brain damage, but it was still there—and it knew what the Trucker’s question meant.

 

The Trucker bunched his biceps and with a loud grunt, gave the cord a powerful jerk.  At the same time, the thrusting of his hips increased, plunging his enormous shaft faster and deeper into the dying boy’s guts.

 

A loud wet crack echoed in the small room as Wes’s esophagus was crushed into a mangled wad of cartilage.  Simultaneously, the Trucker cried out, “Fuck—FUCK!!” and pumped a huge load of hot sticky cum deep inside the meat.

 

The little part that was still Wes felt the sharp, knife-like pain of its collapsed windpipe and the searing, boiling wetness filling it from the inside out.  There was time for one last fleeting thought—what happened dude I just wanted to get fucked—and then there was one last pain, the greatest and most intense pain, and it came from his dick.  In his last moment of life, Wes knew he was blowing his death load and it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was cumming molten glass—

 

—and then all that was left was convulsing meat, thrashing and ejaculating mindlessly, impaled on the Trucker’s still-shooting rod.  White ropy jets of semen erupted from the dead kid’s dick, splattering across the alpha’s broad, hairy chest and smearing his dogtags.  The corpse, its prostate still being forcibly massaged by the Trucker’s pumping shaft, remained erect and spewing boycum that spattered itself, pooling in the eyes and covering their grotesque, bulging blank whiteness.

 

After a while—he didn’t know how long—the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his huge scrotum drained.  He’d pumped a full load into the meat; so much, some trickled from the dead kid’s ass when the older man pulled out.  Once he got his boots back on the ground, the sweat-slick muscled stud headed to the bathroom.  A few minutes with a wet towel was enough to wipe the boypig cum off his body and out of his fur.

 

Returning to the bedroom, the Trucker retrieved his cap, shirt and wallet.  Replacing the red trucking cap on his head, covering his dark hair, he tucked his wallet in one rear pocket and his white wifebeater in the other, where it dangled out behind.  Fishing out his pack of smokes, he decided to burn one while surveying the scene.

 

The sadistic alpha felt a sense of satisfaction; he’d done a very thorough job.  The meat was on its back, blank cum-filled eyes pointed at the ceiling.  The arms were above the head and the legs were spread, showing the glaze of semen leaking from the torn asshole.  The semi-soft cock was still extended its full length and likely to remain so; it was glued to the flat belly by a thick crust of boyspunk.

 

Halfway up, the neck was puckered and drawn in so deeply it was difficult to make out the cord that was sunk into it.  Above that, the faggot was unrecognizable, the face black, swollen and covered with drool from between the dead kid’s purple, foamy lips.

 

The corpse still twitched randomly, the toes on the bare sockless foot curling, but as the Trucker finished his cigarette, the stupid homo’s brain finally figured out it was dead and the body became still.  The hardbodied alpha grinned and tossed his butt on the floor.  Grinding it out with his boot, he headed for his truck, leaving the apartment door cracked open.

 


 

Figures, Donato thought, Sarge has gotta walk in and catch me in the middle of a yawn…

 

“You bored, Donato?” the Sarge barked.

 

“No, sergeant,” Donato replied.

 

“Awright, what’s goin’ on here?  Jesus, what a fuckin’ mess.  Looks like someone got terminated with extreme prejudice, as they say in the movies.”

 

“We got a call about a dead body, Sarge.  Me and Ayers, we responded.  Ayers is out talkin’ to the neighbors now.”

 

The Sarge ambled over to the bed and took a good look at the body.  “ME on the way?”

 

“Yeah,” Donato replied, “Med examiner’s got the meatwagon comin’.”

 

“Well tell ‘im not to waste too much time over this one.  Some faggot got fucked to death.  And by th’ looks of this place, someone really wanted this one dead.  I seen a lot of these, but this is the first one where it looks like our killer tried to put the vic through the wall.  Oh, Ayers, there ya are.  What’d ya find out about the dead meat?”

 

“Well, like you was just sayin’, Sarge, some fag who got fucked to death.  Lady next door knows him as Wes—office ain’t open yet, so I ain’t gotta last name.  Anyways, she sez he’s out at the bars almost every night, always bringin’ dudes home—she can hear everythin’ through wall.  Even sez there’s been some yellin’ an’ fightin’ at times.  Seems like the little cocksucker liked to rip off his fuckbuddies.”

 

“Hey, Sarge?” Donato interrupted, “Dunno if yer interested, but I found a meth pipe in a drawer in the kitchen.  Some baggies with residue, too—ya want I should test ‘em?

 

“What, are you nuts?” the Sarge barked.  “You wanna go spend the taxpayer’s money for that kinda shit?  When the ME gets here, tell him to haul this pile of meat outta here.  And if he can’t tell me anything more than this little fuck got the shit beat outta him by some real strong guy, he can spare me the autopsy report.  I can see for myself the faggot was raped and strangled.  Serves the thievin’ piece a’ shit right.  Just wrap this shit up and forget it; y’all have real work to do.”

Adam–Fourth Kill–Bye Bi Boy

His name was Jeremy, he was twenty-seven years old, he was bi-curious, and he wanted to fuck Adam.  He was also drunk, which was how Adam knew so much about him so fast.

 

The buff killer was back at the SoHoLo Hotel for the first time in weeks.  He liked it here; the ambience was nice and there was lots of fuckmeat.  Perhaps too much—his last kill had closed the place down for almost a full week.  The second gay snuff in two months had given the place a bad name; it had shut down, ostensibly for security upgrades, but Adam didn’t see anything different.  He wasn’t worried.

 

He never worried about getting caught; somehow, he knew it wouldn’t happen.

 

He’d hit up the bar first and had better luck this time.  No party in progress, and since it was the middle of the week, it was relatively quiet; the clientele seemed to be mostly confined to hotel guests.

 

Adam had seen several potential cumdumps in the place, but one dude at the bar caught his eye.  Like Adam, he was a redhead, but whereas Adam’s hair was a lustrous coppery color, almost metallic, this guy had an unruly mop of carroty-orange hair that seemed to suit his snub nose, emerald-green eyes and freckle-spattered face perfectly.

 

The dude looked a little disheveled, as if he’d had to dress in a hurry and had thrown on what was at hand.  He wasn’t badly built; the Domo-kun character emblazoned on his dull yellow t-shirt was stretched so tightly across his chest that it was almost pulled out of recognizable shape.  A pair of skinny jeans in dark brown denim showed that he had some decent muscles in his thighs and calves—to say nothing of the nice large bulge in his crotch with the accompanying ridge down the inside of his left thigh.  His feet were laced into what looked like a new pair of dark gray Nike Lunar Fingertrap trainers.

 

Adam had taken the dude in with a single glance; the dude took longer to let his eyes wander over Adam, but the guy’s interest was obvious.  Not that Adam was surprised; he’d dressed to get some looks.

 

Bearing in mind the atmosphere of his hunting ground, the experienced killer had gone with an upscale casual look.  He wore a light blue button-down shirt, but he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbow and left the shirt unbuttoned, exposing his white cotton t-shirt underneath.  He also wore jeans, tight and faded, but clean.   He’d slipped on his old pair of Puma Cell running shoes, the black ones with white stripes.

 

Everything he wore but the kicks looked like it was size too small on his massive, muscle-bound bod.  He’d gotten several admiring looks—from both sexes—on the way in.  And he’d damn sure captured the attention of the guy at the bar.

 

All it took was a smile and a nod and soon Adam wasn’t alone in his booth.

 

That was when the whole story came out.  Jeremy had been in the bar for a couple of hours already, throwing back cheap beer but in the last half-hour or so, he’d switched to well drinks and was feeling no pain—a situation Adam was sure he could rectify easily.  He worked in construction, for a company that had a highway maintenance contract with the city.  He’d left his phone at home when he went to work.  His chick knew the code and accessed the phone—and found an email exchange where he’d replied to an M4M ad.  Nothing had ever come of it, but she’d had no idea of that side of him and went berserk.

 

He’d already scheduled a couple of days off work.  Now he was here alone at this hotel, he was drunk, horny, and bi-curious as ever, and, he slurred lasciviously, he wanted to bone Adam.

 

“I ain’t ever been fucked by a dude,” Adam said.  “We can go to your room and see what happens, though.”

 

Here Jeremy faltered slightly; there was something else he wanted to do, but even in his drunken state, he was hesitant to admit it.  “Well, I…thing is, I, uh, I wanna…fuck, man, yer shoes are so hot…”

 

Adam took the hint.  “You wanna worship my kicks?  Yeah, man you can do that.  Kinda like yours myself.”

 

Jeremy grinned with inebriated cheer.  “Aw, fuck yeah, man, this is gonna be so hot!  C’mon, bro, les’ go—I’m up on…um, it’s seven, I think…yeah, room 726.”

 

Adam wasn’t afraid of getting caught, but he wasn’t completely reckless, either.  He didn’t want to be seen leaving the bar with the drunk fucker.  “I gotta go take a leak first.  Plus, I need to settle my tab.  You go on and I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

 

“You ain’t gonna back out on me, are ya?” Jeremy asked anxiously.

 

“Fuck no, dude,” Adam said, leering at the smaller man.  “I’m gonna show ya such a good time tonight, you ain’t ever gonna go back to pussy again.”

 

Jeremy stood up, a huge happy smile on his freckled face and an obviously throbbing bulge in his groin, and headed for the door.  Drunk as he was, he walked in a remarkably straight line.

 

Adam chuckled contemptuously and ordered a shot of Jack.  When it came, he downed it and paid the bill, then slowly sauntered out, heading for the elevators.  Just as the elevator doors were starting to close, he dived in and found a giggling teenaged couple already in the car—with the button for floor seven pushed.

 

“Nine, please,” he said, and the boy obliged, disentangling himself from the girl just long enough to hit the floor button.

 

Adam let them get out on seven and continued to nine, where he walked down the hall to the emergency stairs and used them to get back to seven.  By the time he emerged on the floor, the hall was empty.  Reaching room 726 unseen, he knocked at the door, hoping the meat hadn’t passed out.  Unlikely—it was drunk, but not that drunk.

 

Jeremy opened the door just a crack, glanced around, and then opened it wide, standing behind it.  Adam stepped inside, turning as the door closed behind him to see that the dude had stripped to nothing but his sneakers and a pair of red briefs that did nothing to hide his thick shaft of manmeat.

 

The dude didn’t have a bad body; he was broad-chested and had some muscles, but he wasn’t anywhere near as built as Adam was.  Or as hairy.  There was the faint shadow of a strawberry-blond haze on his flat belly that seemed to thicken slightly as it plunged beneath the waistband of his briefs, but other than that, his skin was soft and smooth as silk.

 

“Fuck, man,” Jeremy said breathlessly, “I been dreamin’ about doin’ some a’ this shit since before high school.  Come over here an’ sit down, I wanna work on your feet before I fuck ya.”

 

Adam played along, walking into the room.  This was one of the least expensive rooms in the hotel; it still had the stripped-down, ultra-modern vibe, but it lacked the fancy bathroom and the huge window with the great view.  It compensated for the latter by covering the large closet doors with mirrors that reflected the gleaming black furniture and everything else.

 

Some of the less congruous items reflected in the mirror were Jeremy’s work clothes, piled in a chair—jeans and white t-shirt, both filthy; a yellow reflective vest and a similarly-colored hard hat; and on the floor next to the chair, a pair of dirty, well-worn construction boots, slouching and completely unlaced.

 

On the closest nightstand, Adam noticed a package of new bootlaces—one lace still in the open package, the other out and coiled to one side.  Even from this distance, the words “heavy duty” could be seen clearly on the package, as well as the length of seventy-two inches.  The sick sadist grinned; looked like the foot-fetish pervert was planning on doing some boot maintenance.

 

Jeremy caught Adam’s first glance at the chair and looked away momentarily, embarrassed.  “Yeah, I hadn’t had time to change when Amber kicked me out.  Had to check in wearin’ that gear; lucky I was able to get some shit together in a bag.”

 

“Ok, where do ya want me?” Adam asked, determined to give the little sicko enough rope to hang himself, so to speak.  He was gonna off the dude no matter what—he just wanted to see how badly the fucker deserved it.

 

He wanted to see how badly the guy needed to suffer before he was purified into prime fuckmeat, ready to receive his cock.

 

“Over here—sit over here,” Jeremy panted, indicating a chair in the corner of the room.  Adam obligingly sat, with the nightstand on his right and the mirrored closet door on his left.  The moment he was down, the half-nude punk was on his knees at Adam’s feet.

 

Jeremy grabbed Adam’s right foot, lifting it and caressing the Puma sneaker.  Raising it higher, he held it in one hand, bending forward and rubbing his face on the shoe’s upper while running his other hand up Adam’s leg, fondling his thick thigh muscles through the denim.   “Fuck yeah,” the dude moaned, his voice hitching in sexual excitement, “I been wantin’ this for-fuckin’-ever, man…”

 

He bent his head forward again and ran his tongue over the black leather sneaker.  Adam leaned back in the chair and slipped off his dress shirt, then peeled off the white t-shirt.  Jeremy glanced up, his eyes running up the skin-tight denim wrapped around the stud’s thigh muscles.  Passing the wide leather belt, the bi dude’s gaze swept along the trail of dark fur leading up from Adam’s waistband, rippling over his perfect washboard abs and spreading out into a thick, wiry forest of chest hair on his massive pecs.

 

“Holy shit, man, I wanna fuck you so bad…” Jeremy said, his voice low and taut with sexual energy.  He saw Adam’s smile but he was too lost in his desires—and too drunk—to see the cold, cruel glint in that smile.

 

“You ain’t done workin’ my kicks yet,” Adam told him.  This time, Jeremy picked up a little—a very little—of the tone of contempt in the hardbodied killer’s voice; he paused for a moment, looking back up into the copper-haired hunk’s face.  But there was no hint of emotion in the hooded, long-lashed eyes, and Jeremy bent down and applied his tongue to Adam’s other sneaker, still flat on the floor.

 

Adam sneered down at the kneeling footpig.  This little shit thought he was gonna fuck Adam?  He had to be taught how wrong he was.  And Adam was just the dude to make sure he learned his lesson real good.

 

The muscle-bound necro freak slowly unzipped his fly.  Reaching in with both hands, it took him a couple of minutes to fully extract his dick.  Jeremy was too busy slobbering over Adam’s Pumas to notice anything until he heard a dull thump above him.

 

Looking up, he saw a seven-inch tube of manmeat, over an inch thick—and completely soft.  “You want it hard?” Adam asked, leering down at him, “You gotta earn it, bro.  Ain’t goin’ in ya till it’s hard.”

 

Jeremy blinked in confusion.  “What?  I—no, man, I ain’t gay.  I-I ain’t takin’ anything up the ass, dude, ok?  Nothin’ wrong with it, but I don’t swing that way.  You’re supposed to ride my dick, remember?”

 

Given his drunken state, he was remarkably eloquent in stating his desires. It had remarkably little impact on what happened to him over the next forty minutes.

 

Adam stood up abruptly.  Jeremy, knocked back on his ass, threw an arm behind himself for support.  “Watch it, motherfucker!” he yelled with alcohol-fueled bravery, “Don’t make me fuck you up!”

 

Adam smiled coldly down at him.  “So,” he said with a quiet, calm voice, “You really think you’re man enough to fuck me, you little faggot?”

 

Jeremy’s face went red.  “I ain’t no faggot!” he shouted angrily.  “Dint I tell ya I gotta piece a’ pussy?  I was just lookin’ for someone to take my load, and I been curious—”

 

Disturbed, the slim young man had scooted himself backwards until he reached the bed and could go no farther.  Adam had moved forward as the punk had moved back and was towering over him, looking down with a contempt-filled smirk.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he jeered, “Yer gonna act like you don’t want the D, but you ain’t fooling no one, cocksucker.  See, problem is, I ain’t no homo either.  There’s only one way for you to earn my cock, ya fuckin’ fairy, and you ain’t gonna like it.”

 

Jeremy stared up at the hulking dude, his eyes wide with sudden fear.  “You’re crazy, bro.  You’re fuckin’ psycho. Ain’t no way I’m gonna—GAACK!!”

 

Adam had pounced with the swiftness of a jaguar, clamping his left hand around Jeremy’s throat with the speed and force of a bear trap, cutting off the dude’s air.  With a single deep grunt—the same sound he made when doing squats in the gym—he single-handedly lifted the guy up off the floor and held him dangling at arm’s length in the air.

 

Jeremy’s Nikes kicked furiously but were unable to find any support.  His fingers clawed frenetically at Adam’s hand but for all the impact they had, he might as well have been scratching at a statue.   Gagging and choking, Jeremy’s panicked, bulging eyes watched in horror as Adam held up his right hand, balled into a fist.  The brutal alpha kissed his own knuckles, said, “From Hell with love, cunt,” and sucker-punched Jeremy in the face so swift and so viciously, the fucker never saw it coming, and never felt it land.

 

That isn’t to say he didn’t feel pain.  His next sensation was huge explosion of pain; his lips were split, there were…things in his mouth and he could taste blood.  He jerked violently, which made his head hurt worse, and drooled the solid objects out of his mouth, which turned out to be teeth.  Three of them.

 

“Gha…gha…” Jeremy grunted, his closed-off windpipe preventing any further protest.

 

Adam grinned cheerfully.  “This next one’s from Hell, too,” he said.  “But there ain’t no love in this one.”  There was a flash and what seemed to be a violent explosion that filled his mind with a red haze and a sound like someone crumpling stiff paper, only louder.  The force of the blow had been so intense it momentarily delayed the pain of his crushed nose—but not for long.

 

Agony slammed through Jeremy’s firm young body like a physical blow; he was starting to lose consciousness from lack of air and everything from his neck up was already in terrible pain, but this new torment amplified the process.  The red sea of pain in which he swam suddenly rose up and swallowed him down in a tsunami of suffering.  Jeremy was aware of little else…there was a brief sensation of violent motion, and the red sea became oblivion.

 

When he regained consciousness, Jeremy felt pain in every limb.  He was lying on the floor with no further idea of the force with which Adam had flung him down than that which his aching, battered body provided him.  He hurt so bad he couldn’t move—but he could breathe.  The lithe young redhead instinctively curled into a fetal position as he coughed and gagged.  At the moment, catching his breath was more important than trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

 

And he didn’t have to figure anything out, in any case.  Sensing the presence of Adam, Jeremy opened his eyes—just barely, his agonized grimace forced them into slits—to see, in the mirrored closet doors, the reflection of the powerfully-built alpha grinning psychotically behind him.  The muscled stud was holding something in his hands but Jeremy’s eyesight was too blurred to make it out.

 

“You stupid faggot,” Adam chuckled with malevolent glee, “You don’t even know how to use a hot pair of kicks right.  You damn sure don’t deserve the ones ya got on, so I’m gonna take ‘em, asswipe.  And I’m gonna break ‘em in the right way, cunt.”  He bent down and in a single violent motion grabbed the waistband of Jeremy’s red briefs and jerked forcefully.  There was a rough tugging sensation at the dude’s waist, a ripping sound, and suddenly Jeremy’s Nikes were all he had left on.

 

Tossing the torn underwear into the corner, Adam grabbed a fistful of the slim youth’s bright red hair and pulled him, moaning and blubbering, to his knees, facing the mirrored doors.  “Open yer eyes, fuckwad,” Adam hissed, “Open ‘em up and lookit yerself.”

 

The tone of command, tinged with contemptuous arrogance, was too powerful to resist; Jeremy obeyed instinctively.  Reluctantly forcing the swollen lids of his eyes open, he could see his own ruined face, streaked with blood, snot and tears, staring desperately back at him from less than three feet away.  His vision was still somewhat blurry, but he could also see now what Adam was holding in his hand.

 

It was the bootlace from the nightstand—seventy-two inches of heavy-duty braided nylon.

 

Adam, standing directly behind him, patted Jeremy on the shoulder.  “See, the right way to break in those sexy sneakers ya got is to wear ‘em while yer fuckin’ a good piece a’ meat.  And that’s just what I’m gonna do; ya feel me, brah?  I’m gonna be wearin’ ‘em while I fuck ya.”

 

The hulking, hard-bodied stud stretched the bootlace out to its full length, then began to wrap each end around his palms.  He did this multiple times, getting an unbreakable hold on the nylon cord while still leaving a good long length free between his hands.  “’Course, I ain’t no cumsuckin’ faggot pig.  I don’t stick my dick in no worthless homo shit like you, motherfucker.  Know what that means?  Means that if we’re gonna get them kicks christened right, yer gonna die.”

 

Adam lunged forward and wrapped the bootlace around Jeremy’s neck so fast the battered bi kid never saw it happen.  There was a blur, and then he couldn’t breathe.

 

This was worse than before.  It hurt worse; the thin nylon cord dug deeply and painfully into his throat, sinking below the surface of the flesh even as his fingers clawed frantically at it.  And earlier, when the psycho stud had held him up and choked him, Jeremy had been afraid he might die.

 

Now, he knew it.  He just didn’t believe it.

 

Pulling the nylon cord tight, Adam stood over him, grinning down at his kneeling, struggling victim.  “Hey, dude,” he whispered sensually, “Look in the mirror.  Watch yerself die, faggot.  Watch yerself choke to death.”

 

Jeremy’s eyes were already wide in terror; he couldn’t help but to watch the scene reflected in the mirror.  It showed him himself—part of him refused to recognize that swollen face, battered and bleeding, as his—on his knees, jerking fitfully and pawing at his throat.  Standing behind him was the half-dressed alpha, his furry muscled chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his powerful biceps bulging as he viciously tightened the cord around his victim’s throat.  The hardbodied stud stood with his legs spread, the toes of his Puma Cells digging into the carpet as he slowly choked the life out of the punk.

 

The worst thing of all, though, was the expression on Adam’s brutally handsome face; it was a look that mingled contemptuous lust and a murderous triumph.  There was no hint of mercy or pity in that look; it was the look of an experienced sex killer.

 

As Jeremy coughed and gagged thickly, he realized that this time the dude wasn’t gonna let go.  If he was gonna get out of this alive, he was gonna have to do it on his own.  A single glance in the mirror should have forewarned him of the futility of the effort—Jeremy was neither weak nor scrawny but he was no match of someone of Adam’s massive build—but reason and panic aren’t compatible and the inability to breathe had shoved Jeremy pretty firmly into the latter state.

 

He thrashed about on the nylon cord like a deep-sea fish fighting a line; Adam was forced to dig in with both feet to maintain his balance while keeping up the pressure.  In the back of his head, some part of Jeremy’s flashed up the memory of his purchase of the bootlaces and felt a vague touch of irony at his selection of the “heavy-duty” pair.  The bootlace was durable; he’d be dead long before it broke.

 

“Quit fightin’ it, motherfucker,” Adam hissed, his face twisted with rage.  “You piece of faggot shit—best thing I can do to ya is put ya down.  Does it hurt, asswipe?  I fuckin’ hope so.  You deserve to die squealin’ in agony like a stuck pig, you goddam homo!”

 

Jeremy had stopped trying to dig the cord out of his throat—it had sunk in too deeply; all he was doing was tearing at his own flesh.  His eyes, already starting to bulge grotesquely from their orbits, could see every detail of his own murder.  Among other things, he could see Adam’s arms, so he transferred his attention there, clawing at his assailant like a cornered bobcat.  Bending backwards, he managed to pull one leg up underneath him and plant it in front of himself.  Lifting up, he tried to do the same with the other.  If he succeeded, he’d go from a kneeling position to a standing position and might have a better chance for defense.

 

His actual chance of defense against an experienced sociopath like Adam was nil whether he succeeded or not—not that he did succeed in rising to his feet; Adam had noticed the movement—had anticipated something of the sort, in fact—and had thrown his weight forward, right on Jeremy’s neck.  If the lithe young fag had kept trying to arc backward to free his foot, he’d have broken his own neck.

 

“G’wan,” he whispered huskily in Jeremy’s ear as their heads were pressed together, “Keep movin’, pussyboy.  I wanna hear yer spine shatter.  It sounds like a fresh branch breaking, a kinda wet cracking snap as your spinal fluid sprays out and your vertebrae shred your spinal cord.  It’s so fuckin’ hot, that sound, it’s gettin’ me hard just thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

 

A thick grunting sound came from Jeremy’s swollen lips as he backed down into his kneeling position again.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Adam sneered.  “All you fuckin’ fags are the same.  Keep thinkin’ somethin’ gonna save yer stupid ass at the last second, too goddam dumb to take the easy way out when I offer it to ya.  Suffer, you cumsuckin’ cunt; watch yerself die in terror and agony like ya fuckin’ deserve.”

 

Jeremy gazed at himself in the mirrored closet doors a blasé expression that had more to do with fading consciousness than boredom.  The whites of his unfocused eyes were becoming peppered with tiny red hemorrhages; it was difficult for him to see as a pounding gray haze filled his vision.

 

Adam could see well enough; he knelt behind Jeremy and pulled him towards himself, the bitch’s sweaty, shuddering back pressed against his muscled chest, his wiry fur digging into the punk’s smooth, slick flesh.

 

“Shit, motherfucker,” he growled seductively, “Think yer gonna die here soon.  Your dick is hard as fuck—can ya feel it, cocksucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  Ya feelin’ that shit, asswipe?  It means yer brain is startin’ to shut down.”

 

Jeremy wasn’t able to see very well, but he could hear.  The words came through distorted and slow, but still audible over the jackhammer pounding of his frenetic pulse that echoed off the inside of his skull.  And yes, he could feel his erection.

 

It hurt.  Fuck, it hurt so bad.  He was so fuckin’ hard it felt like his dick was gonna split.  He tried to reach down, to feel himself, but he’d lost fine motor control in his arms; they raked convulsively at the air.

 

Adam knew there was still a spark of humanity left in the twitching fagmeat he was strangling.  He wanted to humiliate what little was left of the stupid faggot who though he was gonna fuck Adam.  As he bunched his deltoids and triceps and tightened the braided nylon bootlace, he spoke derisively.

 

“You see yer face, asshole?  Yer “girlfriend”—bet he’s a real cunt—wouldn’t wanna fuck ya now, huh?  All purple an’ swollen—damn, yer one ugly-ass homo!  Lookit the way yer droolin’ all over yerself, ya disgustin’ sick-ass bitch.  And once you’re down, I’m gonna slip on those Nikes and fuck your dead ass good and hard.  I’m gonna plant my seed in yer cold boymeat, and I’m gonna take your kicks when I go.  All they’re gonna find is a sack of dead meat I used for a cumrag.  You got that, cunt?”

 

It was the last thing the cunt got.  The constricting agony in his throat intensified—the bunched-up skin in his neck felt like it was shredding—then there was sudden, horrible release of the tension.  It wasn’t the release he’d been praying for, though—it was accompanied by a nightmarish crushing sensation, a cracking and shattering of cartilage that was felt more than heard.  What little was left of Jeremy realized, not that his esophagus had collapsed, but that he was a dead man.

 

And in the blink of an eye, Adam held a thrashing, jerking piece of meat in his arms, a lithe, smooth-skinned corpse that was not only convulsing violently, it was spewing its death load with the force of an opened fire hydrant.  Jeremy sprayed the closet doors with cum, his hot sperm splashing off the mirrored surfaces and splattering over the heaving, sweaty bodies of both killer and victim.

 

“Goddam right,” Adam snarled, “Got what ya deserved, you fuckin’ faggot cunt.  Now you’re prime fuckmeat.”

 

Dropping the dead sack of manflesh, Adam stood up.  He was breathing heavily; his huge chest, sweaty and matted with cum, heaved with his recent exertion.  He wasn’t done yet, though—he bent back down and picked up Jeremy’s body.  He had to clamp down on it; the boymeat was still convulsing as he lifted it in his powerful arms and tossed it face-down on the bed.

 

Approaching the shuddering corpse, Adam’s long thick cock finally began oozing precum.  Snuffing the homo had got him hard and throbbing, but the thought of cornholing the dead meat was what really got him off.  Well, that and something else.

 

Sitting on the neatly-made and undisturbed bed, Adam slipped off his Puma Cells and placed them on the nightstand next to the unused bootlace.  Then he got up, his toes curling in his ped socks, digging into the plush carpet.  He stood behind the quivering sack of fagmeat and untied the Nike Fingertraps, pulling them both off.  Jeremy had died with his ankle socks on; Adam grabbed one of the spasming, jerking feet, feeling it quiver in his hand under the white cotton sock.

 

With a deep shuddering sigh of pleasure, the buff killer grabbed the other foot and brought both feel together on his dick.  He moaned faintly as his shaft pulsed between the twitching socked feet, the steady stream of his precum soaking into the absorbent white cotton.

 

He knew he might cum if kept it up, so he dropped the sexy dead boyfeet and sat back on the bed, slipping his feed into the dead cunt’s Nikes and lacing them tightly.  Then he spread the legs of the shuddering meatsack.  “This is how you break in a good pair of kicks, ya dumbass pansy,” he whispered.

 

Climbing up on the bed, Adam mounted the corpse, aiming the swollen purple head of his rod directly at the dead dude’s fuckhole.  With a single, savage lunge, the muscled necro freak speared Jeremy with his tool, penetrating the sphincter with no other lube but his precum.  It wasn’t as if Jeremy was in any position to complain with his black, congested face buried in the comforter.

 

There was a brief resistance, then the ass muscle went slack as Adam penetrated the corpse’s colon.  “Oh yeah,” Adam sighed with pleasure as his cock sank full-length into the dude’s limp, quivering body.  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  Nothing like some hot fuckin’ meat to plow.”

 

True to his word, the powerful alpha began to plow the corpse, the smack of flesh on flesh echoing in the quiet room.  The only other sound was Adam’s heavy breathing and the deep grunts of sexual arousal that he let out with every brutal thrust of his hips, every deep plunge of his huge swollen cockhead into the dead faggot’s guts.

 

Jeremy’s body was still trying to understand it was dead; it trembled and jerked under Adam in its final death throes.  To get better traction, the well-built sociopath planted the Nike Fingertraps on the comforter and dug his toes in as his massive dick plumbed the depths of their former owner’s corpse.

 

The dead guy’s smooth back was still slick with sweat, now cold and clammy.  Adam placed his hands on the small of Jeremy’s back, but they slid off.  “Goddam motherfucker,” the necro psycho muttered under his breath, his rage building along with the pressure of sperm boiling over in his puckered nutsack.

 

Suddenly both reached a crisis point.  As he tried to keep his spunk from erupting from his pounding, pulsing shaft, Adam began beating the corpse, slamming his hammer-like fist into the dead homo’s back.  “Fuckin’ faggot!” he roared, “Ya goddam cum-slurpin’ asswipe!”  Each blow of his fist, each thrust of his rod, was bringing him closer to orgasm.

 

And then it was there.  He’d fucked the limp body hard enough to turn the head to the side; as the muscled killer transferred his attention to Jeremy’s dead, cum-covered face, breaking bones and knocking teeth out with every hate-filled punch, a sensation went down his dick like and electric wire had been inserted.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!” Adam yelled as his body hunched over, violently and uncontrollably; he shot a steady geyser of manseed into the dead dude’s ass that lasted for a good twenty seconds without interruption.

 

Then his hard, bulked-out body convulsed and he cursed and shot again, even harder.  And then again, and again.

 

Adam didn’t know how long he stayed with his cock stuck in Jeremy’s body, hosing the corpse’s guts with cum.  It seemed to last a long time, and when he finally pulled out, backing off the bed, his knees were a little weak and his scrotum felt empty.  A thick, slimy wad of white spunk leaked out of Jeremy’s reamed-out ass and trickled down his taint to soak into the comforter.

 

Glancing around, Adam spied Jeremy’s Domo-kun t-shirt over in the chair; he got it and used it to wipe off the sperm still oozing from his rod  and the drying crust from his chest fur before carelessly tossing it on the floor.  He then retrieved his own shirts, slipping the white t-shirt back over his broad sweaty chest, then putting the button-down back on.  Finally, he picked up his Puma Cells from the nightstand.

 

He walked back over to the corpse.  Jeremy was motionless now; the brutal assfuck had stilled his death throes.  The boy was still lying face down; from the door, it wouldn’t be obvious that too much was wrong with him, aside from the mottled appearance of his badly-beaten flesh.  Once they rolled him over, things would be different—but to roll him over, they’d have to peel that fancy, expensive comforter off him.  It was stuck to his chest and belly by a thick dried glaze of his own cum.

 

Tucking his Puma kicks under his arms, Adam took a final glance, to impress the satisfying memory of his latest kill in his mind, then left the room.  He headed for the stairwell, just to make sure no one saw him and wondered why he was carrying an extra pair of sneakers under his arm.  He made it to his car, and then home with no unpleasant consequences.

 

Actually, there was one unpleasant consequence, but Adam didn’t learn about it until the end of the week, when it was announced that the SoHoLo hotel was closing until further notice.  Nobody paid attention to a snuffed fag or two, but three in the same place—and that place a hip, high-end hotel—made the news in a bad way.

 

Adam watched the broadcast about the closing and it made him think.  He was gonna hafta change his hunting pattern.  While that wasn’t a bad thing—falling into a pattern was fatal for a serial killer, and besides, it was beginning to bore him—he hadn’t made arrangements for anything new yet.

 

The more he searched for a new and interesting plan, the less progress he made, and then something else came to mind.  Why not something old and interesting?  He cast his mind back to the days when he was just developing an interest in snuff, and suddenly an idea occurred to him.  He wasn’t sure he could carry it out perfectly, but it seemed with an idea.

 

The more Adam thought about it, the harder his dick got.  Oh fuck yeah, it’d be worth it just to give it a try.  Alone in his room, his handsome face twisted with malicious glee; anyone seeing his expression would have known immediately that it meant death.

Carlos and Nick 4: Tommy’s Lucky Break

The day after Carlos snuffed the punk handyman, Nick got back from LA.  He’d found a video editing software package he liked, and he was eager to try it out.  By the time Carlos dropped by the office, Nick had already installed it on the system in the back room and was working on something on the laptop in the reception area.

 

“We’re gonna shoot a new vid,” he said, looking up from the monitor as Carlos strode in the door.  “Hey, you changed your look—I like it.”

 

Carlos had been leaving his face scruffy and unshaven for some time now; overnight, he’d trimmed it down until he had a dark, well-defined goatee outlining his mouth and emphasizing his strong chin.  More noticeable, though, was the fact that he’d shaved his head clean.  He’d always kept his hair short, so his scalp was already bronzed by the bright Vegas sun.  It gave the tattooed ex-con a distinct rough trade appeal; he could easily be mistaken for a Mexican gangster thug.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, “I figured this’d draw faggots in like flies.  So we’re doin’ a new snuff?  How much is the commission?”

 

“There ain’t one,” Nick said, grinning.  “We’re doin’ this one on spec.  I just wanna see what kinda performance I can get outta this new software.  Once I put it online, we’ll make plenty of dough anyway.”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “I ain’t worried about the money; there’s lotsa horny fuckers out there who’ll pay a shitload to watch us take out a homo the hard way.  I was just wonderin’ if we had to do another scene with costumes…”

 

“What, you didn’t like that?” Nick grinned.  “That was fuckin’ great.  But no, this is gonna be just a straight snuff—ha!  ‘Straight snuff’—I like that.  I’m puttin’ an ad up now.  Here, take a look.”  He turned the monitor so Carlos could read what he’d typed.

 

“Two top men, fit, muscular, ages 28 & 32, seeking younger sub male 18-22 for video of intimate encounter.  Previous video experience not necessary.  Send photo.”  This was followed by an email address for an anonymous drop box where Nick could retrieve the replies untraceably.

 

That evening Nick dropped by the condo.  Carlos was in the kitchen when Nick walked in and dropped a manila folder on the condo.  “Got one,” he said.  “I printed off the info; take a look and tell me what ya think.”

 

Carlos opened the folder to find himself staring at the face of a young man with stunning electric-blue eyes, a beautiful boyish face and silky black hair.  He wasn’t quite model quality, but a few touch-ups here and there would elevate him to that status.  “Damn,” Carlos replied, “Pretty little faggot—bet he’s already been reamed out, though.  Face like that, though, gotta be kinda dangerous—someone might recognize him.  He’s done other shit, yeah?”

 

“Naw,” Nick grinned.  “It’s perfect.  Kid’s from some Mormon town over the state line, St. George or someplace like that where they don’t like homos.  Only been in town three months.  Here, lookit his bio—he’s only done a coupla softcore shoots, and one of them was straight.  Ain’t no one gonna miss him, but damn, can you imagine what dudes’ll pay to watch us off the pansy?”

 

“And he wants to do this shoot with us?”

 

“You saw the ad, man, he thinks it’s still gonna be kinda softcore.  But I sounded him out—he really wants to do hardcore fag shit, so I told ‘im to come by the warehouse tomorrow afternoon and we’ll see what happens.”

 

From where he was standing, Nick could see the bulge in Carlos’s groin start to swell.  “Yeah,” the inked killer chuckled, “Yeah, we can do ‘im.  How you gonna set it up?”

 

Nick paused for a moment before speaking.  “You know how to work the hand-held, right?  Cause I wanna fuck this one.  It’s been a long time, bro, I wanna feel this kid squirm and die with my cock up his ass.”

 

Carlos broke into a broad grin.  “Go for it, man—as long as I get the chance to beat the fuck outta the fairy.  That prettyboy face is just beggin’ for my fist.”

 

“Dude,” Nick said with a matching grin, “By the time we’re done with him, his own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between him and a pile of ground beef.”

 


 

It was near sunset on the following day when Carlos pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse that Nick used for some of his video shoots; he’d already converted a portioned-off area into a set of sorts, filling it with cheap bedroom furniture—the bed was fully made, covered with an incredibly ugly comforter crocheted from yellow wool; Nick had found it at a yard sale.  He was busy arranging the lights to get the best angles—it was clearly something he’d had prior experience doing, especially in this kinda setting.

 

Carlos never asked, but he was always curious about how many fags Nick had snuffed before they met.

 

“Is he here yet?” he asked as he walked in.

 

Nick was adjusting a tripod with a video camera mounted on top.  “No, but he called twenty minutes ago and said he’d gotten off late and would be over as soon as he showered.”

 

“Don’t bother me none if he don’t shower,” Carlos said.

 

“Yeah, well, he works at a cheap-ass burger joint over on Paradise while waitin’ for his ‘big break’—probably better if he washes the grease off first.”

 

Carlos noticed the dossier with the kid’s info, lying on a table near the door—Nick had brought it along.  He picked it up and idly started leafing through it.  Suddenly he stopped and snorted in laughter.  “Tommy LeBone?  Really?  That’s the name the stupid little shit wants to go by?”

 

“Yeah,” Nick said with a smirk.  “From what I can gather, Tommy is his real name, but he picked the last name because he wanted something to really ‘pop’ in the credits, as he put it.”

 

They both had a good laugh over that, knowing good and well that there weren’t gonna be any credits on the video they were shooting—and the only things about Tommy that were gonna pop were his bones.

 

As they were laughing, the electric chime went off, indicating someone entering the main entrance.  Nick left the room as Carlos returned the papers to the folder.  Knowing what was coming, he peeled the white cotton t-shirt, sticky with sweat, from his furry, muscle-bound torso.  For a moment the collar snagged on the catch of the gold chain around his thick neck, but it soon came free.  Within two minutes, Nick was back, followed by Tommy.

 

It was easy to recognize him from his photo, although it had evidently been taken some time earlier.  His glossy black hair was shorter now, and the bangs were spiked.  He was trying to grow a mustache, but all he’d achieved so far was the effect of a dead caterpillar on his upper lip.  A pair of “diamond” stud earrings glinted on his earlobes; the stones were much too large to be real.

 

The kid was slight but not slim; he was about five-foot-seven or so.  He was wearing a white t-shirt silkscreened with the image of Che Guevara in black.  Below, he sported a pair of sky-blue polyester satin shorts edged in white that hung down past his knees. Further down, his firm calves, dusted with a dark haze of hair, descended into a pair of red and white Nike Air Jordans.

 

“Tommy, this is Carlos. Carlos, Tommy,” Nick said, getting the introductions out of the way and letting Tommy look around.

 

The boy did, and liked what he saw.  He didn’t have much—or, really, any—experience with hardcore video and the setup looked professional to him.  There were two cameras on tripods, and even in his inexperience, Tommy could see that one was for wide-angled shots, while the other could be lifted off its stand and carried about.

 

The two dudes he was gonna be in the sack with were both hotter than fuck, too.  The one guy with the shaved head—he looked downright dangerous, with his bare broad hairy chest, the gold chain with thick links around his neck, his tight jeans and his black harness boots.  He looked kinda mean, too, but for some reason, Tommy found that no less enticing.

 

The other guy, Nick, had short sandy brown hair with a slight curl in it; there was a faint shadow of scruff on his firm cheeks and filling in the dimple on his strong chin.  He wore a black sleeveless t-shirt with the collar torn open about halfway down the chest, revealing a thick mass of body fur in the same sandy-brown shade as his hair.  A pair of khaki cargo shorts was secured at his waist with a thick canvas strap serving as a belt; it had no buckle but was kept taut by being looped through a pair of steel rings.  A pair of yellow leather construction boots, loose and untied, formed the perfect base for his thick, muscled legs.

 

Nick didn’t look as mean as Carlos, but he was incredibly well-built and radiated an air of hyper-masculine power.  Tommy wanted to service Nick badly, but there was something equally alluring in knowing the older man had the physique to snap him like a twig any time he felt like it, and Tommy wouldn’t be able to prevent it.

 

The boywhore was vaguely surprised by the way that this subtle air of sex and danger intensified his own lust, but he was young, horny and shallow, and not into introspection.  He was twenty-two, and although no longer an adolescent, his hormones were still stimulating his balls into seething sperm factories.

 

“So, uh, so whaddaya want me to do?” he asked.

 

“Strip, boy,” Nick commanded, grinning.  He kicked off his boots and peeled off his shirt, letting Tommy get a look as his massive chest and his broad pecs, glistening with sweat, his dark nipples jutting into the air.  The kid was practically drooling with excitement as he yanked off his t-shirt and dropped his shorts, stepping out of them easily with his kicks still on.  Under the shorts, his thick cock and loaded balls were packed into a black and red jockstrap.

 

“Keep that on,” Nick said as Tommy reached down to remove the jockstrap.  “It’ll turn our viewers on to watch ya die—uh, cum with that on…”

 

Tommy didn’t hear Nick’s slip of the tongue.  Carlos had unzipped his fly, pulling his massive, glistening dick out of his jeans.  The boy stood staring, entranced, by the huge tube of manflesh.  “Fuuuck…” he whispered—he wanted it in him so bad.

 

A sound behind him made him turn to see that Nick had shucked off his shorts.  He stood nude in front of Tommy, his hairy, bulked-out body lubed with sweat and glittering under the overhead spotlights.  The randy homo took one look and found himself literally gasping with sexual excitement and anticipation; a dark moist spot formed on the bulge of his jock and grew as the killers watched.

 

They exchanged a quick grin; it was lost on the fag.  They knew he was hooked.  He was theirs to play with and torture and fuck.  He wasn’t getting out of the room alive—and long before death claimed him, he’d be begging for it.

 

“Okay, bitch, get on the bed,” Nick demanded.  “Up on yer knees, boy; I’m gonna fuck ya like a dog.”

 

His dripping dick tenting the elastic pouch of the jockstrap, Tommy hastened to obey.  As Carlos powered up the camera and focused it, the smooth young faggot posed on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, the delirious smile on his face showing his happiness at finally getting fucked by two real men—and in a porno, no less!

 

Just out of the camera’s view, Nick was at a control panel adjusting the lighting.  He plunged the room into darkness except for a single overhead spot shining directly down onto the bed, illuminating it—and it alone—brightly.

 

“Yeah, that’s gonna look hot,” he muttered to himself before raising his voice.  “You ready to get reamed, boy?”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Tommy moaned ecstatically.  “I want ya both in me!”

 

“Good, cause that’s how we’re startin’,” Nick responded with a smirk.  “After that—well, things might get a lil’…rough.”

 

“Oh yeah,” the boy moaned, wriggling his body like a dog wagging its tail.  Nick approached the bed, his bare feet padding silently across the concrete floor to the section of carpeting laid down for the bedroom set.

 

“So rough, in fact, that Carlos here is gonna have to hold the camera.  I’m gonna want him to get a good close-up when it starts.  Don’t worry, though, he’ll still have plenty of chances to let you feel the power of his muscles—especially those big biceps of his.  You see ‘em?  See those tattoos?  Wanna know where he got ‘em?”

 

With this speech, Nick was almost at the foot of the bed.  Carlos had already started the camera, watching the image carefully.

 

It was perfectly centered on the bed and the bed was hard to lit—harshly spot-lit, with nothing else visible in the surrounding darkness.  On the bed, a slim, smooth dark-haired figure on his and knees, his dick stretching out the mesh of his jockstrap pouch, looked behind him nervously; he was startled by something.

 

He hadn’t realized Nick was as close as he was.

 

From off-screen, the top’s voice spoke in a bass rumble, “He got that ink in prison, boy.  He killed a man.  More than one, in fact.  That do anything for ya?”

 

Nick appeared from the darkness, the dramatic lighting cutting his powerful form into bright glints reflecting from sweat-slick muscles and deep dark shadows, some lined with body fur.  Gold highlights sparkled in his sandy hair.

 

Tommy’s eyes grew wide, but his dick throbbed so intensely it was visible on camera.  He started to rise up on his knees, but Nick was already climbing onto the bed.  “That get ya off, boy?  Ya like ‘em dangerous?”

 

Tommy gulped ominous and spoke with a nervous quaver in his voice.  “That’s, uh, yeah, that’s hot man…and y’all can get rough if ya want, but, uh, just don’t do anything to really hurt me, y’know?”

 

By now Nick was pressed up behind him, his brawny, furry chest against the young homo’s smooth back.  Placing one hand on Tommy’s shoulder and forcing the kid back down to the bed with minimal effort, the strong alpha used his other hand to guide the oozing, purple head of his engorged shaft between the punk’s asscheek directly to his pink, pucker fuckhole.  With malicious glee, he bent down and whispered into Tommy’s ear.  “’Fraid I can’t make that promise, boy.  You’re gonna suffer.  You’re gonna get hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

 

The lithe young pansy blinked his gorgeous blue eyes in confusion.  “What?” he asked incredulously, “What was tha—AAAIIIIEEE!!!”

 

Nick had answered the question by jamming his rod up Tommy’s ass raw, with no lube.  The camera picked up the huge grin on his face. The way the slut’s sphincter had resisted his tool, and then finally gave way, letting him slide all the way in, grinding his wiry pubes against the boy’s round, firm asscheeks, scraping the smooth skin like steel wool—it felt fantastic.  “Fuck yeah,” Nick said, looking directly into the camera (and speaking loudly to be heard over the fag’s wailing), “It’s been too goddam long since I made a faggot into fuckmeat.  Bitch is squallin’ too much, though—Carlos, get over here and shove yer dick down its throat, make it shut the fuck up.”

 

The wide-angle camera was aimed perfectly at the spot-lit tableau on the bed, the boy hunched over on his face, sobbing loudly, the muscular alpha mounting him from behind, thrusting his cock deep in the kid’s ass, then pulling back—but never withdrawing completely—before ramming his rod back in as far as he could.

 

Suddenly, Carlos emerged from the darkness on the left side of the frame, walking towards the bed with his back to the camera.  The warehouse’s metal roof had been baking in the sun all day and the old AC system hadn’t been able to keep pace—beads of sweat were visible, running down the ex-con’s back.   It was impossible to ignore the way his tight jeans cradled his ass or the strong masculine tread of his harness boots on the concrete floor.  As he got to the head of the bed, he turned his profile to the lens so that his enormous, erect dick was obvious.  Reaching down and grabbing a handful of Tommy’s hair, he yanked the kid’s head up off the bed.

 

The youth’s face was streaked with tears and twisted into a grimace of pain.  “P-please,” he begged, stuttering as he tried to make himself understood without crying out in agony, “Pl-please sto-stop…”  He drew another shuddering breath before trying again.  “Th-this…not-not what I wa-wanted…it h-hurts, please, it-it hurts so b-bad…”

 

Carlos reached up under Tommy’s chin, placing his thumb on one side of the punk’s face at the joint where the jaw connected to the skull and his fingers in the same place on the other side.  A brutal clenching of his powerful hand forced the slut’s jaw to pop open involuntarily.

 

“Shaddup, ya fuckin’ perverted faggot,” Carlos jeered and drove his massive dick down the kid’s throat.  Using one hand to keep the meat’s mouth pried open, the killer stud clapped his other on the back of Tommy’s head.  Carlos wasn’t throatfucking Tommy, he was jacking off with his skull.

 

“Whaddaya think?” Nick asked, smirking at the camera.

 

“Whadda I think?” Carlos replied.  “I think this fuckin’ piece a’ faggot shit needs to learn how we handle dumbass homos around here.”

 

“Fuckin’-A, dude,” Nick laughed.  “Only thing better’n a dead fag is one that took a nice long time to get that way.  This piece of meat might live another forty minutes or so—plenty of time for it to die like pathetic garbage.”

 

“I wanna hurt it,” Carlos growled, his rage and suppressed lust vibrating deeply in his voice, “I wanna hurt it so fuckin’ bad, man…”

 

“Aw hell, bro, there’s plenty of meat to go around,” Nick responded.  “By the time we’re done with it, all that’ll be left is a bleeding sack of human meat.  Hey, back off a bit, dude—don’t wanna choke it out this quick.”

 

Tommy had heard the beginning of the conversation with horror, but his attention was soon drawn to the fact that with Carlos’s huge rod plugging his esophagus, he was utterly unable to breathe.  He tried to jerk his head away from Carlos’s hands, but the sadistic killer was so powerful, he didn’t even notice the slutboy’s attempts to break free.  The last thing Tommy consciously heard was the remark about living another forty minutes—death from asphyxiation seemed so imminent that he slipped into panic mode.  It was his frantic thrashing that had called Nick’s attention to his plight.

 

Carlos withdrew his shaft from the cunt’s windpipe, leaving his pulsing, oozing head in the fucker’s mouth.  Tommy coughed and slobbered all over it, weeping desperately as he tried to catch his breath.

 

“Oh god,” the kid gasped, “No…don’t…”

 

Carlos snatched a handful of Tommy’s hair and yanked his head up, staring coldly into the boy’s snot- and drool-smeared face.  “I told ya to shaddup,” he said calmly, then slammed his fist into the youth’s face like a piledriver, hard enough to knock the slut’s head out of his grasp.  “UH!” Tommy grunted as the blow drove his head to one side; as he brought it back up, he spit out a canine tooth in a dazed fashion.

 

“Hell yeah, show the fuckwad who’s boss,” Nick chuckled.  “Hey, dude, go get the camera.  I wanna get a close-up of this.”

 

Carlos turned and approached the camera, his massive hog jutting out in front of him from his unzipped fly.  Nick pulled his cock out of Tommy’s ass, leaving just the swollen head in the cunt’s rectum.  The terrified homo felt the slight abatement in his violent rape, and in a semi-instinctive move, made a break for it.

 

Scrambling like a scaled cat, Tommy dug his Air Jordans into the bedspread and lunged forward, pulling himself off Nick’s tool and off the bed at the same time.  Unfortunately for the panicked queerboy, he hit the ground headfirst with his arms out in front of him; he managed to regain his feet and bolt for the door, but he managed to take no more than two steps before Carlos brutally impeded his progress by decking him in the jaw.

 

Nick had gotten off the bed and was standing beside it, his buff, toned body glistening with sweat under the spotlight; with his enormous raging erection, he was a perfect image of raw masculinity.  He was still aware of the camera, but he wasn’t sure if Carlos remembered it—he didn’t want the ex-con to waste the faggot then and there out of rage.

 

“Send ‘im over here, bro,” he called to the shirtless, booted fagkiller, winking at the camera as he did.  Carlos, his arm pulled back, sweaty, tattooed bicep bulging as he prepared to smash Tommy’s face in—literally—held back the blow.  “Huh?” he asked, looking up at Nick.

 

The hardbodied stud nodded briefly at the camera and Carlos caught on, a wicked grin spreading slowly across his goateed face.  “Sure, man,” he drawled, “Here ya go.”  He gave the slim pansy a hard shove, sending him flying into Nick’s arms.  The latter grabbed the punk with his left hand, drawing his right arm up to his left shoulder and giving the unlucky youth a vicious backhand that split his lips.

 

Grunting in abrupt pain, Tommy wheeled and collapsed halfway onto the bed, but before he could slide limply to the floor, Nick snatched him up again.  “Back atcha, bro!” he called, aiming the kid at Carlos.  He planted his foot on Tommy’s ass and with a swift kick sent him stumbling back to Carlos, who caught the little fuck in the face with his elbow, dropping him to the ground with a black eye.

 

The hairy, well-built convict stooped and grabbed the inert form by the wrist, dragging it forcibly to an upright position.  Tommy, too stunned to defend himself, or even whimper, found himself flung back at Nick, who dropped his arms and let the flying slut slam into his furry chest face-first.

 

The slender fairy bounced off his rapist’s firm, massive pecs like he’d hit a brick wall, falling back to the floor—luckily for him, on the carpeted area—where he lay on his back, writhing in pain and moaning feebly.  Unable to open his bruised eyes to more than just slits, he tried to focus them on the hulking muscled god towering over him.  He could see the thick, firm legs and the frighteningly huge penis that was dripping hot clear drops of precum, but beyond that, Tommy’s vision went blurry.

 

He could hear footsteps, but there was something wrong with his hearing, the sounds seemed to be fading in and out.  There was raucous laughter that at times seemed very far away, but the well-pounded slutboy was very aware of a second pair of legs near him, encased in tight denim and terminating in black leather boots.  Like the other pair of legs, Tommy was unable to see any higher than a fat, dripping cock—although with this one, there was a very faint glint of gold somewhere high up in the distance…

 

In the camera frame, Tommy was laying on the floor, shuddering in agony.  Nick, knowing a good pose when it became possible, drew Carlos to his side and put his right arm around Carlos’s shoulders.  Carlos, already able to figure out what was coming, did likewise with his left arm around Nick’s shoulders.  He placed one boot on Tommy’s flat, heaving belly and with his index finger, little finger and thumb extended, flashed his right hand at the lens, sticking his tongue out and wagging it.  Nick grinned delightedly and placed his bare foot on the mesh pouch of Tommy’s jockstrap, pressing down and making the punk mewl and squirm.

 

“Dude,” he said, “My balls are startin’ to ache somethin’ fierce.  I gotta drain ‘em real soon here, bro—think it’s about time to make us some meat.  Do me a favor and get this subhuman cumdumpster up on the bed, wouldja?

 

Leering, Carlos bent down and grabbed Tommy by the throat, then lifted him single-handedly into the air in a show of brute strength.  Once again, the little slut found himself unable to breathe.  Carlos turned slightly to one side so the camera could get a clear view of the kid.

 

Tommy was flailing, his Nikes thrashing in midair.  The look of bewildered horror on the young homo’s face spoke volumes; it was obvious that the whoreboy couldn’t understand how a hot twofer fuck had become a nightmare of agonizing torture.  Gasping helplessly for air, Tommy’s arms clawed desperately at anything within reach.  One of his hands clutched Carlos’s right wrist in a panic-fueled grip, the other pawed at the buff ex-con, snatching at the thick links of his gold chain before sliding down the sweat-slick expanse of his chest to curl in his chest hair.

 

Then Tommy made a serious mistake—he yanked, tearing free some of the sadist’s body fur.

 

“You goddam motherfucker!” Carlos roared and threw Tommy bodily into the wall, ten feet away.  The kid hit the paneled cinderblock with a wet, meaty thump before bouncing back into the room—and into Carlos’s arms.  Grabbing his throat again, the enraged killer, his intense anger making his face glow, lifted the dazed, struggling faggot into the air and slammed him down hard on the bed.  Wild-eyed, Carlos quickly glanced around and caught sight of a boom—an extendable metal rod for holding a microphone—out of the corner of his eye.  He darted for it, snatching it up and brandishing it; Nick had just enough time to catch him and restrain him before he beat the queerboy to death.

 

“Naw, man,” Nick hissed.  “Chill.  That’s too fast.  The asswipe needs to suffer more, yeah?”

 

Carlos blinked and took a deep breath.  “Yeah, man you’re right.  But fuck, this one needs to learn the real meanin’ of pain, dude.  It’s gotta beg to be put down in mercy before we’re done.”

 

Nick flashed him—and the camera—a shark-like grin.  “Well fuck yeah, bro, that’s the whole fuckin’ point.  By the time we’re done with it, its own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between it and a pile of ground chuck.  C’mon.”

 

They walked back to the bed.  As they approached, Tommy managed to pry his eyes open.  He was still gagging for air, his body shuddering in pain.  He looked up, vainly hoping for some trace of pity in the faces of his assailants.  Instead, two hairy, muscular killers loomed terrifyingly over him.  The overhead spotlight was blinding; their disgust- and contempt-filled faces were lost in the blur of light—all he could see were thick, bulging muscles, dark patches of wiry body fur and two enormous cocks, each wreathed with pulsing veins and oozing out heavy, viscous drops of transparent precum.  What little air he could draw into his lungs was tainted with mansweat, heavily laden with pheromones and the acrid tang of adrenaline-fueled testosterone.

 

It began to dawn on the helpless little fag that he was in the power of a pair of incredibly strong men.  Real men, who thought he was a worthless piece of shit.  They weren’t going to make love to him; they were gonna use his body however they wanted to in order to empty their cum-filled balls, and it didn’t matter what he himself thought about it.

 

And they were gonna kill him—but no, that couldn’t be happening.  He was only twenty-two; he couldn’t die yet.  They were just trying to scare him.  They were gonna beat him and rape him, but despite everything he’d heard already, he simply refused to believe that he was looking death in the face.

 

Then death bent down and spit on him.  “Hold the meat down while I stick my dick in it,” the big sandy-haired brute said.  “If it squeals, pound the fuck outta it.”

 

The buff, tattooed skinhead with the face like Satan grabbed a handful of Tommy’s hair again and drew back his right fist.  “G’wan and cry, cunt,” he grinned, “Gimme a reason to beat yer faggot face into hamburger.”

 

Within ten seconds, Tommy knew he was getting beaten into hamburger.  It couldn’t be possible, but it felt like the big man’s cock had doubled in size since he put it in last time.  This nightmarish, glassy agony that was slashing at the tender, nerve-rich lining of his rectum, it was like nothing he’d felt yet—he’d only been fucked a couple of times before, but it had felt so good.  This, this was horrific, unbearable, he couldn’t…he tried, but there was no way…

 

Tommy screamed and Carlos, with a single pop to the face, broke his nose.  The punk wailed in agony, his shrill screams underscored by the low rumble of his killers’ cruel laughter.  “This is what happens to stupid little faggots like you,” Carlos jeered.  “You wanted to get fucked, you cumsuckin’ cunt?  Guess what—you are so fucked right now, dude.”

 

“Yeah,” Nick grunted, his powerful, sweaty body heaving as he pumped Tommy’s strained, torn asshole.  “You were just beggin’ for this, you dumbass motherfucker.  The thought of gettin’ double-teamed by two hot studs got yer little fag cock all hard an’ oozin’, huh?  Is it everthin’ ya dreamed it’d be?  Yeah?  Answer me, you fuckin’ piece of faggot garbage!”

 

Tommy’s eyes were blurred by tears and pain; he couldn’t focus clearly on Nick’s face, just inches away from his own, but he could make out the insane mix of hate and lust in his voice, his and the other one…he couldn’t make out the other one…

 

Carlos had gone to get the handheld camera.  He knew it was time for a close-up, even without prompting from Nick—who was enjoying the brutal fuck with such malevolent glee that he wasn’t giving his attention to camera angles at the moment.  The muscular, inked convict made sure he got a good shot of the meat writhing and struggling helplessly under the weight of Nick’s buff, toned body.  He let the frame linger on Tommy’s smooth, firm, slender legs wrapped tightly around Nick’s waist, the whore’s red and black Jordans kicking uselessly in the air.

 

Nick was pinning the kid to the bed, his hands grasping the boy’s upper arms.  With his hulking body pressing the slut down, Tommy was not only trapped, he was almost completely immobilized, able only to twist his smooth body, from side to side, his firm chest and flat belly scraping against those of Nick.  Despite being lubed by a thin film of panicked sweat, the whoreboy’s soft, silky skin was scratched and abraded by Nick’s coarse, wiry chest hair.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fuckin’ bad—but it wasn’t unbearable anymore.  His sphincter had already been torn, his rectum was starting to relax and accept the enormous tube of flesh buried deep inside it, and although his face was swollen and bruised and he couldn’t breathe out of his crushed, flattened nose, the skinhead wasn’t beating him anymore.  Maybe—just maybe—they’d be satisfied with a violent rape and let him go after…

 

Nick glanced up as Carlos approached with the camera.  “Hell yeah, bro, good thinkin’.  Get a good shot of his face as I wring his fuckin’ neck.”  Turning to look down at Tommy, he spit a wad of phlegm into the tear-stained, horror-filled face.  “Hear that?  Time to fulfill yer purpose.  Time for me to use ya for the only thing yer good for—a meatsack to hold my cum.  I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out on camera and dump yer sperm-filled corpse in a trash bin so you can be hauled off to rot like the rest of the stinkin’, maggot-infested garbage.  Ya like that, meat?  That get ya off?  No?  Then why’s yer little homo dick all hard and throbbin’, huh, fuckwad?  Looky here, guys, the faggot’s gotten its dick outta its jock without even usin’ its hands—fuckin’ perv!” Nick said, rolling to one side so Carlos could focus the lens on Tommy’s thick, pulsing cock—obviously oozing precum; the guilty evidence was matted in Nick’s body fur. The jockstrap’s pouch had clearly been pulled to the side in the struggle. “This one wants it.  It’s gonna squeal and cry like a little pussy faggot, but it knows its place and it’s gettin’ off at the thought of bein’ put down with extreme prejudice by a couple of hardbodies.”

 

Tommy shook his head; it wasn’t a conscious reaction—his mind was blank with panic.  They weren’t gonna let him go.  He wasn’t gonna get out of here alive.  His dreams, his hopes, his plans were all gone; even he didn’t remember them in his cold, soul-searing terror.  His entire world, his entire life, was focused with pinpoint clarity on the next few minutes.  He was a vain, shallow fairy who’d wanted little more than dick and cash in the immediate future, but even he was able to figure out that what he’d already endured was going to seem like a lover’s caresses compared to the suffering about to come.

 

For the first time that evening, Tommy was right.

 

He started shuddering, a scream building behind his lips.  “Aw, man, ya better start soon,” Carlos said.  “If it starts bleatin’ again, I’m gonna break its jaw.”

 

Nick guffawed.  “Dude, you can break its jaw anytime ya want.  Beat it to a fuckin’ pulp as it dies.  Stupid fuck needs to take a long painful ride to Hell.  Long as it lives long enough for me to empty my balls in it, I don’t care how bad ya fuck it up.  But make sure the camera stays on the face.  That’s what the viewers want; they’ll jack off over and over watchin’ it die.”

 

As Carlos shoved the camera into the cunt’s face, chuckling in a cold, merciless tone, Nick let go of Tommy’s arms—and grabbed his neck.  He smiled gently down at Tommy.

 

For one single lucid moment, the hate was gone from Nick’s face and Tommy could see the beautiful face of the sexy, dominant lover he’d always dreamed of.  Then Nick started squeezing.

 

It was like a bear trap had closed on his throat.  He hadn’t been prepared; he hadn’t had time to inhale, to fill his lungs with air, and he never would again.  Nick’s big, strong hands had instantly compacted the unfortunate youth’s esophagus, the cartilage painfully deforming out of shape.  The mindless panic came back; it was a kind of white fog that clouded Tommy’s vision and dulled his senses; he never knew how violently he thrashed about, struggling vainly against death.

 

His frantic, clawing hands first went to those of Nick’s, but finding the latter clamped around his neck with the relentless strength of iron bands, Tommy reached out, clutching desperately at whatever was within reach.  One hand beat against Nick’s huge hairy pecs with as much effect as if he was beating against an oak tree; the other slapping at Carlos’s chest and grabbing at his gold chain.

 

“No ya don’t, motherfucker,” Carlos growled.  Transferring the camera to his left hand, he drove a roundhouse punch straight from his shoulder into the side of Tommy’s face, both feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of bone as the unlucky fuck’s cheekbone splintered under the force of the impact.  “Quit tryin’ ta fight it, fuckhead, yer only makin’ it worse.”

 

If Tommy had been capable of rational thought, he might have wondered how it could have been worse.  Even though he was still being impaled by an enormous rod of manflesh that tore at his guts and ground roughly at his prostate with every agonizing thrust, it seemed to be the least painful part of his suffering—his power-bottom soul was starting to accept the dick and revel in the rough, painful rape.  Everything else, not so much.

 

There was a huge ball of fire in his chest, a kind of burning vacuum that ached vainly for oxygen.  The slim, smooth homo writhed and twisted involuntarily, instinctively seeking some way to allow air into his burning lungs.  Everything from his neck up was a solid mass of excruciating pain, from his slowly-collapsing throat to his pulped and pounded face to his throbbing brain, swelling with oxygen deprivation.

 

The wide-angle camera had a perfect view; two sweaty males, locked together in violent, thrusting intimacy, the older, more powerful, more dominant man obviously enforcing his sadistic sexual will on the thrashing, shuddering youth.  It also caught Carlos’s hulking, half-dressed form as he leaned in with the other camera.

 

The handheld’s frame was filled with Tommy’s face.  It lingered lovingly on the physical effects of the strangulation on the terrified young homo.  The kid’s skin was already so battered and bruised that it was hard to tell when his face began to darken, but the swelling soon turned his split lips and broken nose into a grotesque parody of himself.  His thin black mustache, already moist with blood that had trickled from his left nostril, all but disappeared as his face distorted from asphyxia.

 

As the boywhore whipped his head from side to side in panicked denial, the stones in his stud earrings caught the light and created a twinkling effect on his ears that remained a constant as everything above his neck began to blacken.

 

“Yeah, brah, now ya got ‘im,” Carlos encouraged Nick.  “Lookit the little fuckwad.  It’s learnin’ how real men treat worthless pansy cocksuckers.”

 

“You ready to die, boy?” Nick hissed.  “It hurt bad enough yet?  Ya wantin’ it all to go away?”  He paused as Tommy’s head came to a stop, the dying slut looking up at him with an almost insane gleam of hope in his eyes.

 

Nick chuckled cruelly. “Tough shit.  I ain’t ready to cum yet, so you’re gonna hafta keep sufferin’ till I say yer hurt bad enough.  Hey, dude, he ain’t fucked up enough yet.”  This last was to Carlos, as Nick drew his legs up under himself, repositioning so he could ram his huge erect cock even faster and deeper into the punk’s ass.

 

As Carlos laughed and repeatedly slammed his fist into the boy’s face, Tommy learned that things could indeed be worse.  The wide-angled camera captured several minutes of footage of two muscular men beating and raping a slim, helpless youth, whose body kicked and jerked with every brutal thrust and blow.

 

After a while, things began to fade in Tommy’s mind; a gray fog descended, filled with a loud, fast banging.  Some part of him knew that the banging noise was his pulse, but as his brain began to die, that rational part grew dimmer.  Perversely, as the rational grew dimmer, the sensory grew sharper; as brain death progressed, Tommy’s nerve endings became more sensitive.

 

The pain of impending death started to blur with the overstimulation of his brain’s pleasure center.  His cock, forced erect by the pressure on his prostate, was pressed against Nick’s belly; the killer’s wiry body hair scraped against it rapidly with each pump of his pelvis.  To Tommy’s inflamed nerves, it felt like someone was taking a belt sander to the tender underside of his prick.

 

The pain was phenomenal.  It felt like the flesh of his dick was being shredded.  It felt like…it felt like he wanted to cum.

 

Nick noticed the change.  “Meat’s startin’ to go,” he grinned up at Carlos—and right at the handheld camera.  “Lookit the little faggot—fuckin’ perv still wants dick even as it’s gettin’ whacked.”

 

“Well fuck, man, that’s all they ever want,” Carlos sneered.  “Stupid cunts are so cum-hungry they’ll walk right into a death trap if they think they can get some manseed.”  He spit in Tommy’s face, then spoke directly to him.  “What, didja think gettin’ our loads would turn ya into a real man, ya fuckin’ pile of fagmeat?”

 

Even if there was enough left of Tommy to formulate a reply, he wouldn’t have been able to say it.  His mouth was plugged with his tongue, so thick and swollen that it forced his jaws apart and protruded, a mound of purple-black muscle, from between his cracked blue lips.  Thick streamers of drool bubbled from the boy’s mouth, oozing down his cheeks in a thick white froth that gave the appearance that the faggot had just given a wet, sloppy blowjob.

 

The light was fading from Tommy’s eyes; they were fixed and bulging, the whites turning bloodshot as millions of tiny blood vessels ruptured within.  His hands had stopped flailing randomly; the wide-angle camera clearly captured how one was clenched tightly around Nick’s sweaty, bulging bicep while the other was spread flat on Carlo’s belly as if fondling the ex-con’s ripped abs.  His legs were still kicking, but not as violently; they drew up at the knee, then straightened again, the heels of his Nikes carving furrows in the ugly crocheted comforter.

 

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Nick whispered spitefully, “Die.  Die with my dick in yer guts, you fuckin’ sack of shit.  Yer gonna rot with yer innards fulla my cum, ya cumsuckin’ pig.  Yer gonna end up—fuck!  Goddam! FUCK!”

 

Nick hunched and shuddered as he felt his seed boiling up from his overloaded balls, then he went rigid in explosive orgasm.  As his powerful hands clenched involuntarily, he crushed Tommy’s throat, the cartilage cracking and snapping like dry kindling as the esophagus collapsed into a mangled mass of useless bloody tissue.

 

Rational Tommy was dead but sensory Tommy was still dangling in a nightmarish world of tactile torture that was unable to distinguish pleasure and pain.  The horrific agony of his crushed windpipe and larynx and his snapped hyoid bone trigged an intense release in his swollen, tortured scrotum.  Tommy’s first death load squirted up between him and Nick, smearing as their chests rubbed together in his agonized throes.

 

“Aw hell yeah!” Carlos cried, pulling the zoom out to capture Nick’s look of rage as he shot his load and Tommy’s blank, shuddering face as he spent his last few moments on earth ejaculating uncontrollably.  Without warning, the convulsing punk twisted violently to the side; as he did, another geyser of sperm erupted from his spasming cock.  This one jetted into the air, splattering not just over Carlos’s sweaty, hairy chest, but over his face and the camera lens as well, smearing both with milky cum.

 

With a loud grunt, Carlos returned the favor, a thick, ropy strand of semen spewing in an uninterrupted flow from his erect shaft.  The muscled convict hadn’t so much as touched his dick; he’d shot his wad hands-free the moment Tommy’s spunk had splashed on his chest.  His own jizz spattered on the boy’s black, swollen face, blending in with the drool.

 

“Fuck!” Nick cried again, releasing Tommy’s neck.

 

In a blinding rage, Carlos tossed the handheld down and leaned forward.  Grabbing the back of Tommy’s head in one hand and his chin in another, the muscle-bound killer gave the head a swift, brutal twist, rotating it up and back a hundred and eighty degrees.  Tommy’s neck snapped, the vertebrae shattering like shrapnel, tearing the spinal cord to shreds.  The corpse went rigid as the massive trauma to the nervous system forced one last spurt of cum from the dead kid’s dick; this flew out with just enough force to clear the bed and spatter on the toes of Carlos’s black harness boots.

 

“Fuckin’ faggot, fuckin’ cummin’ on me,” the ex-con whispered in barely contained rage.

 

For a moment, Nick paused, looking down no longer at Tommy’s black, strangulated face, but at the back of his head.  Then he slowly withdrew his cock from the corpse.  Even in death, the faggot somehow maintained suction in his fuckhole; Nick’s rod came out with an audible sucking sound.  Getting off the bed, he stood beside Carlos, looking down at the dead boy.  In a shot from the wide-angle camera that Nick edited into the footage, they both remained standing for a minute, admiring their work.  The slim young homo’s cum-drenched corpse was still twitching, his black-and-red Air Jordans scuffling nervelessly on the comforter.  Both studs were still heaving with exertion as the overheat spot glinted on their sweat-soaked backs; thick pearly beads of jizz still dripped from their cocks—and the meat’s as well.

 

“Goddam, I needed that,” Nick muttered.

 

“So did he, stupid little faggot,” Carlos sneered.  He leaned forward as if he was going to attack the corpse again.

 

“Hey, man,” Nick said, “I wanna get rid of the meat here soon.  Go splash some water on yourself and cool off; I’m gonna need a hand gettin’ rid of it and its car.”

 

Carlos paused.  “Yeah, dude, you’re right.  Hang on.”  He headed to the bathroom.  After a few minutes, he returned, his body glistening with moisture.  In the meantime, Nick had redressed, pulling on his shorts and slipping back into his construction boots.  He’d slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on but the deep tear at the neck revealed that his chest hair was still crusty and matted with the dead boy’s cum.

 

“Grab the clothes and see if you can find any keys,” Nick said.  “I’m gonna take the trash out.”  He grabbed the corpse by one quivering ankle, just above the Nike sneaker, and dragged the body off the bed.  Tommy’s head had remained twisted around backwards; his face his the floor with a splat.  Heading out the door, Nick dragged the body along the floor behind him, not minding the faint trail of blood from the kid’s brutalized face; there’d be time to clean it up later.  He was excited; he wanted to clear out the meat and get to working on the video.

 

As Nick dumped the corpse into the bed of his pickup, Carlos gathered Tommy’s t-shirt and shorts.  From the latter, he retrieved both keys and a wallet with forty bucks inside.  Carlos pocketed the cash; the young faggot certainly didn’t need it anymore.  Following Nick out, he headed towards a ten-year-old Ford Focus with a taped-up taillight.  Sure enough, the key he’d found fit—it wasn’t hard to figure out; the only other vehicles in the lot were Nick’s truck and his own Mercedes.

 

Tossing the clothes in the back, he put the car in gear and followed Nick’s green truck out to the highway, where they headed south towards downtown.  Traffic was bad, as it always was at this time of day, and the AC in the cunt’s car was barely functional.  Carlos soon found himself sweating again.  To keep himself calm, the psycho killer imagined the homo piece of shit already starting to rot under the blue tarp Nick had wrapped around it.

 

After several road-rage-inducing merges, Nick finally took the Las Vegas Boulevard exit, heading south into downtown.  Turning west on Bridger Avenue, he made a sudden right into an alley between Third and Fourth Streets, pulling up next to a large industrial dumpster.  Carlos parked behind him and got out.

 

It took less than thirty seconds to hoist the corpse over the edge of the dumpster and roll it out of the tarp.  Within three minutes, they were heading south on Las Vegas Boulevard again and within twenty, pulling into the parking lot of a casino located well to the south of the airport.  The left the Focus at the far end of the lot, Carlos climbing into Nick’s truck for the ride back to the warehouse.

 


 

Some twenty-four hours later, an unmarked car pulled up in an alley between Third and Fourth.  It wasn’t able to get very far down the alley thanks to the two patrol cars and the ambulance already in place, surrounding a dumpster.  A fat middle-aged man with a shaggy moustache opened the driver’s door while a taller, thinner man of about the same age emerged from the passenger side.

 

“Hey, Patterson, what’s up?” the fat one asked the first uniformed cop he came across.

 

“Hey, Nuñez—whatcha doin’ here?  Didn’t think this was yer beat.” Patterson replied.

 

“Me an’ Schweitz was just comin’ back from lunch when we heard the call, figured we’d check it out,” Nuñez said.  “Whatcha got?”

 

“Just another stiff,” Patterson yawned.  “You can check it out if ya wanna.”

 

Nuñez headed for the corpse, already out of the dumpster and lying bagged on a gurney.  Schweitz headed after him, but paused when he saw the fat detective open the body bag, recoil violently, and zip it back up.  He waited as Nuñez returned quickly to the car.

 

“So?” he asked laconically.

 

“Not worth it.  Another faggot.  Damn, you could smell the cum three feet away once I got that fuckin’ bag open.  Goddam corpse was covered in the shit.”

 

Schweitz snorted with disgust.  “Who the fuck bothered to call it in?” he asked.

 

“I dunno,” Nuñez replied, “But I wish they’d kept their traps shut.  We got real people out here gettin’ robbed and killed, and some asshole calls in a dead fag.  Like I give a shit who snuffed some fuckin’ homo—they guy should get an award, if ya ask me.”

 

“Yeah,” Schweitz agreed, garrulous as ever.

 

“C’mon, let’s get back.  Central can handle this; they’re good at ‘misplacing’ this kinda file.  And anyway, I gotta get caught up on some paperwork.  Goddam bureaucrats, always comin’ up with a new way to keep a man from doin’ his job, y’know?”

 

Still bitching, the fat cop backed out of the alley and drove off, wiping the image of the raped and murdered youth from his mind as if the boy had never existed.

 

 


 

Forty-eight hours after that, Carlos got a text from Nick: “Told u that software was the bomb got a great commission meet me @ office ASAP u won’t believe this shit”

Meat Chronicles 18–Boy Toy Destroyed

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“How old are ya, dude?” I ask.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

For good.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Hey boy,” I whisper, “Look up.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It takes me a minute to realize that I’d severed the kid’s vas deferens when I jammed my blade into his taint; the seminal vesicles were behind the cut, and they produce the fluid in semen.

 

The kid wasn’t just cumming outta his dick, he was cumming outta the hole I’d sliced in him.

 

The meat is gone.  His eyes have rolled back into his head and his body jerks as he strains to breathe, air wheezing sickeningly through the gash in his windpipe.  Pearly beads of cum are oozing from his hard cock as I let him go, the rank sweaty boymeat slumping lifelessly to the floor.  One of his legs twitches randomly, his hightop sneaker scuffling momentarily on the Astroturf, then he’s still.

 

T-Money is cashed out.

 

I pull out and roll over on my back.  Fuck, that was so fuckin’ good.  I just need a little nap…

 


 

It’s still warm in the van when I wake up, and the sun is still up, so I haven’t been asleep for long.  I grab the shredded remains of the punk’s Nirvana shirt and use it to brush off the dried smears of blood on my chest from the boy’s back wounds.  He’s still laying on the AstroTurf, hunched over with his ass in the air, his legs spread with his kicks splayed out, forming a perfect V leading to his fuckhole.  His face is buried in the floor; his long sandy blond hair fanned out around his head.

 

From the rear, I can see that the dead kid’s taint is completely crusted with dried cum—some of his that leaked from the hole I’d cut and the rest is mine, leaked from his torn asshole.

 

Goddam, I’m hard again.

 

I’ve already reamed out the meat’s ass; I need a new hole to fuck.  I give the corpse a good hard kick, my boot making contact with its belly and flip it over onto its back.  From here I can see the pale face and blue lips, the gruesome slash that opened the throat, exposing the severed trachea—

 

—a nice firm hole just waiting for my shaft.  Fuck yeah.

 

I squat over the dead boy’s head, facing his feet, and feed my erect tool into the mangled esophagus.  The flesh is still warm and pliant, almost moist, and it seems to cling to my thick, throbbing rod.  I sit on the corpse’s face and throatfuck it for another seven or eight minutes, my hands fondling the smooth limp body.  The dead punk jerks with every pump of my hog, his Adidas kicks scraping as his legs twitch.

 

This time, I have no warning.  Suddenly, I find myself hunched over in orgasmic spasm, shooting a load down the kid’s windpipe and into his lungs.  I remain straddling the corpse for another couple of minutes, regaining my breath, before I pull my dick back out of the cut throat.  Standing up, I pull up my jeans and tuck my shaft back into ‘em.

 

Time to dump the meat.  I open the rear doors, flooding the interior with the bright golden light of late-afternoon summer.  The drainage ditch is only a yard away, beyond the foot-high guardrail.  The ditch is deep, too; it’s a good fifteen feet to the bottom.

 

The kid is laying splayed on his back, his hands still bound behind him, naked but for his kicks.  I’m still not satisfied.  I owned this little motherfucker, and I want everyone to know it. And then an idea comes to me.

 

I grab the knife in one hand and the meat’s scrotum in the other and start cutting.  It takes less than sixty seconds to completely remove the dead fag’s cock and balls.  I bend over the corpse and grin.  “Stupid little homo, all ya wanted was some beer.  Hope it was worth it.”

 

Then I shove the severed genitalia into the throat wound, tucking the kid’s cock into his trachea, where it slid in smoothly on a lube of my cum.  If they find him before he rots, they’ll find him choking on his own dick.

 

I drag the meat out and over the guardrail, dropping it unceremoniously and watching it tumble down the embankment into the trickle of muddy water at the bottom.  I return to the van and gather up the remains of the clothing, then toss them over the rail as well.  I notice that one of the slut’s Adidas sneakers had evidently caught on the rail and been jerked off; it was sitting upright at the edge of the concrete.

 

I left it there and climbed into the van.  Fifteen minutes later, I was merging onto the highway, heading for a DIY car wash over on Third that I’d used before; I still needed to hoes out the back of the van.  Just as I entered the highway, I heard a rattling sound from the floorboards on the passenger side.  I shot a quick glimpse over there and realized I still had the fuckmeat’s skateboard.

 

It was probably dangerous to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge across the cab, keeping one hand on the wheel, but I managed to snag the board without any major repercussions.  Just as I reached my exit, I rolled down the window and tossed the skateboard out onto the highway.  I kept an eye on it in my rearview mirror as I headed down the exit ramp; it bounced across two lanes before being run over by a semi.  It was destroyed, crushed to pieces.

 

It makes me feel even better.  I’m still tingling with afterglow as go to wash out my killing pit.

The Club by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

Bill’s lust was mostly for smooth “muscle boys” who were young, trim, sexually eager, and very well built. He liked the “twink” variety best, if they had worked out to perfect their amazing smooth young bodies. Using his ample cock to fuck their tight bubble-butt assholes was his favourite hobby – and he did it often. Money was not an issue for Bill, being extremely successful in his business, so he could well afford to rent the kind of male meat he liked. He just expected the meat to obey his every whim and please him however, wherever, and whenever he felt like being serviced.

In terms of Bill’s “rentals” there was no question Paul was his best find ever. The young stud had recently moved from Dallas to Tampa, and adopted “Paul Paulson” as a stage name for his career as a male prostitute. That’s how Bill had found him, through a web service that included pictures and reviews. They were all positive – every guy who reviewed Paul commented on how well he sucked cock, how friendly he was, and what a truly great body he possessed. Paul was about medium height, just right for good 69 sessions, and his body was in absolutely perfect shape, reflecting the hours of workouts he put in every day. His skin was smooth and mostly hairless, except for a little clump around his very appealing crotch, which included a larger than usual scrotum that caused his balls to hang a little lower than the usual male equipment, so they were easy for Bill to massage with his mouth. Paul didn’t have a massive cock, but it was decently sized, uncut, and very functional. Paul had no problem getting and maintaining his erections, which reflected a combination of his youth (he was 20) and his great physical shape. All of this really turned Bill on, and his orgasms were pretty explosive when he rented Paul for an evening’s fun.

Bill particularly remembered one evening, when they had ventured out of Paul’s condo and enjoyed themselves at a local gay strip club. They rated the dancers in a joking way over a beer or two, and they agreed that one guy in particular had an especially sexy body. The dancer was named Matt, and he didn’t waste any time stripping for Paul and Dave. He started out completely naked – unlike the other guys, he even was barefoot. The only things he had on were a tight, yellow collar that highlighted his tanned skin and had a ring to which a leash could be attached, and a set of metal rings around his scrotum and his cock that held them tight and rigid and were in turn secured in place with a small padlock. His cock was erect and bounced in front of him as he danced, the cock restraints helping to keep it that way.

“There’s no place to put a tip,” Bill hollered over the loud music.   Bill was always more than willing to pay for his sexual entertainment.

”I am a sex slave, sir, merely live male meat provided by the bar owner for your amusement. Slaves don’t deserve tips, sir. We simply exist to serve our owners. My master told me to dance for the two of you, and to let you use my body however you would like.”

“Who owns you,” Paul inquired, curious and also very aroused by the image of the beautiful young boy dancing in front of him for his amusement while adorned with appropriate slave insignias. While Paul worked as a prostitute, he never made himself that available, and limited what his customers could do with him.

“Mr. Jameson, the owner, purchased me at an auction last week along with some other furniture for the bar, sir, but I believe he intends to sell me. Of course, that’s none of my business and I obviously have no say in the matter.” The boy had been stroking his dick, and now had an even harder erection that was pointing nearly straight up in front of him, but still bouncing as he moved. That turned on Bill and Paul even more.

Bill recognized the name and asked the waiter to see if Mr. Jameson would like to chat with him, and the bar owner wandered over to their table shortly afterwards. By then Matt was on all fours in front of the two interested patrons, letting them examine his tight young ass and stroke his cock. Paul was taking full advantage of the opportunity.

“So, Bill, do you like my new purchase?” asked Mr. Jameson. “As you can tell, it’s really well trained and I figured it could be a feature at our meeting next weekend.”

“Stan!” came Bill’s startled reply. “I recognized your name when the slave told us who owned it, but I had no idea you owned this place. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just bought it at an auction last week. The prior owner went bust. It turned out the meat you and your buddy are enjoying was his too, so I added a couple of bucks and bought myself a little boy-flesh. Feel free to do whatever you like to him, by the way, and now that I own the place it’s OK for customers to get naked and fuck in the bar itself. I figure that will help business, and it just costs a little extra with the local cops. Mostly I just let them in for free fucks.”

Bill and Paul were already shirtless, since Bill liked to look at Paul’s amazing body and have Paul stroke his own very attractive skin, but at Bill’s signal they now both stripped completely. Both had gotten hard watching Matt and the other dancers, so they were ready for action.

“Looks like you guys are ready for some fucking. Trust me; this shithead is a great piece of meat to fuck. Do you want it on its belly or on its back?” Stan inquired. “My suggestion is to have it lay across the table on its belly so one of you can fuck its butt while it sucks off the other guy. It might as well get used to being spit-roasted.” Matt picked up on the instructions and quickly positioned himself as suggested for maximum use by the two favoured patrons. Stan reached into his pocket and pulled out several short pieces of rope, which he quickly used to tie each of his slave’s hands and feet to one of the legs of the table, making the boy completely vulnerable and unable to resist. Given Matt’s training and attitude that was hardly necessary, but it clearly added to the ambiance.

“Once you two are done using it, I figure the rest of the bar might as well have a turn. I don’t plan to keep the slave long, so I am not too worried if it gets a little used up.”

“Well, don’t let it get too damaged,” Bill urged. “We do want to have a good meeting.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure it’s still useful,” Stan assured. “But what about your buddy here? I am guessing he’s a whore and I’d sure like to have him join us. He’s a lot better looking than my little boy toy. He’d be a huge hit if you brought him.”

“Well, he is a prostitute,” Bill intoned, “but he’s not into being a slave, and he generally does not let other guys fuck him. But, frankly, he’s so good looking and such a great cocksucker and kisser that I’m OK with that.”

Paul wasn’t very pleased with the conversation. He was very proud, and although he knew that he had to provide service in his role as a prostitute, he viewed it as a profession, worthy of respect from his customers. He did not like being referred to like a commodity. However, Bill paid extremely well, so he let it pass for now.

“Well, it’s obviously up to you,” Stan continued, openly admiring Paul’s now fully exposed body and taking the liberty of caressing his smooth, beautiful skin. “But as club president this year, Ill waive your whole year’s membership fee if you bring him.  I think we can recruit more of the right kind of members if we improve the quality of our guests.”

As Stan wandered off to tend to other customers and invite them to join in the fucking, Paul inquired what Stan was referring to. Despite being a little offended, he was also certainly curious.

“It’s a gay sex club I belong to that’s very exclusive. Each member brings a young guy to join in the weekly orgy, and we vote on which guest is the best looking, best fuck, and has the best attitude. The guys get rewards accordingly. It’s a whole lot of fun, and if you’d be interested I am pretty sure you’d at least win best looking. That’s a $5,000 prize, and obviously it would be in addition to your usual fee and tip. The only hitch is that you do have to wear slave gear and agree to be butt-fucked.” Bill had seen the spark of interest, and really wanted to get Paul to attend. He especially wanted to fuck Paul’s young bubble-butt, which Paul had not yet permitted. Paul was such an amazing stud that it would not only be a lot of fun but it would also impress the other members. Bill had joined only recently and was still trying to assure a good impression. All the members were extremely wealthy, so they brought really good looking studs and set the prize money very high.

“Well, maybe so – that’s a lot of money, after all. But you’d have to assure me they would follow my limits. I don’t mind a little S&M, but I am a top, not a bottom.”

“That’s not the usual approach, but I think it wouldn’t be a problem,” assured Bill, still hoping to get his cock into Paul’s backside. “The rules are very clear on all that sort of thing. We want everyone to have a great time and we especially value our guests.”

“OK, I’m game.” Bill was so thrilled at the prospect that he grabbed Paul by the back of the neck and pulled him close so he could provide a very enthusiastic kiss. They then took turns using the young slave tied to the table, with Bill so excited that he even let Paul have the first turn fucking the boy’s asshole while Bill inserted his own cock into the eager young mouth. As they fucked, they leaned over and continued their kissing session, eventually bringing each other to a fabulous mutual orgasm that drew applause from the other customers who had crowded around to enjoy the show. They were so into each other that they hadn’t noticed the crowd forming, but that too turned them on. So they traded places, and the slave cleaned Paul’s cock with his mouth as Paul regained an erection and then enjoyed a great blow job while Bill also restored his vigour and enjoyed fucking the recently used asshole. This time they were very aware of the crowd, and enjoyed being cheered on as they used the submissive young male flesh for their second round of orgasms. Not being greedy, they ordered drinks for the house while they watched the rest of the customers fuck the house slave and each other. It wasn’t long before someone produced a whip, and Mat’s back and butt were terrific targets, as were his belly, cock and balls when they turned him over to get a little variety into the torture. Matt thanked each of the customers for taking the trouble to use him for their pleasure, which was quite well received. So was the implication of Matt’s yellow slave collar, which signalled that there was no need to go the bathroom to piss – everyone’s urine just went down Matt’s throat.  It was a great evening, and when the bar finally closed Matt was left tied to the table with the whip resting on his belly.  “Might as well let the clean-up crew have some fun, too,” Stan said thoughtfully. “But I am aware they’ll just make the slave do all the work cleaning up, which is OK by me. He’s a good worker, and fun to watch as he walks around naked doing the chores. I insist that the rest of the clean-up crew is also naked, so it is a good show of whipping, fucking, and cleaning. I think I’ll stay to watch. I might as well get as much use as possible out of my new slave while I can.” Bill and Paul then returned to Paul’s condo for yet another sex session, joined by two of Paul’s roommates who also worked as prostitutes. It was an expensive evening for Bill, which didn’t matter at all since it was one he would always remember.

The following Saturday could hardly come soon enough for Bill, who was still quite excited at the prospect of having Paul join him at his club. They met at Bill’s house, and started the evening with a casual drink and a very relaxing 69 that got their sexual juices nicely aroused. Bill didn’t have them actually achieve orgasms; he wanted to be sure they had lots of sperm ready to go for the evening’s fun.

“This is a very unique club,” Bill explained. “All the members are extremely wealthy and extremely fit. We don’t let anyone in who doesn’t measure up both financially and physically, so there really aren’t any limits to the entertainment we can afford and everyone there is a turn-on. I don’t think there’s any other club quite like it.

“There is only one rule that will affect you. It is required that guests arrive naked and wear a slave collar. That way we can start the evaluations for the prizes right away. So you’ll need to strip once we get there, and I figure we can leave your stuff in my car. I brought a couple of collars you can choose from. Is that OK?”

Paul was a little taken aback, but had to admit to himself that he liked being naked and showing off his body to other guys, and he really liked orgies. The slave collar also, to his surprise, had the effect of turning him on. So, almost to his own surprise, he agreed. In fact, starting to get into the spirit of the evening, he suggested he just strip and leave his stuff in Bill’s house, knowing it would please Bill to be able to look at his naked flesh on the ride over and play with Paul’s cock while Bill drove. Paul would also make sure to get an erection, so he would arrive looking impressive. Bill showed Paul the selection of collars, and Paul picked out one that was simple leather and somewhat wide, with a hook to which a leash could be attached. Paul laughingly told Bill he might as well go for the full effect, but secretly he hoped Bill would indeed find a leash. With that, Paul stripped, they finished their drinks, and Bill drove them to the site of the club.

To Paul’s surprise, the club was located in the warehouse district, and it appeared to be just another warehouse from the outside. Bill explained that this made it convenient to get to, being close to town, and it helped assure no one bothered them or became aware of the club. “We value our privacy,” he explained. “And don’t let the outside fool you û inside its pretty awesome.”

When they got out of the car, Bill opened the trunk and surprised Paul with an added option–a leash. “It’s clearly your choice, Paul, but if you really want to go for the full effect, this should do it.” To Bill’s surprise and delight, Paul quickly agreed. So Bill approached the door to the warehouse holding Paul’s leash, with his beautiful rented slave walking dutifully behind him, naked, obedient, collared, leashed, and aroused.

Bill had not misrepresented how nice the interior of the club was. As soon as they entered, a very handsome young male respectfully greeted Bill and welcomed him. Bill stood still while the young man undressed him, carefully storing Bill’s clothes in a locker. He attached the end of the leash to a nearby post, as one would do with an owner’s horse in the Old West before the owner entered a saloon. Paul was impressed with the obvious symbolism, but not put off. He was really starting to get into the scene and wondered what would happen next.

Once Bill was naked, the doorman knelt in front of him and proceeded to suck on Bill’s cock until it was nice and hard. The combination of the doorman’s own nakedness and great body with the reality of having Paul so obviously willing to play meant that this process took no time at all. But Bill let the doorman take his time, enjoying the expert attention to his favorite muscle.

Once they passed through the next door, Paul was overwhelmed. The place was huge, and it was fantastic. There were bars in various strategic locations that featured whatever the members wanted to drink, and cushioned lounges everywhere for the comfort of the members while they played with each other and their guests. Best of all, there was a very large and comfortable looking mat in the middle of the room, which was obviously for the upcoming orgy.

Paul was also amazed by the quality of the male flesh that filled the room. While some of the guys were a bit older (obviously members), as Bill had promised every one of them was in great physical shape and very appealing sexually. The ‘guests’ were even better–Paul even felt there might be some competition on who was the best fuck, and determined to be sure he won the prize nonetheless. It wasn’t just the money (although that helped), it was now a matter of pride. Paul let Bill know that he would, after all, be willing to be butt-fucked and planned to win all three of the prizes. Bill, of course, was thrilled. Paul had never allowed Bill inside his ass before, and had claimed it was still virgin.

Bill quickly spotted his friend Stan and led Paul over to show off his prize. Stan was talking to another member, who was also showing off his guest. But Stan’s attention quickly turned to Paul when Bill led him over, and Stan’s interest was clear. While the other stud had gotten some arousal from Stan, the sight of Paul naked and erect with a collar and a leash obviously turned him on, and Stan made no effort to hide the effect. After all, displaying hard cocks was one goal of the evening.

“Well, this is a very pleasant surprise,” Stan said by way of greeting. “I guess I’ll have to waive your dues after all. But I sure don’t mind doing so.”

It was then that Paul had an inspired idea. He bowed to Bill, and knelt down in front of Stan, offering his mouth to service Stan’s cock. Like a good slave, he didn’t presume to touch it, but the offer was clear and respectful, waiting for permission and instructions.

“Wow. Did you even train him? This is quite impressive given what you told me the other night.” With that, Stan signaled his assent to Paul, who proceeded to take Stan’s manhood into his mouth and start massaging it. As Bill knew, Paul was probably the world’s greatest cocksucker, and Stan was so turned on that he actually began to moan in pleasure.

“This guy is awesome!” Stan exclaimed. “No wonder you put up with his limits. He’s clearly worth it.” But with that, Stan signaled Paul to release his manhood. “OK, I’m sold. But I don’t want to shoot just yet. However, when I do I want you to do the job. So do hang around.”

Bill and Stan giggled a little, just between them. Stan then asked if Paul had agreed to be butt-fucked, or if that was still off limits. Bill told him no, but that Paul had agreed to fucked for the first time tonight.

“Wow. That’s terrific,” gushed Stan, which also had the effect of getting Paul more aroused. “It’s all up to you and Bill of course, but if you’re up for a gang bang I’d sure love to be one of the first to enter. I’m guessing Bill wants the #1 shot.”

“Where’s the boy-toy you had at your club?” Bill asked. “He was pretty decent looking and clearly well trained. I wouldn’t mind playing with him a little as a start to the evening.”

“Oh, he’s here all right,” responded Stan. “I’ve got him spread-eagled in the playroom. Feel free to do whatever you like– but just don’t do anything that will spoil our fun for later on.”

“Of course not,” Bill promised. “But I feel like a little bit of a workout and he looked like an animal that would respond well to being whipped before being fucked.”

“Either way, my friend,” was Stan’s laughing response. “But if you want the opening fuck of the evening you’re probably too late. I think some of the other guys have discovered him. But you might get in the first flogging.”

Bill led Paul to a nearby room, which turned out to be the clubs extremely well equipped dungeon. That’s also where most of the members and their guests had congregated, and clearly Stan’s slave Matt was a part of the reason. The young, willing boy-toy was indeed spread-eagled with his hands and feet attached, respectively, to hooks in the ceiling and the floor. His smooth hairless body was readily available for whatever the members wanted to do to him, and everyone had ideas.

As Bill and Paul watched, a succession of guys approached Matt from behind and thrust their hard cocks into his tight little bubble-butt. They took their time, encouraged by the cheering of the onlookers. Meanwhile, Bill saw his chance and picked up a nearby whip. No one was attacking the slave from the front, so Bill got to land the first lashes of the evening onto the exposed belly and chest of the helpless victim. The youth squirmed from the obvious pain, but did not cry out. Instead, he responded as he had been trained, and as he responded to each guy who fucked him:

“Thank you, sir.”

The propriety of the reaction turned Bill on even more, and now he proceeded to turn his attention–and the whip –to the kid’s cock and balls. The cock was erect and made a great target, but reaching the balls took a little expertise. Fortunately, Bill was very experienced and able to inflict the pain of the lash on the full set of genitals. But the only verbal reaction was added expressions of appreciation. Bill always had admired what a great job Stan did training slaves, but felt this was exceptional and made a mental note to complement his friend.

But the strangest reaction was that of Paul. As he watched the remarkable scene that was unfolding, he found himself particularly turned on by how Matt was reacting.

“Would you like to whip me too?” Paul found himself asking Bill, as much to his own surprise as to Bill’s. “I see another set of shackles, and I think it would actually be a big turn-on for some of the members and improve my chances of winning. I’ve never really played slave, but maybe I’ve missed out.” Paul did not want to admit to Bill how turned on this scene had made him.

Bill didn’t hesitate. He handed the whip to another member, who continued the fun with Matt, and very quickly led Paul to the nearby set of shackles, quickly positioning and securing him in the same X position as Matt–two slaves side by side and ready for use. Bill then took a chance and inquired of his new property.

“I do think this will turn you on. But it would do so even more if we start with that butt-fuck you agreed to earlier. After all, that’s the most appropriate use of a slave, and if you want to have the full experience, and win all the prizes, it’s essential.”

Paul hesitated. He actually had a virgin asshole, and had prided himself on never having been ass-fucked. But Bill had a point, and Paul was somehow very anxious to please and to keep his promise.

“Sure. I’m all yours. Go for it. No limits.”

Bill was ecstatic. This had been his dream for a very long time, and now it was coming true. As Paul had made his speech of submission, Stan had wandered in to join the fun, and heard the offer.

“Well, that certainly simplifies things, doesn’t it?” Stan commented. “So, like I said before, I assume you want the first fuck. But I’d sure like to go next.”

Bill was a very generous person, and he really liked Stan. “No, you’re club president, and getting him here was actually your idea. So you go first, while I start the whipping. Besides, you’re still the best trainer in the club–as illustrated by your little hunk of boy-meat I just enjoyed.”

Stan appreciated the gesture, and wasted no time thrusting his aroused cock into Paul’s virgin ass. There was no foreplay or lube–Stan liked the reaction of guys getting the full thrust. “I had planned to have you suck me off, but frankly this is a lot better,” Stan informed his target. “Being the first guy to shoot a load up your butt will be a huge turn-on. It’s pretty rare we get a virgin butt in here.”

“Hey,” Paul began to protest. “I really had in mind having Bill fuck me, but at least use a condom.”

“No way,” came Stan’s quick response, as he started thrusting in and out of the very tight hole. “You said no limits, and around here that means no limits. As you’ll learn as the evening proceeds, the members make the rules. The slaves just obey and serve. You’ve now agreed to be a slave, and there is no turning back.”

Paul was upset, but before he could protest further he felt the first stoke of Bill’s whip hit his flesh. He had also never been whipped, and he was surprised how much it hurt. He inadvertently let out a scream, and a second one with the second stroke. Bill ignored the screams, actually increasing his efforts so that they began to lacerate Paul’s beautiful tight flesh, and Paul began to plead with him to stop.

“This isn’t turning me on,” Paul pleaded. “Please stop and let me loose.” But Paul’s hard cock put the lie to his complaints, and Bill didn’t really care at this point. What mattered, and what always mattered, is that the combination of whipping his favorite sex object while his buddy fucked him from behind was massively turning on Bill. And Stan.

It didn’t take Stan long to shoot his load, given how excited he was, and then it was Bill’s turn. They switched places, so that Stan could enjoy whipping Paul while Bill relieved his sexual tension at Paul’s expense. In and out, in and out, Bill kept the thrusts moving and increased the speed. The large load of cum Stan had deposited made a nice lubricant, for which Bill thanked Stan. When he finally released his load, it was probably the greatest orgasm he’d ever had. He was spent from the effort, but still completely turned on.

After the two friends had finished fucking Paul, they released him from the shackles. Paul was very upset, and now demanded to leave the club.

“Sorry, slave. Like I said before, it’s too late. You leave when we’re done with you.” Stan showed the authority that had gotten him elected president of the club.

The beating had left Paul weakened, so the two members had no problem securing him to a nearby wall, where he was forced to kneel. They explained that they had other business to take care of for a while, but they wanted Paul to remain useful.

“Our members like to drink beer,” Bill explained. “And that means they need a urinal. Until we get done with our other task, you’re the lucky recipient of all that piss. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll start your instructions personally.” And with that, Bill forced Paul’s mouth open and released a huge load of piss down Paul’s protesting throat.

“I don’t think he’s going to win the attitude award,” Stan speculated. They both laughed as they walked away from the horrified young man, who was quickly approached and used by another member. Both Stan and Bill noticed, however, that Paul’s cock was still hard.

The task awaiting Bill and Stan was to prepare Stan’s slave Matt for its next use. Unlike Paul, there was no protest when they released the shackles, and Matt stood obediently while they discussed their plans.

“How many main events do you plan tonight?” Bill asked. “It’s usually just one, right?”

“It is, but tonight I plan on two. No point using up too many of our slaves at the same time, but I had already planned to use up Matt and I think it would be instructive for Paul to see Matt’s fate first.”

“True,” Bill mused, “but it does seem a shame to use up Paul all at once. We could save him until next week, and have some fun in the meantime. He could spend the week considering what might happen, and we’d have more time to plan.”

“Deal,” Stan agreed. “Good thinking. So now we just need to figure out what to do with this one. Any preferences?”

“Well, I think his skin and his attitude are his best features. And it clearly should be something slow, after everyone gets in a good fuck. I’d suggest skinning him alive. If we’re careful, he’d still be alive when we start the feast.”

Stan saw the logic of this and quickly agreed. Matt was listening, but made no objections, even while Bill had stroked his smooth skin when describing the idea of removing it. Stan had trained him well, and if his masters wanted to gang rape him, skin him alive, and then eat his flesh while he was still alive, then that was clearly their right. His duty would be to provide as much entertainment as possible and stay alive as long as possible to prolong his pain and their enjoyment.

Once Stan and Bill had made their decisions, Bill instructed one of the waiters to let everyone know the main event would start in about an hour. He also had him invite everyone to join him in appreciating a final dance form the attraction.

“Matt had wanted to be a dancer, but I explained to him he wasn’t good enough, and really only deserved to be a slave, and ultimately a source of meat. But I figure we can let him entertain us before we snuff him and eat him. It should be fun.”

Matt was thrilled and honored by what he overheard Stan tell Bill. So when he was told to go up on a nearby stage and perform for the club, he did so willingly. Before he started, Stan provided the introduction.

“As my fellow members know, one of our club traditions is to stage an entertaining snuff scene each Saturday evening, featuring one of the guests. Tonight it will be this young slave, whom all of you have enjoyed fucking during the course of the evening. I’ve decided, after chatting with my buddy Bill, that the most fun would be to skin him alive and then serve him to all of you for a very fresh meat entree. With a little luck, you can cut off a piece while he’s still alive. So, before he does a final dance for our entertainment, let’s do our traditional auction to see who gets to join in the fun.”

With that, Stan conducted a brief but very vigorous auction among the guests to determine who would get the final fuck, who would do the skinning, and who would get to cut off the cock and balls once he was skinned and ready to serve. The results of the auction easily paid for the expenses of the evening, and the young slave fetched a good sum.

The dance was very well done, both lively and sexy. Stan didn’t let it go on too long, as the members were getting both anxious and a little hungry. So Matt was led down from the stage after enduring one last fuck from the winning bidder. He was laid on an autopsy table, which helped keep the flow of blood and such from getting too messy as Stan (who won the bid on doing the skinning) inserted the knife just above his chest to start the fun. The members cheered as Stan expertly sliced down to the top of Matt”s crotch, and then slowly peeled back the skin. He did the same with the arms and legs, but left the head and genitals uncut. The head would be added to the clubs trophy case, and it was the right of the winning bidder for the cock and balls to have them still in perfect shape when they were removed. Matt had maintained a hard-on during the dance and for the start of the fatal torture session, and Stan had tied off the prize so it would still be hard, which it was. Bill had won that bid, and made sure he cut as slowly as possible to enhance and prolong the pain.

Matt lasted through the entire process, although clearly he was going to die soon. So the winning bidders on his choice cuts of meat helped themselves, removing breast meat, liver, kidneys, thighs, and all the rest of the delicious treats that had once been a gorgeous young male. There was a nearby hibachi for those who wanted the meat cooked, but most ate it raw, many while Matt was still able to watch. Of course, once the feast began he didn’t last long. But everyone agreed he had been a very accommodating, and tasty, young piece of live meat.

After the meal, Bill returned to where Paul was still secured in his role as the club urinal. All the guys had used him by now, and he was both scared and subdued.

“Did you enjoy the show,” Bill asked.

“No. Please let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” Paul was desperate.

“Oh, we’re not worried about that. All of the guests understand what would happen to them if they told. And no one would believe them anyway. Besides, one of the members is the chief of police.

“What I came over to tell you is that you’ve won the prize. You’re clearly the most attractive guest. However, the bad news is that we lied about it being money. The prize is that you’re the main event next Saturday. And between now and then, you’ll get training from Stan and a chance to continue to serve both as a urinal and as a sex object. I get to decide how we snuff you, so if you have preferences be sure to let me know. I won’t necessarily follow them, but it would be fun to chat about it.”

Paul was horrified. Things had gotten completely out of control. After watching what had happened to Matt, he had no doubt Bill was telling the truth. He knew he would die the following week. And yet, there was something exciting about it. He had always been a prostitute since he had reached puberty, and he had gotten real pleasure out of serving other guys. Despite his terror, he was actually aroused û and his cock hardened a bit as Bill spoke. Bill noticed the effect, and smiled.

“I always knew you were really a masochist at heart. All prostitutes are. I just didn’t know how much. So now I’ll find out.”

Epilogue

Paul trained well during the following week. Once resigned to his fate, he decided to play his part. And Stan and Bill, who jointly did the training, were very skilled. They and their friends dropped by the club each day to use Paul sexually, and to experiment with various forms of torture. They found that, while Paul responded well to flogging, he responded better to electric shock. They tested him with near-death shocking, which was a huge turn-on for their newfound student. And, of course, both they and the club staff made full use of Paul whenever they needed to pee. He also turned out to be a very talented urinal, never spilling a drop.

Bill and Stan were so pleased with their new pet that they actually kept him in training for two weeks instead of the usual one, snuffing another young male the next Saturday. This met with approval form the club members, who also wanted another week of using Paul before torturing him to death and consuming his flesh. The guy who was snuffed instead proved adequate, but most of the members felt he wasn’t really as cooperative as he should have been. They compensated for that by extending the pre-snuff torture session, and looked forward to Paul’s performance.

Paul did not disappoint. He was fully trained by the time he was offered to the club for their weekly ritual, and he showed as much enthusiasm as Matt had done. His trainers had decided to do a combination of emasculating him and chocking him. They tied piano wire around his genitals, after securing him so he couldn’t move. Then they attached the two ends of the wire to the tops of two large buckets that were suspended on either side of the victim. The idea was simple. During the course of the evening, as the guys needed to piss, they would do so in the buckets. As the buckets gained weight from the liquid, it would have the effect of pulling the wire and tightening it around the base of the scrotum. In due course, the wire would be pulled tight and the prized
Man-meat would be cut from Paul’s body, falling into yet a third bucket. It took a very long time, and the members really got into the fun of combining a needed piss with a little greater incision into Paul’s proudest assets. When the flesh finally was decapitated and Paul let out an appropriate scream of agony and humiliation, the resulting cheer was accompanied by nearly every club member shooting his load. It had worked even better than Bill and Stan had anticipated. And, of course, there was a prize for the guy whose piss had triggered the final separation.

Now that Paul was a eunuch, there was no further point keeping him alive, and Bill bid in the right to finish him off. He did so slowly, using his strong hands to choke off Paul’s breathing, enjoying the feel of the life ebbing from his victim. As he did so, the winning bidders began cutting away their prized meat selections, adding to Paul’s pain and Bill’s pleasure. But everyone made sure it was Bill’s careful efforts that finally ended Paul’s life. And everyone agreed it had been one of their best sessions, well worth the extra week’s efforts at training.